#so don’t mind me lurking :3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

abbyshands · 2 months

Text

for you

🇵🇸 LINKS | before engaging !!! | m. list | join my tag list!

♡ synopsis; making a home out of catalina island for years on end had been wonderful, but for most of it, you had been derived of the last piece of the puzzle: abigail anderson. you were a skilled medic, so when abby had showed up, you had cared for her, and nursed her back to the girl she was, helping her to heal, and to find home the same way you had. now, it’s abby’s chance to return the favor.

♡ pairing; abby anderson x fem!reader

♡ warnings; lot of game references, some of which include infected, the WLF, plot of the first and second game, loss, violence, etc, general angst (ish) in the beginning, but fluffy at the end, i promise, reader loses her dad in the backstory, and there’s a heavily established backstory for the reader, abby uses nicknames (my love, babe, gorgeous), reader calls abby baby, just general angst n’ fluff tbh!

♡ a/n; sooo this idea has been sitting in my notes app for the longest time, and to be honest, i’m not sure how i feel about the finished product! i don’t think it’s my best work? i don’t know. i like the idea but i’m unsure about the way i executed it. maybe i’ll revisit it at some point, but this is what i’ve got for now ♡

anyway ,, this is for my ray, n’ my ray only. happy bday, gorgeous! i genuinely can’t get enough of you, and getting to speak to you on a daily basis is such a fucking privilege to me. i’m so lucky to say you’re a part of my life, n’ i wouldn’t trade you for the world. i hope you like this, @andersonlore <3

♡ wc; 4.5k

divider creds !

YOUR LIPS, MY LIPS. APOCALYPSE.

If someone had told you four years prior that this is where you would be today, you would’ve checked them for a bite mark.

Because they would have been losing their mind.

2034, and all the years beforehand, were years unforgettable. The person you were couldn’t imagine a life that wasn’t the one you had. Infected roamed, and danger lurked. But love prevailed.

And you were lucky to be a part of it.

You were born in Boston, Massachusetts in the 2010’s at an unlucky hour. To an unlucky life. You had lost your mom before you could say your own name, and the only biological family you had ever gotten to know in your life was your dad, who was the reason you were where you were today in the first place.

When you were young, your dad joined a group once asked to by the leader of it, a woman named Marlene. Since then, and for as long as you could remember, this group has been your place to call home.

They called themselves the Fireflies for the very bug they took the name from: Their goal was to spread luminescence in a world full of darkness. Your dad, who was an incredibly skilled medic, was roped into it when you were younger, for that very reason. And because of the group’s dire need for medics at the time, their leader, Marlene, who was an old friend of your dad’s, asked him to join, all but begged him to, really.

Your dad wasn’t one to deny anyone in need. It was in his nature, and it was why he was such a great medic. So, of course, he agreed.

But only if there would be a place for you, too.

Your dad raised you up as a member of the Fireflies, and then later as a medic, and it was because of him that you were who you were: A resilient individual, a survivor, and yet, a person who embodied compassion, just as he did.

The years went by hazily, the older you got, anyway. You became just as immersed into your work as your dad did, bettering your medical knowledge on a daily basis, be it by old books, rusted cassettes, or your dad himself. But all the while, you managed to balance work, love, and family, and, in a world like this one, that was a lot more than most people could say.

For obvious reasons, you couldn’t remember the 2010’s. Then came the 2020’s, which sped by your eyes. But the 2030’s as a general consensus were years ingrained into your brain. Full of friendship, family, and love? At times. But they also encompassed chaos, despair, and pressure, and changed your life forever.

And forever was a long time.

In the year 2033, all that you believed was true about the world as you knew it, crumbled to the ground. In a land following an apocalypse, it wasn’t uncommon to feel as if there was no way out, as if the life you lived had hit a place of no return.

Now, if only there was a way to fix it. A cure, right?

It was late one evening while you were working on somebody in the Fireflies’ medical center, that Marlene came into the room, expression serious, and voice showing for it. Once you had the person you had been caring for under control, you followed Marlene out of the center, and into a room of a pair of people, one familiar, and one not.

Your dad, and a man who would later become a crucial figure in this tale: Surgical expert, Doctor Jerry Anderson.

You didn’t understand what Marlene, your dad, and Mr. Anderson, as you used to call him, were getting at when you were first pulled into that room. All that they were explaining to you was blurring inside of your head.

Because it was unlike anything you had heard before.

Your ears were told a tale that you had heard on numerous occasions. A girl who was only a few years younger than you, was bitten. You weren’t sure how. But it didn’t really matter, did it? Everyone who was bitten turned into an animal in a matter of days. It didn’t matter how she had gotten the bite mark. It didn’t even matter where on her body the mark was. All you knew was that in a few days, this girl that was being described to you, would no longer be human. That she would no longer have control over her body, and she would no longer know right from wrong, up from down, man from woman. All she would know, was kill. Kill. Kill.

Unless she was one in a million.

Ellie Williams was hardly a human in your mind when you originally heard, but a God given chance, to fix the world as you knew it. You never believed you would live to see the day where a bite mark was a good thing, and yet, it was here, gazing you in the eyes.

Immunity. She was immune. The auburn haired girl had been bitten three weeks prior to the date you heard about this, and zilch. As Marlene had explained to you, it was like the mark was healing, not worsening.

And in a desolate world, where danger lurked every corner, where sorrow was normalized, and where loss was ceaseless, you were desperate. The Fireflies were desperate. Hope like this didn’t come on a daily basis, now, did it?

You jumped on the prospect as soon as you became conscious of it. All of you did.

Graciously unaware that it would blow up in your face.

In the earlier days of 2034, Ellie was smuggled to a Firefly base in Salt Lake City, a medical center, where your dad, Mr. Anderson, and several Fireflies were residing. As head medic by this point, you decided to remain in Boston caring for the members of your group back home, especially in the absence of your dad and Mr. Anderson.

It’s your life’s biggest regret.

Marlene had asked that you come to the Salt Lake City medical center as soon as you could, and to employ someone else to take over for a bit. Mr. Anderson was a good doctor, but he had decided that to perform proper surgery on Ellie, he would need a few more hands. You were honored that it was you he had chosen. To you, it was on the same level as getting an award. And so, alongside Marlene, and a few more members of the group, you made your way to Salt Lake City, your hopes in your hands, and dreams in your heart.

There was a point during the journey, however, where you ran into some trouble. Infected. And naturally, you were not just a medic: You knew how to survive in a world like this, and you knew how to hold your ground.

Splitting up wasn’t usually recommended when it came to any scenario, and for good reasons. However, it was your only choice. You and everyone beside you aside from Marlene, split up to make sure that she was the first one to make it to the medical center. You remember the last thing you said to her like a movie on loop in your head. See you soon.

And it plagues your brain like the virus that grips your world.

See you soon. You wish you had never said it. You wish you had never split up.

You wish it hadn’t happened.

You did see Marlene. But she was no longer alive when it happened. Fear grasped your bones as your body paralyzed, eyes glued to Marlene’s bloody corpse on the second floor of the medical center’s parking garage.

Tears filled your eyes, slipping down your cheeks. And then, you remembered.

Dad.

You took off running, brain not even processing that you could be putting yourself in danger by doing so. Whoever had done this to Marlene couldn’t be faraway from the building for all you knew. Hell, they could even be in it. But you didn’t care.

You booked it to the highest floor, where your dad and Mr. Anderson were supposed to be, heart racing, begging and bargaining to the universe, or whatever God there was, or somebody, to ensure that they were okay. That they were just fine.

There are some days where you wish you hadn’t opened that door.

The pair of them, alongside a third medic in the room, were found by you in a shape similar to Marlene. Naturally, you ran to dad first, small, shaky hands reaching out to flip over his face down body.

But you were too late.

Your mind goes blurry whenever it goes back to recall the memory. You don’t remember much: Tears, nausea, shaking, panic. You remember screaming, loudly, at that.

And you remember passing out, before being pulled out of the room.

The second that Jerry Anderson was announced dead, all hell broke loose, and you knew, you knew, it was over. The chance that had been driving you and your family of Fireflies for the last year, was gone, and it wasn’t coming back. Unless a brand new surgeon was going to generously drop from the sky, you were hopeless.

And it wasn’t even just that.

Because the universe had taken from you the one person you held closest to your heart. To your soul.

Dad.

You had a chance. You all did.

And, then, it was robbed away from you.

You and your dying group made your way back to Boston knowing just that: That you were collapsing. The days passed by in blurs, each one gloomier than the last. You just weren’t sure what to do anymore. All hope for a cure was gone. All hope for yourself was gone.

In 2036, the Fireflies were disbanded by what little members of it were around to do so, and that was it. It was over.

Your home was paradise, and paradise was gone.

You didn’t know what to do. Most of the family you had found here in the Fireflies was leaving, searching for a life away from the one you all had known for years. You didn’t know if you wanted to do the same. Part of you wanted to follow suit and leave Boston. Renew who you were. Adapt, and move on. But Boston had always been home, and by leaving it, you were leaving a part of you behind.

But you didn’t have a choice.

It was an early morning in 2036 when you began to pack your bags, readying to go. Where? It didn’t matter. All you knew was that home or not, Boston carried way too many painful memories, way more than you could bear. Marlene was dead. Mr. Anderson was dead. Dad was gone.

You didn’t see what else Boston had to give, that it hadn’t already taken away.

But just, just, when you were about to say your goodbyes, the universe, who had screwed you over in the past, clearly had different plans.

A few members had heard word, from previous members who had left the Fireflies before you, that on the west coast of the country, there was a chance: A chance to find home again, in a place named Catalina Island, a gorgeous land in California.

Risks had failed you before, and so had second chances. But, for once, you wanted to give in. You had to.

So you did.

That’s not to say that the second you got to Catalina Island, finding home once again in your fellow Fireflies, who were just as shattered as you were, that your tale was over. God, it was really, really far from it.

Because there was one more piece to the puzzle.

Abigail Anderson.

Anderson. The last name rang a bell once it escaped her lips. A blonde woman, body bruised, bloodied, and covered from the arms down in oozing gashes. Her hair was short and poorly cut, and from the way her bones were pushing into her skin, you could tell that she was severely malnourished.

Alongside her was a boy, obviously younger than her. Tousled black hair, bruises wherever you looked, and fully unconscious. In your time at Catalina Island, and as a Firefly in Boston, for that matter, you had never seen any pair of people in worse shape.

Not unless they were dead.

You remained head medic once you arrived in Catalina Island, naturally, and you had been managing that way for the last four years. So, when this woman showed up, this young boy by her side, like this, it was you who took control. It was you who nursed them, and it was you who made their scars, in a physical and mental sense, not disappear, but easier to handle. To bear.

By looking at them, by looking at her, it was like a mirror. You saw you.

Which is why you saw her.

Now, if someone had told you four years prior that this is where you would be today, losing your dad, losing Marlene, and losing Mr. Anderson, but falling for his child, you would’ve looked for a bite mark. But now, come the year 2040, where you had made a new life, one that Abigail Anderson was a prevalent part of, happiness no longer seemed impossible.

Because it wasn’t far away anymore, slipping from your fingers, the way it had on numerous occasions.

It was in your hands.

And you were in Abby’s.

Your eyes were being covered by Abby’s large hands as she led you to a place unknown. You had to assume it was one of the several beaches on the island, sand under your feet, sounds of waves in your ears. A smile had been plastered across your face for what seemed like hours, as Abby dragged you along.

“Come on, Abby. Are you going to tell me what this is about or what?” you asked her for the second time in the last minute. You could hear her low chuckle from behind you, and the way it always happens, comfort surges into your veins.

You had learned from Abby, once you bonded over the mutual loss of your dad and hers at the same man, that once Mr. Anderson had been killed, her and her friends, a few former members of the Fireflies, joined a group named the WLF. You had hence learned that during her time there, she was commonly known as a rugged, scary person, who a lot of people in the WLF didn’t dare insult, nor disobey.

And you couldn’t lie: It was hard to believe that for a second.

You had learned from Abby, also, that her resolve began to slip when she met the young boy who she had made it to Catalina Island alongside, who you had also taken care of: Lev. To put it simply, Lev was a member of a different group, that the WLF was never supposed to come across.

Not unless it was in war.

But he changed her. He did. Some days, you could see how guarded Abby was, how she couldn’t help going back to all she used to know, which was being all but barbaric when she was in Seattle. Closed off, wary. But most days, like today? You knew in your heart, that deep down in hers, Abby Anderson was good. Not innocent, but good.

And that was enough for you.

“Just come on!” Abby chuckled as she walked, not letting up her hold on your eyes for a second as she led you along.

You smiled, shaking your head in mock disapproval. “I have work to do back at the center, and we’re not supposed to be roaming around like this. You know that, right?”

“Babe,” Abby responded in an almost firm tone of voice as her feet quit moving, forcing you to root your body to the spot. It was silent, before she pressed a series of sweet, sloppy kisses to your neck and cheeks, managing to keep her hand over your eyes all the while. She had you crumbling just like that, making you a giggling mess as her lips met your skin.

Her kisses subsided once a million of them seeped into you, and it wasn’t the island heat that had your face warm when Abby was done. “Can you just trust me, please?” she laughed, and you didn’t need your vision to know she was giving you that puppy dog look that had you falling to your knees every time. The one that you couldn’t resist if you gave it your all.

You were too easy. “Yes.”

It wasn’t long before you and Abby reached where she wanted to bring you, and once you did, she paused. She was perched behind you now, large hands over your face, the solacing sound of her sighs coming into your ears. “Okay. Are you ready, my love?”

There wouldn't ever be a day where Abby calling you that wouldn’t make your heart pound in your chest.

“More than,” you easily respond.

As soon as you said it, Abby returned your vision to you, and your eyes can’t help but widen at what you see before you.

Because you never pegged “rugged” Abby Anderson as one for picnics.

“Oh, my God, Abby,” you said more to yourself than the blonde as you slowly approached the scene. Laid out on the sand of the beach was a picnic blanket, a folded blanket, a few pillows, a basket, a few books, and playing cards.

Accompanied by a perfect view of the beach.

“Do you not like it?” Abby asked, and there’s an air of sadness to the way she says it. You turn to look at her on cue, your face one of complete, utter disbelief.

Like it?

“Like it? Baby, I love this. More than know,” you respond, meaning every word. It’s been a long time since someone has wanted to care for you. A long, long time, since you had been the receiver, not the giver.

“Abs, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

You can see Abby blushing as you approach her and take her face into your hands, her freckled skin burning in heat. She leans into your touch, pressing her forehead onto yours, and holding your hands in her own.

“I just,” Abby sighed, opening her eyes once more to meet yours, solemn expression across her cheeks. “I just don’t feel like I cherish you enough, babe, show it, that is. Because believe me, I do cherish you. S’just, it’s been hard for me to show you how much. All that you did for me and Lev when we got to the island. Taking care of us. Helping us find a home here. I’ll spend the rest of my life saying thank you for it.”

You can feel your soul healing the more Abby speaks.

“I know this isn’t nearly enough to make up for what you did for us, and I wish it was. But I just figured, maybe. . .it could suffice for now.”

“Abby, baby,” you let a small laugh escape your lips as you say it. “You don’t have to make it up to me. At all. I did what I did, because I saw someone in you. I remember asking for your name, and you responded by asking me where Lev was. You didn’t even care what shape you were in. All you wanted to know was if he was okay. You reminded me of me.”

“You reminded me of dad.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, letting silence seep into the air around you as your brain battled to process what you had just said. You didn’t speak on your dad as much as you likely should: Abby knew that, and so did you. Talking about him made your chest compress, and your throat would fail you, making it feel as if you were choking. As if you were helpless. As if you were there all over again. But Abby knew as well as you did, that when your dad came into discussion, it was for a certain reason.

And for that reason, Abby didn’t speak: She hung fire. For you. For you.

“We live in a world where people combat their own morals just to survive. There’s no good guys. No principles, no rules, no laws. Anyone you come across is just as bad as you, and if not, they’re worse. But when I saw you? I knew. I knew that wasn’t you. Not anymore.”

You know you’re rambling by now, saying whatever comes to mind as soon as it does, but you can’t find it in you to care as you go on. “You want to believe I don’t know how much you care for me. But you don’t need to show it, Abby. I know you do. Right here.”

You take one of Abby’s large hands into yours, and as cliché as it is, not that you care at all, you place it over your heart.

“You feel that, don’t you? That’s all for you, baby. And it’s there that I feel how much you care about me. It’s there that I know.”

The same silence that was here before comes back. But this time, it’s not sad, or dark, or eerie. It’s solacing. It’s warm. It’s home.

And Abby doesn’t need words in order to respond.

It’s her turn to take your face into her hands as she pulls you in close. Her lips meet yours like they have so many times before, her familiar scent hitting your nose as you settle your hands onto her hips. The kiss is slow, and sweet, but passionate, and a burning desire surges inside you to never let her go, to always hold her close. To always call her yours.

You pull back from the kiss once you tire from it, gasping, Abby’s body mimicking yours as she does the same. You gaze into her eyes, the pretty blue ones that always make your heart swell, smiling up at her as you press one last kiss to her lips for good measure. “I adore you, Abby Anderson. You know that, right?” you grin.

It’s the first time you ever hear her giggle. “Me more than you, gorgeous.”

You spend hours there alongside Abby, and it’s the best time of your life. You spend time indulging in a few snacks the blonde packed for you, playing cards, and running around and playing in the sand, smiling all the way. You even get to hear Abby read to you, one of the most endearing things in the world, accompanied by the calming sound of the ocean before you. And when it came time for sunset, you sat down beside Abby, gazing on as amber, ochre, and rose faded into night.

It was perfect.

When it was nearly time for the evening to come to an end, you used the second blanket Abby had packed for your shared night to cuddle up beside her, heads rested on the pillows she had carried along as well. The side of your face was pressed into her chest as you gazed into the sky above you, Abby’s hand rubbing your back in slow circles to console you. Small suns coat the evening sky like sweet, powdered sugar, accompanied by a full moon that looks incredible over the horizon. All you could hear was the sound of the ocean, alongside Abby sighing gingerly every once in a while, or her pressing kisses to your forehead.

Not that you needed much more than that.

Suddenly, the sound of Abby chuckling in your ears snaps you out of your head, and you turn your face upwards curiously. Abby’s smile makes you smile, and it’s no surprise you began to wonder what the blonde woman found so funny all of a sudden.

“Remember how I told you Lev and I had to cross those bridges that were really high up?” Abby asked, and you had to raise an eyebrow, wondering where this was going. “Mhm,” you mumble, which is when Abby goes on.

“Well, before that, we had to get there by foot once we got out of the aquarium I told you about, the one I used to go to all of the time. That part of Seattle is overrun in rushing rapids, so a lot of the buildings around there were a lot more demolished than they usually would be anywhere else,” she explained.

“And, well. . .”

“We walked into this building, and there was a painting of these dogs playing cards. And I asked Lev if he knew our dogs could really play cards like that. Then he asked me if anyone found me funny,” Abby laughed. “It cracks me up whenever I remember it.”

She wasn’t the only one laughing. “Sounds like Lev. And like you,” you smile, and the tale makes you recall a humorous memory of your own. “Once, I was working late at the medical center back in Boston. I was doing research on this girl who had been feeling sick, but I wasn’t sure by what. Mind you, it’s late, and silent, if you don’t count me flipping the pages in my books.”

You giggle just remembering it. “It’s the weirdest thing ever, but my dad was really good at making Clicker noises. Like, really good. Sounded so real it made your heart drop. I was reading when I heard it, and I remember wondering how the hell infected had gotten inside. ‘Course I grab what was closest to me, a scalpel, and I swivel around.”

“And it’s dad.”

That one got Abby to burst out chuckling. “Oh, my God. Of all the things you could get, gorgeous. A scalpel?”

You rolled your eyes in response, playfully so. “What can I say? I’m just a medic. I didn’t carry a gun.”

Once Abby’s done laughing, which seems to take forever, she smiles down at you, pressing one more kiss to your forehead as if to make up for poking fun at you. You cuddle closer into her, letting your body relax in her embrace as a sigh escapes your lips.

You fall back into silence soon enough, eyes glued to the sky as Abby rubs her hand over your back, holding you like you would fade away if she let you go. You run your fingers through her short hair as you press kisses to her neck, jaw, and face, giving her all the love you know she deserves. Your eyes scan her features like she was molded by some higher power, and you can’t help but want to worship her, endlessly.

Not just for what she looks like. But for who she is.

“My baby. It’s like you were made for me, you know?” you whisper in Abby’s ear as your eyes pierce into her blue ones. But Abby’s head shook quickly.

You can predict what she’s going to say in response. “No, gorgeous.”

“It’s you who was made for me.”

—

reblogs are very much welcomed! <3

—

485 notes · View notes

0bticeo · 19 days

Text

lurk | feyd rautha

part 3 of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 4.)

summary:

the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

wc: 4k.

tw: blood, gore, possessive feyd rautha, bene gesserit shenanigans, determinism but make it sexy, bit of knife play, blood play, wound fucking, fingering, oral (fem recieving), somewhat sub feyd, breeding, inkpie, brief mention of cockwarming.

you’re kneeling. or rather, two guards are forcing you down on your knees, fingers digging in the meat of your shoulder until they reach the bone. you hold back a wince.

you fail.

your breath is heavy, stuttering little gasps leaving your lips with droplets of blood. your left side is on fire, each inhale pure, agonizing torture. use the voice and they’ll kill you.

you’re kneeling before baron vladimir harkonnen in his personal chambers, in a tattered robe. it’s filthy, the way he looks at you like you’re prized meat.

you bare your teeth.

“such defiance, atreides.” from the murky depths of his bath, he tilts his head. volutes of smoke escape his parted lips, slithering towards you. “tell me, why should i let you live?”

careful.

plans within plans within plans. you can’t let your feeble control over the situation escape you. inhale. choke on your scream - like hell you’ll show him your pain.

“if i weren’t useful to your plans, i would be dead.”

an image flashes in your mind’s eye. a spider woven out of human flesh, the mangled bodies of harkonnen prisoners frankensteined together. barely alive. an eternity of torment.

the baron laughs, a deep, cavernous rumbling. it fills the penumbra, fills you with dread. your shoulders tense - nervous impulse. you’re not in control.

“fair enough.” he inches forward, the gigantic mass of him rippling through filthy waters. “where is your brother?”

pain. it ripples through you, sinks its claws in your chest and freezes there, a sinking weight. you can’t breathe. you push through.

“he’s already given his last breath to the sands of arrakis.”

“how would you know?”

“dreams.”

the answer escapes your gritted teeth with frightening rapidity. good. let him think pain clouds your judgment. let him see you as weaker than you really are.

one of the guards tightens his hold, forces you to stand straight. blood drips down your lip. you will not scream.

“dreams?”

the subtle narrowing of his eyes. a quirk of his lip. disbelief. intrigue.

“i’ve followed my mother’s footsteps.”

“ah, lady jessica.”

keep her name out of your mouth.

he leans back in the bathtub. silence settles. stretches. stretches. he’s pensive, the baron. his lips wrap at the end of the pipe, mouth like a maw swallowing it, releasing acrid smoke that burns you. spice.

(visions. shai hulud deemed your brother worthy. on they go. march south or die. maybe the sands haven’t consumed him yet.)

nervous exhaustion settles in. they haven’t treated your wounds. it takes every ounce of energy to remain conscious, every inch of pride to will your muscles to stop trembling. your vision blurs at the edges.

“i’ll ask again, atreides. why should i let you live?”

bastard. you’re on your last legs. he has you cornered.

“because you’d have to kill your heir if you don’t.”

now that catches his attention.

“go on.”

careful. there’s a thin line between usefulness and danger. do not step on the wrong side.

“he’s recognized me in the arena."

the ghost of his touch against the wicked scar of your forearm. the flash of a grin, black teeth like a promise inked at the back of your skull.

you fought well, atreides.

behind your back, your nails dig into your palms.

“he’ll ruin you.”

“is that so?”

skepticism. amusement.

“do you think it wise to try and find out, baron?”

silence. fate looms over you. spins its web in the calculated gaze of the baron, gaze like cold steel cutting through you.

your life is in his hands and he relishes in it. in having you, half bare before him, chest heaving with each stuttering breath, red darkening the black of your dress.

you watch him lick his lips and shiver with disgust.

“do you think it wise to threaten me when i have wiped your house from the surface of the known galaxy?”

oh, right on a silver platter.

your mouth drips shadows as you bare your teeth in a grin.

“only because you were backed up by the imperium and its sardaukar.” you cough. blood drips on the ground. “you were a pawn, and that scum of an emperor could deem you a threat, too.”

a beat.

he’s smiling.

“you’ll be of use, atreides.”

a wave of his hand.

the guards move. drag you up until you’re standing on faltering legs. defiant, still. breath ragged, panting, blood pooling at your feet. you feel soiled, with the way the baron looks at you, eyes dragging down to your womb.

there’s a commotion behind you. you still. in your state, you’ve neglected to analyze your surroundings, only focusing on the biggest threat in the room. you didn’t take into account the harkonnen court behind you. atreides. the baron practically signed your death.

shit.

your vision is darkening in the corners.

“i ought to drown you in that tub.”

feyd-rautha, voice a low growl borne out of primal fury. feyd-rautha, in dark robes, shadow among shadows. you catch the slow twitch of his pale hand, the instinctual gesture of nerves calling for a familiar blade. to kill or protect, you do not know.

the guards freeze. you’re left there, struggling to stand, sweat dripping down your back with the effort of staying upright. how utterly humiliating.

“do not be hasty, my dear nephew.”

a ripple. the baron is chuckling. you feel it coming, the sense of doom, in the way the court holds its breath, in the flash of uncertainty in the na-baron’s eyes.

“i have another gift for you.”

“her.”

you.

one step, two, until he’s facing you.

he snarls at the guards. they let go of you. you collapse, only stopped from slamming upon the marble floors by two strong arms.

he’s pulling you in his chest, arm wrapping around your waist. you shudder, nerves alight with the instinctual need to get away from this place, from the baron’s lecherous’ stare, from the court’s bloodlust.

i must not fear. fear is the mind killer. fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. i will face my fear-

you don’t realize you’ve been shaking until a hand settles at the back of your head. warm. comforting. rubbing small circles in your scalp until you relax, if only by a fraction. he won’t let them harm you - you know it, deep in your soul.

“yes, her.” dismissive. “and a bigger one. arrakis.”

you feel it, the way the na-baron’s body tenses, the ripple of the hard planes of his chest under the soft silk of his clothes. anticipation. unease. you press your cheek to his heart, listen to the erratic pulse of it.

“what about rabban?”

“he has failed to protect the spice production.”

paul. your fingers clench in your palm, piercing the skin.

“tame arrakis feyd. free the spice, and i’ll make you emperor.”

you still. he who controls the spice has ultimate power over the known galaxy. power is power. knowledge is power.

“how?”

“use me.”

they still. rapt attention falls upon you. your fingers dig into the na-baron’s forearm like a vice to remain upright.

“if the great houses were to learn that the emperor ordered an entire house to be wiped out, they would question his authority. rebel. wage war until one comes on top.” you swallow blood. “you’ll have me as a living witness and weapon.”

“a weapon, huh?”

feyd-rautha looks down at you. there’s something awfully calculating in the way he assesses you, in the way his fingers curl over your hip - possessive. protective.

the baron rises by a fraction, mephistopheles bargaining.

“will you side with us, atreides?”

you let out a shaky breath. laughter. you’re laughing at him, at the absurdity of the situation - you, last of your house, striking a deal with the devil for revenge.

“i will. i only ask for one thing in return - the emperor’s head.”

the baron’s gaze is riveted to you. he nods. bargain sealed.

“this must not leave this room.”

feyd-rautha springs into action, blades drawn out of their sheaths before the baron finishes his sentence.

bodies fall.

carnifex. the butcher. oh, he’s gorgeous, feyd-rautha, twin blades slicing through gaping throats, droplets of blood landing on his pale cheek.

the baron immerses himself in that wretched bath, until it’s only you and the apex predator that is him.

you take a step forward. two. three. until you’re facing him, slowly raising your hand. the motion alone has you gasping for breath. still, you persist, until your fingers settle on his cheek, thumb wiping away at the gore sprayed there.

he leans into your touch, eyes half-lidded, nuzzling in your palm. his own hand cradles yours, warm, smearing blood on your skin. his lips press against your palm, against the many half-moons your nails have left in their wake.

“come, my little atreides,” he mutters. “you need medical attention.”

his eyes sink into yours, magnetic, all consuming. they dart to your parted lips, to the blood coating them. he leans in, breath like fire upon your soul, upon your awaiting mouth.

your breath stutters.

oh.

“catch me, feyd.”

you fall.

fall until you stand in the desert of arrakis. paul has his back turned to you, silhouette burning bright in your retina. corpses. they’re burning, all of them, and with the stench of sun-charred flesh rises a litany. lisan al gaib.

lead them to paradise.

you want to scream. you want to reach out for cruel fate and rip her asunder with your bare hands until that twisted future is no more.

you do not know whether your brother is the kwisatz haderach. you do not know if there is a kwisatz haderach, what’s with the missionaria protectiva’s wretched tale.

warmth seeps in your womb, the gentle press of a lover’s hand. you do not know if the child you’ll bear will be the one.

desert sands slips from your fingers.

you just want your family back.

feyd doesn’t expect it, the moment you collapse in his arms with a whispered plea. still, he catches you. slides his arms under the back of your knees and pulls you close, where he knows no harm would come to you.

who would possibly dare to cross him?

warmth spreads across his hand. blood, he realizes. your wound, that vicious strike of his hasn’t been treated. fury washes over him, gaping maw sinking in his heart. it is vicious, too, that fury.

it tells him of blood and death and destruction. death to the baron. death and misery upon those who’ve wronged you - doesn’t matter if he has to face the sardaukar, for he is legion.

the hallways are empty. servants have long deserted the baron’s quarters, knowing not to disturb him. good. no one must know of your presence here.

he looks down at you, at your wan face, at the blood dripping down your chin, spreading, spreading down your throat.

he cannot let you die.

he cannot compromise himself more than he already has by threatening the doctors to kill them should you die in their hands. he leaves you in their care and strides back to his own chambers. they’ll notify him of your condition.

you, last atreides left standing. you, with your sharp wit, sharp blade and sharper smile. you, feral, snarling at him in the arena. you, hands dipped in ink darker than black, spreading it over his back.

he had felt your warmth, back then. felt the softness of your skin on his, shivered as you ran over his deltoids, down to the rib - lower. each and every one of his nerves, raw, exposed, yearning for your touch.

there had been a beat, a split second of hesitation on your part. blood calls for blood, and his house has spilled so much of your blood. it would have been easy for you to take a hold of his blade and sink it in his exposed back.

he almost wanted you to do it.

(he had tilted his head, back then, a low growl leaving his lips at the mere thought of it. he could almost taste it, your sheer want.)

he, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen, lets his guard down, as if waiting for you to strike. why is that?

his steps do not lead him to a place of honor. too much blood has been spilled in this palace - a tribute to harkonnen nature, really. verses upon verses of hymns interwoven with gore and the acrid scent of enemies torn asunder by their blades. hellish epics to those who died bloody.

retribution is second nature - and he expects it from you.

then why is he so soft around you?

you’re still an atreides. your only worth to his uncle as of now resides in this precise fact - that you remain a witness to your house’s demise. a hidden blade, ready to be sunk in the emperor’s back.

his steps slow.

there’s something.

you, standing in the arena, raising your head, voice distorted and hoarse, thousands of your foremothers screaming in righteous fury.

you will not perceive me as i am.

he hadn’t, not until his fingers met the jagged ends of your scar.

a bene gesserit trick.

“are you lost, my lord na-baron?”

a silhouette in the shadows, shrouded in veils. he can only make out a smile - sweet, charming. not enough to conceal the sharpness beneath. witch.

he remains silent.

“what will you do with lady atreides?”

his resolve weakens. here, in the dead silence of the hall, he speaks:

“she will be mine.” a beat. the nervous twitch of his fingers, aching for a blade. “is it not what you intended, witch?”

he knows she is smiling, the bene gesserit facing him.

plans within plans within plans. atreides, harkonnen, corrino, dozens of great houses and they’re none the wiser.

“it was.”

none of it is real, it is all an illusion - your touch is wrong, your judgment unjust, faltering. dreams have meaning, this must be one. you can still taste the sands of arrakis, hear the screams of the billions of people starving, begging-

you rise in your bed - information flashes.

a bed. bandages wrapped tightly around your side. harsh, cold walls. antiseptic. blood - a medical wing.

feyd rautha.

you startle. he’s watching you, head slightly tilted to the side. assesses you still, gaze raking over the thin fabric of the covers.

his gaze is free to roam the expanse of your bare throat, to trail down to the dips of your collarbones, to the swell of your naked breasts. you shiver.

“is the sight to your liking, my lord na-baron?”

a chuckle like a rattlesnake. he steps closer, until he’s all but hovering above you, hand lightly pressing down on the mattress below.

“will you have me, my wife?”

you blink.

“we’re not-”

his fingers run up your wrist, press against the long scar marring your forearm.

“does it truly matter? you were made to be mine.” slowly, he sinks to his knees, glacier eyes smoldering in the penumbra. “and i was made to be yours.”

generations of prefect planning for this - you, last atreides left standing, and him, feyd rautha harkonnen, alone in the same room, bred for one another, for the kwisatz haderach to be conceived.

you raise your hand, cradling his cheek.

“have me, feyd-rautha.”

he presses a kiss to your palm, your inner wrist. he grins, black teeth like a gaping maw ready to sink into the marrow of you. your pulse jumps at that, rabbit-quick against the thin skin of your wrist. he feels it, with the way his thumb presses down on the delicate flesh.

his hand slithers under the covers, drags them down, until your side is completely exposed. he presses a kiss there, too, on the stitched up wound at your side. it’ll scar. a living, breathing reminder of him, of the kiss of his blade on your skin. the weapon is in his hand before you know it, slicing through bandages.

you feel his breath before you feel the press of his lips on your side. you gasp, fingers reaching for him, digging in his nape.

his tongue meets raw flesh, teeth worrying at the stitches until they snap. his nail rakes the cut, spreads its edges apart until liquid warmth blossoms at your side, trickling down your ribs.

you scream.

his lips slam against your own. warm. scorching. bruising. he presses himself to you like he wants to sink in the marrow of you and taste.

your hand raises to his chest, a meek press against his heart, fingers weaving with the velvet shadows of his jacket.

closer.

he growls. low, primal, needy. pushes his fingers in the gaping wound at your side - white hot pain surges through you. your mind grows blank. agony never felt so sweet.

your lips part in a cry - he swallows it down with greedy laughter.

you feel him smile against your lips, tongue reaching out for yours. heavy. you bring him closer. his hand twists, index curling up. you think he wants to reach your heart and never let go.

“feyd-”

he stills. nips at your lip one last time, backing away. a spider-web string of saliva links you both. he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you with a low hum. desire curls inside your lower belly.

“more,” you beg.

“where?”

you take his hand, bring it between your thighs, face heating up. he’s laughing, feyd rautha, the tip of his blood-soaked fingers brushing your cunt.

you gasp at that, at the way he spreads you apart, sinks into you with shameless abandon. you whine as you feel his fingers curl oh so sweetly.

he’s watching you. leaning closer and closer, until you can feel his breath on your inner thigh, until-

until his lips press against your heat, tongue lapping at you. you mewl, hand pressing him closer, nails sinking into his nape. you feel him growl against you, a low, needy sound as he tastes you, consumes you, tongue flicking against your clit.

something’s building in you, agonizingly warm, blistering fire spreading over your skin. a low vibration.

he’s purring, you realize, eyes closed in bliss as he laps at you, tongue delving into you, your essence running down his chin. you bite your lip until you taste blood.

it’s all too much.

the way his fingers have you keening his name like holy prayer. the way his tongue burns a path of desire over your slit, skilled little licks having you thrash in his grip, the low vibration of his purr having you squirming in his grasp. his free hand tightens around your thigh, pulls you closer.

his gaze flits to yours, glacier eyes melting under the weight of his desire.

you cum with a whine of his name, a plea for him to stop, to give you more, to please please please, keep touching you.

his eyes roll in the back of his skull at that. at the sight of you, lips parted in sinful euphoria, head thrown back under a tidal wave of pleasure. more. he needs more.

he grasps your hand, presses it against the length of his clothed cock, hard, throbbing, yearning for your touch.

“will you have me?”

“yes.”

as it was meant to be. him and you, bodies pressed so close nothing could come between the two of you, your nails digging in his back as he eases himself into you with a low hiss of pleasure.

him, pressing his lips in the crook of your neck, teeth nibbling at the tender flesh as his hips slowly rock into you.

“mine,” he growls, forehead against yours, picking up his pace until you’re gasping for breath. “mine.”

you close your fingers around his. press a kiss to his lips - you’re so full, so delectably full, your legs crossing over his lower back, driving him closer still.

his teeth break your skin, your lips painted over in blood. the sight has him moaning, reaching out between your legs to rub at your clit until you’re keening his name.

his release follows yours - he groans your name in the crook of your neck, hips stuttering madly against yours.

your breaths mingle - two pieces of the same puzzle slotting against one another. complete. you’re whole, pressed against the broad expanse of his chest, his cock settled snugly in your pussy.

you can almost feel it, the satisfied smile of the reverend mother. an heir has been secured, deep in the confines of your womb, growing, second after second. a boy - the kwisatz haderach.

that wretched eons long plan doesn’t matter. not now, not when you run your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jaw, marveling at him.

“mine,” you mutter.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#feyd rautha x y/n #obticeo writes #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune #dune x you #dune x reader #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #bald freak supremacy

444 notes · View notes

amourane · 12 days

Text

cry for me

pairing: theodore nott x fem!reader

genre: smut, pwp, enemies but their fwbs??

w/c: 0.8k

summary: you hated theodore nott but why now are you on your knees for him?

warnings: explicit sexual content, degradation, name calling, dacryphilia

a/n: i love theo sm and i'm currently writing an e2l fic with him so this is just me testing the waters! <3

If you were given the chance to either eat worms for the rest of your life or stay in a room with Theodore Nott, you’d choose to eat worms. There was a tiny part of you that knows that you shouldn’t be mean, afterall you’re known for being the sweetest person at Hogwarts, always willing to lend a helping hand to those who needed it.

Theo was just...cold. You didn’t think you’d ever seen the guy crack a smile, only smirks and devilish grins that can never mean something good. He was always lurking in the corners sometimes you wouldn’t even notice he’s there until he says something.

Hate was a strong word and you didn’t like to use it often. But you had grown up with Theo and it was always a constant apocalypse between the two of you. He had once given you a wilted flower on your birthday stating that it was to remind you that everything dies one day, including you. How could one person be so...morbid? It was safe to say that you really really disliked him.

So why were you here, on your knees, a moaning whimpering mess? Well maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought you did.

"Look at sweet little Y/n.” He cooed, grabbing your chin to look up at him, your eyes half shut as you pleaded for more. They were watering and your lips were flushed and glistening. “Who would’ve thought you were such a cock hungry slut. Suck."

At his command, you opened your mouth, tongue licking his tip. Your hands came up to palm his huge cock, whimpering at the girth between your fingers. Everything about Theo screamed seductive and, though you hate to admit it, you did find him irresistible. As he whispered more dirty words you found your panties soaking and he stuffed your face full of him and only him.

Your nose brushed his pelvis as you took him deeper, swallowing as you did. His cock filled your wet cavern, sliding into your mouth repeatedly. Your tongue swiped over the tip again, moaning around his length. The lewd sounds that filled your ears made your body purr in delight as your eyes fluttered shut. Theo threw his head back, his dark hair like a halo around him.

"Fuck-" He cursed, threading his fingers into your hair, pounding his cock into your mouth and you gagged, forcing yourself to breathe through your nose. "Such a fucking slut f’me, you like being my cum dump don't you? Like being used like the filthy whore you are whenever you're needed. Don’t worry I’ll make sure that nasty mouth is full of my cum angel."

The vulgar words he spat out always made your mind spin in a hazy world of lust. Tears leaked out of your eyes as you bobbed your head up and down, taking him as deep as you can. When he delivered a harsh thrust into your mouth, you found your body trembling from the force, your legs felt like jelly.

Your fingers slowly trailed towards your thighs, trying to discreetly open them but the Slytherin caught you.

“Aww.” He mocked a wicked smirk spread across his face. “Does the cock whore want to touch herself? Are you that desperate of a slut, wait I already know the answer, of course you fucking are.”

You felt his hands dig into the roots of your hair, tugging roughly and you felt the pain sing through your body. You felt your tears roll down your face, big fat drops as you cried from both pain and pleasure.

“Now you’re gonna be a good fucking girl f’me and keep your hands off what’s mine.”

His mean glare told you enough and without protest, you removed your fingers, placing both your hands on his thighs as you continued to suck, not wanting another punishment.

The filthy words that spilled out of his mouth never stopped and you felt yourself growing wetter as he called you more names. As the pulsing of your pussy grew you couldn’t help but grow impatient at the stickiness between your thighs. His cock throbbed in your mouth and you knew he’s close. You suck him harder, continuing your little ministrations that you knew made Theo go crazy.

“Shit Y/n.”

He moaned, feeling the tightness of your throat. A string of curses left his pink lips when he came and it filled your mouth, warmness spreading over your tastebuds and you swallow. His breath hitched when you gave him one last suck before opening your mouth.

“Who knew the way to shut you up was to fill your slutty mouth with cum.”

When you release your cock, you rub your thighs together, nibbling your bottom lip. “C-Can I get fucked now?” Your voice is raspy and it came out croaky, something Theo adored. He smirked, bringing your face closer to his.

“You sure can, principessa.”

#theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagines #theo nott imagine #theodore nott smut #theodore nott imagine #theo nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theodore nott #theodore nott x you #smut #theodore nott x y/n #slytherin boys smut #slytherin boys #theo nott x you #theo nott smut

400 notes · View notes

itneverendshere · 1 month

Text

erase all of my memories without you - rafe cameron.

part 2 of can't remember anything before you.

pairing: rafe cameron x thornton!reader; brother's best friend! trope or best friend's sister! trope lmao; fem!reader.

word count: a lot??

WARNINGS: boyfriend!rafe <3; rafe being the biggest lover boy; tooth-rotting fluff if im being honest; topper's a dick but just for a sec; rafe is down bad; so cute.

“rafe, i told you, no hickeys!”

“can you blame me?” he has that mischievous gleam in his eyes, like he's testing just how far he can push your boundaries. “you’re just so pretty, baby.”

you roll your eyes, trying to maintain a serious tone despite the playful grin pulling at your lips. “shut up.”

being with rafe cameron was not on your yearly plans, but every single day, you thank your lucky stars for finally doing something right. he's a total game-changer, your personal slice of heaven.

who would have thought the universe had that kind of surprise up its sleeve?

he leans in closer, breath warm against your ear, arms wrapped securely around your waist, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. "i should visit more often if that’s how you’re going to greet me each time.”

you can't help but lean back into his embrace, savoring every moment of closeness.

"you should." you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers gently tracing circles on his hand. “wouldn't mind that at all."

you’d been together ever since that fateful night in your garden, months ago.

sneaking around had its thrills, especially with your brother always lurking nearby, but nothing compared to the challenge of a long-distance relationship. late-night calls, stolen moments of intimacy over video chats, and endless messages are your lifelines.

so when rafe finally stepped through the door of your new york apartment last night, after weeks apart, it was no surprise that you couldn't help but pounce on him, eager to make up for lost time. his slutty grey sweatpants, his choice of comfortable for a flight, were imprinted into your brain.

“so, so pretty." he murmurs, lips brushing against your earlobe, “y'know i can't resist leaving my mark on you."

you playfully swat at him, a grin spreading across your face despite your half-hearted protest, “topper would kill you."

rafe snorts, the sound traveling through your body as he presses a kiss to your temple, “he can try.”

you can't help but feel a twinge of guilt at the thought of keeping your relationship with rafe under wraps. it’s not like you don’t want to make it official, god, you do. but you’ve spent the last four months having him all to yourself, you don’t want other people to butt in and ruin everything with their unsolicited opinions.

being with him feels right. he's your rock, your constant in a world that's always changing.

“can we go back to bed now?” rafe’s warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks, his voice laced with a hint of grogginess, sleep still clouding his brain, “it’s fucking freezing.”

you chuckle quietly at his sleepy request, the sound mixing with the gentle hum of the heater as it struggles to combat the winter chill.

“course." you murmur, unwrapping yourself from his arms to press a tender kiss to his cheek, "let's get you warmed up."

his fingers don’t let you move an inch away, circling your wrist to pull you closer against his chest again, big cheeky smile on his face as he looks down at you. “you gonna warm me up, peach?”

"i might." you reply with a sly smirk, trailing a finger down his shirtless chest. "but you might have to work for it a little."

rafe's eyes widen with mock surprise. "is that so?" he asks, his voice low and husky as he pulls you closer. “well, lucky for you, i’m up for a challenge."

you’d never felt butterflies in your tummy until you started dating this man. he has you wrapped around his fingers, and you don’t want out. it physically hurts you to even think about a time when you didn’t have rafe like this.

you can't imagine being anywhere else but here, wrapped in his embrace.

with a playful giggle, you give him a knowing look. "’m counting on it," you murmur, as you pull him closer. you stand on your barefoot tiptoes, arms lacing around his neck. “really missed you.”

rafe's arms tighten around you as he pulls you impossibly close, his warmth enveloping you like a cozy blanket. his gaze softens, filled with a tenderness that makes your heart flutter even faster.

“missed you too, more than you know." he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours as he leans in to press a docile kiss to your lips.

“always thinking about my girl.”

as his lips meet yours, a wave of warmth washes over you, melting away any lingering traces of cold or distance. fuck, you’re in love with him and if he keeps kissing you like this, you might confess earlier. you’re way in over your head.

you sigh contentedly against his lips, savoring the feeling of being so close to him after being apart for so long. his touch, his scent, his presence—all of it feels like home to you. breaking the kiss reluctantly, you rest your forehead against his.

“stop staring at me like that peach.” he scolds, but there’s no bite to his tone as his fingertips brush your cheek lightly. “gonna end up buying this fucking building if you keep that up.”

you smile again, that’s all you seem to do around him anyway, as his beautiful eyes sweep up from your lips to meet your own. “rafe cameron living in new york? i’d pay to see that.”

rafe chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending pleasant vibrations through your body. his fingers trace lazy patterns along your cheek, his touch sweet and affectionate.

“you'd pay to see it, huh?" he teases, a playful glint in his face as he leans in closer to you, his breath warm against your skin. “’m that good of an investment?”

you can't help but laugh at his playful banter, shaking your head. you love that you get to see this side of him, how soft he is with you, only you.

“you’re alright cameron.”

"jus’ alright?" he feigns offense, his hand moving to rest over his heart in an exaggerated manner. "take it back.”

“nop.”

rafe lets out a dramatic sigh, pretending to be wounded. "no?”

you can't help but giggle at his theatrics, finding it endearing how he always manages to lighten the mood.

"you big baby." you tease, poking him playfully in the side.

“oh, i’ll show you big.”

before you can even wrap your brain around his innuendo, you’re being thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. he does it so effortlessly you almost swoon.

you squeal in surprise, the sudden movement catching you off guard. "rafe, what the fuck?" you laugh, squirming slightly as he carries you effortlessly across the room. “what are you doing—hey!”

his palm smacks against one of your cheeks, covered by nothing except a pair of his ralph lauren boxers. “taking you to bed, where you belong.”

you play along, pretending to protest even as you secretly enjoy the attention.

"and what if i don't want to go to bed?" you retort, trying to sound defiant.

rafe stops in his tracks, his grip tightening around your legs. "oh, trust me, peach," he says, his tone turning serious for a moment, "you definitely want to go to bed."

“hmm, not sure.”

“it’s okay brat, you’ll be sure soon enough." he teases, deep voice making you want to do the most immoral things on every single surface of your apartment.

a repeat of last night.

you play along, feigning uncertainty as he deposits you gently onto the queen-sized bed, his stare burning with desire as he hovers over you, thick arms caging you in. one of your hands wraps around his bicep, nails grazing the skin as you glance up at him, head tilted to the side.

rafe’s eyes instantly move to your neck as your hair slips behind, tongue poking out to wet his lips, "i don't know, baby, might have to convince me."

he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "consider it my pleasure." he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours in a tantalizingly gentle kiss.

you feel a shiver run down your back as rafe's lips meet yours, his kiss sending a surge of electricity through your body. you’ll never get used to this. his touch is both tender and assertive, his lips moving against yours with a practiced finesse that leaves you breathless.

it's like every nerve in your being wakes up, responding eagerly to his touch.

as he deepens the kiss, his hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your waist and hips with a possessive urgency, with a sense of familiarity as if committing every curve to memory. his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss even further, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips before delving into your mouth in a hungry, desperate kiss. you melt against him, surrendering.

you feel a surge of heat pooling in the pit of your stomach, your breath catching in your throat as he explores you with a hunger that leaves you trembling.

“better than alright?” he mumbles against your lips and you find yourself unable to resist the pull of his touch, arching against him in silent invitation. his lips trail a path of fire along your jawline and down your neck, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake, “lost your voice, huh?”

he’s so addicted to sucking harshly on your skin, nibbling it playfully to drag out and elicit the sweetest sounds from your mouth. a melodic moan escapes your parted lips.

“you’re such an asshole.”

“there she is.” rafe's husky chuckle fills the air, sending pleasant vibrations through your body as he continues to pepper kisses along your neck, each one igniting a fiery trail of craving in its wake. “’m your asshole though.”

“not if you keep teasing.”

his lips pause their trail, hovering just above your skin as he looks up at you, one of his brows raised, "teasing?”

before you can protest his lips are on yours again, hungry and demanding. his hands roam over your body with a newfound urgency, tracing every corner and eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your lips. he has the audacity to hush you when he pins you harder with his hips, clothed cock rubbing perfectly against you.

your nails can’t help but dig into his shoulders, pulling at the skin. the way he's moving against you makes you feel like getting on your knees and letting him do whatever he wants to you, for however long he wishes to.

but then, your stupid intercom is buzzing.

you both freeze, caught in the throes of passion interrupted. rafe drops his head on your shoulder, groaning.

"seriously?" he mutters, his voice tinged with frustration as he rolls off you, giving you space to sit up.

“it’s probably breakfast.” you’re smoothing out your rumpled clothes— if you can call an oversized tee and boxers an outfit.

rafe lets out an exaggerated sigh, flopping back onto the bed, “’m so hard it hurts.” he whines, throwing an arm over his face.

“you’ll be fine.”

“can’t even see you right now, might cum in my sweats.” he mutters, his voice muffled by the fabric of your pillows.

you stifle a laugh, shaking your head at his melodramatic response.

"you're ridiculous." you tease, moving to sit beside him on the bed.

rafe peeks out from under his arm, giving you a glare, his bottom lip jutting out in a comically exaggerated pout. “and you're making me harder, stop touching me and go get the door.”

you lean in to press a quick kiss to his cheek, feet planted on the ground as you attempt to get up, but he’s quick to pull you down again. his beefy arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back on top of him.

“rafe.”

“gimme a kiss before you go.”

“though you didn’t want me to touch you.” you tease, leaning down to press a short kiss to his lips. it's meant to be quick, just a peck, but his hand snakes up to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. settling on your lower lip, he draws it into his mouth, sucking lightly, pushing you even closer. he runs his hands along your sides, one stopping just below your covered breasts—

“the door,” you manage to stutter out between kisses, “behave.”

when he finally pulls away, both your lips are slightly swollen, red and you’re both breathless.

"there," you say as you push yourself off the bed once more. but this time, rafe lets you go without protest, admiring you with a lazy smile as you make your way to the door.

when you moved back to new york three months ago, you chose to do it independently. while your parents owned at least three penthouses in the city, you needed something smaller. what was the point in living alone in such big apartments? you’d be miserable and alone most of the time.

you chose a smaller studio, fancy enough to be your type, but cozy enough to make you feel at home, even though you were miles away.

as you reach the door, you glance back to see rafe still lounging in your bed, arms crossed lazily behind his head. you shake your own, turn back, and open the door.

your heart immediately falls through your ass.

“topper?!”

he ignores you, pushing you aside to enter as he focuses on removing the thick scarf around his neck, struggling to get it off as he rants.

“about damn time, you know how long i was outside?! swear to god i hate this city, it’s freezing for no reason and—is that rafe fucking cameron on your bed?!”

you freeze in place, feeling a knot form in your stomach as you watch topper's reaction unfold. rafe, ever the cool customer, sits up in bed, a smirk playing at his lips as he meets your brother’s incredulous gaze head-on. you can feel a headache forming in the back of your head.

"hey, top." rafe geets, his tone casual as if he's just encountered an old friend. which he has because that’s his best friend. "long time no see?"

topper's eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of rafe lounging on your bed, “okay, okay. what the fuck is going on?”

he's going to freak out on you.

you clear your throat, trying to find the right words to explain the situation, “he’s visiting.”

top nods, not leaving his best friend out of his sight, “clearly! why are you in my sister’s bed, cameron?”

“was i supposed to sleep on the floor?” rafe replies, tone nonchalantly as he shrugs casually.

you’re going to kill him.

topper's jaw clenches as he shoots rafe a glare, clearly unimpressed by his answer. "you know damn well what i mean." he says, his voice menacing, so different from what you're used to.

rafe's smirk only widens, “relax, man," he says, his tone dripping with casual indifference. "we were just hanging out."

and about to have sex, but your brother doesn’t need all the details.

topper's expression darkens further at your boyfriend’s flippant attitude, and you can practically feel the terrible outcome.

"in her bed?" he asks, his voice dangerously low.

you step forward, hoping to defuse the situation before it escalates any further.

"topper, it's not what you think," you begin, but your brother holds up a hand to silence you.

“and why are you wearing his clothes?”

you glance down at your choice of outfit, flustered, you try to come up with a plausible explanation, “uh—well—it's a funny story, i-i'm out of clothes actually, who knew doing your laundry took so much work?”

his attention flickers between you and rafe, suspicion evident in his expression. you can practically see the gears turning in his head.

"out of clothes?" he repeats, his tone incredulous. "and you decided to borrow his?"

you shift uncomfortably under his scrutinization, trying to come up with a better explanation, but you can’t. “yeah?”

he squeezes his eyes shut as if he’s in pain, “please tell me my sister isn’t fucking my best friend.”

you swallow hard, feeling the weight of his scrutiny bearing down on you, but rafe speaks before you can conjure the words.

“your sister isn’t fucking your best friend, happy?”

you shoot rafe a warning look, silently pleading for him to play along and not make the situation worse.

you step forward, again. “topper, please, it's not what you think,” you say, your voice tinged with desperation. “rafe just came to visit, that's all.”

topper's stare softens as he contemplates, but his expression remains guarded. “and you didn't think to tell me?”

you bite your lip, feeling guilty for keeping your relationship with rafe a secret from your brother. “i wanted to, i just... didn't know how.”

rafe interjects, his tone more serious now. “top, i know this probably looks bad—”

“it looks really bad,” topper interrupts, his frustration evident.

“but nothing's happened,” rafe continues, ignoring the interruption. “we're just friends.”

but your brother is still inspecting you. and it’s only when his eyes descend to your neck, you realize what he’s looking at.

“is that why she got at least three hickeys on her neck?”

you feel a flush rise to your cheeks as topper's accusation hangs heavy in the air. you stare nervously at rafe, hoping he'll come up with a believable explanation, but he just shrugs nonchalantly, as if the hickeys are no big deal.

“they’re not hickeys, i burned myself with my curling iron.”

“yeah and i’m fucking adriana lima on my spare time.”

“okay?” you quickly turn your head back to the wall because you think you're about to puke up everything you just ingested.

"oh fuck, not you." top groans in frustration, seeing where rafe googly looks are directed, “not you two! you can't be serious?! that's my sister, dude; come on!"

rafe finally stands up from your bed, his tone is firm, his expression serious as he steps closer to your brother, his hands held out in a placating gesture. “it’s not like that.”

topper glances back and forth between you two, focusing on the blush of your cheeks and the adoration in rafe’s face now that you are looking back at him. a sick, knowing feeling had been building inside of him since he walked through the door.

“i can’t fucking believe this.”

“it’s not like that,” rafe repeats, walking to your side, hating the way your eyes are starting to water. he keeps his hand on your arm, thumb brushing circles over your cold skin, “we’re together. and watch your fucking tone when you speak to her.”

“don’t tell me how to speak to my sister!"

rafe's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. despite that, his hand remains steady on your arm, offering you a silent anchor of support. you feel a knot tighten in your stomach as you testify the tension between the two most important men in your life escalates.

"guys, please," you interject, your voice trembling, "this isn't helping anything."

“you’re in love with her, cameron?”

topper’s question makes you want to dig a hole in the middle of your studio and run.

what the hell?!

he can’t just barge in and make everything a mess. this is what you were afraid of, people meddling with your relationship. you and rafe haven’t discussed it yet. yeah it’s clear you’re in love with him, but you want to be the one to tell him and vice versa. you don’t want him to feel pressured to do it.

rafe's hand tightens on your arm, anchoring himself with the feeling of you beneath his fingertips. his eyes search yours for guidance. you can see the conflict in his expression.

he doesn’t shy away from the question, and his gaze never leaves yours. he traces every line of your face, “yeah, i am.”

the words hang in the air, a declaration that changes everything and nothing all at once. then time stops. your stomach turns unhelpfully, and you feel your skin turn clammy.

from the corner of your eye, you see the shock register on your brother’s face before he can hide it. strangely, he seems to understand now, perhaps more than you realized he would. for a moment, there's silence in the room, the weight of rafe's confession settling over all of you. but then topper lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagging with the weight of understanding.

"okay," he says, his voice softer now, lacking the edge of anger from before. "okay."

you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, feeling a sense of relief flood through you. despite the uncertainty of what comes next.

rafe's hand finds yours, intertwining his fingers with yours in a silent gesture of solidarity. you squeeze his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"thank you," you say to topper, your voice barely above a whisper but brimmed with gratitude.

he nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "just... take care of each other, okay?"

“can you leave now?” rafe all but interrupts the sentimental exchange, “kinda need to properly confess.”

topper raises an eyebrow at his abrupt request, clearly caught off guard by the bluntness. but after a second of hesitation, he nods, pushing himself off the wall where he's been leaning.

"yeah, sure," he says, giving you a meaningful look before turning to leave. "just... be careful, both of you. i’ll stop by later for dinner."

you offer him a small smile in return, feeling a shit ton of emotions swirling inside you as you watch him go. once he's out of sight, you let out a sigh, the tension in the room finally dissipating.

rafe releases your hand, moving to close the door behind topper before returning to your side. his expression is softer now, focused solely on you.

"you okay?" he asks, his voice soft as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

you nod, offering him a shaky smile. "yeah, think so. that was... unexpected."

rafe pulls you into his arms, holding you close as if he never wants to let you go.

"m’ sorry peach," he murmurs against your hair, his voice filled with regret. "didn't mean to drop that bomb on ya like that."

you sink into his embrace, finding comfort in the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. "t's okay," you whisper, your voice barely audible as you nuzzle into his chest. "just wish it had been different."

he presses a kiss to the top of your head, arms tightening around you protectively. "i know," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves.

then, as if a floodgate has opened within you, the words spill from your lips, raw and unfiltered. "i’m in love with you too, rafe."

his arms around you tighten, as if to reassure himself that your words are real.

"i love you," he murmurs against your hair, "more than anything."

you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “you’re gonna make me cry.”

he pulls back slowly, cupping your face in his hands and wiping away the tears that have started to fall. "hey now, no tears, baby. only happy ones, yeah?"

you nod, sniffling but managing a watery smile. "yeah, happy tears. because i love you, rafe cameron."

he smiles back, a gentleness in him you've never seen before.

"and i love you, more than anything in this world."

you can't help but lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his palms against your cheeks. his stare is full of tenderness, his thumb gently brushing away the last traces of tears.

"you're everything, y’know that?" he murmurs, his voice overflowing with sincerity.

you nod, feeling a lump forming in your throat at the depth of his words. "yeah, i do. and so are you.”

he leans in closer, lips capturing yours in a sweet kiss. he moves against you with a gentle fervor, his hands cradling your face as if you're the most precious thing in the world to him. and in that moment, you know without a doubt that you are and as you pull away, breathless yet content, you rest your forehead against his, savoring the closeness and the warmth that surrounds you.

"i love you," you whisper.

"i love you too, always," rafe replies, his voice a gentle caress against your skin.

366 notes · View notes

cordeliawhohung · 14 days

Text

Soft Spot - Part 3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part thirteen of "soft spot"

taglist | playlist | dissection links

you're so used to the teeth that they don't even hurt anymore

warnings: childhood trauma, mentions of past abuse, mentions of past torture, threats and unkind language

wc: 4.4k

Some part of you always knew you’d see him again, but you never imagined it would be like that.

In your pitiful daydreams, you always envisioned things would be darker; scarier, even. You’d find him again in some dim corner where he would trap you and would lurk and stare until he was ready to pounce. In the version of yourself in your daydreams, you were stronger. You knew exactly what to say, how to convey how you felt, but most importantly, he would pay. He would pay for every single transgression he wrought upon you and your mother. You would never have to see him again. But it was wrong. You weren’t supposed to run into him there. Not on a perfect day like that.

It would have been a perfect day.

The warmth of the sun on your skin, the laughter of everyone around you; you had every right to enjoy that day. To bask in the beauty of the trees with their singing, fluttering leaves, and to soak up the fragrance of tulips and freshly trimmed grass. But behind it all, there was always something lurking. A second layer you hadn’t yet exposed. The rotting carcass of a bird nestled by the trunk of a tree. Musty hot car exhaust from the street on the other side of the park. A man too angry for his own good and his daughter petrified on the bench.

The smell of cigarettes.

Your eyes had no choice but to stay glued onto the man in front of you. So many years had gone by, and though his age caught up to him, that unbridled rage that festered within him was painfully distinct. It was his eyes, it always was. You could see every thought and intention that came to fruition in his thoughts, and though he smiled, you knew none of it was good. It alerted some primal instinct in the back of your mind that screamed at you to run, to fight. All you could do was place your hands on your stomach and hope Simon would return soon.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” The words flew out of your mouth of their own volition, like some sort of ghost had taken control of your body and given you the strength to say them.

Your father snorted as he took a step closer to you, and you had no choice but to watch him sink down into the seat next to you. His movements were slow, frail even. There was something wrong with him, as if he rotted from the inside out. Perhaps all his wrongdoings had finally caught up with him, and you took an odd sort of comfort in the thought he looked too sick to properly hurt anyone other than himself.

“Haven’t seen each other in years and you have nothing to say? Bullshit.” He coughed. It sounded wet, and you could make out the sticky sounds of it clinging in the back of his throat. “Though, the last time we talked you didn’t have anything to say to me but a threat.”

He was right. A threat. A promise. Maybe both. Whatever it was, you had meant every word of it at the time when you said you would kill him if he ever hit you again. That felt like forever ago. Some other lifetime. Really, you were surprised he even remembered it at all. No, of course he remembered it. He would always remember the worst parts of you; the parts of you he could twist and use against you.

“I still mean it,” you said.

It was an empty promise. You knew that, and he knew that too.

“Sure thing, darling,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ll do a whole lot of damage in… this state.”

No surprise bloomed in your chest at his comment, but disgust did. Having to see that vile man again was already bad enough, but seeing him while you were pregnant was a different form of degradation. It felt violating to be perceived in such a disgusting way, especially by the man who fathered you. Him seeing your mother pregnant hadn’t pulled on his heartstrings to save her from the terrible fate of his fury, and it certainly wouldn’t save you.

“So, who’s the dad? Some rich American? Surprised to see you back here after you ran off to play school girl in the States,” he sneered.

“You don’t have the right to ask that,” you snapped.

“Don’t I?” he challenged. “You’re my daughter.”

“I’m nothing of yours.”

A heavy sigh left your father’s lips as he adjusted his position on the bench. You hadn’t moved an inch since he approached you, and even your son seemed to know well enough to stay dormant inside of you.

“You always have to be difficult,” your father huffed.

“What the fuck do you want?” you bit. Intense eyes landed on the pathetic figure next to you, and you found your hands balling into fists in your lap. “We haven't spoken for years, and you think it’s okay to just stroll up to me in the damn park for a conversation?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said with a glare. “Remember, you were the one who cut contact with me, not the other way around, darling.”

“Because you are a piece of shit, and you know it,” you retorted. “You’ve never been useful for a goddamn thing in your entire life. You beat my mother, beat me, and then left her to die when she got sick like she was a fucking toy you were tired of playing with. All that shit and you think you have any right to talk to me? To approach me and act like nothing happened?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, girl,” your father warned. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re knocked up, you don’t get to speak to me like that.”

You weren’t sure what made your body move the way it did, but suddenly you were on your feet with your back facing him. Everything happened of its own accord. The way your feet moved along the pavement. How your heart thundered in your chest so violently you swore it would break your ribs. A sense of self preservation consumed your body and its senses as it did its best to get you away from the threat of your father. You were in no shape to fight, and you couldn’t afford to freeze, so you took flight.

But you had never been very good at getting away.

The brutal cycle of getting caught continued in the same way it always had; with a hand around your wrist. Your father’s grip was just as unforgiving as Bukin’s had been, and the same as Eric before him. Just like all the other times, you turned to face the aggressor with a bewildered glare on your face, incapable of holding back neither your fear nor your anger.

“How long do you think you can keep running? Huh? Before your legs stop working? Before someone breaks them?” he asked, his tone all but demanding an answer from you.

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Truly?” you questioned.

“I’m your fuckin’ father,” he retorted.

Hot breath fanned across your face and you could almost taste the rancid tobacco leftover in his lungs. It was enough to make your stomach turn, and with the anxiety pooling in your stomach you nearly puked, but you held strong as you wiggled your wrist out of his grasp.

“You are nothing to me. Not my father, not my family; nothing,” you spat. “I know you’ve got it in that thick skull of yours that you have some odd ownership over me because you fathered me, but that’s where our relationship ends. Do you understand me? I’ve lived my life fine without you. I’ll continue without you. I’ll have this kid that you’ll see no part of. I’ll get the life I always deserved while you die, alone and unloved, and nobody will fucking miss you at all.”

A heavy silence weighed on your shoulders as you watched your father’s face morph in front of you. He was always an angry man, but his true nature was something your nightmares could never quite capture. They could never paint the twitch of his lips or the flexing of his jaw, or the way his fingers buzzed with anticipation. Your fuzzy childhood memories paled in comparison to the real, unbridled enjoyment your father experienced when instilling fear and pain in someone.

Maybe that’s why you never learned. Not because violence wasn’t a good teacher, but because you could never remember just how bad it hurt. Not until you were there in the maw of the beast.

Whatever you thought was there lurking in your father’s features vanished faster than it had formed. Your father’s eyes scanned every inch of your scowl and you watched them light up with something sinister and wicked the moment they landed on the corner of your lip. A grin replaced the anger on his face as he took in the sight of that unsightly scar that still plagued the corner of your lips even after all those years, and you almost flinched. As his quiet and sour chuckle sounded, you knew exactly what he thought. He hadn’t given you that scar, which meant you had never truly escaped trouble as much as you wanted to pretend you did.

But you did. You climbed away from that life, fought tooth and nail just to live without violence, and you made it. Each night you were able to go to bed in the arms of a man who had never once caused you harm. In the mornings you would wake up to fresh air and a chaste kiss before you ever even slithered out from underneath the covers. The only bruises that tainted your skin were ones caused by unseen table corners, not the fists of an angry man.

Yet you knew he would never believe you. Abusers always had to come out victorious, even if that meant dipping their mind into their own delusions. You would sooner turn to dust and bone before your words would ever reach him, and he seemed to hold himself with pride over that fact.

He chuckled again, louder that time, and looked down at the ground for a short moment as he shook his head. His eyes landed on you again with humor before he shrugged. “Keep telling yourself that, darling.”

A large hand settled on your stomach as you felt a looming presence gently pull you away from the monster of your childhood. You didn’t even have to look up at the figure to know it was Simon; you knew him by touch alone. Your body did not untense at all even with him there, and the distilled anger was palpable on your husband. Dark eyes glared at your father, who hardly bothered to look Simon up and down.

All it would take would be one word. Something to anger your father, to get him to lose his judgment, to get him to lunge. A vile, dormant anger inside of you wanted to. Wanted to goad your father into attacking just to watch what Simon would do. You’d seen what he was capable of. Watched him break a beast’s arm and stomp on it just to feel the bone crunch under his boot. It was so easy for him to pull that trigger and end the life of a man simply for calling you darling. If only he knew half the things your father had said to you.

How much would he have to bleed to make it feel better? How many bones would have to break? Would it ever be enough? Could more violence ever satiate the need for revenge that stowed itself away inside of you? Did that make you just like your father? Did you even care? No, it would never be enough. There was no penance he could offer you that wouldn’t just turn your stomach sour.

He would get his turn. One day. If you were lucky, you would never even hear of it.

“I never want to see or hear from you again. I mean it,” you said as your eyes locked on him.

Your father’s eyes flickered up to Simon, where he finally seemed to understand the weight of the situation. He was old; a stupid drunk with nothing to fight with but a decayed body and rotten core — something Simon could shatter in an instant. Perhaps he finally realized he didn’t have as much power over his little girl like he thought he did, or maybe his self preservation instincts kicked in, but your father finally took a step back with a shrug.

“Whatever you want,” he said.

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the car that you realized Simon tried to grab your attention. Your name fell from his lips hushed and even, yet no matter how hard he tried it was impossible for him to mask the worry it was drenched with. His pace was slow compared to usual, but then again it wasn’t like you could move as fast as you would have liked. You wanted to run — run to the edge of the world and never look back, yet you were so painfully present on earth.

“Sweetheart, slow down,” Simon said, trying to calm you.

“I’m fine.”

Those were the first words you were able to choke out, and you hadn’t realized how tight your throat felt until you said them. Still, you continued to push ahead, chest heaving with anxiety as you got closer to Simon’s car. All you wanted to do was go home. It seemed that’s all you ever wanted to do.

“Who was that?” Simon then asked, still trying to pull answers from you.

“Your father-in-law.”

There was no need for further explanation. Simon was well aware of the horrors you had to fight when you were a kid. A storm swirled in your mind so violently even he could feel the raging wind, and rather than try and fruitlessly fight it off, he chose to weather the storm with you instead.

The ride home was a blur with your thoughts so full to the brim yet simultaneously empty. Numb. It had been a long while since you had felt that way, and it didn’t wane until Simon unlocked the door to the flat where you pitifully shuffled over to the couch. Boo beat Simon to your side, and he instantly attempted to climb up on top of your stomach as if it were a perch and not where your child rested inside of you. You wanted to smile at him, but all you could manage was a quivering bottom lip.

“Sweetheart,” Simon tried again as you pushed your overly zealous cat off your lap. “Talk to me.”

Instead of sinking into the cushion next to you, he crouched on the floor where his hands quickly found yours. Every nerve in your body felt fried, too hot for you to exist properly. It traversed up your body in painful waves until the pressure built up so much behind your eyes you swore they would burst from your skull.

“I hate him,” you said, voice trembling. “I hate him so much. It’s been years and- and he shows up now? When everything is good? Wh- When I’m like this?”

You paused for a moment as the rush of hormones nearly suffocated you. Eyes overflowed with tears as you sniffled back the snot that started to run in your nose. You wanted to take your hands out of Simon’s in order to rub at your eyes, but his thumb running along your knuckles was too comforting for you to deprive yourself of that feeling.

“And I want him to pay. For everything. For all the years of bullshit he put mum and I through. But it feels so far out of reach because no matter what it’s not good enough. I just hate feeling like this, so fucking useless.”

Simon’s hands moved up from your hands, across your arms, along your shoulders, and all the way up until he cupped your cheeks in his hands. Everything felt heavy, yet he held your head high as he shifted closer to you.

“I know it’s hard. It’s never easy running into monsters like him,” he said. “But he’s never gonna see you again. Never layin’ a fuckin’ hand on you either.”

“It’s not that, it’s just… he makes me feel like a kid and I hate it,” you said in a near whisper.

“I know,” Simon shushed as he moved up to sit on the couch next to you. His arms wrapped around your body as he drew you as close to his chest as your body could comfortably contort. His warmth was all consuming, settling your frayed nerves as his hand traced along your waist. “I know.”

His chin rested on the top of your head while you did your best to calm your breathing into something more manageable. That simple action — breathing — had already grown to be so difficult those days with the extra weight on your diaphragm, but the crushing feeling of being reduced into nothing but a scared little girl again was unbearable.

“Family is bullshit, anyway,” Simon suddenly chirped. “Don’t have to keep anyone around that you don’t want. Could just be me and you, if you want. You, me, and our boy.”

Our boy. Those words had your tears falling harder than they did before. Having a child wouldn’t fix all your problems, and you were very much aware of that fact. Children weren’t supposed to be the glue that mended old wounds, like so many people wished they would be. Yet still, an odd sort of excitement flickered at the thought that you could one day erase it all. Erase all the parts of your life, and replace it with something truly worth living for.

Like Simon.

Like your son.

The prospect of no longer being your father’s daughter was an exciting one. Maybe your unfortunate conversation with him had been the universe’s way of getting you to say goodbye, though you could have very well done without one. Either way, none of it mattered. It was done. You would have a child to fuss over before long, and you didn’t need thoughts of a sour old man ruining that joy.

You didn’t even think of your father that night as you and Simon settled in for bed. There was too much love to enjoy in the warmth of his arms as he held you close to his chest that there was no room for anything else. Simon’s hands roamed your stomach, as they often did those days, where they settled at the top of your abdomen as if waiting for a good kick. For a moment, everything was still as Boo curled up against your legs with a quiet purr, and a smile curled your lips as you felt Simon’s lips press against the back of your neck.

Except, no matter how good things got, you always seemed to end up back in that basement. Some days it was difficult to tell if you left a piece of yourself there, or if a piece of it had clung to you even after so many years. Either way, it didn’t change the fact you stood in that room with its pale lilac walls that were still just as empty and bare as the first day you woke up in that cursed place.

However, several items were missing from their usual spot in that room. There was no door to the bathroom in which you spent so many hours hiding in, or the bed with the quilt you had spent half a day bleeding into. In fact, an entire wall had all but vanished, giving you the perfect view of the ocean with its salty waves. A comforting freshness lingered in the air rather than the rotten scent of iron, and for the first time in years, you didn’t feel scared.

“He’s so handsome.”

An old rocking chair creaked in the center of the room as your mother sat rocking a bundle of blankets in her arms. The back of her head faced you as her attention was soaked up by something else, something new, and your wavering feet shuffled closer to her.

“Who?” you asked, attempting to peer over her shoulder.

“My grandson,” she replied with a chuckle.

Impatient eyes peered over your mothers shoulder as you tried to steal a glance at the baby boy, yet no matter what angle you tried to get, his face always seemed to be obscured by the blanket. He was so quiet, so much so that the waves crashing on the shore just beyond that missing wall drowned out each quiet whine and sigh.

“He looks so much like you,” your mother cooed. “Good thing, too. I was worried he’d get Simon’s nose.”

You laughed, and it was strange. You never thought you’d be laughing in that basement.

“Simon’s got a fine nose,” you defended.

“Oh, I’m sure he does. Underneath all the scar tissue, anyway,” your mother teased.

Your laughter sounded in harmonious unison as she finally looked away from your son and up at you. Her eyes shined brighter than any other time you could remember in your dreams. She looked so real it was almost like you could reach out and hug her again like you used to when you were a kid.

“Can I see him?” you asked.

“Not yet. Just let me have this for a moment. You’ll see him soon enough,” she replied.

She paused as her bottom lip began to tremble.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered.

“What for?” you asked.

“Everything.”

There was no need to ask for further explanation; it was written in her face. Despite everything that had happened to you throughout your life, there was the indomitable will to survive, even if that just meant more suffering. After so many years, your suffering finally bore fruit. You no longer had to go to sleep wondering if you’d wake up to shattered porcelain on the floor. Unlike her, you had escaped.

That’s all she had ever wanted for you — for someone to take care of you.

Your mother’s attention wandered back to the missing wall in front of her, and your gaze followed. Fluffy clouds billowed along the horizon, and seagulls danced in the sky together while they sang to one another. That ocean was brighter than you had remembered it, like the sun had finally peeked through the clouds.

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” she said.

“Home?” you repeated.

She nodded. “You don’t need to keep coming here anymore.”

She was right. You were tired of that basement. Tired of the memories that haunted you from time to time. They would always be with you in some way, but you couldn’t wait to drown them with new memories. Better memories.

There was no need for a goodbye, as you had said them years ago to that wretched place. Instead, your feet trudged forward until carpet turned into grass. Cold wind moved freely around your body as it beckoned you closer to the crashing waves on the sandy shore. When your feet got close enough to the water that it nearly kissed your toes, you turned around only to find the house, and its terrible basement, had vanished.

That was the last time you ever looked back.

Searing hot pain ripped through your body when you woke up. It rippled all throughout your abdomen in a wave so vicious it took your breath away. Boo, who had been by your feet when you had fallen asleep, pawed at your face as he purred and bashed his head against yours. The pain left you nearly incapacitated for a moment until the wave eventually waned, and it was only then that you were able to slowly push yourself up so that you sat with your legs over the side of the bed.

Sticky sweat clung to your body with little remorse for your comfort, and you tried your best to calm your racing heart with a steady breath. In some poor attempt to assist you, Boo pawed at your aching stomach with an annoyed meow. You gently pushed him away, only for him to whine. Simon grunted, half awake yet still irked by the creature’s impressively loud demands for attention.

Simon didn’t fully wake up until a second wave of pain hit you, and you were unable to hold back the squeaky wince that it forced out of you. The bed shook as Simon’s hulking frame tore the blankets off of his body and scooted so that he sat next to you. His hand rested firmly against your back, yet he almost retracted when he felt your muscles tense and nearly tear with the strength of your contractions. Had it not been for the little human in your womb blocking your way, you were certain you would’ve been doubled over in pain.

“Talk to me, sweetheart. What do you need?” Simon urged.

It was impossible to get any words out with the intensity of it all, and for a moment the only thing you could do was pant sharply as you tried to keep yourself from hyperventilating. You leaned your head to the side where it rested on Simon’s shoulder while your teeth nearly shattered as your jaw clenched. Eventually, the pain diminished once more, allowing your brain to clear just long enough to form a proper thought.

“He’s coming,” you panted. Your hand reached up to wipe the sweat from your upper lip, and your entire body shuddered with a sigh. “Fuck, we gotta- gotta go.”

“Okay, yeah,” Simon said.

He slipped off of the bed to stand in front of you, hands quickly capturing yours in his. His voice was calm and even, and not even his grip trembled as he helped you to your feet. Simon was always strong. Never one to show when he was nervous. But even then, you swore you could feel his racing heart pulse in his fingertips.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #f!reader #soft spot

183 notes · View notes

stardewstardropthoughts · 1 year

Note

We absolutely do have the same kinks I will consume anything you put out involving breeding?? Raw?? Dirty talk?? I'm playing bingo and you're out here hitting EVERY SINGLE ONE. I appreciate all the content even the fluff! Take all the time you need, I'll be busy lurking on your page while I'm at work don't mind me <3

I went a little wild in Shane’s tbh because I love him but like enjoy!!

The bachelors and breeding kinks

Content warning: afab reader implied and afab parts used, smut, lotta cum talk, little bit of bondage in Shane’s MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT

Harvey:

Definitely has a bit of a breeding kink

Loves to cum inside you and will use a plug to keep his cum inside you if you’ll let him

Like one of those remote control vibrators

He has you on your back on the bed while he fucks you

Cock slamming into your sensitive cunt at a quick pace

“Doing so good for me love, just a little longer yeah?”

Can’t stop imagining what it would be like to get you knocked up with his kids

Wants to have your tits heavy with milk while he fucks you so he can suckle them

That being said best believe he’s sucking on a nipple while he fucks you, hand toying with your clit, the other supporting his weight on the bed while his tongue swirls around your nipple

“Gonna fill you up, be good and take it”

Gasps when he cums inside you, stays there for a few moments to catch his breath before very quickly replacing his softening cock with a remote control vibrator

“Can’t have any of that slipping out now, can we?”

Sebastian:

Fantasizes about cumming inside you, always hated pulling out because your cunt is so warm and wet and inviting

Thinks it’s a waste of his cum to blow his load on your stomach, not that he doesn’t love the site of you being marked with his seed

Your on your knees on his computer chair bouncing on his cock while he plays video games

“Shit baby, just like that. Don’t fucking stop”

Meets your bouncing with sharp thrusts up into your cunt, loves the moans you let out

Sets his controller down, threads his fingers in your hair and pulls you into the deepest kiss while you grind on him

Hand wrapped around your throat, gentle enough to still breath but hard enough for that lightheaded rush

Cums in your warm cunt with a whine, doesn’t let you get up

Makes you cock warm him while his cum threatens to spill out of your cunt

You take a nap stuffed full of him in his gaming chair

Alex:

King of stamina, can go multiple rounds in one session

Loves to stuff you full of multiple loads, wants to see how much of his cum your cunt can take

Holding you up against the wall, hands under your ass supporting you while your legs are wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck

Slamming his hips up into your cunt at just the right angle to drive you insane

“That’s it baby, take my cock, gonna stuff you full of my cum yeah? Think you can handle the third load of the night?”

Your brain is overstimulated mush so all you can manage is a high pitched whine and nodding

Loves seeing you like this, all dumb on his cock

“Fuck baby feels so good”

Cums inside you with a loud groan, face buried in your neck while he mouths at the skin there

His cum is slowly dripping out of your cunt and down your thighs

Elliott:

Loves how sensual of an act it is, letting him cum inside you, to claim you in such a way that may create life

Absolutely over the top romantic and lovely

Feather light touches and whispered praises while he works you up

“Doing so well for me my love, that’s it, cum on my fingers. Let me feel you”

Slow deep thrusts when his cock is inside you, passionately making out while his hips drive into yours at an agonizingly slow pace

Leaving soft open mouth kisses down your neck and chest while pulling you down to meet his slow thrusts

“You feel amazing darling, so good for me”

Cums with a groan of your name, hips pressed deep into your center

Cuddles up with you as you cock warm him, will fall asleep in this position, loves the intimacy of the act

Shane:

This man has the biggest breeding kink out of all of them

More then ready and willing to oblige at any point in time

Absolutely will bend you over the kitchen table, hands flipping the bottom of your dress up, running along your thighs and ass, letting the lacy underwear your wearing scrunch in his hand while he gropes you

Pulls both of your hands behind your back and secures them there with his belt wrapped around your wrists and arms

Fingers gently ghosting along the growing damp spot on your panties, rubbing circles where your clit is before he’s shoving them to the side and jamming three fingers deep inside your cunt to stretch you out for his cock

“Fuck baby gonna make sure your nice and ready to take this cock yeah? Gonna stuff your slutty little cunt till your dripping”

When he feels like your adequately prepped he shoved his whole cock in, in one harsh thrust. Bottoming out inside you with a low grunt

“Fuck yeah, take it, fucking take it”

Harsh thrusts while one hands reaching to rub your clit, the other reaching forward to grope your chest and pinch your nipples

When he cums inside you he slams his hips into your as hard as he can getting as deep as possible, one hand in your hair pulling you up a bit so he can groan in your ear

“Fuck that’s such a good girl for me, taking it so fucking good”

Pulls your panties back over your weeping cunt and tells you to spend the rest of the day feeling his cum soak into your panties

Sam:

You’ve been edging him for the past hour and a half now, his cock is so sensitive inside your gummy walls

Your bouncing on his cock, he’s a subby mess beneath you while he whines out

“W-wanna cum inside, please let me, fuck please lemme cum inside baby”

You pretend to give it some thought while speeding up, his hands are all over your body groping your tits, your ass, rubbing your clit

“Hmmm, have you been a good boy?”

His brows are furrowed with the effort it takes to form a coherent sentence

“Fuck I’ve been so good, please please please”

Your smiling at him as you pull him to sit up so your face to face

“Then be my good boy and cum inside this cunt”

Smashes his mouth against yours in a messy needy kiss as he cums inside you

High pitched whines and moans leaving his throat while his hands ball into fists in your hair

Quickly flips you over ready to take control for another round

“Now sweetheart, I think it’s my turn to be in control, and I think it’s payback time”

#stardew fanfic #stardew valley #stardew farmer #stardew x reader #stardew headcanon #stardew marriage #stardew elliott #stardew harvey #stardew sam #stardew sebastian #stardew alex #stardew shane #stardew x f!reader #sdv x f!reader

1K notes · View notes

clockwayswrites · 1 year

Text

Like Betta Fish Do- Part 3

Masterpost of ao3 link and all parts. wc: 1263

“Sorry for intruding on your haunt! Total accident. Please don’t disembowel me. Sorry again,” Dick read off the card that had been tucked into the gift basket. He glanced from the card, to the rest of the assembled batclan, and back to the card in confusion.

Of course Dick had insisted on coming with Jason to check over Crime Alley. Of course when they found the basket Dick had insisted on bringing it back to the Cave to be tested for poisons—

“They’re bathbombs, who’s going to fucking poison bathbombs.”

“We’ve seen weirder, Jaybird.”

—and so of course the whole family was there now.

Before Dick had even let them move the basket, he checked it out for basic booby traps. (To be fair, this was the first thing Jason did too.) Once the basked had been to the Cave, it was checked over, again, by various Bats. Then, Tim had taken all the contents to run a chemical analysis on the chocolate and bathbombs (seriously, who poisons bathbombs?). And finally, Bruce gave the all clear on examining the basket itself.

Dick had snagged the little card out of it’s little envelope before Jason could even make a grab for it and read off the message. “’Please don’t disembowel me’? What the fuck, Jason.”

Jason raised his hands up with a shrug. “Don’t ask me. Sure, ‘please don’t behead me’ I could get—” he ignored the slight flinch that caused from Tim and Bruce— “But pretty sure word has gotten around that killing isn’t really my sort of MO anymore.”

Thankfully the computer beeped before they could get into all that.

Again.

Tim read over the results before announcing, “Report came back clean on everything.”

“Huh.” Dick seemed actually surprised by that. Jason was feeling really fucking done with his family.

“Perhaps a chemical inside the bathbombs that will explode when exposed to water?” Damian suggested.

Really fucking done.

“We do all get how messed up it is that your brains go there, right?” Duke asked. (Duke might be Jason’s favorite at the moment.)

“Can’t be that,” Tim said, ignoring Duke’s comment about their mental stability with practiced ease. “I took a sample core all the way to the center. It really is just a basket with bathbombs and some chocolate.”

“Sweet,” Stephanie said as she made a lunge for the box of chocolates. Jason quickly pulled the basket and its contents out of reach.

“Back off, it’s my gift,” Jason said with a snarl that was only half for show. As much as he had calmed back down, he still felt tense— like there was a heavy weight in the center of his chest.

Damian gave him a wholly unimpressed look. “Why? Do you deserve it for, and I quote, not disemboweling someone?”

“I mean, I haven’t,” Jason said with a shrug as he grabbed his helmet; the gift basket was tucked securely under the other arm.

“Jason, we have to talk about this,” Bruce said in that tone of his; the one that implied Jason was making a stupid mistake. The one he always seemed to have—

Jason shook the thoughts away. He didn’t need to tempt the Pit today by doing down that path. He could feel that green tinged anger lurking on the edge of his mind already. He kept heading to his bike. If he got out of here, the temptation to pick a fight would go away. He knew that. He just had to make the choice to walk away from the fight. “Fuck no. Look. I’ll check my system and put up new cameras or some shit, okay?”

The footage on every camera he had up around the exterior of his apartment had either shown nothing at all or had glitched out into a fuzz of static. There had been someone at his door— a slight person, dark clothing— but that's as much detail as they could get. Which was, sure, concerning, but seemed like no harm no foul. (Not that the rest of the family agreed with that assessment.)

“I’ll bring over some better cameras in a few days and check through your system,” Tim said, already turning his attention to the task.

Jason didn’t want that.

He didn’t want anyone else messing with his system. But he was starting to understand that having his hands on the information of his family was Tim’s way of showing he cared. Jason hated it, but he understood it, so he’d allow it. He owed Tim more than a little acceptance. He owed Tim so much.

“Sure thing, Replacement.”

-----

Jason spent hours going over every inch of his place when he returned. None of the traps or markers had been triggered to show that anyone had actually come inside his space. The feeling he had experienced at dinner hadn’t come back. All that he felt was a slight unease and that was easy enough to dismiss as lingering feelings from earlier in the day. It wasn’t any worse than a Pit hangover.

Finally, satisfied that his place was secure, Jason sank down onto his couch with a huff of air.

The gift basket mocked him from where it sat on the coffee table. He’d dumped it there when he first came in, ignoring the odd present in favor of making sure that his place was safe. It would have been convenient for someone to break in and set up a trap while they were off dealing with the basket, but no one had. Now both him and the Pit were settled and the basket was still there.

Who the fuck gave bathbombs for not being disemboweled?

Leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, Jason plucked out the card. It was a simple thing, just a bit of cream cardstock in a little envelope. No logo or distinguishing features. The writing was a scrawled, half cursive— just this side of legible. Distinctive, but not any handwriting that Jason recognized. It wasn’t signed.

That would have been too easy.

That was the real issue of it all, wasn’t it? Who would leave a note like that for him? Jason Todd shouldn’t be getting a note like that. Red Hood, sure, he could understand getting such a message. He hated it a little, now that he was further away from the worst of the Pit Rage, but he got it. But him as Jason? Reclusive, miraculously returned son of Bruce Wayne? Jason shouldn’t have anyone afraid of him like that.

It spoke to someone knowing of his life as vigilante turned crime boss turned vigilante again, and that was dangerous. It was dangerous for him. It was dangerous for his family. It was dangerous for Crime Alley.

It was just another fucking thing he had to deal with. As if it wasn’t enough to having only recently, officially, returned to the living. There was also the work he was trying to do as Red Hood, the work he was trying to do for Crime Alley as Jason, and the effort of trying to spend more time with his family (preferably without stabbing anyone). Now he had this mystery too.

Maybe the bathbombs actually were a good gift and didn’t that idea make him scowl. When was the last time he’d actually taken some time to just relax? It had to be a while with the size that his ‘to read’ pile had grown to was any indication.

He could use one. They were just bathbombs.

He could run a warm bath, relax, crack open a book, eat some chocolate… and just try not to worry for a bit. Nothing was going to be solved tonight. Bruce had ordered him off patrol— which normally wouldn’t stop him, but Cass had given him big worried eyes too. There were no other pressing matters. His apartment was secure…

Fuck it. He grabbed the little basket and headed to the bathroom.

Time for some self care.

-----

AN: We'll likely get a Danny scene to cap chapter 2 off, but I though this was a nice little bundle to post! And my poor migraine is going to get even worse with the Artic front so wanted to get this posted~

Thank you all for such a lovely response on the other parts! This will be going up on ao3, but I want to get at least three chapters done first to get a little buffer. Everyone who asked should be in the tag list (as of yesterday), but if I missed you, or you want to be added, just let me know in the replies!

Stay delightful my darlings!

#dp x dc #dp x dc fanfic #red hood #jason todd #batfamily #like betta fish do

2K notes · View notes

toomuchracket · 3 months

Text

you're the only thing that's going on in my mind (d word matty x reader smut)

cocky mean d word matty post-show on glasgow night 1 because i left that gig Fucked Up (see below pic that i took). canon, so girly is pregnant at this point. he goes a bit simpy at the end, but... fork found in kitchen. VERY slutty. enjoy! <3

“what the fuck are you two doing here?” matty's voice - loud, so as to be heard over the people outro - and face are aghast as he exits b stage to find you and mrs mac, the two of you standing in front of the security line at the back. “couldn't believe my eyes when i saw you lurking from up there.”

“well, we do work here,” comes the reply from beside you.

you laugh, leaning back to stretch slightly before cradling your bump. “and the baby wanted to be up close and personal for the final song. she’s her father's daughter, after all.”

“jesus christ,” matty shakes his head, but the little smile on his face is unmissable. he steps close to you so ross and adam can get out, pressing a quick kiss to the bump before pulling you into his bare chest. “wasn't just the baba that wanted to see me there, though, was it?”

“hmm?” you look up at your boyfriend, a smirk on his pretty face.

“don't act clueless, sweetheart,” matty slings an arm around your shoulders as you both start walking back to the main stage, leaning to speak in your ear. “saw the way you were looking at me the whole time. and the way you crossed your legs when i opened my shirt - that was for you, by the way. wanted to see how you'd react.”

you can feel your cheeks burning. “was it… a good reaction?”

matty laughs, not unkindly, and kisses your cheek. “oh, baby, you're such a fucking sub,” he coos in your ear. “of course it was a good reaction; the sexiest woman in the world’s all turned on and needy for me. s'hot as fuck.”

“you're hot as fuck.”

“too fucking right,” your boyfriend holds out his free hand and brushes it against some of the waiting palms of the crowd, still leaning in to talk to you. “look at them, how excited they are, how happy. look what i fucking did to them, did for them. me.”

“no one else,” you all but breathe, shuffling even closer to him. “just you.”

matty hums, leading you through behind the stage and pulling you into a darkened alcove. his lips are on yours almost immediately, tongue slipping into your mouth and making you whine. “you're fucking desperate for me, aren't you, princess?”

fuck.

“yeah,” you whimper against him. “want you to fuck me.”

matty groans into your mouth, pulling back to hold your jaw. he smirks. “nah.”

you blanch. “what?”

“you don't understand? fuck's sake,” matty rolls his eyes. “no. i don't want to fuck you right now.”

“but…” you feel your lip trembling.

“good girls don’t say but, do they?”

you blink, looking sheepishly at the ground. “no, daddy. m'sorry.”

“that's better,” matty strokes your cheek. “now, instead of us running off because you're needy, i want us to go and celebrate with everyone, because i think i deserve to be celebrated - you agree, don’t you?”

you nod.

“good girl,” matty smiles, a smile that widens when you perk up at the praise. “if you're good enough at the afterparty, then i'll fuck you. understand?”

you nod again.

“words, princess.”

“yes, daddy. i understand.”

matty kisses you again. “let's go, then, gorgeous.”

and thus begins the most tedious ninety minutes of your life.

it wouldn't actually be a bad night if you weren't so worked up, you think - everyone's in good spirits, pleased with how well the show went, and the room is soundtracked by a cacophony of laughs and excited tones. you try your best to get involved in the conversations with your friends, all of them interjecting with their favourite moments of the show, but your focus is so elsewhere that you end up just sitting back and nursing your soda and lime.

elsewhere being your boyfriend, working his way around the conversations in the room and soaking up the compliments like a cat in a patch of sunlight. he's too busy preening to have made a dent in his pint, but he's as animated as he is when he's tipsy; there's a permanent smirk etched on his face as he incessantly talks, and the combination of that and his almost-unbuttoned shirt has you clenching. you don't want to look away from him at all, but god knows what else might happen if he catches you staring at him so openly, so lustfully, teeth biting your straw to beyond the point of use just to stay sane. best to keep your head down every time he turns his in your direction.

it shoots straight up when he speaks from right beside you, though, squatting to take your hand and talk to you. “fancy some air, darling?”

finally.

“yes please,” you reply, biting your tongue to stop yourself grinning too widely.

matty knows how excited you are, though. as soon as you get into the empty hallway, he pulls you in for a sweet hug, but the relief you feel from him touching you is somewhat overshadowed by the way he laughs in your ear.

“what is it?” you lean back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed.

“you're just so fucking needy,” matty shakes his head, still giggling. “you thought i was getting you alone so we could get each other off, didn't you?”

“i- no.”

“well, good. because that's not what's happening.”

you feel your shoulders slump slightly. “okay.”

“i'll tell you why, but i need to ask you something serious first,” one of his hands caresses the bump. “you're not tired, are you? or sore at all?”

“no, i'm alright.”

matty tuts. “so why are you sitting in there moping, princess?”

your jaw drops. “i am not fucking moping.”

“less of the backchat,” your boyfriend says sternly. “and yes, you are, sitting there looking at the floor and not talking to anybody. told you to be good, remember?”

“i am being good!”

“what did i just say, princess?” matty holds your jaw; not painfully, but firmly enough that you can't look away from him. he looks fuming. “keep answering back like that, and you won't cum for a week. you're already on thin fucking ice as it is, after the way you acted in there. sitting silently just waiting for me to stop celebrating my night so i can fuck you - what a brat you are. a needy little brat.”

you'd be lying if you said his words didn't send a burst of heat straight between your legs. but still, you're curious as to where matty's newfound dominance has come from. “why are you being so mean to me tonight?”

he smirks. “because, darling, you asked me to. remember?”

oh, fuck. a memory crosses your mind, hazy with post-sex fog, matty's jaw dropping when you shyly say you wouldn't mind him being meaner in bed with you, whenever he felt up to it. “ah…”

“you do remember!,” matty looks satisfied. “that's good, because i'm feeling very selfish tonight. in the mood to be… worshipped, i'd say. have someone else do all the work. how's that sound, princess?”

“so good,” you whine. and it does - you'd do anything to touch him right now. “i'll do it now, daddy, if s’what you want.”

“bet you fucking would, gorgeous,” matty's hands trail down your body, across the bump, and back up over your tits. “so desperate for daddy to fill you up again, even though i've already done it. never enough for you, is it?”

you shake your head. “never. need you all the time.”

“greedy girl,” matty grins. “but it's actually hot that you need me so much. just wish you were better behaved about it.”

you nod. “i will be, daddy, promise.”

“prove it,” his thumb pulls your lower lip down. “take what i give you, and you'll get what you want if you keep being good while i finish my pint, yeah?”

“yes, daddy.”

“there's my girl,” matty smiles, and you glow. “now - open.”

you oblige, dropping your jaw so your boyfriend can spit into your open mouth; he opens his to tell you to swallow, but you've already done it before he takes a breath to speak. he groans, rubbing his thumb over your lips and smiling when you suck the tip. “that's more like it. good.”

“thank you, daddy.”

“you're welcome, princess,” matty presses a quick kiss to your lips before pulling you into a hug and murmuring in your ear. “colours still apply tonight, sweetheart, as always - you want to stop at any point, just say the word. you're alright now, though, aren't you?”

“yeah. all green here,” you whisper into matty's ear in return. “i love you.”

“i love you, too,” a kiss to your cheek, and matty leans back. the smirk has reappeared on his pretty face. “m'excited to fucking ruin you later.”

“please.”

your boyfriend kisses you again, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it to release. “half an hour. best behaviour, you hear me?”

you nod enthusiastically. “i hear you, daddy.”

“alright. let's go back in, then.”

matty takes your hand and leads you back into the room of your friends, helping you to get comfy on one of the sofas before slotting in beside you. he's as self-assured as he was earlier, but your attraction to that is more manageable now that he's actually touching you - a hand on your thigh, lazily drawing patterns into your trouser leg - and you know you only have to endure another thirty minutes until he takes you back to the hotel.

as it turns out, that time flies by, so much so that you're almost surprised by matty leaning in to tell you it's time to go. you nod, and he kisses your head before standing and helping you up.

“is that the two of you on your way?” mrs mac jumps up to hug you, patting the bump affectionately. “take it easy tonight, love. s'been a long day.”

“yeah, i will,” you smile. liar.

“take care of her, healy.”

“oh, i will,” matty smiles. not a lie. “night, everyone.”

after the chorus of well done agains and goodbyes dies down, matty leads you to the waiting car. the journey back is quick, and quiet, the only sounds the humming of the engine and the noises from the late-night glasgow revellers you pass. in fact, aside from thanking the driver, matty's silent the whole time until you get into the room; only once the door closes behind you does he speak, leaning down to whisper in your ear as he takes your coat from you. “colour?”

“green.”

“good. in that case - clothes off, on the bed, legs open. now. and don't even think about touching yourself.”

you're actually thankful of the order, because you're so wet that your underwear is starting to become uncomfortable. with a “yes, daddy” and a sloppy kiss, you practically sprint to the bedroom of the suite, kicking off your trainers as soon as you open the door and pulling down your jumpsuit so quickly you wouldn't be surprised if you ripped it. you chuck it onto the chair in the corner of the room, and your lingerie follows suit before you climb onto the bed as instructed, waiting as patiently as possible for matty.

he wanders in a couple of minutes later, can of coke in hand, and leans against the doorframe. the shirt he was wearing has disappeared, and you can't quite decide if you'd rather look at his chest or his smirking face. “can see how fucking wet you are from here, princess. jesus,” matty says, wandering over to you and looking hungrily at your soaked cunt. without warning, he brings his hand down harshly onto it; you yelp, and feel another gush to your core. matty giggles and repeats the motion, and the same thing happens. “you little slut, liking when i slap your pussy. dirty, dirty girl.”

slightly sickeningly, you don't think you've ever been so turned on in your life. all you can do is whimper as your boyfriend continues to slap your cunt, the noises turning to cries whenever he makes contact with your clit, and then to little mewls as he drags his fingers up and down your slit with a “so messy, princess, i think we need to clean you up.”

sighing with relief, you spread your legs even wider so that matty can comfortably get his head between them - you're surprised (and disappointed), then, when he holds a hand out and says “get up, and follow me”. but you oblige, of course, like the good girl you know you are despite what matty says and thinks. when he nudges you into the shower and takes the rest of his clothes off, you perk up slightly, and even more so when he removes the showerhead from the wall and kneels. “spread your pussy for me.”

fuck.

you oblige, but you must look terrified, because matty's eyes fill with concern. he strokes your thigh comfortingly. “colour, sweetheart?”

taking a deep breath, you reply in a shaky voice. “green.”

he doesn't seem convinced. “you're sure?”

“yeah. honest.”

“well, alright,” he presses a kiss to your thigh. “hold onto me if you need, yeah?”

“okay, daddy. thank you.”

“of course,” matty sits back on his knees. his face changes again. “now… let me clean my dirty girl up.”

aiming the showerhead at the floor, he reaches up to turn the water on, testing it with his free hand and adjusting the temperature dial accordingly. suddenly, with no warning, warm streams of water hit your clit; your jaw drops, and it takes everything in you to stop your legs doing the same. “oh my god.”

“tell me how it feels.”

“it's - shit - so fucking good, daddy,” you pant, eyes rolling back with pleasure, jaw shaking slightly. matty turns the water pressure up a notch, and you gasp. “fuck!”

matty hums. “d'you wanna cum?”

“yeah.”

“well, too bad,” all of a sudden, the water stops. you wail at the loss of stimulation on your clit, and matty scoffs. “what are you being like that for? thought you wanted me to fill you up again. you're telling me you don't want to cum on my dick?”

your legs nearly give out. “no, i do,” you whimper. “please, daddy, need you inside me.”

“hmm,” matty tilts his head, squinting at you. he sighs. “alright. you're doing all the work, mind you,” he stands and takes your hand again, before leading you to stand in front of the sink. “come on, princess. hands on the counter - wanna look at myself while you get me off.”

it's infuriating how hot you find your boyfriend’s arrogance - or, it would be, if you could think about anything other than the feeling of him brushing up against your waiting cunt. the desire spilling out of you isn’t helped in the slightest by the way matty’s eyes are locked onto his own reflection, as he moves and flexes and runs his hands through his hair and across his face.

god, he's fucking gorgeous.

and he knows it. “fucking look at me,” matty says - to nobody in particular, given that you're both already staring at his reflection. “no fucking wonder the crowd reacted the way they did tonight,” he laughs, tilting his head and opening his mouth slightly. “could've had any one of them, i reckon. bet everyone wished they could have me, just like this.”

envy draws your cheeks in. the thought of matty fucking someone else in your place sends a bolt of rage into your stomach, firing up your throat and shooting from your lips as a snarl. good girl be damned. “well, they fucking can't.”

matty meets your eyes in the mirror and smirks. “no?”

“no,” you grip the counter so hard your knuckles go white. “you're mine. besides, none of them could fucking take you like i do.”

he laughs. “oh, you're being a bitch. i like it.”

“just being honest, daddy.”

“well, show me how you take it, then,” with one hand, matty lines himself up with your hole; the other weaves itself into your hair, forcing you to keep looking in the mirror. “give me all you've got, you fucking bitch.”

you smile, saccharine. “yes, daddy,” slowly straightening your arms, you moan in harmony with your boyfriend as he fills you up. “fuck.”

once you've taken a second to get used to the feeling of matty inside you, you bend your arms and pull yourself almost completely off him, before slamming back with no warning and watching in satisfaction as matty's jaw drops. “shit, princess,” he groans, steadying himself against the wall with his free hand as you repeat the movement, over and over. “yeah, you're fucking right - only you, my girl, only you can take me so fucking well. perfect fucking pussy, perfect fucking girl.”

you beam at the praise - matty notices, and laughs. “you like it when i tell you how good you are at taking my dick? little slut. but it's true. fucking built for this, weren't you? for me to fuck you and fill you up? you must be, to be so fucking greedy - already knocked you up and you still want my cum. fucking desperate,” he pulls you by the hair so your back is against his chest, bringing his other hand to your hip to use as leverage to fuck you even faster than you were already moving. “but i fucking love it. i fucking love you.”

“love you so much,” you whine, throwing an arm back and hooking it around matty's neck. “fuck, look at you. so fucking hot.”

“and all yours,” matty whispers in your ear, making you smile. his lips drop to your neck as he speeds up his thrusts, but his eyes never leave your reflection. he groans. “look at you, princess, my beautiful girl. all full of me. and those fucking tits - love them always, but i'm gonna fuckin miss the way they look right now when you're not pregnant anymore.”

“easy fix,” you giggle. “you'll just have to knock me up again.”

even if matty's hips didn't speed up impossibly more at your words, the noise he makes in response is almost enough to get you off. “i'll fucking do it, princess, if that's what you want. i'd do anything for you.”

“make me cum?”

“if you say the magic word.”

“please, daddy?”

he smiles, pressing a kiss to the side of your head and his fingers onto your clit; you moan as soon as they make contact, which only spurs matty on. “do it, then, princess. cum all over my fucking cock.”

your body reacts immediately to his command - all your muscles tighten and release, pleasure flowing through your nervous system and forcing a scream from your throat. matty groans as you grab hold of the counter again, the new angle letting him grab your hips and fuck recklessly into you, the syncopated rhythm a sure sign of his own imminent orgasm. “oh, fuck,” he whines, pulsing heat deep into your cunt and continuing to thrust into you. “fucking take it, princess, take it like the good little cumslut you are,” he stills inside you, still shaking from the aftershocks, resting his head on your shoulder.

after a minute of mutual heavy breathing, matty looks up, meeting your eyes and beaming at you in the mirror. “i'm fucking knackered. worth it, though.”

“mmm,” you lean on your elbow. “thank you for indulging me, baby.”

“of course,” matty kisses your shoulder. “and you're unbelievably sexy when you're possessive, by the way. i'm getting turned on just thinking about it.”

you put your head in your hands. “oh my god, no, i cannot go for another round right now. i love you, but i need to go to sleep.”

“no, i agree, don’t worry,” your boyfriend laughs. “can you reach the tap, sweetheart?”

“yeah.”

“run that blue washcloth under the water and chuck us it, then, please?” matty inches out of you carefully, taking the flannel from you with a kiss and kneeling behind you with a moan. “christ, i'll never get over this sight.”

you huff out a laugh, hissing when matty gently wipes the flannel over your core with an “i know, baby, i'm sorry”; you perk up a bit when he stands and helps you straighten up, cradling the bump from behind you. “i love you, darling,” he kisses you. “both my darlings, actually. you feeling alright?”

“just sleepy. s'been a long day,” you snuggle into him. “proud of you. grateful for you. love you.”

“back at you, sweetheart.”

#mads does writing #d word matty #matty healy fanfiction #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fic #matty healy smut #matty healy x reader #matty x reader #mads muses

191 notes · View notes

dearharriet · 2 months

Note

hello! Congratulations on reaching 150 followers milestone! Really deserved, girly!

Can I get a🍸with Remus Lupin + Lovers Rock? Thank you so much!

hi!! i’m so sorry this took me so long my love, i’ve had the busiest weekend 😭 thank you sm for the request, i hope you like it! <3 (wc: 859) (cw: implied/attempted use of a roofie/date-rape drug)

If you were less drunk, you’d be abashed about flirting so openly in front of Remus, but you’re not. He’s watching you lean into the man’s advances from the bar booth you’re both sitting in, a mean look brewing behind his eyes. You’re praying to god it’s jealousy. At least then he’d feel something for you.

“Real pretty get-up you’ve got on, babe,�� the guy is saying, and you’re just sober enough to know he’s staring at your chest as he says it.

“Looks even better on the floor,” you tell him. It’s a cheap response, but he perks up anyway. Remus spins his beer on the sticky booth table, sighing irritably.

The stranger has a silky smooth voice, one that seems to smooth over other, less admirable traits in your mind. He says, “I can make that happen,” and you hear a promise, not a boast. You also don’t notice in his towering over you that he’s tampering with your drink.

Remus isn’t nearly as entranced. He’s on his feet in a second, whipping the man away from you by the collar of his button-up shirt.

“Hey—?”

Cutting him off with a vicious shove, Remus bites, “fuck off out of here. I know what you are.”

You stand then on wobbly legs, approaching the growing scene. Remus was clearly jealous, but you never assumed he was the violent type. He looks ready to crack teeth at this point, and the man still hasn’t left.

“Remus, what—?”

He turns to you with wild eyes, holding up a hand to keep you at bay.

“You stay there,” he says, and the anger he held for the man has ebbed away. He points to your cocktail on the table. “Don’t drink that, okay?”

Blinking, you frown at him. Something about his behavior makes you uneasy, but he’s your friend. You’d trust him over any stranger.

“Hey,” he snaps, demanding your hazy attention. “Did you hear me? Don’t—”

“Don’t drink it.” You nod.

From there all you can do is watch him shred the poor guy apart until Sirius and James finally notice something is wrong from their place at the bar. By then you have a pretty good idea what happened, and you feel sick to your stomach thinking about it.

James keeps you company while Sirius and Remus get the guy thrown out on his ass, and then they both reconvene at your shared booth. Most of the girls have come to see what happened, too, but Remus shooes most everyone away.

“Fucking pig,” Marlene mumbles, petting your hair gently before leaving a small kiss there. She looks to one of the boys, though you’re too busy picking at your nails to know which one. “I can make sure she gets home?”

“I’ve got her,” he replies, and you’d know Remus’ voice anywhere.

Marlene and the other two boys seem to accept this fact easily, though Sirius stops Remus before leaving.

“Go easy, yeah?” he says. “It wasn’t her fault.”

Remus doesn’t reply, but when he takes James’ place beside you his eyes are much calmer than before.

“Hi, dovey.” His hand comes up to rub your back. “You ready to go home?”

Sniffing, you nod slowly, still quite drunk and lethargic. Remus helps you out of the booth, carting you to the door with careful touches.

“It’s okay, Remus,” you assert, feeling more embarrassed by everyone’s worrying than anything now. “You’re not going to hurt me. I’m fine.”

Remus looks down at you with conflict coating his features.

“That was really close, Y/N. I almost didn’t see him do it.”

“But you did,” you correct. “And thank you, by the way.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. Not for that.”

Pushing the bar door open, he ushers you out into the mild night. It’s not cold, but his arm slung protectively over your shoulders is a relief anyways. Outside the safety of the bar, the man might be lurking somewhere. The thought makes you curl further into Remus, shivering.

“Remus?”

You can tell he’s in the same line of thought as you, because his head is on a swivel, checking behind you periodically. He hums in response to your question.

“If we’re going to my place, would you stay with me? In case he’s following us.”

You’d like to tell yourself the man wouldn’t, but you’re not sure you can put anything past him. Again, Remus appears to think the same.

“‘Course. I'll probably sleep better that way, anyways.”

In your drunken mood, you can’t help the way your heart squeezes at Remus’ doting. It’s a fiery feeling, to be cared for as if you’re an extension of himself, to have witnessed the sharpness of his affection in real time. It’s the barest human decency, but you suspect it was rooted in a much more complex emotion. Or perhaps that’s wishful thinking.

“Okay,” is what you finally say, flagging your thoughts for a later date, when less pressing matters than your safety are on the table. For tonight, it’s enough to let Remus walk you home, and to fall asleep under the warm blanket of his protection.

thank you for reading! xx

masterlist

join the celebration!

153 notes · View notes

fayes-fics · 1 year

Text

The Things We Do For Love

Pairings: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict and his wife ask for Anthony's help to conceive a child.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, MMF threesome, fingering, dirty talk, vaginal sex, no incest. Married couple, infertility, conception, childbirth. Angst & emotion.

Word Count: 5.5k

Authors Note: This is a fic request fill for @broooookiecrisp from this ask (in essence, Benedict and his wife turn to Anthony for help to conceive a child). Thank you to @colettebronte and @makaylan for their invaluable advice and betaing. This is very different to my usual threesomes. This is much more angsty and emotional, but there is a happy ending. I hope you all enjoy <3

“Don’t worry, darling,” he soothes as you tear up, “it will happen for us one day.”

Despite his words, you stare at the bloody rag and feel nothing but failure.

More than anything, you want to give him children. Perhaps not a brood to rival his prestigious family, but a few children would be nice—two, maybe three. And you, more than anything, want to be a mother. To nurture life, be surrounded by children's laughter, and bring wonderful, new humans into the world.

But six months into your marriage, despite frequent, wonderful, vigorous, and enjoyable attempts, every month, your courses have arrived like clockwork, and every time, you feel you are letting him down.

“Please don’t cry,” his sweet, comforting voice almost pained; his lips mashed into your temple as he gently rocks you. “I love you regardless of if we can ever have a family. I need you to know that,” his voice sincere, maybe a little desperate.

“I know that, Benedict; I love you too; I just….” you say between muted sobs, “…I just want to give you a family like yours.”

“Darling, for all we know, it is I who is at fault, not you. In fact, we would never know unless…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, but his mien turns thoughtful.

“Unless what?” you prompt, lifting your head to look at him intently.

“Unless you attempt to get pregnant via another man,” he sighs, his face pinched.

“No!! No!!” bile rises in your throat at merely the idea of being with anyone but him. He is the only man you have ever known intimately, the only one you trust. “I can’t do this with anyone but you, Benedict,” you plead.

“And believe me, my darling, the thought of you with anyone else makes me nauseated, but this may be our only choice to find out. And perhaps actually have a baby we can raise as our own,” he points out.

He’s right, and you hate it. You would do anything to let him be the father he so obviously yearns to be. And if that means you have to lay with another man, for him, and only him, you will make yourself do it if that is what he wants. It will hurt your heart beyond belief, but you want him to be a father as much as you wish to be a mother. The problem is that the only man whose babies you want is the one asking you to take another man’s seed.

You draw your knees up on lean on them, sobbing bitterly. Benedict kisses your temple and hugs you as you cry it all out.

——

Benedict hovers nervously outside Anthony’s study at Bridgerton House, having no clue how to broach the topic he wants to discuss. But after weeks of consideration, it’s the only way forward he can see that doesn’t turn his stomach.

“Brother, will you be lurking all day or just for a half-hour?” comes the dry, bemused voice from behind the door.

Benedict stops pacing, closes his eyes briefly, and then, with a decisive nod, heads into the room.

“There is a sensitive matter I would like to discuss with you if you are amenable?” he begins, too nervous to sit in the seat Anthony gestures to. “I’ll stand if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever can it be? You seem quite the bag of nerves,” Anthony observes wryly, leaning back casually in his chair behind the desk.

“It’s regarding children,” Benedict begins slowly and carefully.

“Ah, right, family and intimate matters,” Anthony gets up and closes his office door. He stays standing as Benedict rocks on his feet, and Anthony looks at him expectantly.

There is nothing else but to dive in headfirst. Benedict steels himself for this tough ask and then begins.

“Despite our best efforts, my wife and I are… struggling to become pregnant,” he exhales.

“I am sorry to hear that, but I think a doctor may be a better confidante than myself,” Anthony argues, “should your wife need examining….”

“Well, that’s the thing; I’m not so certain she is at fault,” Benedict counters.

Anthony scoffs. “You are a Bridgerton. If there is one thing we are capable of, it’s progeny,” he laughs, pointing at the row of miniatures of their siblings.

“Well, maybe I am the exception that proves the rule,” Benedict replies quietly and seeing the pain written in the lines of his face, Anthony’s whole demeanour changes.

“I did not mean to make light of your challenges, brother,” Anthony states slowly, “merely that the balance of probability it is not your fault is quite high.”

“Well, there is only one way I can think of to confirm that suspicion,” Benedict answers, “and that is for another man to attempt to impregnate my wife.”

Anthony's shocked expression is a picture. “You wish for your wife to lay with another man?” the contempt in his voice unmaskable.

“Wish it?” Benedict scorns. “I wish anything but. It is the very definition of my nightmare, but… she deserves the world, and If I am at fault, I could never forgive myself if I do not explore all avenues to fulfil her dreams. To make her happy. If I cannot give her children, I will not begrudge her the happiness of motherhood she so desperately craves.”

Anthony is floored by the self-sacrifice his little brother will always make for those he loves.

“And this brings me to my proposal….” Benedict adds warily.

Anthony senses the nerves emanating in waves off him and clamps a reassuring hand onto his shoulder.

“What is it, brother?”

“Selfish as it may sound, I want any child I raise as my own to be a Bridgerton. And there is only one man I would allow to lay with my wife without my stomach turning…. and that dear brother,” he takes a deep breath and meets Anthony’s eye squarely, “is you.”

Anthony freezes and falls back into a nearby chair. Literally stunned.

“I.. “ he begins but can not find more words.

“I'm aware this is a huge ask,” Benedict rushes out, “but I can't think of another palatable solution to my wife's happiness, and, more than anything, I want to give her that. Happiness.”

Anthony can see the quiver in his brother's lip, and his heart breaks for him at this impossible impasse.

“Brother, I’m not sure I can do this,” Anthony wavers honestly, standing up again and beginning to pace.

“Please,” Benedict implores, “please at least consider it. I will sign any private sealed paperwork you wish, ensuring that should she become pregnant, the child has no rights to your title or estates….”

“It’s not that,” Anthony cuts in, frowning that would even be a consideration, “it’s just… Benedict, it’s your brother bedding your wife. This choice seems fraught with potential anguish.”

“It seems unlikely to me at least that two men in the same family would be similarly afflicted, coming as we do from a man capable of siring eight children. If you do not impregnate her, then maybe we will know it is not me at fault,” Benedict argues, appealing to Anthony's logical side that he knows will often win in an emotional moment.

Anthony stops pacing and instead shuffles a pile of perfectly neat paper, nerves manifesting in the need to keep himself busy in the motions of a pointless task. “Allow me to think on it.”

Benedict gives a short sharp nod and, with nothing else he can think to say, takes his leave.

——

His fingers trail gently over your stomach as you lay in post-coital bliss.

“Darling, I have an idea for our baby dilemma,” he offers softly, tracing his lips over your collarbone.

“Mmm, I'm all ears, husband,” you reply drowsily, your ankles twining with his, your fingers running into his thick, lush hair.

Tonight he took you somewhere truly primal, and it feels different. Like it's possible you are actually pregnant this time. That something so fundamental happened in your moment of pure blissful release that, indeed, life was created.

“There is one way to ensure we have a Bridgerton child,” he begins quietly, his warm breath dusting over your dewy skin. “And that is for you to lay with my brother, Anthony.”

The world stops. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears and a weird static buzz in every bone of your face. Like you have been struck by lightning.

No, No, NO, Benedict, your mind wails. Literally anyone but him, dear god.

Unbeknownst to your husband, there is only one man you had ever considered before you met him. And that is his older brother—Viscount Anthony Bridgerton. You harboured a flame for him upon your first visit to Aubrey Hall with your family when you were fifteen, and that really only abated a few years later when you met his wonderful, soulful younger brother who utterly stole your heart.

“Benedict…” you sigh, going to move away, but he holds you in place, staring deep into your eyes, running his hands over your jaw, your cheeks.

“Think about it, my love,” he cuts in. “He is someone I trust with my life. He will not attempt to blackmail us or steal you away from me,” he petitions. “And we look so alike, my brother and me; no one would bat an eyelid about the child’s appearance, should you conceive one. It is the perfect solution,” he looks at you so beseechingly that you almost feel like you are betraying him just by wanting to object. And so you can’t, you don't. You will never deny him the right to fatherhood he so obviously deserves. If that means playing with the fire of your attraction to his brother, you will do it.

You grab his hand and lace your fingers with his. “My love, if this is what you want. I consent,” you murmur as your insides riot at the idea of lying with his brother. “But I have conditions.” you swallow thickly.

“What are they? Anything, my love,” he says pleadingly. “I will do anything for you; you know that,” he asserts as he kisses a fervent line over your cheek to your lips.

“I cannot do this without you,” you answer meekly. “I need you there the whole time. Not just in the room, I need you with me, skin on skin; I need you to hold me when it is happening, to talk to me.”

He inhales sharply. “You wish to lay with both of us? At the same time?”

“Yes, Benedict, my love. I cannot give my body to another man unless you are right there with me. Please, please.”

“I… I….” he stumbles, “I will have to check with him, but if that is what you need, what you desire, I will, of course, be there, my love.”

“Will you fuck me too?” your use of the base, crude term somehow feels necessary in this context.

You see the vein in his neck jump, and his voice turns gravelly. “You want that?”

“Yes, husband. Once he has been with me, I want you to be with me too.” you push up and kiss him deeply, trying to transmit just how much you love him, that for you, how much all of this is for him, for his happiness.

“Alright, my love,” he appeases with delicate kisses, “of course, of course….”

——

When Benedict rises the following day, his valet hands him a hand-delivered note. It is from Bridgerton House, and inside the wax-sealed envelope, on Anthony's signature note paper, there, in neat-looking penmanship, is just one word.

Yes.

Benedict drops the card onto his desk and rubs his temples, uncertain if he should feel elated or empty.

——

The fateful night arrives sooner than you would like, but equally, the weight of anticipation felt like almost too much to bear in the lead-up. You fidget nervously with your silk robe, which all at once feels too heavy and not thick enough, your skin prickling with the uncertainty of what is to pass.

You stay in the bedroom, brushing your hair at your vanity with repetitive calming motions as Benedict greets Anthony and invites him into your home. In advance, you and Benedict had agreed a few strong brandies would likely assist both men before embarking on this journey; you declined to imbibe in the hope it would aid with conception. So you sit nervously awaiting as they partake downstairs in your drawing room, no doubt.

For some reason, you prefer not to see Anthony before the ‘act’ begins; it feels too much like danger knowing what will happen, the ghost of your past attraction like a potential unwanted spectre taunting you. It feels safer to keep your distance until, well, until you cannot.

You get onto the bed and attempt to read, but your butterflies mean you are staring at the same page for minutes at a time, words just a jumble of letters that bleed into each other, your mind too preoccupied. Just as you start to fret about whether you can do this, you hear voices and a pair of heavy boots ascending the stairs.

Then there in the doorway are your husband and his brother, looking at you with the same expression you give them. Nervous apprehension, but theirs mellowed by alcohol.

“Darling,” Benedict drawls as they walk in, and he closes the door, “how are you?”

“I am fine,” you assure with a quick, tight smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. The butterflies are truly rioting now.

Your gaze falls to Anthony, who flashes you a brusque smile before he peels off his jacket and rapidly moves onto his boots. It seems almost business-like, and there is a hot flare in your stomach. Benedict is already more casual, barefoot, just his white shirt and trousers; it's like he senses your spike of anxiety and is on the bed with you in the blink of an eye.

“It's okay, my darling,” he mollifies, pushing you gently down into the pillows, his breath sweetened by brandy and smoky from cigars, “I’m here, my love, I’m here.”

His kiss is gentle and pitched to reassure, his lips soft on yours, intuiting the need to settle your fears. It works, and as you always do, you find yourself melting into your husband's loving embrace and attention. His hands run delicate patterns over your thin robe.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, a soft smile on his lips as he moves to kiss down your throat, his lips warm and plush as his words vibrate over your skin. He goes to untie your robe, but you halt his hand, covering it with your own.

“Please, Benedict, I need you naked before I am,” you plead quietly.

He lifts his head and meets your imploring gaze, nodding slightly, understanding your reasons without you needing to vocalise them. It's part of why you love him so much, this shorthand you have developed, this unspoken bond. You can't help the little flutter in your chest as he whips off his shirt and settles over you, so much body warmth seeping through your robe from his skin. As he kisses the cord of your neck, you sigh and allow your hands to wander, loving the feel of his toned flesh under your fingertips.

With him over and surrounding you, he is your whole field of vision, perhaps by design to centre your focus on him. In the background, you can hear the sounds of Anthony disrobing, but Benedict utters soft, reassuring words against your skin to drown out the sound. His warm lips feathering down over your collarbone, skirting the edge of your robe. As ever, his tender treatment makes you stir, and you feel your body become pliant under him, allowing him to ease between your legs, your robe falling open as his wool trousers tickle the inside of your knees.

“My darling, you smell wonderful. Did you bathe in your favourite magnolia petal soap?” his voice buzzes over your breastbone as he breathes deeply and smiles indulgently as you hum in the affirmative. “Your skin is so soft; I am such a lucky man.” you know he is being extra vocal and reassuring with his words and actions; it makes your heart melt a fraction. He wants you comfortable and aroused. He wants this to be pleasant for you. You would never have the heart to tell him his efforts are not perhaps as needed as he believes.

You cannot look at Anthony to this day without a tiny stab of desire, perhaps remnants of a theoretical scenario where he could have been your intended, at least in your mind. Or it could be that he is an objectively handsome man. Either way, the thought of laying with him is not abhorrent on a physical level; in fact, the genuine possibility of the opposite stokes the blaze of nerves in your belly—that you could enjoy it a little too much.

You reach down and begin unbuttoning Benedict's trousers, wanting, needing more, as he continues languid kisses on your exposed skin. This time you do not object as his fingers insinuate between your bodies and tug at the ties holding your robe closed.

You inhale sharply as his naked body surges over yours as he kicks away his trousers. So much heat and warmth as your thighs cradle him. You can feel his rigid cock searing the apex of your thighs, and more than anything, you want him to push into your body.

As his lips close on your left nipple, you moan and cant up towards him; you sense something else happening in the room. You realise, without looking; you have an audience. Anthony’s gaze feels heavy on your skin; you know he is watching as his brother's tongue peaks out and lathes over your nipple, watches as he sucks the nub into his mouth, and you cry out. Somehow the audience makes this more hedonistic. You want to feel ashamed at the throbbing between your legs, yet…. you don't; you just feel a molten desire. The idea of being the sole focus of two of the most handsome men of the ton does not escape your mind.

Somehow you know without looking that Anthony has taken his cock in hand and is ogling your body, just as Benedict's hand slides between your legs and glides over your folds.

“Are you ready for us, my love?” he asks softly. Part of you wants to lie, to ask him to dive his face between your legs and suck your clit until you are writhing and panting, but you know tonight is not about pleasure; it's a means to an end. And besides, he would know it's unnecessary as soon as his fingers slide between your lips, which they now do, and he hisses at the pooled, slick viscous heat he finds within. “Oh, darling, you are more than ready, aren't you? You are positively weeping from your gorgeous little cunt.”

You moan again at his words, almost surprised he is willing to talk like this in front of his brother, but you suspect it’s because he knows how much it arouses you. And indeed, you hear a noise from Anthony as you writhe on Benedict's fingers, wishing more than anything for him to sink them into your body and massage that spot you love so very much that only his fingers can reach.

“Please, fuck me,” you exhale, and it's a dangerous elixir thrumming in your bloodstream when there is a duet of responding groans to your breathy plea.

“I will, darling, I will,” he promises with an aching urgency, propelling one of his fingers into you and you crying out his name.

His fingertip massages that spot as his mouth is on your other breast, and you don't hide your enjoyment of what is happening. In truth, perhaps you are more performative, your whispered pleas just a little louder for Anthony’s benefit, your body flexing a little more pronounced; you almost want him to desire your body as much as your husband does. Sometimes playing with fire is such a beguilingly hypnotic idea.

“Make her climax, brother; I have heard it can help with conception,” Anthony’s smooth voice rings out, and you gasp, whipping your head to look at him for the first time since clothing was shed.

There’s a stab of what almost feels like betrayal as your eyes fall on Viscount Anthony Bridgerton—naked and imposing, standing as he does next to the bed. Unlike his brother, his chest is covered in a thatch of dark hair; his build is thicker and more muscular than your slightly taller, lither husband. Perhaps predictably, given their shared genetics, he is physically appealing too. You can tell by the motion of his arm he is stroking himself, but you daren't allow your eyes to wander lower than his taunt, defined abdomen, almost scared to see what lies between his legs. And yet curiosity wins out as he mounts the bed on all-fours, you glance down the plane of his torso and glimpse his cock nestling in a patch of dark hair, just like Benedict's, but it looks different. You can't deny that. A shade thicker, perhaps, just like their bodies. That you are comparing your husband's cock to his brothers fills you with a self-disdain you don't want to contemplate, so you quickly cut your eyes away. It matters not the pleasure he can provide during the act; what matters is the outcome: his seed, the hope of progeny.

“Here, let me help,” Anthony offers casually. And your breathing accelerates rapidly as suddenly he is next to you and his lips close around your other nipple, still wet with your husband's saliva.

A long, low curse slips from your mouth unsolicited as you experience the blinding pleasure of both nipples being sucked simultaneously.

Something burns white hot, not just desire but also shame. Shame that you want this so much. That your whole axis is thrown off by the equally talented tongue of Anthony Bridgerton swirling and sucking your nipple. But then he himself did just say female pleasure is paramount to conception. Who are you to deny yourself this pleasure if it is a means to the ultimate end? Your selfish, licentious side greedily courting all the attention they are willing to offer.

Benedict's finger curls more insistently inside you as a thumb lands on your clit, rubbing in an unfamiliar but alluring motion. It is not your husband’s. It does not have the same softness; there's a rasping quality to Anthony’s more pen-calloused skin that snags perfectly on your sensitive bud. Having the mouths and fingers of two Bridgerton brothers teasing you is overwhelming, but part of you feels overridden with guilt that you are deriving such pleasure from them both.

“It's alright, my love,” Benedict assures, sensing your emotional quandary, and it’s the license you need. Allow yourself to indulge in the sensation enough to be carried away by the sheer wonder of it all.

Within moments, a potent tide rips through your being as you writhe, surrounded by their bodies. Benedict surges up and captures your lips in a passionate, consuming kiss as you clench so hard on his finger and holler his name so loudly into his mouth. You don't dare speak his brother's name, but something makes your hand grasp Anthony's hair as he gently laps your breast.

Benedict eases himself from between your legs and arranges his body against your left flank as you calm. On instinct, still fuzzy from your orgasm, you turn your head towards him, seeking his lips for more kisses, sighing as he obliges, your nostrils filled with the scent of your own arousal on his damp fingers that cradle your jaw as his lips open gently with yours. His cock is branding your hip as he pulls your left leg towards him, opening you up, and your heartbeat spikes as you feel Anthony climb over your right leg and shuffle between your thighs.

“Benedict,” you gasp over his lips. He knows. He knows you are at your most vulnerable, and he clutches your face tight, keeps your gaze locked on his, his mouth hovering over yours.

“Shhh, my love,” he soothes, “you are doing so wonderful; you are my whole world; I love you so much,” his searing words pour into your soul as you feel Anthony’s body over yours.

Benedict holds your face, his grip almost vice-like, not letting you look away, to his brother, as arms band around your hips, and Anthony heaves you onto his thighs, your pelvis now higher than your head.

“Don't stop talking,” you plead into your husband's mouth as you feel the tip of Anthony’s cock at your entrance.

“I love you; I can't wait to raise a family with you, my darling,” he entreats. The mix of desire and hurt on his face breaks your heart as you cry out with the force of Anthony’s cock ploughing into you. It feels so different in a way you can't explain and want to weep, but you can't do that to your husband, hurt him like that. So you keep staring into his hazy eyes, breathing his exhaled air and familiar scent as Anthony starts to move inside you.

It feels so wondrous, your walls clinging to his thick veiny cock as you bite your lip to trap the sounds you want to make. There is no denying how utterly incredible Anthony feels inside you. He almost immediately hits a harsh snapping rhythm, making slight panting noises with the exertion. Benedict shuts his eyes and swallows heavily, and you know it's to school his emotions, yet you can't help but steal a glance up at his brother while he does so. Anthony looks so handsome and majestic, an errant curl of hair bouncing on his forehead as he throws his whole body into the thrusts. His skin glows dewy in the candlelight. His eyes meet yours, and a flame there startles so much that you swivel your eyes back to your husband’s as they reopen. Guilt makes you utter his name, each syllable rising and falling with the motion of your body as Anthony fucks you so hard.

“It's alright if you enjoy this, my darling,” Benedict affirms sotto voce, and it's like whiplash to your heart how giving this man is, how much he is sacrificing so you can have a family together. You know it must be eating him alive on some level to see the pleasure his brother is giving you.

“I only want to come if it's with you,” you whisper harshly.

“But you need to come, my darling; it will improve the chance of a baby,” he assuages.

You feel Anthony’s fingers at your clit, and you seize Benedict’s face. “Then talk to me, my love. Talk like it’s just us, say all those debauched things that make me burn so hot for you, just you,” you implore desperately.

Benedict growls and surges his rigid cock against your hip, leaking onto your dewy skin as his warm lips capture your cheekbone.

“I want you, my wife,” he intones through clenched teeth. “Every day, I want to strip you down and take you so hard.”

“Yesssssss,” you hiss, writhing on Anthony's cock, who groans and grips your hip bone hard. “More, please, more.”

Anthony’s fingers are a frenzy on your clit now as you keen loudly, urging him on; you unwittingly squeeze his muscular forearm.

“I know what makes you come so hard; only me, only I can do that. You are my wife, mine. Say it,” Benedict orders, his tone as desperate as yours, spying the way you have latched onto his brother, needing reassurance.

“I'm yours, Benedict, always, forever,” you cry, and it turns into a scream as Anthony starts to spear you so hard you want to see stars.

“I love you, my darling wife. You are going to be such a wonderful mother; I know how much you want that. To be a mother. To have a baby,” he murmurs, placing his forehead onto yours, “that is why we are doing this, my darling.”

"But Benedict, I only want your baby… Our baby…" you lament, raw with emotion, as you battle the sensations threatening to overwhelm you. Anthony's cock makes your eyes roll back in your head, and Benedict's words take you over a soft edge, your blood boiling in your veins for your husband and his brother. Your scream muffled into his jaw as your cunt flutters hard around Anthony.

“Fuckkkking hell, I'm going to come,” Anthony warns, and for the first time, you look away from Benedict, uncaring that he sees.

“Give it to me,” you growl at Anthony, “give me your seed Bridgerton; I love my husband more than life itself; give us our baby right now!”

Both men seem equally shocked and aroused by your voracious demand.

“Darling…” Benedict pants raggedly on your cheekbone, his leaking cock pressing rhythmically against you again as you wrap your arm possessively around his head, fingers tugging no doubt painfully on his hair as you stare Anthony down, urging him to come.

There is a long guttural noise as Anthony stills. You feel the warmth of his release bloom inside you as he slumps over your body. His head on your damp diaphragm, puffing hard breaths over your ticklish skin as he keeps jerking and pumping little aftershocks into you.

The act over; as much as Anthony is an attractive man, all you want, crave, need, and desire is your husband with every fibre of your being. Like a siren calling across an ocean, he is the only place you want to be wrecked.

“Benedict, now, please, please, I need you,” you turn to him and cry.

You rasp lightly as Anthony pulls out and slumps back breathlessly against the footboard of your bed as you almost drag your husband on top of you. You chant a litany of pleas as he fumbles to line up with your fluttering body. And your eyes well with emotion as he finally surges into you. The stretch of his cock is different but so familiar, mind-bending and heart-stopping.

Your mouths mash together in a frenzy, and you cling to Benedict, pleading with him for more and harder, uncaring of the audience you have. You think he won't last long, but you don't care—you crave his release more than your own. You just want to revel in the carnality of your husband’s body and of what you have just permitted to happen for each other, for love. You steal a glance at Anthony over Benedict’s shoulder, and the soft, understanding look he gives you fills you with unspoken gratitude that he agreed to do this, to help you in this amazing way.

Benedict is not gentle, and you are grateful for it, conveying all of his passion for you with firm hands grasping your flesh, destined to leave imprints, teeth grazing your neck, thrusting into you with no mercy. You were mistaken, though - he does last. Keeps pounding into your body over and over and over as you make needy noises with each movement, climbing higher again.

“Come for me, husband, please; I need to feel it,” you beg, clasping his bum encouragingly, kissing every inch of skin you can reach, dragging your nipples over his chest, greedily pursuing your satisfaction as well as his.

“Tell me you love me,” he demands, sweat dripping from his forehead onto yours, his eyes burning into yours.

“I love you; you know I love you,” your response is a reflex. And that is what causes the dam to break for him, his whole body jerking violently, hissing and groaning loud against your ear as he spills inside you, fingers flexing, nails leaving moon-shaped marks on your shoulders where his arms curl under around them. The visceral feel of him coming apart, his body smashing against your clit takes you over too. Eyes fluttering closed as your body clenches in waves around his spasming cock.

And as you lay there sharing ragged breaths, Anthony’s warm hand encircles your ankle, and your eyes meet again in a moment of connection that feels warm and profound; you hope beyond hope a baby was conceived tonight.

——

Nine months later.

The birth of your baby is the most harrowing but rewarding day of your life. As you hear the infant’s first cry, your whole world crumbles and is rebuilt around her. Your precious, precious gift.

Benedict’s embrace is so tight as you cradle new life in your arms, scarcely believing the truth. Then a tiny set of eyes blink open, and your heart soars to heights you never dreamed possible.

“Benedict,” you breathe, joyful tears flowing unabashed, “look… she has… she has your eyes,” your whisper tremulant.

There, unmistakable as anything, is his baby. Not Anthony’s, not just a Bridgerton baby. His. Benedict’s.

“I don't think she can be anyone’s but yours, my love,” you assure ardently.

His fervent kiss on your dewy brow is only made wetter by the gentle tears that roll down his cheek and onto your skin.

“I love you,” he whispers reverently, his large hand wrapping delicately around your swaddled baby. “I love our daughter. We are finally a family.”

Benedict & Anthony Taglists: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @queenofmean14

1K notes · View notes

rush-the-stars · 1 day

Text

AFFECTION'S EDGE: PART I

━─━────༺༻────━─━

|| alpha!suguru getou x omega!afab reader || E/18+ || wc: 6.5k || ao3 || Part II -> coming soon! || masterlist ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

━─━────༺༻────━─━

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”

***

Suguru tries to tame you.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

✧ SPRING FEVER collab masterlist ✧

cw: omegaverse, brat taming, mind games, toxic behavior, yandere suguru getou, yandere reader if you squint, biting, blood, marking, eventual forced bathing in later parts, eventual forced feeding in later parts, eventual smut in later parts; masturbation, voyeurism, a blurring of boundaries, consent as punishment?

a/n: this is for @lorelune 's SPRING FEVER collab!! i have been working on this for awhile now and i am excited to share it! this should be about 3 parts...i am very close to finishing the whole thing so i should be releasing a part a week for the next two weeks!

thank you for reading!! i would love to hear your thoughts <333

━─━────༺༻────━─━

“I think you’d be perfect.”

Suguru’s voice is a caress, low and soft, as he sits across from you.

Somehow, he always makes you feel like he is just beneath the surface of your skin, even if there is a respectable distance between you. He always makes you feel as if he is lurking somewhere in the lowest parts of you, pulling at strings you once thought hidden to yourself.

You’ve kept your distance for this reason.

You swallow hard.

And then you manage to get your voice to unstick, to find it somewhere inside of you and bring it to life. It’s firmer than you’re anticipating and you’re proud;

“I don’t think I would be.”

Suguru looks at you in a way that makes you feel as if he’s seeing through you, pulling you open slowly to gaze at all the inner workings of you. His dark eyes are keen, so sharp, even if they’re shaded by half-lidded lashes.

He smiles pleasantly and indulges you, but you know he believes very firmly that he is, in fact, right, “why not?”

“I told you when I agreed to join you—all I wanted in exchange for helping you, was to be an unbound Omega.” You force yourself to meet his eyes and to not get sucked into the dark tide of them.

“You asked for my protection.” He reminds you.

Your eyes flash this time, heated, a little spark that skitters to life inside of you.

“I didn’t—“

“Is that not what you’d call it?” Suguru asks, “when I interfered, every time, to be sure no other Alpha got to you? Or when I scented you to keep them away?”

Prickling warmth dots your cheeks, can feel at the back of your neck, too, the tips of your ears. You try a different tactic.

“I’m not a homemaker.”

His smile is soft, “I don’t want a homemaker.”

“I’m not obedient.” You counter again, as if you could dissuade Suguru Getou once he’s made up his mind.

“You’ve been quite good for me.” Suguru says smugly and this time, a little noise of embarrassment or frustration eeks out of you. A short, sharp little growl from your throat, almost a groan of irritation.

“I—I’m doing your dirty work. That’s our agreement! You give me assignments that I complete and in return, I get my freedom.”

“I don’t know why you’re so opposed to this. Is it not similar already to what we have now?” He asks simply, “I’d still let you roam, if that’s what you’re so scared of.”

“No it’s that—that power and mentality that I don’t want you to have over me.” You snap.

“I already have it,” he says and it isn’t intended to be cruel, but certainly is, “how long do you think you’d last, without the protection of an Alpha?”

“I didn’t have any before you.”

“You were starving, injured, and constantly on the run before me.” You open your mouth to protest, but he cuts you off, “it would still give you what you want.”

“I don’t want to be yours.” You say frankly, perhaps to be cruel yourself. And then you show teeth a little, flash them in warning, “I don’t want your mark.”

Suguru looks amused, if anything, by your display.

His smile is knowing and insufferable. It makes your anger ratchet up inside of you, hackles rising. You feel a little growl working its way out of your throat. It tears out of you in annoyance, when he says, “I don’t believe you.”

You slam the door so hard on its hinges that it rattles the entire wall. You wish it would rattle all the world.

***

Your cursed technique rips to life like a star exploding outwards.

Beast that you are, it overtakes you, transforms you until you are all claws and dripping, little fangs. Your body elongates, elegant, and built for speed, viciousness. The horns atop your head are sharp, too, curled the slightest into a crescent shape. The beast in you stretches and pulls at your bones, fits your skin to it in a way that you have come to know well.

(“Cursed technique: Cursed Creature,” Suguru hums, “allows you to turn into a cursed version of yourself, a sort of,” he pauses, looking you over, “monster?”

“That’s right.” You tell him, body trembling all over, in dire need of food. Care. Sleep.

He places a large hand on top of your head, strokes gently, until his hand nudges your cheek, beneath your chin so you are forced to look up into his eyes. Depthless violet.

“You have a deal.”)

The sorcerer is cast backward with the force of your transformation. In this form, everything heightens, sharpening into brilliance. So much brighter, clearer. So much more overwhelming.

You are a flash of darkness when you move, a mass of lethality.

The sorcerer doesn’t stand a chance, the moment you dash past him with a deep swipe of your claws, you know this will be an easy match. You chitter in this form, excited, warbly little sound erupting from you before you careen towards him again.

This time, he is warped away.

But you are fast, changing your trajectory mid-step to catch up to where he was warped.

Except, this time, a white haired sorcerer takes his place.

Your claws meet air.

A growling hiss erupts from your throat.

Satoru Gojo.

Suguru told you to stay away from him. At all costs.

And speak of the devil, your name is called, whistled almost. Your head turns to find Suguru appearing, too.

Faintly, the more human part of you wonders what the occasion is.

For a moment, all you can see is threat. Your hackles rise as your growling gets lower, more sinister, your form moving behind Gojo as if you might circle him, unable to let down your guard.

“Call off your pet,” Gojo says.

Suguru calls your name again and there’s something else in his tone now, a little sharper.

(Fear, you wonder faintly, in some far away part of your mind. Is he worried Gojo would hurt you?)

You come to heel at Suguru’s side, remaining in this form, making a low, threatening sound still. Warning. Your claws still drip with the blood of that sorcerer.

“Go,” Suguru says to you.

Your head snaps to look at him, eyes narrowing. “I’m not leaving,” you snap and the words have a bite to it, around the curves of your fangs. You look back at Gojo. If this comes to blows, you don’t want Suguru facing Gojo alone–you don’t want to leave his back suddenly unguarded.

It’s counterintuitive to you, goes against all of your instincts. You don’t leave him, you don’t leave his side, his back.

“Go,” Suguru says, harsher this time and the command seeps into you. You waver. And then, “I won’t tell you again.”

When you hiss at him in that warbling way of curses, he smiles faintly, almost fondly, as your teeth drip with venom. But you do listen to him this time.

And with your heightened hearing, you hear Gojo underneath his breath as you slink away;

“How interesting.”

***

When Suguru returns to you, he is unharmed.

You’d paced the length of the hallway outside of his room in the compound until you could have worn a hole into it.

Few would be brave enough to wait for Suguru outside his door.

When he arrives, he is mildly surprised to see you, before his expression melts into a sort of—smugness. A knowing glint to his eyes.

“Why would you send me away?” You snap.

“You could’ve gone in, you know, if it would’ve soothed you.” Suguru says instead, head nodding towards the door to his suite. “Would you like a key?”

You blanche, taking a half step back, “I don’t—“

It allows him to get to his door and open it. You’ve been here before, in the privacy of his suite, but now it feels strange. A little different. He holds the door open for you.

You glance at the threshold and feel as if you’re making an important decision.

“Come on,” he says smoothly and before you can think twice about it, you are being led inside, his hand drifting somewhere near your lower back. He never touches you, the feeling is a phantom one, the impression of it. You shiver a little.

But you round on him again, “why would you send me away?”

He doesn’t acknowledge you, instead he goes rifling in a drawer, digging around a little.

His suite is larger than others. The living room is open and attached is the kitchen. It’s all light wood, with tall windows that overlook the courtyard. You know, despite never being inside, that his bedroom is down the hall and to the left. The bathroom is across from it. You’ve sat many times on the floor of his living room with him, going over assignments, plans that he has, and what he’d like you to do.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he makes a soft noise, before turning to you with a small, gold key.

“I don’t want a key!” You snap.

“It’s a spare, take it just in case.” He replies and when you don’t move to grab it from him, he takes your hand in his much larger one, and opens your palm to him.

He places the key in your hand.

And then his eyes catch yours, “you were worried.”

“No-!” you get out, “I don’t like being—I’m supposed to protect you.”

Suguru smiles, hand still swallowing yours, “isn’t that sweet?” he remarks, “an Omega attempting to protect an Alpha.”

Immediately, you jerk away from him.

The key is still in your shaking fist.

“Don’t start,” you snarl, low and vicious and hurt, “I’ve always been the one at your side.”

“Yes,” he agrees, hand falling back down to his side listlessly. “I already told you that.”

You’ve always been at my side, he’d said, when he was trying to convince you to–

“That’s not what I meant!” Your voice rises without your consent and you feel an embarrassed, angry flush through your face for being so worked up. The room is thick with your worry and anger and frustration, all of your pent up energy like a knot in your chest, in your voice. It’s in your heart and the way you look at him.

“It doesn’t matter what you meant,” Suguru says easily, “it’s still the truth.”

When you slam the door this time, you hear something fall from the wall.

But the key is still in your trembling hand, digging indents into your palm, and your heart is still a beast in your chest.

And behind the closed door, Suguru Getou smiles fondly, and retrieves the fallen, shattered frame from the floor.

***

For a while, you avoid Suguru.

You stuff the key he gave you in your nightstand drawer, far in the back, in an attempt to keep it out of sight and out of your mind.

And at first, you think he is respecting your boundaries; you receive assignments through others from him. You see him only in passing and he never speaks directly to you. He hardly acknowledges you.

But after a week and a half, it begins to feel like punishment.

And the key is starting to burn and itch in your mind. You think about it at night, tossing over in your bed; you think about unlocking his door at this hour. What would you find? Would he be asleep? Awake? Alone? Fully dressed?

You think of him half bare and lounging, hair slipping over his shoulders, and the scent of sandalwood and fig. Tonka or something woodsy, maybe. You know it well and it lingers long after he leaves you.

You suddenly miss it, crave it.

Him.

You twist beneath your sheets.

Why did he have to–

You make a soft noise of frustration, turning over again.

You’re restless.

Something beneath your skin begins to itch and squirm.

Previously, Suguru had hardly mentioned your status as an Omega. He rarely acknowledged it; you were too brilliant of a sorcerer for him to care, you thought. You were too powerful. The only instance he brought it up was to scent you, a form of caution in a particular instance, for a particular mission. The memory still simmers in your mind, the way he’d rubbed the gland on your wrist with a careful thumb. He’d given you clothes of his to wear. He’d had you sit in his quarters for long hours, until it seemed as if you were his, in some way.

But now that he’s actually brought it up, offered you his bite, to be his, it paints him in an entirely different light.

Had he always…wanted you?

Was he always planning this?

The naive, desperate parts of you want to believe this is a recent thought of his. Previous to this, he only ever saw you as another sorcerer, a powerful one that aided him. You had always been one of the closer ones to him, at his heel, his beck and call.

You’d be lying if you said you’d never thought of Suguru this way; as an Alpha. An unmated one, who kept your company.

And he does, no matter how badly it burns to admit it, protect you.

You know he wards off Alphas.

You know he perhaps does more than even that.

But you don’t want—

You don’t want to be mated.

You don’t want to suddenly be coddled by him, held back, don’t want to be the little thing that keeps his bed warm.

Your face heats with the thought.

Images flash through your mind, flickering, melting together like film that bleeds and runs, of him overtop you. Shrouding you. His hair on your shoulders and back. You think of his mouth on your throat, teeth in your neck.

You rub at your eyes suddenly as if to clear them.

You know he leaves on a mission for a week in two days.

You assume, at some point, he’ll speak to you. And break this strange silence.

You’ll both return to normal then.

And then perhaps you won’t lose any more sleep over him.

***

Suguru never says goodbye to you.

It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does—you just figured he’d finally drop this silly little silence game.

You suppose he must’ve thought the same of you.

Besides, what were you expecting from him? An apology? It’s foolish to even entertain. You knew you weren’t going to apologize either. The least you’ll do, when he returns, is act as if all is normal again. Perhaps it’s better that way, not to address what he’s put in his head recently.

The more you speak of it, or think of it, the worse it unravels in your mind.

On the second day that he is gone, you realize you miss his scent.

You realize it has become such a staple in your everyday life that its sudden disappearance is almost alarming. It makes you more irritable, more vicious. You snap at the others faster, bite out insults and brutalities.

You—

Well, you miss it.

Him, maybe.

The admittance is a hard one to swallow around. It burns going down.

On the third day, you’re genuinely craving his scent in a way that makes your teeth ache. You had no idea you could even miss a scent like this, need it so bad that your body would betray you with a physical pain in your chest. Somewhere in your mouth, under your tongue.

You try to ignore it.

You go on with your life.

But by the fifth day, you are agitated and aggressive. Everyone knows something is wrong with you. You know something is wrong with you. You can feel it beneath your skin, crawling, squirming. It makes you want to tear out your hair, rip at your nails, or sink your teeth into something. You’re restless.

You can’t sleep.

You can hardly eat or think.

And as you lay awake in your bed, kicking at sheets, sweating and twisting, you know what it is you need.

You’ve known the whole week.

You throw back the covers and wrench open your bedside drawer.

The key rattles, hot, like it knows it’s finally about to be used. It’s musical sound a siren song, it’s been burning away in there the whole week.

You swipe it and turn sharply from your bedroom. From your own apartment.

It’s the middle of the night; not a soul sees you in the compound.

Like a person possessed, you walk. Your back is straight. Your steps are quick. Your mind is set, on fire.

Suguru’s door has haunted you the whole week.

The key in your hand digs into the flesh, carving it’s divots there like your hand might be the lock itself.

You try not to think about it–you unlock the door. You throw it open.

You shut it behind you, slide the lock back into place.

Darkness greets you.

You wander in like you know the place (you do, you do–)

You wander in like it’s yours to wander in.

Instantly, something loosens inside of you.

You exhale hard.

Inhale sharp.

The smell of him, fainter because he’s been gone, assaults your senses, sweeps over them. You take in a lungful like gasping for air, you smell faint traces of fig and sandalwood. Notes of tonka that you long for, that urge you to move deeper into his space.

In the dark, you make your way down the hall, towards his bedroom.

You haunt the arch for a moment.

Guilt or regret or embarrassment almost seize you. They make you pause.

Some sane part of you is clawing at your insides, wailing to turn around and leave. Leave now.

But he gave you a key.

He gave you a key, you think in circles, again and again. He gave me a key.

You cross the threshold.

You sink down into his bed and his scent is strongest here, even still, after several days it’s his.

You turn over the covers to get beneath them, cool sheets against your legs, sliding and smooth. You turn your face into his pillow and inhale.

A soft little groan works it’s way out of you.

Instantly, your muscles slacken.

Everything leeches from you; your anger and irritation and restlessness.

It soothes you so deeply and so swiftly it makes your head spin.

You curl beneath his blankets and take deep pulls of breath, squirming a moment if only to bring his scent tighter around you. You envelope yourself in it.You shroud yourself in it.

And finally, after five days of restless nights, you fall asleep almost instantly.

Not a single dream. Not one moment where you wake or stir.

You sleep deeply.

In the morning, the sun warms you through the broad windows like a content cat.

You stretch lazily like one, too.

Suguru will be home tomorrow.

You know you need to leave his bed, hope that your scent dissipates by the time he returns.

You didn’t do anything wrong, you know—he gave you a key.

He gave you a key.

But rather, you know he would never let you live it down. He would use it instantly, as ammunition for his argument, the debate that the two of you keep circling.

You don’t quite leave as quickly as you should still, though:

You linger.

You’re comfortable.

Calmed for the first time all week.

And when you do slip out, it’s silently, locking the door behind you.

Like maybe you won’t ever let yourself back in there, trying to shut it like it was a one time indulgence and gone now from your mind and body.

But his scent clings to you.

And little do you know, your scent clings to his sheets—and to Suguru, it’s sweet as can be and unmistakable—irreplaceable.

He collapses in his own bed when he returns and knows you’ve been all over it. He can smell the crush of dark berries, jasmine, the soothing note of vanilla that clings to you, that he’s come to adore.

He grins to himself and knows then, he’s got you right where he wants you.

***

For a moment, you think Suguru is going to make you be the bigger person and apologize upon his return.

Instead, he finds you.

And he doesn’t say he’s sorry for his recent behavior, but he does say;

“I’d prefer if you didn’t avoid me in the future.”

It feels like sorry enough.

And for some time, things return to a state of normal.

A version of it.

It isn’t quite like it was before—in fact, you seem to spend more time around him than previously. He calls on you more. He brings you into his space more frequently, often urging you to eat with him, beside him, at his table.

This is ideal for you. Close but not too close.

Although, he begins to ask, don’t you have your key? Can’t you let yourself in?

You say you haven’t used it.

He hums like he knows differently, but doesn’t press you.

Until finally he asks you to retrieve a notebook in his study and bring it to him.

Fetch, he says.

“It’s locked, isn’t it?”

“You have your key.” He answers simply, not looking up from the book he is reading.

For a moment, you almost protest, but something stops you. Maybe the twitch in his brow.

It’s a useless argument to pick, anyways.

You do have a key.

It would be fastest, easiest, to just use it.

So you do.

And you hand him the notebook he asked for, fingers brushing against his as he takes it from you with gentle hands.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice so smooth and low, almost tempting.

You swallow a little.

Then you quickly avert your gaze.

“Whatever,” you grouse, but he smiles fondly, amused.

And it opens another door, more than just the one to his suite.

***

Tentatively, you begin to come and go.

The first (second) time you use your key to enter without his order, he is careful not to react to you any differently than how he usually does.

His eyes brighten a little, though, like a leopard that’s caught something interesting in its sights and is waiting to see what it’ll do.

Still, you grow more comfortable entering his space on your own.

You claim portions of it; a corner of the couch. A particular cushion around his low table. All of the sunny patches in his suite become yours, scented with you, indented with you. More than that, some horrible, hidden part of you adores that your scent is all over his space.

It’s comforting to find it beside his scent.

It soothes a part of you that you don’t wish to admit to.

His hands grow bolder.

Now they’re always hovering at the small of your back, the nape of your neck. He tucks strands of your hair away from your face and though you jerk away from him, it’s often half-hearted. You snip at him and he only smiles.

Pleased. Smug. Knowing.

His hands guide you as you walk beside him.

You grow accustomed to his touch in some way—he makes sure of it.

Then, as if to prove something—

Another cult member begins to cause trouble with you; he is another Omega. He begins with snide comments and remarks that test your patience. He doesn’t stop until you are growling and bristled and ready for a fight.

And all it takes to stop you is Suguru’s large hand coming down on the nape of your neck.

His thumb rests atop one scent gland at your throat, fingertips pressing delicately into the one on the other side. Hand wrapped around the back of your neck.

“Easy,” he murmurs and just like that, you can feel some of your aggression slip from you, deflate like a balloon.

It’s involuntary, the energy and anger unspooling from your body in an instant. In the back of your mind, you’re alarmed; how easily it was for him to effect you. It’s terrifying.

You swat his hand away, lurching from him, another little growl in your throat.

But you don’t fight him or the look in his eyes, the way he tilts his chin up in the barest hint of dominance.

You storm off.

Instances as such continue to happen, though, where he’s able to sooth or quell your temperament with a touch. A word. A look.

It comes to a head while you’re eating dinner with him.

“You’re so wound up,” Suguru comments lightly, “your scent is so sharp with it. What’s bothering you?”

Reflexively, you snap, “you are.”

And it’s meant to be some sort of insult but Suguru’s lips twist into this hitched little smile. “It’s my fault you’re wound up?” He asks lightly.

“Don’t twist my words.” You respond, fixing him with a glare, “you bother me.”

He’s still deeply amused by this, you can tell by the twinkle in his eyes. The smug way he holds himself.

“Would you like me to help you?” He asks.

“No,” you say reflexively.

A beat of silence before he says, “come here. I’ll help you.”

There’s a command in his voice, laced there, and doing something strange to your head.

You hesitate.

He pounces, “just a massage.” He soothes, “I can tell your shoulders are knotted up and tense. I can see it.”

His voice has dropped into that soothing lull.

Warily, “away from my glands?”

He smiles, “of course.” And then, “come here.”

Your body moves easily now and he murmurs, “sit in front of me. Back to me—there, that’s it.”

It feels more vulnerable than it should to show your back to him, to sit in front of him like a child to their mother. You try to keep your posture straight and careful.

But then he sets large, warm hands to your shoulders. His fingers dig into the meat of them gently, pressing into your muscles which spasm and twitch in pain. You yelp, jerking away.

Suguru tsks, “see how tense you are? You’re in pain.” He scolds softly and you feel heat smart across your face, “sit still for me. I’ll be gentler.”

True to his word, he eases up, fingers careful as they run into your tense muscles.

He finds bundles of twisted up tension in your back and shoulders, pressing into them until a noise springs from you—a groan, a whimper, a little growl. He works the sounds out of you. You swear he’s doing it deliberately and you wouldn’t be surprised if it was all just to humiliate you a little.

But you finally loosen and slacken for him.

When you finally sink into his hands, he murmurs, “I don’t know why you fight this so badly.”

You let go of a heavy sigh, “you do know why. Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Because you’re stubborn?” Suguru asks lightly and you snort, despite yourself, “because you don’t know what’s good for you?”

“You’re no good for me.” You respond.

Suguru’s turn to sigh and if he digs his fingers in to make you yip in pain, he’d never say it was purposeful.

Reflexively, you jerk away from his touch, you turn to look at him over your shoulder with a sneer.

“I’m not a pet.”

Suguru does not heed your warning and instead gently pulls you back towards him by your waist.

“No?” He asks lightly, fingers resuming their steady massage. You go completely still like prey, unsure, wary. Angry. Humiliated. “It’s not a bad thing to be a pet. You’re thinking about it all wrong.”

His fingers ease up towards your neck and you stiffen again.

“Suguru,” you say in warning as he nears your scent glands. Perhaps to what he’s said.

“You’re my pet now,” he continues, “though you don’t like to admit it. It’s not so bad, is it?”

Stubbornly, you don’t answer him.

But after a moment, you say, “if I’m already yours, why do you need this last bit of me? If you already see me as your pet, why do you want me so terribly, in this way—“

Suguru suddenly pulls you back deeper, into his lap, against his chest.

You squirm, but he holds you tight, hooks his chin over your shoulder.

Alarm bells ring frantically in your head now that he’s so close to the glands in your throat.

“Don’t play dumb,” Suguru muses, half-mocking, “it doesn’t suit you.”

“Let me go,” you snarl low and hot.

“What are you scared of?” Suguru responds, “that I’d trap you? If you’d take my Bite, I’d let you roam further than I do now. You’d be safe.”

“Liar,” you hiss, “I’m not dumb.”

“I’m not trying to stifle you, I’m trying to set you free.” Suguru almost purrs and his voice is warm and low and creeping up over your spine and trying to find its way inside you.

You begin to squirm this time, thrashing in his hold until you manage to wriggle free, falling forward onto your hands and knees.

Instinctively, you turn to keep your back protected, scrambling away from him. You bare your teeth at him.

“I don’t believe you.”

He watches this show of aggression with amusement, tilting his head slightly. And then he sighs, “I don’t think anything I say will convince you at this point.”

You narrow your eyes at the tone. Your hackles rise.

In an instant, he has grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you back to him.

Underneath him.

You shove hard at him, twisting and fighting as he settles himself over you.

You realize how solid he is, how strong, and large. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Suguru,” you hiss at him, pushing as hard as you can on his chest.

“See how easy it was for me to subdue you?” He says then, voice smooth and low. “If I wanted to take you, I simply would’ve already. You’re no challenge to me; if I wanted to trap you, I would’ve.”

“Get off me!”

You thrash hard beneath him and in an instant, he has your hands uselessly pinned above your head, stretching you out beneath him.

His nose dips, near the scent gland at your throat. You squirm.

He squeezes your wrists, “stop squirming.” He murmurs low, “or my instinct will be to bite.”

Your stomach does a horrible flip, a flutter of—fear, excitement.

“Just—get off—leave me alone!” You get out, voice high and tight. You try not to arch away from the way he lets his face fall to the crook of your neck.

“Hush,” Suguru hisses, nudging his nose beneath your ear.

He’s scenting you.

He’s done this before and despite everything in you, you finally go slack. You force yourself not to tilt your head or offer up more, rather let him urge you into the way that he prefers.

He nudges his cheek and nose against your jaw. He lets out a relieved breath, fitting more of his body to you and you feel the push of chest into yours, his hips.

You squirm a little and a growl erupts from his throat.

You fight back the sound that almost works its way out of you now, swallow around it.

When he’s finished, he asks, “would you like to scent me?” And instinctively, you want to say yes, but you temper yourself. Then he adds, “I’m sending you away on a mission alone. I’ll be scenting you until the day you leave now.”

You catch his eyes, glinting.

“So, I thought it only fair if you’d like to scent me, too.”

You don’t know why, but something squirms inside of you, something a little hurt.

“You’re sending me away?”

Suguru hums softly, “I need you to take care of something for me. I only trust you to do it.”

You flex your hands a little in his hold, but he doesn’t budge.

He nudges at your jaw again, gentle, and murmurs, “this would be easier if you’d take my mark.”

You turn your head then to shield your throat, and face him. His nose nearly brushes yours and you look up at him through your lashes. You bite your tongue from any further complaints, dipping down to the crux of his throat now.

Easily, perhaps eagerly, he bares his throat for you.

Satisfaction erupts beneath your skin as his scent washes over you, dark fig and oud, sandalwood and musk. Carefully, your nose runs along the column of his throat.

“I’m not even—“ you huff, retry, “I haven’t had a Heat in—it wouldn’t take, anyways.”

“Ah,” Suguru says and you wish you hadn’t told him at all. Realization dawns over his features the way a cat might realize it’s caught its mouse beneath its paws. “Is this what you’re so scared of?”

“No—I prefer it this way. It’s another reason that you can’t. It wouldn’t work.” You say stubbornly and perhaps in your irritation, you burrow further down into the crook of his neck, tuck your cheek to his skin to nudge.

“I could give you a temporary one,” he murmurs, “I’d let you do the same in return, of course.”

You go quiet, brushing your lips against his skin, hesitating.

“I don’t need it.” You finally decide, even as you let the blunt side of a tooth nick gently against his neck. “I can protect myself.” You pull away to look at him again, “am I not one of your strongest?”

“You are my strongest.” He agrees, he praises. “But am I not also strong?” He asks, “and yet you still insist on protecting me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he takes your chin in hand suddenly, words dying before they can escape.

“You are my strongest.” He says, “I would like the world to be aware of it.”

“I told you, I don’t want to be yours–”

“Then stop protecting me. Flee. Run away and never return.” Suddenly, his touch, his body, all of him is gone. He rolls off of you and onto his back beside you. Cold air sweeps in. You can feel his touch like burning imprints on your skin.

You turn your head to the side to look at him.

“You would hunt me down if I ran.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts his face.

“And if I ran from you?” He asks, “if I discarded you?”

Something twists so viciously and sharply in your chest that your eyes sting with it. You lock your jaw tight. You stare up at the ceiling.

“You refuse to speak but your scent is spiced with distress, sour with despair.” He turns to look at you, “not so easy to hear, is it?”

“I can’t stand you or your games.” You get out.

“There are no games.” He says evenly, “only the one you’re playing with yourself.”

You scoff, “which is?”

He sits up slightly, over you, looking down at you, the inky silk of his dark hair sliding over one shoulder.

“Seeing how long you can outrun what you want.”

You exhale roughly, in exasperation, and then you ask dryly, “and what do I want, Suguru?”

“To be taken care of.”

“I don’t need–”

He cuts off your growl before it can start, taking your chin in hand to turn your head towards him once more. “You never have, but it doesn’t mean you can’t want it.”

“I don’t want it either.” You snap. “You have some grand delusion of me in your mind that I am some weak, submissive creature in need of your care.”

“I’ve said none of that, have I?” He hums. “Now you’re twisting my words, being purposefully churlish–in hopes of, what? To scare me off?”

His palm opens up against your jaw, your cheek. His thumb touches your bottom lip.

“You snap and you snarl and posture as some ferocious, independent creature to scare everyone off. I don’t blame you–I am certain you protected yourself many times this way from lesser people.” His voice is soft, almost a lull, you allow his palm to open against your lips, to turn your face into the cup of his hands. “You don’t believe anyone can handle you and you hope if you bite hard enough, tear into them, they’ll run off. And then you’ll feel vindicated; you were right, you are too much to handle. You were right, you are a monster. You’re unworthy of care or companionship or protection.”

His hand moves upward, baring his wrist to your mouth now, “go on,” he encourages, “bite me. As hard as you like. Scream and cry and tear into me. Loathe me and scorn me.” He leans closer, over you, as he hushes like a mother to their child, “I’ll still be here, with the rings of your teeth marks littered in my skin. I’ll be the only one, bruised and bloody, still taking care of you–no matter how badly you fight me.”

Out of anger or frustration or something else entirely, tears prick your eyes. As if to hide them, you open your mouth against his wrist, gentle first–warm and soft lips and tongue. He looks enraptured. He looks starving.

You sink your teeth into his skin viciously.

He hisses in pain, sharp, but doesn’t pull away. “There,” he coos, leaning over you, sinking into the pain, “is that what you wanted?”

Blood bursts into your mouth in a way that is almost startling, sharp and metallic. It should be gross and horrible and–you whine a little, somewhere in the back of your throat and bear down harder.

If that’s what he promises, you’ll make him prove it.

If he wants to be the one beside you, you’ll make him pay.

He leans down to kiss at your cheeks, gentle, humming. You realize there are tears. Your jaw aches.

But you don’t let go and he doesn’t even flinch.

“Does that feel better? To get your teeth into someone who isn’t scared of you?” He murmurs, nudging at your tense jaw, kissing there. “Shall I do the same to you?”

You release his wrist and shove him off, hard enough that he gives and he goes.

You stand up and storm out of his chambers, slamming the door on its hinges as hard as you can. You hope it knocks over every painting on his walls. You hope the entire compound somehow hears it. You hope it breaks something in the same way that something has been broken open inside of you.

You wipe his blood from your mouth with the back of your hand.

Suguru doesn’t even bandage the wound. And he wears his sleeves high, so that all the world might see it.

#suguru getou x reader #suguru geto x reader #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru getou x you #getou suguru x you #suguru geto x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #cw: omegaverse #cw: yandere #cielo writes!#cielo's writing!

111 notes · View notes

southern-gothic-comic · 9 months

Text

Page 23

Next 💜 Back 🖤 First

(Author Notes)

Panel 1: Later that night. Laudna’s door opens to a tearful Imogen on her doorstep with a lantern (held aloft by Mage Hand, as her arms are folded). A spindly, eerie figure lurks in the shadowed doorway, spidery hands creeping around the doorframe and eyes glowing pinpricks.

Panel 2: Then she steps into the light, and is just Laudna, bed-headed and in her nightgown.

Laudna: Imogen! What’s the matter, darling? Is everything all right?

Imogen: Sorry to wake you. I just . . . couldn’t stand to be in that house anymore.

Laudna: Come inside.

Panel 3: Laudna guides her to sit on her bed. Imogen scrubs the tears away from her eyes self-consciously.

Laudna: Here, sit down. Are you well?

Imogen: I’m fine. It’s not really anythin’. Feels stupid to be so upset about it now. I had a fight with my dad, and then I had one of those nightmares I told you about.

Laudna: Ohh. Do you want to tell me about it?

Panel 4: Laudna pours a cup of water from a pitcher near the bed.

Imogen: It’s always the same. I’m standin’ in the field outside my house and then this awful red storm comes up and swallows everything and I can’t get away. Doesn’t really sound like much now, but when I’m in it, it feels like the worst thing imaginable. Like maybe if it catches me, I just . . . won’t be anymore.

Laudna: No, it sounds dreadful! I wonder what it could mean.

Panel 5: Laudna sits down next to her and passes her the cup of water. With her other hand, she covers her exposed ear with her hair.

Imogen: I’m sorry. I woke you up in the middle of the night and got you out of bed for somethin’ that’s not even real.

Laudna: It’s real to you.

Imogen: When I woke up I just . . . couldn’t be there anymore. Even alone in the house with my dad it was just . . . too loud.

Panel 6: Laudna starts fluffing up her pillow.

Laudna: Well, you’re welcome to stay the night here, if you’d like.

Imogen: You don’t mind?

Laudna: Not at all! I’d enjoy the company. Here . . . I’m afraid the bed’s not very big, but neither of us takes up much space. Or I could take the floor, if you’d prefer.

Imogen: Oh, I couldn’t put you out of your bed. I . . . I don’t mind sharin’.

Laudna: Well, then. I think there’s just enough room for three.

Imogen: . . . Three?

Panel 7: Inset: Pâté is, of course, here as well.

Pâté: Nighty-night, Imogen! Hope your dreams are as lovely as you.

Laudna: Oh, Pâté, what a nice thing to say.

Imogen: . . . Night-night, Pâté.

#critical role #critical role fanart #critical role comic #comics #imogen temult #laudna #southerngothic #imodna #imogen x laudna #pate de rolo #a long road home #mintywolf

461 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months

Text

Don't Speak 33

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, allusions to abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Okay I had no plans to get this done but since US thanksgiving is near.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You cling to that moment of peace. Without Andy touching you, smothering you, invading you. You hide your head under your bent arm, curled up on your side as you try to close the world out. Reality slices through you like a razor.

You cannot outrun what is. Not anymore. You’ve lost that ability. Your mind can’t summon the fantasies that once kept you safe. There is only the tenderness inside and the bruises on your thighs.

He’s there, somewhere, lurking. You thought he would go to work but that hope was quickly crushed, along with all your others. He stayed and touched you until that got the better of him. Then he would put you on your back, or your stomach, sometimes your side, however he wanted you…

And you let him. You don’t fight. Your weightless body follows his whim and opens to him. You squeeze your eyes shut and whimper as your walls clench at the thought of him near you.

There’s something wrong with you. You’re supposed to love him, so it shouldn’t feel so bad, right? After all he’s done for you, shouldn’t you want him to do that? Shouldn’t you be just as eager for him?

You don’t understand it. It’s not supposed to hurt so surely, you’re doing something wrong. You’ll get it right. You can be what Andy wants, what he needs. You will not be another burden. Never again.

You hear him coming. You quiver and shrink down further. You can’t find the strength to sit up and try.

He greets you with a sigh. Oh no, he’s mad. You whimper and curl your arm snugger around your head. What did you do now? What is he going to do?

He nears the bed, his shadow standing over you as his presence brings a dark cloud. He shifts and sniffs, turning to sit on the edge of the bed. He puts his large hand on your shoulder and you wince. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“We need to talk, Dove,” he says.

Talk? You can’t handle it. You’d rather he just hurt you than repeat the facts. You don’t need him to tell you how bad you are, you already know.

“Sit up,” he shakes you, gently but enough to jar you.

You relent and fall onto your back. You stare at the ceiling and press your hands to the mattress. You sit up, little but little, your muscles knotted and stiff.

You hug the blanket to your chest, hiding behind it as you hunch your shoulders forward. You can’t look at Andy so you focus on the lump of your feet under the covers.

“Why do you keep lying?” He rasps.

You blink as your lip trembles, tears threatening to spring free. He’s mad again. Your entire body tenses as you brace for what comes next.

“You could’ve told me about Steve,” he lifts the shape in his lap and you glance over. It’s your tablet. “He’s your doctor, I wouldn’t have been mad.”

You sniffle and cup your chin in your hands, fingers over your mouth. You watch him turn the tablet over and slide back the cover. You don’t try to stop him or defend yourself. He’s right. About everything.

“If you needed help… with the toy or figuring things out, I was here. I am here. You could’ve asked me,” an edge creeps into his voice, “why didn’t you ask me?”

You don’t say a word. You’re trapped in your own guilt. He has the proof in his hands. You did it, you lied and betrayed him.

“The only thing I ask of you, is that you tell the truth. You haven’t, so I can’t trust you. Not until you show me I can,” Andy closes the tablet, pressing his thumb to the cover. “And maybe then you can have this back.”

You nod and hang your head. It’s easier if you just do what he wants. You’ll get used to it eventually, maybe even one day, you’ll be normal and want it too.

🕊️

“This is nice,” Andy struts into the room with a hanger in hand.

You sit on the edge of the bed where he left you. His frustration drew you out of your cocoon to shiver in the morning air. You can smell the crisp autumn seeping in around the window. There’s no point trying to figure out how long you’ve been like this, counting the days will only make it torturous.

You glance over as Andy waggles the dress at you, one of those he bought you. The bishop sleeves are almost longer than the skirt, the shade of faded plum overlaid with a translucent layer. You look at it and nod. Whatever he wants.

“You’ll have to clean up first,” he lays the dress on the bed, “it’ll help you feel better too.”

You blink and pinpoint on his chest. You can’t look him in the face. He nears you and runs his hands down your arms, sending a chill through you. He bends and twists you around to scoop you up. He hums as he lifts you against his chest.

“Aren’t you excited, honey?” He chimes.

You frown, excited? You let your head fall against his shoulder. There isn’t an ounce of strength left in you.

“Thanksgiving,” he prompts as if it’s obvious, “I got everything we need! So you can get started once you're ready. Don’t worry, I woke up early to deal with the turkey.”

He enters the bathroom and puts you down on the closed toilet. You look down at yourself. You wear his t-shirt and nothing else. He moves away to crank on the tub and quickly comes back to you. You wrinkle your nose, confused.

“Thanksgiving?” You croak.

“Uh, yeah, duh!” His tone is laced with forced enthusiasm. “Our first together.”

He tugs the hem of the shirt from under your ass and you murmur. You try to catch the cotton. He tuts and you let go. He rolls the fabric up your body and you lift your arms, surrendering.

“An…” you start to say his name but can’t get the bitter noise out. You clear your throat, “what if… I don’t feel good, I don’t know if I have the energy–”

“You’ve been in bed forever. You can get up for one day,” his timbre turns rigid, “you promised me. You promised Doctor Kemp. Do you want to let us both down?”

You close your eyes and slump. He huffs and tosses the shirt on the tile. You reach to touch your lashes and sniff back a wave of tears. It’s not just the time, the way it moves without you knowing, no, it’s him that makes you feel so helpless.

“Don’t do this,” he whispers, half a growl.

“I…” you inhale, struck by his fury, “I won’t. I’ll be good.”

You try to force a smile as you pull your hands away. Your cheeks twitch and your eyes sting, your lips just won’t curve the way you want them too. Another sigh as he stands straight. He rolls up his sleeves before he lifts you again.

He lowers you into the tube as you squeeze your legs together. You fold your arms around yourself, trying to hide, as he reaches for a scrubby and the bottle of vanilla soap. He pops the cap violently as the water bulges up towards your knees.

“Dove,” he reproaches as he grabs your arm, straightening it as he holds your wrist firmly.

You squeak as he scrubs you harshly. You hide behind your eyelids as the flash of another memory strikes you. The cold downpour of water from a screaming shower head, chattering teeth, and quaking sobs.

When he makes you stand, you curl your fingers to tight fists. As he washes you, you feel even more exposed than before. He takes his time on your chest and stomach, surprising you as he leans forward to his just beside your navel. You flinch and glance down.

“You’re beautiful, honey, you shouldn’t be so shy,” he says, “all done, sit.”

You obey and he finishes up the bath, helping you stand before wrapping you up in a soft towel. He pats you dry and moisturises your skin with the fragrant strawberry lotion. This time, he makes you walk back to the room with him.

As you consider the dress, he goes to his dresser and slides out a drawer. He comes to the bed and drops something else. You stare at the white panties and bra, see-through and speckled with little hearts.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says as he touches the front of his shirt, damp from the tub, “I’ll change too.”

You bite your lip and keep your chin down. You touch the dress, staring at the underwear, mortified at the thought of wearing those. Why can’t you wear something comfortable? Why can’t you be you? Why can’t he love you as you?

🕊️

Andy said Steve is coming. You don’t dare ask when as the conversation about your tablet looms over you. You don’t want him to think anything bad of the doctor. It’s not his fault, you’re just stupid.

You put your energy into following the precise instructions printed out before you. All the ingredients are set out neatly for you. It’s all manageable, even for you.

In the next room, the TV blares with the commentators on the NFL pre-game. Andy paces in and out, as if checking on you, or maybe he’s restless. You start peeling the sweet potatoes as he comes in again, looking at his watch.

“Dr. Kemp said he’d bring dessert,” Andy says, “I bought a pie just in case. If he isn’t here in the next hour, we’ll take it out of the freezer.”

“Okay,” you agree as you drag the peeler over the bumpy potato.

“You must be excited, huh, dove?”

“Um, sure, I… I like Thanksgiving. Lots of food,” you smile, you’re getting better at that. “Um, yeah.”

“What?” He tilts his head, his hands going to his hips. Oh no, he’s mad. Again.

“N-nothing, I didn’t…” you look away, “nothing.”

“It’s just Steve,” he shrugs, “I don’t have family. You know, if you bothered to ask, you might realise we’re a lot more alike than you think.”

You chew your cheek and focus on stripping the orange potato. You never did ask. You didn’t think you should. It feels nosy so it’s not that you never wondered or cared, you just don’t know what’s right.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“For?”

“For not asking. Sorry that you’re alone too,” you grab the next potato.

“Not anymore, dove, we got each other, right?” He chirps, “anyway, before you get too deep into that, you should really do the snacks first. Can’t watch football without munchies.”

“Oh, I… I didn’t think…” you put the potato down and wipe your hands on the dish towel on the counter.

“Wait, wait,” he goes by the fridge and unhooks an apron hanging on the other side. “You don’t want to dirty up that pretty dress.”

“Uh, good idea.”

He puts the top strap over your head, tugging it down snug to your neck. He signals you to turn and you do. He steps close, reaching around you as he smooth the front and drags his hands to the thinner straps behind you. He ties them slowly, tickling your lower back through the dress.

“Let me see,” he steps back.

You face him and he admires you. You look down at the floral fabric with a large bow at the waist. It looks almost like a vintage dress on its own. You straighten your arms and sway as he purrs.

“That looks so good on you,” he steps closer and you plant your feet, resisting the urge to retreat. “Makes me wanna eat you up.”

Your chest racks with panic as he advances on you. He corners you against the counter as he flutters his fingers along the ruffled edge of the apron. You watch his hands creep up the fabric and gulp. Oh, again? Here? You thought you were safe.

“We got time,” his hands close on your hips, “just a little taste.”

You yelp as he takes you off your feet, perching you on the counter. Your ass knocks a bowl across the island and you brace the granite for balance. He pushes your knees apart and steps between them. You're paralysed as he cups your chin, tilting your head back as he kisses you. Suddenly.

He clamps his hand around the back of your neck, locking you against him. His other hand trails down your leg, stopping at your knee and crawling back up. He slips beneath the apron and your skirt, tendrils radiating from his touch. Your muscles spasm as you gasp.

He parts from your lips, kissing your jaw and neck, nibbling and moaning as his fingertips inch towards the trim of your panties. The cool air slips beneath your dress and through the thin fabric. You shudder as you close your eyes, trying to bury yourself inside.

“Mmmm, dove,” he shifts and nuzzles your chest.

He slowly gets to his knees, holding your legs apart as he pecks along your skin. You whimper as he edges towards your skirt, his breath dampening your thigh. He hums and pinches you with his teeth.

“Delicious,” he pokes his head under your skirt, a sudden ding breaking your trance.

He retracts, sitting back on his heels as the doorbell echoes through the house. You look down at him as he closes his eyes and grimaces. He shakes his head and pushes himself up to his feet, grunting as he stands.

“Great timing, as always,” he scoffs.

He struts out, his chagrin obvious in his posture. You push off the counter, landing awkwardly on your feet, tweaking your ankle slightly. You go to the doorway, peeking around into the hall but not daring to venture out.

Andy rolls his shoulders as he stops by the door. He heaves a breath as the doorbell chimes again. He turns back the latch and twists the handle, pulling it back.

“Andrew,” Kemp’s voice booms into the entryway, “Happy Thanksgiving!” You can’t help the way your heart topturns at his familiar timbre, “brought dessert.”

“What is she doing here?” Andy growls.

“Thanksgiving is for family, Andrew, and her family is here,” Kemp insists.

“No, I didn’t invite her–”

“Where is she?” The unseen ‘her’ asks. Your mouth falls open. Amber? “Let me see her.”

You rush forward without thinking. No fear, no doubt, you just want to see your sister. You scurry down the hall and brush by Andy, elbowing him as he reaches to stop you. You burst out through the doorway and crash into Amber, wrapping your arms around her.

“Hey,” her voice piques as she hugs you back, “hey, I’m here.”

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #don't speak #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #library au #defending jacob #fresh #steve kemp

199 notes · View notes

orphicrose · 2 months

Text

The co-host (Alastor x Femreader) III < >

Summary: You are Alastors Co host in life, perhaps more. But are separated by a sudden death. When you are finally reunited in the under world, it is up to Alastor to figure out why you don’t remember him.

☙I’m very thankful for everyone who has left nice comments on the other parts so thank you<3

I’ve started a taglist so do let me know if anyone is interested

@cannibalcoyote

—————————————𖤐

The king of wraith was up y/n’s ass with the lack of souls coming in this month. Usually they were at least in the thousands. But they had dropped to hundreds. She was the only one who could claim them, so it was difficult for one person to visit all those people in one day. It was exhausting.

On top of that, a new evil was lurking around every corner. Watching her at every moment and kept her on her toes. Now she had gone face to face with this thing, she was almost certain he was more powerful than her. But how. She had the gift from Satan. Who was more powerful than him? A lot, actually. But none of them as remotely accessible. Lucifer? No way. Lilith? No one knew where she was. Perhaps he made a deal with one of the sins? It was a mystery. But all she knew is she had a reason to be scared.

“I don’t know Zestial, I really don’t. He was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. His body grew, like, bigger. And he seemed like a deer?” Y/n questioned herself, trying to recall everything she had seen that night.

“A wendigo?” He asked, trying to see her image.

“Yes! Yes a wendigo.”

Zestial had grown worried when she didn’t show up, and decided it would be best if he visited her the following day. Her home was the definition of humble and cozy. A simple house outside the city. Where the streets didn’t bother her sleep and she could feel a sense of security.

“Do you have any reason to believe he may come after you again?” He questioned

“Well, he didn’t chase me. Though It was dark, there’s the chance he couldn’t see me and decided against it”

”Please, keep safe tonight dear friend. And do contact me in the morning.”

Few more words were said before his departure. And with that, she was alone again. In a more safe destination but, nonetheless, alone. How was a being as gifted as her feeling fear, was it because she didn't really like it coming down to a fight? Did she truly value her life? Who knew. The only thing she could do was focus on her work, and distract herself. Overthinking was not a good game plan. Her bricked fireplace was letting off embers into her living room, her walls portrayed images of their shadows dancing along to the flames of the small fire. Warm feet resting on a velvet ottoman as she gracefully flicked through this weeks paperwork. The numbers really have dropped, what was she going to tell the boss? He wasn't exactly the forgiving type. The amber light gave her face a beautiful glow as her eyes showed the focus she had been needing for weeks.

Three distinct knocks erupted her from her mind. Each equal lengths of time apart from one another. Maybe it was the wind, or her imagination. Afterall, she had been through a lot of stress recently. Eyes flickered down the hall to where the front door sat, her chair angled perfectly so she could see it. Though, there were no windows to warn her what was on the other side. There it was again, the exact three knocks. It can't be mistaken for anything other than a living being anymore. Her feet landed in her slippers, warmed by the fire, and her hands brought up in front of her ready for anything. The door got closer and closer, her fear tying a knot in her stomach. Suck it up y/n, she thought, Satan wouldn't let anything happen to you.

Without letting her logic control her anymore, the door swung open. "Hel-", he began before she swiftly shut the door again. It was him, has at her house, at her front door, while she's in her pajamas. What a way to go. Again, she opened the door "-lo" he continued as if nothing happened. "Did your mother not teach you how to properly welcome a guest?" he fended offense, before setting his microphone in front of his feet and leaning on it. Teeth bearing a blood thirsty grin, similar to their first encounter, but definitely not holding as much of a desire for murder in his eyes.

"She taught me not to talk to strangers", she in fact did not do this, but she did teach her how to make origami swans!

"Oh, but she must have! Such a smart woman your mother was!" He treaded lightly, or so he thought to himself. He was certain that the both of you were thinking the same thing, but that was not the case.

"And what is it that makes you think you know my mother?" Her tone more brave this time. Was this some manipulation tactic to gain her trust? What exactly was he playing at. He seemed like the type to play with his prey, but not in this way.

"Because i did know her, dear. Have you not caught on yet?" That look in her eyes was too painfully familiar to not have been her. It was her, but it didn't seem like she knew that yet. He was becoming frustrated, maybe he should have shown her he wasn't a threat. Not to her anyway. Or maybe he could have showed up in a more public space, in the light of day. "No, you haven't caught on yet." A sadder tone flashed through him, without his smile failing to give him away.

"I don't appreciate you taunting me before you attempt to hurt me." Y/n bit back, trying to shut the door again. Something stopping the door from closing. She looked down to find his cane wedged between, forcing an opening for him to peek his head through.

"You don't seem to understand. I've already had my meal today y/n, I'm just here to have a civilized conversation with you" His use of her name struck even more fear into her

"And... how do i know you wont turn on me"

"Maybe because we both know you're more powerful than you think. Or maybe because i know your full name, miss y/n m/n l/n"

She was more than a little creeped out at his point. There wasn't a single memory of her doing it, but at some point she must have invited him inside. Because he was sitting in the lounge chair opposite her now, appreciating the fire as if he wasn't some crazed serial killer. She didn't dare look away, mapping every little change in his expression. What was she even doing. He tried to make her his dinner about 24 hours ago. And now he's sitting in the place where she eats hers. Something in her just told her that this was where she was supposed to be in this moment. Whether fate was setting her up for her inevitable second death, or something bigger.

"You have a very cozy home, y/n" His voice became softer, never lacking in the static undertone he carried with him.

"That's Miss L/n to you" Not a second was hesitated before she bit back.

"Of course, miss L/n" Alastor hummed, initiating a brief silence they used to be accustomed to. "I am going to assume you don't remember me" Sarcasm complimented his voice nicely.

"Remember you? From yesterday when you attempted to send me to my second fate? Uhm, yes." Eyes still locked onto his face.

"And i am deeply sorry for that... misunderstanding" He replied, receiving a scoff from Y/N. "But i was talking about years prior to yesterday"

She didn't respond with words, just a confused look in his direction. "years?". She truly didn't understand what he was getting at. If he wanted to kill her, she didn't doubt it would have happened by now. So what else could he possibly want. By this point, he knew she wasn't just messing with him. Something was truly wrong. It was wrong enough that she was down here in the first place, but to own a business dedicated to retrieving souls and being an overlord? Not his Y/n, never. He was looking for purpose, and he found it.

"I see. Well..." his crimson eyes displaced signs of genuine disappointment. "I see you need time to recover from our little encounter yesterday. But you will be seeing me again" and with that, his body faded into the shadows of the carpet. Similar to how he appeared the first time they met. There she was, left with more questions than one person needed. She definitely wasn't sleeping tonight.

#hazbin x y/n #hazbin x reader #Hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor fluff #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust

122 notes · View notes