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undercoverpena · 6 months

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anytime

javier peña x f!reader

summary: “Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper. Nodding, he feels you follow his path—dropping, scorching his face, tracing the place where the hair sits atop his lip. “Anytime, cariño.” “Anytime, really?”

wordcount: 3.1k. warnings: fluff. bestfriends to lovers. banter. reader wears a dress and has a gloss on lips. no physical description. javi calls reader solecito as a nickname only. likely warnings for spelling as i wrote this on my phone. an: huge thanks to @wildemaven for creating this moodboard (pls go show it some love), letting me make a banner from it, and then letting me write this for Javi instead of Frankie. bby, i hope you like this.

Javi had never been good at avoiding challenging situations.

For the longest time, he’s been finding himself in the centre of a whirlwind—whether in Bogotá, Cali or apparently even back home.

You, his friend, best friend—a well-kept secret, tucked away in his chest, not shared with a soul when he was away. You were a thing that he’d clutched close to his chest from the moment the two of you had first gotten close, through his failed engagement and even more so when he left for Colombia. You, in all your understanding, hugging him, telling him he’d be great, amazing, the very best.

Both of you were younger then, less worn down by life, its many obstacles and all the other things.

You best not become best friends with anyone over there, Peña. As if anyone could annoy me as much as you, solecito.

In the brief interim of his return, you hadn’t appeared all that different. You may have had a job, a house—drove a slightly better car than when the two of you were staying out at all hours—but you, at your core remained very much the fucking same.

Still just as understanding, as kind. A person who got him, without really needing to try.

For Javi, the best thing—outside of you being you and the monthly calls you made him promise to keep when he was drowning in murder, drugs and Escobar—is that you never ask him about it. Any of it.

You had always let him pretend, escape, listen to you fill him in on gossip—things such as disagreements over the size of rhubarb and whether someone was having an affair. A thing you did even when he came back. Even more grateful for it then, when he grew tired of the questions, the compliments, the everything.

Its why he didn’t tell you when he would land back in Laredo for good. Just waiting, standing outside your place, leaning against your car as you walk down the street—eyes brushing over him, pausing, before he gets to see that smile. That signature fucking smile.

When he’d left the first time, he remembers how you’d lingered near your car, unwilling to climb into your bright yellow death trap—the entire reason he called you solecito to begin with—wearing the beginnings of that smile even then.

The difference is now he knows that there was something under it. Hidden, held back, kept from him.

It’s why it meant so much to him when he saw it in all its glory, all alight, blooming and somehow healing.

He can’t explain it, but it repairs strands inside of him. Your presence alone continuing to do so when he meets you for lunches, coffees, and late-night drinks. In exchange, he makes you laugh, your head thrown back as he tells you about whatever he did on the ranch—all of it comical, apparently. Because the idea of him, Javier Peña doing ranch work brought tears to your eyes.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous?” you splutter, taking a mouthful of your beer as you narrow your eyes.

Nodding, he leans back into the booth, arm stretched out, picking and picking—the label crumbling from the sweating bottle. “Yeah. Bet you’re upset you don’t get to see me herd cattle and mend fences.”

“Oh, yeah. One-hundred-percent.”

Shrugging, he grins—an easy task with you. A thing that has always been that way, even when he turned up at your door when he couldn’t get married; even when the two of you sat under the stars when he told you about possibly going to Colombia. You still made him grin—even when things weren’t fucking easy at all.

“I’ll add it to my to-do list—visit Peña on the ranch—it’s currently sat under finding a dress, a boyfriend and the will to fucking live.”

Snorting, he traces his bottom lip with his thumb.

Your face scrutinises him, before rolling your eyes. And he just waits—because you always spill eventually.

One. Two. Th—

Fine, you huff, before it unravels from you. How the wedding of your work colleague is close, closer than I thought and you’re tired of attending these things alone, circled like a fucking fish by single sharks.

And he’s listening, taking it in. Trying to not wince at how high-pitched you’ve got as you’ve ranted.

Mainly, Javi finds there’s more questions rising than answers provided.

One singular one rising to the top. A thing he’s wanted to ask for the last few weeks. Not in a rude way, or in the way it burns inside his chest when he talks to you on the phone and he has to bury it. But, it’s there, bubbling, wishing to escape and know. It's even louder when the two of you are like this, crammed in a space, laughing, smiling, sharing, wondering—

Why are you even single? How are you?

You’ve mentioned people—names, here and there when the two of you had been on the phone. Them fluttering out before you can pull them back, but then they’re forgotten. Javi, I get one call a month—let me tell you about the cattle war going off. And, in a way, he didn’t want to hear, didn’t want to know, so he never asked.

Now, it’s all he wants to ask.

Because you’re… you. You’re brilliant, beautiful—funny, clever, witty. And yet—

“—so, now it’s a week out, and I need to find a dress, a date and drive there to watch another person I know get married.”

He knows he should busy his mouth with the bottle—wrap his odd idea in beer. But, that part of him—the one which wants to help, solve issues, and be useful—rises up in him like a phoenix left from the ashes of Colombia.

“I’ll go with you.”

He expects the pause, even braces for the look of shock.

He doesn’t expect the smirk. Doesn’t expect the way it spreads out, to hit your eyes. How under the low-bar light over the table, it makes your eyes glimmer and fucking shimmer.

“You want to go to a wedding with me?”

Shrugging, he picks off the last part of the label—the mess of it all circling around where the glass meets the wood.

Mirroring him, you shrug. “Alright.”

“Alright.”

He should take his eyes off you, but he finds he can’t.

Javi hasn’t been able to since you stepped out of your place, a handful of your dress as you locked up—stepping down your steps to his car, letting it flutter down to your ankles.

You look like a fucking dream.

A thought he knows he shouldn’t have—but has all the same. His heart staggered, half-halting in its hammering as his hands paused in their drumming on the steering wheel; his glasses slid down his nose, his skin suddenly warm all over, even if his jacket was already splayed out across the backseat.

Close your mouth, Peña.

I’m chewing gum, solecito.

Yeah, that’s why your mouth is open.

It hadn’t passed his notice that you were good-looking before today. He’s known you were, had always known it—he had eyes, after all. But, he’d always felt there was a line. A line the two of you never delved too close to step over. The sign above both of your heads already illuminated in bright bulbs and flashing lights:

JUST FRIENDS.

Until this, anyway. This thing that can only be described as the longest one-hour drive he’s ever been on. And he used to do recon with Murphy.

Because you’re teasing, taunting him. All in that usual way that you do. And it’s so easy to flirt back, to let line after line roll, but he has begun to spot you squirming.

Doing so while matching his suit in a deep brown shade—chosen by him, ‘pick a colour suit, Javi’. Adding a tinge to some of your comments—things that if said by someone that wasn’t you, he’d ask them (flirtingly) if they were coming on to him.

But with you, it’s something he can never be sure. Never something that can be completely understood, known, cracked or figured out. In the same way, he can’t understand how your perfume keeps following him. How it embeds itself into the cabin of his truck when he picks you up, sews itself into his clothing when the two of you meet—and right now, is attempting to bury itself in his skin, muscles, and bones.

“You’ve been abnormally quiet.”

Smirking, he snorts. Fingers smoothing out his hair as he swings into a spot—the tyres crunching over the gravel. “Have I? Or have you just not shut up.”

“Rude.”

Laughing, he cuts the engine—hands resting on the top of his thighs, not missing the way your eyes follow his movements before clearing your throat. It shifts something in him, makes a little part of him surge, like the smallest of fireworks suddenly erupting in his chest.

Something he forces himself to shut down the moment you shove open your door, slipping out, as he grabs his jacket.

“Do I need to be worried about you crying today, solecito?”

Rearranging your dress, and slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder, you squint as you stand tall, hand covering your brow as you meet his gaze.

And fuck, with this backdrop, even squinting, you look beautiful, radiant, stunning all over again. Somehow his brain having forgotten when you were next to him, when you were acting as if this was the most normal fucking thing they’ve ever done.

It isn’t.

Something he’s becoming more aware of as his throat goes dry, and his thoughts slow to nothing—

“No, you’re good. Your mouth is open again.”

You say it with a smirk, all teasing—making heat lick up his spine all over again. And, if you were anyone else, he’d have already pulled you close, tilted your chin up, and likely smothered your mouth with his.

But, you’re his friend—his best friend. The one solid thing he’s had in his life since he became a name, a poster, a hero.

“C’mon,” you say, turning on your heel as you head in the direction of the entrance, him following, jacket slipping on as he mutters mouth isn’t fucking open under his breath.

Even if he knows it was. Even if he’s desperately trying to stop his eyes from descending down to your hips, eyes fixated on the way you walk with ease to the wooden sign which greets all the guests.

He knows, due to his absence from home, there haven’t been many weddings he’s attended. Least of all like this. But even he thinks this is over the top, suddenly understanding why you hadn’t wanted to come alone. Because grand doesn’t quite cover it—not after the last one he’d attended.

This one has flickering candles lit in the day, waiters all set to hand glasses of bubbles and offer little mouthfuls of flavour on silver trays. Then, there’s the backdrop—the enormity of the building, only for you to tell him that it’s an outside wedding.

It’s more of a comfort as to why his hand drops to the small of your back than anything else. A need to be rooted, to feel calmer as he nods at passing people he doesn’t know (and hopes don’t know him), feeling you curl into him subconsciously, your bag swinging between the two of you both—affording a gap, forcing it, in fact.

The ceremony will start soon.

He overhears it, as he assumes you do, because your fingers wrap around his wrist—taking it from your back, before your palm meets his, and then you’re guiding, leading. Dragging him. All willingly to the back of the building where he sees it—the makeshift aisle. A wooden arch, and lots of deep orange-brown chairs all line up on either side of an orange aisle.

“Glad we chose brown now,” he murmurs.

“Does it make you think, y’know—being at a wedding?”

He swallows. Because it’s a loaded question.

One he assumes has been sitting all politely on the tip of your tongue since you sat beside him in his vehicle. It’s why his eyes watch you carefully as you grab the two of them a flute each from a passing waiter. Handing it to him, adding nothing—not rescuing him. Just waiting instead, doing that thing you do, where your eyes widen as you wait, trying to look all innocent even though it’s you who has just dropped a live grenade into the centre of the conversation.

Shaking his head, he snorts. “No. Not really. Knew… I knew deep down it wasn’t right. Her… and me.”

“You got any idea what’s right?”

You take a sip this time when the question lands, it again sparkling in glittered innocence, the softest of smiles pressed against the glass.

You he thinks. But he swallows that away and says ‘Not a fucking clue’ instead.

Throughout the day, he’s been desperate for a reason to stop looking at you.

So far, he’s found none.

Bits and pieces of things Murphy used to say, the words he’d drop into conversation when talking about his wife: how he knew, why she was the one, all coming back to him in drips and drops.

It dawns on him, the same as it had done since before he went to Cali, that you might mean a little more than a friend. A lot of what Murphy used to say, so easily applied to how Javi felt about you.

You make him feel calmer, create a space where he can relax, really unwind. It’s easy, uncomplicated, when he’s with you—from the conversation to the things he thinks. Complex balled thoughts stretch out until they’re in easy-to-decipher lines, able to process, able to understand.

He even told you about the boats.

A secret he’d have been prepared to take to the grave, if not for the fact you pointed out he wasn’t sleeping. Your eyes watching, pleading, don’t lie to me. And fuck, he couldn’t—not even if he wanted to.

That should have been the first sign.

He guesses he should be thankful today has been stuffed with more of them. One after the other. From the way you made sure to make him a plate of only his favourite things, to the way you knew when he needed a bit of space from the thousand questions as to how you both knew one another, and what he does.

Now, Javi is on the sidelines, admiring you in a way that makes his heart double in size.

Your dress skims around your calves as you dance—your arms rising above your head, glee stitched itself from cheek to cheek. On occasion, time halts when your eyes land on his—stealing whatever thought he had, only resuming normality when you close your eyes, belting out the lyrics to the song.

Mainly, the thought he finds which keeps returning is: I wanna do this with you again. any place. any time.

A hollowness scratches out in his chest as he lets himself acknowledge it. A thickness growing in his throat, a sorrowness weighs down on his shoulders as he nurses his glass—hand in his trouser pocket, telling himself he should be content he got to be on your arm, got to have you against him during a slow dance over an hour ago. That he gets to see you smile, hear your laugh—even know you.

“Hey, Peña.”

“Hey solecito.”

You grin—a little breathless, the music having changed, becoming slower, softer—wrenching the glass from his hand as you drain it.

“Fuck me. Y’thirsty?”

“Very. You’d know if you had any rhythm.”

He pinches you, lightly—teasingly. Your grin shifts into a laugh, tucking yourself in against him, arm around his back. And fuck, the way you’re looking up at him, he wants to warn you.

If you look at me like that, I’m going to kiss you.

Javi wonders what you’d do if you did. Whether you’d pull away, hissing the two of you are friends. Or whether you’d kiss him back.

“Want to get some fresh air?” you ask, your words against his ear—lips so close to ghosting his skin.

“Sure.”

It’s cooler when the two of you step out from under the marquee, the music getting quieter when your fingers loop in his, guiding, easing him around plant pots and tall trees, until the two of you are descending marble stairs and past iron fencing, to take him to the perimeter, to the view looking out over the city.

He watches as you step forward, fingers around the iron fencing, leaning, staring out as you let out a heavy sigh. One laced with things he wants to ask for, tug it from you, let you unload whatever is weighing on you—because that’s what you both do for one another.

You make it easy.

Make it all bearable.

But, whether you mean to, or not, you shiver. A light one, barely noticeable by most—but he isn’t most. His fingers are already at the button, undoing it, sliding his jacket down his arms before he places it over your shoulders, watching your head turn, meeting his gaze.

“You look really pretty.”

Flicking your eyes down, you smile. Sweetly. Unreadably. “Well, you’ve always been pretty.”

“Pretty?”

Laughing, your fingers tug his jacket closer, burying yourself in it. “The prettiest, Javier.”

Leaning beside you, he feels the metal from the railings, you’re both resting on, cut into his palms. He wonders if you feel the same, your dress billowing in the gentle breeze as the two of you stare off into the distance, spotting the flickering lights of a city, of homes tucking in for the night.

Then he turns his head, finding you already watching him, studying him in a similar way as you were before.

And, he lets his eyes drop to your mouth. A sign. A signal. It’s not the first time, usually, he does so when you’re not looking, letting himself trace the curve of your lips. Now, he stares at the way your gloss has long since gone, left behind on glasses and straws.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you whisper.

Nodding, he feels you follow his path—dropping, scorching his face, tracing where the hair sits atop his lip.

“Anytime, cariño.”

“Anytime, really?”

Nodding, he swallows. A thousand things he’s thought, and felt, all rushing to the surface—unwilling to bury itself, to descend under the usual guilt and feelings of inadequacies when it comes to you.

“I’d do anything for you.”

Smirking, you tilt your head. “Anything?”

Biting your lip, he feels it—something thrumming in him, being plucked.

“Will you kiss me?”

“I could…”

Your brows rise, a louder cheer coming from inside, but it doesn’t do anything to tear your eyes away from the other.

The whole world could slowly vanish from around the two of you, and all he’d want is just to stare at you.

“But?” you ask, delicately.

Almost so softly, it makes his chest ache.

Dipping his head, he lets his gaze wash over the place again—the rolling land, the trees, the houses in the distance.

“If I kiss you, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

You slide closer, shoulder to shoulder, eyes scorching his jaw, his neck, the side profile he can feel you tracing with your gaze.

“Then don’t,” you say.

His neck almost cracks with the quickness of his movement, his eyes scanning, reading, a part of him wanting to step back, and protect you. Because he’s not sure about the parts of him you’d find easy to love—

“You don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t care,” you interrupt, fingers twitching on the lapel of his jacket. “I know you—Javi, not Agent Peña. I know the boy who cloud-watched with me when my parents wouldn’t stop fighting; I know the man who told me to stop sending him postcards from the town shop—but also whispered that he liked them.”

Snorting, he smiles.

“So, if you want to, no pressure—but, I think you should kiss me.”

“Yeah?”

Nodding, you bite your cheek. “Think you’ve wasted a lot of time not kissing me already, honestly.”

Of course you do, he thinks. And then he kisses you, palms on your cheeks, slanting his mouth over yours.

And fuck, it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever done.

an: honestly, this made me so fucking happy to write.

#javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #javi peña x reader #javi peña x you #javier peña x you #narcos x reader #javier pena x you #javi pena x reader #narcos javier x reader #narcos javier #pedro pascal x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedrostories #mm: late night texts #javier peña fanfiction #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfic

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flowerandblood · 5 months

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The Man in the Black Mask

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: angst, violence, assassination attempt, mention of the murder of multiple people, descriptions of murders ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his 'ghosts', a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard

Lady Walford Moodboard

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* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Her father, the King, only realised how many enemies he had after a man dared to attack her while she was strolling around the fair during one of her walks. He wanted to get closer to her and slipped a dagger out from behind his cloak − if it hadn't been for the woman selling fish and her shouting, she wouldn't have noticed him or the steel gleaming in his hand.

She did what any other person in her position would have done, which is to say, she screamed in terror, stepping back, bumping into a wooden makeshift table full of vegetables, which toppled over with her − the assassin gave up at the last moment, terrified by the sudden outbreak of panic, and disappeared among the crowd.

Some elderly man helped her up, the knights of her father's guard rode up on horseback, alarmed by these frightened noises. One of them, Ser Lucas, her father's friend from his youth and the great rebellion furrowed his brow as he saw her face.

"Princess?"

She wasn't sure if her father was more furious with her or with the man who had tried to attack her. He commented on her irresponsibility and disobedience, her recklessness, and expressed outrage that her guards had not even noticed how she had escaped them.

"I just wanted to see the fair, my King." She said in a trembling voice without looking at him; she stood before him with her hair loose, wearing a beautiful navy blue gown with sleeves that reached to the ground − her shoulders were bare, on her hips a delicate golden belt made up of tiny eyes in which sapphires were framed.

"That's enough." He said agitated and impatient, raising his hand in a gesture of frustration, his dark hair and beard adding to his seriousness, his brow furrowed in anger. "Until you learn prudence, one of my ghosts will not leave your side."

She looked at him, horrified, and then turned her gaze to the man standing beside him, a few steps behind his throne, his figure hidden completely in shadow. He was dressed all in black, a hood over his head and a black mask on which a single tear was outlined under his right eye.

It was said that it was molded so that the people they were killing would have the feeling that they had compassion for them, that they were just a tool used by someone else.

People called them ghosts because they weren't seen on a daily basis – or at least that's what it was believed. They were forbidden to take off their mask or speak to anyone but her father, and were his principal emissaries that found his enemies, invigilated them and killed them.

Since the days of the rebellion and the overthrow of the earlier king, her father was perpetually in fear of an attempt on his or his children's lives, so he found, she supposed, people desperate or fond of killing, those who owed him everything and had no reason to betray them.

She passed and saw them extremely rarely, only during sumptuous feasts in the company of guests or gatherings of magnates from all over the country.

They stood then by her father's side, as always in the shadows, though invisible, constantly reminding her of their presence with their very posture, menacing and stony, the people around them afraid to look at them.

She didn't know how many of them there were in total; they were almost identical and differed only in height, besides that they wore the same clothes, masks, hoods and black leather gloves, probably to avoid staining their skin with blood.

The thought that someone like that was to accompany and guard her sent shivers down her spine − she had feared that her father would now know of her every move, that she would never leave the fortress again.

She lowered her gaze, saying no more, listening to his orders to find the man who had attacked her, whom she had described in detail to the other ghosts.

She left, feeling that if she stayed there another moment she would vomit.

It seemed to her that these black hooded figures were sucking the life out of everyone around them, that they were a walking harbinger of death and misery.

That night she heard his voice for the first time.

Her guards were outraged when he dismissed them.

"You are not a King, by what right do you command us?" Asked one of them, a cold, deep, mocking voice answered them.

"Shall I inform the King that not only are you incapable of guarding his daughter, but you refuse to obey his orders?"

She heard someone's growl and an unclear voice full of impatience, the clack of steel and armour proving that they had walked away − she was left alone with the cold murderer outside her door.

She pressed her lips together, felt her eyes burning due to the gathering tears at the realization that she had never felt more alone and abandoned than she did now.

She wriggled in bed, as she did every day, unable to fall asleep. It was raining loudly outside and she looked towards the window, seeing nothing but darkness. She felt small and even though she was lying under several thick furs, she was cold.

She rose slowly, putting a soft cashmere shawl over her shoulders, lighting a candle that illuminated her chamber with a pleasant, warm glow.

There is a man behind that mask, she thought.

He was not a ghost.

If she made any kind of bond with him, she would stop being afraid of him.

She walked to her door and stood in front of it for a long moment, feeling her heart pounding hard and fast. She swallowed hard and opened it with a loud creak of old wood.

Her candle instantly illuminated his figure − he was standing exactly opposite her door, leaning against the wall with his hands clasped in front of him. She wondered if he was asleep in that position, but after a moment she noticed something behind the translucent black material in the area cut out for his eyes, a blue iris staring at her.

She looked at him for a moment, wondering if he would move, but he stood like a statue − it seemed to her as if he were made of stone.

Was he supposed to stand like that all the time?

Her father had told her that he would gift her his one ghost.

Would they be exchanging? After all, he had to sleep at some point.

"What's your name?" She asked uncertainly, softly, wanting to sound as open and honest as possible.

Silence.

A long one.

"How am I supposed to address you if I don't know what your name is?" She asked again, looking at him pleadingly, asking him to let her at least get a little closer to him, to be able to give him humanity.

Silence.

She pressed her lips together and thought something else would make him speak.

"Should I complain to the king about you not answering my questions?" She asked lowly, wrinkling her eyebrows, wondering where she had got the courage to speak to this man in this way. A shudder went through her when she heard him let out a breath, as if he had given up, resigned.

"Call me any name you see fit." He said in a low, deep, indifferent tone, as if the fact that he had to speak to her frustrated him incredibly and he didn't understand what she wanted from him.

She felt a tightening in her throat at the thought that there was no more human thing than being given a name − it was the first thing given to a child at birth, and he renounced it.

"Shall I name you?" She asked shaking her head, not understanding what he was implying − he turned his face to the side, despite the mask she could feel the growing impatience beating from him.

"Yes. My Princess." He added after a moment, his words razor-sharp, cool, angry, mocking. She had the impression that he treated her interest as something completely unnecessary − apparently it suited him to remain in the shadows and he had no intention of coming out of it.

She looked at him with pain mixed with disappointment and thought he reminded her of one of the horrific mythological beasts her mother had once read to her about before bed, a great mighty dragon that sowed death and destruction.

"Vhagar."

She heard the word she had spoken echoed, followed only by the sound of rain, and felt that there was something final in what she had done.

"I will always treat you with respect and I will never make you do anything to humiliate you or offend your good name." She choked out with difficulty, wanting him to understand that they were condemned to each other and that this in itself was a misfortune, however, it would be even more so if they both pretended that he didn't exist, that he was just her shadow that followed her everywhere.

He did not respond.

She closed herself back into her chamber only walking towards her bed feeling that her legs were trembling. She lay down on her bed covering herself with thick furs, frozen and terrified, closing her eyes, praying to the gods to show her mercy.

That they would not lock her away in this cold, stone fortress forever until her father claimed to have found a suitable candidate for her to marry.

As she did every day, she also prayed for someone else.

Someone who had lived in this chamber before her.

The next day she got up awake, a terrible headache accompanying her from the moment she opened her eyes. She sat down at the table, covering herself with her shawl − overnight the wood in her fireplace had burned out.

She lifted her gaze as she heard the door to her chamber open, her servants entering with golden trays on which they served her breakfast.

She saw Vhagar follow them inside, his hands entwined behind his back − it seemed to her that his footsteps made no sound, that he could sneak up on someone silently.

"You're supposed to taste everything first." He said to one of them dryly and emotionlessly − the girl looked at him apprehensively, clearly already knowing stories of men of his ilk and what they did.

"My Lord?" She choked out, clearly not understanding what he was asking her.

"Anything the Princess wants to eat or drink − you are to taste it first. This is how it will be from now on with everything you bring her. Do you understand?" He asked coolly and insistently, and she nodded, lowering her gaze, pale.

"Is this necessary, Vhagar?" She asked looking at him with a furrowed brow − he turned his face towards her but answered nothing. He looked back at her servant after a moment.

"Begin."

"I've lost my appetite. Take this away. You can eat it all, let it not go to waste." She said raising her hand, allowing them to leave turning her head to the side, looking blankly at her wardrobe standing on the other side of the chamber.

She saw out of the corner of her eye that he hadn't moved from his spot, that he was looking at her, his aura giving her shivers.

She knew he was about to say something.

"My Princess…" He started and she turned her face towards him. "…are you going to eat your meal, or do I have to shove it down your throat?"

She looked at him with huge eyes, feeling her heart pounding fast.

She thought with horror that he was mad.

"That is all, Vhagar. You may leave." She said in an unobjectionable voice, clasping her hands in her lap, trying to hide how much they were trembling.

He stared at her, his black tear-streaked mask seeming even more frightening and mocking to her, cold and lifeless.

"Mmm." He hummed, though it sounded more like a purr, bowed barely visibly and left her chamber.

She let out a loud breath, burying her face in her hands, feeling a desperate burbling in her stomach from hunger, thinking that she would not give him the satisfaction of letting him dominate her life, ordering her servants around, locking her in a cage.

She asked her servants to help her dress − she put on this time a light-coloured gown with a fine gold belt around her hips made up of tiny chains, some of her hair pinned back in a bun, some falling down her bare back, her sleeves reaching all the way to the ground.

She walked out of her chamber without looking at him, without telling him where she was going, hearing that he immediately moved to follow her.

Her shadow.

She saw the ladies of the court looking at her, terrified of who was accompanying her, as if she were being followed by death itself − people turned their faces away and froze in silence, not knowing what to do, how to react to this unwanted sight.

She headed for the main castle library hearing him enter behind her − he stopped at the door when it slammed behind them, standing in front of it with his hands folded behind his back.

She was starving and decided to distract her mind with some reading. She picked up a few books on the history of her kingdom, sitting down at one of the large oak tables right by the window to get more light. She opened one of the books in front of her, looking for the chapter that interested her.

"You may sit down, Vhagar." She said dispassionately, not wanting him to think she expected him to stand there like some stone pillar, but he didn't move from his place.

An hour passed before he spoke to her, snapping her out of her reverie.

"You need to eat." He communicated a little more softly than before − she felt him looking at her, but she did not lift her gaze to him, uninterested.

"My servants will not taste my food. You yourself watch the cooks and what they put on my platters." She replied with reserve, answered by a long silence.

"Very well."

She looked up at him, sighing quietly, his face turned towards her − she knew what was the reason for his impatience, what he was afraid of.

What would the King think if it turned out that under his watch she had begun to refuse food and starve herself? How would that reflect on him as her protector?

She rose from her seat, putting her books slowly back on the shelf, returning to her chamber without changing another word with him.

As she sat down to supper with her father, her younger brother, and his closest associates, the King immediately asked her what she thought of her new sworn protector, who stood behind her chair right next to the wall, as usual, hidden completely in the shadows.

She swallowed loudly a piece of the roast she had just had in her mouth, noticing with a kind of discomfort that her father spoke of him as if he had given her a thing, not a man.

"Thank you, Father, I do indeed feel safer in his presence." She lied, clutching the wine cup in her hand and taking a loud sip from it, wanting to end the subject quickly.

The King nodded, looking impatiently to his confidant secretary, a companion to all the major battles won during the rebellion.

"Has Prince Aemond's body been found at last? It's been eight years, for goodness sake." He said sternly, impatient; as far as she understood, only his body of the entire Targaryen family had not been found after the great massacre that had taken place in the fortress where they were now feasting.

Lord Ronan grunted loudly, shifting in his seat, blinking rapidly as if thinking of what to answer.

"We are getting closer, my King. We're searching the city's underground, likely to find his corpse soon. The cut of the sword fell right on his face, he couldn't have survived that." He said with a certainty that was filled with the need to sound as convincing as possible, which did not escape her or her father attention.

She lowered her gaze, setting down her cup with a loud clang of metal on the wooden tabletop, looking down at her plate, losing her appetite completely.

The entire royal family slaughtered in their beds after her father at the head of the army stormed into the fortress, elected by the people to rule after the inept reign of King Viserys.

"With apologies, I will retire to my chamber. My King. My Prince. My Lords." She said bowing in turn and moved ahead, not waiting for her father's permission − she heard rustling behind her, she knew her ghost had not left her side.

They walked in silence through the dark corridors of the fortress illuminated only by the warm light of torches − she knew the way to her chamber by heart. Her mind, however, was elsewhere, wondering what would happen if Prince Aemond lived.

If he came in with his army and slit their throats as her father had done to his family.

She stood in front of the door to her chamber, glancing up at his tall black figure towering over her like a cold shadow.

"Thank you for your devotion, Vhagar. Rest now." She said turning her head and opened the door, but stood in half step, surprised to hear his voice behind her.

"How does it feel to sleep where she slept?" He asked with a kind of excitement, as if the thought of it gave him satisfaction.

She felt her heart start pounding like mad, a cold sweat on her back at the thought of Princess Helaena bleeding to death in the bed she was now sleeping in.

She looked up at him − in the light of the torch she could see through the black fabric his blue irises, his pupil looking at her in such a way that she had the impression that he was a predator who was looking at his prey, whose entrails he was about to tear apart.

She was silent for a long moment.

"Horrible." She said dispassionately lowering her gaze.

"I imagine her lying in my place and all I can think about is that the same thing will happen to me one day." She muttered, feeling his heavy gaze on her − there was some kind of tension between them, though she didn't know why. "I pray every day for her forgiveness."

"Ghosts do not forgive." He said coldly, as if stating some foreboding, indisputable fact − she looked at him with a pained expression, furrowing her brow.

"What else can I do?" She asked in a trembling voice, but got no answer, his black mask with a tear running down his cheek looked at her indifferently.

"Sleep well, Princess."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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wholoveseggs · 3 months

Text

Indulgences

18+ ---- {Masterlist}

Part Three

As your relationship with Elijah deepens, conflict arises and you are put in an impossible situation.

5.5k words - Warnings: smutttt, red door elijah {my interpretation of him}, drug use, adult themes, domestic abuse, violence, blood drinking.

Please be aware that this part is very violent. {Part One} {Part Two} {Part Four}{Moodboard->}

Elijah kept coming back, week after week, booking the platinum suite and requesting you. Every time you entered the suite and locked eyes with him your memories came flooding back in an instant. He would lay his head in your lap and tell you his heartaches while you stroked his dark hair. You learned how he was robbed of his life a thousand years ago, and how much guilt he carries in his heart. He would speak of his family with equal love and frustration, his world tipping further into turmoil with every passing day.

You admired his heart, his humanity, his fearlessness in facing his darkness. Sometimes, on rare occasions, his vulnerability would peek through and he would confide in you about his need for control and his fear of losing it. And sometimes, even more rarely, his heart would bleed for those he had killed and will kill. They were moments of weakness that he only let you see.

You began to care for him, truly care for him, past being his private dancer, past him being your cash cow. They were times when his perfect mask slipped just a little, showing a more fragile side of him, one you knew he had carefully crafted and honed to perfection. These moments revealed to you just how human he still was, despite having spent the past one thousand years as a vampire.

One night, as you gently traced your fingers through his dark hair while he rested his head on your lap, you softly asked, "Why did you choose me?”

Elijah, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall, murmured, "The way you looked at me... there was something about your eyes, they were so..."

"What?" you whispered, the intimate moment creating a tightness in your chest.

"Alive," he whispered back. "You looked at me as if you could see straight through my mask to the inner demon beyond and didn't care."

"I do see straight through you," you teased.

Elijah smirked, then averted his eyes. It was painfully evident to anyone who met him that beneath the facade of a perfect gentleman in tailored suits, a dark turmoil simmered within him, a side he struggled to keep subdued.

He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, as though trying to compose himself, and returned his gaze to yours.

"Do you like this job? Does it make you happy?" he asked curiously.

"Not happy, but it helps me survive." You replied honestly.

"If there was a way for you to never have to do this job again, would you take it?" Elijah asked seriously, studying you intently.

"It's complicated, this is my only way to earn money and stay afloat, I can't imagine life without it," you explained, a bit confused by his line of questions.

"If you had a choice," Elijah started, leaning in closer.

You sighed, borderline amused by how cliche he was being. It must have shown on your face because the side of Elijah's mouth twitched, and he continued.

"Would you want to leave with me, leave all of this, escape to a better place?" His question made your stomach lurch, and you sat up straighter, heart pounding. You weren't a fool; you had heard this offer from a few clients before. They all craved the fantasy of having a stripper for a girlfriend while playing the white knight, rescuing her from what they deemed a shameful profession. As you stared at Elijah for a long moment, sizing him up and searching his eyes, you realized he was different. Unlike the other men who made similar offers, Elijah possessed the power to fulfill his proposition—a considerable amount of power, so much that it left you feeling unsettled.

"I'd say take me to your kingdom," you jested, wearing a playful expression, not revealing any clear intention to go with him.

He gave you a searching look and leaned towards you, hands on either side of your hips, pinning you to the couch. "Say the word, and we leave this instant," he murmured, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes.

"I'm not a fantasy, handsome. I'm a person with a life outside of this place, one you know nothing about," you remarked quietly.

"Then tell me," Elijah asked, the atmosphere around you intensifying, his gaze transforming into a look that pinned you down in more ways than one.

Running your fingers through your hair, you chewed the inside of your cheek, torn about whether revealing the truth would shift the power balance. The mysterious allure you carefully maintained gave you control over clients, resulting in higher tips. However, a part of you hesitated, not wanting Elijah to view you solely as a mystery. You longed for him to see the real you—a human with flaws and struggles like everyone else—rather than getting entangled in the fantasy of you.

"I'd rather not," you said firmly.

"Do you have terrible dark secrets?" He teased light heartedly, not daring to take his eyes away from yours.

"This," you said, gesturing around the room, "is not about me,"

You resisted this glimmer of hope, this tempting fantasy. Reality held you captive, you had troubles and responsibilities that hadn't magically disappeared just because Elijah walked in and requested to see you specifically.

"I disagree," he said gently, cupping your chin, turning your face to meet his. "It's very much about you. I would have never returned to this place if you weren't here,"

You blinked back the stinging feeling behind your eyes, and reached out and grabbed his tie, pulling him close so you were face to face.

"Exactly darling, it's all about you," you murmured, brushing your lips against his.

"That's not what I meant," Elijah whispered, but let you deepen the kiss regardless.

"Isn't it though?" you teased, sliding out from under him, standing up.

"This is where our night comes to an end, handsome," you announced, extending your hand out to him.

He grasped your outstretched hand, his dark brown eyes focused on you, and pulled you down until you were straddling him. You let out a soft gasp of surprise, your hands automatically resting on his chest.

"One more kiss," Elijah murmured, his voice muffled as he nuzzled your neck.

You gave a low laugh, tilting your head back, exposing your neck to him. You could feel his breath on your skin, warm and even, sending a thrill through your whole body. You closed your eyes, letting yourself get lost in the sensation of his touch.

His hands traveled up your thighs, until they reached your hips, his thumbs hooking under the straps of your g-string. The heat from his fingers caused a blush to rise on your cheeks and your heart to beat faster.

"May I touch you?" Elijah asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your body tensing at the thought of him being intimate with you. This wasn't allowed, Mitch would fire you on the spot. No sleeping with clients. It was his number one rule. Mostly because the club would lose its license.

But you didn't care about any of that, all that mattered was Elijah. You wanted him to touch you, to bring you pleasure. You wanted him to take you away from the pain and sadness, if only for a little while. You swallowed thickly and nodded your head in consent.

Elijah's eyes darkened with lust, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers grazing your damp panties. You bit back a moan, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He continued his gentle teasing, his fingers rubbing circles against your clit, watching your responses.

"You are so lovely," he murmured, kissing your neck.

You whimpered softly, arching your back, pushing your breasts against his chest. You wanted more, needed more. You wanted him to make you forget everything except his touch.

He dipped two fingers into your aching core, a breathy moan escaping your lips. You clenched around him, your head swimming with desire. He moved his fingers in and out of you, curling them ever so slightly. He brought his thumb up and traced small circles against your clit. You gasped, your eyes fluttering closed, your climax swiftly approaching.

"That's it, beautiful," Elijah whispered, nipping at your ear.

You came undone, the tension in your body melting away, your hips bucking against his hand. You felt a sharp pain in your neck as he sunk his fangs into your skin. Your legs trembled as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, your breathing ragged, your skin slick with sweat. He continued to stroke you, his movements drawing out your orgasm until you were a trembling mess.

He let out a low groan, pulling his mouth away from your neck, blood smeared on his lips. His eyes were completely black, dark veins snaking down his cheeks.

You gently ran your fingertips over his cheeks, marveling at the creature that lurked beneath the mask of a gentleman. He was breathtakingly beautiful and terrifyingly deadly. Your touch was enough to calm him and his features returned to their human appearance.

He pulled his fingers from you and brought them to his mouth, licking away your arousal with a predatory growl.

You giggled and leaned in, brushing your lips against his. His hands rested on your hips, his grip tightening. He returned the kiss, a sweet yet heated one that took your breath away.

"We shouldn't have done that," you whispered, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks.

"Why not? Did you not enjoy yourself?" Elijah questioned, his eyes full of concern.

"No, no it's not that, I...I mean, we're not allowed to have sex with the clients," you confessed, embarrassed by your admission.

"Do you still see me as just a client?" He asked with a raised brow.

"No, but Mitch will. I'll lose my job." You mumbled, biting your bottom lip.

He ran his fingers through your hair and cupped your chin, his eyes boring into yours. "Then come with me," he murmured, his lips ghosting against yours.

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, taking a deep breath. You wanted to say yes, you really did, but the reality was still there. He kisses you again, gently biting on his lip, the taste of his blood making your skin tingle. You felt the sting of the bite mark on your neck fade, and you pulled back. His fingers traced the area where the wound was, his eyes slightly far away.

"I’m sorry," he murmured, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Why?" You asked, your heart skipping a beat.

"I didn't ask for your permission," he explained, his jaw clenched.

You placed your palm on his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath your fingers, soothing the storm inside of him. "It's fine," you reassured him.

His expression softened and he smiled at you, the love and affection in his gaze filling you with warmth. You never had anyone look at you like that before and you found yourself wishing that the moment would never end, but reality set in.

"Time to go, darling." He said quietly, his breath fanning over your face. "You won't remember this until you see me again,"

You kissed him one last time and rose off his lap, swaying on your heels. You could feel his eyes on you as you stretched lazily, earning his appreciation.

"Have a good night, handsome." you murmured, teasingly blowing him a kiss as you strutted out the door.

You sat in the dressing room, looking down at the stack of hundreds on your lap. Once again confused on how you made that much. You couldn't remember a single detail of your time with the wealthy client in the platinum suite, it unnerved you. You wondered if the molly was strong enough to block out your memory and leave you totally empty.

"I hope your not fucking suit guy," Stacy remarked, walking by your chair, admiring herself in the mirror, a dark purple silk robe draped loosely around her body.

"I'm not." You assured her, shoving the hundred dollar bills back into your bag.

"You better not be, Mitch would fire you so fast, not to mention Jordan would be devastated," she remarked, a smirk on her face.

"I don't do that," you repeated, watching her change her attitude.

"There's an exception to every rule," Stacy remarked, pursing her red stained lips and applying another coat of lipstick.

"I'm not a cheater. Elijah is just a wealthy client who likes to talk, you know the type," you said with a shrug.

"Elijah," Stacy echoed, laughing. "You're on a first name basis with him? God, you might as well be fucking him," she taunted, raising her brows at you.

"Fuck off, Stacy," you snapped, glowering at her, refusing to let her get a rise out of you.

Jordan walked in, his usual friendly expression on his face, an extra spark in his eyes, and wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. He pressed his lips to your cheek in greeting.

"How's my baby?" he asked cheerfully.

"Good," you mumbled, quickly moving your bag out of sight.

"Hiii Jordy," Stacy sang, batting her eyelashes at him.

He flashed her a quick grin before turning his attention back to you. You could feel the knot in your stomach slowly untying itself, he was in a good mood today.

"Let's go get dinner, I know this great bar near here," Jordan said eagerly, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

You gave a half hearted smile, nodding your head. You would rather go home to a quiet apartment but you knew better than to spoil his mood with your defiance.

"Sounds fun," you murmured, forcing a smile.

Jordan and you walked out of the club, his arm wrapped around your shoulder. He glanced down at you, his face still carrying a smile, but his eyes holding a warning.

"You okay baby?" He asked.

"Tired," you replied simply, hoping it would be enough to explain your earlier behavior. "Is it okay if we just go home?"

"No! It's Friday, and I need time with my girl," he practically whined, as he guided you to his car.

Your heart sank at the tone in his voice, knowing very well he wouldn't take no for an answer. It was a game he played to get you to do what he wanted and give him an excuse to fight later, usually for being stubborn or a stuck up bitch.

"My shift was so long," you mumbled.

He shoved you into the passengers seat, closing the door before you could reach the handle. He got into the drivers side and turned the key, a sly smirk on his face. He grabbed your wrist, squeezing it tightly, his nails biting into your skin, he leaned in, his lips next to your ear.

"Why is it so hard to please you baby?" he whispered, his tone seething.

You stared at him, keeping your face neutral, dread churning in your stomach. You could feel the bruises beginning to form on your wrist, his anger slowly rising. He squeezed even tighter and you winced, a strangled cry leaving your lips. He let go of your wrist and slipped his hand between your legs, inching his fingers to your mound, squeezing roughly.

"This belongs to me, baby. How many times do I have to remind you that you're mine?" Jordan sneered, tightening his hold on you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears burning behind your eyes, and looked away, trying to detach yourself from the situation.

"You're right, I'm sorry," you murmured, shrinking away from him.

"Damn straight," he said, releasing his grip on you and turning his attention to the road, "Dinner and drinks at Rousseaus, you’ll love it."

You gave a stiff nod, trying to ignore the fear and anger in your heart.

Rousseau's was more crowded than you expected, but you both managed to find a table. You sat and waited while Jordan got drinks.

Other men always looked at you, wherever you went, it always made you uncomfortable. Especially so when you were with Jordan, his jealousy could cause an explosion at any moment. You wished he hadn't insisted on coming to the bar tonight, there was a feeling in your gut that told you something was going to go wrong.

When he returned with the drinks his mood had dramatically shifted, his eyes darting around the room as he slid into his seat next to you.

You picked at your finger nails, chipping away at the paint, and scooted your chair a few inches away from his. You could feel his eyes on you, seething with jealousy, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Maybe we should go," you suggested, shooting him a wary look.

"We just got here and I ain't done drinking," he replied, placing his hand on your knee, caressing your skin with his fingertips.

"Okay," you said in a small voice, lifting your eyes to meet his gaze.

He brought his hand up to your face, lightly brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. You could tell by the look in his eyes that something wasn't right.

"Stacy was telling me something very interesting about you," he whispered, his voice dripping with suspicion.

"Oh?" You asked, feigning innocence, heart beginning to race.

"Yeah," Jordan mused, gently tracing a pattern on your skin. "She told me how you kept having one on ones in the platinum suite. Absolutely raking in the tips. Does that sound like something you're familiar with?" His words were soft, but his voice was harsh.

Your stomach dropped at his question, realizing what he was getting at. You stared back at him blankly, trying to formulate a response. You thought about lying to him, you were a good liar, you did it everyday of your life. Jordan was visibly seething, but he wouldn't do anything to you in public, so you kept your guard up just in case.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, babe," you said in the sweetest, yet most patronizing tone, grabbing his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly.

He narrowed his eyes at you and took another sip of his drink. Your stomach turned, you knew he wasn't finished, this was far from over.

"If I find out you're lying to me," he started, his voice menacing. "I'll kill you."

The color drained from your face, fear coursing through your veins. You wanted to bolt out the door, run for your life, anything to get away from him, but you didn't. You looked away from his terrifying eyes, holding back the tears that were threatening to spill.

That's when you saw him, sitting near the window, watching you intently. Elijah.

The reality of his existence hit you like a swift blow. He was a vampire. He had bared his heart and soul to you. Just hours ago, you had been in his embrace, experiencing pleasure as he fed off you. Then he would erase the memory from your mind, leaving you oblivious to what he truly was. He offered you a knowing smile, his dark eyes piercing into yours. Your cheeks flushed red as you looked away. Despite everything, a part of you yearned to run to him, to forget about the monster lurking beside you.

"Excuse me for a second," you whispered, letting go of Jordan’s hand and sliding your seat back.

"Where the fuck are you going?" Jordan snapped, his grip on your knee tightening, his fingers digging painfully into your skin.

"Just the bathroom," you muttered, struggling to keep your composure.

He gave you a steely look, before releasing your knee. You gathered your purse and rose to your feet and without glancing back at him, headed for the bathroom.

You felt Elijah's presence behind you when you got to the hallway. Fear churned inside you like a whirlpool, as you turned to face him, not completely sure what you would say to him.

"It's not a good time for a talk," you said in a low voice, opening the door to the ladies room, hoping Elijah would get the hint.

"You seem distressed," he said quietly, concern clear in his voice.

"Come in, you can't be out here with me," you whispered, tugging on his hand, pulling him into the bathroom.

You checked to make sure the coast was clear and locked the door, feeling Elijah's eyes following you.

"Is that your boyfriend?" He teased in a gentle tone, clasping his hands in front of him, subtly checking you out.

"Yes," you said softly, leaning against the counter, staring down at the floor.

"Is he why you won't run away with me?," Elijah asked, taking a tentative step towards you.

You felt the knot in your stomach tighten, as he placed his hands on the counter, boxing you in between him and the sink.

"Among other things," you replied evasively, tilting your head up, your gaze resting on his.

"Name one of them," he purred, bringing his hand up to your hair, twirling a stray strand around his finger.

"You've messed with my memories, Elijah. When I'm not around you, I don't remember our time together; I’m frightened of you," you admitted, your body stiffening. "I blame it on the drugs I take, I get anxious about my mental health," you trailed off, feeling shame rising in your throat. "But then I'm with you and..I feel calm, I feel safe, like you'd protect me. And, it scares me, this emotional whiplash is taking its toll,”

"I'm sorry for frightening you, that wasn't my intention," he said gently, his hands lifting to rest on your hips, gently lifting you onto the counter.

"Everything is... complicated, Elijah," you murmured, running your fingers through your hair, trying to muster an answer.

"I know," he murmured, leaning in and kissing your neck, causing goosebumps to erupt on your skin. “I won't compel you anymore, my dear, I trust you,”

You closed your eyes, inhaling his wonderful scent, it made your stomach flutter with butterflies. This didn't feel real, you hadn't felt this happy in so long, it was surreal.

Your hands went to his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palms, and his lips met yours. The kiss was soft, affectionate, and full of meaning. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, never wanting to let go.

"You don't love him do you?," Elijah whispered in your ear, trailing his finger down your jaw.

"No," You breathed, shaking your head, grasping the lapels of his suit. "I couldn't, I try, I have for years, but I just can't,"

He hummed his agreement and kissed you with more passion than you'd experienced with any man before. You could feel his desire, his urgency, and you craved him. Your fingers buried themselves in his hair, letting out a soft gasp when his hands slipped under your dress, gently kneading your thighs.

"No, we can't, not with Jordan here," you rasped, reluctantly pushing his hands away. "Please don't. If he suspects something..." You whispered, trailing off, swallowing hard.

Elijah glanced down at your hands on his chest, his brow furrowing as he noticed your bruised and swollen wrist.

"You're hurt," he observed, examining the marks on your skin, his expression a strange mixture of anger and concern.

"It's fine," You reassured him, trying to pull away from his grip, "just forget about it. Really, I'm ok,"

"He hurt you," Elijah insisted, frowning.

"I had an attitude with him," You mumbled, yanking your arm back, and cradling your wrist in your lap, and nervously twisting the hem of your dress in your fingers.

"Y/n," he said softly. "This isn't the first time he's hurt you is it?"

You looked up at him through tear filled eyes, your mask of composure finally slipping.

"No," you said in a small voice.

"How long has he done this to you?" He asked in a low voice, cupping your face in his palms.

"Years," you choked, no longer able to hold in your emotions, tears trickling down your face. You felt such pure humiliation, embarrassment that Elijah had seen such weakness in you.

"I have to go," you stammered, rubbing your eyes and sniffling.

"You don't have to leave," Elijah insisted, bringing your face up to look at him. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

You froze at his question, wondering what kind of answer he wanted.

"It ruins the fantasy," you said with a dry laugh, trying to brush it off as some stupid joke.

Elijah furrowed his brow at you, looking shocked at your response.

"Do you think I judge you? See you as just a stripper?" He asked earnestly, all of his usual confidence dissipating.

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak, but not daring to lie to him, watching him through watery eyes.

"I told you about my life, my father, the torment he put my family through, how could I judge you?," Elijah asked, lowering his face to yours, our lips inches apart, his scent flooding your senses.

"I don't know," you whispered, keeping your gaze fixed on his, savoring his kindness.

"We'll get through this," Elijah whispered in your ear. "Together."

"I have to go," you whispered, before the weight of what he said could sink in.

"Walk out with me, you never have to be near him again," Elijah begged.

"No, please, it'll make everything worse," You pleaded, sliding off the counter. "Don't give me hope, I can't handle hope."

"Y/n," Elijah began, sounding exasperated.

"I'll see you at the club, okay? Goodbye." you said quietly, before he could protest anymore, leaving the bathroom.

Tears filled your eyes as you walked through the bar, taking slow deep breaths to calm yourself. Jordan was still sitting at the table, looking extremely impatient. You tried to ignore the unsettling feeling in your gut as you sat down. He swirled the liquid in his glass, his expression blank.

"Took you long enough, what were you doing in there?" Jordan sneered, pinning you with his icy glare.

You could now remember everything about Elijah, how he made you feel, all those hours together in the platinum suite. Everything. And now here, looking at Jordan, your abuser, the man who took so much from you, was such a contrast that it was almost unbearable. You were revolted by his very presence.

"I just needed a moment to myself, you know? After what you said about killing me," You forced a tight smile, taking a sip of your cocktail, your throat had never been drier.

Jordan scoffed, his features darkening with annoyance. "Let's go, this bar fucking sucks," he snarled, slamming his empty glass down on the table, rose to his feet and swiped his keys off the table.

You took the last sip of your drink and reached into your purse, pulling out your wallet. You felt his hand rest on your arm, you were almost paralyzed with fear.

"What the fuck is that?" Jordan snarled, looking at the tips you earned from Elijah earlier.

You swallowed thickly, completely taken aback, you had no idea what to do.

"I... I got a bonus today," you said in a feeble tone.

Jordan stared down at the money, completely enraged. "Stacy was right wasn't she? You've been fucking that rich asshole," he whispered, his fist closing around your arm, dragging you to your feet.

He quickly guided you through the crowd and outside the bar, pulling you towards the nearby alley. Your mind reeled with panic, realizing what was happening. Your legs no longer functioned as he dragged you behind the building.

"Baby, let's go back inside, I don't understand what's going on," you pleaded, trying to regain composure.

"I asked you a question. Tell me," Jordan growled, his fingertips dug into your arm painfully.

"It was a bonus," you snapped.

His fist connected with your face in a sudden and violent burst of rage. The impact was so intense it dazed you, the air being knocked out of your lungs as you tried to keep your footing.

"I know you're fucking some gangster and keeping all the tips for yourself," he shouted, his hands wrapping around your throat, forcing you against the wall.

Your hands scrambled for his, trying to pry his fingers off, his grip squeezing tighter as the lack of air made your vision blur.

"I asked you nicely and you have the nerve to fucking lie to me? That just shows me that you don't love me at all," he yelled, rage boiling in his veins, his grip nearly crushing your windpipe.

"Please..." you whispered, through ragged gasps for breath.

"I've done nothing but take care of you since we met and this is how you repay me?" He shouted, his grip tightening even more, your entire body struggling to get oxygen, tears pricking at the back of your eyes.

You brought your knee up as hard as you could to his groin. Jordan groaned and doubled over, loosening his grip enough to allow you to wrench yourself free.

You began to run in the direction of the street, wanting to get as far away from him as possible. But he caught up, grabbing your hair and forcing you to the ground. You cried out in pain as he landed on top of you, his hands roaming all over your body as he held you down, squeezing every inch of skin he could grab.

"Shh, shh, don't scream baby, don't scream," he hushed you, slapping his hand over your mouth. "It's okay I forgive you."

"Get off of me!" You cried, as he frantically tugged on your dress. He didn't waste another second, gripping your jaw tightly, his fingers digging in painfully.

"You think I'd let you cheat on me and get away with it?" Jordan gritted out, his hands wrapping around your throat again, increasing the pressure. Your screams were only barely audible now, your vision starting to fade, everything slowly turning black.

Suddenly there was no weight on your chest. You gasped for air, taking desperate shallow breaths, looking up at Elijah who was pinning Jordan to the wall by the throat. Elijah's eyes were completely black, gray veins stretched out under his eyes.

"Do you know what it feels like to be unable to breathe?" He growled, his grip tightening, Jordan's face turning a ghastly shade of blue. "The fear, the terror that overwhelms your body. To know that no matter how hard you fight, you're going to die?"

Jordan's eyes bulged in fear, his hands clutching at his throat, trying to get away.

"You were going to kill her, weren't you?" Elijah seethed, his voice trembling with rage.

"Please... I'm sorry," Jordan wheezed, his voice barely audible.

"She begged for mercy and you ignored her, why should I show you the same courtesy?" Elijah asked, in an eerily calm tone.

Jordan's eyes widened as he struggled against Elijah, desperately trying to loosen the vampire's grip.

"Cockroach," he snarled, his fingers curling tighter around his neck, lifting him up, Jordan's feet no longer touching the ground. "Be still."

"No... no," Jordan squealed pathetically, "what are you?"

Elijah pulled Jordan's face close to his, Jordan's limbs thrashing at his sides, trying to pry away the iron grip on his neck. Elijah gave him a sinister smile, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

"Death," Elijah whispered, before swiftly snapping his neck.

The blood drained from your face, your head spinning, everything feeling as if it was happening in slow motion. His body fell to the ground with a heavy thud, an unnatural twist to his neck, Jordan's life no longer there.

You felt your heart stop, like someone had thrust a knife through your chest, you almost couldn't breathe. He was dead. Gone. A part of you was happy, euphoric even, he would never touch you again, hit you again, torture you any more. You never felt any pleasure when you were with him, the man was your prison, he had no redeeming qualities and yet, the scars still remained.

Elijah knelt in front of you, pulling off his suit jacket and draping it across your shoulders. Your hands were numb as they slipped through the holes, holding it shut in the front.

"We can't leave him like that," you whispered, staring at Jordan's body, slumped against the brick.

"I'll handle it," Elijah murmured. "Can you stand?"

You nodded, rising on unsteady feet, grateful when he wrapped his arms around you, supporting you as you stumbled. He picked you up bridal style and carried you to his car, quickly setting you down in the passenger seat.

"Do you wish for me to take you home?" Elijah asked gently, seeing that you'd retreated inside of yourself, staring into the distance.

"No." you said hoarsely, resting your head against the glass.

He didn't seem surprised, opening the door, slipping inside and starting the car. His hand rested on your knee, drawing lazy circles on the bare skin, the effect was soothing and you closed your eyes, taking slow steady breaths.

"My home it is, then.”

{Part One} {Part Two} {Part Four}{Moodboard->}

PS: There will be a part four -xo

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vervain3 ♡ @vamprium ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡

#elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson smut #the originals #the vampire diaries #tvdu #vampire diaries #elijah mikaelson imagine #elijah mikealson imagine #elijah mikealson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #tvd #the vampire diaries x you #the vampire diaries x reader #the vampire diares imagine #the vampire diaries imagine #the originals imagine

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pan-flute-skeleton · 6 months

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Winter Wonderklok 2023

Welcome to the first ever Winter Wonderklok! A holiday Metalocalypse themed event leading up to Christmas. Twelve days of prompts instead of gifts for your true love. How zazzy is that! You are free to create anything you want. Make art, write stories, put together playlists, design moodboards and overall, take the time to have fun with it. I know this coming out a smidge early, but I want to make sure everyone has time to relax after kloktober, think and create. I made it a point to try and be as broad as possible because I know not everyone celebrates Christmas. Please feel free to adjust to your standards. As a fan creator myself, I do these things for the fun of it and in a way that fits my style. I encourage you all to do the same. Don’t feel like a certain prompt? Do something else entirely!

There are a few things I would like to clarify and they go as follows:

What do you mean by ‘Rankin Bass?’ Rankin Bass is the production company that produced all of your favorite Christmas movies like Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer and Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Beautiful puppetry and stop motion pioneers that are cherished to this day. I challenge artists to attempt the style in their own way. Or simply have your character of choice enjoying the specials. However you want to tackle the iconic figures.

What do you mean by ‘Saran wrap ball?’ It’s a type of grab bag game that involves…saran wrap! Who would’ve thought. I will attach a video below for reference on how it’s made and how it’s played. I will say that each house has their own rules so feel free to adjust anything you’d like.

youtube

What do you mean by ‘OC Special?’ I am an OC (original character) writer. Many of my friends are too. The few prompts that are labeled ‘OC special’ are meant to encourage use of OCs, interaction with other OCs and even creation of new OCs. I would love for people to take the opportunity to create someone or something new or try something they’ve been meaning to for a while. Challenge yourself! But if that isn’t your style, that’s okay too. If you do not want to use or make an OC, you’re more than welcome to use a canon character of choice instead.

What do you mean by ‘Toys for Tots?’ This is a charity program run by the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve which distributes toys to children whose families cannot afford to buy them for Christmas. Ongoing for over seventy five years and common enough, but just in case anyone needed a reminder.

I encourage you to use #WinterWonderklok2023 when you post your work. Love keeping things organized. Good luck everyone! Can’t wait to see what you can come up with.

I also want to give a huge shout out to @papabigtoes for all the visuals for Wonderklok. I really could not pull this off without her insane art skills. Thank you a million times over my friend!

Plain text list:

Dec 13 Improvised snowman decoration

Dec 14 Baking cookies

Dec 15 Hot tub in the snow

Dec 16 Black friday*

Dec 17 Everyone gets socks

Dec 18 Lighting candles

Dec 19 Saran wrap ball

Dec 20 Secret Santa with another character*

Dec 21 Dethfam holiday

Dec 22 Rankin Bass

Dec 23 Homemade gift

Dec 24 Toys for tots*

*=OC Special

#WinterWonderklok2023 #metalocalypse #skwisgaar skwigelf #toki wartooth #pickles the drummer #william murderface #nathan explosion #charles foster offdensen #writing prompt #writing challenge #challenge #original character #mtl oc #character design #Youtube #winter #holiday #christmas #xmas

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itsharleystuff · 8 months

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↳ II. 𝘍𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘝𝘖𝘐𝘋

Read part one here.

— 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dbf!Joel Miller x afab!fem reader (no outbreak au).

— 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.6k (once again, I’m sorry)

— 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after your steamy encounter with Joel during your homecoming party, things between you have been stagnant. Although, fate seems to be on your side when both Sarah and your dad have to leave town for a short while.

— 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 18+ content (minors dni!), sex, p in v sex, Joel hits it from behind, blowjobs, some teasing, a bit of spanking, pet names (darling, sweetheart, honey), unprotected sex (pls do not attempt), cum eating, taking nsfw photos, Joel tries to be dom but fails, age gap (reader is twenty four, Joel is late forties), reader is kind of a brat, fluff and feelings (yes, this is a warning), alcohol consumption, brief mention of family death. Barely edited, sorryyy. No use of y/n.

—A/N: this can be read as a stand-alone but I suggest reading the previous part for a better understanding. Btw, there’s a couple of Easter eggs from the game in this! Also— I tried making a moodboard and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’ll probably stick to gifs in the future, lol.

“I like Indiana Jones," you babble, taking a sip from your coffee without looking at anyone in specific. "I was twelve and in love with Harrison Ford..."

"Okay, so that's one movie we're definitely not going to watch." Sarah chimes in, lazily chewing on her scrambled eggs. "How do you feel about Robert Pattinson?"

"That depends," you reply, moving your head side to side in a contemplative manner, "are we talking twilight or Harry Potter?"

You hear your dad snort on the other side of the table and see Joel chuckling beside him. Sarah crosses both arms over her chest and raises a brow at them. “What's so funny?"

"Nothing," your dad clears his throat and side-eyes his friend. "Just thought you two were a bit old for those crappy vampire movies. Maybe watch-"

"Forgive me, but I don't think it's a good idea to take recommendations from either of you," you cut him off, leaning back on your chair. "You're both obsessed with die hard, think The Godfather is incredibly complex and in your spare time watch construction programs. We'll be fine on our own."

"Touché..."

It's been three weeks since your homecoming party, and ever since then it has become a habit to have breakfast together every weekend. Today, Saturday, it was the Miller's turn to cook, which consequently had you and your father sitting at their table. As of now, you and Sarah were discussing your movie night, which had to be postponed due to her road-trip to San Antonio— apparently, she and her friend Ellie were going to visit some college campuses there.

It's also been three weeks since that little, hot encounter you and Joel had in your kitchen. And, contrary to your better judgement, both of you were more than eager to spend some extra time alone. Things since then had been uneasy, specially when being surrounded by others; always worried that someone might notice those stolen looks you'd share or sense the palpable tension that rose when you would stand too close to each other.

You try not to think about it. Except when you do. A swirl of memories would come flooding your mind in the most inappropriate moments, creating that heat that made you remember exactly how his fingers felt inside you, his tongue between your folds, the sloppy kisses and that feral, hungry look in his eyes while eating you out, touching you like you were the most precious thing on earth.

"How about pride and prejudice?" the girl wonders, standing up to clean her dishes and snapping you back to reality.

"Shit, I love period dramas!" your dad shoots you a reproachful glare at your language, but you chose to ignore it. "As a matter of fact, most of my designs are inspired by the Victorian and regency eras."

"Oh, yeah," Sarah recalls, "I remember I read about it in one of your blogs. Dad showed it to me, by the way..." Joel clears his throat loudly, making her giggle.

Although she had mentioned it before, it was still kind of weird that he acknowledged your work. At first you thought it was merely because he wanted to connect with you somehow, but lately he'd been asking if he could see your new sketches and would let you borrow some old magazines he had around the house. Your best friend, Sophie, mentioned he might've been trying to show his interest in you subconsciously. And she was that one psychic friend who believed in zodiac signs and angel numbers, so you decided to believe her.

In that moment, your dad receives an incoming call on his cellphone; he excuses himself and heads to the living room. Your eyes lock with Joel's, and the fact that he was uninhibitedly staring back at you drew a smug smile on your face.

"Are you interested in fashion, Mr. Miller?" he sulks out a dry 'no', but you could see him fidget with his watch nervously. "Pity. I thought maybe you could model some of my male designs."

Sarah genuinely cracks up at your comment, slapping one hand on the table. "You want dad to pose for you? Seriously?"

"Why not? I brought my Polaroid camera, I can get some very nice shots." You were partially joking, but deep down you just wanted to see how he'd react.

"I mean, I know dad's got his charm with women, or so they keep saying-"

"No way anyone says that," he rambles.

"But the idea of him modeling is probably the funniest thing I've ever heard."

The fact was that you didn't want to take pictures of him so anyone else could see them. You wanted them exclusively for yourself. A couple of naughty Polaroids to keep around for whenever you were aching for him —which has been nearly every fucking night since your arrival—.

"It was a silly idea," you finally agree, shrugging. Joel stands to take his things to the sink. "Do you really have to leave for the weekend? You're like, my only friend here."

"Uh, about that..." she leans in towards you and you can practically smell a scheme on her. "Would you be mad if I gave your number to someone?"

You can quite literally feel the man standing behind you tense up. "Huh?"

"Yeah, like... To a guy." She moves in her place, but there's still no answer from you. "He's my English teacher. His name is Will and he's super smart, young, really funny and very handsome, I might add. I believe he can be your new male model." Sarah adds that last bit with a grin.

When you turn your head to see Joel, there was a deep scowl etching on his face, his body remaining still as a stone.

"I don't know... As friends, maybe." You weren't sure why, but the idea of meeting anyone new didn't really sound appealing.

She opened her mouth to say something but before she could actually do so, your dad walked in again. He appeared upset, gesturing nonsense and muttering impassively.

"What's wrong?" your tone comes out concerned.

"I have a meeting in Boston," he sighed, resting a hand on your shoulder apologetically. "Apparently it's urgent and I have to catch the next flight if I want to be there by nightfall."

"Oh, don't worry," you smile at him warmly. "I understand. Besides, I'm an adult. I can manage a weekend by myself."

He nods, still seemingly aloof. "I know but- I just wanted to spend some more time with you."

And of course you wanted that too, but saying it out loud could literally bring him to quit his job. He was always very extreme when it came down to you.

"What time d’you leave?" his friend asks him.

"Half past four. Why?"

"I can drop Sarah off at Ellie's and then drive you to the airport, if you'd like." Such a caring friend, Joel Miller. So selfless. Helping your dad out, attending his daughter's every special need...

"Yeah, thanks a lot, man. Take care of my little girl while I'm away."

You see his eyes gleam with a mix of unknown emotions, "Will do."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The last few days had been no less than torment for Joel. Each moment that went by in which he didn't get a chance to be near you had him losing his mind. Badly. And it wasn't necessarily a physical thing— not always, at least.

Every morning, he would wake up and go to work, knowing for certain that when he comes back home he'll find you hanging around with Sarah or sitting out on your porch with a sketching notebook on your lap.

He liked to guess what you'd be doing.

Would you be playing board games with his daughter? Watching a movie or baking desserts? Maybe you were thrift shopping with your dad or simply going to the mall. And later on, when he finally gets to see you again, you'd tell him all about it.

Joel also liked to imagine what kind of clothes you'd be wearing. One thing he noticed is that you never stick to one particular style or aesthetic. One day you could be wearing pastel sundresses with ribbons in your hair; the next one could be long, black skirts paired with basic tank tops and multiple necklaces, or even something more extravagant, depending on your mood.

Seeing you was an experience— one that he could never get tired of. It's like every time he sets his eyes on you there's a certain color palette that changes constantly, or the feeling of gathering all your favorite songs into one playlist and then hitting the shuffle button. He never knows what to expect. Hence why he had given up on trying to relate you to the silly things around; like seasons, animals, artists or foods. Instead, he started associating you with feelings.

You were creative, unique and incredibly fearless. In a way, you made him feel uneasy, excited, thrilled, confident and many more emotions at the same time. If he had to describe you in one word, he'd say evoking.

Oh, how you pestered his brain.

He hated how much he thought about you, and how little guilt he felt from it.

Right now he was sitting on the drivers seat of his truck, waiting at the airport's parking lot. You asked him if you could walk your dad to his corresponding gate and he agreed. The downside: it had started to rain, probably not too bad for your dad's flight to be delayed but enough for your clothes to get soaked on your way back.

"Shit, I'm sorry," you muttered, shutting the passenger's door behind you. “The seats are gonna get all wet..."

"Here," Joel takes off his jacket to place it over your shoulders.

It feels warm and it smells like him, "Thanks."

He starts the car without saying anything else, keeping his eyes glued to the road. You, on the other hand, could not stop staring at him. Now that no one else was around, there was no shame in admiring his side profile, the way his muscles flexed and his hands grasped the wheel. There was something inherently attractive about men driving, but- Jesus... This image had your mind roaming around dark places.

Suddenly, realization sinks in— you're alone.

Alone with him.

"I, uh..." he taps the wheel with his thumb, still avoiding your gaze. "I wanted to take you out for dinner. The weather kinda ruined it."

The corners of your mouth hitch up in a silly smile. "Too bad. I really didn't want to be alone tonight."

Joel hums, appearing somewhat distraught. In reality, he was fighting for his life. The clothes you chose to wear today were not fitted for the rain; denim mini-skirt, high pair of boots and a white top that complimented your upper body. He tried not to look at the raindrops rolling down your thighs or note how transparent your shirt has become, forcing himself to stare at your hands and the many rings that decorated your fingers, seeing there the one he gifted you.

"How about you come over to my place?" you suggest, trying to catch his attention. "I'll need a shower and a change of clothes but... Maybe we can do something afterwards."

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, still avoiding your gaze, "Like what?"

This time your voice goes lower, a smirk spreads across your face and something in your eyes flickers; a darker, sensual spark.

"Oh, you know..." your hand carefully comes to rest on his knee. His thigh tenses but he doesn't say or do anything to push you away. "Whatever you want."

He swallows hard, feeling the pads of your fingers run circles on his leg, your nails mildly scratching over the jeans in a way that raises goosebumps on his skin and eases his nerves.

"I've got a better idea," he says, keeping his tone calm —barely—. "Why don't you come to my house instead?"

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, "Sure, but- what about my clothes?"

And then he smiles cockily, as if this had been his plan all along, "Wear mine."

Well, there was absolutely no way you were going to turn him down. With a bit more boldness, you slide your hand a few inches up his inner thigh, still rubbing soothing patterns. His jaw clenched, but remained silent and apparently unbothered.

"Joel?" his name rolled off your tongue sweetly, in a way only you knew how to. He uttered a 'hm?' in retort. "Did you miss me?"

"I've seen you nearly every day," he answers playfully.

You laugh, stopping your movements and simply resting your palm there. "So... No?"

"Didn't say that, darlin'." The truck suddenly stops at a red light as he exhales heavily, giving in to you at last. "But I'll let you guess."

A push and pull game, like a cat chasing a mouse. Your smirk widens. "I don't think so. Not as much as I have."

His eyes scan your body from head to toe, the way you sit with your legs slightly parted, back laying flat against the seat and face turned towards him with heated cheeks and low gaze. Unexpectedly, your hand draws back from his lap as you start looking through your purse and a frown forms on his face, baffled by the loss of contact.

"Which is why..." you take the Polaroid camera out and see a whole shift in his eyes, like he's about to burst in laughter. "I brought this."

"No," despite his categorical denial, you still held the object up.

"You have a green light," he curses under his breath and you hold back a chuckle. "Just let me have one, please."

He sighs in defeat, "Why'd you want that?"

The rain had started to settle down but the air was still pretty cold, all that could be heard besides your own voices being the drops that crashed against the car.

"Cause you're handsome," he rolls his eyes sarcastically. "And I like you."

Hell, you were always so straightforward. It made his heart jump inside his chest, wondering if it was gonna burst out.

"You won't like me as much once you meet that Will dude," Joel prattles through gritted teeth, remembering his daughter's suggestion from earlier.

"The guy Sarah mentioned?" your brows furrow subtly. "Why? What's up with him?"

He yanks his head to the side, glancing over at you for a second, "Nothin'. Just thinkin' out loud." In spite of your puzzled expression, he decides to grant your wish. "I'll let ya' take it. But only if I get one in return."

Your lips purse in a smile, "As many as you like, Miller."

He doesn't say anything in response, but his grin doesn’t fade either and you managed to capture it on paper. The image slowly started to become visible and your first thought was how well it captured the whole 'Joel Miller' essence. It was a simple photo of him driving with one hand on the wheel and the other arm thrown lazily over the backseat. That denim shirt hugged his arms exquisitely, the rolled-up sleeves adding to his appeal. He was looking at you when it was taken, so you could see more than half his face— and the way he was grinning, you couldn't help but think he appeared so much younger when he did that. The entire thing felt so much like him: snuggly, blue, genuine and you absolutely loved it.

"There," you show it to him as he started to pull over. "Isn't it nice?"

"Just keep it to yourself, aight?" the man grumbles.

"F'course," with a spark of joy, you slide the photo inside your wallet. "Wouldn't want anyone else peeking at that gorgeous smile of yours. That's a treasure of my own."

"Shut up-" he rumbled, turning his face the other way and opening the door, seemingly flustered. And out of all the amazing things you've accomplished in your life, making this rugged looking man blush was probably your greatest pride.

When he helps you out of the car, holding your hand firmly and cleaving to your waist; you wanted nothing more than to kiss him under the pouring rain, wildly and unhinged, just like last time. But this particular spot possibly had too many curious eyes of which you were unaware of. He obviously doesn't need to guide you through his house, since you already know nearly every corner of it, except for one. His bedroom. And apparently, that's the precise location he's taking you to.

"Please excuse the mess," he says, placing one hand on the door handle, "I haven't had a woman in here for ages, so I'm afraid I probably won't live up to your expectations."

"Joel," you snort, "it's been a decade and a half since you last dated anyone. Trust me, my expectations are pretty low."

He scowls, squinting both eyes. "You didn't have to say it like that..."

It's honestly better than you thought. His bed is nicely done, brown bedsheets striking as warm and welcoming; the walls were painted a pretty, light shade of blue that matched the grayish curtains on the left. The drawers in front of his windows had a bunch of stuff scattered on top of them: a CD player along with a few music discs, some papers, a cap and a pair of reading glasses, batteries, one screwdriver and a framed picture of him and Sarah at the beach. Meanwhile, the nightstand simply had one lamp and an alarm-clock on it. Over the bed's headboard were one poster of a music festival, the image of a landscape and an advert of what you guessed must've been a club, that read 'tacos and beer" on it. The door to the bathroom was on the right.

Messy, yet tidy at the same time. Very Joel-like.

"No way..." you murmur, eyeing the guitar beside his bed. "All this time I thought it was a myth."

"What?" he asks from behind you.

"Dad told me you used to serenade girls back in college and that you wanted to become a singer." A giggle escapes your lips, unable to contain it. "I remember saying he was surely making it up, but..."

"I didn't- I mean..." he clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck and feeling his chest swell with your laughter. "Oh, shut up!"

"Make me." The lingering, mischievous smile on your face made his heart pound and blood rush. "Come on, Miller. Shut me up, I dare you."

His eyes darken, but you don't falter for a second. He doesn't move a muscle, solely watching as you took off his jacket and threw it to the bed.

"You dare me?" his voice goes drops an octave, following your every move closely. "That's rather bold of you, sweetheart."

"Mhm," without breaking eye contact, you start taking off your boots. "And yet you're doing nothing about it."

Joel starts walking towards you slowly, holding your gaze intently. Your hair was damp and your clothes were still wet; it didn't really matter that the air was chilly cause you still felt warm all over. He soon invades your space, cupping your chin in his big hand and lifting your head upwards.

"Well, you're awfully quiet now, aren't ya'?" his hot breath fanned across your cheeks, the gap between your faces being basically invisible.

"I'm just waiting for you to start singing some random song by Alabama or Johnny Cash," you scoff. "Like a good ol' Texan ma-"

He doesn't let you finish the sentence, abruptly crashing his lips into your own. Joel isn't delicate about it and the fervor with which he kisses you makes your body stumble a few steps backwards. Your shoulders hit the wall and he pins you against it as your mouths find a way to mold perfectly, at a much nicer pace than last time. You throw your hands around his neck and let your fingers tangle in the curls around his nape, tasting the fresh mint on his lips. His hands rest on your hips, chests pressed together as the temperature kept rising with each second that went on.

You part your lips in order to grant him deeper access, feeling his tongue slide past your teeth and meeting your own in an ardent, heated way. It was perfect, until he broke apart, looking down at you with an asserted confidence.

"You really know nothing 'bout country music," he says in between shaky breaths, beaming. "S'that what you wanted?"

"Yes," you manage to say.

"Then say 'thank you'," Joel indicates petulantly, stroking your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "Go on, don't be such a brat."

You blink twice, your brain still buzzing with the sensation of mouth on you, barely capable of processing anything else. "But I want more..."

"You'll take what I give you."

Shit, when he said it like that- "Thank you."

"That's my girl," he straightened his back, opening the door next to you. "Now, get your pretty ass in the shower before you catch a cold, 'kay?" You roll your eyes and hear him chuckle. "There's clean towers under the sink. You can take some clothes from my drawers, or Sarah's if you feel like it. I don't think she'll mind."

"Understood." He can tell you're annoyed, which he finds funny.

"Don't be mad at me, angel." Joel tugs a strand of hair behind your ear. "Promise I'll make it up to you."

You nod distractedly, lost in the cocky spark on his eyes. "I'm not mad. Just hoping you fuck me real good if you're making me wait for it."

Your words almost make him choke on his own saliva. "Sweetheart, you're making it real hard for me to be a gentleman."

It makes your ego boost, in a sense. "I'll be quick. Can you get something for dinner, though? I'm starving."

"Shit, darlin', pick a struggle," he mocks as you enter the bathroom, "are you horny or hungry?"

"Oh, you jerk!"

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

6:15 pm.

You take a quick glance at Joel's alarm clock once you come out of the shower. It's been little more than an hour since your dad's plane took off. You hope the rain hadn’t made his flight any difficult, cause the weather turned out to be quite a blessing for you.

The cozy feeling of a nice, warm shower after being soaked under the rain was starting to settle in your bones, making your limbs relax. Then you realize, you smell like Joel. The scent of his soap, his shampoo, even his laundry detergent, is all over you. It's intoxicating in the most fantastic way possible, making your insides burn with a thrill of excitement. You took one on his flannels, —dark green with red stripes— and decided to wear it without anything besides your underwear. It was pretty big anyway, and covered just the necessary areas.

You slid your socks back on when all of the sudden you hear the faint sound of music from the floor beneath. Curious, you walk towards the noise, finding out Joel was in the kitchen, crouched down in front of the opened fridge. The CD player that you saw earlier on his room was now on the table, playing a melody that you recognized almost immediately.

"I like this song," you say, leaning against the wall. "That's Billy Idol, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he recalls, taking out a medium sized plastic box from the fridge. "Tommy made that mix. There's plenty of hits from past decades. I think you'll enjoy it."

The man finally turns around to face you and his face fails to hide his surprise. The way his prying eyes sweep your body in detail, taking his time particularly on your bare thighs, almost made you feel self-conscious if it weren't for that shadow of desire that crossed his eyes and the way his nostrils flared from a contained breath.

"How is he, by the way?" you ask, still on the subject. "Haven't seen him in a while."

"Who?" he clearly forgot what he had just said.

"Your brother," you call to mind, "how is he?"

Joel sets the box down on the table and drifts his gaze back to your face. "Fine, I guess. Last time we spoke he said he'd go to Dallas." He takes two glasses from the pantry and what it looks like a bottle of wine. "I-uh... There isn't any real food in here besides those strawberries and chocolates that this guy brought for Sarah. Should I order something?"

You shake your head and walk over to him, "This will do. Won't she get mad if we eat them, though?"

"Don't think so," he replies, pouring the red liquid into the glasses. "I'll blame you if she does."

"Oh, okay-" you cock an eyebrow at him and hold back a giggle. "Thought you didn't like wine."

"It's a fancy drink," he explains, "s'only for special occasions."

"Oh?" you take a sip from it, eyes boring into his. "And what's tonight's?"

Joel smiles conceitedly, jutting his chin out. "I've got you all to myself."

You snort, feeling the heat soar across your cheeks. He takes the snack box and with a sly gesture asks you to follow him into the living room, the melodic sound of the eighties tune turning to background noise as you do. The only lights on are the ones in the kitchen and the lamps beside the couch, shining a perfect light on his features.

"Come here," he calls, the leather squealing under his weight when he sat down. You set the glass down on the coffee table in front of the tv, going to sit next to him. "No, sweetheart," he grabs your waist and pulls you closer to him. "I meant here."

His legs part slightly, making room for you to sit on his lap. Your smile broadened toward a soft chuckle, settling yourself on his thigh. Joel immediately gets his hands on you, one on your lower back and the other merely resting on your upper leg.

"So, who's this mystery man that's been giving gifts to your darling daughter?" he scoffs in response, reaching for a chocolate from the box.

"Honestly? No fuckin' clue." You hum in surprise, drinking from your wine. "She never involves with them, thank god, and once they meet me they never come by again."

"I see,” you muse, “you're the overprotective type," you bite on a strawberry next.

"I wouldn't say it like that..." he sees the sarcastic glimpse on your expression and holds back laughter. "It's a dad reflex, I can't control it."

"Right, sounds convincing."

You stretch your arm behind the couch, setting your elbow and laying the side of your face on your palm. His face is very close to yours but all you do is simply stare at each other; Joel's big brown eyes glimmer with infatuation. “Can I ask you a question, sweetheart?" he asks lowly. "Somethin' more serious."

You wince in confusion, but still nod, "Sure."

He inhales sharply, taking a couple of seconds to actually say what he meant to. “Why are you here?" your frown deepens at his words. "I mean- Texas. I know you said you wanted to make up for the lost time with your old man, but... I feel like there's something else you're not saying."

It takes a minute for you to really sink in on his question. You nearly gulp down the alcohol before setting the glass down, avoiding his ardent gaze.

"Honestly?" you sigh, "There's so much to unpack that I don't even know where to start."

"Try." Although he didn't sound harsh, the effort he was asking you to put in wasn't something of your liking.

"Well, first of all," you meditate, clearing your throat, "the city didn't feel like home since my mom passed. It made me realize how much I missed here." He nods comprehensively, caressing the exposed skin of your thigh in a reassuring manner. "And then there's this- fear. Yeah, I guess it is fear... I've managed to accomplish so much in such short time that it actually fucking scares me to go any further and see that-" you stop, sighing and shaking your head. "That I've reached my limit."

For a moment, there's just silence floating between you, all that could be heard were the rain and a song by tears for fears.

"Darlin', look at me," he asks softly but you can't bring yourself to do it, embarrassed by your confession. "Please, let me see those pretty eyes of yours."

And it's practically impossible for you to deny him anything. Specially when he asks so nicely, when his hand grabs the side of your face so gently— you give in, just like that.

"You're afraid to succeed because you don't know what to do with yourself afterwards. Is that it?" You nod faintly. "Can I speak frankly?"

"I have a feeling you will anyway-"

"Yeah. A bit of tough love, but you need’a hear it." Joel strokes your cheek sweetly and you get shivers from the affection in the action. "Sweetheart, I know what you're going through. Shit feels like it's either moving too fast or not moving at all. And I know how scary that is. Trust me, there's still plenty of time for you."

You square your eyes to his, "Sure, bet you were frightened when you were twenty four."

"Terrified," he spoke truthfully. "Everyone I knew was getting married, moving out or working their asses off."

"And you?" he grunts, taking a strawberry from the box. "What were you doing?" Joel eats the fruit patiently, simply staring at you silently. "Come ooon, don't play hard to get."

"Gotta promise you won't laugh."

It's a tricky business for someone who makes fun of everything, and yet you simply reply: "I swear."

"Fine," he rasps out in fake annoyance. "I used to make my own guitars and- sell 'em sometimes. I'd also teach guitar lessons and horseback riding."

Your eyes widen in surprise and something flutters in your stomach. "Shit, that's actually pretty cool!"

He groans, rolling his eyes at the same time, "I told you not to make fun of me."

"No, no- I mean it." You shuffle on his lap, resting a hand on his chest. "And you sound passionate about it... Why'd you stop?"

The man shrugs his shoulders, tightening his grip on your waist. "It went well for a couple years but I eventually had to get something more solid. More so after Sarah was born." He takes a deep breath in, the smell of his own shampoo on your hair hitting his nostrils and catching him off-guard.

"You should teach me," you suggest with a smug grin. "I always wanted to learn."

"What, guitar or horseback riding?" he wonders, suddenly nuzzling his face on the crook of your neck.

"Guitar. I'm pretty good at riding, if you must know." You feel him chuckle against your body, his facial hair scratching your sensitive skin.

"We'll see 'bout that," his voice comes out husky as he starts kissing along your jawline.

Joel's common sense jumped out the window long ago, but the string of self control that kept him sane all this time couldn't bear the weight of you wriggling on top of him, semi-naked and with his scent all over you. Something primal took over him, a glimpse of possessiveness that he didn't believe himself capable of feeling towards you specifically. He wanted you to wear that flannel around town so people would look at you and know who it belonged to; whose bed you've been visiting. He wanted you to smell of his cologne so other men would know that you weren't free for them.

Your fingers run through his soft curls, messing his hair while he grabs the back of your thighs and manhandles you onto straddling his lap. He nips and licks over all your vulnerable areas, making your breathing start to labour. How could he possibly know this well the easiest ways to have you so desperate this quick? Leaning into his touch, yearning for him even with the smallest action? He wasn't aware of the answer himself, he just knew.

Joel instinctively throws his head back when you tug at his hair and seize the opportunity to duck down and lay a sweet kiss on his forehead. His hands coast up your thighs, splaying his fingers on your ass to squeeze the flesh. You hold back a giggle, kissing the curve of his nose before catching his soft, soft lips on yours.

He slides an arm around your waist, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to keep you as close as possible. You feel your nipples harden when his tongue ran along your bottom lip— tauntingly slow, until you allowed him full access to your mouth, letting him taste the sweet mixture of wine and strawberries on your tongue. But his vehemence didn't make you any less eager, kissing him back with just as much passion and vigor, sinking your teeth into his bottom lip and mildly pulling at it with minor strength.

The action ignites a fire within him, seeing you on top, feeling your fingers roam around his cheekbones and along his jawline like you knew just how much fucking power you had over him... It was a new sensation, a new kind of desire he didn't recognize at first.

Joel's lips were swollen and his own excitement was starting to feel evident underneath you, which created a blunt ache between your legs. He usually appeared so big and mean, with those broad shoulders and permanent scowl on his face. Now, though... He seemed like he'd let you do just about anything with him, to him— it didn't really matter as long as you kept staring at him like that; through heavy lids, eyes sparkling with a profound, desperate need that spoke without words, saying 'only you get to see this side of me'.

You start grinding your hips against his, rubbing your clothed core above his growing boner in small, calculated circles as you shore yourself up with a hand to his chest. He merely admired you from his position, letting you have your way with him; all the while his gaze reflected patience, like he could take over the situation any second but enjoyed watching you lead.

"Joel," you call his name, leaning forward to kiss his chin, moving your lips all the way down his throat and feeling the nice scratch of his beard. Your hands grab the collar of his shirt as you come up to whisper in his ear: "Stay still."

Panting, he narrows his eyes in confusion, "What?" Though you don't give him enough time to figure out your words, getting back on your feet and parting his legs further with a light thump of your knee.

He observes your every move quietly, amused by your confidence and determination when you drop to your knees in front of him. Joel's cocky expression doesn't sway, not even when you drag your nails across his inner thigh, inching closer towards his very visible hard on. However, his body betrays him, selling a whole different story. His muscles tense, his jaw clenches and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

"Stop being such a fucking tease," he hissed, refusing to place his hands on you.

"Or what?" you drawl, coming to rest your palm on his crotch. A simple, feathery touch that made his pulse accelerate.

"You'll regret it," he warns grimly.

"S'that so?" you start to unbuckle his belt, way too slow for his liking, tugging down the zipper of his jeans. "I think I can handle it."

He smirked, his hand slithers to the back of your scalp and forces you to lock eyes with him. "Don't test your luck, sweetheart."

You pout mockingly, doing exactly the opposite of what he was saying while dragging down the fabric just enough to free his cock. Your new found courage falters for a second, finally seeing him in all his size and girth. He was, by all means, a big one, the amount of precome oozing on the tip telling you just how much he loved being teased, despite whatever words came out of his mouth. The mere sight of it sent a new heated wave of slick between your thighs.

Joel mimicked your expression scornfully, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone, "Too big for ya'?"

"None of that," you wrap your hand around the base, not really applying any pressure; though the sole warmth of your touch was enough to give him goosebumps, "we'll make it fit."

"That's my girl."

With a chuckle, you lower your head to kiss the inside of his thigh, the pads of your fingers softly grazing the veins on his length. His whole body shudders, leaking onto your hand and letting out a subtle gasp as you spread kisses all along his shaft. Your eyes peer into his soul when you gently place your lips to the slit, tasting the salty precome as he calls your name in what resembles a desperate plea. In a swift move, you finally take the tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and deciding to put an end to his suffering. He mutters a gruff 'fuck' when you attempt to take him farther, pumping what you couldn't yet fit and snaking your free hand under the hem of his denim shirt to caress the soft skin of his belly.

"Shit, darlin'-" you feel the heaviness of his palm simply resting on the back of your head, not pushing or forcing you in any way, but allowing you to adapt to his size. "The only way to get ya' to stop talking is with a mouth full of cock, ain't it?"

You hum in response and the sensation is completely enrapturing for Joel, his callused fingers tangle in your hair to ground him as he releases a shaky breath. It's a huge challenge to focus on anything else but him; your mind whirring with a familiar dizziness while you bob your head up and down his shaft, intoxicated by the taste of him, the smell of him and every sound that escapes his lips, making your clit throb with need and your arousal pool in your panties, uncomfortably sticking to your skin.

For Joel, it's overwhelming.

He's never really been the noisy type during sex but heck— you were doing it for him. He's a panting mess above you, his hips buck ever so slightly in tandem with your mouth, trying not to lose it entirely. Your spit drools down his dick and the way your dark, dilated pupils sparkle with lust as you hollow your cheeks around him pulls a groan deep from his throat.

"That's it, you can take it," he coaxes when your nose nudges his pubic bone, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. "Good fuckin' girl, just like that..."

Enticed with the praise, you keep repeating the motion, sliding one hand to hold his hipbone for support and feeling his burning skin under your touch whilst the other plays with his balls to aid his pleasure. The obscene slick sounds mix in the air with his hoarse cursing, the rain and the faint music of kings of leon, sex on fire.

He looks so good from this angle, chest rising and falling with heavy, irregular breaths, head thrown back and both hands on you, keeping you angled for his cock. Drops of precum roll on your tongue as you keep changing the pace at which your head moves, tears welling in your eyes and jaw going slack. Shit, you're aching for him so bad that the only thing you can think of to relieve the need is squeeze your thighs together in order to create some friction. And it works, the action eliciting a moan from you that makes him fucking whimper your name.

"Bet your cunt's drippin' just from sucking my dick," he muffles a laugh that turns halfway into a sigh when you pay special attention to the ruddy, sensitive tip. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum-"

You can tell he is by the way his cock twitches in your mouth; his spine straightens at the heat gathering between his legs and he tries to pull you off against your will, uttering a warning that you chose to ignore. Joel's lips part in a throaty groan when he reaches his high, feeling the outline of your fingers digging harshly on his hip, your hand rubbing his length and your tongue lapping at his slit, taking in every single drop of his release until he's spent, right before pressing a soft kiss to it that makes him shiver. And hell— contrary to others, he tasted good; warm and thick, coating your senses.

His heart beats aggressively against his ribs and he loosens his grip on your hair, allowing you to get back on your feet while resting your hands on his waist. Although his eyes are barely open, he can quite literally feel your smile when you chastely kiss his lips. He chuckles breathlessly as you sit beside him, tugging himself back in his pants.

"We're not done yet," he says, grabbing the back of your knee and promptly engulfing your leg around his waist, maneuvering your body so that your back rests against the couch and he's crouched down, caged in the middle of your thighs. "I said I'd make it up to you and I will."

"Well, you've certainly got some stamina in you, old man," you poke fun at him, raising a hand to move those rebellious curls away from his eyes.

Joel smiles, caressing your cheek affectionately. "Always got somethin' to say, don't ya'?"

"Oh, Mr. Miller," you coo, enveloping your arms around his neck, "we both know just how much you love to hear me talk."

"Mhm," he leans down to kiss the corner of your mouth, "yes, I reckon you're right."

His big hand covers nearly half of your face as he holds you still, crashing your lips together. He kisses you deeply, vigorously, in a way that makes you wonder if you could possibly drown in a person's essence. His other palm slides between your bodies to start undoing the buttons of the flannel —his flannel— you were wearing. You can't help but whine when he draws back, watching you from above.

"Joel-" blood rushes through your ears and can feel your cheeks warm up as he takes in the sight of you, his fingers coasting down your throat and to the valley of your breasts, licking his lips when he sees your hardened nipples.

"You're fuckin' beautiful," he speaks freely, without holding back emotion, and it makes your heart skip a beat. "Such a sweet, sweet girl I can't get enough of."

"Then take a picture," you purr, "it'll last longer."

He stares at you through a measuring squint, a lighthearted smile forming on his face. "Since you insist." It takes a moment for you to realize what he means, until you finally recall that there's actually a camera inside your purse; one that he reaches for. "If I remember correctly... You said I could take as many as I like."

You lightly squeeze his waist with your thighs, feeling your whole body burn with anticipation. "I did say that..."

"Let's just pray your dad won't find these hanging around," he ponders, turning your face slightly to the side. "He'll have my head."

"And that would be terrible..."

He takes the Polaroid with one hand, the other coming to grope your breast as he backs off for a better angle, ultimately deciding to wrap his fingers loosely around your neck instead, purely holding you there. You glance at the lens, making your best "fuck me" eyes added to a cheeky smile, hearing him curse under his breath prior to snapping the picture.

"You've got the prettiest fucking tits I've even seen, sweetheart," he snarls, laying a palm flat over your lower abdomen while he waited for the photo.

"Has anyone ever told you you've got such a marvelous way with words?" he suppressed a laugh, safeguarding the picture on the back pocket of his jeans.

"Just a few women." Before you can even begin to act annoyed, he sets the camera aside and leans down to kiss your collarbones, the pad of his thumb kneading circles around your sensitive nipple. "Look at you, honey," he murmurs, "you're so easy to please... Or is it just because of me?"

You're panting, your back arching in response to his constant ministrations, every inch of your skin blushing under his attention. "I think it's-" you're cut off by the sudden need to swallow when he sucks a mark on the vulnerable skin between your breasts, "you."

His body vibrates with a laugh and you feel his hand palm your clothed sex, dragging his tongue over your delicate nipple, gently nibbling at it. You screw your eyes shut and let a single, fluttery moan slide past your lips when his thumb nudges your clit.

"So wet just from giving head?" Joel shakes his head in fake disapproval. "Who knew you were such a horny little thing?"

You are holding onto his bicep for dear life, fearing you might collapse into oblivion if you part from his body. His index glides across your slit over the drenched cotton fabric, making you squirm beneath him.

"You- you tasted good," you babble, mind all over the place.

"Yeah?" his chest swells with pride, "you should taste yourself, angel," his mouth travels across your abdomen, "sweetest thing I've ever had."

It's pointless trying to conjure a response, you're simply too far gone by now. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and buries his head between your thighs, flattening his tongue against the bundle of nerves. You whimper, running your fingers through his locks and bucking your hips to meet his face.

"Please," you blurt out, "Joel, please..."

"What, sweetheart?" he asks, moving the underwear aside to directly touch your clit, fondling it as he watched your slick coat his fingers. "What do you want?" But you can't conceive an answer, all that could come out of your mouth were those pathetic, desperate moans. "Use your words."

With his free hand he plays with your nipple, grabbing your breast with his entire hand. "I want you."

He tauntingly moves his fingers around your seam, refusing to go any further. "Say it again."

"I want you, Joel."

Cocky bastard.

He licks his fingers clean and starts getting off the couch, leaving you with a confused, dumbfounded expression that nearly makes him crack up.

"You didn't really believe I'd be fucking you on the couch, did ya'?" he teases, but all you can muster up is a barely audible 'oh'. "Come on, let's take this to my room. And don't forget to bring that camera of yours."

Mind still dazing, you obey his instructions, following him silently upstairs as he undoes the buttons of his shirt. For a second, he glances back at you, gifting a soft, reassuring grin before extending his arm to grab your fingers, holding your hand in a pure, intimate touch.

And just for that moment, you forget that he's actually your dad's oldest friend, that he's Sarah's father or any other thought of the sort. He's just Joel. Joel Miller, the only man that has managed to make you feel butterflies in the pit of your stomach, or that made you blush with merely a few compliments.

"Ask me to kiss you," he urges, taking the camera from your hands and carefully placing it on his bedside table, his eyesight fixed on you.

"Kiss me," you don't ask, you downright beg.

He does, though it's not like the previous times. He's tender, almost languid about it. His hands are on your bare hips while yours cup his cheeks; Joel's fingers reach to remove the flannel from your shoulders and moves his lips to the newly exposed skin, murmuring constant admirations. You feel your lungs clench and a tingly sensation on your lower belly.

"I'll take care of you, darlin'." You let the shirt slide down your arms and fall to the floor. "Gonna show you what you've been missin' out on by fooling around with those stupid boys." His words go straight to your core as he takes a step back to sit on the edge of his bed. "Take them off," he gestures to the last piece of clothing on your body.

You compel to his wish, stripping under his prying eyes while he lazily gets rid of his boots. His lips twitch in a smile when he sees the glistening mess he's made of you, promptly dragging you on top of him. Your hands lay flat on his exposed chest shortly before he switches positions, readjusting you on the middle of the bed.

"Joel, please just-" you whine when he keeps playing with your entrance, stretching you with his fingers. Your skin scorches with desire, knees weak from the growing heat on your lower body.

"Stop nagging, sweetheart," he grits through his own lust, his gaze impossibly dark. "I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"Joel, I'm too worked up, I-" you gasp when he curls his fingers inside you, hitting that particular spot that made your toes curl. "Fuck..."

"Come on, baby." He ducks down to kiss the skin behind your ear and his beard tickles nicely. "It's just the two of us now, feel free to be as loud as you need to."

His pants are undone and hanging loosely on his hips, the image being so blatantly erotic that only managed to get you more aroused as you fumble to get rid of his shirt. He chuckles at your eagerness, shrugging it out of the way and haphazardly kicking off his jeans and underwear altogether, discarding them on the floor with the rest of the clothes.

You take a second to revel on his naked figure, his tanned skin, broad shoulders and sturdy chest, the marked collarbones and every noticeable mole. His hair is messy from your fingers, a thin layer of sweat sticks some curls to his temples as his wild, hungry eyes bask in the view of your sopping pussy when he parts your shaky legs further. But the moment of appreciation is brief, both of you being edged and spurred on.

He maneuvers a hand to your lower back and aligns your hips with his, watching the way your hole drips for him, wetting his bedsheets. You're a panting mess beneath him, lightly scratching his shoulder-blades and biting on your bottom lip, looking up at him doe-eyed and all splayed out for him to take. Joel wants to tell you just how badly he's longed for this— how he's been yearning to have you so achingly bad. But right now, feelings overrun his thoughts, especially after hearing his name spilling from your lips, begging for him to take you.

"Relax, darlin'." Joel teases your slit with the head of his cock, rubbing it along your sex and coating it with your slick. Your head tilts backwards, dipping on his pillows, small whines keep spilling from your mouth. "I won't go easy on you."

"Great, cause I don't want you to-" your slurred words get muffled by the sudden feeling of intrusion as he finally buries himself in your cunt, letting out a filthy, guttural groan.

You close your eyes, feeling lightheaded and staggered from the way he was filling you up so nicely, the stretch being a tad painful at first, but the kind of pain that could only ever feel good. Then your whole body quivers from head to toe.

"That's it, you can take it," he mutters, peppering kisses to your chin and collarbones as he bottoms out. "Fuck, you feel divine-" The tight, warm grip you welcome him with resembles nothing he's ever had before. This is new, this is you.

You bear down on his cock, enveloping your legs around his waist and lifting your hips to encourage him. He holds you down with a firm grip around your neck, starting to set a pace with his hips as he draws out and then back in slowly, roughly, making your back arch. Your erect nipples brush against his strong chest and create a delightful friction that has you moaning louder than you could've expected. You're amazed by the way he thrusts into you, somehow mindful to hit every right spot inside you —needless to say that it was something that others could hardly manage before—, his pubic hair tickles the skin below your belly button, sending shivers down your spine that prompt you to drag your nails down his back.

"Look," he indicates, despite your inability to even think straight. "Look," he repeats harshly, using the hand that was on your hips to tilt your head downwards, forcing you to stare at where your bodies connected. It was obscene, the wet noises of your pussy and skin clapping against skin sounding purely pornographic. "Look at the mess you're making."

"Joel, I-" you can't form sentences properly, all your attention being focused on how good he's making you feel. "I'm so close, for god's sake..."

"Lemme help with that," he speaks breathlessly, pining your leg over the crook of his elbow to make his thrusts deeper, more precise. You cry out in bliss, feeling the heat expanding from your stomach to your legs. "Yeah, you're close, I can fuckin' feel it- fuck..."

Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his dick just right. He knows he's in too deep when you call out his name like it's the only word you can remember, when he wallows in the glorious view of your pretty face contorted in pleasure. He looses the grip on your neck and strokes your lower lip with his thumb, prodding you to keep eye contact as your orgasm washes over you. It's electrifying, a feverish kind of sensation that gratifies every nerve on your body.

He rests his forehead on your shoulder, overcame by the intense feeling of euphoria that your body was providing. You realize in that moment that the reason why Joel could fill that void so easily was because he kept prioritizing you above him. Your pleasure was his, too.

"Jesus Christ, Joel-" you mewl when he abruptly pulls out, “… Worth the wait.”

He laughs shakily, kissing your lips shortly. "Turn around, sweetheart. I want to fuck you from behind."

With a buzzing dizziness, you follow his instruction. God, right now you'd do just about anything if he asked you to. You notice movement from his part and patiently wait with your butt up in the air for him to stuff you again; instead, you hear the familiar clicking sound of the Polaroid camera.

"You fucker," you chuckle, "did you just take a picture of my ass?"

"Couldn't help myself," he groans, caressing the soft flesh before lightly slapping it. "You look too damn gorgeous." The hit on your skin burns nicely and you can't hold back the gasp that escapes your lips.

"Shit- do that again..."

You can practically hear his smile when he talks, "You into that?" he repeats the action with a little more force and the pain sends a shock of pure pleasure between your legs, your own fluids dripping down your thighs. "F'course you are, I should've guessed with that attitude of yours."

He plays with your swollen pussy, enjoying your tiny moans and the way your legs tremble as you fist the sheets underneath you, burying your face on his pillow when he spanks you again— this time so hard that it probably left a mark. But before the sting washes away he takes the opportunity to enter you in one swift move, holding your hips steady and trailing his fingers along your spine.

"That's my sweet girl," he praises a midst, starting to grind his cock inside you. "Taking me like you were made for it."

This is way more intense, the angle allowing him to hit deeper, harsher. His gruff moans become more frequent as he speeds up his pace, letting you know just how good you were making him feel. The sensation was purely fantastic, melting every thought away and just leaving Joel Miller to fill you in every sense of the word. His hands are never still, roaming your responsive areas, caressing the most sensitive and always taking care of your aching clit.

You might cry from the overwhelming ecstasy— the way his tip constantly hits the depths of your cunt with each relentless thrust has you seeing stars. Joel gets a thrill from the way you can't seem to get enough of him either, throwing your hips back to meet his unwavering pace, clawing at the pillows and moaning helplessly, pushing him close to his climax.

"Joel, it's too much..." you mumble. "Please, I can't-"

He hunches over you, kissing your nape to ease the overpowering sensations, "Yes, you can. You're a big girl, you can take it." And then your vision goes blurry, all you're able to hear being his disjointed, lewd moans; all you can feel is his hard, hot body flushed to yours, his cock twitching inside you and the wetness of your own body. "That's it, give me another one, baby- fuuuck..."

The buildup is so strong you nearly collapse, feeling yourself tremble as he chases his orgasm, fucking you through yours. His fingers reach your bundle of nerves and apply barely any pressure, which has you coming undone in seconds, absolutely soaking his dick and the sheets beneath you, chanting his name like a prayer. A string of curses falls from his lips as he pulls out and quickly manhandles your fucked out self to lay on your back. He exhales sharply through his nose, spilling his load all over your stomach without even touching himself.

You both stay there for a while, catching your breath and looking intently at each other’s eyes before he rolls over, going limp beside you. You stare blankly at de ceiling, suddenly feeling aggressively aware of your sticky skin covered in sweat and cum, the numbness on your lower body that will surely feel sore in the morning and all the marks he's left dispersed on you. You feel satisfied, fulfilled even. Joy bubbles up your chest and comes out in form of a giggle, one you're unable to hold back.

"What?" he asks, turning his face towards you with a half-smile.

"I don't know, I just..." you shake your head, still laughing. "I don't know."

He chortles in disbelief, holding out a hand to take some tissues from the bedside drawer and going to swipe his mess off your tummy and inner thighs. "Shit, I think I might’ve just fucked the sense out of ya'."

Joel sets himself between your parted legs, laying the weight of his upper body on top of you, resting his chin on your chest, eyes boring into yours. He looks so young like this, despite the greying hair and the small wrinkles, his beautiful brown orbs sparkle ever so brightly under your attentive gaze.

"What will your dad say when he returns and finds out his only daughter has completely lost her mind?" he jokes, cradling you in his big arms.

"Come on," you roll your eyes playfully, "we both know that if I had been in my right mind since the beginning, I probably wouldn't be in your bed right now." He doesn't reply, but his smile doesn't fade either. Joel nuzzles his face on the crook of your neck, kissing your pulse zone briefly before closing his eyes. You run your fingers through his hair, softly massaging his scalp in utter silence.

The wind was howling outside, rustling the tree branches, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. You can feel Joel's heart beating against your ribs, his deep breaths fanning across your shoulder and his unique scent all around you, on you. In spite of the cold air, your naked bodies are warm enough to stay comfortably in this position, at least for a while— however, there's something deep inside you that doesn't want this moment to end.

"Hey," you call him lowly and he hums in response, "can we order pizza?"

He nods faintly, "Anything you want, honey."

Anything.

If only.

"I'll call," you say. "Any specific requests?"

"As long as there isn't any pineapple on it, we're fine." You glance down at him, almost appalled.

"You don't like pineapple on pizza?"

"No. That's disgusting, come on."

"Oh, grow up!" he opens his mouth to retort, but when he sees your dismayed expression he can merely bark a laugh that you get infected with.

"Order whatever you want," he whispers in your ear. "But you'll have to promise something."

"What's that?" you raise an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Say you'll stay," he murmurs, slightly hesitant. "Stay here and spend the night with me."

The proposal takes you by surprise, so much that you actually stopped breathing. You ponder wether if you could or you should; because, at the end, what would a night really mean? What could possibly change?

Nothing, right?

Besides, no one had to know.

(...)

A few moments later you're downstairs looking for your phone, wearing nothing other than his green flannel. Joel decided to take a shower while you ordered the food and you chose to walk around the house, paying attention to the little details you hadn't quite noticed before.

Now that you see it, there are plenty of horse images here and there. Very Texan of Joel, you can't deny. Lots of pictures of Sarah growing up, some of him and Tommy and a good deal with your dad. None of his ex-wife. In fact, there's no proof that she even existed. You decide not too think too hard about it, since it was none of your business after all.

You pour yourself a glass of water and wander your eyes across the amount of pills he usually takes. Anxiety pills, painkillers, vitamins. What could possibly be troubling this middle-aged man so bad? Again, you decide to turn a blind eye and simply pick up the phone, expecting a message from your dad to tell you he arrived in Boston well and safe. Instead, you find that your direct messages in social media have new requests. Curious, you open them to see what the fuzz was about.

Hi!

This is Will

I don't know if Sarah mentioned me...

I'm her English teacher, haha

I hope you don't find this creepy, your profile popped up in my 'people you may know' section and since Sarah said she wanted to introduce us, I thought I might just say hi 😉

Honestly, with everything that went down you had nearly forgotten about Sarah's 'you should hang out with people your age' speech. And now that you were stalking his profile, he appeared to be maybe a couple years older than you— handsome in a boyish, intelectual way, if that made sense. Apparently, he studied in New York too, and lived in Queens.

Hi!

Yeah, I reckon she did

What's up, Queens? :)

You don't really expect a reply, not giving much thought to anything in the moment. Though, an involuntary smile twitches your lips when there's a quick message that reads "Not much, Brooklyn" and the writing bubble underneath.

After all, having a friend in Austin wouldn't hurt.

#pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #dbf!joel #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #the last of us au #smut

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zeroeightzeroone · 2 months

Note

hi! so idk if your request are open so if they aren’t feel free do delete this

so we know that in the love collection y/n and jisung feel really comfortable around each other and will go to each other for things but what if one day y/n didn’t tell jisung how she was feeling that day and cried in her room by herself? i just wanted to see how he’d react to that and his response

again u don’t have to respond to this!! ty ^__^

all ears - han jisung

love collection

genre: comfort, maybe a bit of angst?

pairings: fem!reader (infp) x idol!han jisung (istp)

warnings: readers' insecurities getting the best of her, self-deprecating language

notes: thank you for requesting!! i hope i did your request justice. (finally revealing y/n's roommate too)

wc ~2.9k | moodboard

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:

you feel dumb.

you feel stupid, absolutely stupid.

you hate the feeling with the utmost passion, but regardless of how much you detest it, it always seems to find a way back to haunt you months later, coming out from the depths of your mind into the forefront and creating a storm up there.

they're stupid thoughts.

thoughts that you shouldn't let get to you, but sometimes you can't help it. sometimes, they overpower you and silence your pleas to stop.

have you spoken to anyone about it? no.

your roommate, yunjin, has been on a work trip for the past couple of weeks, so you've had the apartment to yourself. no need to mask your emotions when you're home alone. on the other hand, jisung's schedule has been packed lately, and there is nothing new in his line of work. seungmin is on the same boat as your boyfriend; both share busy and separate schedules.

everyone has a busy life, and you don't want to burden them with things happening in your life.

when the b-word comes up in your passing thoughts, you can practically hear your boyfriend saying, "y/n, my love, don't invalidate yourself like that. you're not a burden, never. you're important to me; your thoughts and feelings are all important."

jisung always reminds you of how important you are to him. you know you could go to him for anything, and he'll be there to the best of his ability.

that's one of the many reasons why you love him so much.

the knowledge that he's there for you is one thing, but the one thing holding you back is yourself.

when you're in such a low and vulnerable state, you tend to shut yourself in, keep to yourself, and shield yourself away from others. you see yourself as an inconvenience or a burden.

the way you've rationalized it in your mind is that if you're tired of the shit happening in your own life, telling it to someone else would only tire them out as well. you didn't want them to grow tired on your behalf. it didn't seem worth it.

that feeling of self-doubt always pushes itself into the front lines from where it usually hides, creeping in the back.

you wanted to try and cope alone, get through this on your own, but you just couldn't. you tried to tell yourself it's no big deal and that they're just fleeting, meaningless thoughts that will go away and you'll be fine, but you know you're lying to yourself.

you know that ignoring your overwhelming emotions lately will only worsen them. it's been a week since those thoughts started again, and here you are, curled up in a ball underneath your comforter, pulling it up under your chin as the mental and emotional exhaustion hits its breaking point.

your cheeks are stained with tears, and your eyes are droopy and puffy. you were supposed to go to work today but called in sick. you didn't have it in you to face your work head-on today.

the moment you hung up the phone with your manager, you cried, sobbing into your comforter. you felt absolutely defeated calling in sick. you weren't even sick, you lied in order to stay home.

here you were, practically waving the white flag after the events of your life after your thoughts and feelings had beaten you down into a ball under your comforter. you hate yourself for calling in sick, feeling as if you should've just sucked it up and gone in, put on a mask to hide your emotions.

'so many people have it harder than you do, y/n. the fact you could even lie and call in sick is a privilege. look at all this privilege, and you're out here pouting, how selfish.'

you shut your eyes at the thought, nuzzling yourself further into the blanket as a tear squeezes itself free and down your skin.

'you can't even deal with your own feelings, your own thoughts, let alone some tiny ass inconveniences. pathetic.'

you feel stupid and weak. you feel like a crybaby.

your eyelids flutter closed as you sob into the thick comforter, letting out all the built-up frustrations in hopes that you'll feel better afterwards.

'j's one and only has notifications silenced. notify anyway?'

jisung's concern grows when he reads over the little notice at the bottom of your text conversation.

of course, he noticed you had been off the past couple of days, and when he asked what was up, you played it off as nothing, but it's jisung; he knows you like the back of his hand.

he didn't believe for one second that nothing was up. it was clear there was something, but he assumed you weren't in a place to talk to him about it yet, that you weren't ready yet. but now, you weren't even replying, let alone reading his messages.

jisung: good morning love, how did you sleep?

j's one and only: good morning i slept okay, how about you

jisung: i dreamt of you so i slept better than usual ;) i've got another busy day today, so i hope you have an amazing day my love

jisung: [photo attachment] i ate a bento box for lunch today

jisung: [audio file] exclusive sneak peek of a b-side [audio file] exclusive sneak peek of a skz-record

jisung: baby

jisung: y/n baby

he stares down at his phone, hoping to get a read receipt from you, but nothing. jisung finds himself swiping down the notification screen and swiping it away multiple times. on–probably–the fifth rotation, he pauses, an imaginary lightbulb flashing over his head.

jisung: i'm coming over

…

your sob session only further tired you out. you didn't have it in you to fight to stay awake, letting your heavy eyelids close as you cried to sleep around dinner time, curling up into a smaller ball as your tears soaked the comforter.

your eyes are puffy, your nose is runny and almost matches the flushed, red tint of your cheeks, your hair is dishevelled, and you have a prominent pout on your lips even in your sleep. the tears that fell from your eyes and stained your cheeks also bound your eyelashes together, as they glisten under the light of your bedside lamp.

a couple hours later, you're stirring awake, your head rolling left and right, and a tired groan leaves your lips. with a hum, you blink slowly as you come to full consciousness, and your brain is also slowly waking up from its resting state. after a brief stretch and a rush of endorphins flowing through your body, allowing you to relax, your limbs fall back into the mattress with a soft thump.

with a sigh, you roll your head to the side to look at the clock on the wall, registering that you've slept for a little over two hours and that there are a couple of hours left until midnight. you aren't starving, but you do feel like you need something to fill you up, so you roll out of bed and make your way into the kitchen to grab a light snack and a glass of water, snatching your phone off the bedside table before making your way out.

the moment your screen comes to life, you find a couple of missed messages from Jisung that you go to check first and send replies to.

j.one<3: [audio file] exclusive sneak peek of a b-side [audio file] exclusive sneak peek of a skz-record

j.one<3: baby

j.one<3: y/n baby

j.one<3: i'm coming over

you: :O i'm telling jyp also i just woke up from a nap so jibaby you should stay home and rest, i'm fine

"you're not fine."

you stop in your tracks while feeling like your heart has jumped out of your chest. a sharp gasp leaves you as your hand grips your shirt in utter shock.

walking out from the kitchen and standing across from you, the dark-haired boy's eyes are laced with worry and concern, and his lips pout the slightest bit as he looks at you.

"shit ji, you scared the shit out of me," you watch as he shuts his screen off, "what are you doing here?"

"it's friday," he pushes himself off the wall, "remember our little deal?"

you nod, mouth agape with realization. your little deal was that if jisung would come over on fridays when his weekend schedules were nonexistent or started later in the day, one of the reasons why he had a key to yours and yunjin's place.

jisung takes a few steps towards you, just enough to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger, moving your head around as his eyes graze your face. meanwhile, you look up at him with doe-eyed eyes, confused. he lets go of your chin and moves to take your hand, pulling you behind him as he walks into the living area.

"sit," he nods towards the couch. you follow his words and take a seat. stay there. i'll be right back. i made you some food."

you mutter a small agreement as your boyfriend walks out of view. a couple moments later, he walks out from behind the couch with a bowl in one hand and a cup in his other, placing both dishes down on the coffee table before he sits beside you.

"ji–"

"eat," he's quick to cut you off, but he's also quick to notice how sharp his tone is. not wanting to come off wrong, he quickly adds, " please."

you stare at him, to which he flashes you a quick smile. you're still quite perplexed, but you listen to him anyway; plus, whatever he's whipped up looks quite good, and you can't resist.

your boyfriend watches you eat for a few minutes before reaching for the glass of water on the table. the water is ready and on standby for when you need it. with a small smile, you exchange your food for the water he's holding, taking gulps while he places the bowl back on the table, followed by the water.

"tell me, what's wrong?" jisung has an elbow propped up on the couch, his hand coming down to pat the side of your head and play with a couple of strands of your hair. your hair is quite tangled after waking up from a nap.

"nothings wrong," you deny.

he purses his lips together before continuing, "you've been quiet over text all day," he tips his chin, nodding towards your face, "the red, puffy eyes and tear stains don't exactly back up your statement."

your appearance only further proved to the round-chinned boy that something was definitely going on. along with the ones he previously mentioned, your cheeks and nose were flushed with a tint of red, and your lashes were clumped together, a remnant of the tears you shed that tired you to sleep.

"i-it's stupid," you mutter, your eyes wandering away from jisung in shame.

jisung bites his tongue, taking a step back to observe you fully and your body language. he tries to put himself in your perspective before he says something. your boyfriend also doesn't want to come on too strong, as you're already going through something. he needs to use his 't' to his advantage while also keeping in mind your 'f, ' which is simultaneously logical but sensitive to your feelings.

"hey, look at me. whatever it is, it's not stupid," his hand travels down slowly, gently cupping your cheek. your bottom lip is tucked between your teeth as you meet his gaze. " if you want, you can tell me what's going on, and i'll listen. if you don't want to, then i'll still be here, however you need me to be here right now."

jisung's thumb caresses your cheek gently, paired with a smile as gentle as his touch. you lean into his palm, the word 'hug' leaving your lips with a breathless sigh, to which jisung adjusts both your positions immediately.

the hug becomes a cuddle as you both lie on the couch facing each other, your face buried in jisung's chest, and one arm is squished between you two and the other around his torso. on the other hand, Jisung has an arm under your neck, and the other is holding you close, the smell of your shampoo gracing his senses from how close you are.

your body relaxes but your heart still feels heavy, although it's an improvement compared to a couple hours ago.

jisung's fingers toy with the strands of your hair, occasionally brushing through and trying to gently undo the knots. his mind wandering.

of course, you and jisung aren't attached by the hip and texting all day, every day; there have been times when a couple of hours linger between replies. either you or he would send a message beforehand letting the other know that there would be a delay on your end.

jisung knows you like the back of his hand. he knows your habits and mannerisms. so when you weren't replying or reading his messages after the exchange in the morning, coupled with your demeanour over text and a couple of phone calls, he knew something was wrong.

he knows how you get when you're in the wrong place mentally and emotionally, how you tend to shut yourself in and away from people. saying you want to be alone when you really don't.

before he left the company building, he made sure to check in with chan and the group manager regarding the weekend schedule–wanting to spend as much time as possible with you. sure, this meant he moved some things around, and his sunday would be more packed than usual, but jisung wanted and needed to be there for you.

and you didn't need to know that detail.

when jisung unlocked the front door, he did it as quietly as possible. he looked around the living area and kitchen to see if there were any signs of you, but the kitchen was clean, minus a used glass cup on the counter. he then made his way down the hall and to your bedroom, cracking open the door slowly, trying to avoid it creaking just in case you had been asleep, and you had.

jisung slowly approached the side of the bed, knelt, and observed your sleeping state.

your room was dim, and the only light source was the lamp on your bedside table, thus a yellow hue illuminating your features. jisung felt his heart ache at the sight of you. the air of tranquillity from your sleeping state contrasted with the clear signs of distress that lulled you to sleep. your cheeks were still quite damp with tears, and there were a couple of wet spots on your comforter and pillow.

the sight of you asleep with tear-stained cheeks had jisung wondering what had been going on inside your head the past couple of days, wanting to know the gravity of the storm inside your mind that eventually blew over and resulted in you, isolating yourself, alone and crying yourself to sleep. jisung wanted to get a glimpse into that mind of yours, fight off the thoughts and feelings that brought you to such a low point.

at the same time, the longer he looked at you, jisung wondered if he had done something. he wondered if he had done something lately that caused you to shy away from coming to him, that caused you to resort to crying alone in your room as the easier option. but jisung needed to fight those thoughts to the back of his mind, snapping himself to the realization that this isn't about him but about you and how you feel.

jisung didn't want to wake you up too soon, so he got back up, closed the door behind him softly, and made his way to your kitchen again. he opened and closed the cupboards, fridge, and freezer to identify ingredients he could whip up for you, just in time for you to eat once you awoke.

building up the confidence to speak, your fingers toy with the fabric on the back of jisung's hoodie. you take deep breathes and open your mouth.

"it's the feeling of self-doubt again…" you say softly, almost as if you're in a public place and spilling a secret—quiet but just loud enough for jisung to hear. he hums in acknowledgment, "i just... i don't know."

"how do you need me right now?"

you take a second to think, contemplating what would help you the most now.

"here with me, like this," you move your head up to look at him, "i just need someone to listen."

jisung nods, adjusting his position, but his hold on you never falters; he keeps you close. when he's adjusted, he nods again, this time with a smile and a look of determination.

when jisung felt your body relax in his arms earlier, he wished he could have been there sooner. he wished that you could have sobbed in his arms instead, and he would've held you tight instead of you crying into your pillow and comforter, alone in the dark. what matters to him now is that he's here, and he'll be here however you need him.

"i'm all ears for you, baby."

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clockwork-ashes · 12 days

Text

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XI

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere

Lucien tried but failed to settle the racing and unsteady beat of his heart.

Like the quick rhythm of hummingbird wings, Lucien could feel his own pulse fluttering softly in his throat. He was unsure of what to expect, what he might be forced to face once again within the walls of his childhood home. The unknowns created a deep sense of dread in his bones, the weight of his own anxiety unbelievably heavy.

Music could be heard, low and lovely, as Lucien led Elain with unhurried steps towards the looming oak doors just ahead of them. It was near haunting, echoing strangely along the empty stone corridors.

Elain walked close to Lucien’s side, each point of contact with him leaving a searing mark. Her arm was hooked through his, her shoulder pressed against him.

Lucien glanced at her briefly. He had thought Elain was devastatingly beautiful from the moment he had laid eyes on her, she was even more so in Autumn colours. The emerald fabric of her dress had a stunning effect on her eyes, darkening them by a few shades so that they looked like earth after a storm. He found that there was something regal about the way Elain held herself, that if she set her mind to it she could convince anyone that she had been born to rule.

Still, Lucien was worried. He did not trust his father, and he trusted his brothers even less. Eris had made it glaringly obvious that Elain’s well-being did not matter, considering he had brought her to Autumn. If anything happened to his mate, Lucien knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

As though she could sense where his thoughts were going, Elain brought her other hand up. Slowly caressing Lucien’s forearm in a gesture meant to comfort, Elain did not look at him before once again taking hold of her skirts.

Lucien’s shock was a shooting star, brief and fleeting. He was still finding it hard to believe that it was Elain’s choice to come for him, that she had considered his life worth the risk of her own.

“Any advice?” Elain’s question was soft as she tilted her head and turned to look up at him. It cut through the music, drawing Lucien’s focus instantly. They had not spoken since the moment they had left their shared suite, Lucien’s hand had been shaking with tiny tremors after having placed the comb in Elain’s hair.

Still walking, Lucien looked into Elain’s dark eyes, captivated. He had to remind himself that she was almost a stranger to him, and yet he felt as though he had always known her.

“I have a whole lifetime’s worth,” he offered her a crooked grin, unsure of what exactly he should tell her.

Elain looked up at him through her long lashes. “Seeing as we don’t have all the time in the world,” her lips tugged up in a small, amused smile. “Try and keep it brief.”

“No matter what anyone in that ballroom says, don’t let it get to you.” His grin faltered at her raised brow, and he wondered how he should phrase his next words so that they made more sense. “They’ll all be testing the waters, seeing if they can get a rise out of you—and me. Don’t let them.”

“Isn’t Autumn fire?” Elain asked, "I would have thought everyone’s emotions were raging.” She blushed suddenly, her cheeks turning a deep scarlet, and she quickly turned to look straight ahead.

Lucien continued to look at her, not wanting his gaze to fall anywhere else. “Just the opposite,” he shook his head, tearing his attention away from the pale column of Elain’s neck. “Our emotions, our reactions, even our flames…” Lucien shrugged, “everything must be tamed.”

Elain hummed in understanding, falling silent as they approached the ballroom.

Lucien glanced at the guards stationed by the entrance, searching their faces, trying to see if he perhaps recognized them. On a phantom wind, the doors swung open, revealing the already filled and busy hall. The music grew louder, the sound of the string instruments full of longing.

Elain pressed closer to Lucien’s side, clutching at his arm tightly. So no one else could hear, Lucien leaned down so that he could whisper. His lips were close to the arch of her ear, not touching her, but he could have sworn that he felt her shiver.

“Don’t worry, Elain.” He murmured, her heart beating faster. She seemed to have stopped breathing as soon as he finished his sentence.

Her name.

Lucien still rushed to reassure her, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” He meant the words more than he had meant anything else in his long life.

Her eyes wide, face tilted like she was his lover, set on placing a kiss on his jaw, Elain nodded. “I know,” she breathed, eyes locked for a moment before they both turned to look ahead.

Together, arms linked, a united front, they entered the room. Elain nearly stumbled, and Lucien tightened his grip on her arm, pausing. He waited, allowing her the opportunity to carefully take in the scene before them.

Looking like a forest, nearly a canopy, waves of High Fae dressed in the various colours of falling leaves gracefully walked along the floor of the ballroom. The incessant thrum of mingling, gossiping, rose above the sound of the music as everyone waited for the arrival of the High Lord.

The sun had fallen, and no light came in from the arched windows that spanned the entire length of the walls. The shimmering chandeliers and the countless fireplaces were lit instead, casting flickering shadows that drew Elain’s attention. Lucien noticed that the musicians had been set up near the table strewn with refreshments and pastries, on the large room’s farthest side.

No one turned to stare, but Lucien could feel eyes on him and Elain. He must look so different to them, and Lucien was struck with the sudden realisation that every faerie here would know his past, regardless if they personally knew him.

It was a terrible relief that Elan was unaware of Lucien’s history, he thought, and that as a result, she would have no expectations of him.

“Well, if it isn’t little Lucien Vanserra,” a female voice spoke from behind him, one that he easily recognized. Fighting the urge to wince, Lucien stiffened as he felt slender fingers trace along his back. He felt as Elain did the same, her spine straightening although she did not turn to see who had approached them.

Instead, Lucien flashed his practised courtier’s smile. “Lethe,” he said, her name rolled off his tongue sharply, familiar.

“Lady Lethe,” she corrected, her answering smile was all poison as she stood in front of them. Light brown hair pinned away from her face, falling in a long straight sheet to her waist, Elain’s eyes tracked Lethe’s every move carefully. In a decision that could only be considered a slight, Lethe did not look at Elain, did not acknowledge her presence. “I have lands to my name now.”

Lucien bowed his head in an apology of sorts. “You have my condolences then, for your husband,” he added. Knowing Lethe, she had probably orchestrated the whole thing, killed the elderly fae she had married and taken everything he had owned after his death. That, at least, Lucien could admire.

Lethe’s pout was dreadful, hardly sad, Lucien observed. “I’m terribly upset by it,” she gestured to her black skirts, the colour of mourning. Flames flared in her eyes. “May the blessed wind take his scattered ashes to only the loveliest of places.”

“Despite whatever ordeal you have been through, I’m glad to see you look well.” Lucien maintained his friendliest smile, an ember of truth in his statement. “You look well, lady, untouched by time and lovely as ever.”

“So kind,” a knowing smile graced Lethe’s sharp features, looking more like she was scowling. “You’ve certainly changed,” her eyes were the colour of dried blood as she took him in, “much more handsome now.”

Lucien felt jealousy shoot through the bond, a rare possessiveness on Elain’s part as she elegantly cleared her throat. Nose in the air, chin held high, she cast a long look at Lethe, drawing the other female’s attention.

With a small sniff, Lethe faced Elain fully. Much to his mate’s credit, she did not back away, matching the noble’s attitude.

Lethe tilted her head, a predator. “Seems like your pretty mate agrees.”

Without missing a beat, Elain responded, voice measured and unbothered. “My mother always said I would marry for beauty.”

Lucien was glad when someone clapped a heavy hand on his back, knowing exactly who it would be before he saw. When it came to Lethe, Kai was never far. Fixtures of his childhood, the two courtiers were his eldest brother’s closest friends.

Lucien had not seen either of them since his exile, and had avoided both Lethe and Kai even if he had been in the Autumn Court on behalf of Tamlin. Eris had trusted them both, not only with his own life, but with Lucien’s as well. Lucien wondered if that was still the case, if Eris was capable of maintaining any type of friendship.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Kai said, voice loud. “Good to see you, Lucien.” His smile was friendly and sincere, a clever trick to hide how dangerous of a male he truly was. He had always been kind to Lucien, kinder still to Eris, but his reputation in Autumn was one of cruelty. He offered Elain a deep bow, looking up at her with eyes the colour of dead leaves.

Elain dipped into an elegant curtsy, releasing her hold on Lucien’s arm. “Pleasure to meet you,” she offered, never taking her gaze off him.

“Pleasure’s all mine, lady,” with the full force of Kai’s charming smile on his mate, Lucien had to fight the urge not to snarl.

Kai was unbelievably lovely. Dark brown hair fell in loose curls to his shoulders, eyes an even darker shade were framed by sharp brows. He was dressed well, simply but no less flattering, his tan skin near glowing with whatever power he had inherited from his Spring Court mother.

Lucien’s jealousy was ridiculous, considering he had known the male for decades and did not even think Kai was interested in females. Elain pressed closer to Lucien’s side, her hand gently circling his lower back, a lover’s caress.

Kai tracked Elain’s gesture before he turned his attention back to Lucien. “Have you seen your brothers?” He asked, brow raised, Lethe next to him.

“Which ones?” Lucien responded, although he was fairly certain Kai was looking for Eris.

Kai shrugged his broad shoulders, a frown tugging his full lips down. “Any of them, I suppose.”

“Eris came before us, the rest I couldn’t say,” Lucien felt Elain’s unease as she stood on the tips of her toes, attempting to look over everyone’s heads. She was probably searching for Cora, Lucien concluded.

“We’ve yet to see him,” Lethe offered, her nose scrunching in distaste.

Lucien opened his mouth to respond when a sudden hush fell over the large crowd. The musicians came to a natural stop, ending their song beautifully, just as the High Lord and Lady of Autumn gracefully made their way into the room.

His father was handsome in a jacket the exact shade of fresh blood, striking with the small golden crown on his head. His mother walked at Beron’s side, face serious, as they both paused on the area cleared of furniture and nobles in the middle of the room, the dance floor ready.

“Tonight,” the High Lord’s voice boomed, “we celebrate the return of my youngest son.” A glass of wine, a red so deep Lucien nearly flinched at the sight, appeared in his father’s hand. Beron’s smile was sharp as glass as he raised his hand in Lucien and Elain’s direction. “And we welcome his lady, Elain Archeron of Night.” His father took a small sip of wine, indicating he was nearly done, his speech rather short so as not to take away from the festivities. “You and your mate have my blessing, Lucien.”

Elain smiled shyly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear that was both endearing and modest. Already she had fallen into her role perfectly, playing the game of courtiers and nobles well.

The musicians played a cord, settling themselves as they prepared for the first dance of the evening. All eyes were on Lucien and Elain now, waiting, expecting them to take part.

“Might I have this dance?” Lucien said softly, allowing every ounce of his longing to drip into the question, loud enough for those around them to hear.

Lucien could imagine the whispers, travelling swift as a wildfire in the ballroom, all the nobles talking behind their hands about him and Elain.

As Elain’s eyes locked with his, Lucien saw no uncertainty in her gaze. She playfully knocked her shoulder into his, a small laugh escaping her, embracing her role as his betrothed. “Do you even have to ask?”

Lucien raised his hand, offering it to Elain. Delicately, her fingers traced his palm before she comfortably set her hand in his, a blush staining her cheeks. She smiled timidly up at him, sparks clear as daylight between them.

As Lucien and Elain walked to the dance floor, Lucien hoped no one could sense their shared unease, hidden behind their false smiles.

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #autumn court #beron vanserra #elain and lucien dance in the next one i promise #forgive me I don't how to correctly estimate where my own plot points should go lol #elain archeron x lucien vanserra #elucien #elain x lucien #thank you for reading <3 #ashes writes sometimes #all you have is your fire

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loserdiaz · 5 months

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tagged by the lovelies @spotsandsocks @giddyupbuck @daffi-990 @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon @buckaroosheart @eowon @evanbegins thank u!

this friday i said fuck it and started the ballad of songbirds and snakes buddie au i've been wanting to write since i saw the movie. (eddie will be nothing like snow, i promise. he's more like sejanus plinth) (also what does suzanne collins have with naming her characters with anus lmao)

here's a moodboard!

and a lil snippet (it's literally all i've written so far) <33

For the first time since the games were created the tributes would be assigned mentors. Twenty-four of the Academy’s best and brightest seniors have been tapped for the job.

Eddie fantasizes for a few seconds about refusing.

He knows it wouldn't help the tributes, though. The peacekeepers would most definitely drag him out and beat the shit out of him or— Eddie isn't sure if it would be possible but the president might want to make an example out of him and throw him into the arena along with all the other tributes. So, he stays silent and lets the guilt consume him. “And last but least, District Twelve girl, Maddie Buckley. . . she belongs to Eddie Diaz.” Eddie looks up to see a terrified girl— she couldn't be older than eighteen, this probably was her last year with her name in the reaping, what are the odds. She looks a little worn down, with some dirt on her cheek and what looks like an almost faded black eye. Her lips are visibly trembling as she takes slow steps towards the stage. And then—

"Stop! Stop!" A voice breaks through the thick silence and hands appear from the crowd. A few seconds later a boy is running towards the girl, being stopped by peacekeepers just seconds before he can reach her. "Maddie! Maddie!"

He has dirty blonde hair and eyes so wide and a dark blue that reminds Eddie of a relentless, force of nature, kind of storm. He looks a little skinny but Eddie gets glimpses of muscles under the two sizes too big shirt he's wearing when the officers pull him back and the piece of clothing stretches against the guy's chest.

The boy keeps screaming, his voice becoming hoarse, breaking everytime he speaks. "I volunteer! Let me volunteer!" The boy keeps fighting against the peacekeepers and the girl is now being held back but her arms are stretched out and reaching for him.

"Can he do that?" Chimney leans in, whispering so only Eddie can hear. "Can there be two boys as tributes?"

Eddie can't look away from the screen. He sees one of the peacekeepers punch the boy but that doesn't even deter him in the slightest.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe?" He frowns. "I guess the Capitol only needs kids to kill each other. Why does it matter if they're a boy or a girl, right?" He wouldn't be able to stop the bitterness and anger from slipping into his voice even if he tried. "Yeah,I guess you're right." Eddie watches as his dad and Jeffery Hudson, the creator of the games, talk in hushed whispers. It feels like an eternity until the cameras focus back on district 12.

"After careful consideration, we've decided to accept this boy's eager willingness and embrace him into the 10th Hunger Games." The announcer says. "District Twelve boy, Evan Buckley… belongs to Eddie Diaz. May the odds be ever in your favor."

tagging (no pressure): @monsterrae1 @hoodie-buck @buddierights @hippolotamus @maygrantgf @underwater-ninja-13 @honestlydarkprincess @bigfootsmom @spaceprincessem @eddiebabygirldiaz @the-likesofus @wildlife4life @jamespearce9-1-1 @watchyourbuck @malewifediaz @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @prettyboybuckley @rogerzsteven @jeeyuns @rainbow-nerdss @911-on-abc @housewifebuck @disasterbuckdiaz @athenagranted @tails89 @messyhairdiaz and anyone else who wants to do it <333

#tbosas au #the hunger games au #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #my writing #buddie wip #911 wip #911 abc #911 on abc

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hawkinshearts · 2 months

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HAWKINSHEARTS

Welcome to HawkinsHearts. This is a Stranger Things community and source blog that is solely focused on the ships in the fandom. We will reblog other creators creative content centered around Stranger Things ships, as well as create our own original content on a regular schedule. We'll also hold events and games in the future, as well as other community-centered activities.

As it stands right now, we ask that minors do not interact with this blog considering a lot of the content we reblog isn't suitable for that age group. This blog is also firmly anti-bashing and pro-ship.

What will we reblog? We'll reblog any creative content that centers a ship featuring at least one canon Stranger Things character. This can include canon ships and some of the more popular ships, but it also includes platonic pairings, poly parirings, rarepairs, crossover pairings, self-insert content and pairings featuring original characters. Types of creative content you might see here are (but aren't limited to) gifsets, graphics, moodboards, fics, artworks and playlists. We'll even reblog text posts blurbs and headcanons posts, as well as boost ship-centered community events. We'll reblog both SFW and NSFW content. Everything will be properly tagged, so you can block the tags for pairings and content you don't want to see and curate your own experience on this blog.

What won't we reblog? We won't reblog anything that promotes character or ship bashing, as well as anything that promotes hateful stances against specific groups of people within the fandom. We won't reblog anything that centers around a single character, as this is a blog that's whole purpose is to uplift Stranger Things ships and pairings. We also won't reblog from anyone that asks to be left out of our queue! If you don't want your work promoted here, no hard feelings. Just reach out and ask to be put on the blacklist. Your work will be removed from our blog and we'll keep your name on our list to ensure you don't have your work shared anywhere you don't want it shared to. All we ask is that you are civil with us during this process.

If you would like to ensure we see one of your works and add it to our posting queue, please tag your posts with #hawkinshearts. We follow that tag and will reblog any content under it so long as it follows our above guidelines.

The goal of this blog is to uplift the creations within the community and give praise to some pairings that may not get the love they deserve. This is a positive space and we only ask that you keep it that way. If you're here to just be hateful, it's easier to block us. You'll save us both the trouble.

Tagging a few of our faves for visibilty @shieldofiron @thatgirlwithasquid @half-oz-eddie @alicetallula @mcplestreet @thorniest-rose @ashyyboyy @dragonflylady77 @californiaboytoybilly

#pinned post #hawkinshearts #source blog #stranger things #ship bashers dni #character bashers dni #billy antis dni #minors dni

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drinkingpoison · 5 months

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For all proship/fic selfshippers out there, I present:

The proselfship Advent Calendar!

Inspired by drabbIe/cember, but with my own fun spin on it.

Any form of media you'd like to create is allowed and encouraged! As this is meant to be a fun, low effort, seasonal celebration for us and our f/os. We'd love to see: art, stories, moodboards, playlists, or even just talk about what you think you and your f/o would do.

All forms of f/os are obviously accepted; romantic, sexual, familial, platonic. And you can skip any days you're uncomfortable with or just don't feel like including! It's entirely up to you.

The last 6 days are especially optional. For those who enjoy some spicier prompts! Be as NSFT or vague as you like while answering them.

I'll be tracking the tag #proselfshipadvent to try and see anyone participating! ♡

Here's all the prompts in text under the cut, Happy Holidays!

Dressing for the cold.

Putting up Decorations.

Baking/Sharing traditional desserts.

Relaxing by the fire.

Playing in the snow.

Snowed in/Power outage.

One of you catches a cold!

Meeting the families.

Coming home late from a party together.

Gingerbread house competition.

Making a blanket fort and/or nest.

Cleaning up the house before a get-together.

Wrapping presents.

Write letters to/from Santa.

Have a movie marathon.

Going ice skating together.

Taking a late night walk to see the lights.

Swapping stories, traditional folklore or family stories.

Cooking a big dinner together.

Making eachother fancy hot chocolates.

Sleeping in to hide from the cold.

Singing holiday songs.

Reminisce about your most cherished memories.

Trying to sleep, tomorrow will come faster.

Present time! What'd you get?

Find yourselves drunk and alone together.

Show off your fits for the party, test how easily they can be removed.

One of you needs their hair held back while vomiting.

Dirty dancing turns hot and heavy.

12:00AM! Get that kiss!

After the party, stumbling home. Do you two make it completely safe?

#proselfship #proship #selfship #proselfshipadvent #proshippers please interact #📼#crossing my fingers for this not to flop #im gonna do it either way #dividers made by saradika

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undercoverpena · 5 months

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coming under the christmas tree

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

summary: The way he whispers your name should be a sin—it coating the air, making each letter feel important, essential—as your hands find his belt, undoing it, the sound cutting through all else, even burying a whispered expletive that falls from his tongue. “Do you know how hot you look right now, Morales?”

warnings: explicit. 18+. smut. literal porn from me. oral (m recieving), p in v, praise (jo has a thing, run with it), frankie being gorgeous, minor cock worship, christmas themes.

wordcount: 2.8k an: i wrote this little imagine and then the gorgeous, wonderful @wildemaven created this moodboard (which inspired the banner) and then i decided to write more.

Putting up a tree with anyone is a chore, but with him, it’s a blessing.

It isn’t because it’s him, because you’re dating, because he makes you laugh and makes your toes curl at any time of the day. But, rather, because he wants to do it. Because he’s methodical. Always thinking, turning—planning.

Whether it’s routes to get somewhere, timing on when to leave when the two of you have reservations or whether your grand plans for a room rearrangement, Frankie plots it out and makes measurements in his head. He’s always right, not that he ever gloats—just nods as though it’s entirely normal.

It isn’t—it’s fucking hot.

Something you expect, and thankfully do, come face to face with when the branches are all in place on the half-dressed Christmas tree. The clear plastic boxes strewn across the living room, his fingers slowly undoing and unknotting the lights you’d haphazardly thrown in the box last year.

You know the answer, but you ask all the same: “You want me to help with that?”

He doesn’t answer, just gives you a look. A blend of ‘be serious’ and ‘you’re good’ cuts across his features, making his eyes warmer and his smile kinder.

Before he even sets about winding them through the branches, you can tell he’s created a light-path. Already heard him mumbling that they don’t go all the way around, remember earlier. His eyes glancing up at it, making mental notes, calculating a route—brown eyes skating and shifting side to side.

You just remain on the floor, legs crossed—checking over the ornaments for nicks or scratches—admiring. You do it a lot, admire him, take him in—gawk, trace your eyes over him so when you blink you don’t waste a second not seeing him.

“We can always buy another set?” you offer, watching him bend behind the armchair, plugging them in, plunging the room in a soft, white glow.

Grinning, Frankie brushes some loose strands from over his eyes, “No need, baby. I’ve got it.”

He does. You weren’t surprised his devised path makes the base of the tree already look full—no section unlit, each bit of cable hidden from sight, blending perfectly with the tree. You were even sure if you turned it 180, the back currently in the corner would even be lit.

It isn’t that which makes your mouth drool.

It also isn’t the way the twinkle of the lights has hit the brown of his eyes when he lets his gaze fall to you, making it appear like a galaxy has burst in them—a sky full of stars, all staring at you.

No. It’s the way the entirety of him is lit up. Practically glowing. It enhances how stretched out he is, practically in a straight line. His arms above his head, fingers delicately wrapping the lights around the tip of the tree. It shines light over the slither of skin exposed from his shirt rising; it makes it more evident that his tongue is poking out, resting on his bottom lip, eyes trained on the job at hand, his priority, his task.

You flutter around nothing.

Feel your heart stammer in your chest as you devour the sight of him whole.

Placing the ornament in the good-to-hang pile, you don’t even pretend to glance at it. Too busy drinking in the sight of the lines on his arms from flexing—those strong, arms which carried the tree down from the attic. Little beads of sweat had clung to his forehead then, having needed to shift things around, move them—move baby, don’t want you to get hurt.

You were something akin to pain now. Desperate, needy and fucking feral. Your throat all dry while your tongue felt heavy, eyes sliding down his frame, focusing on the hairs on his stomach, all exposed, beckoning to be touched, to have your tongue slide down over it.

You only blink when he clears his throat, looking up, finding his eyes on you—tracing over your face, slightly narrowed, attempting to read you.

Another day, you might shy away from it. Look away first, wait until he calls your name and pleads for you to look at him. Today, you don’t. Slowly rising onto your knees, holding his stare, commanding him to blink as little as possible:

Watch me, Morales. Keep your eyes on me.

Sliding your tongue across your bottom lip, your teeth finding a resting place on it—fingers sliding to his hips, watching his hand release the lights, forehead smoothing, any and all confusing lines fading away.

The way he whispers your name should be a sin—it coating the air, making each letter feel important, essential—as your hands find his belt, undoing it, the sound cutting through all else, even burying a whispered expletive that falls from his tongue.

“Do you know how hot you look right now, Morales?”

Your fingers undo the button, tracing your tongue again over your lip—hungry, practically salivating—as you slide the zip through the teeth. His gaze is still on you, unwavering, a shadow of surprise in the back of his eyes that this is even happening—as though he is still taken back by the fact he deserves this, deserves you.

“You want me to suck your cock, baby?”

His swallow fills the room—loud, vociferous. Your palm brushes over the hardened bulge, tracing the outline over the thin cotton which remained a barrier between his velvet skin and your tongue.

“I really wanna suck your cock,” you add, purring, practically drooling as you notice the wet stain appearing—blooming, stretching out—as one hand falls from the tree, cupping the side of your mouth.

You like him like this, quiet, taken off guard. So often it is him doing it to you, saying all the right things, whispering all the words which make your skin feel like fire.

When you finally let his cock spring free, you waste no time licking a stripe up the side, tongue flat, brushing over veins as your hands tease the fabric down to the tops of his knees, resting on the jeans that remain there, pointless, likely mildly annoying for him. Not that he’ll care in a second. Less so for now when your fingers wrap around him, take his girth in your palm, warmth spreading over your palm as you slowly pump him up and down, collecting your first few hisses, and a little groan.

You marvel at him—at his cock. How thick it is, how long. How you know it feels between your thighs, how it makes your toes curl. Pressing kissing to the leaking tip, wrapping your lips around the head, hand working the length of him as you make your lips slick, coat them in desire, before you take as much of him as you can. Your tongue pressed to the underside, mouth basked in the taste of salt and just him, as your jaw stretched to accommodate him, to willfully take more, and more.

“Don’t know—fuck, baby—what I did to deserve you.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, burning under the praise, under his praise. Your head bobbing, wanting to show gratitude by taking more of him. Cheeks hollowing, his fingers sliding around the back of your head, a comforting hold, a calming one as you relax your throat, wanting to be full of him. Fiercely so.

Tears even prick at your eyes, and your fingers dig into the back of his thighs, lifting off, swirling your tongue around him, running your teeth lightly over him, before swallowing as much of him as you can. Willing for him to smear your throat in him, leave you tasting him with each swallow for the rest of the afternoon.

“Wanna fin—fuck—ish inside you,” he grunts, curls plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed—neck stained in pink.

You moan in response, closing your lips around him as you’re sure your underwear is clinging to you, drenched in want.

You’re half-tempted to slide your fingers inside the band of your shorts, passed the red lace you chose this morning, not even sure if you’d be unwrapped before or after the erection of the tree. Midway through hadn’t crossed your mind. Had never counted on this, never would have made a bet.

But, then he drags himself out, tip hovering at your lips giving you a look—sharp, uncharacteristic of him. “I want to fuck you, baby. Make you feel good.”

Tongue swirling over, he appears to shudder, eyes fluttering, before he pulls the rest free from your mouth. Spit smearing your lip, snapped in the space between where the two of you had been connected.

“You always make me feel good, Frankie.”

Smirking, his arm flexes briefly as he takes hold of his cock. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

And you don’t miss the reference. Not so drunk on him that you don’t remember your own words from before—but you just nod. A retort growing and dying, as you do.

“Spread your legs and show me.”

And you do. Leaning back, sliding onto your rear, your fingers slide your clothing down your legs, kicking it off past your ankles, passed the fluffy socks you’d stolen from him. Bare from the waist down, just for him—always for him. Letting your arms support you from behind, you tilt your head. In awe of him once again as he wraps his hand around his cock, the size even more impressive when you know how big his hands are—your own nails digging into the rug under your palms and ass.

“C’mon, show me you want me.”

You whimper, spreading your knees, letting them part until they’re hovering just above the floor on either side.

The cool air kissing over you, a gasp desperate to emerge but dies somewhere in your throat—swallowed up by a moan at the way he views you. The way his eyes rake up and down you like this is the first time he’s seen you, and not the billionth.

Like all the things he does, it’s with precision the way he rids himself of being contained by his jeans and underwear. Lowering himself to his knees between yours, you lean forward, lips finding his—messy, needy. Need you, they kiss, fuck me, they plead.

His mouth remains on you, only letting enough words escape to tell you to keep his jumper on when your fingers slide his t-shirt up and over his head. He rewards your obedience by letting his hand fall from himself to you—tracing, languid circles on your swollen clit, until he pushes two fingers in. You shift your hips into him, hearing him moan distantly at the feel of how wet you are, whispered praises given that are too far away as your mind rendered nothing (emptied, lost)—

Because he’s electric, you swear. Not even sure the lights need plugging in, you swear he could touch them and they’d illuminate—at least from the way he sparks enough in you to light the whole house up. Making it run, dart, a heavy current that dashes through your veins.

It’s why you whimper at the loss of him—only stopping yourself from whining when you feel him trace his cock through your folds, teasing, tracing up and down as the head of him nudges your clit, watching you, focused on the way your mouth must be parted and the likely sheen on your face.

And, you’re about to say his name—more in warning, in hunger. His body presses you down flush to the floor, the back of your hips meeting the fluff of the rug, as his mouth slides over your jaw, fingers dancing along your thigh, writing words, with the pads of them—leaving teasing verses against your skin.

“Stop teasing,” you say sharply.

Watching your words have their desired effect—that shy smile that grows into a confident smirk. The one you witness more than anyone else, the one you think of when you’re alone in the bed you share and it’s only his voice you have down the phone when your mind tries to pretend your fingers are his.

It’s slow, gentle, the way he begins to line up, pausing at your entrance—keeping you hanging, delicately placed there, held up by string as his breath paints what he wants to do to you against your neck. But you don’t hear it, can’t untangle the tale, least of all when he begins pressing in, sliding in inch by inch—

He’s big. And it makes you breathe deeply as you stretch around him. It makes you shiver. Makes you moan as he buries himself to the hilt, hips flush with yours.

“So good for me,” he praises before his lips slope over yours.

His hips begin to move, and each drag of his cock in and out makes you moan. The sound of you swallowing him, taking every inch of him he’ll give, is the soundtrack; the backdrop being the halo of lights above the two of you. It lights him, kisses along the varying shades that make up his curls, the browns, the beginning greys.

And you’re soaked, drenched—can feel it around where the two of you are joined, each slow drag in and out making it more apparent as you capture his lips. Breathlessly doing so, looping fingers around his neck, tugging lightly on his hair, curling into him, needing him deeper as your legs wrap around him.

It’s then the tip of him hits that spot, all unhurried. A motion he seeks, centres in on as he thrusts again, abutting it, making your eyes close and your mouth stretch each syllable of his name out in a whine. It makes you forget how to speak, and which language to utter. Barely a word for each finger can even come to mind, it’s mostly just his name. Frankie. Frankie. Please, Frankie as the air crackles around you.

He answers—he always does. His hand slides between your sweaty bodies, and finds the bundle of nerves calling out to him, the place which yearns. Doing so with accuracy, and exactness, as he draws shapes, lines and the fucking alphabet until you’re seeing stars, until it’s so hot you swear the jumper will peel from your skin and your head is nothing but a dizzying mess of him, just him. It makes you frantic to see him, outline his face, all cast in shadows because he’s turned away from the lights which made him look ethereal only moments ago.

His cock throbs inside of you, everything else curling inside your stomach, walls twitching around him as you tighten, vice-like, making him hiss. A sound which makes molten spread through you, more so when his mouth slides to your ear, breath laboured, along your skin, begging for you to come, needing you to, please, baby, please.

“S’close, Frankie.”

“I know—doing so well, so perfect for me.”

The words unlock something as a new pace is set, it more unforgiving, one that’ll likely leave marks on his knees from the friction on the rug, as you writhe and cling, half-moons left on his neck, digging in, marking him in the same way he’ll mark your walls in a moment or two.

Then, it floods over you. Drowns you. Coats you from head to toe as though you’ve been plunged in pleasure, left gasping, breath struggling to be located. Your mouth latched to his, burning your thanks into his mouth, your entire body tingling as he fucks you through it, until he’s thrusting aimlessly, so damn close until your name leaves the back of his throat in a sob, a blend of pleasure and relief strewn across his face as he comes deep inside of you. Hips slowing to a stammer, lowering himself down till he’s flush with you, before they come to a stop.

Then, it’s just his pants that meet your strained breaths, until a little hiss as he pulls himself out of you. Leaving you empty, sore in a way you’re grateful for, as his fingers trace over your chin, along your jaw, words being thought in slow bubbles as he stares at you.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Narrowing your eyes, you slide a hand to his hip, pinching.

“Just love that puttin’ lights up made you wanna suck my cock, is all.”

Smiling, you run your knuckles along his cheek, and brush past the wiry hair that makes up his patchy beard. “Wait till you see me hand the baubles, bet you’ll wanna be on your knees for me.”

“Good,” he replies. “I’m really hoping to taste how good we are together once we’re done.”

an: i freaking loved writing this, oh my.

i don't usually do taglists, but just tagging a few people who seemed interested in the longer version (sorry if this is annoying): @thetriumphantpanda @swiftispunk @5oh5 @morallyinept @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @reddedmiller @yorksgirl @missredherring @tvversionperson @secretelephanttattoo

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

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flowerandblood · 4 months

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The Gate of Salvation [3/3]

[ young pope • Aemond x catholic • female ]

[ warnings: fingering, kissing, smut, sexual tension, angst, religious guilt, doubts related to faith, chauvinism ]

[ description: During the conclave, a new pope is elected, but to everyone's surprise, he does not intend to show himself to the crowds waiting for him. His ideas terrify the cardinals, and one of them convinces his niece, who is studying marketing, to talk to the new head of the Catholic Church in his presence. Main theme: sexual tension & holy touch. ]

A mini-series created as a thank you and celebration of my 2'500 followers. I initially plan that it will have about 3 chapters.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Epilogue: The Song of Songs

Aemond as a Pope Edit

Series Characters Moodboard

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* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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After what they had done they lasted for a moment in the tight embrace of each other's arms, trying to calm their breathing, his hand stroking her soft hair.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" He asked so quietly that she barely heard him; she felt a tightening in her heart at the thought of how much she wanted nothing more and how inappropriate it was.

Nonetheless, she knew they were both scared, embarrassed and needed their closeness, proof that although the situation was complicated and hopeless, they were in it together.

"Yes." She whispered and heard him sigh loudly in relief, as if he feared that she now abhorred and hated him, that she would betray him, sell the story to the newspapers, destroy him as a man, as a priest and as a pope.

She thought that they were both complicit in this situation, and although she felt remorse knowing that she had contributed to him breaking his celibacy, some kind of warmth filled her lower abdomen.

She thought with despair that she had fallen in love with him.

She looked in her drawers for some of her uncle's old tracksuits that he had left in his flat and gave them to him to change into, showing him beforehand how to turn on the washing machine so he could clean the ones he came in. Taking advantage of the fact that he was in the bathroom, she changed into dry underwear and sighed quietly, somehow feeling clean again.

She waited for him lying on her bed – when he came out of her bathroom he looked at her for a moment standing in the entrance, clearly not knowing what to say, his face just like hers, red from tears and emotion.

"I'm sorry." He whispered helplessly. She sighed quietly, raising herself up on her elbow, looking at him with understanding.

"Do not apologise, Holy Father."

He swallowed heavily and moved towards her, startling her when he lay down opposite her and immediately hid his face in the material of her shirt between her breasts, his large hands clamped down on her back.

"Can you embrace me?" He asked uncertainly with a regret and embarrassment from which she felt a squeeze in her throat, the fingers of one of her hands sinking into his short hair while the other wrapped around his waist.

She felt him tense and wondered sadly after what she had learned, if anyone had ever hugged him, if he had found his place and understanding in someone's arms.

"Can I fall asleep like this?" He asked again. She sighed quietly, leaned in and kissed his hair, stroking it with her fingers – she felt a shiver pass through him, his hands clenched tighter on the material of her shirt.

"Yes." She whispered; she felt him move closer to her, snuggling his whole body into her, felt his desperation, the fact that he was and needed to be vulnerable, weak, protected, that he wanted to feel and love, wanted to suffer, to experience what others did.

"If it's a sin, why do I feel so peaceful?" He asked quietly, one of his hands trailing up and down her spine making wonderful shivers run through her – she nuzzled her nose into his hair, thinking on the answer.

She understood perfectly what he had in mind, because she felt the same.

She felt a kind of shame at the thought that her grief and remorse was less than she had expected and was only concerned with the fact that she was afraid someone would find out about this.

"I don't know, Holy Father. I am ashamed that my soul is so quiet now. Perhaps it hasn't yet come to us what has happened?" She asked quietly, watching as her fingers tentatively played with his hair. She heard his murmur of contentment, his face pressed tighter into her chest.

She wondered how it was possible that he could breathe in such a position.

"I need you by my side if I am to keep my sanity. I need you because Vatican is like a dark, black hole, like hell on earth, the centre of Sodom and Gomorrah." He whispered into the fabric of her shirt, his voice vibrating through her whole body, apart from their breathing all that could be heard was the quiet ticking of the clock standing on her bedside table.

She swallowed loudly, feeling her heart begin to beat faster, torn internally by her own insecurities and doubts; he felt it, his fingers gripped the fabric of her shirt tighter.

"It's too late. Too late. I can't take it back. This is God's answer to my prayers, to my plea that He not leave me alone. He sent you to me as a sign, as my revelation and salvation." He muttered, and she clenched her eyelids, feeling tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, hugging him tighter, realising with despair that he had possessed her the very first moment she saw him.

"A sign of depravity and bitterness? A taste of sorrow and eternal thirst? That is what I am and will be for you, Holy Father." She exhaled with difficulty, feeling her body begin to twitch, her breast trembled in a heavy breath. He raised himself on his elbow and looked at her, his large hand touched her cheek with a tenderness and respect from which she felt a squeeze in her throat.

"No. No, you are my joy. My flower garden to which I escape with my thoughts when I am tired. My faithful need me, and I need you." He said softly, wiping with his thumb from her warm cheeks the tears that ran down her face.

"I will not go to a monastery, Holy Father. It is not my vocation." She whispered and he pressed his lips together, swallowing with difficulty.

She could see in his gaze that he was struggling with himself and his disappointment, that he wanted to somehow make sure that he would have her exclusively as a man and a Pope.

"So what is?" He asked finally; she looked at him with her eyebrows arched in pain, realising with that she didn't know the answer to that question, that she didn't know what she wanted to do after university, where she wanted to live, how she saw the next years of her life.

"I don't know. It's a very difficult question." She muttered in a trembling voice, bursting into sobs when this time it was he who pulled her close and embraced her, letting her snuggle into his chest, locking her in a tight grasp of his arms as she did before, placing warm, tender kisses on her hair, combing through it with his fingertips.

"− shhh − it's okay − I'm here for you, child − I won't let you get lost − I'll take care of you −" He whispered, and although she knew there was something ambiguous and indecent in his words, she felt relieved, her fingers tightened into fists on the material of his sweatshirt, his wonderful scent filling her lungs.

There was something wonderful and tender about the fact that neither of them tried to touch each other anymore in a way that could be perceived as purely physical – they just cuddled, stroked and intertwined their fingers. She felt the heat in her chest every time she turned in bed lying in his arms facing him, his lips placing a lingering, soft, wet kiss on her forehead.

"− sleep, child − sleep, I am with you −" He whispered tenderly. She felt butterflies in her stomach and sighed softly, cuddling her face into the hollow of his neck smelling of his perfume as they fell asleep again.

It was the most beautiful night of her life.

She was woken in the morning by the sizzle of oil in the pan; she opened her eyes, unsure for a moment where she was and pulled herself up on her bed, frowning.

She got up and walked out of her bedroom into the corridor, but stopped immediately with her heart beating fast, seeing him standing with his back to her in her kitchen, again all dressed in a white tracksuit. She realised by the smell that he was making scrambled eggs.

The Pope she had spent the night with was just making them breakfast in her kitchen.

Good God, she thought with amusement and walked closer – he heard the sound of her footsteps and turned over his shoulder, a soft contentment on his face.

"Good morning. We have to leave soon, so I decided to prepare something quick. I didn't want to wake you up. You were sleeping so peacefully." He hummed with some kind of warmth and tenderness from which her heart beat faster; she swallowed quietly, trying not to think about the fact that she felt his words deep between her thighs.

She wanted to ask him if he really thought she should still be working for him, to tell him that it wasn't wise, but she realised that there was no desire in her to object.

I will take care of you.

She wasn't sure what he meant by those words, but she knew that some part of her wanted his assurance to come true.

After a short prayer, which took her completely by surprise, and which apparently was a daily occurrence for him before every meal, they ate breakfast while listening to the morning broadcasts on the radio.

She didn't know where she should be looking, so she just focused on her plate, tasting what he had prepared, finding to her surprise that his scrambled eggs were perfectly fried and spiced. She grunted quietly and lifted her gaze to him when she suddenly remembered something important, from which she felt a cold sweat on her back.

"We should go to confession…shouldn't we?" She asked, not daring to suggest for what reason, figuring he would know what she meant. He raised his surprised gaze at her and took a sip of his coffee, then set his mug down on the table.

"Of course." He replied, and she lowered her gaze to her plate, feeling that she had lost all appetite, terrified of the humiliation that awaited her and what she had to confess.

She allowed herself to be touched by the priest and took pleasure in it herself.

"Go to Father Lenz, I will also pay him a visit. He is a very good confessor. He's the only one I trust." He said matter-of-factly, throwing her a look that told her that gossip spreads like a disease in Rome and Vatican and she could not confide such a sin to just anyone.

Clearly not everybody respected the seal of confession, she thought with dismay.

"I'll go now." He said getting up abruptly from his seat, taking his player out of his pocket, putting his earphones into his ears and pulling his hood over his head. "I'll meet you in the Vatican."

He said and simply walked out, closing the door behind him, leaving her with a look of disbelief on her face.

She covered her mouth with her hand, clenching her eyelids and swallowed loudly, wondering what she was actually doing.

What had exactly happened between them?

Who was she to him now?

His lover?

She thought with pain that as long as he was by her side everything was well, but now that she was left alone with her thoughts she was crushed by the weight of what had taken place, of who the person who had touched her was.

What they had done.

She felt tears of fear and shame under her eyelids, of bitterness and anger that he wasn't just an ordinary man about whom she could have some hope, that even if not now, in the future their relationship would stop being something bad.

In their case there was no such possibility, what they had done was a contradiction of everything they should represent, what he symbolised as the Head of the Church.

She thought sadly that he was wrong.

That it was not God who had sent her to him, but the Devil, as a temptation that would lead to his downfall.

She drove to the Vatican with a heavy heart, sad, distracted and heartbroken, thinking with shame that she had acted like an animal that couldn't control itself and lowered her gaze, looking down at her hands.

When she got out of the car in the courtyard Father Lenz was waiting for her as usual. They both moved inside the building, but she stopped him in mid-step, placing her hand on his arm.

"I would like to make a confession." She muttered, the man cast her a calm glance over his shoulder and nodded.

She thought with shame that he already knew everything.

To her surprise, he did not take her to the basilica or any chapel but to the garden; they sat side by side on one of the white stone benches, the sun shining high above them.

She wondered for a moment if she should keep the formula, but decided after a moment that it was just a waste of time.

"I have sinned, Father. I gave in to the weakness of my flesh. I led a clerical person to his and my moral downfall." She muttered, feeling that with every word she spoke her voice quivered more and more, tears of regret and bitterness gathered in the corners of her eyes.

A long silence answered her, during which she only looked at her knees, wiping her wet cheeks with her hands, trying to calm her ragged, broken breathing.

"You are not responsible for anyone's downfall but your own, child, though I think you are using too solemn words. What happened?" He asked, although she knew perfectly well from his posture that the Pope himself had confessed to him exactly the same things she was telling him now.

"He touched me and brought me to fulfilment with my permission." She whispered in shame, swallowing loudly, feeling small, dirty, worthless, breathless at the memory of how wonderful it had been to fall asleep in his embrace and wept quietly.

"What happened next?" He asked calmly and she sighed heavily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

"We went to sleep, cuddled together. But nothing more happened between us." She mumbled, fiddling with the material of her black dress between her fingers in a nervous gesture, her leg bouncing with stress.

She wondered how she could have done it.

"Hm." He hummed and sighed quietly, bowing his head.

"I'm going to tell you something now, child. I'm going to tell you this as a man, not a priest, and you're going to listen to me. Vatican devours people. It sucks the energy out of them, their strength, their free will. Cardinals manage to believe in God or do a merciful deed, however, they are first and foremost businessmen, officials, monarchs. Do you know why Cardinal Targaryen was elected Pope?

Because they thought he would be easy to manipulate.

Quiet, withdrawn, reading books or concentrating on prayer. He spoke to no one, befriended no one, confided in no one. They thought they had planted someone lost, weak-willed and without an opinion on Peter's throne. Meanwhile, he had fooled them all. He planned it deliberately."

He spoke calmly, looking ahead with blank eyes. She stared at him in disbelief, feeling her heart pounding hard, her throat squeezed so tightly that she breathed with difficulty.

Meanwhile, he had fooled them all.

He had planned it deliberately.

Was it the same with her?

Was it possible that her uncle wasn't the only one treating her as a pawn?

"He never confided in anyone, never spoke to anyone for longer than necessary. He doesn't let anyone sit or eat in his presence, he locks himself in his solitary room and sits there for hours. Except when you visit the Vatican. I exchange a maximum of four sentences with him during the day, while with you he talks for hours." He said looking at her finally, the expression on his face gentle and heartfelt, her lips parted in disbelief, her cheeks hot with emotion.

"He has fallen in love with you. He had already admitted this to me after confession, asking me for advice. And although it creates a temptation to sin I told him to keep you close. I believe that God sent you to him like cold water to a man who has sunk into hell and is burning in it every day. He is completely alone. Despite my deepest efforts, I cannot help him."

He muttered, covering his face with his hand and she watched in disbelief as the grown man sitting next to her burst out crying like a small child. She pressed her fingers to her lips and stifled the sobs that wanted to escape her throat, hot tears one by one running down her cheeks.

He fell in love with you.

"He told me he trusts only you, Father." She whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm her ragged breathing. Father Lenz looked at her and laughed in a way that made her feel at least uncomfortable.

"He knows that I report on him. He knows that one of the cardinals, a fierce opponent of your uncle, is blackmailing me. But I don't always tell him about what I see and hear. Not about everything. Do you understand?" He asked in a trembling voice, and she nodded, looking at him with horror and fear, feeling the cold sweat on her back.

"Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." He said lowly, making the sign of the cross in the air with his hand in front of her.

"Amen." She mumbled, not looking at him but at her feet, quivering all over, tears of disbelief and despair making the world around her seem blurred.

"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."

"His mercy endures for ever." She whispered and rose from her seat, moving quickly ahead, covering her mouth with her hand, bursting into hysterical sobs, feeling that she had panicked.

She headed towards his office where he usually worked, the same one her uncle had taken her to when she first saw him. One of the guards, on seeing her, simply opened the door, as if he had been warned that she would come.

She walked slowly inside, and the door closed behind her with a loud clatter of wood.

She looked to her left and saw his figure clad in a white cassock, sprawled comfortably in his chair, reading some documents. He lifted his gaze to her and for a moment just looked at her, as if shocked by her condition, then rose quickly, staring at her with concern.

"Good God, what's happened?" He asked in a trembling voice, his eyebrows raised in fear.

She knew she wasn't allowed to do this, she knew she shouldn't, that if anyone saw them it would be over, but she couldn't help herself.

She wept as she ran to him and pressed her face to his chest, feeling the cold cross hanging from his neck against her cheek, embracing him tightly around his waist, clenching her fingers on his cassock.

"Holy Father." She mumbled like a helpless child who needed someone to lead her by her hand, like a frightened bird that had fallen out of its nest, like a ship that was unable to find its way to port.

"− calm down, child − I'm here − shhh −" He hushed her, sinking his face into the top of her head, stroking her neck and back with his hands with calm, tender movements full of affection, his wonderful scent filling her lungs.

"− it's okay −" He whispered soothingly, combing his fingers through her hair – she felt a wonderful shiver ran down her spine every time he did it and closed her eyes thinking only of how safe she felt.

She murmured quietly, relaxing and calming as she felt his lips on her head, heard him place drawn out, wet kisses on her hair.

"I love the way you smell. I saw your perfume in your bathroom and bought myself one just like it so I can remind myself of you when I fall asleep here alone. After my escape they increased my protection, they don't leave my side." He whispered softly, and she felt a squeeze in her throat at the thought of how deep his feeling, his devotion, his commitment, his desire was.

"I want you to pose for a painting made on my request as Mary Magdalene."

She could not put into words how ambiguous, lewd, intimate his proposal was. He gave her time to think, indicating that he would respect her refusal, but said that he wanted to have her by his side also in the quarters in which he slept, said he would hang the painting opposite his bed.

When she asked him if this sight would distract his thoughts from God he replied that he had never felt the presence of God as strongly as when he thought of her.

Lying in her room in complete darkness, she thought about what Father Lenz had told her.

He has fallen in love with you.

Vatican devours people.

He is completely alone.

She closed her eyes, swallowing loudly, thinking about the question he had asked her that morning regarding what she thought her vocation was, and wondered if in some incomprehensible way God was trying to tell her something.

I believe that God sent you to him like cold water to a man who has sunk into hell and is burning in it every day.

She felt tears under her eyelids at the thought of his sullen, absolute loneliness among people who were so vain and power-hungry, and she wondered where he was going to get the strength to fight against paedophilia, abuse of power, bribes and profligacy when almost everyone around him was content with this state of affairs.

She found herself wondering if her presence could support him in some way, give him courage, a sense that there was someone by his side who didn't care about his position or money, someone who simply loved him, gave him comfort and tenderness in moments of doubt.

She thought with a kind of relief that there was nothing disgusting, nothing disturbing in this thought, that although certain things would remain taboo, the feeling that God had aroused in her heart could not be wrong in nature, because it did not stem from a desire to objectify.

For some reason she felt the desire to sacrifice herself for him, to suffer for him, to die every day for the love of him.

She agreed to his proposal.

He made sure that the painter's arrival at the Vatican was covered by complete secrecy – it was agreed that she would stay until the evening to work and then come to one of the small rooms where they would wait for her.

When she walked in she saw them in half darkness, the Pope dressed in his white cassock with a large cross on his chest was speaking with a middle-aged man about what stood before them, a small platform on which lay an ornate cushion and a cloth on which lay a skull, the only source of light was the tall and low candles standing around on the floor.

When they saw her the Pope grunted and nodded, folding his arms behind him.

"Come closer, child. This is Marco, the painter I mentioned to you." He said softly, though his expression stern, contentment lurked in his eye.

She swallowed loudly and walked towards them, feeling her heart pounding like mad, terrified of what they had come up with, of someone catching them.

"Marco has prepared a robe for you to pose in. Wear just that and let your hair down. We'll wait in the other room." He said calmly and nodded at the man, walking out through a small door, closing it behind them.

She was left alone.

She walked over to a chair on which lay a cream-coloured, simple linen long robe – when she picked it up she found it pleasant to the touch, with pieces of cloth hanging down the sides to tie around her waist.

She stripped naked and, with trembling hands, placed the garment over herself, arranging it like a bathrobe, tying a knot at the waist so that the whole thing would hold together somehow and not reveal anything. She pulled the pins out of her hair and undid her braid, letting her dark curls fall to her shoulders.

"I'm ready." She muttered in a trembling voice and heard the sound of the door opening.

The Pope stepped inside and paused, letting out a loud breath as if this sight surprised him, his lips parted slightly; she felt heat in her lower abdomen when she saw him involuntarily lick them with his tongue.

"Lie down and take this skull in your hands. Yes, just like that." He said, stepping closer to her, placing his warm hands on her shoulders covered by her soft cloth, arranging her as he had apparently seen her in his vision, moving the skull in her hands so that it lay in front of her, next to her body.

"Your body is to lie down, but your face must be tilted towards me. Perfect." Said Marco when she did as he asked, glancing down at his canvas and at her.

She felt strangely cornered and small, tense that all attention was on her.

"No. One more thing." The Pope hummed. A powerful shudder ran through her body, her lips parted in horror as he gently grabbed the fabric that covered her chest and pulled it aside, revealing a part of her breasts and the golden cross between them, her sternum and stomach, just a hint more and her nipples would be visible.

"Gorgeous." He whispered, looking at her with a gaze that was dark, hazy and dreamy, she felt the muscles inside her clench desperately around nothing at his words, her breath stopped in her throat.

She was terrified and aroused.

She was wet.

"Do not be afraid, child. Marco does not feel lust at the sight of a woman's body. You are safe here." He said softly, with a kind of need to soothe her, to give her the feeling that he did not desire to take advantage of her, that this was about something more. She sighed quietly as his hand rose to her cheek, closing her eyes in relief when his thumb ran over her warm skin.

"Beautiful." He murmured and stood up, looking at her with proud satisfaction, as if he had just gazed upon some mystical scene, a revelation as if from the Bible, as if he truly believed her to be sacred.

He stood behind the painter, who had already begun to sketch her silhouette, and pressed his lips together, furrowing his brow.

"You have to properly render the shape of her lips, the warmth of her gaze, the softness of her hair. That's the most important thing to me, I want the most significant point of the painting to be her face." He said dryly, the man nodded wordlessly, apparently writing down his words in his head.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, the loud ticking sound of a tall, large clock standing against the wall all around them.

"No. That's not the look I mean. Get out. Give us a moment." He said, startling them both. Marco grunted and put his pencil down on the easel, nodded and walked out into the other room, closing the door behind him.

"Did I do something wrong?" She asked in a trembling voice, raising herself up on her elbows, but he commanded her with a hand gesture not to get up and sat down beside her with a quiet rustling of the fabric of his cassock.

"No, sweet flower. But I can see your terror." He said softly, touching her cheek with his palm again, into which she immediately cuddled her face, desperately needing his touch, his closeness, his wonderful scent filling her lungs and her mind.

"Your tension." He added, his voice changed slightly, deep and sharp; she trembled hearing the way he said the words, involuntarily clenching her thighs.

He noticed it out of the corner of his eye and sighed quietly, as if he had been forced to the last resort, as if fate had left him no choice.

"It's all right now. Come here." He hummed, his hand sliding lower, in a gentle motion full of care and respect digging his fingers into the soft skin of her thigh hidden beneath the material of her robe – her heart began to pound like mad, her hands clenched on the pillow on either side of her head.

"Open." He commanded, and she shook her head quickly, her legs twitching all over in his grasp, feeling the sticky liquid running down her buttocks onto the bedding beneath her. He pressed his lips together, looking at her like a naughty child who refused to comply.

"Open, I say. I see your suffering. The Holy Father only wants to help you, child." He said calmly, as if he was explaining something obvious to her, something that was essential and necessary.

She swallowed loudly and parted her lips as her thighs finally opened, a sigh of contentment came from his nose – she tilted her head back suppressing a moan of surprise when his hand from her hip slid between the material of her robe, right between her legs.

"− it's alright − it's alright − shhhh −" He hushed her hearing her quiver of delight as the tips of his fingers ran over her fleshy womanhood, collecting her moisture, spreading it in circular, steady strokes around her bud, the tickle she felt in her lower abdomen was unbearable.

"− oh God −" She mumbled out, her body quivering before him with pleasure, her breathing quickened as he deliberately began to tease the spot between her folds, it seemed to her that the whole room around her was spinning, her heart pounding like mad, she could feel the tension even in her lips.

"− you shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain − if I do not close these lips will you continue to blaspheme? −" He growled and leaned over her, startling her completely when his full, swollen, hot lips pressed against hers in a sticky, hot kiss. She moaned loudly and threw her arms around his neck, his tongue forced its way deep into her throat with his sigh of delight.

Her body began to tremble and shudder beneath him as his fingertips dug into her hot folds, squeezing them with increasingly confident motions, teasing her slit, sliding in a little only to slide out a moment later and start all over again, his fingers wet with her moisture.

"− I'm wasting so much of your precious nectar − I should lick it all off, shouldn't I? −" He breathed out into her mouth. She clenched her hands tightly in his hair at his words and just came on his fingers with a surprised moan of pleasure, tilting her head back, his lips pressed against her neck, placing greedy, hot, wet kisses on it. She cried out when she felt his middle finger slide into her hot core and stay like that, her walls clenching around it again and again.

He lifted himself up on his hand, looking down at her, sliding his finger out of her in a slow, careful motion with a shameless click of her moisture.

"− Blessed Ludovica Albertoni −" He whispered and lifted his fingers to his face, sliding them deep into his mouth; this sight was so perverted that she looked away, her body breathless at the memory of the sarcophagus on which the saint cruves in wonderful convulsions, her face and parted lips expressing the relief of fulfilment.

"− Bernini −" She whispered in a trembling voice, and he hummed under his breath, delighted that she knew what he was referring to.

"− exactly − you look magnificent −" He murmured and covered her thighs back with the material of her robe, rising slowly, looking with satisfaction at his masterpiece.

"Come in, Marco. She is ready."

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