#I PROMISE ITS NOT THAT DEPRAVED I PROMISE!!!!
Note
Any good sunflower fic recs? I joined the fandom recently and I’m starved for sunflower content 😭
OH GOD THERE ARE SO MANY GOOD ONES. There's a lotta diff options you can go for if you're looking for specific vibes. So lets seee
My fave writers for SF in general are Karma_Kalanchoe, BlueFieldAbove and Painkitty. If you're looking for good vibes with optional mild angst/drama they're a good bet.
For some oneshots I really enjoy:
Kleptomaniac Basil fic, short but sweet and a lil unhinged. Good shit.
CW for assisted Suicide but the characterization here is INCREDIBLE, I go back to it when I wanna feel pain.
My absolute FAVE fic that came outta sunflower week. The banter here is incredible.
This writer is really good at crawling into Basil's brain.
As far as longfics go, there aren't very many I actually really like that aren't by the three writers I shouted out at the top of this post. B-But uh... there's also the fic I've been drawing art of as of late..... It's not as depraved as it sounds, I promise!!!
I'm being very biased here, but I promise it's really heartfelt and funny. I PROMISE
#I hope this helps!!#hope I don't get killed cuz some of these recs are kinda... UH#anyways!! enjoy!!!#and yes#at this point its kinna obvious#but I am the cowriter of the last fic#this is why I'm biased#I PROMISE ITS NOT THAT DEPRAVED I PROMISE!!!!#ask box
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please it is psychological torture when u post absolute Shakespearean masterpieces of writing and then make me wait 3 years for the next part PLEASE 😭😭
(don’t push urself though, tis simply a joke, I would wait eternity for ur writing bc it is simply worth it)
IM SO SORRY I HAVE SUCH LITTLE TIME FOR HOBBIES THESE DAYS 😭
#I took a detour to write some extra depraved and filthy smut I’m talking NASTY so that’ll be done soon#YES ITS ACTUALLY GONNA BE DONE SOON I promise#I have like a thousand words left
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𝐭𝐡𝐞 "𝐲𝐞𝐬" 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐲.
singledad!mechanic!eddie x fem!reader
✶The garage gets slammed with clients, and the clear delineation between workplace flirting and PDA is put to the test when stolen kisses in the storage closet aren't enough, over the clothes touching leads to frustration, and getting interrupted in the breakroom leaves Eddie aching.✶
NSFW — smut, porn with plot, dry humping, oral (receiving), pussydrunk!eddie, horny depravity at work, van sex, masturbation, swallowing, teasing, sexual tension, hickeys (giving), reader and eddie are verbally harassed by a customer, protective!eddie, protective!reader, 18+
chapter: 12/20 [wc: 23.7k]
↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11 / 12
AO3
Chapter 12: Satanic Mechanic
The storm triggered rising temps.
————
Monday smacked you awake.
Your digital alarm clock wasn’t worth its price tag when the power flickered, and the blinking numbers of 12:00 seared into your tired retinas, really highlighting the fact that the two fat backup batteries hadn’t been replaced since you lived in a dorm. Whatever—It wasn’t that late, just late enough to cause a sweat when you were half hanging out of Robin’s car, wrestling with a spare umbrella while the sleeves of your light gray Champion college sweatshirt were darkening from ice-slushed rain. Oh, and because that wasn’t enough, the bottom of your pants waded through a puddle in the auto shop’s parking lot, too.
Stupid cursed town.
Swearing under your breath, you sped towards the employee door, and your expectation of a teasing remark from Carl about your tardiness lapsed into stark bewilderment.
You shook off your umbrella, and tossed it in the only available corner inside the cramped garage. Between the shuttered doors were four motley muscle cars parked back-to-back in various makes and models from yesteryears, bright colors announcing themselves amply. As you neared one, a quick shadow passed over the floor from the lobby door opening, widening the men’s muffled voices inside into clear conversation, and closing. You turned to greet them, but the words caught in your chest.
Eddie crowded you two steps backwards, away from the windows, and tucked you to the concrete wall where privacy could be had.
Heat stung your cheeks at the sight of your boyfriend of thirty-two hour’s careful attention on you. Thoughts on thoughts on thoughts wore themselves like a fever under your thick winter scarf. The same fingers he fiddled with to release his nervous tension were once tracing your spine. Not two days ago the big pink tongue he pressed to his teeth licked the intimacy between your breasts. Frazzled curls stood from the rest of his hair as if your hands had been through them time and time again. Soft concern edged the beautiful brown of his eyes analyzing your expression as he did when your bodies were entwined on his couch—yet, in this moment, he idled a measured distance away, guilt weighing heavily on his posture.
The tender rot of apology weakened his tone, “Hey, baby. I’m sorry about not calling. My power’s been out since I got home the other night, and I only just got it back this morning. I hope.. I hope that’s okay.” Reading the quick flit of your eyes falling to his hands and back up, his voice erred remorseful, “I promise I would’ve called.”
“Aw, handsome,” you released. Slotting your fingers into the cup of his palms, you narrowed the space between you in a squishy tennis shoe step. “Our phone line’s down too, and the power’s been going off and on. You didn’t think I was mad at you, did you? Even if something came up and you couldn’t get around to it, I would’ve understood.” The shelf of his shoulders were dotted with rain. “Were you pacing outside?” Meaning: were you so anxious you made yourself nauseous?
“No, no, this is just from dropping Adrie off. Uhm, I actually.. I know I look nervous—couldn’t help it once I saw you, ha,” he broke into a shy giggle, already sticking his gaze on his thumbs engulfing your knuckles. “But uhm, I actually wasn’t worried about you being upset with me. I know you said that when I dropped you off, but I’m getting better at not, ah, freaking out. Thinking of the worst case scenario, shit like that.” A glance through his lashes, and his lips stretched into a sly grin, rounding his cheeks. “I know we’re good. You and me.”
“Yeah, we’re good.” You leaned in, a hint of mischievousness marking your suggestive tone, “More than good.”
“More than good,” he repeated in a smiley mumble. “Just didn’t want you gettin’ the impression I’m some jerk who forgets to call his girl.”
His girl, his girl, his girl.
“I’d never think so poorly of the sweetest man alive.”
Magic happened. There, in his labored swallow, and your fluttery blink. An invisible pull encouraging your bodies closer, sliding your shoulder along the cold wall of your workplace. Seeking heat where it was found against his belly, standing the peach fuzz on your arms at attention from a single brush of your fingertips over his jumpsuit. Want, need; a wish to relieve the burn of pride in your chest, longing to reward him for his progress of keeping a level head when he could’ve spiraled into negative thoughts, yearning to kiss his rosy cheeks aglow with respect. But under the guide of his excessively gentle thumb strokes over your knuckles, a truth was earned. To him, it didn’t feel appropriate to kiss where people could see. Where people could fawn, pry, ask questions, put pressure on something so new. The desire was there. Oh, the desire was there in his gaze dipping to your lips, and staying.
Remembering Saturday, you inhaled sharply. “Oh! I didn’t tell you the good news. Robin got a call the other day, and—”
The voices in the lobby grew. One gruffed out—“Hey, you two?”—and you released each other’s hands, jolting apart. “Wanna get up to date on this shitstorm of a week?” Mr. Moore asked, motioning you both inside with two succinct waves of his clipboard.
A feeble look was exchanged from Eddie to you. The good news would have to wait. Talking would have to wait. Discussing the events from the weekend and all the pretty words he wanted you to hear while his mouth was nurturing the intimate skin beneath your paint-stained crewneck would have to wait.
Following your boss to the circle of employees gathered in front of your desk, Carl and Kevin said hello with raised eyebrows, and Mr. Moore flipped through the sheets on his clipboard, catching you up to speed. “So, lucky us," he said, tone betraying the luck, "the storm hit Springfield harder than Hawkins, so the annual Classic Car Show was moved down here this weekend." Rolling his hand, he grumbled—guy said the ol' historic buildings downtown would look nice in photos—"Anyway, all those uppercrust sons’a are gonna start droppin’ their cars off here for last minute maintenance, or whatever damn hell Roy was sayin'. He sent what parts he had, but we'll have to put in an emergency order, and of course the damn phone is still out."
Mr. Moore targeted you. "We can not," he stressed, "can not accept normal customers this week with all these yuppies comin' in. Unless it’s an emergency, just turn them away, or point 'em towards Thatcher's if they need their tires rotated. Got it?"
So, that explains why Eddie's eyes were welded shut in preparation for the arduous day ahead. The cavity between your hand and his could’ve been filled with a supportive squeeze, maybe a silent assurance in the passing touch, but you tore your gaze from the myriad of grievances wrinkling his expression, and answered your boss, "Got it."
Papers were divvied, sighs were had. With a hard clap of Mr. Moore’s meaty hands on each of your shoulders, he guaranteed a generous bonus for the extra work, and dismissed the group. You pivoted to collecting mail-in order forms for car parts in case the phones didn't work by the afternoon, and the men went off to the garage where hours were lost to the heavy clank of tools making clockwork.
As the day yawned to noon, Eddie’s ears were ringing. He fetched his Walkman from the car, and blasted music through its shitty foam cups in effort to destroy his hearing with something preferable. Amongst the mayhem of cars rolling out of the service bay and being immediately replaced by another, he curled his fingers in a small wave at his favorite Office Administrator, but you missed it on account of the old man at your counter needing the keys for his ‘57 Chevrolet Bel Air.
It was a lonely day. A busy day. An aching day where the itch to connect with each other led to melancholy behind every antsy glance through the windows gone unmet.
Your lunch was a limp sandwich eaten between visiting clients, and when Eddie ate, he did it with his back facing you, bent over the work table on the far wall, mixing cleaning solution for an engine block in between sips of Campbell's tomato soup.
In the wait for a muscle car to be exchanged for a truck requiring new brake pads belonging to the mom with two kids in the lobby who needed it for work the next day, Eddie sought you for comfort in the breakroom, but you had walked to the post office after the rain let up, and by the time you got back, you shrugged off his jacket, picked up a stack of clean rags from the storage closet, and used them as an excuse to enter the noisy garage.
Handing off the rags was the closest either of you had been since that morning. Skin contact was bittered by the barrier of his black nitrile gloves, and the interaction was stained by grime sketching the fine lines of his tired face, stress preying on his mood when you pulled away. He needed you.
Miss you, you mouthed.
Miss you, baby, he returned.
Eddie went back to his project. You went back to organizing paperwork. When you checked the phone line, it wasn’t even joy which influenced your forced smile at him through the window. It was just more work when the dial tone answered.
Busy, busy, busy. No respite for conversation, not even between the mechanics. Kevin’s goodbye was offered as the sun hung low in the sky, touching the tree line. Carl knocked on the hood of the car David was working on to get his attention before clocking out for the night. In retrospect, Mr. Moore was the only one who held a proper conversation with Eddie, telling him he’d be in his office for a bit, and he’d stay late to help on the final set of cars.
In the last slants of daylight dragging through tree branches, Eddie focused on the Mustang Mach 1 in front of him. Sun at his back, wiping sweat from his forehead. Wasting his time on small detail work he wasn’t normally paid to do, yet finding some fulfillment in clearing the nooks of leaf debris and polishing excess grease out of the crannies, salivating at the reward at the end of it: a fat check.
Indeed, he was lost in fantasies of how he’d spend his money when a commotion invaded his mind palace, infiltrating the blank air of his cassette clicking to the end of its tape. Eddie pushed the headphones down to his neck, squinting at the windows to the lobby.
His sweetheart’s face was set with bored malice. An air of disregard, but annoyed all the same. Softly narrowed eyes, loose shoulders, crossed legs. Listening to the man who leaned over the heightened front of your receptionist desk with a pointed finger you didn’t care for, and moving your mouth in a rehearsed response. The man’s voice raised, tanned skin gone blotchy. Spitting mad. You flinched at his irate gestures nearing too close for comfort.
Instant. Adrenaline whipped Eddie forward. Muscles flexed into action, constricted, strained, prepared and loaded, roiling with power ripping open the glass door, sending loose papers flying off the black tool cart, including the one with the man’s name he recognized—
How could he forget?
Square jaw, springy curls cropped close to his skull. Light brown hair extending to the shitty wisps on his upper lip not any better than a grandma could grow. Ditch the letterman jacket for a suit and tie all he wanted, but there was no mistaking Andy, best friend of Jason and player on Hawkins’ High basketball team who helped scar Eddie Munson’s frail reputation after that fateful party he never went to.
Someone he was lucky to dodge at most preschool functions by virtue of his son being nursery-aged.
“—It’ll be ready tomorrow,” you finished in uniform curt.
“Listen better, bitch, I don’t have time for—”
“Hey!” Eddie’s voice packed the tiled room in an authoritative boom with the same fury he entered, commanding the space, possessing the attention as papers floated to the ground behind him. Shifting in his stance, his heart pounded against the strict discipline he leashed himself to, gaining control of his volume for your sake. Quieting to a seethe, he forced out, “You can’t speak to her that way.”
The subject of his ire slid his snakey gaze to him, deducing his long hair, his cheap cassette player, his jumpsuit. Sizing him up. Assessing him. Casting judgements.
Holding reign with a steady pupil on his target, Andy straightened himself from the desk. His expression wore neutral, hands pushing himself away from the ledge and rolling his shoulders with casual controlled dominance. His ugly red tie slipped against his white poly-cotton button down shirt at the motion, following his slow turn towards someone he thought so lowly of. “Figures you’d be here,” he said, jaw jutted in a lax chew as if he were sucking on a toothpick. “This the only place that’d hire a scumbag like you? Hm?”
Fingers stretched and flexed. Veins coursed with heated blood. Sweaty palms were crushed closed.
But it wasn’t Eddie who responded—no—it was his little Mouse.
Jumping from your seat, your chair rolled into the rackety filing cabinets behind you, causing a scene with your hand striking the desk. “You can’t talk to him that way!”
Andy arched an eyebrow at your bark, however, he propped his elbow up in a lazy lean on your binder-clipped manila folders, and held a mutual gaze with the man opposite him. “Sweetie,” he patronized, addressing you with a smug crook of his lips aimed to taunt Eddie further, “this devil worshiper here preys on pretty girls like you. Don’t defend his honor. He’s got none.” With a cocky tongue click, he licked his bottom lip, reveling in the storm brewing in his doormat’s eyes. There was history in the words he chose. They were crafted for The Freak of Hawkins specifically. The rumors he was known for. The lies. Also, the truths.
Testosterone suggested violence in Eddie’s deliberate refusal to blink, but anger did not darken his cheeks in reveals of red as they oft do, nor did he rear a fist like you wanted to. Hard pumps of aggression strained the tendons in his neck, creating shadows along the thick blue vein leading to his strong jaw, but otherwise much of his reaction was reserved, contained in his stoney expression and hidden beneath his biding posture, waiting. Assessing. For years he endured his name being spat on, and he was only beginning to understand the toll of surrendering.
“You’re new here, aren’t cha?” Andy spoke to you, but matched the trained stare across from him. “There’s no need to stand up for this creep. He’s just some lowlife who begs for table scraps, and still can’t coerce girls into giving him the time of day. Kinda pathetic, don’t ya think?” Tone sneering to a scoff, he added to Eddie, “S’kinda miracle you managed to procreate.”
“Shut up!”
This anonymous man regarded you finally. Confusion hung heavy on his brow, curious as to why you were so adamant about protecting someone like him. Then, he dropped his head to the side, enough to see you, and raked his glare over your body, pausing his study on one place in particular.
Your jaw dropped at the audacity, throwing a hand over your stomach on instinct.
Andy involved you with a nod. “This another chick you knocked up?”
Quickfire, Eddie snatched starchy fabric and knotted silk in his fist, dragging him in by his tie, smothering his wet grunt of surprise with a vice grip on his shirt. They were the same height, but when pitted against steel toe boots, leather loafers lost. Not that he needed the extra inch. A different danger lurked in Eddie’s minimal movements, reeling the other man closer without much effort. Enough intimidation lived in his clenched jaw and quivering muscles to show he was not tucking tail and rolling over.
“Hey now,” Andy rasped against the solid threat of knuckles digging into the hollow of his throat, taming him from uttering more. He raised his hands in defense, manicured nails atop soft fingers atop softer palms.
“Watch your mouth,” Eddie enunciated, slow and warning.
Knocked off status by the brave chin challenging him, Andy’s nostrils flared, but his amusement didn’t waver. Under pressure, he wrung the corner of his mouth, lifting his fuzzy upper lip in sly charm while he puzzled out the dynamic between the cool-headed receptionist who’d gone rabid at a bit of joking, and the blue-collar mechanic who abstained from standing up for himself, but sure as hell did when it involved you.
A smirk dared to stretch across his face.
Andy tucked his eyebrows in, and pleaded, “Don’t tell me you already brought more annoying spawn into this world.”
Visions of red gushed over Eddie’s scarred, dirty knuckles, but the reality was ripped from him before he explored the sweet relief.
Dying to get your hands on a ghost from his past, you competed for the shirt on Andy's back. Grabbing his shoulder, you tore him from your beloved’s grasp, slinging him backwards on stumbling feet. You didn’t let the fucker catch his footing before you rammed your shoulder into him with all your scrappy might. “You wish you were half as good of a man as he is!” Growled through bared teeth and trembling with malice. “You’ll never compare. You can’t! I feel sorry for everyone you’ve ever met.” Snarled from darker depths than witless gossip about a man you adored, slapping your hands hard on his chest, shoving him. “Get out!” Shove. “Out!” Push. "And if you ever—ever!—bring up Adrie again, I'll fucking.."
His wild eyes searched for Eddie across the room, but you demanded respect.
Harder shove, striking palms where it hurt—making him cough. “Get the fuck out!”
His steps faltered, disoriented by the polarity of the quiet bitch behind the desk being the one to catch him off guard, attacking him before he could gather his dignity and stop. fucking. tripping. “You little—!”
“Out!” You cut a fierce line with your arm, pointing at the streets. “Leave! Out! Now!” Shove.
Scrambling, slipping on the wet tile, the metal corner of the door handle bit his squishy palm, pulling a hiss from gritted teeth. Shove. Point. Bark. He yanked the door open with a slew of words you’d only tolerate from Eddie when he said them in the heat of your bodies joining in sweet passion, and you let him know with a guttural grunt, pushing Andy out and into the parking lot where a puddle of ice water awaited his shoes. Squish, squish, squelch. He found his footing on the cracked pavement, huffing and puffing with haughty swipes at his clothes, dusting them off on the way to his Cadillac.
You followed his retreat with two proud middle fingers, shouting, “Take that ugly hood ornament and shove it up your ass!” When his shoulders squared like he was going to turn around, you yelped and scurried inside, locking the door only to hear him spit on the ground. Gravel crunched afterwards, and you assumed the tire screech was him leaving.
Dry gulp. Pounding heart. Aching wrists. Loud blood rushing everywhere. Vision vibrating from the adrenaline pulsing between your ears. You got your bearings, and turned to Eddie—except, he wasn’t there. No one was in the lobby. No one was in the garage, either. Down the hall there was a sulking shadow cast across the floor, growing smaller as it sat down.
You went towards the breakroom, passing by Mr. Moore’s head peeking out of his office. Creases from a notebook marked his cheek. Groggy and confused, he asked, “You handle whatever that was?”
“I did.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “Good on ya.” He shrank back into the dark room, returning to his nap.
Approaching the round table with caution, you picked the plastic chair next to Eddie and sat gingerly, noiselessly. Hands folded, upper body turned, waiting for him to speak first. And when he didn’t, you prodded. “Are you okay?”
Eddie unlocked his twined thumbs, and dropped a heavy hand on your knee, patting you. “Yeah, I’m okay, baby,” he replied softly. He didn’t pull his gaze from the wall, blinking only when he brought himself out of his ruminations to pat you again. Blank expression, hollow. Legs spread wide, ruling the space while your thighs were tucked tight together, same as any day you’d share lunch while he brainstormed a campaign idea, writing the story in his head and forgetting to hold a conversation with you. But his silence separated you. You needed more from him.
“Do you want a hug?” you asked.
Pat, pat. “Nah, I’m good, I promise,” he said with a bit more sureness lifting his tone.
Staring holes into the side of your boyfriend's face for far longer than it took to lose faith in telepathy, you swallowed through the scratchy rasp taken hold of your throat after yelling at a customer, and guided him, “Can I have a hug?”
“Oh shit, right, sorry!” The cluelessness jumped off of him as he sat up and wrapped his arms around you, scooping you to his chest. Your cheek picked up a healthy amount of dirt when sliding past his, and his headphones smoothed most of his hair from entering your mouth, but as sweaty and filthy the hug was, his crushing hold on you was everything a platonic coworker could ask for after being verbally harassed. A forearm behind the shoulder blades, a kind splay of fingers on the mid-back. Polite. “I’m sorry he yelled at you.”
Arms trapped against his chest, you bunched the collar of his coveralls in your fists, and he hummed into the comfort of your reciprocation, no matter how covert while your boss was one door down.
“S’okay,” you whispered. Nudging towards his ear, you smeared the sweat at his hairline onto your temple in a blessing. “My first job was at a McDonald’s drive thru. I was fourteen. I’m used to men in business suits yelling at me.” Caught between a sympathy snort and cringe, he offered another apology and pulled his face away.
His eyes and smile went soft, losing their strength from a different emotion trickling in. “Should I have decked that guy? Did you want me to do that? Did you want me to stand up for you, and knock ‘im out?”
“And risk you getting an assault charge on your name? Uh, no. I’m more than capable of standing up to a guy who won’t hit back because I’m a woman.”
Nodding against his ego, he took a moment to mull it over, and dropped into a serious tone, “I don’t want it to seem like I was letting him walk all over me, either. Not that long ago I would’ve freezed up. Probably would’ve sat there, taken it, and fixed his car while he watched. Then I would’ve gone home and cried about it because I’d be so fucking mad at myself for not dislocating his jaw. But,” he paused to run his tongue over the back of his teeth, settling the anger he harbored after the years of unapologetic abuse he tolerated.
He exhaled in a two-count, inhaled on three.
Collecting himself, sincerity replaced the animosity. “But since me and you have started hanging out, I can see how wrong he is, and it just—sorta–doesn’t bother me anymore, y’know? Like, I don’t even have to think about it, I know I’m not those things he said.” He strummed his thumb over your shoulder, soothing the lingering fight shivering through your body, invoking care in his words to calm your racing heart, and his. “I kinda lost it when he brought you and Adrie into it, and I’m glad you intervened when you did, before I did something I regretted, but I’m sorry for what he said. Or what he was, ah, implying about you..”
“Wasn’t really an insult, anyway.”
“Hm?”
“You know, as if it’d be a bad thing to be—uh, uh..” Your stomach clenched from the impact of his gaze falling to it. The sentence would never be finished, and it didn’t need to be. Your mindless chatter proved your subconscious thoughts loud and clear. It wouldn’t be an insult to be pregnant with your child.
Panic prickled your nervous system hummingbird fast. Slews of mortification reached your eyes, urging him not to draw conclusions based on something you blurted on the spot, because—because—just—Jesus Christ, man, please move on.
Shifting topics with more tact than his faintly stuttered exhale would suggest, he shook the stiffness from his posture by clearing his throat, and narrowed his eyes in a curious squint. Dropping his head to you, his fingers skimmed the clasp of your bra band through your sweater, and one of his anxieties was stroked into the relationship with a pivotal question, “Can you tell me, are there cameras in here?”
Without looking, you thought of the layout. “No, there’s just the two outside. One facing the entrance, the other facing the intersection. Why—umph?” He stole the concern from your lips.
Crashing mouth on mouth, he moaned at the relief of having you after a shitty day, and you doubled his vigor, dragging him in by his clothes until it hurt. Spine bent, hips to hard plastic, lips smashed against teeth, joints leading to your strained fingertips twisted above his embroidered name tag. You kissed him until it ached, until he was sated, until lungs burned for breath. It was the best change of subject, because when Eddie flirted his bottom lip along yours after you broke for air and his spit mixed with tangy salt on your tongue and gritty earth between your teeth, you wondered if the primal emotion steeped in his heavy-lidded eyes was the result of the same phrase repeating in his head as yours. Knocked up.
“Do you think it’s okay if we kiss like this? As long as we’re alone?”
“Yeah,” you guessed. “I think it’s okay if we’re alone. Not while customers are out there, or in front of the guys. We should be good, if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah,” he repeated. “I’d like that.”
You accepted his forehead against yours, feeling him sag with a tired groan. Exhausted from responsibilities, emotionally drained and succumbing to the crook of your neck, depending on you to rejuvenate him with tiny, smiley pecks at the top of his ear. Poor man.
As usual, you were the bearer of his weight, trusted to hold him up and be the pillar of strength as his arms fell to your hips, hands at the waistband of your jeans, ambitions decidedly pious as his fingertips explored the ridge of a stretchmark on your lower back. “Ed?” You tucked some loving caresses through the hair at the base of his nape, working circles into his oily roots. “I never got to tell you my good news.”
“Oh!” He piped up, coming into focus, face alight with excitement from your giggle.
“Bobbie got the call, and our apartment is ready!”
There was hardly a predictability to how Eddie would react to things. Sometimes sharing stories about your past in New York would earn his disinterest; sometimes he was eager to listen. Talking about the future was the same. Sometimes his gaze drifted faraway when you brought up the potential of your favorite Chinese restaurant closing before you could have the #4 special again, and sometimes he needled you about learning to drive before he finds you and your bike crumpled in a ditch on the side of the road one of these days.
But worry not, the sunshine grin breaking across his lips warmed you in all the right places.
“No shit?” he released in a breathless, excited laugh. “No more living with the Buckley’s, huh?”
“Mhm! No more competition while solving the Wheel of Fortune, but I think I’ll live. Especially if it means having my own bathroom.”
“Nice, nice, nice. And, uh,” he broke off to trace a pattern on your pants, “And, if I may ask because I’m an upstanding gentleman who wants to lend his strength without the expectation of reward, when exactly do you move in?”
“This weekend.”
“Oh,” he flattened. Voice monotone—Oh. Also known as ‘fuck’ or ‘damn.’ “Corroded Coffin has a gig in Indy this weekend. Drive there Saturday morning, come back Sunday around 3, maybe 4AM, if I rush.” He started mumbling to himself, “But, maybe—if Wayne can watch Adrie on Sunday, I could still— Or if she stays where I can see her and doesn’t get in the way, she can come, and I’ll help bring in big furniture, some heavy boxes. Set up your bed for you, the TV, uh, does the place come with a fridge? I could do that too. Make sure all your outlets work. Could hang some stuff up for you, help you decorate.” You sighed in a way where he’d get the hint to shut up.
He frowned. “What?”
“You don’t need to help us, we’ve got it figured out, but I was trying to tell you the news this morning because—” Quick high-pitched beeps from a Buick made your point. Eddie swiveled around to peek down the hall at Robin’s car parked out front, headlights beaming through the windows. You enunciated for effect, “Because we’re going furniture shopping and packing every night this week, so I’ve gotta clock out early, before the stores close.”
A heavy dose of disappointment jaded his hand falling limp over your thigh. “So, not only do we not get to see each other during work this week because I’m buried under cars owned by dickheads who should take pride in servicing their own vehicles, but you can’t stay late, either?” he summarized to your apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry,” you began, grazing your knuckle along the powdery soot lining his jaw like stubble. Incited by more honks, you picked up the pace, and fit his face to your palms, thumbing his cheeks; collecting him, lifting his chin, guiding him to your lips.
Two hums converged, harmonizing. His handsome nose mashed against yours in order to steal kiss after kiss as two people should when huddled in a private room away from their boss. Sympathetic to his cause, you resisted the urgency of the ticking clock, and worked your hips into his hold, swaying all the closer, consuming the dearness of his prayer when your fully clothed body stood between his legs, melting his stress away.
“Should get going,” you mumbled, brushing through his hair with each subsequent glide of his desperate tongue making it harder to leave.
Instead of a honk, a car door shut, and you pictured Robin stalking up to the door with her lips rolled in, gesturing animatedly at her watch.
Your muscles posed to take a step away from Eddie, but he climbed his hands to your waist, refusing to let go. “Wait! Wait!”
“What? What?” you mimicked.
“We didn’t get to talk about what happened over the weekend,” he insisted, and you took pity on him, raising your brows with a caveat grin telling him he should make this quick. “I wanted to say that our date was perfect. Like, amazingly perfect. Not just the, ah, obvious part, but watching movies and making dinner together was special to me. As dumb as it sounds, even washing dishes together was special to me.”
The bare circles on his cheeks where your thumbs wiped the dirt away plumped up from his grin.
“And then the way you took care of Adrie,” fondness rushed in, eclipsing the fatigue in his voice, “baby, you’re beyond perfect for that. I couldn’t have asked for anything better. You got her to stop crying when I couldn’t—Yes, I can hear her knocking—and you did everything just so exactly right, and I’m so fucking grateful for you, and, wait! Before you go,” he begged you, laughing into another lip-smack on your forehead. You backed away until he stood up, face still wedged between your palms, coerced into following you into the hallway so your best friend didn’t think you’d gone missing without a trace. “I’ll try not to do the whole crying-my-eyes-out and then spilling-my-guts-to-you thing every time we’re together.. No promises, though.”
Almost to the door, you continued to walk backwards, advancing him until the last second when you had to let go. You teased him, “If it becomes a habit, I’ll put ice cream on the grocery list, and we can sob it out together at my place like real friends do. Sound good?” Umbrella, purse, chapstick—check. “See you tomorrow, handsome,” you said on your way out. Eddie filled the doorframe, casting a sharp eye around the parking lot while returning your adoring goodbye.
He curled his fingers in a guilty wave at Robin.
She, with her keen nose, bent to sniff at you, and commented overly loudly, “Your sweatshirt smells like Camels.”
————
Tuesday was a strong, steady build in pressure.
Privacy could be had in the public space between buildings where cars passed on either side, puttering at their leisurely pace before slowing to a stop when the intersection lights flipped red. You bounded up to Eddie carrying two waxed paper cups filled with morning energy, beaming brighter than the dawning rays glancing off the brick alleyway. “Hey! Got you a little somethin’.” That, along with the rocks crunching under your shoes, was his only warning before you were forcing a drink into his hand, and slipping your other arm inside his unzipped jacket, squeezing his middle.
He rocked on his footing and laughed, collecting your head to his chest with a firm palm behind your neck. Your bodies swayed together, ear pressed to the source of his voice; his choppy cadence drawn tight from the sudden rise in eagerness to tuck his chin and mash kisses atop your hair. “Hey, sweetheart,” he breathed, tinted with a stutter from surprise. “You got me coffee?” Spinning it in his hand, he read the shop’s logo stamped onto the cardboard sleeve and put the lid to his nose, smelling the steam piping through the hole. “Mmm, a latte. You didn’t have to go and get me something special like that.”
“I wanted to since I was too busy to call you last night,” you apologized. “Thought you could use the extra caffeine, too.”
Bathed in the teasing glow of sun, you lifted your cheek from the thick scent of burnt tobacco baked into his coveralls, and swam to the heady surface of smoke enriching the crisp air. Raising your nose higher, though, there wasn’t a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Fresh mint followed the thin fog escaping his lips in a visible puff of breath.
Eddie kissed you deep. Wrigley’s Spearmint coated the flavor on his tongue as he dragged it over your bottom lip and across your teeth. The recent ad campaign targeting smokers sponsored his confident lick into your mouth. Lazy and casual, relaxing his arm around your shoulders. Hot coffees tucked to his chest. Pocket below his name tag stuffed with the red and white packaging of foil sticks next to his lighter and Camels, finishing up his morning habit with a clean taste now that he gained certain privileges at work.
“Could definitely do with a pick-me-up from my girl,” he mushed en route to your cheek, pulling away to take the first sip of his coffee and ending with a satisfied mmm.
You vied for his approval. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Another sip, another warm ahh fanning your cheeks. His one-track mind instilled bravery in his hand sliding down from your shoulders to the roundness of your ass, groping your hips flush against the metallic clink of the button snaps closing his jumpsuit, bringing you to him.
Regarding you down the length of his nose, he dipped his smoker’s rasp into something rougher, deeper, resonating from the courage in his chest, “Y’know, I used to worry about making things weird at work if I made a move on you and it wasn’t appreciated–”
“Oh?” you interrupted, pointing above you. “Do you.. Do you not see the flashing sign over my head begging you to ask me out?”
“Hush,” he reprimanded you with a wolfish spank over your back pocket. “What I’m saying is that I’m startin’ to see the perks of workin’ together.” He flicked his eyes up to survey the end of the alley, minding the crawl of traffic passing by. Any Hawkins citizen could turn their head and see you two together; fronts touching in the indecent way coworkers shouldn’t. Stomachs brushing in the intimate way acquaintances wouldn’t. Faces nearing, warmth radiating from his full lips holding steady above your silent plea in the eager way friends might not. Hands taking what they want—smooth and strong alike, improper filth—grabbing in the coarse way sweethearts do.
Eddie’s fingers followed the crease at the bottom of your ass cheek, cupping himself a handful, and drawing you into his nicotine and menthol kiss. You wrung a fistful of the back of his coveralls, using him for weak-kneed stability, yanking until fabric strained against the snap clasps, making gaps to where his shirt showed underneath.
Huddled, coffee cups captured in the embrace, your bodies buzzed drunk on indulgence.
In the echoey distance, a shutter door rolled open. “Perks gotta wait, I’m afraid,” you moped, falling short of getting swept into the intoxicating trap throbbing between your thighs when he groaned at the heavy chain rattling, locking one door into place before moving onto the next.
He shook his head, sighing in genuine annoyance at the few minutes you had alone, now over. “Guess we’ll have to sneak around if we want to see each other this week.”
“Yeah?” you drew out, thick and sweet like honey, walking your fingers up his chest. “Need me that badly?” you questioned, mawkish and innocent. “Need me to beat up your bullies, and kiss you better?”
Playful spite painted his grin. “Is that too much to ask for? They’re workin’ me to the bone here, babe. I think I deserve a little pick-me-up after replacing a heater core.”
The second service door creaked and clanked at the top of its slot.
“A little pick-me-up, huh?” you repeated, earning a nose-scrunched amusement at the quick peck you offered him. “Like that?”
“Just like that,” he confirmed, already against your mouth for more.
Just like that—
Even footfalls of heavy boots thudded closer.
Giddy kicks of excitement electrified your nerves. The thrill of sneaking around gripped, bound, and knotted your stomach. Eddie, intending to steal one last treat before his fingers and wrists were fatigued from labor, rocked you forward with his strong palm, but he too was spurred by the endorphin rush, hauling your hips in with too much enthusiasm and causing you to discover more than he’d meant to.
Swiftly separating, backs to scratchy brick, the third shutter door dislodged from the dusty ground and began its clattery ascent. Cool, calm, casual. Racing-hearted coworkers.
Hello, Mr. Moore. Fine day, isn’t it? Dotted cloudy sky with plenty of sun, no rain. Yes, I’ll get started on a pot of coffee in just a minute.
Your boss walked away.
You looked at your boyfriend. Waxy to-go cup poised at his puckered lips, eyes nearly closed to mirthful little crescents and twinkling from your collective shared secrets which grew exponentially. Plunging thoughts, yet you kept your gaze high, deciphering his devilish features instead of analyzing the outline below the waistband of his dark gray coveralls leading to his hand was in his pocket, picturing Eddie’s cock in his fist before noon.
Rock hard only from kissing.
He mocked you lightly—teacher’s pet, people pleaser— “Better get goin’, sweetheart.”
Your features arched to the tune of sarcasm on your tongue, asking him a question he refused to answer with anything but a smirk, “Why? Need some alone time?”
————
Wednesday ripened like boozy fruit.
Thick winter layers were shed for lightweight counterparts; canvas jackets shucked after a cup of coffee, breaking free from the hug of warmth before it riled a worse sweat than the impulses caused.
Just like that—
Treats throughout the day in between vintage cars and pretentious clients. Exploring the perks of a stolen peck in the breakroom after Kevin shuffled out. The favor of a massage along the knotted muscles between his shoulder blades when crouched behind an Impala, where you were changing the trash liners at the workbench, and he was counting lug nuts. Silly benefits like you thanking him in a kiss to your palm, blown from behind your desk after he delivered a stack of invoices, to which he mimed catching it and pressing it to his cheek, walking backwards into the garage in a lazy stride, embracing his dopey grin. “Corny,” he said that time. “Shh, baby,” he said another, when his wandering hand landed in a squeeze on your ass, and your squeal of delight peaked higher than he was comfortable with in the hallway outside your boss’ office, spiking hues of cassis wine across his nose.
Innocent snacks. Quick low-risk indulgences.
That’s how it started, anyway.
“Psst,” you got Eddie’s attention as he strolled past the storage closet on his way to the breakroom for his Chef Boyardee lunch. His elbow jutted a big angle from stretching his tricep, looking like Rosie the Riveter in his royal blue coveralls and red bandana on his head.
When his expression remained exceptionally oblivious upon seeing you peeking out of the narrow room housing dusty metal shelves lined with car parts, you snagged him by his grimey sleeve and dragged him inside. With two people crowding the shoebox shaped space, running into the cardboard boxes of windshield wipers you’d yet to put away was inevitable, as was Eddie ducking around the pull string for the single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Your eyes itched and your throat scratched, but with everyone's breaks being staggered to ensure there was someone out in the bay and someone available to answer customer’s questions at all times, your loneliness was agonizing, and his sly smile accentuating his dimple knew it.
“Yeah, sweet stuff?” Already, the lure. The bait of his tone. Dry rasp in his overused voice, hoarse from yelling over the grind of a powertools.
The heavy door crept closed behind him, ajar enough to catch shadows. You backed to the furthest wall. He trailed, brushing his stained fingertips on his hips to rid them of excess motor oil before touching his girl.
But, before he could lift your chin in an overdue kiss, you stopped him dead in his tracks. “Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” you said, breathy and thin, too high-pitched and fluttery to be sultry. Butterflies had been building in your belly since you first had this idea at your desk, erupting into swarmy impatience as the timing never worked out and you couldn’t get him alone without one of the guys noticing, or a customer leaning over to ding the bell next to your pen cup, breaking you from your daydream.
Eddie was still a step away, raising his arm from his side, when a beautiful sight swallowed his pupils whole.
A shiver grasped your middle.
Sweat met cool air, erupting goosebumps along your ribs, tightening your nipples to stiff peaks. The hem of your thin sweater stayed gathered at the top of your chest, hands splayed to keep it in place, helping frame the generic black bra. You didn’t enter the day prepared to show off your lamest lingerie, but Eddie’s stare was glued to the plain dull shine of polyester stretched over cups covering the full range of your goods as if they were worthy of the French term usually relegated to something not designed for comfort.
He wiped his hands more energetically on his chest.
No pet names, no clever remarks crafted to make you melt. No swoony lines, no verbal compliments from his handsome mouth hung on a dumbfounded gape. No thoughts, wit, or brainpower. Everything vanished the moment you took his wrist, and smoothed his palm to your breast.
Suave, he was not. Eddie giggled like a teenager—elated, ecstatic to be touching a pair of boobs as if it were his first time. You pitied him in a chastising snort, hopelessly fallen for his big grin, and helped his other hand. Large palm, calluses dragging on the fabric. Cups too thick and opaque to ogle what was beneath. But he was mesmerized all the same. He fitted the stretch of his fingers across that which you arched into his hold, and ran his thumb over the softness. His knuckles and tendons flexed as he did so, moving under the pressure of your heavy suggestion, sliding his hand down so he cradled the bottom and lifted, giving him more area to explore—
Your inhale came sharp and sweet.
Eddie throbbed.
He checked your reaction, repeated the motion. Found the hard bud under the layer, and trapped it between the edge of his thumb, rocking it to the long side of his index finger. Your body leaned into the feeling, eyebrows drawn, bottom lip pushed out and freshly licked. He learned to do it again. Again. More. Harder. Shimmery praise collected in the corners of your eager eyes, heavy lids and batting lashes forced open to watch the confidence in his movements grow. Faster rubs, heavier pets. Kneading what you gave him. Drawing quick, simple breaths from your pretty mouth as he concentrated on circling his thumbpad around the point of pleasure, using his nail to skim over it, dragging a lurch from your core.
“Eddie.” His name tipped into a moan hummed through your nose.
The stuffy room heightened your fluster. Eddie burned. Furnace body, ember hands stoking your fire. Ends of his bangs coming to a damp point above his brows. Dewy skin beneath his diligent strokes over the polyester cups. The squish. The yearn. The need for cold metal shelves to be pressed into your backside, positioning himself against your front.
“Like it when I do that, baby?” he asked, deep and husky for no other reason than to hear your voice pitch when he pinched your nipples, elusive as they were from the slippery fabric.
You pushed your sweater higher, flaunting your arms closer. The amount of gratification coming from his thumbing was small, but the fun of doing it in a closet while on the clock had you oversensitive. Anticipation swelled your fat tongue, slurring your question with girlish flirt, “S’it a good pick-me-up? D’you feel better?” you asked for no other reason than to feel him grow hard against your hip.
Cement walls deadened outside interference, isolating his hammering heart in its loudest beats, and projecting the low sound stuck in the back of his throat. His deep rumble of, “Yeah, feelin’ better,” was spoken in the hollow between your chests, stomachs meeting during your feathery inhales opposite his resolute ones filling the planes of his pecs with renewed strength to get through the day.
Eddie’s exhaustion illustrated itself in the bags under his eyes; intense wells of purple beneath deep wrinkles you couldn’t begin to solve for him. However, you could stretch up, brush your lips over his, and make the eager noises which fed his ego.
“Makin’ you feel good?” he asked, grounding his pleasure in what he could do for you.
“So good, handsome.”
“Love it when you call me handsome.”
“Yeah?”
He collapsed into you, “Yeah.”
Sly now, your grin broke the kiss. “You still remember how to unhook a bra, handsome? Or has it been too long?” No surprise—he nipped at the bottom lip he adored so much, shutting you up.
His big, tired body lost its strength from cranking tools all morning, but he still managed to impress you with his firm determination laying against your belly, pulsing eager. He circumvented your taunt with fingertips diving to the bottom of the cups and pushing up, drawing tension on the underwire, tightening the band around your ribs. It teetered on the edge of a great reveal, nipples harder than him between your legs. You begged for the release, for your bra to finally crest the whole, and bounce what you had into his waiting palms, where his thumb and index were shaped to tweak another hot moan into his mouth—full lips mashed gently to your desperate whine—unapologetic confidence staring you down. Doing it all with a smile.
The door opened with Carl’s question, “You get those u-joints for me?”
Violent strikes of shame-induced panic shocked you both into action before thinking.
Thank God you still had a hold on your sweater to yank it down in sync with Eddie’s side-step, the dumbass, exposing you because his priorities laid in fleeing. Well, at least he was a redeemable dumbass who used his quick wit Dungeon Master skills to remain with his back turned towards the door, perusing the top shelf for a box of universal joints.
You acted your part. “Oh! Uh, I couldn’t reach them, so I got Eddie to help,” you overexplained, pointing at your taller platonic friend who definitely wasn’t the reason your clothes bunched weirdly over your chest.
“Hm?” Carl looked up from his invoices, just noticing Eddie. “Could’ya get me some washers too?”
“Yep,” you answered for him, hearing the box slide along with the rattle of the steel washers, taking them and handing them off to Carl who grunted out a thank you, double checking his paperwork as he walked away, none the wiser as to why your gaze was sealed on the floor.
Mouth dried of all fluid, yet body drenched in the same embarrassment which reddened your coworker’s face darker than his bandana, you gulped past your heart lodged in your throat, and idled next to Eddie, pretending to tidy up a container of gloves. Really, you straightened out your bra instead, door wide open behind you.
It wasn’t against the rules to date your colleague, but he was uncomfortable with other people knowing about your relationship. Perhaps it was the prying, the questions, the pressure which bothered him most. Or the loss of privacy. All eyes on the single dad who hadn’t been in a serious relationship since a brief stint out of high school, and finding someone now, for him, The Freak of Hawkins, was such a significant event they’d probably congratulate him, therefore crushing the dignity he worked hard to assemble from the crumbs he was left with.
He had more to care about. More to lose. Always, you followed your boyfriend’s lead when it came to his reputation.
“So..”
“S-So,” he answered. “Uhm..”
“Should we.. Do you want to keep doing this?” you hesitated, trying to figure him out. Eddie knew what you were asking, though. It strained against the last set of buttons to his coveralls. The edge with no relief. Sneaking around, copping feels in dusty closets, stealing kisses behind walls, never having enough time to start, nor end something worthwhile to ease the aches left behind. “Maybe we should relax at work until we have a real weekend to ourselves again?”
“Fuck no.” His blunt response raised your eyebrows. “C’mon, babe,” he scoffed, locking onto you with his sloppy puppy grin and playful nudge on your arm. “This work week already fucking sucks, and you’re the only good I get.”
Checking over his shoulder, he sidled closer to you, and lowered his voice, “Yesterday I got to kiss you, and then go home to my kid who ate her chicken and broccoli without a single complaint.” He cut his hands to his chest, palms up, bouncing them in a shrug. “I don’t see any downsides here.” Aside from the prominent downside in your periphery, you agreed. “We’re just havin’ fun, right? Our weekend’s gonna come. These, uh, close encounters of the romantic kind are just to hold us over until then, that’s all.”
Just having fun. Just like that. Perks, pick-me-ups. No downsides here.
After giving him a long look, you nodded. These were just treats to get you both through the tough week. You could resist the temptation of taking it too far, keeping it casual. He could dial it back, and remain level headed about kissing, and a little over the clothes touching. No big deal.
Casual. Dialed back.
Easy.
————
Thursday was hot under the collar.
Coffee sputtered fat drops into the glass carafe, adding steam to the small breakroom, and filling it with the wake-up scent. Sat in a creaky plastic chair was a man sapped of energy, and behind him was his dearest flame. On the clock, technically, but arriving before other employees dared.
“Had to stay late last night to finish a car on time,” he grumbled to you, neck muscles flexing under your fingertips as he lolled his head side to side. “Wish you didn’t have to leave so early.”
You pulled his hair off his shoulders, and stroked your thumbs from his nape to the underside of his jaw in long sweeps over the tense slope, down, massaging the base where his collar began. “I know, baby,” you gentled, “me too, but we found a couch last night, and made sure it was the perfect size and comfort level for cuddling during a movie marathon.” His groan scratched vibrations along the rub, tugging your heartstrings.
“That sounds so good right now.”
Nothing made Eddie feel further away than the graywash walls surrounding you; lights too bright, vending machines droning too loud, stale odor of motor oil stinking too harshly of motor oil. Too everything—grating. His solid shoulders bowed weak from unyielding tasks. Body tired, brain stuck in problem-solving mode, watching cranky customers like a hawk, never getting a break once he got home; making food, washing dishes, cleaning spills, changing laundry, vacuuming dirt, providing entertainment, being the source of a thousand answers, drying tears, saying he’s sorry he can’t find the missing Barbie brush, worrying about everything, forgetting nothing, trying his best, falling short, perceiving himself as inadequate, disregarding himself as worthy of nothing more. Never getting the validation he craved after a long day. Poor man.
You leaned down and loosened the only button on his pinstripe coveralls, below his throat. Slipped the sky blue plastic from its cotton vice, threaded it through the hole in a languid beat, and kept things slow. You crawled your fingers to the sturdy metal zipper—dull gold—and ground the teeth three stretches down his chest, parting the halves to expose his black tee underneath. Your nails scratched the union of his pecs on the way to pull the collar off his neck, earning a comforting sound of approval from him, inspiring your own hum tickling your lips.
Switching from your thumbs to your knuckles, you dipped under his coveralls, and prodded the chain of stiffness on either side of his spine. Cheap poly-cotton grazed your skin. Mmm—His breath hitched, cheeks puffing at the sore knot you encountered, exhaling hard through the pain of your digging. It was so reminiscent of your second date when you were straddling him on his shit replacement for a bed not fit for a grown man, it hurt. You worshiped him between the bones—a small relief you wished to give him, delaying the restless ache growing more visceral every day you didn’t get to hold him for hours. Eddie reciprocated the yearn. He rested his head on your belly, washed curls swaying from his crown, frizzy strands clinging to the static on your blouse; leaning backwards so the meat between his neck and shoulder rolled under your handiwork. Closed eyes, fanning lashes. Mellow sounds of contentment sung through his nose. Beautiful man.
“Feeling better?” you asked, squeezing his traps in hard pinches, collecting his woes and turning them into sighs.
Mhmm, he said.
Perfect, you thought.
Better meant there’s still room for improvement.
In a fluid motion, you bent at the hips, and he leaned his head to the side, accommodating your arms draping around his front. The angle pressed your ass to the wall in an audible glide of your skirt shifting against it. Eddie, so soft and romantic, hiked his shoulders up and beamed hard at the ceiling, squeezing his eyes shut thinking his sweetheart was hugging him. However, you slipped your hands under his uniform, and his sunshine grin faltered.
His pulse quickened at your descent.
“Whatcha doin’, baby?” he asked, tone floating the river of curiosity and suspicion.
You doled kisses where his bangs parted, down to his temple, his eyebrow, sunk in the hollow of his cheek between the hardness of his teeth. You traveled the smooth grain on his jaw—warm notes of nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla in your lungs—and wandered over his earlobe, nosing through his long hair to the place you wanted. Lips on sensitive skin. Dangerous.
His throat bobbed at the top of a heartbeat, and his chest sank only to fill with a strong breath. The thin fabric of his tee stretched over the firm muscle laying dormant under a sleek layer of fat. Wheat shafts of hair mid valley brushed against the motion of your hands opening his coveralls further, fingerpads skimming his pebbled nipples; golden zipper sneaking to the top of his stomach, enough room for you to flatten your palms to his pecs, and unwind him. Like a good partner, you massaged the width where you laid your head to rest during a long hug, where you set your ear to listen to the rhythmic thump, where the source of his voice ignited when you asked him a question; thumbs joining to stroke the worthy center.
His black tee framed by the baby blue stripes paved a dark arrow to the kick of his hips tilting upwards as he slouched in the chair.
Excessive flattery laced your tease, “Are you hard?”
“‘Course I’m hard,” he pointed out the obvious. “You’re touching me.”
Not that the swollen length rising from his lap could be anything else, but knowing you caused such a standing ovation after a little bit of back rubbing ran you a mighty temperature.
Wicked thoughts pooled at the bottom of your stomach. The stiff outline influenced your thighs rubbing together, rallying hunger in your eyes. You angled your head, and shifted your focus to the goosebumps surfacing from your sigh fanning the shell of his ear.
Eddie’s neck invigorated your appetite.
You opened your mouth wide and grazed the sharp edge of your teeth over the vulnerable column thrumming with life. His body went rigid—”Oh”—then slack in increments. Again, you scraped lightly over the slope of warmed muscle appreciated by you as a result of the physical price he paid to assume the jobs of many, taking on the responsibility of Carl’s workload to ensure he made it to his son’s wrestling practice on time. Your man deserved the world; he deserved your lips forming a ring over his pulse, he deserved his heartbeat darting against your tongue, he deserved to melt under your attention. Your man deserved to have his little groan stolen when he remembered your mouth’s talent.
Despite the animal way you started, you eased him into the pressure, sucking down on his skin until your open bite filled with delicate flesh. A liquid glottal click preceded the faintest catch in his vocal chords. He secured a palm around your shoulder, heaviness drawing your arm forward, enticing your hand to rove down his chest. Shirt wrinkles collected around your fingertips as you reached the roundness of his stomach, and dipped below his coveralls. The change in environment was instant. Humid, sticky pheromones clung to your skin. Damp body heat trapped tacky warmth to your middle finger dipped to his navel while your knuckles prowled beneath his jumpsuit in visible arches. Edging closer, closer. Nearly there.
You arched your wrist to put strain on the zipper, dragging it with you, almost within reach of what he earned.
Eddie’s hand covered your own. “We shouldn’t, ah,” he cleared his throat, “shouldn’t start something we can’t finish,” he asserted, caught between the confliction crossing his face, and the gravelly tug in his vocal chords. He hooked his forefinger under your pinky and lifted your hand to the outside of his coveralls, where the halves parted below his sternum. “With our luck, someone’ll walk in on us.”
Yesterday’s incident in the closet brought fresh memories to his reddened ears; blotching renewed embarrassment along the pinkish skin where your spit dried. You took this into consideration when opposing, “Doubt anyone would walk in on us in the next thirty seconds.”
He’d deflect your implication with a glare if his eyes weren’t closed in disgust at his own actions.
“Just saying,” you sang, words becoming muffled on the stretch of neck he presented to you with a cant of his head, “we could have fun before anyone shows up.”
Teetering an inappropriate boundary neither of you should indulge, especially not in the storage closet or on your sturdy wood desk, his willpower faltered. “Don't tempt me with that shit when you know it’s a bad idea,” he griped without the balls to make it sound sincere.
You raked your fingers into a fist where they laid, pulling his uniform taut. The coveralls went tight over his lap, stressing deep shadows leading to the concentrated swell down his pants leg; made more obvious when he spread his knees wider, scraping his boots across the floor. Jittery nerves, flexed thighs, torn between crossing a line. Treats, perks, pick-me-ups. Hugging, kissing, touching over your bra. It was a dangerous path to tread. Risky. A million reasons why you shouldn’t.
“Want me to stop?”
“No.” Punctual, quick. Answered hoarsely in the breakroom of your workplace. “Keep going.”
His sentence rumbled in your mouth. Permission vibrated past your teeth, words rolled over your tongue, coating your brain in syrupy sweetness. Keep going. Texture of his stubble, then texture of his skin. Nearly invisible bumps matching the taste buds you licked down the sculpt of his throat, following the moody blue vein to where it disappeared under the ribbed collar of his shirt. You nudged the barrier away, and dropped wet kisses on the hilled muscle. His head fell further into the crook of your arm, offering, making the spot more accessible for you to lap at, cherish. The position was perfect. No better vantage point to stare down your boyfriend’s shuddering chest while you sucked a bruise on his neck, and wrung his coveralls a little tighter.
The shadows defining his lap twitched.
Eddie imposed his fingers between yours, and adjusted his grip several times until the sturdy cotton twill restricted his length flat. Without looking, you knew his nostrils flared when he released a rough exhale afterwards. Being so close, you heard the bubbles in his saliva pop before his mouth constricted on the swallow. You listened to the spit travel, saw his throat bob. Felt the hitch in his whine before he ever sank to the edge of the chair, where his hips would lurch and his clothes would drag along the oversensitive temptation begging for more in a hard throb. A short, delicate, and devastating morsel of what his mouth drooled for.
“Am I making you feel better?”
Through the trance of the powerful initiative rushing his blood south, compounded by the many rules and boundaries he broke of his own accord since he met you, paired with the sultry aid of your husky voice, he nodded. His muscle swayed beneath your teeth. “So much better, baby.”
“Love to hear it, handsome,” you kissed his cheek.
Dots of bright candy apple red bloomed amongst the pink where you marked the destination in the passage from his ear to his ball chain necklace. The metal beads were warm on your loving peck to his keepsake. Returning to the raw span beside it, you nursed the bruise along, sealing your kiss-plumped lips to the afflicted area, and bringing forth stipples of violet. Eddie disciplined his moan in the quiet room; coffee pot full, and vending machines clicking to lower hums; yet his weak noise wrapped you in tangled bedsheets, and unset alarms. Strong arms, and a slow cadence between your legs. Fantasies which were lost in the anguish of professionalism, and busy schedules.
Then, he called you back to reality with another sound. Whinier. Hemmed in his shaky breath, and a fluttered ‘oh’.
You broke the heavy-lidded spell over your eyes and fixed your gaze on the reason his grip on your shoulder cinched.
Eddie rocked his hips, and the outline of his cock strained against his coveralls. The entire definition of his head stretched the fabric as hard as it could at the top of the thrust, and fell to his thigh on the descent. Lines amassed on his forehead as he worked the circle again, starting on a pace which favored his next moan. Low, and slow—finding a steady rhythm, and simmering. Like that, accepting the urge and giving in, fuck the consequences. The spontaneity of you suggesting you give him some relief before the work day began spurred him, and whatever reservations he had about not fooling around while on the clock crumbled. Not that his convictions were ever strong to begin with when it came to you.
Approaching something more desperate with each controlled motion scoring the friction he couldn’t resist, another moan—thick, and hot like warmed maplewood sap—rumbled from his braced chest.
With his eyebrows pinched, and mouth slack, he watched himself get off on nothing but his own determination.
Spit flooded your bottom lip. Your palm needed to be filled. You ached for his smooth skin moving up and down while you fisted his shaft. You strangled his clothes at the thought, and yes, you begged, “Can I?” to which he dropped his head back and groaned a soft ‘fuck’.
“Whatever you want, baby,” he released in a jumble of grateful syllables.
Hanging onto his composure, he reached for the zipper, and the action stirred a phantom taste of his salty release on your tongue. Your body fought tooth and nail to have patience. You distracted yourself by placing fervent kisses in his hair as thanks for the wonderful start to the morning, about to pump Eddie’s cock to the same tempo as your racing heart without an ounce of restraint, when you froze.
A near-mute whoosh of air alerted every nerve in your body.
There was no mistaking the gust of the glass door rushing open, its whispered squeak imperceivable to anyone who didn’t spend an inordinate amount of time sitting beside it. But Eddie heard it. Or, he heard the thudding steps leading the jumpstart in his heart.
He freaked.
In a flurry, Eddie kicked up his hips to zip his jumpsuit to his throat, and you spun around to dig through the fridge while metal chair legs screeched across the tile, scooting in until his upper half was soldered to the rim of the table, and you picked out his favorite creamer.
Hot coffee beat out the smell of Old Spice. The fridge’s condenser fan knocked sense into the lapse of judgment. A booming voice penetrated the ringing pitch of bad decisions rushing loud in your ears.
“Mornin’!” Mr. Moore waited for your response of ‘Good morning’ to drive his Thursday mood, “Y’watch the news last night?” he asked, holding the conversation just inside the breakroom door. “Weather lady said the storm over Springfield is just sittin’ there—y’know, just hangin' over the city churnin' out rain like you wouldn't believe! It’s a strange one; the whole system is avoiding us, but it's what's brought on this heat wave. And just a few days ago we were seein’ our breath! The thunderstorm from the weekend dented my new chicken pen with hail, and now I’m turnin’ on the A/C, but that’s Hawkins for ya.” Sucking his teeth, he muttered to himself, “Cursed town.”
At that, you collected Eddie’s mug from the cabinet, and clinked a spoonful of sugar and Coffee Mate in his mug, stirring through the swirl of piping hot beige.
Mr. Moore continued, “Anyway, we should prob’ly dust off that drum fan, ‘nd set it up before the sun turns the garage into an oven.. You okay, Ed?”
You wiped the steam from your fingers onto your skirt, demonstrating an extraordinary amount of strength in resisting looking at him.
“Yeah, I—yeah, I think those fumes from yesterday got to me.”
“Ah, gotcha,” Mr. Moore replied, familiar with the debilitating headaches mechanics frequently succumbed to. “Take it easy today, will ya? And, uh, could you help me with the fax machine?” You perked up at the change in tone, understanding the question was intended for you. “If you got a minute, I need to send out some of these papers.”
Tapping the spoon, rinsing it, putting it aside, you said, “Sure can,” and your boss took that as his cue to walk into his office. Door open.
You set the perfect cup of coffee on the table, and stalled. Eddie’s fingers trembled over his forehead, laced into a shield and only lowered to the bridge of his nose in order to pierce you with all the glare he could muster; bouncing his knee in such a frenzy it quivered the curl of his bangs over his plum face, and shook the thinness of his scorched cheeks.
“Told you this was a bad idea,” he enunciated, wholly vindicated.
Your lips wore a tingle through their numbness as they thinned into a regretful grin. “I’m sorry.” You passed a kiss over top his head where your hand stroked. When the coal of his eyes continued to scold you through his thick lashes, you gave him another kiss, and spoke in softer earnest, “I really am, Eddie. I didn’t mean to, you know.. yeah.” Balls so deeply blue, they matched his jumpsuit. “Thought we had enough time to finish.”
He grunted.
Under the pressure of both time and guilt, you spun your hands into finger guns at the door, and shuffled backwards from him awkwardly, eyes set on the scuff marks on the floor. “I’ll just—” You were already steps away, about to exit.
“—guess I’ll jack off again.”
“What was that?”
Eddie jerked his head up, eyebrows lifting, realization crossing his glazed over stare. The sentence was meant as a vent of frustration, but not where you could hear it. He couldn’t get redder; in fact, he paled around his mouth a little, licking his lips. “I–uh.” He blinked irregularly through his stutter, finding the words which evaded him, scraping his brain for an explanation while he wrung and crossed his arms in a loose hug over his shoulders, fidgeting. “It, well, it h-hurts if I don’t..”
Corroding into an eye-roll only hidden by the very act of closing your eyes, you informed him, “Yes, I am well aware of the biological phenomenon. You said ‘again’, though. Meaning?”
After a moment of deciding how much information he was willing to divulge, he shrugged into his shoulders, dipping his chin to one side, using his hair to shy behind. “I’ve.. had to jack off before,” he answered, being coy with the topic.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“At work?”
“In the bathroom, yeah.”
“How come?”
His intentional avoidance drew your smile, so mischievous and calling his bluff, cornering the affection in his expression until his sneaky glance from beneath his bangs wove more and more of a story into his sheepishness. “Sometimes you wear stuff I like.”
You pounced. “Oh, yeah?” Interposing yourself between two chairs across from Eddie—ignoring the sound of Mr. Moore’s fist beating on the plastic machine in the other room—you drew circles on the tabletop, and pried, “What kind of stuff? When? Do you mean this week, or, like, before we were even friends?”
“I am not telling you that,” he laughed, he choked, he denied—hard—basically confirming he did wrap his hand around his cock at the thought of you, perhaps at work, perhaps yesterday after the closet incident, perhaps at the start of your employment at David’s Auto Repair when he didn’t know how to process the new receptionist flirting with him and his way of shutting down any feelings before they began was by ridding himself of the urge.
The topic itself was eliminated by his arm swinging outward, conversation not up for discussion.
And you, enjoying the attention that made him fold his hands over his lap, laid your upper half across the table, propping your elbows so there was a gap down your blouse if he so chose to ocularly venture.
Your words mushed from your fists beneath your chin, “Is it the skirts?” You rocked side to side. His crows feet deepened, shoulders shaking from suppressed giggles, refusing the allurement of your shapely sway draped in corporate gray. “Or is it the jeans and hoodie that does it for ya? Really getcha goin’ when I’m dressed down? Hmm?” Your eyebrow waggle dueled with his sealed lips.
“‘M’not tellin’,” he defended, hardly able to speak through his fondness for flattering you; as if praising you were its own reward, reflected upon him as a good man worthy of having his dirty boots tucked beside your front door.
From the hallway, a rackety sound strung together with a cuss and muffled call of your name roused the logical side of your brain, awakening you both from the hormonal haze.
Eddie clicked his tongue. “Best get to work, sweetheart.”
“Why? Need some alone time?”
The weight of the ache between his legs burdened his lack of comeback.
Obliging, because he was right, you stretched across the table and waited for him to meet you halfway. But he didn’t attempt to close the distance. He stayed put, committed to his stubbornness, and forced you to stain the muscles down the backs of your legs in order to reach. Fine, you played into his game. You planted your smirk on his mouth, dousing his smug features with your own.
“I was just thinking,” you lead innocently, “I’ve already packed my closet, but I might find the time to go through the boxes tonight, and pick out my outfit for tomorrow.”
“Babe—” It was an instant beg. Your favorite kind. “Don't you dare,” and he couldn’t even erase the intrigue, the thrill, the excitement of stolen youth in his tone. The sneaking around, the perks, the treats—the boundary you both knew you shouldn't cross, because of worse decorum than him sitting stiffly at a table, ripe with embarrassment. “You can’t do that. Are you even—? Baby?”
“By—e,” you sang on your way out.
————
Friday came with an excessive heat warning.
Footsteps came from behind you, lingering at the door. An arduous breath was spent sighing, but his voice was too playful to shame you, hardly traipsing through his throat to chastise, “You’re something else, you know that?”
Every beat of your heart was emphasized by his step forward, dragging his boots until his body heat warmed your backside. Blissfully unaware, you continued washing the glass carafe in the breakroom sink. Staying diligent in your task wasn’t an admission of guilt; rather, diverting your attention was an act of grace, of benevolence, granting him access to feast on your figure. It was obvious from the moment you arrived his hunger grew insatiable. You walked into the garage exactly as late as you planned, arms loaded with two boxes of freshly fried donuts, and the shine in his sharp-set eyes did not match those of his coworkers springing from their circle around the workbench. No, the to-go orders of dark roast coffees did not feed a smile to his face as it did for Kevin, nor did the waft of sugary glaze excite his mouth into watering like it did for the other men.
Eddie’s cravings were of a different breed.
His expression was hard, then. If you’d just met, you’d think your merry presence pissed him off. Now knowing better, you read the initial shock before he schooled it to an intense stare, steely gaze locking you into a match. You provoked him with a golden sunshine grin. His jaw went slack enough to run his tongue along his inner cheek, calming his rise in blood pressure, nose perking pink and eyes flashing dark and lips twitching to one side.
You excused yourself—“I should clean the coffee maker before I leave those grounds in there all weekend,”—and went to the breakroom. Eddie was hot on your trail. He came in not half a minute later. Probably didn’t even make up an excuse, he just left the circle.
“This is too far, even for you,” he maintained, aching and slow, words brushing over your ear.
Anticipation mounted in the sound of his clothing shifting, leather boots creaking. You expected him to do something sweet—run his knuckle down the small of your back, or thumb at the strap along your shoulder—but instead, you gasped.
Water sloshed in the coffee pot, suds squishing from the squeeze you put on the sponge.
He dived under the hem of your dress. The fabric fit tight on your body, snug to your waist, closing your thighs in a hug. He tugged it over the curve of your ass, exposing your bare cheeks to the chilly room. Bold. Risky. Dirty. Nowhere near the platonic workplace relationship he was trying to front. You twisted to look up at him with wide, thrilled eyes, giddy with the boost of flattery knowing your simple clothing choice drove him wild.
Eddie got a sturdy grip on the counter edge, and eased his weight onto you until you were covered by his magnificence, chest to back. He shaped his palm to your hip, and dug his thumb above the elastic band of your underwear, connecting the need of his hand to the yearn of his mouth. You melted in the pocket of his embrace, greeting him with parted lips, accepting his tongue. Never would you tire of his breath overtaking yours. Spit, spearmint gum, oddly metallic. Smoke break. You break. Morning tangle of you and him when the others were enjoying donuts one glass door away.
Fearless fingertips discovered you without hesitation. Polished callouses swept over and around to the front of your thigh, greeting the warm juncture with a smooth trace of his buffed skin, middle finger following the edge of your cotton panties down the seam, and up. Only an inch or so into the crease where your leg met the thong, back and forth twice along the line, enough to skim your nerves awake, and work you into a sweat for his index hovering over the swell where a single graze would have your knees weak. Taking the touch away, he wrapped his arm around your middle, and drew your hips in.
He pressed fat and heavy along your backside, unashamed.
The kiss ended in a juicy smack, finished by your hum against the coarse grain peppering his jaw. Lips were licked, sparkling eyes gazed into their match. Coming down with a lovesickness, your skin fostered a high fever, woozy bliss clouding your head—dreamy dreamy dreamy.
“You know what this dress does to me, don’t you?”
A grin cracked your face. “I might.” You immersed yourself in the comfort of his firm body draped around you, the raw sensation of your bare skin against his rugged coveralls, and lazed in the same memory as him.
The burgundy pinafore clung to the warmth of his taken smile from that night. So smitten, and fond. A dress made of belly clenching laughter, woven together with threads of brave glances, converging and averting when the strikes of nerves teemed on admitting too much. Cinnamon, nutmeg, grape jelly in the slow cooker meatballs. Freshly shed pine needles, and glitter. Significance baked into every fiber of the dress you wore under a lonely sprig of mistletoe, unkissed.
Never again would he let you go home believing you weren’t a treasure.
“Can’t be wearin’ this around me,” he obsessed, and you giggled at the rich confidence in his voice—a prelude to the depth he was willing to go. “Gonna get me in trouble.”
Using the sink ledge as leverage, you muscled Eddie into standing up straight with you, winning his heart with a doe-some blink. Arching, you swayed your hips on the length catching between your round cheeks, though the position flaunted something else which might entice him in engaging in risky behavior. “I’m not wearing a bra, either,” you said. Your voice was girlish—floaty and high—a bit raspy from your neck being turned to admire the handsome amount of approval twinkling in his dark eyes.
“Yeah?” Eddie moved his Stupid Cupid lips over the very edge of your ear, and rumbled through the words weighing down his chest, “Need me to fuck you that bad, huh?”
Thrums of pleasure lit within you.
You nodded the side of your face against the scratch of his chin—a morning, day, evening, night, dusk, dawn without a shave.
“Need me here?” he asked, slipping his fingers inside your dress. The fabric over your chest struggled to accommodate his circle around your nipple. You sucked in a breath—released in a moan—and grabbed onto his arm for stability, already falling backwards into him. The direct blessing of his prod to the bud was too much. Your toes curled at his pinch. He flicked the tip of his smooth finger pad over it faster. “Yeah? You like that?” You whined a croaky sound, resting your head on his chest, unable to keep your eyes open to admire the way he watched himself do this to you, chin hooked over your shoulder to view his own hand groping his girl beneath his favorite dress.
“Need me somewhere else?” he asked, and your hips began to mimic the circle he stroked as an answer.
With the ease of a man who’d pictured this scenario more times than respectful, Eddie seized the permission. Middle, index; his two thickest, longest, dexterous. Divine, and unholy. At the bottom of your dress bunched over the top of your thighs, he crooked those two fingers under the hem intentionally, while your hand combed through his hair at the suggestion. “Yeah? Want me to touch you there?” There—a base he’d yet to run even when you were alone on your second date. “Need me that bad while we’re at work?”
You verbalized your desire, as weak as it skirted past your sigh, “Please, Eddie.”
One plea, and it was Love Potion No. 9. His lean frame blanketed you, cradled you, collected you to his height, corded muscles gone solid with restraint. Large nose pressed to your ear, including you in the deep draw of validation into his lungs. Hugging you to the pride inflating his firm chest. The full throaty rasp of desire, and being desired, intimate and close. Two fingers ventured under your dress. You twirled his hair, teething your bottom lip in anticipation for the touch. They were shaped to claim his prize locked behind a fine layer, but he teased you first. He curved the breadth of his palm to the stretch of cotton, width of his calloused reach forcing your feet apart, and brushed past your deepest craving to cherish the place he craved.
“Jesus,” he wept.
His fingers glided along the wet patch on your thong, fabric sticking to your wet heat. It slid along you in a sticky lick, and he sank his teeth to the base of your neck, beyond help. A noise tripped in your throat at his simultaneous pinch on your nipple. He was a goner.
In a few circles around your entrance, he had you melting into his arms. A tweak on your nipple gained your fingers at the root of his hair. He squeezed your slick lips together, and your neglected need sang at the stimulation, begging him in a gasp to do it again. He did. He did, he did, again, however many times it took to have your sighs dive into moans.
Two devilish fingers began their journey upwards, intentions set and clear. Smarmy with ego, he goaded, “Let’s see how long it takes you to cu—”
The near-mute whoosh of the glass door was made obvious by the chorus of men’s laughter bouncing in.
Cold fear licked up your spine. You scrambled for the abandoned coffee pot in spectacular fashion, struggling to get hold of its soapy body in the fret of stress induced tunnel vision—but Eddie? Eddie took his time hitching your dress hem where it should be, flattening it to your thighs. The telltale gait of your boss was nearing, and he was in no rush to jolt to the opposite end of the planet away from you. Oh, no. Your boyfriend brushed his hands in methodical sweeps over the fabric, smoothing it to your hips, mirroring the same cadence as the steps which sent you into a panic. He even gave you a hard pat after he was done. Kissed your cheek to seal the deal, only stepping away to peruse the vending machines the moment Mr. Moore rounded the corner.
“Can’t resist havin’ a little sugar in my coffee,” he informed from the hallway, chipper as can be, strutting in while you were rearranging your dumbstruck stare into something pleasant. He swiped three Splenda packets. “We’re ‘boutta start the meeting, by the way.” You nodded at the coffee pot you washed to a shine. Mhm! you replied after an anxious attempt for anything better, tight-lipped, and dodging his prying eyes by enacting a coughing fit into your elbow in the other direction, willing to bolt if he even so much as thought about voicing his concern over your strange behavior.
Ka-shink, ka-shink, ka-shink. Eddie fed quarters into the Pepsi machine. “Be right there,” he announced, jamming one of the rectangular buttons on the side.
Mr. Moore paused for the longest .02 seconds of your life. No amount of money could bait you into turning around. Whatever expression he was making—if he knew what you and Eddie were doing—that was between him and God. Your shoulders were squared, muscles ready to flee in panic, heart racing beyond what it should be capable of. All the while Eddie crouched for his drink clunking to the bottom slot.
“Well,” was your boss’ succinct response on his way out, underscoring the end of his thought.
There should’ve been some relief, but your breath stayed in your lungs, and your hands shook horrendously, smacking the handle for the faucet too hard on accident, shooting the stream out on high. And, of course, the closed coffee pot lid was the perfect shield, sending water everywhere.
You screwed your eyes shut and defended yourself from the onslaught, worrying about your face and dress first, and your wimpy shriek second.
Eddie came to your rescue.
Ever the hero, ever the gentleman, he shut off the water for you. A ‘thank you’ had been earned, but one peek between your lashes had you quirking your brow in question. He was too close. Standing univinted beside you, almost touching, invading your personal space in a show of ownership. Shadows attempted to temper his smirk, but they cut harshly around the devious apples of his flushed cheeks. You opened your mouth to ask why he was looking at you like that, when—
The explanation came in your stolen yelp.
“Ed!”
“Shh,” he taunted, taking charge of his bubbling laughter at your reaction.
Goosebumps erupted down your legs, pebbling harder where he rolled the freshly dispensed can of Mug root beer across the back of your thighs. The chill bit into you, and you bit into your bottom lip. Squirmy noises squeaked from your throat. He reached under your dress and held the soda to your ass cheek, replacing the warmth of his cock with a bitter lesson. A stinging—fucking—cold lesson. He pinned your options between him, his arm, and the countertop. There was no escaping his revenge. You saw no other choice but to cling to his coveralls, let the shiver run its course, and scold him in a failed whisper, “Eddie—!” He loved it. Enjoyed every crinkle of your pathetic glare when you realized why he was doing it.
His length was softening against you. An old technique, rubbing vigorously at his sensitive head until the evidence of his arousal went away without repercussions. And now you were the one all worked up with no release.
Grinning like a menace, his cockiness eclipsed your vision, putting his forehead to yours so his snarky giggle vibrated in your skull. He wrangled you into his embrace, manipulating you with ease. Layers of implied strength snapped your hips forward. Years of unassuming muscle beneath his humble clothes locked you to his body without trouble. Strong arms you recognized the power of when they snatched a man by his tie, seasoned hands equipped for ripping out rusted axle shafts, fingers which threaded elastic string through plastic beads with the same finesse as soldering spliced wires together. They all joined in consecutive evil to slide the can between your round cheeks, down to where your yearning sprung.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” You picked up his vocabulary at some point. “I swear, Eddie Munson, if you don’t move that right now.”
“I’m just coolin’ ya off, sweetheart.” He sounded so pleased with himself, the jerk. He also sensed the impending handprint on his cheek, and apologized with a bit of earnest effort, “Sorry.”
Not betraying his newly actualized cavalier attitude towards urgency, he utilized his afternoon drink against your needy core as a way to hike you onto your tiptoes, and bless you with an offensive smirk kissed onto your slanted grimace.
Pussy numbed, he took his root beer away, and moved past you.
“Did you plan this?” you asked, assumed, accused. Mellow in anger, harsh in disbelief. “Is this payback for yesterday?” And the day before that. And the day before that. And maybe the day before that, too.
“Well, yes and no,” he resolved, sorting his explanation while opening the fridge. You crossed your arms, and stuck your hip out. The sensation between your legs was dull and cold. “With our luck, I knew we’d get interrupted before we could finish—and I did intend to give you a taste of your own medicine—but, yeah, uh, then you showed up in that dress, and all my plans went out the window,” his voice tumbled silly with self-deprecation, gestures as big as his eyes. “I was planning on just coming in here, and letting you know how hot you were. Make out with you some, maybe get a lil’ handsy, y’know, make you feel good like you make me feel good. But, uh.. Yeah. Didn’t mean to get carried away like I did.” He prized you in another look over. A damning amount of awe sat in his simper, like he was experiencing his crush flirting with him for the first time all over again. That is, before he hung his head back, and opened his throat to release a hoarse groan at the ceiling.
Eddie held the cold can to his lap, rolling it over the swell, taming the last of his biological drive from showing. “Trust me, baby, I’m chewing through my leash to get to you.”
Too charming. A flustering rush of flattery washed over you—warm, fuzzy, prickly heat of the back of your neck. Your annoyance at him was never genuine, but it certainly wasn’t after watching him speckle his jumpsuit with condensation in effort to resist breaking a code of conduct. Though, you were still strategizing how long it would take with your deft fingers down your underwear in order to rid your own need, and sit at your desk without chewing through the particle board, too.
Reading your mind, he put the soda away, and approached you with two palms on your nape, frigid fingers laced behind your neck and cold thumbs stroking your jaw. He dropped his head to the side, and maintained unblinking eye contact through his slow disapproving shake, resentment festering in his desperate gaze. “If I don’t get a few minutes alone with you today, I’m gonna go insane,” he stated. You believed him. “I’m serious, you better scrape together a few minutes to come kiss me on my smoke break, or else.”
There was no elaboration on what ‘or else’ meant.
“I will,” you promised, weak to his kiss on your forehead.
Figuring you’d both been stalling long enough, he trailed his last goodbyes for the foreseeable future on the line of your cheek bone, your chin, bridge of your nose, corner of your lips. Wherever. He swept his hand into your own, and brought it to his mouth, hiding the beginnings of his smirk in the smooches to your knuckles. “Was the soda thing too much?”
Grinding dullness to his sharp intrigue, you rolled your eyes. “It was kind of hot, I guess,” you forced out in a monotone droll, feigning harder exasperation when his expression squinched too mirthful.
“Don’t you mean cold?”
You soured, distaste in every syllable, “Criminally unfunny.”
“I know you liked that one, sweets,” he shot back, waggling his eyebrows. “Now, let’s get to that meeting before they get any ideas about us, pretty girl.” He finished with a wink, and two giddy-up clicks of his tongue.
“I hate you.”
“That’s too bad, ‘cause I adore you.”
~~~
A few kisses in the alleyway, that’s all either of you asked for. Two minutes alone. Maybe more than three sentences exchanged about matters not pertaining to work. But, no. Even when you escaped the two men at your desk reciting an encyclopedic amount of knowledge about some type of engine you didn’t care about, you were roped into giving directions to the shop over the phone while shuffling through invoices in Mr. Moore’s office. And when Eddie got you pressed against the wall in the storage room, someone yelled for him to help with a rush job, killing the mood. To make matters worse, the grueling week ended with you and Eddie being scheduled on the same lunch slot, but with the approaching deadline for expense sheets being due at the end of the day, you were planning to eat yours at your desk, and avoid the torture of sitting next to him without being able to touch him like you wanted.
You opened the fridge and took out the Buckley special. Yellow squash casserole with a side of Shake ‘n Bake chicken. Eddie’s teal and purple lunch bag contained an extra helping of both. It’d become customary for Robin's mom to cook extra, and pack it away for you to bring for him. His actual lunch was in a paper bag next to it. Big spoiled man.
Speaking of, he was at the sink; sleeves rolled up his wrists, scrubbing himself clean with Fast Orange. Bitter citrus stung your nose as he lathered up his hands, working the pumice into the smudges of grease around his knuckles.
Mr. Moore got your attention without introduction. “I’m taking the wife out to that new Italian restaurant. Should’a asked her if she wanted Italian food, but oh well. We’re swingin’ by the sign shop next to it, and makin’ real sure our logo’s nice and big on that banner for tomorrow.” He accentuated the importance of David’s Auto Repair with high brows, and a canted head. He also managed to pronounce it both Eye-talian, and Uh-talian in the same thought. “Be back in, uhh—hour ‘n a half, maybe?” He swung his keys into his fist on his way out.
The group for lunch would be smaller, then. Maybe you could do your paperwork at the table, and get away with playing footsie with your favorite mechanic. Yipee.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Kevin announced, and you both looked at him over your shoulders. You were sorting the lunches to get the casseroles in the microwave, and Eddie was rubbing an extra squirt of Dawn between his fingers. Exceptionally mundane. “I was so impressed by that coffee this morning, I’m going down to the diner and ordering myself a sandwich and dessert. Prob’ly finish it up with another cup’a coffee after. Gonna make it a whole forty-five minute ordeal,” he sold the significance with several nods.
His immediate disappearance out the lobby door after his statement was strange, but you shrugged at each other, and went back to the lunches and hand washing.
“D’you know where those bottles of wax are?”
You shook your head. Eddie shook his head slower. A heavy thread of tension bred awareness between your two bodies strung taut from pent up urges.
“Weird,” Carl huffed. “I swear I just had ‘em. Well, shit. Can’t finish this car without at least one. I’ll go pick some up at the hardware store. Be back in a few,” he let you know, voice echoing off the hallway walls on his way to his truck.
Cold, warm, hot. Your blood buzzed. The bell above the front door dinged as it latched closed. Left behind was a lobby empty of people, garage paused in limbo, and a building cast in silence. You turned to Eddie. Dawning comprehension overtook your faces, wide eyes fixed on each other.
“Holy shit,” he exhaled, and you were already shoving your food back in the fridge, smashing his bologna sandwich in the process. Eddie cursed again, “Holy shit!” and snatched the hard bristle brush, scouring the dirt from under his nails, between his fingers, up his arms until the water ran clear and his skin burned pink. The same could be said for the grime on his cheeks. His light blue coveralls were soaked from the water dripping down his neck, but his face was spotless. Only the best for your lips.
“Oh, fuck, Eddie,” came your relief.
He accepted your willowy clutch on his sleeves. “It takes—It takes four minutes to get to the hardware store,” he stuttered in excitement, counting on his fingers behind your back, “so eight minutes roundtrip, factor in another eight for parking, looking for the wax, and checking out. That gives us sixteen minutes!”
Sixteen minutes where? Behind you was a plastic table which wobbled from an uneven foot. In the lobby was your desk in full view of the windows. In the bay were cars neither of you were quite brave enough to chance a stain on a seat.
“Um, um,” Eddie’s quick thinking trembled, about to suggest he take you there on the unforgiving tile floor, when he remembered, “Oh! My van! I brought my van.” He grasped you by the shoulders, shaking passion down to your toes about the hunk of metal parked outside his trailer when you visited. “I brought my van! I brought my van to drop off some amps at Gareth’s before the show!”
Rattled, you went to give him a thumbs up in full agreement, but he grabbed your hand, and bolted. You half-complained, half-shrieked, “You don’t need to drag me!” Reckless youth inspired him, broad grin loud and clear in his unadulterated sprint towards the OPEN sign and flipping it to display CLOSED. You skidded and bumped into him, bodies converging in true laughter. He caught you, he always caught you, and hauled you to the glass door, slowing in a smooth stride to open it for you. Always opening it for you. The garage was baked in sunshine, streaming through the warehouse windows on the bright day. Eddie’s boots clunked loud on the floor. A rock in the alleyway ricocheted off his shoe, bouncing off the tire of your temporary five star hotel.
The covert brown and cream van sat parked amongst the brick, gravel, and curls of dead leaves playing in the gentle breeze. It sat in full view of cars passing on either end of the back street. You hoped they were watching.
He wrenched one half of the creaky back doors open, and ushered you in the hollow between him and the carpeted floor, engulfing your face with his citrusy palms. “Don’t wanna waste a second,” he asserted in a winded breath, blurring your mind with a heady kiss, and impatient pat on your backside.
Rocks crunched under his boots. Two sturdy hands cupped the back of your thighs, helping you hop up onto the back of his van in a thrill of flirty giggles, weak for how bad he wanted you. Your calves slid against the warm metal bumper, your feet dangled by the exhaust pipe, your knees trapped his hips between your legs. His thick fingers sank into your fat, thumbs particularly bruising. Being everything he wanted, you snagged him closer by the collar, mouths almost meeting, and tilted yourself on the outline straining his coveralls, looking into his big brown eyes with a plea when the lone impact sweltered under your skin.
He hiked your knee to his waist, exposing you more to his packed heat aching to see you again. “C’mon,” he said, lips loaded with devilishness, “can’t stand to spend another second out here where I can’t have you.”
Anyone cruising by could bear witness to Hawkins’ number one Satanist loading a pretty young thing in the back of his ice cream sandwich colored van, and make assumptions.
Bless them.
You scooted backwards into the belly of the dragon’s lair. For an old beater used for transporting band equipment, he took good care of it. The carpet was clean. The wood paneling up the sides remained unscuffed. The back seat was taken out to make room for a hard case for a guitar, and two large amps wrapped in a spare comforter to prevent damage on either. And that’s where your observations ended.
Eddie’s indecent gaze was set on the stretch of white cotton under your dress. Nothing could break his stare as he threw his hair in a low bun, grabbed either side of the metal doorframe, stepped one foot on the edge, and bounced the van twice before hauling himself—and his manic smile—inside.
The acoustics amplified the door slamming shut.
His boots made for two heavy lovedrunk steps. Bruises were earned on his knees, dropping to them where your hem had ridden up, keen eyes traveling the valley between your thighs, up to the soft round of your nipples. Expecting his imminent weight, you laid back. Heat from the floor warmed you through your clothes. He crawled over you; one hand by your hip, the other next to your shoulder. You were lying beneath him for the first time, and he behaved long enough to memorize your gentle grin, and adoring squint.
“Oh, you’re gonna be the end of me,” he said, accent thick in his throat, ripe with lust. The gravel alone had your hands on the back of his neck, attempting to pull him down, to continue the momentum. But he didn’t budge. Distant in the blood rush, he found a bit of sobriety to ask, “D’ya mind if I get you dirty? I’m kinda gross.” His coveralls were marked with grime, dusted with dirt, splotched with oil. The overt blue collar status of his job opposed the unblemished burgundy and stark white tee of yours, sitting at a desk and answering phones in semi-working A/C.
You admired the mental fortitude it took to ask you first, but now was not the time to be a gentleman.
“So get me gross,” you replied, and a flicker of revelation stirred in his features. “I want to be gross with you.” You, Munson, The Freak of Hawkins, the one who everyone avoided; he who was rejected for being unapologetically himself. Taking advantage of his solid shoulders, you peeled yourself off the floor, and from the depths of belonging, you set fire to his kindling. “Make me fucking dirty.”
Eddie’s mouth pursed, then stretched thin, cheeks high, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “My pleasure.”
Plush lips crashed onto yours, body covering you in desperation, touch starved. His weight hugged you, pinned you. He flattened his arm alongside your head for support, and welcomed your legs bent around the length of his backside. Playfully suggestive hums followed his greedy hand scaling your thigh. Short layers of his hair fell forward, tickling your cheeks in summer innocence, while down below his thumb grazed the narrow string of your thong strapped over your hip in a fraction of the hunger he had for you. One trace under your panties, and the kiss went sloppy with tongue; slick mouths mashing, teeth knocking, jaws aching, and lips swollen. Aggressive, possessive, and dizzy. Your dress bunched around your waist. Rugged fabric rasped where your chests met. Smears of grime, dust, oil dirtied you.
Because the clock was ticking, you sped things up with a squeeze around his ass. Eddie listened. Oh, Eddie listened. He took the thrust in stride, pressing down on your need, and catching your forehead with his. The pain was negligible. A gift, even, to hold your gaze when you clawed for the waist of his coveralls, and harnessed a hotter tension on your underwear. A concentrated craze blunted by the thick layers separating you. You lifted your hips for him, spurring more, faster, pouring your strength into earning a faint squeak on the van’s suspension.
He nosed your chin up, and slipped painful kisses over your jaw, finding the spot below your ear to laud, like you did to him, sucking and releasing when your whine doubled. “Pretty,” he moaned into a harder kiss along the trail of spit his breath cooled. The edge of his teeth scraped another fragile gasp. He rocked his hips for a better one. “Love the way you sound.”
Grasping for clarity in the haze, you reminded him, “Just for you.”
“Fuck” —his voice cracked in the sprint to recover what those three little words did to him— “that’s fuckin’ right just for me.”
Copying what you did in the breakroom, he brought his hand up from your waist to move your shirt out of the way, exposing the meat at the base of your neck. Too excited, he left a map of his teeth. The bite stung your nails into his back. “Sorry,” he regretted, but you denied your pained gulp of air, rubbing your cheek along his temple in a head shake, S’okay. He ran his tongue over the grooves as an apology, anyway. Tracking the dips and curves, licking, suckling, and nipping however hard he could to make you scratch circles on his scalp while struggling with the two syllables of his name.
His hair smelled of fertile soil and charred earth, a tang of metal and new tires.
You gave yourself over to the garden of his scent, sunshine against your eyelids. Beyond the fatigue in your inner thighs was his constant, eager, chase. Chewing through his leash. Gnawing at his restraints. You focused on the long graze of friction, and forgot your surroundings which did not serve the fleeting jolts of pleasure between your legs, or the groping at your tits. You didn’t know there was an issue until Eddie’s frustrated grunt led to a harder tug at the unforgiving neckline of your dress, and finally, he shoved himself upright.
“How the hell do I get this off you?”
That explains why he was grabbing at both sides beneath your arms in search of a zipper.
Blinking, suddenly coming back to Earth, you contained your snort at his distressed motioning at the offensive garment enough to tell him, “It’s in the back,” and added, “like most dresses made in the last two, or three decades.”
He beckoned for you to sit up—a sharp gesture, but not without reason—and with your arms around his neck, he unzipped it with such speed, the plastic teeth should’ve melted from the traction. As he lowered you, the straps slipped from your shoulders, thick fingers inviting the release down to your elbows, breadwinner fists folding the top of the dress over on itself, joining where the bottom was scrunched around your middle. You’d only shaken the straps from your wrists when your body rocked side to side; a victim to his fumbling way of untucking your shirt, dying from suspense.
Stale air struck you from navel to neck.
His warm tongue was on you. “Oh—mm!” your voice raised a girlish notch. Two fat laps into coaxing your nipple tall, and fresh embarrassment ramped up your cheeks from the choked noise you made. You arched into his mouth for more, seeking foundation on his hands when an accidental skim of his teeth piqued your nerves alight. Rolling your head back, you found him through touch, starting with his wrists, working up to his knuckles, and curved squeeze cupping your tits together. He showed you how his mouth watered at the sight. Switching sides, he gifted the other stiff bud with a wet swirl, slipping over it again and again, gaining a squirm in your hips when he changed the speed—and without a break, he went back to the first to suckle, and his unintentional moan slipped out louder than yours when he pulled off.
He released a ragged breath into the valley between your breasts, “Couldn’t help myself.”
His determination throbbed impressions along your body even after he sat on his knees, leaving aches behind as a result of the sixteen short minutes he had with you. The adrenaline stayed in his shaky fingers. The top button of his coveralls dodged his pinch, eluding him. Another attempt, and a darker shade of red crept up his throat. “God fucking damnit, why’d I wear the ones that fucking button all the way down,” he fumed, wishing he could rip it open like the metal snap pair. You peered at his predicament through your lashes, and helped him out.
You tucked your chin to your shoulder in a pout, and competed for his attention, “Hurry up.”
“I know, sweet—” he verbally hit the brakes.
All too pretty, you pushed your tits together and strummed your fingers over your nipples in easy flicks, using his spit to skate over the peaks. You opened your legs wider, feeling his eyes devour you between the thighs. “I’ve missed you all week,” you said. His pulse jumped at the tiny excuse for underwear wedged further into the split, trimmed hair growing on either side.
Too long of a pause passed where his expression was slack. “Jesus Christ.” Working faster, he tore through the rest of the buttons, possibly losing one in the process, and shucked the jumpsuit over his shoulders. He flapped his arms to get the sleeves off, and his stark black tattoos made an appearance. The clumsy way he undressed shouldn’t have an affect on you, but when he took hold of the stuck cuff and the plastic beads clicked together on his bracelet, fresh roots of attraction thrived. Underneath his workwear a white ribbed tank top stretched over his chest. It must’ve been bought long ago when he was a size smaller, the bulk he’d packed on at the garage filled out the seams to their limit. Soft definition contoured the sun around his muscles. Veins strained the surface of his forearms, streaking shadows through the golden rays. Sparse curls fanned over the top of the neckline, thicker under his arms, and dark where his shirt rode up.
The jumpsuit hung loose around his hips, giving a peek at his boxers.
“You don’t wear jeans under those?”
“No? Did you think I did?”
The thought never crossed your mind until it was the only thing on your mind. You just assumed he would, so you shrugged, thinking of quickies in the future.
Eddie’s tolerance for conversation was low. A shuddered exhale blew past his lips, easing his hand down the front of his coveralls, pumping along the length fighting for his attention while he obsessed with what laid before him. Irresistible temptations which would forever change the way he looked at you were created the moment you touched yourself for him. Two fingers, two little circles over your underwear. You lured him, hypnotized him, sighing sweetly at the satisfaction. His bicep jumped in strength to restrain his pace, forearm pulsing from the choke he had on his base.
“Better calm down,” you teased in a slow lilt.
He scoffed—shallow in mockery, but burdened by the truth of the lines softening around his eyes. Shoving his coveralls low enough for his ego to stretch freely against his boxers, he walked his hands beside your body until his mouth was posed above yours. A suggestion of touch hovered over your knuckles rolling in a rhythm to honor yourself. “I haven’t known calm since I met you.” Your face scrunched cutely at the compliment, and you stopped adding fuel to your fire by bringing both arms around his neck, preparing your lips for a kiss which would not come. “I haven’t known calm since I met you,” he repeated. “So why start now?”
Unexpected pleasure consumed you. Eddie rocked his hips forward, and the raw glide of his cock with the thinnest separation of fabric possible stole anything that wasn’t animal instinct. You locked your ankles behind his thighs, drove the thrust deeper, and he answered by grinding down, working his base between your lips, loyal to you and the sweat beading on his brow.
You wrenched his tank top in your fists and felt it go tight where your chests merged, grazing over your nipples harsher with each rut. His shoulders shifted under your curious roaming, bulk of his body withdrawing. He didn’t stray far, only to tuck his forehead to your neck where he could hear the catch in your throat and the beat of your heart. Cozying to a place so near, you heard his guitar pick schlink past the beads of his necklace. Adjusting, he slipped into a deeper position between your legs, and a kiss was dipped to the top of your collarbone, long lashes brushing your skin as his eyes fell closed.
Cradled as one, Eddie dragged his cock down your heat, and followed the new angle up. Pitiful begs broke faster than his jagged groan. His fat tip notched itself at the top of your tender lips, nestled where your thong gathered, and he kept you on the precipice of your moan—of which you crashed into splendidly.
“That’s—god, Eddie, right there,” you babbled into a whimper.
“Fuck, such a pretty sound, baby,” his voice faltered on the endearment, panting hot and sticky on your throat.
The damp spot on his boxers grew. His unrelenting strokes over your clit fast-tracked you both towards the edge.
“Did you—condoms?”
Perking with interest at your hitched whisper, his stubble scrubbed your jaw in a delight of scratches on his way to nose at your cheek. “Picked ‘em up on my way home last night.” The suggestive rasp in his voice took residence in your rib cage, smitten by the thought of him going through a checkout so he was prepared to fuck you the next day. “They’re in the.. the..”
The rate at which his soul left his body would surprise grim reapers.
“Where’re they?”
Understanding your concern, he kept his eyes screwed shut and whittled at the knot between his brows with his knuckle, drilling away the irritation at himself. “They’re in the glove compartment.. of my car.”
“Oh.” The disappointment was brief. Your body clung to the fever he set, knowing you were both close, and paradise was another weekend away. Thinking quickly, you cupped his cheeks and put a swing in your tone, “We can do other stuff!” Hoping it was good enough, you scrutinized his expression, watching the words register, sink in, brighten his pupils into unholy territory at the idea.
The charm of his dimple was the cherry on top of his two front teeth emerging from the leap of his lips. Earnesty from a thousand endless wells poured out of him, “I love other stuff,” he said, imbuing each round word with a secret.
Jumping up, his enthusiasm was hampered by the roof. “Close call,” he commented to himself, narrowly dodging a concussion. He crouched to some degree, and made his way over to the amps, hiking up his coveralls to his hips as he went. The sheer lust in his weight pressing you to the floor was sorely missed, but you sat up to watch him waddle the amps to the center of the van and tip them, guiding their front plates down flat.
You puzzled out why he would line them up like a short mattress, and began salivating at the thought of him sitting on the additional height, and having his cock better in line with your mouth. “Are those for you?” Eagerness lifted your voice, swam in your glossy eyes. Eddie should be thanking the stars he landed someone so enthusiastic about drinking him whole after putting in hours around the shop, but instead of getting his brain-stopped-working glazed over stare, he slapped the amps twice.
“These are for you, pretty girl. Come sit down. I gotta thank you, remember?”
A memory of torn nylon and unfulfilled promises sparked at his phrasing.
Gotta thank you.
Getting to your feet, you arranged your arms for a bit of modesty, and snuck past the back windows, walking on shaky legs to where he kneeled at one end of the makeshift bed. Pure affection spotlighted you as the sole receiver of his enraptured smile, face aglow. He squeezed the tips of your fingers as you sat, and his lips were the softest thing to grace your cheek. It was the sweetest you’d seen him, especially when he anchored his palms to your hips, and his nerves crept in.
“Just, uh, tell me—or, let me know if I’m doing something you don’t like, okay?”
You tittered, “Okay,” as if you weren’t on the brink of unraveling regardless of skill, or even effort.
Putting faith in the durability of the hard shell encased amps, you leaned back on your hands, lowering to your elbows on the texture plastic, relaxing through the suspense of being on display for someone for the first time—and in broad daylight, too. Dim bedside lamps and flattering angles could obscure much, but why hide anything when your boyfriend spent the better part of his week biting at the cage of adult responsibilities keeping him from you? He’s the one who hid the new order of car wax for an excuse to fuck you sloppy in the back of his van. You basked in his reaction.
Eddie’s hands wandered the curves spread on the pedestal before him. One palm cupped your chest where his spit dried to a sheen, teasing your nipple lightly; juxtaposed, the other shaped itself over your waist and hips, clamping on your knee and smoothing his muzzled grip up your thigh. They joined to ruck the hem of your dress higher. But before the reveal, he bent over the slope of your body to cherish the glitters of sweat sparkling across your sternum. The minutes working against your escapade were unforgiving, but he chose to dedicate a few moments to your natural salt as he hooked his fingers under the stretch of your underwear. The cotton stuck to the praise he’d given you thus far, damp and tight, a work of art. Moving them aside, he stayed kissing the curve of your belly.
Intense, hot-blooded throbs of desperation concentrated on the immediate relief of your wet heat being exposed for appreciating. Fingertips caressed into a curl for his knuckles to adore your puffy lips plumped together, tracing up the other side with his thumb, and cresting the short curls at the top. A tortured lurch in your hips followed his touch when he took it away. Not a strong enough man to deprive his girl for long, he allayed you in kiss down your antsy chase, and sat back on his calves, landing his gaze where his fantasies only imagined.
He didn’t do anything for a few seconds.
Sunlight streamed from the window over his shoulder, shining radiance on the glisten made for him.
His lungs emptied in a thin, wispy breath.
Manners vanished when it came to a starving man. Your excited gasp lapsed into a spell of stunned giggles, which shot into an open-mouthed ah! No composure to spare, he dove in, shouldering one of your legs and hooking an arm around to pry your thong out of his way. Fat tongue, longer than you knew, buried between your lips. Insistent mouth framed by your pussy. Jaw slack to lap up his reward. He leaned his entire being into licking inside you, and dragging upwards, mixing your arousal with his spit and swirling it in a heavy circle. A single direct graze, and your chest rose and fell in stuttered bursts, shaking through the beginning of a sweet whimper. A light suckle from him pulling off to swallow the taste, and escaping your throat was a noise capable of convincing him God was real.
Attentive eyes connected over your mound. Big, brown, and pleased. Pupils inundated by curiosity, yet abundantly aware. Respecting you to the highest degree, he edged his fixation, surrounding your swollen clit with his full lips to feel you throb through the contact. “Eddie—” Your nipples hardened through the helpless pant of his name at the first true suction. Increasingly mesmerized by the response he earned when he added pressure, he stamped his tongue to his top lip and dropped it to his bottom, adding the sort of strokes that had your hand in his hair. “Eddie, you’re gonna make me cum so fast,” you rushed out. The shame in your whisper felt less like shame and more like a compliment when you held the back of his head, and tilted yourself in offering.
In one solid action, you were yanked to the edge of the amp by his grip twisting around your dress, and he looped his arms around your hips to hug you closer still, sealing your gift to his mouth. Muffled whines of gratitude came from his throat, so thankful for the opportunity, eyelashes batting heavily at the privilege of your inner thighs squishing his cheeks. Too beautiful. Could watch it for hours if you had the time.
You stretched out on your five star hotel bed, and closed your eyes, focusing on the articulation of his tongue against your need.
Steady licks devolved into wet kisses sucked between your lips. Pleasure bloomed from the place he persisted, weaving warmth from your stomach to your fingers in his loose curls. You swept his bangs from the beads of sweat plastering them to his forehead, raking them back with your fingernails on his scalp, luxuriating in the connection of your honeyed caress and his moan rumbling against your core. “Feels so—so fucking good,” you gushed.
The weight of one of his arms let up. Smooth calluses swept to your knee, rubbing the spanse of your thigh before shaking a handful of your fat, and leaving a sting of his handprint behind. Your body rocked from him shifting under your legs. Bumpy actions led to his mouth withdrawing, and the sounds of him making out with your cunt were replaced by your heartbeat hammering in your ears. He sat up to his knees briefly, and came back to tend to you in a distracted rhythm, clothes rustling in the process. A question formed in your head, but before you could ask it, he latched his pout around your clit, and worked you into a frenzy.
Pressure prodded at your entrance. One finger glided in without trouble. He fucked you with two, then. Two crooked inside, knuckles shoved against the hypersensitive skin running slick with arousal. He strove for a response until your heels dug into his back, and he knew the sensations were linked—inside and out, mouth and fingers.
Then he took his hand away.
You were left feeling empty when there was nothing to clench around, but his devotion didn’t waver. Your muscles twitched at each immaculate lick, thighs closing in on him, too close to care about whatever else he was doing. You concentrated on yourself, arching into your hands, spoiling yourself with fluttery traces over your nipples, rolling the buds in light pinches at the enthusiasm he had for savoring you. The constant vibrations of satisfaction he hummed on your pussy were enough to have you dripping, and when his big fingers stretched you open again, pumping you full in a few thrusts along the base of nerves which burned your cheeks, the van echoed every indecent soppy smack.
And again, there was a sensation of him curving his fingers deeper than normal before his shoulder dropped, and viscous yearning flowed after the emptiness.
A repetitive soft thumping noise blended to the back of your consciousness.
Eddie committed his sense of self to making you cum. Learning the unambiguous signs of your release, and being the reason they manifested, became his purpose. Sucking ceaselessly, investing the curve of his lips, his agile tongue, his entire mouth to heed the steady motion. Fingers still coated in sticky lewdness, they returned to fuck you too. Your deep breaths turned shallow, stomach seizing on moans and releasing them in trembling gasps. Waves on waves on waves of bliss crested under your hot skin, and your voice went too tight in your throat to not drive him crazy, “Eddie, I’m gonna—!”
Groans in the lower octave of a man enjoying himself shaped your release crashing over you.
The intimacy of his tongue on your oversensitive clit was incomparable, sending you into shamelessly grinding on his mouth, huffing out tiny whimpers as your muscles braced around him. Tighter, and tighter, until the tension became too much, and you were shivering for his mercy, riding the last jolts of your climax snug against his nose. “Please,” you squirmed for less, then when he gave you less, your ankles locked behind his back through the torture of a few more.
Doses of euphoria swam in your veins. Sinking from your high, heaviness blanketed your limbs. Bonelessness seeped from top to bottom. Tingly warmth took over, relaxing you to a state of clarity, flourishing in the scratch of Eddie’s five o’clock shadow on your inner thighs. He let go of your underwear, issuing an apology for where the material cut into your skin with a gentle roam over your hip as both hands left you.
The bend where the underside of your knees draped his shoulders bounced at an impressive speed.
You peered over your curves to sate your curiosities. Eddie’s temple rested on your leg, bangs askew and hair a mess of frizz and curls stuck to the sheen on his neck. He’d yet to move from his position, laying his head where he could, face angled to admire his work, eyes heavy-lidded past the point of inebriation. Ambient sun decorated the glisten around his mouth. A gleam of drool wet his red lips, flushed darker than his cheeks, which he pressed into a slow swallow over your tender cunt.
His exhale cooled the wetness before his tongue warmed it up.
A sharp hiss jumped into a whine of his name. “S’too much,” you strained. A wrecked man, Eddie couldn’t hear you through the pride you afforded him, flirting delicate kisses on your overworked clit, surrendering to the hold you had over him, and reveling in the aftermath of making you cum. Gradually going limp, his nose mashed to your mound, mouth hung open, pushing your orgasm in lazy laps. Another cry, beg, aftershock of his name and the burden of his forehead fell to your hip crease, filling his lungs in uneven drags. The break in sensory overload was appreciated; a sigh of relief.
You sat up and dropped your legs from their mantle, intent on clearing the fuzz from your mind, but—Eddie’s elbow rubbed a fierce tempo along your calf. The motion synced with the fast-paced squelch you heard earlier, before it faded to the background along with the soft thump and rustle of clothes. All of it came together in an echo of answers. Straightening up further, you witnessed exactly how worked up he was over your pussy.
Speechless awe overrode your ability to form sentences
In the gap framed by your thighs, his body shuddered through the fervent strokes focused over his lap. With his coveralls slacked to the tops of his thighs, he cupped his balls over the waistband of his boxers, skin bouncing in his palm, soft grip protecting their load while his other hand worked his length. Clear slick trickled over his knuckles, fingers slipping over the cream gathered at the head and guiding it down. Absolutely candid in his attraction, he fucked his fist using your arousal as lube.
In just a few twists over the blushy needy tip, he pumped the base in effort to make himself last, and peeled his sticky cheek off your thigh, looking up at you. Whiskey eyes awfully honest, awfully clear and round, he said, “You’re about to make me cum so hard.” In the vocal pause, the wet glide of his palm drove him to the edge, and his tone grew pointed as he went beyond the point of slowing down, “Like, now.”
The reason behind his direness took a moment to register, but when it did, panic flickered through you.
“Oh—shit—uh,” you stuttered. He needed a place to cum, and in your post-orgasmic daze you dropped your chin to think of your tits first, but had the wherewithal to decide against the possibility of him misaiming onto your dress. Beside you, the blanket was mostly stuck under the amps, and there wasn’t an extra rag in sight. His tank top was an option, but you thought of a better one. “My mouth!” you insisted with a gesture. “I’ll—” swallow.
Eddie was already to his feet. The van rocked with his heavy boots, wide stance stretching his coveralls tight around his legs, and undershirt pushed up out of the way. He braced one hand on the roof, cushioning his head bent to the metal in order to stand, and resumed his pace. You stuck your tongue out. The immediate pressure of his cock prodded the flat middle. Tasting yourself for the first time, the tang was surprising, but welcomed by the familiar salt leaking from his tip mixing with your spit. Warming up to the blend, you swirled sultry licks on the sensitive underside he avoided, and his tattooed stomach clenched.
Sitting pretty, you knew what he liked and cupped your tits together, gazing up at him with a submissive pinch between your brows. “So goddamn hot,” he grunted out, jaw clenched as if he were mad, stroking himself faster. His middle finger rammed over your lip on every pass. It might swell. It might bruise. “So—mmm—f’king hot.” Breaths jagged, his thighs flexed from the buckle in his knees, staggering him a step forward enough to put tension on your gag reflex. You clutched his jumpsuit into your fists. His rough groans shook through his stature. Building cusps of his release stuttered his hand flying over his cock, jerking himself off in bursts as pleasure peaked under his skin. The scrunch of concentration above his nose deepened. His stomach tightened in pulses, pecs jumping with his gasp, “Gonna,” and he was spilling into your mouth.
A moan made its way through your throat before it closed in a quick swallow. Tongue out, he trembled as he coated you some more. The first two shots were heavy, the rest followed suit, filling you for another round which you accepted with your lips snug around his fat tip. He doubled over at the achy raw sensation of your cheeks hollowing. Baby, he throbbed into you, flinching, yet giving. Allowed, you polished swirls over the throbbing head, lapping up any remains. You sat there with his clean cock in your mouth, meditating on the line drawn from the tattooed dragon wrapped around the sword pointing at the trail from his navel to the thick patch of curls at his base, which you could only reach when he was going soft, as he was then.
He tucked himself into his boxers after you pulled away, and sank to his knees. The sweat on his forehead merged with yours, oily noses pressed together, eyes hardly open as he trusted you to hold him up. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” his voice came hoarse with sincerity, anchored by the current of true longing flowing from the depths of his past. “How much it means to me, making you feel good like you make me feel good.” For Eddie, having proof of the good he could provide for you validated parts of himself he hadn't acknowledged for years. “Sorry I made it about myself in the end there. I, uh—ha—I couldn’t help myself when you were getting into it, and saying my name, ‘nd stuff.” Your bark of laughter encouraged his shy giggle, all bashful and humble.
Kissing his smile, your lips connected on the fated scents of each other after a hot and heavy day at work, and he sighed into palms fitting themselves to his jaw, mouth fixed in a taut smile as he worked through the happiness welling in his throat.
You told him, “Make me cum like that, and you can do whatever you want, Munson.” He snorted at his name, and played with strands of hair over his face, hiding his stupid grin. “I’m serious. Not that I thought you’d be bad or anything, but that was beyond good. Like, really good.” You should stop talking. “And it was flattering. Like, hot. It was really hot,” you decided, “knowing you couldn’t stop touching yourself—”
“Stop,” he complained in an embarrassed whine. Unable to take praise outside the heat of the moment, his gaze made friends with the floor while he mumbled about how he was a motivated learner and pulled out all his tricks to impress you, tucking his chin to avoid owning his skill. He dropped the act on a dime. Pointing, an overabundance of pride entered his tone once more, “You, uhm.. you christened my amp.”
“Huh?” You spread your legs to see. Utter mortification stung your nerves at the sticky stream of arousal, spit, and climax drying down the side of the plastic, wetting his piece of expensive equipment. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! Is it okay? Did I damage it—?”
“I got it,” he said with a firm hand to your sternum, laying you flat.
The low rumble in his throat drew near. Staying gentle, he parted your slippery split in a deep lick to your inner heat, running his tongue in broad strokes up the extra passion made just for him, quenching his thirst before your lunch break rendezvous was over. An appreciative kiss was bestowed on your clit before he smoothed your underwear into place. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and helped you up. The amp was left how it was.
Eddie opened his arms, and you understood. Moving slow through the syrup in your limbs, you straddled his lap, settling yourself over his softened cock, sensitive selves brushing through clothes. He reached behind him and popped open the door. Fresh air smacked rivers of sweat, cooling and calming. You melted into the other’s embrace, bonding in the last moments of your time together.
Sun glanced off the wood paneling, casting a glow on his puffy face. Sleepy eyes, messy hair, unbearably adorable grin—the type of candid expression showing how honored he was to share the same breath in the limited space between your chests. Lovesick eyes, bed head, face he’d have to wash in the bathroom sink with hand soap. So handsome. You combed the delicate hairs at his nape up into his bun, scratching tingles through his body. The threat of being caught was ignored for one minute longer.
Traces of humor rounded his clipt tone, “I need you next weekend. ‘Kay? I don’t care what we gotta do—if we gotta send Buckley off on some island vacation—I want some real alone time with you.”
“What? Is the van not good enough?”
“No,” he answered your tease with a serious drawl, raising his eyebrows. “This was just to hold us over until then. I don’t wanna make a habit of this, ‘cause then this? This is all I’ll think about when I’m supposed to be, y’know, working. Fixing shit. Not.. picturing you with your tits out.” Speaking of the distraction, he tugged your shirt down, and you fell into a fit of giggles, snickering against the crook of his neck as you stuffed the hem in your dress, and he crawled the straps up your arms, managing to zip the back up without looking.
Of which your good mood dwindled when you collected yourself. “Aw..”
“Yeah, it’s kinda worse than I thought it’d be.. Sorry.”
Dirt, motor oil, grime. Streaks, smears, smudges. And plenty of it. The burgundy dress he adored was visibly ruined, and only half way through your clocked-in hours.
You found the silver lining. “Guess I’ll wear black from now on.”
“Black looks good on you,” he assured. You reared back to assess the damage, and he filled the stretch of his palms with two handfuls of ass, ensuring you didn’t lose balance. Always willing to be of assistance, of course. “Oh, and may I say, genius planning on your part with the car wax,” he stressed his admiration of you. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself.”
Not following, you stopped scraping your nail over a patch of dust clinging to your white sleeve. “I thought you hid the car wax?”
“No..”
The next line was predictable. You would meet eyes, wait a beat, and deliver ‘Then.. who did?’ However, Eddie proved his impulsive thoughts won when devious shadows crowded the hook of his smirk, dimple arising. He opened his mouth, and you knew no good would come from it.
“I didn’t even fuck you, and you already can’t remember where you put the—Gah!” He shrieked at your pinch on his nipple, and the van rocked harder with your combined laughter, obnoxious in every organic way.
Casual wasn't an option when you wore this dress. Dialed back lost its meaning one root beer ago. The afternoon delight would live in the fibers of your unspoken language every morning when you looked at each other; coffee, cigarettes, spearmint. Goodbye normal workplace relationship, and good riddance.
~~~
Carl entered the lobby with confusion on his brow. He eyed the CLOSED sign on the door, and shuffled the bottles of wax loaded in his arms to turn it around, almost dropping them in the process. Earsplitting guitar licks and shrill vocals belonging to Iron Maiden beat on the windows to the garage, drawing his attention to the half-dressed mechanic ripping a bite out of his bologna sandwich, and flipping a socket wrench in his hand, head banging along to his music. Carl slid his side-eye away. Questions were not asked on his walk past your desk, merely serving a glance at your forkful of perceptibly congealed squash casserole which hadn’t been microwaved. Better yet, he didn’t address the canvas jacket you wore despite the visible shine dotting your forehead, nor your wheezing breaths as if you’d sat in your chair approximately thirty-nine seconds ago. He continued down the hall in silence.
The hair on your nape stood on end from someone’s gaze on you. The correct choice would be to ignore it, keep your head down, and finish the expense reports due by the time Robin picked you up. But like a good bitch, you submitted.
Waiting for you was Eddie’s cocky grin. Through the dusty glass pane indulgent curves of mischief edged his eyes into smug little crescents glinting from the secret between your bodies. Boundless amounts of vanity broadened his chest, pecs jumping as he tightened the sleeves of his coveralls tied around his waist. He peacocked in a slow turn to bend over the engine he was working on, shifting from foot to foot and leaning his hands on the car, flexing through the motion to catch swathes of shadows on the swell of his triceps leading to his hardened shoulders, strong back taking shape under his tank top. Mesmerizing. You couldn’t begin to imagine a world where you could keep the dreamy sigh out of your voice when Carl’s bewildered question arose.
“Wait—Were these here the whole time?” Judging by the plastic bounce and cardboard scramble, he had dropped one of the bottles, and when he dropped to his knees to grab it from behind a mop bucket you forgot to empty, he spotted the box of car wax you ordered at the start of the week and misplaced amongst the chaos in the storage closet.
“Oh? Were they?” you wondered. Stuffing the casserole in your mouth, the fork tines scraped across your teeth on its way out, chewing with your cheek propped on your fist. Blinking sleepily at the purply blue bruises you left on Eddie’s neck the morning before, you replied from faraway, “Weird. Thought I left them on the shelf.. Maybe the garage is cursed like Hawkins, too.”
#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson#stranger things#eddie x reader#eddie munson smut#mechanic!eddie#eddie munson fanfic#stranger things fanfic#the yes policy
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oki but this is sooo biker!simon after that first hookup you two had!! (this is a silly ramble based on the vid teehee)
biker!simon (ghost) riley x fem reader
!! smut - minors dni; D/s; sexting :’> // biker!simon mlist
you left with your number saved in his phone and his number saved in yours – simon having been the one to type it in. he named himself in your contacts as ‘simon 🏍️’ then got too shy at its obnoxiousness so he renamed it to ‘simon’ only.
(you later changed it to ‘si <3’ anyway).
simon sends the first message, unable to wait.
“hope you got home safe.” <
he would’ve dropped you home if he could, but simon understands why you preferred to keep your location a secret from him.
he waits for your reply, which arrives thirty minutes later.
> “thank you!! and i just got home, safe and sound <3”
simon almost chokes at the giddiness that lodged in his throat, his fingers trembling as he sends his reply.
the conversation picks up after that, mutual awkwardness breaking as friendship begins to bloom. you two try to make up plans, but your schedules never synced up and it left simon starving. aching with a heavy desire because he wants to see you again. wants to be with you again.
he wonders if you felt the same way. if you ache for his touch. for his body. if you lay on your bed at night, tracing at your skin, reminiscing the way simon pressed kisses into your soft corners and tender flesh.
simon wonders if you do. hopes that you do.
because even though he knows how much you’ve whispered how you love him, he had chucked it to your delirium; had told himself that it was a spur of the moment thought in fear that you would actually reject him.
so it came to him as a surprise when you sent him a… sensual message. nothing too conspicuous, but something that set him ablaze.
> “i miss the way you held me.”
simon stares at the message, going breathless as the memories return to him full force. it’s not like simon forgot – he knows he can never – but he’s been trying to push it in the back of his mind to pursue a more innocent relationship with you.
because you deserve more than a series of messages full of the ways he’d promise to fuck you – positions, places, and the amount of times he’d make you cum just with his mouth. because you deserve more than just words. words that aren’t even spoken, just typed.
and yet, he couldn’t help himself. he types in his reply, his mind overtaken by a fog that settles within his blood, mingling with reason.
“i miss you too, sweet girl.” <
simon breathes in, his mind shackled by the memory of your heat wrapped around him, and adds:
“miss the way you moaned for me.” <
he doesn’t hesitate when he sends this but simon does feel a twinge of guilt when he finally sees it in the message thread, something that snaps him outside of the fog just long enough to feel the way he’s been tightly gripping on his phone.
because what if this was too much? was he supposed to just hint at what happened? to dance around the tension until you two finally get to meet? to-
> “i miss how you filled me up.”
“fuck,” simon whispers to himself as he stares at your message, his voice a ragged timbre of his devastation. he almost drops his phone on the floor, seized by the greatness of his desires that is pumping blood to his ears and into his cock.
he swipes his eyes along your message once again, unearthing the sound of your voice from his memories as he envisions the way you would’ve said this – breathy, whimper-y, broken. your throat having been thoroughly used by simon.
“fuck,” he repeats, adjusting himself underneath his sweats before sending his reply.
“i filled you good, didn’t i, princess? kissed somewhere deep in you. deeper than anyone has ever reached.” <
simon feels like a fucking depraved teenager at the way his cock jumped just at the mere sight of the speech bubble appearing on your end, showing him that you’re typing up a response. he stares at his screen intently as though willing it to finally reveal the earth-shattering reply he knows you’re going to send, only to see the speech bubble disappear completely.
he blinks, confused, and restarts his messaging app at the thought that it’s glitching. when it finally reloads, simon tries not to drown in his disappointment when he sees no new received replies from you.
his fingers twitch, apology already forming from the back of his mind, ready to be typed out. he bounces his legs, worrying over the appropriate words to use because he truly is sorry. he-
a notification ping shakes him from his thoughts and simon realizes that his phone had turned off amidst his spiral. he breathes in shakily, gulping when he sees your contact name flashing on the screen – ‘princess’ – and taps at your icon.
oh.
“oh,” simon repeats out loud, his voice a warbled croak.
because who wouldn’t be breathless at this?
this being an image of you in nothing but simon’s zip-up jacket, the one that he lent you from that one fateful night when you two met up. it falls just past your pelvis, giving him a good glimpse of your thighs only to cut just above your knees, a grave loss that resonated with simon as he honest to god whimpers. it’s not zipped up all the way, stopping like a low v-cut on your chest which shows enough of your cleavage and your pretty tits that simon’s throat constrict in his thirst.
simon’s greedy eyes almost bypass your other message:
> “i wish you can tear my clothes off me again.”
he groans, feeling his cock leak from your message; from seeing you love his rough side.
he has to grip his phone as his unrelenting mind wanders, imagining the way he’d rip that jacket off your beautiful body. the way he wouldn’t even fully shrug it off you because simon wants to take you that way – surrounded with everything of him. his cock buried in your cunt, his hands braced on either side of your face, and his clothes grazing the skin with which his hands can’t caress. simon wants to envelope you with all that he is. with all that you will allow him to give.
fuck. he wants you. he needs you.
simon has to breathe through his mouth as he sends you a reply, choosing careful words to express his intention.
(but not to express the twinge of his darkness. of his possessiveness. not yet, anyway.)
“i’d do that and more, sweetheart.” <
he licks his lips, fingers hovering above his screen. thinking. hesitating. making up his mind. then, sending:
“wanna see what you do to me? how you make me so fucking hard?” <
simon absolutely moans at your beautiful, submissive reply:
> “yes, please.”
(what a good girl. and simon doesn’t even need to teach you how to be one. god, aren’t you just too perfect for him?)
#suns.f#biker!simon#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley smut#simon riley smut#simon ghost riley#simon riley#clearly my instagram is telling me to get to it (as in replying to asks) but my god this thread is AMAZING#suns
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Succor 2
Muzan x GN!reader
Content warnings: oral sex, anal fingering, prostate milking, profanity, Muzan Kibutsuji.
NSFW MDNI.
Part 1
Follow up drabble to Part 1
Taglist: @hiraethsdesires @verose-tb @blamedbisexual @tsukiran
Muzan was livid. One of his upper ranks had fallen for the first time in more than a century, and the remaining demons of his so-called elite class were nothing more than pathetic fools, serving him with nothing but disappointment.
He let Gyokko's severed head plummet to the platform below, taking grim satisfaction from the wet thud it made when it landed. Hantengu yelped in fear, Akaza flinched, and Douma’s perpetual smile faded. Nothing could quell Muzan’s rage. Nothing.
"Muzan," you whispered from beneath his desk. He hadn’t known you were there, and your sudden appearance was nothing short of disarming.
You were his most depraved and alluring creation; a demon who was repulsed by the consumption of human flesh, but who garnered strength from Muzan's own fluids. And what strength it was. His breath caught as your hand slowly worked its way up his thigh.
Surely you couldn't still be hungry? You'd already sucked him dry not two hours ago.
And yet, as the fools groveled below, whimpering apologies and empty promises, your hands went to the fastening of his trousers and deftly undid it.
"Stop that," he hissed through his teeth, glowering at your pretty face. "Cease at once, you infernal slut. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a mee–"
A shuddering breath escaped Muzan's throat as you took out his cock and used the very tip of your tongue to tease his opening.
Oh he could have torn your head off for such insubordination, and perhaps he should have, but as his knees buckled and he was forced to brace himself on the edge of his desk, he couldn't bring himself to stop you.
He fought to regain his composure as your hot, wet mouth surrounded his rapidly hardening cock and he tried to keep his voice level as he addressed the upper ranks. “I’d advise you all to act with more urgency from here on out. I suppose you’re not entirely at fault for your inadequacies.”
You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock and the veins in his forehead began to throb. He raised his voice once more to address the demons. “I’ve been too lenient with you because you’re upper ranks.”
He chanced a look down at you, and immediately regretted it. You gazed up at him with tears shimmering in your eyes as his dick grew to tease and nudge the back of your wretched throat. Oh, you were an abomination, a vulgar disgrace to demonkind, but he could not walk away from you. For all his power, he was devastatingly weak when it came to you and your depraved mouth.
He had to end the meeting.
“Gyokko, once you’ve confirmed that information to be true, you are to head over there with Hantengu at once."
No sooner had he finished speaking than a partition closed the pair of you off from the upper ranks, and he could finally let loose the growl caged behind his teeth. “You will be the death of me,” he hissed. “How many times must I feed you, my greedy slut?”
You simply sucked him harder in response.
"Curse you." His legs trembled beneath him; his weakness and helplessness only adding to his fury.
“Oh, fine, you licentious leech,” he snapped, putting his hands on the back of your head and thrusting into your mouth.
He pumped his hips, brutally fucking your face as you gagged and drooled over his cock, your eyes rolling as your tongue lapped at the precum weeping from his slit. With every thrust he reclaimed a little more power, a little of his tattered dignity. His toes curled inside the butter-soft leather of his shoes as exquisite pleasure built and spilled over.
With a grunt he unloaded down your throat. Your greedy tongue lapped at his cum as a deep groan burst from his throat. “Yes… swallow it all. There. Now I truly have nothing left to give you. Leave me be.”
His eyes widened as you yanked his trousers down entirely, exposing his backside.
“What are you– Oh I should destroy you,” he groaned as heat prickled along his cheeks and the top of his chest. He released his grip on your head to try to pull his trousers back up. “How dare you, how–”
His blood-red eyes widened. Your strength was truly astounding as you stood, catching him off guard and spinning him around before you placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the desk. The song of smashing glass and falling equipment drowned out his gasp.
“You dare–!” Muzan’s protest died on his tongue as you slipped your finger past the barrier of his lips and laid it flat on his tongue. His pupils narrowed to reptilian slits as indignation and arousal battled for dominance. He could bite your wretched finger off– in fact, he should have, but he found himself simply moaning around it as you lowered your head to take his cock into your mouth once more.
He licked the underside of your digit as his eyelids fluttered.
“Mmhh–” he sucked your finger, biting back a mewl as you pulled it free from his lips. “What are–” His body tensed as your finger delved between the plush cheeks of his ass, circling his hole, lubricating it with his own saliva.
You simply raised your eyes to meet his frantic gaze.
“You aren’t… fffuck.” His head lolled back as you continued your ministrations, your moan reverberating around his cock as you pushed past the taught ring of muscle to finger the soft flesh within.
He was helpless then; eyes wide, mouth agape around a silent cry, chest heaving as you fingered his hole.
“Damn… you…” he choked out, voice cracking as he lifted his legs higher, allowing you to press deeper. You hit a spot deep within him which made him see stars, “Oh… ohhpleasepleaseplease fuuuck…”
You seemed obscenely pleased as his cock started to weep, and you greedily swallowed down every drop which spilled out of him. Never in over a millenia had he been treated with such disrespect and made to feel so utterly helpless. He whined as he bore down on your degenerate fingers, furious as hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
Bringing up his arms to shield his face from your gaze, Muzan let his tears soak into the sleeves of his shirt as he rocked his hips, fucking himself on your fingers, taking you deeper.
"More, curse you. Another."
You obliged your king's request, pushing another finger past the barrier of his hole, scissoring them to widen him. His eager body responded to your touch, allowing you to push deeper and massage that exquisite spot deep within him.
His cock erupted onto your tongue as you milked him, pulsing pleasure and heat consuming him as he choked out your name. On and on, the pleasure consumed him, seemingly never ending. His mouth fell open, his lips drawn back to expose his fanged teeth as his groans turned to frantic whimpers. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I don’t… Gods, curse… you… I… oh fuck oh Gods please. Please. Please~”
His orgasm exploded then, sending sparks of scalding pleasure shooting throughout his body as you groaned in satisfaction, your wicked tongue lapping up every drop of his seed. His hands grasped at anything he could find, tearing pages from his notebooks and sending vials of ingredients flying from the desk.
“Mm,” you crooned as he lay on the desk, gasping for air, his body still pulsing with the aftershocks of your torment. “Such a good master, cumming so much for me.”
His crimson eyes widened at your praise, a muscle in his jaw leaping as he bit down the whine pressing at the back of his throat. “Silence.”
Forcing a deeper breath, he placed a hand on the back of your head and flexed his fingers in a muted show of affection. "Mmh… curse you."
You were by far the best and the worst demon he had ever created, and in that moment, he would gladly keep you by his side for eternity.
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Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can check out my other fics on my masterlist
#muzan kibutsuji#sub muzan#muzan smut#kimetsu no yaiba muzan#lord muzan#kny muzan#kibutsuji muzan#muzan x reader#bottom muzan#demon slayer muzan#muzan my beloved#muzan kibutsuji x reader#kibutsuji kny#Muzan
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Yandere! Miguel x Fem! Reader
Warnings: As this is yandere fiction, this deals with behaviours that can be uncomfortable to read. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional, I do not condone this behaviour irl. THIS WORK HAS SPECIFIC WARNINGS OF: noncon and menstruation oral sex. IF AFTER READING THIS DISCLAIMER, YOU CHOOSE TO CLICK the ‘read more/keep reading’ you are consenting to read this at your discretion.
I hate myself for writing this so whatever.
Yandere! Miguel, who's spider instincts activate when you're menstruating and he loves to eat you out.
He starts of so gentle - he tenderly massages your thighs, and puts them over his shoulder. Then, he leaves a trial of soft kisses, and gentle nips on your inner thighs before inevitably, he's right in front of your heat. It feels vile because your aversed by the smell yourself, and just want to rest. Its painful, and you're cramping. The painkillers are making your head fuzzy and you're drowsy - you just want to sleep. But Miguel won't let you. Not when its his time to feast.
Sure, there is a smell, but his spider finds it delightful. You might be against it, but his spider loves it. Yearns for it every month, and needs his share of it.
He licks the single trail of blood dripping down your thigh, before following it to your outter lips. There's no time to focus on how only his warm breath is enough to cause goosebumps to arise at the back of your neck because the sensory receptors being kissed on your outter lips shoots chills through your nerves, and up to your spine.
Your back arches, and a loud moan leaves your lips as Miguel swipes his tongue at that perfect spot just beneath the skin of your inner lips. The pain from cramps feels worse, but there's also a start of pleasure. Your breath hitches, and one of your hands combs through his hairlocks, before clutching them tightly, and the other clutching the sheets beneath you.
"M-Miguel, plea, please s-stop. Its going to be too, ah, too p-painful." You beg. Miguel simply ignores you and continues his passionate makeout session with your lower region. His licks go deeper, more frantic, more depraved. Like he was a starved beast who was finally given a meal. Then, as the pleasure pressure built up, it collapsed. You exhale a drowsy sigh in bliss, actually feeling better temporarily. But that bliss subsides into anxiety, because you know from precious experiences that this isn't where it ends. It always ends in pain.
Miguel shamelessly laps at your mixed release of cum and blood. Now that you had released once, and were more relaxed physically, it was easier to go deeper.
With as much strength as you could muster in your weak and exhausted state, you pulled on his hair with all of your strength and shook your head.
"Miguel, please. Please, I'm begging you, let's stop here. I feel better now, anything more will hurt. Please, let's stop here for today, you know my first days are the worst. We'll do whatever you want tomorrow, I promise. I can take it better tomorrow. Please, just ignore your spider today and think about me for once-"
"Mi amor I always think about you. But you know, this is the only thing I ask for. I know it hurts for you, but now is the best time for me. You can take it, you're a strong chica, I know you can. I promise I'll try to be as gentle as possible," He whispered softly, and kissed your right inner thigh reassuringly. Then, he nipped one of your outter lips playfully with his sharp teeth, you yelped at the sensation. You tried to pull away, but were unable to, because Miguel gripped your thighs firmly.
"Now, try not to move too much, and just relax. It'll be fun for both of us, I promise."
#yandere x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#yandere smut#spiderman x reader#yandere spiderman#miguel x reader#yandere miguel o'hara#ambivalent writes
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Here's another update because the situation is changing again.
The fighting continues
Things are clearly not going well for the Israelis because they've trotted out the widely unpopular president of the Palestinian Authority to try and weaken support for Hamas among Palestinians and the global South.
For a while there, it seemed Israel was truly preparing for the ground invasion of Gaza it has been promising since Operation Al Aqsa Flood started
Israel has even come up with a plan for the tunnels of Gaza that the Palestinian resistance was planning on using and it's predictably evil and, by their own admission, unlikely to truly work
Israel and Hezbollah have been increasingly tussling over the past day and a half. Remember Hezbollah has said if there's a ground operation in Gaza, it will officially join the war (unofficially, it's been supporting Palestine by bombing military targets in northern and southern Israel)
Israel is understandable worried about Hezbollah. After all, they were humiliated in 2006 when they invaded Lebanon. They were so humiliated, they don't really mess with Hezbollah (prior to this war that is). They bomb Syria, assassinate Iranian officials, bomb the Egyptian border but they largely leave Lebanon alone.
In fact, they're so worried about facing Hamas in Gaza with Hezbollah and possibly Iran coming in that the inevitable Gaza ground operation started to get hiccups
Ah yes, clouds.
But that's not the real reason. Rumours have been circulating that there has desertions in the army, enough people are leaving that the top Israeli military officials are having trouble with their plans. Morale is also very low which is part of the reason they're attacking Gaza so heavily. It's a depraved and desperate attempt to project strength to their soldiers and the settlers
There is also the fact that Hezbollah is nothing to sneer at
The situation is simply not looking good for Israel at all and America is rightly worried
America has tried helping it out by convincing Iran to back down
I bet both America and Israel regret all those assassinations.
So, what now? It should be obvious that a ground of invasion of Gaza is unlikely to happen
Israel situation is so humbling, it is putting out statements like this. Imagine Israel saying this 2 weeks ago
Surely without a ground invasion, Iran and Hezbollah will also back down? Nope, the red line has shifted and now Israel has to stop its bombardment of Gaza or face a regional war
Israel now has a choice to make that will decide the future of the settler colony
Of course when Israel inevitably backs down, it'll try to frame it as though it was because the West pressured them to, out of concern for Palestinians. Nevermind Biden outrightly lying about seeing pictures of the 40 beheaded babies and this
and also nevermind that the entire western media has been calling for genocide against Palestinians. Nevermind the EU's first act when the war broke out was to cut off aid to Palestine.
Needless to say the rest of the world will know what caused Israel to back down.
Palestine.
Palestinians have dealt a huge blow, not just to Israel but also the US and the EU who have lost a lot of credibility by publicly calling for and materially supporting genocide in Gaza.
Best believe the global South has been watching this closely.
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do you know anything about the source behind people claiming elagabalus was recorded to have expressed an explicit desire for medical transition
that's also in book 80 of cassius dio's roman history:
He carried his lewdness to such a point that he asked the physicians to contrive a woman's vagina in his body by means of an incision, promising them large sums for doing so.
and, again -- it is completely impossible to independently ascertain whether this happened or not! cassius dio does not tell us how he knows this, or who told him, and we have no other source to corroborate this. this could have really happened, this could be a misunderstanding of exaggerated version of something elagabalus did say, it could have been made up by dio or by dio's source, and we have no way of knowing! but in its context within cassius dio it is after paragraph after paragraph excoriating elagabalus for being a profligate degenerate effeminate foreigner who wasted roman money on his sexually depraved parties in honour of his evil foreign god, and i think it's intellectually dishonest to try and present it outside that context.
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🍰 demented devotions & dark chocolate cake
— ꒰ pairings ꒱ : m.draconia x reader x r.flamme
in the moonlit garden, rollo stumbles upon you and malleus in the midst of a slow dance. malleus doesn't like how rollo is being so touchy with you and promptly drags you away.
— ꒰ warnings / tag ꒱ : obsessive behavior (rollo), possessiveness, slight power dynamics, soft yandere, rollo calls you 'my lamb', twinge of religious themes because it is rollo
event masterlist
NOBLE BELL COLLEGE, bathed in the gentle light of the moon, was a breathtaking sight. The buildings, reminiscent of sanctuaries with their time-worn stone walls, bore intricate carvings that appeared to come alive in the ethereal glow of night. Every archway and pillar whispered stories from the past. The bell towers stood as dark silhouettes against the starry canvas of the night sky, and each chime of the bells echoed through the entirety of the campus.
For Rollo, it had become a nightly custom to wander through the college gardens, a torch in hand, casting light upon his path. The garden provided him with a haven away from the cold, austere chambers of his dormitory.
As he strolled along the cobblestone pathways, the moonlight cast elongated shadows from the trees, while the warm torchlight bathed the surroundings in an almost magical ambiance. However, even in this tranquil setting, memories of a recent festival continued to plague him. The festival began with promise, a colorful whirlwind of music and laughter, but unsurprisingly, it swiftly descended into chaos. And yet, among these memories, your presence stood out as a bright spot amid the less pleasant recollections.
Your hair, like the finest silk, would sway gracefully when caressed by the breeze, and the sparkle in your eyes resembled stardust. However, what had left an indelible mark on Rollo's memory was the scarf that clung to your neck.
Rollo's fingers gently brushed against the soft fabric of that very scarf tucked in his pocket, and a wistful smile played upon his lips. Pulling it out, he pressed the scarf to his face, captivated by the lingering scent that still held traces of your presence. Ah, he could vividly recall how the scarf's color complimented your eyes. You had left it behind by the bell tower that day, and he had stumbled upon it. Although he had intended to return it to you, his search for you had proven fruitless.
No matter, he thought to himself, pocketing the purple fabric, he was certain he would find you sometime during the week.
Suddenly, distant sounds of laughter reached Rollo's ears. The alluring and familiar sound called out to him, and he couldn't resist its pull. Step by step, he followed it, drawing nearer with each move. As he cautiously peeked around the corner of an academic building, his heart sank upon witnessing the scene before him.
Your lips bore a wide, giddy grin as you were swept up in Malleus Draconia's embrace, twirling gracefully in a delicate dance. The fae's lips barely brushed your cheek, a subtle smile gracing his features. The enchanting dance held you both captive in a world of your own, oblivious to your surroundings.
"Heavens," Rollo grimaced, torn between watching the spectacle and turning away. The sight of Malleus pressing a kiss to the side of your neck only deepened his disapproval.
Brazen, lewd, and odious. It was a vile, depraved display.
Unable to watch anymore, Rollo cleared his throat and stepped out of the shadows, shattering the enchantment that had held you both in the dance's spell.
"There is a strict rule on public display at Noble Bell College, one that I had hoped you were aware of," he called out, his tone firm and disapproving.
In that moment, your eyes widened in realization, and you hastily pulled away from Malleus's embrace. Rollo couldn't help but smirk inwardly at the faint frown that momentarily marred the fae's face.
Embarrassment lined your features as you ran a hand through your wind-tousled hair, gesturing with the other, voicing your remorse for breaking such a basic rule.
"I will overlook this transgression for now," Rollo assured as he advanced toward you. His hand reached up to cup your cheek, and you tensed at his touch, your cheeks flushing a pretty shade of red. As you instinctively started to pull away, his hold on your chin remained firm, coaxing your gaze back to his.
Rollo extended his torch closer to you, wishing to see your features more clearly. The flames danced perilously near, a few errant sparks floating in the air, almost singing the tips of your hair and the lapels of your coat. He observed your reactions with an amused smile, enjoying your wariness as you wrinkled your nose at the acrid scent of smoke.
Cute.
Rollo then leaned in closer, the flickering torchlight casting intriguing shadows across his face. His voice dropped to a low, confidential murmur, mindful of the fae hovering over you two.
"What a delicate soul you are," Rollo whispered, his intense crimson gaze locked on yours. "It's rare to see someone like you, tainted by the presence of magic, and yet somehow, still… pure despite it all." His words hung in the night air, a puzzle in his eyes, as if he were unraveling a secret you weren't even aware of.
"Pure?" you blinked, tilting your head in confusion, your curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"
Rollo's lips curled into a wry smile as he brushed his thumb against your cheek. "Oh, my lamb, it's a complex matter, one best left for another time. You're already dealing with plenty, especially with those miscreants at NRC. Those fools are probably driving you mad."
The endearment he used sent a warm shiver down your spine, and you felt flutters in your stomach. Your eyes nervously shifted from Rollo to the serene surroundings of the garden, the moonlight casting a soft, ethereal glow on the foliage.
Malleus, unable to stand and watch any longer, clicked his tongue disapprovingly, signaling his irritation at the unfolding situation.
Wordlessly, he positioned himself behind you, his large, possessive hand gently running up your back. Despite the seething anger within him, Malleus restrained his magical abilities, aware that any inadvertent spells or outbursts could only serve to worsen the situation. As much as he wished to unleash his fiery wrath on Flamme, that would have to be reserved for another time.
"If you'll excuse us. We have somewhere to be," Malleus murmured, his voice laced with urgency as he swiftly pulled you away from Rollo and led you out of the garden.
Unbeknownst to you, Rollo's gaze bore into Malleus with an intensity that bordered on obsession. His crimson eyes radiated an otherworldly fire, and sparks ignited at the soles of his feet. As the flames danced beneath him, the once lush and vibrant grass around him withered and turned into dry, lifeless ash. Rollo then scowled, turning his attention to the scorched ground. He pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his face, muttering to himself in frustration as he stepped away from the darkened earth, dusting his shoes off with an absentminded air.
"Blasted fae."
🍰 . . .
Once you were safely out of earshot and view, Malleus came to a halt and his demeanor took a shift.
"Malleus?" you murmured, looking up at him curiously. The fae didn't say a word and instead turned to face you. The moonlight cast soft shadows on his face as he suddenly knelt down before you.
With a look of reverence in his eyes, Malleus took hold of both your hands, his touch warm and tender. He began to lavish adoring kisses along your palms, wrists, and fingers, each press of his lips filled with a tenderness that spoke volumes. It was as if he were trying to convey a silent promise, a pledge to protect and cherish you.
"Mine," he whispered, his emerald eyes sparkling with an almost possessive light, his voice tinged with a sense of ownership that sent shivers down your spine.
"Mine and mine alone."
#twstnexus#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland x reader#rollo flamm x reader#malleus draconia x reader#rollo flamm#malleus draconia#twst rollo#twst malleus#rollo flamme x reader#rollo flamme
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To Serve
by @flower-cage
Ao3 | Masterlist
Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader
Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.
Words: 3,768
Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism.
Minors, do not interact.
Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons.
Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.
That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the crown Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.
He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck.
Always.
It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.
“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.
This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.
That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.
“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”
Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.
“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”
Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.
And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.
In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.
That morning, he had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step past his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you in.
He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.
“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”
His promise stretched on for days on end.
You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.
Until you didn’t.
“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.
You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone.
Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.
“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.
He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.
“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.
“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”
His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.
The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors which he pushes open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.
Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception.
He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.
His body is that of a man, now: no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been merely bodily.
You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.
His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.
You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base and running your nose along the shaft, to then unbutton him quietly.
He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth this much.
You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.
He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.
Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.
“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening.
The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.
“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.
And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure.
You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.
Now, you are wide awake and it is you who tastes him eagerly.
When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.
The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.
This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.
When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were a simple maid of the palace.
That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.
The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face.
Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.
He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.
Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.
When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.
He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.
Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.
“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him.
Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.
“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.
“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.
He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.
“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.
“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.
“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.
You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.
“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”
Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.
When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in your unlimited ecstasy.
The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.
Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.
You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.
You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.
Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.
Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.
It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience.
And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.
A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.
You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.
“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.
His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.
But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips up and away from his cock, and thrusts.
You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.
Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.
“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”
Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.
Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.
He loves to debase you in this way.
He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.
But he can.
He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.
His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.
“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”
He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his calculated, powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.
“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.
“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”
He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.
“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.
He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.
His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.
His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.
“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.
His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.
Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.
“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.
“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”
He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.
“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”
“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.
“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.
You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council room. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you.
You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.
Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.
And yet.
“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”
Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.
He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious.
“I want you just like this,” he warns, taking your jaw in a firm grasp, “on your best behavior.”
He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.
#hotd fic#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x you#hotd fanfic#aemond x you#aemond x servant reader#hotd smut#lol not me posting another one at 3am on a sunday#work is going to suck tomorrow i guess
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— Kunigami Rensuke
Masterlist.
Keeping every other player on their toes was the true goal. Reminding them that he deserved his place— that he was meant to be here. But Kunigami wouldn’t deny that obtaining a prize that every other man on the field coveted was a good enough reward. He really was the wildcard, in every sense of the word.
Warnings: 18+, dubcon, spit, Kunigami’s got an oral fixation, blow jobs, no prep, unprotected sex, light choking, squirting, creampie.
Pairing: Kunigami Rensuke x f!reader.
Word Count: 2.8k.
If there was ever a man who didn’t appear to want the prize he’d rightfully won, it would be Kunigami Rensuke. Lingering in the doorway as you felt the cool chill seep into the room from behind him, prickling against your form as goosebumps began to appear against your forearms. The sheer lingerie doing little to hide your exposed skin as you shuffled on your knees against the soft sheets, your nipples hardening against pretty lace as you watched his tongue slip out to wet his lips.
It was as though this prize wasn’t good enough, that he was still searching for more. Every trophy and accolade he rightfully stole from every other player put on the field would never matter until his name was positioned at number one.
Keeping every other player on their toes was the true goal. Reminding them that he deserved his place— that he was meant to be here. But Kunigami wouldn’t deny that obtaining a prize that every other man on the field coveted was a good enough reward for now, stealing a last minute shot at goal instead of passing to Chigiri to land the ball in the top left corner— barely an inch from the post. A chance that had paid off well now that he was standing where the other twenty-one men on the field wished they could be.
No one would deny that he’d been through a lot to get this far— probably far more than most. A man that had tasted the disgusting bile of failure rise in his throat, the defeat one he promised himself he would never feel again. Arguably working far harder than his teammates to reclaim his position at the top, biting at the ankles of his competitors as he allowed natural selection to take place.
And Kunigami couldn’t lie, it felt good to be victorious. So used to the pack mentality of victory, succeeding at the hands of others. But this one? It was his. You were his. And he would return to the rest of his team with a story to prove it.
He took four long strides to meet you at the foot of the bed, like a lion stalking its prey as he towered over you. His hand was gentle when he cupped your cheek, leaning into his touch as you grasped onto the warmth of it. Feeling a rush of blood pump through your veins when you looked up to meet his burning gaze, enough to scorch your skin as you felt it set fire to you all the way down to your core.
“They were right,” He murmurs, “You are really pretty.”
Your heart jumped at his words, thinking about what sort of things the footballers said about you. Picturing them crowded around in their changing room at half-time, doused in dirt and sweat as they spilled their pure depravity. Talking about every filthy thought they had about you, or the lewd opinions of those who’d had a taste. Your clit pulsing in response as you swallowed thickly, wondering what Kunigami’s role had been in the conversation.
“So,” He hummed, tracing the calloused pad of his thumb over your glossy lips, the stickiness tacking you to him, “What can I do to you?”
“Anything.”
“Shit,” A groan rumbled from deep in his chest, his eyes fluttering as he felt his cock pulse beneath his shorts, “Anything?”
“Yeah—” Kunigami pushed his thumb past your lips as soon as he felt you part them to speak, pressing down on the pad of your tongue as your lips closed around it. Staring up at him obediently through thick lashes as you hollowed your cheeks, causing a deep blazing heat to burn in his pelvis.
“Fuck,” He growled, pumping his thumb slowly as his palm caged your jaw. Tilting your head as he used his strong grip you open your mouth, pursing his lips as he spat into your open mouth, “Hold it.”
You felt the moisture collect at the back of your throat from the way your head was tilted, your tongue wobbles as he draws back to dip his thumbs into the hem of his shorts. Pulling them down enough to free his heady cock, the tip swollen and bruised deep crimson as a a pearlescent glob of pre beads at the tip. You whimpered at the debauched sight, his spit gargling at the back of your throat as you squeezed your thighs together in a feeble attempt to alleviate the ache throbbing between them.
“Fu-uck,” Kunigami groaned as he felt the warmth of your mouth engulf him when he guided his cock inside you, deliberately smearing his pre against your pouty lips as he watched you begin to bob your head obediently.
The sordid stories he’d heard in the showers after practise were nothing compared to the sight of you in front of him like this now. His cock disappearing inside your wet mouth as his hips stilled to watch the way you leaned forward to try and take more of him.
“Cute,” He hummed when the confidence grew inside you as you tried to take a little too much of him, feeling his swollen tip hit the back of your throat as you pulled back with a gag. Spluttering as spit began to drool down your chin, landing on your chest as you regained your breath. Kunigami couldn’t help himself as he leaned forward to tug at the straps of your bra, tugging them along your shoulders as he pulled the cups down enough to free your round tits.
He sucked a hiss through gritted teeth when you tried again, your spit drying against his length as you engulfed him in warmth once more. His slender fingers reached down to toy with your stiffened peaks as he tugged one between his thumb and forefinger, “You like that?”
You tried to speak around him, slurring your words as he smirked in satisfaction. Pulling your nipple away from your body to let it go, your breast bouncing back into place in favour of him reaching his palm around the back of your neck. Cradling your head at the base of your skull as he begun to thrust his hips forward into your mouth, deliberately trying to press his leaking tip against the back of your mouth with each forward motion. Drawing more debauched noises from your throat, as more spit pooled down onto your bare breasts.
“You’re such a mess,” He groaned, his hand tight at the back of your head as he held you down on his length. Watching as pearly tears begun to clump in your lashes as they blurred your vision, gagging as his thick tip pressed against your throat. Cutting off your oxygen supply as he continued to hold you firm and steady, jaw locked with intent as he pushed you further. Your nose buried in the messy nest of hair at the base of his cock as you took in every inch of him; Cutting off any chance of breathing, thick tears now streaming down the apples of your cheeks as your hands came up to claw at his muscular thighs. Leaving dark, crimson lines against the skin as you clawed at him for relief.
“That’s it, you got it—” The lack of oxygen how had your eyes rolling back into your skull as Kunigami finally took pity on you, easing his grip with a sharp hiss as you marked him, “Good girl.”
Glistening strings of spit and pre snapped off between your bodies, sticking to your chin as you looked at the deep gashes you’d left against his skin. Low enough on his thighs to be seen when he was wearing his shorts out on the pitch, and that’s exactly what Kunigami wanted— his teammates would probably think him far too much of a prude to do anything with you, but he’d show them. A cocky, knowing smirk on his lips when he prepared in the locker room before practise.
You squealed when he bent down to curl his palms around your thighs. His heavy cock glistening with your spit as it bobbed from the sudden motion, pulling your legs out from beneath you as your back met the satin sheets. Pulling you to the edge of the bed as though you weighed nothing until your ass was practically hanging off the edge of it. Thighs either side of his muscular frame as he was gifted the perfect view between your thighs, noticing the dark stain on the fabric as he brushed his knuckles against it. Smirking when your sensitive body jolted upon contact.
“So you said I can do anything,” Kunigami mused, pressing his thumb down against your clothed clit, “That mean I can fuck this pussy raw?”
“Yes,” You gasped, shamelessly spreading your legs wider to give him more access as he began to trace his fingers along the apex of your thighs, dangerously close to the hem of your panties.
The position he had you in left you nowhere to plant your feet, almost uncomfortable as you fought to hold your legs in the air, pressing your legs against his hips as Kunigami pulled your panties to the side to reveal your lustrous cunt to his eager gaze.
“Shit,” He shook his head, darkened eyes hidden behind his messy mop of ginger hair, “Is there anything I can’t do?”
“No,” You answered truthfully. So desperate for some kind of relief you truly would’ve allowed him to do anything to you in this moment, to use your body in any sick and twisted way he deemed fit.
“I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else,” Kunigami snarled, roughly pushing your thighs back towards your chest as he curled his tall body over you. His rigid cock laid flat along the length of your creamy slit as you felt his weighty balls press against the curve of your ass, “And you’re gonna take it.”
The thick veins that forked along the length of him grazed your clit as he smoothed himself in your slick, the swollen tip of his cock catching against your tight ill-prepped hole as he pressed two fingers inside you crudely. A debauched squelch sounding around the room from how wet you are, as he began to scissor them roughly in a feeble attempt at prepping you for the sheer length of him.
But nothing could’ve prepared you for the feeling of him breaching your tight heat, stealing the wind from your lungs as the length to his cock immediately had him spearing your insides. What he made up for in girth, he compensated for when his swollen tip nudged your cervix.
“Oh, fuck.”
With his feet still poised on the ground, Kunigami hovered over you and began to fuck into you hard and precise. Determined to have you remembering him over all of his competition— Wanting to be your number one.
You felt the weight behind his thrusts as his full balls slapped against your ass with each forward motion, echoing in your ears but drowned out by the sultry moans that escaped past your parted lips. His darkened eyes almost black as they stare down at you with such scrutiny that you can’t match his gaze, letting your head lull to the side as he keeps himself folded over you. Your tits bouncing with the ferocity of his thrusts.
No longer the prized golden boy you’d once seen at the start of the program, now a tainted man with the weight of the world on his shoulders as he let every ounce of emotion pour out into his pace.
Kunigami pressed his palm flat against your sternum before sliding along your clavicle, weaving his fingers around the column of your neck as you felt the tips of his fingers press into your jaw. Turning your head back to face him as you met his gaze, clenching around him in response as his palm began to tighten around your windpipe.
The head of his cock kissed your cervix with each forward motion, and he was so deep inside you were certain you could feel him in your lungs. The constricting of air only increased the sensation as your walls pulsed around him, squeezing his length as you began to feel the telltale signs of your release. Far too pent up to try and fight it as you lay helpless beneath him, feeble attempts at his name spilling from between your parted lips.
“They didn’t fuck you like this, did they?” Kunigami was eager to prove himself to you. Hungry and desperate for this sick source of validation that would hold him above all the others, to place him at number one, “They didn’t make you feel as good as me?”
And you couldn’t answer even if you’d wanted to. The pleasure building inside you made it difficult to think of anything other than the way he managed to keep you dangling on the edge of your release. Desperate for something that would have you tumbling over the edge, to have you coming undone for him.
Sacrificing his grip around your neck in favour of pressing a palm flat against your pelvis, pulling back the hood of your clit as his calloused thumb pressed messy circles against it. The weight of him enough to increase the pressure to breaking point as you began to writhe beneath him, trying to ignore the dull throb from your bladder as you fought back the relief. Your pliant walls tightening around him in response as he sneered down at you through bared teeth.
“I can’t, I’m gonna pee!” You flushed, wide panicked eyes staring up at him.
“Don’t fight it, just let go.” He pressed down harder, strumming your puffy clit as your toes began to curl. Crying out his name as you felt a warm, wet stream of squirt begin to gush against his pelvis. His hand quick to intercept it and have it flying in all directions. Soaking his palm and the sheets beneath you as he grinned in satisfaction.
“That’s it—” He groaned, ignoring your pleas for him to give you a moments respite, “Just like that.”
You weren’t sure you had anything left to give as your climax hit you like a freight train, trembling around him as Kunigami still managed to coax more streams out of your willing body. Almost as wet as the tears that streaked down your temples from overstimulation as your body trembled beneath him.
“Bet no one else has made you do that, hm?” He groaned, the crude squelch echoed in your ears as the heat boiled inside you.
Kunigami pressed his hands against the back of your thighs as he resumed his frantic pace, the muscles in his body constricting as he used you for his own release. Working himself towards his climax as he leaned his weight over you to smash his lips against yours in a sloppy kiss that was all tongue and teeth, feeling you clench around him at the sensation as he found his release. Groaning against your lips as his warm breath fanned your skin and he spilled his release into your velvety walls. His hips still rutting as he fucked his cum deep inside you, reluctantly pulling away when he had nothing left to give.
He kept his grip on your thighs when he pulled out of your spent cunt, watching your fluttering hole slowly start to push his spend out in thick white globs as it drooled down your slit towards your asshole. He wished he’d brought a phone in to document the scene, a filthy snapshot to share in the lockerroom the next day to prove his worth. His fingers quick to collect his spunk as he scooped it up with his fingers to push it back inside you, cherishing the final tremors of you around him as he pulled your panties back in place. Giving a final pat to the crotch as he pulled away from you, staring down at you with a shy smile.
It was like he was a different man now, smooth hands stroking along your aching thighs as he pressed a kiss to your knee.
“I— uh, can I get you anything?” He mumbled shyly, the powerful intense man gone as he finally revealed the soft glow in his auburn eyes.
“You don’t have to,” You smiled, letting your fingers run through his hair as your nails grazed his scalp. Letting his cheek rest against your inner thigh as he stared up at you.
“Well— do you want to cuddle?” He seemed nervous to even ask.
“Isn’t that a waste of your time?” You whispered, knowing the real reason for why each man was really here.
“It would never be a waste of time,” Kunigami moved to hover above you, his sticky cock pressed against your inner thigh, “And besides, I’ll be back again tomorrow.”
#Kunigami x reader#kunigami smut#rensuke kunigami smut#rensuke kunigami x reader#blue lock x reader#blue lock smut#bllk x reader#bllk smut
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against all odds (to wait for you is all i can do) – part six
alexia putellas x photojournalist!reader
warnings: explicit descriptions of violence, blood, and death
(a/n in the tags) [parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve]
word count: 3.3k
You had to get out of there.
Tremors shook the ground as another shell made impact somewhere far to your right but it was close enough that the explosion left your ears ringing. You flattened your back further against the fallen wall behind you when you heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire, the rubble that cut into your skin barely registered in your mind from the adrenaline that rushed through you. But the cacophony of noise amalgamated into something continuous, something malevolent and cruel; something that promised death in its wake.
Bullets embedded themselves in a column, a wall, a body–everywhere–and fine pieces of debris flew and pelted against the exposed skin of your cheeks and against your helmet. Your eyes watered from the fine powder of pulverised cement and the oppressive heat, while your lungs were smothered by smoke and a choking stench–something like freshly-laid asphalt mixed with the distinct, rancid smell of burnt human flesh, sulphuric and sharp.
Through lidded eyes you witnessed the depravity; the extent of humanity’s appetite for senseless destruction and anarchy. It was total chaos–no, it was worse than that: it was butchery and brutality at its finest; a type of hell on earth.
All around you were bodies upon bodies, men and women alike–children. Their faces, frozen and pallid, permanently bore imprints of terror and agony; their crooked fingers and still eyes fixated to the sky imploring in violent judgment–resentful and anguished in their silence–the unspoken question:
Why?
Why?
Why?
Everything overwhelmed you all at once: the sight and the smell made your stomach churn to no end. Even when you heaved the remnants of your stomach to the ground, the nausea remained, pulsing and gnawing.
Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you brought your camera to your eye and you willed the shaking in your bones to still.
You took a shot.
Another round of bullets splattered to a nearby wall and this time, you threw yourself front-first to the ground and you felt the rhythm of your heart reverberating against the mud. And a sinking feeling hit you. You’d bore witness to many conflicts, faced mortal peril, and was familiar to death like it was an old friend. Each time you were in such a situation, hopelessness never got the better of you–it was like you’d always known you were going to make it out each time.
This time it was different, you could feel it in your bones. You were going to die here and it wasn’t a matter of if, just when and how.
But you had a job. If you were going to die, you would die being the mouthpiece for the ones who’d already been silenced–from their premature deaths or from the hand of the power meant to protect them or both–to show the world what they’d suffered, what they’d sacrificed.
With that in mind, you steeled yourself. You loaded your camera with another ring of film, fingers stiff from the cold and marred by blood and mud, and you captured the scene.
Repeat.
There were people screaming, running, clamouring for survival. As you moved with them, you kept an eye out for other survivors who needed help to get out of there. You scanned the faces for the familiar ones of Jones and Gilda but they were nowhere to be seen. You’d lost track of them after the initial explosion and the chaos that followed so the only thing you could do now was to look for them as you went and hope for their safety.
Meter by meter, inch by inch, you moved slowly away from the direction of gunfire. You were farther ahead now but the gunners were still dangerously close, still close enough to be able to catch up to where you were if they continued their pursuit, so you remained crouched and cautious for any sound that could indicate danger.
When you came across the rubble of a fallen building–freshly destroyed by artillery from the smoke that came from it–you heard a whimper. It startled you; the softness of the sound barely pierced through the ringing in your ear but when you peered under a slab of concrete braced by a rugged beam, you caught sight of a scene that shattered what was left of your heart.
In the shadows, big eyes that you could not mistaken belonged to a child shone with terror, a little girl that looked no more than ten years of age, her mouth partly open in fear. You could discern another person next to the child but they weren’t moving at all and from the blood smeared on the girl’s cheek, you had a sinking feeling that the other person was dead.
Gunfire echoed somewhere behind you and you flinched at its closeness. How did they get so close so fast? You needed to get the both of you out of there. If you could save this child’s life then maybe, just maybe, your life was worth something after all.
You raised both of your hands up and spoke gently, hoping the little girl would be able to understand that you were there to help as you stooped to fit through the gap. The child hesitated and receded further back into the rubble so you tried again as you inched closer to where the other person laid unresponsive, patient despite the ever-closing sound of shots being fired.
You reached the other person–a woman–and when you placed two fingers against her pulsepoint and found no rhythm, you bit your quivering lip and looked at the child, chest heavy. And as if the little girl finally understood that you meant no harm, she inched towards you and placed her small hand in your open one. With a firm yet gentle grip on the girl, you guided the both of you out of the rubble.
Once outside, you carried the little girl behind a wall, heart breaking when you felt her shiver and at the fact that it took little effort carry to her for she weighed so little. And now with light and cover, you inspected the little girl.
To your relief, other than the trail of flaking blood that originated from the crown of her head and on her cheeks, the little girl looked like she didn’t sustain any other physical injuries. Satisfied for the time being you began to tend to her, gave her water and what little food you had on you, and then wiped away the blood.
After she finished, you detached the velcro of your bulletproof vest and unbuckled your helmet before you put them on the little girl. Then you hoisted the girl up on your back, leaving your camera dangling heavily on your chest.
You managed to sneak across the district without being noticed but you knew the danger was never far away. A little farther on, you began to recognise key landmarks that let you know you were close to the base you came from. So even when the muscles in your legs protested for you to rest, you pushed on.
Not a moment later though did loud shots fill the air and immediately, you fell to the ground, feeling fine rubble and shrapnels cut into the side you landed on as you manoeuvred your body so that the child wouldn’t get hurt. The little girl cried out and adrenaline coursed through your veins, instinct driving you to keep the child safe so you pushed the two of you against a nearby wall, your back to the open space while you shielded the child with your body, her head safely caged between your arms and chest.
You craned your head over your shoulders to figure out where the shots were fired but then a feeling of lightness passed through you followed by a growing thickness at the back of your throat. You coughed, the force of it made you keel forward, and as you looked down you saw fresh blood splattered on the face of the girl, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at you.
Then you felt it, a burning sensation that enveloped the entirety of your right side which left you cold. When you looked to your side your shirt clung to your skin, soaked with blood.
No.
You sputtered again and you tried to breathe but the pain only intensified and instead of feeling relief, the act smothered you–it felt like you were drowning. Then everything began to blend together: the shapes lost their edges and some images doubled, but the light seemed to intensify on its own, swallowing all in its wake. Then you sagged forward and the ringing in you ears, too, blared unceasingly.
No.
You must…
The child…
Wait.
Alexia–
“–are you okay?”
You started as Derek’s voice brought you from your reverie, your mind someplace else that you’d already forgotten but the feeling that you were missing something important lingered behind in the back of your mind.
“Huh?”
“Honey, your brother’s been trying to get your attention for the past minute. Are you alright?” The familiar voice of your mom brought your focus to her. She sat at the head of the long table while Derek opposite you, and you found twin pairs of blue eyes looking at you with concern. Your mom stood, chair scraping against the tiled floor as she did and she made her way towards you. She put a palm over your forehead once she was close enough before she asked, “do you have a fever?”
“Mom, I’m fine. I’m just–” You began but suddenly, a wave of exhaustion came over you which left you cold. It was as if a sheet of ice was put over you and you felt the coldness cling to your bones, weighing you down as your body slowly began to freeze over. “I’m–I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest up now.”
When you moved to stand, staggering slightly due to the weakness in your knees, Derek snatched your hands and clung to them, and you looked at him in alarm, eyes wide.
“Please, don’t. Don’t.” He said through gritted teeth, the corners of his mouth drooped low in a pained grimace, blue eyes glazed over and brows furrowed in a silent plea.
His obsecration confused you and you were about to ask him why you shouldn’t rest if you felt tired when your mother placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip gentle yet firm. You turned to her and when you found her gaze, she wore the same expression as your brother.
“You’re brother’s right, honey. Just–please, just stay with us for a bit more.”
What was going on? Why weren’t they letting you go?
Another wave of fatigue doused over you but this time, pain erupted from your chest. So intense was it that it nearly made you keel over the table, nails digging into its hard surface as you tried to catch your breath but with each inhale the more it felt like you were running out of air.
“I’ll–I’ll join you in a bit. I just… I just need a nap.” You staggered to your feet, pulling your hands away from Derek’s grip with the remaining strength you had and brushed off your mom’s protest.
As you passed the full-body mirror just beside your bedroom door, you saw your reflection, haggard and pale, and with her were the familiar silhouettes of the people that haunted you… your mother and father. They stood there behind you–your mother to your right and your father to the left–but you only found an empty space where they stood when you whipped your head back to look for them.
So there you stood, rooted in front of the mirror as you soaked their images in but for some reason, your couldn’t quite discern their faces. They were blurred; it was as if someone had swiped their thumb over the freshly laid ink of their image and made their features indecipherable.
Longing prompted you to reach out a hand to try and trace the lost edges of their faces but instead of meeting the mirror’s smooth surface like you expected, your fingers sank into the mirror like it was made of water. Quickly, in fear that it would hurt you, you retracted your hand and you watched in awe as the mirror image went still again, back to the reflection of yourself and your parents.
Then out of curiosity you plunged your hand again into the mirror and instead of feeling pain, you felt… nothing. The sensations in your hand in the mirror stopped as if it had ceased to exist completely.
Would it soothe then the pain in your body if you stepped into it?
The thought tempted you and you stepped forward, ready to sink into this silver miracle, but something stopped you–a weight on your shoulder pulled you back from the mirror. You staggered backwards, caught off guard from the force of it, but when you looked back you found nobody however this time, when you returned your attention to the mirror, the reflection of your parents was gone.
Emotions bubbled in your throat, bitter grief and burning confusion a familiar taste on your tongue. Where did they go? Why did they leave you? And as these questions filtered through your mind, another wave of exhaustion doused over you, its weight was unbearable. You needed relief, and soon.
You were ready to step into the mirror–into oblivion–but it wasn’t there anymore. In fact, everywhere you looked there was nothing, just negative space as if the light had dissolved all existence but you. You looked down and you saw your reflection on the still water you were apparently standing on.
It was so still, so peaceful, and you feel so heavy. It would be easy to just sink into this blissful nothingness–this silence–after… that’s right, after having witnessed the revolting boil of humanity’s thirst for blood. Yes, that was it, the reason you were here: you were here to forget.
The longer you stared into the water, the more your will to remain standing frayed.
Not a moment later, you let yourself be plunged downwards into the cold water. Into nothingness.
You woke with a start, breathing sharply as you did, the sensation of falling still with you and the memory of the dream you just had lingered. It was about… what was it?
When you opened your eyes, you found golden light and you squinted at the stream of the early sun that found its way through the gap between the heavy curtains. Your cheek was warm against Alexia’s bare back and you relished the way her muscles shifted beneath her skin as she breathed, still deep asleep.
With her so close like this a sense of peace and calm washed over you, the kind that only Alexia’s presence could provide. You turned your head slightly and shifted closer to her, pressing a soft kiss on one of her shoulder blades before you nuzzled the nape of her neck where her scent was most prominent.
You sighed as you breathed her in.
“What are you up to back there?” Alexia’s voice, rough and heavy from slumber, met your ears and the question elicited a small laugh from you.
“Nothing. Just getting comfortable.”
Alexia hummed then she murmured, “come here.”
You moved as she began to turn and disappointment filled you from the separation but when she pulled you into her embrace after she settled on her back, the disappointment quickly faded away. And when she kissed you, soft and languid, everything melted away except for the tender warmth of Alexia’s lips.
You were content.
Suddenly, a gnawing feeling seeped into the edges of your mind and, little by little by little, apprehension filled you. There was something you’d forgotten, somewhere you needed to be.
You pulled away from Alexia’s lips. “What time is it?”
“Don’t go.”
Her answer jarred you. You lifted yourself up on your elbow and considered Alexia, confused as to why she would say such a thing. She knew you had to go. How could you not go? Where else could you possibly be? So you asked her as much.
“No, you don’t have to. Please.” Alexia placed a hand on your cheek, her eyes glassy. You sighed, turned your cheek away from her touch, and extricated yourself from her warm embrace. You stood at the foot of the bed and regarded Alexia again who was now sitting up, the sheets pooled around her waist, her chest bare, shoulders hunched forward as she looked at you. You only shook your head before you went into the en suite bathroom to get ready.
Once you got in the shower you, unsurprisingly, thought of Alexia and your confusion returned twofold. Why was she making this difficult? She knew you had to go. You already told her…
At that thought, you frowned as you tried to remember. When did you tell her? Why did you need to leave? The questions were beginning to make your head hurt so you left the shower, wrapped yourself in a towel and headed to the closet. In there, you found your stack of simple white clothes. You picked a white shirt and a matching pair of jeans and you made your way to the bedroom door.
As you passed by the bed, you saw Alexia just as you left her and from where you stood, you saw how small she looked. And those eyes… they shone with something you could only name as plea, the tears in them now in danger of falling.
Your chest ached and so did your head.
You shook your head and made your way to Alexia, pressed an apologetic kiss against her temples, then you moved to the door.
You opened it and an abyss greeted you, a world of no outlines, shape nor colour, just a brilliant white that called to you. Its pull was magnetic, like a tide that wanted to sweep you away, but there was something keeping you in place, an invisible tether and it was anchored to the woman sitting in your bed.
“Please, don’t go.”
You had one foot out of the door when Alexia spoke with such gentleness you couldn’t do anything but look over your shoulder. The sight of her crying made the pounding in your temples unbearable and the pain in your chest blazed anew, excruciating and cruel. The world blurred and warmth slipped down your cheeks.
Why were you crying? Why was this difficult? You had to leave, you were about to miss something important.
“Alexia, why?” You sobbed, clutching your chest. It hurt.
She was out of the bed now, right beside you, and she reached out and cupped your face with one hand, the other went to your hand on the door handle. Her touch that used to soothe you, that used to bring you peace and clam, sent pain to every nerve in your body. You gasped, your chest was in danger of bursting and your knees lost their strength. And then you remembered why you needed to leave: you needed this pain to disappear; you had to get better.
Finally, your knees buckled under your weight but Alexia was there to catch you, her body strong and firm, and oh, so warm.
“Alexia, please let me go,” you sobbed into her arms.
Everything hurt. But she held you, unyielding.
“Stay. Please, stay with me,” she whispered in your ear and the words were followed by another wave of pain. This time, you screamed in agony and clawed at Alexia’s shoulders to get yourself away but still, she didn’t budge.
“I got you. I got you. I got you,” she repeated as every nerve in your body screamed at you. Everything coalesced into a singular, never-ending noise but Alexia’s voice pierced through the veil like a silver lining, a life line that you held onto as you were washed away into an ocean of light.
#ap11#not proofread#mine#my writing#a/n: sometimes it just hits you: the magnitude of man's madness. where does it stop? when? who will pay? why?#cant think anymore right now but let me know what you think about the story so far#apologies for the mistakes i wrote this in sleep deprived mode ill fix them later#woso x reader#alexia putellas x reader
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. . . (🍷) ֶָ֢ 𔓘 DRIP IT DOWN, ETERNAL BLISS ; a fyodor dostoyevsky fic. ❞
أنت قاسي، قلبي لا يزال ينبض لك. بنفس الطريقة التي تكون بها الشمس قاتلة، إلا أن الأرض لا تزال تدور حولها. في ساحة المعركة، دعهم يعرفون أنني كنت الأشجع. لكن أمام دموعك عندما أرادت رباطة جأشي أن تهرب. أوه هل كنت أحمق؟ كل العشاق هم. هل ما زلت أحمق؟ لا، أنا مجرد عاشق دون حبه، عاشق تجرد من كبريائه. رجل حرم من سعادته كأنها حمامة بلا جناحيها.
you are cruel, my heart still beats for you.
the same way the sun is deadly, yet the earth still revolves around it.
In a battlefield, let them know I was the bravest.
Yet infront of your tears is when my composure wanted to flee away.
Oh was I a fool?
All lovers are.
Am I still a fool?
No, i'm just a lover without his love,
A lover stripped of his pride.
A man depraved of his happiness,
Like without its wings, is a dove.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . it's my birthday week so a present from me ♡.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ 🍷 ꒱ . . . fem!reader, vampire!fyodor, immortal!fyodor, husband!fyodor, wife!reader, established relationship, nsfw, blood play, religious themes used, God referred to as Him, biting, set in old russia, abuse is normalized, 'sweet child' has been used once as a nickname to put emphasis on fyodor being immortal, reader has been given traits like 'pure' and 'innocence' for the reason of again, putting an emphasis on fyodor, his immorality and him being a vampire.
the clouds roared and the thunders proudly announced the arrival of an upcoming storm, letting everyone below the vast sky of this specific region of russia whose name you never had the privilege of knowing despite growing up here as a infant, know of the dangers the grey and almost black sky is going to bring in a matter of time.
in a matter of a few hours or even less, most of the land below will be covered, almost drowned with the water as peasants would begin to curse while they picked their trash and transferred it upstairs or try to find shelter with all their possessions on top of their heads.
yet you did not have time left to ponder over what the peasant man will do to fight this unexpected disaster as the sound of footsteps reverberated through the otherwise silent hall of the mansion and you turned almost at once to see the man who owned this mansion walk in, his expression as cold and confident as it was the first time you saw him yet what paired with his pale skin and maroon, crisp shirt was a cut running through the length of his neck and disappeared behind but you guessed it must've ended near his shoulder blade.
the man raised his eyes and you dare not refer to him with his name unless you stand on a stage where your intellect and personality can clash against his -- these were the words that were punctured into your mind by the most gentle of mothers but also the most cruel of women who had fallen from their high class, married to a peasant for the sake of a promise made by fathers who they never saw.
"you are hurt." you quietly observed as you stared up at his delicately cruel and cold face, holding your chin high to not let your nervousness be disclosed.
but he had seen it, he sees it all.
he had tilted his head and raised his hand to probably run it through the gushing wound, had you not taken quick strides to grab his wrist and stop him from doing so.
"what had gathered your interest so immensely that had you staring out of the window for the past fifteen minutes?" fyodor, the man you are married to and which is considered to be the greatest achievement of your life ; to be chosen by him, grabbed your wrist which was holding his own and pulled you in closer.
your nose bumped against his shoulder and you immediately and unconsciously breathed in his scent for it was always oddly comforting, fyodor smelled of old books and oud yet the distinct crisp smell of the outside greenery also mixed in with his scent.
fyodor looked down to watch your composure crumbling as you grew nervous and tense when he raised his other hand to wrap it around your lower back, pushing you to be more closer to him.
to watch you drop the mask and show your vulnerability whenever he did gestures like this was too pleasurable and amusing for him. coming from a place where love and affection or even peace are concepts which are only available for one to hear and fantasize about, you never got used to being showered by the attention and interest of your husband ; a man notorious and admirable at the same time.
"it looks like it'll rain heavily." you speak quickly and nervously as you raise your head to look at fyodor, a childlike nervousness in your eyes ; the kind which is seen in a child when he arrives at a new place or is pushed to introduce themselves by their parents to adults whose friendly smiles are nothing but scary and ugly curls on their scary faces.
yet with that childlike nervousness, your eyes also held the wisdom and knowledge of a man given mercy after being brought to be beheaded ; this beheaded man who had calculated the time he had left before his head would be cut from his neck and who watched his surroundings and himself for the last time with an incredible understanding. you looked like you wanted to cry yet at the same time didn't want to move away from him, like a child who clings to his mother after being smacked by the mother.
the innocence in you had attracted fyodor who had seen so much that he forgot if he ever was innocent once.
he tilted his head down and your eyes fluttered shut, his lips gently came in contact with your eyelid as he left a kiss there before doing the same with your other eyelid and he leaned back to whisper,
"do you really have no one to go to?"
"you are my husband, you are my everything now. i'll go wherever you go and i'll go wherever you tell me to." why is it that your nervous and anxious voice had more impact then those of philosophers and kings he have heard?
fyodor led you by your waist to the couches where he sat on one of the velvet armchairs and pulled you to sit on his knee, staring up at you with no expression on his face yet his eyes weren't sharp like they always were when he talked to others, no, his eyes were soft.
"i spoke of you to a friend of mine. he too was amazed when i told him what a sweet little wife i have chosen for myself. i told him how i immediately make you sit on my knees whenever i come back and watch you shyly and at other times nervously squirm under my gaze." fyodor began as he played with the hem of your white robe under which the only article of clothing on your body was a white babydoll nightgown but your eyes were glued to the way the cut on his neck from just a few minutes ago disappeared and his skin appeared as if he never had any wound to begin with.
does this explain his beauty too?
one which is considered otherworldly and which exceeds the one of both women and men? for how can he look so delicate yet intelligent at the same time?
"he asked me why. can you believe he would ask something so obvious? has his age been playing a factor in asking such a idiotic question?"
". . .i wonder the same too sir. why?" you raise your eyes to look in his eyes again and fyodor raised one of his eyebrows but didn't look up or stop playing with your robe. he had just changed his action to now playing with the knot of your robe and he only hummed before he spoke,
"i am a man who thinks his wife should not be influenced by traditions or societal influence but by the word of Him and after Him, by me. please refrain from referring to me with titles that are meant for others." fyodor explained gently yet the warning in disguise in tone made you immediately nod and fyodor almost smiled, not quite, you supposed you would have to work harder and please him more to get the privilege of seeing him smile.
"alright then, . . . dostoyevsky. please do answer my previous question." you hesitate before you attempt again to dive into the surface of his mind to try and understand him, to take a step closer to get him to warm up to you in a way you are familiar too -- directly, not subtly like he does.
for greed is felt by humans and humans aren't angels filled with virtues, they sin and sin and then they beg for forgiveness before they sin again ; and everytime they repent, He forgives them and showers them with His mercy.
you raised your finger to gently trace his nose. your fingers felt cold on his skin, ironically, as usually it is him who has skin as cold as the cold walls of a room during a winter night. so why would he feel your touch to be cold?
cold to the touch, soothing to the sensation. a normal and well known gesture, a foreign feeling it bloomed within.
"i like pretty girls like you who are obedient and quiet yet also playful." fyodor muttured as he let you raised your fingers to the corners of his lips, pressing it against his skin and turning it up and down as you tried to make him smile and frown but the thought that itched at the back of your skull remained one you've thought of before as well ; when he would smile for real, would you feel breathless or would would rather feel groundless as the ground beneath you disappears to make you float in air?
"i am not that pretty. many others were prettier. though mother always told me i would be picked to be the bride of a nobleman over the preety ones due to my obedience. and at other instances, she smacked me with her bible till my skin cracked and i truly resembled what she would call the 'devil's nasty joke' on her, to be given a child who is ordinary in beauty unlike her." you tell as you pull on his upper lip to reveal his sharp canines which separates him from the rest and let his identity be known, gazing at the unusual sharpness -- to you, a human --with curiosity as you raise your finger to poke at the tip of his teeth.
a supernatural being, an immortal man, a vampire possessing great beauty and a man who is cursed by knowledge yet blessed by wisdom.
"your mother is preety but she has a loud mouth. i always liked when the women around me had strong opinions and strong will yet with an equally gentle mouth." fyodor interjected calmly as he then lightly sinked his teeth into the plush of your fingerpad, amusement glowed in his eyes when he felt you jerk a bit due to the unexpected teasing.
"and i do?" you ask in somewhat interest and somewhat surprise as your pupils fall on his face once again to see amusement dripping down his own eyes as he didn't answer you, didn't want to give you the relief of having your curiosity answered.
"sweet child, you make me feel divine." is all the ancient vampire breathed out and to save yourself from becoming a shy and nervous mess infront of your husband, you quickly change the topic.
"if you bite me, will it hurt?" your change in topic is abrupt but adorable. you leaned down to look at his sharp teeth better and in your eyes were the wonder and thoughts and assumptions and theories of what it would feel like to be bitten by him, to have your skin pierced by his teeth, to have his breath fanning your skin and to have his arms caressing the supple flesh of your ass, you blinked. then coughed nervously at the thoughts in your hand.
"hm, it will. alot." fyodor opted for a whisper to tease you as he looked at you but he sensed it, felt it and realised it all. the subtle clenching of your legs and the quick blinking once you realised your own thoughts and how they circled concupiscence.
"really? i feel like you are lying." adorable efforts and adorable suspicion as you timidly smile at him and fyodor hummed before he grabbed your hand (which had been poking and inspecting his sharp teeth) while he began to move his knee up and down and watched how your shoulders tensed before relaxing as you tried not to notice the slight pleasure his movements are giving you.
to ignore the way his knee bucked into your crotch everytime he moved his knee and how your panties were pushed towards your folds by his movement, you looked at fyodor to see him raise your wrist towards his lips.
". . .si --" you stop, immediately correcting yourself when fyodor's grip on your wrist tightened, "-- dostoyevsky, what are you doing?"
you did not need to ask, you knew he would be answering your curiosity in a way that it would leave you satisfied and without any more doubts but the time period before he does so is of now and this time period is making your heart beat faster in anticipation and erotic joy due to the movement of his knee.
"quiet. love." he muttered out.
oh he did, he certainly did!
he used the pet name again. and again, he watched. he watched as you whimpered quietly and nodded, falling silent as you can't bring yourself to look at him, shyly staring at his mouth and waiting for him to proceed with his action.
with a strange calmness, you waited and watched. fyodor found it amusing how a mere nickname got you squirming but his action didn't.
parting his lips to sink his sharp teeth into your wrist where your veins were visible, fyodor perked up at the reaction he craved out of you, which came late, a gasp of surprise.
a melody fyodor wanted to engrave into the depths of his mind.
"you lied dostoyevsky, it doesn't hurt at all." you speak after a few seconds of silence as you inspect the way the blood flowing through your veins entered his mouth and flowed down his throat, was it like water to him or did he have separates tubes and enzymes for this blood -- your blood.
"it doesn't?" fyodor whispered out to tease you with a faux surprised tone before continuing, "then what does it feel like, love?"
the nickname sits nicely on his tongue and he likes the way it rolls off his tongue and the effect it has on you.
"have you not heard it before from your previous wives?" you tilt your head, the ecstacy of having his thumb run across your wrist as he tries to soothe the piercing and churning like pain from your wrist is what is making your tongue so loose and sharp. yet when the depth of your words settled on your tongue, your heart sank. what did you just say?
"you are my first wife."
"oh."
"oh indeed." fyodor repeated with a smirk, the only closest thing to a smile you assume you'll see because there is no way fyodor would smile or even talk to you after the way you've disrespected him.
he may not be showing it but a man doesn't like being disrespectful and a respected man knows the clear line separating playful teasing with sugar-coated snarky remarks.
you aren't one though. you are young and naive and you mix up silent amusement for having taken offence. your hands shake in fear of these negative thoughts walking in your mind being true.
a thing to be noticed before going further is the use of 'sharp teeth' or 'sharp canines' instead of 'fangs'. the use of such terms instead of the other and more commonly known one is due to your stubbornness.
fyodor may be a vampire but he is not an animal and so, you try your best to view him as a human but he isn't one and so, unconsciously the words like 'canine' pop out.
old habits do die hard and old traditions are just someone's expectations and way of living being forced onto others.
fyodor knew it, he always did. nothing escapes his eyes afterall. and has anyone wondered what this would make him feel?
such a naively idiotic way of thinking that only humans are capable of as they spend lives in misery or happiness which is actually delusion in disguise.
"p-please forgive me dostoye --"
your words were cut off as the man leaned to place his lips on your's, the metallic taste in his mouth lingered and entered your's albeit faintly and was soon washed away by his saliva. your eyes were open in wide and visible surprise yet once fyodor separated, as if to just remember the feeling of your lips on his for memories have always been his companion.
and memories are the only thing as immortal as him, as ever living as him and as enchanting as him.
"call my name again." fyodor whispered out as he felt the hair on his nape rising as if to welcome the doom of him and of his heart.
falling for a mere mortal, oh, what a tragedy!
indeed, it is Him laughing at fyodor for the predicament He himself placed on him, he is sure of this much.
oh father, why has thou forsaken him?
why be so cruel to let him fall into the garden of love, it's a sin for someone like him. a sin he is committing on himself.
to love is to die for. to die for is to love.
"dostoyevsky?" oh.
heavens and the angels residing in it, is this a curse or a blessing?
fyodor closed his eyes and tilted his head up to exhale deeply as he needed a moment to process and to repeat the frail call of his name in his mind, he felt giddy and he felt disgustingly giddy.
"once more." fyodor demanded in a whisper as he tried to find his way through this garden where flowers bloomed and the sunlight showered on trees and the ground, making them relish this light falling upon them. this place doesn't feel hostile but unfamiliar and fyodor knows the dangers lurking behind that which is unfamiliar.
"dostoyevsky." you had gasped out this time when fyodor's hand, as if it had a will of its own, dipped in between both of your legs to grasp the under of your thigh and fyodor let out a satisfied breath.
"once more." he repeated his previous words. the flowers moved in one particular direction with the wind and fyodor, with skepticism guarding him, followed the path it pointed at.
"dostoyevsky. are you alright?" you leaned forwards to cup his pale yet extremely handsome face between both of your hands as you tilted his head down and after thinking for a few seconds on what to do, you leaned to leave a gentle peck on the tip of his nose as your eyes fluttered shut while doing so, due to shyness.
this doesn't make sense. fyodor thought as he stood at the destination the garden seemed him to want to arrive at yet all he saw a vast ocean which spreaded till infinity and the sun's reflection on the surface of the water was nothing special.
yet when you kissed the tip of his nose, there was a movement in the still water and fyodor felt himself getting irked at the slow realization. the ripples in the water slowed along his heartbeat.
love is like a ocean, deep and mysterious and no matter how much one tries, has there really been anyone who ever understood the sin that love is?
". . . seventy three." fyodor uttered slowly as he opened his eyes and stared at you.
"pardon?"
"this is the seventy third time i smelt the arousal oozing out of you, my love." fyodor mumbled to you in amusement as he watched whatever confidence was left in you, vanishing and crumbling.
you knew it would be of no use to make an excuse or lie, he would see through you anyway.
perhaps fyodor noticed your chain of thoughts as well as fyodor's hand which was grabbing the under of your thigh, lifted it up to have your legs parted and your core to be completely vulnerable to him and he tapped your cunt with his knuckles making your breath hitch.
"hormones, they give away many things about someone. the excited signals in your brain and your heartbeat -- they give away a human and his intentions very quickly." fyodor further explained even if he knew you, or any human, would be able to fully grasp for this is far beyond what the human mind is functioned and trained to think.
"remove." fyodor quietly ordered and you nodded quickly, breathing pattern uneven and not in rhythm is just making it more evident of how spot on he is when he caught you red handed.
caught you? but what is their to catch? it's not a crime to feel aroused by your husband who only touched you no more then thrice during your nearly reaching one year of marriage.
you slowly yet carefully undo the knot of your robe before fyodor raised his hand to push the robe down your arms and onto his lap as he removed it, his hand trailed down the length of your arms as he did so and when you moved to find a more comfortable position to sit on his knee, the prior protection of the robe now stripped away to let his eyes fall upon every curve and every inch of skin uncovered along with the feeling of your core moving against his knee, the primal urge took over fyodor.
even a vampire has instincts and primal urges that he can ignore for a long time but can never be free of it.
the babydoll nightgown did the purpose it had, to tempt the man who parted his lips to let his tongue out and moisten the bottom lip, in a attempt to feel anything other then the arousal burning through his veins.
fyodor abandoned your thigh and raised his hand to place it over your neck and added pressure to it as he glided his hand down to make you feel a small and faint burning sensation as he did so and you did.
but what followed his action, this simple test, is the result he was hoping for.
for the reason behind this action of his was to hear your breath hitching in your throat as if your body suddenly forgot the way it naturally worked. your heart hammered in your chest but you still ignored it to let out the words,
"if my obvious arousal for you is so obvious . . . dostoyevsky. then . . " you trail off to stare at his face and you smile a bit, nervously before it falls down from your face and you are once again left to be anxious at the reaction he will have but you cannot stop now, not when the subtle way his tongue lapped on your wrist when he sucked your blood is still something you can feel like a shadow lurking behind a traveler on a full moon light.
you take a deep breath before shakily raising your hand to place it on his collarbone and after looking at his face for any signs of displeasure and not getting any, you begin to caress his collarbone.
"then why be so cruel as to not relieve you of it? is this it? is this what you wanted to say?" fyodor smirked again as he took in the sight of the surprise dancing at every nook and crook of your facial features.
and with a slow nod, you watch as fyodor leaned near you to peck the tip of your nose and then leaned his head down to lick a strip up your cheek towards your cheekbone as his eyes narrowed.
"beg for it if you are so desperate." fyodor muttured against your cheek, you close your eyes.
"you are my husband. it's your duty to satisfy me." you murmur back but due to your eyes being closed, you missed the chance of seeing his lips curve up into a amused smile just the slightest bit as your words brought up a sense of amusement.
playful. oh how much fyodor likes these moments.
"you ruin my reputation. don't you know i'm not supposed to be this gentle, my love?" fyodor sighed out as he decided to adopt a more serious and sincere mood, letting the playfulness in his evaporate in thin air.
but desire, oh it precipitated when fyodor's hand traveled down to raise your nightgown up and he then used his hand to grab hold of the back of your thigh to part it and have your cunt be more visible to him as your underwear showed a wet patch.
"is it my fault?" you ask with a nervous smile and shaky breath, a smile that doesn't fail to convey your affection and anticipation for the man who nodded. rather then answering his playful accusation, you raise your slightly trembling hands to pull the hair tie that had been keeping your hair in one place. "may i?"
once fyodor nodded to grant you the permission to do as you wish, you leaned a bit forwards as you used both hands to gather his hair and style it in a ponytail as a means to distract yourself from the hammering of your heart due to excitement.
yet fyodor must have sensed your intentions and this is why he immediately grasped both of your thighs in his hold, lifting you up slightly as he shifted his body to lay you down on the couch next to the armchair you two were occupying till now.
fyodor isn't a man of many words so during such an intimate moment, his eyes did the talking and it made blood to crawl up your skin under the intense and hot gaze of his eyes which were narrowed, a glint in them so unnatural and unhuman that it made you aware (that is, if you forgot of his nature for a moment) of the genetic and biological difference between you two.
you nervously held your breath as fyodor sat on his knees above you, still holding both of your thighs apart after which he raised his eyes to look into your eyes and the way his lips parted as he smirked, his fangs glinted due to the light falling on them.
"not gonna beg me?" fyodor asked again yet his usually calm and stable voice had noticeably dropped a few octaves, sounding extremely arousing considering the state you are in and the way his words are being partnered up with his fingers which caressed your calves.
you take a deep breath but it doesn't calm your nerves for whoever talks big about being level-headed and calm must've never been under fyodor dostoyevsky when he is smirking and pridefully showing off his fangs while sweatbeads forms on the sides of his lips and frankly, you hope no one ever gets the privilege after you die.
selfish but that's what makes us human.
"n- i mean yes . . .er no, wait --" you stutter while watching fyodor raise your leg towards his mouth as he placed a soft kiss on your ankle before he began his journey higher up your leg and every kiss which followed from here on became unique due to being accompanied by a quick nibble on your skin, his tongue licking your leg or even bluntly biting your skin.
"time is running, love." fyodor murmured against your leg as his eyes stared up at you and you parted your lips but what were you even going to speak when no words in your favor were forming in your head?
you lay your head on the couch cushion as you let out a breathy whine, a sound fyodor himself greedily repeated in his mind but originality always reigned over mimicry.
with each kiss traveling upwards the length of your leg, fyodor leaned down and down instead of raising your leg higher.
"time isn't one to wait for anyone. not even for a man like me. so tell me, are you going to beg or not?" voice turned sharp, a breath was stolen from your windpipe cruelly when fyodor's lips reached your inner thighs and he clamped his mouth shut, sinking his teeth into the fat of your thigh.
you could feel it as his fangs pierced your layers of skin and flesh, drawing out blood and gifting you with a shrill kind of pain but it soon turned into something else you can't comprehend when fyodor began to suck on the abused area, it didn't pain yet neither did it feel good -- it felt something in between.
your eyebrows furrowed in thought as you tried to comprehend this sensation which is very new to you. fyodor raised his eyes again to watch you and once he found you behaving the way he wanted ; distracted, his lithe fingers slipped past your panty and entered your hole without any warning which made you jerk up as you let out a squeal of surprise while at the same time, your hole sucked his lithe middle finger in and made him let out a hum of approval.
"dostoyevsky --" you were not able to speak as the moment you called his name, fyodor pulled his finger out and thrusted into your wet entrance again and suddenly the sucking on your thigh is making sense, now that his finger is slowly moving in and out of you, you feel his mouth on your thigh is only adding to the anticipation and arousal building in you.
"that's my name, yes." fyodor smirked cruelly as he stopped the movement of his finger as it settled knuckle deep into your hole and he lifted his head to stare at the two small circles on your thigh and the nearly red skin around it.
fyodor stopped holding your other leg and used his free hand to pluck a few strands of free hair that the ponytail wasn't able to cage, behind his ear as he stared down at your panting form with a calculative gaze.
"i do not entertain brats. you want something? you be a good girl and nicely request for it --"
"please dostoy?"
fyodor let out a sharp breath as he raised his eyebrow, a silent order for you to repeat yourself and you do, leaning up on your elbows as the strap of your babydoll nightgown dropped down your shoulder, you timidly repeat yourself,
"please dostoyevsky. please?" you do not go in detail of what you want due to shyness and shame. fyodor doesn't mind as the moment the three words left your lips, a low growl of your name emitted from his throat as he immediately leaned forwards and tore the straps apart, the fabric of the nightgown teared into two by his hands as they pulled the fabric apart to reveal your naked breasts to him.
fyodor lowered himself on you, between both of your legs and your wet core as he lowered his mouth on one of your nipples and touched it with the tip of his fang, making you shudder.
at the same time, fyodor's lithe fingers swiped up some of the oozing blood from your thigh and brought it towards your lips, shoving his finger inside your warm mouth when you parted your lips and the small hum of disapproval at the ironic taste of blood had fyodor grazing your nipple with his sharp fang, providing a ticklish yet arousing sensation.
the short moment of tease died when fyodor moved himself up and pressed his crotch down on your core, making you shudder as your back arched. taking this chance, fyodor's hand traveled to your back and he immediately and harshly pushed down your panties, letting them pool by your feet as he did not bother to take them off fully due to being impatient which is out of character for him but when have someone actually stayed fully composed when the nimble hands of lust slowly dragged themselves down the abdomen of the person they are affecting.
due to the confinement of his pants, fyodor's dick pressed against your core when he pressed down, a painful kind of pleasure traveled to his body and he found himself doing it again and again, letting out short hisses at the painfully addicting and mind numbing sensation.
"dostoyevsky please. i need you so bad -- want you so badl -- m-mhmm." you closed your eyes when fyodor lowered his mouth and bit down on your skin below your breast, hard enough to draw blood but the pain was evened out by him dry humping against you.
"you make a man loose his mind." fyodor gritted his teeth before he whispered something in a language foreign to you, perhaps an ancient language and by the familiarity of the word, he was cursing for you remember the same word being used in multiple occasions with a frustrated tone, why would he curse?
for he wanted to do to many things, feel too many sensations and give you too much pleasure but alas, he two, has only two hands yet his brain, oh, his brain is a wonderful organ and works better then most of those who walked on this earth and perished on it.
"so much, so so much." fyodor muttered again in a language you understood and spoke since the beginning of your existence after you gained enough conscience to use verbal communication. he messily and clumsily undid his belt, removing his pants and practically kicking them off his feet, he let out short pants and his eyebrows were furrowed ; a sight enough to make you cum and fyodor noticed your hole sucking in air and so, he immediately pinched your labia in such a manner that between both of your lips was your clit as a prisoner of pleasure.
"you make me loose my mind so much. make me loose my morals and forget my manners." fyodor continued as he released his hold on your folds for a second to let the pleasure vanish before he pinched them again and as your folds squished around your clit, you let out a small sigh akin to a quiet moan.
"do you know how many times i've thought about bending you in a public place and taking you?" fyodor groaned at the remembrance of his perverted fantasies, he leaned down to bite on your skin again and this time, it drew out blood but the pain wasn't noticeable, not when fyodor pushed the tip of his cock against the spot on your thigh which he had bitten to smear the last wet drops of blood on your skin and on his tip, he groaned again at the messily erotic sight.
"there is only one solution for this." fyodor muttured as he leaned his head up to lick at your breast, his tongue stopping only when it hovered above your nipple as he wanted to let the bite he left on you to be undisturbed until it had enough blood flowing out of it.
without looking away from your eyes and without moving his face away as he pressed his tongue down on your nipple which hardened up, fyodor used both of his hands to spread your legs and try to clumsily push his cock inside your slit. his body weight falling on you, his tongue pressing down on your nipple yet not quite making any friction and his eyes which didn't tear away from your's even once ; all served to add to the pleasure he gave you as his dick bumped against your folds many times before he finally entered your slit while using his index and middle finger to spread your folds apart.
his tongue began to show movements as he licked a strip along your nipple before encircling around it and then it came, the moan you bit back and instead the choked breath you let out when his lips clamped down on your nipple and he began to suck on it, alternatively doing this and pulling your nipple with his teeth.
for every action in nature, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
fyodor pulled his dick out and he could feel the anger of your cunt at the sudden emptiness at it squeezed around thin air, arousal dipped out of you as it weeped for him to enter again, your hips spasmed as if heartbroken by the sudden lose of him . . . your entire body wanted him, didn't it?
this made fyodor shudder in satisfaction, his cocky nature taking the best of him as he smirked.
fyodor's lithe fingers traced down your fold and down the length of your inner thigh as he rubbed his finger on the spot which was faintly smeared in your blood, this made his dick ooze out precum and he thrusted inside you again.
you barely opened your eyes to lift your head up, spotting his free hand which was on top of your thigh and grabbing it to raise it towards your other breast which had been neglected for a long time. with your hand on top of his, you placed his hand on your breast and squeezed it, letting out a loud and breathy moan as your eyes closed once again.
"so eager." fyodor couldn't help but notice, thrusting into you slowly, in an antagonizing slow pace but to make up for it, his hand harshly squeezed your breast as if to tear your mind into two, to make you confused on which sensation to focus on.
fyodor's tongue flicked your nipple one last time before he lowered his head to place it on the spot he had bitten, now that it had a fairly safe yet good amount of blood pulling and he pressed his lips against the fluid. he lifted his head up towards your face and kissed the side, almost the end of your lips and dragged his lips down as he left small pecks along the way and the blood left its trail on your skin.
fyodor's dick picked its pace all of a sudden as he did not want the pleasure to disappear for even a second, he was sure to steal your breath away and leave you addicted to his touch, he will make sure of it.
his dick despite being clamped down by your walls, remained indifferent as he thrusted in and out, his ears drank the moans and whines your lips were letting free and his hand came down to grip your hip tightly, tight enough to leave a bruise.
fyodor went down to press his lips against your bloodied skin again, kissing the underside of your boob in the process before he raised his face to leave an open mouth kiss on your shoulder.
fyodor's dick entered with a particular thrust and touched your g-spot but he didn't pull back and rather, lifted you up by pushing on your hip till the tip of his dick touched your cervix.
it was a repeating process for fyodor to dip his head down and gather blood on his lips and then smear it down your skin as he kissed your body. your back arched when you felt his hand leave your hip to grab your thigh and spread your leg more, your leg dangled off the couch as he thrusted in again with the same pace he started out with ; slow yet deep.
yet his movements on your breast remained hard, harsh and fast and he, once after finding his action repetitive, switched to pinching your nipple and pulling and twisting it between the pads of his index and thumb, returning to his original action once he found this new one to grow repetitive and he alternatively switched between these two after every few minutes or perhaps, after every half minute.
"dostoyevsky." you moaned out and fyodor at once froze before he hummed and began again to ravish and abuse and mark your body as his, treating it delicately yet passionately, letting out short growls and whines every once a while.
fyodor's sacks began to tighten the moment your walls increased the intensity with which they clamped his length down and this was done after the second thrust to your g-spot and beyond it -- to kiss your cervix.
fyodor raised his head, licking his bloody lips and smirking arrogantly at how you appeared below him and how much more he can ruin you further, his hand abandoned your breast and grabbed your own hand instead. he clasped his fingers with your's and pushed your hand down on your stomach to have you feel the bulge his dick in creating inside you as it moved in and out and once again in and out before he pushed it in deeper and deeper inside.
his head kissed your g-spot and kissed it, and pressed on it harder and harder. fyodor's tongue licked your bottom lip before he bit down on it to draw out blood but he wasn't satisfied with this, he went down and bit down on the side of your neck and shoulder.
your legs raised as if on instinct and you wrapped it around his thin and small waist while your free hand grabbed at his clothed back and digged hard, your lips now letting out loud moans.
"i am gonna --dostoy -- ah - ahh. please let me cum, please please. harder -- please faster. don't stop, ah - oh, dostoy. dostoyyyy." you whined out his name when he pressed your hand down on your stomach harder while he used the other to grab and squeeze your breast again, digging his nails into your skin as he smiled against your skin to hear you being such a mess for him, to hear your shyness disappear due to the pleasure he is giving and bringing out a bolder side of you.
fyodor lifted himself on his knees just a bit to have a new and fresh angle to thrust inside you, his balls smacking against your ass harshly with each thrust he did and his dick went deeper and deeper, kissing and hitting your g-spot and cervix.
pleasure waltzed down your torso and up your feet as if to meet with each other with extended hands, fyodor's fangs pierced your skin as he continued to bite down hardly on your skin and his nails digging into your skin also drew out blood. the smell of so much blood made fyodor's breath to quicken and he moaned out. immediately the hands of the two forces of pleasure touched each other and with a moan akin to a scream, you came.
". . . dostoy?" you panted out while your hips spasmed as fyodor helped you ride your high out.
with a hum, fyodor lifted his head and blood had tainted his fangs. you raise your free hand to cup his jaw and pull his face towards your own as you left small and continuous pecks on his lips, kitty licking the blood off of his lips.
after a moment or two, fyodor's pace made you scream again as it increased at a inhumane pace, to give one an insight, you were able to respire only once between two or three of his quick thrusts.
he whimpered and pushed his lips hardly against your own, kissing you with force as he thrusted in again. the tip of his dick touched your walls and just the next second, ropes of sticky white shooted out and coated your walls white.
fyodor's body fell on top of your's as he tried to catch his breath, having no intention to pull out of you anytime soon.
rather, once he had calmed down a bit, he pushed his dick deeper to push his cum into you more and hopefully, into your womb.
"do you like the taste of blood now, love?" he quietly asked as he inspected the trail of blood he left on you -- from your cheeks to neck to shoulders to (faintly) your breasts and below it and above it -- wherever the eye could see, fyodor tainted your skin with your own blood.
you licked your lip before answering, "no, i like the taste of your lips."
━━━━━━━ 💋 end.
#bsd#bungou stray dogs#bsd x reader#bungou stray dogs x reader#bsd x you#bungou stray dogs x you#bsd x y/n#bungou stray dogs fanfic#bsd fanfic#bsd smut#bsd x female reader#fyodor dostoevsky#fyodor x reader#fyodor dostoyevsky bsd#bsd fyodor#bungou stray dogs fyodor#fyodor smut#fyodor x y/n#fyodor x you#⋆˚࿔ nie#for you angel 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
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A love that burns.
Summary: Aemond is a man obsessed and you are the object of his unwavering devotion.
Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader
Word Count: 1037
Warnings: Canon book Aemond, manipulation?, sexual themes, oral (female receiving), p in v, absolute depravity and murder.
Author’s Note: This is a reader insert, but with the third person perspective, it is a bit Alys-coded kind of? (I rewrote one of her lines in F&B) A big thank you to @bhxrdy and @itbmojojoejo helping me fix some mistakes and for helping me choose the title 💜🦝
This story is dedicated to the wonderful, the talented @aegonx who gave me prompt #371 by @creativepromptsforwriting. She also made my nifty banner for my blog, so I owe her everything.
I am always happy to attempt any requests, I just cannot promise a timely fashion, as it is more whenever the muse strikes.
Tags (Tumblr kindred spirits): @aaaaaamond @annikin-im-panicin @watercolorskyy @schniiipsel @sylas-the-grim @aemondx @fan-goddess @babygirlyofthevale @httpsdoll @theromanticegoist @assortedseaglass @amiraisgoingthruit @theoneeyedprince @babyblue711 @girlwith-thepearlearring @hb8301 @lovelykhaleesiii @darylandbethfanforever9
He was a dragon incarnate with the blood of Old Valyria knitted within the ichor that coursed through his veins. Aemond was proud, tall and lithe, his broad shoulders held back despite the burdened weight of his reputation that preceded him–Aemond the One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer, but those utterances only rolled like rain against the scales of Vhagar; he was unbothered, unharried, especially now his role within the kingdom elated with the title Prince Regent, and with it the Conqueror’s Crown to wear.
The metal and rubies held a weight that now grounded him, reminding him of his purpose, and he went to reclaim Harrenhal with the intent of killing every Strong bastard.
Here is where he had found her, an eerie calm amongst the chaos, silent despite the cries of mercy as each person was brought to the courtyard and slain. She had watched, unblinking, with an expression that was akin to when Aemond had watched his nuncle take the head of Vaemond Velaryon in the Throne Room a year prior; it had been a moment that kindled a bloodlust that thrummed beneath his skin, a vengeance that could not be forgotten.
That night, when she was brought to his quarters, she greeted him like an old lover, a sweet kiss pressed to his lips, her soft murmur, “I have been waiting for you, my prince.”
She came from a noble house without the wealth of Westeros, but revered still and old, old enough to carry the blood of the First Men and its mystical properties. She had followed her sister to Harrenhal when she was chosen to be the next wife for Ser Simon Strong.
Both were now dead and she did not seem to care.
“Then why did you choose to accompany your sister?” Aemond had asked her after; it was that intimate exchange shared in their bared embrace, nestled on sex soaked linens with her plush thighs serving as a pillow.
Her fingers thread through his silver hair. “The Isle of Faces,” and she smiled, as if she were stating the obvious; she leaned forward to give a chaste kiss to his lips. “I came to listen to the whispers of the weirwoods.”
Behind closed doors he was intoxicated by her proximity, with an unbridled lust that replaced the blood in his veins, as if she were the very embodiment of his siren call. They fell into one another, and he felt something that burned within him, something that perhaps was always there and only now ignited by her soft touch, by her gentle pull that brought him flushed against her chest.
Aemond would worship her through the night, drinking her very essence until the brim of her overstimulation, until he saw her lashes clumped together from her unshed tears, and only then would he shift his weight between her thighs, flushed and slick from her peaks.
He would move to press his heady cock, heavy and wanting, against her silken folds, and despite their many nights together, she would still feel split open, aware of the ridges and the veins of his thick member as he sheathed within. Her soft gasps came in response to his thrusts that would begin again the crests of ravishment that warmed her blood; and he would not stop his pace until she was a mewling mess, until the lewd sounds of skin to skin mixed with her cries of release, until his name was a repeated reverent prayer that spilled from her lips.
Aemond hummed her praises, his hot exhale against the curve of her neck. “The gods made you for me alone,” he would breathe against her lips and they would part in a silent cry, her skin pebbling with pleasure. “You were made to take my cock, and you do so well.”
His words brought her to the precipice and when she felt his hot pulse within her velvet walls, her own clenched in response to chase another climax with boneless ambition, with a sobbed release as the air tore from her lungs but she was breathless to reclaim. Only then would they curl into each other’s arms, their skin aglow with the intimacy shared, with the soft murmurs and quiet exchanges of lovers in their post-coital haze.
“I will have your son,” she promised him. “I can already feel the flames warming my womb.”
She was always at his side, devoted, everpresent, with a severe gaze that served as a balm for the Prince Regent in the most twisted way. They called her his Blood Queen as she seemed to encourage a sadism that pulsed beneath, speaking that the gods knew what had to be done and that he was the vessel of their actions, always encouraging him to listen to the beckon of the blood of Old Valyria.
Aemond became a man obsessed and she fed into his depravity; she spoke with such conviction and he believed her every word, her every prophecy. When she would take a boat across the waters, he would remain on the shore pacing like an animal caged, while Vhagar roared overhead, the wind beneath her wings causing turbulent waves that crashed against the lakeside.
She returned as her namesake with blood that covered her hands and her dress; she would whisper what she saw to him alone, of what was to come and what needed to be done. On one such day, she spoke of the betrayal in the Riverlands, of those who had chosen to ally with the Blacks and their false queen.
Aemond called for Vhagar and they climbed aback; she was knitted against his backside with her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, and she could feel his rumbled command, “Dracarys,” to rain fire below them, scorching the very earth. She hummed her contentment, the scent of sandalwood and smoke, a scent that intimately belonged to the Prince Regent.
Her arms curled around his slim waist and he looked down to see her small hand pressed against his chest. Though the histories would recall all the ugly things they had done, in this moment, as his palm reached to cover hers, all he thought was how their entwined fingers were so beautiful together.
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#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond targaryen fanfiction#aemond targaryen x you#aemond targaryen x female!reader#aemond targaryen x reader#hotd fanfic#hotd fanfiction#a love that burns
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"Propose," for @bamsara
HI YOUR DOODLES INSPIRED ME HERE'S A POETRY ATTACK. rambling below the cut.
At first, the death waltz is a misstep.
A sickening skeletal crack, a shape of an invisible scythe.
Sincerity is too kind a lie, but His sacrosanct
Protection (you think)
Lets you rise once more.
Death cannot keep you, but you would let Him
If he welcomes you.
You only believe what He thinks you should know.
The flames engulf you after the smoke does,
But your soul has nearly shed its corpse when you see them.
You stand in the vast chain-bound sanctuary and breathe
Fully (your lungs don’t remember being choked).
It is the first of a fitful of
Scorn and surprises and bone fingertips pressed against your skin.
He helps you to your feet.
Your heart should not beat here. In the infiniteness of your bosom it awakens.
The very semblance of the jagged-bare flesh
Encircling your neck is an intimacy in itself.
The blissful torment of the swordsman’s blade
Releases (so close to peril)
And He is already in your periphery.
Call it duty. Call it love.
Choose it as the last decision you’ll ever make.
Fate’s a tarot pull. You draw your card with eyes sealed shut.
You are a disgraced, depraved approximation of a person.
The chill of his embrace is warmer than the hands
That build the bonfire. It is in the name of
Someone (you shan’t say who)
And in the ashes of your grief your reflection
Stares back with three eyes.
The temptation to burn yourself seeps out,
Ichor-like. You don’t die tonight, not yet.
A careful drip of poison. The aftertaste of iron
In your mouth: communion seeping into your own goblet.
A moonshine moment of annihilation, however brief
Before (infectious, echoing, comforting)
You bleed out. You hope you die today.
He hopes you die today. It’s an
Ambrosial veil between you.
You slip beneath it with a sweet hello.
It’s never quite intentional until
The myths surrounding Him fall away.
The secrets you keep are shared, kept safe
Until (your reunion, this time, was not quite an accident)
They are intertwined: you are inescapably
Lonely and in your separate spheres
You vie for dominance. It’s a furious, bloodsoaked rendezvous.
It was always He who waited, but you’ll be patient.
He feels you in every dream. You
Stop time with your voices.
It’s His frustration melting away
With your kisses (you’re not there yet)
And makes Him yours, in freedom,
Dependent on nothing nobody you himself
The fetters are invisible but you hear them
Rattling every time your heart beats.
Your breath need not return anymore so you
Relearn to dodge the aim of an arrow, the pierce of a blade.
Living is foul, a promise half-hidden,
Desperate. (It lingers on your tongue.)
Death bound you together. You know how to die.
You have to remind yourself that heaven lays barren.
It will not hold you
Should Death keep you apart.
Get appreciated idiot /pos /lh
So, this was inspired by this post, which was super wholesome and sweet, but I couldn't write this without infusing it with the urgency and anxiety and sense of danger that looms over The Rehabilitation of Death. Bits and pieces of references to your AU are sprinkled in throughout. I hope you (and my readers and your readers as well) enjoy picking apart the themes here!
I actually wrote this live on stream last night! I made sure none of my friends were streaming before I started because I didn't want to miss anyone if someone was already live, but then you started streaming like 10 minutes later and I was like FUCK now I wanna watch you. But after a couple of hours on my new extra-hard CotL save (OUCH), I switched to writing and just... hoped you wouldn't pop in because I wanted this to be a surprise. For most of the writing part of the stream this poem was titled "IF SARA STOPS STREAMING SEND ME A WARNING."
Anyway, we don't usually get to talk more than a couple times per week because we both have Shit To Do, but you are SO FUN to be around and I am so so glad I met you!! Your friendship is a blessing and your creativity is a gift.
Also posted to AO3 as onethirdofimpossible here!
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but mafia!steve PLS 🫠🔥🫠🔥😌
Nesting
mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader
warnings: soft!dark Steve Rogers; mafia!Steve Rogers; possessive behavior; forced relationship; unplanned pregnancy;
~ * ~
With a smile on your face, you tucked the envelope inside your handbag. A precious picture you were so scared to see at first, but now it filled you with warmth and love.
Well, your morning sickness definitely didn’t fill you with any positive feelings, but the doctor said they should lessen in a few weeks, once you start your second trimester. It was all still so new, so fragile to consider its development. But you already hoped for the best.
You tossed into the bin the paper towels with which you wiped the ultrasound gel off your belly and put your jacket on. The nurse waiting outside smiled at you, gave you a stack of leaflets and a list of necessary appointments.
She directed you to the main reception, so you could book the next needed one.
Just as you were writing down in your calendar the date of the next ultrasound, the lady behind the desk remembered something and said to you:
“Oh, I almost forgot! Your husband is waiting for you outside.”
You stared at her, confused. She had to mistake you for someone else, clearly.
“Husband? I don’t-”
“Yes.” She beamed. “Handsome fellow, but it seems he’s just as scared of clinics as the rest of men.” She laughed.
“You sure he’s here for me?” You asked hesitantly, an idea of who might it be already forming in your head. Terrifying you.
“I’m sure. He gave all the information on you.” The woman’s face flashed solemn, her tone professional as she assured you of the thorough check. “I admit, even my own mom sometimes forgets what year I was born in.”
“Thank you.” You forced out a smile, but your heart was hammering in fear.
You have no idea how he found you. Even less how he got so much detailed information about you. But then again, you shouldn’t be surprised now that you knew who he was.
Steven Grant Rogers.
The ruthless head of the New York mafia who was more lethal than a viper already sinking its teeth in your ankle.
And who, to you, was just a very hot man you hooked up with a month and half ago.
You met Steve in a fancy club your friends booked a booth at - apparently it was a club so exclusive getting a booth in it was nearly impossible. Now you understood why.
You’re not sure why you caught his attention when there were so many beautiful women in the place that night. But three flutes of Prosecco in and you were bolder than usual. You agreed to accompany him in his VIP booth while your friends went crazy on the dancefloor.
He disarmed you with his focus on you, his eyes never straying to any other woman. A charming gentleman who made you melt with the few moments of movie-like fairytale feeling.
And when he whispered into your ear how he wants to eat you out until you pass out from pleasure, you almost spread your legs for him right there in the club.
Steve took you to his place - an elegant penthouse, in a building you later learned belonged to him. A one night stand turned into whole weekend of him fucking you senseless and spoiling you with fancy food delivered to his apartment.
He also made you do the most depraved things; no one else has ever made you come just from fingering your ass and talking dirty to you.
Like he promised each time he was buried in your cunt, Steve filled you to the brim.
You leaked his cum even as you got home late on a Sunday afternoon - Steve’s driver dropping you off in front of your modest flat.
The result of his filling woke you up a few weeks later, making you vomit your guts out each morning. With your period being unusually late there was only one explanation.
At first, after you confirmed the pregnancy with your doctor, you planned on telling Steve. One night or not, he had a right to know. But you didn’t have his number, nor did you remember the exact address where he lived. So you googled him.
And the articles made your head spin.
You thought it’s a misunderstanding. Just a coincidence, but then one of your friends complained to you about her boyfriend - a cop - being angry that you went to a mob-owned club.
Further prodding revealed that The Shield club belonged to Steven Rogers himself.
You could no longer fool yourself with coincidences and similar names. In an instant you made a decision to never put your foot anywhere near the club and to hide from everyone who exactly was your baby’s co-creator.
So as you kept it to yourself, building a lie (not so far from the truth) about it being a result of a reckless one night stand, you started to forget about the real father. Sometimes you even calmed yourself by repeating he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with it anyway.
But there couldn’t be anyone else claiming to come for you by posing as your husband. And Steve had the influence to learn all the details about you, if he wished.
You cast a glance at the main entrance. He was waiting for you there. To do who knows what to you.
If he didn’t want the baby being born and you refused to get rid of it… a man like him would simply get rid of you to erase the problem.
Perhaps you didn’t stand a chance against the power of someone like Steve Rogers, but you could try saving yourself and postponing the inevitable. For a little while, at least.
Pivoting on your heel, you went in the opposite direction. You didn’t know if there’s a back exit and you feared asking anyone, but the restroom you used earlier had a window facing the park and it was only on the high ground floor, so the risk was minimal.
You smiled at a woman who was washing her hands when you entered and pretended to lock yourself in the stall. When you heard the door closing after her, you left the stall and opened the window.
You dropped your bag first, then sat on the windowsill and swung your legs over it. Carefully, you lowered yourself down, hands clutching onto the edge. You took a deep breath and let go, landing softly on your feet without much trouble.
“Shouldn’t be doing that in your state, sweetheart.”
A smooth voice startled you.
A familiar voice.
You could still recall the praises he moaned in your ear when you trembled beneath him.
You turned around sharply, heart jumping to your throat as you faced him.
Steve stood a few steps away from you, his back resting against the side of the sleek, black car parked on the sidewalk. Dark aviators shaded his blue eyes, but you knew he was watching you like a hawk, ready to react if you fled.
You frowned, surprised to see him here, considering the receptionist told you your husband was waiting at the front.
You looked in the direction where he was supposed to be. Steve’s chuckle drew your attention back to him.
“Fawns like you are predictable.” He said with a smirk.
“Now, come on,” he called your name as he moved to the side, opening the car door, “get inside.”
You didn’t even stir. You simply couldn’t, frozen in place out of fear and shock. A thought of running passed through your mind, but you were never a fast runner and you predicted Steve would be more pissed if he had to chase you.
That he would catch you was undeniable. With his long legs and stamina that drove you into almost passing out a few times.
Steve sighed when you didn’t follow his order.
Unhurriedly, he walked over to where you trembled, plastered against the coarse, concrete siding of the building. He crouched down to pick your bag then slowly straightened.
Fuck, you didn’t remember him being this tall and broad.
Steve slid his aviators down to the tip of his nose, his icy blue eyes piercing through you. He traced the shell of your ear with a single digit, then trailed it along your jaw. He pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger before saying firmly:
“Get in the fucking car, sweetheart.”
This time you obeyed. He gave you no other choice as he guided you with his hand pressed against the small of your back.
You slid onto the backseat, curling in the corner against the opposite door. Steve got in right behind you. The moment he closed the door on his side the locks clicked in, trapping you inside with him.
The partition between you and the driver was pulled up, though you assumed Steve’s men were loyal to him enough not to react to a woman screaming for help.
“How do you find this clinic?” Steve simply asked, dropping your handbag on the seat on his other side. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to reach it without having to pass him.
“What?” You stared up at him, confused.
“I’ve heard it’s good, but I can get you into a top-shelf place.” While you were tense and strung up, Steve sat next to you completely relaxed. He took his sunglasses of, spread his legs wider.
You wrapped your arms protectively around your midsection, tears stung beneath your eyelids as you considered the potential meaning of his words.
“I’m keeping the baby!” you blurted out. Right that instant you knew you were ready to fight till your last breath to save your child.
Steve cocked his head to the side as he looked at you, a twisted warmth filling his eyes and making his smile even more charming.
“As you should.” He praised you.
He reached for you, wrapping an arm around your back and pulling you to his side. With his other hand he swatted your arms away from your belly and spread his fingers over the curve that would soon start swelling.
“You’ll give me more, too.” Steve hummed, his eyes glued to where his hand laid.
You were speechless. Initial fear of being forced to lose the baby turned into a completely new terror.
Steve’s words didn’t cut your life short, but they built a long, gilded-cage waiting for you.
“It’s about time I started nesting.” Steve chuckled, his hand moving to cup your chin and tilt your head back. “I don’t mind doing it with a sweet, little bird like you.”
He pressed his lips against yours gently, almost sweetly, as if he was a tender lover doting on his beloved. Then his tongue teased the seam of your mouth. When you didn’t open right away he bit your bottom lip, making you gasp and forcing his tongue inside.
You told yourself it was fear and adrenaline, but your nipples hardened and your pulse quickened.
“First things first-” Steve pulled away.
He took one of your hands and brought it to his lips, peppering kisses on each of your knuckles.
“We have to get you an engagement ring and order wedding bands as well.”
“Steve, I don’t understand-” your heart pounded so fast it rushed blood to your head and made you dizzy.
He intertwined your fingers and brought your clasped hands to his chest, just as he slipped his other hand to grip the back of your neck firmly.
“You’re mine.” He announced without remorse. “You became mine the moment I took you home. Now you’re going to be mine in every other way.”
#steve rogers x female reader#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#mafia!steve rogers#soft!dark Steve Rogers#mafia au#mob!steve rogers#my writing#nesting
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