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nereidprinc3ss · 2 months

Text

come on home

in which the only person who can comfort you after your breakup with spencer reid, is spencer reid

inspired by the song "summer's end" by the artist currently known as phoebe bridgers

wc 2857

warnings: gn!reader (correct me if im wrong), minor mommy issues, angst, happy ending

a/n: thank you to the person who requested this:) u r an angel and I listened to this song the whole time i wrote (if you haven't heard, listen!!) i sincerely hope you enjoy, i like this one a lot<3

She hung up on you.

Forty-seven minutes of being insulted and berated after you’d called her looking for comfort, and you put up with every single cruel word—just for your mother to hang up on you. And it’s exactly the kind of thing she’d do, so you shouldn’t be surprised. An ache, you’d expect—but it shouldn’t sting like this. You thought you knew better.

Now you’re in a ball on your couch, clutching your phone to your chest and crying. There’s no point hiding it. Your roommate is out with her girlfriend for the evening—which is too bad because even though you feel like being alone, you’re sure that’s the wrong call. Your other friends are out having fun tonight, too. They’d even invited you, but you turned them down. Look where that had gotten you. Obviously, your mother is not the person you’re about to run to for comfort, either.

You try to pretend, while you’re thinking of all these people who have ever cared for you, that Spencer Reid isn’t on your mind at all. You try to pretend like you don’t care that the person who loved you until you believed you actually deserved it is a contact going stale deep in the bowels of your text cache. With bleary eyes you scroll down, looking for your conversation where it gathers dust—the end of your relationship was a mutual decision, and you’re friendly, but you haven’t texted in a few weeks. Probably because every time the conversation starts to feel a little too easy, or the phone call lasts a little too long, that aching void in your chest gets worse and worse. Like pain in a phantom limb, you become acutely aware of what you do not have and how much it hurts.

So blame it on the tears, or the mind-muddling melodrama of your relationship with your mother, blame it on anything but the truth—when your thumb drops on that call button like the plunger on a syringe, you don’t regret it.

What you’re not expecting is for him to answer after the first ring.

“Hi,” you say with a snuffle before Spencer can get a word in. There’s a brief interlude, in which you pick at your nails, comfortable to just sit in silence if that’s what he wants. As long as he’s there.

“Hi.” Hearing his voice instantly melts a bit of the weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying. Another pause, for which you remain silent, because you can feel him formulating a question—and you’d like to hear him speak again. “...am I allowed to ask if you’re okay?”

Your lips purse and twist to the side, pained and comforted by how easily he can tell that you’re distraught. One word across a tinny connection, and he knows.

“No. Yes. I mean... I guess that’s why I called you. But you don’t have to ask me about it.” You sniff again and take a deep breath. “How was your day? What state are you in?”

“I’m in the district,” he answers after a moment, easing into a casualness that he likely doesn’t feel for your sake. Wind crunches through the speaker. He probably just got out of work. “My day was... it was good. I got to talk about my job to a bunch of elementary schoolers, which is always a confidence boost.”

You chuckle, still laying on your side on the couch and watching storm clouds gathering outside.

“Nice, nice. What else?”

“Let’s see... I forgot lunch, so I had three oranges, and they were actually pretty good. I reread Game of Thrones—I don’t know why I did that. I’m never going to like that book.”

“Masochist,” you smile. He laughs, and you hear the sound of a car door opening.

“Oh! I talked to my mom. Believe it or not, she says hi.”

A completely inadvertent snort constitutes your response. It’s not what you meant to do, and out of context it’s sort of mean, but you actually think it’s incredibly endearing that he still talks to his mother about you. He scrambles to explain himself.

“I swear, we barely talked about you this time. Mostly we talked about her new boyfriend Leonard.”

“No, no, that’s not... I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you or your mom. That’s really sweet, actually. Tell her I say hi too.”

When he next speaks, you can hear the smile in his voice.

“I will.” Another long pause. You imagine him sitting in the parking lot at Quantico, keys vertical in the ignition of his old car and feeling the silence just as much as you are. He surprises you by not ending the conversation—instead he asks a question. It is concern, poorly disguised with nervous humor. Or maybe you just know him too well. “Do I get to find out what’s on your mind, or are you leaving me in suspense here?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Um... well, actually, I just got off the phone with my mom, too. It didn’t go so well,” you laugh halfheartedly, “I know it was dumb to try and have an actual conversation with her, but... you know me. Always following blind optimism to the depths of hell.”

“Why’d you call your mom?” he asks, so gently it brings a fresh round of tears to your eyes. Still, you attempt to put a cheerful affect on your strained voice.

“Mm, you know. Just needed someone to talk to.”

Spencer’s knowing sigh does little to make you feel better.

“You know you can always talk to me, right? I know it’s... it’s different now, but... I care about you a lot. And, you know, I receive very few phone calls, so the line is pretty much always open.”

Your laugh quickly devolves into a cry.

“I appreciate that, but I can’t talk to you about everything.”

“Why not?” he pleads immediately, voice thin and desperate like it’s his most burning question. A million lies dance over the tip of your tongue. A million things that feel safer to say than the truth. But in the end, it comes out anyway—choked, and so quiet, but aloud nonetheless.

“Because I’m trying really hard to stop missing you so much.”

Another long beat of silence. The back of your throat feels dry and hollow—a cage for your hummingbird heart.

“If it hurts too much to talk to me, you don’t need to do that to yourself. But I also don’t want you to hurt yourself thinking you’re alone. You are... so important to me. I will always try to take care of you the best I can—whether that means staying away or being at your front door. If you ever need me, or even... vaguely want me, I will be there.”

Each word caves your resolve. Each syllable is a slap in the face to progress you’d been pretending to make. You can be strong—you've proven that over the past ten weeks. You can be stone-faced and slash at your heart until the scar tissue is thick and jagged, and eventually it won’t hurt anymore. But maybe, by letting someone tend to the wounds, they’ll heal a little nicer. A little kinder. Even if you can’t undo the damage, maybe one day you’ll be soft again.

“What if I vaguely want you right now?” you sniffle.

Finally, you hear the silver jingle of keys turning. The sputter and rumble of an old engine coming to life.

“Then I’m on my way.”

Twenty four minutes later, there’s a soft knock at your door.

After the call had ended, you’d wondered if you made it all up. Surely your ex-boyfriend wasn’t actually about to show up at your apartment. Someone you’ve grieved for can’t just come back—there are countless horror novels and movies based upon that very tenet. Does it matter if they ever actually died? How long is ten weeks, really? It feels like a lifetime.

You shuffle across the room, wiping under your eyes with your already damp sleeves, and undoing all the locks Spencer had conditioned you to start using. When the door cracks open, and you see Spencer standing there, windswept and concerned, for the first time in months, it hits you like a tidal wave. You are, beyond a shadow of a doubt, still just as in love with him as you ever were. The relief that floods your veins as he looks down at you with so much care in his eyes is like sinking into warm water. It’s a dead giveaway, and maybe it makes this whole thing a terrible idea, but you can’t seem to care very much. You open the door wider, and he enters, and he stands in your kitchen with his hands in his coat pocket as you shut the door and he’s perfect. It dawns on you that for the first time since the breakup, you feel safe. Like you don’t have to be a stone pillar anymore. This, of course, translates into even more tears, which you try to hide as you face away, re-locking the door.

“Sweetheart...” he sighs, because you can’t hide anything from him. Hearing the resonance of his voice so close to you once more is overwhelming. In an instant you’re rushing into his arms, and he accepts you without hesitation. You bury your teary face in the vetiver safety of his button-up and slip your arms under his coat, as if you could absorb his warmth and forever hide from the world that way. He pulls you even closer. It’s terrible and cruel how much he is exactly what you needed. “What’s wrong? What did she say?”

You shake your head and gasp a small sob.

Truthfully, you’re not really crying about the petty insults from your mother anymore. You’re back to square one, the reason you’d called your mother to begin with—you miss the man whose arms are currently wound around your shoulders.

His hand smooths over the back of your hair.

“Okay. That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

You stay like that—content even as you cry because being with him feels so much safer than being alone. It feels right—or perhaps it’s just familiar. You don’t know which is worse.

Spencer is rubbing soothing lines up and down your back as you cling to him, soaking him up in all his ephemeral, comforting glory. He surprises you by chuckling—it vibrates through his chest, buzzing against your ear.

“Nice Magritte print. I bet the person who bought that has fantastic taste.”

“Are you gonna ask for it back?” you mumble into the fabric of his suit jacket. He is, of course, referring to the painting you’d more or less stolen from his apartment seven months ago. You really don’t want him to take it home. It’s the most overt Spencer memorabilia you’d allowed yourself to keep in plain sight.

“No, baby. You can keep it.” The words are low, and kind, and they settle you some, but you can’t seem to get him close enough. “What can I do?” he whispers after a moment, helpless as you take a shuddering breath. “Can I make you tea? Have you eaten?”

“Will you just... stay for a little bit? I’ll—I promise I’ll stop crying.”

There is an unexpected lull where you thought you’d receive pretty immediate agreement, but before you can pull back and ask what’s wrong, he murmurs, “yeah. I can stay for a while. But you have to kick me out before it gets too late.”

You wonder if you’re imagining the double-entendre that seems to underline his words in bold red ink. Spencer is too smart to have not noticed a thing like that. You don’t mention it—it all boils down to the same unspoken idea.

Don’t let me stay, because I might not leave.

“I will,” you sniff, finally stepping back and wiping your own tears. It hurts to lose his touch, but at least you know he’s not going anywhere for the next few hours. This, as opposed to everything else lately, can be a beginning instead of an end.

At least, until he goes home.

Three and a half hours later, after tea, an impromptu dinner comprised mostly of cheese and crackers, and several vinyl changes on your record player (which served only as background noise for your long, ambling conversations), things are seeming to wind down to a natural stopping point. Which you hate. The whole time you’d had a dull ache in your chest because talking to him was easier than breathing and you knew it wouldn’t last. There had been one or two false bottoms already—the first when you’d yawned around nine, and the second when you’d gotten up to do your skincare and brush your teeth half an hour later. Even then he’d just leaned against the doorframe, watching your reflection above the sink as you talked for fifteen more minutes. Now you stand across from each other in the kitchen, plates restacked and everything in order. Of course he’d insisted on helping you clean up.

“I should go,” he says, with a soft sort of finality in his voice.

“Is your carriage turning into a pumpkin?” you tease gently, to hide how much you don’t want him to leave. He smiles—a small, weary thing—but genuinely and endlessly charmed by you.

“That among other things.”

“Would you—would you walk me to my room first?”

The hesitance is clear in his eyes and the way his lips part as if to say, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea’, but you're sure he’s really going to leave in a moment and you’re also sure he won’t deny you this one small thing before he does.

“Okay.”

It’s a short, silent walk through the living room and down the hall to your bedroom door, but you can feel him trailing behind you the whole way. You stop in front of your open door, turning face to face with him.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

His lips pull into a melancholy smile.

“Anytime.”

There’s nothing left to do but wrap your arms around each other once more, tuck yourself into the you-sized space between his head and shoulder and hold on for as long as he’ll let you. The hug lingers for longer than is wise. Spencer adjusts his arms looped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you nuzzle against his neck, grateful that at least he seems as reluctant to let this end as you are.

But eventually, it relaxes. Your hold on each other loosens. His face is just inches from yours, and you get to study every plane and valley and line like you’d thought you never would again. It seems he’s doing the same—losing himself in the luxury of seeing you up close.

“Will you kiss me goodnight?” you whisper, unable to muster any self-consciousness though you know it’s a fool’s errand. Spencer strokes your waist.

“I can’t do that, honey.”

“Why not?”

His voice is just as quiet as yours. It falters slightly as he speaks, so gently, so patiently.

“Because we’re not together anymore.”

“Why not?”

Your feeble, desperate supplication sounds pitiable even to you. You’re not proud, but you can’t find it in yourself to be ashamed, either. All you want is an answer. But it’s like a child asking why the sky is blue, or the earth is round. There is a definitive explanation, but mostly, the adult will shrug, and say, that’s just how it is.

Spencer’s eyes squeeze shut. His head tilts down.

“We can’t do this again, sweetheart. You know why we’re not together.”

In theory—yes. You’d had so many conversations when you’d broken up. It had been a long, painful process, spanning multiple all-nighters at his kitchen table, nursing coffee and trying to convince each other and yourselves that it was the right choice. But it just feels like a horrible, horrible mistake. You feel desperate to explain this to him before he slips away again—the words come out flustered, inelegant as you cling to him.

“But I don’t think I’m getting better without you. I tried, I tried so hard to be good on my own, but everything is worse and harder and—and we weren’t sure about it then, and I don’t think it was the right choice, because I still really need you. Like, all the time. I’m—it’s not getting better without you. Nothing got better.”

He swallows, eyes darting between yours for an infinite second. You’re breathless and your heart is pounding after your confession—you can feel your eyes stinging with the few tears that managed to escape as you spoke.

“Everything is worse,” he agrees shakily. “Everything. I’m—I’m getting disciplinary infractions from Hotch like I’m a child because I can’t focus on anything. Game of Thrones is the most complex literature I can comprehend right now. I had to use a calculator the other day.”

You want to laugh, but nothing is funny until he’s yours again.

“Then come back. Please come back, Spencer.”

Finally, he leans closer, until your heads are pressed together, and his nose bumps yours, feather light. You're dizzy. You exhale. He inhales.

“I don’t think I knew how to leave in the first place.”

When he kisses you, it feels like home.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds

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batterygarden · 1 month

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trapped in a bomb shelter with your big bro naoya

cw: big bro! naoya x fem & afab! reader, dead dove do not eat, misogyny! (and it's my kink so it's not like.. refuted), mild degradation (naoya calls u dumb), but naoya's sweet too, depression and nihilism, masturbation (both of u), sorta dubcon (tagged), fingering, and light mentions of: p in v, somno, cunnilingus, bondage, cowgirl, humiliation kink (on you), naoya being possessive, 1.7 k words

18+, minors don't interact

It’s surprising when the attack is announced how quickly Naoya moves to grab you. The gears in your mind haven’t even processed the news—that doomsday is upon you—by the time your brother has you snatched up in his arms and he’s running.

Most of the clan’s away at a local festival—a whole kilometer’s walk from the great zenin estate and the bomb shelter your esteemed (and wealthy) clan head installed. You and Naoya are the only ones to make it in time.

Naoya has never been the warmest big brother. In fact, there have been plenty of times where you thought you hated him. But at the end of the day you know he cares for you—even if it’s in his twisted, roundabout way. Still, enough that you were his first and only priority to shove into the little bunker beneath your estate surprised you a bit.

You aren’t sure Naoya thought his decision out—you know he didn’t have time to properly. The way he rushed to your room and scooped you in his arms, no pit stops before locking the thick bunker door closed behind him—before anyone else had the chance to join. It ended up being for the best, explosions outside were heard only too shortly after—still, you hope he doesn’t regret it.

You’re nearing day 10 inside your small shelter, and if the shaking ground and dire radio warnings Naoya managed to pick up are any indicator—the world outside isn’t going to be inhabitable again for a while.

Naoya is handling things better than expected. He’s thrown himself to small tasks—keeping the mind sharp he calls it. He’s less grumpy than he could be—resilient. Honestly the one lacking in mental fortitude is you.

“You can’t just sit there watching me do push ups. You need to move around too, dummy.”

“Nii-san im starting to lose the point.”

“The point?”

“I don’t understand why anything matters anymore if we’re all that’s left.”

He wipes sweat from his brow, glaring at you while he drinks some water.

“You just said it. Things still matter because we are still here. Eventually outside will be safe again and we’ll get out and start over. Don’t get all stupid and weepy in the meantime.”

You try to stay occupied, you try to do as Naoya says, but still, you struggle. Spending day after monotonous day trapped in here, you can’t help but start to get depressed.

Then one day Naoya says he needs to touch himself.

And there’s no room for you to avoid him while he does. You’re uncomfortable—-giving him a look that conveys it. But he insists he has to.

“I’m a man. Don’t be dense.”

Before you know it his cock is out and he’s fisting it at a leisurely pace, leaning back on the bed with his other hand. You face away from him, trying and failing to focus on rereading your book. But then he says your name, and when you look he’s still exposed and hard, but he beckons for you to come closer. He isn’t satisfied with your closeness till you’re sitting beside him on the bed.

He’s still stroking himself slowly when he says: “You need this, too. Touch yourself.”

You freeze for a minute then shake your head. Is this some kind of test? It’s shameful…

“Saving yourself for marriage doesn’t matter anymore if we’re all that’s left. You’re practically mine now anyways, since our entire clan is obliterated. It’s just me ‘n you.”

...You need to collect your thoughts. In the first place… you’re unsure how far you could get away with disobeying your big brother. He’s been somewhat softer in the shelter, better behaved than he was outside, at least. But you haven’t forgotten the way he used to act when he didn’t get his way… conniving and nasty—you’ve witnessed his wrath more times than you can count. Notably, though, It wasn’t ever pointed at you—his attitude towards his little sister has only ever been mischievous at worst. He’d simply mock and pick apart, invade your personal space and mess up your hair—though you’re sure he’d have been much worse if you didn’t go out of your way to be inoffensive. All in all, a hard no from you now would be a first inside the shelter.

Then there’s the honest truth of the matter: he’s right. Naoya may as well be the last person on earth for all you know, and you have been going crazy with hormones and neediness—but too afraid to touch yourself with no alone time. It’s a week after your period so you’re pretty sure you’re ovulating, and Naoya’s been walking around shirtless, acting just as touchy as always, but kinder than usual—and it’s not like he’s unattractive.

It’s sick that you’re even considering it. Touching yourself at your brother’s command—you’re a daughter of a distinguished clan! Maybe this little bunker truly is making you crazy…

In the end, the same idea that’s been infecting your mind constantly post doomsday wins out: nothing matters anymore anyways.

That thought is how you justify laying back on the bed beside your brother, stripped of your robes and spread-legged, two fingers pumping in and out of your pussy while you buck against your palm.

Naoya’s sharp eyes watch from beside you, never missing a thing while he continues stroking his cock. You’re so relieved to be giving your pussy attention after so long, you don’t even dwell on how messed up it all is.

After a while of trying to cum but barely reaching that special spot inside you to do so, Naoya can’t take watching anymore.

“My sweet sister, how old are you, again? You can’t even make yourself cum?” Naoya tucks his hard-on in the waistband of his pants, focusing entirely on you.

The mattress squeaks as he scoots closer, large hand around your ankle to spread you wider for his gaze.

You stop pumping your fingers, giving him a slow stare. He frowns. “No, no, keep trying. Let me see what’s the matter.”

So you do, working yourself up while you and Naoya watch each other, humping your palm when you get close again. You whine, biting your lip while you brush against the part inside you that feels best. Still, it’s not enough. You’re on the edge of tears searching for that release when—

“Okay, stop, sweet thing. You clearly need a man to do this.”

You pant while you look up at him, remembering what exactly is going on here when you pull your messy fingers away. It only makes you wetter when you think of the nastiness of it all.

“Nii-san?”

It shouldn’t surprise you when his fingers replace yours, but it does, Naoya’s warm touch with no warning earning a little jump.

He doesn’t comment, only sets to work with his middle and ring finger sinking deep into your hole, curling right where you need them but couldn’t reach yourself, pressing his thumb to your clit at the same time.

It feels heavenly. So good you almost close your eyes, but you can’t somehow. You wouldn’t want to lose a glimpse of Naoya—his eyes are transfixing.

And, like always, Naoya watches you back.

His expression while he does is patient and relaxed in a way that reminds you of when he helped you with homework or something as a kid. Patient and bored if you ever struggled or needed help—like he always had low expectations for you. You suppose that’s why he had so much more patience for you than he did for other family members—your shortcomings were at times endearing while those he thought were supposed to be strong had stricter standards.

Ultimately, an inability to make yourself cum seems like something Naoya expected of you.

And he wasn’t lying about his ability to help—his bigger fingers fit inside you just where you need them, and it takes your brother only minutes to earn your release, clamping down on him while you make a mess on the bed, crying out and arching—after edging for so long the orgasm lasts what feels like forever.

Noaya fucks you after that. He may as well, he tells you—he still needs to get off and it’ll feel good for you this way too. And he’s right, he may as well. It’s the end of the world and your brother may as well fuck you. And of course his cock feels amazing—it manages to feel like a solace in this bunker where nothing matters.

After that day, miraculously, you start to perk up. Naoya figured out the key to your depression, the key to keeping you occupied—it’s sex. Everyday your big brother fucks you and every day you get better.

Things stay interesting because when you’re fucking every day—you experiment. Or at least, Naoya does—he’s the creative one between the two of you, you’re just along for the ride.

You wake up in knots of rope one morning with Naoya’s tongue between your legs—you’re in the middle of an orgasm. He splits you open on his cock afterwards for good measure. He lets you ride him another day, something you’re fairly sure he’s never let a woman do. You cockwarm him while the two of you read a book at the same time—it’s silly. He’s kept you tied up almost an entire day before, doing whatever he wanted, exposed and embarrassed. You’re his little cock sleeve of a sister, he says.

“You know I’m actually glad that at least this way, stuck in here, no other clan can have you. They wouldn’t deserve you as a wife, not one of them. It’s a silver lining—this way, you’re all mine.”

#naoya x reader #naoya zen'in x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #naoya zenin x reader #naoya fic #naoya smut #jjk fic #naoya zenin fic #tw.incest #tw.dubcon #tw.misogyny #tw.degradation #tw.somnophilia #🐞 writes

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miyatcha · 6 months

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paper cranes | suguru geto

naw...its so lowk quality. oh welll :( | fluff | suguru is a canon manspreader LMFAOO

you catch suguru geto folding paper cranes- and that’s the first time you meet him. he sits in the middle of the bench as if he owns the whole thing, a stack of patterned origami paper with a paperweight on top on the side.

it’s spring, and against the blooming flowers, you think he’s the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen.

“you’re taking an awful lot of space on that bench.” your teasing tone snaps him out of his concentrated task, quick to grab the paper and scoot to one side.

“sorry- bad habit.” he’s sheepish, and instead of manspreading like before, he sits upright, fumbling with the craft in his hands. you laugh at him, taking a seat on the other side.

“what’s got you folding cranes in a park?” you take in the stranger next to you.

“helps me take my mind off things. and you?” he glances up, and his dark eyes meet your gaze.

he’s…breathtaking.

the stranger raises an eyebrow, and you realize you haven’t responded. “reading- and maybe some drawing. I don’t know yet.”

you sit down beside him, not really sure how to continue the conversation, but thankfully, there’s nothing between the two of you that makes things awkward.

“what are you reading?” showing him the cover of the slice of life/romance book you were halfway through, he smiles. “the ending is worth it, don’t worry.”

“you’ve read it?”

he nods, placing the crane in his bag. “i might’ve reread it a couple times.”

your interest in him grows the more you find out about him. “really? i’ve heard it’s a sad ending.”

he hums, lost in thought. “well, yes, it’s sad- but good. do you think the main characters should stay together?”

you pause for a moment, mulling over his question. while you were a sucker for happy endings, it just wouldn’t make sense with the type of people they were.

“no. she was going in a different direction than him- even if they were good for each other, they wouldn’t be happy. so does this mean they don’t end up together?” he shrugs, finishing another crane and adding it to his growing pile. “are you making the cranes for anything?” you change the subject.

i don’t have the cranes for anything specific, no, but they’re pretty, aren’t they?” he holds a finished one in his palm, with meticulous folds at every edge. you nod, and he smiles, satisfied.

"do you know how to make any?"

"it's honestly been so long- i might know a few steps, but that's it."

he pauses, smoothing over the crane's neck. "i'll teach you the next time i see you around." it's his signal to leave, and as he gathers his things, you finish the page of the book you were reading. when you feel the seat shift, you glance up at the stranger, hoping that deep down, something more would happen.

"it was nice to meeting you..." you realize. “i never got your name.”

“suguru geto. you?” the boy smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the edges.

“___ ___.” you wave to him, ready to tell your friends all about the encounter with the pretty stranger.

when he's no longer in sight, you notice a green crane on the seat, and you’re quick to pick it up and search for him, but he’s disappeared.

you fold down the wings for him, and find something written on the flaps. it’s his number.

‘call or text :)’

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coraniaid · 1 month

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It’s always very odd to me when I read criticism of A Song Of Ice And Fire online (by which I mainly mean: on Tumblr) which takes for granted that this is some sort of obsessively dark and edgy and mean-spirited fantasy, because ... that's not what the series is actually like at all?

I mean, yes, some awful (and graphically described) stuff happens in these books, but this is at heart a deeply optimistic and almost embarrassingly romantic story, full of a very obvious sympathy and tenderness for the unhappy and the hurt and the powerless. The weird gritty-for-the-sake-of-it books that the series's detractors describe wouldn't have recurring POV characters like Sansa Stark or Tyrion Lannister or Davos Seaworth or Samwell Tarly or Brienne of Tarth. They certainly wouldn't obviously empathize with and respect these characters to the extent the actual books do. They wouldn't be so obsessive about the importance of hope and kindness and understanding in an otherwise uncaring world. Whenever the text suggests the world isn't fair or kind there's always an unspoken "but it should be,and I wish it was". You are clearly not meant to think that characters like Roose Bolton or Twyin Lannister are being held up as role models to emulate!

I mean, maybe the TV show is more like that -- I gave up on the show after only a couple of seasons, it was a terrible adaptation of the source material, even before the final season that everyone apparently hated -- but so much of the open disdain for ASOIAF I come across on here reads like the people writing the posts haven't even read a single one of the books. Yes, the popularity of ASOIAF inspired a lot of "dark" fantasy novels that actually are bleakly nihilistic and seem to revel in their characters meeting pointlessly sad and violent ends, but Martin's books are just not like that.

Yes, lots of the world-building for ASOIAF is patently ridiculous, and yes, key parts of the plot are just cribbed from the War of the Roses (or, rather, from historical novels like Sharon Penman's The Sunne in Splendour) and yes, Martin has said some very stupid things in interviews while busy not writing the series. And no, I'm not sure I could actually bring myself to recommend the books to anyone who's not read them before (especially when it's so unlikely that the series will ever be finished, let alone in a satisfying way). I haven’t reread them myself in years.

But honestly, back when I was a quietly miserable teenager these books really meant a lot to me, in part because they are the opposite of the caricature often discussed online. Yes, they acknowledged that sometimes the world was awful and unbearable. It is! But they also suggested that it was still important to try to be fair and kind and to appreciate the moments when things were better. They are books about trying to do the right thing even when it’s so hard as to seem impossible and nobody else will even know that you tried, written in a way that takes for granted that “the right thing” is also the just and the optimistic and the quietly heroic thing; that doing the right thing when you afraid is more praiseworthy than never being afraid at all. And it is baffling to me how often I see people talking about them now who don't actually seem to have ever even skimmed them but are still vocally passionate in their hatred of something that, as they describe it, simply doesn't exist.

#asoiaf #I would recommend The Sunne In Splendour though

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after-witch · 9 days

Text

Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.

Word count: 1787

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order

“Who is the smiling man?”

The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words.

But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took you away from this place. Away from Mahito.

Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting.

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again.

“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”

Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all.

The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes.

It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances.

It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.

Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly.

“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”

Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him.

“You write about him a lot.”

Oh.

Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug.

“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you.

You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book.

Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach.

“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”

You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter.

Bitter? But why?

He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.

“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.”

He takes a breath. Then--

“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”

Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.

All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own.

Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant.

And you… you actually glare up at him.

Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.

How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it.

“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.”

“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.

And then--

Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.

But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.

That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.

“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”

This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.

Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”

Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.

He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”

But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.

It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.

“Why do you like him so much?”

How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.

Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.

“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”

Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face.

“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?

Mahito frowns.

“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.

“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.”

Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.

“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”

“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away.

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.

His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his.

“You won’t write about him anymore.”

You don’t take a moment to answer this time.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t read those books anymore.”

“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”

Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.

And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.

“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact.

You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.

Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.

“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

#yandere mahito #yandere jjk #mahito x reader #smiling man #look two obsessions in one!#afterwitch writes

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gay-dorito-dust · 4 months

Note

Okay, since you’re rereading the books and your up for this request, can I request headcanons with the same hades reader you wrote earlier where she meets Nico di angolo when he arrives to camp and from the moment they met, they hit it of instantly and Nico clings to the reader his entire time there, and even hangs out with Luke cause Luke is the readers bf?

This was long as shit as I got carried away…oops. Not so much on Luke and Nico spending time together but more so reader and Luke talking about Nico.

The moment Nico was brought to camp, a wide eyed boy who was so full of awe and wonder and excitement, you just knew how special he was and you couldn’t help but feel a familial sense when it came to the boy.

Almost as if you knew him your entire life when in reality this was your first ever meeting the boy, but something deep down told you that you would do anything to keep this boy safe and happy for as long as possible before it would be taken away from him; after all life as a Demi-god wasn’t all glory and valour and you all had to learn that rather ruthless lesson one way or another…oftentimes prematurely.

Then again, you chalked this feeling down to you being protective towards the younger Demi-gods that entered camp but this feeling was a lot stronger then that, a hell of a lot in the sense that a older sibling would fret over their younger siblings…but Nico wasn’t your sibling…well not that you were aware of seeing as he was still unclaimed but you guessed being a child of the big three had made you envious of what children of other gods had; family. You were alone and have been alone for quite a while…

Luke, your beloved boyfriend, was able to fill that void for a while, but sooner or later the realisation of just how lonesome you have been would come to consume your every thought.

Mythomagic. You hadn’t heard of that game for quite some time but you had a deck of Mythomagic cards locked within a box, underneath one of the floorboards inside your windowless cabin. Why? They had become so severely damaged and worn with time that you were scared that if you were to pick one up, it would crumple to dust within your palm. Plus it was a sentimental gift from your mother before she…never mind.

The memory was still too painful for you to recollect.

So when you saw Nico fiddling with a Dionysus card -the weakest card in the card game- between his fingers out of nervous habit, you almost didn’t recognise yourself speaking until Nico’s dark eyes looked directly at you with excitement.

‘A Dionysus card, haven’t met anyone who played Mythomagic that genuinely liked that card, you like Mythomagic kid?’ You had asked.

‘Do you?!’ Nico exclaimed as his smile matched his dark obsidian eyes in how brightly they shined.

‘Does Hades have 4000 attack power, 5000 if the opponent attacks first?’ You quickly corrected your self as Nico moved to sit next to you under the tree. ‘Who’s your favourite?’ You added, wanting the lad to feel at ease with you despite what everyone else might’ve told him about you in terms of unapproachableness.

‘Dionysus obviously!’ Nico replied, showing you his card as if to emphasise his point. ‘People think he’s not all that good but I think his powers are pretty cool and to find out that he’s real?! Even cooler!’ He adds on as he looks down at the card as if he was debating whether or not he was going to ask Mr D to sign it. However if Nico was the type of player that you assumed him to be, he wouldn’t dare tempt the idea. ‘Who’s yours?’

‘Hades.’ You said point blankly before continuing, ‘and it’s not because he’s my father.’

‘Hades is your father?!’ - Nico near enough shouted to ear you both the eyes of a couple of campers but you shot them a deadpan glare and they were quick to go back to whatever it was that they were doing beforehand. You softened your face as you looked back at Nico and answered his question. ‘Yeah, he is. He’s not as bad as people make him out to be, he doesn’t get in other people’s business like some gods and goddesses, considering he’s got his own dealings that take presidency but he’s more accommodating then most seeing as I’ve visited him on multiple occasions.’ You finished, shrugging your shoulders, you didn’t want to add on the fact that he had even gifted you Dvir, a hellhound, just yet. In due time you would but, some people would consider that too much.

‘Wow, you’re so cool.’ Right then and there you decided that you would have Nico’s back no matter what, for he was the only one besides Luke that didn’t fear you for your father and by god was it the most reliving thing ever!

You became someone Nico felt comfortable being his true self with, and would even try to sneak into the Hades cabin whenever he needed you to give him comfort and reassure him that you wouldn’t leave him for the Hunters Of Artemis like Bianca did; despite it being against the rules and all but it’s not like you didn’t do the exact same thing with Luke whenever you needed his presence to sooth and put your mind at ease.

He even tried to sit next to you during dinner time at the pavilion, another camp rule he had broken in order to be by your side, but no one dared to speak up upon it and instead bite their tongues, seeing as you and Luke were equally challenging anyone to speak about this to Mr D or Chiron but, nobody dared to do so. Meanwhile Nico was completely obvious to it all and was showing you all of his Mythomagic figures, Mythomagic expansion packs and bestowing every last drop of his knowledge of the card game onto you, all the while you were storing it within your own head as though it was something you were going to have to use later on.

No matter where you went, Nico wasn’t far behind following you like a lost puppy. Needless to say that whenever anyone saw Nico on his own, they knew better then to try anything for you were often lurking within the shadows nearby, watching over the boy with such a fierce protectiveness whilst giving him his freedom to better aquatint himself with camp. When it came to Nico, it seemed as though you became a complete different person, you didn’t know why but all you knew was that you weren’t going to let anything harm Nico while you were able to do something about it.

‘Doesn’t it bother you? Having him cling onto you all the time?’ One brave camper asked once and in all honesty? You didn’t care that he clung to you do suffocatingly. If anything you were glad that he choice you to be the one he relies on for anything and everything, it made you feel an whole assortment of things, the main one being happy knowing that someone openly sought you out because they viewed you as someone who’s opinions are worth listening and taking head to.

Nico felt safer with you than he ever did elsewhere, which was saying something considering he was within a camp built to protect people like him but he felt his most safest with you; Someone whom he quickly began to form an attachment towards and would oftentimes find himself clinging to your side like a second shadow. So much so that Luke would playfully tease you about it whenever he saw you both.

When in actuality Luke loved the fact that Nico was so attached to you. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that even with him by your side you still felt like you were alone, and could only hope that Nico would be the one to fill in that void within your heart completely. He was also happy for Nico for having you to fall back on because there was no one in camp that he would have to watch his back then yourself.

‘He’s asleep.’ You mused, looking at Nico, who fell asleep against Luke’s shoulder and was snoring softly.

‘He’s a good kid.’ Luke replied, ruffling Nico’s dark hair as a smile appeared on the younger boys face as he readjusted himself before falling still. Still like the dead Luke once playfully commented.

‘He really is.’ You said aloud, grasping Nico’s hand upon watching it reach out for you, squeezing it in hopes of showing him that you were with him. Luke pressed a kiss to your forehead as he saw the variety of emotions that flashed through your eyes as you kept watch over the sleeping boy. ‘You’re a good influence on him babe, don’t doubt yourself, the boy practically idolises you.’ He tried reassuring you but still the thoughts wouldn’t let up.

‘What if there’ll be a time where I can’t reach him, where I can’t save him from himself and he’ll resent me for it.’ You asked, needing Luke’s guidance more than ever in your time of uncertainty. Luke pondered this for a bit before finally responding. ‘There won’t be a time where Nico would ever resent you and even if that did ever happen, I just know that he would hate himself even more for pushing the one person who had his back and cared for him like their own flesh and blood.’ He then squeezed your thigh reassuringly. ‘That and you’d dive into the depths of the labyrinth to bring him back no matter what and he knows that better than anybody that you’d endanger yourself just to save him, even from himself.’

He was right. You knew he was right. You would wholeheartedly throw yourself into harms way if it meant Nico came out unscathed and that terrified you and Luke could see this. ‘So don’t doubt yourself because if you doubt yourself then Nico will doubt himself by extension. For if the person he admires doubts themself then he would feel like he should too.’ Luke then rests his forehead against yours, his eyes staring deeply into yours. ‘I know you can guide him down the right path, be the kind of person you needed when you were in his situation, be the person you know you’d feel safe with, be his protector because I know you can. He needs you.’ He finished.

You looked down at the peacefully sleeping Nico before looking back up at Luke with a look of determination. ‘I promise to protect him and help him in whatever he may need.’

Like smirks. ‘That’s my baby.’

#pjo x reader #pjo imagines #pjo imagine #pjo fanfic #pjo #pjo tv show #pjo series #luke castellan x you #luke castellan fluff #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan imagines #luke castellan fanfic

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sleepinthrumyalarms · 1 year

Text

— turned predatory

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!vampire!reader

warnings: smut, lesbian sex, biting, oral fixation, fingering, all characters are aged-up

summary: wednesday comes up with a tempting offer - and, as much as you wish you could hold back, you're unable to resist

word count: 1.4k

“Have you ever bitten a human, (Y/n)?”

Tilting your head, you watch the ravenette through the tinted lenses of your glasses, wondering if the question came from mere idle interest or if it was something that Wednesday has been harboring inside of her for a while now.

The intensity of the girl’s gaze seems to prove the latter right.

If it wasn’t her asking, you’d probably be a bit offended — you like to think you’re far more sophisticated than that. You guess the years of evolution passed made a vampire crave for blood as much as a thirsty human would for water — without getting murderous over it.

“Do you think me a medieval brute? No, I haven’t. We have donors for that,” you chuckle, shaking your head and turning back to your book, “Le Fanu would’ve approved though, wouldn’t he? What with his outdated look on vampires and all.”

The small paper - cover book in your hands is titled ‘Carmilla’, and you can’t count the amount of times you’ve reread it despite the way you refer to its author. You still prefer it over ‘Dracula’, for instance, probably because the story of a female vampire hunting an innocent woman is much more relatable for you.

But alas, it’s true – unlike lady Carmilla, you’ve never feasted on a live human being before. Times have changed – there’s no need for enslaving thralls, and mankind isn’t treated like livestock by your kind anymore.

You also find the idea of sinking your fangs into someone far too... intimate.

“He certainly would.”

Your red eyes widen as you watch Wednesday get up from her seat and stalk over to where you’re sitting on her bed, voice low when she speaks, making you shiver.

“He also wrote that a vampire is prone to be fascinated with an engrossing vehemence, resembling the passion of love,” her gentle palm rests on your shoulder, and she trails it up to your neck and to your jaw, manicured nails tracing the outline of the bone, “That it would never desist until it has sated its passion.”

As you stare up at the girl, frozen, she takes perch on your lap comfortably, looking down at you through the thickness of her gorgeous lashes and tilting her head.

“Have you ever felt this way, (Y/n)?”

Your tongue turns heavy in your mouth. You find it hard to swallow around it, around the ever-growing lump in your throat. No answer comes — you feel Wednesday’s cold digits trace up your jaw to your cheekbones, and then her dark painted lips are on yours.

Taking the smaller girl by her hips, you pull her body flush to your own, her dark plush lips sweet as she kisses you, and your mind is a mush by the time she pulls away.

“Are you sure?” you whisper, breathless, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The ravenette grabs at your chin, a slender finger gently pressing into you top lip, feeling the sharpness of your canine through the skin, and her next words make for the point of no return.

“Please, hurt me, (Y/n).”

Your gaze darkens, and you capture Wednesday’s lips again, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers move from her hips up to her chest, undoing the buttons of her starched white blouse, mouth still moving against hers as she gasps at the coldness of your touch against her skin. You’re in a hurry and you can’t see what you’re working with, the buttons making you growl with impatience – you want her clothes off, as soon as possible.

When the blouse finally hangs loosely off her shoulders, you pull away to get a good view of her perfect collarbones, of her fragile shoulders and the way her dark lacy bra hugs her pale breasts perfectly, the gentle sprinkle of freckles on top almost making you salivate. The garment looks perfect on her, too – a tight mesh, sheer and frilly with lace around the tops and bottoms, the color clashing against her marble skin gorgeously.

You’re tempted to tear it off with your teeth, but in the lust – filled haze you remember what your initial aim was – the girl’s jugular.

Moving your head closer, you place a chaste kiss into the column of Wednesday’s throat, one of your palms moving to gently grasp at the ravenette’s chin, tilting it to cover her swan – like neck with butterfly kisses, and Wednesday sighs as your lips graze a spot that makes her knees clasp around you tighter.

You mark the spot mentally, licking at the soft skin there, soothing the flesh for the upcoming puncture. Teeth bare, you trace the sharp fangs over her neck, and Wednesday shudders, before your canines sink into her.

Her fingers tangle themselves in your hair when the ravenette presses your head closer into her neck, a breathless gasp leaving her lips, warmth pooling at her stomach at the feeling of your bite. It’s ethereal, almost unrealistically so, and the danger of your sharp pearly whites against one of the most sensitive spots of her slender body only serves to turn her on even more.

The girl buckles, moving her hips into you, seeking friction, and you gladly obey.

Your fingers knead at the flesh of her inner thigh, slowly inching forward. Dipping under her uniform skirt, fingertips skim over the fabric of her lacy panties, and you groan into Wednesday’s neck at the warmth that pools there. You’re content with feeling the girl through the garment, relishing in the way she sighs into your ear breathlessly.

Pushing Wednesday’s lace panties to the side, you delicately brush your middle finger over her slit, and the ravenette shudders, mind hazy with pleasure, a tantalizing little breath emitting from her parted lips as you slip a single finger with barely any resistance. She’s so wet, wet from you having awoken the most carnal desire in her, her brows knit in pleasure.

One finger quickly turns into two, and she groans as you thrust in and out of her sopping cunt. Your teeth let up their death grip, and your tongue swipes at the small trail of blood that comes running down Wednesday’s lithe neck – she uses the newfound freedom to drape herself over your shoulders, moaning right next to your ear. Your fingers curl, and you look up to watch the small ravenette unravel.

“Oh, look at you,” you praise, “So perfect. Such a pretty girl, all for me,” your thumb finds her clit and you press against that little nub, draw rough circles into it, and Wednesday’s back arches even further, “Want you to cum for me so bad. Please.”

You feel Wednesday grip your shoulders, clawing at your clothed frame, and she throws her head back with a low moan of your name, and you groan as her plush walls turn impossibly tight around your digits. Pumping them slowly to let her ride the high out, you pull your fingers out, leaning in to press a kiss against her jaw.

Before you can move your hand away, Wednesday grabs at your palm, wrapping her smeared burgundy lips around your middle and ring, soft tongue swirling against the fingers to lick herself off you. When she pulls away, a small string of saliva connects her mouth and your digits, and you suddenly become painfully aware of the pooling heat between your legs.

“You’re delicious, aren’t you,” you grin, resting your chin on Wednesday’s chest, looking up at the flushed ravenette, completely infatuated, “I might give up my humanist style just for the sake of tasting you like this more often.”

The girl hums in reply, her arms staying wound around your neck as she catches her breath, the feeling of her bare pussy against your clothed thighs sending a small shiver up her spine.

“So... where would you like my mouth next, pretty girl?”

You watch Wednesday smile down at you, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“This is... so unfair, ‘Day...” you sigh, whining when the ravenette on top of you lands another hot kiss on your exposed neck. She moves back to admire her work, eyes tracing over your skin littered with dark lipstick marks, your slitted red gaze clouded with lust.

“Of course it is,” she chuckles, leaning in to graze her teeth over your throbbing vein, “It’s called payback, bella ragazza.”

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x reader smut #wednesday addams smut #wednesday x reader #wednesday x reader smut #wednesday smut #wednesday imagine #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday x y/n #wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams #wlw smut

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