#breathe out and the air is like mint and water
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KITTY KAT — art donaldson + reader : art has a tendency to show up late to your lessons.
tags: mdni, tennis lessons, coach!art donaldson, p in v sex, fingering, art is kind of an asshole, cheating (not on reader)
a/n: sorry to tashi… this goes out to my dear @murdrdocs
thirty minutes ago.
art donaldson was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago, your teeth grit against each other, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete floor below you.
art was a sweet guy, sure, but his time management was beyond infuriating. it almost made you feel like he thought himself above you, like you weren’t worth his time.
“one to talk,” you mumble to yourself, dragging your racket on the ground, “rich from the guy who was coached by his wife.”
ahem.
you spin around, and of course, he’s standing right there, looking the same as he always does. his dirty blonde hair was messed up and falling over his eyebrows, blue eyes, with a mix of brown, staring directly at you with an almost amused expression.
you blink at him, once, twice.
a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “sorry for being late.”
it sounds condescending, like he would never actually mean it, especially not after what he heard, it felt like a sort of karma for what you were previously saying about him.
and he knows that, of course he does, so he masks it with a sense of sweetness, one that would typically gaslight people into thinking they’ve been forgiven, but you know better.
you’ve been coached by art for a while now, and his little habits became far too predictable. this was odd, though, you couldn’t make out the glint in his eye, especially when you mumble a, “sorry, i didn’t mean—“
“let’s get started, yeah?” art cuts in, bitter, yet his voice still sounded like it was dipped in honeysuckle.
he whisks right past you with that same, tugged up smirk, he reeked of rich cologne and mint.
your lips press together and you silently, albeit ashamed, nod in agreement.
maybe silence will earn points back from your coach.
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
silence did not earn anything.
art served hard, hit the ball hard, it was as if he wanted to make the ball break through your racket and hit you square in the face. he clearly took your miniscule words personally, and he was testing you, trying to break you down, to see how much you could take until your bones turned soft and you felt like giving up.
the first time you called a pause, art smiled, “don’t tell me you’re giving up.”
“pause,” you repeat through heaved breaths, sweat sticking to your skin underneath the relentless sun. art had that same playful look in his eyes that he always did, he knew that what he was doing was working, he knew that he was getting under your skin, and as cruel as it sounds, he really did enjoy it.
if you ever were to ask him about it, he’d just shrug and say it’s all a part of the practice, it always happens in tennis, especially professional, he’s just preparing you. but deep down, he really just wanted to say that he was doing it for those reasons but for his own personal pleasures, karma comes in many forms, but art picks the harshest form first.
he watches you drink water with a desperate urgency, stifling his own chuckles, “you sure you’re okay?”
“‘m fine,” you speak after gulping down the last drop, finally satisfied, “let’s keep going.”
art’s brows furrow ever so slightly, but as soon as you’re back to being ready, he rolls the tennis ball in his hand a little, observing it, before throwing it up in the air and sending it your way. he’s so casual with every hit, despite his grunts and the way his nose scrunches whenever ball meets racket, he makes it look like it’s nothing.
to make it even worse, he starts trying to conversate between passes, “you know—“ smack! another grunt leaves his lips, “it’s really rude to—“ smack! “speak about people behind their—“ smack! “fuck.. backs.”
you’re so busy trying to decipher his words you almost miss the next hit, but thankfully you snap out of the trance quick enough to hit it last minute, which he chuckles at and quickly sends it back.
smack! “‘m sorry, art, really—“ your shoes scratch against the concrete below, smack! “i was being very—“ smack! “childish, i apologize.”
he hums, content with your apologies, but still not outwardly saying he forgives you, instead his hits start to soften, he’s less trying to kill you with the ball and now rather trying to actually play tennis. “you’re all good—“ he confirms, smack! “just make it up to me, yeah?”
ball meets floor, his words had completely caught you off guard, and you missed your hit on the ball he sent your way. you felt almost stupid, standing there, staring at him and trying to decipher what he meant by making it up to him.
and of course, he didn’t elaborate, he never did, he simply just picked up another ball, smiled at you, and said, “ready?”
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
art said he forgave you, right?
ever since that day, he’s been acting.. off. he was more focused on your figure now, not in a crude way, but in a way where he wanted you to position yourself correctly when playing. he watches you serve the ball, then his tongue prods at the inside of his cheek and he stands, “hey, hey, wait a second— your uh… your stance is wrong.”
“it is?” it was the fifth time he’s corrected you, today, and it’s safe to say you were getting annoyed, he picked up on the bitterness of your tone as he approached you.
“‘ts not my fault, kitty cat,” he shrugged simply, noticing the way your eyes narrow in frustration at his nickname, he only smiles. he leans in behind you, “may i?” his hands are ghosting over your arms from behind.
“whatever helps,” you remark.
“good,” it’s softly spoken at the shell of your ear, making you swallow thick, his fingers wrap around your wrist, other one holding your fingers grip on the racket’s handle. his grip is tight, yet gentle at the same time, veins flexing against his flesh with every movement as he helps you move into the right position. “just gotta.. do it like this,” he’s still whispering against your ear, nearly making your knees buckle.
once he’s satisfied with your position, which is far too quick for your liking, he backs off and lets you serve the ball again. he smiles once he’s gotten what he’s wanted, “perfect.”
eventually, after a while of hitting the ball, you decided to take a break. there was a silence between you and art, a tension you couldn’t place, you had nothing to blame it on, nothing to apologize for, and he constantly looked like he was trying to say something indescribable.
“hey,” he starts, before tugging his bottom lip under his tongue for a mere second before continuing, “remember when i said you had to make it up to me?”
you stare at him, curious, “yeah, of course.”
“you know,” his hands smooth over each other, skin underneath his right eye twitching as his pupils dilate in thought, “i’ve been having a.. problem, lately.”
“with tennis?”
“nono,” he laughs nervously, moving to scratch the back of his neck, “it’s personal, y’know? well— not entirely, since ‘m telling you, but uh— actually, nevermind.”
𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ 🎾
you and art hadn’t discussed much after the last meet, you found yourself standing in the court yet again, whilst he was no short of an hour late at this point. you wanted to ask him what his deal is lately, what his problem is, but he wasn’t even here to be questioned. it was almost ridiculous, like he was toying with you.
“i like your skirt,” it comes out of nowhere, but it’s the same, smooth voice that art holds.
yet again, you find yourself spinning around to meet him, he’s closer, now, clearly eyeing you— but that’s.. weird, is it not? he has a wife, he shouldn’t be complimenting your obviously short skirt, or eyeing you like that, or wishing to tell you things that he had apparently not told anyone else because it’s personal. but who are you to question his relationship? maybe he’s just.. being nice, really.
“thank you,” you offer, nice, short, sweet.
he rolls his shoulder, meeting your eyes, flickering his gaze to your lips for a mere second, then saying nothing and walking by. rich cologne and mint. that’s what wafts into your senses immediately, as if it was some sort of distraction from his odd behaviors.
“do you always call people kitty cat?” you eventually ask him, it was something you’d been wondering, truly, especially since you’ve never been called that before.
“to pretty girls with an attitude, yeah,” art says it so casually.
“like your wife?”
“like you.”
art corrected you.
he corrected you, and his correction didn’t annoy you like how they always did, it made your stomach churn in a way you couldn’t decipher, you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. you liked it, maybe, but isn’t that so sickening? art seems to think no big deal of his own words, as he doesn’t even react, so you try to be nonchalant about it as well.
the whole entire test match you play with him, he has a certain glint in his eye, his grunts are louder, his shorts look tighter, he looks like he’s having some sort of reaction to playing tennis, to playing tennis with you. your tongue runs along your lips between breaks, noticing the way his eyes linger on it, the way his pupils widen at the shine of saliva over your lips with each swipe.
at the third break, art was convinced you were doing this on purpose.
“why do you keep doing that?” he asks as he’s walking over to grab his water bottle, right where you’re sitting on the concrete floor. you blink up at him, watching him hover the bottle near his lips and squirt the water into his mouth. did he always look this good when sweaty?
gosh, maybe you’re just tired, maybe your mind is just foggy.
“what?” you frown, confused.
“licking your lips,” he speaks after swallowing the water, towering over you. his muscles were nearly bursting out of his white t-shirt with every movement, especially when he puts his water bottle down and crosses his arm, head cocking to the side. sweat causes some of his hair strands to stick to his forehead, lips puffy from how much he bites them when playing.
“my lips are dry,” you explain, so simple.
“yeah?” again, another smile, he had to be toying with you, “do you need some other help with that?”
“what do you mean?”
art hums, not explaining anything when he opens his mouth and swipes his thumb along his tongue, moving down to rub the saliva from his tongue onto your lips, memorizing the pillowy soft touch. your eyes widen, slightly, “art, this is—“
“not helping?” art tuts in faux disappointment, mumbling a small, ‘why don’t i..’ before he leans down further, licking his own lips and getting closer and closer until his lips are brushing against yours.
“wrong,” you mumble out, but you sound unsure, like you don’t really believe what you just said, you don’t think this is wrong, you’ve always thought art was attractive, it was his wife that kept your crush on him at bay. you mumble against his lips, “you have a wife, art..”
“do i?” he smirks against your lips, a near chuckle slipping out, “i must’ve forgotten.”
“art,” it sounds like a warning, but again, you wanted nothing less than for his lips to fall against yours right now.
“make it up to me, yeah? remember that?” his hand moves to hold your cheek, tipping your head up at him, eyes meeting yours in such close proximity, “i’ve got some marriage problems right now, so why don’t you play wife for me, hm?”
you nod at him, ever so slightly, he clocks it immediately, and that’s his que. his eyes flutter shut, and he’s leaning in only a mere centimeter before his lips fall against yours. the kiss is soft at first, sweet, new, but then art starts taking the lead, and it quickly becomes something on the faint lines of cannibalism, he kissed you like he wanted to eat you, like he loved you.
when he said he wanted you to play wife, he wasn’t lying.
he pries your lips open with his own before his tongue makes it’s way inside your mouth, tasting the peppermint of your gum on your own tongue, memorizing the noisy breaths that leave your mouth and move into his. your nails are quick to run along his arms, making him pull back to speak, “hold on, kitty cat.”
“you call your wife kitty cat?” you watch him peel off his sweaty shirt from his skin.
he tosses the shirt to the side, exhaling a breath that showed he hated the feeling of the wet fabric on his skin, “mm, i call you kitty cat, ‘nd you’re playing my wife, so.”
“right,” you agree, letting his cold hands brush against your skin when he takes your clothes off of you, of course looking at you for approval beforehand, which you nod to.
“did you start wearing shorter skirts on purpose?” art questions when his fingers reach the waistband of your skirt, ever so slowly dipping underneath.
“no, ‘course not,” you speak breathlessly, feeling his fingers move under your underwear as well until his fingertips meet your clit. you swallow thick, lashes fluttering as he starts moving his fingers in an almost cruel slowness.
“look at me,” he whispers a simple command, free hand holding your chin and forcing you to look at him. his fingers move further down, immediately feeling how wet you are, he chuckles in surprise, “god, you’re this wet for a married man, huh?”
“for my husband,” you mumble out, playing the part.
“that’s right,” his middle finger circles your entrance for a second before ever so slowly dipping it inside. he watches your lips fall apart, the way your eyes get glossed over, the way your hips push up against his finger. “needy.”
he doesn’t take long to push another finger in, letting go of your chin so he could guide your hand to his clothed cock, hard and pushing against his flimsy shorts. as soon as you start rubbing his dick through the fabric, his breath shudders slightly, as if he’s been waiting too long for like, as if he hasn’t had sexual pleasure in weeks.
soon enough, only a mere minute or two in of foreplay, art gets antsy and he has to have his dick inside of you, he pries his fingers from your cunt and takes your skirt off next. “lay down for me, yeah?” he smiles at the fact that you do it immediately, even spreading your legs for him.
he hisses at the feeling when his bare knees meet the concrete floor below, harsh on his skin, he tugs his shorts and boxers down ever so slightly until his cock is finally freed. you inhale sharply upon seeing it, he had a big dick. he spits in his hand, coating his dick with a grunt before he finally lines himself up with your entrance.
“ready?” he hushes out.
“yeah, yeah,” you’re barely able to finish the last yeah before his dick is moving into you, his nose scrunching from the tightness of your walls around him, it’s like you were purposefully squeezing his cock with an attempt to milk him dry already.
“fuck,” he grunts out, pulling back, then moving back in, earning a pathetic moan from your lips. it sounds like music to his ears, so he keeps going, his thrusting was slow at first, gentle, kind— but just like the test matches, or the kiss, he gets hungry, and he wants more.
his thrusts turn relentless almost immediately, maybe even like he was taking out some sorts of sexual frustrations out on your poor cunt. whimpers, whines, moans, all of those leave your lips, matching up with the grunts and the occasional whimper from his own mouth as well.
sex was intoxicating for art, and there was something so dangerous, so forbidden about this, you weren’t really his wife, he was married to another woman, he was solely your coach. some sick part of art loves that, maybe that’s why he leans down and starts nipping at your neck, sucking at the delicate skin until maroon and blackberry starts blooming on the blank canvas.
“art, oh my god,” you moan out, hands moving to scratch at his bare back, and maybe art should be smart enough to tell you not to leave marks, but he lets your nails dig in as his thrusts get harsher, surely drawing blood, or at least noticeable scratches.
in fact, the feeling of you tearing into his skin only makes his orgasm come on faster, soon enough wracking his body and making his hips stutter. he keeps going though, despite the overstimulation that makes him pathetically whine softly, just until you’ve reached your own orgasm.
he pulls out, panting, smirking down at you, “thanks, kitty cat.”
#୨୧ (jules yapping) .ᐟ#art donaldson#art donaldson x reader#art donaldson x you#mike faist#mike faist x reader#mike faist x you#art donaldson smut#art donaldson challengers#challengers#challengers smut#mike faist smut#mike faist challengers
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despite my brand, i actually love cold weather. soothing.
#ney’s art#experimenting with a moodier color palette#breathe out and the air is like mint and water#need that in my life y'know#experimenting a lot with this one actually#brushes... style... general sleepy mood#drink some water (ice optional) and breathe#sona art
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SPACE CAMP
based off of this
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!matt, soft dom!chris x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after a night in with alcohol, you and your two closest friends end up playing a game… not knowing what it can turn into.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: THREESOME, PURE FILTH, drinking, making out, oral (female & male receiving), blindfold, teasing, edging, overstimulation, daddy kink, drunk(ish) sex, p in v, slight spit kink, degradation/praising, ass grabbing
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,617
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: SHOUTOUT TO MY CUTESY 🧸 ANON AND ANOTHER ANON FOR MAKING THIS HAPPEN
buckle up everyone. told you it was worth the wait😇
nick wanted to hang out with madi tonight, leaving you and your two other best friends in your living room.
christopher and matthew sturniolo.
being friends for so long is such a blessing. some friendships either have drama or fall out, but not yours. the three of you are comfortable with doing almost anything together.
who knew that phrase would slap you in the face?
“so what’s this game about?” you ask, chris helping you tie the blindfold.
alcohol decorates the coffee table. there’s no doubt that you guys are a little drunk. “we are going to put on chapstick and you have to guess which flavor it is.”
“so we’re going to make out?” you laugh drunkenly. “cool.”
chris grabs the space camp box that’s on your bookshelf, opens the box, and places the chapstick down. they each grab one, smearing it nicely on their lips so the flavor will be able to pop.
kicking your feet and biting your lip in anticipation, you wait patiently. a hand then cups your cheek, lips smashing into yours. whoever this is kisses soft, lips moving in sync for a few seconds before pulling away.
smacking your lips together, you try to taste it. “watermelon?”
“nice.” matt says, moving out of the way for chris.
this time, the kiss is filled with hunger. your lips making a smacking sound while his tongue enters your mouth.
he stops, and you must admit that that kiss made your brain fuzzy and feel things between your thighs. “i know mint from anywhere.”
mint is easy to guess since the smell is so strong. they chuckle before one speaks.
“let's spruce it up a little” matt asks, looking over at his brother with a smirk on his face. he returns the same one, the triplet telepathy working like a charm.
furrowing your brows, you wait before a pair of hands start to pull down your pants. you bite your lip, the sudden air in the room hitting your clit when your bottoms are completely off.
a presence is felt in front of you, whoever it is blowing on your area. you jolt from it.
“sensitive.” matt points out, nibbling at your inner thighs.
you gasp once his tongue meets your core, licking strands up and down your slit. chest heaving, you squirm and moan softly.
chris smiles down at you, taking a piece of your hair and tucking it behind your ear. matt takes his thumbs to spread your folds wider, causing your arousal to drip all over his mouth and for him to dig deeper.
your hand rests on the back of his neck, purposely leaving him there. you start to moan uncontrollably, leaning your head on the back of the sofa. “matt.” you whine.
somehow, he manages to get his tongue so deep that you can only shiver and gasp from the feeling.
a familiar heat hits your stomach fast, but he pulls away. then, another figure kneels in front of you.
you have a few seconds to catch your breath, but this time you squeal and grip the person’s head.
unlike matt, instead of delving in, he sucks at your bud.
chris.
“oh, chris!” you mewl, your moans more high-pitched. even though they can’t see it, your eyes roll back and also start to water.
holding onto the sides of his head, you rut your hips upward. the way he’s suckling at your needy clit only makes you want more. “mm, chris! please go faster.” you whine, clenching around nothing.
both his tongue and lips continue to suck and lick, your legs opening wider. “you’re going to make me cum!” you moan, rubbing his hair with your fingertips.
just like matt, he pulls away.
“stop teasing me,” you whine, your pussy swollen and red from the edging. you exhale shakily, whining so pathetically. “please. please let me—”
“stop whining.” matt says, kneeling once again to get face to face with your dripping wetness.
it’s like the last time — his tongue moving at an animalistic pace, nose grazing your clit.
he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, the angle letting him hit a new spot.
a tear falls down your cheek, soft sobs and moans coming from your mouth. you’re far too sensitive for this, especially if it’s two people.
going to grab matt’s hair, a hand takes your wrists and lays them on your head, the other hand pulling you in to rest your cheek on his hard-on.
you whimper, another tear leaving your eyelid. “i want to touch him.”
“nah.” chris nonchalantly, caressing your head trying to soothe you from your panting.
mumbling something out of nowhere, matt stops, seeing if he heard you right. “what was that?”
your cheeks flush, nuzzling your head into Chris’s crotch. “daddy.” you whisper. “i need to cum.”
matt’s dick twitches in his pants, the erection only getting harder at your words. chris moved his hips forward from the sudden contact on his dick. the contact in question is your lips.
while matt’s eating you out, you kiss chris’ clothed boner. you moan on it, the vibration not helping his current state of mind.
“s-shit, y/n.” he stammers, throwing his head back. “fuck keep doing that.”
you listen, until the man between your legs hits that one spot inside you that has your toes curled. “i’m close, daddy!” you moan, arching your back with your mouth hanging open. “oh, f-fuck! i’m cumming.”
repeating the phrase rapidly, your legs squeeze in on his head and shake. then, your body unlooses, your orgasm dripping onto his face and the couch.
matt sits on the floor now, scooting back while chris lets go of your hands and takes the blindfold off.
it takes a bit for your eyes to adjust to the light, but it hits you when you glance at your two best friends.
getting eaten out is one thing, but getting fucked by them is way different. however, you love the adrenaline of trying something new.
“get on your knees.” matt demands, motioning with his finger.
you listen, slowly making your way to the hardwood floor.
he smirks at how well you listen. “crawl to me.”
blush forms, your face becoming hot. you can’t tell if it’s because you’re embarrassed or because you’re so turned on by both of them.
you swiftly crawl toward matt, chris humming behind you at the way your pussy glistens by your movements.
once you are leveled with matt’s dick, you take off his belt before your hips get gripped. chris arches your back, feeling his tip coating itself with your juices.
you moan, continuing to take matt’s underwear off. chris groans, pushing into you with ease because of how wet you are.
inhaling sharply, you grab matt’s base and move your hand up and down it. he moans, his eyes not leaving contact with yours.
the boy behind you thrusts hard and fast, not having you adjust properly. whimpers leave your lips. man, he’s huge.
you try your best to keep matt occupied, by the pleasure feels so amazing that you stop moving your hand.
instead, you let go and look at him, face contorting in pleasure while moans come out of your agape mouth. “c-can i suck your cock, daddy?” you beg between noises. “i p-promise i’ll suck it good. i wan-want to feel your cock in my mouth.”
without saying a word, he grabs your head a pushes it down. you gag when your nose reaches his pubic bone. he does all the work and bobs your head. all you have to do is sit there and take two dicks.
the vibrations from your sounds vibrate through matt’s body. he smiles smugly, admiring how you’re under their control.
“damn, she’s tight.” chris grunts, grabbing your ass and jiggling it.
“so is this slutty mouth.” matt says, noticing the way you react by rolling your eyes back and moaning louder. “yeah? you like being our little slut?”
his grip tightens on your head and you wince. when your mouth reaches his tip, you spit on it… once, twice, three times before continuing.
matt groans. it’s a filthy sight, but he fucking adores it.
the echo of skin on skin bounces throughout the room, gulping and gagging flooding your ears.
“this is such a good pussy for such a good slut.” chris heaves, reaching between your thighs to rub your clit. your eyes widen, and your legs start to become jelly.
“mmfph clothe.” you try to warn, but for obvious reasons, you can’t.
matt’s balls tighten, immediately shooting his load down your throat. “that’s right.” he grunts, watching the way your hollow your cheeks to keep it in. “swallow it like a cumslut.”
finally being able to breathe again when he pulls out, you gasp for air but it soon turns into a scream when chris abuses that sweet spot.
matt lifts your head by the chin, leaning in to kiss you sloppily. he moans, biting your bottom lip and tugging at it when he tastes himself on your tastebuds.
“fuck yeah.” chris whispers when you start to streak your cream down his dick.
he pulls out, spurting his white on your back. (deep down he wishes he was able to finish inside you.)
you collapse on the ground, the two boys helping clean you and then themselves. after putting their clothes back on, they help you up and sit you back on the couch.
“put the blindfold back on.” matt asks.
your eyes widen, still dazed. “w-why?”
“because princess.” he says, grabbing the fabric and putting it back on your eyes. “we still have one more flavor left. you have a long night ahead of you.”
𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!
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#chris sturniolo#matt sturniolo#nick sturniolo#christopher sturniolo#nicolas sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#sturniolo x reader#sturniolo imagine#sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo smut#chris sturniolo fanfic#chris sturniolo smut#matt sturniolo fanfic#matt sturniolo smut
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cw. clingy blade & sleepy blade, gn! reader
blade craves your attention throughout the entire day, forthrightly, it's written across his entire facial features— his cheeks flushed warm, lips puckered out and pouty, but his expression ever so soft and practically laced in love.
yet beware of difficulties, one second without your unwavering focus on him and blade begins to slowly develop into a clingy baby, begging for your touch.
you catch the smallest possible amount of translucent tremor in his voice, "come back." he speaks, "please."
and seeing him open his arms for you immediately, so you could lean back into his clothed chest allowed your lips to form into a gentle smile— faintly, yet powerful enough to soothe blade‘s heart.
by the time you slant back into him, you place a couple kisses across his face, knowing that he adores whenever you worshipped or appreciated him in that manner— while, something in his chest suddenly unbuckles together with a slight weakening in the knees, like taking a deep breath of real, clean air after being inside all day or drinking a glass of cold water after waking up from an unplanned nap.
"you know we can‘t stay like this forever."
"hmm, interesting." he feigns innocence, his voice has gone husky as he reached up to tenderly cradle your cheek, "because i think we can."
the attempt to reason with your boyfriend was deemed as futile, that much was obvious to you. blade looms over you before entirely crossing the remaining distance of your frames, needful, circling his strong arms just a little tighter until you‘re fully squished into his warm chest, awkwardly tangled under the silky bedsheets.
there‘s more that catches the eye— the slight mint on his breath, the luscious fragrance around his neck area or an indistinct scent of shampoo in his freshly washed hair.
the effect of noticing all those things turned you tired in the end with your eyes lowering at each of blade's heart beats against your squished cheek. on the night where you had originally planned to engage in other activities, you were gradually forgetting about what you had stated earlier and dozed off into a comforting slumber with the man you so deeply treasured.
©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify
#blade x reader#hsr x reader#honkai star rail x reader#blade x you#blade fluff#honkai star rail fluff#hsr fluff#hsr blade x reader#honkai star rail blade x reader#honkai star rail x you#hsr x you
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petrichor
a continuation of sugar & mint
summary: a summer friday feat. long lie-ins, a doting husband, and something unexpected
pairing: dad!steve x mom!reader
W.C.: 2390 K
warnings: NSFW 18+ MDNI, smoking, cursing, pregnancy mention, my usual brand of filth (unprotected p-i-v, oral - m & f receiving, come eating)
a/n: disclaimer, i'm not a mom (unless you count my two pets)!! i am but a simple god mom to some feral babies, whom i adore. if pregnancy or mom!reader is not your vibe, i completely get it - i just couldn't get the thought of these two out of my head 🥹
🎵🎵 Oh, woe-oh-woah is me, the first time that you touched me 🎵🎵
pet·ri·chor /ˈpetrīˌkôr/ (noun)
definition: a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.
Waking to the sound of rain falling steadily on the roof, you blearily pry an eye open to check the time. The sheets beside you on the bed are cool, Steve having made good on his promise to let you sleep in. The clock informs you of the late hour, 1 PM, as your stomach begs for sustenance.
Scrubbing a hand across your face, you roll over and rummage around for a shirt to cover throw on before trotting downstairs. Bub is off with her aunts for one final summer weekend, and there’s a slight chill in the air. Enough to warrant slipping on your husband’s discarded gray sweatshirt.
Aside from the rain against the eaves and windows, the house is silent. Grabbing your favorite mug from the cabinet, you busy yourself making a cup of coffee before you see the post-it stuck to the fridge.
Hope you got to sleep in, your majesty. Grabbing groceries in town, see you soon. xxx - Steve
Grabbing a cinnamon bagel and your coffee you settle in the window seat of the breakfast nook to watch the rain, free of distractions and responsibilities. It’s rare that you get a moment like this, no pressing deadlines, drop-off or pick-up lanes, hosting dinners for friends, or attending a birthday party.
Eyes following the drag of raindrops on the windowpane, your hand falls to the nearly imperceptible swell of your stomach. Early days yet, but you knew the signs: nausea, exhaustion, all the usual suspects. Finishing your coffee, you trekked upstairs in search of a rogue pregnancy test— would it have expired by now?
After checking the date and deeming it worthy, you took the test and checked the time. Deciding it best to go back downstairs to ease your anxiety, you settled back in the window seat with a second cup of coffee.
_
“Couldn’t find a shirt?”
He laughs, shaking off the water droplets like a dog in the foyer. “It wasn’t raining when I left,” Steve says, as if that’s explanation enough. Not that you’re necessarily complaining, his hair and skin damp, tank top doing fuck all being as soaked as it is. “And I couldn’t find my—”
Catching sight of his sweatshirt grazing the tops of your thighs he smiles. “Nevermind, looks better on you anyway.” He kicks the door closed, shoes squelching against the floor as he makes his way into the kitchen.
“Baaaabe,” you whine, catching a whiff of tobacco on him, “Please tell me you didn’t smoke in my car.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, sunglasses resting against the visor of his ball cap as he sets the tote bags on the counter. “Trader Joe’s was insane,” he says setting the keys on the counter, “It was an emergency cigarette, I swear.”
A roll of your eyes as you begin to put away the groceries. “If you bothered to wake me, I could’ve told you Trader Joes on a Friday was a bad idea.”
Steve quirks a brow in interest, grabbing a few items to shove in the freezer.
“Flower delivery is Friday, brings all the Lululemon moms to the yard.”
“Huh,” he grunts, “Explains all the spandex and lycra then.” Damp fingers trail against your thigh before wrapping an arm around your hip to draw you close. “Besides,” he breathes against your neck, “If I remember correctly, you requested to be left to sleep in.”
Failing to stifle a yawn, you eek out, “Because I’m fuckin’ exhausted, Harrington.” Setting your mug in the sink, you turn in his grasp and drape an arm across his shoulders. “Raising your daughter and dealing with your sorry ass.”
“Oh,” he pulls you closer, hips flush against one another, “So she’s my daughter now?”
“When she’s having sleep regression, yes.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yes,” you huff, “Me, I’m the poor thing because she insisted on crawling into our bed and kept kicking me in the ribs all night.”
“Hmm,” he hums, resting his chin against your head, “Explains the post-it stuck to my face this morning. ‘Help me Steve Harrington, you’re my only hope! Can you get Bub off to Aunt Nancy & Robin’s and please (for the love of god) let me sleep in? xxx —the love of your life & bearer of your child.”
“Hey,” you grouse into his chest, “I am clever and cute and you love me.”
Steve pulls back to get a better look at you— sleep mused, hair askew, barely dressed in a sweatshirt that had seen better days, and bare feet. He reaches down to link his fingers through yours. It feels so good, and warm, and you sigh almost contentedly.
“Course I do.” He takes a breath, “How could I not?”
“Steve Harrington,” you whisper against his lips, “You sweet talkin’ me?”
And with that, you crash your lips over his, sliding your tongue—sweet and heavy with promise into the space of his mouth.
He tastes like a stolen cigarette and coffee, cinnamon dancing on his tongue from the Big Red he’d swiped from the car. Kisses you slow and deep, easing you back against the counter. Chest pressed flush to yours, you let out an involuntary hiss.
“Somethin’ wrong?”
A shake of your head as your pepper his cheeks with kisses, bristles of five o’clock shadow catching against your lips.
“My tits just really hurt.”
“Huh,” he tuts, leaning back to look you over. “That’s uh… new.”
Quirking your brow, you level him with a look. “And how would you know?”
Steve’s lips curl in a slow smile, “I notice things.”
Glancing to the green numbers illuminated on the microwave, you grab his hand and make for the staircase. “Sure you do, big guy,” you toss over your shoulder playfully.
Settling him on the bed, you trot back into the en suite and return with the white plastic test in your hand. Handing it to him without fanfare, you watch as his face turns from one of mild curiosity to that of astonishment. Shock.
There was a cautious longing in your eyes and your face was measured. The air was weighted in silence, desire crystallizing as he leaned towards you, a pull he allowed himself to fall toward, closing the space between, choosing not to think, blocking out any hesitation and he was kissing you.
You were trying not to rush this, trying to savor this, slowly, carefully, tormented with the scent of his skin, all warm and washed linen, comfort laced in a simmering heat that he kept tempered somewhere deep within his soul.
Your face was cradled in his hands, pulling you closer, skin hot against palms, lips hotter still against his own when he realised the rain had stopped.
You crawl into his lap, straddle his waist, and his breath is punched out of his lungs in awe of your beauty. You undress him with deft fingers, yanking his clothes, hissing when he pulls away to peel the shirt off— as if not touching him pains you. The sweatshirt comes off— thrown carelessly landing somewhere on the floor— Steve revels in the exposure your chest—soft, heaving with love and agony.
Steve. Stevie. I love you. I love you. I love you so much.
Desperate, again.
You tug his hair, grip his chest and back, kiss him until his head spins. The bed creaks softly, as if it doesn’t want to interrupt the sounds that your bodies create together.
His kisses were deliberate towards one destination as his hands moved toward another, caressing you soft on the skin of your hips, slowly, sweetly up your sides and arching your back where you perched, a way to kiss you harder, reach you further to rediscover all his favorite parts of you.
The moan started low in your throat as he eased himself into you, sinking all the way to the hilt, delicious and easy, because he couldn’t wait and neither could you. You in all your love and splendor, always ready, always open for him, legs widening and gripping him as he began to move, slowly and agonizingly sweet.
Steve was trying to restrain himself, slow it down, revel in the feel of you, warm and wet and wonderful around him. He wanted to make it go slow, try not to lose himself through your soft sounds, the little breaths that told him the how, the when, the yes, please, right there, yes as you dissolved into moans that had him aching.
It was less deliberate now, more messy, a stuttered rhythm that had his legs feeling shaky, chasing his release, the push and pull of desire tightening, closer, hotter, tighter, and then an instant hardness that had him seeing stars, mouth tucked into the curve of your neck, your fingers threaded, gripping his locks, spilling feeling from his cock through your cunt.
He makes love to you, and even though he is bone tired from the hectic morning, he doesn’t feel it until you tremble in his arms and slump against his chest.
Your breath caught in your throat when he drew back to look at you, half-embarrassed, half a smile awash in his flushed face, hazel eyes full and wanting – utterly beautiful. Steve kissed your nose, your mouth, lingering sweetness on your lips, and you groaned as he picked you up, still buried inside you, his hands strong beneath your ass, fingers itching to trail the familiar paths of faded stretch marks. To praise the skin that grew to house you and your daughter, knew instinctively what to do, even if you were less than pleased with their sudden arrival.
Steve can’t help it - he loves your body for that, for keeping you and Bub safe. It’s something he won’t ever experience, but each time he happens to catch sight of you, pregnant or not, he can’t help but feel that he’s witnessing something sacred. Something holy.
The bed now, a comfort beneath your back, sheets scrambled beneath his palms as he balanced himself above you, then a stuttered breath as he slipped out, your muscles already missing the fullness of him. His pretty head moved lower now, your pretty hands still stroking through his pretty hair, sending pretty shivers through his spine.
The gasp was low in your throat when Steve pushed his fingers inside you, slow and agonizing, damp with you and him, all melded together and you almost winced when he dipped his mouth between your thighs, his tongue careful and deliberate, tasting you, tasting him, his mouth warm and licking you from core to clit.
This time, your legs were shaking, skin like fire and you were already too wound up, too high on just the feel on him, his hair brushing skin, beard soft on your thighs. Your fingers were fisted still through his hair, and god, he loved the way he knew how to drive you by the tension in your hands, the scrabbled grip through his locks as you got closer, more breathless, a groan and then an arch of toes before you were wrung out and writhing beneath him.
A clap of thunder sounded out as you collapsed, loose limbs and shivery skin as he came up to kiss you, shared joy and wonder, near awe that he could still bring you over the edge this way.
Steve's hair was something else now, wild and beautiful – definitely overdue for a trim and you were laughing now, face sparkling with glee.
“You look awful,” you told him, bringing your lips up to kiss him, all giggly with delight.
“Thank you,” he replied, nosing you close and drawing new breaths from your tongue as your hands drifted to the velvet skin beneath his thighs, working him slow and sweet.
“Oh, I will,” you answered, tempered smile in that face he adored so well, and shifted your body, drawing Steve onto his back as you dipped lower and he tried to hold the groan as you took him in your mouth.
He had to look away, some way to regather himself, the rushing blood through his skin, shooting straight to his cock, the warmth of your mouth on him, your tongue stroking him, the push and drag of your lips along that sensitive skin.
Steve focused on the feeling of you surrounding him, your warmth, your light, but even so, it was too much after a while and he had to change it, change the way you felt on him before he got too eager, too earnest. He lifted you, a giggle escaping your lips as you pulled off him with one last, deliberate drag of your mouth and this time, he couldn’t help the moan from his lips.
It was heaven, warm and sweet, when he pushed into you for the second time, your knees almost matched high at your chest, grazing your aching nipples as he found that special part of you that drew his most favorite sounds. You were keening, moving slowly together, trying not to lose control, trying to savor this for as long as you possibly could in this delicious bubble of time and space.
_
Hours later and the pair of you had yet to leave the house. Rain pouring on and off throughout the afternoon and into the evening.
A tentative look at your belly, still smooth and firm. His hand finds the plane of it, fingers brushing the skin and over newly forming goosebumps. A surprising amount of excitement flutters in his own at the thought. It’d be good.
Steve insisted on throwing something together for dinner and made his way downstairs. He’s excited at the prospect of another baby, especially if they continued to take after you like Bub had. And she’d be adorable big sister, his heart swells at the thought.
He grabs the plates and heads back upstairs, the creak of the trick-step signalling his ascent. Nudging the door open with his hip, he pauses to take in the sight of you, and sets the plates on the nightstand.
Steve doesn’t know how someone can light up a room like you, just sitting there in his sweatshirt, doing nothing but smile. “Honey,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the moment but can’t help himself. He just wants to see you looking at him.
“Yeah?” You turn your head ever so slightly, peek up under flared lashes— sleepy eyes struggling to stay awake— still sparkling. “What is it?”
“Honey, I love you.” Is all he can manage. Everything else seems to fade away.
And then you smile, a slow curling of your soft lips, cupid’s bow catching a moonbeam. You smile so sweetly his heart stops in his chest. The world comes rushing back with your tired sigh and your hand linking itself with his. One beat, two beats, steadily, heavily, his blood pulses again when you kiss his cheek and murmur,
“I love you, too.”
#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington x you#steve harrington smut#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington fanfiction#dad! steve harrington#Spotify
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Dandelion (A Villain Story)
You stub your toe and the mind control breaks.
Your power snaps from the shock and the hundred or so clones you’d been controlling disappear with a pop! You hold your breath as the steel they’d been carrying clangs loudly in the cavernous room. You’re the only one in this sector but that was loud. If by some miracle nobody heard that, surely your abductor will notice you’re free any moment now—
Devil Eyes doesn’t notice.
You cover your mouth with both hands, pressing so hard that your teeth creak. There’s a hysterical giggle struggling to claw its way up your throat. You’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten, but this is what it takes to break Devil Eyes’ control? Your pinky toe throbbing after kicking a stray steel beam?
Fuck, that’s funny.
You breathe in through your nose slowly. Only when your lungs hurt worse than your toe from how much air you’re holding in them do you release your mouth. You breathe out in six quick bursts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
You’re free.
Holy shit, you’re free! How long has it been? Six months? Eight? You know it’s not summer anymore, but Devil Eyes has had you working in the depths of his lair for weeks now and you’ve lost track of time. That’s fine though, you’re pretty sure you’re still in Arizona and there’s sunshine even in winter. Your breath hitches in your chest. The sun! Oh, the sun, you want to see the sun so bad and now you can because you’re free--
Don’t cry. Don’t make a sound. Assess. Act.
Escape.
You’re in the delivery sector. There are piles of steel everywhere you look, tossed this way and that so that it looks like a giant failed game of Jenga. Your clones were carrying the beams from the truck in the docking bay to the appropriate facilities deeper into the mountain when they disappeared. Ha! Fat chance Devil Eyes finishes construction without you around. You’re the only reason this mountain lair is even possible. It would serve him right to spend so long stealing materials only to have nobody around to do the hard work for him.
That’s why I need to escape.
Spite is what keeps you moving. The truck driver is gone. He’s a real minion of Devil Eyes, not a brainwashed one like you. That means he’s probably in the living sector enjoying the benefits of willing servitude. Benefits like soda. And beds. And those little pillow mints they give you at hotels.
Your mouth waters.
Don’t you dare go back for a pillow mint, you scold yourself. It doesn’t matter how bad you’ve been craving one, forced to set them out and never allowed to eat one. You have the chance to escape and you’re going to take it.
You climb into the cab of the truck. The driver took his keys with him, but you’re a villain. You have the engine turning over in less than five minutes, the bed of the truck detached within three, the seat and mirrors adjusted in less than one.
Ten minutes after stubbing your toe, you’re driving out of the mountain and into the deepest of Arizona nights. Nobody sounds any alarms. Nobody starts shooting at you. How could they? You were the one manning the graveyard shift in the security room. You were the one at the turrets. You were the one doing it all while Devils Eyes and his crew slept.
The stars stretch above you. You crack the windows of the truck and suck in the fresh air greedily. Your eyes burn.
Not yet, you think. Your eyes smart and you bite your lip until the lump in your throat goes away. Not yet. As a villain, you’ve always made it a point not to let your guard down until the job is done.
This job isn’t anywhere near done.
----------,
Getting into one of Hero Force’s headquarters is either the best thing to happen to a villain or the worst.
Breaking into one is a badge of honor, especially if you’re able to get away with a trophy. Information, a hostage, even a paperclip. Anything that proves you were there and they couldn’t stop you from doing whatever you wanted.
Getting taken into Headquarters is a nightmare. It means you’ve been caught and caught good. Getting taken into Headquarters means the end of a masked villain’s career. Hero Force knows who you are from that point on and, even if you escape, they’re not going to lose track of you any time soon.
You’re not sure what walking into one is. A disgrace? An act of stupidity?
You park your truck illegally and push both doors open at the same time just a little after sunrise.
“Hello,” you say to the receptionist. He’s wearing the characteristic black mask of Hero Force personnel and you wait until his brown eyes shift from his computer to you before continuing. "I’ve been held captive by the villain Devil Eyes for the last six or eight months and I’d like to talk to somebody about it.”
“Pardon?” the receptionist asks. His fingers are frozen over his keyboard. “You—pardon?”
“I don’t know what month it is,” you say. Abruptly you realize you’re not wearing a mask. A chill shudders down your spine. Devil Eyes knows what you look like and now Hero Force does too. You are so fucked, you’re going to need to flee the country-- Think about it later. “So I don’t know how long I was brainwashed for.”
“Brainwashed?”
“By Devil Eyes,” you say. When the receptionist continues to stare at you, you shift your weight from side to side. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but is there someone higher up I could speak to?”
It turns out there is. The receptionist is only too happy to call them for you and things move very quickly after that.
They take you to the fifth floor of headquarters and into a very nice conference room. The receptionist brings you coffee, water, and a fresh change of clothes. He doesn’t bring you pillow mints when you ask but makes up for it by fishing out a crushed granola bar from the inner pocket of his blazer.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you say. Crumbs tumble from your lips and onto the oak table. “Fuck.” You lick your fingers and pick them up as best you can, scooping them into your mouth as you go.
“We’ll have something delivered,” he says, eyes skittering away from you. “It’ll probably arrive before Arctic—”
“No, it won’t.”
You twist in your seat, granola bar stuffed in your cheeks. Arctic is standing in the doorway in full costume, sans cape. Her slate grey eyes study you a moment before she steps into the room. Rag Doll, her second in command, follows silently behind. Unlike his boss, he’s half in his civvies– jeans and long-sleeved Henley that shows off the extra joints in his arms and legs. His patchwork mask does little to hide the bags under his eyes.
“Ma’am,” the receptionist says. He’s flustered in the presence of the A-rank heroes, you can see it. He sketches out a bow and then seems to think better of it, jerking ramrod straight and shuffling towards the door. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Arctic watches him go with one pale brow raised.
As soon as the door shuts, Rag Doll sighs. “It’s his first day.”
“He didn’t get their name, did not relay a proper history, and called me ma’am,” Arctic says in her heavy drawl. She frowns and smooths her white hair away from her face. “That’s three strikes.”
“Wait until he watches all the HR videos before you start handing out strikes.”
“He should have finished those before he was stationed at the front door.” Arctic strides around the table and takes the seat at the head without looking at you. She pulls out a notebook from her utility belt, flipping to a blank page, and then finally looks at you. “Do you need another granola bar?”
Oh. She was stalling until you could finish eating. A smile comes to your face unbidden. “I missed your southern charm, Arctic.”
Arctic drops her pen.
Rag Doll, halfway into his seat, freezes. He stares at you with wide eyes. “Virus?”
Oh yeah. You used to compliment Arctic’s Southern manners a lot before Devil Eyes got you. “Long time no see.”
“Long time—it’s been a year,” Rag Doll says incredulously.
“You look awful,” Arctic says without a bit of manners to be found.
“A year?” The room swims. Since the wallpaper kind of reminds you of bile anyway it’s no surprise what happens next. “Fuck.”
You throw up.
------------------.
“I was going on the straight and narrow,” you’re saying an hour later. You’re in a different conference room, this one on the third floor. The walls are a nice, soothing blue and there’s a vanilla air freshener plugged into the wall. “I really was.”
“You’ve been with Devil Eyes this whole time?” Rag Doll asks. He’s seated across from you, leaning forward onto his elbows. He’d stopped Arctic from putting the power suppressors on you. She agreed when he pointed out they might kill you in your fragile state. “There’s never been any indication he can hold someone that long.”
“Well, he can,” you say. You wordlessly accept the tea Arctic slides across the table. The heat of it shocks you in the best way. You drink greedily, relishing in the warmth as it slides down your throat. “And not just one person. He could hold me and five of my clones at first. Then ten. Then twenty.”
“But your clones are you,” Arctic says. She refuses to sit, standing behind Rag Doll. She crosses her arms. “It’s impressive he was able to hold you that long, but it was just you.”
“Impressive?” You laugh without humor. “I’m not exactly impressed.”
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” Rag Doll says. He looks over his shoulder at Arctic and, when she nods, he continues. “It’s just that, from what we know about your powers, holding you and your clones would be the same as holding one person.”
“It’s not,” you say. You’re giving away too much information about your powers, but you don’t care. Devil Eyes needs to be stopped. “Every one of my clones is an exact replica of me. An exact autonomous replica of me. Otherwise, I’d have to be some sort of supercomputer to control them all.”
“You’re not?” Rag Doll asks. His voice is light, like it used to be during your fights. Teasing banter.
You’re not in the mood for banter.
“No,” you say shortly. “If I was, I wouldn’t have been caught.”
Rag Doll sobers. “How did that happen?”
“I was getting out of the game,” you say. You wipe the back of your mouth. The tea is sitting better than the granola bar, but you’re still feeling unsteady. You clear your throat. “I should have just disappeared, but I didn’t. I let a few of the locals know I was going to be leaving. Stupid of me. Stupider when I agreed to come to the goodbye party they were throwing.”
“Locals?” Arctic asks. Her voice is smooth and cold. “Which locals?”
You shrug. “Dreadwatt. The Ice Twins were in town back then, they said they’d stop by.” Your lip curls. “Devil Eyes.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very fun party,” Rag Doll says.
“No.” You didn’t think so either. But how do you explain that they were the only people who thought your low-level villainy meant something? Heroes and civilians just found your antics annoying. Villains found your schemes clever. “It was a way to mark the end of an era.”
“What were you going to do after?” Rag Doll asks.
Were. You can’t get mad at the past tense. You’re sitting in Hero Headquarters without a mask. Arctic has probably memorized every single one of your freckles. Even if she hasn’t, Devil Eyes knows your face. There’s no way you get to retire to an honest life now. “I was going to be a librarian.”
Rag Doll perks up. “You like to read? What genre?”
“Mostly science fiction.”
“Me too! Have you read—”
“Devil Eyes got you at the party?” Arctic interrupts. She shoots Rag Doll a chiding look and claims the seat next to him. She fixes you with her chilling gaze. “That right?”
“Yeah.” You don’t remember the moment it happened. That’s the scariest part. It took you weeks to be able to feel Devil Eyes’ control. Until then, everything still felt like your choice. “He had me start construction on his lair about a month after that. He was sure his control would hold by then.”
That makes Arctic lean forward. “His new lair? You’ve been there?”
You grin bitterly. “I’m the one who dug it out.”
“Dug it out? It’s underground?”
“Some of it.”
“Where?” Arctic flips open her notepad. “We know it’s east of the city and, judging by the truck you arrived in, it’s in the deep desert. Can you give us coordinates?”
“I’m pretty good with stars,” you say. Even now you can remember the exact position of them the moment you left the mountain. “I know exactly where it is.”
Arctic can’t hide the impatience in her voice. “Where?”
“Not so fast,” you say. You lean back, crossing your arms. Your heart pounds against your ribs. “I want a deal.”
Arctic snarls. “You don’t understand what’s at stake—”
Rag Doll puts a hand on her arm, quieting her. He smiles at you. “Now, Virus, you know—”
“Don’t call me that.”
Rag Doll blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t call me Virus,” you say. Your skin itches and you dig your nails into your arms to keep from scratching. Devil Eyes called you Virus. “I retired. I’m not Virus.”
“Then what would you like us to call you?”
Your mind scatters. “I don’t know. Not that.”
“Alright,” Rag Doll says gently. He waits a moment and, when you don’t offer up anything else, says, "You know we can't offer immunity agreements. Foresight would have to be here for that and we don’t have time for him to fly down from New York. What I can do—”
“I don’t want immunity,” you interrupt.
“You don’t?”
“You don’t?” Arctic echoes. She frowns, seemingly shaking off her impatience. “You’ll still be charged with your previous crimes, Viru—sorry. You’ll still be charged with your previous crimes.”
“That’s fine.” It’s not. You rub your arms, fingertips worrying at the half moon indents your nails bit into your skin. It’s the price you’re willing to pay to take down Devil Eyes. “That’s fine. I’ll pay for those. But I want to be there when you raid his lair. I want to be there when you catch him.”
“That’s too dangerous,” Rag Doll says immediately. He shakes his head. “Arctic and I both have mental defenses, but you don’t. We know your power and now, knowing the extent of it, we can’t risk having him turn you again. It’d be like facing an army—”
“You’ll need an army against him,” you interrupt again. You press a hand against your chest. “I know how many minions he has. I know the layout. I know the location. You need me.”
“But if he gains control of you again—”
“He can only control twenty of me,” you say. You’re feverish and jittery so you stand. You pound your hand against your chest. “Only twenty, so I’ll be a hundred of me. I’ll be so many that those he manages to ensnare won’t stand a chance against the rest. I can do it. I can be more than he can handle. He got the jump on me but he won’t again.”
Arctic furrows her brow. “A hundred? You can make that many clones?”
You laugh darkly. You weren’t a good villain. Your goals were always too small. Robbing a grocery store, taking over the local theater, stealing the water from the water tower. They don’t know what you can do. “I can do more than you know. I can do more than Devil Eyes knows.”
Silence fills the room as the heroes think. The air freshener sprays a new puff of vanilla.
Rag Doll clears his throat. “If we let you come—”
“Rag Doll!”
“—if ,” Rag Doll emphasizes to Arctic. To you he says, “You won’t kill anyone?”
Of course I’m going to— “No,” you say. You cross your fingers under the table. “It’s just….” You look down at the wood grain. You say in a small voice, “I had to escape alone.”
Whatever protest Arctic was about to voice dies on her lips. “There were others there?” Her gaze sharpens, a bloodhound on a scent. “Who? Where?”
Aha. You guessed right. Arctic is patient. Arctic is polite. She’s been neither of those things during this conversation. What she has been is impatient and demanding. Devil Eyes has someone Arctic cares about. Devil Eyes might even have a hero from Arctic’s team.
“I didn’t see them,” you whisper. You glance up from under your lashes to find the heroes hanging onto your every word. “But I know where he keeps them.” You bite your lip. “I—I shouldn’t have left them there. I know what it’s like being under his control. I know what he does.” You sit upright, meeting their eyes unflinchingly. “I want to save them. I’ll pay for my crimes after, I swear. I won’t run. But Devil Eyes needs to be stopped.” You let your voice crack. “Please. I need to help stop him.”
Arctic softens. “Virus—sorry. Please, is there anything else I can call you?”
Your lip trembles. “My mother called me Dandelion.”
“Dandelion,” Arctic says. “That’s lovely. Dandelion, I understand how you feel. I don’t think—”
Rag Doll stops her with a hand on her arm. “Arctic? Can we talk in the hall?”
“Of course.”
You watch the heroes leave the room. As soon as the door closes, your lip stops trembling. Your shoulders straighten. Your eyes stop glistening.
Rag Doll and Arctic will argue for ten minutes. You’re a former villain and, despite your lack of real villainy in your history, you can’t be trusted. You know Devil Eyes’ hideout, but you’re also fresh out from his control. You’re powerful, but that power can be turned against them.
But those arguments will only last ten minutes. The reality is that they don’t have a choice. You're not going to give them the location without being allowed to tag along. They don’t have time to wait for Foresight or even the Mind Squad who specialize in dealing with mental powers like Devil Eyes’. They’re heroes and the villain has one of their own. They have to act.
You settle back in your chair. They’ll agree to your terms. Your stomach twists. It’s nauseating to think about going back there. A year. Devil Eyes stole a year from you.
You hide your grin as the door opens.
“Alright. Let’s get you kitted out. You’re coming with us, Dandelion.”
You’ll be stealing a lot more from him.
Then instead of crying, maybe you’ll be laughing.
Only one way to find out.
--------
Thanks for reading! I love mind powers in the Superhero universe but they sure are a pain to write!
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Next week’s story is already up! Summary:
Sometimes, when things go very wrong, the Chosen One gets a wish. That’s where Danielle comes in. TW blood, death, violence, child death
Thanks again for reading!
#my writing#mind control#violence#librarians are crafty af#and somewhat criminal#for good reason!#my superpowers#superheroes#original short story#second person
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katniss everdeen x fem!reader
pure fluff w/ suggestive content. this is post-war.
you stands in the kitchen, singing lowly some melody that couldn’t leave your head in the last days, your experienced hands cutting some carrots and seasonings that you’ve just brought from your garden.
you’ve heard the door opening and fight all of your instincts to not turn your body to point the knife in your hand to it, you were home, you were safe. you told yourself, it was true.
a cold air hits your back slightly, and you heard steps on the wood ground, smiling softly at the thought that she was back home.
the sound of steps became louder but softer, like she was approaching with calm, she puts her bow on the table, just along with the animal she just hunted for your dinner, with her free hands, one goes to your waist, putting her head above your shoulder and smelling your perfume.
“hi.” you said, just loud enough for her to hear it.
katniss hands were cold, but her breath on your cheeks feel warm, even though she just chewed a few mint leafs before coming home.
“hi, pretty.” she says.
you turned around facing her, noticing how cold she was, it was expected since she just spent almost the whole day in the woods, hunting, chewing leafs of mint, making traps for small animals and running after bigger ones, and just today, picking some flowers for you.
she brings the other hand from behind her back, putting in front of you revealing some variants species, sunflowers, lilys, tulips, daisys, hibiscus, violets, but not a single rose.
it was a improvised bouquet, but looked just as pretty as the ones that was sold in capitol, even prettier in your opinion, your eyes lightened up and you embraced her neck with one of your arms, taking the bouquet with the other hand.
“it’s so pretty…” you looked at katniss with adoration in your eyes.
katniss wasn’t this type, she wasn’t the one to brings flowers or call her loved one pet names, she wasn’t the figure of a romantic, a lover, or any of these things, she never learned to be that way, but she just ended up loving you, so she did these things to makes you happy, even if was against her nature, she could feel her heart warming up when you looked at her with gratitude in your eyes, makes it worth.
you kissed her cold lips, caressing her soft cheeks with your thumbs, showing just how much you loved her gift, you felt her beating heart calm up a little bit, the red blush in her face going away as her body completely relaxed close to yours, feeling your presence, your touch, your lips.
“thank you, katniss, i really loved it.” you peck her lips once again and goes to wash your hands, filling a bowl with water, placing the bouquet inside with care to not damage a single petal. katniss watched your moves from afar with a little smile on her face, sitting at the table.
when you were done you admired the bouquet for the last time, you placed it at the center of the table, staring at katniss, who couldn’t take her eyes out of your figure. “i found those in a little plain close of the cottage, i could take you there tomorrow if you want to.”
“like a date? a picnic?” you walk towards her, embracing her shoulders, by the height of the chair she was sitting, her head was right below your chest, so you looked down in her eyes.
katniss’s eyes lightened up and she nodded with her head, smiling as you leaned to kiss her lips again, after a minute or two, the kiss became hungry and her hands a little exploring, her body now felt hotter and all you wanted to do was bringing her upstairs and thanking her for trying so hard to be a good wife for you, and you would do it in no time if wasn’t for a knock on the door.
“katniss? y/n?” peeta shouted from outside the door. “it’s saturday! i brought cake.” his voice sounded innocent just as his eyes used to look.
katniss broke the kiss with a frustrated frown, but peeta was right, it was saturday and just like every other saturday, you, katniss, peeta and haymitch would have dinner together, katniss would hunt a lot of meat, you would cook it, peeta would make a cake for dessert and haymitch would keep himself sober and bring the news from capitol so you all could talk about it, it used to be nice.
“what y’all doing in there?” haymitch much rougher voice echoed and you let out a laugh.
“we continue later.” you said calmly, and katniss rolled her eyes playfully, standing to open the door.
#katniss x reader#katniss x you#katniss everdeen x reader#katniss everdeen#thg katniss#the hunger games katniss#the hunger games#x fem!reader#x reader
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BITCH CAME BACK. vox
You leave the VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. and return to it at 3 A.M.
Vox likes to think you would never betray him like that.
tags: established relationship, bodyguard, relationship issues, implied/referenced sex, big brother is watching complex, canon typical violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, & fist fights
word count: 8,626
It is not cheating.
He chooses to believe it is not cheating.
No matter what Valentino whispers about you being unsatisfied in bed; no matter what Velvette teases about how you always leave behind your phone; no matter what his derailing mind starts to image (some muscular hellhound, incubus, sinner, overlord, defined biceps gripping your thighs and –) in his most calamitous moments: Vox chooses to believe you do not leave VoxTek tower to go cheat on him.
Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. In Hell, trust comes from blood signatures and thumping, electric green deals. You and Vox were not bound through these standard demon methods. No contractual deals, you outlined early on, just verbal agreements.
You and Vox did have a certain verbal agreement: three little words. Whispered into the drool spot on his pillow, bleeding from your mouth when you two collided in kisses, breathed on your wrist when you found him hunched and tired in his office, flashing on your cell’s screen, and written on his hand. That was the deal.
Though, Vox muffles a curse into his pillow, you certainly have been saying those words less now.
He moves his monitor off the pillow surface when the rain of the shower ebbs. When you came in, the scent he had picked up on you was thankfully not sex. Instead the scent of metallic blood clung to you like amber honey on a bear’s mouth. Your signature scent. Vark and his hammerhead brother were drawn to how deeply the smell was oiled and shampooed into your skin. Violence: a perfume tailored for you.
A hair-dryer starts up in the bathroom and Vox stops busying himself with sharpening the metal of his claws.
Still, even if sex was not a present scent, that didn’t mean you did not have it. The dark part of him stirs like a hive of bees. Foreplay for you is like a mimic of lions fighting a buffalo to eat her child. His purchases of new screen protectors and bandages increased when you two first kickoffed a relationship. So scent is not a good thing to completely go off on –
The sound of water returns. Ah, the sink faucet. Buried under the first sound, he can hear the tiny scrub of a toothbrush. Light leaks under the closed door. If you kiss him tonight (he hopes you will), he would be grateful for the smell of mint on your teeth. Mint and iron. Mint and iron and the possible burial of body sweat, sex.
You left VoxTek tower at 3 P.M. – in the middle of a weekday before anyone working there would dare to clock out – and then you returned to your shared bedroom at 3 fucking A.M. He should zap the information out of you.
It’s not cheating; it’s not cheating; it’s not cheating.
The bathroom door clicks open. A towel is thrown around your neck. Already dressed in your pajamas, a simple billowing pair of sweatpants and socks, you make your way over. Tiptoeing even though you know he is awake.
At the ping of you entering the building through surveillance cameras, Vox had started to gradually stir. He could not fake being asleep. As soon as the black on his monitor melted away to reveal blue, you knew he was awake. There is no acknowledgement of him from you. No hi honey or night Vox. And his face brightness is not dimmed below seventy percent so you know he is awake. Azure lighting filtering over sheets and floating in the air, you pull back covers to sink into bed, shirtless as was your habit. You turn your back to him, which has regrettably become a new habit.
He tracks his eyes over the canvas of your back. On it, mauve and ebony bruises are speckled. They are like lily-pads in a dark lake or a thousand eclipses lighting up a dark sky. Never an absence of bruises with you. Across the canvas, there are bisecting marks of sharp claws not made by him that cause him some stress.
Vox remembers once connecting all your bruises into constellations, shapes of animals and faces and other things, post-aftercare scrambling up his wires and guiding him do something so sinfully, sentimentally human. He remembers your laughter and whines at his cold claws on warm skin. Remembering not in a human way but in an electronic way, memories always fresh in his mind, recorded.
You were like a virus. The most prominent memories he has are ones with you.
Blue light slimes over your skin. Vox dims his screen in hopes you might turn towards him. No luck. He lifts up one sharpened claw to drag a line shaped like a cleft note from bruise to bruise. He goes to —
“Stop that. It hurts.”
He goes to do nothing. Defeated, Vox returns his hand underneath his pillow. Why are you acting like this? Why were you doing this to him? You must feel his eyes scrutinizing on the cusp of your shoulder. Moving, you do something that takes that dark, calamitous part of Vox and squeezes it like a dog clamping his teeth around a squeak toy, all the ink spilling over and soaping up his systems.
You inch to the edge of the bed, so close to falling off that you might as well leave altogether.
It’s not cheating. Vox rolls over and tries to sleep without dreaming.
You are a hired bodyguard for Valentino. Out of the ten bodyguards employed, you are closest to Valentino. Though you do not flank your boss all hours nor all week, you are seen most in the public eye out of the others employed to protect this pompous moth prince. This is because you are so efficient at your job.
It was that efficiency that drew Vox to even glance in your meaningless, background direction.
For a sinner demon, your physical appearance does not often stir up anything for anyone. Your employer did give you lipstick tubes a few times and perfumes for you to try. If Valentino said you had potential, he wanted you to embrace it. You politely declined but kept your gifts. To be honest, you are very plain. Your hellish form was disfigured to give the mimicking resemblance of an oni, a yokai, but most human features remained.
You had two physical differences that Valentino nettled you on showing off. One: golden spirals running down your arm like kintsugi art; two: a set of heavy, crimson horns growing from your temples. Every first of the month, Valentino mourned your horns.
January first, February first, March first, April first, and so on, you would grind down your horns. Equipped with a hacksaw and then a sander, it was a routine task for you. What could have grown gorgeously into carmine bighorn sheep’s horns were ruined to Valentino’s grief. You snipped them away like a disgruntled gardener. Like two red tree stumps, your horns sat on your head.
You went through with this cosmetic change for two reasons. You could not stand the look of a demon on yourself. Your horns were so heavy that they often disturbed how you moved.
“I could not kill your enemies if I am toppling over due to the heft of my horns,” you told Valentino and he conceded.
So unburdened by that obstructing weight, you did your job remarkably and accidentally captured Vox’s eyes. Sparked him, you joked. And then he came to agree and would say you shocked his heart – which often left you with warm cheeks. A relationship built all because someone grew obsessed over a pornstar and felt owed a performance, thus deciding to take it out on Valentino at one of his clubs.
It was nothing remarkable. You were not intimidated by the demon’s size despite the Vees awe. It was simply your job to do. If someone threatened Valentino, a bodyguard needed to react.
“But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirted with you and the moth kissed your bloody cheek when it was all done.
You were not small in stature like an imp. You retained your human height. However, some sinners grew with the hellish transformation. Thus, a 7’ 6” demon was a spectacle against you who was very obviously not reaching that. Though, your hellish transformation had selected a different prowess of your physical form to alter: your strength. Fondly, you reflect on that day.
“Mr. Valentino! Sir!”
Valentino blinks behind his heart-shaped glasses. In front of him, the head of the sinner woman he was talking to gained a third eye. Valentino only blinks because as she slumps lifeless to the ground, her drink slashes on him, causing him mild stress. Then, he blinks a second time as you grab him by the waist, spinning him off the leather booth, a hole suddenly appearing in the exact spot his back was reclined on.
His lips upturn into a smile, amorous pinks and warm amber lighting raining down on his features. How theatrical you are! He mourns when your hands slide off his waist as you jump in from the shadows to do your job.
He distantly hears Velvette curse. She was sitting on his left so it is only natural she would be startled, so close to when the gunshots were fired. Valentino watches as you jump down from the high platform where the three Vees were sitting and watching the night’s performance before being rudely interrupted.
The demon is easy to make out in the crowd, Carmine-manufactured gun raised in his hand, standing at a height perhaps only three feet smaller than Valentino himself. He is not standing for long. You vault yourself over a table, kicking him down to a height you can reach and starting to take care of your job. Now, this is not as good as the performance on the stripper pole but is not half bad.
“Vox. Light,” Valentino says, turning to his right where the television demon is in a similar state as Velvette, but collecting himself. A cigarette hanging from a long cigarette holder is waved momentarily in his face.
“Thank you,” Valentino says and, smoking, watches.
There are a million tools you could be using – glasses from any of the nearby tables, the arm of a leg chair, Valentino knows you are skilled enough to grab the gun laying two yards across the club floor to finish this job. Yet, all you do is punch and punch, enjoying and savoring your job.
Raising your fist by your head, launching it down into the demon’s face. Again and again and again. Valentino watches with great delight how the speed at which the demon’s legs fail miserably underneath you wans off from panicked kicks to tired scuffling. Your knuckles are recolored. You raise back up your fist. You launch it back down into the concave space you are making. There is a nose, underneath that is a gorey sunken mess, underneath that is a disconnected, bottom jaw. The crimson warmth coating and nuzzling into your hand is a welcome feeling. You miss it dearly when the body underneath you eventually stills.
With a push, you stand back on your feet and start towards Valentino. He raises one of his four arms out to you – the upper right one drawing you in as he spins you excitedly on the platform. Valentino dips you and kisses you on the mouth, giving you the courtesy of blowing out his smoke first.
“Well done!” He pulls you back up into a standing position.
“It is my job, Mr. Valentino.” Your voice is monotone which isn’t too entertaining but it does not dampen Valentino’s cheer. “No need for praise.”
Your gaze briefly flicks over to the couch. Genuine scolding burns you up inside while looking at the hole in the leather booth, should have been quicker. You startle when you see one of Valentino’s associates staring at you. Was the television demon named Vel or Vox? Doesn’t matter.
Hating being ignored, a finger on your face tilts your gaze back to the heart-shaped glasses. Valentino leans down, humming at the side of your face when some gore must have billowed up from the mess you were making. “But a runt like you being able to take down someone like that. What a treat you are, (Name)!” Sharp teeth flirt with you and the moth kisses your bloody cheek; all of it done and all of it set in motion.
You will never know Heaven. After some tears, skin punched off your knuckles, and snowflakes of broken glass, you accepted this. You will never know Heaven and its comforts. This is a second Heaven.
Red rivers waterfalling over and down trembling fingers. Warm pain of a bruise kissing into an ankle or wrist like an amorous cat. A crack as the cartilage of bone is split like a pencil. Skin rubbed off like latex on a scratch ticket to reveal bone, blood, and fat. Bitten tongues elongating into red syrup; a black gap in the military cemetery of teeth; an eye rolling on the ground in a morbid game of golf. Blood and injury, a frequent lover of yours. All these wonderful experiences and sensations: backdropped by the sound of sinisterly supportive cheers from imps and sinners.
Your chance of redemption. Smoke billows off your lip and past your bloody nose. This is a chance to feel what Heaven could possibly be like. Redemption and honor made possible through violence, something you have known for a long time. A moral as ingrained in you as the gold rivulets falling down your arms.
Fiddling with your cigarette with your tongue, you busy yourself with wrapping white around your hands. Over the left and diagonal across the right – like a child practicing tying their shoes.
You finish your work, checking your compression is tight, when the door opens and a muscular hellborn demon with defined biceps walks in. “(Name).”
“Yeah?”
“Only three more minutes.”
“Got it.”
Vox will never know Heaven. This is nothing that causes him any grief. During his entrance into the realm – before he set up contracts, set up VoxTex, set up a reign of control – it had been a heavy stone to lay with until erosion crumbled it down to a pebble. He will not know Heaven; so fucking what?
He put so much stock in his business that it would be unfortunate for him to be pulled into heavenly gates. This was Heaven, not a second Heaven but Heaven itself. In the military march of obedient corporate slaves, a hymn. With the simple spiral of his right eye, he could get people to revere him. Proverb 15:3 says: the eyes of the Lord are in every place (every cellphone, house security system, every television and computer), beholding the evil and the good. Alastor gone and probably buried somewhere, Vox was on top of his game. Heaven was perfect until you started acting so strangely.
Something dark stirs in him in his news studio. His brain and eyes are wired to every device in the room. Vox turns from talking with the camera operator, words automatic as if they were pre-recorded. Even when you are concealing yourself in shadows, he can see you and when you step out of them, he wants to watch.
“Sir, is this a correct height for the trucking?”
“No, you’re doing it wrong,” Vox says without even turning his body to check the camera’s position.
His attention is raptured by you. As it always is. Woefully, he watches as you talk with Valentino in the corner, before another bodyguard with defined muscles, puts a hand on your shoulder. Vox does not even try to hide the abhor spark that flicks over him. He could hear everything perfectly from Valentino’s phone but it is nothing of use. You switch out a shift and are letting your boss know that you are clocking out. Simple, quotidian activities. Nothing of use to try and decipher where you go.
This is Heaven, Vox reminds himself, standing in Hell.
“Five hundred, nineteen.”
The room tilts and billows.
“Five hundred, twenty.”
There is something about pain that is so satisfying to you.
“Five hundred, twenty-one.”
If you could stay in pain, it would be as beneficial as a plant in sunlight.
“Five hundred, twenty-two.”
You – You, huh? – You turn your head to the side slightly. Blue light fruitlessly hides from you. Oh, he is awake. Releasing the tension from your muscles, your feet take a slight drop to the ground. You can finish the last of your six hundred and sixty-six pull-ups at a later time, you relinquish.
Just as you grab yourself a shirt, Vox finally decides to speak. It is a tone as if he is trying to gauge which version of you he will receive today: your old self or your new self. “Morning.” He rises up from the pillow and smiles dubiously. “You still have a bit more than a hundred to go.”
You stare at him. In his expensive, personally tailored pajama button-up. Him, with the hesitation in his eyes. Vox. Your Vox. Who despite the distance you have carved out, you are still incredibly fond of. You pull the shirt down over your abdomen and say, “Morning.” Slowly, you take a lazy walk to the side of your shared bed. “How do you feel,” you ask as you plant yourself down.
“Definitely felt better before,” he grins lopsided, trying to flash on some boyish charm. “Think you almost dislocated my shoulder.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I liked it.”
“Still, it’s not right of me.”
“...” Vox runs a hand up and down your thigh before lifting it up onto the bed.
“What is the agenda for today?”
“Let’s see. Marketing team has a change of manager which is gonna be a bitch to handle; we have a mid-morning segment to do on Velvette’s love potion; I have a 2 o-clock, a 4 o’clock, then a 5 o’clock; today is Friday so another Vox-2-Nite is scheduled. And that is all planned without any wiggling room. So if just one thing goes wrong –” At the mere thought, his voice starts to drop in octaves, prematurely vexed. World never seems to stop spinning, even when being below it.
“Sounds dreadfully long. Are you sure your charge will hold on through it?”
“I scheduled a fifteen minute break in there … somewhere.”
“Ah, yes, Vox’s infamous fifteen breaks. Ones that always get pushed off until the end of the day.”
“They aren’t so infamous when I have you there, forcing me to take company-policed hour breaks … You really have to stop doing that.”
“Well, you’ll have to trudge through today without me or an hour break. Valentino has me booked today, honey.”
“That fucking bastard,” Vox shimmers, cursing Valentino, and you offer a timid chuckle. You trail a calming hand up and down his arm. Throughout the conversation, he and you had fallen into the lotus sex position – just awfully more clothed and less sexy– one of the numerous you two had been tangled into last night.
Last night … your mind cannot help to wander to it and not fun wandering either. Two awful images keep spinning in your mind. One: the image of you grabbing his upper arm in the cowgirl position only to push too hard and hear a sickening crack from his shoulder, his screen malfunctioning. Thank your lucky star, it was just air bubbles. Two: in the middle of your rendezvous, the image of his screen turning black because you had taken talons and dug them amorously into his abdomen, your passionate action almost punctuating his colon.
You kiss under his monitor when Vox rests his chin onto your head, feeling the warmth of electronic currents mimicking a bloodstream long since retired. You let him stay that way for a while, enjoying his presence. It is a little better than finishing up those pull-ups.
“Hey, are we alright?”
Spoke too soon.
You stone up in his arms like a garden statue – ah, his arms. He has thought ahead and wrapped his arms around you, forbidding you from escaping this question. Well, you can still escape as you had no contract requiring you to answer his questions. Avoidant kisses are speckled past his poorly buttoned-up pajama top.
“(Name).”
At the stern tone coating him saying your name, you bite into his blue-tinted collarbone. Vox is expecting this so he does not even groan at the fresh assault on an already bruised neck. He lets you fight shy of this heavy conversation through your physicality. His pride is quite grand when he does not moan as you attack his particularly sensitive spot, just in the space between the vagus nerve and jugular vein.
“(Name).” You sweat cold when you realize Vox’s voice is still controlled and level, absent of a single glitch.
“Yes, honey?”
“Are we alright?”
“Why wouldn’t we be,” you avoid the question with a question and start to unbutton his pajama top.
“Because you’ve been leaving –” his voice glitches, just a slight temperament, but you jump onto the break in his words.
“Hey, Valentino’s working on,” you press a kiss to his dead heart, “on this new segment in his porn. And it’s got,” you bite down lightly on his nipple, “this really hot position in it,” you scold yourself when your fingers mess up on a button, “called the Valedictorian. I think we should try it.” You celebrate when you manage to undo the last button by sucking on Vox’s nipple.
“(Name).”
At least this time, when your name is said, Vox’s voice is wobbling. And, thus the arms around you are less like a steel cage and more like fragile icicles. Honestly, you could have broken out any time but you would rather slip out of his arms with humane strength.
And Valentino comes to the rescue twice in this eventful morning. Mentioned in name and then showing up in the ring of your phone. Vox is in such an amorous state that he only disconnects the incoming call after the third ring which means its presence has been heard and cannot be ignored.
“(Name).”
This time he says your name mournfully. You place a parting kiss to his throat. From his fragile arms, you slip away. “Duty calls,” you say and then leave as you have done for weeks now.
EXPANDING THE VEES REIN.
That is what the agenda for today’s meeting is, highlighted in bold in the most professional serif font, Times New Roman, and thrown up onto screen behind Vox’s chair. He had wrestled with that for a while, foolishly feeling like the intern he once was in the living world. Not that Valentino or Velvette would appreciate it. Crumpled papers littered his personal bedroom, alliterations and homophones scrapped. Absent from his usual sounding-board (your spot in bed empty), he had decided after frying his favorite mug that simple and cut-to-the-point was the way to go.
Expanding the Vees rein: how can they go about that, the next slide asked to a group of two. Well, don’t damage your dead brain too hard by thinking of that alluring question; Vox was already supplying the answers and then the execution. And he readily rambled on about it:
“Now this little beauty is called SPID. It stands for spider parodying intellect-gathering device. Spied and spider, see? The task of the SPID would be to lock onto anybody’s potential target, infiltrating homes and creating a web of information through this lens. If we refer back to slide thirty-three, we can see the previous success of –”
“Vox.”
The Overlord screeches to a halt. Not really paying attention if either Velvette or Valentino were paying attention, his name being said catches him by surprise. His claws pierce gently into the plastic molded around the spider device in his hand. The SPID is just one of the dozen he has brought in, all masquerading under the purpose of Expanding the Vees Rein.
A snarl appears on his screen. “Yes, Velvette?”
“How long have you and (Name) been together?”
It gives the Overlord pause for a moment. Gently, he takes his claws out of the back of the mechanical spider. Letting the tiny creature join the others on the conference table, Vox grumbles, “eight months, one week, three days.”
He onlys that so precisely because he has a detailed timeline of everything since his fall. Give him a precise date and year, no matter how far away, and he could tell you exactly what he had for breakfast. His memory was pristine.
“Isn’t that enough time for you to trust them? And enough time where we don’t have to sit through your spiraling insecure bullshit?”
With a laugh: “As you can see, Velvette, this meeting is the betterment of the Vees. If one does not always expand his monopoly, he leaves himself vulnerable to be subdued by another monopoly. Sooo – as I was saying, this spider is going to help us –”
“He’s just being pissy because he doesn’t have his little bebito/a under contract.”
The spark of electricity that flies over Vox’s entire body is violent. Volatile energy pulses in the air as formidable as a gun. This time (because he had already picked back up the spider) the SPID dies with a crunch in Vox’s claws. All eight legs twitch in the tiny thunderstorm inside Vox’s grasps. Vox is envisioning crushing a different insect though.
“Neither do yOU.”
“I might not have their soul, but I have their loyalty. Do you?” Vox can tell by the grin pulling up Valetino’s lips that he finds this remarkably humorous. Very pleased at himself that he knows something the Vox doesn’t.
“You FUCKING –”
“Hahahaha!”
They never get to go over the additional twenty-seven slides Vox had slaved over the night before.
“Mr. Valentino? Sir?”
The strap of your duffle bag is choked by uneasy hands. When the door had opened in the back alley of Voxtek’s towers, you had admittedly jumped like a startled cat and screamed like a kid on a rollercoaster. Even when greeting the familiar face of your boss, you are still a little nervous.
“Do you need me for something, Sir?”
Though you are off the clock, so Valentino really should not be down here. In the dirtiest part of the towers, in a small sliver of space ignored by security cameras. Which makes your apprehension completely valid.
“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke, bebito/a?” The uneasy wilts out of you as he pulls his cigarette holder from somewhere.
“Of course, Sir. I will leave you to it.”
“No, stay. That other demon is such a sloppy bodyguard.”
“Oh.”
“Light?”
“Of course, Sir.”
You take your place next to Valentino, his shadow. Looking down at the duffle bag, you judge that you can be a bit late. It is not like –
“Dunhill. Refined cigarettes, cinnamon and suet.” Pink smoke billows off tiny fire, slurring up into the air in the shape of sweet Valentine candy. It never fails to impress you with how delicately opulent it looks. “You know, the best cigarette is the first cigarette in the morning. The untouched, virgin cigarette after a night starved of them. Very new. Very Dunhill.
“I do not like owning second hand garbage, (Name).”
You feel your heart beat faster just a few seconds. That tone of voice is one you have never had directed at you. The straps of your duffle bag cry for release as you strangle them in a worried grip. “I’m aware, Sir.”
“Typically, when you get out of the hole, you do not go crawling back to it.”
“Yes, typically not, Sir.”
You two fall into silence. Where Valentino luxuriously leans against the brick wall, you fall back and dig your shoulders into the brick, making sure to feel the pain and burn of a bruise. At this moment, you can feel your heartbeat under the skin of your throat. You are sure Valentino can hear it too with how he is prolonging drags off his cigarette. Typically, you were not so afraid of Valentino – even now, your fear stems from the thought of Vox instead of Valentino. You wrestle with the thought of the repercussions if Vox knew you were crawling back into that hole as your boss said.
“Answer me this.” Smoke waterfalls off his lips and you look up. The Overlord slowly takes off his heart-shaped sunglasses and bends his height. “Are you being summoned there?”
“No, Sir,” you answer with your untethered soul still inside you, pounding away on your ribcage.
“Hm.” Straightening up to his height, Valentino smiles and puts back on his sunglasses. “Good.”
It is not cheating, Vox reminds himself as he hops from television in stores windows to telephone wire to smart watches. Those four words are a fire blanket coating over his damned soul. They keep him from exploding in fiery rage. Even when he reaches a point where he has reached the last electronic he can use, he repeats that … ugh, prayer … in his head. Sparking out of a telephone wire, Vox stands formidable on the ground, energetic from his frustration.
Then, he tries diligently to shrink and draw less attention to himself.
His screen brightness is dimmed to a submerged 16 percent, all of his notifications are thumbed over to off, and a gray hoodie is zipped over his red-and-black striped waistcoat: all the preparations for this espionage set into place. He had done exceedingly well keeping out of your sight while keeping you in his sight. Head down, Vox follows around the last corner you took.
Every city has its bad areas. Pentagram City has managed to exceed the limits for a bad area quite impressively here. He has to side-step some monstrous activities he would rather soon forget. The depth of red liquid staining his shoes would put to shame a wade in a cranberry bog. Violence swims in the air like a body fragrance.
There is a hole in the world like a great black pit and the vermin of the world inhabit it and its morals aren’t worth what a pig could spit. Vox recounts you saying that once; he pulls up the recording in his files, listening to your voice in the back of his head. Perhaps you have meant here rather than Hell.
Waiting thirty minutes inside telephone wires after you went in was painful. He had boiled over with the anxious energy of just wanting to follow you shoulder to shoulder. He knew better. So while watching you go down a flight of cement steps, past a black gate, into an apartment complex’s basement was like water in the wires, away from him, it was necessary. If you knew about his presence before he wanted to reveal it … well, he rather not clean up shit off fan blades.
This is just a simple check-up. An in and out operation. He just … He just needs to know what you are doing.
Vox cannot really wrap his head around why you are coming here. You are so much better than this cesspool – was it a kink of yours to socialize with the lowest of the low? Skirting around the gate and the door, he walks in uninvited.
No security checks? Really is the lowest of the low. Incredulous, Vox analyzes the place.
It is a lobby of sorts — a mock imitation of it and as close to organized as a hoarder’s house — and there is evidently a large gathering around a desk. There are some outliers standing to the sides of the room. To the far left are double doors, guarded by two well-built and muscular figures.
Black, jealous spirals appearing in his right eye, Vox turns back to the crowd to calm himself. This does not look like a sex dungeon but he can never be certain. He watched as people elect to shove knives into throats instead of shoving to move up into line. Receding into his body, he feels around for an electronic he can teleport in and out of.
Hm?
Hm.
No way.
There are zero electronics in this entire place. It gives Vox such whiplash he ogles at the place until he remembers to school his expression. No one even holds a phone in their back pocket. For the first time in his reign of control over technology, he cannot feel a single spark of anything.
Vox is knocked out of his stupor when some sinner pushes him, “fucking move or lose it, flat face.” and melts into the bloody crowd.
Metal claws curl up into his right palm. He schools that whet vehemence in his soul, knowing he sadly cannot cause a scene. No one knows of his presence. Probably the only praise-worthy factor of a town empty of technology. Joining into the crowd, Vox thinks on how he will find that sinner later. Electrocuting him until his eyes pour out of his sockets like rooibos tea is a calming image to feast on. His digital mind plots in great detail as he waits to reach the front.
— according to — the eutectic point, two solids have the same melting point, of the human skin and eyeball is — between 500 to 2000 volts kills — and saline — a sponge moistened with saline as a conductive jelly for electric currents — according to —
Vox is kicked out of his browsing of the internet when a phlegmy throat clears itself. He narrows his eyes in annoyance, finally stepping up to the seat of his mind and away from the waves of databases.
At least he was recording and listening to what others said before him: “I’ll have 80 on number 7.” Vox says, combining the numbers of two separate customers’ statements. Then, he pulls out his credit card from his slacks. Even under poor lighting, the ebony and gold surface shines pristinely.
The demon at the desk raises an eyebrow at him, “We don’t accept cards, newbie.”
They don't — huh! Even the Epirorium down in Cannibal Town accepted credit cards — credit cards were the most effective way to pay for anything! A quick transaction without the hassle of juggling coins and crumbled bills. He cannot help gritting his turquoise teeth in frustration.
“You cannot be serious.”
“No cards or phones. You’re already breaking one of the rules with that fucking Samsung you got as a head.”
“It’s a LG, not a Samsung.” He can feel his teeth grinding.
“I don’t give a fucking shit.” The demon deadpans. “Do you have any cash?”
Waste of space sinner; if his patience (his very small patience) keeps getting tested tonight, something is gonna go wrong. With a grumble, he searches around in his wallet. Credit card 2, credit card 3, credit card 4, a photo of you and him, credit card 5, cred— a measly five dollar bill. Slamming it down, Vox deepens the pitch and echo frequency of his voice, “Here you go. Five on number 7.”
Worthless piece of shit.
The demon clears their throat and then hands Vox his ticket. Knowing that is all he needs from observation, the Overlord makes a swift turn to the double door. What greets him is crowds upon crowds of sinners, imps, and hellborns. A stadium of sorts? Vox walks across the top floor, analyzing the circling structure of seats. No one is sitting in the seats but they cascade down in a cup-like structure into this eight foot drop where he can guess the entertainment is. Off the top layer floor, Vox finds a staircase and sedately starts walking down them. All the while he listens to the crowd:
“Kill them! KillthemKillthemKillthem!!”
“The stomach! Go for the stomach!”
“They’re getting destroyed out there. I bet my left eye on this, if they don’t win …”
“Cheater!”
So he was correct in assessing this was a gambling spot. A fighting arena of sorts … Vox thinks he is starting to get all the pieces put together when a loud voice, unamplified by any technology but still pristinely clear, yells, “THE WINNER!” The crowd explodes; Vox lowers his hearing and disturbs the charge into his eyes. His shoes click measured on the stairs. Metal claws grasp the railing and he leans forward, curious and suspecting.
“Announcing their one thousandth, two hundred and seventy-second win, it is our one and our only (Name)!”
Some skinny demon, smaller than Vox, raises your arm up by the wrist. The golden patterns on your biceps and latissimus glow like a fanning, spiraling wind-chime made of reflective metal. A Jason Pollock of red blood coats your body. Your hands however are thoroughly drenched in red, making the smaller demon’s grip unsteady and slipping. Your expression is tired and unsatisfied. Up and down, your chest rises in heavy pants. And though you look you could really use a nap, Vox thinks you still look stunning.
That is why Heaven felt so far away: in the news studio, in his bedroom, empty from the march of corporate slaves and the clicking keys’ symphony of obedience. Heaven followed after you.
“(Name).”
Like a dog, you growl around the material in your mouth. Why could he never leave well enough alone? Him and his annoying persistence to always be in your business like a second skin! When he starts pounding on the door, you kick it back hard in retaliation. Thump! Wood groans at the assault.
Glaring as your name is called again, you work. You had told him it would take five minutes and it had barely been two.
Forceps pinched between your teeth, you gently continue what you came in the restroom to take care of before your management interrupted. (Fuck, you were always under the thumb of someone, bending yourself to them always). Performing any type suture is vastly different when fake silicone skin was not geysering out a steady stream of blood. Pulling the needle holder towards yourself, you push your non-dominant away to lay the first knot. You watch as the loop of blue thread shrinks inch by inch. When the first knot is laid, you twist your hands to do the second knot.
“(Name)!”
“For fucks sake! I told you five minutes! Not two, not four! Five minutes!” You squeeze the forceps and needle holder in the same hand, harsh metal almost crushing under your grip. You have enough control to not break the tools you need to sew up your thigh. “Am I clear!”
“I don’t care how long it takes for you to get your rocks off. You come out right now. This crazy fan of yours is causing a fucking scene and I won’t have it. It’s either you or nothing.”
“You own the souls of thirty plus fighters! Get one of them to handle it!”
You look back down at your leg, trying to fruitlessly focus on your knots. Were you on the second or third?
Your management bristles and shouts back, door almost leaning into the bathroom with the weight of his frustrated voice, “you don’t think I’ve tried that! I don’t know how they managed to do it but no one landed a single punch on them. Like I fucking said, it’s either you or nothing.”
If you were not so equally frustrated, you would have taken a moment to absorb that information. Instead, only a fourth done with your interrupted sutures, you bite back, “unless they want me coming out there with my sweats down my ankles, tell them to fuck off!” You tried to keep profanity out of your words most of the time but this was too frustrating. Putting the forceps back in your mouth, you end the conversation.
There is a ghastly noise beyond the door. You startle on the toilet seat, the metal hurting your enamels with how your mouth tenses. It is the hollow thumping noise backgrounded by raining sizzles. There is a bloody cough. The raining sizzles billow then fall back, sound momentarily expanding then shrinking. A man’s electronic voice: “I’ve already seen that.” You bite the metal harder in denial.
“(Name),” Vox says.
Absent of your senses, your hands finally get the second knot tied – it is sloppy and unaligned to the first.
How? How did he possibly find this place? It is so off the grid of the Pride Ring that no maps or GPS know the name of it. It is a rumored place, absent of technology, that only the lowest of the low lived in. You have been so careful with triple checking your surroundings. No one on this side of town could afford a phone. No one on this side of town could afford to ever get out of it.
You will never forget meeting Valentino. Long ago, he seemed supernatural and uncanny. Luxury branded cologne burning your nose and pink cigarette smoke irritating your lungs. Everything, the affluent aspects of him, down to his self-possessed smile was something alien and frightening to a sinner like yourself who never experienced the sight of wealth.
Valentino had been right about it being a hole one would never want to crawl back into. Comparing past and present, you were comparing an orphan on the streets to a prince in the castle. It was obviously better to choose the laps of luxury you had fallen into, content and chesired.
Yet home called to you and you, the bitch, came back.
You stare hard at the bathroom door separating you and Vox. Blood runs down your left thigh to floors that have never seen a mop. If there is a way to downsize yourself into abysmal nothingness, you yearn for that ability. To shrink away … you wish you could. Slowly, you take the forceps out of your mouth and hold them tight in your lap. Seems like you are going to have to address the open wound.
“Vox.”
“Can I come in, doll?”
Two things. You wholeheartedly hate two things about his question. The nickname, doll, implying you could be anything like porcelain skinned dolls; then, the fake shyness in his voice, trying to seem meek when Vox is far from that. “No, you can’t. In fact, I think you should leave.” You can smell the mounting violence.
“(Name), please. I just want to know what the problem is.”
“There’s no problem. We’re fine.”
“If we were fine, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I’m fine with me being here, so you’re just going to have to find it within yourself to accept that.”
You surmise this is it. This is going to be the first argument of the relationship. The catalyst of whether you two were going to spark with a negative or positive charge, growing or dying from this verbal fight. Physical fights are your raison d’etre. Now you shift to a wrestling ring. Amputated from the burden of your hands and left with your mouth. Eyes drawn to your lap, you are unsure if you are going to win this.
“You’re obviously upset over something.”
“I’m not.”
“(Name).”
“Vox.”
“Why can’t you – UGH!” You can tell by the start of his sentence it would erupt into volcanic static and electricity. All the hair on your arms and exposed thighs rise as he sends a wave of energy at something beyond the stall. Good. Physicality you can handle. You wait patiently for Vox to knock down the door. “Do you want us to be public?” Your body locks up, spine pressing hard into the manual flusher behind you. Why – Why is he trying to gauge what has you upset!
As you are reeling from his question, your mouth remains shut. Vox, taking silence as a negative, asks, “are you upset about my past with Valentino because we both have a past with him!” He jumps back when the door thumps and bends with the force of your kick. “Okay, wrong choice of words. Just – ugh! Are you upset about my past with Valentino?”
“I’m not upset over that.”
“Sinners don’t just leave their home from 3 P.M. to 3 A.M. unless they’re upset over something, doll.”
“I’m truly not upset over anything,” you insist. You really need to get back to your sutures before anything has the chance of getting infected. “Vox –”
“Okay, I’ll stop hacking into your phone!” He shouts in defeat.
“You'll stop what!” This time you kick without holding back any of your strength. The locking mechanism splinters down the middle like a wafer cracker. You feel a little victorious in this match when the door hits him in the shoulder, his startled jump just a bit too slow to avoid getting hit.
“Unholy fuck!”
“My phone,” you bite at him, eye to eye finally. Vox and his Big Brother is Watching complex is one of his worst traits. “You’ve been hacking into my personal phone like I told you never to do.”
“You told me never to do it because of trust. How am I supposed to trust you when you leave for twelve hours in the middle of random nights like you’re on a booty call schedule,” Vox bites back. His red sclera are pointed down, resembling the shape of orange slices with how deeply cut his glare is. Defensiveness is written into each twitch of his body.
“What, you thought I was cheating on you?”
“What else was I supposed to think!”
That shuts you up. Your temperature on your face rises with each inch of shame that eats at you … well what else was he supposed to think. The image of him, lying in your shared bed alone, head swimming with sharks of queries about your relationship, paints itself in your mind. Eyes down, you concede that that thought of cheating was warranted. Relationships are built on trust. That principle rule is often why relationships fail in Hell. Trust from sinful liars was as valuable as a rock painted gold. Cheating? … Yeah, you cannot blame him there.
“It’s none of that, Vox. I wasn’t upset about any of that and I’m not cheating on you.”
Even when you cannot look at him, he can tell by the frequency and pitch of your voice that you are telling the truth. A few advanced polygraph technology moves into his right eye, scanning you for any sign of a lie. “I would never cheat on you.” In your chest, your heart beats. Eighty-three beats per minute, completely at rest, completely truthful.
Vox feels awful, finishing up with analyzing your heartbeat. He feels like he has just given a public report wrong on live television and he can feel the social media downfall already materializing in the air; he feels sick to his stomach. And yet he is still mad because, “Why did you not talk to me about this?”
“I was ashamed; and a little scared.” You bite your cheek. “I was ashamed and scared about you finding this place for the longest time.”
Vox raises an eyebrow. “You think I would judge you for needing to blow off steam?”
“This place is beneath you. I know exactly what was going through your head when you entered here: this place is the worst of the bad or this place is the lowest of the low.” Vox inhales through gritted teeth and you know that you hit the bullseye. “I couldn’t just bring you here. You would have been disgusted. And … and that would have led to you eventually being disgusted by me.”
There it is. You guess that is all you really can give him. Still, Vox is looking at you like he does not understand you. He is probably deducing that his past self could have overlooked this revolting place like a lover overlooks an ugly birthmark or stretch-marks. This was not a minor impurity.
“I fell here.”
Understanding dawns upon Vox’s face like a gleam on sunrise. Falling … the spot where one fell was sentimental, perhaps not in fondness but certainly in a consequential way. A fool only dares to insult the spot where a sinner has fallen, their second home.
In a sinister way, this is a homecoming for you. And – sending a wary glance to the bathroom door while he leans into the stall – Vox has realized he committed an illicit act on the same par as perhaps punching your brother or sister. Even if you hated your co-workers?, the sentiment remains.
The live broadcast analogy is frivolous. Vox feels like he is an intern who just spilt coffee on the front of his boss’s suit a minute before the higher-up was scheduled for a momentail meeting. The burn in his stomach is paralyzing.
“I-I uh,” Vox stammers. Little sparks are jumping up his body like happy stars. Frustration that mistakenly looks playful. He moans out, “Fuck, (Name).” and leans heavily on the stall’s inside wall.
You chuckle humorously and finally look up. “Yeah. I know.”
“I guess I get … the secrecy now.”
“I’m sorry for not coming clean. Even if this is a really bad hole, it is my hole.” Vox smiles at you, fondly without his previous hesitation. You know by that smile alone that you two are going to survive your first argument. However, you do not want the conversation to shift away from the thesis. Now that you two have finally managed to start it, there is so much that you have to say. “Vox?” He stares in attention. “... We’ve become domestic, Vox.”
“That bad, doll?”
“It’s awful.”
“...”
“I worry – I worry all the fucking time – about hurting you.”
“I’m an Overlord, you’re a sinner. It is a little insulting that you would think –”
“But I do! Every minute, I just worry and worry,” you interrupt, pressing a hand to your chest to emphasize those words. All your hands have managed to do are kill and maim and injure. Fighting quelled your hands. You were positive that if you drained your hands to the point of exhaustion it would keep Vox from getting hurt. “I’ve never been gentle – I’m awful – and I –!”
Vox kneels down on unwashed ground, covered in blood and piss, in his freshly tailored, iron-pressed slacks. Your dead heart pounds at that.
Then, Vox says three little words that you two have decided to put the coin of trust into, paying the fare to a relationship that both of you wanted to keep. “Hey,” he says to snap you out of your thoughts. Then, as he slowly takes the tools out of your hands, Vox says, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
As he helps you with your sutures, you still remember when Vox and you had finally said those three little words that built up your relationship. Your contract. One that in a way was not really a contract at all.
I love you. He had said that for the first time when you were checking his grammar for a broadcast. Highlighters and colored pens laid scattered on the ruffled sheets. You had been crossing out the tailing end of a sentence. Eight words stretched out when he only needed three to hammer home his point. You crossed out fifteen words in surprise. In Hell, he is akin to a shark and you are akin to a goldfish. Even so. Sometimes I think love and violence are the same thing. You had meant that as warning but he just leaned into you, biting your tongue when you two kissed.
Accepting that part of you.
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“craving” - part 3 of PICK YOUR POISON - (a dads best friends love story)
part 1 and 2
pairing- (Daryl x fem!reader)
warnings- 18+ content, oral (r!giving), reader being a sneaky lil slut… (drunk off sangria while posting so might not be proofread hehe) 2.6k wc
“Cute skirt,” you feel Shane’s hand graze your lower back as he squeezes between you and the countertop. Making his way to the fridge for another beer. “You uh, wear that just for us?”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile while peeling what feels like the hundredth carrot of the afternoon.
He glances up, checking to make sure that your father is still deep in conversation with Rick, way over in the living room. And with a brand new, cold beer in his hand, he presses himself behind you, trapping you against the counter. His free hand coming up and brushing your hair out of the way, to leave a sweet kiss on your neck. You can’t help but smile, loving the way his lips feel on your skin. But you gasp when his hand comes down and squeezes your ass, under your skirt. Silently scolding him with your eyes, and stepping away from him. You’d already had a close call with Shane already. You didn’t need to be testing the waters any further.
He only chuckles and makes his way back to the living room, joining in on the conversation between Rick and your father. Something about the job that Deanna has put your dad in charge of. The construction team was doing another expansion, building more and more houses to fit all the newcomers.
Adding all the carrots to a bowl, you look up and notice Daryl making his way to the porch, slipping on his faded, leather jacket. A lighter and a pack of cigarettes in hand. Sweet. Just what you need.
He’s leaned up against the side of the house when you finally get to him. Your bare feet in the cool grass, having only pulled on a cardigan to stay warm in the chilly fall air. He smiles when he sees you, a cheeky, no good, expression splayed on his handsome face.
“Think I could borrow one?” You ask, standing right in front of him, already reaching for the pack in his jacket pocket, before he mumbles a knowing, “Mhm.”
“Light?” You ask, cigarette held to your lips, waiting for him to light it. And he does. Bringing his hand up to block the wind, other one sparking the flame. You take a drag in and lean in as close as you can, letting the smoke tumble out of your soft lips, practically grazing his own. Mindlessly, his hand makes its way to your waist as you lean further into him. One hand on his chest, and the other holding the smoke.
“You can just never behave, can you?” He asks, already knowing what the answer will be.
“Nope.” You smile, tipping your head up and closing the gap between you, pressing your lips against his, hand coming up to the back of his neck to pull him in deeper. The smokes are quickly thrown to the concrete and forgotten. Pulling you against him and tangling his own hands in your hair. Tongues dancing over eachother, him tasting of beer and tobacco. You, of mint and lipgloss. The smell of him, that familiar concoction of smoke and leather, it’s intoxicating. Breathing heavy as you pull at his belt, getting ready to kneel for him, right there in your parents backyard.
“Wait-” his rough hand grabs your own, halting you from taking things any further. He’s breathing heavy too.
“We can’t.”
Immediately you groan. Annoyed and defeated.
Fucking hell. All of them. “we can’t”, “we shouldn’t”, “this is wrong”. It’s all you’d heard from the men for weeks. And while Rick and Shane were a little easier to seduce, breaking down enough to take care of you at least, Daryl had stayed relatively strong. The furthest you’d gotten was a rather heavy make out session in the truck. And he’d halted your hips the second you tried grinding down on him. Searching for any friction between the denim of his jeans and the lace of your panties that you craved so desperately, but he wouldn’t budge.
And now, when all you wanna do is wrap your pretty, glittery lips around his cock, he remains just a strong.
“Daryl, come on,” you whine, stealing another open mouthed kiss. Seemingly the only thing he didn’t feel the need to object. “Don’t you want me?”
“‘Course- fuck- of course I do.” He tugs you by the hair, facing his deep blue eyes. “I do.”
“Then why won’t you fuck me already?”
“We agreed-”
“Screw the agreement. Take me upstairs. Please. After supper, when my dad falls asleep on the couch. Take me upstairs and fuck me so hard I forget my own name.”
He blinks slowly. Keeping his eyes shut for a second to compose himself. Thinking about all the things he’d love to do to you if he did decide to follow you up to your bedroom. White walls and pink sheets. Soft and sweet, just like you.
His tone is firm when he finally speaks.
“We’ve been over this, sweetheart. Not happening.”
Bummer.
You take the rejection with an understanding nod. Being sure to slowly rake your hands down his abdomen, under his jacket, and give him one last peck. Quickly running your thumb over his lips, wiping the evidence of your watermelon lipgloss off his mouth. You give him a coy smile over your shoulder when heading back inside.
Unaware of the way that Daryl wanted to physically kick himself for saying no. Fists clenched by his sides with his eyes closed. Regretting not just taking the opportunity. Regretting not just letting you undo that damn belt and have your way with him, right outside in the backyard of your parents house. Knowing you’d show up for dinner with bruised knees and damp panties. Waiting in anticipation for whatever he might do to you after supper when he’d have you all alone in your bedroom.
Such a damn shame.
Your mother decided to eat on the deck with your aunt and her husband. With their annoying ass kids too. She’d invited you to sit with them, but the open seat next to Rick was way too tempting.
Shane is the weakest, by far. If you were measuring their strength by how likely they were to fuck you, that is. He hadn’t yet, but you’d like to believe that you’re making progress. Rick wants to. You know that. He wants you so bad it actually hurts. And fuck, if he hadn’t felt tempted the other week, upstairs in your bedroom, with his face between your thighs, giving you your second (and most intense) orgasm of the day. The way you begged him to fuck you right then and there had his mind spinning and his dick swelling. But unfortunately, his moral dilemma was saved by the sound of your father calling you downstairs, to introduce you to some new neighbours. And Rick couldn’t help but sigh in relief at the realization that he didn’t have to actually say “no”.
And as always, he’s attempted to claim you as his own. His hand won’t leave your thigh from under the table, as you pick at the turkey and potato’s on your plate. Glancing at him with an innocent smile every now and then. Tingles erupting as he moves his thumb in circles against your skin, all while listening intently to your father go on about all the work around Alexandria that needs to be done before snowfall. Daryl’s sat next to Rick. Replaying the conversation with you from outside, over and over in his head as he shovels the mashed potato’s into his mouth. Thinking about how badly he wanted to give in. To tangle his hands in your hair and guide those rosy lips right on to his dick, fucking your throat and then cumming all over your pretty face. And then Shane, next to your dad, who can’t stop playing footsies with you from under the table. Giving you that fucking smirk that you just wanna kiss right off his face. As if his smile belonged against your lips, and nowhere else.
“Sweetheart, I think me and the boys could use another round. You mind going to the garage and grabbing us some more beers?” Your father gets up, his voice snapping you out of your sinful daydreams.
“Uh- sure.” You smile politely, standing up from the table, and pulling your skirt down in a failed attempt at being modest. You hesitate, heart beating fast while watching your father go up for a second plate of food and then head outside to the deck. Probably just checking in on your mother. Making sure that her and the others were all doing ok and didn’t need another drink themselves.
You don’t even really register what you’re doing until you’re under the table. Moving fast in order to effectively use the moment that your father is finally occupied. Confusion quickly setting on each man’s face until you’re settled between Daryl’s knees. On the floor, completely hidden by the tablecloth. Hands going straight to Daryl’s belt, unclasping it and grabbing the impressively large stiffy he’d been hiding under the table all night.
“Fuck.” You heard him gasp from above. Shane letting out a surprised huff of amusement and Rick whispering something inaudible.
You slip your hand into his boxers and pull him out, licking your lips and then placing a sweet kiss on his tip.
“Oh shit, she’s- fuck.” Daryl’s thighs are tensed as he starts to wrap his mind around what’s actually happening. Around the fact that you’re on your knees in front of him. Glossy lips wrapped around his cock, while your dads right outside, and his best friends are right there.
You take him into your mouth, slowly bobbing up and down, paying close attention to his reactions. To what makes him drop his fork on the table and grunt. Gasping and straining to keep in the sounds you so desperately want to hear come from his throat.
You keep going even when you hear the sliding door to the deck open. Your father returning to the table and continuing his conversation from before. Not that you had been listening. Far too busy thinking about what each man would taste like if they had the decency to put you on your knees, like you’ve asked them to over and over.
“You hear about that run that Deana was planning? She said she’d talk to you about it but I didn’t know if she ever got around to…”
Your father kept talking. Blissfully unaware of the absolutely filthy performance taking place beneath the tablecloth. How on earth Daryl was keeping it together, you had no idea. Holding yourself up with your hands gripping at his thighs, muscles flexed in what you assume is pleasure. But it’s likely that his nerves are playing a roll as well.
Rick makes sure to keep your fathers attention. Asking questions and chatting along. The perfect distraction as you continue the borderline torture on Daryl’s cock. And though you can’t see it, he’s trying his very best to keep it together. Slow blinks, glancing down at his plate of food. Fingers gripping his utensils so hard they could snap. Doing everything in his control to keep breathing like a normal person. To not tip his head back and moan out your name. And Rick and Shane are doing a surprisingly wonderful job at being your accomplices, distracting your father with simple, mundane conversation. Enough to take any focus off the fact that Daryl was a minute away from cumming down your throat. Torn between wanting to last longer and wanting to hurry up so that he didn’t have to hide his reactions any longer.
You assume he’s getting close. His knees becoming all shifty, involuntarily twitching from how good your mouth feels. So warm and wet and taking him all the way down. You feel a hand lace into your hair, though a little confused because you’re pretty sure it isn’t Daryl’s. Coming from beside him, having reached over so nonchalantly, Rick pushes your head down. Clearing his throat at the same time that you inevitably gag on Daryl’s dick. Hiding the noise. And at that, Daryl just about lost it. Every nerve in his body is on fire and you want to taste him so fucking bad. Want to drink down every last drop of whatever he gives you. You reach your own hand down inbetween your legs and press the pads of your fingers to the cotton panties covering your clit. Rubbing little circles to ease your own needs. Dipping lower and realizing that there’s a wet spot from your arousal. Because sucking Daryl off was turning you on. And if he knew that, he wouldn’t have lasted another second.
“Thought your girl was grabbing us another beer?” Shane asks finally bringing attention to the fact that you aren’t sitting at the table. At least not to your dads knowledge.
“Yeah, I thought so. I’ll run to the garage. See if she got distracted with the bar. Gal sure loves her cocktails, I’ll tell you that much.”
Does she ever.
You hear your father walk down the hall, towards the garage. At the same time, Daryl let’s out the breath he’s holding and his hips buck up involuntarily. So fucking close you can tell.
“You got thirty seconds, baby.” Rick warns you. Well, both you and Daryl. That you need to make him come now. Otherwise, daddy’s gonna find out your dirty little secret. And wouldn’t that be such a shame. The fun part’s only just started.
Daryl moans. Louder than you expected but immediately after, you feel him tense up and your mouth fills with his salty fluid. You swallow around him. No hesitation whatsoever. It’s not like you could leave any evidence. And without even helping him get his pants done back up, you crawl past Ricks legs, making sure to use his thigh as a support beam to get back up and slink into your seat. Taking a napkin from the table and wiping your mouth. Giving your best doe eyes to the three men. All of them sporting equally impressed expressions. Not even a hint of jealousy present from Rick, which you found a little odd. Maybe your little show turned them all on. Not just Daryl. And when you look over at the bowman, his face is red. Crimson blush covering his cheeks as he buckles up and straightens himself out. Rick and Shane lightly shaking their heads in disbelief with the sexiest smiles forming on their faces.
“You are somethin’ else, princess. My god.” Shane laughs, kicking your foot under the table. And you can only smile back before you hear the door open and your father come waltzing back into the dining area.
“Where the hell were you? Y’forgot about our beer.” You father says, handing one to each man at the table.
“Sorry - uh- I had to use the washroom. Got distracted.” You smile politely, taking a sip of your own drink as you feel the heat rise to your own cheeks.
“Course you did. Can you grab the pie, pumpkin? Think everyone’s about done eating.”
You nod and get up, sauntering towards the fridge, grabbing the pie along with a can of whipped cream. You make sure to look directly at Rick and Daryl while you shake the can and line your index finger with the sugary fluff. Maintaining eye contact as you lick it up and suck the cream off your finger. Rick rolls his eyes, unable to hide the smirk forming on his face. And Daryl shoots you a warning glare from across the table.
You did warn him you weren’t going to behave. Just decided to prove it too.
part 4
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(Ricks part is up next bbs<3 )
taglist - @rickswh0r3 @elnyrae @catt-leya @murder-jacket @miinbun @ankhmutes @eternalrose81 @cl0wnb0yyy @grimesthinker @whatthefuuuck @imyourbratzdoll
#daryl dixon x y/n#daryl dixon smut#daryl dixion x reader#daryl dixon fanfiction#dbf!daryl#dads best friend trope#daryl x y/n#pick your poison
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After months of Killua making fun of Kurapika for crushing on you, he accidentally calls you “mom” in front of the group. Finally, Kurapika has SOME sort of ammo against him. It doesn’t seem to work for long though, because you laugh it off, honored that he sees you as a mother figure. And honestly, it makes Killua feel a lot better about going back to picking on Kurapika, especially after Gon accidentally calls you mom too.
“Hahah you like (name)”
“Oh, you mean your mom?”
“Nice try, that’s not gonna work anymore. Gon called her mom by accident yesterday, so it’s not THAT out of place. Plus she was happy about it.”
“You got over that quickly.”
“Yeah, too bad you can’t get over your crush as quickly as I got over the mom embarrassment”
When the group meets up to do anything fun, you’re the one that organizes it. Whether that be for a movie, a trip to the zoo, or even a vacation to the beach, you’re sending them all a list of what they need to pack and how much money they’ll need to bring to cover their tickets and food.
At least, you do that for the adults. For the kids, they stay with you so often that you have two suitcases full of their clothes and a list of the products they use.
Killua can’t stand mint tooth paste, so you buy him the bubblegum flavored kind instead. Gon is picky about what shampoo he uses, so you make sure that you get the scentless kind.
When you arrive at the beach with the boys in tow, you already LOOK like a mom. You’re carrying an umbrella and big bag full of towels and are yelling at them to put on sunscreen. Especially Killua, with his pasty ass.
He tries to run away from you, but Gon helps you catch him.
He grumbles as you cover him in sunscreen, calling Gon a traitor. As you do this, Kurapika and Leorio show up, carrying the ice chest full of drinks and fruit you’d packed before you left.
“Hello (Name). I see you’ve managed to catch Killua.”
You giggle. “With Gon’s help.”
Killua turns back, his eyes narrowing.
“Mom, don’t tell h-“
He pauses.
They all pause, everyone except you.
“Hmm? Don’t tell him what?”
Killua literally looks like a fish gasping for air, his face red and barely able to breathe.
“I-you-“
He runs off, dragging Gon behind him as they rush into the water. You can see Gon ask Killua something, the latter responding by throwing him into the depths.
Kurapika lets out a snicker, storing this information for later. “So you’re mom now?”
You shrug, standing up and pulling your dress off to reveal a two piece. His teasing is quieted when you drop your dress onto the ground and stretch.
“I’ve been called mom before, by a lot of people. It’s really not a big deal.”
You hand Kurapika the bottle of sunscreen. “You two make sure you put some on, alright sweetheart?”
You took off for the water. “I’m coming, boys, make some room!”
Kurapika could understand why he called you mom, but that doesn’t mean he would let Killua slide that easily.
As you and Leorio play 1v1 volleyball on the beach, Kurapika and Killua sit next to each other.
Killua KNOWS what Kurapika is going to say. He already knows, yet he can’t get up until you come back and reapply his sunscreen.
“I didn’t know you were a mamas boy, Killua.”
The white haired boy shoots him a glare, his cheeks pink. “Shut up.”
“Why? Am I not stating a fact?”
Killua huffs. He watches as Gon joins your team, saying Leorio was being to hard on you. He wants to join, anything to get away from Kurapika’s smug smirk.
“Missing your mom right now?”
Killua throws sand into his face. This results in the two fighting, getting your dress and towels covered in sand.
When you finish your game, you come back to see the two glaring at each other, wet sand clinging to them as they attempted to clean off the towel.
“I KNOW you two didn’t get sand on my dress.”
You stand before them, your arms crossed over your chest. Right now, you’re giving them the angry mom look, and even Kurapika feels a little scared.
“He started it mom! I didn’t e-“
Killua groaned loudly and slapped a hand over his face. He said it AGAIN.
“I’m sorry I-“
You sigh and pat his head. “Don’t be sorry, I don’t mind you calling me mom. I’m honored even.”
You smile at him and brush the sand off of your stuff.
“Let’s eat, you’re both probably just hangry!”
———————
“Hi mom!”
Gon waves at you from across the store, not even realizing what he’d called you. Killua startles next to him, grabbing his shoulder.
“Gon, you just called her mom.”
Gon slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh.”
“I told you I don’t mind.”
You appear in front of them, the boys instantly taking the shopping bags out of your hands. “Aww, my sweet boys. I can carry them myself, you know.”
Gon shakes his head. “Aunt Mito said men shouldn’t let a lady carry stuff all by herself!”
“… they’re too heavy for you.”
You laugh and ruffle their hair. “Alright, alright. Let’s go home.”
Killua follows behind you. Home. Your house was home to him, more than the place he’d been born and raised was. You never placed expectations on him, you allowed him to be the kid he was. Although it was a bit annoying when you were too overprotective, he knew it came from a place of care, and he was okay with being babied if it was you.
You really were his mom, weren’t you?
“(Name)?”
You hum in response, peeking at Killua.
“Is… is it really okay if I… call you mom?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be? You’re both basically my kids already. Especially with how much you make me worry.”
You rub your face. “Look, I’m getting wrinkles.”
The two laugh, catching up to walk on each side of you.
“Alright, alright. Sorry… mom.”
You smile and ruffle his hair. “It’s okay.”
—————
You get home and ask for them to get the groceries put up while you go to shower.
Kurapika gets home shortly after, shrugging off his coat and placing it on the coat hanger.
He looks into the kitchen to see Gon and Killua sorting through the groceries, the two sneaking a few pieces of the candy you’d bought as they did.
“Your girlfriend is in the shower.”
Kurapika takes a second to process what Killua said before snapping back. “You mean your mom?”
“Kurapika, you sh-“ Gon is interrupted by Killua crossing his arms and blowing a raspberry at Kurapika.
“She said I can call her mom if I want. But you can’t call her your girlfriend, can you?”
The two stare at him in shock. Kurapika can’t speak, his eyes and face turning red.
“You little-“
You step out of the bathroom in one of Kurapika’s shirts and a pair of shorts. “Oh, Kurapika, you’re home!”
You run up to him and give him a big hug, placing a kiss on his cheek. “Did your mission go well?”
Kurapika was already reeling from Killua’s words, and now he was the brightest shade of red he’d ever been. Did you just… kiss his cheek? His cheek? HIS? And you’re… wearing his shirt. Oh god.
“I-um it’s-“
Killua snickers from his seat on the counter. “Who’s the mamas boy now?”
The two start fighting, you confused.
“What does he mean by that?”
Gon shrugs. “Dunno. You should probably just let them fight it out though.”
You pout, but he’s probably right. If you stepped in, they’d just be passively aggressive to each other all night, and you didn’t want that.
“If you two are going to fight at least do it outside, I have breakable knickknacks.”
#perv!kurapika#kurapika anon#x reader#anime x reader#headcanon#reader insert#requests open#hxh x reader#hxh imagines#hxh kurapika#kurapika#hunter x hunter kurapika#kurapika x reader#kurapika kurta#kurapika x y/n#hunter x hunter#hunter x hunter x reader#hunter x hunter headcanons#female reader#fem reader#chubby reader#anime x chubby reader#chubby!reader#killua zoldyck#gon freecss#hxh leorio
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For the JJ blurb idea..waking up together for the first time or your first sleepover together🤭
Burnt Toast Sunday|| JJ McCarthy x reader
• pairing: JJ McCarthy x reader
• summary: The morning after your first sleepover with JJ
• warnings: some language & lots of fluff<3
Your eye lids fluttered open from the feeling of JJ leaving soft kisses on your cheek and neck. You were pressed against his body, your back against his chest with his strong arms wrapped around you.
Last night was your first time staying over at JJ’s—with just the two of you.
You have been dating JJ for three months now. They’ve been the best three months of your life. He’s such a caring, considerate and attentive individual, so he makes the best boyfriend. You and JJ were good friends for about a year before the two of you realized there was something more between you. JJ came over to your house after a particularly rough practice, seeking comfort and someone to talk to. You were there for him, comforting him and listening to his rant about what was going wrong at practice. After a lengthy rant, JJ just gazed at you before spitting out the question he’s been wanting to ask for a while now: Will you go out with me this weekend? There’s a bar downtown that I heard has great food.
And the rest was history.
You hummed softly as you grabbed JJ’s hand that was pressed against your tummy. You intertwined your fingers with his and squeezed his hand gently.
“Good morning beautiful.” He whispered, his morning voice in your ear giving you butterflies. “Good morning handsome.”
He kissed your cheek before leaning on his arm that was on his pillow. “How’d you sleep?”
“Good,” you smiled, turning so you were facing him, “even better in your arms.” JJ chuckled, “Good, I’m glad you slept well.”
The two of you just laid in each others embrace, savoring every moment of the quiet morning with one another. JJ’s roommates were out of town for the weekend, meaning you had the entire house to yourself. It was peaceful, good for you and JJ to spend quality time together.
As you re-situated yourself and snuggled into JJ’s chest your stomach let out a loud growl. You groaned in embarrassment as your boyfriend just chuckled.
“Don’t be embarrassed baby, come on.” He groaned softly as he let go of you and rolled out of his bed, “I’ll go make you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
JJ shot you a look, almost seeming to give you his best RBF, “Yes I do. You’re hungry, I’m hungry, come on.” He reached out for your hand to pull you out of bed. You grabbed his hand, smiling softly at him as he helped you up. You hummed out a soft thank you before pulling away from him. JJ left you alone in the bedroom as he headed downstairs to prepare breakfast.
After JJ went downstairs, you went into his bathroom and freshened up a bit. You put your bra back on, brushed your hair, and swished some of JJ’s mint mouthwash around your mouth to get rid of your morning breath. You finished up in the bathroom and headed downstairs. The smell of eggs filled your nostrils as you entered your kitchen, making your mouth water and stomach rumble.
“Something smells good.” You mused as you walked up next to JJ. He just put two pieces of toast down in the toaster when you walked in. He turned around, breath hitching at the sight of you. JJ wet his lips as he looked at you wearing the silk sleep shorts paired with one of his Michigan t-shirts. “God you look so beautiful.” JJ said as he eyed you.
You blushed at his words, “Stop,” you eyed him playfully as you spoke, “I just woke up, it can’t be that pretty of a sight.” JJ chuckled and kissed your cheek. He stroked your skin with his thumb as he spoke, “It’s the prettiest.”
You smiled sweetly at your boyfriend as he smiled down at you. However your smile soon faltered as a burning smell filled your nostrils. You scrunched your nose in disgust as you sniffed a couple times.
“JJ…” you trailed off, “it smells like something is burning.”
JJ sniffed the air, his nose scrunching in disgust just like yours. His eyes widened as the toaster popped up, signaling that the pieces of bread were done toasting.
They were done toasting all right.
“Shit,” JJ breathed out as he pulled the two pieces of black burnt toast out of the toaster, “I burnt the toast.”
You chuckled at the sad look on your boyfriend’s face. He felt so bad he burnt your toast, but you thought it was funny. Hey, it’s the thought that counts right?
“It’s OK baby,” you said as you placed a hand on his back, rubbing it back and forth softly as you spoke, “it’s the thought that counts.”
JJ sighed as he poked at the burnt bread, his face turning into disgust once again. He let out another sigh as he looked at the burnt toast. So much for your breakfast…
“Why don’t we go to that cafe your parents took us to a couple weeks ago? They had good omlette.” You suggested with a smile. JJ glanced at you as he nodded.
He wrapped an arm around you as he spoke, “I could go for an omlette.”
Although breakfast didn’t go as JJ planned, the morning after your first sleepover together was still just as great as you imagined it would be.
hi loves!!
oh i love writing about jj. he’s such a cutie and you guys are sending in great requests for him. i love them!🤍
my requests are always open, so feel free to send me any and all ideas you have. i promise ill get to it at some point ;)
i’ll post some more blurbs tomorrow! as always, thank you for all the love and support, it means so much babes😚🤍
#jj mccarthy#jj mccarthy x y/n#jj mccarthy imagines#jj mccarthy x reader#jj mccarthy blurbs#blurb night!
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ceo alpha!eren x omega!reader because why not
content: ~1.7k word count oops. fem!reader, omegaverse and related themes (heat/rut, slick, knotting, pheromones, etc), breeding, mentions of semi-public sex, somnophilia, pet names, spitting, dirty talk, rough sex, explicit sexual content, explicit language. reader discretion advised 18+ only
Alpha!Eren who would have you join him at work, only on his most strenuous days. The days when the hands of the clock must have been dipped in molasses, and the minutes ticked by more like hours. Days drawn out by meeting after meeting, each somehow more pointless than the last. And God forbid anyone try to make a decision without his input for once in their pathetic lives.
You would trot your way up to his office, skipping past the cute little cubicles that looked pitiful in comparison to your closet, with one purpose and one purpose only.
It didn't take a genius to figure out the reason for your visits. A thin door could never suppress your heady pheromones; they billowed from the gap beneath it. But no one ever batted an eye. They never questioned it when they wouldn't see you again until evening, toted out beneath their boss's arm, slightly disheveled as you clung to him with a dainty hand wrapped around the bend in his elbow. You'd reek of Eren, having been scent-marked by him until the fumes were as choke-worthy as smoke. No one dared to take a second look. Smug bastard or not, his employees were smart enough to not interfere with his more personal affairs.
Alpha!Eren whose scent was always more alluring when vexed. It was an authoritative, commanding scent. Not a twinge at the tip of your nose but as robust as a deep breath of air and just as weighty at the bottom of your lungs. Mint as fresh as if you had tossed the leaf straight into your mouth and ground it with your molars, warmed by the intoxicating scent of stiff rum. It sedated you into this delirious and euphoric little thing. Utterly passive, like the good omega you were. You'd spend the workday at his side—and on his lap and beneath him and on top of him. Wherever he wanted you, you were always more than eager to oblige.
You perched all pretty atop his lap was his favorite, especially when you would straddle his thigh. You'd roll your hips against the ungiving muscle until he'd decidedly flip you around, cowgirl, and bounce you on his cock. It only took one hand to send an email.
But most of the time, between getting yourself off (when allowed) and getting Eren off, you'd spend the afternoon curled up under his desk in adoration, a touch-starved kitten mewling at his feet. He was such a busy man, after all. You'd nuzzle against the tightening crotch of his pants, waiting with a watering mouth for permission to remove them. Only then would you work off his belt and unzip his slacks to lap at his cock through his boxers. He'd use your mouth as his toy, and if you made a mess, you were always sure to lick it clean before it could stain.
Alpha!Eren who, upon meeting you, knew he could never go without you again. Never in his life had he experienced such a feeling. One he could only describe as a lightning strike, not from the sky but from blooming from some deep, primal part of him. Some inborn urge to impress you, to court and provide for you—to have you. You were halfway his already, undeniably so as your scent would flare every time he leaned into you. A delectable aroma of blackberries, their tartness lulled by sugared maple, swirling around him in a pacifying mist. What a wonderful cocktail the two of you would create.
Alpha!Eren who, at best, was described as insolent and, at worst, labeled an asshole, was anything but when it came to you. Any request was yours so long as you softened him up, which never took much. It made him happy to see you giggly and bounding around, so why wouldn't he go and give you whatever you pleased? He more than had the means to, and you more than deserved it. You were his mate, his perfect one at that. Truly, you must have been put on this planet just for him, so he might as well gift you the world in return.
Which was the very reason why he already knew the answer to your next request the moment he walked through the front door.
Eren was running late that night, returning home well past dark to find the couch cushions in disarray. Before he could even pull the breath to call for you, it hitched in his throat.
You were in heat. It'd been a while since that happened.
Your pheromones were tenfold thanks to it, this sharp and thickly sweet scent he could practically taste on the back of his tongue.
Work had occupied more of his week than he would have liked, but even so, he should have seen this coming. Just last night, you were restless in your sleep, wiggling and murmuring to yourself. He checked to see if you were awake only to discover how invitingly warm, how soft, you felt beneath his palm. He was hard instantly, bringing him to snake an arm around you, holding you there to fuck his cock between your slick thighs. Of course, he was too far gone at that point to question it.
You emerged from the bedroom with pillows stuffed beneath your arms, wearing one of his shirts—not a fresh one, but one you had undoubtedly dug out from the bottom of the hamper. Your figure was blurred by the oversized tee, but that didn't stop his fantasies from running rampant.
Eren watched you keenly as you added the pillows to the growing pile in front of the fireplace. You bent over to fluff, and he could plainly see how soaked your panties were. He asked you then if you had stopped taking your heat blockers.
The bashful face you made at him said enough. And when you admitted you did it because you wanted to get pregnant, Eren couldn't hide how his breathing went uneven.
He approached you, dipping his chin and taking yours between two fingers. He angled you to meet his eye and tried his best to keep his expression doting, docile, but it was near-impossible with the way you stared back at him. Your eyes were still alert, pupils blown and flickering across his face, but the rest of you looked softer, somehow. Your lips were poutier, begging to be bitten, and you had this dreamy look on your face.
"My pretty girl," Eren whispered, a low growl lurking beneath his words.
You melted into his grasp, his mesmeric pheromones coiling around you, sedating you. It was euphoric, to finally bask in your alpha's presence after a day spent alone, but it wasn't enough. Every part of your body pulsed hotly in response to his touch, waiting for him to finally have you.
And he would. Fuck, he was aching to. He needed you so terribly he couldn't be upset that you stopped taking your blockers without warning, even if it meant triggering his own rut.
Oh, well. He figured he could use a few days away from the office.
Eren swiped his thumb over your bottom lip.
"You want me to give you a baby?" His fingers traced down the front of your throat, skimming lower until they were between your legs. He pushed your underwear aside, cupping a hand over you in ownership. "Breed this perfect pussy?"
You bobbled your head in a nod, clenching your thighs around his hand in hopes he'd do something more than teasingly play with your slick for his own enjoyment.
"Whatever you want," Eren pecked the tip of your nose, and you knew it was the gentlest he planned on being with you, "it's yours."
Alpha!Eren whose strength didn't falter as he scooped you into his arms and whisked you off to bed. Legs spread with him in between, you locked your ankles against the small of his back. You pressed your body to his, hopelessly grinding your clothed pussy against his stomach on instinct, searching for any sort of release as you made a mess of his button-down.
There you were, splayed across the bed, panting, and he hadn't even touched you yet, not the way you needed him to. He appraised the sight below him, from the beads of sweat decorating your hairline to your legs wilted to either side, with this unyielding sort of look on his face, the look of hunger.
Eren thoughtlessly tore at your underwear, kissing and sucking and biting along your thighs until he closed his mouth over your pussy. It didn't take long for him to lick you to your first orgasm. You were more sensitive in this state, so submissive and dedicated, just as your omega nature intended.
The waves of your orgasm paled and swelled, leaving you in a rose-colored haze as Eren sat upright.
"How sweet you are. Let me give you a taste."
Before he could grab ahold of your face and open your mouth for you, you beat him to it. You let your jaw fall slack, your tongue lolling out to eagerly accept the string of saliva connecting you to him before he kissed it into your mouth.
What little restraint he had was clouded by your heavenly scent, cloying at his every sense. He hastily undid his belt, then the button and zipper to his pants, but his darkened eyes never left you.
You took his pink-tinged cheeks between your hands, purring, "I'm here," as you peppered open-mouthed kisses along the feverish skin of his neck.
You moved to present yourself to your alpha, but he flipped you onto your hands and knees instead. He kicked apart your legs and thrusted inside you heedlessly, like a beast freed from his leash.
You whined, tangled somewhere in the knot where pain met pleasure, as you pushed back against him.
"I know, baby. I know," he said—not consoled, because there wasn't an ounce of reassurance behind it.
Alpha!Eren who bit your name into the back of your neck, on the bonding scar behind your ear. Who knotted you in prone bone because your arms and legs were too shaky by the time he was finished with you.
He consumed you, every part of you. He bathed you in feel-good pheromones, his weight pinning your sweat-sheened body to the bed. He nuzzled against the side of your face, kissing your cheek as he asked if you were okay.
You were, your body was made for this. And once you were no longer locked together, you knew you'd be ready for another round. There was no chance Eren wouldn't knock you up this heat because whatever you wanted, it was yours.
#cw omegaverse#alpha!eren#eren x reader#eren yeager x reader#eren jaeger x reader#divider by @/saradika-graphics
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Tara Carpenter
how've you been since we last spoke?
can we take this outside?
can we take this outside?
how've you been since we last spoke?
Pronouns: He/Him/His, Male!Reader
Love that when Melissa and Jenna leave they're suddenly more than happy to pay Neve what she's worth. Smh.
You absentmindedly listened to the girl dressed up as a Nurse from Silent Hill babble and whine on and on about her classes and sorority sisters, occasionally reaching out to stabilize her when she stumbled over her heels. You'd long replaced the alcohol in her cup with water - not that she'd even noticed in her inebriated state - and wearily watched her until your friend could swoop in and finally take her roommate back home.
Peering over your shoulder, you searched for your friend until you found the familiar Kara Zor-El you'd watched her excitedly work on for weeks. Lucy still looked deep in conversation with her ex-girlfriend, irritation beginning to seep into her features the longer she spent talking with Anika. She'd seemingly had enough and rolled her eyes, turning her back to Anika and stomping her way back to you.
"Seems like that went well, huh?" You chuckled, a soft hiss leaving you right after when she slapped your forearm. Lucy scowled, grumbling under her breath as she took her roommate's cup and tossed the contents into the sink. Her roommate began whining about it but her protests and groaning went in one ear and out the other.
"I can't wait to see her little girlfriend's face when she gets dumped too. I mean, what type of nickname is 'Mindy', anyway? For Melinda? Go with Mel or Linda like every other sane person." Lucy huffed, shoving her hand in her purse and searching around for her keys. The small grin on your face immediately dropped and you straightened up, looking back in the direction of Anika and, sure enough, spotting Mindy Meeks-Martin staring right back at you wide-eyed.
"Oh, fuck." You murmured. The blonde beside you glanced up at you questioningly, her hand still in her purse and shuffling around the various makeup sticks, folded papers, mints, and gum packets. If only you'd listened to your gut and driven to the party instead of hitching a ride with them. "Could you hurry up?"
"I'm looking, (Y/N). What's the big deal?" Lucy questioned, lifting her purse closer to her face and squinting through the dim lighting of the kitchen. Her roommate had taken to leaning on the counter, her head leaned back against the fridge, and her eyes beginning to flutter close. Part of you wanted to snatch the purse from Lucy's hands and search for the damn keys yourself but you resorted to tapping your foot impatiently.
By the time you heard the familiar jingle of her charm clinking with her keys, a hand had already landed on your wrist and squeezed lightly. Rolling your lips into your mouth and inhaling deeply through your nose, you released it in a heavy sigh and turned around to face your ex, Tara Carpenter. She stared up at you, her big doe eyes widening with surprise and her maroon-colored lips surprisingly spreading into a wide smile. She hadn't changed in the slightest, despite everything she'd gone through back in Woodsboro.
"Found it!" Lucy thrusted her keys up into the air with a victory laugh that quickly fell short when she noticed Tara. Her brows furrowed and she tilted her head, her gaze flickering between you and the brunette.
"Wait for me in the car." You told her, and after a beat of hesitation, she nodded and wrapped her arm around her roommate's waist before making their way through the sea of students. You watched them disappear into the crowd and tugged your wrist free from Tara's hold, offering the shorter girl a forced smile.
"Can we take this outside?" She asked over the music and you reluctantly nodded, allowing her to take your hand into hers and lead you through the frat house. Tara stepped out into the backyard, briefly eyeing the people skinny-dipping in the pool before she turned around to face you again.
"So, uh... how've you been since we last spoke?"
"Shitty considering I almost died."
"Yeah, fair. I... I don't know why I asked." You winced, raising your hand to rub the back of your neck and ease the tension forming there. Seeing Tara again after everything only brought up past feelings you'd rather long forget about, as well as trickles of guilt. Tara pursed her lips, crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat, lifting her hand to toy with her necklaces.
"You didn't call. Or text. Or anything. It was all over the news and my ex-boyfriend who I dated for almost three years never once bothered reaching out to check on me." Tara's nails lightly dug into her forearm as she spoke, a frown forming on her face. "I waited. I-I waited to hear from you, (Y/N). And you never called."
"What'd you want me to do, Tara? Call and be like 'sorry the girl you dumped me for right before my graduation tried killing you and your buddies'? I didn't even know if you or Sam or any of them wanted to hear from me. They were always your friends, not mine. Hell, I bet they didn't know I was coming to Blackmore until now. I bet you didn't even know."
"I..." Tara trailed off, her bitterness that'd briefly passed over her features fading. She swallowed and nodded, her gaze dropping down onto the ground. "I knew you were coming to New York. I just... I didn't think you'd be coming here. I honestly... I thought that maybe we'd cross paths eventually but not at a party in a frat house of all places."
Sighing softly, you let your hand fall limp at your side. "For what it's worth I'm glad you're okay, Tara. I'm sorry you lost Wes and Liv. And... I hope we can be friends again, Tara."
#x reader#x you#x y/n#x male reader#scream franchise#scream#scream x reader#scream x you#scream x y/n#scream x male reader#tara carpenter#tara carpenter x reader#tara carpenter x you#tara carpenter x y/n#tara carpenter x male reader#scream anika#mindy meeks martin
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double black² —wednesday addams
▹ wednesday addams/gn!gorgon!reader
▹ synopsis: Wednesday witnesses exactly how the fights you get into usually start out, and the aching consequences.
▹ content warnings: violence, angst
▹ word count: ~2,2k
▹ part 1 | navi / AO3
"The movie was shit, by the way; pure torture. At least I was alone 'cause normal people don't go to the movies on a fucking Tuesday."
You cradle the flame from your lighter in the palm of your free hand as you bring it to the end of your cigarette. The sweet smell of mint washes over you as it ignites and the lighter snaps shut with a resounding click. You inhale and the tip glows bright red.
"That's a horrible habit," Wednesday comments, sitting next to you on the stone railing surrounding the front lawn of the school. She eyes the cigarette with a look of contempt.
"It's supposed to start tasting more and more disgusting as time goes on." You pluck the cigarette from your mouth and balance it between your pointer and middle fingers. "Like soap, I think. Guess I'll quit when I get there." You take another drag and tilt your face up. Smoke rings float into the air. Gray soot falls off the burnt end and lands on the stone you're sitting on. Wednesday brushes it off with a frown.
She opens her mouth to respond with a biting retort but a sharp whistle cuts her off. It's painfully loud and she whirls around to tell whoever it is to fuck off. You beat her to it, shoulders turning and body following until you're sitting so you're facing the school. The man grins and says something in a foreign language.
You reply, tone sharp and biting, and extinguish the red-hot end of your cigarette against the stone railing. "Stay here," you tell her before you push yourself off the railing. Your boots thud dully when you land, scraping along the cobblestone-paved road to the stranger as you approach. Whatever you tell him next is drawn out.
Your voice has a lower pitch in this language. Rougher. Throaty.
(Wednesday finds herself liking it.)
Whatever you talk about, it leaves you agitated. There's a straightness in your shoulders she doesn't usually see, hands curled into fists at your sides. The man raises his hand to jab you in the shoulder and you slap his hand away. When his eyes meet Wednesday's, you immediately step into his line of sight. She watches a grin curl onto his lips. He leans down slightly to whisper something to you.
Your answer to whatever he said is a mouthful of spittle in his face.
He moves fast, too fast for him to be just human. The speed leaves her dizzy from just watching, and her heartbeat leaps into her throat when he suddenly has his arm wrapped around your throat from the back. You only hold a hand out, pointing a finger at Wednesday. "Don't." You wheeze loudly when he tightens his grip around your windpipe but your gaze stays on Wednesday like you're ordering her to stay where she is. "Don't."
The stranger says something. She sees his mouth move, but can't decipher what he's saying. The letters in his words don't make sense and the shapes his mouth makes when he speaks are odd. She can't focus, her gaze pinned to your face, the way your teeth grit together.
His hand is suddenly in your hair, arm around your throat loosening just enough to force your head forward and down to meet the brunt of his knee. Your teeth snap together as the world tilts on its axis and you fall onto your side, palms scraping along the gravel lodged between the cobblestones.
The spring air is cool and you welcome the burn in your lungs when you inhale. It doesn't last.
The hard nose of his boot strikes your ribs. It rips a pathetic wail from your lips as the pain rushes through your torso. Your eyes are watering. You attempt to roll away from him and your efforts are met with another hard kick.
The burn in your lungs becomes unpleasant all at once as you attempt to breathe. Every muscle in your torso is screaming when you attempt to pull yourself onto your knees to stand. Another kick to the ribs, another screeching wail of a banshee. This time, something crunches.
You roll onto your back, chest heaving. There's a lump in your throat you force back down.
Wednesday is rooted to the spot. Her feet feel like lead and she can't will them to move, to step forward and drag you away from the confrontation by the lapels of your jacket—maybe whack your assailant over the head with a thick branch.
She can't even startle when a new figure pulls the man off you, can't focus on the way coach Vladimir presses his knee against the stranger's throat. She just stares at your slowly moving figure, curling up with a wet gasp, shielding your head with your arms. The snakes in your hair are lying limp on the ground.
Larissa Weems arrives moments later, crouching next to your curled-up body. Her hair is in disarray, large strands of white falling out of their neat updo, curling around her face. Her fingers curl around your wrist, her mouth forming words to say something in a language Wednesday can't understand. You only curl further into yourself with a choked sob.
Wednesday's feet finally move and her boots scrape against the gravel. Weems' head snaps up and her eyes narrow on Wednesday.
"Ms. Addams, return to your room." Weems brushes a particularly annoying loose lock of hair behind her ear. Her gaze is hard, scrutinizing—like she's planning a murder and willing to commit it right in front of everyone's eyes. "Now, Ms. Addams."
Wednesday doesn't argue, can't even find her voice to argue. She places one unsteady foot in front of the other, knees weak, and heads towards the dormitories.
Your body aches.
It's dull, but it's everywhere.
Pain tingles in your ribs when you breathe and you almost want to growl out a swear but your jaw aches, too. Your tongue feels like dead weight in your mouth.
The muscles in your neck are tense, erupting in searing hot pain when you let your head tip to the side. The pillowcase against your cheek feels scratchy and you make a mental note to buy a new set of bedsheets once you're able to stand.
Wednesday is sitting in the beanbag chair next to your bed. Her textbooks are placed on the edge of your bed and she's furiously scribbling something into the notebook in her lap with a fancy fountain pen. She's wearing your sunglasses.
"Good evening." She continues her hasty scribbling, not bothering to look up as she greets you.
"I feel like I got into a fight with a bear. And lost." Your voice is hoarse and your throat dry. It's like you've swallowed sand.
"Something like that."
She caps her fancy pen and finally looks up. Her lips are pulled into a tight line but you can't see her eyes. She gently adjusts your sunglasses but doesn't remove them. Yet you can still feel the intensity of her gaze. So, you turn your head to stare at the other side of your bed.
You're met with a pile of colorful decorative pillows, fuzzy blankets, stuffed animals of all colors and breeds, with weird, bulging acrylic eyes. Even Enid's pink-and-orange sweater is resting next to your pillow, neatly folded. It's a size too small but you appreciate the sentiment.
"Enid thought you'd be more comfortable this way," Wednesday says from her spot in your beanbag chair. She doesn't move. You clear your throat and grumble something under your breath.
"Lotsa colors."
You have an accent, Wednesday realizes. It's faint, but it's there. English makes your voice softer—higher. She misses the roughness it had the night before.
She abruptly stands, straightening her sweater and pants. You turn to look at her with wide eyes, lips turned into a small frown like you're afraid she's leaving for good. Ask me to stay, she thinks.
But you don't.
"You missed dinner," she says. Her voice has the same lilt but for a moment the intrusive thought that maybe it's too harsh for your current condition flashes through. But you make no deal of it, only hum like you've resigned yourself to accepting any bad news she might announce. In a move that surprises even herself, she speaks, "I'll go get it."
You stare at her with wide eyes, mouth moving like you're about to tell her not to, to tell her you can do it yourself. Her reply is the most venomous look she can muster and a curt, "Don't move."
She's out the door before you can argue.
And she returns with a large tray in hand, holding not only your dinner but every single vegetable she could stand the sight of. Something about five different colors of vegetables.
Instead of where she left you, Wednesday finds you lying face-down on the edge of your bed. You groan, voice muffled.
"I take back what I said. I feel like I got run over by an 18-wheeler."
"Why are you out of bed?"
"I had to pee, like, really bad." Your arms are shaking when you push yourself onto all fours to climb back into the still-warm spot. You move slowly, every single fiber of every muscle in your body is screaming at the slightest movement. Wednesday watches from the side.
She places the tray on the edge of your bed once you've settled in and you bristle when you see that's plated.
"I hate mashed potatoes."
Wednesday ignores your comment as she sits next to the tray. She digs the spoon into the mashed potatoes on the plate and stirs it with the diced meat and gravy. She picks up a spoonful and holds it out to your lips.
"Eating like a poor 18th century eastern European peasant—my ancestors are rolling in their graves." Yet you lean forward to accept what she's offering. "They didn't survive the treat of gulags for me to eat bland mashed potatoes in the 21st century."
"Don't talk with your mouth full."
You lift your hand in front of your mouth and swallow. "Tastes like cardboard." But she doesn't give in to your complaints, only hums and lifts another spoonful to your mouth. You accept it. "The texture's horrible." You accept the next spoonful, too. "I can keep going."
"I have a lot of mashed potato left."
That shuts you up. Instead of arguing, you let her feed you. It's silent, only the sound of the metal spoon scraping against the ceramic plate when she reaches for another spoonful, accompanied by your grumbles when you discover an unmashed potato chunk in your mouth. She hands you a baby carrot once the plate is empty.
You pat the empty space next to you on the bed and shimmy slightly to the side to make more room for her. Your ribs strain and you clamp down on your tongue to keep a pained hiss in your mouth.
Wednesday places the empty plate onto your nightstand and climbs onto your bed. She tentatively lies down, like she's waiting for you to change your mind and reject her, to tell her to get out. You don't, you just break the baby carrot in half and shove both pieces into your mouth at once.
"How come you have a two-person bed?"
That sounds like a safe enough topic to start out on.
You look at her with a raised brow and hand her one of Enid's gaudy pink pillows to rest her head on. You clearly find joy in the face she pulls at it.
"I work in Jericho in the summer. Everyone else goes home and Larissa doesn't want me to sit around for three months, so she said she'd let me get new furniture if I made the money myself. I guess my constant begging was getting annoying."
Wednesday's eyes flicker to your lips. She reluctantly drags her gaze up again.
"What did he say?"
Your face drops. The crease between your eyebrows appears and she wants to reach out to smooth her thumb over it. Instead, her hand tangles into the sheet.
"Doesn't matter."
She sits up, leaning her weight on her hand still tangled with your bedsheet. "So he was just a douche whose girlfriend you flirted with? Another one of your conquests like everyone in school keeps talking about?"
"I think you should leave."
You turn onto your side with a string of swears under your breath and pull the blanket up to your chin. For good measure, you grab one of the stuffed animals Enid had left and bury your face into its soft fur.
Wednesday doesn't move for a few long moments. The seconds tick by on the alarm clock on your nightstand. Finally, she stands, straightening out her sweater, and quietly packs her things. On her way out, she grabs the empty plate.
The door clicks shut behind her and she stands in the hallway. She takes a moment to collect herself, a breath in, a breath out, and adjusts her backpack before she takes the first step towards the stairs at the end of the hall.
Something in her chest aches.
taglist: @stupendousbananajudgeshark @vaeeeel @eclipsesmoonshine14
#wednesday addams x reader#wednesday addams x you#wednesday x reader#wednesday x you#wednesday addams#wednesday netflix#wednesday#wednesday 2022#fanfiction#fanfic
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𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | masterlist
pairing: ellie williams x plus!sized fem!reader
Summary: When you get insecure, Ellie is there to help you out.
— warnings: mentions of weight insecurity. angst, fluff, smut nsfw content. body worship, fingering, oral sex, praise kink. nicknames. baby, angel, sweet girl, pretty
Daisies bloom by your feet, and wildflowers loiter the Earth. Herbs of mint are scattered aimlessly around, hidden by the thick blades of green grass. You’ve sunk into the soil, the scent of rain heavy in the wind. The sky is blue, but dark blotches of grey break through, creating a beautiful pattern of melancholy.
The ground is still slightly wet. The soil is soft beneath you, and your fingers trail mindlessly over the damp grass. You pluck thoughtlessly at the nature, breathing in the deep, Earthy scent. Your eyelids flutter shut as you girlfriends fingers gently move to tuck your hair behind your ear, the soft touch causing goosebumps to prickle up your skin.
There is no decay here. No signs of rotting or death. It’s almost silent, but the quiet sounds of birds chirping flood your ears. You try to ignore the tugging of your heartstrings when Ellie’s fingers graze your cheekbones, gentle in her motions as she touches you.
“Hey, pretty girl.” You open your eyes to look up at her, your head nestled in her lap. You fluster under her gaze, your eyes following the patterns of her freckles. “You okay?”
Her tone is soft. Her voice floats on the wind. Ellie smiles down at you, two strands of hair falling down the side of her sculptured face. She’s so effortlessly gorgeous, a raw picture of beauty.
“I’m fine, Ells.”
“Don’t lie to me, baby. You know better than that.” She pinches at your thigh as if to make a point, the breeze riding your skirt up a few inches as if to laugh at you.
You close your eyes again. You focus on the sounds of trickling water, the tweeting birds who sing proudly. You focus on her slow, even breathing, thankful for her patience. “It’s stupid,” you mumble, swallowing away the tight feeling in the back of your throat. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“I’ve never laughed at you before, angel,” Ellie says, and she’s right. She hasn’t laughed at you ever, not even when you’d fallen over rocks or tripped up stairs. “Why would I start now?”
The burn in your throat is beginning to grow. Your eyes sting slightly, and your face grows warm with embarrassment. You meet her eyes, flushing under her intense, pointed gaze. “I don’t like how I look, Ells.”
Her brows knit together, confusion plastering across her features. The confession lingers in the air, creating a barrier of silence between the two of you. You turn your face away from her, small specks of tears falling from your eyes, slipping down your face, and eventually they make a home on your lips.
“What?” She says, exasperation laced in her tone. “You — baby, what?”
“Please don’t make me repeat myself,” you mumble, your voice wavering slightly. Ellie’s fingers press against your jaw, tugging your face towards her, and you try to ignore how her expression makes you feel.
Your gut churns as you stare at her tight, ticked jaw and her furrowed brows. “Oh, angel.” Her thumb runs over your lip, brushing the salty tears away your mouth. “Why? You’re so pretty, baby, can’t you see that?”
“It’s not — it’s not that.” Your voice comes out a whisper, the breeze causing your skirt to ride upwards. Your fingers curl around the fabric, tugging it down slightly, the cold air causing goosebumps to prickle up your thighs. “I know I’m pretty. You tell me everyday.”
“So, what is it?” Ellie presses, pursing her lips together as she ponders over what you could possibly be insecure about.
In her eyes, you’re perfect. Heavenly. She’s no idea how you’re allowed on a place as evil as Earth. Ellie isn’t religious — she never has been, but she can’t think how such a sweet girl like you can exist without a higher power. You’re ethereal, an angel sent down from heaven that had been directed straight to her.
She can’t even begin fathom what the hell you’re insecure about.
“I don’t — I don’t like my thighs.”
Ellie’s eyes flicker over to your legs. You’re wearing a skirt she’d stolen on a supply run. It was ridiculously skimpy and lewd, and arousal had pooled in the bottom of her stomach when she thought about you in it. There was no way she was leaving that abandoned mall without it, especially not when she checked the tag and realised it was in your size.
“I like them,” she comments, but it comes out as a growl, her hands gently palming the soft plush your legs. “They’re so fuckin’ hot, especially when you’re in this skirt, baby.”
“It’s not just them.” As if to make a point, you brush her hands off of your thigh and her gaze is so intense, it feels as though her green eyes could burn a hole in your skin. “Ellie, can we just leave it?”
“What else don’t you like?”
“Please, Ellie.”
She shakes her head. Her hands move back onto your legs, and your breath hitches in your throat as she gently begins to move the skirt up, your skin exposed to the cool, forest breeze. “Tell me what you don’t like, angel. If you don’t tell me now, you’ll just have to tell me later.”
You huff as she moves away from you, your head now pressed against the thin picnic blanket she’d brought with her. “Ellie,” you whine, frustration lacing through you as she shuffles down towards your legs, her head nuzzling into your thighs. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re upset, baby.” She says softly, her fingers caressing your legs gently. “I don’t want my sweet girl being upset and keeping her feelings inside. It’s not healthy. Tell me what you don’t like. I’ll tell you why I do.”
You stare at her. She stares back. She’s made a comfortable bed in between your legs, and you feel warm and insatiable as you think back to the last time she was in this position. Her face had been all wet and she’d been groaning as you grinded against—
“—Head out of the gutter, angel. I can see that little brain ticking away.” Ellie grins up at you, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and butterflies bloom in your stomach as she does so. Her voice drops a few octaves as she mutters out, “please, baby. I don’t like when you’re upset.”
“Okay. I don’t like my thighs,” you start again, from the beginning, your heart pitter-pattering in your chest as Ellie nods her head in acknowledgement.
“I think that your thighs are perfect,” she says, her lips brushing against the soft, plump skin of your thighs, leaving gentle bruises in their wake, “and nice and soft. I love how you wrap them around my head when I’m eating you out and squeeze them nice an’ tight when you’re close.”
You flush, shuffling under her heated gaze as she sucks small bruises onto the skin of your thighs. “What else don’t you like, baby? Keep talking,” she mumbles once she pulls away, her eyes starry and slightly awe-struck.
“I don’t like my belly,” you admit shyly, trying to ignore the embarrassment which floods through you as Ellie stops peppering kisses to your legs. “And I don’t like my hips. Or my boobs. Or—“
“Baby.” Her voice is calm and smooth as she calls out to you, and you instantly meet her eyes. You hadn’t even noticed that you’d started to cry until you looked down at her, her pretty face blurred by your glassy eyes. “I love all of those things, angel. Your stomach — holy fuck, your hips. You know how hot it is when you wear a tight little dress which shows off all of your curves? Which hugs your tits and your ass?”
“It’s not hot.”
“It is.” The affirmation in her voice makes your lip tremble slightly, and she coos up at you, her brows knitting together in concern as you stir in your upset. “Oh, angel, you’re so oblivious. Everyone wants you. Everyone. And if they don’t want you, they want this —“ she gestures to your body, trailing her hands from your hips up to your breasts “—which is why it shocks me so bad that you don’t realise how hot you are. You know how many men I’ve had to fuckin’ scare away when you’re dancing like nobody’s watching in this skirt?”
Ellie’s voice drops to a whisper, and your breath hitches in your throat as her hands shuffle back down to your thighs. Her fingers dart closer and closer to the place where you need her most — the place where you’ve grown wet with desire as a result of her praises. “I can’t believe you don’t realise how precious you are, angel.” Her voice is husky as she peppers kisses to your legs, every nerve inside of your body tingling and on fire as she speaks. “Let me show you.”
Ellie’s fingers curl around your panties. She coos as her fingers make contact with your slick, her green irises becoming sheathed by her black and blown pupils. “So wet for me, baby. You’re such a good girl. You just want me to love you like you deserve, don’t you, angel?”
“Yes,” you say breathlessly, your heart hammering so quickly inside of your chest that you feel like it’s going to explode. “I want you to show me how much you love me.”
Ellie groans from below you, running her fingers through your sticky folds, her other hand holding your panties to the side for better access. “So perfect, angel. Fuck, wrap those legs around my head. Want your thighs squeezin’ me when I eat this pretty little pussy.”
As Ellie’s lips make contact with your heat, a depraved whine is dragged from your throat. You do what she says, wrapping your legs around her head the best you can, squeezing her head hesitantly, unsure of whether or not she really wants it. When she groans in response, your stomach flips, and you tense your thighs again, this time a little harder.
“That’s it,” she says, pulling away from your heat slightly, her eyes darting over your cunt. It’s swollen and puffy, so slick that it looks like it’s crying for her touch. “I wanna drown in this pussy, angel.”
Your legs waver as her lips connect to your cunt again. Her tongue rides through your slits, gentle as her mouth connects with your clit, sucking and lapping at the sensitive bundle of nerves. You jolt beneath her touch, her fingers squeezing at the plump flesh of your thighs as she eats at you, eager and desperate.
The picnic blanket grows taut in your palm as your hands curl into the fabric desperately. You fist at it, your eyes drooping shut as her tongue swirls around your clit. “Ellie,” you whimper, your back arching from the ground as she licks a rough stripe over your cunt, the sensation sending hot flashes shooting to your core. “Feels so good.”
She groans in response, her hazel eyes cloudy and drunk as she laps at your heat. You taste delicious, so perfect, and she gives your thighs a final squeeze before her hands dart away from your plump flesh. Ellie pushes two fingers inside of your cunt, your walls sheathing her digits instantly, and you let out a strangled moan in response.
Her fingers curl inside of your cunt, and she smirks as you clench down around her. The sounds which echo through the forest are lewd — your whimpers and moans and your squelching cunt drown out any other sounds, and Ellie feels impossibly pussy-drunk as she laps at your core.
It feels like electricity is literally pulsing through each and every one of your nerves. Your thighs squeeze her head, and you hear her mumble a string of incoherent praises — “taste so good baby, so perfect, love these thighs and your stomach and you” — your mind growing hazy as her tongue circles gently around your clit.
“Ellie,” you whimper, your body weak as her fingers curl inside of your cunt. Her tongue circles around your clit, her lips suctioning around sensitive bundle of nerves gently, “‘m so close, please, Ellie?”
She doesn’t speak. She just keeps sucking and lapping at you, watching as you grow frantic and desperate. Ellie looks up at you through hooded lids, a grin painting her lips as you squeeze her face with your thighs, withering and gasping as you begin to come undone.
"Cum for me, pretty," she encourages incoherently as she nuzzles into your cunt, her fingers gliding in and out of your sweet, slick pussy.
You clench down around her fingers, your stomach growing tight as you begin to grind against her face. Ellie listens to each moan, each whimper, making sure to pay strict attention to your clit, the contact making your legs jolt as you begin to come undone.
It feels so good. Her fingers curl inside of you, the knot inside of you ripping apart, fraying, loosening. Electricity pulses through you, flames biting and licking at every nerve, and you gasp as you feel her face grow impossibly slick, your body growing weak as she eats you through your orgasm.
"Ellie," you mumble, your voice shaking when she finally pulls away from your heat, a lewd string of saliva following her. Her face is wet, and she grins, nestling into the soft skin of your thighs, peppering gentle, loving kisses against your skin. "That was so good. You were so good, Ellie."
"No, angel,” she says softly, her hand reaching up to yours, and you blush as she intertwines her fingers with your own, “you were so good. So good f'r me, my perfect girl."
Her fingers toy with the end of your skirt. The hem is frayed, and she hums lowly, her green eyes boring into yours. "'I love these skirts on you, angel." She comments, moving up to press a kiss against your lips, and you let out a breathy moan as you taste yourself on her tongue. "I love your thighs and your tits and your hips and your stomach. I love you, pretty girl."
You flush as Ellie brushes a strand of hair from your eyes. "Love you too, Ells," you murmur, finding solace in the comforting silence of the forest, nothing but the sounds of your girlfriend's steady breaths and her racing heart filling the quiet.
There’s something so peaceful and sincere about the wasteland that you lay in. There’s no sign of life but there’s no sign of death, either. A perfect balance. You sigh as Ellie pulls you into her chest, your head lulling against her, no longer feeling the urge to tug your skirt down when the breeze rides it up.
#ellie williams x reader#ellie williams#ellie tlou#ellie williams tlou#the last of us#the last of us ellie#ellie williams x you#ellie x reader#tlou#ellie x fem reader#ellie williams x female reader#ellie williams smut#ellie williams angst#tlou ellie#ellie smut#ellie x y/n#ellie the last of us#tlou smut#ellie willams x fem!reader#womnsfw
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SPOILERS C3E91
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TURN BACK
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THIS IS NOT A PLACE OF COMFORT!
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Goodnight, Smiley Day
He blinks, and he…. feels the touch of light on his skin.
The warmth of the air around him, he breathes in and he tastes all he has ever wished, oranges and mint and chocolate and water.
Fresh Cut Grass pushes himself to stand and looks around. An idyllic field rolls into the distance, all about him, except for where he currently stands.
A crossroads.
And from it, the paths extend far beyond the horizon, rising into beautiful tresses of the goddess he has only ever seen at a distance.
The Changebringer.
She smiles, and suddenly, she and he are eye to eye, her gentle hand reaching up to caress his cheek.
"I… is this how it always goes?" they ask.
She laughs, gentle yet sad, her eyes surprisingly downcast.
"No… no, it isn't," she states, looking to the sky, and he follows her gaze.
Ruidus bleeds in the sky, scarlet light snapping and biting at the pristine blue, and he can hear… a scream on the wind.
"We live in unfortunate and unusual times." she breathes.
"Yeah… yeah." he agrees, looking up at her after a moment.
"Did I make the right choice?" he asks, clutching for the coin but instead finding her hand.
She gives it a comforting squeeze.
"What do you think?" she asks.
"I…" he pauses.
"Yes." he finally states, and she smiles.
"I don't know what kind of path I'd set them on, but… I'm glad they'll get to keep walking on." he states, "Even if I'm… not there with them."
"Who says you won't be?" the Changebringer asks, gesturing towards the roads winding away from them.
And suddenly he can see his friends.
Ashton, carving a path, grief, and rage shattering stone as his coin, a beacon, clutched tightly in their fist.
Imogen kissing her hand as she lays it on his body, that same hand then tightly grasping her mother's, a road reforged between them, "Thank you, Letters."
Orym, standing firm, bronze armor marked by three blades of grass shimmering defiantly against an oncoming storm, "Together, Grass."
Chetney carving a toy in his likeness to hand to a frightened child, "For a smiley day."
Fearne snatches the coin from Ashton, kissing it and slipping it back, "So we're both with them for tomorrow."
Laudna stands at a crossroads beneath a tree, half livened, half wizened, reaching for the glow even though it burns her hand. There is resolve in her eyes.
Dorian, amidst unfamiliar faces, staring up at the red moon.
"We're fighting for a shiny day."
A confused dwarf looks up at him, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Something a friend always wanted. A good day." Dorian remarks, tapping the sending stone in his palm.
"I love you, Faithful Caregiver." A soft voice murmurs.
They freeze, turning to see FRIDA standing and looking at him, gently smiling, "I'll see you soon."
"No, you… you take your time," FCG mutters, and to his surprise, tears track down his face.
The Changebringer reaches out and wipes them away before pulling him into a tight embrace.
Huh… so this was a hug.
"Do… do folks always feel most alive at the end?"
"Not always. The end doesn't give the journey meaning; it's the joys you find along the way." The Changebringer returns, squeezing him tighter.
He sees Milo, Dancer, Joe, Deanna and Prism, all trying to make sense of the world and the paths set before them.
"You did good." a gruff voice remarks, the whisper of Eshteross.
"But the journey's just begun." a more jovial voice states, Bertrand.
And there they stand, down the road.
"What… what happens now?" FCG asks, looking to the Changebringer.
"Now, we do what we can from this side." she states, "And see this all to the end of the road."
"Alright… alright." he remarks, smiling as she squeezes his hand once more, "I'm ready."
And he heads on down the road.
Goodbye, Fresh Cut Grass. Your love, your faith, your hope, let it ever be a beacon for those who knew you best.
#critical role#critical role spoilers#cr imogen#cr fearne#ruidus#cr laudna#cr orym#cr ashton#cr chetney#cr fcg#cr frida#cr dorian#cr deanna
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