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messylustt · 11 months

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𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨 (𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥) — 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐭

miguel o’hara x fem!reader. 4.8k words

fic masterlist previous part pt four next part

violence + mentions of blood and injuries (this is quite visual ha); angry + kinda ‘blood lust’ miguel; someone gets electrocuted, reader kinda does (small amount—I’ll be honest I don’t know how getting electrocuted exactly works, so for the purpose of the story ignore if the way it happens isn’t realistic, thank you!) — when you’re left alone in the tech room, many spiders out on missions, something unexpected happens. when miguel finds out his face falls and his claws twitch in anger. after the incident, you find miguel walking down the hall, calling to him he asks you questions, and you offer your help with something.

It was silent. For what felt like too long. Besides the tap of your fingers on the keyboard—which had begun to slow.

Usually you’d hear distant conversations or the sound of web shooting, but instead only silence greeted you. Unease began to make your body turn, your chair spinning with you.

You weren’t sure if you were just being paranoid. You were alone in the office. Which wasn’t anything strange, but it meant that your growing paranoia festered a little stronger.

You edged closer to the door, finally hearing what sounds to be rumbling. Low and too vague for you to decipher. Your hand reaches out to the door handle, but just as your fingers brush the smooth metal, you’re forced back.

Your body flies, coming to a bruising hit on your hip, making you hiss in pain. But you’re quick to get up, rushing to a clear wall, and away from the explosion. You breathe heavy as you slump against it, your ears slightly ringing, while your gaze stays blurry against the random scraps of metal and dust.

You look to the communal intercom, quickly rushing towards it. Someone or something that isn’t supposed to be here is. You have to warn the spider-people who are out on missions.

But where are the others?

Just as you reach the com, the sound of quick scuffling boots can be heard to your left. You snatch up the intercom, slipping under your desk, tucking your feet into the dark just as multiple pairs of unwelcome boots come into view.

Your shrink further into yourself. You couldn’t speak in warning to the spider variants or these guys would hear you. Your eyes narrow on the bottom of their legs. All black, but so far appearing humanised rather then some large monster. An anomaly?—you think to yourself—multiple?

You clutch the intercom mic tighter, your finger grazing the on button. And that’s when they begin to speak.

“Get the tech.” A gruff voice says. “Now! We can’t waste our time!”

You can hear more scuffling of boots as the sound of unplugging, or more so ripping follows.

“Boss, they’ll be back.” One of them said. You try to get a good look at them, but your movements will cause too much attention, so you grind your teeth and listen harder.

“If you pick up that damn monitor we might have a chance to get out quick enough.” What you assume to be the gruff voice of ‘boss’ says.

“Who even made you in charge?” One grumbles out.

“Who’s idea was it to lure those stupid spiders out on some fake mission, that, might I add, required a decent bunch of those freaks?”

“Not all of them, though.” One adds. You try again to peak out. You manage to scale the bodies of three, all in black, with…masks. Damn it. They looked worn out—handmade.

“Well, lucky for us the remainders are all too busy in the lobby. Now hurry up and pack the bags.” Boss agitatedly says.

And as if luck is still on your back-burner, your foot slips, only a fraction, but enough to knock a piece of stray metal across the floor.

“What was that?” One of the masked men asks.

The silence now following sounds threatening. You place your hand over your mouth, to quieten your breathing, as the scuffs of boots draws closer.

;;

“Ben!” Exclaimed Miguel, just as static breaks through his ear. He hisses, not expecting it, as he holds the earpiece, brows furrowed. Then the static grows clearer.

“Get the tech. Now! We can’t waste our time!”

“Boss, they’ll be back.”

Miguel narrows his eyes as he listens, confused at first. When he looks to the other spider-people they’re are all holding their own earpieces, trying to comprehend what they’re listening to.

“Who even made you in charge?”

“Who’s idea was it to lure those stupid spiders out on some fake mission, that, might I add, required a decent bunch of those freaks?”

“Lyla, what is this?” Miguel asks. She appears by him, tapping away at screens.

“It appears to be coming from a communal intercom.” She says.

“At HQ?” He asks, already flexing his claws. “Which one.”

“I’m just finding out. The connection is muffled.” More tapping.

“Well, lucky for us the remainders are all too busy in the lobby. Now hurry up and pack the bags.”

The voices still infiltrate Miguel’s ear. “Lyla.” He sounds impatient. “Which one?”

Then she stops tapping. “Y/n y/l/n’s.”

Miguel freezes, looking at Lyla as if she would be one to crack a joke. Then he hears the knock of something metal through his ear piece, followed by a ‘“What was that?”’. He can now hear your heavy breathes, slightly muffled, as heavy boots hit the floor.

Then all sound is gone.

He doesn’t wait for anyone, pressing his wristband to open the portal to HQ. But Jess stops him. “Miguel, think about this. What if it’s them?”

Miguel glances at her, shrugging her grip off his arm, as he taps at his wristband again, the portal opening up. His expression is downcast, one could easily say terrifying.

“Miguel! You have to think this through.” Jess persists. “We have spider-men and woman back at HQ—”

“Who are clearly too distracted to do anything.” Miguel grunts out, webbing towards the portal. But Ben intercepts this time.

“She’s right, Miguel. Don’t worry about the tech, we can get it back, or even get new ones—“

“The tech?” Miguel actually sounds in disbelief. “You think I’m fucking worried about the tech?!” His red eyes gleam, and Ben gulps.

“Then what are you worried about, Miguel?” Jess asks, exasperated. “Because I don’t see anything else that needs urgent attention. The tech is the main—“

“¿Tú no? The tech is the last of my worries, Jess.” Miguel interrupts. But this time he isn’t yelling. This time it’s toned down, and somehow that makes him appear much, much scarier.

“Miguel.” Jess tries to calm him down, not understanding what he could find more worrying. Data had been saved on that tech, important data. She places one hand on his wrist, but he immediately shrugs her off, glaring.

“Get out of my way.” He snarls. She doesn’t move, crossing her arms. “The reason why you aren’t hurt against that wall is because you earned my respect. That’s slipping, Jess.”

“Miguel you’re frantic.” She says.

“Call it what you want. I’m getting to HQ.” He webs past her, and Jess finally has the mind to let him go. Though she still stands there worried, and confused about what could have made Miguel so urgent to get to the scene.

;;

You tighten your hold on the intercom, now switching to use it as a possible weapon, as the boots near. You prepare yourself by silent deep breaths and a focused gaze.

The boots stop in front of you, pausing for only a moment. Then the desk is being flung to the side. You choke a gasp, managing to slam the intercom down into the guys shin, the harsh metal side bruising and buckling his leg.

He exclaims in pain as you scramble to your feet. You can finally see the detail on the three mens’ outfits. A dark green weaved into the fabric. Then you see the claws for hands, and all three of their masks turned to you. Shit.

“Who are you guys?” You manage to get out, as you reach behind you for a keyboard.

One looks at the other before looking back at you. “Were you here the whole time?”

You say nothing, edging closer to the exit. It’s silent from them for a moment then “…kill her.” The gruff voice of ‘boss’ says. And they’re quick.

You try to rush away but one yanks you back by your hair. You angrily swing around and knock the metal keyboard across one of their heads. Some of the pieces shatter against his mask.

But then one is grabbing your neck, pushing you against the wall. “Sorry—boss says no tattle tales.” The guy tightens his hold, and your hands scramble against his in an effort to intake air.

There’s a moment where your vision blurs. But there’s also a moment where his knee shifts letting your leg harshly kick out. You’re glad to find him humanised in his pants as he doubles over.

You rush away from the wall, heaving. One of the masked men is already trying to grab you and as his clawed hand wraps around your arm, he’s pulled back, a shining orange web yanking him straight into a monitor, his head smashing against glass.

The speed makes his claws cut across your flesh but your adrenaline is far too prominent for you to care. You notice the other guy stalking towards you, making you swiftly gaze around at your environment, Weapon. Weapon. Weapon. You stop on a machine, wires poking out, sparking with electricity. Holding a certain point you pull two out, ripping the electric wires, before stabbing them into his stomach, the electric current making his body shake and twitch.

You soon have to let go as they grow unbearably hot, leaving scolding burns on your fingertips and palms. That’s when you notice the owner of the orange web. Miguel has ruined the guy he originally threw into a monitor, his body now a bloody pulp.

You have to quickly look away to the second guy who had obviously gotten up from your kick and landed straight into Miguel’s palm. Miguel is retracting his claws from the masked man’s body, blood tainting the tips of his fingers, as he breaths harshly but somehow still controlled.

Miguel looks to the guy knocked out in front of you, still occasionally twitching from the strong current of electricity. You feel light headed, placing your hands on your knees as you try to slow your breathing.

But then you feel a hand. And not a friendly one as the masked man passes on some of the electricity moving through his body into your thigh. You scream, the half electrocuted guy—his hair frizzed and slightly cinched—stumbling to a stance, just as you fall to the floor.

Then you hear a crash and a curdling scream—not from you.

Miguel inserts his claws into the guys neck, practically ripping his throat out, as the guy chokes on his own blood. The blood sprays across Miguel’s face, leaving slight speckles as he rips the rest of the man with his teeth, letting him drop to the floor.

It was animalistic in way, as his tongue licked his fangs, his breathing now harsher—angrier.

But then he sees you drifting from consciousness on the floor.

Miguel doesn’t know what breathing is, or the meaning of the word slow, as he reaches your side in a millisecond, his hand coming to grab your face between his fingers—maybe a little harshly but his entire being was still on overdrive.

Miguel tightens his hold on your cheeks as he slightly shakes your head. “Y/l/n.” He hisses. “Wake up.“

He’s gentle now, realising that you’re a human and not some villain he needs to hurt, as he checks your pulse not wanting his claws to cut you. “Y/n!” He finally exclaims, as you get roused awake.

Your leg feels painfully numb, as your eyes flutter open. A thin layer of tears is making your eyes sparkle as you finally meet Miguel’s gaze. You try to slow your breathing, shutting your eyes to reassess.

Miguel tightens his hold on your cheeks. “No, no. Open them.”

You do, though they stay hooded. “I’m just…tired. No need to sound so harsh—shit.” The lasting electricity still spasms up your leg, as the hold of Miguel’s hand makes the tears fall.

You begin to shake your head, partially trying to get out of his hold. “Stop.” You say.

“Stop what?” Miguel instantly replies, his gaze shooting to your thigh.

“Just—“ you breathe. Then Miguel finds the deep scratch mark on your arm, his hand grabbing it as his eyes dart. “It’s fine. Just a cut.”

“Y/n, you just got attacked. You’re a weak human, don’t try to sound so tough.”

“You’re not helping.” You hiss, tilting your head back as you try to keep the tears in, not wanting them to fall. “And that was kind of mean.” You mutter the last part just for the sake of it. Using your pain induced state as an excuse to blurt out your annoyed feelings with Miguel.

Miguel grabs your chin, trying to pull your gaze back to his, but you resist, keeping it tilted away. “Stop.” You say again.

“No.” He answers, successfully pulling your chin back, and holding it there. “Why aren’t you looking me?”

Your eyes are darting around, before you choose to close them. “Y/n.” Miguel is stern, but underlying that he sounds almost desperate—almost.

You can feel him move closer to you and you place your hand out to stop him, your palm ending up against his chest. “Can you not—“

“What—not help you?” He asks harshly.

“Can you look away.” You say, finally opening your eyes. “Please.”

“Why?” Miguel isn’t budging, staying close to you. He’s already dialled in medical on his wristwatch.

“Jeezus Christ, Miguel! I don’t like fucking crying in front of people. It’s a weird thing I can’t get rid of. I hate it. It makes me feel embarrassed—“

“Embarrassed?” Miguel interrupts.

“Yes. Embarrassed.” You hiss harshly. You couldn’t find your filter, your tone far more aggressive then usual with the throbbing pain in your arm and the spasm of your thigh.

“Well, that stupid.” He says.

“Yeah, it is. But it’s not going away. So if you could just look away and let me…I dunno…recompose myself.”

“Recompose yourself?”

“Yes! Stop repeating what I’m saying!” You exclaim, only to follow with a groan of pain as you try to sit up.

Miguel knows your mind is frazzled and your body is reactive. He pushes you back down, grabbing your cheeks again.

“You got partially electrocuted and cut—deep, I’d think you’re a psychopath If you didn’t cry.” Miguel says, his volume dropped to one almost soothing—almost.

“Doesn’t make me hate it any less.” You mutter.

“Wow…I’ve never seen you this annoyed before.”

You narrow your eyes on him. His hand that was gingerly inspecting your thigh had slipped over your waist, partially caging you in.

You try again to sit up. But Miguel yet again, keeps you pressed to the floor. “O’hara.”

He leans closer to you, narrowing his eyes. “Stop moving.”

“I’m fine.”

“No your not.” He easily answers, which earns him a half hearted scoff. “You know I think I prefer you trying to suck up instead.”

You meet his gaze glaring. “I have not been sucking up, I just like—“

“This job. Yeah I’ve heard you.” He interrupts.

He can hear commotion behind him, but the voices of rushing spider-people makes his shoulders relax. The medical have arrived, and as you notice the new people you quickly wipe your cheeks, brushing against Miguel’s hand, as you get up.

Miguel finally let’s you, by slipping his arm around the back of your waist. You try to swat it away—any physical touch usually induces the waterworks you desperately wanted to keep at bay—but he tightens his hold, resulting in your side being flush against him.

The medical spiders inspect your bruised body. “It’s her thigh and upper arm…” Miguel begins telling the spiders. Then he grabs your hands holding your palms out. “And hands.” The burnt marks look raw, and you hiss as Miguel had to slightly stretch the skin to show.

He immediately lets go upon hearing the sound of pain. “Thanks Miguel, we’ll take it from here.” A medical spider says, already at your side checking your cut.

Miguel narrows his eyes on the spider variant, watching as you bite your lip as they inspect your wound. He sighs, finally getting up and letting your waist go. At the sudden shift your hand flies out to his leg, or more specifically his thigh.

Your quick, tight grip has Miguel stopping. You change your position, not having realised how much you were using Miguel as physical support, before you’re quickly taking your hand away and coughing.

You give him a brief nod. “Thanks for the help.”

Miguel scoffs. “Help? I did a bit more than help.”

You’re praying to get some anaesthetic soon so that your pain won’t make you loose your job. You press your lips together harshly. “Of course. You did spectacular.” You say.

The sarcasm isn’t lost on him. He eyes you once more before he’s walking out the exit.

You sat there, finally taking a proper breath. You don’t know why you were holding it for so long. …maybe you did have a clue. The image of Miguel ripping the guys neck out, blood staining his face is still fresh in your mind.

You’ll be honest, it scared you. He kind of scared you. But not in way you’d think he’d hurt you, just one that made him seem unpredictable. I mean what happened just then, with his touching and softer tone was something completely unforeseen.

If someone told you he would be do that today you’d actually laugh. Miguel was unpredictable and intimidating in general, sure, but what seemed to scare you more was the way he looked when his eyes shone with blood lust. His eye colour seemed fitting now.

You also happened to be scared of the way the sight made you feel. Something that settled far too low in your stomach.

;;

Miguel went straight to the lobby where a spider variant he kept high up in the ranks resided. “You. Get up. Now.”

The spider variant immediately stood, as he nervously followed Miguel to his office. The orange tech screens were the main thing lighting the place.

And as Spider-Man took a breath he lost it as soon as Miguel slowly turned to him. Blood still stained his skin and claws and suit, and the spider-man felt the urge to run.

“Where were you today?” Miguel asked, leaning back against a table and crossing his arms almost too casually.

“I was…here, Miguel.” He said steeling his spine. He knew where this was going.

“Were you?” Miguel asked, his eyes trained on the spider.

Spider man gulped. “I’m really sorry, Miguel. I didn’t hear any sort of explosion. I didn’t get any awareness. Which…shouldn’t happen.”

“You know what ‘shouldn’t happen’?” Miguel asks, now twirling an empty glass on the table. “Spider men and woman shouldn’t only rely on that “tingle thing”.”

The spider hangs his head lower in apology. “Someone could have died today.” Miguel continued. “And you would have what—been too busy playing poker?”

The spider variant winces at his words. Miguel knew of his addiction, always using his free time to gamble.

“Do you get that?” Miguel asks.

“I do. I’m sorry.”

“Sadly that’s not gonna cut it.” Miguel says, making spider man look up. “I left you in charge while I was gone. You failed miserably.”

“Miguel. I didn’t mean to only rely on my usual awareness, it’s a force of habit. That’s never happened before. I can always sense when danger is close.”

“But you didn’t.” Miguel says. “There’s someone in medical right now who got injured—badly. And she was all alone.” Miguel has stood up, stalking towards him.

“Now for personal reasons I may find her annoying.” He quickly mutters out. “But that certainly doesn’t mean you can let her die. Do you hear me?”

Spider man quickly nods. “Of course. This’ll never happen again.”

“No it won’t.” Miguel turns away, and the finality in his voice makes spider man’s eyes widen.

“Miguel—“

“Go home.” Miguel cuts in, stepping up to his screens. Anger still seeped from every pore.

;;

You woke up, feeling a dull ache in your body, but for the most part you felt alright. Better, a lot better. You swing your feet off the medical bed, realising that the lights were out.

Your feet hit the cold floor, before you quietly step towards the exit door.

Making it out to the hallway you were grateful you were already on the high level, no need for a long travel up the stairs.

You needed to rest. Alone. Not surrounded my medical items. You slowly headed to your room, but stop upon seeing a familiar body walking away.

“O’hara.” You say, making the figure freeze.

You quicken your steps, reaching him. He turns and you have to stop the intake of breathe at the reminded visual of the now dried blood.

“You didn’t want a shower?” You joked, forcing a chuckle.

Miguel just scans your body, narrowing his eyes, his expression is it’s typical, solemn and moody. “You should get back to bed.”

“I was actually heading to my room. But I just wanted to…thank you.” You say, finally making Miguel meet your gaze.

“You really did help me back there.” You spare him a small smile and a nod. Then your gaze gets caught back up in the blood stains, as you gulp.

“You saw, didn’t you?” Miguel suddenly asks.

You look up. “Mm?”

“The reason I’m covered in blood.”

“Oh.” You say. “It was…quite impressive.”

“No it wasn’t.” Miguel says making your brows furrow. He steps a fraction closer. “You didn’t think so.”

“What do you mean?”

Another step. “You thought I looked animalistic. Scary.”

You dart your gaze down to his slowly moving feet before quickly looking back up. You shake your head. And in return Miguel nods.

“You think I’m scary.” Everything he’s saying is statements. He knows, but you keep shaking your head.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie.” He says, much, much closer now. “You’re terrible at it.”

You stop the shake of your head, blinking a few times. “O’hara—“

“Just be honest.”

“I am.” You say, straightening your spine. And as your eyes dart you notice a deep cut running across his thigh. The dried blood, his.

You step closer. “Why didn’t you get that checked out?”

He glances down at his wound. “It’s fine.”

“Oh come on, don’t do that. Don’t act like your above it all, including pain, and infection.” Your blatancy makes Miguel raise a brow.

You pause for a moment, mulling over potential decisions in your head. Then before it could get later and before you could back down you speak. “Follow me. Let me help.”

Miguel stares at you. “It’s fine—“ he goes to monotonously repeat.

You just grab his wrist, pulling him towards your room. Miguel grabs your wrist in turn, preparing to pull your hand off.

“Hey. You made me go to your room, now I’m just returning the favour.” You say.

Miguel stares at you, scoffing. You let go of his wrist, knowing you don’t have the strength to pull him. “If you’re scared I don’t know what I’m doing, then know that I studied to be a nurse before I found out about…all this.”

“Why?” Miguel asks. “Why help?” He elaborates.

“I just told you.” You say, beginning to head to your room. “I feel weird if I’ve seen your room when you haven’t yet seen mine.”

“That’s not a good reason at all.”

“But your walking my way aren’t you?”

Miguel hadn’t realised that he’d moved to your door without the permission of his mind. He curses under his breath as your scent floods his senses, your room making it ten times worse. This is the last thing he needed.

But you’re already shutting the door and ushering him further in. “You can um…” you look around. “You can just sit on the bed.”

No—Miguel thought. God, no. But you were already getting out an older looking kit from under textbooks—your stuff having been brought to you from your universe.

He slowly sits, trying not to get one bit comfortable. You reach his side placing the kit on the bed, as you drop to your knees.

Miguel’s breathing stops at the visual. You’re directly by his thigh…kneeling. No, no.

Miguel clicks his jaw, looking away. He looks back down, to see your hand is midway from touching his cut thigh. “Why are you doing this?” He can’t fathom why you would actually want to help him.

You sigh. “I just feel kinda bad.”

“Bad?”

“Mhm.” You nod.

“For any particular reason?” Miguel pushes.

“No.” You sarcastically scoff. “You’re just generally a person everyone feels bad for.”

Miguel narrows his eyes as you chuckle. He shifts on your bed. “Stop doing that.”

Your hand stops by his cut, thinking it’s the touching of his wound, when in actual fact it was the way your ‘chuckle’ had sent a strange vibration through him to somewhere he desperately didn’t want you to notice. He was right. This was a terrible idea.

Then you’re touching him. Delicate and gentle, as you pull away his ripped suit. You begin to dab what looks to be an alcohol cloth onto his wound, and in response Miguel snarls, his grip tightening around your sheets.

“Sorry.” You mutter.

“Dios.” He mutters, closing his eyes a moment. “Stop being nice.”

You look up at him. “I have to say, I’ve never heard someone say that. Usually it’s ‘stop being mean’.”

His face is tight as you continue to clean his cut. “Someone said that to you?”

You pause. “No actually. But I just mean in general. And I’m not being ‘nice’ to you. I’m returning a favour.”

“Ah.” He hums, before all his muscles tense. “Can you hurry up.”

“You’ve never let anyone touch you up before, have you?” Catching onto the fact that he’s clearly cleaned his past wounds himself.

Miguel glares at you. “So, you can stop.” He reaches to take the cloth from you, but you lean away resting your hand on his knee for support.

“You can just sit on the bed.” Miguel grits out. He couldn’t watch you being on your knees for him any longer. Not unless he’d do something he’d end up regretting.

“That’s okay, it’s an easier angle here.”

God. You had to stop. ‘Easier angel’? Yeah, Miguel definitely wasn’t thinking about you cleaning his cut. He runs his hand through his hair.

You quickly reach out grabbing his wrist. He looks at you, expectantly. “You have uh…blood on your fingertips…claws.”

Miguel darts his gaze across your face. “And you’re worried about it getting my…hair dirty?”

You shrug. “Well, now you’re making me sound stupid.”

“I don’t need to do that.” He quips, and you shoot him a glare. “But um…” he drifts off, as you look up at him, now waiting expectantly.

“Did you find me…scary, or whatever?” He asks, and surprisingly there’s a hint of…vulnerability hidden in his tone? No—you think to yourself—that can’t be right. “Before. With the anomalies.”

You dab a fraction harder, making Miguel hiss a groan. You ignore the way it vibrates through your body. You shake your head.

“Why do you keep lying?” He asks.

You sigh. “I just—“

“Just?” Miguel seemed to really want to get an answer out of you. He shifts closer. And when you don’t answer, continuing to focus on his wound, he grabs your jaw, pulling you up to meet his gaze. You gulp, his large hand nearly reaching to wrap around your neck.

“Do I scare you?”

Your chest picks up a quicker beat. He leans closer, pulling you towards him, your chest hitting his leg. “Do I—“

“Yes. Alright.” You quickly say. “A little bit…yes.”

His grip tightens around your chin a fraction. “Because of what you saw?”

“And the way you talk to people.” You mutter out. Why were saying this? This isn’t something you say to your boss.

You hadn’t noticed at first but one of his claws had begun to brush back and forth against the skin of your jaw, his eyes not leaving yours. You were utterly frozen. And there’s a moment that you just catch where his gaze darts down to your lips, his breath feeling extremely close.

But then he’s leaning away, his jaw clenching as he looks to the door. “Are you done?”

You quickly look down to his cut, rushing to get out a bandage. “Uh, almost.” Your entire body was buzzing.

While you stayed focused on finishing him up, Miguel’s gaze went back to staring at you. He almost gave in—almost. He wouldn’t, though.

You were scared of him. He knew you were somewhat so, but now hearing you say it confirmed that you’d never see him how he had gradually started seeing you. He had to stop. Now, before he dove in far too deep.

He couldn’t let himself go any deeper. Because at this rate he’d certainly drown, and if he was going to die, it wouldn’t be from some silly little crush.

okay, I’m sorry, I lied. there is nothing sexual in here. but I didn’t think adding anything like that yet would work. since a lot of you guys asked for a slow burn

again, I hope this is up to a good standard for you guys to continue reading. I wanted to add something a little different then the usual Spanish lesson then Miguel’s end of the deal. I needed some action of some sort.

and ofc, part five will come soon x love you all MWAH

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taglist #2 taglist #3

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theemporium · 2 months

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[4.1k] as it would turn out, you were serious about your offer. and luke was serious about accepting. it was just going to take a while for his body to remember that this was a glorified business deal between friends and nothing more. and he was definitely okay with that. (smut)

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Stupidly, Luke didn’t think you were actually serious.

In his head, the whole thing felt like a fever dream, starting from the moment he spilled his drink all over you leading to the moment you blatantly asked him if he wanted you to take his virginity. It felt like one of those weird dreams that made you wake up confused and bleary and unsure what year it even was, one of those dreams that linger in the back of your head for a few days before you eventually forgot about it.

Luke would have bet money on the whole thing being a weird dream that was haunting him if it weren’t for the fact he woke up one morning, a few days after the party, with a message from you on his screen.

cherry🍒: on a scale from one to ten, how likely are you to spill your drink on me again?

cherry🍒: also my place or yours?

He stared at the messages for an embarrassingly long time, like he was staring at the proof the whole thing wasn’t some messed up dream in his head. Luke had spent the better part of the summer wondering what would have happened if he had asked for your number that night like Jack always teased him about, and now he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself with it being a reality.

hockey boy: i cannot promise anything

hockey boy: you are welcome to come to my place but jack will probably be here so…

hockey boy: he’s nosy

hockey boy: and annoying

Luke frowned at himself, finger hovering over the messages like he would have a chance to delete them before you saw them, all one after the other like he was twelve and didn’t care about double texting. Or quadruple texting. But before he could even try to hide his own embarrassment, you were typing again.

cherry🍒: my place it is then

cherry🍒: see you at seven ;)

He also didn’t care to admit how long he stared at that message before he dragged himself out of bed, trying to ignore the odd buzz itching under his skin. It wasn’t even nine in the morning and his head was already spinning.

Luke was thankful enough that it was still preseason, that there wasn’t a game he had to prepare for because he wasn’t even sure he could concentrate on anything but your messages. He had noted Jack giving him odd looks whilst they both got ready for training, giving him more space than usual as they moved around the flat (which was odd considering Jack was usually glued to his side and pissing him off whenever he got the chance).

However, the overbearing older brother role didn’t completely disappear.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“You’re not sick or anything?”

“I’m literally fine.”

“Because we can tell the trainers—”

“Oh my god, dude,” Luke groaned, sinking further into the passenger seat as he shot his brother a look. “I’m fine. Calm down. You sound like Quinn.”

“Sorry for caring,” Jack retorted, his fingers tightening on the wheel before his shoulders sagged. “I’m your older brother and it’s your first year in the NHL. I just wanna make sure you’re doing alright, okay? The last thing I want is you having a shit rookie year.”

But the rest went unsaid. I don’t want you having a shit rookie year like I did.

Luke softened a little. “M’fine, promise. I’ll let you know when I need my big brother, okay?”

Jack sighed, a small smile on his face. “Okay.”

“Now, can you please shut up so I can sleep until we reach the rink?”

Jack snorted in response.

Though the conversation seemed to settle the worries his older brother had, Luke knew the other boys on the team were giving him the same looks of concern. It wasn’t as though he was playing badly, it was just very clear to everyone on the team—players, coaches and trainers alike—that Luke was distracted.

He had half the decency to be a little embarrassed when he overheard Jack reassure a few trainers that it was just rookie nerves.

But he felt restless, like he couldn’t quite keep still or focus on one thing. He felt like there was a buzz resonating through his bones, making him painfully aware of his plans later tonight. It was like an anxiety settled at the pit of his stomach, constant and foreboding and eating away at him as the minutes slowly dragged on through the day.

It was horrible and exhilirating in the weirdest possible way.

Luke had managed to make it through the rest of training, managed to avoid any stern talkings from the coach but unable to avoid the one from Nico in the locker room. It was sweet and awkward all at once, especially when the rest of the team were clearly listening in to make sure one of the new rookies were doing fine. The Devils were like a family and usually he would appreciate it.

However, he wasn’t exactly going to dive into the fact he was unfocused because a pretty girl offered to take his virginity to his captain or the rest of the team. He didn’t even want to imagine how that would have played out.

But it was sweet to know the team had his back, that they saw him as his own person rather than just Jack’s little brother who was tagging along.

…

Luke was relieved when you had mentioned him coming over to your place for your meeting later that day. Yet, what he failed to take into consideration was the fact his brother would still be a nosy shit on his whereabouts.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Luke froze, keys gripped in his one hand and his phone in the other with your address already typed into Google Maps. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore his pounding heart as he turned to Jack with a (hopefully) nonchalant look on his face.

“Just going to hang out with some friends,” he replied vaguely with a shrug of his shoulders.

Jack paused, the spoonful of rice hovering just above his plate as he narrowed his eyes at Luke. “Is Nico hosting some rookie thing or something?”

“Uh no,” Luke cleared his throat.

Jack frowned. “Is there a team thing happening tonight that I forgot?”

“No, uh,” Luke shuffled awkwardly, feeling like an interrogation spotlight was shining on him. “It’s nothing with the team.”

Jack raised his brows. “But you don’t have other friends outside the team.”

Luke frowned. “Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Jack retorted. “Unless you’re a part of a book club or something.”

He shot his brother a confused look. “Why would that be the only reason I have friends outside of the team?”

“I don’t know, college and shit,” Jack answered like that explained something.

“You’re such a weirdo,” Luke grumbled before he turned on his heel, making his way towards the door again.

“Are you at least gonna tell me when you’ll be back?” Jack called out to him, a hint of older brother overbearingness in his voice.

“Not sure.”

“I—” He heard Jack shuffle to stand up, his dinner now abandoned on the coffee table as he made his way over to Luke. The look of concern from earlier that morning was back on his face. “What dodgy shit are you up to that you can’t just tell me?”

“Jack,” Luke groaned, his voice tilting towards whiny as he let out a huff of annoyance. “I’m just going out to see a friend. Nothing dodgy, I promise.”

Jack didn’t say anything at first, just letting a slow smile spread across his face.

He frowned. “What?”

“Friend, singular,” Jack pointed out before he let out a bark of laughter, playfully punching his little brother’s arm. “Aw, little Lukey is sneaking out to hook up with a girl!”

His cheeks burned. “Shut up.”

“Fucking finally, I thought you were going celibate for your rookie year or something!” Jack continued to tease him. “Who is it? Do I know her? Oh my god, is it the girl from the party? Do you have a secret girlfriend?”

“I am leaving now!” Luke shoved him away, making a beeline for the door as Jack continued to cackle behind him.

“Do I need to give you a curfew?”

“Fuck off!”

He could still hear Jack laughing when he slammed the door shut behind him.

His body felt like it was on autopilot once he got behind the wheel. He followed the instructions spoken through his GPS, kept his concentration on the road—on the journey—rather than the destination. He tried to pretend like he was just going to hang out at a friend’s, that he was back in Michigan going to one of his teammate’s houses he didn’t live with.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

Except for the fact that once he reached your door, closed fist hovering over the wood, he felt like his body was buzzing too fast to keep up with and all the pent up anxiety over the day was about to make him explode.

He didn’t even realise he had knocked until the door swung open and you stood on the other side, grinning at him like it was a normal Sunday evening. You were dressed cosy, casual even. Just a pair of leggings, a baggy shirt and some fluffy socks that had—ironically enough—cherries printed on them.

“You’re early,” you noted.

Luke’s stomach dropped a little. “Oh shit, I’m sorry—”

“I like my men eager, you’re fine,” you said as you waved him off, unaware of the fact your words just made his body feel like it was on fire for a whole other reason as you grabbed his hand and dragged him inside.

His eyes wandered over your apartment, taking in the small knick knacks that decorated the place. It was smaller than his and Jack’s apartment, but it felt more homely. His place had a habit of looking a little clinical, like a showroom they had moved into rather than an actual home. But between training and travelling and not really caring, neither he nor Jack had bothered to change it.

But, looking around at the small details of your apartment as you led him towards your living room couch, Luke found it endearing that he could see small insights into your personality.

“You still like Coke, right?”

His eyes snapped back to you, a light blush on his cheeks when he found you staring at him with intent. “Uh yeah, Coke is good.”

He settled down on the seat, awkwardly perched on the edge whilst you curled up in the sport next to him with your feet tucked underneath him. He tried to swallow the ball in the back of his throat, eyes wandering over the room once again before they landed back on you.

“Your place is really nice—”

“Tell me about hockey.”

Luke blinked. And then blinked one more time before he remembered to speak.

“What?”

“Tell me about hockey,” you repeated.

“You want to know about hockey?” He questioned, his brows furrowed together and suddenly the panic he felt moments ago was overwhelmed by his confusion.

“Well, no, I don’t really know anything about it,” you admitted with a shrug. “But you’re so tense over there like you’re about to enter the Hunger Games or something, I thought talking about something you enjoy would help you relax.”

Something in his chest stirred at your confession. “Oh.”

“Just relax,” you said as you lightly pushed him back until he was no longer sat on the edge of the couch. However, Luke’s body didn’t seem to catch the hint, something that was very clear with how tense he still looked sitting next to you. “We aren’t going to do anything tonight,” you assured him, your hand dropping to his forearm to give it a small squeeze.

He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed. “We aren’t?”

You shook your head, a soft but cheeky smile on your lips. “You need to build up your confidence a little, to really feel comfortable with everything. There’s more to sex than just sleeping with someone.”

He blinked. “There is?”

“Yes,” you laughed, but it wasn’t directed at him. He didn’t feel dumb for asking you questions. “So just take a breath and relax. Now, hockey—what’s the big deal?”

Luke couldn’t help but snort. “The big deal?”

“Yeah, why do you like it?” You asked. “I mean, you love it enough to make it your job.”

Luke smiled and there was something less heavy in his laugh—but hockey always tended to have that power over him. He knew hockey. He lived for hockey. It was as calming as it was exhilarating. It was what his whole world revolved around since the day he was born.

“I come from a big hockey family,” Luke told you. “I could skate before I could properly walk, to be honest. It’s just something that’s always…been there. I couldn’t imagine my life without it.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Luke raised his brows in surprise. “No, I just do it to torture myself.”

“Okay, smart-ass,” you rolled your eyes at the boy, and he tried not to think about how endearing the action was. “I mean, you said it’s been in your life forever. Do you enjoy it or is it just familiar?”

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation before he answered.

“I love it,” he replied honestly, sinking a little further into the couch as he turned his head to look at you. “It was always there but I also always sought it out, you know? I wanted hockey as much as hockey wanted me.”

“Lucky thing you were good enough to go pro, huh?” You remarked, a teasing glint in your words.

Luke’s lips twitched upwards. “Yeah, lucky me.”

“So, do you, like, fight people and shit?”

He snorted, the noise a little surprising but welcomed nonetheless. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Damn, the two hockey videos I watched before you came weren’t lying then,” you mused.

And, fuck, his chest was doing that funny-tightening thing again.

“You watched some videos before I came?”

“Colour me curious,” you answered with a casual shrug of your shoulders.

He swallowed. “Did you like what you saw?”

Your lips pulled upwards into a smirk. “Flirting with me now, Hughes?”

In an instant, Luke’s cheeks instantly burned a red shade with a mix of embarrassment and self-consciousness washing over him. “I’m sorry about that—”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” you interrupted, watching as his eyes widened a little in surprise. But the colour remained on his cheeks. It was cute, if you were being honest with yourself.

“Oh?”

“You’re not a shy guy, Luke, I’ve seen the way you are on the ice. You just need to bring that confidence off the ice too,” you told him, shuffling a little closer to him until your knee was almost brushing his thigh. “Think of this…what we are doing…as your training.”

“My training?”

“Mhm,” you nodded as your palm landed on his thigh, right above his knee. He was so painfully aware of your hand, of the way your touch felt like it was burning through the fabric of his sweatpants to touch his skin. “Gonna help you go pro.”

His eyes darted down to your hand before it snapped back to your face. “Cherry—”

“Can I kiss you?”

He blinked. “You’re asking me?”

“It’s sexy to ask,” you told him, your thumb lightly rubbing a small line just above his knee. You shifted a bit closer, watching the way his eyelids fluttered slightly. “Consent is really, really sexy.”

“Really sexy,” he repeated, eyes locked in on your lips.

“Can I kiss you?” You asked again, squeezing his leg a little to emphasise your need for him to verbally answer.

“Yeah,” he managed to mutter out, a slight crack in his voice but you didn’t seem to care as you closed the distance between you.

Your palm was soft and warm against his cheek, guiding his head until you pressed your lips against his. It was a soft kiss, almost sweet in a way. And maybe something about the tenderness of it all washed away the unease in his chest, that lingering anxiety that he had been smothered in since he woke up. It was like the kiss washed away the lingering concerns in his head, the ones that told him this was some twisted dream or malicious ploy.

You just wanted to help, you wanted him relaxed when he was with you.

And Luke had half the mind to trust you would do just that after the initial kiss.

Your thumb slightly swept along the high of his cheekbone, soft and reassuring as he sunk further into the kiss. He seemed happy to let you take control, to let you decide how fast or passionate it was. He seemed happy to just follow.

“Better than hockey training?” You murmured against his lips between kisses, the light smacking noises a vague echo in his ear but he didn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

“Mhm,” he hummed as he ducked his head back down, eager to press his lips against yours again.

“Impatient,” you teased but didn’t hesitate to kiss him back. “Feeling confident already, Hughes?”

Luke could feel your smile against his lips. “Maybe.”

“Good,” you stated simply and before he got the chance to realise what you were doing, before his brain had even fully processed you had asked him a question, your leg was thrown over his body and you were straddling his lap.

Luke pulled back a little, looking up at you with his cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

“Remember, this is just your training,” you reassured the boy, though it was hard for him to focus on the words coming out of your mouth when your lips were red and kiss-swollen and probably a mirror image of his own. “Just practise, yeah?”

“Just practise,” he confirmed with a nod.

“So practise,” you told him as you reached for his hands where they awkwardly hung at his side. You gripped his wrists, giving them a small squeeze before you rested them on your waist.

He swallowed. “Oh.”

You raised your brows. “This good?”

“Mhm,” he nodded.

“Luke,” you prompted until his glossy eyes found yours. “We can stop any time you want. Just say the word, okay?”

“I don’t wanna stop,” he reassured you, his hands giving a testing squeeze on your waist. “Not right now, at least. Promise.”

And when you smiled at him, he could have sworn his heart was about to beat right out of his chest.

His chest was thudding with each racing beat, blood roaring in his ears and butterflies exploding in his fucking chest when you leaned down to kiss him again. It’s like his brain was locked in on you at this very moment, not a care or concept for the world beyond this apartment. It was just about you, you, you.

And then your hands were pushing through his hair, fingers tangled in his curls as you tugged his head back until the column of his neck was exposed to you.

Luke was almost embarrassed of the whimpering noise that left his lips when you tugged on his curls, a dull but desirable pain coursing through his whole body before your lips explored his neck. His breathing was heavy, borderline panting as your teeth scraped along the sensitive spot just below his ear. And, fuck, he felt like his whole body was on fire.

“Hmmm, pretty noises,” you murmured against his neck, wet and sloppy open-mouthed kisses pressed against his skin as his body squirmed beneath you. “You gonna keep making them for me, baby?”

He nodded.

“Yeah?” You nipped his skin lightly, almost teasingly, as his hips bucked up on instinct. “Keep moaning f’me, baby, let’s see what you like.”

His grip on your waist only tightened as you continued to explore his body, as you tried to find the spots that had him whining and panting beneath you. And just when Luke thought he had a hold on himself, when he could handle the way your hands felt in his hair and your lips on his neck, your hips slowly rolled down against his and he could feel a rush of pleasure race down his spine.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he choked out between broken moans, head thrown back against the back of the couch and eyes clenched shut. “Please. More.”

“You want more?” Your warm breath fanned against his cheek as you lifted your head, hooded eyes watching the way his face scrunched up in pleasure as you continued to rock against him. “Keep making those pretty noises, baby.”

The whimper he let out made his cheeks and neck burn bright red.

“Look at you,” you mused, the bulge in his sweatpants pressed against you as you continued to grind down on his lap. “Doing so well for me, telling me what you want.”

And it was too much.

The constant stream of praise leaving your lips, the way your face was inches away from him—even if his eyes were shut—with your breath hot against his cheek. The way your hips rocked against his hard cock, the way it was straining beneath the boxers he was wearing. The way your fingers gave another experimental tug on his curls and he saw white.

His grip on your waist was almost bruising with how tight it was, the way he held onto you as his hips bucked to meet your thrusts, the way your name left his lips on a loop as a hot flush of pleasure washed over his body, as you guided him through it.

And once his brain had caught up—once he was sure his heart wasn’t going to jump out of his chest—he was painfully aware of the sticky mess in his sweatpants.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, his whole body burning with embarrassment as he looked up at you. “I am so sorry—”

“For what?”

“I—” His eyes fell shut, his body wanting nothing more than to curl in on himself. “I’m sorry, that was embarrassing.”

You frowned. “What was? The fact you came?”

His stomach twisted a little.

“Luke,” you murmured, and he could feel your hands cupping his warm cheeks but he didn’t have the courage to open his eyes just yet. “If I didn’t want you to come, I wouldn’t have been grinding on your dick like that.”

He finally looked at you, but the hot shame remained. “You didn’t even…”

“Get off?” You supplied and he looked sheepish as he nodded. “I can still enjoy something and find it hot without getting off, Hughes.”

His brows furrowed together. “I thought the whole point was that you were teaching me how to make you feel good. For womankind.”

You snorted, grinning down at the boy. “That doesn’t mean you can’t get off too.”

Luke’s lips parted with a silent ‘oh’.

“I’ll grab you some sweatpants to change into,” you told him as you shifted off his lap, looking down at his flushed cheeks and dazed eyes. “You’re a good student, Hughes.”

He raised his brows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grinned back at him, and his chest did that funny thing again. “And I wasn’t lying. You make pretty noises. I like my boys vocal.”

And Luke was thankful you disappeared down the corridor after that, saving him from even attempting to come up with a response.

And he was shocked that once he cleaned up as best he could in your bathroom, you patted the spot next to you on the couch and told him to choose a movie whilst you ordered in some food.

It was almost laughable to think about how anxious he had been all day, only to lead up to him sharing a pizza with you with some old Jim Carey comedy playing in the background like you two really were just friends. Like you were just hanging out and enjoying each other’s company. Like you hadn’t just made him come in his pants like he was some wound up teenage boy.

It made his head spin, in a good way.

And when he was dragging his feet through the front door of his apartment a little after midnight, there was a voice in the back of his head that was telling him this was risky, that he shouldn’t have felt so giddy or jovial after he had seen you.

You were just training him, helping him. You were just his friend.

But, for right now, Luke was happy to ignore the logical voice in the back of his head and instead focus on the fact that maybe—just fucking maybe—you were right and this whole virginity thing was far more bigged up in his head than he realised.

You were his friend. And he knew you were just his friend.

Who cares if his body took a little longer to remember than his brain did?

#luke hughes #nhl #new jersey devils #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x you #luke hughes x y/n #luke hughes fic #luke hughes one shot #luke hughes smut #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot #nhl smut

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smuddee-papabear · 2 months

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naga partner manhandles you with their tail 🙏

Ooh I love nagas. You didn't specify gender so I'm going to make both gender neutral

gender neutral reader X gender neutral naga

Tw: rough handling, biting kink

---

Most mornings were easy, your partner was too busy warming up on their heating pad to complain too hard about you going into work. The day would start with you wriggling your way from their sizable tail before taking a shower. You'd get your breakfast and coffee before leaving after giving them a peck on the cheek.

Some mornings, however, they wouldn't let you go without a fight. This was one of them.

"I have to go into work." You know they won't care about that the moment their tail wraps your leg.

Your naga lets out a huffy sigh, tail trailing up. "I could provide you with everything you need without that silly job getting in the way."

"That silly job pays for your food bill." You tease, turning to look at them. It was a mistake. The way the morning light shines on their gorgeous scales is far too distracting. "And your heat pad."

Your naga partner clearly doesn't like that assessment. Their expression darkens slightly. "I can feed us both and I don't need a fancy pad to warm myself."

"Oh no?" Your raised eyebrow is another mistake.

You yelp as a strong force shoves unexpectedly on your chest. Before you know it you're wrapped in a coil and pushed into the floor right in front of them.

Your breath is knocked out of you, and not just from the force of it. Naga!Partner's eyes gleam with satisfaction as they loom above you. You're sure they can feel the jump in your heart rate. A devilish smile crosses their face.

"If you think I can't, get out of my coils and go into work."

For a moment you stare open mouthed at them. Get out of their coils? How does this prove that they can provide for you?

Finally you start wriggling against the well muscled body, trying to ignore how intently your naga watches. It doesn't take long before you're out of breath.

Unwilling to admit defeat you start kicking your legs and manage to make minor headway. Before you can be proud of that you hear tutting from Naga!Partner and another section of tail wraps your legs before you're yanked upside-down and dangled in front of the naga's eyes.

Heat flushes your face. "Hey! I was doing what you told me to!" A chaste kiss to your lips has you too flustered to splutter out more of your indignance.

"Are you just giving up?" The smug tone causes your blush to spread further.

You try to curl up and grab their tail but are stopped when they use another coil to shove up into your back, arching it almost uncomfortably. Once again the breath is knocked from your lungs.

You barely have time to get it back before Naga!Partner shifts the end of their tail to force your legs open just enough to put you in a very vulnerable position. They tease your crotch with the tip.

Despite what you should be wanting, to get free, a sharp moan escapes your mouth.

Your naga's breath tickles the back of your neck and sends shivers through your body. "I can provide for you." Their hiss is somehow so loving and so angry at the same time.

You open your mouth but are embarrassed the only thing leaving it is a breathy whine. Something cold and flat slides into your hand. Only a moment goes by before you realize what. Your phone; a clear demand to call in sick.

It takes effort but you manage to speak without another whine. "I have-...I have to work."

"No," Naga!Partner's teeth skim the skin on your neck. You can feel their fangs trail along. Goosebumps form where they do. "I can provide for you."

"Need...need t wo-work...!" You manage to choke out. To be honest you don't really care about it anymore. Your heart is racing, body throbbing with every shift of your naga's muscles, mind foggy with need.

Their fangs push into your skin. It's not enough to break it but it is enough to cause a jolt through your shaking frame. "I will provide you with what you need today."

You call in sick, and just as promised your Naga!Partner provides all you need and more.

#monster fucker #monster smut #naga smut #monster x reader #monster x human #gender neutral reader #biting kink #hope that was rough enough #it was probably pretty mild actually? sorry if it was less than expected #to be honest I love reading Naga but this is the first time writing it!#pa-bear writes

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 months

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jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 1: Affliction

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You struggle.

Hello! Welcome back, all! This instalment is going to be a journey for Reader. A bunch of bad shit has happened in her life. It's about time she begins facing all that, you know? Not all of it will be heavy, but there will be some psychological fuckery and an opportunity to delve into the layers of the relationship I've spent time developing. My intention is to have this function similar to little slut, in that it's a series of one-shots set chronologically. Each will be a self-contained 'highlight' that is set during the six years Daemon is exiled on Dragonstone. This instalment will cover babies, healing, pregnancy, relationship development, funny hijinks, dragons and smut! Always smut.

EDIT: I am dumb-dumb and forgot to thank @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and giving this her necessary stamp of approval and being the bestest biffle EVA, as well as @spoolofblack for reassuring me that Daemon is NOT too OOC here and cheering me on through the AO3 tagging journey. Thanks be!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of post-partum depression, lite smut, lactation and lactation kink.

“Thus was Prince Daemon banished from his brother the King’s city, and with him his niece and newborn heirs. Exile had long favoured the rogue, and this latest decree brought a period of quiet to the isle of Dragonstone, the years giving rise to further progeny to strengthen his House’s line. Together with the Princess Rhaenyra, Daemon and his wife presided over the Targaryen stronghold for several years before circumstances would take them once more to King’s Landing.”

- ‘Fire & Blood: Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

He is staring again.

You do your best to pay it no mind, though the weight of his eyes upon you is heavy, nonetheless. An onlooker may well assume his focus is on the scene in its entirety—upon the babes propped on pillows before you, their grasping fists skating across dragonscale as they grunt and babble, reptilian rumbles filling the void between sounds—but you know better. Your husband has not been the same since… since that night. You cannot blame him, though it vexes you so.

One of the dragons—the creature with scales of amethyst glittering even in low light—hisses in outrage as Aelys takes hold of his tail, curling around himself with teeth bared as if to warn your daughter of the fate that awaits her. No bite comes. Unbothered, she tries to tug her quarry to her face, and you can only presume the intent is to explore this new surface with gnashing gums.

“Let go, my lovely,” you tell her as your fingers work to free the beast of its skin-and-bone shackles. The babe’s grip is surprisingly firm. “Azorion has done naught to deserve such untoward treatment.”

“Did it not shit in the cradle this morning?” comes Daemon’s idle question from the desk.

When you glance over, you find he has made himself busy once more, appearing for all the world as though he is deep in his papers. You suspect otherwise.

“He is only small,” you say by way of response. Aelys’s face flushes with the threat of tears when her clasp is finally released, so you slip your own digits into hers to placate her. The other dragon, the long-limbed and sun-hued Valnissar, presses its snout against her neck as if to soothe her temper. “He cannot help it.”

Azorion scrabbles back to Rhaenar’s side, huffing indignantly even while burrowing into the boy’s side, leaching his body warmth. Rhaenar’s eyelids begin to droop, the comforting mass of his future mount an unwavering reassurance, while the steadiness of Valnissar’s even breaths along her flesh ease Aelys into a state of calm.

“If it can eat unaided, it can shit in a place that is not where my children sleep.”

The creature seems to rouse at the mention of his earlier mishap; you pat him reassuringly. “He will learn.”

Daemon grunts, summarily ending the conversation.

This is how most of your interactions proceed as of late: a vague, uninterested query, an overly polite response, a terse conclusion, and two evidently discontented persons not quite certain how to bridge the divide that has risen between them. And there is a divide, you are sure of it—why else does the man who is never without a word to spare suddenly bereft of speech in your presence?

The only thing that eases your mind is the knowledge that, for all his recalcitrance, there is no love lost. His hands still linger—on your back, your waist, thoughtless touches that settle hot and heavy and remind you of his solidness. He smiles still, amused by the sing-song lilt of your voice as you coo down at the twins, laughs when they babble back in mimicry of true dialogue. At night, his arms are encompassing, almost too tight, the clutch of one upon that which they fear to lose most. His body speaks the words his lips cannot, laying bare the desperate frustration—the fear, the anger, the worry—that he has carried since the night you had fallen under the spell of old magic, the night you had woken your children’s mounts from their eggshell prisons and called them forth with fire and blood.

Daemon is not the only one who ruminates upon it. You yourself remember it in pieces, flashes of memory that you cannot make whole. The heat of the hearth. A glow, orange, red, yellow. Stinging upon your hands, and the iron tang of blood upon the air. It is as though it occurred to another being—like you had watched rather than been part of it all. There is little wonder that the sight must have made him so uneasy.

You startle when your uncle abruptly stands, rolling his neck to dispel any latent discomfort from remaining in a static position for so long. He falters, appears to decide on something unknown to all but his own mind, then moves toward the rug where you have arranged your babes and their dragons.

Crouching down beside you, his hand reaches forth to cup the round softness of Rhaenar’s head as he murmurs, “I’ll be back later.”

“Before supper?” you ask just as quietly.

He makes a vague noise of assent, smiling absently when Aelys jams her fist in her mouth and babbles to herself, drooling all the while. Valnissar perks up at the sight of his second-favourite person in the world, chittering excitedly as he makes a concerted attempt at climbing up Daemon’s leg. Daemon hisses, extricating the spindly creature’s claws and placing him on his shoulder. Valnissar flaps his wings and promptly tries to weave his way into your uncle’s hair. Your nostrils flare in amusement.

Daemon does not look at you, but you do not mind; you understand the draw of the twins and their young mounts all too well.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

At that, he turns further into you, his gaze finally lifting to find your face. From the corner of your eye, you see the looming shadow that forms whenever he allows his thoughts to consume him. It casts his features into darkness, the heavy set of his brow wrinkling inward as disquietude metamorphoses him. But the tale enacted through his expression is mitigated by the press of his other hand against the small of your back, achingly tender even in its firmness.

“To the Dragonmont.”

You nod. “Ah.”

He will not tell you yet, but you suspect he is looking for answers. The last great repository of Old Valyria is bound to provide at least some insight, though part of you—a large part—is too afraid to seek them yourself. You worry what you will find if you should search through the ancient texts of your people, what they might say of those with the power to hold fire in their hands without fear of burning. It is not something you have ever heard of. If House Targaryen could claim such a feat, it would not be a secret. What does it mean? You know not.

And so, you make no protest when his thumb strokes against Aelys’s cheek in parting, when he unceremoniously drops her dragon to the floor beside her and ignores the protesting squawks to lean in and kiss your cheek, muttering his goodbyes as he rises to leave. You do not turn around, but you know his routine well enough by now.

A clatter by the bed, and Dark Sister is retrieved—scabbard and all—to be fastened at his waist. A scrape, the chair at the desk being pushed back in. A pause. He takes one final look at you all, wife and children and dragons laid about by the hearth in seeming bliss. You feel his stare as it rests on you and you hear the sound of the door opening and closing, footsteps echoing, then fading, fading. The imprint of his lips and his touch remains, an unsettling reminder of all that has been left unspoken.

You dispel such thoughts with a sigh. As worrying as Daemon’s behaviour has become, it is by no means your first priority now that you are a mother.

Looking down at them, you wonder if you will ever get used to the idea, to the fact that these two little beings grew in your belly until they were ready to come into the world, and now they are here and they are yours. ‘Mother’ means the woman through whom your very existence came to be, the name Aemma spoken in hushed whispers and always carrying with it the trace of unending grief. ‘Mother’ means Alicent, the girl-turned-Queen who birthed your brothers and sweet Helaena, who gave you little Daeron to love in place of all you had once been without. ‘Mother’ means Rhaenyra, your staunchly devoted sister who had in part raised you, who even now rears kind, intelligent sons who are more than deserving of the legacy she will one day leave them. You find it entirely strange that a word representing these women—such forces in your life, for good or otherwise—is a word that applies to you.

Motherhood is strange, foreign in a way you do not feel you can overcome by consulting dusty tomes in companionship with Ser Lysan, the manner in which you have familiarised yourself with all foreign things in summers past. This feeling has crept into the crevices of your mind in barely perceptible pulses, slow and unassuming with every new thing you learn about these wonderful, terrifying beings your body created, with every new feat they achieve as they grow and adapt to their environment. At times, when you are alone, you worry you will be no good at it. How can you possibly fare well at such a monumental task without a mother to guide you? What if you make a mistake?

What if your babes—who you know you love more than anything in the world, more than you ever thought anyone could ever feel in their beating hearts, so strong it is almost sickening—come to know of your inadequacy and loathe you for it?

“What seems to be the issue, Princess?”

Gerardys’s hands are folded together before him, his expression as kind and reassuring as always. You wish you truly were reassured, or the too-hot, roiling sensation of your gut might not be quite so pronounced.

There are many responses you could give. The fact that your husband is ill at ease with you for reasons you cannot risk explaining, lest the entire Realm learn through whispers and tales of Valyrian blood magic and some concealed devilry that ought to be put to the sword. That your doubts about how suitable you are as a mother are rising with every second of every hour that you are left to tend your children, feelings that must be wholly unnatural to a woman or otherwise, would you not have heard of such a thing spoken in your many years among the ladies at court? Or perhaps that the woman whom you would prefer to speak to of this matter is in King’s Landing to fetch fresh supplies at this very moment, leaving you no alternative but to be in the maester’s solar instead.

No. None of the answers to his question that come immediately to mind are appropriate here, and nor are they the true reason for your visit. Thus, you brush them aside and take a deep breath.

“I… I have some—concerns.” At his encouraging nod, you add, “About my… supply. For the babes.”

“Ah.” You are glad he seems to have interpreted your hedging correctly; he clears his throat. “I am a physician,” he reminds you, though his tone is by no means judgemental. For all Daemon’s dislike of him, such gentility is why you believe him to be one of the best practitioners in his field, and certainly preferable to Mellos. “While I—understand the indelicacy of the subject matter, I am afraid you are going to need to elaborate, your Highness.”

“Oh. Of course.” You glance away, discomfited. “I… wish to feed the twins myself. By myself. But I”—you gesture weakly to your chest—“my milk has not come in as much as I had hoped it would… by now…”

Rhaenyra has never had this problem, you think. You cannot help it. It was not so long ago that the merest mention of a babe had been enough to wet the fabrics of her gown, never mind that Joff had had the luxury of choice in his supply. Your sister had in fact bemoaned the stubbornness of her body in refusing to dry up—she never let her sons latch for longer than a moon’s turn after each birth, preferring to, as she said, “keep her tits from turning to suckling udders”, long-teated and all. Jealousy is the sin of the vain and impious, but your beating heart thrums with it even so.

Gerardys frowns. “Forgive me—but I was certain that a wet nurse had been requisitioned for them?”

“Yes. But I would—I would prefer to feed them on my own.”

It is not as though you dislike Freda. While she is certainly loud and bawdy and oft far too inappropriate for company, she cares a great deal for Rhaenar and Aelys. You see it in the readiness of her smiles at them, how she cradles them as if they are the most delicate beings in the universe, the way she praises them so effusively for the most base and vulgar of actions—“I’ve never seen a shit so splendid, your Highness, never did I once! A talented little fellow is our little prince, he is!”—but it is not the same. You are their mother, not she. Freda’s presence is not just expected, but required to ensure both your babes have full bellies. It does little to ease your lack of surety.

Though you can tell that Gerardys is perplexed by your insistence, he stares past you thoughtfully, his eyes squinting in his concentration.

“It is not uncommon,” he says slowly, “for a woman with two nursing babes to produce an insufficient volume to accommodate them both. ‘Tis why wet nurses are so popular!”

“I know. I would just… I want to do it.” You wonder if you sound as exposed as you feel. “I am their mother. I should feed them.”

Your words seem to matter not, for the maester is already muttering to himself and rifling through the cabinet by the door, low tones interspersed with the soft clinking of glass vials being shifted about.

“If you insist, Princess,” he says absently, humming under his breath as he balances on tiptoe to reach his higher shelving. After a moment of silence, a noise of muted triumph. “Ah—here it is.”

What he presses into your hands is not an ampoule of some sort, but a plain pouch of hemp and string. The contents within shift about readily, though it prickles when you squeeze too firmly, like dried herbs.

“Thistle tea.” Gerardys watches as you inspect his offering. “Steep for half an hour, strain. Consume plain, no milk or honey. One cup a day, no more or less.”

“How long will it take to work?”

“You ought to begin seeing an increase in production within a sennight. If you can encourage the babes to latch more frequently, you’ll have better results.” At your enquiring look, he elaborates. “The more often the breast is drained, the quicker it refills and thus the more milk you will produce.”

You colour at his use of such a word, not entirely accustomed to speaking so plainly of something so long viewed as unseemly with another man. It is scarcely tolerable even with your ladies. “You have my thanks, Maester Gerardys.”

“Of course, Princess. But remember—do not exceed more than a cup a day!”

You take his advice to heart over the next few days, exhorting the serving staff to ensure you are delivered of a cup brewed to the maester’s specifications each morning. It tastes unremarkable, a leafy bitterness so often customary of herbal tinctures and tonics, though you think you might find it more palatable with the addition of such ingredients as the ones expressly forbidden to you. The very worst of the flavour collects at the bottom of the cup, forcing you to steel yourself to stomach the sharp-tasting dregs and cleanse your palate with fresh water. You bear it silently, praying that you will soon see the benefits promised to you.

But, after a sennight passes, there is no change.

At least, you think there is no change. Rhaenar is not one for fuss and fuddle, and the one time Aelys is not so is in the hours following feeding, her belly full and warm and leading to an easy, calm drowse—but after letting them latch for half an hour, neither babe is sufficiently serene to suggest that the tea has done its duty. Rhaenar kicks and grizzles, mouthing vainly at your nipple as though you are concealing some previously stored contents still within your breast, while Aelys progresses to full, drawn-out wails. Freda watches on, wringing her hands as the twins caterwaul. The front of her dress is stained, sympathetic leakage in response to the veracity of their cries.

Perhaps it is this fact that finally breaks you.

All at once, you no longer feel saddened or confused, concerned or unsure. You are angry. Why should she—a woman who had neither carried nor shared blood with them—get to give your boy and your girl the sustenance so essential to them? What does she possess that you do not? Why have the gods forsaken you? If they have built the womanly form to bear and nurse her children, then you ought to be able to carry out your duty as intended. Not Freda. Why are they taunting you with such a poisonous reminder of your own failure?

“Your Highness—”

“No!” Your rebuke is sharp and swift, punctuated further by what you can only assume is a truly withering glare. “Leave us!”

“But the little pr—”

“I said get out!”

The shrillness of your voice only serves to further upset the babes. They both scream, red-faced and baying, and there is a strange sort of harmony to it that might even sound beautiful were it not so devastating. The noise is such that it sets off the panicked shrieking of Azorion and Valnissar, creating a truly chaotic calamity of sound that makes it terribly hard to think rationally. Or think at all.

You bar the room, refusing to allow Jeyne or Bethany entry. You do not need their aid. It is only morning, your thoughts whirl frenetically. Plenty of time to prove that the wet nurse is not necessary.

All manner of people come to your door as the moments—or maybe minutes, or perhaps hours, you cannot tell—pass, no doubt drawn by the crying and the screeching and your stubborn resistance to letting anyone assist you. Ser Lorent raps on the door, earnest calls of “Your Highness? Is everything well?” readily enough ignored and, when that fails, the kindly queries of the maester beseeching you to let him in “for fear there is something wrong, Princess, please let us help you” also dismissed, or rather more truthfully, not quite heard through the thicket of your growing panic. You do your best to disregard anything outside your chambers, your frantic focus centred wholly on giving Rhaenar and Aelys the care they need from their mother—and their mother alone.

But no matter the hymns you sing or the steadiness of your rocking, no matter how perfect your bouncing walk to soothe them or your murmured exhortations to please, please calm down, they will not be assuaged.

You forget what silence is like. Surely you have never been without the sound of bawling infants? The intensity of it reshapes memory, blocks out any sense of rationality or level-headedness. Your own despair rises the longer the babes sob, their sorrowful scrunched-up faces all but proclaiming aloud that you cannot do this.

Your mind rebels. What was I thinking? They hate me. They hate me. I’ve ruined them. I could not give them milk, and now I cannot even stop their tears. I am a terrible mother. A failure.

Failure.

The hatchling dragons, emblematic of their future riders’ dispositions as is the norm, only serve to intensify the battle between your spirit and your fear. They feel as Rhaenar and Aelys feel, only they have sharp claws and sharp teeth and the mobility fresh out of the egg to express their feelings in a way the twins cannot. You cannot fend off their snapping jaws and high-pitched snarls and tend to the twins at the same time. The situation quickly becomes untenable, though you have not the presence of mind nor good sense to discern this.

“Daor,” you snap as Valnissar nips at your exposed wrist. No.

At this age, the bite stings only a little, drawing a thin well of blood to the surface of your skin. You push the dragon away, doggedly continuing to try and force Aelys’s mouth to your breast. They feel heavier again, a sure sign that there is milk enough to quell the babes’ despondency. If only they would stop crying.

You sit upright on the bed, the curve of one foot pinning Azorion to the mattress below you. He hisses indignantly but makes no attempt to shift, resigned to being trapped for as long as you deem it necessary. Positioned perfectly against the cushion provided for precisely this purpose are your boy and girl, heads perfectly aligned to take to each breast, reclined so that their tiny bodies extend below each of your arms and your hands are free to cup their heads just right. Exactly how Ūlla taught you. So why—why—are they refusing to latch?

“Please,” you find yourself whimpering, the sound lost beneath the piercing howls. At this point, they have both become as distressed as each other, never looking more identical than they do with the same flushed flesh and misery-streaked cheeks, near to seizing with the force of their sobs. You try to bring their mouths to each nipple again, but all they do is cry and cry and cry, faces turning away. “Please, it’s right here. Mama has your milk right here, please please please…”

Valnissar tries to climb over your arm to sit on Aelys. You shrug the beast off, and he tumbles to the bed in a tangle of wings. He screeches, teeth bared, and you can just tell he is about to strike at you again.

You push him away.

“Leave me be!” you say, louder and steadily more overwhelmed, your attention wavering between creature and child. Pressing the babes to your breasts does nothing to persuade them to take from you, but what else can you do? “Please drink. For me? For Mama?”

More wailing. Their fists clench, their forms shuddering.

Useless. It is useless. I am useless.

“Why won’t you have your milk?” you ask, and you think you are calm and measured but really you are starting to sob yourself, a discordant symphony of despair. “Why won’t you just accept it? Please, please, I promise it’s good enough…”

Still, tears. And the dam breaks.

They hate me. They hate me. They hate me. It is like a metronome pulsing through your veins in time with the wrenching heaves of your chest, your lungs trying and failing to force in air. The babes cry, you cry, the dragons clamour, the room feels too full—of sound, of air, of heat—and you are so terribly close to screaming at everything to shut the fuck up because you cannot do this, you cannot do this, why did you ever think you could do—

The passageway at the opposite end of the chamber bursts open. You hear it, but you cannot see through the film of your own tears.

“What the fuck’s going on here?”

Normally, Daemon’s voice—even panicked as he is currently—is enough to reassure you. But it only makes you weep more. Here is your husband, arrived to see how poor a wife he has chosen, how poor a mama you make. Here is Rhaenar and Aelys’s father, arrived to see how enormous your incompetence is, how completely and utterly you have failed to do even the simplest of things. The shame of it is enough to send you spiralling.

You do not remember what follows very clearly.

Fingers fumbling to lace up the ties loosened on your bodice. Hands laid upon the babes, the span of palm large and rough enough to disturb their vocalisations, to ease them to a slightly duller caterwauling. You clutch them tighter to you, unable to even look up to see the owner of those hands, but you are not strong enough to resist the determined reach of those arms to pluck each infant in turn from you. A part of you is relieved. They are passed off with murmurs, man and woman’s voices exchanging in low tones. You vaguely recognise them through the fog of misery. The person before you stands, another taking their place. The steady touch of someone with skin that carries the scent of medicinal herbs feels your forehead, turns your head from side to side, presses clinically at the fullness of your chest. Then, the mattress rises, the weight dissipating, and you are alone.

It takes several long moments to realise that the noise—the babes and the dragons—has stopped entirely. That they are no longer present, no doubt escorted to safety far, far away from you. It ought to be enough to torment you to madness, the final step in this harrowing reprieve from reason, but your tears have fled too. All that is left is bone deep, heavy exhaustion and a full-bodied dispiritedness that makes you sink into the pillows behind you, slide down enough to turn to your side and ignore whoever is talking, shut your eyes and block everything out.

You let the darkness swallow you whole.

Of course he is here when you awake.

You do not know if you really expected otherwise. He has dragged a chair from the table by the balcony next to the bed, and he ought to appear more comfortable—slouched carelessly as he is, leg slung over the other in the assured manner that all men who are confident in their right to take up such space are—but his expression suggests otherwise. Not angry, no, but certainly serious; a pensiveness that comes from prolonged periods of introspection. His eyes seem far away. In fact, his entire self seems far from where he sits, as though his body has travelled back to the Keep but his mind is still in the Dragonmont.

Where he has been for days and days, you think bitterly. Reading thousand-year-old texts instead of being here.

His hands are clasped and resting under his chin, his elbows on the armrests. He seems tired. You regret the ire of your thoughts. It is not as though he has gone out of his way to avoid you, truly. He is here when you need him.

You do not realise he has become aware of your return to consciousness until you hear your name softly spoken.

“Rūhossa zaldrīzessē mazumbillā ilzi. Pōnta biktomy kisittaksi,” is the first thing he says. The babes and dragons are in the nursery. They were fed by the wet nurse.

The silence, previously unnoticed, registers at the same time as your relief. They are safe. They are far away from you. It is likely for the best, even though your breasts feel uncomfortably full.

Daemon shifts from the seat to the bed, staring down at you with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. His movements are relaxed, almost calculated, as one who is wary of spooking an injured animal. You think that if he had failed to glean some sort of response from whomever followed him into the room earlier, he would not be quite so calm.

For a moment, you are half-convinced he is about to reprimand you—until he strokes your jaw, brushes a stray tendril of hair from your face. Your heart skips a beat. His touch is kind.

After an indeterminate period of silence, the question eventually comes.

“Skorion massitas?” What happened? His tone is low, measured.

You sit up, making room for yourself by wiggling back against the pillows. Really, you are stalling. How does one go about explaining that they had taken leave of their senses?

“Ūī ūndetā, gōntō daor?” you ultimately choose to say. You saw, did you not? It sounds dull and lifeless even to your ears. “Se avy qubykto massinoti biktys ivestretos.” And the wet nurse must have told you of earlier events.

His responding look is unimpressed. Normally, you would expect him to have yelled by this point. Whatever it is that he has been told—whatever it is that you must have looked like here, near to yelling at your own infant children and sobbing with your breasts bared to the room and two small dragons buzzing about like particularly persistent insects—it is enough to stay his temper for the time being. Still, you do not believe his patience will hold for long.

You sigh, shuddering out an unsteady breath.

Even though the spell of hysteria has broken, it takes a moment or two to gather yourself. Daemon grasps your arms, erring on the cusp of too-tight to be solely encouraging, but it grounds you enough to attempt to explain what it is he stumbled upon before.

Your jumbled thoughts stream out unorganised, and you are only really half-aware of what exactly it is you convey through hiccuped breaths and shaking shoulders. Failure. Disgrace. Cannot even feed my own children. Useless. Bit by bit, it comes forth, juddered and broken, and you cannot even tell what language you are speaking in, or if you are dipping in and out of your native tongue and your learned one without a presence of mind to control it. As you speak, Daemon’s face morphs, knitted brows relaxing and mouth easing from its hard line into the gentlest of frowns. And then, you are silent. You wait for the death knell of judgement.

It never comes.

His hands slide lower, capturing your own and lacing fingers with you. He stares down at this joining, turning your wrist over as though he is marvelling at the disparity in size, in smoothness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It is low, strangely hurt.

Your heart thuds uneasily. This is not how you expected him to react at all. “I—I don’t know.”

He swallows, and again you are unsure if he is holding back anger or if he genuinely has none. The calloused pad of his finger strokes a line down the centre of your palm, eliciting an instinctive shiver from you.

“Gerardys said you went to see him. That you were in low spirits. Irritable. Fixed on this idea of nursing the babes by yourself.” He glances up, his lips twitching like he is reluctant to voice his next words. “He says… sometimes there is an—affliction—of the mind. It happens to new mothers.”

“You think I’m mad?” You try to pull your hand away, but he holds on.

Scoffing lightly, he says, “Maegor was mad, you silly girl. You are young. Frightened. A great deal has happened to you since we wed.”

His jaw tenses, no doubt recollecting those memories. The wedding night. The fight. Laena. Driftmark. Larys. Alicent. Father.

He sighs. “And I… I have not helped.”

Your mouth parts in protest. “I am happy with you,” you say stubbornly. “If you had not protected me—”

“And where have I been since the eve you hatched the twins’ dragons?” He turns from you, resting his elbows on his knees to rake his hands through his hair. “Hiding in the fucking Dragonmont. Like a coward.”

“You aren’t a coward. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

He laughs, short and sharp. It is an ugly sound. “Yes. So brave am I, I ran away and left my young wife alone to care for my children. I’m such a craven”—he lifts his head to look at you once more—“that I found it easier to let this happen instead of admitting how deeply that night unsettled me.”

An understatement, to be sure. You do not think ‘unsettled’ is sufficient enough to capture how either of you feel.

“It isn’t your fault,” you settle on telling him. “I should have just been able to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys without crying like a child—”

“You were overwhelmed. Worried. Thinking that not having enough milk means you’re somehow not fit to be their mother. What utter shit.”

“I cannot even feed them. How am I supposed to raise them?” Your voice is abnormally high and thready. You hear it, though it does not register as abnormal until Daemon’s expression stops you in your tracks. You shake your head, trying to stave off the tremble in your lower lip. “You don’t understand. I want—I need to be—enough for them.”

I don’t remember my mother, you want to say. I only remember ’Nyra and Alicent and Father. None of them were enough. None of them were able to make me feel less alone.

How am I supposed to stop Rhaenar and Aelys from being broken in the same way I was? Who do I turn to? What do I do? How can I protect them when I could not even protect myself?

When Daemon’s touch returns, it is unimaginably delicate, nearly tentative. He cups your cheek, tilts your head so your eyes can meet.

“You are enough,” he says. “How can you think otherwise? To love them is to be enough.”

A part of you wants to heed his words, to allow him to soothe your worries as he is so often able to do. Your thoughts, self-loathing as they are, continue to press against your will and shake the firmness of your resolve. “But—”

“Ah-ah. Remember our vows, sweetling.” His lip quirks, finding fondness in memory. “Did you not promise to obey me in all things?”

You nod tentatively.

He hums. “Obey me now, then. Cast those foolish notions from your mind and listen to your uncle, hm?”

You do not think you can agree so easily as he expects. This is a war in your head that he cannot help you wage through a simple command. But you want to believe that it could be as uncomplicated as he has made it.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll try.”

His answering embrace feels like a port in the midst of a harrowing storm. When the world around you is careening wildly, uncontrolled and unstable, you know that he will bring you back to safe shores. He would fight those waves off himself if he could. You press your nose to his neck, breathe in the familiar smell of him—smokeleatherspice—and, for a time, everything feels just a little less terrifying.

“See? They��re fine,” Daemon says. “A night away has done no harm.”

The babes are well-settled in the nursery, placid and rested and bright-eyed. Rhaenar grips onto your thumb in welcome, while Aelys kicks her legs and squeals when she sees you above her. Though you are glad for it—glad that you had not ruined them in your desperate madness—there is a part of you that wishes they had not clearly been so manageable without you.

You eye the sleeping forms of Azorion and Valnissar, coiled faithfully by the sides of each of your children. The Keeper loiters near the window, watching on.

Freda nods hastily. “They have been fed and bathed, Princess, all ready for sleep. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

She clearly thinks this ought to ease your mind. If anything, it only serves to disappoint you. Not only had you missed out—you despise missing anything they do, any part of their life—but now there is no recourse for the ache in your chest. Even thinking of it is enough to make your nipples itch, your breasts throb. You pray that the front of your gown remains dry.

You turn toward the other occupant in the room. “And the dragons?”

The Keeper is here primarily for Tyraxes and Skyfrost, the respective future mounts of little Joff and Corwyn, given that the nurses brought in to care for the babes are not equipped to raise creatures so dangerous as the ones claimed by your House. Today, though, he is responsible for four of them. If the look upon his face and the sweat glistening on his brow is any indication, doubling his responsibilities has caused a great deal of stress, indeed.

“The elder two have been separated from the hatchlings,” he says, stepping forward jerkily. It is as though his limbs are fastened upon strings controlled by some higher being—a human marionette. The effect is startling. “The younger pair have been… spirited, though they are resting for the time being.”

Daemon snorts, shaking his head. “Of course they have. At least they don’t breathe fucking fire yet.”

“Fucky.”

Your husband’s head whips over to the rug by the table, where Corwyn and Joff happily toddle about on unsteady legs. Corwyn is looking straight towards Daemon, smiling and mashing his gums on what seems to be a wooden knight.

Like most of the children in your family, he appears to have developed a liking for the man. Mealtimes now often involve the boy stumbling to Daemon’s side to pass him whatever object he has deemed necessary to be kept in your uncle’s possession, wide amethyst eyes peering expectantly upward until the doll or block or carved figure is taken from his hands. Daemon will roll his eyes, thank him and pat him on his head of dark curls, the act inciting a squeal and babble before the child waddles back to his evening playtime.

At the abrupt cessation of conversation, Corwyn removes the figure from his mouth and speaks once again. “Fucky.”

“Shit,” Daemon murmurs. You strike his arm reflexively, but it is too late.

Corwyn laughs as he wanders back to Joff. “Shit. Shit. Shit-it-it-it-it-it…”

“Daemon!” you hiss, torn between irritation and a bizarre sort of amusement.

He shrugs. “Oh well. Nothing can be done now. It could be worse, sweetling. He could have walked in on us fu—”

“Rhaenyra will want your head on a pike for this,” you say hastily, in part to avoid scandalised stares from the attending staff and also to prevent Corwyn from repeating what his cousin has accidentally taught him. No doubt your little nephew will learn it from his half-brother, too.

“Perhaps we’d best depart for the evening, then”—Daemon’s hand is insistent on your elbow, a leading force that beckons you to follow—“lest you lose your husband to your sister’s temper.”

“That would be your own fault,” you say absent-mindedly.

You are unable to tear yourself away from Rhaenar and Aelys just yet. They are calm, yes, but this is not where they sleep, where they belong. You do not know if you can bear the sight of the empty cradle in your chambers or the absence of the sounds they make together with their dragons.

“Must they remain here?” you ask, more a whisper than a genuine plea.

“They are safe here.” Daemon reaches forth to let Aelys grasp his finger, an involuntary action since the babe had fallen into a doze during your visit, no doubt lulled by the sound of your voices. She is the more difficult of the pair to settle; you know Rhaenar will follow easily enough. “You ought to take respite from each other, if only for a night.”

His words are gentle, but the expression on his face reminds you of earlier. Obey me now. Cast those foolish notions from your mind. Listen to your uncle. You hear it as though it has been spoken aloud once again. Even so, the pulsing discomfort in your breasts stays your obedience.

“If I could just—”

“No. We’re leaving. You need to rest.” It is firmer this time, louder and more decisive. He is not persuading you—he is telling you.

With a sigh of defeat, you lean down and kiss each babe farewell, doing your best to quell the unreasonable instinct to cry at the thought of goodbye. Daemon offers his own departing caresses and steers you determinedly out of the room. The walk is silent, though the heat of his arm against your palm is comforting in its own way.

Your chest begins to truly ache, a sensation beyond simple fullness. The dress you wear feels too tight, too restrictive, and you are forced to concentrate on pushing each breath up and out to avoid friction between skin and fabric. The smallest degree of stimulation is enough to bring your milk forth.

The irony, you think in despair. No milk when the babes need it—and now, when they are full and slumbering, my supply is as bountiful as it ever has been. How cruel, the gods are!

When you are finally back in your chambers, you barely notice Jeyne and Bethany’s attempts at greeting, their offers of assistance, their gentle repositioning and the tugging of the laces at your back. All you are focused on as the gown loosens and spills to the ground is how you will relieve yourself of the weight in your breasts without bringing too much attention to yourself. Daemon is fascinated by the prospect, true, but given the strife you have caused… you know not how any complaint of it would be perceived. Perhaps he would finally be angered by your outburst? Perhaps he would be disappointed that you had been so juvenile that you could not even take control over your own body, decide that you did not need the milk and thus ought to have been able to will it away. You have been lucky thus far. It is not likely that fortune will continue to favour you today.

You resolve to dispose of the excess in the privy. It ought to be relatively simple—your uncle is hardly one to accompany you to such a place. ‘Tis certain that the notion of wasting it, especially when your goal is to increase its yield, is disheartening, but what else can you do?

If only Daemon was less observant.

“You’ve been far too quiet,” he says after your ladies exit, tossing his shirt rather carelessly over the desk and the papers covering it. His eyes trail you assessingly, and for a moment you are worried that he can tell. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You try to avoid glancing down at your chest. It would not do to give anything away. “I just—I need to use the privy.”

“No, you don’t.” He kicks his boots to the side, fingers working at the ties of his breeches. “It’s not shameful enough to explain the look on your face. Try again.”

“I’m not ashamed!” you say hotly, spine straightening in your affront.

It is the wrong move. Your nipples brush against the weave of your shift, the sensitivity amplified near to pain. You wince, shoulders curling inward and cringing away from the clothing you wear. As a warrior trained to spot the smallest of discrepancies, Daemon’s gaze falls down.

And there—he has it. You know he knows.

“Ah.” His nostrils flare, visage contorting slyly. “Uncomfortable, talītsos?”

Your breath hitches. It would be barely perceptible to any other, but not him. His gaze drifts between your line of sight and the curve of your breasts beneath the thin layer that separates your flesh from the cool air of the room, almost as though he cannot resist the temptation to look.

“I—they did not feed,” you say quietly, resisting the desire to squirm uncomfortably at the intensity directed straight toward you. “If I get rid of it before it overflows, I’ll make even more. That’s what Gerardys says. I should—”

“You should take off that shift.” Daemon’s breeches drop to the floor, discarded easily as he kneels upon the mattress and shuffles into his desired position, reclining like a king against the pillows. He bares himself proudly, arrogantly, the rosy flush of his cock not quite pronounced enough for arousal. His hand extends in invitation, mocking little smirk gracing the line of his lips at the hesitation he can so clearly read. “You’ll not be wasting such a bounty on a hole built to shit in.”

You sway, dubiously convinced. “It’s for the babes, though.”

“The babes are sleeping. Your husband is not—and he is ravenous, sweet girl.” A shiver travels up your spine from the gravelled timbre of his voice, the shadowed fire in his stare. His fingers flex in your direction, beckoning. “Come here.”

The pause you take before you heed his directive to tug open the ties at your neck and shrug the shapeless sleepwear off your form is not borne of any insecurity. You are not unhappy with your body. Naturally, there have been changes: wider hips, softer belly, skin etched with silvery webs across your middle, your thighs, the tops of your breasts. Though you cannot see it, you are sure that the opening from which your children were birthed has been altered irrevocably, too. You are proud of these differences. They mark the finality of your girlhood and the beginning of life as a woman. They are reminders of the lives you have brought into the world. And, like the burns that mottle much of your uncle’s upper body, they proclaim to all who see them that you too are a victor of glorious battle, all the more unique in that the war you had waged was one of life, not death.

No. You pause because you know Daemon, know what he is like. His appetites. His perversions. In any other state—at any other time—you would happily indulge his lusts. But not only is your body not ready to accept him, you do not even think you are capable of experiencing desire at present.

Even so, you step forward, bear the manner in which he leers, take his hand, and allow him to do with you as he will. There is comfort in giving yourself up.

He lays you out next to him, propping himself on his side so that he looms over you. The ends of his hair tickle against your cheek, bringing forth an immediate smile. It is matched by his own answering grin as he dips down to kiss you, and this you have missed. What surprises you is that it is not a kiss of need, but one of softness, fragile as the wings of a butterfly. You exchange breaths as you exchange yourselves in the union of lips.

“Let me help you,” he murmurs against you, the words passed forth to collect on the tip of your tongue. “Let me make it better.”

You nod, tipping your chin back as he presses his mouth to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, sensual in his languorousness. It is like he carries no purpose other than to let you feel your own body again through his touch. The imprints of cooling damp left behind ground you, remind you of how it felt when you had first come alive under him, around him. When he reaches his target, you expect a shift in his demeanour—but he continues just as gently to take your right nipple between his lips and suckle as weakly as any infant might.

One, two, three pulls, and the relief is near instant. Daemon makes a low noise as your milk lets down, melting to your contours as his arms clasp you tightly against him. The sound of him taking sustenance from you is one of the few things you can hear in the relative silence of evening, carrying with it a peace of its own.

He is able to tell when to switch before even you, shifting swiftly and easily to your left to repeat the slow, tender drags that ease the discomfort and loosen the tight, full sensation weighing you down. The only attempt he makes at receiving his own satisfaction is to rut lightly against your thigh, aimless and lethargic, a base urge to self-soothe in moments of calm. You close your eyes, cradling his head to your chest and mindlessly dragging the tangles from his hair.

In seconds, minutes, hours—you know not—his movements come to a gradual halt. His cock remains hard against your skin, though he allows himself to deliver one final, lush glide of tongue along the fount from which he had supped before pillowing his head on the emptied swell of your breast. Together, you indulge in the serenity.

Eventually, you are driven to speak, though you are loath to disturb the mood that has befallen the room.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

His palms are warm pressed to the dip above your rear, tightening there as his ears register your voice. Otherwise, he does not move.

“I should be thanking you, sweetling,” he says, each word spoken with a gravity that conveys more than just the simplicity of the statement itself.

Vulnerability is difficult for your uncle, and you have learned all the ways in which he reveals the parts of himself too damaged by the world to readily expose. It is second nature to understand what he means to tell you, what he means to thank you for. Your children. Your life here. You. It is gratefulness, protection, apology, love all rolled into one.

You smile.

‘Tis true that nothing has been resolved. You have not succeeded in nursing the babes by yourself. You have not banished the sickening feeling that churns in the pit of your stomach, a constant reminder of the doubts that plague you. You have not spoken properly of the fire and blood of Azorion and Valnissar’s hatching.

But you have begun on the necessary paths to each. Every journey, however great or small, must start somewhere, after all. And—perhaps most importantly—there is not a single ailment that cannot be eased, at least for a time, by the strength of Daemon’s devotion to you.

As you crane your neck to proffer a kiss of your own to the top of your husband’s head, you know that whatever future awaits you is one you can face.

I can do this. I can do this. For the first time in days, you believe it.

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yandere-daydreams · 8 months

Text

tw - implied non/con, nonconsensual drug use, obsessive behavior, and gn!reader.

It was starting to rain.

When you’d let yourself into Neuvillette’s office, the sky had been clear and blue, the sun shining so brightly that you’d had to squint whenever you were facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall behind his desk, but clouds had gathered since then, smothering the light and casting the world in a dull, grey hue – only interrupted by the occasional bolt of webbed lightening or crack of thunder. It hadn’t started to fall yet, but it would. You’d lived in Fontaine long enough to know that storms never stopped at just an overcast sky.

You tried to find a window, to check if you could see the haze of rain in the distance, but your body ached at the thought of moving, a sharp shock of pain running from the pit of your stomach to the back of your throat. With some difficulty, you managed to turn your head, but a gloved hand wrapped around your chin and dragged you back into place before you could so much as hope to check on the storm’s progress. You let your eyes drift back to Neuvillette, a small frown tugging at the corner of your lips, but he seemed unaffected, too busy rutting his hips against yours and groping at your waist to notice your disappointment. He was probably distracted. Even in his best moments, he tended to be more oblivious than his stoic demeanor would let on. You loved your job, treasured the opportunity to tend to such an extensive archive, but your boss could be airheaded, prone to burying himself in his work for days at a time and taking hours to do little more than admire the way the sea broke against the shore. Things like your petty, mortal concerns weren’t really worth his attention.

…it was Neuvillette above you, right? You were still in his office, splayed across one of his velvet-lined love seats, and you could remember sharing a cup of tea with him after you stopped by to drop off the case files he’d requested, but this didn’t feel like something Neuvillette would do, and it didn’t look like Neuvillette above you. You could recognize a few disconnected features – silver hair, fine clothes, porcelain skin – but they were all misplaced, all distorted to the point of complete unrecognizability. His hair was unbound, falling around you in thick curtains and casting the world around you in a bleary haze of ivory, and his clothes were in a similar state of disarray, silk and leather wrinkled and disheveled, his shirt and undercoat torn open to reveal his heaving chest. His skin was worst of all, stained with a dull pink flush and marred with sweat and drool. His lips were bruised, swollen, and you could see a thin line of azure scales creeping up the side of his throat, slowly infecting his—

That pointed, acidic pain ran through you again, but you tried to ignore it, to block it out, to think about other things. Things you could understand. Things like the rain. You could hear it, now – pattering against glass, creating a near-deafening fog of numbing white noise. In the absence of anything else to occupy yourself with, your mind turned backward, first to the strange, bitter taste of the tea he’d served you, then further, to when you started your work with Neuvillette and how comforted you’d been by his steady hand and gentle smile. Eventually, you uncovered a well-buried conversation you’d had with your neighbor when you first came to Fontaine, something about a saying her children liked to repeat to the point of nausea when the rainfall forced them inside. It was about a monster, or... was it a dragon? It was hard to remember. It was hard to think.

You felt something wet fall onto your cheek. A raindrop, you figured, even if you couldn’t imagine the Palais Mermonia ever springing a leak. There was another, then another, raining down freely until you managed to lift a hand, finding Neuvillette’s cheek. “Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon,” you mumbled, your voice rough, hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t cry.”

A hitched sob, a face buried in the dip of your shoulder, Neuvillette’s skin cold as ice against your own. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about the chill, the dampness, the throbbing ache now stitched into the fabric of your being, what little energy you still had waning until you couldn’t bear to keep your eyes open, until you were just some limp item underneath him. It was all you could do to hope that, by the time you woke up, the Neuvillette looking after you would be your own, that you’d be able to do more than blink and dream.

It was all you could do to hope that, by then, the storm will have passed and you’d be able to see the sun again.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #genshin imagines #yandere neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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mediumgayitalian · 29 days

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The best part of being his own camp counsellor is that he can wake up whenever the fuck he likes.

Nico’s a fan.

Because, however, his dumb ass made friends with the camp’s head medic, he doesn’t get to sleep in as often as he would like. He is instead often woken up before the clock strikes nine, which is a tragedy and one of the forty thousand reasons he is going to be present on Will’s judgement day. (The scales tip any which way on a regular basis, but as of last week, Will is going to hell. Unfortunate. Nico’ll still visit him, though. Bring him one half of a twizzler or something.) So when he wakes up, one lovely morning, mouth tasting like something rotted in it and sun well past halfway across the sky, he is capital-C Concerned.

What a horrible tragedy that is. Finally, for the first time in months, he was able to sleep in. And his first thought is not gratitude. Solace may indeed have to die — Nico was not this way before he started planting his annoying ass front and centre in Nico’s life. He’s quite fairly certain he used to be frightening and badass. Now Will orders him to drink milk for the sake of his calcium and he does. Gods.

“Morning,” he hedges, approaching the archery range, feeling marginally more alive than twenty minutes prior.

Kayla raises an amused eyebrow. “Dude, it’s, like, two.”

“Well fuck you, then.”

She smirks. “Aw, did baby not get his Sunshine fix of the day? Is that why he’s so grumpy?”

It really sucks that Will is so fond of his siblings. Nico wonders if Will would still like him if he knew how many times he daydreams of transporting Kayla onto the moon per day.

“As soon as I figure out which god would appreciate you as a sacrifice, you’re gone.”

“Yeah, right,” she snorts, turning away and lining up an arrow. She lets it fly, watching as it shaves a splinter off a hunk of wood fifty feet away. “You couldn’t get close enough to kick my ass before I’d skewer you, di Angelo.”

Remembering the warning arrow Kayla had shot through his shoulder last week, he wisely chooses not to press the matter any further. The power visibly goes to her head. Fuck.

“Just — tell me where Will is.”

“Why?” She strings another arrow. The grin on her face is a level of shit-eating that Nico has only before seen on a Stoll. She should spend less time around Julia, or else the camp is in for some serious trouble. “What are your intentions with my dear brother?”

Nico, on principle, refuses to answer that question. Kayla shrugs, finishing her shot and then turning around to stick her tongue out at him.

“No answer, no location! Find him yourself, loverboy. And remember that I am always watching.”

Stomping away, and ignoring the smile twitching at his lips — she is so annoying, truly, gods above he owes Bianca a thousand apologies for ever opening his mouth — he heads towards the infirmary. There are only six locations Will is at any given time, after all, except when he disappears for several hours randomly but Nico doesn’t know how to bring that up yet. As he approaches the infirmary, though, he hears it absolutely blasting with music, like genuinely shaking the ground a little bit, and knows exactly where to find him.

As he approaches the door, wincing at the door, he finds it closed. Odd — Will likes a breeze when he works. Even odder is the hastily-written sign pasted onto it:

ANNUAL CLEAN OUT DAY. IF YOU NEED ME, TOUGH SHIT. IF YOU NEED A BANDAID, TOUGH SHIT. IF YOU’RE BLEEDING OUT, CALL AN AMBULANCE AND PRAY. I AM BUSY.

(‘Busy’ is underlined three times.)

In smaller print, under the all-caps monstrosity, is:

Unless you’re Nico, in which case disregard the previous sentiment. No, Cecil, this does NOT mean you.

The note is written again in Ancient Greek, Latin, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Mandarin, Italian, Polish, Korean, Morse Code, and another ten languages Nico can’t even name. Actually, wait — the top left is Klingon. And middle right note does not appear to be language, showing instead a poorly drawn stick figure in armour being shoved into a cannon and shot into the sun by another poorly drawn stick figure in a lab coat. Nico loves a man who’s multi-talented, indeed.

Hesitantly, Nico cracks open the door. He is immediately assaulted by a solid wall of sound, and then nearly bowled over by the enigma himself, William ‘I Can Restructure A Human Brain But Cannot Tie My Shoelaces’ Solace. He catches himself at the last second, and then barely manages to catch Will, grabbing him around the waist just before his head hits the floor.

“Nico!” he shouts over the music, smiling brightly. “Hi! You’re here!”

“I’m here.” He can physically feel his voice cracking, but luckily the music drowns it out. Hopefully. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

“Cleaning!” Will straightens up, although he stays within the circle of Nico’s arms. Nico tries real hard to keep his gaze firmly planted on his face and not on the hands he still has in his hips. “I do it once a year, kick everybody out and deep clean the place. Helps keep it fresh and minimize the bloodstains on the floor.”

“Ah. And the music…”

“It’s fun!” Will shouts. He gasps when the CD player skips and a new song comes on, heavy base and funky synths blasting so hard the window panes shake. “Oh my gods! I love this one!” He turns his bright grin at Nico full force, absolutely no holdbacks on the dimples or freckles, gods help him, and bows cheekily. “Can I have this dance, good sir?”

“It’s Britney Spears’ Outrageous,” Nico protests weakly.

“Yeah!”

…Very, very weakly.

“…Okay.”

Will whoops, grabbing his hands and spinning him around. Nico yelps, nearly tripping over a cot, but when he looks back up Will has his eyes closed and is shimmying not unlike a worm on a fish hook, and it’s so ridiculous that he can’t help but laugh. Will pries one eye open, grinning widely, and shimmies harder.

“You’re such a dweeb!”

“Join me in the dweebiness! Free yourself!”

Nico rolls his eyes fondly, squeezing Will’s hand, and lets himself get ridiculous. He’ll deny it if anyone asks, but it’s fun.

…And not just because Will is next to him, smile brighter than any star, dancing like a massive dork, hand clasped in his.

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lovingmattysposts · 2 months

Text

You don't know me 31

P1 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16 P17 P18 P19 P20 P21 P22 P23 P24 P25 P26 P27 P28 P29 P30 P32

pairing: y/n and chris sturniolo

summary: you and chris came from two different sides of the spectrum when it came to the social scale. You had the perfect life, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect parents, but when you start to peal back that layers things got messy. Your life was set and stone, your future was set and stone. That was until he comes and changes everything.

warnings: suggestive (barley), family drama

I swallowed. I stared at the door as my heart raced back and forth. This was scarier than the first time I came here. I shrugged the bag over my shoulder.

I had no where else to go.

If he didn't let me stay here, I would have to sleep on the street. What if everything was fake and I just imagined it? What if he was ready to be a father, but me showing up with all my shit in the middle of the night would just freak him out?

Hi Dad, I know we just met last week but...can I stay here until further notice?

I didn't know how Nate was going to react. He already felt like I was intruding and now I was physically intruding. I whined as I looked down at my feet, fear and doubt creeping in.

"Don't freak out, Don't freak out. You're fine" I breathed.

If Chris was here I would have just stayed at his house until I worked up the courage to make this step. But Chris wasn't here. He was flying back tomorrow...hopefully. I didn't know. I still haven't heard from him.

More doubt creeped in.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket.

To Chris: 9:35am

Did you sleep okay?

To: Chris 3:09pm

I hope your day’s going good. How is everything with your parents?

To Chris: 7:08pm

I love you

I swallowed turning my phone off and shoving it into my pocket. He's busy. He hasn't been home in almost three years. You're overthinking. He still loves you.

I shook the thoughts out of my mind. One problem at a time Y/n. I shurgged the bag again to keep it from falling. The bag was getting heavy. I had to make a decision soon. Either knock on the door, or sleep on the park bench.

I let out a breath as I walked up to the front door. It was late. Past 12. I didn't know what time James went to bed. Hell, I barely knew anything about him.

I closed my eyes as I raised my fist, knocking. I shifted back on my feet. I looked around, my heart beating out of my chest. I just stood there as the silence came.

"Come on, please" I whispered to myself as I knocked again harder. I tapped my foot against the mat as I waited some more. I almost gave up before I heard a lock turn. I snapped my head up as the door opened.

Please don't be Nate. Please don't be Nate.

I let go of a breath when I saw James.

His eyes full of shock when they landed on me. It looked like I had woken him up, from his sleepy state. The last person he excepted to knock on his door right now was probably me.

"I heard you like the stars" I forced as smile but the tears welded in my eyes as I spoke. His face softened as he saw me start to cry.

"Sweetheart" He breathed opening the door all the way before I pushed forwards dropping my bag and running into his arms in full on sobs.

The light flicked on and I looked around. I spun as I looked around. Smaller than my old room, but still perfect all the same. James set down my bag with a thud.

"Is this all you brought?" He asked glancing down at the bag. I left in a rush, I didn't grab anything that didn't have meaning to me in the moment. My hair supplies, shampoo, skincare, and most of my shoes left behind.

I wrapped my arms around myself. "Yeah I--I guess I should have grabbed more stuff" I whispered, suddenly feeling guilty because everything I didn't have, I would have to borrow from him. He wasn't necessarily swimming in money like Scott.

He shook his head. "We'll get you what you need" He nodded. I looked up at him and shook my head. "It's okay. I can...manage" I mumbled. He smiled and tilted his head.

"Do you want to use Nate's three in one shampoo?" He asked smiling. My eyes widened. I think my hair would curl up and fall off. He let out a chuckle once he saw my reaction.

I sighed as I sat down on the bed. The exhaustion of the day washing over me. James stepped towards me before sitting down next to me.

"Can you tell me what happened?" He asked softly. I took in a breath as I forced myself to spill everything that happpend a few hours ago at the dinner table. Once I was done, I felt even more humiliated than I did in the moment.

James pressed his closed hands to his face as we sat there.

"I know it's a lot and if you aren't prepared to take me in---I can totally understand that. I can get a hotel, I have some of my trust fund I can tap into--"

"No, you're staying here" He shook his head glancing at me. "I just--" He shook his head. "Clara must be..." He took in a breath. "A completely different person now" He said looking down at his shoes.

I just watched him. I almost saw the heartbreak in his eyes. The last hope gone of any good that might have been left in my mother. It broke my heart.

"I guess she was never the same without you" I mumbled. I didn't know if it was the right thing to say, but I just said it anyway. He didn't react to my statement as he stood off the bed. I just watched him.

"I bought a three bedroom house for a reason" He stated looking down at me with a small smile. I let the corners of my mouth curl up. "Do you want to stay with me....like full time?" He asked hesitantly. I blinked at him.

I nodded with a small smile. I really didn't have another option, but that didn't matter. My heart grew as I felt the warmth of this home. It felt like a home. Something I never felt before.

"You can pick out some stuff online that you want in your room. I know it's bland right now. I'm sure there's some stuff you would like to hang up" He glanced around.

I shook my head. "I just want the stars from my bag" I motioned. He glanced down at the bag before looking up at me.

"But a few poster and maybe some flowers wouldn't hurt?” I said glancing around. “Nothing super expensive I promise" I shook my head. He smiled and shook his head.

"Go to bed" He chuckled shaking his head. I smiled before kicking off my shoes. He turned and made his way towards the door.

"Dad?" I breathed. He froze for a second, from the obvious unuse of the nickname, but turned and looked at me. "What about Nate? Is he gonna be angry?" I whispered. He blinked at me before he shook his head.

"Let me worry about Nate. I'm not leaving you out on the street because Nate's mad" He smiled shaking his head. I smiled before nodding as he exited the room.

"She doesn't have anywhere else to stay?"

I froze at the stop of the staircase, as my hand gripped the railing.

"Nate, she's your sister. She's staying with us. End of discussion" James snapped. I stepped down, the creaking from the step stopping the voices. I peeked my head into view and they were both looking at me.

"Good morning" James smiled brightly. I smiled softly before looking over to Nate. He rolled his eyes before looking back down at the plate in front of him. I swallowed as I hesitantly walked over to them.

"You're all prettied up, where are you off to?" James said noticing my outfit and makeup and the fact that it was only 8am. I cracked my knuckles as I stood there.

"Uhm" I cleared my throat. "The airport, Chris is suppose to fly in today" I nodded. Nate looked up at me. James raised his eyebrows. "Suppose to?" He asked. I nodded.

"His flight’s suppose to. I just don't know if he'll be on it" I felt the clench in my chest. I looked down at my feet as the nerves crept in. "He hasn't talked to me since he left" I whispered, not even knowing if they could hear me. If I'm being honest it was embarrassing to admit.

"Has he called you Nate?" James asked looking down at him. Nate looked up before he shook his head. I nodded. Okay, that made me feel a little bit better.

"I'm going with Dan to the airport, and he's about to be here...So, I'll leave you guys be" I nodded at them as I walked towards the front door still hearing the pounding in my ears from my heart racing.

Dan was waiting in the car as my eyes scanned everyone that exited the terminal. I tapped my foot against the ground. "Come on Chris" I whispered to myself, earning some concerned glancing from those rolling past me with suitcases.

I gave them a nervous smile when we made awkward eye contact. I swallowed as I moved my vision around people.

Please have gotten on the plane.

I took in a breath and looked down at my feet. If he didn't get on the plane, Y/n you have to be okay. You will have to be okay. I swallowed the lump in my throat as I snapped my head back up, searching the crowd.

I looked down at my phone. No new messages sent or recieved since Friday. I sighed and shoved my phone into my pocket as the people thinned. There weren't that many exiting anymore.

If he doesn't show. You have to be okay.

I glanced up before seeing a boy with light brown hair round the corner. My heard dropped before his head turned to me and I saw his icey blue eyes. I felt myself jerk forward but I froze myself.

Don't act too excited to see him. Don't be that girlfriend. Don't sway his decision.

I swallowed and gave him a small smile befroe planting my feet. He stood there and just looked at me for a second before smiling and walking slowly over to me. I felt my heart beat against my chest with every step he took.

My mind screaming. He's here. He's here. He's here. He came back.

He paused right in front of me.

"How was the flight?" I whispered. He dropped his bag next to him before bending down and picking me up off the ground and wrapping his arms around my back, pressing his face into my neck.

"I missed you" He breathed, leaving my other question unanswered as I hovered off the ground from his embrace. I melted against him as I wrapped my arms around his neck as he hugged me.

"I missed you" I breathed. He held me for a few more seconds before placing me back on the ground and pressed his hands to my face. I smiled up at him.

"Are you okay?" I whispered. He smiled before nodding and pressed his lips to mine. "I'm okay" He whispered against my lips making my cheeks pink.

"Okay" I mumbled back with a smile. He pulled back before leaning down and picking up his bag and grabbing my hand and interlacing our fingers.

"You missed a lot" I mumbled looking in front of me as I drug him towards the exit. He glanced down at me. "I was gone for 2 and a half days. How much could I have possibly missed?" He chuckled. I glanced up at him and he stared down at me.

"You have no idea"

"James" Chris nodded at my father. James narrowed his eyes at him. Chris looked from me to him. "What are your intentions with my daughter?" He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Dad" My eyes went wide. Chris chuckled next to me and looked up at James. "James, you've known me since I was 16" Chris smiled. James looked unimpressed.

"It's Mr. Doe to you" He said. Chris rolled his eyes as he reached down and pulled me into him. "Oh, alright" He chuckled, his arms snaking around my waist. I smiled as I laid my head against his chest, taking in his scent that I missed so much.

Chris's embrace hasn't left me since he saw me in the airport. At least one ounce of his skin had to be touching mine, and if it wasn't he fixed it immediately.

I haven't had the chance to ask him what went down in Boston yet. He hasn't said anything, and If i'm honest? I'm scared to provoke him on it. I don't know if I even want to know.

James glanced down to his arm around me before looking back up at Chris.

"I don't like you"

"James, you love me"

He glanced between us.

"Then I don't like this" He motioned between us. I chuckled pressing my face into Chris's chest.

"Now you know how I feel" Nate mumbled from the kitchen table. Chris's eyes glanced over to him before I felt his embrace leave mine.

I accepted it, even though selfishly, I wanted to pull his arm back and whine like a child. But, I held my composure.

I missed my boyfriend. I hadn't seen him in days.

Nate's eyes followed Chris's until he was standing next to him.

"Get up" Chris stated down at him. Nate glared at him. "What?" He mumbled. Chris smiled and pulled out his keys. "Get up, and give me a hug" Chris chuckled. Nate's face twisted.

"We don't hug" Nate shook his head. Chris reached down before pulling him out of his seat and pulling him into a hug. Nate struggled before accepting it and softly patting Chris's back.

I looked up at my dad before smiling.

"I'm wondering who's really dating Chris sometimes" I whispered, making James chuckle. Nate heard us before pushing off Chris and shaking his head.

"Alright, we're gonna head out" Chris stated looking at me and James. I furrowed my eyebrows. "Where are we going?" I asked. Chris smiled and kissed the top of my head.

"Not you, Me and Nate. We're going to the rink" Chris smiled down at me. Nate's eyebrows furrowed. "What?" Nate asked. Chris turned and jinggled his keys.

"You coming or not?" Chris asked. Nate froze for a second before he smiled. "Y-Yeah let me just get my sticks" He smiled before pushing off the table and walking towards the stairs. I smiled as I finally saw Nate in a happy mood as he walked up the steps.

I looked up at Chris raising my eyebrows before he rolled his eyes and leaned down, pressing his lips to my ear.

"Give me a few hours and I promise you won't be able to get rid of me even if you tried" He whispered. I felt a blush come across my face and I smiled up at him nodding.

I trusted him. He needed to sort things out with Nate, first and foremost. I got that.

I looked up at my dad who was still glaring at Chris.

"James! My man, do we have to do this whole I'm-dating-your-daughter-thing now? Or can we go back to I-drink-beer on-your-back-porch-bros kinda dynamic?" He smiled placing his hand on my dad's shoulder.

"You do what?"

"I'm ready!" Nate announced from the top steps. I muffled a laugh as he raced down the steps like a kid on Christmas. Chris leaned off James and walked towards the door.

"I'll be over later my love" He kissed my cheek. I smiled and waved him off.

"No you won't" James glared at him as Chris smiled and winked at him and Nate and him made his way to the front door. I let out a breath as the door closed.

"Are you on birth control?"

My eyes widened as I looked back to my dad. "What?" I breathed my face turning red as he looked down at me. He let out a breath and closed his eyes as he walked off.

"I don't like this. I do not like this" He mumbled as he walked down the hall.

A few hours later, Nate and Chris came back. Sweaty.

I tried not to drool too hard over it in front of Nate because I don't want him to be any more uncomfortable than he already is from the fact that I'm dating his best friend.

"Hi" Chris smiled as he opened the door, freshly showered. "Hi" I smiled as he walked out of bathroom and down to where I was standing in the hallway.

He reached down before grabbing my hips and pressing his lips to mine. I smiled as I kissed him back passionatly.

"Can I not be safe in my own house anymore?" Nate's voice rang as he stepped out of his room. We broke apart and turned to look at Nate from the sound of his voice.

I chuckled as Chris bent down, wrapping his arms around me and burring his face into my neck, smiling.

"Have you met my friend Sydney? She's newly single" I sang looking at Nate. He rolled his eyes. "I have and she's exactly like you, i'm not interested." He growled.

Chris lifted his head. "You only said that because she's taller than you" Chris chuckled. Nate glared at him. "I'll tell her you said she's hot" I smiled at Nate.

"No! Don't" Nate snapped. I raised my eyebrows and looked up at Chris. Chris smiled. "Someone's got a crush" Chris mumbled.

"No I don't! You guys are ugh-" He stopped off and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door. Chris and I laughed before he let go of me and dragged me into my room.

I smiled as he closed the door. I reached up, running my hands through his hair. "You smell good" I whispered. He smiled. "Yeah?" He whispered. I nodded as I leaned up and pressed my lips to his softly.

The door swung open.

I pulled away and stepped back from Chris.

"This door stays open when he's here" My dad stared back at me. My eyes widened and I nodded as he opened the door slightly. He narrowed his eyes at Chris.

"Aw come on James. You don't trust me?" Chris smiled. James glared at him. "I trust you as much as I trusted myself at your age. The door stays open" James let go of the handle and stepped back. Chris rolled his eyes.

"We'll just have to start going to my house" Chris whispered.

"I heard that" James's voice rang through the hallway. My eyes widened and I hit Chris's chest.

"Chris. You can't make him hate me" I mumbled. Chris rolled his eyes and grabbed my hand pulling me over to my bed.

"He can't hate you, you're his daughter" He chuckled as we both fell against the bed. I sighed. "Well, don't make him hate you" I stated. Chris rolled his eyes.

"He couldn't hate me if he tried" He smiled confidently. I smiled and rolled my eyes. "Plus Nate brings girls over here all the time, he never makes him leave the door open" Chris shook his head.

"I'm his daughter, it's different"

"It's still sex"

"I don't---" I cringed. "I don't want to imagine my brother having sex, please stop" I shook my head. He smiled and grabbed my hand and pulled me close to him.

"I really missed you" He whispered staring down at me. I smiled and leaned my head against the pillow.

Did I want to ask about what happened in Boston? I think he could see the discomfort on my face, because he sighed.

"I'm sorry I ignored you when I was in Boston. I just-" He shook his head. I squeezed his hand. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Chris. I understand" I whispered. He shook his head.

"You deserve an explaination" He stated. I swallowed and nodded. He laid down looking up at my ceiling and smiled, lifting his arm.

"You brought the stars" He pointed out. I smiled down at him.

"It was the first thing I grabbed"

He turned his head and looked at me.

God, we had a lot to talk about.

#matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #chris sturniolo

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sleepinthrumyalarms · 1 year

Text

— old dog, new tricks

pairing: wednesday addams x fem!werewolf!reader

warnings: smut, lesbian sex, slight petplay, deragadation, topping from the bottom, strapon referred to as cock, wednesday is STILL a sadist, all characters are aged-up

summary: the control wednesday has over you is frustrating. you're put back in your place the second you try to rebel

word count: 2.5k

“So yeah, since the Furs are gonna be the ones hosting the party, every wolf gets to bring a plus one. There’d be enough of us as it is, we should keep it low. The last time they held a gathering, it ended up... badly,” Enid refrains from going into details, which most likely involved a lot of destroyed furniture and saliva, clearing her throat as she slurps on her orange juice, leaning forward in her seat to gauge your reaction, “It’s free alcohol though! Courtesy of the Scales, so we have to let them in, too.”

Wednesday is sitting next to you, her hands clasped together on her knees, the plate in front of her already clean by the end of the lunch break. Her face is unreadable – but you grin, the thought of having drinks in a nice company of fellow werewolves providing a surge of enthusiasm to finish the school day.

“Sure– “

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to join you, Enid. (Y/n) and I have business for tonight.”

The toothpick you clench in your mouth almost snaps in half.

Enid raises an eyebrow, looking between the two of you, but nods, seeming to take Wednesday’s words as final. It vexes you even further.

The ravenette doesn’t let you say another word. She dabs at her lips with a tissue, caringly grabs both of your trays and walks off. The werewolf’s sky-blue eyes meet yours – she looks like she wants to say something, but the irk in your gaze serves as a good enough warning, and she keeps her mouth shut.

A sigh mixed with an exasperated groan leaves your mouth, and you get up to follow your girlfriend, now staring holes into the back of her head instead.

Recess is over, and with it goes your faux relaxed attitude – you sit with your arms crossed, your knee jumping in an annoyed tick as you stare unblinking at your biology book, almost burning through the paper with your glare. Ajax, who’s unfortunate enough to have to share a desk with you, cowers at the angry aura you induce, the snakes of his hair peeking from under his beanie cautiously.

When your last period ends, you pack your bag hastily and throw it over your shoulder before all but storming out of the class. As you walk through the corridor, you notice Xavier out of the corner of your eye, the brunet artist falling in step with you. When he absentmindedly asks if you’re coming to the party tonight, it takes you all of your willpower not to punch him in the jaw.

The door is slammed behind you as you enter your dorm, your nostrils flaring.

You’re mad. And now that the party is totally out of the question, you need a different way to let out steam.

You don’t waste your time undressing yourself, opting to change for something easy to dispose of and claw into, before you reach for the nightstand, opening the bottom drawer.

The toy inside holds a lot of rather pleasant memories – of Wednesday bending you over the balcony railing, of her driving her hips into you as you all but begged her to fuck you right on the floor of your dorm.

Well. Werewolf heats are known for their feverous intensity. Howling isn’t the only reason one should wear muffled headphones with wolves around.

You grab the silicone toy, quickly tightening the straps around your waist, which surprisingly comes rather natural and makes you wonder why the hell you haven’t thought of doing this before, then tug on a pair of grey sweatpants over the strap-on, glancing at the clock – you still have a few minutes before Wednesday comes back.

You give yourself a once-over in the mirror. The shirt’s neckline is hanging just above your breasts, exposing your collarbones, your hair is disheveled with all the exasperated running your fingers through it you’ve been doing, and the outline of the silicone cock is pretty much visible through your pants. Exactly what you were going for.

The faint sound of footsteps reaches your sensitive ears, and it’s a pattern you recognize easily by now – you step away from the mirror to sit back on the bed just in time with the door creaking open.

“Business?” You mutter instead of a greeting. “I didn’t know we had plans.”

Wednesday freezes in the doorway, eyeing you. Her gaze drops to your pants, and a small, barely noticeable smirk makes its way to her pretty plump lips before its gone like it was a mirage.

“Why, don’t you just sound so eager to spend time with your significant other,” the ravenette deadpans sarcastically, walking over to her desk to abandon her backpack there, her lithe fingers working to undo the buttons of her uniform blazer – slowly, deliberately, the same way she drags her words out as she speaks, completely unbothered, “Would you really rather prefer a... frat party with a bunch of uncivilized mutts?”

She turns to look at you, misty eyes shining with a challenging glint.

“Addictions run in the family. Along with my last name I happen to bear a habit of drinking my stress away,” the mattress creaks in protest as you get up, step closer to Wednesday so that you’re towering over her smaller frame, “That, and valuing my freedom and independency.”

Wednesday doesn’t look intimidated in the least. She looks up at you, her eyebrows raised slightly, “But I can’t really help it. You’ve always been like this – so pliant and submissive,” the girl takes her blazer off, draping it over the back of her chair, never breaking eye contact with you, “It’s just so... entertaining to order you around sometimes, knowing you’d follow every single one of my commands.”

You grit your teeth at her words, partially from irritation, partially because they’re true – Wednesday has had you wrapped around her finger from the first day you met her, and it was a given you’d be so smitten to submit to her every whim. The ravenette’s influence on you is omnipotent.

And now, you’re not sure where it’s coming from, but there’s hot, rebellious fire burning in your chest, and the young woman in front of you is the spark responsible.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Oh? Is my perception wrong, then?”

Wednesday steps closer, her chin raised slightly, and before you know it you’re backing down to your shared bed, the backs of your knees hitting the wooden frame.

“Am I wrong? You’re not my pet, then?” She asks again, “Can you prove it? Can you make me shut up and take it?”

Suddenly you remember what your original plan was supposed to be. You mentally facepalm yourself – Wednesday’s been in the room for less than five minutes, yet you already feel the remains of your pride and resolve crumbling apart and proving her right.

Frustrated, your grasp at her hips, your talons coming out at your exasperation, tearing into her skirt, and turn the small girl around, pressing your mouth to hers hotly.

In a few moments you’re a mess of tangled limbs on the bed, Wednesday’s hands sliding towards the waistband of your pants to slide them down, the cool silicone of the toy pressing against her clothed cunt.

You pull back slightly, hovering over her, your claws catching at the lace of her panties, and it takes you a minute to tear them away – your hands are practically shaking with anger and anticipation. You don’t bother with the skirt, flipping it away for easy access, and Wednesday parts her thighs gently, your gaze subconsciously trailing down to the supple pale skin of her lower body.

Jesus, you want to bruise it so badly.

But no. Not now.

Focus. Focus.

Your hands grab ahold of the plushy flesh, fingers digging in as you part her legs even further, and Wednesday lets out a small sound at the aggressiveness. You’d grin at the small victory of yours, but it’s not really worthy yet – her expression is still unfazed, and you know you’ll have to try harder than that.

Or maybe not, you think as you suppress a chuckle at how positively drenched Wednesday is – of course, you could smell it before you could see the pretty wetness covering the inside of her thighs, and you’re damn sure she knows it, too, judging by the way her jaw tightens before she speaks.

“Do not gloat, dog. That is not your doing.”

Okay, that. That actually makes an angry vein pop on your forehead, the thought of someone else getting Wednesday hot and bothered and gorgeously dripping like this is akin to bothering a hungry animal during its meal.

You align yourself with the beautifully dripping cunt of the small ravenette, pressing your palms into her thighs to keep her still – fuck it, you have to bruise her – and push the tip against the feverish skin, sinking in slowly. You watch her walls wrap around the toy deliciously, the sight almost making you forget the reason for your fury, and an involuntary sigh escapes your mouth as you’re halfway to being sheathed inside Wednesday – the girl herself is silent, except for the wet sound of her pretty pussy taking your fake cock in. You look up to see her watching you with half-lidded eyes. She looks bored.

Her smirk is almost as taunting as her words.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

An irritated huff escapes your nose, fingers digging deeper into her, and in a single sharp thrust you bottom out, your legs pressing flush against the back of her hips.

Wednesday sighs, finally, eyes fluttering shut as all the air is pushed out of her lungs. You wrap your hands around the bottom of her thighs to pull her in as close as possible, and this time you actually grin as the ravenette has to bite back another choked noise, hanging her head back on the pillow and taking a deep inhale.

Then she opens her eyes, meeting yours again. Irritation paints her face at your smug expression.

“Are you getting cocky now, (Y/n)? It was but a mediocre start,” she tuts. “I thought you were going to show me how good you can make me take it. How strong you are.”

Her manicured hand caresses up your bicep, scratching idly.

“Alas, the only thing that’s giving me pleasure right now is telling you you’re not good enough.”

All the thoughts of being gentle and sweet with Wednesday are slapped out of your mind as soon as her words register in your already pussy-drunk brain. With a nearly animalistic snarl you pull out so that the head is barely visible before driving back in, the silicone sinking between her lips, disappearing in a red-hot embrace as you immediately fall into a swift rhythm. Your abdominal muscles contract violently, screaming at you that the pace is too much. Too fast. Too hard.

But you don’t care. You want Wednesday to scream those things.

The ravenette stretches one of her long shapely legs to rest it on your shoulder, the angle pulling you deeper into her with each thrust. You grunt, turn your face to nibble at her ankle through the stocking, making Wednesday shudder.

“You look... angry.” She observes, her words a bit broken, breath stolen by your merciless pounding into her. “Are you angry with me, puppy?”

You growl in response. Her palms reach to cup your face, a condescending smile on her lips.

“For teasing you? Oh, don’t be angry. It is simply the natural way of things. Whatever you do, you will always belong underneath me. Taking me like a good girl. Pretty puppy always wants to be my good girl, doesn’t she?”

You whine, and Wednesday chuckles, satisfied that her words are causing the effect she desired – you melt despite the fact that you’re the one fucking her into the bed, ruining the mattress with how much of her slick is dripping down between your bodies.

“You’re so lucky that I’m letting you do this,” her voice is breathy, and your attention snaps to the way is sounds rather than the words she speaks, “Look at me and say it— Don’t you dare scowl at me.”

Wednesday scolds your bared canines and your furrowed eyebrows, the hold of her palms turning rough on your chin.

“Say thank you. For my letting you be in my cunt right now.”

Her tone sends an array of shivers down your spine – you feel reminded of where your place is supposed to be. It takes some time for you to finally find your voice, your mouth slightly open as you still your hips for a moment, cock buried in Wednesday’s soft heat.

She watches you expectantly. You lean down to press your nose into her shoulder.

“Th... thank you...” You murmur into her neck shakily, hiding your face in embarrassment.

You’ve lost.

The ravenette hums, wraps her legs around you, a gesture of pity and generosity on her part – she knows how much you love it when she does that, the balls of her stocking-clad feet pressing into your back.

“You’re welcome, puppy. Now get back to work.”

Your pace turns slow, meaningful, and Wednesday seems content with the change, her back arching at a particularly strong and deep thrust of your hips, pretty mouth falling open with a breathy sigh, “Oh, mia grande forte cucciola… Trying so hard to make me feel good…”

Her walls flutter around the shaft, her heavy breathing mixing with the obscene sounds of your skin slapping hers.

“Should I cum on you? Should I let you have it just this once?”

At that you perk up, and if you were wolfed out at that moment, you’re pretty sure your tail would be wagging like crazy as you whine a few pathetic ‘please, please’ into her neck.

“I will. I will, amore. But not because of you fucking me so good… Just because I pity you.”

Wednesday brings you closer to her, your chest flush against hers as she tilts her head back, her pussy turning impossibly tight around your cock, a choked moan leaving her burgundy lips, right into your ear, making goosebumps trickle up your neck. You fuck her through her orgasm obediently, wishing you could feel her throbbing around you.

When Wednesday’s hold on you relaxes, your jaw goes slack around her shoulder, her ruined uniform the last thing on your mind as you try to catch your breath.

She sighs with content, pressing a kiss to your cheekbone.

“Good dog.”

There’s no strength left in you to fight the title, so you accept your defeat, leaning most of your body weight onto the small girl and muttering something unintelligible.

“Pull out.” She orders, and you comply, watching as her slick drips down the toy, before the ravenette pushes you back onto the bed, her thighs bracketing your hips. Her warmth against you makes you shudder.

“Now,” her hands reach for the straps, undoing them with masterful precision, “I’m going to reclaim what’s mine.”

The toy is tugged down your legs, and Wednesday licks her lips.

“I hope the ache you’ll feel with every step you take tomorrow reminds you of who you belong to, puppy.”

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x reader smut #wednesday addams smut #wednesday x reader #wednesday x reader smut #wednesday smut #wednesday imagine #wednesday #wednesday netflix #wednesday addams

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kentosbabes · 11 months

Note

hi can i request arranged marriage hcs with nanami? tysm

YES !!!

Arranged marriage with Nanami

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You both were born into business empires, and your families were close so it was written in stone that you would end up married to Nanami. You felt robbed that you wouldn’t be able to choose your own partner but for the good of the company and family, you bit your tongue and moved along with the marriage.

Nanami didn’t want to marry you, you both grew up with each other and he didn’t want to be the reason for your unhappiness. He loved you and despite his cold exterior, he knew that if you figured out that he actually liked you romantically, you would feel uncomfortable in the situation. So he tried his hardest to go against this marriage, but he was only able to delay it a couple years. But for those three years, you were able to go to university and have a normal life.

Nanami’s mother and father set up a meeting with your family to further discuss the logistics of the marriage, you will still be working but will be taking a break for the “married life” and to bond with Nanami. He will also be going on a break to do the same.

He knew you felt uncomfortable during the meeting but didn’t say anything until after, “I’m sorry.” You can’t remember the last time he apologised to you, “I’m alright, just a little jet-lagged.”

The mothers ™️ designed the wedding and reception all you had to do was to show up, to be honest, you prefer it this way, with fewer feelings involved, you are less likely to fall deeper in love with a man who could never love you back. Nanami felt frustrated on your behalf, being poked and prodded with questions and measuring tapes can only go so far before annoyance settles.

Nanami realised that you were avoiding him, and unsure of what he could have possibly done to offend you, he decided to confront you. You were walking back from your car into his parent's mansion, and he crept up to you, tapping you on the shoulder. You jumped and asked him what the hell he was playing at. He simply asked you why you were avoiding him, trying hard to keep the hurt out of your voice, you ask him if he was being "fucking serious?" You paused to get a hold of your emotions. "You hate me, I am to be wed to a man who hates me and you want to know why I am avoiding you?"

The shock was evident on Nanami's face, you looked down at your feet, ashamed that you let your emotions run unchecked. It is unbecoming and your mother if she knew, would have your head. "I've liked you since the moment you punched me in the face when we were both ten playing in the garden, I love you, darling, I didn't want this marriage to happen out of fear that you didn't like me back and this would have ruined your life. I am alright liking you one-sidedly, I have been used to the idea of unrequited love." He put his thumb and index finger between your chin, lifting your head to reveal unshed tears welling up in your eyes. "I love you and I want to prove it."

Nanami brought you along for a date a week before your wedding, he was running a little bit late so you headed into the up-scale bar and ordered beforehand. A man with a smug grin saddled up to you and sat in the seat beside you, introducing himself and offering to buy you a drink. You politely turn him down, citing you were meeting someone and were not interested. Not taking the very overt hint, you felt uncomfortable, checking the time and your messages in case Nanami texted you back. He handed you a business card, and whilst you went to reach for it he grabbed your hand, “C’mon, I have a suite booked at the Hilton next door.”

“I’m afraid she will have to reject that ever so-kind offer, and you need to get your hands off of her or we are going to have to take this outside.” Nanami drawled, you stare at his dark, imposing figure, wide-eyed and a little horrified by how attractive you found him right now. Oh dear, you think, This is going to require a lot of self-reflection later on.

The man got up and rolled his eyes, “Fine, you don’t know what you’re missing anyways.” Nanami sat down in his seat, looking over you to see if he harmed you at all, “My sincerest apologies, traffic was bad and I had a board meeting that overran.” He kissed your hand, and held it for a beat, “You know, it took me a while to find the perfect ring for such a perfect bride,” you didn’t know, in fact, you were so sure that The Mothers ™️ chose it like they chose everything else for the wedding.

You both got to talking, about where life found you and the drinks kept coming. You started to get a little tipsy, confessing that you had always found Nanami attractive but didn’t want to ruin everything. He smirked, “And now? Hm? Am I still attractive to you?”

You became flustered and changed the subject quickly. You could tell the drink was getting to him, Nanami's face flushed and his smile finally reached his eyes.

Nanami placed his hand on your inner thigh, “Wanna head out? I have my driver waiting outside,” you nodded and he paid the waiter. It was chilly outside so he gave you his jacket, you could smell Dior Sauvage and nature on it, breathing it in even more- it was addicting.

He dropped you home and gave you a kiss on the cheek, wishing you a good night. Telling you to keep the jacket since he’s got so much. The next time you saw each other was the wedding itself. Nanami could only remember how beautiful you looked in your white dress, your hair was done up in an intricate style and your make-up flawless as usual. If he wasn’t in love, then he was in love now.

The wedding itself went by without a hitch, you were just looking forward to the rest and relaxation offered by the honeymoon. Nanami couldn’t wait for you to finish up your final goodbyes to your friends and family before you headed out on the private jet to the Caribbean.

You were nervous that’s for sure for your first time with him, the tension on the flight was building to say the least. Heavy looks and innuendos were exchanged, it was a shock you didn’t join the mile high club then and there.

You got to the hotel and Nanami wasted no time. Kissing your lips, cheeks and neck. In between the kisses like a mantra he would repeat, “You’re mine now, my wife.” Littering kisses down your collarbone and navel, he placed butterfly kisses feverishly down your body. He got down on his knees and laid you down, memorising your heavenly body, worshiping it. He didn’t know if this was too much off the bat, he paused and asked if it was ok to continue, “‘S’okay,” you mumbles, head-turning inward, lips grazing his jaw. “I like it.”

Fuck.

It’s achingly slow, the way he inches into you. You feel like you’re being split open and your eyes are wide when he reaches down to grip tightly onto your hips. “Mine, mine, mine- ah,” you looked up into his eyes through your eyebrows, “m’ yours, only yours.” Nanami smiles at you, even as he tries to sound displeased. “Such a mess.”

You stare up at Nanami with flushed cheeks and bleary eyes, pupils dilated and completely fucked. He starts moaning; murmuring – It’s alright, yes, you’ve got this, just look at me, m’right here, yeah… Oh… Feels good, you’re mine, I’ve got you… His eyes are closed but his brows are furrowed, and he pants through parted plush lips of his.

You can hardly think with the way each thrust makes your toes curl in unabashed pleasure and of course, Nanami knows just which way causes your eyes to roll back.

Without warning, he grips your hips and flips you over onto your back. The display of casual strength is unexpected and very, very attractive, and your legs spread eagerly before he even moves to open them himself. “Ah- faster, ‘Ken faster.” He nodded and started to move at an animalistic pace and speed, grabbing onto the headboard for leverage.

You came with a broken moan, convulsing around Nanami's cock. And he was still fucking you hard, drawing out the orgasm. “Fuck- ah,” you moaned out. “Watch your mouth, darlin’,” he warns, rolling your hips against his.

Nanami pulls out and he groans throatily as his fist tugs his dick and arcs thin streaks of white onto your skin. Sighing out little moans and gently writhing against the mattress, and fuck, Nanami thinks you make such a pretty picture.

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roseglazedlens · 7 months

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⦑ THE FUCKING DEAD ⦒ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

➠ series masterlist | 🔃girl’s route | 🔃boy’s route |

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓┇𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑┇𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐅𝐈𝐂┇𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐃𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 LEON S. KENNEDY & CARLOS OLIVEIRA X AFAB GN! READER ADA WONG & JILL VALENTINE X AFAB GN! READER chapter synopsis: You are amongst the top five selected for this infiltration to take down Glenn Arias. An argument unfolds between the agents and you are forced to pick a side. chapter content: smut in next chapter, resident evil: vendetta spoilers, zombies, haunted mansion, explicit themes throughout this series. a/n: welcome to my second series!! (need to finish my first one oops) on a thursday one month ago, i thought to myself 'zombie threesome hehehe', then i took the idea and sprinted with it and this series is born. so, uh... zombiefuckers rise up?? « 3.3 k words | general masterlist | ao3 | reblogs appreciated! »

Millions are dying—Mass infections are happening across the globe swamping the streets with an unbeknownst fear. The symptoms of this virus are faint, indecipherable next to an x-ray of a man who is perfectly healthy. Not even the carrier themselves are aware of how the virus lies underneath their veins, dormant, until a click of button is pressed from a commander far away, then their symptoms worsen: a headache, a cold, veins turning purple as the poison hatches in them, spreading, until the only thing that can manoeuvre their limbs is the word: KILL.

That’s the greatest strength of this virus. Anyone can be infected, and maybe, you already are.

This product first reached the underground market three months ago. Called the A-Virus; a bioweapon succeeded in the market for its ability to infect targeted communities remotely and leaving no evidence on the perpetrator, which no other distributors had successfully produced before.

Engineered by Glenn Arias, the researcher sold over thousands of this bioweapon, becoming a billionaire overnight at the cost of lives lost from the whims of the rich. He supplied the wealthy and corrupted, like insatiable brats, with new remote-controlled monster trucks, who only aims to tear down families and have their victims beg mercy to a monster that will not speak reason.

Hence, this problem brought attention to a global scale, having the DSO come in alliance with the BSAA and other independent mercenaries to hunt down the vaccine and put a stop to Arias’ grand schemes. Handpicking five agents who are equipped with both experience and skill to combat a zombie attack on this scale of doom and urgency.

Those five agents are Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira, Leon S. Kennedy, Ada Wong, and you.

A plan is already in place. A distraction concocted with your intel and the help of a senior researcher of all things bioweapons, Rebecca Chambers. While Arias is busy attending fake business meetings on the other side of the world, the five of you will infiltrate his private mansion to retrieve a concentrated sample of the A-Virus. Rebecca can use the sample to reverse engineer it into a cure and send her findings to facilities across the world.

The plan sounds brilliant in writing, but when you arrived his private mansion in Queretaro region, Mexico, something is off about this place.

Arias is a mastermind, you had been warned many times, in which you appropriately prepared all your best gear for this mission to treat it with utmost gravity. You’re thinking armed guards, well-equipped security, BOWs. But when the five of you pushed open the front doors of his mansion, it was quiet.

Empty. Not a single soul. Just five of you greeted by the whisk of wind through weakly hinged windows that somehow makes the humid air stick to your skin further. Did Rebecca get the wrong info? No one lived there. From what you heard when you were in town, not even the locals dare to venture anywhere near the odd gothic mansion on the top of the hill. They said it’s abandoned, cursed, rumoured to whisk away young children if they ever step foot inside.

It’s a story they say to stop the naughty kids, you remind yourself. It’s not haunted. And you’re not a kid anymore.

The inside is abandoned. Cobwebs lay thick between cornices and carved columns, the floors laced with a film of dust on the luxurious dark wood flooring, creaking with worn age as you take each step. Besides the chandelier, every single piece of furniture is either the same colour of black or red, or nothing else. The soft red velvet upholstery and the rug are made with the same fabric. And you can find the same dark wood in every corner of this house. It’s in the tables, the shelves, the chaise, the painting frames, and stone-like head sculpture whittled with the same exact dark wood, ridged the exact uniform way.

Then, you look at the wall. Black patches of mould smearing across the burgundy wallpaper like a crime scene.

Something creaks behind you. The hair on your arms stands up as you shiver, immediately followed by a wave of embarrassment. Despite the number of times you had taken down hordes of incoming zombies like they’re cardboard targets, why is a bit of wind freaking you out? It’s not a ghost, just old foundations, maybe mice, or wind kicking something off a table, like how every old house sounds like. You look around to see if anyone else catches you jumping at nothing, before Jill says, thankfully unaware of your worry:

“God, the smell. What have they done to this place?” Her hand flies over her nose as if that will help to shield any smell whatsoever. Unfortunately, the building is moulded far beyond salvageable that the stench lingers in every part of the mansion.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. We get weeks-old corpses in body bags every day. It’s absolutely retching.” Jill’s earpiece fizzes into life, and she recognises the familiar playful lilt of Rebecca’s voice on the other side of the line.

“At least that’s refrigerated and contained, Rebecca. This fucking stinks.” Jill scrunches her face like she just ate something unpleasant.

“I’m sending my sympathies from my well-conditioned lab right now.”

Carlos appears from Jill’s behind, placing a firm, teasing hand on top of Jill’s shoulder. His wavy curls catch in the wind and his teeth glistens sparkly white. “Yeah Jill, got a problem with my natural musk?”

Jill shrugs his hand off, grimacing at his attempts at flirtation. “Take a shower first, then we’ll talk.”

In which Carlos laughs, holds his hand out at his heart as if it was just torn into shreds. “That hurts my feelings, Jill. Why aren’t you ever saying things like that to pretty boy over there?”

“I have a name, Oliveira.” The blond man turns around at the call of his nickname, familiar with the nickname, but it's not pleasantly received by him.

“I think pretty boy suits you more, Kennedy.” Carlos replies, a glint in his voice that hints something a bit less than friendliness between them.

“Ah, so you do know my name.” Leon quips back while staring directly into Carlos’ eyes, before getting cut off by Jill.

“I would, Carlos, but if I have to hear one more corny ass comeback from Leon’s mouth, I’ll throw myself out the window right now.”

“Takes a genius to get my humour.” Leon smirks.

Your eyebrows raise almost immediately to chime in. “Erm… I think we have different meanings for the word ‘genius’.”

Quiet chuckles ripple through the room. It helps that you have worked with these guys throughout the years and had come to know and get close to them—some a bit closer than just friends—but none of them are strangers by far. Usually, you would be working with only one or two of these guys, never in a big group like this, but it seems that everyone is already well-acquainted with each other.

You toss a glance at Carlos and catch him staring at you, smiling. Ah, you see now. Carlos must have been trying to lighten the mood because you had been jumpy ever since you had arrived. You nod at him, a silent thank you before the five of you venture deeper into the eerie atmosphere.

The goal is to arrive at Glenn Aria’s office. According to Rebecca’s intel, Arias hid a concentrated sample in a safe last time he was here. You will need Ada to crack the safe to retrieve the sample and deliver it to Rebecca. As you traverse the corridors, it twists and turns in different directions—whoever engineered this did not enjoy unexpected guests at all. But under Rebecca’s guidance, she walks you and your team through the labyrinth with ease and precision.

But unfortunately, not ease and precision on your part. You trip over your own leg and almost fall to the floor as you round a harsh turn according to Rebecca’s instructions, and Jill catches you right on the arm before you fall.

“Easy there.” Jill pulls you up the ground, and you regain some balance. “You good? Mind your step.”

“Why did I agree to babysit?” Ada speaks, finally, for the first time in this mission. Despite how quietly she spoke under her breath, her words abruptly cut through the air, and all attention is on her and the red sweater dress that curves into her frame perfectly now.

“Oh, I bet once you get your paycheck it will be worth it. Or will you be betraying us, huh, Ada?”

Leon smirks loudly. Ada’s face goes from tired to exhausted in one second. “You just can’t let bygones be bygones, can you?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who used to work for Wesker.” Ada’s heels come to a stop, and with a slow turn, she stares deeply into Leon’s eyes that speak a million threats without needing to be utter a word. Oh, and believe me, you do not want to be messing with Ada. You learnt that the hard way.

“Woah, guys. Let’s keep this civil. No need to get heated.” Carlos rushes to stand right between them as the duo glares at each other with passionate fury and resentment.

You nod, joining Carlos’ side to stand by him. “Carlos’s right. This is not the time to pick a fight.” But it falls on the deaf ears of Leon and Ada.

“Thousands were killed. I want what’s good for the people, and I’m not sure Ada here is on the same page.” Leon continues, adding fuel to the fire.

Ada lets out a disbelieved gasp in response, before recollecting herself and replying in her usual tone of calmness: “Someone has to pay the price. I’m just the executor.”

“Regardless of our motivations, we all are on the same side here.” Carlos attempts at resolution again, putting his hands up in between them, and fails embarrassingly once more.

The air is heated with hostility; Leon and Ada’s eyes are locked in a trance, a hazy spite that reigns their composure, that looking away from each other means forfeiting. You don’t see either of them walking away first, they are both prideful people after all.

“Uh… Jill? Some help?” Carlos looks around to find Jill, who is leaning against a wall, her arms relaxing by her sides, unphased by the fire stirring right in front of the crowd.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Jill is merely waiting for either one of the parties roll over.

You feel speckles of flame through the two of them, as if steam is retreating over the top of their heads, burning not just them, but also everyone else in the room. Until the boiling point hits, and it erupts all in one second. The duo walks away, off to different directions in bitter adrenaline, until you and Carlos are just looking at each other.

“I guess we’ll take five. There’s a safe room up ahead.” Carlos is speaking, but you’re the one listening.

The five of you enters the safe room in silence. It is a storage room—despite its name, it’s quite large for a normal storage room—with boxes stacked on all ends that made the room seem smaller in comparison. A ceiling light illuminates the room dimly, but it isn’t enough to shade away years of old animosity from their past.

The lively conversations you had mere minutes ago is gone now. Just silence and awkward rustling as each of you sits in your own designated corner. Carlos and Jill find themselves a seat on top of a firm box. Leon and Ada giving each other the silent treatment, standing on farthest end of the room to each other. You are simply minding your own business, gathering materials to craft a flashbang to pass the time. Doesn’t hurt to have more supplies anyway.

There is a notable division on each side, an imaginary alliance that you choose to be on neither side. Until Leon crosses the boundary line, somehow making his way to you. He picks up an empty grenade case next to you, assembling the pieces together for your project.

“Sorry you had to see that.” A little guilt tugs at Leon’s voice.

“Not at all. I get why you felt that way.” Leon nods, a look of gratitude hanging softly through a smile. His other finger seals the flashbang cap and hands it back to you. “But you need to learn to control your temper. Especially when it comes to Ada.”

Speaking of Ada, a shiver runs down your spine suddenly. The feeling of someone sending laser signs and telepathic warnings towards you. You turn around towards the direction of the aura to find Ada, her back leaning against the wall, arms crossed without engaging or acknowledging anyone in the room. She stands by herself alone, and that’s how you had always known Ada—distant and in her own mysterious world. Not really a chatter, despite the number of times she had saved you in the past.

Ada does not look at you, but you can feel her glaring down—either you or Leon—with her entire body.

“Good to see the two of you getting along at least.” Carlos holds out two plastic water bottles to you two from a supply crate he found in the room, which Jill has finished downing two of them already.

You two gesture ‘no thanks.’ Ada does not spare Carlos a glance at his direction when he offers.

“You’re welcome, I guess.” Carlos says sarcastically, before taking in a generous sip from his drink.

There’s a moment of silence. Then, a moment of dry coughs; a squeak of footsteps, a joint click from a stretching neck. Then silence once more.

“I’ve had enough.” Jill slaps her hands on her thigh before pushing herself up from her seat. “You guys gonna keep acting like kids? Grow up, this isn’t high school anymore. Take your drama outside. If we’re gonna take down Arias, we have to get along. And yes, that means moving on from shit that happened… five years ago? Five years ago and you two are still hung up? Unlike you all, I’m actually looking forward to go home and get a decent shower, hopefully soon.”

You nod in approval as Jill speaks her mind, and you are glad at least the few of you have their priorities in order. Ada flicks her head away from Jill, but her silence is telling of how much she is thinking over Jill’s words.

“Leon, can you accept this?” Jill asks.

There’s a bit of reluctance in his voice, but he agrees anyway. “Fine.”

“Ada?”

Before Ada can respond, smoke is creeping into your vision, coming in quick. It merges into your view, obscuring it, and you whiff something artificial, some kind of chemicals that is piercing to your nose and eyes. You can’t help but wince, hands groping the air in attempts to find comfort in the person closest to you—anyone for that matter—to indicate you’re safe and is indeed not under attack. Your fingers find themselves in a fistful of someone’s shirt, muscles tensing tightly underneath the fabric on their shoulder cap.

“Leon. Is that you?” You cry out.

“It’s me. Stay close and don’t let go. It’s an ambush.” Leon pulls your arm towards him, securing your safety with his hand in yours.

There is some coughing through the air, faint panic in voices underneath the hissing of gas that seems to be coming from above. You hold onto Leon a bit tighter.

Carlos calls out desperately “Where are you guys? Is everyone okay?” as he flaps his hand around the smoke to stir it away. He finds you and Leon almost immediately, and looks down to your hands, finding them clasped tight against each other. Your hand lets go of Leon flying behind your back, but Carlos already saw it.

Jill is coughing deep from the smoke. “I-I’m here!”

“It seems like we’re all here.” Ada says, composed as ever despite the circumstances.

The smoke dissipates—until most of the fog fades away, escaping through the cracks underneath the door to the other side. Leaving the five of you standing in the same storage room darting eyes around, seemingly unharmed, and even more confused.

After what feels like a while later, Jill finally breaks the silence: “Huh. What was that?”

“No enemies.” Ada unholsters the pistol from her belt, inspecting the room and the door behind the room. “Clear on this side too.”

It’s strange. If this is an ambush, why isn’t there an attack?

Leon places a finger on his earpiece to activate his microphone. “Rebecca, come in. We’ve just been ambushed by some kind of smoke, but nobody’s hurt. Happen to know what’s going on?”

His earpiece buzzes into life. “Hmm, let’s see. From the architecture plans, I see the vents are connected to a lab below. It seems abandoned, there are no signs of anyone triggering an attack on my end.”

“Whatever it is, we need to investigate.” Leon’s voice is firm and serious. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

You swallow deeply, fear settling back inside you. “You think it’s a trap?”

“I think…” Leon pinches his chin. “…Arias knows that we’re here.”

Your heart drops—Bundle of fear, anxiety and stress springing back into your nerves as you probe at the possibility of Glen Arias knowing where you are. What you’re trying to do. Making sure you will never reach that sample despite your hardest wills.

“He shouldn’t. Rebecca, didn’t Arias get on the jet?” Carlos is also thinking too.

“Affirmative. Security footage showed Arias walking into his private jet, and it took off four hours ago. He should still be in the air. No signal of them making a pitstop anywhere.”

You hear black pumps clacking against the hardwood floor. “I’m getting the sample.” Says Ada, her foot is already halfway out of the door. “Follow me or not, I don’t care. I’m here for the objective, and only that.”

“And what if something happens to you?” Carlos asks, genuinely concerned.

“I’ll deal with it if it happens.” Ada waves dismissively.

“Ada’s right, we could be set on a wild goose chase.” Jill chimes in. “Millions of lives are dying. We don’t have time to waste.”

“I guess it’s just you and me then, pretty boy.” Carlos rounds his arm around Leon’s neck, bringing him closer in an almost choking grip, a little too close and tight to his liking. And with Leon’s history with Carlos, Leon refuses to believe this is just a friendly gesture.

Leon grimaces, removing Carlos’ hand over him. “So that’s it? We’re splitting up?” The answer is unanimous. “Fine. I guess we’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

Rebecca, through the other side of your earpiece, speaks: “Be careful everyone. You don’t know what kind of schemes Glenn Arias had set up. Please stay safe.”

“We’ll be fine, as long as we don't have any traitors in our team.” Leon says the word ‘traitor’ while maintaining eye contact with Ada. She ignores him, simply deadpans.

“Well, what about you?” Leon nudges at your arm.

You are faced with two options. Indulge in your curiosity and find the source of the gas, or stick to mission as planned? Both options will be dangerous. So who will you trust with your life?

[OPTION A] “I’ll follow the girls.”

[OPTION B] “I’ll follow the boys.”

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 thanks for reading! come check out my other works! —yours truly, rose. i love my beta reader @scar-crossedlvrs! series taglist: @j3llyd0nut @ovaryacted @daydreamrot @madcap-riflette @access--granted @obsolescent @briermelli @secretiveauthor @ghosty-frog @navstuffs @slowcryinginthedark @rentaldarling @lesbntired © roseglazedlens — please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

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ecoamerica · 24 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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justaaveragereader · 5 months

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Nothing But Business

Pairing: Ceo!Yeosang x Stripper!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Dom!Yeo, Sub!Reader, Unprotected Sex, Cream Pie, Degradation, Spanking, Reader Is A Stripper🤪, Humiliation, Slight Choking, Possessive Yeo, Name Calling (Pretty Girl..), Oral, Deep Throating, Yeo Is Kind Of A Meany👀 But Gets Soft At The End.., If I Missed Anything…👀👀Lemme Know!

A/N: I saw a clip on TikTok of “business man” Yeosang, and he’s been plaguing my mind ever since, bc dom business man Yeosang?!? I’m SICKKKKKK!

Your body moves fluidly against the pole in his penthouse, windows so large in his home, they make you feel like you are standing on top of the world. Like everyone is ants, while you are God watching down below. The city lights help illuminate the living room. As the song changes, you slow your movements down, peeling pieces of your clothes off till you are in nothing but a thong that covers nothing, and a lace bra that shows off everything, leaving nothing to the imagination. Your eyes catch his so often, he is seated like he’s playing God. No one is higher on the successful scale than the Kang Yeosang, often referred to as King Yeosang. The heir to the Kang fortune. A businessman by day, and your favorite customer by night.

You’d drop the world if it meant you’d get at least 5 minutes with him, he never spoke much, but when he did, it always swept your breath away, if sex had a voice, it definitely would belong to Yeosang. All you did was dance for him, nothing more. Even though his eyes clearly told a completely different story. A blind man could see that you wanted each other, yet he always made no move, and you were too shy to make the first move. As the song comes to an end, you do one more twirl around the pole before landing in a split. Giving him a perfect view of your plush ass. As it smacks the floor it jiggles slightly. You hear a quiet hum of approval from Yeosang, as he swirls his whiskey around the glass once more before. Leaning back, you can make out the thick outline of his cock in his dress slacks. Your gaze falls a little too long on his cock.

Resulting in him letting out a quiet laugh, bringing the glass up he takes another small sip. Your body heats up with embarrassment as you know you had been caught gawking at his bricked up cock.

“Do you see something you like?” He says loud enough for you to hear, the deep, scratchiness of his voice from the alcohol and from not speaking for so long sounds like velvet in your ears. Slowly getting off of the floor, you shift your eyes down to the floor, apologizing to him for staring. Letting out a deep chuckle, he drinks in your form once more.

“Why don’t you come here, pretty girl?” Your eyes dart up to him, stopping your movements from gathering your clothes from the ground. Your eyes meet his, a glint of mischief is behind them.

“Wh-What.?” You whisper out, dumbstruck at the fact he wants you to stay longer than your scheduled time. Not that you had any plans, even if you did for Yeosang? You’d stop the world from spinning.

“I said…I want you to come over here.” Letting his body relax further against the couch he’s on, while his eyes wander up and down your practically naked body. Was this really happening? After months, and months of dancing for him, he’s making the first move. As you step down from the area that your pole is on, he lets out a tsk noise, shaking his head as he picks up his glass, sipping it. You pause your movements.

“Crawl to me.” He says through a smirk, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips to take a sip. Slowly you get on your knees. Humiliation pricks your skin, the lower you get to the floor. The dim lights gleam off of your lip gloss, resulting in Yeosang to adjust himself, letting the glass in his hand warm up due to the warmth you are making spread through his body. As the condensation from the cool glass meets his palm, he brings it up to take a small sip. Watching you how a tiger watches its prey before them.

As your knees hit the floor, you slowly make your way towards him, your eyes are glued to the floor, too humiliated to make eye contact with him, you could feel his burning gaze on you. Flickering your eyes up to catch a glimpse of him, you are taken back by his state, any other man you wouldn’t even be on the floor crawling for them, yet alone submitting yourself. If this was any other man you’d scream how much of a sleaze ball they were, but with his muscular legs spread wide open, with one hand on his drink, and the other sitting between his legs, he looked nothing less than of a God.

You can feel the floodgates open in your panties, clenching your hands into a fist, you continue to crawl towards him.

“Stop.” He says suddenly causing your body to freeze right before his legs. Sipping his drink once more he places it down, leaning to get a closer look at you, his elbows on his knees. You can feel him exhaling on your skin. That's how close he is to you.

“You wanted me to crawl to you, didn’t yo-.” Before you can finish your smart mouth reply he has your face squished between his hand, while you are on all fours between his man spread legs.

“You are going to learn to watch your tongue when speaking to me.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Biting your lip, you felt heat flush your body, nodding slowly he lets go of your face, leaning back against the couch. Swishing the glass of alcohol around once more. You can hear the ice cube clink around in the glass.

“Such a pretty thing…” he whispers out quietly to himself, tilting your chin up so you can look up at him, you swear you can see the lust swirl in his pretty brown eyes, the birthmark by his eye looks like he had been kissed by a Goddess with how perfect he was up close.

“You want me..?” He whispers out, voice laced with such a timber tone your body does a noticeable shiver. Biting your lip, you nod while your eyes continue to scan over his features. A wide smug grin takes over his face, an arrogant flame fuels his body. Letting out a pleased noise he leans back, into the couch, while you are on the ground you are eye to eye with his hard cock. That is suffocating in his slacks, running your thumb over the head of his cock. He lets out a deep breath that he clearly had been holding. His head falls back against the back of the couch.

You slowly run your fingertips over the outline of his cock, taking in the girth and the length of it. With such small soft movements, small groans leave Yeosangs mouth, you see his thighs slightly twitch with each soft touch. How could such a big serious man, fall apart like puddy in your hands? Biting your lip, your hands smooth over his slacks before undoing his pants, lifting his body up he shimmy’s out of them, letting them pool around his knees. His cock easily springs to life, smacking you in the face, the head of it is cherry red, beads of precum are pooled around the tip. If it wasn’t for such dark slacks a visible spot would’ve been on his pants.

Placing your thumb on the head, you rub the precum around, a deep moan leaves Yeosangs mouth, biting his lip, you can see his chest heave up and down. Letting your tongue roll out, you run it over the head collecting the tanginess of him. His hips jerk back, taken back by the sudden feeling of your warm tongue on his cock. Running your tongue over the vein on the underside of his cock. Everything about him is God sent, the weight of his cock on your tongue is captivating, heavy enough to have your mouth watering in anticipation of what’s to come. Lowering your mouth slowly on him, you take him inch by inch. Letting the head of his cock nestle in the base of your throat. Breathing slowly out your nose, you try to swallow causing your throat to contract around his throbbing length. Letting out a loud groan his hand shoots to the back of your neck, gripping it tightly. His cheeks are flushed red, sweat is beading around his hairline. His eyes bore into yours. You swallow once more, your throat contracts around his cock, with him sitting in your throat, spit just pools around your lips, slowly trickling down his cock.

“You trying to make me cum already, pretty girl?” He groans out, ending his sentence with a chuckle. You feel heat spread all over your body, both from embarrassment, and from being turned on. With the salvia that pools on his cock, your hand dips into, traveling down to his balls, and giving them a slight massage. Causing him to let out a throaty groan you haven’t heard before. His hand travels from the back of your neck to the top of your head. Giving it a soft pat before, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your hairline by your ear. Bobbing your head you take him as far as you can. Another loud groan leaves his mouth. Your tongue rolls out to the underside of his cock with each suck, making sure to drag your warm tongue over his vein each time. Paying extra attention to the way it throbbed in your mouth. Each time you gave his balls a slight squeeze he would thrust his hips up in your mouth.

Causing you to gag around him, wanting to show what he had been missing out on, you continue to take him deep. Eyes watering, mascara running down your face. Biting his lip, he cocks his head to look at you. Your misty eyes, meet his. You can see that glint of something unknown looking behind is brown eyes . Pulling off of him with a loud pop, refusing to break eye contact with him, you untie the loose knot on your top that is barely doing anything to cover your chest. Letting it fall to the ground your tits fall out, his eyes immediately following the way they fall freely. His cock bobs at the sight. Giving his balls a soft squeeze once more, causing his cock to bob so hard it smacks his lower stomach, smearing your spit, mixed with precum all over his button up shirt. Your hands rise to unbutton the lower buttons on his shirt, causing you to catch a glimpse of his body. Running your hand over his abs, you see his stomach contract. Causing him to let out a low growl noise. You were affecting him in more ways than you could think of.

“You going to ride me, pretty girl? Or are you going to continue to stare up at me while my dick throbs in front of that pretty face?”

Body moving instantaneously, you hop up. Legs semi wobbly due to how long you were kneeling before him you putting on knee on the side of his body, he pulls at your bottoms, tugging them to you knees, lining himself up with your dripping cunt, you sink down onto him, letting your other knee swing over to the other side of his body. Slapping your ass cheeks as you slide down slowly on his cock, you let out a loud mewl. His thick cock stretching from wall to wall in your cunt. You could feel him pulsating in your warm walls. The drag of his vein, you could feel the want not only coming from him, but also coming from how deep he was buried inside of you.

“Fuckkkk…” a loud moan leaves Yeosang. His head falling back into the couch while your head falls back. Looking up at the ceiling you give your hips a small wiggle trying to stretch your cunt to accommodate his size. It has been a long time since you've been intimate with anyone, and your dildos had nothing on the girth of Yeo. His hands come down to grip the fat of your ass. Continuously smacking it, and gripping it tightly.

“This pussy is so fucking good. I can feel you gripping me with each movement, pretty girl.”

You let out a small moan, dropping your head so you can look at Yeosang beneath you. Even though you were on top of him, you knew who was in charge. He had the power, while you were just the provider. Biting your lip, you move your hips slightly, before creating a small pace with bouncing up and down on his large cock. His hands never leave your ass cheeks. Spreading them further, so his cock could reach deeper in you. As you go down on his cock, he thrusts his hips up, cock driving deeper into you. Brushing right over your spongy spot, you let out a loud moan. Gripping his shoulders to try and stabilize yourself. With each thrust he’s delivering to you, you bite your lip, trying to hold onto your orgasm. It hasn’t even been a full 5 minutes but the way his cock was brushing up into you, it’s like his body was trained to know how yours operated. One of his hands leaves your ass, coming up to you face, tugging your bottom lip that’s between your teeth out. Wrapping his hand around the back of your neck, he pulls your face down to his own, noses brushing against each other. His hot breath is on your lips.

“Don’t hide those sounds from me, pretty girl.”

He crashes his lips on yours. Tongues instantly tangled with each other. Your hands roam his upper body feeling every muscle contract as you continue to ride him, his hand tugs your body further into his. He's soaking you in any way he can get. His other hand planted firmly on your ass, while the other holds the back of your neck. You know it’s a dominant power move, he holds so much power within himself, within the world. Yet such a powerful man who is craving you how the world craves him.

His thrusts become sloppier, you know he’s close. His hand moves down to your clit, rubbing it in small slow circles. Your eyes flutter back, his tongue still explores your mouth while all you can is let breathy moans into his. Your toes clench.

“Ye-Yeo I’m close, I’m so fucking cl-close.” You moan out in stutters, a heat rushed through your body, pulling his lips back from yours. He hammers up into your cunt, making sure to dive as deep as he can go. Both his hands travel down to your ass spreading your cheeks, making sure to aid you in your bouncing. He can feel your walls contract, you throw your head back, stopping all movements from you while Yeosang still thrusts into you. His warm lips move to your ear talking you through your orgasm.

“Yeaaa…that’s right, pretty girl. Cum all over my cock.” Planting a soft kiss on the side of your neck, you are pushed over the edge, with a loud moan you are cumming undone on him. Your walls squeezing him tightly, his hips stutter with zero caution his own orgasm washes over him merrily seconds after yours has begun.

“Shit, shit, shit. You feel so fucking good.” He says through grit teeth, making sure to continue his thrusting. Trying to milk you of your orgasm, not even fully caring about his. All he cared about is that you got yours. The warmth of his cum in your throbbing cunt, makes you let out a loud whimper. You feel so full of him. Full of his cock, and full of his cum.

Your body falls slack forward against his chest. His hands run up and down your back. Soothing you as you catch your breath. Your head sits in the crook of his neck. Just as you are drifting off his phone rings, making your body jump awake. Sitting up slightly, you try to get up out of his hold. His cock is still buried deep inside of you. Making a soft moan leave your throat with all of your movements. His cock stirs back to life inside of you. Your eyes shoot over to his phone that is ringing. His eyes follow your every movement.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” You whisper, shifting your hips slightly trying to be released from his hold. His hands are firmly holding your back. He wants you here, he’s waited this long to have you. He’s not about to let anything scare you off. Shrugging his shoulders slightly, his eyes bore into yours. Causing you to feel quite shy, like he wasn’t buried balls deep in you. Like you couldn’t feel his dick brick back up inside you.

“Now why would I answer my phone when I have a pretty thing like you in my lap?”

DO NOT REPOST.

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