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weasleyreidstyles · 2 months

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on a night like tonight

wrote this for @thatdammchickennugget's hogmarch challenge using the dialogue prompt!! just a fluffy (debatable) one shot for my favourite slytherin boy🫠🫠🫠

prompt 2: "are you speaking parceltongue or am i really drunk?"

pairing: mattheo riddle x fem!slytherin reader (although its not that important to the one shot, honestly)

warning(s): slightly suggestive (towards the end), alcohol consumption

~∞~ i love writing for mattheo😫 idk how i feel about this one but i enjoyed writing either way lol. and yes i titled this after a niall song (im still not over the fact that i saw him in the flesh like a whole week ago!??!?!) also happy international women's day to all of you sexy, beautiful women xxxx

The Slytherin common room was ripe with activity. The Quidditch team had beaten Gryffindor by an utter landslide (250-110), so it was only appropriate for them to throw a huge party to celebrate. The team were in the middle of the room, surrounded by their most loyal band of lovestruck followers, as they drowned in all sorts of alcoholic beverages.

Spheres of magical light littered the high ceiling, glittering like stars and creating an eerily green glow as they reflected off of the murky waters of the Black Lake. The seating areas had been cleared, and in place was a makeshift dancefloor of sorts, filled to the brim with students dancing, singing and laughing to whatever music was playing on a stereo that Blaise had brought in from his Ravenclaw friends.

You were stood against a wall beside Pansy, who was busy glaring at the girl who had draped herself against Theo's arm as he laughed heartily at something Enzo had said. Your best friend was seething with jealousy, but she was far too stubborn to do anything about her feelings for your Italian friend.

The two of them had been dancing around their feelings for months; it was downright infuriating.

"I don't understand why you won't do something about it, Pans!" You say to her loudly, so that your voice could be heard over the earshattering bass music. "I'm getting sick of the back and forth between the two of you!"

Pansy finally takes her eyes off of the floppy haired brunette, who is now whispering in the ear of the girl, with a suggestive smirk on his face. "I'd say the same for you." She scoffs and you turn to her with furrowed brows.

"Oh don't act dumb." Pansy says with a laugh as she turns towards you fully, the drink in her hand sloshing over the rim of the cup as she does. "I see the way you look at Matt. You're very obvious. Both of you are."

"I don't know what you're talking about." You say reluctantly, taking a lengthy sip of your firewhiskey to avoid her knowing look.

Had your affections for your friend really been so blatant?

And did he really return them?

You turn towards the middle of the room and the liquid in your cup is suddenly drained to empty as you watch Mattheo dance closely behind a pretty Hufflepuff girl.

You and Pansy return to your mutual solitude, letting your friends revel in their win against their greatest rival, while simultaneously becoming more and more drunk, the more you watch as Theo and Mattheo obliviously break your hearts some more.

~∞~

It's much later into the night, and the party has not died down. In fact, it only seems to have gotten busier as more and more people from the other houses joined in on the debauchery.

You are so drunk. Practically stumbling along behind Pansy as she drags you to and from the dance floor to get more drinks. The two of you are dancing on each other, her hips grinding against your's to the beat of the music as you both giggle tipsily. You're unaware of your surroundings and have surely pissed off many other partiers with your drunken moves. But it doesn't bother either of you, content to enjoy each other's company, until there is a presence behind you that has Pansy smirking cheekily at you.

You narrow your eyes at her, vision hazy as you feel hands cradle your waist, almost possessively. Looking up, you come face to face with the underside of Mattheo's sharp jaw as he says something to Pansy that you don't comprehend. Whatever he says has her disappearing into the crowd, leaving you to his mercy.

"Hello, Princess." He mumbles lowly, mouth brushing against the soft shell of your ear, causing a shiver to run down the length of your spine.

"Matty! Hi." You say, voice slightly slurred and you grimace at how drunk you sound. He only smirks before he's gently spinning you to face him.

"Haven't seen you since the start of the match. 'S been ages." He replies, voice raspy from how much he'd shouted and cheered during and after the match.

"It's not been that long." You say with a teasing smile as you take in his appearance. In place of the emerald quidditch robes he'd been sporting that afternoon, he's wearing a dark, black t-shirt which stretches tightly across his torso, emphasising his Beater physique and a pair of dark trousers drapes over strong legs. Your observation is slow and purposeful and the smirk on his face widens even further as you admire him more openly then you ever have before.

He's chuckling to himself and then says something that you can barely hear over the loud music that reverberates through the room. But the cadence of his voice and the way they almost seem to have been hissed out in a way you do not understand, makes you tilt your head to the side as he smiles.

"What did you just say?" You ask him, or rather shout so that he can hear you. He copies you with a tilt of his head as he looks down at you with his captivating onyx eyes.

He repeats it again, his hands tightening against your waist when you stumble slightly as someone jostles you in an attempt to get past, smirking when your face scrunches in confusion.

"Are you speaking parceltongue or am i really drunk?" You ask, your hands coming to rest against his firm chest when you were pushed into him.

"Gods, Princess. How much have you had to drink?" He asks with gleaming eyes. It's the mischief in them that has you opening your mouth in feined outrage.

"You were speaking parceltongue!" You accuse and he lets out a laugh as you lightly whack his chest. "What did you say!?"

"Now why would I tell you that?" He replies, his face leaning closer to your's. You can smell the alcohol on his hot breath, mingling with your own and you can feel every breath he takes as it fans across your face.

"Because I'm your best friend?" You say with a smirk as you unconsciously wrap your arms around his neck, leaning on your tip toes slightly so that you can be at eye level with him. The move has your hips brushing against his. You swear his eyes darken as you do.

"Theo's my best friend." He says in a tone of faux obviousness, mischief laced in his rough voice.

"But I'm your favourite, right? If you admit it, I promise that Teddy will never know. It can be our little secret, Matty." You tease and he's laughing again, before he says something else in that strange, reptilian voice, eyes flicking from you eyes to your lips.

You've always been my favourite, darling.

The ways his eyes sparkle, despite the harshness of the sounds against his tongue have you acting upon instinct as you surge forward and press your lips to his. It's as magical as you've always imagined, despite it being tainted by your twin inebriation. But you'll take what you can get.

Because Mattheo Riddle is finally kissing you and you reckon you could fall into a abyss of happiness as his pillowly lips caress your's with loving grace.

~∞~

The next morning, you wake up in an unfamiliar, yet familiar dorm room and Enzo is smirking at you with glee. A tanned, muscular arm is draped across your middle and you're using the other as a makeshift pillow. Your face warms as you recognise the large, veiny hand that stretches across your stomach.

"Fun night?" Your friend asks with a snicker and you flip him off in response. He leaves the room after he's done teasing you, his loud laughter echoing in the corridor. You move to stand but an arm tightens around the skin of your waist.

"Where do you think you're going, Princess?" Mattheo mumbles, his voice low and raspy from sleep.

"Well good morning, sunshine." You reply, a smile spreading across your face as you turn to face him, to find that he is already staring at you, with adoration in his onyx eyes.

"Am I still dreaming, or are you really in my bed right now?" He asks as you trace a finger lightly over his naked chest.

"Oh it's very real. And I'm sure Enzo has already told the others what he just discovered." You reply with a giddy laugh.

"About bloody time, don't you think?" Mattheo's question is muffled against the skin of your neck as he nuzzles his face there. You smile in response, giggling as pieces of his curly hair brush against your soft skin.

"I'd still like to know what you said last night." You say but he doesn't give you the answer. Instead, he rolls the two of you so that you lie beneath his toned body, strong arms caging you in.

"That's my little secret, Princess." He mumbles as he presses languid kisses down your neck and chest, travelling lower until your rendered a moaning mess beneath him.

#hogmarch challenge #mattheo riddle x reader #harry potter #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #fluff

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tkaulitzlvr · 6 months

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SORRY - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: you were drinking your sorrows away after yours and tom’s breakup, receiving unwanted attention at the random club you are at, until the last person you expected to see comes to your rescue.

content: angst + smut

a/n: again pulled this out of my ass this is becoming a very common theme LOL. this isn’t what i wanted to post but it’s been a week since i last put anything out so i threw it together, def not my best work and i feel like all i write is angst to smut whoops, hope u all enjoy anyway and thank u for 500 followers!!

the alcohol soon takes over as i down another shot, the liquid burns my throat and only fuels my recklessness. not that i mind, in fact, it is exactly what i need. tonight i don’t want to feel - tired of the everlasting burden of my emotions. i want to be numb, nothing but an empty vessel, letting the alcohol lead the way opposed to my diseased mind. music blares through the speakers, probably loud enough to cause some serious damage to my eardrums. but i don’t know how long i have been at this club for, though it is long enough for my hearing to become accustomed to the thick bass pulsating through my body, no longer wincing whenever i would near the speakers.

intoxicated bodies encircle me whilst i make my way to the centre, some just like me - alone and drinking away their self pity. others dance with their friends, slurred giggles leaving their lips as they sloppily sway their hips to the music, covered in nothing besides their skimpy dresses. those that i envy don’t dance alone, but with a man beside them, hands on their body, faces inches apart. they are able to focus on the one person in front of them, tuning out the hundreds of people surrounding them. but, each person that i see all have one thing in common - they fit in. and i want that too, so bad, instead of feeling so misplaced - that feeling ripe within me, apparent ever since he left.

everyone knew about tom and i’s breakup, hell, how could they not? ‘germany’s biggest heartthrob - tokio hotel guitarist tom kaulitz, parts with model girlfriend after two years!’ - that’s a headline most reporters dream of, christmas having come early for them when the news came out. and it spread like wildfire, his fans - who were particularly notorious for not being entirely fond of tom finding a long term girlfriend - had hit the jackpot. they speculated, some saying that i cheated on him, some insistent on me being too controlling - others even going as far as to say i made him choose between me and the band. but when it came down to it, they were just rumours, plain and simple. no one is aware of the true reasoning behind it - only the two of us knew why we parted.

it was a mutual agreement, yet tom was the one that initiated it. the distance inevitably put between us as a result of him travelling on tours, from continent to continent, state to state, meant that we rarely saw each other, this putting stress on the both of us. i wanted us to work, more than anything, yet the way we drifted apart from each other made it impossible, being with him feeling like a chore as every small disagreement would blow way out of proportion, usually fixed by sex, the cycle repeating for the last few weeks of our relationship, until it reached breaking point. and i didn’t want to be used for my body, though i knew deep down tom loved me for more than that, fixing our problems with physical intimacy was only a temporary solution - leading to us parting ways.

that was one reason for our breakup, however the other was far more serious, and tom wasn’t even aware of it - but i had been speculating for a while. with his frequent travelling, i knew that i wasn’t the only girl in his life. how could i have been? he would go without seeing me for weeks, and whilst he had changed past his womanising ways, it would be stupidly naïve of me to think that he had moved on from that lifestyle completely. or perhaps my mind was tricking me, the loneliness i was often left to increasing the paranoia. though he had never explicitly given me the impression he was cheating, the thought always nagged in my mind, making the breakup slightly easier once he announced that we were no longer working. he promised that he still loved me, that maybe in the future things would work out, but i knew that was just a way to make our separation less bitter.

the constant articles, pictures, videos, and speculations of tom with other women each week lead me to the present, drinking my sorrows away a month after our breakup, wishing that i had never let him go despite agreeing that us parting ways would be the best solution. i was tired too, sick of fighting for a relationship that was no longer there. sometimes it felt utterly one sided, like i was the only one willing to try. tom refused to admit this, reminding me that "i know how much he loves me". however we just didn’t work anymore, his claims of our love like empty spews of desperation, but any words uttered from his beautiful mouth were words of truth to me, until i came to the soul-crushing realisation that he doesn’t adore me the way he did when we first met, all those years ago.

but god, every time i see pictures of him with a girl that isn't me, my heart wrenches at the sight, slowly tearing my insides apart as i recognise letting him go as my deepest regret. and the anger at not only myself, but him for leaving me eats me up, alcohol and temporary fixes being the only thing that can put my ill mind at ease.

but tonight tom isn’t on my mind. i’m desperate, longing for the touch of anyone who will give me the attention. that is why i left the house wearing nothing but a tight black dress that barely passed my mid-thighs. tom would never let me leave the house in such an outfit alone. he was always over-protective over me, loving the idea that I was his and only his. however he had left me, and i don’t care how promiscuous i appear, because admittedly, i am more needy than ever. my body running way ahead of my mind, i move sloppily to the rhythm of the music, feeling two hands grab my waist gently, pulling me into them as i turn around, seeing a tall-ish guy with fluffy blonde hair smirking down me.

he wasn’t tom. he could never be tom. nobody could. not a single person on this earth could even come close to him, could make me feel the way he did, both mentally and physically. right now it doesn’t matter, i don’t care who he is, because, on the surface, he is a male giving me attention, something which i have craved over this last month of loneliness.

"hi there." I utter drunkenly, slurring my words and backing further into him, the alcohol sinking more and more into my system as i no longer care who is dancing with me, this being the first time i have experienced physical touch since tom. and oh god how i’ve missed it. i’m a mess; a desperate, foolish fucking mess. if tom could see me right now, he wouldn’t recognise me. hell, i don't even know who i am anymore - in all honesty i had lost every part of what i thought i was the second he had walked out of the door. somehow, through the alcohol and attractive man behind me, tom is all my mind can focus on - his body the only clear image in there, beyond the fuzziness from the alcohol. i utterly despise the way he has such an effect on me, knowing that he has already gotten over our relationship despite the years we spent together, even before we had started dating, we had been close friends. using all the strength within me, i drown out every thought of him, attempting to enjoy the bitter-sweet freedom and get over him.

"what's your name beautiful?" the mysterious guy shouts over the crowd, tightening his grip on my waist.

"doesn’t matter." i reply. honestly, it didn’t - i probably won’t see this guy ever again, not after fucking him anyway. in any other circumstance, i would be scolding myself for giving myself up so easily, selling myself like some cheap slut. now though, i’m no longer myself, turning to face him, latching my arms around his neck. "what's yours?"

"alex." he responds, clearly not looking to make conversation, his dick appearing to be doing all the talking. "do you wanna get out of here?" he signals to the door, my head nodding eagerly in response, craving for any intimate moment no matter who it is with. part of me convinces myself that i am with tom, that it is him i am leaving the club with, as i would every single time. i imagine that it is him holding me with such adoration, that it is him soothing me in every way possible, yet i know that he is never coming back.

my body pushes its way through the crowd, uttering broken excuse me’s as i walk by, legs becoming weaker by the second as my vision slowly blurs. i soon pick up on the reality of the situation, disgust and shame echoing within me as i realise how fucked up my mind truly is. i am about to have sex with a guy who I have never met before - whether or not tom had broken my heart, i deserved to have morals. the rationality ticking in by the second, i roughly pull out of alex's grasp, his tall frame turning around in confusion.

"i- i have to get to my friends." i lie, totally aware that i came here alone, my words barely audible as my breathing becomes uneven.

"no, come with me, don't be like this baby." he smiles, pulling me along with him, tears soon clouding my vision as the chances of me escaping the situation seem to slip through my fingers before i can gather any sense of what is happening.

"let me go!" i muster all the courage and strength within me and yank my arm away, stumbling backwards into the cold brick wall behind me, the harshness causing me to shiver as i bite the inside of my mouth, praying for something, anything, to take me out of this situation. alex nears towards me, our faces inches apart as he towers over me, my body weak and defenceless against his.

"stop being such a bratty fucking bitch and just come with me-" he begins, grabbing ahold of my arm, only to be pushed to the floor in a matter of seconds, my head looking upwards in confusion to be met with a face i dreaded and longed to see at the same time.

"fuck off!" tom begins, squaring up to alex, who is useless against him, the height difference almost humorous. if i hadn’t been scared for my life seconds prior, i probably would’ve laughed, though the only thing i am truly able to process is the confusion that soon replaces any fear within me. "you ever go near my girl again and i'll break your fucking jaw. you understand, hm?" he shouts, alex smiling to himself and walking away, clearly not looking for a fight, though his cold glare moments ago said otherwise. his girl. i am everything but, closer to being the complete opposite, though i am too startled to consider questioning his words right now.

my body refuses to move, paralysed in utter shock, wondering whether the alcohol is causing me to hallucinate. i hadn’t seen tom since the day i moved out of his house, and now he is standing in front of me. and fuck, he looks good. it doesn’t matter that it has only been a month, somehow he seems to look much better, and undeniably different. his hair, usually a dark shade of blonde, the thick locks tied into a ponytail, adorned with whatever cap matched his outfit, is changed, almost so drastically it is hard to recognise him. instead, jet black braids rest on his shoulders, the colour mirroring his entire outfit - dark and cold. his cap is replaced with a small bandana, fitted securely around his forehead, the silver piercing on his lips now just as dark as his hair, matte black, making the soft shade of pink on his lips stand out even more.

though his new look is certainly a shock, the more daunting realisation comes merely from his presence. he is here - standing inches away from me. i am unable to gauge his next move, his expression still just as harsh as it had been once he had threatened that guy. however, any doubts i have are quickly put to bed, his tensed frame nearing mine, planting a calloused hand on my shoulder before pulling me into a tight hug, his thumb caressing my lower back whilst his other hand rests in my hair. i sob into his chest, failing pathetically to hide my emotions as i cling on to him, my small frame shaking due to the cold berlin weather and my irrational state.

"i’m so sorry." he mutters, resting his head on top of mine. i cannot respond, choking on my tears and unable to do anything but hold onto him as if he may slip away. my vision is slowly blurring, the countless drinks i had making their appearance as i realise how badly i have fucked up by coming here. beyond my intoxicated state, i realise that i don’t want to be this close to tom. i long to scream at the top of my lungs, something about how he made me feel, how fucked up he is, and how much i hate him, but right now i am too shaken to even stand up alone, so i save my breath and prepare to spew my feelings out when i have the energy.

"we need to get you home." he mutters, pulling away after a couple minutes. i stare into his eyes for the first time since we broke up, his immediately filling with hurt once he registers my damaged expression. "god, this is all my fault." he whispers under his breath, guiding me to his car, grabbing his jacket that he always kept in the back for instances like this, knowing that i get cold easily. it brings me some comfort knowing that he kept the jacket there, though it probably means nothing. he places it gently over my shivering frame before climbing into the driver’s side and beginning to drive to my apartment. the house that tom and i shared was in his name, meaning that i insisted on moving out. despite us breaking up, he helped me find a place, a decent sized two bedroom apartment in the heart of berlin. though it wasn't nearly as perfect as our home, it was something, and i am grateful for it.

i face away from him, not willing to forgive him despite my vulnerable state just moments before. no matter how much he protected me just then, i can’t place my trust in him, my heart and mind still wary, the thought of him discarding me for other girls so nonchalantly after we parted fresh in my mind.

"i missed you." he announces into the empty silence, his head turning in my direction whilst i scoff in response. "don't lie to me tom." his words bring anger coursing through my veins the second they utter from his mouth, sobriety soon taking over me as the alcohol quickly wares off. if he missed me, he wouldn't have fucked every girl he has seen this past month, he would have come back, or better yet, he wouldn’t have left me in the first place.

"i'm telling the truth." he begins, hesitantly turning his gaze to meet mine, my eyes filling with tears before i can attempt to collect my composure. "i regret leaving you. i need you to-"

"do you have any fucking idea what you did to me? i haven't been eating, sleeping, you've just seen me almost have sex with a guy i'd barely known for five minutes for gods sake!" i shout, my voice breaking as the tears cascade inevitably down my cheeks, unable to hide my vulnerability in this moment. he winces slightly at the mention of me nearly sleeping with alex, his grip on the wheel increasing whilst his jaw is clenched.

he is hurt. i have known him long enough to be able to distinguish how he is feeling without him saying a word. the pained look on his face almost pleases me, glad to see him guilty over the emotional turmoil he has caused me, because i long for him to grasp even a small segment of how i feel, and my small outburst has definitely achieved that.

"i’m sorry. i never deserved you, now even less than ever. i fucked up, badly. i have no idea how to make it up to you. help me, please schatz. i want to be better, for you." he finishes, pulling into his driveway as the dark grey gates open, revealing the house that i share so many memories in, yet it feels strangely foreign, like i don’t belong here, and i never did.

"sure doesn't seem like it." i begin. "from everything i've seen online you seem to have gotten over me pretty fast. thought you were better than meaningless sex, but i guess not. same old tom." i scoff, shaking my head in disbelief of his empty words.

"what are you talking about? i haven't had sex with anyone. not since you anyway." he fires back, staring into my eyes, and for some reason, i don't think he is lying, the amount of time spent with him across my life meaning i can read him like a book.

"whatever, i don’t have the fucking energy for this. besides, you said you were taking my home. this isn’t my house anymore, incase you fucking forgot.” i state matter-of-factly, not in the mood for continuing this conversation, or even being around him.

"you can barely walk. no way was i leaving you to go home alone. you can spend the night here." he replies assertively, stepping out of the car as i do the same, slamming the door shut in frustration.

"you don't have to protect me tom. we aren't together anymore." i respond bitterly, looking down at the ground, wishing it would swallow me up. his hand gently grazes mine, testing his limits as he attempts to take his hand in mine, to which i quickly refuse, pulling away and looking at him in confusion.

"what are you doing?" i hiss, looking upwards as he puts his hands up, surrendering.

"sorry just, please come inside, you're freezing in that tiny dress." not having the energy to argue, i reluctantly sigh, following him inside, taking in the all too familiar surroundings and immediately reminiscing on all the memories i have here, longing to go back to the time when things weren't so complicated.

"look i-" tom begins, however his words are soon shortened to a stop as i quickly cut him off, lethargic and carrying a lack of effort to argue with him, because i know that no matter how long i let him speak, the conversation will only end badly, turning even more sour than it already is right now.

"i'm tired, please can we talk about this in the morning." i sigh, my head pounding as i groan out in pain, massaging my temples slowly and closing my eyes.

"okay, you take our- my bed and i'll sleep in the guest room. there's some of my hoodies in there for you to sleep in." he responds, a look of defeat evident among his complexion, relief coursing through me as i nod my head, walking up to his bedroom. the countless nights i spent in this room, wrapped in his arms, the countless mornings i woke up to his affection, the countless evenings we shared intimate moments all seem to be lost as i feel a stranger here, almost misplaced without a sense of belonging.

i open the wardrobe, immediately knowing which door has his hoodies from when i would often steal one, something he is used to me doing. i pick out my favourite one. it is simple - a white hoodie with writing printed across its front. to others, it holds little meaning, however even after our breakup, it holds thousands of memories, because it is what he wore when we had our first kiss, and the first piece of clothing he ever gave me, this small act something i won’t ever be able to forget. slipping my dress off and the hoodie over my head, his scent quickly envelops me, providing with all the security i have been longing for, my mind quickly breaking down as tears cloud my vision, my desire to have him holding me taking over as i wish that we would have never parted.

climbing into the soft sheets, i attempt to fall asleep, any element of lethargy in my body fading away as i crave to be in tom’s arms like i have been each time i have laid in this bed. his side is cold and empty, my body shuffling over to it as i snuggle into his pillow, reaching out pathetically to any remnant of him i have left. seconds feel like hours of me thinking of him, wondering if he cares anywhere close to the extent that i do, finding myself longing to take a small look inside his mind, because all i want is his love. the darkness encloses me, silence echoing throughout the empty house and only fuelling my wandering mind. every thought flashes back to him, and i loathe how he can consume my entire being without even being aware of the effect he has on me.

eventually, my eyes begin to droop, almost falling into a somewhat peaceful slumber, however before i can do so, the door creaks open, light from the hallway leaking into the bedroom, before it is cast out seconds later with the soft click of the door closing, footsteps nearing the bed as i feel it dip beside me. my body is afraid to move, instead laying still in confusion until i feel a single hand brush against my shoulder, causing me to whip my head around, tom’s eyes gazing into mine.

‘i can't do it." he mutters, scanning my eyes with his own, only the seas of brown are filled with sorrow, slightly distinguishable through the darkness.

as much as i want to tell him to leave, to scold him for disturbing me when i was finally close to falling asleep, i simply can’t. i am compelled to him, silently thanking his impulsiveness and finding myself pleading for us to work things out.

"can't do what?" i respond, laying on my side and facing him, our bodies at each side of the bed as he is slightly reluctant to push my boundaries.

"live without you, i can't do it. i need you." he replies, slowly reaching his hand out until it meets mine, his fingers clasping mine in the centre of the bed, this small act of physical affection being the only thing that binds us together, yet it is more than enough.

"you broke me tom." i whisper, blinking away the tears as i refuse to cry again, tired of being so vulnerable around him. “do you realise that?”

"i know, and i’m so sorry schatz. i’ll never be able to make that up to you. but i want to try, can you let me do that? please baby." his body slowly nears mine, until our faces are inches apart. he removes his hand from mine, my face falling in disappointment, however this quickly turns into curiosity as it moves only to reach up and caress my cheek, wiping the single tear that had fallen with his thumb. i wither helplessly into his touch, feeling completely and utterly trapped within his affection. i am bound to him, left hopeless and attached. no matter how much i try fight, it is useless, my body and my mind is unable to function without him.

"it’s only you schatz." he mutters, his face nearing mine as he captures my lips in a sweet kiss, the first one we have shared in over a month. the way his lips fit so perfectly with mine, their softness contrasting with the harshness he showed me all those weeks ago, makes me wonder how i managed to live without this feeling all this time. he is a drug, his kisses addictive as i find myself longing for more, desperate to make up for the lost intimacy as a result of our separation.

"i love you." he whispers against my lips, reattaching them almost immediately with even more desire than before, sealing every unspoken apology in the most beautiful way possible. the darkness between us is a barrier, preventing my vision from witnessing the man above me. tom reaches quickly to flip the bedside lamp on, faded yellow light leaking dimly around the room, illuminating his features as i can finally see every part of him. and oh god, is he perfect. his lips plump and parted, tinted with a rosy shade of pink, adorned with that same piercing that drives me crazy each and every time, tired and shaky breaths erupting from them whilst i stare into his eyes, deep pools of brown that i could get lost in if i look for too long.

his body. crafted by god himself - concrete proof that he really does have favourites. each inch of skin soft and sheen, resembling silk itself whilst my fingers slowly trail down it, melting into the pale surface , past his chest to his chiselled abs, gently grazing the muscle and refusing to break eye contact. my hand creeps lower and lower, tom becoming increasingly flustered until they reach the waistband of his boxers. at an agonisingly slow pace, my finger slips inside, fiddling with the waistband whilst touching the skin there, refusing to move my hand any lower whilst i take in tom’s expression. his eyes are flickering between being fully closed and half-lidded, barely noticeable wrinkles lining his forehead as his eyebrows knit together, lips parted with shaky breaths uttering from them, the cold air fanning onto my face, heavy against his warm kiss.

"fuck- please don't tease." he whispers, resting his forehead against mine and beginning to slowly kiss my lips once again, my body feeling full again as i soon realise how much i missed this feeling. complying with his plea, my hand slips further into his boxers, a choked breath muffling into my mouth as i begin to gently move my hand up and down. he struggles to kiss back, soft moans escaping from his lips and mixing into mine in the most delightful way possible as i pick up the pace.

"oh my god..." he trails off, his voice vibrating into the soft skin below my ear once his head falls just below it, my movements not slowing, the slight whines emitting from his mouth pushing me further, desperate to please him. the fast and sloppy kisses being placed onto my neck soon slow down, giving me the signal that he is close. he clutches onto my waist, his fingers running up and down whilst his legs slightly tremble, his release taking over as he lets out a loud groan, a string of curses following until he slips his boxers off, regaining his composure and climbing fully on top of me.

our faces are inches apart, my ragged breathing echoing my desperation to feel him inside me, because it has been so long since i have experienced the feeling, and it is like no other. his thumb runs along my lips, pulling the bottom one downward slowly and releasing it, before moving his head to the nape of my neck, placing slow and gentle kisses.

"you have no idea what i want to do to you schatz." he mutters against my skin, nipping at it gently, these words alone almost being enough to let go, to lose any remnant of composure i have and allow him to take me right there and then. his calloused hands reach for the large hoodie draped over my frame, pulling it over my head as i am almost completely naked, my underwear being the only barrier between us and exercising those silent promises of our love on the tips of our tongues.

"so perfect." he whispers, caressing my cheek lightly. pressing himself against me, his hand reaches to caress my now exposed breast, kissing and biting at any skin he can get access to, inaudible spews of satisfaction swallowing the silence surrounding us, my hands pushing his head further downwards ever so slightly, savouring the pleasure and wishing it would last forever. he slowly pulls away, maintaining eye contact as he reaches for my panties, swiftly tugging them downward and discarding them somewhere across the room, like the rest of our clothing.

skin to skin, the warm and bare air a mirror to our nakedness, we kiss with such hunger, such desire that our need for each other is palpable, so strong that i swear if i tried, i could feel it. because he is that love, his body living and breathing evidence that this love is real, not something that can only be felt inside, though the fire that his touch ignites within me is one that will burn forever, as long as he vows to supply the heat that is his affection. my hands clutch onto his back, his roaming my waist and pushing our hips into each other, ragged breaths echoing throughout the room as i find myself becoming too impatient. although part of me wants to savour this moment as it is our first special one in over a month, one part of me, the more irrational side, wants him to ruin me, wants him to claim me as his own and do whatever his heart desires. i am his to destroy, because if it means that i can be with him for eternity, then i am willing to do anything.

"tom…i need you." i whisper helplessly against his lips, no longer able to mask my hunger.

he places one final kiss to my lips, stroking my hair gently and positioning himself to my entrance. my eyes squeeze shut in anticipation, relishing this feeling and preparing for the intense pleasure that i have been so empty without.

“then i’m all yours.” he speaks softly, sliding into me slowly before i am able to repeat my desperate plea. because if i tried, i know that my speech would be inaudible, struggling to breathe at the feeling of him filling me up.

unaccustomed to his size, or any dick for the last month, i wince in pain before he is even halfway in, gripping his bicep and giving him the signal to stop. "wait a minute." i state breathlessly, biting down on my lip as he stops his motion, gently stroking my cheek with his palm and awaiting my permission to carry on. feeling him stretch my walls fills the hole within me, once hollow and empty, however the pain takes longer to subside, tom slowly biting and kissing the sensitive skin on my jaw whilst he waits.

"c’mon baby, you can take it." he mumbles against me, the raspiness within his voice vibrating up my spine, motivating me to tune out the pain and allow him to pleasure me. "okay." i whisper, pleasure soon starting to take over as he moves into me, stopping and throwing his head back as he bottoms out, his tip hitting my g-spot perfectly, this being enough for me to cry out, my screams echoing throughout the room, the air thick with passion. his eyes are screwed shut, sweat lining along his forehead, his breathing ragged and uneven, yet he only increases his stamina, picking my leg up and placing it over his shoulder.

the new angle sends me into euphoria, my vision turning white as i can do nothing but scream his name, my fingers raking down his back. he memorises the way he hits my g-spot, doing it over and over again, bringing me closer to my release, yet i can tell he is not there yet, prompting me to hold it so i can share my high with him.

"fuck me..." his voice trails off, his eyebrows furrowing as he savours the pleasure. my legs wrap around his waist, bringing him closer inwards, if that is physically possible. somehow he is still going, not showing any signs of lethargy. he is desperate to meet his release, hips snapping against mine with such intensity, his head buried in the crook of my neck, the incoherent groans escaping from his mouth fanning over the bare skin, sending shivers down my spine.

"tom i'm so close!" i moan, knowing that i will not last much longer. i do not know if it is the absence of sexual intimacy in my life recently, or my intense desire for him, but this time around, my ability to contain myself is long gone.

"i know baby, i know..." he sighs out, the feeling him twitching inside of me silently letting me know that he is almost there too. "just hold it for me." overstimulation soon takes over, the feeling of him moving in and out of me providing me with such overwhelming pleasure that my mouth gapes open, no sound escaping as i am utterly speechless, drunk on the sensation and a complete mess beneath him. i could cry at the feeling, on the verge of tears with each stroke, wondering how this moment is reality, seeming entirely too good to be true.

"okay baby, let go." he breathes out, his voice shaky as it is soon cut off with a choked moan, his load shooting into me as mine soon follows. i swear i can see stars, my eyes not able to stay still, my whole body the same as it trembles uncontrollably, tom’s slow and steady thrusts sending me into oblivion as he rides out our highs, his lips hovering over mine. "oh my god" is all he can say, still inside me, his mouth eventually moulding with mine, the kiss filled with so much energy despite the amount of stamina that was used just seconds before.

i am not done yet, my body feeling like it has just started as i have the motivation to go one thousands times over, addicted to the way he feels. "let me be on top." i mutter against his lips, the pillowy skin battling to try continue kissing me. in one swift motion, he flips us over, moving upwards so that his back is resting against the headboard, his hands placed steadily on my waist whilst i sit on top of him. i waste no time, hovering over him and sliding downwards, letting him fill me up and sighing loudly as i do, tom tightening his hold on me and muttering a slow ‘jesus christ’, his voice low, words as sweet as honey as they sound from the back of his throat.

pressing open mouthed kisses against my jaw, neck, collarbone, anywhere he is able to access, he groans out in pleasure, his hands remaining steadily on my hips whilst i easily maintain my rhythm. with a slight change in the movement of my hips, his tip presses against my g-spot, the friction causing me to cry out, him doing the same as his head falls backwards, eyes squeezing shut, savouring the ecstasy. my hands lay flat against his chest, watching it heave up and down with each unsteady breath he takes, his muscles flexing with each squeeze of my waist, this only encouraging me to go further, the sight of him being pleasured by me almost pushing me to my release alone.

the feeling so good i question whether i have reached heaven itself, though my actions won’t get me anywhere near, my mind wanders how i survived for so long without him, without his dick inside me, without his hands on mine - because right now he is my oxygen, my sole purpose. i can barely catch my breath, my legs shaking uncontrollably whilst my hips circle around his, feeling every inch of him inside of me. my body leans forward, skin to skin, as i bite down on his shoulder, becoming increasingly tired, however i am so desperate for my release that i continue my slow and lethargic movements.

tom is quick to pick up on my change in speed, grabbing my hips once again and angling himself correctly, before thrusting into me from below, the sudden pressure causing a throaty moan to escape from my swollen lips.

"fuck…missed this, missed you so much baby." he mutters, his whole body tensing for a second whilst he begins to twitch inside of me.

"i’m close." he groans, meeting my lips in a sloppy kiss before i can respond. i don’t even bother trying to hold it, instead allowing my release to take over me, my vision turning white as i cling onto tom’s shoulders, my head buried in the crook of his neck, crying out in pleasure as it is so intense i almost feel myself slip away. his release soon follows, mouth gaping open, eyebrows furrowing and sweat glistening his chiselled frame, outlining his muscle in the most attractive way possible. he still strokes in and out of me slowly, his hands wrapped around my small frame, no space between us. my breathing ragged, hair a mess and body trembling, i pull away from his shoulder to look into his eyes, pressing my forehead against his as i can do nothing but admire him.

“shit- i love you so much." he manages to breathe out, moving a few stray hairs from my face and planting a last kiss on my forehead, slowly pulling out of me, the loss of contact making me whine slightly as i cling onto him, afraid of losing him ever again.

"i love you too." i respond, certainty uttering from every word as i find myself more in love with him, the best sex we have ever had replaying over and over again in my memory, our naked bodies pressed together.

"i promise you, i never slept with anyone else. i never even kissed another girl. i couldn't, it wouldn't have been right, not when you were the only person on my mind." he speaks slowly yet firmly after a few seconds of peaceful silence, pulling my body further onto his as he rests his forehead against mine, stroking my hair gently.

i move my head upwards, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "why not? there's so many girls that you could've had. what was stopping you?" i ask, lacing my hand with his and beginning to play with his fingers, the skin soft and smooth.

"the fact that they weren't you." he responds, gently lifting my chin upwards with his pointer finger, tenderly running his thumb along my cheek. "i never got over you. i hope you know that."

deciding that actions speak louder than words in this instance, i place my lips on his, sealing our love with a sweet kiss as he instantly kisses back, laying downwards flat against the bed whilst i am still on top of him. i slowly pull away, my entire body aching, eyes fluttering shut as a tired yawn escapes from my mouth. tom reaches over to turn the lamp off, laying down beside me and opening his arms out, my head resting on his chest, his thumb running comfortingly up and down my arm. "goodnight meine liebe." he whispers, my throat sore from our rendezvous, so i place a quick kiss on his chest in response, my eyes falling shut as sleep takes me. our legs entangled, bodies together, heartbeats aligned, i feel him now more than ever. not just physically, but i feel him mentally, spiritually, our mind and being merged together as one.

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

#tom kaulitz #kaulitz twins #tokiohotel #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz smut #tomkaulitz #tom kaulitz angst #kaulitz #tom kaulitz fluff #bill kaulitz

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darklydeliciousdesires · 1 year

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Until Sunrise - A Khal Drogo/Reader One Shot Story.

So I was feeling a certain way about Jason Momoa, and realised that it is absolutely uncalled for that I have not yet written for my favourite character of his! I’ve no idea how alive/dead the GoT fandom is (I’m expecting dead, lol!) but I’ve tagged anyone I can think who might be interested, or because I know whatever form he’s presented in, you like him because he’s Jason motherfucking Momoa. As you should.

Words - 1,375

Warnings - Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

The moments you lived for; they were only ever fleeting at best. He would send for you, as he always did, picking one of his favourites from the tent of women devoted entirely to keeping the Khal content, eyes that burned with envy following you as you departed, ready for him. They always did.

Walking over the dried-up terrain, you cast your eyes to the sky, seeing the moon beginning to rise, knowing the silver orb will be glowing fully through the inky night sky by the time he’s done having his way with you. He never allows you to remain until sunrise.

Entering his tent, you find him standing in wait for you, the splendour of his nakedness appealing as always, approaching with long strides and taking you roughly by the arm, as is Drogo’s way. He rarely shows anything less than dominant claiming, towing you to his bed, making short work of your clothes.

“How do you want me tonight, my Khal?” you ask, your Dothraki flawless. He does speak the common tongue, much more than he would ever let on, yet you have only ever communicated with him in his own language.

He takes a moment for contemplation, his finger running along your jawline. “Face down, backside up.” Not surprising. He always prefers to take you from behind. You feel his weight dip the bed behind you, one hand placed at the top of your spine, the other beginning to stroke at you. His hand is oiled, as is his only real consideration for you, that you be slippery enough to sheathe his huge cock. Foreplay is a word unknown to him, in any language.

It is surprising to you, as your folds are parted, that he simply hasn’t done the minimal to wet your walls and swiftly breech you, his fingers touring you, exploring the petal soft flesh of your sex. Those slippery fingertips swirl around, until they reach your little bud, a soft gasp fluttering from your lips, Drogo focusing in on it.

“Good?"

You are confused, pleasantly, though. “Yes, my Khal."

He takes a moment of pause, ceasing the rubbing. “Truly? Or do you just speak this to pacify me?" He leans to you, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “Tell me how you like it.”

You are too scared of sparking his terrifying rage to even question why he cares, only pleasantly surprised that for once, he actually does. “A little softer to begin with, less pressure.” When his fingers begin to circle again, it’s pure bliss, your lips parting on a soft moan. “Just like that, my Khal.”

He straightens, his dark eyes watching, enchanted by the sight of you spread before him, his fingers quickening a little, dragging them back and forth, offering the same at your entrance, your arousal bathing them. He likes that, the feel of wet silk warming his fingertips, pushing them inside of you, a grumble rattling his throat.

“Soaking,” he grunts, dragging them back, returning to your aching bud. “You feel beautiful.” It must be different for him, to feel the arousal of a woman, since you can bet he never really has before. He oils each whore, dousing his cock, fucking them until he dances with the stars before they are cast aside, their purpose served.

Little glimmers skitter over your nerves, pleasure beginning to make you trickle hot for him, Drogo shifting, removing his hand as he crouches behind you, replacing the contact with his tongue.

“Oh, gods above!” you hiss, the warmth of his mouth stoking your fire, the very first you’ve ever had settle between your legs and indulge you in the hot, flat wet of long, languid licks.

“Turn.” He demands, his rough hands parting your thighs as soon as you are upon your back, his mouth reconnecting with you, greedy, his beard rubbing against you as he licks at the honey of your cunt. “Still good?”

“Incredible!” you cry, your hands clutching the pelts you lie upon. “Please, do not stop!”

A smirk tilts his full lips, his eyes finding yours over the rise of your breasts, tongue rapidly placing a firm lick over your bud. “She demands of her Khal?”

He sounds more amused than anything, but to hear the tinge of balefulness, of him bringing you back to yourself, you fluster a little. “I... but what I mean to say is... I...”

He moves until his face is above yours, placing a finger to your lips, and a kiss to your throat. “Quiet with your words. No more talking, but you will let me hear how much you enjoy it.” Moving back to your apex, each lick he bestows to you is a rain of celestial decadence, tongue beating over the swell of your clit, the nectar of your arousal soaking his lips as he eats you feverishly, without pause, like a starving wolf would gorge upon the carcass of a deer.

“Oh, you are divine, my Khal!” you cry, incoherence following as he sucks upon you, cheeks hollowing, his eyes almost black, pupils blown with lust as he grunts against the sopping mess of your cunt, enjoying you in his mouth. That is until he moves to arrow himself into your soaking centre, the many inches of his girthy cock splitting you wide, his mouth closing in a hard suck upon your nipple.

“Drogo,” he breathes, tongue beating over the little stiffened peak. “I want to hear my name upon your lips.” He grasps your jaw, turning your head to face him, eyes homed in upon you in an unbreakable stare.

Your mouths meet in a feverish kiss, a clash of tongues and teeth, your moans spilling from your lips onto his like wine. “You are divine, Drogo.” Taking him is like taking an entire storm within you, Drogo moving to kneel before you, grasping your thighs as his eyes fall to watch his glossy cock daggering into you deeply, an earthy rumble of a groan filling the air.

You are singed upon the heat he drives into you, cool fire flooding your veins, freezing and melting you again right to your very marrow as he pounds into your cunt, evoking your wails, your hands reaching to stroke the wide plane of muscles across his broad chest. The dark of his pubic hair glints in the candlelight, soaked from the dew of your cunt, your eyes falling to view it, to witness how his cock looks as it parts your walls again and again.

It is a sight you have never beheld before, only ever being taken from behind, your eyes fixated on how sumptuously erotic it is, to watch how good he looks inside of you, his hands beginning to stroke your skin as a bonfire of pure sinful bliss rages between you.

He moves his hand to your face, thumb dragging over your lips until they part, pushing it into your mouth. “Get it wet.” You meet his simple demand, sucking on it until it is as he requires, Drogo moving it to begin stroking at your clit once more. It’s more than you can handle, and he knows it, smirking down at you once again until his face contorts in bliss, grunting deeply as he gives his cock with keen thrusts, the sounds of your sweaty flesh smacking together filling the tent.

He moves within you with nothing short of brutal voracity, until you can feel it radiating through you, stars sweeping from the strokes of his thumb as your light begins to shine out over his horizon, your body blooming as you fall apart around him, the fluttering of your cunt dragging his release from him. Thick ropes of cum paint your pulsing walls as he spills into you deep, breathless and spent, pulling from you and resting down on his back.

You know that this is your cue to get up and leave quietly, yet when you rise, your escape from the bed is halted by a large hand splayed to your chest, Drogo pushing you back down. An arm slides beneath your shoulders, your Khal pulling you against his chest, fingers stroking swirls over your arm.

"Stay."

And you do. Until the sun rises.

#khal drog #khal drogo fanfiction #jason momoa #jason momoa fanfiction #khal drogo smut #khal drogo x female reader #jason momoa smut #jason momoa x female reader #khal drogo imagine #jason momoa imagine #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones smut #GoT #GoT fanfiction #GoT smut

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aphroditesbaby1616 · 1 month

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Allspice (c.b oneshot)

♡ O.S Inspo: Forever & Always - Fearless (TV) ; "Was I out of line, did I say something way too honest, made you run and hide like a scared little boy?" ♡ Pairing : CarmyxAFAB Reader as little physical description possible | She/Her pronouns used, NO use of Y/N :)

♡ Summary: You have a very successful Culinary Review blog, the social media manager of one of your new hometown restaurants 'The Bear' has been dying to get you out to try their food. But since the EC is a bit of an overzealous competitor, you end up having to go back for round 2- you end up having a delicious dinner, and a free show.

♡ W/C: 4,381

♡ Posted Date: 03/18/24

♡ A/N: FIRST THING: I am HORRIDDDD at writing Claire- I'm much better at writing Carmy cause were alot more similar- so this Claire isn't gonna be CRAZY canon, but I think she got the job done. Anyway- EEEEEP!!! Here is my VERY FIRST ONE SHOT EVER!! Inspired by my amazing, wonderful, PRECIOUS FLOWER @daysofyellowroses that can be found here :) AAAAA!!! My precious Rose I hope you enjoy this, It could ABSOLUTELY have a part 2 if y'all like it. I ended it here cause I'm sooo wordy and I didn't want it to turn in to a multi-chap. fic by mistake...but ofc if y'all want more just tell me and ill get RIGHT TO WORK!!! I really hope this comes off how I saw it in my head. There's no smut/sexy stuff, just mutual pining and flirty teasing, I hope thats ok!! aaa here we goooo!!! Enjoy <3

♡ Warnings for BTC: Swearing, Drinking alcohol (Literally it LOL)

➵ 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ♡

Being a Food Critic wasn’t an easy gig, as much as people wanted to believe it’s simply going to famous restaurants, trying their most popular dishes- and giving your opinion, it was much more then that.

Each and every aspect of the restaurant was under your review, from the second you walked in the door, you were judging everything. From the atmosphere, to the music, to the decor, to the comfortability of the furniture all of it, was to meet your expectations if the owner of the establishment wanted a good review.

Today was finally the day you'd review one of the restaurants that had sent 3 requests for you to feature a review of them on your blog.

The Bear. Interesting name, you thought.

With the rugged name- you’d assumed a more millennial hipster-New American vibe. But when you’d arrived- you were quite…impressed? That instead of leaning into that all too common aesthetic, it was more of a classy, comfortable vibe.

They’d not even had bear art, anything of the sort. It was pure comfort, mixed with subtle class. The kind that spoke to the cost of the dishes- but wasn’t in your face obnoxious. The only ‘Bear’ was the little golden bear embossed into the leather menu you’d been handed when seated at the table.

The way you did your reviews was…a tad unusual - some chefs in the industry called it ‘unfair’ but you called it…the fairest things could be. Instead of telling them when you’d be swinging by for a review since where’s the fun in that you’d call, make a reservation under some random name, and they’d know you’d accepted their offer when the review had been posted on your blog.

It felt most honest and fair because you were one of the most renowned food critics in the country right now. If they knew you were coming- any EC with a brain would spend the night before your arrival, prepping the entire restaurant and staff - assuring they’d be on their best behavior to try and squeeze a higher grade out of you.

But you were just a reader once upon a time, years ago- when you realized in culinary school that the making of the art didn’t interest you, it was the observing. Food wasn’t just about taste, but rather the whole experience. And if every famous food critic you’d taken interest in back in the day- never got a true experience due to their notability? You’d never have gotten into this field. So, you were most keen on keeping things fair.

A woman with mousey brown hair comes up to your table, dressed in the typical waitress slacks and black button up shirt. “Hello! Welcome to The Bear. My name is Sam, have you dined with us before?” she asks.

You sit up in your chair, peeling your eyes from the menu. You give her a small kind smile “I haven’t” you replied, urging her to continue her script.

“Well welcome in, we're so happy you chose to spend your evening with us. So for our menu” she opens it in front of you. “Here” she points “are our wine options, fabulous selection this month. Then we have draft beers right next to it. On the following page” she points “all of our craft cocktails, then this,” she points in the bottom corner.

“Our house cocktail - Just called The Bear. It’s wonderful, if you like old fashions you’ll love this - made with Bearface Triple Oak Whiskey.” She said and you nod.

“That please. That’s what I’ll start with” you said and she nodded.

“I’ll get that right in. But quickly, just so you’re aware” she flipped the page and pointed.

“These - are the dishes of the month. Each crafted by one of our two head chefs, they change monthly so if something calls to you I recommend you try- because it won’t be back” she said. You raised your eyebrows a bit in surprise and nod.

“Thank you” you said and she gives a nod before heading off to the bar to put in your drink order before heading off to tend to other tables in your section.

Having an alternating menu intrigued you, for such a high end establishment- one with a Michelin star at that- implementing such a menu would consistently have their star at risk. One dish, one app, one drink- that was not up to par and it would be revoked. You guessed the owners of this place liked living on the edge, as if being in this industry wasn’t already being constantly on edge.

You gaze over the menu, the Chilean Seabass sounded like a fair assessment. Seafood was quite difficult to get right, especially in the springtime before peak season, and you’d be able to judge the consistency of the chopping and such because there was a fresh tomato corn salad that came with it. That was your rule when you came to judge restaurants, one main course, and one dessert.

You’d felt like the main courses were the true stars of the show anyhow, and it would be unfair to muck up your palate with an app that was usually something easy to get right (since they were usually fried, covered in cheese, or some kind of carb). And the dessert usually showed the restaurant's creativity, which you loved to see, so 2 dishes was your max.

The waitress returns with the cocktail, setting it down with a napkin under it. “Here you are, now- have you decided on a starter?” She questioned and you shook your head.

“Straight to the good stuff, I’d like the Chilean Sea Bass please. And for dessert,” you flick the page and your eyes settle on the words savory cannoli - hmm, imaginative indeed. “And uh- The Michael Cannoli?” You said, shutting the menu and handing it to her.

She nods with a smile, jotting down the order into her notepad before taking the menu and holding it to her chest. “That will be out soon as possible. Enjoy your drink” she said and headed back to the kitchen.

You sit back sipping the cocktail and humming. She was right, much like an old fashioned, but floral notes. Almost…chamomile? Yes! That was it. Very interesting.

You slipped your iPad out of your bag, opening up your journaling app and grabbing the pencil out of the little sleeve. You quickly snapped a picture with your phone of the drink, airdropping it to yourself and adding it into the entry and writing;

‘To start; ‘The Bear’ house cocktail- initial thoughts ; not too sweet, strong (but not overpowering), chamomile? Some kind of herbal tea flower’

You take another sip, letting the flavors sit on your tongue a moment before swallowing. “Mmm!” You hum to yourself, finally realizing where the herby taste beneath the chamomile was coming from that gave it that oaky piney taste.

‘Angostura bitters- will confirm!!’ You wrote just as someone approaches your table. You look up to see a man, short brown hair, stubble. He was smiling, holding a plate.

“Hello! Here we have Arancini with our house-made pesto, courtesy of Executive Chef Carmen” he placed the dish in front of you next to your iPad. Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking up at him, scarcel confused.

“Wrong table” you murmured, thumbing the dish back in his direction lightly. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Nope- ah, he- he said this table.” He replied. It did smell fantastic, and any other day you’d never deny delicious, deep fried balls of risotto dipped in smooth, decedent pesto- but you’re working right now and it’s not fair.

“Well, you can tell him” you lifted the dish, offering it back. “I have a system. And I’m unsure how he realized that I’m coming here, tonight, but I dislike cheaters. And he should know if he’s read my blog- I don’t muck up my palate with grease before I try the main course.” The plate was so close to him now it was nearly digging into his chest.

He nodded quickly, taking the plate without another word and briskly walking back to the kitchen. You sat back in your seat with a slight scoff.

He thinks he can win you over just like that? How did he even know you would be here?

You picked up your pencil once again, adding a note.

For the chef; Arancini smelt delicious. Didn’t order it, so I didn’t taste it . Presentation wise; 7/10. Pesto looked like it was spooned in the dish a tad bit messy to me.

You smiled to yourself, you knew he’d read the final review once it was posted. And since he wanted to be a little cheater and get a overall higher score since he was trying to weasel you into trying extra dishes- you’d kick his ego down a few extra pegs for fun.

You sat, nursing your drink, adding extra little notes here and there, as well as editing a blog post about Ghost Kitchens you’d been working on and how they were ruining the mobile order industry on the side. You were so engrossed in the work, that you hadn’t even realized someone had approached your table until they cleared their throat awkwardly.

Your gaze slowly travels up, seeing a blue apron covering a white shirt, tattooed hands holding- your meal? Your eyes flicker up to his piercing blue ones. “Chilean Sea Bass” he sets it in front of you. You snort a laugh.

“Hm.” You look around before back at him “These people” you motion to the restaurant. “Other patrons. Which meals of theirs did you bring out- Chef?” You accentuate the last word, it was all too uncommon for a chef to personally bring a meal out to a table.

You swore even in the ambient lighting, his cheeks flushed slightly. “You- uh- you declined, my Arancini. Why?” He asked, holding his hands behind his back, the position making his already toned and tattooed arms appear more muscular. It makes him all the more impressive he has all these tattoos and still made it in this industry. I can only imagine the shit he got for them.

You raise your eyebrows in surprise at his boldness. “Because that’s Cheating. Mr.Berzatto. I’d assume you know my work well. Considering you know what I look like, so- why try to cheat? You know how I feel about appetizers. It’s a scapegoat.” You shrugged, locking your iPad when you realized he’d been peeking at the notes.

“Messy” his eyes narrow. He scoffs a bit, alluding to the note you’d written a short while prior “Messy?” He asks again, you laugh a bit.

“Mmhmm! Oh, was it you chef? Wow…I mean- now that I think about it” you shook your head, now just messing with him since you see how much he was dying to impress you. “I could’ve sworn- the pesto it just..was too loose. Overblended maybe? That’s why it was impossible to plate without making a mess.” You shrugged, cutting up your fish carefully and spreading the vegetables with your knife to observe the cohesivity of the cuts.

He scoffs, “too- too loose?! W-y’know what. No. No. It- you’re gonna try it.” He demands and you look up at him, nearly laughing at the seriousness of his tone.

“That depends. Bring me a pesto worth trying and I’ll think about it. Now” you wave him off casually “I can’t work with the chef over my shoulder. So- Shoo chef don’t bother me” you teased and he shook his head.

“Game on.” He muttered, heading back to the kitchen.

You smiled to yourself, the Arancini absolutely isn’t going into the review. But you’ll humor his ego by trying it.

You cut the fish thoroughly, checking the texture and the evenness of the seasonings slathered on the skin, writing little notes as you go along. The cuts of the vegetables were pristine. Nearly perfect. The only misshapen pieces were clearly cosmetic defects of the vegetable. The chef that cut these was immaculate with a knife.

When you took your first bite, you nearly moaned. The fish was buttery, the skin was crispy, slightly spicy, tangy, the flesh melted in your mouth. The risotto was so cheesy and buttery and wonderful. You could eat this meal every night for the rest of your life and never get sick of it. It was the best Sea bass you’d ever tasted.

You opened your iPad again, jotting down notes about the flavors, the mouth feel, all the usual points you hit in your review.

This meal is a 9.2 out of 10.

You write at the bottom. Very fair score, you never had rated something as a 10. Something being a 10 would be- you don’t even know what it would be. But it would be what the score says, perfection. And while this dish was wonderful, and very very good- it was not perfect. At least to your heavily trained palate.

You finished what you wanted out of the meal, pushing the plate to the side and not soon after, Carmen was back at your table. He placed the plate in front of you, 3 perfectly circular Arancini discs were placed equal distance on the plate, and truly beautiful pesto, sat in the dish alongside it. It frankly was immaculately plated.

“Unbroken pesto. Sorry again, about the last one.” He said, watching you carefully. You hum as you grab your fork, splitting one of the discs and digging out some of the risotto.

“Could be firmer.” You said, eyes flicking to his. He nods, clearing his throat a bit.

“It’s not- uh- it’s”

“Fresh” you finished for him, raising your brows and he nods. “So- since you’re frying it. You cook it for about..a minute- maybe forty seconds less than you usually would.” You said, daintily taking the bite off your fork.

“Heard..” he nodded, waiting for your reaction. You hummed a bit.

“Great balance of parm and butter though. I’ll give you that. Neither overpowers the other, that’s hard to do considering the notes” you added, cutting up the crust and tasting it.

“Mm-“ you scrunch your nose and his face visibly drops. “Mm-mm…no- not peanut oil…why would you do that? It totally overpowers the breadcrumb with this like…cheapy taste. I’d say it would be way better if you fried it in sunflower oil” you added, digging out more of the risotto and dipping it in the pesto before having a bite and humming.

“This though” you point at the little dish of green sauce with your fork. “This is great.” You add and he nods.

“Ok-yeah…ok…” he nods, rubbing his hand over his chin. “Thank y’for trying it.” He said and you nod.

“I’ll be back for a fair assessment. I think I’ll pass on the cannoli tonight, and just get the bill. Thank you” you slipped your pencil in the case before putting your iPad in your bag and holding your hands on the table in front of you.

“Y-y’re coming back” he said, sounding slightly surprised.

You shrugged “well- you clearly want a full review based on your behavior tonight, Chef. So I’ll humor you. I won’t tell you when of course, so just pray that it’s a day like today-“ you paused, looking around. “Where things seem to be running…alright.” You sat back in your chair casually with a small smile.

“I look forward to your review.” He gave a nod and headed back to the kitchen.

It was 3 weeks before you’d decided to return back to The Bear spring had quickly turned to early summer, and you thought you’d given enough time for your little conversation with the head chef to slip his mind.

It was 9:20, 40 minutes before closing. You did promise to come back at a random time, and no time is more random then a Friday night less than an hour before the kitchen closed.

You pulled open the door, stepped in and headed up to the host stand where the same man that originally offered you the Arancini stood. “The picky critic returns.” He said, tapping his pen against the reservation book absentmindedly.

“She does” you smiled a bit.

“Well lucky f’you cousin said you get a table any time, right this way” he leads you to a booth near the back, where you had a perfect view of the restaurant. Much cozier then before, right next to the doors of the kitchen where you could hear the back of house crew buzzing about.

“Same cocktail as last time?” He asked and you raised your brows in slight surprise as you sit.

“No waitress?” You asked, getting comfortable and setting your iPad down next to the empty plate.

“She’ll be over, just figured a friendly offer couldn’t hurt” he said with a small smirk.

You roll your eyes playfully. “House cocktail please, and thank you. But don’t count on kindness boosting your hospitality score-“ you stop, realizing he never gave you his name.

“Richie” he said, sticking his hand out to shake.

“Richie.” You repeat, giving him your firm professional shake.

“House cocktail comin’ up” he said and headed back to the bar. You mulled over the menu, lemon chicken picatta, that sounded like a perfect dish to judge this time around.

A few minutes later, Richie returns, setting the glass down in front of you. “Waitress should be by momentarily, enjoy your meal” he said, heading back to the host stand.

A bit after the waitress came to take your order, the restaurant had begun to die down. You were going to be the last person served tonight it looked like, since in 5 minutes they would stop seating people.

You added additional notes to your section about the cocktail, getting a better photo of it for your blog when you hear a bit of commotion up front.

You look up, to see a woman with curled brown hair in navy blue scrubs, her hands on her hips, talking with Richie with a frustrated look. There were tears in her eyes, you couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation.

“Richie, please let me see him- he- he hasn’t said anything and I…I just need to hear him say it to my face. Please!” She begs, tears were streaming down her face now.

Richie looks around nervously, tugging her to the side so they weren’t standing right in front of the host stand. You lean over just a bit- not so much it would be noticeable, but enough your nosy ears could continue to pick up what was being said.

“Claire. You shouldn’t be here…I’m sorry- he told me-he said that..that you can’t come here anymore. It’s too much and he will apologize when he can find the words. But he can’t. So please before he sees you. Leave” he said softly, attempting to soothingly rub her arm and she jerks away like his touch burned her skin.

“Fuck you, Richie. Get him. Now. I’m not working on his time anymore. This is my time now. I’ve waited around enough for him. I’m done waiting. Either get him yourself? Or I swear to god I’ll go in that kitchen and embarrass the fucking shit out of him” she hissed.

Your eyebrows raised, shit. Whoever fucked her over should at least be warned.

He snorts, clearly amused before stepping back and raising his arms in defeat. “Have at it ClaireBear.” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You think he’s gonna take kindly to you startin’ w’him in his house? Be my guest.” He shrugged, going back over to the host stand.

And then it clicked. She’s here for Carmen.

She laughed dryly, sarcastically, like a woman who’d had it. “You think I’m scared? Richie? You think I’m scared of little Carmy who couldn’t even check out a library book by himself? mm?” She goads him, arms crossed, chest heaving with rage.

His head snaps back to look at her, brows raised in shock. “Kid- I really think you should go calm the fuck down, because Y’re not gonna like the way that this conversation ends w’him- at all.”

And with that, she shoves open the kitchen door. You couldn’t just sit there and not watch- this was the juiciest drama you’d ever been privy to in person, and this means he’s single. You slightly curse yourself for being so giddy that this means the sexy chef would likely be on the market.

Your foot catches the door before it closes, leaning against the frame. She storms in, eyes frantically darting over the kitchen.

“Carmen.” She barks, the entire kitchen stops moving and looks at her, as if they were in shock and awe someone would ever raise their voice to him in such a way.

He rounds the corner, holding a pan of focaccia dough that he nearly drops at the sight of her. He blinks a few times, squeezing his eyes shut as if she’d disappear when he opened them again.

“The fuck are you-“ his eyes meet yours, his face going pale quickly, he looked white as a sheet. “Leave.” He orders her, slamming the dough down on the counter.

“Leave?!” She laughs coldly, “you’re gonna tell me to leave?! You’re a fucking pussy Carmen. A pussy. Y’know- it was charity giving you a chance. Pity work.” She spits and you blink a few times, taken aback by such harsh words.

Is she serious? She thinks anyone could believe dating a super hot, ripped, talented, chef prodigy - that was charity work in any sense of the word?

He scoffs, “Charity?” He chuckled dryly. “Claire- you begged me to fuckin’ be with you! You-you-y’re a fuckin gnat! Claire! You- all you do is-is fuckin’-” he runs his hand through his hair, his chest heaving in anger, “You dont know me, Claire! Alright? There- And I-I-I don’t want you i’m-i’m sorry-”

She laughed, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. “You-” she whispered, her chest shaking with a sob. “You- fucker- I- I gave you a chance…” she whispered and gripped her wrist sadly. “I- I was there for you, Carmen- when no one else could fucking stand you.” she croaked.

“And I never asked for you too- please- just…leave me alone-” he shook his head. “Leave. Please…just-pretend we never happened, it was a mistake, Claire.” he breathed, clearly utterly defeated, and It sounded like he’d told this girl these same words multiple times.

“M-Mikey would be sick- Carmy, he’d- he’d hate who you’ve become…” she said meekly, and with that- something behind his eyes snapped.

“Claire I’m not DOING THIS I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKIN’ RESTAURANT. WERE OVER. YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME! YOU MEAN NOTHING CLAIRE!” He roars, the veins in his neck popping out, angrily and aggressively pointing to the door. “OUT. get the fuck out. G-get out, b-before I-I-I fuckin- holy fuck” he finds his composure once more, even though his breath was still ragged from his outburst, flicking his hand next to him his entire body trembling with panic.

She looks to her left and right, she’s not that-

Your thoughts were quickly proven wrong, when you see she was stupid enough to grab a pan off the stove to whip at him.

“Aht!” the spanish woman standing a few paces to the right said, quickly grabbing the arm with the pan and twisting it behind her back. “Drop it.” she hissed.

Carmen looks between the two of them, utterly in shock. “Y-y’were gonna hit me?” He asked her, face twisting in rage. “Fuck you. Fuck you Claire.” He seethed, taking the pan from his employees grasp and tossing it in the sink with a loud clatter.

“Get the fuck out” you told her, grabbing her from the handle of the woman who’d stopped the assault, shoving her towards the kitchen door and into the front of the restaurant. “Y’re a fuckin crazy bitch.” You laughed dryly, giving her a hard shove for good measure.

“Oh and who are you” she straightened herself out, pushing her bag up on her shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. Glad to see that Carmy still needs someone to protect him. I’ll gladly give up that spot.” she said, causing you to laugh.

“Oh my god- you are pathetic. He just spelt it clear as day sweetheart- you are over. O-v-e-r. He doesn’t want you babe! And no, he doesn’t need my protection- I was enjoying dinner and apparently a show until you went batshit bitch.” You snip, plopping back down at your booth.

She scoffed “he doesn’t want anyone. The only thing he wants - is to remain miserable. Good fucking luck, whoever you are.” She said before stomping out.

“Yo she was really gonna throw somethin?” Richie asked as he walked over. Thankfully, it was just you, him, and the bartender in the front of the restaurant.

You nod “thankfully she didn’t realize I was there- Carmen would have had a nasty burn, and a concussion.” You said, taking a large sip of your drink.

Carmen comes out, eyes meeting yours immediately. “Fuck- I- don’t worry y’re meal is comped and don’t…don’t worry about a review, i’m sorry- I-I guess it wasn't in the cards f’r us to be featured on y’r blog... I’m really so sorry… Shes- ah..” he rubs his arm nervously, trying to find the words.

“A woman scorned” You teased, and he snorts a laugh, nodding a bit.

“Hell hath no fury, right?” He joked, sighing a bit. “It’s uh…it’s my fault I guess…I uh- I should’ve dealt with that…I've been putting it off” he said and you nod a bit.

“You off the clock?” you looked at your phone for the time, 10:07.

“Shit- fuck- sorry- I’m so sorry- give me like- I was making y’r food…and then-” you shook your head, stopping him.

“No- No…I was uh-Asking to see if you maybe wanted to..have a drink with me? Not-not like…professionally…” you shrugged, stirring your half full cocktail with the bar straw that floated in it.

“Sure- uh…sure- I’d like that lemme..lemme go change, i’ll be right out” he nodded, heading back into the kitchen.

157 notes · View notes

typingcorgi · 1 year

Text

can't quit you

rating: e (minors, please shoo. you will be blocked) word count: 4.1k+ pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: mention of age difference, tipsy sex, mutual pining, emotionally unavailable but totally fuckable joel, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, creampie, praise kink makes brain go brrr, taylor swift references if you squint, porn with plot, moody-ish joel, no use of y/n summary: joel miller isn't able to tell you what you mean to him, but he can show you. author's notes: this is probably the fic I'm most proud of (not that I've written very many) and if you read, i would absolutely love feedback, reblogs, or comments. tell me what you like! tell me what you hated (kindly pls lol). i am open to feedback and love praise can't you tell so enjoy reading your thoughts. now enjoy getting dicked down (respectfully) and thank you to @foli-vora for letting me pick your brain on some of the plot devices; truly appreciate it (:

Right now, you have two things on your mind: cheap whiskey and Joel Miller.

The former comes from the promise of your smuggler who’d agreed to deliver an unopened bottle of Rittenhouse in exchange for three or four cigarettes you’d hand-rolled that morning. Quality tobacco is a thing of the past, so you’re fine with offering up one lackluster product in exchange for another slightly less lackluster product. There’s a good chance the bottle will be half-empty by the time your visitor makes it to your meeting spot. No one is ever as good as their word anymore, and their word means virtually nothing.

You hold Joel Miller to his promises, though. He said he’d run out to barter for his own offering of supplies—he’s low on ammo for his shotgun, and he needs to find a good number of batteries for the two-way radios he’d stolen off a sleeper last night. He figures it might be a good insurance plan, a good backup just in case either of you split up in this next leg of the trip to Jackson. And while you don’t like the idea of him traveling alone—despite knowing he can very much take care of himself—you don’t fight him on it. He’s not wrong, and more significantly, if you try and argue with him, you’re probably going to be disappointed.

You used to bicker more when you thought he hated you; when you were the annoying neighbor and not the escort out of Boston and downstate. You fought like cats and dogs when you lived next door to him in those mangy apartments, never liking the way you looked at each other—like both of you knew the other had an ulterior motive to force yourself out of the QZ, and you picked up on it, tapped into this common secret you hadn’t planned on sharing with anyone else. And while the proverbial walls with which Joel shields himself are crumbling at a painfully sluggish pace, it’s something. You’ll take something over nothing.

You’re hiding out in the basement of an abandoned convenience store on what was probably a main street in this New York suburb. There isn’t much by way of furniture; just a couple of rust-ridden folding chairs, a worn green couch, empty, dusty shelves, and a sink that probably hasn’t run clean water in fifteen years. Small privacy windows along the top of the walls offer little by way of natural light, and the angle of its golden rays tells you that it’s time to go. Your connect is waiting for you on the street’s southern corner. Or at least, that’s where you planned to meet right before sundown.

Joel’s left you with his smaller, quicker shot, a semi-automatic that he usually entrusts you with while you’re apart. He doesn’t say it, but you can sort of tell that he doesn’t like leaving you. And it’s probably not personal because yes, while Joel Miller is slowly coming out of the shell he’s lived in for the last twenty years, it’s not as though he’s developed some sort of overt attachment to you. In a life like this, attachment is almost as dangerous as the Infected. There’s no room for him—or for you—to seek anything beyond a sort of temporary comfort with one another.

Get him to Jackson. That’s it. And then you’re on your own again on your route back home.

You switch the safety on the rifle, then keep it tucked in the front pocket of your jeans while you head up the dilapidated stairs and push open the cellar doors. The sunset meets you right in your eyes and you squint, and then the same thought you have at almost every beautiful encounter sweeps through your mind. Am I seeing another sunset tomorrow?

With any measure of hope, yes.

You close the cellar doors behind you, careful to avoid stepping on any overgrown grass along the cracked sidewalk toward the street corner. You’ve been unusually fortunate to not run into any runners or clickers today, but that streak would come to a dreadful end if you’d stepped on any patch of cordyceps fungus hidden along the green. They’d come charging at you in an instant, and if their overbearing strength didn’t kill you first, the brain parasite would. Eventually.

A quick death sounds better. You can’t fathom slowly losing your mind as many have. You can’t fathom losing the memory of Joel.

Fuck. You’ve really got it bad for him, you’re fucking thinking about him when you should be on guard, when you should be looking out for—

“Girl,” a voice calls out from behind you. You don’t know this smuggler that well; it’s not as though he has a voice you’d recognize. Your shoulders jump and you try to downplay it as you turn around, rifle now held in your dominant hand.

“Yeah,” you say, unimpressed with his greeting. You notice the edges of a paper bag crumpled in his strong grip, and as you eye him, you take out a tin-wrapped package of cigarettes, holding them out for him to take. He accepts your barter and unwraps the foil, inspecting each product to ensure you’re not ripping him off.

“Yeah,” he echoes, then hands you the paper bag. It’s heavy, containing the glass bottle that he’d promised, but right away, you can tell its contents aren’t completely full. You don’t mention it. Some things aren’t worth the energy. And you’re fairly confident you’d start feeling it after a swig or two, considering your last drink feels like ages ago.

When you return to the cellar, you’re alone again. Concern and disappointment flood your veins as you realize Joel hasn’t returned. Fuck, now would have been a good time for those fucking walkie-talkies. Hey, Joel, you dead? No? Great, get back here in one piece.

You dig around your pack for something to eat, eventually settling on something that you think was a protein bar at one point in time, but now just tastes of slightly sweet dust. It’s unappetizing. It’s all this end-of-world can offer you, and while getting good and drunk on an empty stomach sounds like it would be a fan-fucking-tastic idea, you can’t afford to slow down tomorrow. You can’t afford the hangover.

It feels like hours have passed within the span of minutes, and you take a swig of Rittenhouse before you hear a clang at the cellar door. FEDRA wouldn’t wait for you to open up—they’d just bust the door open without hesitation. Joel. Maybe. It could be him, or it could be your smuggler coming back to collect, realizing now your flimsy cigarettes weren’t worth the trade.

Your shotgun is again in hand—someone told you long ago that alcohol and firearms aren’t a wise mix, but that was probably before they realized the world was eventually going to end—and after carefully walking up the wooden stairs, you push open the door, gun ready to fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel mutters, lowering your aim away from the space between his tired eyes. “You really are ready for anythin’, aren’t you, honey?”

He says it almost sarcastically, like he doesn’t mean it. Like he’s teasing you in an aloof sort of way that only makes total sense for the Joel Miller. And you know he doesn’t intend for your stomach to twist like it does when he says it—honey, fuck, you could just melt onto the cold cement floor—but it does.

“In times like these, you have to be,” you offer, leading you both down the stairs.

You sink into the couch, finally able to exhale that long-awaited sigh of relief as it hits you: Joel is back, and from what you can tell, he’s unharmed. He’s alive. You don’t give yourself much time to relish in the silent celebration of it, though.

“How was it out there?” You ask. “Run into anything? Anyone?”

“Couple’a stalkers,” he replies, shrugging. “Shot ‘em before they could get close. Got the batteries for the radio, along with some other crap.”

Your smile is small but genuine. “That’s good. Anytime you don’t end up maimed or dead is a win in my book.”

He almost chuckles, and it makes your heart squeeze. “Yeah.”

—

The “other crap” Joel has brought back to you includes a used, but functional woolen blanket and a stash of beef jerky that’s likely way past its expiration date. “I don’t need you passin’ out from hunger,” he says as he hands one of the pieces to you. Your fingers brush and it feels fucking electric, but likely only to you, since you know Joel has shut himself off to any sort of emotional electricity long ago.

He sits next to you on the couch, and honestly, takes up a considerable amount of space. His legs are splayed open, his broad back resting on the cushion behind him, and the full extent of his intimidating size begins to sink into you. It’s not like you ever thought Joel Miller was small, but you’ve been with him long enough that sometimes you forget how he might appear to others: menacing. Threatening.

You’re passing off the whiskey bottle between you, taking swigs every couple of minutes to fill the silence that’s fallen between you. Your conversation started benign enough (if benign could be used to describe the next leg of your runaway route, now that FEDRA knows two of its civilians have escaped the Boston QZ), but then it’d taken a more personal turn. Suddenly you know a sliver more of Joel Miller’s past; you know he’d been separated from his brother since Outbreak Day. You learn he had a daughter.

“I’m sorry,” you say lamely. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I’m sorry is what you might have said had you accidentally closed the cellar door on Joel’s pinky finger. He doesn’t say anything back for a while. He just takes another swig of whiskey as he leans back into the couch, as though it fully catches the weight of his grief.

“Was a long time ago,” he says finally. “She would’a been close to your age by now. Maybe a little younger.”

You nod and immediately feel a little guilty. You’d somehow survived, against all odds, against losing your family—if not to the outbreak itself, to the violence it’d caused. Your family was collateral damage in a devastating blow. It could have been you instead of her—Joel would still have his daughter, and you’d be with your family in a place hopefully much better than this hell on earth.

“Still,” you try, still not feeling as though your words convey your true meaning. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trusting me with that.”

Joel’s eyes flicker towards yours as if he’s only now realizing that’s what’s happening here: he’s trusting you. And whether it’s an effect of the whiskey, it’s something. Neither of you is full-on drunk, just loose enough to take the edge off, to put aside some of the overwhelming weight that comes with surviving the literal plague. It’s just enough to let some of the walls built between you begin to chip away, bit by bit.

You don’t leave him hanging out to dry, though. You can’t. Joel just exposed one of his deepest wounds, so the least you can do is mirror the gesture.

You tell him everything. You tell him about your life in New York, your escape out of before you’d barely begun to drive. You tell him about your family and the hit it took to your life to lose theirs. You tell him about your connection to the Fireflies (although you’re pretty sure he’d already picked up on that, considering your frequent interactions with Marlene and Kim). You tell him you’d needed a light to cling to in the everlasting darkness until you’d realized even the light was no good, even then, you’d come to accept the only risk worth taking was one that ensured your security and yours alone.

And now, as it happens, his, too.

He doesn’t say anything afterward. He doesn’t come out with a line like thank you for trusting me with that or anything gooey or empathetic. How you have the emotional space for such reactions is beyond even your understanding, so you understand why a complete stoic like Joel Miller just…sits there. Stoic, nodding his head a bit in an effort to communicate he hears you. He doesn’t say he’s sorry. Everyone is expected to live like this.

“You know,” you continue, the whiskey warming the blood swimming in your veins. “When you didn’t come back as quickly as I thought you would, I got worried.”

Joel exhales through his nose. “Yeah,” he replies. “What else is new.”

You turn your body to face him, legs crossed over one another as you adjust your seat. Your eyes widen with meaning. You’re like a kid with a secret to spill, a story to tell, and you’ll be damned if Joel Miller doesn’t hear it.

“I mean it,” you push. “I’d been thinking about you all damn day. You just come and go as you please, or at least, you think you do. You’ve only just started telling me where you plan on going, or how long you think it’ll take. And I stick by you despite it all. You know why?”

“Yeah, and why’s that?” Joel presses, but the sarcasm dripping from his voice signals that he doesn’t actually want to know. Wanting to know what you mean—and then actually knowing—translates to pain. And this sort of added pain, the one that comes from wanting too much, is just not something either of you can manage at a time like this.

Your pointer finger gestures between the two of you, and with a bolt of whiskey courage, you finally say what’s been plaguing your mind for months. “It’s you and me,” you admit. “That’s my whole world. I got nothing else worth saving or fighting for anymore. So when you leave, half of my world walks out on me. Half of my fucking reason for being here is just—”

He cuts you off, and you don’t fucking believe what’s happening. His kiss is harsh, biting, bordering on punishment for you to shut the fuck up and he knows yelling at you won’t work (when has it ever?) so he kisses you. He lunges for you, his broad palm and dirt-coated fingers covering your entire cheek, the pads of his fingers pressing slightly into the flesh of your face.

Stop.

He pulls back, and both of you are met with the heavy breathing of the other. Your eyes open, slow and dreamy. You wish you had something more articulate to say.

“What the fuck?”

He says nothing.

“No, really, Joel. What the fuck was that?”

He pulls back, observing you. The weight of his gaze is nearly paralyzing.

“Don’t make me say it,” he concedes. You lean back against the arm of the couch, waiting for something more satisfying.

“Had too much to drink,” he tells you, but you know for a damn fact that you’re the one that put most of that liquor away. You’d had a head start, after all, waiting for him to get back to you.

“Not buying it,” you argue, shaking your head. “Just admit to me that you feel something between us, too?” And there’s your index finger again, flicking between your two bodies, tracing a line over the invisible string that binds you to the other. “Admit to me that this isn’t just about getting to Jackson. That you need someone here with you, because you can’t carry the damn weight of the entire world on your shoulders anymore.”

He can’t tell you that. It’s as though the words simply don’t exist in the Joel Miller lexicon. Your gaze drops, casting downward at his thigh, though you’re not exactly looking at anything.

Finally, he says your name. It’s low and pleading. Stop.

He’s leaning into you again, and this time, you meet him halfway. It’s agonizing, the painfully short distance between your mouths before he kisses you again. He’s slow and hesitant this time, almost seeking permission for a kiss as biting as your first. Your tongue sweeps along the seam of his lips, and when he parts them, you kiss him like the world is ending.

You can’t fucking believe what’s happening. It’s as though you’ve manifested this moment within your dreams. On the nights you’ve fallen asleep alone, you’ve touched yourself thinking of this. You’ve played your own body like a harp, imagining every stroke and rub of your fingers belonged to him instead. Joel is kissing you, and you’re kissing him back. Joel’s hands are running up through your hair, and your hands are on his chest, bracing yourself for him to pull back when he inevitably realizes this is a bad fucking idea.

It doesn’t come. He pushes you down, a gentle press of his hand to guide your back along the couch. His lips move from yours toward your neck, his kiss a brand, declaring you as his for as long as he’ll have you.

For as long as you survive.

Your bodies dance between wanting to savor the moment and needing to feel the heat of the other. Joel’s fingers toy with the zipper of your jeans, eventually pulling them down your legs and discarding them toward the cement floor so he can better focus his energy on you. On pleasing you, of course, but maybe to also give into the desire he’s been repressing for so long.

“Joel,” you whisper. “Are you su—“

“Don’t,” he interrupts, and then his mouth is on your cunt.

It’s sudden and harsh, but fuck, your body needs this. Nothing about this man is subtle, and now you learn his sex isn’t either. His tongue traces patterns against your clit, eventually probing deeper to taste you from the inside. Maybe if you’d been a little more firm in your inhibitions, you’d tell him this was a bad idea. Maybe he wouldn’t be fucking you with his goddamn perfect mouth like this. But he is, and you’re here, beneath the twitching overhead light in this decayed basement until it flickers once, twice, and goes out.

You learn Joel is braver in the dark.

Your hands grip his hair while he eats you out. His fingers press so deeply against the flesh of your hips that you know it’ll bruise, but it’ll be a pleasant ache to remember a night like this. It’ll be proof that even for a moment, Joel Miller felt something for you, and he could show you even if he couldn’t tell you.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he mutters, pulling back to catch his breath. You crane your neck to glimpse at him. His lips and beard glimmer with evidence of your arousal, and he sighs into the flesh of your thigh. “Too—too old for this.”

“Fuck that.” You actually laugh at his unexpected comment. “Keep going.”

For a rare moment in your relationship, Joel listens to you. His head dips back between your legs, mouth returning to deliver your pleasure. He’s slower this time, but just as deliberate. His hands hold your legs apart to give his tongue the perfect space against your clit, and when you feel your body begin to crest in relief, you give a sharp inhale through your mouth.

“Joel, I’m—I’m going to—“

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He drinks you in while you climax, your limbs tensing while stars explode behind your closed eyes.

You kiss him when you push yourself up, needing to taste your own lingering flavor—needing confirmation that all of this is real. Joel fucking Miller just ate you out in this dingy little basement, and you can’t be sure, but you think it’s because he might actually have developed some sort of feeling for you. Something beyond the need to run or hide or defend. And you reciprocate it, eagerly.

How inconvenient for you both.

He’s breathing heavily against your mouth, and you smile in the earnest afterglow.

“You’re really good at that,” you praise into your ear, and he offers something between a growl and a moan in response.

His jeans are dirty and stiff, but you’re just as impatient to pull them off his thick legs and experience him as he’s delighted in you—the weight of his body, the feel of his cock. You hold his length in your hands and immediately notice he’s fucking huge. You practically gasp at the realization, thankful that the dark room hides your growing blush.

You’re laying on your back, and Joel’s fingers slide against your entrance, priming you for his next move. He speaks again, and while you’d normally have a little internal celebration at any ounce of vulnerability he’d be willing to share with you, this time you immediately cut him off.

“You sure abou—“

“Never more about anything else,” you confess.

It’s all too damn much, the amount of immense sensation that comes from Joel teasing briefly with the head of his cock. He pushes into you, and it’s almost as if you can see the way his eyes roll back into his head. Your own body has to adjust to his size, and you bite your lower lip as you brace yourself through the sweet pain of his length filling you with all he has.

He groans against the warmth of your neck, eventually building up his slow thrusts to a rhythmic pace that causes your blood to dance.

“G—god damn it,” you choke out, your ankles hooked around each other along his spine.

In the darkness, you can make out the slight reflection of his tired eyes. His breathing turns ragged quickly and he hisses once or twice—whether out of pleasure or plain you can’t determine (especially because you’re certain you heard him grumble something about his damn knees while he slid out and pushed forward, but honestly, you’re so fucking spent that it’s hard to be sure).

“Feels good?” You ask, clenching your walls as he thrusts home.

He groans. “Uh-huh.”

He pulls you to sit up on his lap, and it’s only then he realizes you’re both still too damn clothed. He hurries to pull your white t-shirt overhead, then pushes your bra straps off your shoulders before managing to unhook the thing with both hands. Hs teeth nip and lips suck at your nipple while he fucks you, while you softly bounce on his damn cock, and shit, you want this night to last for fucking ever.

You’re fucking ecstatic. Your heart sings with the knowledge that you’ve managed to bring Joel pleasure, if only for tonight. Your body thrums like a guitar string plucked by his experienced fingers, and you pant against his lips, sweat forming along the hairline at your temples.

“I’m c—close,” you warn him. “I’m going to—”

“M—me too,” he stammers. “Let me feel you, honey. Just l–let go.”

And you do, you really fucking do. You feel his heat begin to spill inside you and it only intensifies the blinding orgasm Joel coaxes out of you. It reverberates within you, spanning from your fingertips down toward your toes, turning your spine to liquid.

He fucks into you slowly while you both come down, humming into your ear during the aftershocks.

“That’s it, darlin’. Did so fuckin’ good.”

The praise alone is nearly enough to send you over another edge. You suddenly want to bury your head into the crook of Joel’s neck, hiding any evidence of vulnerable relief along your expression. But Joel doesn’t let you. Instead, he holds your chin between his thumb and the crook of his index finger, and kisses you through it.

Joel falls asleep on the couch in his jeans and an old t-shirt. He lets you wear his flannel (though he tries telling you it’s dirty and bloodstained, but mostly everything you own is, so you don’t care).

He falls asleep with you resting behind him, trusting you to hold him while you keep each other safe. He kisses the inside of your wrist, lips lingering at your pulse point.

When you wake in the morning, he’s already gone. And your heart would completely sink had you not realized one of the two-way radios standing upright on the shelf across from you, low static playing through its speaker. There’s a little red light next to its antenna.

You feel as though you can breathe again.

Padding across the basement floor, you grab the radio with both hands, press the call button, and speak into the receiver.

“Joel?”

#tlou fic #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x you

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nebbys-personal-nebula · 2 months

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the biggest, most copium agent 4 theory from this clown of an agent four enjoyer

apologies for the wait on this! i wanted to unlock all of the dev diaries to make sure i could squeeze out every last bit of lore...

anyways SIDE ORDER SPOILERS INCLUDING POSTGAME

so let's start with the common knowledge. most people know by this point that agent 4 has a palette. it's one of the first you get in the game, after pearl and marina's. to the surprise of nobody, it is a splattershot...

according to what marina says about the memverse, palettes are a portion of a person's soul dragged into the memverse. so agent 4's soul got dragged in here somehow. how did this happen, and why? there are a few possibilities...

marina mentions in her eighth dev diary that she needs someone to handle system security. she writes: "maybe i can ask that person cuttlefish introduced me to for help there." this is still pretty vague, but we know from smollusk's note on agent 4's palette that it is definitely agent 4. quote:

"THIS is who mawina wanted in charge of memverse security? this unfwappable, free-spirited so-and-so? i would never abide it!"

the question is: if agent 4 was intended to be security for the memverse, then where are they? this leads us to the parallel canon boss!

note that figure in the center. even though all descriptions for this boss describe it as "a lot like eight", it is clearly an inkling with its pointed ears and hair.

the hairstyle is significant, too. all art of this boss, including its icon, display it with the "haircut" style. why does this matter? because official art of agent 4 also uses this style:

on top of that, people have reported that if you have splatoon 2 save data on your switch, the boss will use whatever hairstyle your inkling uses in that game (with that inkling, of course, being agent 4). unfortunately, i forgot to take a screenshot of my save, but maybe someone could reblog this and confirm?

another thing to note about that agent 4-looking robot in the center is that they're wielding the order shot, which is the same weapon you get from agent 4's palette.

so what exactly am i getting at with all this? let's read a little more of smollusk's notes on agent 4...

"buut...no weason such stwength shouldn't be used to pwotect a world of order. an order defense force is MUCH cooler than a new squidbeak splatoon anyway!"

this phrasing is particularly interesting to me because it implies smollusk wants to, or already has utilized agent 4's strength in some way. additionally, smollusk regards fans of chaos in a very similar way. for almost all of them, he argues they must be "punished". examples:

"she must be PUNISHED!" - callie's palette

"her chaotic lies must be PUNISHED!" - shiver's palette

"for the sake of order, they all must be PUNISHED!" - frye's palette

"it annoys me, so he must be PUNISHED!" - big man's palette

"he must be PUNISHED!" - sheldon's palette

"i sentence him to PUNISHMENT!" - dj octavio's palette

almost all of these characters are on the side of "chaos". callie and dj octavio were on the chaos side of the final fest, while shiver, frye, and big man rep the splatlands, basically the land of chaos. no idea what smollusk's beef is with sheldon though that guy was neutral LOL

on the other hand, smollusk is notably softer with characters on the side of "order", like marie, murch, and marina (obviously). he still critiques them, but he doesn't sentence them to "punishment".

agent 4 was on the side of chaos in the final fest. so why didn't smollusk sentence them to "punishment"?

perhaps it's because smollusk is already making use of them...by using their soul to control the parallel canon boss!

think about it! the bosses of the tower are basically security, right? they keep you from reaching the top! since smollusk knows from marina that agent 4 was meant to be security, it could have pulled in their soul to fulfill that job. that's why agent 4's palette is there, and that's why we don't physically see them in the dlc! because they're grayscaled in the outside world!

…it is also definitely possible that the boss is just INSPIRED by agent 4, taken from marina's memories, or something like that. but i like this theory because it explains why agent 4's soul ended up in the memverse.

one other thing - i think the popular opinion is that the parallel canon boss are "robots", due to the way they move, their eyes glowing, the filter on their voice, etc...this is probably true, but have you ever wondered if the boss is actually a real inkling (a digital…real…inkling? you get the idea) if it was just a robot like the others, why would it specifically have ears and hair? not only that, but you can get the parallel mask from the priz shop:

which you wear on your face. what if this is the real agent four, wearing this parallel mask? their gray coloring could be because they're grayscaled! after all, we never actually see a representation of grayscaling in-game. the name implies that they'd actually turn gray in some way, maybe in the color of their tentacles. but this could be the most dramatic extent of it!

this is definitely a stretch, but you can consider it food for the die-hard agent 4 angsters out there. love you guys <3

feel free to reblog if you have thoughts, add-ons or even counterpoints! i find this all really interesting

#splatoon #splatoon 3 #splatoon 3 side order #agent 4 #this theory didnt emerge out of my desire to give my agent 4 oc lore what do you MEANNNNN

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st0nesnglitter · 5 months

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Woke up with thoughts and morning wood

Coriolanus’ sexual awakening + his road to his perfect partner lol

(This is so far from canon lmaoo, leave me alone) But this is just Coryo being an ass and a douche and hot :)

Okay so we know he is controlling as fuck. And on this path of finding something, someone, to control in an intimate way he’s been a little all over the place.

He lost his virginity in the most common way ever in the Capitol. He’d been chatting, flirting, with a girl at the Academy and then at/after a party they got in bed together. Both virgins. And since he didn’t know what feelings or sensations to expect he was very much not in the kind of control he wanted to be. It was quick and not that good, and during the girl had “used” his compromised state and kissed him, held his hand and other perverse things.

They did not work out.

And he ruled out girls from his class for a while. That led him to the bimbos at an all-girls school a couple blocks away. And, wow, they were dumb. Perfect for him to manipulate and trick.

He definitely used the line “I’m too big for condoms” a few times. And once or twice, if the girl was smart enough to question about pregnancy, he’d said that he could just put it in her ass. What a gentleman <3

This one girl, Bunny, he tricked into thinking sex was just blowjobs. And that’s not the worst thing. He’d stop by her apartment as her mom was out at the salon, her dad at his academic work, leaving their dear Bunny opening the doors to Snow. She’d offer a snack and some tea, as a proper lady does, before taking him to her room and get down on her knees for him on her fluffy, pink carpet.

He’d alternate between letting her blow him or using her pretty, pink pigtails to fuck her mouth. Once he even got her to deepthroat him, but she complained that it hurt so he didn’t make her do it again. He is not some kind of monster…

But he did tell poor, vain Bunny that cum is great for the complexion, which led to her begging for a facial every time. He did feel kind of bad, until he was shooting his load. She’d smile so happily and look at him with the biggest, most hopeful doe eyes.

However, these girls did not really work out in the long run. When he wasn’t occupying their mouth the most idiotic things would fly out of them, and he could feel himself getting dumber through osmosis. Plus he’d kind of gotten around at that school and didn’t want those girls to puzzle together that. Fat chance, but he wanted to be on the safe side.

During the summer Plurbius’ club was his best shot to get his dick wet. He got there, got a drink and just had to wait before someone closed in on him. If they were pretty he’d take them to a bathroom. He figured out a few neat tricks from those nights. His favorite is that if you give a pretty guys hair a nice tug he usually turns into a slut.

A particular night he got invited home by a guy, and since Coriolanus’ mind was racing with things to bend him over he was thankful to get somewhere with more flat surfaces. They got to his apartment, Coryo sat down in his red couch as the guy went to fetch him a drink. Just as Coriolanus’ dick had made a nice tent in his slacks from the promising night ahead of him the other guys girlfriend walked in. Shit, shit, shit. As Coryo was debating between talking his way out of this or bolting, the boyfriend nudged her toward him. Long story short, making out is much more fun when the guys girlfriend is blowing you during.

But Coriolanus found his way back to Academy sluts that term. Letting his voice drip of sex as he invited them to a “study session” was always a fun way to make someone blush. People threw themselves at him and his blonde curls. Here’s when he found his exact type, however.

The ones that didn’t give in to him. Who actually wanted to study, who matched his wit, who made him work hard for it.

Sure, he could just point to his dick and ten people would line up, but when he was actively trying to charm someone and they just shot him a playful look? Gawd.

His very favorite is when he finally got them. Smart, collected, proper. And he could just ruin them. Make them a total slut. And a dumb one. His pants practically bursts as he thought of making someone who’s supposed to be so smart, a debate champion into a babbling bimbo. Corrupting their strong minds with just him, him, him. Pushing his dick in, forcing all the knowledge out.

🤍🩷🤍

I’m so weird lol

#coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus smut #coryo snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #tbosas smut

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thisismeracing · 11 months

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Rosy cheeks, salty hair, warm bodies | MS47

Pairing: Mick Schumacher x fem!reader (she/her)

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: not proofread; mentions public sex (but not really); graphic description of sex; p in v; oral (fem receiving); orgasm denail; mentions of food and alcohol; +18 (minors DNI);

Summary: After finally matching their schedules and booking a trip together, Yn and Mick decide to go to Mallorca for a well-deserved break. The fact that they went weeks without seeing one another and the tension around the hot weather and beach garments only helped build the momentum in which her boyfriend would absolutely ruin her in bed.

A/n: It's my first time posting a smut piece (stand-alone/one-shot), so I'm kinda nervous about the feedback lol I hope this was just enough description without getting boring or over-detailed. I got too carried away and ended up writing 5k when it was supposed to be a small smut just over 1k. Anyways, hope you guys like it, please let me know in the comments and asks (the anon option is working, so if you're shy feel free to use it) *mwah* 🤍

Based on this request. I hope I was able to deliver, nonny! 💙

see my masterlist | check here if you want to be on my new taglist

you can support my writing by liking and reblogging

“Micky, can you help me with my bikini?” Yn whined stalking inside the room. Mick, who was lying on the bed, took his eyes off his phone to face Yn holding the most provocative piece of bikini he ever saw against her chest. Wind gushed inside the room through the open curtains, and the strings from her bottom piece moved deliciously against her tanned skin, her curls on top of her head moving like waves as well.

They were in Mallorca for a vacation after finally matching their schedules and taking a week off, far away from everyone and everything work-related. It wasn’t easy to see each other between race weeks, work, and classes, so both of them were hell-bent on spending as much time together as possible during the few days they got. Their friends were aware that for half of their break, Mick and Yn were each other's priorities, and they would give friends and family the attention, but only after working on the yearning for the other.

“Sure,” he smiled, pushing his body to the edge of the bed, and before he could get up, Yn was stepping between his legs, tits smashed behind her arm and the flowing piece of clothing right in front of him.

Yn gave him a small smirk, turning around, and recklessly, or rather, purposely as the Schumacher knew his girlfriend very well, leaving the white bathing suit fall to the ground, “oops,” a giggle escaped her lips, and she bent to pick it up. Now, her ass was right in front of him, barely covered by the white fabric. It was as if she was giving him a show, exposing every inch of her to him in the most provocative way just to rile him up. Mick felt his body get warm, hands twitching to knead and touch her flash, but he was a patient man. He mastered the game she was trying to play.

Maybe that was the reason she wanted to play in the first place: she knew he would take the reigns, knew he would bottle up all his pent-up frustration only to give it to her in the form of pleasure in bed.

“Two knots?” Mick asked, already starting to twist the strings into a second know, as it was common for Yn to ask for it in a way to secure her bathing suit in place.

“No, just one,” she surprised him with her answer and made his ears perk up with the addition, “It’s easier to take it off that way.”

Mick held in a breath, and bite his lips before letting go of the white piece and giving two taps on her bum to let her know he was finished.

“Thank you, handsome,” Yn turned around, leaving a peck on his pink lips and running back to the bathroom.

Mick knew he was in for a long day. He would go as far as to consider he was in for a long week because that was just Yn. She knew how to play his game, how to feed his imagination, how to push him to the edge only for them to jump together. She could very well keep the provocative jokes going around for the whole vacation. It was just the of them after all. They had yet to christen some spaces in the house.

It wasn’t long before they were both on the boat, the sun scalding against his skin as Mick found just the perfect spot to let the yacht float lightly with the waves. Away from the possibility of people on Land watching and far far away from other boats. It was them, the sun, and the calm waters.

“Love, you have to reapply your sunscreen,” Yn instructs with a bottle of the cream in her hands.

“You should too,” he mumbles when Yn starts putting the lotion on his cheeks, Mick’s hands instantly finding her waist to bring her body closer.

“I will, but your skin is more sensitive than mine. I don’t want you looking like a lobster later,”

“I think I rock the rosy cheeks.” It’s a joke, but he does, in fact, look stunning to Yn, especially after soaking up the sun and showing up with a new color to his face. It’s endearing.

“You do, but I’m not the biggest fan of the same color on your back, for instance,” she starts, skilled hands applying the lotion on his large shoulders. She kneads Mick’s skin and muscles under her fingers, leaving a kiss on the column of his neck and adding, “It wouldn’t be that fun to leave nails mark on your skin when it's sore. Takes away all the fun.”

And oh, did he understand exactly what she was talking about.

As the day went by, her provocative behaviors only got worse. She got bolder, going as far as taking off her bikinis to “tan properly” and leaving the two small pieces of fabric hanging on the yacht’s metal bar. They swam, joked around, and ate the food packed in the morning. It was so exhilarating to be just the two of them without work obligations looming around. Their shoulders seemed more relaxed, eyes lazily admiring everything around, body and mind completely calm.

“I love you,” Yn whispered, giving Mick one more bite of the watermelon they were sharing. His pink lips curled up in a smile, the juice from the fruit escaping and sliding to his chin. Yn admired the image before dipping her face to his and licking the spot clean.

“I love you so much,” Mick echoed, holding her jaw and directing her lips to his mouth. His lips parted, and their tongues found each other in a hungry kiss, the sweet taste of watermelon sugar still present, along with hints of the alcohol they shared earlier. “I appreciate you,” he confided, hands holding her body closer and changing positions so now Yn was directly under him, his torso between her parted legs. “I’m crazy about you,” Mick kept going, warm lips trailing down to her jaw and neck. Yn tangled her fingers between his golden strands in a silent cry for him to not distance his lips from her, for him to keep going forever.

Mick was the perfect lover, and as the sun started to change positions in the sky, bathing their wet bodies in its sunlight, illuminating the scene as if the big star was watching it, Yn couldn’t help but to feel the luckiest woman alive.

“You’re so perfect,” his elbow left the ground, his body lowering on top of hers, and his now free hand squeezed her ass. “Everything about you is perfect,” Mick stated before kissing her hard nipples against the top of the white bikini. She swore she could feel his warm mouth suck it, yet Mick did not move the clothing, just directed his face closer to her again and captured her lips in another kiss.

And as much as Yn expected her boyfriend to lose control and make love to her on top of his boat, she knew he wouldn’t do so, not today, at least. She suspected the make-out session was very much intentional, to make her horny and somehow work as a payback for all the teasing she did throughout the day.

“The sun will set in some hours. We should go back,” Mick mumbled, still assaulting Yn’s neck. “I’m cooking for you tonight,” he added.

Yn smiled, caressing his back, his muscles relaxed under her nails, “I’m starving.”

“I’m gonna feed you well, stuff you full of...” he trailed off because her lips bite his. If Mick kept throwing double-meaning words at her, she wouldn’t be able to wait until they got home. “Full of pasta, Schatz. I’m cooking pasta tonight,” he teased, and they both burst out laughing.

“We better get going if you really wanna cook dinner.” Yn pressed a peck to Mick’s cheeks, and he got up, adjusting his swim shorts and then helping Yn up as well.

The ride back to the coast was peaceful, and they took the time to admire the place a bit more, the clear waters even clearer with the sunlight. Families, friends, and couples, swimming around and enjoying the weather and the free time. Everything seemed inviting and tranquil.

They took the car back to the house, and Mick didn’t let space for Yn to suggest a joint shower. He knew if they got inside the bathroom together, they wouldn’t leave for dinner or anything sooner than in the morning. So he took the safe option and went shower in the guest suite while Yn got ready in their room.

“Did you take classes? It smells fantastic,” Yn voiced when she emerged from the bathroom. Mick was already fully dressed, in black slacks and a white polo shirt, he was barefoot, and his salty hair was sticking everywhere, still naturally drying after the shower.

“I did, in fact,” he chuckled, adding a bit of salt to the sauce. “I used my free day during the France GP to make a gastronomic tour, and they offered a free course on some dishes,” he explained before turning around to face Yn. She saw the moment he gulped, eyes trailing down her figure and taking in the sundress hugging her curves just right.

The green fabric was just the perfect shade against her tanned dark skin, although Mick suspected there wasn’t a color that wouldn’t go with her tone. Anything Yn wore, she did it flawlessly, and he would never get tired of watching her with different sets and colors going around her day as if things were normal. Meanwhile, he was trying to stop his heart from bursting through his throat.

“You like it?” she asked a bubbly tone to her voice, twirling her dress around.

“Did I like it?” Mick echoes, putting his two hands on his hips and doing a once over on Yn again. “I fucking adored it, Schatz,” he panted, and she smiled.

Mick winked at her and turned back to the stove in a poor attempt to calm his nerves. They had to have dinner before eating dessert. He reminded himself.

“I’m taking you on a ride later,” some minutes passed until the German mentioned, now skipping to the pasta dough, it was ready to go into the pan.

“Oh, then let me switch for pants,” Yn pointed at her dress, and Mick smirked.

“Nah, you got just the right outfit for my plans.”

Her eyebrows went up for less than a second before her mind registered the double meaning behind his words, a chuckle passing between her lips. She absolutely adored his dirty side and how it started coming out in hints and soft words before going on full mouthy.

“Let me help you with dinner,” it was not a question, and Mick knew she was plotting something when she got in front of him, reaching for the cupholder when he had yet to give her instructions.

Her ass brushed against his crotch, and he bites his lips to keep both, the groan from escaping his throat, and his hands from grabbing her hips and smashing her flesh harder against him. But Mick knew sex worked like the art of cooking sometimes. You had to be patient with the right timing, not too soon, or it will be undercooked, not too late as it can get burned.

However, Yn was still in her teasy mood, and Mick couldn’t do anything but try to hold himself back. At least until he finished dinner. Yn knew it was taking him everything, especially because Mick loved to feed and fuck her, most of the time on this order, but not always. Nonetheless, considering their lunch was a packed sandwich and fruits back in the boat hours ago, she knew he would make sure she had food on her belly and enough energy to keep up with his stamina.

So dinner prep was harder than Mick anticipated, and for as curious as it seems, it was the same for Yn. She was the one teasing, but Mick, sure as well, knew how to pay with the same coin, so when they sat at the table to eat, they were both flushed and eager to be over with the food. The latter was indeed as tasty as the smell gave out, and Yn did not hold back her praises to her boyfriend about how good his course was and how she was excited for when he would try some new recipe again.

After they were both finished, Mick stood up to take the dishes to the kitchen, claiming it was time for dessert, and for a second, Yn believed him until her boyfriend showed up at the table empty-handed.

Well, not empty-handed per se.

Mick had two protein bards and two bottles of water in hand. A playful smirk was on display on his lips.

“Dessert is a protein bar?” Yn wondered aloud.

“Nah, that’s for later,” Mick murmured before sitting back on his chair and putting up his palm for Yn, silently asking for her hand. She held it, and he motioned for her to get up and stand between his open legs and the table, “Did you already forget what my dessert was supposed to be?” he teased, and Yn felt her legs shake in anticipation. “What? Cat got your tongue, Schatz?”

Mick’s hand brought her body closer by the waist, face dipping and bit and appreciating the view of her hard nipples against the fabric of the green dress right in front of his face. He parted his lips just enough to roll one between his teeth, wetting the fabric, and, consequently, Yn’s panties.

She whimpered.

Mick smiled, finally hearing something from her.

“You made my job a lot easier wearing this piece, babe,” it was said out loud, but it seemed as if Mick was talking to himself for a second. Yn was too absorbed between the feeling of his mouth playing and teasing her boobs and his skilled hands traveling the length of her dress, dipping under it to share her attention.

“Micky,” Yn chanted before he smashed their lips together in a sloppy kiss.

There was a hint of wine mixed with her balm, and Mick had to withdraw for a second to let the guttural noise go past his lips. Yn swallowed it in a new kiss, fingers gripping his hair tightly and bringing him closer, taking what she wanted without an ounce of hesitation.

“You teased me too much. I’m not letting you get away with it,” the German interrupted, dipping his hands under her dress one more time, except this time, his fingers found the side of her panties and pushed it down to her ankles. A grin formed on Mick’s face when he noticed the wet spot in the middle of the clothing. Yn stepped off the piece, and he directed her body right on top of the table, legs spread for him, pussy right in front of his face.

What a dessert.

If his temper weren’t so controlled, he could easily rip his pants and fuck her until everyone on that island knew how hard they went in bed. However, he wasn’t that guy. He knew exactly how to work Yn’s body, and this week was all about extending their pleasure and taking their time.

He had the energy to do so.

And that he did when he held Yn’s ankle, opening her legs even wider while kissing her inner thighs. Yn shudders when his breathing hits her center, and there’s a jolt on her body when his lips finally make contact with her pussy. Mick pays attention to everything, kissing, touching, and tracing. It’s almost infuriating how good he is at it, mainly because some things just happen naturally, such as when he’s licking her entrance and his nose has just the perfect size to bump against her clit in a friction that makes her toes curl but still are not enough to make her cum.

And Mick knows that. He knows exactly what his body and actions do to Yn, and he has fun in the process. He enjoys every stage of sex with Yn, and maybe that’s why they find solace in giving each other pleasure. Mick gets hard just at the thought of giving head to Yn, and you could definitely say the same about Yn.

“You so wet,” he jibes, sucking her clit just enough to make her moan louder. “Look at me, Schatz, look at the mess you’re making on my face,” and didn’t she look?!

The scene of Mick between her legs, jaw, and mouth glistening with her juices, eyes a shade darker, and lips parted, ready to dive in again, was enough to bring another whimper out of her.

“Please, Mick,” she pleaded, and his sly grin only grew bigger.

“You spent the whole day testing me. Now you’re going to take it like a good girl. I’m not even close to finishing with you.”

And then his lips were attached to her clit again, sucking, licking, and drawing figures. When her hips roll off the table and up to his mouth, pushing his face impossibly closer, Mick groans, lacing his arm around her torso and keeping her in place, “Be. Fucking. Patient.” Each word was punctuated by a flick of his tongue on her most sensitive spot, and Yn can’t help but cry his name.

“Babe, please, use your fingers,” it’s a whine, a plea, after minutes of Mick lazily sucking and licking her pussy. Each time he does it gets wetter. It’s like her body is hanging on his mercy and his wants.

Yn feels his lips pull against her pussy before he withdraws, kissing around her legs, and finally, fucking finally –she sighs– he inserts one finger inside. It’s not enough, though it stretches her just right until a second and longer finger makes its way inside too. Yn’s body shakes from pleasure, and she squeezes her tits harder under her own hands.

“Mick, it feels so good,” the praise escapes between her lips, and he takes the opportunity to insert yet another finger. This time she screams his name, and the blonde knows she’s getting closer to her climax.

She was looking fucking fantastic in front of him, and, for a second, he saw himself considering the possibility of delaying her orgasm for a while longer, only to watch her body sprawled on top of the table, legs spread, dress bunched up her hips, one of its sleeves unabashedly down revealing her hard nipple and tit, hair around her head like a crown.

She was a sigh for sore eye.

Mick moved his fingers inside her delivering motions he knew would bring her closer to the edge. He let go of her hips just to find her tits and pinch one between his pointer and forefinger. Mick did it all without stopping his fingers inside of her. He explored, kissed, and licked a bit more, and he did it all, grinning up at her like a devil.

“Best fucking dessert ever,” Mick vowed.

He watched as Yn bite her lip, her hips pushing closer to him, back arching and toes curling, he watched it all unfold, and he wanted to keep that image engraved on his mind forever. The image and the feeling of her fingers threading through his hair, pushing his face closer to her entrance, seeking her own high without an ounce of shame.

The wait was so worth it.

“C’mon, Schatz, you can let go,” he mumbled against her pussy, taking her clit between his lips and rolling his tongue just right to throw Yn over the edge.

She screamed his name. She whimpered at him. It was him she praised and thanked as she rode her high with his fingers still inside her, lips and tongue helping her through the wave so it would last longer.

Mick smiled against her thighs before pushing up the chair and kissing his way up to her neck. His fingers worked on her dress to remove it completely, and Yn could only sigh in a relaxed instance while her boyfriend worked on the sweet spot on her neck.

“How was dessert?” she whispered, and Mick chuckled.

“Fucking phenomenal, Schatz. It tasted like heaven,” his words were delivered while his ocean-blue eyes stared right into her, and her body shuddered deliciously. “Here,” Mick dipped his face close to her lips, and Yn was quick to kiss him feeling the wet spots on his jaw work against her skin.

She groaned, and he grounded his hard-on against her lower half involuntarily.

“Fuck me, just fuck me, Mick,” and oh, there was something so dirty about the whole scene. Yn was lying completely naked, asking to be fucked, while Mick was still dressed up.

“Not yet. Opposed to you, I was patient, and so I deserve to have dessert again,” He smirked. “I want you to listen attentively ok, love?” Yn could only nod, and Mick kept going. “We’re going to the bedroom, and you’re going to sit on my face. Not that hovering shit you like to pull up sometimes, you’re full-on sitting, and I’m gonna eat you out for a bit longer, just so you can understand how things work when you tease your boyfriend the whole day. Then, and only then, I’m fucking you, ass up, face down. If you behave, you get to have a fourth orgasm.”

Yn nodded again, and Mick shook his head, “I wanna hear your voice, Schatz.”

“I’m sorry, Micky. I won’t tease you anymore, and I’m sitting on your face just like you want me to.”

And that she did.

“Good girl,” the blonde praised when Yn kept her hips still for him to insert a finger inside. Her walls involuntarily wrapped around his digits. She was way too needy, and he almost gave up his games to give her what she wanted. Her orgasm came in shockwaves, this time harder than the first, and her body toppled backward, back finding the soft mattress between a series of swears and praises directed to her boyfriend.

Mick kissed her naked body, fingers lazily caressing her sweaty skin, praising her silently. He reached for the water bottle, uncapped it, and planted a kiss on her jaw before handing it to her. Yn motioned for him to hold her up, and he laughed, putting her body in a seating position, supporting her back in case she fell. Yn gulped down the water and sighed, enjoying the break.

“Do you want a protein bar now, meine Süße?”

“Please,” she put her hands together in a plea and then took another swing from the bottle. Mick chuckled yet again and opened the small bar handing it to his girlfriend. “Thank you,” Yn breathed.

She passed him the bottle, and Mick finished the water while watching her munch on the bar. Yn glanced at her fingers stained with chocolate syrup, and before she could clean them, Mick’s lips were attached around them licking them clean.

“Tell me you’re finally fucking me, Mick,” Yn cried out, “I love it when you give me head, but right now, I need your dick. Inside me,” she added the last part running her nails over his neck. “Or you could let me suck you too. I wouldn't mind.”

And it was crazy how crude and free she could be around him without fear of judgment, never had Yn, in all her life, experienced love this way. The kind of love that can be both dirty and still warm and make you giggle. Mick was the perfect balance between both. He was a gentleman, he was careful, he was loving. But he knew when to be rough and dirty-mouthed, and oh, when he did, it was like experiencing a piece of heaven.

“You don’t deserve it right now,” Schumacher pondered, caressing her jaw, his fingers drawing around her cheekbones and coming straight into her open mouth. Yn sucked two digits in, twirling her tongue around and hollowing her cheeks, which cost a shudder followed by a grunt from Mick.

“But you do. C’mon, Micky.”

He shook his head, traced her face one more time, and then started to strip himself. When all his clothes are on the ground, Mick doesn’t waste any time fitting his body between Yn’s legs, mouth naturally finding hers in a languid kiss. His fingers knead the flesh of her ass pulling out pants from her. Mick could feel the familiar and impatient rise of her hips, pussy leaking her juices on the naked skin of his abs, “You’re gonna turn around now, stick your ass up, lie your face down, and let me fuck you just right, ok?” There’s a beat of silence, Yn trying to keep from trashing under Mick and begging him to just stick it in. She was so sensitive it wouldn’t take long for her third orgasm to hit. “I asked you a question, Schatz,” Mick pinched her nipple between his pointer and forefinger, and Yn whined but gathered the energy she just got from the protein barn to turn around and do exactly as told, once again body completely exposed and opened to her boyfriend. The confidence in the effects her curves had on him, and the certainty of a reward coming, only made the moment more electric.

When Mick finally slides in, they both let out shaky breaths and although his dick goes easily all the way inside with the help of her moisture, her body still needs a second to accommodate his full size. The angle is just perfect. Mick has access to the headboard to steady himself if needed, he controls the pace by holding her waist, and his hands can travel around her whole body with ease. And that’s what he does.

With one of his hands positioned on Yn’s waist, he massages her ass with the other one and bends his body just enough to leave a wet kiss on the place where her neck and shoulders meet. She whines again because the movement just changed his position inside. Yn silently looks for his hands, squeezing them, and it’s all the confirmation Mick needs to now direct both hands to her midsection, and pull all the way out before slamming his hips against hers in a swift motion.

His eyes roll back when she shudders and moans his name loudly. The Schumacher was grateful the house was theirs and only theirs for the whole week. Otherwise, everyone would hear what the couple was up to.

Hips snapping again, it was Mick’s turn to let out his noises, hands coming down on Yn’s ass in a sharp slap when she rocked back against him just right and hit a spot that sent both of them to see stars.

“Micky, you’re filling me up so good,” Yn panted.

“You’re such a dirty girl,” he husked, and she moaned louder. “Go ahead. You can moan as loud as you want. Let me hear you, babe. Who’s filling you up good, huh?”

“Answer. Me.” He punctuated each word with a deep stroke, and Yn could feel the coil starting on her stomach and traveling to her lower belly.

“You, Mick- oh fuck,” Yn choked. “You’re the only one to make me feel this way.”

The Schumacher bent his body, nipping at Yn’s neck without stopping the snap of his hips. Yn pressed her eyes closed, trying to stand on her elbows, Mick’s lips quick to find hers in a sloppy kiss, smiling and moaning, swallowing every dirty word whispered. His fingers traveled to her front and flicked against her clit, pressing and pinching it, bringing Yn to the edge.

“I’m about to cum, Mick.”

“No, you’re not coming yet,” he breathes the order, lips kissing and biting her neck, hips thrusting, and fingers moving. It’s too much, and Yn can’t help but voice it loudly. It’s way too good, but it’s also way too much. She wouldn’t be able to hold back, and just when she was about to reach that peaceful space, to snap the coil on her belly, Mick stopped everything.

“Mick!” It was a frustrated plead, and he turned her on her back, smiling up like a devil.

“Want you to look at me,” he rasped, and she mewled when he buried himself inside her again without much ceremony. The new angle brought more intimacy, and when her legs opened wider, lacing themselves around it, they knew it was enough to make them cum even faster than they would before.

Yn raked her nails through the skin of his back, and Mick rutted harder against her pussy, his hands looking for leverage on the headboard before sliding off and thrusting in harder. He repeated the motion some more until Yn grabbed him by his golden chain and smashed their foreheads together, “Tell me what you want. Use your words,” Mick ordered.

“Let me cum, kiss me, touch me,” she begged, and Mick rolled his eyes back from pleasure. There was something so unique about having that side of her, a side only he could see.

“Spread your legs wider, touch yourself, and don’t take your eyes off me, m’kay?”

“Ok,” Yn nodded and did exactly as told, fingers lazily playing with her clit while he kept his pace going. Her free hand found his shoulders holding it for support when Mick ducked his head and took her boob inside his mouth, tongue swirling around the bud and teeth scraping it lightly.

She could feel her body dissolving into pleasure, pushing her to the edge, toes curling, eyes involuntarily starting to shut, but there he was, face near her again, kissing and nipping her jaw and eyes finding hers and then sinking his dick in a hard thrust, just what Yn needed to topple over, nails digging harder on Mick’s back.

“Don’t hold back, Schatz,” he cooed, slowing his movements but not stopping. “You did so well. Can you take just one more?”

She was still dizzy in ecstasy, adrenaline coursing through her body. Her fingers tangled on his chain again, and Mick obliged, kissing her hard and starting a new series of thrusting, gridding, and hutting, now searching for his own relief.

Yn contracted her pussy, her body still riding the orgasm. It was hell and heaven, and Mick could only take so much. He tried closing his eyes, but it was her turn to bark a simple order, “Keep your eyes on mine, Mick. I wanna see you cum.”

And that he did. He stared deep into Yn’s eyes while his body switched paces on its own accord, from fast and hard, to lazy and deep, and then hard again, until he couldn’t take it anymore, his features going dark, pink lips spelling all the most profanes and dirty things imaginable before his hips stilled coming inside her, taking yet another orgasm from Yn.

They collapsed together in bed, his body on top, dick still twitching inside her.

“That was…woah-” Yn’s voice was raspy, and Mick chuckled, moving his face to the side to plant a kiss on her neck.

Yn’s fingers threaded through Mick’s short strands, massaging his scalp while they evened out their breaths.

“Is there more from that pasta we had for dinner?” Yn asked, and the German kissed his way to her chest, resting his head there and letting out a sigh of pleasure.

“I’m gonna grab it for you, and then we’re going at it again in the shower. I’m not done with you yet.” He reached for the other water bottle by the nightstand and unclasped it, taking a swing and pushing it toward Yn.

“I guess that’s what I get for dating an athlete, huh?” she joked before sitting up slightly and sipping her water.

“Oh, but you love it, don’t you?”

Yn smiled bright and big. Her body was floating after four orgasms and so much affection, “I do. I love you.”

taglist: @sachaa-ff @ferrariloverr @kenanlotus0 @mellowpizzapuppy @mickslover @Dalsuwaha @formulakay3 @mishaandthebrits @iloveyou3000morgan @crimeshowjunkie

#requests #millie writes smut #f1 imagines #mick schumacher #mick schumacher imagine #f1 imagine #mick schumacher x reader #millie writes #ms47 #mick schumacher x you

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volterraqueen · 5 months

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Enchanted ~ Caius Volturi One-Shot

~~~

A/N ~ this is probably my favorite piece I’ve ever written and I hope y’all enjoy it 💜 posting off moblie so I apologize for any formatting issues. Also this is dedicated to @felixschokehold and @mell1806-blog who helped hype me up to finally write something lol.

Word count ~ 1122

Summary ~ Your first kiss with Caius 💜

~~~

Caius had caught you walking home alone earlier in the night.

Again.

It had become quite a common occurrence for your roommate to leave you alone while she left different clubs and restaurants with strangers each night.

It did used to hurt your feelings getting left at various places, especially by her. But now you didn’t mind as much as it meant more time with your red-eyed creature who couldn’t seem to stay away from you. Just about every night he would find you, and walk home with you. Caius would gently loop your arm with his and scold you for how dangerous it was for a young woman to be walking alone at night. He never missed a moment to be alone with you, and tonight was no exception.

Sorta.

Demetri and Felix, who he described as his coven mates and in a way business partners were never far from his side. While they had been very polite in the few times you had met and gave you and Caius plenty of space, they honestly scared you more than you wanted to admit. But they were nowhere to be found tonight.

Thankfully.

Although deep down you knew they were close.

But as far as you knew, it was just you and Caius alone as you stepped into your apartment. A first time occurrence for Caius. As you showed him the small space he was quiet throughout, there wasn’t much to show. Two small bedrooms and one bathroom and then the kitchen that was connected to the living room. Caius was more curious about the space you occupied more than anything.

He curiously looked around your room as you got clothes for a needed shower, your voice filled the room as you randomly babbled about your day to him. His eyes scanned your bookshelf, which were mostly fantasy novels mixed in with various college textbooks. He ran his fingers over your unmade bed, along your notebooks filled with various subjects, and finally came back to your side to trace the bottom of your spine to the top. His cold hand made you shiver.

Setting your clothes down you turned around to face his direction. You couldn’t help but smile up at him. Eyes twinkled as you moved your hands to rest on his chest. “I’m really glad you are here,” You whispered to him.

Moving your arms you pulled him into a closer embrace. As his arms followed suit he replied looking down at you. “As am I, Mí Cara, you can learn many things about someone by the way they live. And you, for some reason, I cannot know enough of.”

Being so close to Caius almost made you dizzy. There was no heartbeat as your head rested on his chest. No warmth. Just his natural intoxicating scent. You had never been this close for it to hit you as hard as it is right now. You could stay here forever.

Thoughts of a shower knocked you out of the trance he had you in. You very reluctantly pulled away. “Let me take a shower and you can get to know me as much as you want.”

~~~~~

“It is quite rude to leave your guest waiting for too long.” He sighed, pretending to be annoyed as you sat down beside him. Caius lightly pulled you closer to his side, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear, before wrapping his arms around you. His amused smile came back as he looked down at your grinning face.

You couldn’t help but laugh. Time meant nothing to this creature.

“You’ve waited a long time for me, I figured a couple more minutes wouldn’t hurt.” You teased him back; Giggling as you pulled a blanket over yourself, and reaching for your phone to stream music on your TV.

Caius didn’t seem to produce any body heat or even retain heat, a blanket was definitely needed.

“Taylor Swift?” He questioned you. “I am not familiar with her music”

“Really? Never?” You were surprised, especially when he’s mentioned in the past he is a very old creature, with all that age, how could he be oblivious to her music?

“Well we will start out with my favorite song then.” Picking up the phone again, you put on Enchanted.

There I was again tonight

Forcing laughter, faking smiles

Same old tired, lonely place

Walls of insincerity, shifting eyes and vacancy

Vanished when I saw your face

All I can say is, it was enchanting to meet you

A small sigh escaped you as you cuddled against Caius, letting yourself enjoy the moment. With one hand you grabbed him and intertwined your fingers. They were just as pale as the rest of his body, and just as cold. The longer you gazed at them the more you noticed what seemed to be… bite marks? Scattered all over. You couldn’t help the sudden worry that came over you. Who would hurt Caius like this?

“Those scars are very old and long since healed mía cara.” Caius assured you. His voice lifted your eyes to connect with his. They were a brighter red than when you last saw them. Similar to a flawless Ruby, if they could even compare to his beauty.

“These hands have seen many battles, and will possibly see many more conflicts to come. But I can assure you these hands will never bring harm to you.” He continued, while holding your gaze. His free hand came up to gently stroke your face.

“You have not been scared of my presence the entire time we’ve been in each other’s company, I would like to keep it that way. Which will be more difficult the more you see of me and know of me. Just know Mia Cara, you are one I could never bring harm to. You have my word.” Caius promised you. His red eyes were intense with emotion looking into yours. Those words genuinely came from his heart. It left you speechless.

Speaking of hearts, yours felt like it was going a million miles a minute. You could feel every beat, every rush of blood to different parts of your body. The mix of his words and the close proximity to you had such an effect on you. And he knew.

Caius kept his eyes on yours as he slowly moved in closer. His hand which had been stroking your face, had moved downwards and rested on your neck. Feeling your warm skin and the thud of your heart underneath. His breath was cool and intoxicating as it hit your face. You couldn’t wait any longer.

You closed the gap that separated your lips.

All I know is, I was enchanted to meet you.

#volturi #caius #caius twilight #caius volturi #the volturi #caius x reader #Caius Volturi x reader #volturi x reader #twilight #Caius Volturi one shot

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be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie · 11 months

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Lol I saw someone say that Mazey Day had no message. YOU'RE GONNA SAY THAT?? ABOUT THE MOST OBVIOUS ONE?? IN A POST PRINCESS DIANA'S DEATH WORLD? POST THE FREE BRITTANY MOVEMENT?

Even ignoring the paparazzi are demons and turning celebrities into objects to be objectified and commodified (which is a very common Black Mirror concept) is bad message, there is the more general throughline of the season that I think Mazey Day was heavy handed on.

Pairing the paparazzi commentary and the true crime commentary from Loch Henry, it's hard not to see what we are repeatedly told. They tell us directly several times that bad things sell more than positive things. Mazey Day was that times 1000, and planted into a supernatural take on our world (the spectacle of Mazey's transformation made worse by the paparazzi interference, honestly not a bad twist for such a message). The through line of bad things being of higher value was VERY strong this season. The direct question from the interviewer; why is Joan is Awful called Joan is Awful, why so negative? And the fake Netflix producer answers; because people find good things less believable, and negative shows make them transfixed in horror. Pia says to Davis in Loch Henry, the question is how could someone do something this awful? How could something like this happen? People have to watch to try to figure it out. She can't stop watching the tape of Davis' parents torturing their victims even when stopping earlier could have potentially saved her life. Mazey Day is the same concept, but more direct. Hector says several times how much a shot would be worth, and the prices get higher and higher depending on how horrific the situation is. And in the end, even after acting like she cared and was different than all the other paparazzi, Bo still takes the shot of Mazey as she kills herself. Even Mazey seems to accept this is what has to be done in her final moments.

I understand why people are having an aversion to the supernatural twist, although I personally really enjoyed it as like I said, it ratchets up the impact of the message. We get to see in gory glory the ruin these people have on Mazey's life, right away, whereas in real life it takes years of damage. Even Bo, who thought she was helping, doesn't know Mazey or her situation, which is instantly proven to us. Her interference resulted in all of the deaths that followed, and ultimately Mazey's. The "crackpot holistic medicine" doctor might have been able to help her. He had instilled some hope, saying they would take it one day at a time. If they had all left Mazey alone, this might have been able to happen.

#i been THINKING ABOUT THIS SEASON NON STOP #haven't felt this way since season four #also almost non stop bangers #mazey day #joan is awful #loch henry #black mirror #black mirror spoilers #melissa og #melissa on black mirror

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 6 months

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Hellfire (Priest! Miguel O’Hara x Demon! Fem! Reader) one shot

Oooooo Im very happy about this one. Based of the song from the hunchback of Norte dame. No idea how this got to the word count it did lol. Not proofread.

Religious imagery(Catholicism specifically), questioning of faith, the lyrics of the song does contain a certain that can be seen as distasteful/offensive, reader is a demonic entity (almost like a succubus), nsfw content but no smut (mdni), semi-dub con(???) (reader trying to convince Miguel to give into her, but it’s mostly teasing touches and stuff.), cursing, mentions of hell.

(Y/N)- Your name.

Word count: 2.6K

Masterlist

—

Confiteor deo

Omnipotenti

Beatae Mariae

Semper virgini

Beato Michaeli archangelo

Sanctis apostolis

Omnibus sanctis

—

With a heavy sigh, Miguel placed his rosary and his bible on his office’s desk. Another Sunday completed, all the services for the day were finished, along with clean up and the classes for the kiddos. It was now getting dark, the sun setting, leaving a beautiful painting of pink and orange hues in the sky. The church bells struck once, twice, three times, then one last time, signifying another hour having passed as Miguel put on his winter coat and gloves, because surely,it was still snowing outside , his heavy footsteps echoing throughout the empty ancient church. He stops at the start of the wooden pews, turning towards the front and placing his right hand to the top of his forehead.

“En el nombre del Padre.” (In the name of the father.)

His hand travels to the middle of his chest.

“Y del Hijo.” (The son)

To his left shoulder.

“Y del Espíritu…” (And the holy…)

To his right shoulder.

“Santo, Amén.” (spirit, Amen.)

Lastly, he brings his hand up and places a gentle kiss on the side of it, his eyes never leaving the stain glass portrait of the Virgin Mary that hung in the middle of the top of the stage as he said the prayer, before turning back around and exiting the church, a familiar sense of dread filling his chest as he closes the door behind him.

—

Beata Maria, you know I am a righteous man

Of my virtue I am justly proud (et tibit pater)

—

Miguel couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t sleep.

He rubs his large hands over his face, his eye bags have been getting darker lately, he’s been lacking energy, and thanks to the little sleep he’s been receiving, it was only making it harder for him to fight off the temptation of sin. But it’s not like he could have a full night's rest, not when… Miguel shook his head in an attempt to rid the vile and unholy thoughts. Maybe tonight will be different, that was the lie he told himself every night.

Miguel placed his toothbrush back into the little blue cup onto his bathroom sink, bringing up a small, white hand towel to clean off the excess water that was spread on his lips, and began to run down his chin and onto his neck.

what a delicious sight.

Once he finally finished cleaning up the water on his chin, he dragged the towel over his sink counter to clean the water he had spilled while brushing, before placing it back on its little hook and exited the bathroom, turning off the lights and closing the door.

Maybe he wouldn’t have the same problem every night if he didn’t look so tempting, only sleeping in gray sweatpants.

He does a once-over of his house, making sure all the doors and windows are locked. Before finishing stopping in front of his bedroom, freezing right before the threshold of the door. His hands go up and join together in a praying signal, whispering for protection under his breath.

Like that’s ever helped him.

—

Beata Maria, you know I'm so much purer than

The common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd (quia peccavi nimis)

—

The second he took the step into his bedroom, he felt a shiver run down his back. It felt like the temperature dropped once he walked in, he swore if he focused hard enough, he’d be able to see his own breath.

Despite his fight or flight senses screaming at him to run, he continued to venture further into his master bedroom. A simple wooden cross with golden accents hung over his bed, his eyes fixated on it. Miguel O’Hara, was a man of faith, he had to be in order to be the priest of his community’s church. He’s poured his whole life, soul and being into his religion, having been raised catholic since he was a mere infant. So why was it that every night, when he’d stared at the cross over his bed, the one that was supposed to protect him, did he start to doubt?

—

Then tell me, Maria, why I see her dancing there?

Why her smoldering eyes still scorch my soul? (cogitatione)

—

It always started the same.

He’d sleep somewhat soundly for a good amount of the night, once he was able to get his mind to stop racing.

He looked so adorable asleep, despite his colossal size.

He moves a lot, so his bed always becomes a bit disheveled, a pillow on the floor or a blanket halfway off the bed. Some light snores and some drool dripping out the corner of his mouth.

How could such a holy man be so delicious looking?

It was 3 am. Witching hour.

“Wake…”

“… up~”

“Wake up.”

—

I feel her, I see her

The sun caught in her raven hair

Is blazing in me out of all control (verb o et opere)

—

Miguel’s eyes shot open. Chest heaving as he takes rapid short breaths, his body covered in a thin layer of sweat. His eyes darting around his dark room in an attempt to find the source of the voice, only lifting his head as he did so.

He knew you were here.

Finally he finds a pair of dark glowing eyes at the foot of his bed, how did he miss it in the first place? He chalks it up to panic. A silence fell over the two of you for what felt like hours, an all too familiar sense of panic (and to Miguel’s horror, slight arousal) filled his senses. Finally, you break the silence.

“My my my… if it isn’t my favorite priest…” You said in a sing-songy tone, as you slowly climbed onto the bed, making Miguel’s stomach twist. He should push you off of him, he should banish you to the depths of hell, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it for some reason. He was paralyzed. You stopped crawling once you were fully over him. “Oh father… help me for I have sinned.” You said in a mocking tone, a shiver ran down his back once again as he let out a shaky breath, feeling your sharp fingernails trail down his chest, and stopping at the waistband of his sweats tugging at the band slightly.

—

Like fire

Hellfire

—

Finally coming to his senses, (much to your dismay) he finally pushes off you. Landing on the floor to the left side of the bed, with a small “oof” as he quickly scrambled to the over side of the bed in or to create distant between the two of you.

“Get out.” Miguel growled as he readjusted his sweats. You didn’t respond, rather, you brought your hand up to move some hair that had gotten into your face as you slowly walked around the bed and towards him. You looked how you always did when you would visit him. You could even be mistaken for a human if it weren’t for the horns, the wings and the long nails.

“Don’t act like that now, father. Aren’t you tired of this little game we play every night?” You asked with a head tilt, continuing to walk towards him as you spoke, your sentence coming out slow and drawn out, your tone nothing but pure seduction. Miguel closes his eyes as if they would deafen your words. Every step you take forward, he takes one back, before the back of his knees eventually hits the back of his bedside table, his hands going behind him to help stabilize himself to keep from falling back on top of it. “You pretend you don’t enjoy this-“

“I don’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you hard, father?” You smirked as you spoke., eyes drifting down to a very visible bulge in his sweats. “Have I finally done my job? Will this be the night you fall victim to temptation?” You said in a surprised, yet smug tone. Miguel felt his face burn up, a hand going behind him in search of something. “I will say, you do look quite handsome on your knees. I can give you something so much better to worship than God. You just have to give in to me, give in, father. Give in. Give in. Give in. Give. In.” You chant those two words like a mantra, your eyes begin to glow as you got closer, you were at arms length now. Your steps and words came to a sudden halt.

—

This fire in my skin

This burning desire

Is turning me to sin

—

Your eyes narrowed at the rosary Miguel was holding up in front of you in an attempt to protect himself from you.

“That’s not a very nice way to treat your guest.”

“You’re lucky I don’t banish you back to hell where you belong.” His words make you scoff and roll your eyes.

“Oh please, you would never. You and I both know that. Now put that thing down so I can corrupt my favorite human.” You attempted to move closer, only for him to double down. “Tell me Miguel, if you were really gonna ‘banish’ me or whatever. Why haven’t you done so already? I’ve been coming to you for a few weeks now? If you really wanted to get rid of me for good, you would have done so already. You’re a priest for god’s sake-“

“Don’t you dare use the Lord’s name in vain.”

“I’m a demon.” You deadpanned.

He hated to admit that you were right, he hated that he knew that you were. He’s surprised that you haven’t gotten bored in this game of cat and mouse yet. Every night you would appear in his room at the sametime, attempting to seduce him while he spat empty threats at you. Why hasn't he just gotten rid of you yet? It’s not like he doesn’t have the power to do so or the equipment. Maybe he was going insane, maybe he was losing it, or maybe…

No. He couldn’t.

He can’t just throw away his whole life’s work just because a demon who happened to be conventional pretty keeps pestering every night. He couldn’t allow himself to give in to temptation. He wouldn’t allow himself to be corrupted by your glowing eyes that seem like they could stare into his soul forever, or your sultry voice that made his heart skip a beat, your plump lips that would pull up into a smirk whenever you’d question him, how the say you would tilt your head made him weak in the knees- oh how he wish he could worship your body on his knees like you were a goddess- no, fuck.

“Get out.” Miguel repeated, his voice becoming tighter, his knuckles turning white. He takes a step forward, you take one back and frown. “Get. Out!”

He blinks, you're gone.

—

It's not my fault (mea culpa)

I'm not to blame (mea culpa)

It is the gypsy girl the witch who sent this flame (mea maxima culpa)

—

It’s been a few weeks since your last visit, much to Miguel’s surprise. He should be relieved, he should be thanking the heavens up above that he was finally able to extract such a vile presence from his life, he doesn’t feel a pit in his stomach when he enters his own home anymore, it doesn’t feel like the temperature in his room is 20 degrees colder than it is in the hallway leading into it anymore, he doesn’t feel like like there’s this constant ghost lingering over his shoulder anymore. So why wasn't he at peace?

Your lack of presence was almost just as unbearable. In a twisted way, he became accustomed to it. Maybe this was another of your tricks, attempting to perform classic conditioning on him. Get him used to you by the constant attention from your nightly visits, butter him up despite his protest, making his body burn up with the way your touch lingers on his body too long, the way his eyes always drop to your mouth when you lick your lips, the way the word father would leave your lips in a way that made it sound like you’ve just sinned and he was the only one who could help you reach eternal salvation again, just to pull it all away from him within a snap of a finger to see how long it would take for him to crumble. You were Pavlov, and Miguel was just the dog whose mouth started to water at the sound of a bell.

The church was empty besides himself, he was kneeling before the crucifix that was placed next to the portrait of the Virgin Mary, eyes closed, his hands folded together in a fist as he he dips his head down, nose touching his hands as he silently prayed for forgiveness for allowing you to slowly chip away at his self-restraint. He heard the large front door open, he didn’t open his eyes but his head came up as he spoke.

“I’m sorry my child, the church is closed.”

“I needed to see you though, father.”

Miguel’s eyes snapped open. He knew that voice all too well.

—

It's not my fault (mea culpa)

If in God's plan (mea culpa)

He made the Devil so much stronger than a man (mea maxima culpa)

—

“How-“ Miguel was stunned, not only have you reappeared after weeks, you were also standing inside of a church, his church. You looked so beautiful, you looked like an actual human, your nails, although still sharp and point looked more like acrylics rather then claws, you weren’t dawning your bat-like wings and your horns weren’t poking out of your hair, if Miguel had passed by you on the street, he’d be none the wiser. It only made him crack more, imagining what it would be like in a different world where there wasn’t shame and taboo keeping him away from you. Where you aren’t a soulless, heartless creature. “How’s you get in here?” He finally got the question out, his eyes narrowed into slits as he took a step back, almost fumbling his footing and tripping.

“We can enter churches if we find a weak point.” You stated as you made your way towards him, Miguel’s eyes dropped instantly to your hips, how they swayed with each step you take, his mouth went dry and he instinctively licked his lips. “I wonder what that weak point is?” You teased as you stopped in front of him, your lips pulling up into a smirk.

—

Protect me, Maria

Don't let this siren cast her spell

Don't let her fire sear my flesh and bone

Destroy Esmeralda

And let her taste the fires of hell

Or else let her be mine and mine alone

—

He don’t know how it happened, one minute he was standing face to face in front of you, then the next, you both were in his office in the back of the church, you were sitting on top of his desk as he kneeled in front of you, his rough hands wondering and running around your legs, and he planted soft light kisses all over them. In between each one, he’d whispered a small pile of forgiveness from God, but he couldn’t stop himself anymore.

—

Hellfire

Darkfire

Now gypsy, it's your turn

Choose me or your pyre

Be mine or you will burn

—

“You never told me your name…” Miguel mumbled into your skin, his face buried against your inner thigh as he looked up at you.

“You wouldn’t be able to pronounce my actual name. Just… call me (Y/N).” You cooed as you ran a hand through his hair, before bringing it down to his cheek. Miguel leaned into your touch, closing his eyes. He was completely and utterly yours now.

“(Y/N)…” He whispered the name like a prayer.

—

Kyrie eleison

God have mercy on her

Kyrie eleison

God have mercy on me

Kyrie eleison

But she will be mine

Or she will burn

#Spotify #miguel o hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 x reader #astv miguel #astv spiderman 2099 #miguel o’hara au #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 fanfic #spiderman 2099

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darkdemeter · 15 days

Note

I keep thinking about hate sex between Wanda and wolf!R

Just an absolutely vicious battle for dominance with no real victor lol (in the morning they both look like they fought an army of feral cats, the whole room looks like a bomb went off, and the bed is just torn to shreds)

*𝑨𝒏𝒐𝒏'𝒔 𝑻𝒂𝒃, 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑨𝑵𝑰𝑴𝑨𝑳𝑺

WANDA MAXIMOFF COLUMN GN/Female/Male Werewolf! Reader | 1.2K(words)

Depictions of (aggressive) SMUT, minors DNI — hate sex — marking — enemies (with benefits) — angst — dominance and power struggle — profanity — minor monster fucking — undisclosed smut variants — overstim — I think that's it?

Enjoy, lovely reader! ────────────────┘

Hate is a very strong word. But it’s the most accurate depiction of yours and Wanda’s relationship. No, you weren’t a couple. Not by a long shot. You hate each other too much to let anything else intervene with what you have.

For starters, Wanda hates how much you bite. It gets to a level that she’s beginning to run out of excuses and ways to hide the many, many marks. At first, it started small with a few here and there, but now it’s grown into a full possessive display.

She hates how smug you are the following morning when she stumbles into the common area, no less with an audience, she has to make her way about as normal as she can; all the while, you adorn the largest, triumphant smirk.

She moans louder, the friction of your mound rubbing against her clit elicits a dirty sound passed her lips. Her legs wrap around your waist tighter as she pulls you closer, her fingers rake through the length of your hair and pull on your roots, whispering in your ear each and every little thing she hates about you. All the while, you mark her skin with darkened bites that fester with your conquest.

Your body pins her against the wall with nowhere to go, your claws tear streaks into the once unscathed wall, flakes of creamy white paint and drywall are discarded in a trail that follows you as you each bear into the other.

It’s an entertaining fight. It always is. You push and she pushes back, and the rhythm of that never vanishes. She shoves her shoulder up to keep you from laying another victory bite on her, and you in kind don’t take a liking to that, your teeth bare into a snarl.

“You asked for this,” you growl.

She ignores the flare of amber in your eyes as she uses her magic against you, pushing you away.

You hate how she expects you to be something you’re not. Never can be. She tries to force submission into you, to train you into her little pet, when that is not what you intend to be. You’ve had enough of someone being the dictator. You’re done with letting someone else be the one in control.

You hate how she uses her magic to strip you down, hold you down, and have her fun with you. The games she plays with the scarlet figment dancing at her fingertips, tendrils of tainted unfairness that go against any law of nature, that take away any inhibition to fight back.

When she tries to storm away from you, your hand moves forward and latches hold of her, entangling your fingers in her hair. She cries out, back and neck arching, and you sweep in close to mark the column along her neck.

You chuckle at her resolve to fight back. Your other hand loops around her, trapping her to your front and grinding your hips into the curve of her arse that fits oh so right against you.

“Not so fun when you’re trapped, is it?” you rasp to the shell of her ear, breath hot and laced with the wolf’s longing hunger.

“Not really,” she admits, “but it is when you are.”

She catches you off your guard, turning herself, she forces you backwards some feet away. Before you can close distance, her hands articulate just how she wants you; on your knees.

She hates the way you hold her down on any surface and make her scream and writhe in pleasure. Everything gets destroyed the moment you both become engrossed in winning this game. The couch is torn to bits, the coffee table is tilted off its even axis and supporting one unbroken leg. The walls never mend completely from their scars, and the trail of destruction follows you into the bedroom.

You’re ruthless at this point. Your skin is clawed up, the angry paths of her nails leave red streaks like tattoos, only the fur can hide them when you let the wolf go. Her body grows hot with each orgasm you pull from her. In your hatred for each other, there is a give and take. One that you don’t particularly acknowledge or thank.

It’s a muted exchange.

You hate the challenge in her voice. “Is that all you got, Dog? I thought wolves were feral animals in the bed—”

The unhinged roll of your hips against hers catches the rest of her words before she has a chance to bury herself six feet under.

Not that such a remark should faze you. She begs for more and then cries she can’t give you another one. That it’s too much. You hate the way she lies through her bliss, her clenched teeth biting down those moans you want to hear her scream until the compound’s foundations quiver and shake.

The headboard of the bed raps fast and hard, the wall behind it bleeding with crumbling drywall and the sheets are shorn into threads of fabric, bodies melded together, slapping in combined unison.

“Right there, Wolf,” she mewls, hands flying to grasp the bars of the headboard the moment she has you on your back. She hates how you try to lay claim to her time in control and you fucking hate how she moves like a goddess. Her hair sticks to her forehead and down the bend of her back, her skin riddled coldly with sweat that is only curable with the heat of your body and being close to you.

“Come on, baby, cum for me,” you groan, right on the precipice of your high. Her knuckles turn white from her hold on the headboard but its stripped away from her at the moment you flip her over, pinning her on her stomach and pulling her hips to you and her legs open.

“Y-you’re selfish!” she shrieks into the mauled pillow, panting with each motion. You pay little to the way she squirms beneath you, to get away from you. “So are you.”

With a bellowing cry of your name, she cums. She’s been exhausted but even you don’t let your own exertions end things just there. The list is endless.

In the morning, the room still lingers with the scent of sex. She moans softly, lulled by the relaxation of sleep, unknowing of the thoughts that race through your mind. The only time your mind is safe from her is when she’s asleep.

Her skin is sinfully warm as it rubs against you, muscles contracting at the intimate contact.

Far too intimate. And you hate it.

Nothing more can come of this arrangement. It would ruin everything. You shuffle back, leaving her naked back as a lovely sight as you dress, your clothes tinged by the smell of last night’s affair. But it’s either to suffer with that or have everyone see the still present traces of Wanda’s handiwork marked into your skin.

Maybe you spare a final glance at Wanda before you promptly leave.

By no time long after, Wanda stirs and finds the ruined bed vacant of you. Only the memory of last night to be her company as she assesses the damage, mind able to still envision what transpired.

She can still feel what you’ve done to her. Slipping into a pair of shorts and an oversized top, she slumps against the couch’s arm with a dreaded sigh. There are a plethora of reasons from day one you and Wanda can both count on. But one recent addition is that you both hate that you’re falling in love with each other.

#happyfic hour answers #happyfic hour tab #anon's tab #the demeadery #wanda x werewolf! reader smut #wanda x werewolf reader #wanda maximoff #the scarlet witch

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bleachification · 1 year

Text

a platonic paradox

pairing: grimmjow x reader

warnings: swearing lol thats it

summary: He loves me... he loves me not… he loves me... he... is an emotionally constipated Arrancar with less than desirable social skills and a pension for jealousy. What could possibly go wrong?

One… two… three… four… five shots later, and reality finally starts to blur at the edges. Fuzzier and fuzzier, the strobe lights turn as they cut across blackened space, glowing in feverish haste.

Maybe drinking on an empty stomach isn’t the greatest of your ideas, but no one’s coined you as a genius thus far, and you certainly never claimed to be one. Plus, you have a valid reason for knocking back a row of tequila: men. Or, more specifically, one man who goes by the name Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez—the bane of your existence and one of your closest friends. However, friend is a term you use very loosely after the earlier fight.

The mere thought of him incites another scowl from you… and a sixth shot that slides down your throat like oil in a car—smooth and familiar.

You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to face the person on your left—a head of ginger pops into view, only to be pushed aside by a tiny girl with an irritated yet concerned expression pasted onto her delicate features. Inoue only smiles as Rukia takes her spot next to you and inspects the row of shot glasses on the booth table in front of you.

“You need to stop,” Rukia demands.

You barely register her words over the thumping bass of the speakers. The club is a swarm of warm bodies, alcohol, pulsing lights, and wall-shaking music. Through the haze and humidity, you make out the DJ standing at the south end of the venue, directly opposite your booth.

“You worry too much.” You wave your hand, dismissing Rukia.

She tries prying the drink you just ordered from your hands but fails miserably.

“For good reason! We’re going to have to carry you home at this rate.”

Orihime pats Rukia on the shoulder in a calming manner. It doesn’t quite work, but she tries anyway. Ever the pacifist.

“I think Rukia’s trying to say that we’re worried about you. What exactly happened?”

Ichigo appears from the crowd and slides in next to his fiancé, beer in hand. “Yeah, what’s going on? You called us out without explanation and started drinking like you were on a personal mission to destroy your liver.”

“I can handle my liquor.” You roll your eyes at your friends’ questioning looks.

“Y/N,” Orihime presses.

You groan. “Fine! Fine.”

They all wait expectantly as you down another drink. Every shot turns the world one degree mistier.

“Grimmjow and I got into a fight,” you grit out. The words taste like gravel on your tongue.

The three of them exchange a look.

You frown. “What?”

“It’s just… isn’t that pretty common?” Ichigo asks.

“No. We argue, sure, but today he… went too far. He was being an asshole—more so than usual. You’d think he’d be nicer to the person who acclimated him to human society. Stupid overgrown cat,” you huff.

“What did he say?” Ichigo takes a swig of his beer.

You pause. The whole argument that led to this moment was dumb. So dumb that you can’t even remember what instigated it. All you recall is the hurt washing over you at the end—a vile, sickening sensation that festered like rot in your chest because of the words Grimmjow bit out right before you walked out the door: You’re nothing special.

In hindsight, what he said wasn’t even that awful. Yet it shredded you the moment it left his lips. Perhaps you took it so hard because you thought you were special to him—in the same way he is to you. The irritating reality is Grimmjow has grown to become one of your closest confidantes. Your best friend. To be cast aside like that… to mean nothing of importance to him… is a harsh and gutting revelation—one that sets fire to your throat and incinerates whatever affection you had left for him to absolute ash.

“Nothing of importance,” you mutter.

The others don’t pry any further, sensing you no longer want to talk about it. They’d be right; you don’t want to talk about it… you don’t even want to think about it, especially since the earlier alcohol-induced buzz has now morphed into full-on drunk goggles.

“I’m gonna go dance.” You’re already halfway across the dance floor before Rukia scrambles to catch up with you.

Orihime slides her attention over to her fiancé. “Uh. Kurosaki?”

Ichigo dials a number into his phone and brings it to his ear. “Already on it.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It is 1:58 am, and Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez has never been more miserable in his entire life. Not when he was a mindless hollow, not even when he lost to Ichigo—that orange-haired freak of nature.

No. The almighty former Espada has been reduced to a mopey mess by a mere human. And an annoying one at that.

It’s been almost five hours since Grimmjow last heard from you. Four of them he’s spent trying to convince himself you’d come back soon like you always do—with that gentle smile on your face that he’s grown disgustingly accustomed to.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Grimmjow clenches the phone in his hand and his arm jerks—almost chucking the device at the insufferable clock ticking in the corner. It is a constant reminder that you haven’t returned to him. He only stops himself from throwing the phone once he remembers how much the hunk of metal had cost him.

Stupid human inventions.

If it weren’t for the need to constantly message and call you about, well… anything really, Grimmjow would never have spent a cent on the damned thing.

The phone clatters onto the coffee table as Grimmjow resumes his prior (pitiful) position on the couch: flat on his stomach, face down, and legs draped over the edge.

Grimmjow frowns—pouts—into the cushions. Twenty minutes pass. Then thirty. Finally, a vibration cuts through the air.

Someone’s calling him.

Grimmjow jerks up and unceremoniously falls off the couch in haste to check the notification. His high hopes are immediately dashed when a familiar contact name comes into view: Prick. His shoulders slump, and he lets it ring a couple of times before lazily thumbing the screen to answer the call.

“The hell do you want?”

“Are you busy?” Ichigo’s voice is barely perceptible amidst the deafening music blaring through the phone’s speakers.

Grimmjow grimaces, pulling his ear away from the phone, then glances at the coffee table in front of him. A half-melted tub of chocolate ice cream stares back, a mocking reminder of his dramatics grief. Just above the sugary mess sits a large-screen TV—one currently playing a series of films that fit perfectly under the “romantic comedy” genre.

Grimmjow turns around and faces away from the scene. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Who do you think I am? Of course, I’m fucking busy.”

“Right… guess I’ll get Y/N home by mys—“

With keys in hand, Grimmjow is already headed out the door when he gruffly cuts Ichigo off. “Address. Now.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Tall, dark, and handsome wraps an arm around your waist as you sway to the suggestive beat.

Rukia’s long gone. You lost sight of her when the crowd drew you further into the dance floor. You don’t particularly care where the shinigami went—probably back to the booth—as the alcoholic haze clouding your mind bars you from focusing on anything but the gorgeous man next to you. He leans in, clearly interested in something other than dancing, but still asks: “Would you like to dance?”

You study his features. Short black hair sweeps over honey-brown eyes that are shadowed by long lashes. He smirks, showing off a dimple on his left cheek. He’s a looker, for sure.

Not bad at all, but nowhere near Grimmjow.

The thought jolts you. Grimmjow has nothing to do with the person beside you. So why is it that every passing second serves as a reminder of him?

You shake those useless thoughts away and plaster a lazy smile on your face. You pull the stranger towards you and wrap your arms around his neck as you move to the beat. He presses up against you, forehead on yours. His lips are millimetres from yours, and his lidded gaze glitters with desire. You welcome it.

For once, you’re lost to the dizzying heat and drunken thrills of the night, and you’re ready to get lost in the arms of a stranger—someone who, hopefully, will distract you from the man plaguing every dark corner of your mind.

A tilt of the chin brings you closer to him. He leans in, and you close your eyes, ready for a welcome distraction. But before your lips can meet, the man across from you is harshly yanked back, and a flurry of familiar voices bombards you from all directions.

You blink twice, trying to take in the scene before you.

Firstly, Grimmjow is here. He’s clutching so tightly onto your poor dance partner’s shoulder that it’s a miracle his collarbone hasn’t shattered. The guy looks terrified… and for a good reason. Grimmjow is pissed. Hell, even that would be an understatement. An air of rage so heavy you almost mistake it for spiritual pressure ripples off him in waves. His normally cavalier expression is distorted. Gone are his usual smirks or annoyed scowls. In their place sits a mask of absolute crazed, seething fury. If looks could kill, this whole club would be home to a mountain of corpses by now.

Secondly, the shouts you hear originate from Ichigo and the two girls; all three are trying to push through the crowd to make it to you and the blue-haired psychopath before you. Thanks to the dark atmosphere, overbearing music, and the fact you’re all in an isolated corner of the club, no one else seems to notice the complete disaster unfolding before your eyes.

Ichigo breaks through the sea of people and immediately hooks his arms under Grimmjow’s. It takes almost all his strength to drag the Arrancar back a metre or two.

Ichigo struggles to keep Grimmjow at bay. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ll kill you after I get my hands on him. Fucking let go!” Grimmjow pulls free from Ichigo’s grasp and steps toward the other man.

That split second snaps you to attention, and you run to block him. In less than a second, you’re in front of the other guy and facing a murderous Grimmjow; arms spread out in a protective stance. You wobble a bit and curse yourself for getting this inebriated.

Grimmjow freezes. The look in his eyes—a strange mixture of annoyance, hurt, and unfathomable anger—makes you uneasy.

“What, pray tell, are you doing?” You mentally high-five yourself for not slurring your words. It isn’t easy in your current state.

Grimmjow scoffs. “You’re actually protecting this guy?”

Said guy peeps up with: “Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you had a partner.”

You turn to him and scrunch your nose. “I am not his partner.”

Grimmjow makes a snarling sound behind you.

You whip back towards him. “And you. Are you insane?! Why the hell would you do that?”

Grimmjow shifts closer. You have to tilt your head up to glare at him. His breath fans your face as he answers.

“He put his hands on you. You think I’m just gonna let that shit slide?” He’s speaking low. Rough. Dangerous.

You open your mouth to retort, only to find yourself dangling upside down from Grimmjow’s shoulder. He just hauled you up like a sack of flour.

This bastard.

As if on instinct, you immediately start wiggling in his grasp and thumping on his back, yelling at him to put you down. The struggling only drives him to tighten his hold on you as he marches the two of you out the club doors.

“Keep doing that, and I’ll drop you.”

Bastard move.

“Put me down!” You let out a yell in irritation. Grimmjow pretends not to hear you.

From your peripheral vision, you catch sight of Rukia, followed by the other two, scrambling to catch up. Orihime apologizes profusely to the bouncer at the door for the commotion caused by the man carrying you.

“Ichigo, help!”

Ichigo only shakes his head in disappointment as Grimmjow increases his pace.

Traitor.

Maybe it’s the liquid courage. Or perhaps it’s because you’ve finally lost it, but you raise a hand and land a hard smack on Grimmjow’s ass.

He stiffens. “What the f-“

“I’ll do it again if you don’t put me down this instant, you goddamn psychopath,” you warn.

Instead of complying, he shifts you until you’re being carried in his arms bridal-style. He just cut off your accessibility to his ass. Although you can’t ponder that disappointment for too long, the realization of what he’s about to do dawns on you when he takes a slow step backward.

“Grimmjow, don’t you dare-“Your own shriek cuts you off as he rips through the air and propels you toward the sky. You can only tighten your hold on his neck and bury your face in his shoulder as biting winds whip around you at the speed of light. Despite the cool night air, Grimmjow is warm to the touch. In less than five seconds, you’re staring at the front door of his apartment.

The son of a bitch just sonido-ed you across the city.

Grimmjow finally puts you down as he fishes the keys from his pocket. The whole time he hasn’t said a single word to you.

“Why are we here?” You reluctantly follow him into the familiar unit.

He has his back turned to you. Broad shoulders hunch over as he removes his shoes. Three seconds later, he flops onto the couch while running a hand down his face, quietly letting out a sigh of exhaustion and a hint of something else.

You sit in the spot next to him and pull your legs up. You shift until you’re facing him and only inches away.

You poke him in the stomach. It’s a habit you have that Grimmjow complains about constantly, but he never actually takes any action to stop it.

“Hey. Answers. Now,” you interrogate.

He lazily peeks at you; head still lolled back on the back of the couch. Grimmjow moves and his shifting weight causes you to dip forward. Typically, you’d be able to straighten yourself up. However, drunk you has precisely zero sense of balance, so you topple right into Grimmjow’s lap.

Grimmjow almost jumps out of his skin at the unexpected contact. You feel your cheeks flame up in embarrassment as you try to push yourself back up, only to lose your balance again and fall back against him. Your face presses up against his stomach, and the heat clouds all your senses. You feel even drunker than before.

“For fucks sake.” Tired of your struggling, Grimmjow pulls you up until you’re sat in his lap and face-to-face with him. You try to ignore the fact that you’re basically straddling him. You really try to ignore his hands resting on the side of your thighs. The contact causes something within you to flare up—an unsettling feeling you push away to the furthest corner of your mind.

“Well, this is nice. We’ve reached a new level of friendship now,” you snort. Thankfully, your stable tone doesn’t betray your wavering nerves.

Grimmjow’s jaw tenses. “Right. Friendship.”

You almost reel back. He spits that last part out like it is laced with poison. A sting of disappointment shoots through you, and you move to get off him. Right now, you want to be as far away from him as possible in fear of Grimmjow seeing the tears that have begun to prick the back of your eyes.

If he hates being your friend that badly, then there’s no way he’d ever reciprocate…

“Hey. You crying?”

To your surprise, Grimmjow grabs you by the hips and pulls you back, caging his huge arms around you to prevent you from escaping. His eyebrows furrow as he leans in to examine your face. You muster up every ounce of willpower to suck the tears back into the confines of your eyelids.

“You look like a bug,” Grimmjow murmurs.

You pinch his cheek with a scowl, mind briefly wiped of your previous grievances.

“Bastard.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “You stopped crying.”

“I never started,” you retort.

He makes a noncommittal noise.

“What?”

He grunts, eyes still fixated on your own. “Trying to figure out why you ran away.”

You gape at him. He has to be kidding. Right?

“Okay, first of all, I did not run away; I left because you pissed me off. Second of all, are you serious?

Your exasperation only fuels his confusion. Grimmjow’s face scrunches, and he tilts his head only slightly, but enough to emphasize how baffled he is by this whole situation.

You falter. This whole night you have agonized over his words, never once considering that he may not find fault in what he said. Maybe he never intended to hurt you and only meant to state a fact: that you simply don’t mean anything special to him.

Do you occupy such a minuscule part of his heart? Given that he takes up all the space you have to offer in yours, it is an unnecessarily cruel twist of fate.

You steel yourself. Grimmjow is your friend. Nothing less… and certainly nothing more. He has drawn that line very clearly—in bright, irreversible red.

“Forget it. It’s nothing,” you murmur.

He shoots you a look; he doesn’t believe you. “Oi. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist.

His eyes narrow, and he slowly drawls your name. Irritation coats the word like honey as he presses you for a different answer.

With a shake of your head, you cement your refusal to budge. Nothing good could come from that conversation, and you would rather suffer in silence than lose Grimmjow as a friend—which is the only outcome you can fathom.

“I… it doesn’t matter. Not like you’d care.” The last part is practically inaudible to the human ear. Unfortunately for you, Grimmjow’s senses are anything but human.

He stiffens, looking like he’d just been slapped hard. “What the fuck are you on about? Who told you that? I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No one told me Grimmjow… no one other than you, at least. It’s obvious you don’t care to be friends anymore,” you scoff and look away, too anxious to meet his eyes.

Every single muscle of Grimmjow’s goes rigid. You sneak a glance at him and pause at the storm brewing in his gaze. Tides of emotions threaten to overwhelm one another, but at the forefront of the tumultuous battle flashes an intensity you are very familiar with: desperation.

Grimmjow tips his chin down, lessening the gap between your faces… and lips. What comes out of his mouth next scarcely breaks above a whisper, but the words themselves bear a threatening weight.

“Obvious to who? Because last time I checked, you’re the only human I ever speak to willingly, the only person whose touch I don’t find repulsive, and the only one who can mouth off to me in my own damn house and not die for it. So tell me, Y/N, who is that obvious to? Because it sure as hell ain’t me,” he snarls.

You blink. That sobers you up. Any and all words dying in your throat as you take in everything. You only manage to find your voice again after a minute of deliberation.

“Then why did you say that I wasn’t special? You’re giving me mixed signals here,” you whisper.

Realization dawns on him like an iron curtain as your response dwindles in the hushed air. He shifts again. This time, switching his grip on your thigh to the curve of your waist. His hands settle firmly, yet gently, on your side, and the warmth resonates through your bloodstream, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the present situation. You try anyway.

“Is that why you ran away?”

You roll your eyes. “I didn't run.”

He shrugs. “My bad. Is that why you abandoned me?”

For a split second, Grimmjow’s sulking reminds you of a kicked puppy. A crass, six-foot-one puppy with blue fur and murderous tendencies. Your fingers twitch with an almost overwhelming desire to run them through his hair. You settle for flicking him in the forehead instead.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You’re acting like I fled the country rather than go to a club ten minutes away.” You absently brush a stray strand of his hair aside, not thinking much of it. Grimmjow, however, sucks in a sharp breath and you pause as a glint of something flits across his gaze… something intimate.

A trick of the light, surely.

“You–” Speech morphs to muffled protests as you press a hand to Grimmjow’s mouth, effectively cutting off whatever he was going to say.

“You still owe me some answers,” you remark.

“Mmm… to what?” He’s getting sleepier; the lull in his voice is a clear indication. Warmth blooms across your skin as Grimmjow droops forward and nestles his head into the crook of your shoulder, leaning into you as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“How about why you ruined my perfectly good night out?” You feel his head turn, breath hot like coals against your neck. A chill shoots down your spine at the slight contact, and you ignore the tingling sensation in your stomach that feels an awful lot like butterflies—millions and millions of them.

He scowls. “What, you’re that upset over not seeing lover boy again?” His arms tighten around you, “You could’ve had a better night with me. Here. Like this.”

You draw in a sharp breath as his forehead meets yours. Space is a minuscule concept now as his face hovers mere centimetres from yours. Your mind swims with a torrent of mixed feelings and thoughts.

“Grimmjow…”

“I’m sorry.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“For what I said. I didn’t mean it—any of it. Swear on my life.” His voice is strained, as if not used to the taste of those words on his tongue.

You want to believe him, truly. But the emotional, irrational side of you forsakes that possibility.

You’re nothing special.

The knife in your heart, previously forgotten, now twists again as you recall his words. For a brief second, you wonder if it would be better to feel nothing at all. To bear an empty chest, much like the hollow hole carved into the Arrancars. Perhaps that’s what you need—to lose your heart and live as they do, void of all sensations that make up human nature.

“It’s fine, Grimmjow. You don’t… experience things like I do. It’s not your fault I got upset over such a trivial matter,” you sigh.

He pulls back, something akin to guilt and shock shuttering across his handsome face. “So I did hurt you.”

You swallow, unsure how to face this new vulnerability of his.

“Tell me how to fix this. How to fix us,” he pleads.

“There is no us,” you say. The distance between you and Grimmjow is practically nonexistent, yet you find yourself unable to face him.

“Bullshit,” he spits.

You shake your head, a migraine already forming in its center. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Grimmjow. I can never seem to understand what you want!” Your anger rises with each sentence, but you don’t stop and let the emotion fuel you, “I saw us as friends. Best friends. But then you go and act like I’m nothing to you, only to turn around and get all pissy like a fucking cat marking its territory when I dare spend my night with someone who isn’t you. So for the love of god, what do you want from me?!”

“I want you.”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“Next to me, in my bed in the morning, in my arms. Wherever I am, whenever it is… I want you with me,” he states plainly. Too casual, acting as if he didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on you, wiping every semblance of your anger away with pure, unbridled shock.

You ignore your racing pulse and focus on the intensity of his gaze instead. “You don’t believe in romance. You told me that.”

“I didn’t believe in many things before I met you.” He presses a searing kiss to the inside of your palm before leaning into it, your touch a familiar comfort.

“Like what?”

Heaven. Home. Love, probably.

He grunts. “Secret.”

“That’s not fair,” you tease. The hope rising within you gives way to giddiness and a whole new sensation: relief.

Grimmjow wants you the same way you want him. Perhaps even more so.

“What’s not fair is being iced out for a whole day while waiting for you, only to witness that thing wrapped around you like some fucking parasite.”

“He was not a parasite.”

“Looked like one to me. Ugly. Small. Easy to step on.”

“You called me a bug earlier. Doesn’t that mean we’re meant to be?” You’re torturing him at this point. It's incredibly amusing.

Grimmjow’s eyes darken. Two slits of obsidian that burn with jealousy and something else under the surface. Something even more dangerous.

“Say that again.”

You only laugh. It is a light sound that eases the tension in both the air and Grimmjow’s shoulders. He’s missed your laugh—craves it more than a drowning man would for air.

After a few seconds longer, he inevitably feels his lips pull upwards into a crooked smile—a special kind that appears solely in your presence.

Your giggles falter into a faint smile when you notice Grimmjow smirking at you. He absently draws circles on your hip with his fingers, lazily tracing the curve of your back as you ask: “What exactly are we?”

“Dunno,” he half-mumbles, too preoccupied with snuggling into your neck.

You let out a soft chuckle as his hair tickles your cheek. “Grimmjow.”

He groans, the sound reverberating against the skin of your collarbone—the place his mouth presses against. ”Does it matter? You’re mine. I’m yours. All I care about.”

“This won’t be easy,” you say.

“Yeah, well, I signed up for you, which is anything but easy. So don’t worry,” he pulls back slightly so that you’re both face to face. “I know exactly what I’m getting myself into. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You barely register Grimmjow’s words before he leans in and roughly kisses you.

And it is the best damn kiss of your life.

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lunar-wandering · 11 months

Text

Chirp

i wrote half of this spicynoodles fic on my phone which is new for me lol

!!!SEASON 4 SPECIAL SPOILERS!!!

Summary: Of all the side effects of becoming a monkey, MK hadn't expected this one.

Now if only the other two monkeys he happened to know would actually help him.

Word Count: 2k

Read on Ao3

It was the pick up line, that drove MK over the edge.

The looks, he could handle. The banter, borderline teasing, he could handle, and give back in droves.

But Red Son, leaning over the table, making determined eye contact and whispering; "Did it hurt? When you fell from heaven?" was completely unprecedented.

Reasonably, MK should've expected it. They had been talking about MK's brief times in heaven, the Celestial Realm, after all, so the sudden turn into the jokey-line was well within the conversation's topic. Red Son had clearly meant it more as a joke than anything, if his laughter was any indication.

And yet, when MK opened his mouth to respond, the very first sound to leave his throat was a chirp.

He smacked a hand over his mouth, fast enough to almost hurt, his chair scraping against the floor as he quickly stood up. Red Son shot him an confused but amused expression as MK started to back away.

"Sorry, sorry, I-" MK bit his tongue, face burning, barely swallowing what he was certain was about to be another chirp before it could be vocalized. "I've gotta go."

He didn't even wait for Red Son to acknowledge his sentence, turning on his heel and running out of the building, magic golden lightning beginning to race up and down his body, causing him to move faster than he had planned- crossing five blocks in a matter of seconds. Skidding to a stop in an alley, he glanced behind him at the knocked over objects and cracked concrete that had been left in his wake and groaned, barely even aware of his tail appearing and beginning to swish.

This could not happen again. He'd already been having close calls, things he thought would eventually go away; having to stuff his tail under his shirt after he'd accidentally leaned a little too close to Red Son being the most common occurrence, but chirping??? After something as small as a pick up line? Yeah, no. No way. That was worse.

MK needed to figure out a way to stop this now.

Which, of course, meant that he'd need to get the help of another monkey.

Two hours of hesitant deliberation later found MK knocking on the door of the Monkey King's newly rebuilt house, rocking back and forth on his heels with barely contained anxiety. His tail was still out, he'd found about an hour ago that he couldn't get rid of it at the moment, he was simply too worked up to make it vanish like usual right now.

Which meant that, despite the carefully crafted easy-going smile on his face, his frantically swishing tail gave him away the instant Wukong opened the door and layed eyes on him.

"Alright kid, what happened?" Wukong shifted to cross his arms and lean against the side of his doorway, looking MK up and down as though he could figure out what was going on just through a glance. "You look about ready to crack at the seams."

"...Don't phrase it like that." Images of both the Lady Bone Demon and Azure Lion quite literally cracking at the seams flashed through MK's mind, and based on Wukong's sudden grimace, they flashed through his mind too. MK shook his head a little to shake the images away, Wukong going a step further to shake his whole body, like a slightly stronger than usual shiver. MK took the brief moment of emotional distraction to center himself, taking a deep breath in, his tail vanishing with a faint golden flash as he breathed out. "And it's not… really anything important, and you gotta promise you won't laugh, but…"

"But…?" Wukong prompted when MK didn't continue, tilting his head to the side as MK shifted nervously. "C'mon kid, I don't have all day. …Or, well, I do, I don't have much else going on, but you get the point."

"You really need to get some hobbies other than napping." MK muttered, letting out a sigh as he ignored his mentor's offended insistence that excuse you he did, in fact, have hobbies- "I… need your help with something. A monkey-something."

"If this is about the shedding I have a shampoo you can try-"

"No- that's not- I, it's, Monkey King, I chirped." MK put his head in his hands to avoid eye contact, not noticing his tail reappearing and starting to frantically swish once more. "Red Son used a pick up line on me, and I chirped. Chirped! Monkey King, you gotta know something that can, can, I don't know, stop me from doing that? Some kinda, anti-chirper? Is that a thing? Please tell me it's a thing-"

"Woah, woah, kid, slow down." Wukong held his hands out in a placating gesture, a nervous smile on his face. "Take a breath, calm down for a sec."

MK took a breath, and slowly sank down, sitting cross-legged on the porch, Wukong mirroring him.

"Okay. Okay. Now," Wukong said, "-could you run that by me again?"

MK groaned, shrinking in on himself, saying it once was bad enough-

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding!" Wukong hurriedly said, letting out a small laugh, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I'm sorry kid, but I've… never experienced anything like that, so I'm afraid I can't help."

"Seriously?" Doubt flooded MK's expression with the force of a tsunami. "But you're a monkey. You're seriously telling me you've never-"

"Nope!!!! Never!!!" The strained smile on Wukong's face got slightly wider, and he turned his head to the side as though doing so would cover it up. "You'd probably be better off asking one of the other lil monkeys around here for advice."

“But I don’t speak monkey-”

“Well then consider this practice!”

“-can’t you at least come help translate?”

“Nuh-uh!” Wukong stood up, turning and stepping back inside his house. “I’m sure the monkeys will be able to help you out some, good luck! Tell me if you, uh, make some progress!”

And with that, the Monkey King closed the door behind him, practically slamming it shut, leaving MK sitting on the front porch in utter disbelief. He stared at the door for a few minutes, unblinkingly, half expecting Wukong to eventually re-open it and step back through with a snack and an actual piece of advice. No such event occurred.

MK’s head fell back into his hands, as he rubbed at his face, blearily trying to snap some sense into himself. Okay. Alright. So clearly Monkey King wasn’t going to be of much help, this time around. And he obviously wasn’t going to actually try Wukong’s suggestion of talking to the lil monkeys- doing so might lead to an interesting game of charades, but overall won’t lead to any kind of progress on this issue. He also wanted to save Pigsy and the others as a last resort- he’d be most likely to get teased by them, after-all. They also, despite how much he cared about them, weren’t monkeys, which meant that they couldn��t help.

There was… really only one other monkey he knew of that he could go to.

MK had the sudden feeling he was going to regret this.

MK regretted this. So much.

The regret sank in fast, striking him in the chest instantly, as soon as he saw Macaque climbing in through the window.

The window.

This was Macaque’s dojo.

“Why.” MK asked, voice torn between amusement and broken despair, Macaque freezing at the sound. “Why are you climbing in through your own window? You have a door. A perfectly functioning door. I literally came in here through the door. Why are you coming in through the window?”

Macaque mumbled something that sounded like “It’s more dramatic that way”, before clearing his throat, setting his feet on the floor tiles and turning around.

“Why are you in my kitchen?” He shot back, tail twitching with barely concealed agitation. MK slowly slid lower in the chair he was sitting in, until his eyes were almost level with the table in front of him.

“I need… some advice.” He said, slowly, and Macaque scoffed.

“How many of your friends didn’t give you something reasonable that you decided to come to me?” He asked, “Cause I know that I cannot be your first choice when it comes to advice.”

“You’re not.” MK confirmed, “But you’re actually the second person I’ve come to.”

“Oh? And why’s that.”

“Cause it’s… a monkey issue.”

“Went to Wukong first then, huh? No wonder you’re here now, he sucks at advice.”

MK rolled his eyes, having expected the jab, he was talking with Macaque after all. Macaque pulled one of the chairs on the other side of the table free, sitting down.

“Alright then kid, what’s the issue?” He asked. MK would’ve sunk down lower if he wasn’t certain that doing so would end in him falling off of the chair.

“You gotta promise you won’t laugh at me.”

“Heh, okay then, promise.”

“I…” MK started, then paused, then started again. “I was with Red Son, and… he used a pick up line on me, and it wasn’t even that good of a pick up line, like, it was one of the most stereotypical ones ever, seriously, it’s the one that everyone knows, the standard, he could’ve done so much better now that I’m thinking about it-”

“Kid, you’re rambling.”

“Ah- right, sorry, I… Well, the point is, I… chirped. Like, as in, chirped, chirped. Monkey-chirped.” MK fidgeted his hands, looking down, avoiding eye-contact. “And I was… wondering, if, maybe, you had something that could, like, help… stop that from happening?”

Silence.

MK slowly looked up.

And just like that, Macaque burst into loud laughter.

“Hey!!” MK stood up, slamming his palms on the table. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!!!”

“Sorry, sorry-” Macaque said, struggling to catch his breath, “I, I just wasn’t expecting that to be what’s got you all worked up.”

“Well, it is.” MK huffed, crossing his arms. “Soooo. Do you have something that can help me, or not?”

“Uhhh, sorry kid, but I’ve never experienced anything like that, so I’m afraid I can’t-”

“Oh come on!” MK yelled, interrupting Macaque and making him jump at the sudden volume. “That’s exactly what Monkey King said! There’s no way the both of you haven’t done this before, you’re monkeys!”

“Uh, well-” Macaque suddenly looked nervous, fiddling with the end of his scarf. “Look, I can’t help you, so you’ll just have to find someone else.”

“But I don’t know any other monkeys-”

“Then just ask one of your other friends then, I guess.” Macaque shrugged, before holding up his hand, snapping his fingers. “See ya around, kid.”

“Wha-” Before MK even had the chance to react, dark purple surrounded his vision, and in a blink, he was standing on the sidewalk outside of the building. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

MK would’ve kicked Macaque’s door in retaliation if he wasn’t certain that doing so would likely cause the entire building to collapse.

An hour later found MK sitting at a table in the Noodle Shop, having just finished retelling his… situation for the third time that day, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with the others.

And, after a brief pause, as he’d suspected, the room descended into pandemonium. It was fairly obvious that there was nothing that the others really could do about this scenario, so, as MK had guessed, they took the next best option;

Teasing him relentlessly.

MK’s head hit the table with a solid thunk as Pigsy made some comment about ‘his little boy growing up into a fine young monkey man’, which was exactly the point that Mei nudged MK’s side with a mischievous grin.

“If it makes you feel any better,” She said, as soon as MK had lifted his head slightly to look at her, “Red Boy has been texting me for like, the past 6 hours about how darn cute you are.”

She tilted her phone so that MK could see it, and began slowly scrolling down through the hundreds of messages, revealing that, yes, she was telling the truth, and every single message was in all caps to boot. And, based on the three notifications she got whilst scrolling, Red Son was still going.

MK was so focused on reading the messages on screen that he didn’t even notice himself glitching into his monkey form- nor the inevitable chirp that escaped from his mouth.

#Monkie Kid #lego monkie kid #spicynoodles #LMK S4 Special Spoilers #LMK Spoilers #Monkie Kid Spoilers #fanfic #my writing

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