CurbitKirby @curbitkirby - Tumblr Blog

Jun 9

A Friend With Weed pt.2 (widower!Armand/ward!Reader oneshot)

TW: RAPE RECOVERY FIC. SUICIDAL IDELATION, SCARS/RAPE MENTIONS, DRUGS (WEED) that said, fluff, kissing, groping, Armand in red silk pajamas, angst, drug use (obviously), passing mentions of sexual violence, age gap, messed up romantic ideals

Armand knows he shouldn't share, that it was illegal to share, so when you blink, eyes wide with curiosity, he tells you firmly, “I need it for my insomnia.”

You nod, not giving it a second thought. Instead, you bring your book over to him and settle on the floor beside his right leg. His hand immediately finds your hair, and you hum in tandem as he begins to play with it, as he rubs gentle fingertips into your scalp. He peers down at you with fondness as you stick your nose in the old detective novel. Tucking your feet under your bottom, you nestle up close to him and sigh with complete and utter contentment.

Oh, how Armand loves that sound, that bonelessness. It had been a long time coming, your trust, a long road of skittishness and outright hostility, of pure unadulterated fear, but you had blossomed. Still wary, yes, ever so wary, but not so unfeeling anymore, not so stone-faced or cold. Your features were often a blank mask, as expressing any sort of emotion had once held painful consequences for you, but you allowed yourself to smile now. To laugh every once in a while. Hell, you even let him touch you freely now.

Armand sparks up the joint, sets his lighter down, and takes a deep inhale. Stroking the top of your head, he plays with your hair as he lets the smoke settle in his lungs.

He hasn't smoked in ages, not since he found out Reine-Marie was pregnant with their first child, before you were born, and it's been even longer since he smoked pot, but smoking isn't something you forget how to do. He lets the smoke out in a smooth billow and settles a bit deeper into the couch.

Puffing away until the joint is half gone, then he stamps it out and waits.

It doesn't take long. The weed hits him like a freight train, and soon he's completely sunk, snoring softly with his chin on his chest in a matter of fifteen minutes.

When Armand blinks himself awake, the first thing he notices is that his glasses have slid down his nose. He sniffs and blinks himself awake, absently checking the clock over the mantle of the fireplace. Just after three am. The second thing he sees is that you're still on the floor. He's not shocked. It's hardly an uncommon sight, you seem to prefer the floor to furniture, but it takes him a moment for him to realize what you're doing.

Your back is to him. Frustrated little grunts leave your lips as you twitch and huff and pant. He freezes at the sight of the fluffy white pillow between your supple thighs. The gusset of your panties is soaked, clinging to your wet slit like a second skin-

You've also peeled off your night shirt (just one of his ratty old t-shirts, really), and the sight of your naked back, scarred and waxy, shocks him when he finally realises what he's seeing. He's used to your lack of modesty by now; it seems you're always walking around in skimpy clothes, but you weren't used to people yet, he told himself, you were just comfortable with him, he said. This…this was different.

This was private, sacred, and he had no right to watch-

But he can't help it. His dark eyes drift sympathetically over your back; the healed bite marks on your shoulders, the thick patch work of scars from, what? A belt? A cord? A whip? He doesn't know, but even through the haze of pot, they enrage him.

They haven't had any luck finding your captor. The town was small, yes, but the forest that surrounded it was thick. They had been searching high and low for the mysterious ‘hatch’ you had alluded to in your drawings, but to no avail.

His heart skips a beat as you whine with frustration, low and guttural as your hips roll and you grind against the seam of the pillow. His cock throbs, but as usual, he pushes that want aside.

Armand had killed that part of himself when his wife died, nothing you could do would change that, but he still has impulses.

You coming into his life has been…complicated. In some ways, in many ways, you were a blessing. You gave him purpose again. He loved you, loved caring for you, loved how safe he made you feel. It was good for him, his therapist said, to open his heart again.

But he didn't tell his therapist everything; he didn't tell her how you crawled into bed with him, how you snuggled up to him on the couch, how you had kissed him on more than one occasion. Telling her those things could get him in trouble, would almost certainly get you removed from his care, and he couldn't bear that. Especially not when you had so little time together left as is.

Heart pounding, he watches you hump away blindly for a few moments. It's…not sexy, not alluring at all. You can't seem to find a rhythm, and the unhappy sounds you make hurt his heart.

After a moment, Armand steels his nerve. He knows what he needs to do, what he can do, to help, but the idea is daunting, perverted. Slow as he can, he eases from the couch to the floor.

“No,” you mewl, hips twitching as you sniffle. Wiping your cheek with the heel of your hand, you huff, “It's not right…doesn't feel right…”

With a swallow, he sits up. “Sweet heart?”

The sound of his voice makes you freeze.

“Do you want me to teach you how?”

Startled by his gentleness, your heart skips a beat. Over your shoulder, your eyes dart toward him. He has that same patient open expression he always wears, and you find yourself nodding, trusting him completely as you climb into his arms.

It's his turn to go still when you bury your face in his neck, when your arms slip around his waist. For a moment, he simply lets you hold him; it… it feels nice, to have you cuddle up to him, to have you trust him, and he tells himself it's simple pride he feels for you and nothing more-

But that lie dies when you pull back and meet his gaze. There's no denying the love in your eyes, in your touch as you lift a cautious hand to his cheek. The grey stubble of his beard rasps against your fingertip as you draw a line through the dimple in his cheek, then again through the laugh line that cradles his mouth-

“You shouldn't do that,” he whispers, if only so he can say he tried to resist you under oath. Ever so carefully, he turns you, so your naked back rests on his clothed chest. As always, he's so warm and broad, it's so wonderful, how safe you feel, and you can't help but settle back, snuggling down with a sigh as he wraps an arm around your waist.

His pajamas are red silk, pretty, soft. You stroke the sleeve with a smile before you lean into his embrace.

He picks up the joint, slides it between his lips, and then reaches for the lighter. Oh, he looks so good, feels so good, as the flame glows, lighting up the lines in his face. He sparks it up quickly and sets the lighter aside.

Craning your neck, your eyes lock on his as he takes a deep puff. He's so handsome, so kind. You slide your hand inside his sleeve and tease his arm hair with your fingernails. It would be a foolish thing to say you were in love with him, simply because that wasn't all it was. All his team thought so, but that wasn't it. Armand wasn't just your roommate, or your besotted. He was your strength. He has done so much for you, been so much to you, you couldn't even begin to imagine your life without him. Well you could, but you didn't want to. He lets the smoke out smoothly, evenly, then passes it to you.

Head cocking, you take it from him. It smells strange, but not bad, kind of grassy and lemony, and when he gently guides it to your lips and says, “inhale slowly and deeply,” you obey because you want to, not out of fear.

The smoke chokes you, and you cough and sputter and glare, but he only chuckles.

“Deep breathes, sweet heart, deep breathes,” he urges, kissing your shoulder and rubbing your back tenderly.

Sniffling and coughing, you choke for a good minute before your lungs settle. When they do, you huff just once, just to enjoy the sensation of being able to breathe.

“It's going to take a few minutes,” he says without need. Your eyelids are already drooping and he goes on in a deep, soothing voice, “But this strain, Northern Lights, is quite strong. My doctor prescribed it to me for my insomnia and I really shouldn't share but…”

You shiver as he puffs away a moment, so much smoother than you were able to. It makes you tingle all over, your pussy still sensitive and achy, desperate for something to ease the tension in your belly. When he nods, you obediently tip your chin up. His long fingers glide over your jaw and he gently pries your mouth open. Your eyes widen at the cool stream of smoke he blows into your lungs.

Armand's cock throbs as your eyes roll, as you just take it without question. Panting, he lets you go. “You tell me to stop any time you want, alright, my dear?”

It's more than a little late for that, of course. Your eyes are already half-lidded, bloodshot, and the grin you give him crooked and wide.

His stomach flutters as you shift, your ass rubbing against his cock. Settling down on your side, you hum and stroke his arm, the soft vulnerable skin of his inner elbow, before you rub your nails delicately down his arm.

Armand smiles, simply resting his cheek on top of your head. He enjoys the sweet touch, the lack of fear in your posture, the trust in the limpness of your limbs. One hand cradles your hip, as the other creeps over your stomach.

Sharp, your eyes snap down to it. No fear comes, just curiosity, as he cautiously caresses your belly.

“Have…have you ever reached climax before, sweet heart? Have you ever felt the horrible restless pit right here…”

You mewl as his hand presses against your lower abdomen, as his thumb seeks out the soft curve of your sex, the first time he's ever touched you there, and it takes your breath away.

“Have you ever felt it snap?” He whispers against the top of your head. “Felt your world tilt off its axis as you reach your peak? As a loving partner touches you with nothing but pure intentions, my dear?”

Spellbound, you listen to his words, unable to tear your gaze from his hand. “No,” you whisper. “Never…never. Never once, but I want to.” Shy, your gaze flicks back up to his. Your hand raises to caress his face. “With you.”

His eyes flutter as you touch his bottom lip with your thumb. “We can't do that…”

“Please.”

“Let me show you how to make yourself feel good,” he redirects, gently turning you around once more.

His denial confuses you, but his words are a comfort. This wasn't about him, this was about you, this was all for you. It wasn't about breeding or violence or control. It wasn't discipline. It wasn't cruelty. It was just the opposite; this was affection, it was trust. You shiver as his breath hits the lobe of your ear.

“Just focus on your body,” he whispers, smoothing his hands down your arms, firm and slow and warm, then back up, then down again so he can cradle your wrists. “Focus on feeling good and nothing else, alright? I've got you, my love.”

Love. This was about love. Tears well in your eyes at the word, so you close them, turn your face from his, and nod.

It's all the consent he needs. He'll go slow, Armand tells himself, promises himself. His fingers trace over the back of your hand, slide down to your fingertips; they're dry, much too dry. Your eyes flutter as he brings them to your lips.

“Open, get them nice and wet, dear.” His eyes darken, his cock throbs, as you dutifully lick your fingers. He aches to have your taste on his tongue, but he knows he shouldn't encourage intimacy. “Good, that's good…”

He pulls them away. A thin trail of spit clings to the digits, and he wants to bend, to lick it away, the thought filthy, getting him hot all over.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the sting calming the nerves that knot your belly as he slowly drags your fingertips down your body, between your breasts, over your stomach, down to your pubic mound. Hesitating, he waits for your nod before he pushes your white panties aside and parts your slit.

Panting, you can only stare at him, his handsome tired face making you hot all over.

“Can I touch you, dearest?”

This nod is unmistakable, quick and eager.

Armand smiles and eases his fingers down, just a tad.

A jolt of pleasure flashes through you at the faintest pressure on your clit.

He chuckles at your jump, at the surprised little chirp you give as your eyes widen. “It's alright,” he assures you, his free hand rubbing your hip as yours snaps down to grip his thigh. “I've got you. I'm right here.”

You nod slowly, relaxing into his arms as he begins to carefully circle the throbbing little bud. It feels good, like an itch being scratched, but he's so methodical, so devastatingly slow, and it's nice, but it's not enough.

He frowns as you squirm and huff.

“Ar-Armand,” you whisper into your shoulder, unable to look at him as your hips begin to twitch and rock, restless and needy. “Please!”

He nods. “Go on,” he urges, “tell me what you need.”

“More,” you murmur, rocking your hips, grinding your clit against your wet fingertips; it's nice, but not enough. “Touch me, Armand, please?!”

“I can't-” he whispers against your temple. “If anyone found out, if the courts found out-”

You scowl, looking up at him with desperation, “You said I was safe now, that I could make my own choices-”

Armand nods, vigorous and firm against your neck.

“Then I chose you. I want you to touch me…” You smile at him, bright and painfully innocent, as you take his wrist and guide his fingers to your slit. “Here.”

His eyes flutter. Temptation has never been a problem for him, he had always had a willing partner in Reine-Marie, he never had to abstain, except on the odd night or weekend they spent apart….this, this is new, wicked, sinful, it's crossing a fucking line is what it is, but oh, how nice your damp folds feel as he gently parts your slit again.

Feather light, he explores your sex; your clit throbs, begging for attention, your folds slick with your juices, all as you whimper and coo just for him, his scant touches making you ache.

“More,” you urge lowly, hips bucking as he touches your achy clit with calloused fingers, fuck, they're so much bigger and hotter and rougher than your own- “More-!”

“Where?” He whispers.

Your hand covers his and you bring his touch to your nipple, as you other guides his fingers into your cunt.

“We can't,” he hisses as your hungry pussy sucks him in, kissing his fingertips, begging to be filled.

“What can we do?”

“What?”

“If we can't touch inside,” You writhe in his lap, panting as sweat breaks out on your brow, “what can we do?”

“Dearest-”

“Armand, please,” you whimper, eyes sparkling with tears as you strain your neck to look at him. “I don't like this.”

He freezes.

“I can't see you, and- and feeling hands and not seeing a face, it scares me,” you confess sheepishly. “I wanna see you and feel you and be with you, Armand, the only reason I even need to do it in the first place is because you're here!”

Flabbergasted, he stares at you, certain you've never said so much before. Your words settle heavy on his heart, but it's the accusation in your voice that startles him. “What?”

“I - I never needed to before,” you lick your lips, “I never wanted it in the bunker, not once, not ever, but now that I'm here, fuck, Armand, I can't stop touching myself!”

“Bunker,” he echoes softly, his large hand moving to cup your hip. “What bunker?”

“I didn't know the name of it before,” you explain as you sit up, as you turn and bury your face in his chest. He smells so nice, like sandalwood and apples and something distinctly him, something you don't know the name of that makes your insides ache. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Whatever would you have to apologize for?”

Sighing, you nestle closer and raise a hand to stroke the soft silk of his pajamas.

For a moment, Armand allows it. He just holds you close, tucking you under his chin, rubbing your hip, your thigh, until you move to stand-

Or at least, that's what he assumes you're doing when you shuffle off him, but instead you straddle him, pinning him to the couch. Nervous, he pushes his glasses up his nose as your arms circle his shoulders.

You look so serious and so very tired. He smoothes his finger tip over your temple, down your jaw, and he can see the weight of your life in the bags under your eyes. He traces one of them with the pad of his middle finger.

While he loved his team, they didn't see it, this side of you; this survivor. When they saw you, they saw the little missing girl from the milk carton, not the woman who had ripped herself out of hell. You had gone through things Armand couldn't imagine, things he didn't want to, but had to, for his job. He smiles softly at you as he asks what kind of bunker it was.

You shrug, your eyes going dark and your voice thinning, “Concrete. Underground.”

“What was it like? Hm?”

Your eyes flutter as he thumbs your cheek, tracing the scar in the curve of it tenderly. With a heavy sigh, you lay your head on his chest. “No.”

Pondering, he says nothing as you undo the top button of his pajama shirt. “Oh,” he coos as you slide a warm hand inside, under the fabric, to tease his chest hair. “Darling-”

“I don't want to talk about him, not now.” Your smile returns, warm despite its strain. “He's taken so much from me, Armand. Please don't let him take this, too.”

“Never.” Cradling your face in his hands like you're something precious and worthy, he assures you, “This will never belong to him. You never belonged to him.”

The words startle you, no matter how many times you've heard them. Your head cocks.

“He stole you, when you were just a little girl, you were small, and defenseless, and he used you, but you never belonged to him.” Patient, Armand watches as the words settle over you.

“Wh…” You lick your lips, startled by the catch in your throat. “What…what if…?”

“What if?” He rubs your shoulders.

What if I want to belong to you? sits behind your teeth, a question you dare not ask of him; this sweet grieving man. Pursing your lips a moment, you ask, “Who does this belong to?”

“This,” the smile he offers is so warm, you bask in it, nuzzling closer to him. “This belongs to us. No one else.”

“Than why are you so afraid to touch me?”

His eyes close.

You cup his cheek. “Armand.”

They open, dark brown and soul crushing and so so tired.

“I won't tell.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Tears spring to his eyes as you kiss the corner of his mouth, sheepish and tender. “I couldn't ask you to keep secrets-”

“It's not a secret, it's private,” you correct.

Armand smirks, but it's weak.

“Armand, you know how I feel…better than I know how I feel, sometimes.”

He swallows.

“But I know how much I love you-” He winces and your heart drops. Voice low, you tell him, “It doesn't hurt her, y'know.”

“What?” He rasps.

“Reine-Marie.”

He stiffens at his wife's name.

“It doesn't hurt her, not at all, if…if even a little part of you cares about me like you did her.”

Armand almost scoffs.

“I know it's not the same,” you rush. “Not even close, but- I know how I feel this time.”

The deep inhale he takes makes your heart ache, only because you know it means he disagrees with you. Still, his hands stay tender, stay gentle but firm, as he rubs your back.

“I love you,” you whisper into his shoulder, embarrassed by your inability to keep your thoughts to yourself, but everything is so nice, and warm, and safe. “I don't love you because you saved me, you didn't-”

His brows raise.

“I saved myself,” you tell him, surprised to find you mean it. “I got him drunk, I got the key from around his neck, and I ran like Hell.”

Pride swells in his chest.

“I did all that. I've spent so much time alone, Armand. One thing I know is myself.” Your lips purse a moment. “Until I met you, I was certain I would never trust a man again. I'd never let one touch me…” You touch his chest, fiddle with the fine greying hair that peeks out of his open pajama top. “And now, the thought of you not touching me…the thought of you never making love to me…”

Armand’s throat catches at the break in your voice, his fingers twitch, but he doesn't stop stroking your back.

“It breaks my heart,” you whisper with tears in your eyes. “I don't want what you had with her, I would never ask for that, because you can't give me that.”

His fat fingers comb through your hair, rub caring circles into the nape of your neck as the clock above the mantel softly chimes four am. The fireplace is still flickering safely behind the gate, casting the whole room in a beautiful orange glow. It's very quiet and still, as you just watch the shadows and flames dance over each other's faces.

“You were so young when you met her.” A smile crosses your face at the thought of him, young and fresh faced and in love.

His eyes flutter as you reach up to smooth the pad of your thumb between his thick brows. His heart flutters as you gaze into his eyes, tired, understanding.

“But you're not that person anymore. You've changed

Been changed, like I have.”

“It's not the same,” he says softly, his thumb tracing over the thick scars that line your back. There's so many of them, all over, cross crossing and overlapping, some dark, some light, some deep, some shallow, all of them done in cruelty. They're neverending. He wants to learn every one, but he knows there's not enough time for that. You'll be gone soon, as soon as your family has relocated.

“It's not not the same,” you counter with certainty. “I know you have them, too. The nightmares. The…attacks. Phantom pains, right?”

“Oh, no, darling, that's when-”

“It's when you lose something so vital that you still feel it after it's gone.”

He stares at you before he blinks, and nods. “Yes. I suppose you're correct.”

You heave a sigh and nestle close to him. Your thighs burn, stretched around his thick solid middle, but the ache is good, nice. You'd very much like it to be familiar, but you know fate has other plans for you.

“I need you to know…” His voice is gentle, and you brace for the inevitable rejection. “If it wasn't for you…”

You tense.

“I’d probably be dead, sweet heart. Long gone from a broken heart.” Or my own hand, he thinks, but he can't bear to voice his deepest shame. “Loving you, it helped me survive. You gave me a reason to live.”

Your eyes widen as your heart skips a beat. Touched, you nod, knowing exactly what he means, because after all, hadn't he done the same for you?

“I don't care what the risks are.” His large hand cradles your cheek so delicately, you can't help but swoon. “May I kiss you?”

“Yes!” You breath, voice tight with need.

He chuckles, but doesn't tease. Just bows his head and with ever so much care, he touches his lips to yours.

Your first kiss. The first kiss someone ever gave you, not taken, not stolen, not forced. It makes your whole body sing, your shoulders lowering as you taste him, really taste him, for the first time. Thumbing your cheek delicately, Armand parts his lips; an offering you're quick to accept. He tastes like wine, red wine from the glass he has after dinner, and pot, and heat, a heat that feels sinful and holy all at once.

Eager for more, you squirm.

Armand moans as your tongue shyly pokes out to touch his. It's not like the quick stolen pecks you've pressed to his lips before, it's slow, delicate, and he savors it, savors you, and when he draws back just to look at you, there's a fire in his eyes you've never seen before.

His erection digs into the soft inside of your thigh. There's a slight pant to his breathing, as he finally lets himself look at you for once; so long he had been avoiding your body, avoiding the way it made him lust, made him ache, but now he can finally take his fucking fill-

You shiver as his eyes slowly wind down your face, your neck, your shoulders, to finally rest on your supple breasts. His fingertips drag down, skimming along the curve of your cheek, down the slope of your neck, to rest delicately on your collarbone.

“Can…can I touch…?”

With a snort of laughter at his modesty, you tell him firmly, “Yes. I consent.”

How many conversations have the two of you had in the last few months about consent? It feels like an inside joke, and you hope you haven't offended him when a smile breaks out across his lips.

The chuckle he gives melts your heart. His eyes are tired, exhausted really, but you can see him almost. The young Armand, who fell so deeply for his wife he almost followed her to the grave. You've seen pictures, of course, but that wasn't the same. Cupping his face in your hands, you slide his glasses up his forehead, and smooth his eyebrows with your thumbs.

Dreamily, Armand sighs, relishing in your careful touch. When his eyes flutter closed, you ever so gently smooth your thumbs over his eyelids, over his temples. Down his jaw to the point of his chin, as you ask if you can touch him, just as softly as he had you.

The answer is a nod, firm and wanting as his eyes open.

Your nails skip over his freckled chest to tease his chest hair, before you begin to unbutton his red silk shirt with care. “Armand?”

“Yes, love?” He sighs dreamily as he flicks his glasses back into place.

“Am I gonna see you again? After they take me away?”

His lips purse as his hands slide over your hips to cradle your lower back. He thumbs the scarred skin with care, thoughtful and sad. “Yes, you'll see me, but it won't be the same.”

“I know,” you reply quietly, parting his pajama top and feeling that familiar spark in your belly at the sight of his chest, his round firm stomach. Your hips rock, restless and needy, your stomach grinding against his, as you go on, “But I can live with that. If we only have…this, it will be enough, as long as I still see you sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he promises, heart cracking at the thought of you going away, the thought of his bed being empty again, his arms being empty again. “I'll try my best, and we can…” Not wanting to lie, Armand sighs. “I'll try. With all of my power, I'll try.”

To his surprise, you beam at him. Before he can do so much as return it, you're kissing him, your smile so bright and warm and wonderful he can taste it, taste your joy, your love-

A tear streaks down his cheek. It's bittersweet, your love; he knows you have so much of it to give, and one day he prays you'll find someone worthy of you, but if you want him, even for just a moment, he's happy to try and fill that void for you. Careful hands smooth over your hips and you follow helplessly as he breaks the kiss.

The fire casts your bodies in that beautiful orange glow. His weight between your legs makes you swoon, and for a moment the two of you simply regard each other.

His thumb touches your bottom lip, caresses the soft flesh with a tenderness that makes you murmur. You press a kiss to it, and he smiles. With great care and a featherlight touch, he traces your temple, your jaw, just as kindly as you had him only minutes before. Your eyes flutter as he kisses your neck, his grey stubble teasing your sensitive flesh.

Heat twists in your stomach as his hand shifts, reaching to peel your underwear away from your sticky slit.

You kiss him once, twice, nodding vigorously before he dare ask-

But Armand only laughs. “Easy, easy, we'll get there-”

“I wanna be there now!”

That makes him grin, makes him snort, and he nods, rubbing your sides with affection.

“Please? Please, Armand-”

Not wanting to tease you, but not wanting to rush things either, Armand slowly smoothes his big hands over your stomach, over your hips, before his right hand slowly eases down, over the sweet bump of your pubic mound, to part your slit-

Your eyes widen as he moans, as he closes his eyes and just feels you a moment, your puffy clit throbs against the backs of his fingers, and his neglected cock twitches, demanding satisfaction-

“What? What's wrong?” You whisper, his sudden stillness making you anxious.

“You…you're positively certain, this is what you want?”

With a frustrated mew, you plead, “Armand, please-”

“You're so wet,” he drawls with awe, his brown eyes shining with want as he begins to trace featherlight circles around your needy clit.

Over and over, the rough pad of his thumb touches you, his eyes completely enrapt in your face, in your every expression as you begin to whine and twitch, as you pant and buck and whimper his name-

A smile crosses his lips. “There we go,” Armand coos as you come apart, as the tension in your stomach twists into something undeniable and good, as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his neck- “That's it, just like that…”

“More,” you huff when you're able to breathe again. Your hips dig into his as you grind against his hand, as he keeps circling your clit, steady and slow, his light touch making you keen- “Armand, please!”

“Easy, love, just need to make sure you're all right, have to make sure you're prepared-”

“I am! I am,” you assure him, kissing his neck, his shoulder, down to his bicep.

He hisses as your nails dig into his back, as you begin to restlessly circle your hips. For a moment, the two of you simply neck, nuzzling and rubbing your cheeks together, whispering and kissing and sighing each other's names, before Armand simply can't take it anymore-

“Darling-”

The immediate nod is all he needs.

Careful, he loops an arm around your waist and holds you steady, as his free hand pulls his cock free of his silk pajama pants. Slowly, he eases you down, letting your soaked slit cradle his aching prick. “Good,” he hums as you huff, as you whine his name. He kisses your temple, holds you close, as your clit throbs against the sensitive glands behind the fat head of his cock. “I need you to get me wet, as wet as you can.”

Your brow crinkles with confusion, but it feels so good, you don't care as he rocks you up and down, up and down, until his dick is coated in your juices, until your slick drips down to his balls, until every up ends with the fat tip edging inside you, until he's grinding against your pussy, eager to get inside, but not quite sure you're prepared yet-

He doesn't want to hurt you, you've been hurt enough, he needs to take extra time, extra care-

Sick of his teasing, you wait until he does it again, until he drags you up his cock, until the taper of his cock head slips ever so slightly in, and then you drop.

“Oh!” You chirp as he splits you open, as your insides stretch and strain to accommodate his girth, fuck, he's tearing you apart, your legs shake, your world tilting off its axis as you take him to the hilt-

But no pain comes. There's only a sweet stretch and an ache for more that you're more than happy to indulge.

Gasping, Armand's eyes widen as his nails sink into the soft flesh of your hips, as your plush cunt embraces him, the tight wet heat almost too much for him to take, fuck it's been so long, far too long, and his cock throbs with need as you swallow him up so perfectly.

The soft pant of your name, low and reverent like a prayer, makes you shiver. No one has ever spoke to you so sweetly, his voice gruff with need as he restrains himself; no man had ever done that for you before. Helplessly in love with him, your gaze caresses his features as you try to memorize every line, every crease on his face. “You're beautiful,” you murmur, rubbing his biceps, the strength beneath the red silk obvious, but no fear comes.

He grunts as your cunt clenches, fluttering around him as you slowly slowly slowly begin to rock. “S-sweet heart, darling…” Armand pants your name, a gentle hand lifting from your hip to cradle your cheek. “Please.”

Oh, the love in his eyes, in his voice... Your hips twitch, the sudden spark of pleasure catching you off guard as the fat head digs in a little deeper than before, the new stretch sharp and wonderful.

The surprise on your face makes him grin, and he nods, urging you on, loving every awkward quirk of your hips, the obvious love on your face, the obvious pleasure on your face. His heart swells as you begin to ride him, finally taking your fill. He chuckles with pride.

The sound is intoxicating. Head swimming as your body hums, you turn to kiss his palm before you take his hand and plant it back on your hip. “Help me,” it's not so much a plea as a demand. “Show me how, Armand, please.”

Fingers flexing around your soft flesh, he's helpless to do anything but nod. He guides you, showing you how to roll your hips, how to take him from root to tip, and it's not long before you get the hang of it. A low moan leaves his lips as you sink your nails in his shoulders, his head falls back, glasses almost slipping from his nose.

Pushing them up for him, a bright giggle leaves you as pleasure begins to build again, different this time, stronger-

He grunts as your lips find his neck, as you nip and suck and nuzzle. “N- no hickeys, sweet heart-”

You huff, not understanding what that means.

He bites his lip as you kiss down to his collar, as you pull his red pajama shirt aside to sink your teeth in, not hard, not enough to bleed, just enough to ease the ache to do it- “Don't, don't leave a mark.”

Hurt, you pull back, covering your mouth with your hand. “Oh?”

“No, no, it's not- it's not because I don't want you to, it's just-”

“No one can know,” you mutter, hips not skipping a beat, even as your expression falls. “Okay. I understand.”

He frowns, but you kiss it away. You kiss each corner of his mouth, his nose, his cheeks-

Chuckling, Armand relishes in the affection. Head falling back on the couch, his touch wanders your back, over your hips and waist, before you grabs his wrists and plant his hands directly on your tits. The boldness makes him snicker and bury his face in your neck, completely in love with you as he obediently begins to thumb your nipples.

Tears prick at his eyes. You smell so good, like his sandalwood soap and apple shampoo, you smell like home, and he reminds himself this is temporary, that you'll be gone soon enough. Armand decides not to waste what little time the two of you had left.

It's strange. It's wonderful. It's…a surprising thing, you suppose, if you had to describe it; whatever it is, this climax he had warned you about. It's not just one thing, one thing would be too much, and so much more difficult, it's everything. It's his heart beat against your fingertips, it's rough warm callouses on his palms, it's the rasp of his beard, the soft kisses he dots along your scarred shoulder; together, they're too much, much too much-

You come apart with a shriek, with quivering thighs and a tight kiss pressed to the side of his head as you hold him close. The man moans, your tight heat fluttering so beautifully around his swollen cock as you reach your peak, as you cradle him to your chest and sigh his name, and that's enough for him.

“D-do you need to stop?” He asks carefully. “Sweet heart?”

“No.” Your hips start to roll again, weakly at first, but with a certainty that charms him.

“Oh?” He asks as you gently ease his glasses off. With an owlish blink, the man chuckles as you come into focus.

“I want you to feel good, too,” you tell him plainly, as you set the eyeglasses delicately down beside the discarded joint. With a quirk of a smile, and of your hips, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. Chest to chest, you press your lips to his.

A tear streaks down his cheek, and another follows as you trace its path, as you coo and wipe it away. Armand flounders under your kindness, the softness in your eyes, in the sweet unassuming touch you so thoughtlessly grace him with, and he needs you to know, needs you to hear him say it, at least once, even if your family shows up to claim you in the morning, at least you would fucking know- “I do, I love you-”

The kiss is almost stern. “Hush,” you murmur, shaking your head and resting your brow against his. “Don't say that.”

It hurt much too much to hear it from someone you couldn't keep.

“Just show me,” you whisper, kissing him once more before you lean back.

His heart pounds, uncertain, but he nods anyway. “As long as you know.”

Careful fingers shake as they brush the curls back from his sweat damp forehead; you've never been allowed to touch so freely before. “I know.”

His eyes flutter closed as you begin to ride him in earnest, but only for a moment before he opens them again. You're close enough that he can see you just fine, close enough that he could read every flicker in your expression, and he doesn't want to miss a moment of it. With careful hands on your breasts, he thumbs your puffy nipples, groaning softly when you pick up the pace. “There we go,” he urges, smiling when you beam.

Kissing him is the most natural thing in the world. It feels like Heaven, his gentle touch, his encouragement, his cock-

Fuck, you didn't know it could feel so good, you think, mind growing muddled and stomach growing tight as pleasure builds in your blood. With a moan, your head falls back, and Armand is there, his mouth on your neck, not biting, not choking, but kissing, nosing, sighing-

With a whimper, you thread your fingers through his dark salt and pepper hair and draw him close. His big hands slide from your breasts, easing down to your hips, then around to cradle your lower back.

Voice soft, Armand whispers the sweetest praise; he tells you how good you feel, how warm you are, how beautiful, how sweet, how perfect, and you want to tell him the same. You want him to know how good he's making you feel, but you can barely breathe, let alone speak, every touch feels so good, your stomach flutters in the best way-

Armand shivers as your nails graze his back, as you cling to him, as you kiss his neck, his shoulder. “Sweet heart,” he rasps against your temple as pleasure builds at the base of his spine, “I'm close…”

Nodding into his neck, your legs grip his thick middle as they start to shake-

Armand huffs, lip curling as his hands move up and down your thighs, over your hips and waist, but he doesn't come apart until you kiss him-

Really kiss him, your shaky hands cradling his face so tenderly as you whine his name, as you hold him close and milk his cock so beautifully, he can't help himself. Moaning your name against your lips, Armand drowns in you, in your tight cunt and warm embrace, and he lets go, letting himself reach his peak for the first time in over a year-

“Armand-” Fuck, he grips your thighs so tight, not painfully, not demanding or rough, as he holds you to his chest- “Please-”

He nods, the press of your naked breasts against his chest, the tenderness of your touch; tears well in his eyes again, as he spills his seed inside you, as he presses his brow to yours.

It's too much, much too much, perhaps this was a mistake-

But oh, he thinks, it doesn't feel like a mistake, as you kiss his temple, his stubbly jaw, his goateed chin.

“Armand,” you whisper, so close it almost hurts-

Nodding, he smooths a hand down your plush stomach, down to your pubic mound, down to your clit.

The spark of pleasure makes you throw your head back, and Armand sucks quick needy kisses along the length of your throat, the prick of his goatee sending you over the edge. Chirping his name, your insides flutter around his spent cock, your hips jerk and buck, and he allows it; he lets you squirm and huff and grunt, lets you twist and whine and kiss him-

He lets you-

He lets you…

Armand sighs as you break the kiss. Panting, the two of you nuzzle a moment before you slump against him. He chuckles, gruff and warm, as he strokes your hair from your face, as his other hand squeezes your hip. With a blink, you let him guide you up, and off him. The moan he gives at the loss of you makes you smirk with pride, and you kiss his shoulder as you settle against him once more, his thinning cock wedged between your sweaty bodies.

For a few minutes, it's quiet. Just the sound of your breathing, the odd crackle from the fireplace, and the sound of your heart in your ears. It's strange, how content you feel, how safe, and satisfied, how…unafraid, you are, at this new development. This new prospect. Hm. Your fingers tease the silk of his sleeve.

Armand kisses the top of your head, strokes your cheek. “Are you alright, sweet heart?”

Characteristically quiet a moment, your expression is pensive when you finally nod. Yes, you were. You were safe and loved and warm and-

“Any regrets?”

Your head shakes immediately.

Armand grins, holds you a little tighter, now that he knows you're comfortable. “I'm glad.”

"Me, too,” you tell him, voice a bit thin, a bit embarrassed, but genuine. “I…I didn't think it would be like that.”

The confession is low, before you meet his gaze, earnest.

“Oh?” He kisses the tender space between your brows, smiling as you melt into the affection.

"It was…I didn't think it would feel g-good,” your throat catches on the word, but you take a deep breath to steady yourself, just like Armand taught you, and go on, “I knew it felt good for the man, but I…it was just a surprise.”

For a moment, you search his face for something he doesn't understand. You look for annoyance, for judgement, for rage, but Armand is patient, loving, kind, the crinkles around his warm brown eyes soothing all your fears, before you go on, “I didn't think you wanted me like that.”

Armand tucks your head under his chin as you nestle down, deep into his arms. The orange firelight flickers along the waxy scars of your back, but you don't feel any self-consciousness as he begins to trace them with a featherlight touch.

“It's not like that,” he assures you. “It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

He sighs as you stroke his goatee tenderly. Melting into the affection, his eyes flutter closed. It's so good, being held, being touched. For a long moment, the two of you simply touch, touch without pressure, without expectations, without threats, or violence. The longer you lay with him, the more in love with him you fall, but-

Anxiety needles at your belly. Armand was a good man, a fine man, he had never hurt you, not even when you lashed out at him, not even when you broke dishes, not even when you got your period-

Armand sighs, kissing the top of your head once more before his eyes open. He smiles, crooked and fond, as he meets you gaze, but it falls at your tense pout. “Sweet heart?”

Oh, your eyes are sharp. You're looking at him differently now, watching his expression closely, the hyper vigilance creeping back into your mind. The carpet has burned your knees, you notice, the curtain is fluttering-

Were they open this whole time, you wonder, paranoid now. The fear in your gaze as you stare at them-

“It's the vent.”

Your eyes snap back to his; your chest feels tight, your whole fucking body feels tight, and you hold the red silk of his pajama top tight, too.

“The vent is blowing the curtain. It's locked, they're all locked up tight, and the alarm is on, remember? No one-”

“Gets in or out without an invitation,” you recite, smiling despite your nervousness. Sheepish, your chin dips. “Thank you for reminding me.”

He tips your chin back up, eyes and voice sincere as he tells you, “Any time.”

Chuckling, you accept his kiss eagerly. All but swooning, you lean against his chest and ask, “So?”

“So?” He rubs your arms, kisses your forehead.

“What now?”

“Now, we have breakfast.”

Frowning you let him rub your hips, your back, let him stand without making trouble. You were a good girl, you would never purposefully make trouble, but- “But what are the rules?”

“The rules? What rules?”

You shrug not understanding his shocked blink. “What do you want now?”

“Now?”

“Now that you own me?”

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