“ i love you. you don’t have to say anything, i just thought you should know. ” with v/reader and santi 🥺
prompt: “ i love you. you don’t have to say anything, i just thought you should know. ”
pairing: santino d’antonio x reader x v (coa)
wc: 758
Comfort of hands. A trace of fingertips, slopping and searching. Santino’s fingers are idle, seeking your warmth, mapping the slopes and the dips of your body. There’s not much he hasn’t already found and claimed; even fewer places he hasn’t already touched on this night.
Your limbs are loose and warm, near floaty with relief and happiness. They came back safe. In one piece. Because it’s always a worry when they go away, when they depart; Santino with his sharp suits and sharper grins, each quirk of mouth sly and condescending. V always clad in leathers and armed with metal and poison, cold eyed and terrifying. Baba Yaga’s apprentice learned from the very best in the subtle art of unnerving people. As such, you’ve learned long ago to take comfort in their joined departures as only reassurance they will return.
Because they promised to do so—unfailingly; always, bella, always to you—and they keep each other safe. And it makes it a little easier, to let them go, to see their backs walking through the door. Hector’s grunts of irritation that they’re going to be fine, and to stop pouting already. But you can’t help it because…
“You’re frowning,” V’s soothing, low murmur reaches you, her mouth fluttering over the slope of your temple. “It’s fine. We’re here.”
Santino hums in agreement. But his eyes don’t lift from his phone, tying loose ends, you know. Fingers folding around the crook of your knee, he tugs your legs closer to him, smoothing a warm palm over your bare thigh. It’s middle of the night, likely edging towards the morning, and you’re tired, and worried sick still. They’re back and out of their clothes that had stunk of blood, gunpowder and death.
V’s fingers trace your face, tickling against your nose and you bury your face in her lap. Flowers and poison and death.
“Sorry,” you exhale, breathy and needy and just sore with worry, with misery of another near loss. There’s not a scratch on them. The Four are terrifying alone. Loyal to their head and lady. V is downright chilling when provoked. You’ve seen it in defence of her family, in defence of you. “I’ve just…”
“Now, now, cara mia. Look at us,” Santino urges, beguiling and soothing, his voice honey with its sweetness and heat. It floats over your skin, followed by their hands and you suck in more of V’s scent, hearing her approving, fond sigh at your neediness. “Perfectly fine, hm? No worrying now. Unfortunate souls to have seen themselves as brave have been…taken care of.”
“Dead,” V corrects.
Shivers trail up your spine at the simplicity of her admission.
“Yes, amore, thank you,” Santino huffs unhappily. He tugs you closer, dropping his phone to lean closer and kiss the hollow of your knee. “And now, I would very much like to enjoy a lovely night with my girls.”
Because V is his wife, and you will be their wife—wholly and greedily and forever—because they asked, and the ring is on your hand and never comes off. It’s endearing how they adore it so. Santino loudly and brashly. Much the way he loves all things in life. V’s quiet intensity of pleasure to see the ring on your hand is different. A brush of her fingers over the metal whenever she links your fingers together; a touch possessive, a touch wild. It’s an odd sensation; a viper curling and coiling around you, trusting her to protect and adore, not poison and destroy.
“I love you,” you say, breathless; not thinking, not pausing. Just speaking and feeling and it’s a jumble of feeling too much yet not enough. “you don’t have to say anything, I just thought you should know. Just in case—just—“
“(Name).”
It’s near comical the way they call your name simultaneously. Limbs slide—wanton and seductive, gliding across your skin until you’re between them. Santino’s mouth, sinful and proud, laying claim to the crux of your throat. V’s tongue sears hot and wet, her eyes near black with tempest of emotion you can’t quite read between the shadows.
“Say it again,” she orders. Throaty, more desperate than you’ve heard her in throes of passion. “Say it again.”
Whatever little you’ve been wearing upon their return slips free from your body. And when it’s not fast enough you feel a cold nip of metal to assist your disrobing. Thrill, pleasure; dizzying and overwhelming fills you.
Only love could turn your lovers into ravenous animals—starved as they are.
𝐀𝐠𝐞: 28 (FWNS), 29 (NPFH)
𝐀𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧(𝐬): The Pit of Vipers, The Syndicate (North America Branch)
𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐞𝐭: Poison master, blade specialist, hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship.
𝐋𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: New York
𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥: Level 5
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: Target poses an immediate and increasing threat. Removal ordered. Failed attempts: 2
pairing: oc!v (clara) x f!reader x santino d’antonio
word count: 2.8k+
summary: “A dress. You have missed us.”
warnings: mild nsfw.
notes: V/Reader got upgraded by Team S on discord to include the pasta man himself and so here we are. This is more of an experiment and dynamic here is triad so just a heads up and hope you enjoyyy.
There are three things that you can always expect to find in the D’Antonio household: wine, coffee, and sharp knives.
The carrots under your fingers turn into small chunks one chop at the time, and you hum under your breath. Shifting your weight from one leg to another, you move the vegetables into a separate bowl for later use.
An unfamiliar Italian tune thrums through the sound system as you continue working on your little surprise.
Dinner.
For the three of you.
While Santino and V both have trained chefs at their beck and call usually, it’s the simple things like all of you cooking together that you enjoy far more.
You might not be an expert but sometimes you still like to try.
Your lovers are also never short on praise when you do try, and if that isn’t motivator enough to try, then few things could be.
You miss them.
Selfishly perhaps, but you do. They had to leave for Camorra business early this morning. Long before you started your day. Waking up alone has never felt quite so foreign.
It was the first time in three months that you woke up without either of them beside you, and it made you miss them just that much more. Their warmth and morning kisses.
Santino always gets creative in the morning, and he’s hardly a morning person to begin with, which always leads to interesting scenarios.
Sometimes they wake you up together with hot, trailing kisses and lingering caresses against your bare skin. Other times you wake up to the sounds of their shared pleasure.
And truthfully waking up to the visual feast that is V riding Santino, a slight smile on her face and her expression calmly smug, is one that has stayed with you since.
Sometimes you simply watch—by order or by choice, it depends on the day—and other times they drag you between them and how could you refuse them? Them and their magnetic pull.
Often, though, you think that V is just as insatiable as Santino is, maybe even more so.
Especially when she fucks Santino with that single-minded intensity and tells you exactly how you should touch yourself while you watch.
“If you daydream you’ll cut your fingers off, (Name),” a soft voice calls from behind and you still, a shiver tickling down your spine as you straighten. “Let’s avoid that, shall we?”
You turn towards the kitchen entrance and a grin blooms across your face. Speak of the viper and she shall appear. “Hi, Clara.”
The woman in question returns your smile—a smaller but no less genuine thing—and moves towards you. Same cutting, dark eyes watch you as she walks towards you. Her heels click against the wooden flooring, and you place the knife back on the counter, turning to face her fully. It’s easy to appreciate her subtle beauty though the strength and the confidence in her stance makes you exhale shakily every time.
There is a whisper, a promise, of power with her that always trembles your knees just so.
She’s wearing Camorra burgundy today. A stunning, deep colour and the dress manages to hug every curve and muscle as she halts before you.
That colour usually means serious business though. It’s a good thing you opted out of attending whatever meeting they had today.
They always leave the door open for you to choose just how involved you want to get. For them, you try, but it often gets too much and you have to pull away for a breather. The fact they never push you, never look down at you for needing a break away from their dark world, just makes you love them both more.
You can’t complain too much though. The brunette before you looks amazing. Breathtaking. Dangerous as always.
You’ve told them both before how much you love them in that colour. How much it suits them and how it only seems to expand that potent power they both hold.
Sometimes you still wonder how you managed to catch their eye at all.
“What’s all this?” V questions but not unkindly and your grin grows. “Making a feast?”
She gazes at you intently, her heels giving her a slight height advantage, and you savour the tickle of her perfume against your nose.
“I thought we could have dinner together,” you explain, your breath slowing when she reaches out and touches your face. Delicate stroke against the arch of your cheek and you lean into her touch. “For the three of us. Welcome back.”
Her hazel eyes narrow thoughtfully and she leans closer, making the back of your spine press into the kitchen counter.
Her kiss is slow and deliberate, her fingers coming to rest against the back of your head as she guides you closer. You follow her touch, sighing into her kiss as you wrap your arms around her, pulling closer to her. Heat simmers in your lower stomach, and Clara slants your head, her fingertips pressing into the flesh curve of your neck as you shiver. You gasp into the kiss, feeling her fingers biting into your hip, and her tongue sweeps over your mouth quickly. A hot, tantalising second that leaves you trembling with need for more.
But she pulls back, still watching you through hooded eyes and you stare at her, too.
Your laboured breaths move loose strands framing her face and you work to compose yourself. Fight back the need to reach for more.
“Your lipstick,” you exhale, still pressed into her. “You will ruin it.”
Her mouth curves.
“If it survived the car journey here,” she divulges knowingly, arching her eyebrows with a slight, cutting smile. Her fingertips trace down your neck as she speaks, lingering on your bare collarbone. “Then I don’t think you have much to worry about.”
The heat in your lower stomach bubbles. You know what that means.
Clara doesn’t lower herself on her knees often, but when she does, she makes sure that you and Santino are both left completely wrecked afterwards. She’s far too relentless for anything else. You wonder if that’s the reason for the delay in his appearance. If he’s trying to gather himself even now.
You lick your lips, feeling an echo of him on your tongue after a kiss you just shared moments earlier.
Their meeting either went extremely well or extremely poorly.
You’re not sure which you prefer.
The intensity of your love making is often a direct response to how frustrated one or both of them are feeling.
You lean forward, lightly pressing your lips against hers and breathe her in, trying to gauge what mood she is in.
While Santino tends to be an open book more often than not, the viper does not share this characteristic with him. She guards everything, even though you and Santino do manage to worm your way under that guard.
The fingers resting securely against your hip twitch.
She responds to your kiss, deepening it—slow and through, never one to rush—but when she pulls back her stare is serious.
“A dress,” she notes and you shiver at the lowering of her voice. “You have missed us.”
The meeting went badly.
Your throat goes dry at the way she pushes you harder against the counter. The pressure against your hip eases, then constricts again, and you breathe deeply.
You are wearing a dress for them though. There is an unspoken preference for them between you three. If V wears a dress, Santino can’t keep his hands off her. If you wear a dress, neither of them can keep their hands off you.
So maybe you dressed yourself up nicer than usual. But you like it. And you especially like how much of a temptation you become to them when you do.
“Do you not like it?”
Her head tilts slowly. An almost predatory motion that causes heat travel through your body.
The length of Clara’s fingers drag down the cotton of your dress and your breath hitches when it settles on your bare thigh. Then her palm journeys upwards and under your dress, your eyes fluttering shut in response. Your muscles jump under her coaxing touch, and you grab her bicep, feeling the lean muscle there.
She is deadly, and so kind, and terrifying, too.
You love her.
“Open your eyes.”
You do so immediately. Her voice doesn’t rise or sharpen but the quiet command there sends a thrill down your spine all the same.
“I like the dress,” she says lowly, her hand coming to rest against the edge of your underwear, her thumb digging into your hip bone. “It makes me want to put you on this counter and see if I can get you to orgasm before Santino finally decides to grace us with his presence.”
You can feel the beat of your own heart thudding in your chest. Your blood boils in your veins and you lean into her, trying to kiss her again, but she edges backwards. She watches you for a moment, letting you stew in your own desire. Need.
You can be insatiable, too.
The tip of her nail scratches teasingly under your underwear and you smother a groan.
Clara takes your chin in her hand with her free hand, her expression calm but intently focused on you.
“I...” you begin, swallowing, and force yourself to keep your voice steady. “I would like that.”
A slight smile twitches her lips, and you love how her entire expression softens for you. Something affectionate. Warm. Just for a moment.
The hand still holding your chin trails upwards, her thumb settling against your bottom lip. Her touch is always cooler than Santino’s. The Italian is a walking furnace of heat but you don’t mind it. Not with the desire her touch awakens inside you, too.
You love them for how different yet alike they are.
A slight drag against the flesh of your lip follows and your heart jumps. You feel her Camorra rings press against your face and your lips part instinctively.
Slanting your head, you let her thumb slip between your parted lips, and waste no time in giving it a tentative lick.
Her gaze sharpens at once and you see her jaw clenches slightly. She focuses on your mouth and encouraged by what you see and feel, you give her thumb an experimental suck.
“Do not,” she begins, a calm warning ringing through her gentle words. “Start something you will not finish, little one.”
You love it when she calls you that. Not because they think you’re delicate or in need of their protection. But because you are something important and precious to them both. Despite Santino’s penchant for pet names, it was Clara that called you little one first and it has stuck since.
“Am I interrupting?”
You blink out of your daze at the sound of that sly, accented voice. Releasing Clara’s thumb from your mouth, you blink towards the doorway.
You find Santino leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, and a knowing smirk on his face.
He is a mess. Hair in a disarray, tie crooked and his vest unbuttoned. The Italian appears, for the lack of better term, completely wrecked.
He does look completely delighted by the scene before him though. He pushes away from the doorframe, approaching you both with measured steps.
Clara hasn’t looked away from you. You’re still hip to hip, a throb between your legs tipping towards an insistent ache that you need soothed by them.
“Hey, Santi.”
It’s a quiet exhale of a greeting, and the man grins. He comes to a stop behind Clara, wrapping one arm around her waist as he reaches for you with another.
He leans over the viper to kiss you. His mouth is as demanding and hot and greedy as always. He drags his teeth over your bottom lip and a moan slips free when you feel Clara’s fingers settle against your wet folds. Two fingers press against you, and you jerk against her hand, seeking more friction.
Santino pulls back unhurriedly, his expression dark as he presses a hungry kiss against Clara’s neck, too, sucking on the smooth skin there. There is harshness to his usually adoring, slow touches and kisses. He’s all teeth and bites today.
Definitely a bad meeting, then.
“She’s making us dinner,” Clara says conversationally to Santino, her eyes briefly closing as she savours the sensation of that burn. It never fails to amaze you. How effortlessly they become what the other needs at any given moment. When she blinks her eyes open again, her stare is suffocating in its intensity while she stares at you. “But can you last that long with how wet you already are, little one?”
“I missed you both.”
It’s the only thing you manage to gasp out.
Santino makes a sound at the back of his throat; a low, guttural sound that makes you try and lean into Clara’s hand to relieve the burn between your thighs.
There is a flash of ice in her eyes, and she jerks her hand, cupping the entirety of your throbbing heat with her palm as she pushes you back, her thumb pressing over your pelvic. She holds you there, unmoving. An unspoken command. She even makes it look easy. Gaze hard, jaw set—and you freeze, your chest heaving. Your underwear bunches over her hand but she doesn’t seem to care. Even though you know you’re no doubt soaking her fingers with how aroused you are.
Santino has paused in his actions, peering at you over Clara’s shoulder, his chin hovering over it. His bright green eyes are at least several shades darker than usual. The fact that he doesn’t speak is worse. If Santino is silent, only two things follow: violence or sex so rough your legs are left numb after.
Usually, Clara is a buffer. A lever which pulls and pushes, somehow always able to tell your limits even before you can. Effortlessly caring but merciless, too.
There is little of that gentleness to be found today.
They’re angry and restless.
You know they already fucked on their way home, and you doubt there was any softness to be found in what they did. To think that they’re both still this wound up after—
“Kitchen counter or bed,” she muses and you know it’s not a question. Just a thought being spoken out loud. Though you want to grind yourself into her palm—desperate for relief, desperate for them even more—you hold yourself back. She always rewards patience. You also like how you always win the patience game in comparison to Santino. “Can’t quite decide.”
Santino hums, still staring at you, unblinking, and the raw lust you see there makes you fidget.
Clara rubs a delicate circle against your lower stomach and you breathe heavily. Your grip on her tightens and you want her closer—want both of them closer, in you, even if it means you will be sore tomorrow.
They both push and flow like the moon and the ocean, and you’re just helplessly caught up in a whirlpool of them.
Santino breaks away from the woman in his embrace, reaching for you. You lean into his touch, his fingers burning against the curve of your face. “Hm, I don’t think we can be gentle today, little one,” he warns seriously, his eyebrows furrowing. “Tell us now if you would rather we step away for today, yes?”
That’s the last thing you want. Even if you have to spend tomorrow napping and resting because they exhausted you too much.
“I will always want you,” you tell them, breathless, reaching for them both, pulling them closer. You sense their rage and how it bubbles under their skin. “No matter what.”
Clara withdraws her hand and you feel a sting of confusion.
“Counter. Now.”
Santino moves the moment the low instruction sounds and you brace your hands against his shoulders when he hoists on the counter. Things get pushed aside, Clara spins the kitchen knife out from sight in a blink, and you cling onto Santino’s shoulders, watching them both close in.
Two monsters perhaps, but two monsters who love you. That you have never doubted and never will.
“But dinner...”
Santino’s fingers go to the back of your dress, pulling the zipper down with a sharp grin, his eyes gleaming.
Clara lays a kiss on your thigh, shoving the material of your dress back. She looks up at you, swiping her tongue over the wet fingers of her other hand. A hand that she just removed from your soaked clit and you shiver at the darkness you see in her gaze. Shadows and danger. Shadows and desire.
“Whatever do you mean, little one?” Santino poses, playful, biting. “We’re about to have our dinner right now.”
. . .
an: anyway, a concept. ngl these are very fun to write.
notes: Is this the most meta thing I’ve ever written? Yeah. Enjoy!!
It’s cold outside.
Huffing a breath, you enter the Continental terrace, shivering at the cold sting of wind.
The fire is crackling, much to your surprise, but perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised after all. You know at least one patron that enjoys spending time up here. A patron Winston always makes sure is taken care of. Even if that person desires to sit outside in the middle of the night.
The sight of her stops you dead in your tracks.
The Vipress.
A woman of legend at this point. A woman capable of such terrible, awful things. You’ve heard so many stories about her. Who hasn’t?
John Wick’s old protege who more than lives up to his legacy.
What you hear about her, however, depends almost entirely on who you’re talking to.
Some speak of her fondly. Others speak of her with hate, malice.
To be powerful is to be feared and hated.
She told you that once herself.
“Why do you linger in the shadows, (Name)?”
You flinch at her soft question.
Your throat feels dry as you search for something to say that won’t make you sound like a creep ogling her when she’s unaware.
The fact that she knew it was you without even turning to look behind her sends an odd thrill down your spine.
Dangerous and beautiful.
Loose strands of rich brown hair brush against her cheek as the Vipress turns towards you.
She sits on the sofa, facing the fire, a cup nested between her palms.
You wonder if it’s tea or coffee or something else. She doesn’t drink often, you know that much.
When you first met her, you assumed it was out of preference, now you know that’s not quite right. She’s too wary; always tense, always ready to fight back. Too wound up to let herself relax and you know those instincts have been beaten into her quite literally.
It makes your heart ache. That this woman of few smiles but iron will can never quite let herself relax. Or be happy.
“I—I’m sorry,” you mutter, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to impose.”
The Vipress watches you. Eyes dark, thoughtful, and shrewd. Those eyes remind you of Winston. Somehow both the manager and the woman before you make you feel completely stripped bare under their gazes.
“You’re not imposing,” she replies, and turns to face the fire again. “Anyone can use the terrace.”
Fidgeting you stare at her profile, at the way fire licks across her drawn features. She looks tired. Her jaw is set though. As always. Her mind is no doubt focused on something far more important than you.
You turn to go.
“Leaving already?”
Exhaling, you risk a quick glance over your shoulder. She hasn’t moved.
“I...”
“You came here for a reason,” she notes, and raises her cup, taking a small sip of her drink. “Come and enjoy the fresh air.”
You do.
Shuffling your feet, you approach slowly.
The Vipress doesn’t like to be touched. Doesn’t like having people behind her, either. You respect those things about her despite not knowing the reason behind that caution. Just rumours. But there are many of those circulating around her, and you’ve come to find that only a handful are actually true.
You wish you knew her name.
The Vipress feels distant, cold. A title that could and does inspire fear in many.
Some call her V. A fond shortening. But you wish you knew her name. Her real name. You bet it’s beautiful. You wish she trusted you with it.
Winston knows it. Charon, too.
But you never dared to ask them. It never felt right to do something like that.
You keep distance between you as you sit down, glancing at the woman still watching the flames.
“Tea?” you try awkwardly.
A slight smile twitches her lips and something inside your stomach flutters at the sight of it. It suits her. So much. You wish it was more than a fleeting, distant thing that is gone in a blink.
V straightens with a nod of her head. “Berber tea,” she offers by the way of explanation but all you can focus on is the way her freckles appear more visible in this orange glow. “A Moroccan speciality. It’s delicious.”
Something passes over her features at that mention but it’s gone quickly again, and she turns towards you, offering the cup.
Being so close to her just makes eye contact harder to bear. Her gaze is too arresting and you reach for the cup with a fumble.
Ignoring the heat of her fingers brushing against yours, you lift the cup closer, giving it an experimental sniff. It smells delicious but strong.
“How did you even get it?”
Her dark eyes flicker away for a moment, thinking, before she looks back at you. Her black jumper almost makes her blend in with the night around you. Like a dark promise, a secret. She favours dark colours usually. But you’ve seen her in greens and reds, too.
You lift the cup to your face, hoping to hide away from her for a moment.
“Winston,” she says simply, and you try not to look down at her fidgeting fingers. Another tick. Another manifestation of the pain she carries. “For the raw materials. I learned how to brew it myself.”
She uses that terrifying mind of hers for more than just tea making, you know that, too.
A thousand questions tickle the tip of your tongue.
You take a sip as you think and choke at once.
Not because the tea is too hot but because—
Your face scrunches in disgust. “EW—”
A quiet noise reaches you and you blink the tears from your eyes, swallowing down your revulsion.
Vipress chuckles again; a gentle sound, a genuinely amused one, and you feel embarrassment pool in your stomach immediately. It sits hot and thick in your gut as you think of something to say. You do like that sound though. Her laugh. It’s pleasant and warm, even if a bit awkward—like she’s unused to laughing or smiling. But you feel like such a fool—
“It’s strong,” she murmurs, a smile still twisting her mouth and you stare at her, flustered. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you. You get used to it. I tend to go stronger on mint and lemongrass, too.”
You can tell that. Your tongue feels a little numb.
Maybe a lot numb.
“It’s okay, I just don’t think it’s for me,” you exhale and clear your throat, licking your lips. “Uh, why are you not sleeping?”
Her eyebrows rise as she reaches out as you hand her the cup back, lacing your fingers together.
The woman gazes at you for a beat before offering a cool, “I don’t sleep much.”
“Oh.”
Silence follows.
You desperately want to ask her questions but can’t find a single thing to say. She scares you. She fascinates you. There is an odd magnetism that makes just being in her presence feel nice. Thrilling, too. Something lingers in her hazel eyes. A whispered promise of danger, adventure, love.
Like she might take your hand and disappear with you.
Whisk you away somewhere no one will ever find you.
A nervous flutter explodes inside your stomach at that thought.
You would, you think recklessly, run away with her if she asked.
“Would you like to go for lunch?” you blurt out in a rush. “Tomorrow?”
You want to die. Maybe the building will collapse and you will never have to think about what an absolute idiot—
“I can’t.”
Something inside your heart withers. Of course she won’t want to.
You’re you and she’s...
She’s the Vipress.
She must see something on your face—embarrassment or disappointment, no doubt—and her expression softens a touch.
“It’s not what you think,” she adds quietly, squinting at you, curious. The seriousness melts from her features for a moment, and warmth floods your chest at the way a slight, apologetic smile graces her face. “I’m leaving for a job tomorrow morning. Europe.”
Nibbling on your bottom lip, you venture a low, “After you come back then?”
She doesn’t say anything for a long time. As if thinking hard about something. It makes you feel self-cautious despite the fact that her regard is not harsh. Just pensive.
Your eyes drop first.
She didn’t say no before but—
“I would like that.”
Your attention snaps to her, your lips parting in surprise.
Around the rim of her cup you can just make out her smile. It’s almost hidden but you see it. She isn’t looking at you, either, but that’s fine.
You only manage a small, breathless, “Okay.”
Her smile widens.
. . .
an: this is something self-indulgent I wrote just for fun so I don’t expect many people to actually like this. Though, all the same, to those of you who read it, I hope you did!
You wonder what you would have become had you been allowed to stay a girl. If you did not have to become a monster. Even though the monster kept you alive, kept you breathing and fighting.
What would you have become if you hadn’t been robbed of a life you could have had?
“Your life is not your own, it never has been.”
—extract from ch18 of children of ares “the truth will set you free”
Smut list, Reader x V (Clara), "Try to stay quiet for me. Can you do that? " claRA is my kink so idk what kink am i supposed to add wfwsfnehrynyd? Semi-public?
⤫ prompt: "Try to stay quiet for me. Can you do that?”
⤫ pairing: oc!v (clara) x f!reader
⤫ warnings: nsft, semi-public, oral, edging, a dash of dirty talk.
⤫ word count: 966
“Please.”
“Please what?”
Her voice is a quiet hum and you shiver.
“We…we can’t do this here,” you mumble, embarrassed, but heat pools in your lower stomach all the same. V’s hand slides up your leg and the sight of her before you on her knees sends your pulse racing—as do the people currently trying their clothes on in other dressing rooms around you. “What, ah, what if someone hears?”
The woman before you hums again, pressing a soft kiss to the bare skin of your thigh. Her long fingers dig into the hollow arch at the back of your knee and you shudder.
“If you do not want this, we do no have to, little one,” she finally answers, and presses another lingering kiss to your knee. Her dark eyes slide upwards and you freeze under that desire fuelled gaze. “You simply looked tempting. So happy and beautiful. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“No—no, I just wasn’t sure if we should,” you whisper hurriedly, your voice dropping when people walk past, laughing, and the curtain flutters. “I really want to. I do. Just…”
Her eyes narrow, her grip on the back of your leg tightening before relaxing. She pulls on your leg, and after second of confusion, you relax your muscles. V drapes your leg over her shoulder and you freeze, your heart beating like a drum. You’re only in your underwear and you know she can see and feel how your skin is crawling with goosebumps.
She’s still gazing up at you, her lips parted, before she presses a soft peck to your inner knee. “Try to stay quiet for me, little one,” she says, the faint command there, and she punctuates every word with a kiss to your inner thigh, slowly journeying up. Your muscles spasm at the heated contact, your hand snapping out to stead yourself against her shoulder. She only smiles; a slow, devilish thing. “Can you do that for me?” she coos.
“Y-yes.”
Her index finger hooks onto one side of your underwear, pulling it aside. She clicks her tongue at what she finds waiting for her.
“So wet already,” she notes, her voice dipping into a pleased purr, and she meets your gaze again, her palm dragging up your thigh. “You’re so shy but I see how this excites you. What if someone walked in right now? Stumbled upon you splayed out like this for me. A needy mess and I’ve barely even touched you. Tell me do you want the people in the next stall to hear us? Would you like me to fuck you harder if they do, little one? Maybe I should invite them to watch?”
Your unsteady breaths grow even heavier. V’s warm breath brushes against your quivering core, and you feel yourself clench around nothing in anticipation, your hips rolling as your head drops against the wood behind you. If you were home she would find plenty of ways to fill you up just how you like it. A dull thud follows your slip, and your heart jumps, your stomach clenching, and that’s the exact moment the woman before you chooses to attach herself to your cunt.
There is a brief sensation of cool metal gone so quick you barely register it before your underwear flutters to the floor. Now ribbons.
A sharp suck against your core before a kiss follows, and a strangled cry slips free before you clumsily slap your hand over your mouth. You bite down on the flesh of your palm to smother your cries of pleasure while V begins devouring you like you’re her last meal.
Her hands press into your hips, holding you still with near bruising strength, and it boils your blood as she grinds her face into you, unashamed. There is determination in every tantalising swirl of her tongue. Every careful suck and even softer kiss that follows. Every blow of air directly over your drenched cunt that shoots every sensitive nerve in your body into overload.
Your back arches with a muffled sob, your body a livewire—a shuddering, quivering mess when she rolls her tongue unhurriedly, deliberately, between your folds while your knees shake.
Your fingers tangle in her dark hair, gripping tightly, and her eyes journey to you lazily.
Her eyes appear pitch-black from this angle, her pupils blown wide with lust. Despite that, every move is calculated. Her right hand slides from your hip to press against your lower stomach. Your muscles coil under her strength, yielding.
Someone walks past again, the curtain fluttering just slightly, and your heart plummets, your body desperate for release, for her mouth, her…
“Please,” you choke out, quivering, your hand dropping from your mouth. “Please, please.”
“So fucking needy,” she rasps, licking her lips, as she rubs your lower stomach. You lean into the pressure, desperate. “And sweet.”
She slides your leg off her body smoothly and kisses your lower stomach, avoiding the only place where you want her mouth to be. She rises slowly, trailing her lips and tongue up your body. Her arms wrap around your waist, and she presses your entire body to hers. With heels, she stands taller and you lean into her, shivering even harder when your chilled skin meets her warmth.
“I can feel how desperate you are to cum, little one,” she hums against your neck and presses a kiss against the cut of your collarbone, giving it a playful nip. “I bet I could do it with just my voice. Would you like that?”
You try to grind your core against her, preferably her strong thigh, but her hand stops you.
She presses a hard kiss behind your ear, biting briefly on the lobe. “No,” she purrs, her voice low. “You’ll have to wait. I can’t have you screaming my real name across the store.”
