The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. Death was yet to come for you, perhaps it was because you had a lot to offer the clown; he in turn reciprocated. Perhaps he thought you were amusing, for now.
Your morals must be twisted because one thing was for certain: There was no denying the unshakeable, terrifying tension building between the two of you.
12,400 words
Slow burn
Rough sex (obviously!!)
Art being a fucking dom
The predicament you found yourself in was utterly unfathomable. In fact, thinking back through foggy thoughts, you couldn't really trace back to where this started.
You supposed fate aligned correctly for you. Logically speaking, you had a lot to offer the clown, and he in turn reciprocated favours.
Living within the vast forest adjacent to miles county, not many people ventured into the thick greenery. You had resided here for some time, at first with your father and then on your own once he passed.
You're grateful for the fact that your father had such a lively business. If not for that, you doubt you'd ever be able to live so well and comfortably all alone on the outskirts of the county.
You lived in an old cottage with ample firewood to stay warm and luscious land that stretched afar. A lot of it you used to keep animals.
You were accustomed to fattening the pigs up through spring while they birthed their young and slaughtering them in the winter for food supply. It was just another day at work for you; not that you had to work. You could live amiably without any need of strenuous hard work like farming, but you enjoyed it.
It was more of a passionate hobby than a job.
You travelled into town for any necessities you may need in your fathers old truck, but largely remained to yourself and a chunk of the townspeople knew that.
Some called you crazy for living in nature while that killer was on the loose, but you moving into town didn't necessarily change your chances of survival.
Thus you stayed put.
It wasn't until one clear night just after Halloween did you hear a disgusting squeal coming from one of your pigs. It was the sound of a slow death, and it startled you enough to grab your late fathers shotgun and storm outside courageously to see just what the hell was stealing your livestock.
You expected an animal. What you found instead shocked you.
A man, tall and lumbering and clad in a monochromatic clown costume kneeled hunched over one of your pigs, it's body twitching and steaming as it's hot innards met the chill of the outside air.
You heard the wet sound of his hands delving into the pigs guts and gripping a handful before bringing the meat to his lips.
This stranger was eating your livestock. Devouring them like an animal, raw and uncooked and grotesquely bloody.
You remained frozen, shotgun pointed, glancing at the black bag that lay beside him full of various menacing tools stained crimson.
If your father taught you one thing, it's that you should treat people with kindness, especially the strange ones.
The weirdos are the most dangerous, and living out here all alone meant that if one ever wandered into your land, it was probably best to treat them as a guest and act amicably, if only for your own safety.
Steeling your nerves, you cocked your head at the man, seeing the gap appear in the pigs abdomen as it's organs were devoured.
"Might want to cook that, stranger." You spoke gently, shotgun lowered to the floor.
The freakish clown paused, fingers laced in guts, head turning slowly and deliberately to the side.
"Tastes better that way, personally. Cooked, I mean." You shifted nervously from foot to foot, the chill of the autumn air getting through your pyjamas.
Maybe coming out here in nothing but some bottoms and a vest wasn't such a good idea.
The mans side profile was lanky even while crouched. His face held extremely prominent features, and you began to wonder if they were prosthetic or not.
You dared to step directly behind the stranger, his blood shot eye staring at you from the corner, pig entrails held frozen. They were cold now.
"Come with me. I can cook that right up for you, throw a few herbs and spices in and make that a great dish."
The clown let the guts slip through his fingers, gloves tainted red, and stood to his feet slowly. Your breath froze in your throat at the way his height seemed to grow and grow as he extended fully, back straight and rigid, and turned around almost menacingly to stare down at you with a dirty grimace.
Apart from the bizarre clown face paint, he appeared incredibly beat up. His one eye was completely red, and you wondered if it was simply shut from injury or if it had been gouged out. It was hard to tell with the amount of blood covering it.
He had a few large gashes littering his body in various places too. His clown costume was ripped terribly.
You both stood silently, your body shivering lightly at the blustery wind and your hair tousling gently. The clown remained unperturbed to the elements.
His good eye was narrowed into a glare, face contorting in an ugly fashion, eyeing your bare feet, your lowered shotgun, up to your bare shoulders and then finally back to your face.
An ominous smirk began to stretch across the strangers visage. It was actually rather unsettling, even without the pigs blood covering him. Merely the smirk alone set your nerves on edge.
You cocked your hip, hand resting on it comfortably as you stared up at him. "So, what do you say? It's a cold night, and you're looking a little worse for wear. Come on in, I'll help you out." Your words were true, and you think the stranger sensed that, but he seemed keenly aware of the way your voice shook.
You don't know how you knew that. Maybe it was the way his lifeless eyes shined dimly at the way it shook. Eventually, the clown nodded slowly, wordless.
You offered him a smile and a nod of finality. "Great. Follow me, if you would." You dared to turn away from this maniac, though you supposed if he wanted to kill you he could easily do that while you were looking at him; He was huge.
Not in the muscular sense, but in height he was at least a head and a half taller than you. Incredibly lanky and thin but from the way he was devouring that pig, he definitely had strength.
Walking a few steps, you paused suddenly and spun around, your silent guest directly behind you. It startled you but you tried not to let it show. "Mind grabbing the rest of the pig? Wouldn't want it going to waste. I'd do it myself, but you know how a lady gets.", you chuckled breathily; it was hard to speak when his void eyes were staring at you, smirk still somehow present and frozen on his face.
"--Don't want to dirty these pyjamas, they're my favourite. And, pardon me for saying but you're already dirty, and you'd no doubt be able to pick it up with ease, so..", you finished lamely, smiling as genuinely as you could.
It felt forced that time. He was starting to unnerve you.
Finally, the clowns expression fell into one of light thought, doing a visual sweep of your stature. It embarrassed you slightly, maybe he was judging your pyjamas. They were simple, but your favourite. Or maybe he silently agreed that yes, he could easily pick the animal up compared to you.
Dead weight was heavy, after all. And he was a big guy, in a sense.
The clown grinned this time, large and sharp, showcasing bloodied teeth, before nodding vigorously. Clapping excitedly, he hunched down to gather up the pig remains and nodded at you, as though to say 'lead the way'.
Smiling in return, you turned and led him to your home.
As soon as your back faced him, your expression morphed into one of doubt and anxiety.
That was some time ago. It was mid winter now, and Art - the odd clown that had spelled his name to you in blood on your window - was no where to be seen.
You hadn't seen him for two weeks, he often appeared when he wanted and left for days on end too.
You had both settled into an accord of sorts.
The clown was a maniac, yes, and had often tricked and teased and terrified you with knives and hammers, pretending to finally put an end to you only to stop millimeters from your face, laughing silently and slapping his knee dramatically.
You screamed each time, gripping your chest in terror but forcing a breathy laugh to escape you, shaking your head. "Got me again, Art. When will I ever learn?" You tutted, voice shaking and body trembling.
You knew it was only a matter of time before he killed you, surely. So, you did things to keep him happy.
Like offering your old, worn out barn as his work place to fix up his weapons or create new traps. It was dingy and damp, but Art didn't even mind. His mouth opened into a perfect 'o' shape, eyebrows high in surprise, pointing to himself and then to the barn.
"Yes," you had confirmed to him, "the barn is yours. Do what you like with it, I.." you had paused. Art sensed something was left out and cocked his head at you with a menacing smile, hand under his chin as though he was ready to listen to you spill a secret.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Art. Im happy to give you the barn, you do what you want in there and I won't ask questions, but in return I was wondering if now and again, when you're free to of course, if you could help me around the place?", you asked softly, sweetly, your round eyes staring up at him so innocently he often wondered if he should pinch your cheeks until the flesh tears off or flail you.
Maybe not yet. He liked having you around for now. You were sweet and entertaining, and cooked good meals.
Art tilted his head left and right in deep thought, eyes rolling up to the sky as though truly debating with himself, before his large hands suddenly slammed down onto your shoulders heavily, causing you to gasp aloud, eyes wide.
Art began to silently laugh, lifting a finger and thumb to roughly tug at your cheek, before nodding excitedly.
You sighed in relief. Well, you couldn't very well ask him to spare your life as a favour, so you supposed asking him to help you with chores was your only option.
In a way, you think he was amused by how ballsy you were. He was terrifying, after all.
Thinking back to the present day, you hadnt seen him for two weeks, which meant he was either out on a killing spree or recuperating after a nasty fight.
You've since gathered that this man, this thing, isn't really human. He eats because he enjoys it, but you've seen him go weeks without food. This thing you've allowed into your home was demonic, and its sick how fond of him youre growing.
Sighing, you felt fatigue catching up with you as you had spent the last few hours tending to the fields, animals, and other chores such as gathering wood and cutting them into pieces.
Mindlessly lost in thought, you bent down to pick up a log, putting it into place and heaving the axe up ready to cut it. Your arms were shaking; how long ago did you eat? Well, it was around 4pm now, and you've been busy since around 7am, so it's been far too long, and you were ridiculously sweaty even in the mild winters day.
You lifted the axe, elbows suffering and shaking, before huffing loudly and dropping it back down. You really needed a break but you also really needed to start getting this wood ready for the cold winter nights.
Determination taking over your features, you lifted it again, fatigue overwhelming you but to hell with it because you had things to do before nightfall. Inhaling deeply, you lifted it high, stumbling forward as you let the axe split the wood sloppily; it was very off mark, and if your father was here right now he'd make you do it again.
The axe embedded itself into the surface below, and with both hands you gripped the handle to try and wrench it out but to no avail.
Huffing agitatedly, you gritted your teeth and tried again.
The sound of a honk startled you, your entire body jumping and a yelp escaping your throat as you spund around with a hand held to your chest.
"Art!", your tone held accusation but you still laughed. "How long have you been standing there? Please dont tell me you witnessed my horrible attempt at cutting wood.."
Art shrugged, picking up the pathetic attempt at cutting the log in half and scrutinizing it. He shook his head and closed his eyes as though disappointed.
You flushed in embarrassment. "Yeah, that really was a sorry attempt..", you turned back to the axe, gripping it and tugging. It didn't budge.
Suddenly, a pale, gloved hand gripped the handle and ripped it out with ease. You blinked at him in shock, watching at how he slyly looked down at the axe in his hands and then at you, rolling his eyes as though to say 'have I got to do everything around here?'
For a speechless clown, he was sassy. And terrifying.
You smiled tiredly. "Thanks. I'm so hungry and sweaty and gross and ugh--", you shook your head, "ignore me. Are you hungry? I'll go and--"
Fingertips touched your lips to silence you, and then a finger shot into the air, telling you to wait. The clown eagerly knelt down to rummage through his bag of..mysteries.
He excitedly rubbed his hands together as he found what he was looking for, and delved in to grab it tightly.
The clown spun around to face you, item hidden in box, and closed his eyes dramatically, then stared at you pointedly.
"Oh, um..Close my eyes?", the clown nodded happily at you being able to understand.
Your pulse increased, fear gripping you. You wouldn't refuse him. Closing your eyes slowly, you held your hands out. "I-I trust you, Art. No funny games, okay? Please.", you pouted.
Art cocked his head at your pouting lips and shaking hands. He had that unexplainable urge to squeeze you tightly and also cut your lips off with a scissors. You were adorable, he'd admit that. He wondered if a day would ever come where you'd flutter your cute eyelashes at him and he'd grab a knife and burst your dazzling blue orbs.
Maybe one day, but not today.
It was only on rare occasion that you'd catch the sadistic killer of miles county choosing to not act with violence.
You were the only rare occasion.
Pushing those tempting thoughts away, Art held the box excitedly and tip toed over to you dramatically. He was eager for you to see his gift.
Firm hands gripped your own as a box was dropped into it, only a small box.
You smiled uncertainly, eyes closed, and felt the box with your hands. Art poked at your eyelids gently for you to open them.
The box was black. Tattered. You lifted the lid slowly.
A multitude of emotions filled you. You didn't know which ones to show. Art watched eagerly, excitedly, though you could still see the sharpness of his eyes.
The box was filled to the brim with Beatles. They were squirming and hurrying over one another in an ugly display, some spilling out onto your arms before falling on the floor. Luckily, you weren't terrified of insects.
Looking at Art, he began mimicking holding an imaginary box and shaking it hard, then pointed at you.
You shook the box hard, the Beatles scattering everywhere, and gazed into the box.
Your blood ran cold.
A decapitated fox head stared at you, eyeless and bloodied with its tongue cut out and shoved into one of its eye sockets. Beatles crawled throughout its skull.
"A..Fox."
Art nodded aggressively, pointing animatedly at your chickens cooing in their pen, then at the fox, then at himself.
"Oh! You killed the fox that has been hunting my hens?"
Art clapped silently and his eyes dazzled as though screaming 'bingo! Finally!', then pointing and laughing at your pale expression and wide eyes. His gruesome smile was held wide, cutting sharp, as he buckled over in silent laughter.
Your mouth quirked upwards in amusement. Well, he was certainly keeping his end of the bargain. The fox was a pest, after all, even if his method of killing was a little..unorthodox. Not that you'd ever complain.
You couldn't help but giggle at this absurd man. "Thank you, Art. I appreciate that. Now with my hens remaining alive and well, I can make you some more of those pancakes you like once they lay their eggs."
Arts mouth opened in surprise, eyebrows raised high. He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, nodding at you as though to say it's a job well done. You agreed that it was.
Putting the box down, you gripped the axe once more, ready to return it to the shed. "Well, I'm going to have a quick shower, then how about I make us some supper?"
Art wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, and heat lightly warmed your cheeks. Before you could reply, the axe was ripped from your hands and Art had already gotten to work with cutting some more wood. He did it flawlessly.
He shooed you away dramatically, wiggling his eyebrows one more time before chopping through the wood efficiently.
Conflicted in how easily he embarrassed you, you made your way tiredly to the bathroom. You really needed that shower.
You let the hot water wash away the stress of the day, eyes closed as you nourished an apple smelling conditioner through your hair.
You sighed, feeling ten times better already, muscles sore from the strenuous chores you barely managed to finish today.
Standing in the warm confinement of water and steam, you began to wonder if Art was still cutting wood. This led to thoughts about how bizarre it was having a murderer in your residence while you showered vulnerably. He didn't appear to want to kill you yet, and you wanted to keep it that way.
Wrapping a towel around your hair and body, you stared at your tired complexion in the mirror and frowned.
You really shouldn't be so comfortable with his ominous presence, but..
There was something quirky and charming about him, you guessed.
You soon froze at the sound of an alarm blaring.
You ran to the bathroom door, tearing it open. What was--
Was that your fire alarm blaring? But why? You had meat in your slow cooker, yes, but--
Panic surged through you as you darted out of your bathroom and bolted down the stairs. You didn't know how or why but you prayed that your kitchen was in tact.
Barreling through your living room and into the kitchen, you scrutinized the area, seeing no smoke, no fire, nothing.
Eyes wide, you ran to the slow cooker and switched it off. There wasn't even any smoke coming from it, how had your alarm gone off? Bending to check in your oven, you confirmed what you already knew - there was nothing in there.
Standing straight, hands on your hips in annoyance at that blaring alarm, you sighed aloud. Your towel remained upon your head, however loose hair had managed to escape and fall upon your shoulders from your erratic movements.
Glancing around desperately, Art was no where to be found. With his height, he could probably reach the alarm on your ceiling and deactivate it. You spent no time waiting for his possible arrival and grabbed a chair.
Lugging it over to the centre of the room, you gripped the top of it and shakily stood tall upon the chair. Reaching up high, you fiddled with the alarm, attempting to get a good grip to be able to remove it.
You huffed, making a sound of aggravation as your towel somehow remained firm around your figure, even if it was short. The water from the shower was cold on your body now and it only seemed to worsen your mood.
Finally managing to rip the damn thing from the ceiling, you removed the batteries and tossed it to the floor with a scowl. Stupid faulty alarm.
In a less than desirable mood, your hand gripped the chair to steady yourself. Before you could even put a foot on the floor, a honk sounded so close to you it had you yelping; you hadn't even sensed him let alone heard him.
Wide eyed, you stared down at the clown. His shoulder was practically brushing your outer thigh as you stood high. "Oh, Art, I didn't see you--"
A hand being thrust out to you interrupted you. He was offering his large hand to you, and although uncertain, you couldn't deny that he had a peculiar charm. Smiling, you gripped his hand with your own to steady yourself, lifting one leg to put on the floor.
Except you never did. You barely caught the malicious grin the clown gave you, eyes narrowed into slits and teeth bared as he lifted one foot backwards and kicked the chair out from under you.
The leg of the chair shattered from the force, splintering and bending as you began to topple to the floor. You screamed, eyes squeezed shut.
You thought you had whiplash at the way your hand was wrenched painfully towards his body, your figure pressed up against his as your head butted into his chest.
He had an arm around your waist, suspending your weight in the air against his body with no difficulty.
The clown remained frozen, grin still as wide and terrifying. Your feet barely brushed the floor. "Art!", you screeched, body shaking from adrenaline, hair towel fallen to the floor.
The clowns eyes snapped to yours disturbingly. Before you could berate him further, you were tossed upwards until dexterous hands rested at your shoulders and below your knees. He was holding you bridal style and it terrified you.
You cried out in shock, gripping his clown suit between white knuckles, bath towel beginning to slip ever so slightly. You felt a mixture of terror and embarrassment at being in the brutal arms of the county killer.
And the terror only increased tenfold as the clown removed his grip from supporting your shoulders for mere seconds, your body heading straight for the floor, before securing his arms around you again before you could make impact, shoulders moving in silent laughter.
You truly screamed that time, legs kicking out and arms wrapping around his neck instinctively. Your eyes squeezed shut, towel slipping even more; it mortified you.
"Oh my goodness, Art, you terrified me! And I bet it was you that set off my alarm?", you accused in a high pitched, shaky tone, grasping him incredibly tight as you felt his fingers teasingly loosen just to scare you.
Art nodded vigorously, proud and excited that he had been caught, and snapped his head down at you. His grin of sinister glee slowly morphed into a knowing, filthy smirk.
You blinked up at him vulnerably, wide and glassy eyed, rigid in his arms, before realising that oh my God, you were in a towel this entire time, a short towel that surely moved during the commotion--
He must have noticed the sudden panic in your eyes, for his lecherous smirk stretched terrifyingly, eyes narrowed.
Surprisingly pervertedly, Art glanced down at your body swiftly. Once, twice. An indication that you should probably take a look. His eyebrows wiggled, and without needing to look, your cheeks reddened, lips parted in shock.
Head snapping down at yourself, a flush spread from your neck to your cheeks. The towel had dropped so low your breasts were threatening to spill out obscenely. It didn't help that you were of ample size.
And although everything else vital was covered, the way your upper thigh was exposed had you squirming desperately to try and make some distance.
"Ah!", you cried, "my towel! Put me down!" You demanded helplessly, overcome by embarrassment as Art snickered silently at your need to protect your intimates.
Art dropped the arm holding your legs, letting them crash upon the floor painfully. The sudden downward motion had you squealing, gripping him hard. You were grateful that he supported your upper body, you supposed.
The way your body dropped had your towel falling fully for a split second before you ripped it back up to cover your modesty.
You tore yourself away from him - he let you - and stared at him with wide eyes, chest panting in fear and fluttering peculiarly.
Your hands shook as you gripped your towel, knees knocking together, withering under the intense stare of the clown as he foregone his usual dramatic, knee slapping laugh and instead almost seemed to chuckle in amusement, brows as low as they could go, head tilting in fascination at your half naked state.
He expected anger, frustration, undeniable fear at his actions towards you. What intrigued him was the way your round cheeks flared crimson and how your eyes, usually relatively confident when regarding him, fluttered everywhere but him.
Yes, he decided, head tilting left and right slowly, deciphering. You seemed incredibly flustered.
He felt lust, often. For blood, violence, but rarely sexually. Pain was sweeter than pleasure, he thought, but regarding you now, languidly staring at you from head to toe, an idea struck his mind...
An idea you couldn't decipher, but the way his eyes lit up and his eyebrows rose pleasantly sent heat flaring through you.
You didn't allow it to consume you any further as you darted up the stairs and into your room.
On the way past him, you saw his shoulders moving in a silent, mean laughter.
That had been two days ago. Since then, you continued on as normal..
Or as normal as can be.
Art remained busy in the old barn, the sounds of hammering and God knows what else permeating the quiet air at all hours of the day, and oftentimes there would be silence; He had left.
It had been a full day and a half since you last took sight of him. It was unusual how domesticated you felt, preparing enough food for two with a little extra leftover, keeping only the dark towels in the bathroom from when he no doubt came strolling in covered in blood and took a shower.
You came to notice he was meticulously clean about things he deemed worthy, such as his clown suit and himself. He loved to bathe in his victims blood, yes, but after a fun days work, you often found him spotless. Well, apart from his teeth. Bizarrely, he didn't utterly stink, and you come to the conclusion that he chose his terrifying mouth to look that way on purpose.
That was good. You appreciated that even if he didn't necessarily do it for you.
The only thing you had gently persuaded him on was allowing you to at least dry his clown suit before putting it on. With a roll of his eyes, he allowed it.
There were very few things he allowed genuinely, and you seemed to believe he had grown accustomed to your gentle naggings of 'Art, please don't touch that with blood on your hands', or 'There was no need to trail bloody footprints all over my kitchen'
You never demanded. That probably helped. Of course he had days where he'd grin mischievously and smear blood across your mirrors and door handles, knowing you'd have to touch it and clean it.
You could live with that. Thankfully, after a night of killing, he was reasonably tame, eating whatever food you kept in your cupboards with a calm expression.
That wasn't to say that he wasn't unpredictable. He could snap on times and come at you with a knife, chasing you around the kitchen as you screeched and whined for him to stop, all the while watching him laugh with glee.
And on real scary nights when he seemed bored, well..
Anything could happen then. Even still, Art remained tame as of yet in comparison to the things he is capable of. He clearly saw a need in you, and repaid your generous cooking, cleaning and fixing up his costume for him with keeping you alive and leaving you mostly unharmed.
A cut here or there, yeah, and definitely a bruise but you were alive and well.
The only real affect he had on you was terror, he did enjoy popping up randomly in the dark when you had got up for a glass of water, hand roughly pushed over your mouth as your screams muffled into his hand before realising who had caught you.
Or the times you'd check on him in the old barn, just to see if he was around for dinner, calling his name out. Venturing in, you'd freeze as the door shut behind you, darkness enveloping the entire area, only for the sound of a flame thrower igniting near you making you scream and cover your mouth in terror.
Each time you'd ramble something like 'Art, stop it! I-Im making beef for dinner and I just wanted to check that you wanted some!'
The clown would tug on your cheeks with both hands, patting your head as though to say 'how adorable are you?' before pushing you surprisingly gently towards the door and shooing you away.
You'd run back to the house with your chest beating so loudly you could hear it in your ears.
Presently, you were wearing a cute brown dress, tights covering your legs as you cleaned around the place. Loving the winter, you brought out your cosy candles and fairy lights, loving the gentle glow as the nights grew longer and the sun faded earlier. It wasn't quite time to decorate for Christmas yet, so this will do.
In fact, having a little break from the clown had allowed you to really tidy everything up, get your chores done, see to the animals and bake some brownies in the oven.
All in all you felt refreshed and well, truly in your element. It allowed you to push.. peculiar thoughts of Art from your mind.
Time carried on, and the brownies were cooling on the baking tray as you sat comfortably on your settee, a white blanket decorated in pumpkins covering you. You loved Halloween, too.
Dropping off to sleep, your mind felt at peace until a muffled sound was heard from outside. Lifting your head, you didn't react as you awaited Art to barge in at any moment, only..nothing.
Sitting up, you waited silently, hearing that muffling once again.
You frowned. Art was a master of silence, if he didn't want you to even hear the rustling of his bag, you wouldn't.
So why did you hear leaves crunching loudly, and..
Oh.
That wasn't Art.
You could hear voices mumbling now, close to your window, though unintelligible. You wondered who it could be. You had no known close relatives, and no friends, really.
Not close enough to appear unannounced on a late Friday evening, anyway.
Living in the middle of no where, you learned to be cautious of such sounds. You had no neighbours, and hardly anyone ever passed your cottage. Those that did tended to knock politely, not skirt around your perimeter sneakily.
Aside from Art; he's different.
Standing swiftly, you opened a drawer, gripping a handgun. You could never be too careful out here all alone, and you doubted it would go down easy if you stood with your shotgun aimed at them.
Handgun it is. Hiding it furtively, you stepped outside with confidence.
The sight of two men dressed head to toe in black greeted you, peeking through your curtains.
"Can I help you?", you began politely, causing them to bolt upright and spin around to face you. You couldn't see their faces.
They weren't amicable strangers, that was for certain.
"That truck yours?", the tallest indicated with a nod of his head.
"It is."
"You, uh..you live alone?"
You smiled.
"I do."
The two men sprung into action. "You do, do you? Be a good girl and chuck me the keys."
"Why would I ever do that?" You remained calm, pulse elevating, adrenaline begining to grow.
"Why?", the other repeated with a scoff, and swiftly pulled a knife out from his pocket, "because I want to see your round ass walk away like a good bitch, so go grab those fucking keys before I cut your face off."
Talk about overboard.
Nodding politely, you backstepped. "I understand. I don't want any trouble, give me one moment, please."
You backstepped further into your house, keeping the door open.
As you did, you heard one of the men hiss 'im not a fucking murderer, let's just get the truck and fucking go!'
You had a few options here.
You could run, hide, call the police.
You shook your head and steeled your nerves. Hell no. This was your damn property.
The two men looked around cautiously, impatient. "Where the fuck is she? We should've gone in with her."
"She's terrified, bitch probably can't find the keys."
They heard the sound of a gun cocking. Loudly.
Turning back to the door, you supposed they never thought to see a shotgun aiming directly at them. You could see their eyes widen behind a black robber mask.
"Woah, hey, keep the fucking keys--", one began, hands in the air, knife dropped to the floor.
You remember holding this very shotgun the night you met Art. You smartly lowered it, knowing true evil and terror when you saw it.
But these two? They had nothing on Art. Just average men, trying hard to terrify a woman. A nasty smirk broke out on your face, one of anger and satisfaction.
"I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to get the fuck off my property before I blow a hole in your chest. How's that sound?"
The scared one nodded vigorously, hands jittering as he backstepped, ready to bolt. The other, however..
"You wouldn't do that. You don't have it in you.", the other tried calling your bluff, taking a leap forward. It started you, but you remained strong.
"Wouldn't I? Out here in the middle of no where, who'd ever come looking for you?"
The man shrugged. "You might be right, but whose going to look for you?"
Before you could respond a hand grabbed from behind, reaching out and gripping the barrel of your shotgun and forcing it to the sky.
You instinctively pulled the trigger, sound blasting through the forest loudly causing birds to flutter away.
How the hell did he get in the house?
The assailant was stronger than you, tearing the weapon to the floor before gripping you by the hair roughly.
You grunted in pain, hands frantically searching for the handgun on your person as the man at the bottom of your steps began coming at you too.
You managed to shoot him in the thigh, hearing him cry out and collapse.
The scared one took off in a sprint, never turning back.
The aggressive one currently ripping strands of hair from the root wrestled you to the floor after shooting his friend, boot pressing firmly on the hand that held the gun and kicking it away.
He got on top of you and held you down as you struggled and fought against his hold, head reeling to the side as he back handed you, hard.
Furniture and anything close by moved and was tossed over as you fought back, unwilling to let him pin your hands to the floor, punching a fist into his groin to get him to crumple slightly so you could lug him off with all your might.
You scrambled to your feet and made a dash to the door, barely getting halfway before a strong body wrestled you back to the floor, your hands aching from the wall as he ripped your dress from the back to keep a hold on you.
You continued scrambling ahead, reaching out for anything, hands gripping the large sewing needle you had lost some time ago and turning to stab it into his cheek.
The man hissed, face turned into an ugly snarl as he staggered back in pain, holding the wound.
You up and ran, panting and panicking as you frantically made it outside.
The man didn't let up, he ruthlessly grabbed your hair causing you to cry out and slapped you so hard across the face you saw stars.
Blood dripped from your mouth as you stumbled back, held upright by the man's grip on you.
He grabbed your cheeks hard, squeezing the blood from your mouth, snarling. "Pretty thing, I'm going to put you in your fucking place--"
You cried out a sharp 'no!', kicking him between the legs and pushing him away.
You both fought tooth and nail for a while, you managing to run a short distance before being dragged back and hit even harder in the face.
This time you gasped helplessly for breath, blood spurting out of your nose and down your mouth.
What scared you the most was a hand gripping your thighs and trying to spread them.
"I'm going to fuck you before I kill you, bitch. And it's going to hurt." The man seethed the ugly promise, tearing your dress up high and grabbing your tights to rip a hole in then.
You cried out, kicking him in the jaw but to no avail. Without any weapons you had no chance in winning against his strength.
You saw an opening as he stumbled back at your kick and bolted it as fast as you could towards the trees. You knew this land well, so you knew where to hide.
Frightful and shaking, tears littered your cheeks as you heard the sound of the man getting to his feet to chase after you.
You gasped painfully, unable to breathe, and all but screamed bloody murder as you ran directly into a chest.
An arm wrapped around your struggling body, a hand smothering your scream as you fought and cried out desperately against another assailant. This one was like a brick wall, unmovable to your attempted attacks, even if he himself wasn't attacking you.
Two hands gripped your shoulders and shook you hard, causing you to look up at his face in terror only to pause, wide eyed.
That familiar, monochromatic clown tilted his head down at you in a thoughtful frown, mild confusion pooling in his irises as he studied you from head to toe, moving a gloved finger to wipe at the blood trickling down your chin.
"Art!", you cried, chest heaving up and down, "Theres--These men--attacked me and--and tried to-to--"
You could barely get your words out, watching as Art cocked a surprised eyebrow up and attempted to decipher your rambled sentences.
He didn't really need to. Upon further inspection, he could see the bruising of your face, the very blatant tear of your tights which showed a lot of skin, and how your dress had been ripped.
He knew something was off when he heard the sound of gunshots. He knew you had guns, but for you to use one meant something was amiss. Something compelled him to come and look, dropping the dead body he had been mutilating in the woods, eager and..somewhat impatient, to get to you.
That was a foreign feeling, and now having actually studied your shaking hands that gripped his costume and the amount of blood that covered your face as tears dribbled down fatly, staring up at him in utter relief, he was unused to such an expression, and truly didnt mind it coming from you.
Gazing outwards at the forest, an intense ire began to build in him. You weren't going to die today, he doubted you ever would because you were his, and only his.
Having finally made a decision, Art grinned cruelly, fingers eager and twitching excitedly to meet this so called attacker.
Letting his arms drop from you, he took a step forward to make his way to the house, stopping as you gripped his arm in fear.
"W-wait, please don't leave me--"
Art held up a hand calmly, shushing you, and went through his black bag, retrieving a hammer. He patted your head, as though telling you not to worry, and made his way towards your home. He walked excitedly with a bounce in his step.
You knew what that meant.
You were so happy to see him, as fucked up as that is, but he clearly made the decision to protect you. You felt relief and fondness, sitting against a tree with your knees up to your chest, waiting.
You wanted them dead, truth be told, but may God have mercy on them for what Art is about to do..
You remembered hearing gut wrenching screams and splatters of vomit as various tools were used to maim the trespassers.
You remember your body moving on auto pilot as you entered your home, Art briefly stopping his flaying of the man who threatened assault on you, to lift a hand and wave at you, fingers dancing playfully.
You waved back slowly, trudging up the steps and into your home where your living room was a mess from the commotion. There were patches of your blood on the floor, a lamp upturned and glass shattered messily.
Body and mind exhausted, you laid down on the settee and fell asleep dreamlessly. You didn't even awaken to the sounds of a chainsaw and guttural screaming.
You don't know how long you slept for. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, waking up to your ribs aching from the attack, or your lips burning from being split, the blood drying on them and irritating them.
You were still a mess, hair dishevelled and face bruised, dried blood flaking off your face and your clothes in almost tatters.
Your face was still puffy from crying, eyes opening slowly and slightly bloodshot. Moaning weakly, you stretched your legs out and hissed as your ripped tights dug into a deep cut in your thigh.
The TV was on. You barely registered the comforting hum of some early Christmas film that was on, volume low and tranquil.
Slowly standing, you made your way to the kitchen. Your chest fluttered at the sight of Art, sitting calmly at the table with a plate of sweet treats you had in the cupboards, including biscuits and cake, and what looked to be a cup of hot chocolate.
He was eating them very civilised, too. You were proud of that. It wasn't like he needed to eat, at least you thought, but he really did enjoy sweet food. Same as you.
Clad in a surprisingly clean clown suit, he waved at you, his hands stained red. He must have cleaned himself up for the most part, and..looking around, you sighted a mop bucket, so he must've really made a mess and cleaned up after him.
That was oddly..sweet. It made you smile.
"I must have been asleep a while." You gathered aloud, taking a seat at the table across from him.
The clown shrugged, held up a hand with 4 fingers. So you slept for about 4 hours then.
You rubbed your eyes, exhausted. The clown tilted his head at you slowly, frowning softly in thought with a finger to his chin.
"Yeah, I'm a mess. I can't believe those guys." You huffed, glaring down at yourself. Your anger spiked at the sight of your attire.
"He ruined my favourite fucking dress!" You exclaimed, arms folding frustratedly. You were a mixture of huffs and mutters as the clown cocked a calm eyebrow - how had you both switched places? - and listened to you curse and swear which he had never heard before.
It made him chuckle silently, head in hand as he watched you. Feeling eyes on you, your frown softened. "Im sorry, I'm not myself. I thought I had it all under control when I saw the two of them."
Your gaze dropped lower to the floor, reminiscing. "I didn't really notice the third. I have no idea how he got in." You almost whispered defeatedly, eyes misted and glassy as you remembered the way that man treated you and touched you.
You suddenly felt incredibly dirty. What if you hadn't managed to outrun him? He was about to violate you. And what if Art had never showed up? He'd--
Your thoughts draw to a pause as Art taps your hand gently, points to himself and does a stabbing motion, then points outside.
It made your lips quirk. "Their dead?"
Art nodded excitedly, grinning wide as his fingers tickle your hand. You begin to giggle, and grip onto his hand. "I'm glad you turned up. I mean, I managed to fight him off barely, but imagine if..."
You froze, eyes staring at your intertwined hands, and shook your head. "Assholes."
Art suddenly lit up like a lightbulb, face making one of surprise as he held a hand up to wait. Comically running out of the room, you awaited his return as he came near you with one of the robbers mask. Something was wrapped inside it.
Art got down on one knee and presented it to you with arms outstretched, wiggling his eyebrows, and you giggled again. Gripping the fabric, you found it soaked with blood. Opening it, a human heart stared back at you. It was relatively fresh.
You blinked slowly, not at all feeling usual feelings of repulsion and fear. Instead you felt..warm. The symbolic meaning of presenting you with the heart of your attacker wasn't lost on you, and as fucked up as it was, you blushed faintly.
"I.."
You smiled incredibly gently, Art thought. It made him happy to see your face finally light up after those filthy, rotten humans dared to touch what was his.
"I'm incredibly grateful for that. Thank you, Art. Who'd have thought you'd make such a great protector?" You winked playfully, laughing when he returned it dramatically with a nod.
"Oh! I almost forgot!", you rose and grabbed a nearby dish. "I made brownies!", you pouted at the fact that they weren't warm and delicious anymore, and Art thought that if you kept acting so cute he'd have to hurt you. In a good way, of course. He was still confused about that.
Art revealed one of his rare smiles, lacking it's usual slyness or sinisterness, and grabbed a brownie delightedly. It made you beam.
There you both sat, his hands bloodied and your face bruised with a heart sitting between you both as you shared the brownies.
There was an undeniable connection, and as you cuddled up in your blankets after a fresh shower, staring up at the ceiling, you thought about that.
The dynamic had shifted. Art could still be sly and mean in his ways of scaring you, but he certainly toned it down. He seemed to want to hear your laughter more, launching tickle attacks on you until you were a squealing mess on the settee, wriggling and fighting against his grip as tears of laughter wet your cheeks.
"Please!", you squealed, "no more! You win!", you'd shriek, body contorting until his fingers finally stopped and he stared down at you smugly.
For a moment, you both stared in silence, you catching your breath and him observant as ever.
With a burst of excited energy, you fled his slack grip and bolted to the other side of the living room, jumping in your spot. "Just kidding! I got away so I won!" You giggled ecstatically, watching as the clown slowly stood to his tall height.
Your laughter died down, nervous excitement replacing it. He held a glint in his eye that could only mean trouble. Art tilted his head dramatically, finger to his lips as though saying 'Oh, you've won, have you?'
You shook your head in panic, hands held up in surrender. "i-i didn't mean that! Honestly!"
Art mimiced your panicked face, holding his hands up in surrender as he jumped towards you. You jolted, stumbling back as an uncertain laughter bubbled up.
"Believe me, I know I could never outrun you..", you glanced towards the kitchen door, plotting.
Art lifted a hand to his chin, silently humming in thought, before holding up a hand with fingers spread wide.
He dropped a finger, holding up 4.
Then 3.
2.
"Wait--wait why are you counting?!"
1.
Art froze, grin held wide as he remained unmoving. You shifted nervously, about to say something before Art suddenly came to life again and darted towards you.
You screamed and bolted away, running instead to the stairs that were closer and hoping to make it to your room.
You did, and as you ran through it and turned to slam the door shut, Art was already in the doorway and wrapping his arms around you as you shrieked and cried out apologies for challenging him.
Art showed you no mercy, throwing you to the bed and holding you down with ease as he assaulted your ribs again with his fingers.
He laughed silently at your torture, gleeful and delighted at your non stop screaming and laughing.
"Art! Wait! I can't take it anymore!--" you wheezed, grabbing his wrists and pushing as hard as you could.
He didn't even budge. He was like a stone wall. Art paused, cocking his head down at your futile efforts and back up to your terrified face.
You froze, realising that you just challenged him again.
With a flash of black and white, Art jumped atop you, straddling your hips as he held your wrists down with one of his hands, watching you squirm and whine.
He chuckled evilly, silently, eyebrows low and grin spreading wide.
But there was that same look from the other day again. Peering down at you, he watched you analyse the position you were in, eyes fluttering up to his face in shock as a flush tainted your pretty skin.
Art knew that look. He was very meticulous when it came to the human body and the emotions it can feel.
You were panting, chest fluttering and warmth radiating off of you as Art smirked down at you knowingly. He raised his eyebrows, hand to mouth in shock as though to say 'Are those dirty thoughts in your head?'
Although silent, it was as though you knew that he knew what you were thinking. You felt dazed, so red and undeniably enjoying the vision of him above you, holding you down.
There was no denying the guilty thoughts you had had of him in the privacy of your bedroom at night, faceless men turning into monochromatic, super natural clowns each time you reached your peak.
You felt vile at first. But after his protection against those men the other day, your feelings definitely shifted, and since then you couldn't stop your thoughts from trailing to him..
The sexual ones, too. The private ones where you thought about pale, strong hands holding your head down against the bed as you were taken from behind.
The ones where your head was wrenched back by an iron fist in your hair, too euphoric to the point that you could only babble words.
You knew he could take you there. And his incessant flirting in real life, where he'd wiggle his eyebrows at you if you passed in a towel or if you bent over, or where he'd stand teasingly in your way of a doorway, forcing you to squeeze past him as he smirks and winks. Those things made the thoughts all the stronger, and at times you wondered if he knew what you were going to do once you got back to your room.
Sometimes, the way he smirked and waved at you with a wiggle of his fingertips just after you finished getting yourself off made you wonder. He must've known, this freakish demonic man.
The memories brought heat spreading down to your neck, your tongue tied as you struggled to break the tension. You struggled to get a word out, eyes fluttering in nervous anticipation. It was hard not to romanticise this charming clown.
"I--"
The clown leaned down close, void eyes staring into yours that were so full of emotion, raw and naked. His strong hand that was capable of such violence began tracing your jawline delicately, as though you were porcelain.
You inhaled shakily, feeling the digits drop to your neck, pressing against your fluttering, rapid pulse.
From anyone else, that would feel uncomfortable. But Art doing that felt so suffocatingly intimate you didn't know how to react, eyebrows drawn together in mild confusion at your feelings.
The way Art smirked made you realise he knew exactly what he was doing. Lifting his hand to his mouth, he gripped the glove with his teeth and tugged it off, freeing his pale, veiny hand and bringing it to your cheek, thumb tenderly rubbing the area.
You felt like your head was going to burst from how red you were. You think its because the utter shock at having Art act in a way that wholly juxtaposes him and touch you delicately made you feel so exquisitely special that you didn't know how to register it.
How can a mere innocent touch melt you so much?
His fingers traced the lines and curves of your face in fascination. There was no doubt a morbidity to his thoughts, but there was also mild, genuine adoration in his lifeless eyes.
Your pulse quickened, butterflies dancing in your belly at the thumb that now traced your plush lips. Body reacting faster than your thoughts, your tongue wet the tip of his thumb.
A glint began to shine in his eyes, ferocious and wanting. He tilted his head down at you, unsmiling but not in a scary way; he appeared quite tranquil, and something else.
His thumb dipped into your mouth slightly, experimentally, and he was pleased at the way you wholly accepted him in, swirling your tongue intimately around his digit.
Your eyelids drooped, overcome by this display of raw connection, your lips glistening as he slowly retrieved his thumb, giving your lips one final stroke before gliding his hand down your neck again, tickling the skin with gentle fingertips before moving down to your collarbone.
You held your breath, biting your lip as the usually menacing clown above you glided further down, and down, until his hand brushed the outline of your breast, barely skimming across your nipple.
You inhaled sharply, how were you this sensitive? You could feel heat pooling between your thighs already.
Art tilted his head, examining the large, soft globes that hid beneath your clothes. Eyes flickering up at you, Art smirked before gripping the front of your shirt and tearing it open with ease.
You gasped aloud, eyes wide and mouth agape as your breasts bounced free, nipples hard and begging for attention.
You flushed so deeply red that your face began resonating heat. You were so embarrassed at being half naked in front of him, and you didn't know why. Maybe it was because of the teasing way he winked appreciatively, removing the other glove from his hand swiftly before grazing your breasts barely, hands gripping handfuls of them boldly soon after.
His thumbs skimmed over your pebbled nipples, watching your head loll back against the pillow as you inhaled and exhaled shakily. Bolts of arousal were shooting to the junction of your thighs every time his calloused thumbs teased your perk nipples.
Art was entranced by your visible display of arousal, so sensitive and so wanting; he had never felt this way about a person. Even he knew he was being unnaturally kind, inducing you with pleasure that was sure to have you tingling.
Art never did things unless he wanted to. He didn't want to hurt you. No, his dominance and roughness that he could just tell you craved would come later. For now, he wanted you wet and yearning.
He was proficient in knowing how to hurt the human body, which means he's acutely aware of how to pleasure it; that simply came hand in hand.
And, glancing down at you, having been brought from his thoughts by your breathy exhale, he could tell that what he was doing was incredibly pleasurable. You squirmed, legs widening and relaxing unconsciously below him, your pretty green skirt riding up your thighs.
"Art-", you whined in a whisper, nerve endings alight and tingling, begging to be touched.
Art flashed a smile, head tilting once more as though wondering what to do with you. He could leave you here, undeniably wet and sticky and yearning, begging sweetly, or he could indulge, nudge your pretty thighs apart and fuck you like you've wanted him to for a while now.
You didn't hide it well, especially after touching yourself mere minutes before seeing him, pupils blown wide, hair tousled and sweaty, legs lightly shaking. You should probably stop leaving your wet, soft underwear on your bedroom floor too. That's a big give away, if you didn't already know.
The sarcastic thought had him grinning, and after moving his head back and forth in thought, weighing out his options, he flicked his thumbs over your nipples a few more times, watching you react immediately and arch your back towards his hands.
"Ah-", you gasped, shuddering, gnawing at your lip with hooded eyes.
Art rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, then shrugged lightly to himself. He wasn't necessarily a sexual creature, but he was still in the body of a man. Tweaking your nipples teasingly, Art nodded.
He wanted to fuck you, hard.
But he wanted to tease you first.
Arts eyes dropped to the way your legs had spread for him, dark underwear on display from the way your skirt had ridden up your thighs.
Trailing a hand down your waist and to your hips, Art studied you as his hand moved lower, teasing your inner thighs, pinching the fatty flesh there before pressing two fingers against your apex.
You reacted immediately, shuddering a breath in and out as your legs spread fully, bent at the knee.
Pale fingers traced your soft, wet lips through your underwear, tickling from where your hole would be and up towards your pulsating clit, circling the bud with light pressure.
You moaned quietly, legs squirming slightly as you yearned for a direct touch, his teasing becoming relentless. Your hands balled into fists as white hot tingling sensations barreled through your stomach and your clit, demanding to be touched but to no avail.
Art knew this, and pressed two fingers firmly against your clit, circling.
"Oh--yes--", you whined, looking fucked out with your head lolled back when Art had barely done anything. He wondered how you'd react to the plans he had for you later if this is how you were after a few strokes.
His teasing continued, trailing down to your hole and dipping in slightly, soaking your underwear, before running his finger to the edge of the useless garment and hooking two fingers in, tearing it apart.
This time, Art used both hands to grip your thighs, spreading them far. He studied your pink, exposed slit with incredible interest. The mess of wetness was excessive, coating the length of your sex, your inner thighs and gliding down to your tight rim.
You squirmed in his hands at his staring, to which he tightened his grip, making you shudder.
"Art..", you whined
His eyes snapped up to yours expectantly.
"Please, I--", you gasped at his fingers tracing maddeningly around your labia, refusing to touch you directly. "Please touch me. Please, I--..I need it so bad.", tears filled your eyes with frustration, "so fucking bad, you have no idea.."
But Art did know. He's always known, and just to prove his point he searched for something in his pockets, retreaving it and dangling it in front of your face.
You froze. It was your used underwear from yesterday, when you masturbated before a shower, throwing the garment to the floor. You thought you had imagined throwing it to the floor, because upon coming back to the bedroom, it was gone.
You looked mortified, hands covering your face. "You've known all along?" You whined, unable to face his grin. You felt humiliation creep up your chest at being caught red handed, biting your lip hard to ground yourself. Pathetic tears threatened to fall in frustration.
You gasped as two hands gripped your own and pinned them above your head, using one to keep them there while the other hand wagged it's finger back and fore, Art shaking his head and tutting silently.
You were forced to face his smug, teasing stare, your own face pouting. Art lifted two fingers, wiggled them, before bringing them to your lips.
You accepted, swirling your tongue around them, before they were retrieved swiftly. Wiggling them again, Art made a show of demonstrating just what he was about to do to you to bring that smile back.
Winking in a way that had you melting in a puddle of embarrassment, Art pressed two fingers to your wet entrance, grinning before gliding them into your wanton hole.
Your reaction was instantaneous, a keening 'oh!' torn from your throat, back arching as you squirmed beneath the hand that pinned you down.
Art began to thrust his fingers deeply, pulling out to the tip before delving back in, watching you writhe and gasp. You were desperate for more, hips lifting higher.
Art pulled his fingers out of you, showing the wet lubrication that coated them, scissoring them apart to watch the way it attached his fingers with stringy gooeyness.
You released a frustrated whine this time, fighting beneath his one hand. "No, no don't pull them out, please--" you pouted pathetically, desperately.
Art wanted to torment you more, but his desire to see you screaming in pleasure outweighed that at the moment. He wanted to break you.
Shrugging innocently as though to say 'well, you asked for it', Arts two fingers sunk into you to the knuckle, pumping in and out firmly and roughly, curling rhythmically against that spongy area he knew would have you seeing stars.
"Oh--Oh!", you cried, hips tilted up into his assault, the lewd sound of your wet hole permeating the air as his fingers went in and out, in and out, restlessly and roughly, giving you exactly what you wanted.
Art smirked darkly, increasing the pace rapidly, so fast he had to hold your kicking legs down as he brought you too much pleasure, too much torment in the sweetest way he could give.
You cried out loudly now, unable to hold your voice back, body convulsing lightly as your peak approached.
"A-Art, Oh, Ohh--" you moaned, panting and thrashing back and fore as his fingers forced an orgasm out of you, intense and sudden, squirting down his wrist and soaking your bed.
You gasped for air, legs falling slack as your mind felt like it was floating.
You didn't have any time to think as Art gripped your hips tightly, flipping you over effortlessly and pulling your ass into the air. He smoothed the skin gently, before giving it a slap, watching you jolt.
You were soaked, legs quivering as you braced yourself. Your knees knocked together, staring back at him desperately.
You had dreamed of this for some time, you thought, gnawing at your lip anxiously. Judging by the sudden, bare feel of his hard cock against your folds, you knew you were in for a ride; he felt huge.
He was definitely thick, but even more than that is that he was incredible in length. He wasn't an ordinary man, so you shouldn't be surprised, but a tingle of fear and excitement gnaws through you all the same.
"W-will that fit?", you whispered in awe, salivating, and Art merely shrugged, wiggling his eyebrows as though to say 'ill make it fit', before putting a hand on your head and pushing your face into the bed.
You felt arousal course through you at his actions, being pinned down and bared for him to use. You pushed your round ass into him as much as you could, desperate and whorish, feeling his body judder with silent laughter.
He teased you at first, pushing the tip in, then retrieving, only to push just a little bit more in, and then retrieving again.
You huffed, unable to hide your frustration, but choked on it as Art slowly pulled out, then slid all the way in to the hilt.
You cried out loudly, hands balled into fists in your blanket, head pushed into the bed hard as Art gave you no time to adjust and began fucking you.
Your insides were on fire, pain and pleasure at his large intrusion mixing together, pulling moan after moan out of you. You could barely breathe, struggling to say his name as Art now gripped both of your hips and bred you.
A hand was lifted from you before coming down hard on your jiggling flesh, one stroke after another, getting harder and harder until you were writhing and whining.
He didn't stop, testing just how far he could go, switching to the other cheek when he felt your screams were getting particularly painful.
The stinging was unbearable, but it made you so wet, so pliant for him to absolutely manhandle you into the bed, gripping a fistful of your hair before he ravaged you just the way you wanted.
You were already a babbling mess, cock drunk when Art had hardly done anything. He rolled his eyes at you, though he was definitely amused at the unintelligible song you sang for him, something about his large cock and something else about breeding you.
You filthy girl.
Arts hand tangled rougher into your locks, before he gripped it hard and wrenched your head back, spine arching.
Your whines increased, becoming incredibly high pitch and feminine for him as he forced your head back.
Your neck was burning, but you loved this feeling, having a firm hand tug your hair back and an incredible, curved dick hit your insides just right.
The way he fucked you hard made you want to pretend to be bratty in the future, just so he could put you in your place. In fact, maybe one day when you're feeling particularly moody or low, you could get him to fuck it out of you, sweeten you up. The thought of being forced to take him deep as he fucked the brattiness out of you had you sopping, thighs drenched and shaking and barely standing.
"Ahh--Art, it feels so-", you moaned brokenly, thighs collapsing as the demon above you took to forcing your face back into the bed, other hand forcing your wrists above your head.
Having your thighs together now made his cock feel utterly massive, forcing the air out of you as he glided in between your plush cheeks, invading your sodden hole.
It made you feral.
"Oh my God oh my God--", you cried weakly, sobbing. Tears rolled down your cheeks in over stimulation, and Art leaned his body over yours, pushing you into the bed as he used one hand to smother your mouth, hooking his fingers into it.
You babbled, sucking his fingers desperately as you drooled down his wrist and your chin.
His fingers stuffed your mouth, thick length now ramming into you harder. You could barely hold your head up anymore, resting weakly against his wrist as you cried and whimpered, mascara blackening your eyes and cheeks messily.
Suddenly your hips were gripped and your body was forced onto it's back. You whined at the loss of him inside you, legs wrapping obscenely around his trim waist, needing more.
"Fuck me, please fuck me-", you breathed, head lolling back as fat tears burned your eyes, soaking your cheeks. Your lips were formed into a frustrated pout, fists clenched as though you were about to have a tantrum unless his dick resumed fucking you.
Art grinned truly maniacally down at you, gleeful and amused at your cries. It was a stunning sight, seeing your usual reserved self acting like such a slut.
He pouted right back at you, holding two fists up to his eyes and rotating them back and forth to impersonate dramatic crying. He was mocking you cruelly, laughing at your fucked out expression.
Forcing his fingers into your mouth again, Art pushed them down your throat, watching your eyes widen as you gagged and choked. Saliva pooled in your mouth excessively, and he scooped it out with both fingers to smear it messily over your cheeks and down your chin, laughing silently and pointing.
"No, please stop mocking me..", you whimpered quietly, lips wobbling as you pleaded at him with your big eyes. Your hips bucked desperately, thighs sticky and warm.
Art dropped his grin and rolled his eyes at your antics. You really wanted him to fuck you? Sure.
A malicious glint lit up his eyes, tenderly wiping the black tears staining your cheeks from your makeup.
Before you could blink, a strong hand was wrapped around your throat roughly, and a moment later his hot cock was pummeling into you mercilessly.
You couldn't even scream, sounds trapped in your throat and escaping in high pitched exhales, your head falling back against the bed as he strangled you.
It terrified you, but as your breathing became less and your head became clouded, a sudden, indescribable pleasure ripped through you so powerfully your eyes rolled back into your head, drool openly gliding down your cheek.
Your body felt weak and unresponsive, unable to even grip at his wrists for some reprieve, but the pleasure..
The fucking pleasure was mind numbing.
Your eyes drooped, face turning almost purple as he fucked you so deep you felt sick.
You couldn't gasp anymore, weak breaths barely getting past the brutal grip on your throat.
You were delirious now, feeling in a dream like state, ecstasy exploding behind your eyes and lighting your nerves on such a burning fire. You felt like your soul was ripped out of your mortal shell, experiencing the biggest high of your entire life.
Art cackled madly, silently, a sick adoration twisting in his eyes at the way your consciousness began to slip. He held your neck dangerously tight, tighter than he planned but judging by the way your hot, wet pussy gripped at him, he knew you loved it.
The sounds of your joining bodies was obscene and lewd, squelching and loud as his cock forced your lubrication out of your body.
Art gritted his teeth at the morbidly stunning view of you drooling excessive saliva, tears soaking his hands and mascara clumping your eyelashes, your eyes now bloodshot and heavy.
They rolled back, and soon you become quiet.
Bringing you to the very edge, Art removed your hand and allowed air to enter your lungs.
You gasped painfully, choking and sobbing as you were given no time to inhale greedily, instead getting ravaged inhumanly fast.
You couldn't lift your head, eyes blinking dazedly up at Art, who lifted a hand to wave at you mockingly.
You tried to speak but couldn't, mouth held open in permanent ecstasy. Your hips snapped upright as fingers roughly rubbed at your engorged clitoris, abusing the greedy nub.
A cry tore from your raw throat, head thrashing side to side and legs shaking violently as your orgasm rendered you incoherent.
You screamed out, squirting almost violently down your quivering thighs and over Arts rigid, brutal cock.
You sobbed, face screwing up pathetically as genuine, uncontrollable cries wracked your form. You could barely intake breath, body and nerves unable to handle the level of soul wrenching pleasure and borderline pain that was inflicted upon you.
Art gripped your shaking thighs and lifted them above his shoulders, face devoid of his usual smirk and instead scowling down at you with smouldering eyes. He fucked you harder, faster, animalistic before his hips stuttered once, twice, and a hot, thick load of cum filled your gaping pussy.
The amount was unnatural, not human, but your body lapped it up all the same as your insides convulsed and quivered. You moaned weakly, keening in a higher pitch as your lips wobbled and your eyes remained misted and delirious.
You didn't even feel Art pull out, stuck in a dream like state as aftershocks lit your body up. Your legs were dropped from his shoulders, falling unceremoniously to the bed, wide open.
You babbled incoherently, arm covering your face. Art stared down at you serenely, gazing from your dick dumb espression to the mess of cum coating your thighs, globs of it dripping down to your asshole. Your hole gaped and twitched, greedily gulping up all that it could take, thoroughly fucked and bred.
You felt two fingers scooping up the mess and pushing it filthily back into your pussy.
You whined, dropping the arm from your eyes to finally look at the demonic clown that had surely taken grip of your soul and tore it out.
Art smirked down at you, winking playfully. He revelled in the mess he made of you.
"Art that was--I--Mmm--", you moaned, responding to the gentle caress of your clit with his fingers. You were so wet and full of cum, biting your lip.
You didn't move as you felt his form pull away from you. You were so out of it you felt drunk.
You didn't feel him tucking you into bed, only remembered being beneath the blankets as he tilted his head down at you contemplatively.
He felt something foreign, that was for certain. He felt a possessive adoration over you, wanting to break you into a crying, sobbing mess, strangle you until you stood on the precipice of death like earlier, but also..
Watching you now, eyes drooping as you gripped his hand softly, tiredly, he made the final decision that he wanted more tender moments like this.
Description: You have an argument with Clark about Superman, of all people. Krypto exposes your boyfriend's secret identity.
Pairing: david-corenswet!clark kent x fashion-editor!reader
(established relationship, secret identities)
The wine-dark sky lapped against the windows of your apartment.
The light from the neighboring buildings provided your room with ample lighting, as it would otherwise be drowned in darkness. A yawn escapes your mouth as you bury yourself deeper in your sheets; you could hear the air conditioner humming from above you. It sounds like white noise teasing you into sleep.
It’s been three months since you were last home—there’s nothing better than sleeping in your own bed after a hectic fashion season.
Your eyelids fluttered, threatening sleep, but you kept them open.
The smell of bacon and pancakes kept you awake. It was a silent reminder that your boyfriend was busying himself in the kitchen, that Clark was counting on you not to fall asleep.
I missed this. You yawned again.
“Dinner’s about to be ready in a few minutes! You better not be sleeping, young lady!” Clark yelled down the hallway.
“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself.
Fighting against Hypnos’ tempting embrace proved to be difficult, but for Clark, you’d do anything. You reached for the skies, stretching your limbs. Your hands wrapped around the glass of water that was sitting on the nightstand. You brought it to your lips, taking slow sips, hoping to shake away your tiredness.
Another yawn escaped your mouth as you pried the sheets off.
Your feet settled on the carpeted floor.
You stretched a few more times for good measure before making your way to the kitchen. The sound of the evening news flooded your senses before your eyes settled on Clark.
In your eyes, there was nobody more perfect than your boyfriend.
He had a square face, soft baby-blue eyes, and a dimpled smile. He looked like the kind of man that you could trust your drink with—and you did!
You handed him your drink in a speakeasy before going to the bathroom. You couldn’t find him when you came back, but that was only because you’d never forget a man as handsome as him.
“That looks good,” you hummed while wrapping your arms around him. Your face was pressed against his back, and you could smell your soap on his body. “And it’s legally called pancake.” He winks.
“None of that hotcake bullshit we ate in Wyoming?” you giggled.
“Language,” he warns with the tilt of his head.
A chuckle escapes your lips as you break free from the embrace.
You walked towards the fridge, pulling it open as you looked for his favorite orange juice. You always had a fresh batch waiting for him. Unlike your boyfriend, you could only show love in silence.
“We’re in the middle of Metropolis right now, Jan, where Superman defeated a foreign threat. The Mayor’s Office has confirmed that there are no casualties, but the infrastructural calamities are expected to exceed $10 million.” The reporter continued as she walked in the middle of a destroyed square.
Clark tenses.
You continued to pour him a glass of juice, settling the glass beside his plate. You walked to the other side of the counter, settling on the stool parallel to him. The cold steel of your chair felt uncomfortable against your warm calves, but you ignored the sensation.
“Now, Alexis, when are these repairs expected to be made?” The newscaster asked.
Your eyes were painted on the television to your side.
“Jan, Luthorcorp has extended their help in repairing Metropolis. In an interview with Lex Luthor a few moments ago, he alleged that Superman is a planetary threat that must be neutralized and that the damage done to the city should be considered an act of terrorism. Superman is yet to release a statement in response to these accusations.” The reporter answered as the screen flashed Lex Luthor’s petulant face.
Clark reached for the remote control, turning the TV off.
“I was watching,” your eyebrows merged.
He turned around and placed a stack of pancakes on your plate. He added more food to your plate, and you smiled. You already know how this is going to end—you’re not going to finish all of this, and he’ll eat both of your plates.
“I want your complete and undivided attention.” He pouted.
“You always do.” Your teeth burrowed into your lower lip.
He sat on the stool beside you. He tilts his body in your direction.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re more interested in Superman than me,” he shrugs while handing you a fork.
You mumble a quick thank you before digging into your bacon pancakes.
“Hm, nope. I don’t trust the guy.” You cut through the pancakes with ease, bringing them to your mouth. "—I know that you've done interviews with him, but he's fishy, babe." You shrugged, discussing the Superhero as if he were a celebrity or a politician.
He forned, as if you had personally offended him.
"How so?" He questions, ignoring his pancakes.
You take a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts without hurting your boyfriend (whom you believed to be a friend of Superman).
"He has all the power in the world, and he decides to do good?" You scoffed, believing that notion to be idiotic. Time and time again, people in power have proven themselves to be corrupt—and those are only people with political power.
Imagine what they'd do if they had the power of a God.
"I don't find that hard to believe," he defends.
A sigh escapes your mouth.
"Not everyone is as kind as you are—if you had his powers, maybe, but I find it hard to believe that an alien from another planet doesn't have ulterior motives." You continued to explain.
"If he had any, we would've known by now." Clark snaps firmly.
"I just don't trust him, okay." You huffed.
He's acting weird. You thought while glancing at his features.
He was glaring at his pancakes, deep in thought.
You place a hand on his thigh. He moves your hand away.
His phone buzzes—you glance and see that it's a message from Jimmy.
wish u were here, we having mad fun w/o u 🤪
"I have to go," he places his fork down.
"I thought you were gonna stay for movie night?" You pouted.
"I got a work emergency." He lies—but you don't push it.
"Oh, okay." You nod, leaning towards him for a goodbye kiss, but he just dashes away to reach his coat. "Bye!" He glances over his shoulder to flash you a smile, but you don't reply.
Good morning. I'm at work now. Hope you have a great day!
You stared at Clark's message.
Normally, he'd send you paragraphs with a minimum of three images.
Good morning 🥰 have a great day
im here with phoebe today
i might drop by your apartment later
You replied.
"Are you okay?" Phoebe asks while aiming her camera at you.
You nod your head, placing your phone inside your pocket. "I'm sorry that you have to do this," you apologized. She probably felt offended at photographing a 'lifestyle celebrity' when she mostly meddled in the city's serious affairs. Has Superman not saved anybody yet?
"Please, you're the most photogenic person I've ever shot—you go before Superman." She compliments, earning a smile from you.
Fuck Superman. You thought about your 'argument' with Clark.
You never thought of him as the kind of person who worshipped the ground of a superhero, but then again, Superman is his close friend. Clark is the only person who's able to get the hero's statement. To him, it was probably like bersmirching Jimmy or Lois' name.
"Have you ever had trouble in paradise, Phebes?" You asked.
"Never been to paradise, but I've had my fair share of ex-boyfriends." She chuckles, taking a couple of shots as you pose in different ways. Your photos were going to be in the September issue of Tattle—not the cover, of course not—and your father has always warned you not to be in Tattle but the magazine would be good for business.
"Democrat girlfriend, piece of shit boyfriend." She jokes.
"It's nothing drastic. I just disagreed with Clark about something, and he's acting so weird about it." You explained to your close friend.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You never disagree with Clark about anything," she points out.
"Just this one thing. I can't help but think there's more to it. I mean, he basically bolted off the moment we talked about it," you hummed.
"Is it a personal thing or...?" She asks.
"No, uh, just politics, or rather just a political figure." You remained vague, and she nodded.
"It's Superman, isn't it?" Phoebe asks, and you nod.
"Just talk it out. Superman is a polarizing figure—Clark is a journalist, and I bet he knows how to practice discernment." She advised, and your lips pressed into a thin line. She basically just described what you were planning to do next.
Your keys jangled as you twisted the lock to Clark's apartment door.
"Clark?" You called out—only to be greeted by silence.
You sat on the sofa, Clark's scent lingered on the pillows.
You were just about to reach for your phone, but the sound of claws scratching against a wooden door caught your attention. "Hello?" you called out once more, and the door to Clark's bedroom burst open. Before you were able to get another word in, a fuzzy piece of white flew in your direction. Yes. Flew.
Arf. Arf.
The dog barked as your back pressed into the soft mattress—as if he were aware that your bones were softer than his—he began to lick you. "Uh, where did you come from?" You placed a hand on his head, softly moving him away from your body.
"Did you just fly at me?" You asked, praying to God that your eyes were just playing tricks on you.
The dog barks and lifts itself off the floor.
"What the fuck," you cursed, and the dog tilted his head.
The dog twirled around a few times before flying towards the kitchen cupboards, where, conveniently, there was dog food.
You reach for your phone once more—hoping to send a message to Clark, but your phone suddenly turns off.
Shit, I forgot to charge. You cursed.
"Doggie, stay." You glanced at the flying dog before bolting towards Clark's bedroom. The dog, uncaring about your command, flew behind you, almost bumping into the wall.
Your eyes darted across the dog's bed, which had his name, 'Krypto,' and landed on Clark's nightstand. You opened the drawer, searching for his charger, but your gaze landed on Superman's UNDERWEAR. Yeah, the one that he wears on the outside.
The gears on your head began to turn.
The missed calls. His cousin, who looked a lot like Supergirl, who was allegedly partying in Ibiza. His sudden offense at your accusations towards Superman. Not to mention the flying dog behind you.
Fuck. Your boyfriend is Superman.
With a deep breath, you sat on his bed—as if on autopilot, you plugged your phone into the charger, and it flashed the charging icon.
"Woah," you stared at the wall.
Krypto sits on his bed, watching you with a confused stare.
He flies in your direction and settles beside your feet. He gives you a few blinks before rolling to show you his belly—begging for rubs.
Your phone opens and pings uncontrollably.
You can't go to my apartment today. I'm getting it exterminated.
I got termites.
Those wood eating insects.
I'll go to your apartment.
You glanced at Clark's messages. "Too late," you mumbled. You glided off his bed and settled on the floor—rubbing Krypto's belly a few times.
You missed a call (65).
You could hear the apartment door open from down the hallway. Krypto doesn't bother standing up, comfortable with your pets. It makes perfect sense. You thought about it.
But still, you didn't know whether to believe your hypothesis.
Clark says your name as he bolts down the hallway, almost bumping into the wall (like what Krypto almost did a few minutes ago).
"Hey," you glanced at him from over your shoulder, and he took a step forward. He glanced at the bed, seeing his underwear lying around.
"I can explain," he takes another step forward.
"You should admit the truth—or it'll just look weird since you have Superman's underwear lying around." You kept your face neutral, still in shock over the revelation.
Krypto barks at the sound of his voice and flies towards Clark—knocking your boyfriend off balance. "Krypto, stop! No!" Clark scolded while standing up. Krypto continued to nibble on his calves.
"You are Superman, right?" You asked with certainty.
"Yes," Clark doesn't lie.
You stand up and face him.
"Why didn't you tell me?" You interrogated.
"I don't want you to get hurt." He walks around his bed, dragging Krypto with him as he stands in front of you. "Is that why you escaped from me last night?" You asked, and he reached for your hands. "Yes," he admits. "—It hurt hearing those words out of your mouth, like I was nobody, and I never want to be a stranger to you." He continues with a sigh.
He avoids looking at his underwear for the meantime.
"I'm just trying to be a good person. I didn't ask to have these powers; I don't know what to do with them, but I promise that I don't have ulterior motives. I just want to help people." He explains himself.
"I'm sorry for being such a pessimist," you apologized.
"No—I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I'm sorry that I had to get caught for you to know." He apologizes too.
"But I didn't know, babe. I didn't know that he was you, or you are you."
There was a moment of silence between you, only broken by a few barks from Krypto. Clark stares deeply into your features, searching for traces of doubt or mistrust, but he sees nothing but admiration.
You are silent for another minute before your eyes meet and a laugh escapes your lips.
His eyebrows furrowed.
"What?" He asks.
"It's just that—this is all too unreal." You answered with another chuckle. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. "—but I'm glad that you're Superman, 'cuz you're the best person in the entire world." You smiled, gaining your composure. "—and you have no dictatorial tendencies."
You made your way down the hallway, presumably to take out the food you ordered from Clark's favorite place.
Krypto flies towards the bed and begins to gnaw on Clark's underwear.
"Krypto, no! Don't do that!" Clark pulls the dog in his direction with a sigh.
A/N: my first dc fic after being a marvel girl for 6 years 😭.
Kara who saw her parents wither away. Kara who carries the grief of an entire planet. Kara who doesn't share that grief with her cousin, because she thinks he could never understand. Kara who holds Krypto like her heart, because he is the only piece of her Krypton that is still alive. Kara who will tarnish her soul so Ruthye doesn't have to. Kara who has every reason to scream, cry and break things, but chooses to stay and make Earth her home because she also has many reasons to find again the happiness she lost. That is a Kara that I love.
I’m tired of team black stans act like acknowledging that bk!Alicent had political ambitions somehow means she can’t also be a victim of the system she lived in. No shit, the show didn’t suddenly make her a victim she always was one.
Book Alicent was surrounded by rumors from a very young age. There are stories that she slept with Viserys before her marriage to him, rumors that Daemon took her virginity, even claims that she was involved with or molested by the elderly King Jaehaerys. Whether those rumors are true is almost beside the point. The fact that they existed at all shows how quickly a teenage girl’s reputation could become public property and it’s damaging and sexualization. Adults were openly speculating about her sexuality for political purposes when she was still around fifteen.
Otto positioned Alicent to do excessive work for Jaehaerys I, acting as his caretaker. At just 15yo she was bathing an old man and fetching his food. Then the text itself notes that people at court suspected Otto had larger ambitions and had brought Alicent to court with the intention of advancing the family’s position "there were those who murmured that the Hand had risen above himself, that he had brought his daughter to court with this in mind." The book practically winks at the reader and says that people noticed what Otto was doing.
That doesn’t mean Alicent had zero agency and It doesn’t mean she never wanted power. But having ambitions does not magically erase abuse. A teenager can want power & status and still be used by her father and a woman can participate in politics and still be sexualized by the adults around her.
If her wanting to be a queen doesn't make her a victim, then Rhaenyra isn't a victim either.
What makes Alicent not loving Viserys and wanting power “shallow”? Seriously. People act like a woman not marrying for love automatically makes her selfish or inferior but that’s a very modern way of looking at her society. Love matches weren’t the norm. Even GRRM has talked about how noble marriages were primarily political arrangements not about love.
Rhaenyra herself didn’t marry Laenor because she was madly in love with him. She married him because it was politically necessary and because Viserys essentially threatened to disinherit her if she refused. So she accepted to marry him because she wanted to be a queen.
Alicent understood the world she lived in and tried to make the best of the opportunities available to her. In a society where women are expected to be silent, obedient tools for the ambitions of men, she found ways to gain influence and exercise power herself.
That’s not shallowness that’s ambition. And it’s funny because people praise ambition in male characters all the time. Men can want power, and they’re called strategic or interesting. A woman wants those same things and she’s “shallow” or “power-hungry.”
Alicent actively participated in politics. She helped lead the Green Council. She built relationships and influence at court. After Viserys died, she remained one of the most politically important figures in the realm. She didn’t just inherit power through a husband. She made herself politically relevant in her own right.
And the idea that she only cared about power is such a misogynistic take. We know that she genuinely loved Jaehaerys and took care of him. We know that she spent time with her children and grandchildren. We know she was close to Helaena and she suffered enormously after Blood and Cheese. We know the deaths of her children devastated her. We know that by the end of the war, grief has practically consumed her. That doesn’t sound like someone who only cared about power it sounds like a woman who cared about both power and family.
And honestly, that’s what makes her feel realistic. Most people aren’t driven by only one thing. Human beings are messy. They can be ambitious and loving and they can want power and still genuinely care about their children.
Alicent’s tragedy isn’t that she loved power half the nobles in Westeros love power her tragedy is that she lived in a system where power, family, survival, and duty became so tangled together that she could no longer separate them.
You don’t have to think she was a good person to acknowledge that. But reducing her to a shallow woman who simply wanted a crown ignores how much of her story is about agency, family, grief, and trying to carve out influence in a world designed to deny women influence in the first place.
Description: Daeron hates his wife. He hates the fact that he'd been forced into a union without his approval. One night in his solar makes him realize that you're more than the hate in his heart.
Pairing: daeron targaryen/dornish!reader
The wine-dark sky reflected against the frosted windows of your shared chambers.
Daeron shifted from beside you. Judging from the bead of sweat that was beginning to gather atop his forehead, he was having another nightmare. A loud groan escaped his mouth, and you raised your head, glancing at him above the pillow that separated the two of you—he began to mumble something.
"Issa ñuhor nyke ānogar"
You struggled to make out the syllables of whatever languid words that were spilling out of his tongue.
"māzigon dārys"
He continues to mutter; a sigh of defeat escapes your lips. You won’t be having any sleep tonight, that’s for sure.
So, with all the strength that you could muster, you whispered goodbye to your cold sheets and decided to have an early start to your morning.
Should I wake him? You contemplated, watching as he tossed and turned—but it was Daeron. He would find that action as a reason to complain to his father and insult your marriage further. You won’t want to give him more reasons to spurn you.
Your lord husband cares little for you, mayhaps not at all.
You reached for your robes. Ones that had been a gift from your aunt, Queen Myriah Martell.
You glanced at your husband from over your shoulder.
Is this what has become of my life? Your eyebrows merged.
Trapped in a marriage fueled by ire with a husband who scorns your existence. He would much rather salt the earth than spend one night sober in your company.
You let out a breath that you had been holding. You tilt your head.
At least he does not lift a finger against you—even in Dorne, a woman is not spared from her husband’s anger and his desire to have paramours.
I am luckier. You tried to convince yourself.
You carefully tiptoed outside of your shared chambers, opting to spend the rest of the late night inside your husband’s solar. It has a magnificent fireplace, and he seldom uses the room—save for the times in which he had been avoiding his father. It’s a shame to have the world’s splendors within arm’s reach yet refuse to exhaust them.
You crack the door open, by the gods, he does not wake.
You began walking towards the steps leading to the solar, aware of every creak that your foot makes against the wooden doors. There was a nimble staircase leading to the solars. Your eyes marveled at the beautiful wood carvings. A three-headed dragon greeted you as you climbed, its eyes seemingly following every one of your movements.
You’ve spent enough time with these dragons to know that they desire to be seen—to be feared above anything else. They say that they are closer to the gods, yet every mistake they make is worse than a man's. They make this castle and fill it with breathing reminders of the dragon's strength, yet their powers have long waned.
Without their dragons, they aren’t any different.
You pushed the door open.
You reached for the matchbox lying on the bookshelf. Striking the match a few times before settling it on the kindling. Warmth slowly began to engulf the room.
You slumped on one of the klines, feeling the rattan pressing against your arms.
A yawn escapes your lips.
It’s been weeks since you last lounged around these parts of the chambers. You’ve been so busy with your ladies and talks with Prince Maekar about his ‘drunken’ son. He still holds hope that you’ll be able to fix his boy—you’ve forgotten about your own peace of mind.
You reached for a book on the shelf behind you. Your hands danced across the rows of books, struggling to reach for the familiar leatherbound cover of your book—still unwilling to get up.
To your surprise, the book is no longer there, and neither is the thick layer of dust that you’d been putting off cleaning.
A frown paints your features.
Your hand moves across the niche, bumping against a silver flask that falls to the floor. "By the gods," you rolled your eyes.
This has Daeron written all over.
Daeron awakened in a hurry.
His eyes darted open, and his hands instinctively reached for your sleeping figure—only to dance across the empty spot on your side of the bed.
His heart misses a beat.
He calls out your name, to no reply.
Where could she be? He asks himself.
It is unlike you to sneak out in the middle of the night. In his sober memories, he remembers you to sleep like the dead. Unmoving. Snoring. Sometimes, drooling, but never awake at this time.
"Ser Harlan," he yells out the name of your sworn sword.
The steel doors to your shared chambers creaks slightly open, a streak of warm light peeks through the darkness.
"Yes, my prince?" Harlan answers, his eyes trained on the floor.
"Where is the Lady Targaryen?" Daeron raises an eyebrow. He could feel a headache beginning to creep through his skull—it was not the type of headache that followed after a round of drinking, but rather one that he could not entirely describe.
He never drinks when he has to share the chambers with you.
"She did not go out, my prince. Mayhaps she is in your solar?" He says.
A sigh of relief escapes the prince's lips.
"Does she spend most of her time there?" Daeron asks, much to Harlan's surprise.
Daeron does not speak to other people—he keeps to himself and his wine. He cares little for the affairs of his household. This is the first time that your lord husband has ever asked about your whereabouts.
"Yes, my prince." The knight answered just as the prince guessed.
Each time he visits his solar—he finds objects in places where he did not put them. At first, he thought that his mind was playing tricks on him. But then, he saw your box of matches on the shelves.
A living reminder of how your presence followed him, it lingered like a glimmer of light shining through a crack in the door.
"Begone now, ser." Daeron lifts the sheets of his body, his foot landing on the cold marble floors. Ser Harlan nods his head and closes the door, covering the room in darkness.
You found your book after a minute of searching. It was actually under the kline that you were lying on...
The book was written by some maester a decade after Aegon's conquest. It detailed stories about the Targaryens and their Valyrian ways—particularly Daenys the Dreamer.
For double are the portals of flickering dreams. One set is made of horn, the other of ivory. And as for those that come through the sawn ivory, they deceive, carrying words that will not be fulfilled; but those that pass on outside through the polished horn do fulfill the truth whenever any mortal sees them.
"Lady wife," A voice from behind you whispers.
You straighten up at the sound of Daeron.
"Did I wake you?" You plastered on a face of concern. There was no use in trying to make an enemy out of your husband; he does not bother you when he is drunk.
"No," he answers. He always keeps his words short. "—I merely wondered where my wife had gone." He adds while staring at you.
This was the first time that he was actually looking at you.
"I am here. You may go back to sleep." You say.
He clenches his fists at the thought of sleeping.
"I struggle to find my sleep. May I stay?" he tries to relax as memories of his dreams flood his vision. You pat the empty spot beside you, motioning for him to sit down. He must want something. You thought.
"What is it that you need, husband?" You placed a hand on his shoulder, discarding the book that you had been reading.
"I cannot tell you, for it is something that you cannot give," he tries to close his heart.
He's spent most of his childhood rambling to his father about his dreams, begging his father for help, yet nothing could aid him.
Instead, they turned their backs on him—made it seem like it was his mind that was broken. It was easier than accepting the truth. It was easier to make other sons once his parents had accepted that.
"What is that supposed to mean?" You huffed.
He turns to look the other way.
"I do not need you to call me something I already know I am." He breathes. "What are you, my prince?" Your eyebrows merged, wanting to hear the words from his tongue.
"Mad," he answers. "—I do not think that I am, but everyone seems to think so." He adds with a bitter smile.
"It is because of your dreams, is it not? They say that you are mad because you are plagued with dreams that you cannot explain." You made an observation. He mumbles a lot in his sleep, in some language that you cannot understand. Valyrian, if you were to guess.
"They tire me. They wear my body down, and even in sleep, I cannot rest. Forgive me, my princess, if it seems I am afflicted by some malady. It must bring shame to you, having a husband like me." He apologizes. He has been called many names by the smallfolk. His father's heir and shame—the Coward Prince of Summerhall.
You glanced up at his face.
Afraid to even breathe—in fear that you'd break the spell and he'd return to his hermit-like solitude.
"I may be annoyed at how you avoid me, and I may hate the mess you leave behind, but I am not embarrassed to have you." You whispered.
"You've never hurt me. Mayhaps, if I had been a naive girl—I would've desired a great romance. But I know how cruel this world is, and I am content with merely an alliance." You answered truthfully.
And indeed, who were you to ask for anything better?
The men in Dorne, though hailed for their progressive beliefs, were still men. They had whores and paramours. They gave their lands to their bastards to leave their wives destitute. The rest of Westeros was not any better—your father would have you married to an old, rich man if it meant using your dowry for his new garden. He would feed you to the wolves and have you push out dozens of children with no care.
it's like looking into the eyes of the man that you love, unable to see the depths of his soul in them cuz ur not actually looking at the eyes of the love of your life, you're looking at the cunt whose wearing his face.
Summary: Fucking your dad’s biggest enemy has consequences, whether you want to admit it or not.
Warnings: 18+. EVERYONE SHUT UP I HAVE AN ERECTION. Protected-turned-unprotected p-in-v (with consent). Sex on the hood of your father’s ‘75 Aston Martin V8. Improper disposal of a condom. Creampie. C*mplay.
Word count: 2.2k
And the Worst Daughter of the Year Award goes to…
“You,” with gritted teeth, you bit out, “motherfucker.”
It was almost annoying how good Jack Abbot was.
More infuriating was the fact that he was your father’s sworn enemy, and somehow, you’d let him slide nine inches inside you today, the day before, and the day before that—going all the way back to last Halloween.
No more than two or three weeks ever passed where you weren’t sucking, fucking, or tonguing the sick bastard, and when you did, he always gave you rounds.
Occasionally, you felt a pang of remorse.
After all, you were your father’s favorite kid.
But that didn’t change the fact that you had needs, and Jack was an easy target; he’d been living next door to your family the last several years, and for as long as you could remember, you’d had a crush on the man. You just could never act on it until now, when you were already out of college, no longer living at home, and almost wholly free of the…dicier ethical considerations.
Was it wrong? Absolutely.
Were you often in the habit of thinking about that when Jack had you bent over a table and was hammering you senselessly, in secret? Hell no.
“Oh, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” you whimpered in a low, broken refrain. You clamped your legs tighter together.
And behind you, probably grinning from ear-to-ear, Jack squeezed your hips in either hand and chuckled.
Then, shortly, he ordered, “Get up. Now.”
The orgasm that had been growing and coiling and swelling inside you for the last five minutes—and what had very nearly come to fruition a moment ago—was stolen from you just as fast. Jack pulled out, and he turned from the old, rickety table he’d just been plowing you on. He strode in the other direction.
You were holed up in your garage. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d told your mom you would go and grab the cake—your dad’s birthday cake, for his 50th celebration. About five minutes after that, Jack had announced he was going to get more refreshments for the party.
This was meant to be a mid-event quickie, and now your neighbor was walking over to one of your family’s cars. Patting the hood affectionately and beckoning.
“No fucking shot, Abbot.” You shook your head, resolute. “We are not fucking anywhere close to that.”
The man must’ve had scrambled eggs for brains if he thought you’d even consider having sex on your dad’s 1975 Aston Martin V8. The thing was a classic in mint condition and your father’s prized possession. His baby. Frankly, aside from your mother and your siblings and you, that vehicle was his pride and joy. If someone so much as breathed too hard next to it, he’d have a meltdown. And that wasn’t an exaggeration.
Now Jack was stroking the hood underneath his palm.
Inwardly, you winced and wished you made better decisions in life. Maybe, someday soon, you would.
But that day was not today, apparently.
“Get your cute ass over here, sweetheart.”
Like clockwork, you took your cute ass over there. You only grimaced twice when your backside hit the bright, unblemished, blindingly cherry-red surface of the car and when Jack dragged you by your legs to the edge.
You spread yourself wide, let him flip the hem of your gingham dress over your hips, and shit—he felt good.
Twice as nice as when he was hitting it from the back. Now, gliding in until the firm, round globes of his balls kissed your rear, and the thatch of mostly gray hairs at the base of him tickled your skin, he felt like a dream.
Jack knew it.
He communicated as much when he planted a hand beside your hip on the hood of the car and started thrusting relentlessly. When he plunged in so deep the tip of his cock hit your cervix and you couldn’t keep a loud, shuddering cry from slipping out between your lips and he leaned in and kissed you, mouth smiling.
Between the breakneck speed of his thrusts and the wet, sloppy kissing, the man somehow managed it:
“Whose pussy is this?”
At first, you pretended not to hear him.
The arrogant prick already had an ego the size of Alaska and didn’t need any further encouragement. Plus, you were about to come, and you needed this.
So you let your head loll back a little, and you stopped kissing. You closed your eyes. Rolled your lower half furiously, feverishly in time with each maddening stroke, and you grabbed Jack’s shoulder for leverage.
In return, you felt him grip your chin abruptly.
He tilted up, forcing you to snap your gaze back open.
Your ankles had just crossed behind his back. He was canting his hips even harder than before, plunging to the furthest depths of your body and scraping your insides with an unspeakable, near-dizzying pleasure. Each thrust hit straight through to your core, and you could feel your warmth leaking out from where he stuffed you. Sweet essence trickled down his cock.
He tightened his hold on your face, “Whose is it?”
At the same time, a knot constricted in your stomach. Your toes curled, your breath hitched, and by the feeling that had started up from the base of your spine, you sensed your climax was as near as it ever was.
Fuck it.
With your eyes locked on his, you parted your lips.
Still bouncing on his cock, now reaching for his other shoulder with your free hand and then lifting yourself slightly off of the car, you held tighter onto Jack, too.
And you couldn’t help it: you had to smile a little when you said it, body all but bursting at the seams with your pleasure, “It’s yours, Jack. This pussy is yours.”
“All mine?”
“All yours.”
“Then let me come inside her.”
Fuck, if that didn’t take you by surprise.
Leave it to Jack to propose the most batshit thing.
You’d never let any man inside you without a condom. Never wanted to take that risk. It would be incredibly stupid for you to do it now, with your next door neighbor who was as old as your father—and was hated by your father, only invited to this party because your mother had made you ask—between your legs.
Again, you didn’t think. You made the bad decision.
You mumbled, ‘OK, whatever’ and then watched Jack Abbott withdraw, take off the condom, sling it somewhere over your shoulder, and push back in.
Your body welcomed him gratefully. Shaking when his cock made contact with your velvety walls and there was nothing in between you but the warmth and your own shared, sticky fluids, you almost couldn’t breathe.
He sawed in and out, again and again. Went mindless with it, apparently, as his brows drew in closer, and his whole expression tightened. The next groan strained.
“Aw, baby,” Jack said, almost mournfully. “Pussy’s fuckin’…chokin’ me. I’m gonna lose it in a second.”
You were, too.
You didn’t give him—or yourself—the chance to second-guess this braindead move and simply let him rut deeper inside. Kissed him messily and moaned.
Strokes went quicker, harder, wet and loud and frantic.
You felt him twitch; that was when you hit your end.
Your climax landed with a force you didn’t expect, and half your body seized at once. You shrieked. Your cunt spasmed around Jack, effectively milking his own release from his now-throbbing cock, and you felt every rope spit thick and heavy and warm through your walls. He coated your insides with his seed, and then he kept right on fucking you like the only awareness he might have possessed was in the tip of his member.
Jack grunted, and he fucked his spend deeper.
“That’s my girl,” he said softly. Kissed your forehead.
Still floating somewhere in the ether, you nodded back.
It went without saying another word that you were his.
“You ever let one of them…stuck-up, dick-for-brain boys your own age blow a load inside you like this…” And as if to emphasize his point, he pulled out and let a little white trail of semen spill out from where he’d been. “You and me are gonna have a talk, young lady.”
You wanted to roll your eyes, but you were too tired.
When Jack told you to push more of it out, you did.
Five, six, seven slow pulses of your walls, and his seed came oozing out, trickling from a spent and sated hole.
Straight onto the fresh red paint of your father’s car.
You knew you had every reason to be humiliated at that, so you moved to stand, shortly. Tried to shake the thought out of your head. Smoothed the skirt of your dress down, then looked around, momentarily forgetting where the refrigerator in the garage was at.
Right.
There.
“You know,” Jack called as you started the other way. Yanking his jeans and his boxers back up, the buckle of his belt jingling as he did. “This car’s just as old as me.”
Mid-stride, you had to fight to keep from wrinkling your nose. You stopped in front of the fridge, swung it open, and grabbed the cake. Kicked the door shut.
“1975,” Jack stretched the sound of the number, grinning when he met your gaze and you drew closer.
Don’t make me kick your teeth in, Abbot.
You’d barely made it within spitting distance of the vehicle again before the man was pulling you to him, arm looping around your waist. You held back the cake.
“You’re gonna make me drop it,” you warned him.
Jack’s grin stretched wider. “Hate to see that.”
Just like your father would surely despise knowing what you and his archnemesis had done to sully his car. The look on his face, the raw, unmitigated ang—
“Hey.”
You meant to stop Jack with that word.
It didn’t work—he was already prying the lid off the cake’s container. Taking it off and flinging it sideways.
“Jack, that’s Dad’s fucking birthday cake!”
“Just taking a little off the top, OK? Relax.”
Before you could try and stop him, it was too late. The man dragged his middle finger through a big, thick, ivory-colored corner of the buttercream-frosted cake. Thankfully, the whole thing was so large, and the icing’s pattern so ornately, crazily drawn, that you really couldn’t tell where Jack had snagged from.
Still, you shot him a look that could kill.
“Are you crazy?!” you hissed. “Trying to get us cau—”
“Open.”
At Jack’s voice, your eyes widened a bit.
You didn’t notice it at first, but now you saw it plain as anything: your neighbor had lowered his hand to the hood of your father’s car. Swiped the finger loaded with icing through the mess of his cum still sitting on it, then lifted that hand again. Up toward your mouth.
“Ew, Jack, get the fuck out—”
You wanted to be grossed out by it.
“Open wide, sweetheart.”
You really, really, did.
“C’mon. That’s it.”
Your lips parted.
“Right there.”
You let it in.
“Good girl.” Jack grinned, seeing your mouth close around his finger coated with frosting and his come.
You swallowed and swore you’d start making smarter choices tomorrow. Seriously, no more fucking around.
The two of you started back for the party.
Right before you made it out, Jack pivoted.
“Shit. Almost forgot.” Jogging back to the car.
And, as if this afternoon couldn’t get any more depraved and disgusting, you watched your neighbor peel the condom you and him had used off the windshield of your father’s car. He waved it a second, taunting, before resuming his path back to you.
Out of habit, you jumped a little.
“Don’t even think about it, Abbot.”
But, luckily for you, Jack stopped short.
Instead of offering you another coital-flavored refreshment, the man paused at the car’s gas cap.
You groaned as soon as you saw him do it.
Smirking, Jack flipped open the metal door, and, without hesitating a second, he threw the used rubber in the place where a gas pump was supposed to go.
He shut it again.
You called him a lunatic.
As you strolled outside, back into the party and all of the noise, Jack took the cake so you wouldn’t have to carry it. Ever the gentleman and a strictly platonic friend who was trying his damndest to hide the fact that he’d just come inside his enemy’s daughter and had her eat it, he wrapped a casual arm around you.
He squeezed your shoulder. Leaned in close, once. And, as quietly as he could manage it, he whispered:
“Between you and that precious car of your dad’s, it looks like I’ve popped both of his cherries now, huh?”
the fact that generative A.I. has created a completely new fundamental doubt in reality (checking to see if an artwork we see is manmade or not) and doubt in the instinct of enjoying art is unforgivable. its sickeningly tragic, and i mean it. NOTHING is worth this price and i hope that everyone will one day realize this.
♡ synopsis: the moment he sets his eyes on you, dr. brendon park is sickened by how soft and weak you seem. as such, he makes it a personal mission to get under your skin every time he crosses your path as revenge for you invading his every thought. intoxicating little thing that you are, however, he can hardly get enough... despite his efforts to the contrary.
♡ content: enemies to lovers, jack & robby both pine after you, reader is a spoiled crybaby brat but also a sweetheart, reader slaps dr. park & almost does so again later, kissing, fingering, p in v sex, dom!brendon, sub-coded!reader, dubcon (brendon decides to go in raw w/o asking reader if she's ok with it (she is)), sub drop, teasing (sexual & otherwise), reader has hair long enough to make a braid, medical inaccuracies, dacryphilia, slut-shaming, misogyny, reader eats meat in 1 scene, brendon gets a little physically rough with her in 1 smutty portion [idk. if i missed anything, just tell me]
"It won't need surgery," Park remarks while shaking his head.
Mr. Quinn breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank God." Turning his head to the right, he looks at Dr. Park. "How do we fix it so I can get the hell out of here?"
Standing half-hidden behind Robby, and close enough that your breasts brush against the back of his arm, you glance curiously toward the clock on the wall, worried that this ortho surgeon can smell fear like a shark does blood in water. As long as you don't make eye contact, he'll never know that you're here.
It's not that you've heard an extraordinary amount of stories about this Dr. Park fellow—hardly any, truth be told, since the ED isn't exactly his domain—but the ones you have make you want to run and hide beneath the nurses station until he's gone back to his designated floor of practice.
Glancing around the room in search of an aid, Park quickly takes stock of you—one he's never seen before, and, who, instead of focusing on the teaching opportunity presented to her, would rather stare adoringly at the back of Dr. Robby's head, apparently.
Seeing the older man's hand slyly brush against your thigh when he thinks no one is looking is when Brendon decides to make an example out of you.
Sleeping your way to the top? Taking the easy route? He'll get some satisfaction out of seeing you squirm when he holds you to the fire before a live audience.
"You," he barks while zeroing in.
Jerking your head in his direction, you nearly stumble into Robby. Staring with wide eyes, you think to begin backing up before making a run for it. "M-Me?" You say while pointing to your chest uncertainly.
"Did I stutter?" He spits. "Come over here and help me pop this joint back into place. Now."
You swallow thickly and the back of your neck warms.
You half hope that Robby will save you, but that wouldn't be very professional if he stepped between you and his colleague, now, would it?
Not that he's always been when it comes to favoring and babying you, but... No one else needs to know that. Except half the ED, who he's stopped hiding it from, anyway.
Stepping forward, your arm brushes against Robby's—what if you latched onto it and refused to let go until Mr. Ortho picked somebody else to torture?—and you walk on unsteady legs toward him.
Standing at full height with a puffed-out chest, he nods at the man's affected leg. "Get yourself into position."
You blink stupidly, followed by a nervous laugh. "I... What?"
"Jesus Christ," he mumbles under his breath.
Leaning down, he positions his lips next to your ear. "Put your right leg on the edge of the bed."
At least he had the forethought to lower it beforehand, you think.
"Or do you not want to learn?" He growls.
Doing as instructed, you plop your Skecher next to the man's injured leg.
Dr. Park pinches his nose while exhaling sharply.
Looking back to Robby, he gestures to you. "Is this what you're teaching down here now? Incompetence?"
You can't see it, but you just know Robby's temper is being summoned for duty.
"Give her a break, Park, she's just nervous. First time she's ever popped a joint."
Park snorts. "I bet," he mumbles doubtfully.
"Should I—"
You promptly shut your mouth when he puts his hands on you. Grabbing the back of your right thigh with one hand and your shin with the other, he repositions your leg between the patient's.
"Don't move," he commands.
You're afraid that if you do, Mr. Quinn won't be the only injured party in the room by the end of things.
Stepping to the side with crossed arms, he stares you down. "Now, grip the back of his thigh and calf in both your hands."
You bend over and do just that and proceed to grab handfuls of squishy flesh smattered with dark hair.
Park circles around behind you to see things from your exact angle. "Rotate the leg outward. You'll feel a click. When you do, shove it back into the socket.
You hesitate. "What if... What if I make it worse, or—"
Mr. Quinn lifts his head and grants you a worried look. "Maybe you should take over, doc. Don't think I like the sound of that."
He levels him with a stern gaze. "I'm right behind her. This is a teaching hospital. Without trying, those at the bottom can't move up." Park leans in close. "Unless you find a workaround, it seems."
You open your mouth to ask just what he means by that, until he startles you with a yell.
"Now turn it," he bellows.
Slowly, you swivel his leg outward and the gentleman sucks in a sharp inhalation of breath.
"Fuck, I don't think—" He begins.
When you hear a click, you hesitate.
Mr. Quinn's protestations are cut short when Park commands you like he's a drill sergeant and you're one of his subordinates. "Now, put your hand on his foot and push!"
Doing as you're told, you bear down, and like magic, things slide right into place where they belong.
Mr. Quinn looses a ragged breath and sighs with relief. "Ah, that feels better," he says contentedly.
"For now," Park replies. "You'll be sore for a few weeks, but we'll send you home with crutches and meds to help with the swelling and pain. As well as a follow-up with me put on the books."
"Long as it ain't surgery," he replies with a shrug while folding his hands together atop his stomach.
Taking a step back, you're startled by the sound of a single set of hands clapping.
You look at Whitaker, who's smiling happily for your job well done, but it quickly melts off his face when Park burns a hole right through him with a venomous glare.
What is this guy's problem?
Taking a step forward, Park sneers at you. "Go on," he says with a jerk of his head. "Back to your teacher."
He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne. And then he lowers his lips until only you can hear what leaves them when he whispers in your ear. "Pet."
You gulp, then scurry away and back to your previous position. Only this time, you hide almost entirely behind Robby's towering form. Safe, safe, safe is all you can think once you've reached him.
You'd very much like to never do that again. Popping joints you can maybe handle. The asshole teacher, not so much.
You prefer gentle instruction when available. Patient, even.
"Class dismissed," he announces, much to your relief.
Seeing how the patient was handed off to him, Park is required to do a few pages of paperwork before he can go, which he reluctantly accepts the task of completing, as if he has another choice.
He's a man who's not easily distracted—he's always precise, straight to the point, and efficient. But he'll be damned if your annoying little self hasn't stepped on his every last nerve without even trying.
Studying you as you chart at the nurse's station—oblivious to his staring daggers at you—he watches as Abbot enters through the ambulance bay doors, only to make a beeline straight to where you sit. Leaning over the counter in front of you, he reaches forward and says something Brendon can't discern before giving you a gentle tap under your chin and walking away to begin his shift.
A moment later, Robby exits Trauma 2 and rubs sanitizer over each of his hands before picking up a blue nitrile glove and shooting it between your shoulder blades. Just as quickly, he turns around and pretends to be looking over a stack of paperwork as you ignorantly swivel this way and that, searching for your attacker.
After a moment, he walks by, you look up, he smiles—giving himself away on purpose—and plants a kiss on the crown of your head before going in search of Abbot.
Makes him fucking sick to watch this goddamn rom-com. This place has gone from pulling out bullets to now being a pathetic romance novel.
He'd like to believe that when he's not down here, the two of them push you to your limits to see what you're capable of—if much of anything, soft thing that you look to be—instead of succumbing to your pretty eyes or sweet smile because they're that fucking pussy-whipped. And by a resident of all things.
Shaking his head, he returns his attentions to something more worthwhile—which isn't saying much—paperwork.
"Not the only fish circlin' that pond, Park," remarks Dana, who's come to stand beside him.
He rolls his eyes without looking up. "Not interested."
She chuckles. "I remember a couple attendings tellin' me the same thing not all that long ago. Now look at 'em—wrapped around her little finger."
"It's a problem that you can say that," he spits. "It's unprofessional. Grossly so." He looks at her. "And you know it."
She shrugs while draping her forearm atop the counter they stand at. "Brought the light to Rob's life that he needed. Can't complain about that. As for Jack... Never thought he'd smile at a woman ever again after losin' his wife. But there she sits: sunshine in human fuckin' form."
He returns to scrawling his signature across printer paper. "You're making me nauseous."
She laughs, then pats him on the back. "Don't gotta be so tough all the time. Let your hair down every once in awhile. Never know what could happen, kid."
He deigns that she's lucky she left when she did because Park was nearly at his boiling point. If she'd kept talking, he would've blown his fucking top like a barrel of dynamite blasting through a hillside.
A sheet of paper is slammed down beside of you, causing you to yelp in surprise.
"Sign it," snaps Park.
With now trembling hands, you drag the document closer.
"Even highlighted it for you," he says while pointing to the designated line. "Sorry it wasn't in pink," he sneers.
"What is it?" You ask innocently while looking at him.
"A fucking marriage license. What do you think it is? It's about the procedure I had you perform today."
Turing away, your eyes begin to sting. Why is he always so mean?
You pick up a pen, click the ballpoint down, and write your dainty signature upon the line provided.
Snatching the document away, he stands at full height again.
"You ready?" Calls Robby from across the way, looking at none other than yourself.
You nod while grabbing your bag and sliding it over your shoulder. "Yes."
Park shakes his head in disapproval, but Robby hardly pays him any mind before wrapping an arm around your shoulders to lead the pair of you to the parking lot.
You're barely out the sliding doors before you feel your braid coming undone. Reaching up, you slide your fingers along the end of your strands, only to come up empty-handed. "Did you—" Pulling away, you begin turning this way and that, searching the asphalt for your missing hair band.
"You drop something?" He asks.
"My hair band," you mutter while retracing your steps.
He sighs, wanting nothing more than to get home so he can jump in the shower. "You don't have another?"
You frown, then straighten, and return to his side. "I'll get one out once we're in the truck."
When Park reaches the elevators, the indicator overhead dings and the doors slide open, welcoming him inside the steel and aluminum box. Stepping over the threshold, he presses the button for the 7th floor—appreciating the pretty little cream-colored hairband that's wrapped tightly around his wrist when he does so.
Things are busy as ever today. You began your morning by running through half a dozen patients, and every time one walked out the door, two more popped up on the board.
No wonder why Robby seems to deflate every time he looks at it anymore.
It's nearing 5 before you bother to take a second bathroom break, and just as you've exited the restroom, you bump into Mel, who seems to be in an overstimulated tizzy.
You know the feeling quite well.
"Hey," you say quietly while grabbing her by the shoulders. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"Oh, sorry," she starts while nervously pushing her glasses back into place.
Good thing they didn't shatter on the floor, you think.
"I have an ultrasound that needs to go up to the NICU. I tried sending it over email, but an office assistant said it was too dark—which I don't really see how, unless it's a problem with the monitor, which they should probably get look at by IT—so, I was going to bring a printed copy up, and maybe they'd—"
"Slow down," you say while laughing quietly. "If you're busy—and you look like you are—I could deliver it for you."
"Really?" She says excitedly while bending at the knees, then springing up. "That would just be—so great! I have so much to get to. And there's this—"
You hate to interrupt her, truly, but it's probably best that the requested image is delivered sooner rather than later. Slipping it from Mel's hands, you grant her a reassuring nod. "No problem. I love going up there. Consider it done."
You're practically glowing by the time you make it back to the elevator.
Holding and kissing babies, as well as talking neonatal medicine and pregnancy with the fine doctors upstairs always puts you in a chipper mood. Plus, there'd been chocolate chip cookies in their break room, which you'd helped yourself to a couple of before reluctantly heading back the way you came.
It's not that you don't love the Pitt—awful name for it, really, if not also terribly fitting—but little ones and expectant mothers are where your heart truly lies, you're quickly coming to learn. Everything is just so...pink and squishy up there, and smells like baby powder. Such a pleasant place.
You certainly prefer that over pools of blood and erratic drunkards running half-naked through the common area downstairs.
Bouncing happily on the balls of your feet, you wait for the elevator to reach the floor you're currently on, and just as you make to sweep inside after the doors have shoved open, you pause.
With the heels of his palms planted atop the railing behind him, Dr. Park slowly lifts his head, trailing his eyes along you all the while.
"Going down?" He questions.
You chew your lip for a moment and consider turning back around and claiming you forgot something, but you're sure Robby is already looking for you. He won't be pleased if you're gone any longer than is necessary.
Which you've already been...
With a sigh, you come inside. "Yes," you chirp before pressing the A button.
"Not surprised," he retorts.
Your brows furrow in question, but you ultimately choose not to say anything.
He sure does seem to love his private jokes.
When the doors close, you remain at attention, watching as the floors pass by.
6
5
4
3
Park steps forward and flips the emergency stop switch, bringing the machine to a sudden halt.
Swinging around, you mean to ask him if something is wrong, until he shoves you back against a wall.
Your heart now hammering away between your breasts—terrified that you're about to be assaulted—you open your mouth to scream, until he speaks.
"What the fuck is it about you, huh?"
Your eyes flit between his. "W-What?"
"First, you get Robby and Abbot wrapped around your goddamn finger, and now I can't get you out of my fucking head. You wanna try explaining that to me? I meet you once—one fucking time—and now it's all I can do to not think about bending you over the desk in my office. I'm doing paperwork, in surgery—hell, driving myself home—and am I concentrating on what I should be?" He slips the tip of his tongue between pursed lips before shaking his head with raised brows for emphasis. "No," he says while slamming his hand against the metal wall beside your head, causing you to squeak in fear. "All I can focus on is the thought of you."
Half of you thinks to begin blubbering like a baby—wailing for him to let you go so you can return to the ED—while the other half is fighting against a hysterical laugh climbing its way up your throat. Nervous response in the face of absolute fear, apparently.
Before you can do either—before you can so much as get the wiring in your brain to work properly so you can actually formulate a plan, or even string together a coherent sentence like pearls on a string—he leans in impossibly close while gripping your jawline firmly in his hand.
"Just one taste," he rasps. "Just one, and I can finally get you out of my system."
He doesn't ask. Instead, he merely takes when he crushes his lips painfully to yours.
Ravenously does he devour you. Forcing your lips apart with his own, his tongue plunges inside and deftly explores the cavernous space within. He runs its tip along your teeth, the fleshy walls of your cheeks, and even the solid roof of your mouth before flicking it against your own, tempting it to stir to life.
You make to slip away from him, but his other hand flies to your hip and slams it back against the wall to hold you firmly in place. "I told you before: don't fucking move," he rumbles, repeating his command from the day you treated... What was the man's name again? Quigey? Quill?
Feeling suddenly dizzy, you can no longer remember.
Working his way lower, he nips at your neck with his canines while submerging his fingers in your hair and tugging painfully against the strands.
You whimper, and it only spurs him on all the more.
Sucking at your pulse point, he wedges a knee between your thighs and plants a hand against your belly. And then he slides it lower. And lower. And—
Shoving him away, he stumbles back. Looking down at your pants, you're horrified to see that he untied the neat little bow you had done in the front.
He advances on you again, until you yell for him to stop.
And to his credit—as well as your surprise—he obeys.
With violently trembling hands, you attempt at tying a knot, only to fail miserably at the task.
"What...What were you trying to—" You begin, but fall short when an amused look crosses his sharp features.
He chuckles darkly. "Most of us learned about sex ed well before medical school, sweetheart. Unless you're still waiting on lessons from Robby and Abbot for that, too?"
You glare at him. "I'm not the kind of girl who—"
"What?" He spits, interrupting. "Gets felt up in an elevator?"
He steps forward. "No, you just prefer to climb the corporate ladder by climbing on top of something else at night, I imagine. Just to indulge my curiosity: have you given it up for both your attendings yet, or are you holding out on them like your pussy is some prize to be won, so long as they give you what you want in terms of a career?"
Slap.
You reel back in horror and tense up in preparation for the gesture to be returned tenfold when he knocks you on your ass.
Instead, however, Park merely fumes while staring you down with fists clenched tightly at his sides.
You startle when he stomps forward and sends the elevator slightly reverberating from the movement. Grabbing either of your arms, he pins them above your head while lowering his lips dangerously close to your ear. Close enough that the tip of his nose swipes against your cheek. "Do not ever do that again," he growls.
You swallow thickly when you feel his erection pressing against your belly, but keep your mouth shut about it, lest he take things further. One way or another...
Finally, you nod fervently, and he releases you. Planting your hands on your knees, you double over and struggle to catch your breath. Your face is burning hot, as is another part of you, but you choose to ignore it as best you can.
After adjusting himself, he steps forward and flips the switch back into place. With a jolt, the elevator is off again.
Standing straight once more—by God do your legs feel like jelly beneath you—you swiftly tie two loops together to remake a bow at the front of your pants before throwing your head forward and gathering your hair into a ponytail. Messy will do just fine.
Just as the doors spread apart, you race to get as far from him as possible.
Difficult feat, since he's clearly sticking around on your floor for a bit.
You can't get past the feeling of mortification which has covered you like a veil.
Not when a shark swims but a handful of feet from where you sit, talking to Robby about God knows what.
You did nothing wrong. He came onto you. You couldn't have fought back if you wanted to! Did you want to? Yes, of course!
He's insufferable and egotistical and pretentious and mean. He's just so mean!
The steady pulse which is still going strong between your thighs clearly has different ideas about him, though. Stupid, useless thing.
Studying Robby from beneath your lashes—because you refuse to look at the other one—you trail your eyes along his handsome, weathered face and soft belly. Yes, most assuredly more your type. Stern and strict when he needs to be, and sweet on you when you deserve it.
You do so adore him.
When Park folds his arms, however, you bolt out of your chair when you catch sight of what he has.
Coming to stand beside the two of them, you stare up at him until he ackowledges you.
He hardly glances in your direction before returning to conversing with Robby, though.
"Ahem," you say—feigning clearing your throat.
They both grow silent.
Looking at you with a raised brow, Park doesn't say a word.
"You have something of mine," you state with an outstretched palm.
Looking at you like you're a bothersome fly who won't leave him be, he shrugs ignorantly. "Mind telling me what that might be?"
Your eyes drop to his wrist before flitting upward again. "My hair tie. You stole it the day we met a couple weeks ago, didn't you?"
He snorts incredulously while unwinding his beefy arms. "Are you accusing me of theft?"
Robby holds up his palms before half placing himself in front of you. "Alright, just calm down." He looks at Park's wrist, then turns back to you. "Sweetheart, what would Dr. Park want with one of your hair ties?"
You shrug, then gesture to him. "I have no idea, why don't you ask him?"
Robby runs a palm down his face in exasperation before turning fully toward you. "We are not making a scene out of something so miniscule," he states lowly.
You open your mouth to retort, but he cuts you off. "Honey, look at me."
You do, but while scowling.
"Let it go." He nods toward the computer station. "And finish up with your charting. We're going to be grabbing a new patient in a few once I'm done here."
You grit your teeth. Child that this bastard has turned you into, you have half a mind to throw a damn tantrum—stomping feet, screaming; the whole works.
Instead, you act the adult and get back to work.
But you've won either way, because now he's on Robby's radar.
"You wanna tell me what that was with Park earlier today?" Robby says between bites of his sub.
The two of you are currently parked in an empty lot, downing your dinner to-go, you're both that hungry after your grueling shifts. When you began whining that your stomach was hurting, Robby promptly swung into a drive-thru to order for you whatever you liked. Now, you feel quite content as you snack on toasted bread and grilled meats.
Stealing one of his fries from the cupholder between you, you munch on it momentarily before speaking. If you tell him about the elevator incident, his head may very well pop like a cherry tomato. Not that you enjoy lying to him by any means, but...it's also not like the two of you are together. You flirt while at work, and he's been driving you back and forth while your car is in the shop.
That's it.
"I told you: he stole my hair tie and I wanted it back. Yes, it seems small and stupid, but it's something I did technically purchase, which doesn't rightfully belong to him. Maybe if he was actually using it for his own hair I wouldn't have cared." You look at him. "But he isn't."
He leans his head back against the seat and takes another bite. "Why would he bother taking it in the first place? That's what I'm asking."
Truth be told, you have as much explanation as he. You don't get it either. So, he hates just the thought of you, but has presumedly been wearing something which belongs to you every day for the last couple of weeks?
Make it make sense.
You take a sip of your drink and shake your head. "Maybe he uses it as a fidget toy."
Things are soon back to smooth sailing for you. You stay attached to Robby's side during the day like usual, and bask in Jack's attention at night before you're due to go home.
There's no hide or hair of Park because he's clearly gone back to his ivory tower to stay.
Fine with you if you never set eyes on him again. But every time you pass the elevators, you can't help the stirring you feel within your loins at the sight of them.
When you try relieving the pent-up sexual frustration one night, you're just in the middle of things—hand firmly settled between your slick thighs while lying nakedly atop your bed—but despite every effort to think of anyone else, such as Robby, Jack, hell even Langdon at one point, your mind keeps drifting off to him instead.
Eventually, you gave up and went to sleep, despite being so close.
You refused to give him the satisfaction, even if he'd never know it.
"Hey, Shark Bait," Santos calls from a handful of feet away.
Your head shoots up and you glare. "What?" You spit.
Sarcastically widening her eyes, she throws her hands up and turns back around. "Geeze, I'll ask somebody else, then. Try getting laid at some point—might be good for you."
Now being the evening, Jack mouths to Robby across the room Shark Bait?, to which he's granted a shaking head in return.
So help you God if she makes that your new nickname, you'll—
"What seems to be the problem?" Jack inquires while straddling the seat next to you.
Boredly typing the same thing repeatedly into the computer because you're exhausted, you shrug. Your forearm rests atop the desk you sit at while your chin is positioned atop it. If your head gets any lower, Robby may very well have to carry you out of here.
Now there's an idea.
"Tired," you mumble.
He settles a palm atop your thigh, which awakens you even slightly.
"Robby says you've been in a mood all day."
"Been tired all day," you pout.
He squeezes your thigh and you whimper, wishing he'd do a great deal more than that.
"That whole Shark Bait comment have anything to do with Park?"
Groaning in irritation, you finally lay your forehead atop your arm. "He's an asshole."
He lets out a low whistle. "Never heard a foul word come from those pretty lips before. He must've really done a number on you."
"He stole my hair tie," you complain.
Jack snorts. "Please tell me that is not what this is all about."
No, you want to say. It's not. What it's about is that he has given me the female equivalent of blue balls. Something which you and Robby could easily take care of if I wasn't such a coward and finally bothered asking for as much.
"No."
Sliding his hand off your thigh, he rests it atop the back of the chair he occupies. "Honey, I can't read your mind."
Gently banging your head off your arm, you remain silent for a moment. "I'm just frustrated."
He raises a brow in interest. "This uh...frustration. Does what Santos said have something to do with it?"
You don't reply.
Wheeling closer, he speaks lowly to you. "Sweetheart, if you need a vibrator, I'd be all too happy to get you one."
Your head sprouts up so quickly that it makes you dizzy.
"Yeah, thought that'd get your attention," he says with satisfaction.
You narrow your eyes at him, which he finds to be all too adorable a look for you. Like a pissed off kitten.
Before you can think up a smart aleck reply, Robby comes over and slides a hand up your back before gently massaging your neck.
He keeps that up, and you'll curl up in his lap in one of the hospital beds before finally drifting off to sleep.
"C'mon, let me take you home."
You make to stand, but stumble slightly before falling into his side.
Jack picks up your bag and hands it to Robby, who slides onto his shoulder before holding you close and leading you outside.
When your car was first carted away on the back of a tow truck, your sense of stability went with it. How would you get around? Run errands? Get to and from work?
Your episode of spiraling was short-lived, however, when Robby caught sight of you exiting an Uber the following morning before starting your shift. He'd promptly questioned where your personal vehicle was, and when you awkwardly mumbled as to its current state and subsequent whereabouts, he told you he'd be your designate chauffer until it was made road-worthy again.
You'd thought to protest, simply because you didn't desire for him to go out of his way, waste extra gas, and be a burden on top of it all, but ultimately decided that you were selfish enough to accept his offer if it meant spending more time with him. Especially one-on-one.
So, imagine the great sense of disappointment which settles over you when you receive a call that your vehicle is ready to be retrieved and taken home.
Telling Robby is a rather interesting exchange.
"I could just rip the alternator out," he'd said with an earnest expression.
You'd giggled, assuming he was joking.
"I'm serious," he'd continued while sliding a hand down your arm. "I'm going to miss my passenger."
After assuring you at length that if you ever needed anything—not limited strictly to a ride—you could call him any time and he'd come running.
You were grateful to know that he cared that much.
"I mean it," Robby had reiterated in the parking lot before leaving work. Cupping your cheek in his hand, he stood oppressively close as his warm, chocolate-brown eyes gazed into yours. "Anything."
Maybe he'd hoped for more time—a proper opportunity to ignite something more between the two of you. You had wanted him to, but if it was all mere flirtation, sided with a bit of adoring affection... You didn't want to make yourself seem like some lovestruck, dewy-eyed schoolgirl obsessed with being the teacher's pet.
So you had simply nodded while pawing gently at his soft middle.
When he leaned down, your eyes nearly fluttered closed in anticipation of a kiss. Your heart had quivered at the exciting prospect. And he did grant you one, but only on the forehead before stepping away to head home.
If one more man saw fit to tease the bundle of nerves between your legs—whether intended or not—you might very well end up attacking one of them in an on-call room to finally satiate your sexual needs.
Just as you've popped open the door to your car, you glance to the left and see—the phrase 'speak (or in your case, think) of the devil and he shall appear' comes to mind—the very man who's kept you so riled up in the first place.
With a huff, you sink into the car and shut the door behind you. Ignoring the way your hands tremble just from the sight of Park, you click your seatbelt into place, turn the ignition over and... It makes an awful whirring sound, like it's struggling for life.
No.
Oh no.
You just got it back! Coupled with a bill you can't even bear to look at a second time...
Then again, when Jack saw you staring down at it with elbows propped up and fingers pressed into your temples as the cogs in your mind slowly rolled as you thought of the things you could sell and the ways in which you could start cutting back to cover the due costs, he'd snatched it away before settling his glasses upon the bridge of his nose and whistling quietly. "You know if you'd brought it to me or Robby instead, you wouldn't have had to pay a dime, right?"
He'd lowered his chin while looking at you from over the rim of his glasses.
"You're both already so busy. That—that wasn't an option. Even if I did, I still would've had to pay for parts."
Walking over to the printer, he laid it face down before pressing the big blue button which in turn spat out another copy of it.
"I'll take care of it," he'd said while handing you the original for record-keeping.
You'd blinked before flying into a torrent of insistence that he not.
Jack had then leaned over while gripping the back of your chair. "And no, you wouldn't have paid for parts, either. Between the two of us, we make more than enough to ensure you're taken care of."
You'd chuckled nervously while leaning back. "Think of all the trouble I saved you, though."
Gripping your chin, he grew utterly serious. "Next time, it's our hands under the hood. Got it?"
You'd nodded in agreement, then watched as he tucked the bill away into his back pocket. "I find out you've paid a cent on it," he began while straightening. "And you and I will be having a talk."
You watched silently as he walked away, appreciating his unsteady gait all the while.
Throwing yourself back against the driver's seat with a groan, you squeeze your eyes shut while thinking he may just get his wish. And very soon.
After sliding your keys out of the ignition, a rapping of knuckles against the window beside you causes you to shriek. Peering out, you frown at the sight of Park waiting for you with folded arms.
Tossing your keys into the cupholder, you sigh before exiting. "Yes?" You ask while keeping the door open, lest you need to suddenly lock yourself within the safety of your vehicle's confines.
"What, Robby finally get tired of carting your ass around?"
You glower at him from beneath your lashes. "No. I just got my car back from the shop."
A smirk flits briefly across his lips. "Not a very good one, apparently." Coming around to the front, he looks at you. "Problem with women and thinking they know anything about anything with a motor."
You sneer, and he leans down and tucks his fingers under the car's grill. "Pop the hood."
You hesitate. "And how do I know you're not going to just make it worse?"
He snorts. "It is a tempting thought: the idea of you being stranded here and taking a morning shower in the sink in the women's restroom."
You shrug casually. "I'll just call Robby to come and get me. Maybe ask him to take me home with him." You grin. "Both the ER cowboys have a hard time telling me no."
He wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Course they call themselves that." Instead of telling you a second time, he chooses instead to stare you down.
With a huff, you finally oblige him. As long as it rids you of his annoying presence, you'll be happy.
"C'mere and shine a flashlight on it. Can't see shit with only the streetlight overhead."
Slipping your phone from your pocket, you come to stand next to him while illuminating the engine bay with your device.
Reaching forward, he fiddles with what on one end looks like a very odd screw before pulling it out. Marching over his vehicle—of course it's a muscle car—he messes around in the trunk for a moment before bringing over a roll of shop rags. "Spark plugs are fuckin' filthy," he remarks before wiping it down.
Returning it to where it goes, he starts on the next one while looking at you. "Don't go back to that shop. This should've been a basic diagnostic step."
"Well, it ran fine this morning. So I'm sure they fixed the main problem," you say with a shrug.
"While leaving another one go," he spits. He shakes his head while turning away. "Sheer laziness."
You roll your eyes. Seems a simple enough fix, so you're not all that perturbed by it.
As he works, Park makes small talk with you. "Where were you coming from that day?"
You can feel your cheeks warm. He just couldn't resist the temptation of reliving it, could he?
"6th floor." You smile. "I love it there."
He huffs. "Figures. So you like kids, then?"
You nod vigorously. "I do."
"Got any of your own?" he asks while half glancing to you.
"Not yet," you reply. "But I will someday. When the right man comes along."
Finishing up, he stands back and wipes his hands with a clean towel. "Figures," he states while surveying you. "You seem the mothering type."
You narrow your eyes while crossing your arms. "I fail to see how that's a bad thing."
His eyes flit to the driver's side of the car. "Turn it over."
You shake your head, but ultimately do as you're told.
You may have a bit of a mouth on you, but he nevertheless appreciates just how obedient you are.
To your relief, the engine roars to life. Leaning back, you breathe a sigh of relief.
No restroom showers for you.
With a thunk, Park shuts the hood of your car and you switch it back off again momentarily so that you can reluctantly thank him for his assistance.
Returning to his own sedan, he tosses the shop rags back into the trunk before fetching a bottle of sanitizer and lathering his hands until they're clean and smelling of alcohol.
"Thank you," you murmur, watching him walk back over to you. "And for your peace of mind: yes, I will go somewhere else in the future for so much as an oil change."
He hums in acknowledgment to what you've said. Intent on crowding, he doesn't plant his feet until you're backed against the side of your car. "Wha—What're y—"
With a neutral expression painted upon his finely carved face, he grips either of your hips in his hands before shoving them against the glass behind them. "I might've only said one taste," he drawls. "But I didn't say of what."
Leaning down, he runs the tip of his nose along your neck. "Since I'm sure there's so many other places for me to go."
Cupping you over your pants, he prods against your heat with his index and middle finger, causing you to jolt in response.
"How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?" He rumbles.
You fight to keep your eyes open when all they seem to want to do is roll back in your head as he presses the heel of his palm to your clit.
"N—None."
He scoffs. "Good girls know better than to lie to their betters."
You squirm beneath his hand. "I—"
Yanking against the bow at the front of your pants shuts you up entirely. "You want it?" He groans. "Because if you don't," he continues while slowly sinking his hand beneath the hem of your panties. "Then you're going to have to use your words and tell me as much."
Silence suddenly seems like such a preferable option to you.
Traveling lower, when his hand finally cups your bare, weeping cunt with no layers between the two of you to hinder the experience, your eyes fluttered closed while a gasp of satisfaction escapes your lips.
"God, you're fucking soaked," he growls.
Prodding against your clit with the pad of his thumb, you whine.
"Please."
He swiftly runs a single finger between your sopping folds before circling that perfect bundle of nerves with your own lubrication. "Needy little thing," he mocks before sliding the tip of his tongue up the length of your neck. "Bet it doesn't take much for you," he whispers right against your ear—his warm breath puffing against the shell of it. "Does it?" he asks before easing a single digit inside of you.
"O—Oh God," you gasp.
"Just as desperate as I thought you'd be," he commentates before slipping another between your fluttering walls.
Curling the digits upwards, you practically jump onto your tiptoes.
With two fingers massaging the fleshy ledge inside of you while his thumb continues working at your swollen clit, it's all you can do not to beg him. For what, you're not sure.
To keep going? He already seems intent on that. To never stop? Tempting enough prospect. To bend you over the hood of either of your vehicles so he can have his way with you? God, what you wouldn't give just to finish around the throbbing length of his cock.
He pauses his ministrations and you begin to quietly cry in panicked frustration. "Please, please don't," you plead through teary eyes.
Having you right where he wants you at long last, he savors the moment. Brushing tears from your heated cheeks, he clicks his tongue mockingly. "Don't what?" he glances down to where half his hand is submerged in your body cavity. "Keep going?"
"No!" You cry. "Don't stop!"
He chuckles. "So pathetic," he mutters before kissing away your tears. "You'd give anything just to come on my hand in a parking lot of all places, wouldn't you?"
You've lost control of your senses. As much is confirmed when you nod so hard that something twinges in your neck.
When movement begins again, you nearly start bawling from a sense of gratitude. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," pours from your lips.
He grunts as his fingers keep beckoning forth your orgasm.
As you near your apex, you reach up and sink your nails into either of his shoulders and hold on for dear life as an overwhelming crash of white light soon explodes behind your eyelids. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you as you squeeze tightly around his slick fingers, trying to suck them inside.
Whatever it is which you say as you come undone is garbled and utterly nonsensical. But you somehow know that he understands whatever it is which you meant by it.
Removing his hand from between your legs is when you finally open your eyes. The world seems a bit hazy—blurry, even—and your body drained of all energy.
You watch with fascination as he slips his fingers into his mouth and sucks. "Just as good as I thought," he breathes.
You try retying the front of your pants, but with your coordination now shot, you quickly give up.
Gently grabbing you by the neck, he pulls you in toward him and gives you an open-mouthed kiss, just the same as the one in the elevator.
"See you around," he says with a smirk before stalking off.
You're out of sorts for the next few days—crying at the drop of a hat, latching onto Robby for attention (proceeded by feeling guilty about it), berating yourself for every little mistake you make, and following Jack around like a lost puppy when he comes in early a couple days in a row for his shift...
Suffice to say that you're not yourself.
Not after what happened between you and Park.
Just like he did between your legs, he's also now burrowed into your head somehow. Like a parasite. Or a nasty insect you'd love to squash with the heel of your tennis shoe.
You don't understand what's the matter with you. Why all you want is to be held; pampered; cherished with reassuring words.
It had something to do with things afterward, you think.
One moment, you were on Cloud Nine while he fingered you to completion, and the next, you were bawling in your kitchen because your spoon fell out of your cereal bowl and onto the floor the following morning.
You decide you hate him. And that you made a mistake. Who does that in public? Anyone could've seen! Talk about a lack of self-respect...
You avoid traveling in the elevators at all costs now, instead opting for the stairs every time something needs ran here or there. Makes for good cardio. That's what you tell yourself when you're out of breath three floors up one day. You deem the sacrifice of getting a little sweaty worth it, though, if it removes almost any and all chances of you running into him.
Your dreams of never setting eyes on his stupid face ever again, which you'd like to punch like one of those inflatable clowns, doesn't last long when you run into him—literally—after exiting the women's restroom one day. Bounding off his chest, you seethe while glaring up at him.
Noticing how your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy—not that he should be surprised, crybaby that you seem to be—he folds his arms behind him. "Don't tell me the princess of the ER didn't get her afternoon nap today."
You are so past obnoxious banter with him. You go to step around him, until he gently grabs you by your wrist. "Hey—"
Shoving his chest, he staggers back, then jeers. "Who the hell do you think you a—"
"You left me!" You cry.
His brows furrow while his eyes flit between yours for understanding. "What?"
Your chin wobbles and you sniffle. "You got what you wanted and then you just left me there! I felt so used and—and disgusting. We didn't talk about it, or, or—"
He snickers. "You really are a brat when you're not the constant center of attention, aren't you?"
Roaring in anger, you draw an open palm back, which he swiftly catches and pins against a wall. "What did I tell you about that?"
You pout. "I wouldn't have. Not really."
You're not so sure of that.
And then your eyes well with tears. "Why are you so mean to me?!" You wail.
"Jesus Christ," he curses lowly. "Get your fucking act together."
You only begin to cry harder.
Realization finally dawns on him then of what's come over you. And his stomach sinks.
Moron, he mentally chastises.
Drawing you into his chest, you attempt to battle against him with ineffectual fists before soon succumbing to the warmth you've been needing.
"You really are a sub, aren't you?"
You sinks your nails into his pectoral. "Why did you just call me a sandwich?" You cry.
He rolls his eyes. It's a fucking miracle you ever made it through medical school.
He sighs while settling his cheek atop your head and keeping both arms wrapped firmly around you. So help him God if so much as a janitor rounds the corner and finds him in such a compromising, and not to mention pitiful, position...
"It's called a drop. We were intimate, and instead of me sticking around like I apparently should've and giving you the attention you're clearly reeling from the loss of, this is the result: you being an emotional mess, which is becoming everybody else's problem to deal with."
"You're a mess," you mumble against his chest while snuggling against it.
"When it comes to you, apparently," he grumbles discontentedly.
You hum in satisfaction from the affection he's finally giving you. Not that you need it, of course. You still hate him and never want to see him again, but... It's rather nice to be embraced.
"I can't believe I'm saying this," he starts while running a large palm up your back.
You nuzzle against his neck. "Mm, what?"
"You are the very opposite of what I usually go after," he mumbles.
You interrupt before he can continue. "Well that's not very nice."
"Never said I had any intention of being that," Park snipes. He kisses the crown of your head. "Come to dinner with me."
You shrug in an attempt to play hard to get. "Maybe I already have plans."
He grits his teeth. He's liable to tighten his arms until he snaps you in two so you'll never be his problem again if you keep testing his patience. "I won't ask twice. Turn me down, and we're done. For good."
You frown at the ultimatum. Being given direction is nice so you're not left figuring things out on your own all the time—it's why you're so fond of Robby—but taking orders? Boy, does it make your blood boil.
"Fine," you spit while clutching at his shirt.
"Fine."
Things have changed. At times, you think for the better, while others, the worst. Robby and Jack have both backed off since the entirety of the ED caught wind that Park has suddenly claimed you as his.
They're both still friendly—kind and helpful, even—but no longer sweet on you like they once were. You understand why, even if you miss that aspect of your relationship with each of them.
Jack seems fond of Mohan now, and because she's so very kind, you hope something works out between them, even if you're sort of jealous... On both ends.
You might've daydreamed about kissing her once or twice...
Robby on the other hand seems a tad withdrawn. You think he's hurt, but don't know what to say or do to make it right. Loss of the affection there once was between you has been hard to take on both your ends. You're unaware of it, but he can't stop replaying the day of the joint reset. If he'd only left you with Mel tending to an abscess, this never would've happened.
He blames himself for his loss of you.
Robby had been concerned initially—whether it was genuine, or because he was desperate to find a reason why you shouldn't be with Shark, is up for debate—but because of how stoic Park is at all times, as well as the temper he's known to have, the worry was there that he would mistreat you. Not handle you like fine China as he and Jack both have.
Not that the orthopedic surgeon's disposition ever changes, but he's different with you. Softer, gentler, and more attentive. And you beam from the love he showers you with.
So Robby relinquishes what was clearly never his while throwing himself into work on his new bike, and planning an eventual trip that's been weighing on him.
Stepping over an unfamiliar threshold, Brendon's living space somehow is both exactly as you imagined it and not. You'd envisioned something industrial looking—all high ceilings and black and grey and white coloring, made to look sterile like an OR.
Instead, there's ambient lighting, a soft couch (not made of leather, also to your shock), a collection of DVDs, which unsurprisingly includes Jaws, a kitchen with a tea kettle on the stove, and an assortment of healthy green plants littered around the space.
"Not what you had in mind?" he asks while tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
A man with a decorative grab and go bowl? Now you are most certainly taken aback.
"No," you quip.
"What did you expect, then?" he asks while stalking toward you. "Dungeons and coffins and moats?"
You blink. "Did—Did you just quote Twilight?"
He grins before cupping your face between his hands and kissing you. "I'll give you a tour," he whispers against your lips.
He's very organized, which is to be expected, given how meticulous and detail-oriented he is. But the one thing—above any other—which you couldn't stop staring at, was a ratty old teddy bear sitting high on a shelf in his bedroom.
"My mom made it for me when I was a kid," he'd said while retrieving a t-shirt and checkered pajama pants from his dresser. "Found it in her house after she passed. I couldn't bear to part with it."
He'd shook his head without mirth. "No, I didn't intend for that to be a pun."
Padding over to him, you'd wound your arms around his waist while gazing up at the adorable children's toy. Would he like for you to sew an eye back onto it? No. That would've been for her and her alone to do. He's perfect just as he is, you deem.
"I think it's sweet. There's nothing wrong with holding onto mementos. Postcards, clothes, books, photos, toys." You shrugged. "They're important."
He cleared his throat while sinking a slightly trembling hand into your hair. "My only regret is her not getting to meet you," he said thickly.
Reaching up, you brushed a tear from his cheek. "I still can one day. If you'd like to take me to where she's buried, we'll get her her favorite flowers. Then have lunch with her and talk."
He buried his face in your shoulder then, and began to sob.
After preparing the both of you plates of fancy seafood pasta, coupled with glasses of red wine, Brendon rests his head in your lap as you each watch a movie from his couch together. Goodfellas is an excellent film, in your opinion, but all it really serves to do is make you hungry for more pasta.
Once the credits are rolling, he switches off the flatscreen before leading you into the bedroom and shutting the door behind the two of you.
You quietly pant as Brendon kisses your right inner thigh before switching to the other side and sucking against the supple skin found there.
He's been at it for the better part of an hour—letting his hands roam your naked body and his tongue your salivating mouth before sinking his head between your legs. Only, he refuses to show any amount of attention to your throbbing clit.
He's got you so wet that it's dripping on to his smooth, navy-blue sheets which smell of something dark and spicy, but every time you lift your hips and quietly whimper "please", he chuckles and blows against your sensitive bundle before mumbling "not yet" and licking at your pubic mound.
Clenching the tangled sheets beneath you, Brendon plants wet kisses from the bend of your knee all the way to the crook of your thigh. Spreading your slick labia apart with his index and middle finger, he gently blows against your swollen clit with a concentrated stream of air, which causes your back to arch and hips to buck in response.
"Always so needy," he rumbles from the foot of the bed.
You press the heels of your palms against damp lashes.
Swiping a finger through your folds just to tease you, you release a quiet sob. "Please. Please just put something inside of me."
He shakes his head, though you can barely make him out in the dark. "You're not calling the shots here, are you?"
You pout. "No."
"Didn't think so."
He lifts your left leg over his shoulder before peppering kisses down the length of it.
You curl your toes as he gets closer to your cunt, then deflate when he drops your limb back onto the mattress.
Planting two fingers between your folds, his eyes flit to you. "This what you want? Hm?"
You nod excitedly. "Yes! Yes, please."
He hums thoughtfully. "Well, if you insist," he says mockingly.
You just know he's about to piss you off even more with whatever he's about to do.
Sinking his middle finger inside of you, Brendon appreciates how your pulsating walls squeeze repeatedly around it—but he knows it's something else which they're frantic for.
You wiggle your hips. "Can you finger me?"
He doesn't move the digit—just leaves it lodged inside of you. "If I wanted to, I'm sure I would." He glances up to you. "But I don't," he spits.
Tangling your fingers in your hair, you throw your head back and begin to sob. "I can't take much more."
He sinks a second digit inside. "You'll take whatever I tell you to until I've had my fill."
Feeling your walls clench, your own body gives away just how much you enjoy the filthy things he says to you.
Completely hopeless that you'll get to orgasm tonight, you break into a full on weeping fit.
He sighs in relief at the sound. "There she is. That's my good girl," he drawls heatedly.
With painstaking slowness, he begins to pump his fingers in and out, in and out. "God you're making such a mess," he murmurs. "Getting it all over the sheets."
"Sorry," you whimper.
And then he smacks your pussy. "Quiet."
You bite your lower lip to obey.
This isn't the first time you two have been intimate, but it is the first time it's been in his house—his bed, specifically. As such, he feels wholly in control here. A safe word was decided long ago, however: hammerhead. Completely ridiculous, but better than nothing at all.
As he eases his fingers in and out of your wet heat, the sounds it makes fill the silence which surrounds you. It's humiliating, really.
You spread your legs impossibly wider.
Pulling his fingers out, you start crying again. "Oh, God—"
"What did I just say?" he barks.
You shut your mouth again.
You hear the shifting of clothes—thank God, he's finally undressing and ready to give you what you've been after the whole time—and then the bed dips on either side of you. Resting back on his haunches and straddling your thighs, Brendon works at his cock with a closed fist, breathing heavily as he circles the tip with his thumb.
"This what you wanted?" he questions.
"Yes, please," you sigh.
Manuevering himself to the side, he grips both of your knees and plants your feet before spreading your legs apart. "You don't move unless you're told to."
"Yes, sir," you whisper.
Climbing atop you, he swipes the head of his weeping cock against your slick entrance, which he's made more than ready to take him.
"Wait," you say while half sitting up. Leaning back on your elbows, you study him. "You didn't put on a condom."
"I don't do condoms," he replies matter-of-factly.
Your eyes widen in horror. "Wha—How many women have you had unprotected sex with, then? We...we used them at my place."
"None."
Your brows furrow.
You're so very perplexed.
Squeezing one of your breasts with his free hand, he explains. "I told myself that if I ever brought a woman home, I wouldn't allow anything to stand between us. Including a cheap fucking piece of rubber."
You lay back again. "How many have you brought here?" you inquire quietly.
Easing between your walls without warning, he groans. "This would be a first."
Knocking your legs apart with his knee, he circles his hips before bottoming out against your cunt.
Prodding gently against your belly, you can feel the tip of his cock.
Oh, dear God, this is heavenly...
"But, what..." You swallow thickly. "Um..."
You can't formulate a thought with him now rocking his hips rhythmically against your own.
"Will you pull out?" you ask.
"No."
Your eyes flutter closed. "Birth control doesn't always—"
He licks your lips. "Guess there's a conversation we'll need to have in the morning, then."
You slide your fingers into his hair. "Oh, yeah?"
His cock twitches at the breathless way you say that. "You wanna be a mother, don't you?"
You cup his cheek. "Someday."
"Might as well start trying now," he grunts before gripping your hips to begin pounding away.
content: It’s been two weeks since Aerion cheated on you and your friend convinces you to still show your face at his house party. Things start to escalate and your savior comes in the form of a gentle giant.
words: 5.8k
cw: MDNI 18+ p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (don’t do that. wrap before you tap) size kink, slight praise kink, Aerion being Aerion, lmk if I missed any.
a/n: Im writing for someone that’s not over the age 40 (😧) Who is she??? we all gasp
It had been two weeks since you had received the heinous “Hey girly” text, which was then confirmed even further when Daeron showed up at your apartment not even twenty minutes later.
It didn’t truly surprise you, not really. He was Aerion after all. He was volatile, ever changing with a blink of an eye and as predictable as the wind, but you had hoped after another year together he would have at least had the decency to break up with you first before sleeping with another woman.
You were wrong. Dead wrong, and honestly that felt like something that was on you. It wasn’t like everyone in your life had tried to steer you away from him. Oh wait, yes they did. Or that his cousin and even own brother told you on numerous occasions that you were too good for him. Oh, yup that happened too.
You knew all along how he was, but you still fell for his charm, and braced for the downfall. It had come just like you had thought it would, but not quite in the way you expected.
You had expected harsh words, screaming, fighting and him declaring the ends or perhaps it would be you. You had not expected a random girl to text you at 6 in the morning tell you she fucked your boyfriend and figured out who you were by the picture on his desk.
It was honestly humiliating, because word spread faster and then it led to the doubt. The feeling of did I bring this upon myself? Did I ignore the signs? Am I the one to blame?
You knew you weren’t. You knew the simple truth was he was Aerion. He was self-centered and more than likely thought you would stay even after it, but to his utter disbelief you did infact have some self respect.
The same self respect that led you to the argument you were currently in, “No. That's an awful idea! As it is, some random girl I've never spoken to apologized to me last week during an Econ lecture. Like she was the one who cheated on me.”
Kiera tilted her head, as if she was debating it. She then pushed her bright pink hair over her shoulder, “No it’s perfect! Think about it if you showed up at this party it shows you don’t care! That your life did not change because of Aerion Taragryen! You could meet a rebound!” she then suggested as she moved to sit on your bed.
You rubbed your face harshly before staring up at the ceiling. You should know better when she had shown up dressed nicer than clothes for a movie night, which had been the original plan, “I have no intention on meeting a rebound,” you muttered, but then you thought over her words.
You had felt the pitiful stares for the last two weeks.
The way they would treat you as if you were damaged goods.
Your life did not stop just because some jack ass wanted to wet his dick somewhere else.
You sat up at an alarming rate, “Fuck it! Fuck him! Let’s do this shit!” you then declared, causing her to squeal as she moved to your clothes and began searching for something to wear.
“We have to make you look so hot that he gets instantly hard!”
“Yeah we do!”
Your confidence from before immediately died when you were in front of the Targaryen Estate. So much so you sat out front until Kiera was dragging you inside as she was afraid you were a flight risk.
“You are a bad bitch and it is time you remember that,” she told you.
You nodded as you two made your way inside pushing through the crowded doorway as you took in the sight in front of you. The loud music and mess instantly made you cringe as you knew Maekar would blow a fuse if he was home.
“This is…” your words died down as you noticed Valarr had already approached and had his mouth on his girlfriend. You nodded, burning, turning back, taking a deep breath and deciding to face this head on. Two weeks ago this would have been your realm. You would have been expected to be here and play nice with everyone all night with easy smiles.
But you grinned slightly as you realized you could do whatever the fuck you wanted. You could stay as long as you wanted. You did not have to deal with Aerion’s obnoxious friends. And you could get shit faced without his back hand comments all night.
You heard your name and you turned. You were instantly met with the sight of Daeron. His hair pulled back from his face, as he grinned at you, his clothes which looked pretty average, but you knew nothing about what any of the Targaryen’s wore was average, even Daeron who lived in sweat pants that still managed to cost more than they should.
He moved toward you pulling you in a half embrace, before stepping back and letting his eyes wander over you. Your outfit was nothing spectacular, a blue shirt with a low v-neck that showed more chest than when you had left as it had been tugged down on the ride over and a black skirt that would probably show your ass if you bent over.
It was suggestive, but that was what you and Kiera had been going for in your confidence induced haze, “You looked great!” he told you, which helped you feel less nervous as you knew he wouldn't say it if he didn't mean it.
“Thanks it was Kiera’s choice,” you told him, causing him to nod.
“She ditch you already for Valarr?” he questioned.
“Yeah. I am sure they’re fucking in your room by now,” you joked causing him to laugh.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked.
You looked around as if searching for his eyes, looking for his permission before you closed your eyes letting out a sigh. You did not need Aerion’s permission. You did not need shit from him, “I would love one,” you told him.
“Great! Do not move and I will be right back,” he told you before disappearing back through no doubt to grab you something better than what sat in the kitchen for all guests.
You nodded as you were alone once more, turning around observing all the guests. You debated just leaving, heading out before anyone truly noticed you were there, but decided against it.
“You were the last face I expected to see here,” you heard, causing you to turn around.
Your eyebrows drew together, before you recognized the fiery red hair. You had met Rowan during freshman year when you had taken Psychology together and had sat next to one another. Though you had spent more time talking to one another then listening to the boring lectures.
“It was Kiera’s idea. Show that my life didn’t change or something,” you told her.
She smiled at you, softly. Not in the way that everyone else had been with pity, but as if she understood. “And she abandoned you?” she questioned, causing you to nod.
She frowned before glancing over her shoulder at something before she turned back to you with a mischievous grin, “I am here with my boyfriend and his friend, who's a wicked sweetheart you can come hang with us,” she told you.
“That would–” your words once more died off as you felt a hand meet the small of your back. You did not have to turn around to know exactly who the studio was behind you.
Your body reacted instantly, your shoulders tense as a chill ran up your spine, “You’ve been avoiding me,” Aerion whispered into your ear.
You watched Rowan’s eyes widen as she once more looked over her shoulder, but you did not let that thought linger as you turned around. He stood with a smile on his handsome face and you had the urge to punch him or spit in his face, but your luck he would take that as foreplay rather than an act of anger.
“That’s typically what happens when two people break up. You don’t have to answer them anymore,” you said, your hands moving to your hips as you stared at him.
“But you’re here. You came tonight,” he pointed out, his smugness only growing as he no doubt thought you had come from him. To mend the broken bridge and crawl back into his arm and let him lead you to his bed like nothing had happened.
His bed that he slept with another woman in.
You kissed the front of your teeth trying to think of a response until you finally did, “I came to see if your father was home and his offer to fuck still stood, but to my disappointment he’s not. I am thinking about Daeron as my second choice though,” you told him, cocking your head to the side.
You watched his jaw clench in anger, and you smiled going to turn away before his hand wrapped harshly around your wrist yanking you toward him, “Let go,” you hissed trying to pry his hand from you.
“No. You do not get to ignore me for two weeks and then act like a little bitch,” he hissed at you grip tightening.
“Where you fucking dropped on your head a kid? You fucking cheated on me and I ended it. You can go fuck yourself or perhaps another one of your whores,” you told him, continuing to try and pull yourself from him.
“You seriously can’t still be mad about that,” he groaned.
“Let. Me. Fucking. Go,” you told him, but to no surprise he did not.
You felt a presence appear behind you, but you hardly turned not thinking anything of it until a voice called out, “I believe the lady told you to let her go,” someone muttered.
You watched the silver-haired man’s face immediately transform as he glanced behind you, but you did not dare to look at your savior just yet not trusting Aerion in the slightest.
“This does not concern you, oaf,” Targaryen hissed, but he let go of you nonetheless. You immediately took a step back, but collided into a hard wall of muscle.
You now turned back, your eyes widening slightly at the tall man. You did not have time to admire his pretty face when a hand reached back pulling you behind him and you were once more face to face with Rowan, now missing the rest of the confrontation between Aerion and your unknown “knight”.
You stared at her a moment, still slightly dumb founded that a man had stepped in between you and Aerion, especially in his own home during his own party. She then maneuvered you away toward a different room, that you recognized as the sitting room. It was less packed, but still had other occupants.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
You nodded, “Yeah I’m fine,” you looked down to your arm which had already began to bruise,
She grabbed you by the shoulders, turning you to come face to face with the said man. He was tall, probably taller than any man you had ever met in your entire life. He was handsome, with blue eyes that were already scanning over you for damage. He seemed strong and you wondered what type of damage he could do with his large hands not just the violet kind, but also–
“Are you alright?” he then asked, his voice pulling you from your dirty thoughts. To which you just nodded, not quite trusting your voice as you felt a warmth spread through you.
“Duncan, this is my friend I was telling you about,” Rowan said.
“Duncan,” he introduced, his face softening slightly as there now seemed to be no looming danger in the form of Aerion, who you had momentarily forgotten existed staring into this tall man’s beautiful face.
You told him your name, but it came out slightly breathy as you let your eyes trail over his long form, before your gaze flicked back up to his eyes, a boyish grin pulling at his lips as he noticed your roaming eyes. The tips of his ears burned slightly, as they turned red.
Kiera’s words from earlier echoed in your head, “You’re a bad bitch and it is time you remember that.”
You let out a shaky breath as you tried to regroup your confidence that had felt as if it had gone on vacation these last two weeks, “I need a drink,” you told him. His eyes looked down at you, and you watched his gaze dip lower, and you bet he could see straight down your shirt at his height.
“Okay,” he said with a grin.
Duncan was a sweetheart, an absolute sweetheart and you could not help, but feel like a dirty perv as your eyes wandered down to his hands for the thousandth time or the imprint in his jeans that you were positive was his dick, which looked huge just like the rest of him.
The pair of you had been talking for the last hours, and he had asked you questions about yourself seeming genuinely interested. He was kind, sweet and you found him genuinely interesting, which only made you hornier, because he did not seem like some rich douche or just some random man trying to get in your pants.
You both currently stood upstairs in one of the main hallways, it was less crowded and gave you both the ability to hear each other without screaming over the music or feeling someone collide against you every so often.
Your eyes were locked on his hands once more and for a moment you were sure you were possessed; it was the only explanation for the words that came out of your mouth next, “Do you wanna fuck?” you finally asked, glancing up to his face.
His mouth opened and closed as he stared at you, ‘What?” he choked out, a blush spreading across his cheeks.
“Do you wanna fuck? You are so kind, you seem sweet, and I cannot stop thinking about riding you,” you continued. You should have been embarrassed, or something you were sure, but you felt none of that. Perhaps the horniness had turned your brain to mush.
He continued to stare at you, and you could see the hesitation in his face. It was clear he wanted to as his eyes swept across “You're drunk,” he countered.
You smiled, “I’ve had one drink,” you swished it around slightly indicating that you hadn’t even finished it, “If you don’t wanna–” your words were cut off as he shot forward pinning you to the wall. His head dipped down, moving to press his lips to yours.
Your drink clattered to the ground as your hands moved, one gripping his bicep as the other rested on his chest. Your tongue swept against his body lip for permission as he obliged, allowing you entry.
You pushed him away gently as your hand wrapped around his dragging him through the halls. Your brain hardly processed where your legs lead you, instincts taking over as you pushed him through the door, shutting it behind you, your fingers turning the lock.
He looked around for a moment, no doubt about to question where you were, but did not get the chance to ask your hand wrapped around the collar of his shirt dragging him down to your mouth once more.
His large hands moved to cup either side of your face as you pushed him further into the room, your tongue moving to conquer his mouth once more, causing him to moan into you. The back of his knees reached the bed, his hand moved to grip the backs of your thighs as he lowered, himself.
You moved down with him as your knees moved to either side of his hips. You let out a small groan as you settled on his lap feeling his hardened cock against your clothed core. Your mouth went back to his as your hands tangled in his hair, giving it a gentle tug causing him to groan into your mouth.
His hands rested firmly on your hips as if they were afraid to move from there. Your nails raked down his clothed chest causing him to shudder under your touch as you could feel the muscles tensing under your touch.
“You can touch me,” you whispered to him as you rested your forehead against his, your hands moving to the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head.
“Don’t wanna scare you off,” he muttered, following your lead pulling your shirt over your head revealing your lacey bra. His eyes stared at your chest, his mouth half watering causing you to grin. Your hands reached behind you unclasping it for him, as he slid the strap off your shoulders slowly, pressing kisses behind them.
“You could never,” you assured him, and it caused the pair of you to stare at each other for a moment at the truth in your words. That you had just met this man and you had already trusted him enough to not hurt you, to not scare you off. It caused something to stir in you and before you could acknowledge it you leaned forward once more pressing your lips to his.
His large hands finally moved touching your skin as one hand moved to palm your chest, his thumb moving over your hardened peak causing you to moan into his mouth. You rolled your hips into him, needing some type of frication causing you to let out a whimpered breath, “Need more,” you told him.
“Alright. Whatever you need,” he assured you, as his hands wrapped around the fat of your ass before standing with you both. Your hands moved locking around his neck as he turned you, then gently laid you down onto the bed.
He bent down, no doubt hurting his back from the awkward angel as he kissed down your stomach before meeting the waist band of your skirt, he moved unbuttoning it before dragging it down your legs slowly.
You watched his every move practically buzzing in anticipation. The black fabric that had been covering you moments ago is discarded half way across the room, as he lifts your leg. He presses a kiss to your ankle before he drags his mouth up the length, kissing a trail up to your his. His fingers then wrap around the waist band of your panties pulling those down, at the same agonizingly slow pace before discarding them halfway across the room alongside your skirt.
You stare up at him waiting for him to begin shedding his pants, but instead he drops to his knees, wrapping his hands around your thigh and pulling him toward you. He began to press open mouth kisses to the sensitive skin of your thigh causing you to squirm slightly.
You pushed yourself onto your elbows watching him, “You don’t have to do this,” you assured him, but instead of answering he finally moved forward pressing a kiss to your clit causing you to let out a ragged breath as your head tilted back.
Your hips moved forward pressing yourself further into your mouth as embarrassing sounds left your mouth as he inserted a digit into you. “Oh, fuck,” you muttered, as his single digit felt as if you already had two of your own.
“Sorry, gotta prepare you, baby,” he muttered into your core as he curled his finger slightly, his tongue continuing to flick up and down your clit. His words sent a vibration up your spin causing your hands to move, fisting his hair tightly, holding him in place as if he would dare pull away.
Then without warning he inserted another digit, causing you to cry out his name. He grinned into you slightly, stopping the movement of his tongue only for more than a minute before he moved, wrapping his mouth around it sucking as his tongue continued on. “Oh, fuck. Duncan, don’t stop. Please do not stop,” you begged.
You would have felt more embarrassed at how pathetic your voice sounded as your thighs began to tremble on either side of his face, but he seemed to be into it as his fingers began to work in and out of you faster. He moaned into you slightly as his overly hard cock rubbed against the edge of the bed slightly.
He felt your walls adjust to him as if they had been made for him, the thought went straight to his cock as he thrusted into the bed slightly, trying to ease some of the pain that stirred from his jeans. “I want your cock. Please can I have your cock, Dunk,” you cried.
“One more. You can take one more can’t you?” he questioned, not wanting to shove his cock into you without being properly ready or without you having already finished at least once.
You whimpered, but nodded slightly, “Yes,” you breathed out, “Give me more Duncan. I want all of you.”
He moaned into you, before inserting another digit. Your eyes practically rolled back, as you fell back against the mattress. Your arms could no longer support yourself. Your brain felt fuzzy at how full you felt. The pressure in your lower belly began to build and you knew it would not be long enough the ecstasy of relief would come crashing down over you.
You had felt this mattress beneath your back countless times. You had been railed into the sheets, in various positions, but nothing compared to this very moment, and the pure bliss that filled your body as he continued to devour you as if you were the only source of water on a hot day.
You could not even find words of warning when your orgasm finally claimed you. Your vision going white as fire nipped at your bones. Your cunt clenched around his fingers like a vice before soaking both them and his face. He fucked you through it, as your vision slowly came back.
Tears filled your eyes at the bliss, as he finally pulled away, pressing a final kiss to your woman hood before pulling away from you. He stood to his full height staring down at you with a small grin, “You are beautiful,” he muttered, as his eyes took in your full form.
Your heart clenched slightly, as the need for him came right back needing all of him. You pushed yourself up on shaky legs as you moved, staring up at him with a small smile. He bent down pressing his mouth to yours once more, and you could taste yourself on his tongue causing you to groan.
Your nails raked down over his tongue stomach before you moved wrapping around his belt, as you pulled it free with one hand. You unbuttoned his jeans pushing them down his legs, as he kicked them off as they pooled around his ankles.
You did the same for his underwear pushing them down his muscular thighs, before finally pulling away from his mouth to look down. You were eager to see if he was how you had been picturing all night, “Seven fucks,” you muttered staring down at his cock wide eyed.
You simply stared at it for a moment causing him to feel slightly embarrassed until your hand wrapped around it giving him a slow stroke, causing him to groan slightly. Precum leaked out the tip as your fingering moved over his clit before spreading it down his length.
“Sit,” you instructed.
He nodded eagerly moving to bed, he pushed himself all the way up toward the head board as he sat. You moved up the bed until you once more straddled him hovering over his cock. You grabbed him running his tip up your folds gathering the slickness.
“I don't have a condom,” he admitted, the thought finally dawning on him. You cringed slightly as you realized that thought hadn’t even appeared in your mouth too drunk on ecstasy.
You stared at him a moment, and the logical part of your brain told you that this is where the night should end. That you should take that as a sign and invite him back to your place and postpone sex, but the logical part of your brain was overtaken by the sheer need of feeling his cock inside you.
“Do you have any diseases that I should know about?”
His mouth opened slightly, a blush crossing his cheek, “Not that I know of.”
“Good,” was all you said, before notching his cock at your entrance, before slowly starting to sink down. You took inch by inch slightly, your nails digging into his shoulders at the stretch. “You are doing so good, pretty girl,” he assured you, every time you took more of him.
“So big,” you replied, causing him to nod petting the side of your head, slightly. You both watched where the pair of you were connected in slight awe as if it was a masterpiece and the pair of you were just admirers not active participants.
The praise caused you to begin to take more, faster wanting to hear the words once more until you finally had all of him, and you felt overly full. You swore you could feel him in your stomach. You wondered if you pressed down on your lower belly if you would be able to feel a bulge, but you store that thought for a lower time as you looked up meeting his eyes.
They were still as soft as earlier as he stared at you, though his pupils looked completely blown, especially when you began to finally move. You moaned slightly as you moved up and down, riding his cock with an urgency you were not sure you had ever felt before.
Your nails dug into his shoulders no doubt splitting the skin, as you cried out as you rode him, “You are so beautiful. You look so pretty riding my cock,” he told you, causing you to clench around him slightly
He let you set the pace, taking what you wanted from him as he leaned back, watching you. You looked up meeting his eyes, and you faltered slightly, at the look of pure awe in his eyes as if you were something ethereal.
Your pace changed slightly as you began to take him deeper, rolling your hips harder, as you felt the coil in your belly threatening to snap, as your clit rubbed against his pelvic bone. You both held each other’s gaze as you rode him, until he shifted himself slightly changing the angel.
Your head lolled back, “Oh fuck. You feel so good, Dunk,” you cried, your nails curling into him slightly. His mouth moved dipping down to attach itself to the hardened peak of your breasts.
“Duncan, oh fuck. I’m so close,” you whined, as he continued to suck and gentle nip at your breast.
“Give it to me, pretty girl,” he instructed you, dragging his tongue across your chest before giving the other side the same attention.
His words were your undoing, as you finally felt your second release of the night claiming you. His name was carried into the air like a prayer leaving your lips nonstop as you were unable to think of anything, but him.
Duncan!
Duncan!
Duncan!
Your bones felt like putty as you moved, practically falling limp against him. Your head resting on his shoulders as his hands moved, gripping your hips as he now thrusted up into you chasing his own release.
His thrusts became more erratic, before he was pulling you off, supporting you with own hand as his seed spilled over the black sheets beneath you painting them. He let out a ragged breath before lowering you back onto his lap, careful not to let any of his cum get on your skin.
His hands moved gently through your hair as you pressed a gentle kiss to your shoulder, as he moved resting his head atop of yours holding you to him. It was overly nice, you couldn’t remember the last time after sex had felt this comfortable, this sweet.
“Where have you been all my life?” he questioned.
“Right here,” you answered, not even realizing how true your words have been.
He chuckled slightly, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, the moment was soon ruined. You heard the knob on the door begin to twitch as someone tried to get into the room, before they began to pound on the wood, and then you heard the voice which almost caused you to laugh.
“Who the fuck is in there?” a loud voice roared, as they continued to bang against the door, as if it would magically open for them like every other door in their life.
Duncan blinked looking around his eyebrows furrowed as he came back to reality, “Whose room are we in?” he finally asked, as the voice on the other side of the door continued to shout various threats.
“Uh….” you picked your head up from his shoulders as you let out a laugh, looking around the familiar room, “We are in Aerion’s room. So I imagined that it was Aerion himself,” you said.
“Oh,” he whispered. The smile instantly died, at his reaction. He did not appear to find this as humorous as you, and you felt as if you could claw your skin off now. You could not see his face, but you could imagine it. Your mind instantly conjured the disappointed expression that you had grown overly familiar with this last year.
You pushed yourself off him before moving to dress yourself once more, your back turned toward him as he did the same. You did not dare spare him a glance as your body felt like it had gone back into fight or flight mode.
Once you were both fully dressed you made your way toward the door and went to open it, but he gently grabbed you pulling you back as he cast you a smile before he moved first opening the door. Aerion blinked at him a moment about to question what the fuck he was doing in his room, before Dunk moved out of the room.
Then his violet eyes met your form, and his confusion turned to anger in a flash as he put the pieces together, “You should probably wash your sheets,” you muttered to your ex-boyfriend as you pushed past him.
Duncan immediately positioned himself between the pair of you like a shield, as his hands moved meeting your back. You could hear Aerion’s angry voice carrying behind you, but you coudln’t find it in yourself to care. You were more worried about upsetting or hurting the kind man beside you. He continued to lead you throughout the house, as you wondered about his intentions. If he didn’t want to lose you in the crowd so that he could voice his displeasure with you in private, that seemed like a thing for him to do.
You frowned as the pair of you made your way outside, your eyes locked on your shoes as you were afraid to look at the man next to you, he led you with a gentle hand on the small of your back as he led you somewhere. The cold nightly air met your face and you waited for his displeasure, but it never came.
You finally looked up when he stopped the pair of you appearing in front of a car, he opened the passenger door for you causing you to stare at him for a minute before moving to sit there, fiddling with your fingers slightly.
“You hungry?” Duncan asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.
You stared at him a moment as he started the car, your eyebrows drew together, “What?”
“Hungry? There’s a twenty-four hour diner a little ways from here, but I can take you right home if you preferred.
You stared at him flabbergasted, as you tried to make sense of his words. You finally swallowed, “Uh…sure yeah food sounds good.”
The diner was quiet, Duncan’s jacket that he had in his car pulled over your shoulders as your hands wrapped around the mug. The conversation between the pair of you flowed easily, adn you felt comfortable, you felt at ease.
There had been no reprimand. There had been no harsh words or judgemental stares at you picked at your chicken tenders and he devoured his own meal. Then he finally asked about Aerion, and you told him everything, and he listened. Just like he had been all night, adding when appropriate, and looking as if he was ready to cry at certain points.
“You told him you wanted to fuck his dad?” he asked, his voice something between mortified and amused.
You nodded, “Told him his brother was my second option,” you answered with a shrug, he laughed, shaking his head as you leaned back into the small booth, his knee brushing against yours causing you to smile up at him.
“I didn’t use you to get back at him… getting back at him was just a plus I genuinely wanted to fuck you,” you admitted, glancing down at the table half embarrassed, but more scared to what he would say.
You wondered if now he would tell you that he was disgusted with you. He had been nothing, but kind since leaving the Targaryen estate and you had been bracing yourself the whole time. Waiting for the shame or harsh words, but they never came, and now you weren’t sure they would.
He reached across and grabbed your hand gently as you let go of the mug, but still refused to look up at him , “I would like to do this properly. Take you to dinner and get to know you properly, I’m…I’m not the type to just hook up with random girls,” he told you.
You nodded, a small grin on your lips as you finally looked at him, “So you don’t want to come back to my apartment then?” you questioned.
A blush spread across his cheeks as he glanced down at the table before lifting his head once more meeting your gaze, “If that is on the table then I am taking that offer and then we can go to dinner tomorrow or breakfast or whatever your heart desires.”
You nodded, “I like the sounds of that.”
“Me too. Also, if you ever wanna…” he made a gesture with his hands as if the word was too crude for him to utter, “In your ex-boyfriend’s bed just give me a heads up next time,” he told you, causing you to laugh your head titled back as he stared at you in awe as if you were the only thing in existence.
Description: A seemingly doomed five-year love affair told in a few words. REQUESTED
Pairing: harvey specter/businesswoman!reader
Warning/s: brief at smut, harvey topping from the bottom. 2013-2017 timeline.
The first time that you laid eyes on Harvey Specter was at home.
It was 2013—your father's company was suing a board member for embezzlement or something like that. You can't exactly recall the specifics. Only that the person had stolen an inconsequential amount of money; they had stolen a drop out of the ocean. Your father wouldn't have blinked if it hadn't been such a blow to his ego.
No one dares steal from a L/N!
The case was the reason for your encounter with Harvey.
"Mr. Specter will be our lawyer against Cortesi," your father introduced.
Your eyebrows merged.
You were expecting an old man wearing spectacles to defend the company, and the bachelor was a pleasant surprise. Up close, his shoulders were broader than those of most European men you were used to, and he had a hawk-like nose that meshed beautifully with his other features. He had a firm gaze that made you want to take your panties off, but for decorum's sake, you kept your legs closed.
Harvey exuded pure sexual energy; no wonder people commit crimes when men as handsome as Harvey come to defend them.
"Sit down," your father says, clearing his throat.
You blinked, shaking your thoughts away from Mr. Specter.
You walked down the steps leading to your sunken dining room. Awkwardly reaching for the white-padded dining chair and sitting.
"I've read a lot of great things about you—you defended Hastings, right?" You asked, trying to mask your obvious attraction to the man.
Now that you were sitting opposite him, it was hard not to stare. There was an air of confidence around him, yes, but not arrogance.
"Yes. I will do my best to defend your company," He affirmed. You've been in three meetings with different lawyers, all promising the same thing, yet they do not uphold their side of the bargain. The case keeps ending on a technicality. Your father's patience is running thin.
"All we want is for Mr. Cortesi to live behind bars," You emphasized. "—not paying a fine or getting suspended, but going to jail." You added.
"And I will do my best." He asserted, but he did not promise.
You were about to open your mouth to speak, but your phone rings.
You could see your father glaring at you from your periphery.
"A moment," you gave a thin-lipped smile.
It was a call from the London Office. The company has been having problems with cybersecurity these past six months, and you know that answering this call means getting summoned to another flight. There goes my chance with Specter, you mentally groaned.
You glanced at him for the last time before standing up—of course, this happens when you've been talking to him for 30 seconds.
You didn't want to attend Jessica's birthday in Boracay, but thank God that you did.
Harvey was leaning on a balcony rail overlooking the beautiful shores of Boracay, Aklan. He was sipping a piña colada—thanking his lucky stars that he didn't follow the dress code.
He stares off to the side, and this time, he notices you first.
You were wearing a beige dress, paired with pink flip-flops. You were also sipping a piña colada. He takes one good look at you, and he knows that you're the only one who will make sense to him tonight.
The crowd around you was all too eager to get to know each other, mostly talking to people they deemed important. You didn't mind the momentary peace. It's relaxing to be ignored.
Harvey's gaze lingered.
"Ms. L/N?" He greeted with a smile.
"Specter," a wave of familiarity washes over you.
"You remember me?" He places his drink down, putting his full attention on you.
"Same question," your lips cracked into a smile.
He looked more dashing up close. He was wearing a navy blue suit that highlighted his baby-blue eyes.
"I remember my case with your father very well," he lies—he mostly remembers the case because he spent half a month building a solid attack, expecting you to attend at least one hearing, but you didn't. Instead, he had to deal with your father who parroted every move.
"Thank you for helping us win the case, by the way." You thanked.
He was paid handsomely.
"It's nothing." He shakes his head.
You walked to his side, leaning on the balcony rails beside him. Your gaze was painted on the crowd in front of you. They were all in their little bubbles, completely uncaring of your presence.
Harvey was silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry for my little Houdini act back then. I was looking forward to seeing you in action, but business called me elsewhere." You explained.
"So, that's why you weren't there?" He asks rhetorically.
"It didn't matter anyway; nobody was keeping count." You avoided his gaze while adjusting the straps of your dress. You felt out of place wearing such a simple dress while the other guests were dressed to the nines. "I did," he turns his head—for a moment, your eyes meet.
"What's that supposed to mean?" You teased.
Harvey only flashes you a smile.
"You look beautiful," he compliments for the last time, as he's whisked away by a partner.
Classic Louis Litt, for the first time, Harvey thanks the man (mentally).
The next time that Harvey saw you was during dinner.
You were seated beside Jessica as a guest of honor. You were talking to a few of the Senior Partners of the firm. They were interested in asking about the recent merger that your company was doing—or in other terms, they're interested in having another client.
Harvey's eyes meet yours. You flash him a smile.
How is it that you become more beautiful every time he sees you?
This time, you were wearing a plum gown and a pair of purple earrings. There was no trace of makeup on your face, except for clear gloss. Harvey swears that you're the most beautiful thing he's seen tonight.
The collar of his suit suddenly feels tighter.
Your interactions with Harvey were limited during the last part of the night. You were too equipped with talking to Jessica and her friends that you almost forgot about Harvey—almost.
For there was nothing in this world that could shake your thoughts away from him, being around him felt electrical for lack of better words.
Luckily, your feelings weren't one sided.
Harvey couldn't get his mind off you the entire night.
"Good morning," Harvey says.
"Hey—sit here," a faint smile ghosts your face as you point at the empty breakfast table beside you.
It was only 6:30AM.
The birds were beginning their morning chirp. The guests of the resort were still sleeping. "Why're you up so early?" You poured some stevia into your coffee before mixing it with a teaspoon.
"My alarm," he responded vaguely, thanking the server who placed a plate of pancakes in front of him. The aroma lingered in the air, tempting you for another round of breakfast.
"You have the appetite of a kid," you joked.
"And you have the appetite of a Frenchie, all that's missing is a cigarette." He teases in return while cutting through his soft pancakes. He's rarely able to eat breakfast at home. Cooking was much to difficult of a task for him that he'd rather buy bagels from a truck.
"Well, you spend enough time with them..." You chuckled.
You reached for the clementine that was sitting in a fruit bowl. He reaches the fruit before you—and he begins peeling them.
"I wasn't able to talk to you last night," he brings up.
"I'm sorry. I could hardly get a word in; the partners of your firm were such delightful company." You politely explained. Despite the halo effect he had on you, there was no reason to trust him.
Your eyes followed his fingers as he peeled the fruit.
"Sure, they are," he responds sarcastically. The senior partners could be major assholes at times; they only cared about rich people, rarely took pro bono. "I mean it," you insisted.
He places the peeled fruit on the empty plate in front of you.
Your heart almost skips a beat at the domesticity of it all.
You avoided his gaze for a while, your eyes trailing across the interior of the breakfast hall. The designs reminded you of Capri with its over-the-top fabrics and off-white walls. The ambiance was almost romantic. Again with the almost, you stared off to the side.
"Jessica wouldn't have invited them if they weren't nice," you added, earning a laugh.
"It's beautiful here," you observed. Your eyes glittered at the sight of the tapestries on the wall. You reached for a petal of the clementine, bringing it to your mouth and chewing.
If you had been able to choose your own profession, you would've chosen to be a pilot—or a flight attendant. Whichever would allow you to roam freely around the world. Instead, you're trapped typing away on some office on the 99th floor, making money you don't need.
"The beaches are out this world," Harvey agrees.
He's been on a plane more times than he can count—but they had always been for professional endeavors. Hell, he'd even argue that the purpose of this trip to Boracay is professional.
"Have you ever tried to swim in there?" You pointed at the beach not far from where you're sitting. You could hear the waves lapping against the shore. The scent of salt air intermingled with the scent of Harvey's pancakes.
"Not really," he admits.
"Do you want to?" You proposed.
.
.
.
The beach was much more dazzling up close. The sun was hitting the ocean in the most magnificent way; it almost looked like there were stars hidden behind those beautiful cerulean waves. "I bet they don't have beaches like these in the US," you squinted.
"You've never been to an American beach?" He asks as both of you made your way down the white stairs leading down to the main beach. You could see beach beds and their matching sunshades.
Harvey trailed after you, carrying a few of your things. He was a gentleman through and through.
"I'm only there to work, mostly." You answered, landing on the sandy beach. You could feel the sun press soft kisses against your bare shoulders. It was a good idea to swim at this time. From experience, you remember Philippine afternoons as unforgiving.
"Nothing much to miss if we're talking about beaches," Harvey agrees.
The sand ain't too warm, you could feel it on your toes.
The sea looked calm from this distance.
"Not a proud American?" You teased.
"I just know my country's strengths," Harvey retorted with a smile.
Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his smile.
You wasted no time in removing your hotel robes to show your black swimsuit, completely oblivious to Harvey's gaze (or rather his horrible attempt at trying to look away). He clenched his fists, willing himself to look away from your figure.
Goddamit, he thought.
"You coming?" You glanced at him from over your shoulder.
"Yep, just memorizing where we're leaving our things." He stares directly into your eyes before turning around to fix your discarded towel and robes.
You could feel the cold water against your warm body.
You've always enjoyed being at the beach. When you were younger, you used to beg your parents to buy a house near the beach. The feeling of water running against your body felt zen, peaceful, as opposed to the chaotic and competitive private school that you were enrolled in. When you were at the beach, you were allowed to forget.
"Are you a good swimmer?" You inquired as you trekked the waters. You weren't swimming too deep. You could still reach the ground if you tiptoed, clearly not drowning waters.
"Good enough to save you." He comforts with a smile.
You could feel the seaweed tickling your knees.
"I'm not gonna drown," you rolled your eyes. Plus, you've spent more than half of your life swimming—you were more concerned about the Mr. Lawyer swimming beside you.
"People can drown in shallow waters," he says matter-of -factly.
"Wow, you know your stats?" You giggled while swimming around.
"Please, you're the master of numbers." He points out as he walks effortlessly through the waters. Your toes could barely reach the floor, and he was walking effortlessly. Show off.
"Are you trying to butter me up?" You accused.
"I would never," he places a hand on his chest.
You roll your eyes and flick water in the direction of his face.
.
.
.
You don't know when or how this happened. One minute you were flirting, then another—you could only feel his hands around your body.
You nuzzled your cheek on the crook of his neck, inhaling the remnants of his bergamot perfume. Your hair was still dripping wet, no doubt, soaking the sheets with the scent of the sea.
"Just like that," he hummed, his hands landing on your hips.
You were straddling him from this position. Your tits pressed against his naked chest. His hands trailed down to the curves of your butt—a move that only heightened your arousal.
The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance—is this what heaven feels like? You mused as a sob of pleasure escaped your lips as he moved up and down. The digital clock beside you flashed 1pm. You don't know what's bringing you pleasure, sex or the fact that you're doing it with him?
"Specter," you grinded against him, earning a muffled moan.
He silences you with a kiss.
A kiss that seems to carry weight, not lust, not fondness.
Weight.
He reached for your hips, using them as leverage to thrust. Your damn hair moved side to side with every movement from his body. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, leaving brief marks as you both surrendered to the pleasures of the flesh.
He pushed himself further inside, taking the breath out of your lungs.
The sheer size of him stalled all thoughts in your brain.
He could feel the tightness of you pressing against him. You felt so warm. He couldn't help but stare at the microfeatures you made with every thrust—the curve of your eyebrows, your grip on his shoulder, and the opening of your lips as you dealt with the waves of pleasure.
It was so hot.
So erotic that he might die.
You came before him, and he followed after.
His cock was twitching inside of you as he scooped you higher.
You locked eyes with him once more, your gaze holding uncertainty.
He presses your lips together—savoring the taste of you, for what felt like the last time in eternity.
After your beach sexcapade with Harvey, memories of him faded in the background. Yes, he did send you a text message inviting you to dinner at some flashy steakhouse, but by then, you were far too busy running a company and talking to investors. He got whisked away, or left behind? What's the difference?
It was the summer of 2015.
You were on top of the world after being named creative director of your father's corporation. What does a creative director do? That's for you to know and everybody to find the fuck out.
There was nothing in the world that was out of reach; you only had to stare at something for a second, and one of your staffers would already have it waiting in your hotel room.
"What's the holdup?" someone from behind you asks.
The staff handling the tickets looked nervous. You know what nervous looks like since you're the one who used to interview the interns, and this guy was more nervous than em.
"It's just that the opera house overbooked seats. I'm afraid no one'll be able to get in." The boy stuttered. He couldn't be older than 16.
Poor guy, you thought.
You were looking forward to watching Massenet's Manon. It's your first day off in months. There's always a reason for everything, you justified. It could be the 'burnt toast' theory that your sister couldn't stop blabbing about.
You were about to turn to leave but a familiar face steps forward from behind the red barricades.
"Ms. L/N," Harvey greets and your eyebrows merged.
"Specter," you replied.
It was like fate itself designed your next meeting with Harvey.
"What the hell are you doing here?" You questioned.
"You're not the only one who appreciates the arts," he shrugs.
The truth is, Harvey, is an avid supporter of the arts. His apartment is littered with paintings of up-and-coming artists striving to make a living. He has a keen eye for the arts—and apparently typos in contracts.
"Uh, I'd love to chat, but apparently the house is overbooked." You tilted your head, hinting that you had to go home.
Damn my luck, you cursed. And damn Harvey, you added, aware of how he looked at you—like you were some friend and not the lady he had wonderful, wonderful sex with.
"I have an extra ticket," he announces.
"Did your date stand you up?" You teased—though you wanted nothing more than to have an answer. Was he dating someone? Did you mean anything to him for even a second?
"No, Donna gave me these tickets, told me to find a date." He rolls his eyes. Who the hell is Donna? You wanted to ask, but didn't.
"You couldn't find anyone?" You pressed.
"They weren't what I was looking for," he answered truthfully.
He lifts the red cloth barricade and urges you to get inside.
You walk in his direction, leaning down and entering the closed-off section. The 16-year-old staffer was about to stop you, but Harvey silenced him with a glare. Luckily, the boy knew better.
"Thank you for the free tickets," you winked.
"Consider it a date," he helped you in.
.
.
.
"Are you settled?" Harvey raised an eyebrow as he sat beside you.
"Uh-huh. I'm cozy," you hummed. The seat in front of you was basically pressing against your knees, but you didn't mind. Matter of fact, you were thankful that all the seats were so close to each other that you could feel his elbow brushing against yours.
There was a moment of silence between you, a comfortable silence.
You've exchanged thousands of text messages since Boracay, but the fact that he's sitting beside you felt surreal. 3 years ago, you didn't even entertain the notion of dating, since all your ex-boyfriends felt emasculated by your corporate standing, but here you are now.
You're having a date with a man who's capable of carrying his own weight. A man who's only spoken high praises about you. A man who shares cringy Instagram reels and replies to your messages after a minute of sending them. Here you are, with a man you actually want.
You have no idea what to fucking say.
"You know we haven't really talked about what happened in..." You broke the silence with an uneasy stare.
Stop making yourself vulnerable. It was a one-night stand.
"Yes, I'm sorry. I wanted to talk about that in person," he begins. You haven't really given him the chance to meet you in person after that fateful afternoon in Boracay. You've been so busy. "You're amazing. I have no idea why you're looking in my direction," he whispers, not wanting people to hear about the details of your conversation.
"You're funny, smart, and so damn beautiful. The more that I talk to you, even on the phone—it just—I just can't imagine a life without you." He continues.
"I want you in my life." You blurted out loud.
His eyebrows merged in surprise.
"I know, I'm sorry, you were getting there." You apologize and he laughs.
He's been practicing that speech in the mirror for the next time that he sees you, and you end up exceeding his expectations. "When you say that you want me in your life, what does that mean?" He asks. It's basically part of his nature as a lawyer to learn about the provisions of a contract, regardless of whether or not they're verbal.
"I want you. I want to know you more." You professed.
I love you, you wanted to add but that'd be too much on the noose.
"Me too," he reads between the lines.
He reaches for your hand and entwines your fingers together. The lights began to dim. As always, Harvey gets the last word.
.
.
.
The more time that you spent around Harvey—the more you found yourself helplessly falling in love with him. Soon, you found yourself moving into his apartment, lounging on his couch while watching Die Hard. Yes, not exactly the most romantic movie.
"You're like a stern Jake Peralta," you combed through his blonde locks.
"The only thing we have in common is our love for Die Hard," he pulled you closer to his chest until you could hear his heart breathing.
"Hm, yeah, sure." You mumbled sarcastically, feeling sleep threaten you with every word that escaped your mouth.
He presses a kiss to your temple.
"How long have we been together, honey?" He asks. He knows the exact day and hours, but he wants to hear it from you.
"Six months," you buried your face in his chest.
"—and three days." He adds. It's always about precision with him.
"and three days," you giggled.
Onwards to infinity!
Not all relationships are meant to stand the test of time. Sometimes, the branches are strong, but the roots crumble. Harvey's so afraid of losing you that he'd much rather leave you. What now?
You could feel the anger blossoming from the bottom of your chest. You didn't take Harvey as the type of man who'd do something stupid. He was calculative, manipulative at times but not stupid.
"I know he's a genius, that's not the point!" You raised your voice at him.
He took a deep breath. His head in his palms, unable to stare at you. He's afraid that once he lifts his gaze to meet your eyes, he'd see nothing but resentment—coming from you, it was a nightmare.
You were his sweet girlfriend, who was always so guarded when it came to other people, always so cold to her rivals. Yet always spoke warmly to him, always anticipated his every need, not because it was obligated of you—but because you loved him without asking for anything in return.
You seldom asked for anything but he's always given you the world.
"How could you be so...stupid?" You said the last word reluctantly.
You've never spoken that way to him—the most you'd say was silly, and you'd apologize quickly after. But, there were no words that could describe the situation at hand except stupid.
"I'm sorry," he apologized.
"No. I don't need your sorry, I need to understand why you did that." You tried to meet his gaze but he kept looking away.
Harvey Specter, in his core, has always been a dopamine-chasing idiot. Yes, he was impressed with Mike's sharp memory, but anyone with a rational brain should've never hired a guy with no law degree. Back then, Harvey was an asshole who liked taking risks and living life on the edge. He had nothing to lose. He liked the thrill. It was a game to him.
Why did he do it? Because he could.
He deeply regrets it now.
"You're making it about you," he deflects—like what he did to Scottie, because hurting the people he loves the most is easier than admitting the fact that he's got deep issues in his head. That he's unlovable.
"Goddamit Harvey, it is about me. It's about us. You could go to jail! There's something wrong with you!" Tears brimmed on the corners of your eyelids. You'd do everything in your power just to make sure that he wouldn't go to jail—you'd pay off the judge or buy a seat in the senate. Anything.
You just want an explanation.
Harvey takes a deep breath. He's going to regret what he says next.
"I'm sorry, we should break up." He lifts his gaze to meet your eyes. His heart cracks at the sight of those tears in your eyes. I don't deserve you, honey. You deserve better than a man who makes you cry. He thinks to himself.
"Fuck you," you wiped the tears from your eyes.
He knows that you don't truly mean those words.
"Fine." You took a step backwards, reaching for your coat on the stand.
"I'll get my things tomorrow, when you're not here." You enunciated.
He stands up to give you a hug, but you push him down.
"By the way Harvey..." You turned to look at him from over your shoulder. "I didn't even consider breaking up with you." You whispered, your voice breaking at the last syllable.
He watches you leave your shared apartment.
His heart dropping to the bottom of his stomach.
He knows what your words imply—there, he had a woman who was willing to move mountains and oceans for him and he let her go.
He let her go because he couldn't face the truth—because he was so afraid of being vulnerable that he'd much rather break the heart of the only person who cared about him. He'd much rather lose the love of his life than to fix himself. You're a genius, Harvey. He mocks himself.
The moment that the door closed, you reached for your phone, sending a quick text message to your estranged father—who controlled the world at his fingertips. Please let Harvey get away.
Harvey Specter has spent the past year trying to make himself better.
He tried to pry his thoughts away from you. He busied himself with Mike's case—surprised that he hadn't been dragged into the mess. He was so surprised that he willingly got himself sued. Yet no judge would send him to jail. He has no idea why.
When Mike's case got cleared, that's when he realized that his heart was beating faster than normal, that his lungs always tightened around his chest. Doctors told him that he was having a panic attack.
"I'm a lawyer, I thrive under high-stress conditions." He argued.
"Then, I don't know what to tell you." The older woman shrugged.
He was a mess. He struggled to go to work. His sleeping schedule got fried beyond repair and he'd eat at weird intervals.
The final straw came when he refused to represent a long-time client.
"Your name is on the goddamn wall. What is happening to you?" Donna tried to shake him to reality—although deep in her heart she knew that the cause of Harvey's agony had been you. Or rather, his poor treatment of you.
Strangely, it was Louis who was able to convince him to attend therapy.
Harvey lay on the stiff mattress of the therapist's office. He's tried this a couple of times when he was a teenager. They were mostly court-mandated by social services because he was a troubled teen. He grew up in a good neighborhood and had married parents. It was a mystery.
He stares at the warm yellow lights and the rusty ceiling fan.
He turned to look at his therapist.
He was an older man; he seemed to be in his 50s. His therapist had curly hair and spectacles that reminded Harvey of Harry Potter.
His therapist looked like a kind grandpa.
For the first time in a few months, Harvey felt safe.
His therapist had the same voice as David Attenborough.
"You sound like David Attenborough," Harvey observes.
"You like watching documentaries?" The man raised an eyebrow.
"No, I don't have the attention for it. My girl—ex liked watching it before going to sleep. She's the type who knows everything about every topic under the sun. She's very smart, that girl." Harvey's eyes twinkled. This was the first time that his therapist got more than a few words out of him.
"Why did you break up, if you don't mind me asking?" The man asks.
Harvey takes a deep breath.
"It's a long story," and it indeed is.
"Let's just say that I was a horrible man to a wonderful girl," he sighs.
"Well, I am not the authority to decide that. But Harvey, you don't act like a horrible person." The man comforts. "A horrible person wouldn't think that they are, for starters, and the fact that you're able to realize your mistake means that you have the opportunity to own up to it."
"It's too late. She gave me everything that she could, and I was a damn coward who couldn't measure up." Harvey thinks out loud.
You've said a couple of things that you regret (he's listened to all three of your voicemails after the breakup), and he's only replied with silence. He knows how much you hate silence.
"You said it yourself, you have nothing left to lose." The man hints at a conversation that happened a few minutes before.
"You know I'm not supposed to talk much about my private life, but to hell with that, I'm about to retire." The man shifts his weight as he adjusts the purple cushions.
Judging from the floral patterns, it was probably designed by his wife.
"When I was younger, I was so scared of losing my wife that I broke up with her in the middle of prom. She was so mad, so angry. In my mind, I was doing the right thing because I could never measure up to the daughter of the richest man in our town—look at us now. Happily married and I'm not afraid of anything." He shares.
"I find that when the human mind is afraid of losing something, they leave it behind. What the brain doesn't comprehend is that very thing could be the most integral part of your being." He adds.
"Of course, it's still up to you if you want to get her back. Can you make peace with seeing her married to someone else?"
His therapist's words stuck with him for a while. It was after the 5th session that he realized that he was only talking about you in all of em—that after six months, he still couldn't forget about you.
It's easy to let go when the relationship doesn't serve you right, but your relationship with him fits so perfectly in all the cracks in his heart that the absence of you leaves him heaving. Your absence reminds him that he is truly alone—possibly unlovable.
It was November when Jessica invited you to a charity gala.
His worst fear had come true.
"I'm sorry, Harvey." Louis glanced at him.
You were standing with a man to your right, his arms settled around your back—pulling you close against him. You were practically cuddling in front of all the uppity guests and none of them blinked an eye.
Harvey recognizes the man to be Stefano, a designer for Chanel or Dior. He can't remember the specifics. He only remembers seeing you on FaceTime with the man as you twirled around in your brand new dress. He got jealous that one time, and you merely rolled your eyes at him. 'You're the blindest man alive.' You teased and Stefano cackled.
He's always been wary around Stefano. The man had perfect olive-tanned skin and Italian curls. It doesn't help with the fact that the man is always traveling when he calls you, from Paris to London to Milan.
Where the hell is Donna when you need her? He takes a deep breath.
Donna, almost like an older and younger sister mixed in one, would know what to do in this situation. She'd be able to tell him if he still had a chance judging from the angle of your elbows.
"You should talk to her," Jessica's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Is that her boyfriend?" Harvey asked, aware that you kept in touch with the older woman.
"Are you serious?" Jessica rolls her eyes before getting whisked away by a client. Does that mean yes? Harvey grits his teeth.
He's normally the sharpest tool in the shed, but when it comes to women and their subtle clues he's absolutely clueless.
He places his champagne glass on one of the tall tables. He looks at you once more—delighted that Stefano was nowhere near you. The handsome man was talking to one of the servers, ignoring the lustful gazes that some of the older women were sending him.
Why would Stefano look anywhere else when you're with him?
He looks back at you but suddenly you're in the other side of the room.
You meet his gaze, your eyebrows merging together as a wave of pain washes over your features. She's avoiding me. He states the obvious. Take the risk or lose the chance. He reminds himself.
.
.
.
"I don't want to talk to you." There was a smile on your face for the crowd, but the tone in your voice brought shivers down his spine. He's been dreaming about this specific moment for a while now. He's been writing drafts on all the words that he wanted to say the next time that he sees you, but seeing you standing in front of him blows him out.
"I'm sorry." He apologized.
"I hurt you, and I was so damn horrible when all you wanted to do was help." He reached for your wrist as you turned to leave.
"Honey," he pleads.
"Yeah, like it even matters now." There was venom dripping from your voice, but the tears that were brimming on the sides of your eyes told him that you were only masking your emotions. That hating him had been easier than admitting the fact that you were deeply hurt. "—I waited for you to call me." You added with a tilt of the brow.
Nine months and you waited for his number to call your phone.
"I had to get my life together," he explains.
"I wanted to help you get your life together." You argued.
"—All you had to do was stay, and we wouldn't even be having this conversation." You pressed further. The answer to all of your problems would've been waiting for the storm to pass, but Harvey decided to kick you off the damn ship before it sailed. Did he think you so weak?
Your gaze softened.
No matter how deeply he tries to bruise you, you're still soft for him.
"I sent you three voicemails. I waited for you to text back." You pouted.
"I went to therapy for panic attacks, the therapist said that your absence could've caused it—that my heart couldn't deal with life without you, and I-I wanted to get myself better because I didn't want you to see me weak. I wanted to reach out, I was scared that you'd turn me away." He speaks the truth for the first time in a while.
Six months together. Nine months thinking about each other.
"You were right when you said that there was something wrong with me." He nods his head. "No," you were quick to interrupt.
"I'm sorry for saying that—I was so angry that I wanted to hurt you. I was horrible to you; nothing excuses the bad things I said." You apologized. "Mike got sent to jail because of me. I deserved everything you said." He chuckles bitterly.
He stares off to the side, aware of Stefano's gaze on him.
"I still love you, honey. I always will. I'm sorry for what I did—I hope that you're happy with your life now. I hope that Stefano treats you better." Harvey breathes.
Of course, he gets better when it's too late.
If he could give advice right now, he'd tell the next man to be better, or someone else will be the better man for their Honey.
He was just about to leave, but he heard you laughing.
"Stefano doesn't like me. He's married." You said through stifled laughter. Like that has ever stopped anyone. "—to a man." You added.
You're the blindest man alive.
Are you serious?
"Goddamit," he breathes.
He sees the smile on your face, and he knows that not all hope is lost.
"We've got issues. We've hurt each other in the past, and I'm scared that I'll hurt you again, but if you're still serious about us, we can always try again." You relented, despite the unease on your shoulder.
If he's really changed, then it's worth the second chance, right?
"One step at a time,"
A/N: girl this is the first time im writing smut in three years, i honestly didn't wanna write it but it was kinda integral to the plot.
I only used this format cuz it's boring having to write the years.
I have no idea what a therapist can or cannot say.
not all relationships are perfect, sometimes they're toxic at first but the best part is ya'll try to get better together #unconditionallove
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