Leon comes home feeling better than he has in ages, and he knows just how he wants to show you.
ao3 ✦ wc: 5.9k
tags: Leon Kennedy/cisfem!reader, marathon sex, multiple creampies, p in v, porn w/o plot, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, cockdrunkeness, rough sex, praise & degradation, aftercare, wife!reader, can imagine with or w/o age gap, re9 requiem spoilers
a/n: I meant for this to be love-making but then it turned freak nasty oops
SMS Message: Home tomorrow.
Sender: Leon S.K.
You jumped up from the couch as you read it, the words shaking on the screen you held with trembling hands.
You didn’t think he’d come home so soon. You didn’t think he’d come home at all.
The next 18 hours were a blur, and then you heard it: the purr of a familiar motor in the driveway. It stopped you dead in your tracks, standing as still as a statue in the kitchen. You tensed as you waited for the sound of footsteps outside— held your breath as you heard the key in the lock— watched unblinkingly as the handle turned— when Leon walked through the door, time itself went still.
For a moment, all you could do was stare. You didn’t know what to expect. Every mission changed him, and you didn’t know what new version of him would walk through the door now, or how to react to it. And the stakes had never been higher.
The days before his departure were spent mostly in silence, doing little else except hold each other as his departure neared every second. You both knew the two likely results: he’d either die in the place it all began or come home even closer to death’s door. He’d wait for his disease to slowly consume his soul while he made his own funeral plans, and you’d stay close to your gun to prepare for the moment he went cold.
You’d spent the time between his text and now clinging to hope and preparing yourself for the worst. You’d never felt as fragile as the moment he opened the door.
He looked your way as the lock clicked behind him. It was only a few seconds, but they expanded into eons as you searched him for signs of bad news. A knit in his brow, or a downward tug of his lips. Traces of tears he may have wiped away in the car before you could see them. His steely eyes filling with grief.
But you didn’t see any of that. Instead, he grinned and held his arms out wide.
You flew crashing into them. He was steady, firm, and tight as you clutched your fists into the back of his shirt. His arms wrapped around your head and he kissed the top of it softly, swaying you ever so slightly because he was too overcome to stand still.
For minutes, all you did was stand in the doorway and hold. That was the quiet choreography of all of his homecomings, though it never felt routine. Each time it had a different weight, and this one was the heaviest yet by far.
When you finally were able to pull away, you scanned him again for signs of injury, physical or otherwise. You knew him like you knew yourself, and even the most imperceptible changes never got past you.
Your eyes widened when they dropped to his neck.
You didn’t have to ask; he already knew the question. He answered it, still smiling, his voice gravelly and low, soft and tired, but not weary. All of it built up your hopes until he finally spoke it into reality.
“I’m alright, baby.”
His hands grazed your face, and you nearly flinched at the feeling of his bare fingertips purely out of habit. You’d spent months of him preventing you from coming into contact with his infected tissue. But then you realized what you were feeling: real skin sans leather, flesh devoid of flaw. His fingers were roughened from calluses and nothing more, complete with his wedding band returned to its rightful place.
Your eyes watered in disbelief and awe. A trepidatious smile grew on your lips as he cupped your cheek in his palm. You covered his hand with your own and pressed into the warmth while your other hand traced up his torso, until you were grazing over the skin of his neck and nudging down his shirt collar.
It was free of all black-rotted dry patches, no cracks on the surface to be seen. Nothing but a fresh scar you didn’t need to ask about right now. Right now, all that mattered was that he was whole and solid, returned to his natural state, totally healed and hot-blooded under the surface.
Your breath hitched at his body heat. Oh, how you missed his skin.
“You’re really okay..?”
The words were small and barely squeaked out. You didn’t want false hope. You needed to know the healing was more than just skin deep. His reaction assuaged all fears.
“Yeah. I really am.”
The truth took a moment to permeate the air. When it did, he took you in a kiss so firm and certain, it crushed all remaining doubt.
You met it fiercely, pushing yourself against his torso to feel him closer. Your hands threaded into the hair on the nape of his neck as he wrapped his arms around to hold you firmly in place.
Your tongue darted out first, or maybe his did, you couldn’t say. And from there, it happened fast.
His hands moved to the back of your head, then your waist, and then your ass, where they couldn’t help but grope and lift until your legs wrapped around him and he held you in the air. You grabbed his face as your lips parted wider to allow his tongue further inside. He roughly kicked off his boots and then he was walking. He kept kissing you all the way through— he didn’t need to open his eyes, he knew where he was going.
Your back met the cool blankets on your bed and then he was crawling over you, caging you under him in the dark. You wrapped your hands around his biceps and felt the muscles flex as he lowered himself to kiss down your neck, covering each square inch of skin with his sloppy, desperate kisses.
“I feel better than I have in years. Spent the whole trip home waiting to show you.”
'To prove it to you' was in the subtext.
He returned to your mouth hotly and grinded his hips into your center, the friction of his jeans against the soft fabric of your home clothes making you keen into the toe-curling feeling. He pulled his shirt over his head and you took the opportunity to speak.
“Turn the lamp on, need to see you.”
He made quick work of reaching over to it, and then you shuddered as your palms felt the expanse of his abdomen. Tight ab muscles, beefy pectorals, and broad shoulders. The sight you never got sick of that made up his brawny form. All of it healed and renewed.
He kept grinding while you took him in. Your arms went up and around and down again, nearly worshipping the flesh. But when you yanked at his belt, he stopped you with his hands around your wrists, bringing them to each side of your head and caging you in again.
“Spent too much time thinking about what I’m gonna do to you.” He sat back up and you kept your arms where he fixed them as he began to pull at the elastic waistband of your bottoms. He kissed your exposed navel and you shivered as he mumbled into you. “Need’ta show you how I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”
You never felt like his age held him back much in the bedroom— his job relied on stamina and endurance, and though his job was physically demanding and he was not quite in his prime, the toll was mostly seen in the back pain after; it hardly showed in the moment. As his hands and mouth traveled every inch of exposed skin like a starving animal, you wondered if you could even handle him giving you something more. The thought of finding out went straight between your legs.
His mouth went straight there, too.
You nearly yelled as he dove into your cunt with a fervent tongue, lapping and sucking and messily making out with your folds, his thumbs kneading to pull open the soft fatty skin of your vulva. He wasn’t interested in wasting any time on teasing, clearly.
Your thighs clenched around his head and a hand pushed against his head reflexively to fight off the sudden intensity, but it was useless. The pressure of your legs around his head only spurred him on until your cunt was soaked in spit– it certainly wasn’t your own wetness– he devoured every ounce that escaped before it could go anywhere but his mouth.
You bucked and twitched as you cried out his name. “Leon, Leon, s’too much, holy— fuck, Leon—” but he only spread your thighs and kept your there, pointing his tongue to circle sharply around your clit.
“I’m just getting started, baby,” he said, sucking your clit into his mouth and letting go with a flilthy noise, “thought I’d never taste this sweet cunt again, gonna drink my fucking fill.”
Your head fell back as he dove back in, steady and thorough and obscene. You took deep breaths, although they were more like hitched pants and moans until you acclimated to the sensation. He hummed as he felt you melt under him and added a single finger inside, groaning when you arched into it.
He slowed down, his finger rocking and curling in and out and his tongue lapping at you. You looked down to see his darkened eyes gazing at his work between tastes, and you shuddered as he licked his lips before retracting all touch. Your hips flinched upwards to beckon him to return, but he didn’t. He met your eyes and reveled in your wanton expression as he sucked you off his fingers, never breaking eye contact as he rose to kneel between your parted legs.
He finally began to do away with his jeans, and something changed in his tone as he did. You shivered with desire as you watched him move. It was deliberate and slow. He was undressing like a threat.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen…”
His belt fell with a thud against the ground—
“I’m gonna fuck you until you cry…”
The button fell apart with a flick of his wrist—
“Fill you so full of cum you’ll be dripping ‘til next week…”
The zipper seemed to ache as it slowly parted open—
“And you’re gonna fucking take it.”
Unhurriedly and never once looking away from you, he pushed his pants and boxers down until his thick cock sprang free. You whined at the sight of it, eyes fixed where it hung in the air. It was dark pink– definitely darker than usual– his hot blood expanding every vein. He was harder than you’d ever seen him, a full display of the immensity of his desire, so much that it nearly looked painful. When a bead of precum began to appear on his tip, your mouth watered for it.
Your eyes scanned upward as you realized he’d stopped talking and was kneeling there in wait while you stared. You took in his form on the way up; the way his abs tightened with every throb of his cock, the striations of his brawny arms, the few new cuts over old scars. The heavy rise and fall of his chest as he held back for the last time tonight.
And then, you saw his face. His chin was slightly raised as if he was looking down on his next confirmed kill. His lips were still glistening with slick as they were pulled into something not unlike a snarl. His hair was halfway in his eyes, but it did nothing to conceal the intent within them.
“You think you can handle that?”
Your eyes fleeted to his navel, only for a second, assessing him like a loaded gun that was aimed right at you. His hands held his clothes in tight fists and his cock leaked with pre.
You met his eyes again and blinked as you nodded and choked out a needy, “yes,” and your gulp gave away your uncertainty. But that only seemed to spur him on.
He fell forward; suddenly, his face was inches away from your own, one hand on the mattress beside your head to hold himself up, the other yanking his pants off as quickly as he could.
“You know what to say if you can’t,” he grumbled, hunkering down to glide his tip against you until it notched against your entrance, “because telling me to stop won’t be enough.”
He grabbed your wrist at the same time he violently drove in, knowing you’d leap from it and keeping you there anyways. You were nothing but a mess of yelps and moans as he beat his way inside, clawing against his back and shoulders. A single finger wasn’t enough to ready you for this, and the knocks against your cervix were only soothed by the equal force against your g-spot.
Each merciless pounding of his fat cock stretched your walls to their limit, and he truly didn’t give you any other option but to take it. You groaned at the way he used his broad build to keep your legs open to him, every ounce of muscle that you were no match against weighing down to pin you there.
With an arm wrapped under you to hold you by the back of the neck and the other tightening in the hair on the crown of your head, he caged you in to face him. But your dizzy eyes were squeezed shut and could only open to roll back into your skull.
He shook you lightly by the hair. “Look at me,” he growled. You mewled as you attempted it, but your glossy eyes went straight back behind your eyelids. He did it again, harder, pistoning up to fuck you harder, too. “Look at me, you fucking bitch.”
The shock of his words made your eyes shoot open with a gasp and a furrowed brow, far removed from the gentle reverence he held you in at the door. His gaze bore straight into you with a scowl, his adoration replaced with possession.
He was terrifying. Unhinged. A madman on the loose inside of you. A killer who lashed against your walls with uncalculated raw power. Though you could only see his face, it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.
While you were still reeling from the disparagement, he gritted angrily into your face, crowding you until your noses nearly touched.
“Who owns you?”
You could only attempt to answer, your voice breaking into a sputtering moan as he bottomed out harshly again and again, not needing any of the great focus it took you to speak.
The pitiful noise you’d made wasn’t good enough for him. He squeezed the sides of your neck and you arched off the bed, but that only sent your body flush against his, which didn’t make you any clearer-headed.
“Tell me who fucking owns you.”
You felt like you were floating as your brain was cut off from blood flow, and out of care for your own wellbeing, you managed to answer him.
“Y-you, Leon—“
He let go of the pressure and smirked as you gasped. “Mouth not so good for talking right now, huh? Only good for one thing?”
He unclasped his fingers from your hair and brought them to your chin, delving into your parted lips to hook around your bottom teeth. You let your jaw fall open and watched in shock as he spat inside.
“Swallow it,” he commanded, fingers digging into your face as he pushed it shut. You shuddered as you did, and his own eyes rolled back now.
His head fell into the crook of your neck with a smoky groan. You felt hot puffs of air against your pulse as his hands became gentler, like he revered you for doing what he demanded.
“Gorgeous fucking girl… needed this cunt so bad, went through hell to get back home to you…”
His hold on you may have lessened, but his words held your heart in his fist and squeezed. He’d captured your thoughts so purely on the present, you nearly forgot the context.
Your arms were limp as they tried to wrap around his back, barely able to hold on as he moved with every pounding of his hips. But still, they searched him, chest filling with every inch they felt unmarred by disease, and your cunt pulsed as he searched you for places to grab. Your ebbing breasts, the small of your waist, the meat of your hips, landing finally on the underside of your knee where he changed the angle to impale himself even deeper.
You were losing it, and he could tell. He thrust upwards to meet where your hips rose to help him land in that perfect spot and he kissed your jugular— first a peck, then an open-mouthed kiss, and then a full-on lick of his tongue.
Your legs trembled under him. “Leon, I’m, fuck, please,” you breathed.
He twisted your nipple and nipped under your ear as if to mock how it made you writhe. “Oh yeah? You sure you wanna cum so soon?”
‘So soon’ ..?
Maybe he wasn’t all talk when this started. Maybe that savage look in his eye wasn't a trick of the light. At this rate, he wasn’t going to fuck you until you cried, he was going to fuck you until you died.
But he wanted it. He lifted himself enough to sear your mouth with a kiss, his thrusts slowing momentarily to wedge his hand against your clit. He gathered the wetness between your bodies to easily rub against the silky nub. Your toes curled and your spine curved to seek the friction of his freshly calloused fingers. He deepened the kiss as you moaned, and it became all tongue so he could swallow the sounds in his throat.
He was debauched. Delirious. A bad man smiling as he plucked petals from a flower. Delightfully drowning himself in sin. All you could do was surrender as he brought you your undoing.
You came with wild cries and jolts of ecstasy, nails digging into his deltoids as he sped up even more. You watched him look down at his cock being covered in your cream, a ragged sound in his throat as you tightened around him with each wave of pleasure.
You panted sharply as you barely began to come down, and he lifted himself up on his haunches, kneeling between your legs as he soaked up the sight.
Once your half-lidded eyes met his, he grabbed your hips to brutally fuck you into him.
You clawed at the sheets as he used you like a toy. You won’t be surprised if your ass is speckled with fingertip-shaped bruises tomorrow. All you could see in front of you was your breasts recoiling from each thrust, and behind them, Leon lost in his own world of feeling. His head was tipped back and you saw the stubble under his chin— his pecs were flexed and flushed pink from the vigor— all of him covered in a light gloss of sweat that shone in the warm lamplight.
He was intoxicating to behold, and it was absolutely unfair, because you already lost the ability to think straight. Now you drank him in with your eyes, and you were totally inebriated.
Your moans turned into some kind of mumble. You didn’t know what words you were hoping to form, but it was something along the lines of a warning that he was approaching the realm of too much. He looked down at your babbling with a lust-filled, lazy smirk, all too pleased with himself already.
“Whatdya want, love? You drunk on my cock already?”
He slapped your clit and laughed lowly as you gasped and jolted, then propped your limp legs around him and barreled in even more. Steady, fast, and loud.
Thank god the apartment days were over or the cops would come any minute. Skin slapping against skin, the headboard banging dents into the drywall, you crying out for him like he was carving out your heart. A noise complaint in the making. But when he signed the property deed, it came with the right to make you scream, neighbors be damned.
And scream you did as he held you even tighter and thumbed your swollen clit, evoking your walls to seize in the way he needed to release. He leaned back with a sharp and airy shout, hips sputtering as you felt him unload deep inside, his remaining jerky movements making it trickle out around him.
You were a touch thankful as he slowed down and his hands rubbed soothingly on your thighs. You could finally catch your breath. But your graciousness was short-lived as he flashed a grin and flipped you onto your stomach. The breath was forced out of you as your chest fell into the mattress, and your eyes went wide as he lined himself back up, slowly pushing inside, his cum allowing his cock to slip easily inside regardless of how sore your folds already were.
You whined and knotted your fists into the fabric under you as he bottomed out and pulled away with slow and liquid motions. You heard the faintest laugh rumble in his chest before he spoke.
“I’m not anywhere near done with you,” he huffed.
You buried your head in the soft sheets below. Filled with his load and the promise of another, you felt totally and completely his. Exactly where you wanted to be. Right where you belonged. You couldn’t help but smile, until he moved and it was wiped off your fucked-out face.
He gripped the meat of your ass as he steadily picked up speed, the silver of his wedding band cold against you in contrast to the heat of your bodies. A wet spot collected underneath you from his cock coaxing out his cum with each thrust. The sounds were softer yet even more crude with your cunt so sopping wet.
“Gripping me so good, look at you,” he spread your cunt apart a little more, “goddamn, you’re perfect.”
You felt mildly embarrassed at the messy sight of you that he was undoubtedly staring at right now, but at the same time, you envied his view. To watch his cock disappear inside of your puffy and well-used folds, then withdraw covered in his cum and a healthy mix of your own. To view his strong hands holding you open, to see yourself laid out in submission.
But all you could do was feel, and that was more than enough to sate you. In fact, you were already well past satisfaction, and you kept having to refind your focus so you could keep taking more. You inhaled deeply as you felt the soreness at your entrance and reminded yourself to relax your body, sighing away the tension in the muscles you didn’t mean to flex: your thighs, your back, your shoulders. But then you’d feel the friction of his tip dragging against the gummy walls of your g-spot, and your mind was clouded by pleasure all over again.
He wasn’t going nearly as fast as before, but it was obviously a choice, and not one made out of tiredness or necessity. It just felt too good for him to change the rhythm. With your knees together as you lay prone, your canal was tightened in a way that made you feel dense and so, so warm around his tender cock. You always felt incredible to him, but if sex always felt like this, he wouldn’t just fuck you all night, he’d stay buried in you so long he’d risk starving to death.
You were each lost in your own minds as the feeling went on and on. The air was heady and thick as you breathed against the blankets, and Leon was humping into you like waves rolling into shore– fluid motions that still crashed onto the shore or your center, followed by another and another, a constant ebb and flow that lulled you deeper into euphoria.
“Feels s’good, Leon, oh my god… d-don’t stop.” Your voice was laced in awe.
“Really fucking does… shit…”
The words were airy and held just as much wonderment as yours had. He traced a hand down the valley of your spine, revering the body that gave him such immeasurable bliss. Knowing that he was feeling the same seventh heaven you were made you feel even more connected to him, and your toes curled at the thought.
It kept going, and going, and going. You couldn’t tell how long it remained exactly like that, neither of you searching for your next orgasm, just totally and completely captured by the present. Time wasn’t something that existed in the room. It was a long time, but it’d never be enough.
He groaned as you felt his hips stutter involuntarily as the next thrust landed even deeper inside. The unexpectedness hit you both and turned it back into something needier. The next thrust snapped against your ass and you arched into the air to meet it. He shifted to hold you firmly as he set on a new wanton speed.
You mewled as you keened into him, legs parting slightly to make room for any spare length he had to give, and gripped the sheets as his balls began to slap against your clit. Each time he crashed against your walls, you felt them begin to bloom with electric want, and you braced against the bed to push yourself back into his thrusts as they became gritty, harsh pounds again.
He felt just the same as you, blood rushing to the parts of his brain that demanded another orgasm, and he felt every flutter of your walls around him that beckoned to milk him dry– exactly what he wanted you to do, to drain him until he had nothing left to give. He wanted to do whatever it took to make sure that fluttering didn’t stop.
He reached under you to rub your clit. You yelped as his fingers made contact, gliding easily against the cum-covered nub. His forearm was pressed against your navel, pinned between you and the mattress, and you could feel the size of his cock protrude against it from within you. Your legs spread even wider as you cried out, struggling to hold onto reality as he worked the thousands of nerve endings he’d already made oversensitive. Now, it bordered on torture.
The way you opened yourself only made it easier for him to find purchase to pound even harder, meeting the way you writhed and keened for more, his eyes rolling back as you bore down as if you were trying to squeeze him out. But all it did was drive him harder into all the right spots inside of you, and you were so overcome with sensitivity, you came before you even knew you were close.
And you came hard. Jolting and seizing as you cried his name, your eyes growing wet from the shock of it. He was loud as he reacted to the way you clenched and pulsed around him, your warm, slick cum covering his cock and making his movements sloppy and wet. And you were even louder as he kept going even harder.
He was surprised that he didn’t cum again right then and there, but it only galvanized him to pull your hips back and use you again. Your body was growing limp, you were shuddering and shaking, and his eyes widened with madness as he watched your face contort in pleasure. He was watching for signs that you’d say your safeword, too, but every moment that passed that you didn’t, he took as permission to fuck you even harsher.
Your head lolled and your lip quivered as you took it like a punishment, not a single coherent thought inside your head. You registered that he was close like white noise, simultaneously in the background and all around you. His hands seared in their grip on you as he hammered in once, twice, and then held himself deeply inside with broken rasps and moans. Your lips fell open as you felt his fresh load mingle with the first, pooling hot against your cervix.
He pulled out with a violent hiss, and you cried out as the fluid stung against your sore opening. Your legs trembled until they collapsed back onto the bed along with the rest of your body.
You were vibrating from the inside out, still reeling from how aggressive both of your orgasms were. You could hear him catching his breath, too. You twitched as you felt him touch the outside of your cunt, bracing yourself for more, relaxing when he only stroked the outside. He drew his fingers up and down the crease of your folds, languid and smooth, leisurely playing in his overflow. He pressed them in once just to watch you jolt, and then cleaned them off with his mouth.
He finally gave you a break and turned his focus to taking care of you. By the way you lay there limp, he knew you needed it. He peppered you with kisses as you floated in the afterglow, sprinkling them softly on your rear, up your spine, and onto your shoulder blades, until he placed one on your cheek.
He brushed your frazzled hair away from your face and the corner of his mouth pulled into a smile at the absolute state of you. But then the lamplight reflected off a tear and he furrowed his brow as he gently wiped it away.
“You with me, sweetheart?”
He chuckled at the small sound you made in acknowledgement, the only thing you had effort to respond with. He placed a kiss onto your head.
“Did so good for me, love. So perfect.”
He grunted as he laid down, pulling your back into his chest to spoon you. You weakly held onto his arm as it wrapped around your torso, shifting back into him to steal his body heat.
You closed your eyes with a sigh as you soaked in the way he took care of you after such a brutal display of lust. His thumbs circling against your sweat-damp skin, nose nuzzling against your hair, gravelly voice soothing you with praise.
“M’so glad to be home, baby. You always made me feel young again, but it’s almost like I am young again. Don’t want to take it for granted. Gonna take some time off, take you on vacation, let you see the world. Might fuck you on every continent.”
You giggled at his ambition, still high on happy chemicals and swimming in the dream he laid out. It’d be a significant change, him enjoying the fruits of his labor with things more permanent than gifts and fast cars. You always encouraged him to, but he said it’d be easier for him to cope with losing a material possession than a vacation being ruined by being called on a mission. You hoped it wasn’t just the endorphins talking.
“Yeah, you like that idea? Good, ‘cause I mean it.” He kissed under your ear and squeezed you in closer. “Wanna spend every day making you happier than ever, make up for how long I was sick. Can’t waste any of ‘em not fucking you the way you need me to.”
You gasped as you felt his half-hard cock twitch against your ass, instinctively arching back into it. A shiver ran over your skin as he pressed it against you in turn, and you realized he still wasn’t done, confirmed by the way his voice darkened against your ear and he started kneading your breast in his hand.
His kisses against your pulse turned open-mouthed and erotic, one hand pinching your hardening nipple as the other reached for his cock, slowly stroking himself with the tip resting against your sopping hole. You were so flush together that with each wave of bloodflow that grew him towards full-hardness, it breached your pulsing entrance without him even trying.
Your toes curled as he leisurely thrust into one centimeter at a time. It was just enough of a tease to eat away your apprehension. You really weren’t sure how much more you could take, but as he shallowly fucked his tip into you, you became increasingly desperate for more, until you were squirming and panting in his arms.
You gasped as he suddenly pushed halfway in, feeling your folds and your entrance smart in their soreness. Just a few minutes left empty and you needed time to accommodate him all over again. He wasn’t quite as big as before after two orgasms, but with his size, being slightly smaller was still pretty fucking huge. And now you needed to adjust to more than his size; you needed to adjust to your own overstimulation, too.
He thrust halfway in and stilled there, holding you tight to prevent you from backing into it, feeling your legs shake around him.
You already couldn’t walk, he was sure of it. But it must be well past midnight now. Did you need to use your legs tonight anyways? He decided that you didn’t. Might as well make them truly useless.
He bottomed out in one smooth, sharp thrust, aided by the lubricant of the two creampies inside. His eyes rolled back as he stayed there for a brief moment, just long enough to feel you throb around his cock, like your body was begging him to make it three.
He’d never cum that many times in a row before, not even in his prime. But now, he felt like he’d entered a new prime, and he wanted nothing more than to see just what his limit was. He wondered if he’d reach yours first. But you were a tough girl, he thought. You took him like you were made for it.
His navel thumped against your ass as he drove in with that goal in mind: find out how much cum he could stuff inside your cunt until one of you tapped out.
He started steadily, knowing it’d take him longer to find his finish a third time, and seeing how you were already a mess of moans, both from pleasure and physical overwhelm. It boosted his ego to know he was pacing himself for you much more than for himself.
You felt like an unraveled spool of thread. You couldn’t believe he had the stamina for another round, his age considered or not. You were shocked you could keep going yourself. But at the same time your swollen cunt ached around him, it sucked him in for more.
He twisted your head back to take you in a kiss, swallowing your moans as he beat fast inside again. You reached back to hold onto any part of him you could until your senses were once again flooded and you melted open to him.
“That’s it, relax for me. Just one more, baby, gonna fill you to the brim. Fucking take it.”
And take it you did, until the night sky turned light blue.
secret!perv Dunk & a not-secret-at-all perv!fem reader
Seperate, but could be read as part of this —> universe.
a/n: This was supposed to be short and smutty bc that’s just where I am right now. It’s fucking 4k words. I have a problem, her name is plot.
mdni! this is 18+ for the following: fem! receiving oral, extremely lustful thoughts over dunk the hunk, semi-exhibitionism for half a sec, and p in v
(absolutely ZERO physical descriptions of the reader. That’s one of my gripes with GoT fics: a house name always comes with house features. NOT HERE, baby!)
wc: 4k
It’s entirely possible that he’s catching on to you. But that might be giving Dunk too much credit.
It doesn’t matter how many times you remind him you’re bastard born. You're not a proper lady. You’re not some virtuous maid.
He still treats you as such.
You suppose it’s sweet. A gentlemanly behavior you’re nought like to get from any other knight you might travel with. But it is driving you wild.
Dunk is a big man, large and thick with muscles you want to sink your teeth into. But he’ll only kiss you, tug your hair a bit and then be on his way. He doesn’t push you against a tree, ruck up your skirts and take you right there. He never accepts your invitations to bed you at the inns you stay at.
He’s just good.
Too good.
You’re a well-traveled woman. You’ve grown to have hungry tastes. And maybe you’re spoiled, but you’re used to having that hunger sated when you want.
Dunk isn’t like to simply hand you what you want. No, this torture of his is slow and tiring. You’ve never begged a man for anything. But you’re this close to mounting his thigh and pleading he just allow you one night with him.
Gods, perhaps your father's perversions do run in your veins.
“Gods above, I can no longer handle the stench of us,” you bemoan. You bring your horse up beside Dunk’s. “Ser, you must find me a stream. Something to clean myself in.”
Dunk purses his lips. He ought to say no. It’d be better to travel another day before stopping for something so frivolous. But then you’re tugging at the collar of your dress, letting out a groan of discomfort as your breasts become dangerously more exposed.
He clears his throat, ripping his eyes away, missing the disappointed scowl you wear. “Alright,” he croaks, not at all because he knows you’ll ask him to guard you while you bathe. And not at all because he knows there’ll be a split second where he might actually be able to see something.
Because he is a knight. A hedge knight, but an honorable one nonetheless. And an honorable man does not sneak glances at women he’s sworn to protect while they’re vulnerable.
And naked.
And dripping-
No.
It’s not too much time later that you all come upon a stream deep within the woods. Egg runs off first, off to hunt something for dinner. He knows to avoid the water until you’ve finished, but Dunk doesn’t have much of a choice.
Because of course, you need your big, strong knight to aid you. Nevermind the fact that your father had you trained by a Braavosi Water Dancer. You need Dunk.
For reasons.
“Come along,” you call and Dunk clears his throat, tugging on his pants as he follows. He feels no better than a hound, trained to salivate at the sound of rushing water.
You cast a look over your shoulder, spinning your finger and he nods, turning away. But he misses how you watch him, slipping off your dress and hoping to catch him steal a look.
When he doesn’t, you try not to let your disappointment show, reaching down to tug your dress off the rest of the way. Dunk glances over his shoulder, nearly choking as his eyes drag along the curve of your skin, the slight arch in your lower back as you walk into the stream.
He shakes his head, forcing himself to turn away, hand on the hilt of his sword. He's a horrible man. All he can think of is how he wished you had turned around.
“Here, m’lady,” he takes your hand and helps you onto your horse. One large palm cups the curve of your rear as you swing your leg over the saddle. You’ve learned to ignore that touch as nothing more than a helping hand. Dunk has no such luck, the feel of you burned into his skin.
He gets up behind you. Your own horse had to be sold to afford some more rations for the road. Until you can scrounge enough coppers, you’re stuck with Dunk.
Honestly, he probably should have let you ride with Egg. He’s already big enough for his own mount; Thunder don’t need another weight to carry. But, selfishly, he enjoys the feel of you pressed up against his chest, your soft curves rubbing against his arms as he holds the reins.
And you, you certainly wouldn’t complain at whatever rare form of contact he’ll allow you. Especially not when he bucks his hips, urging Thunder on. But you know you’ve reached a fresh hell in your life when he whispers praise to the creature and you’re jealous of the damnable thing.
The group of you stops off at a local village market. The place seems familiar to you, somehow, but you can’t place it. Dunk goes off to ask after some work around the area, to see if he can make some spare change.
Egg doesn’t wish to join him and listen to the boring pleasantries. Dunk permits his leave only if he swears that he won’t leave your side. Egg promises, of course, none of you realize that Dunk’s just damned you all.
You probably would have been able to get out of this if it weren’t for Egg’s big mouth.
You stand before a fruit vendor, eyeing the apples and checking for any wormholes. The man behind the stall is casting you an odd look that is beginning to make your skin crawl.
“I know you?” He suddenly snaps and you jump at the volume of his voice.
“Er, no, I don’t think you do.” You cast him a wary glare as you debate abandoning your search for a half-decent taste besides salt beef.
Before you can leave, his hand snaps out, clammy hold wrenching up your wrist. “Sir!”
“I do know you. You stole my favorite mount!”
Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize who this man is. A year past, when you first began traveling with Egg. You’d passed through this village on the way from Storm’s End. Daeron, drunk and testing the true boldness of a Baratheon bastard, had promised one hundred gold stags if you stole this man’s horse.
There was nothing against this man in particular. But it was quite possibly one of the most gorgeous mounts you’d ever seen. A Dornish steed, you were sure, with a coat like fire and sand. Of course, you’d done it. You just hadn’t thought that anyone had seen you.
“I’m afraid you’re confused-“
A shocked gasp cuts you off. “It’s him!”
You whip around and see Egg staring up at the man. You rip your wrist from the vendor’s hold and slap your hand around Egg’s mouth.
“What was that, boy?” He barks out, leaning over the table.
“Nothing, sir, please. My boy- he was knocked in the head by a mule, that's why he’s bald as he is, truly.” Egg rips from your hold and stomps down on your foot.
You jump back with a gasp, hands swiping out at him. “Unhand me,” he snaps. “I was not kicked in the head!”
Your eyes clench shut as the vendor growls,” Guards!” He shouts. “Guards!”
“Oh,” Egg’s face drops as he realizes his blunder. You let out a groan and snatch up his wrist, racing through the stalls. The fruit merchant calls after you but you keep going, ignoring the clash of armor as the guards follow close behind.
“Next time I silence you, stay quiet.” You growl down at Egg. He’s too busy looking over his shoulder to nod. Eyes wide with panic as he follows alongside you.
Through some blessed mercy, you manage to find Dunk. You grab his arm, turning him away from the barkeep he’d been speaking to. “Oi,” he trails off as he takes in your face. “What’d ya do?”
“Problem,” you pant out. A loud shout catches your attention and you all turn to see the guards just behind you. “Big problem!”
You’re cut off by your own yelp as Dunk squats down. He presses his shoulder to your stomach, lifting you as easy as he would a sack of potatoes. You let out a little squeal as he straightens, hauling Egg up in his other arm.
Your hands scramble for grip along his back as he hightails out of the market. You can’t believe his stamina as he runs with you all.
It’s actually all you can think about now. Wondering how this translates to other aspects of his life as he gets back to the horses.
He sets you down with a huff and eases Egg onto his horse before returning to you. You don’t get to enjoy the feel of his hand around you for long before the guards catch up.
“Hiyah,” his hips buck against yours and you let out a low, frustrated groan as he urges the horses on.
Dunk lays a heavy hand around your waist as he helps you down from your horse. You rest your weight against him, pretending not to notice how he stares down your dress as you push your chest up.
“Are you coming?” Egg shouts and then Dunk’s releasing you. Your fists clench at your sides as you let out a belligerent curse. You love the prince, but you’ll have to find a way to get rid of the boy for a night.
With a low grumble, you follow behind the pair, plotting to yourself all the while. You’re fine enough admitting that you’re perverted as you watch Dunk’s nicely shaped rear as he walks. But you wish you could say the same about him.
You’ve seen glimpses of his true hunger. Moments where he’s shoved a knee between your legs and hauled you up his body. Or squeezed a little harshly at your backside while his tongue explored your mouth.
But he always drifts away just before you really get to taste it. There must be a way to tempt a virtuous man. You’ve broken monks before, Gods above. A simple hedge knight should not be proving such a challenge.
“Are you gonna be alright here?” Dunk asks you, standing amid a camp of other traveling knights. You’re somewhere in the Reach, growing ever closer to Egg’s destination of the Red Lake.
It’s happenstance that you found yourself in the company of so many rugged men just as your patience snapped. Not to say you would lie with any of them. No, your lusts are solely for the knight beside you. But they could prove incredibly helpful to your plan.
“I have you, don’t I?” You ask, glancing up at Dunk with wide eyes and a coy smile. He flushes slightly before backing off with a stiff nod.
“Of course, m’lady.”
“I’m not a lady, Dunk,” you remind him. “Far from it,” you mutter, dragging your hand along his waist as you pass by. Dunk jolts under your touch, posture going stiff straight. It’s almost laughable if you weren’t so frustrated.
You wander off to help Egg set up the tents and smile when you see him chatting eagerly with the other squires. You don’t feel the stare burning into your back. Or catch how Dunk’s head tilts, catching the curve of your hips as you walk.
He shakes his head, cursing himself, and wanders off toward the other knights. He’s damned straight to the hells, he’s sure of it. Being tempted by a kind woman such as yourself. You cannot help that you’re beautiful. It ain’t your fault he’s so easily tempted by you.
Except it is.
Later, sitting around the fire, you realize the knights really don’t have any proper accommodations for a lady. No seat to rest on, only the hard earth or flaking logs. Well, that simply won’t do.
You trail your hand across Dunk’s shoulders, grinning at the way he shudders. You come to a stop by his side and he glances up at you with eager-to-please eyes. “Do you mind, Ser?” You whisper.
He frowns but then you’re uncrossing his arms and making room for yourself as you drop on his lap. Dunk immediately goes stiff, mind racing as his hands hover at your sides.
You simply hum, taking his hands in yours and wrapping them around your waist. Warmth emanates from you, the soft curve of your breasts rests atop his arm and it’s the only thing he can feel.
He knows he’d been speaking to another knight before this. Gods only know what he’d been saying. You laugh as you continue the conversation for him, conversing as if your mind isn’t as disturbed as his. Must not be.
Dunk lets out a low grunt, shifting his thighs so you can’t feel the steadily growing bulge in his pants. Your nails dig into his thighs as he readjusts, shooting him an odd look. Dunk can only offer a tense smile, trying to tilt his hips so you don’t brush against him.
He lets his hand rest along your thigh, thumb moving restlessly against you. You shift at that, thighs clenching as you push back against him. His breath hitches as you finally catch what he’s been trying to hide. He waits for you to storm off, to curse him for being so perverted. But you don’t, if anything, you seem to move closer, a low sigh slipping from your lips as you shift further against him.
All Dunk can think about is lifting your skirts and taking you there. Pushing you into the grass and leaves and mounting you like an animal.
You let out a sharp gasp, and he glances down, having pushed you from his lap without realizing it. “Oh, m’lady,” he reaches for you but you slap his hands away. “‘M sorry.”
“Enough,” you shake your head and let out a tired sigh. “Enough,” you mutter, stepping away from the fire. Dunk watches you go, something tight twisting his chest.
“Oi,” one of the knights slaps him. “How much does she cost?”
Dunk’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “My lady isn’t a whore.”
The man backs off with his hands raised. “Sorry, lad, didn’t realize she was your woman.”
“No,” Dunk shakes his head, ready to correct the other man. But he doesn’t want any of them thinking that you’re up for grabs. That any part of you might be open to them. It’s not his place to make that decision. And he’s sure he’s doing you a disservice, but Dunk can’t care about that right now.
He gets to his feet, checks that Egg is still with the other squires, and goes traipsing after you. He follows your trail all the way to a stream. You’re kneeling by it, hand lazily dipping through the water.
His boot snaps against a branch and you leap to your feet. “It’s just me,” he assuages. You turn with a small smile. “I’m sorry-“
“No,” you cut him off and he huffs. “I’m sorry, Ser. I’m afraid I’ve been unfair.”
“Unfair?”
“I am not a lady, Dunk. I have needs. Needs as bad as any man. But I’m afraid I’ve been blinded by lust. Forcing my affections on you when you haven’t wanted them. I’ve shamed myself, I’m sorry.”
Dunk’s jaw drops as he stares at you. “Affections- Needs?” He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “You haven’t forced anything, woman, what the hell are you talking about?”
You’re frowning now. “By the fire when you… well you were-“
“Hard,” Dunk finishes and your eyes blow wide.
“Gods, I hadn’t thought you capable of such crass language.”
“I’m a knight, not a lady,” he chides you and that drags a laugh from you. “Are you saying, all this time, you’ve known what you’re doing?” Dunk stalks closer and he catches a gleam in your eye that he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.
“Well,” you take a step closer to him. “Yes,” you laugh under your breath. It cuts off as he reaches out, snagging your waist in his hands and pulling you closer.
“All this-“
“Enough talking,” you groan, pushing onto your toes and grabbing his cheeks. You pull him down, lips crashing against his as you back him up. He lets out a low groan as his back hits a tree, hands roaming greedily along your body.
You can’t believe how stupid you’ve both been. Well, you can believe him. But Gods, how blinded by lust have you been that you haven’t seen such obvious signs from him?
Perhaps he’s far more discreet than you’d given him credit for. Or, you’re losing your touch.
Dunk’s hand cups your jaw, finger squeezing lightly at your cheeks as your lips part. His tongue wastes no time, dipping between your parted lips as you let out a low moan. He flips you both around, pushing you up against the tree as he lowers himself.
You catch your breath as he breaks away from you. Hands greedy as they sweep along the hem of your dress, hiking it up above your hips. You almost question him, but the sight of his broad shoulders parting your thighs shuts you up.
“May I?” He asks, fingers coasting the edge of your undergarments. Your hand smooths along his cheek, up to his hair as you nod. He wastes little time in ripping the flimsy fabric apart, nose dipping low and brushing against you.
“Oh,” you let out a shaky moan, head falling back against the rough bark as his tongue darts out, a tentative taste of you. It’s alarming how quick he is to flatten his tongue and drag it along the length of you. How quick he is to grow greedy. Large hands pinching at your thighs as he hikes one over his shoulder, practically drowning in you as he buries his face deep.
“Gods above,” you hiss, biting down on your palm so you don’t alert the entire forest to your perversions. You feel Dunk’s smug smirk as he lifts you, tilting his head to allow his tongue a deeper angle inside you.
You’ve lain with plenty of men before. But you don’t think you’ve ever met one so eager, so hungry for your release on his tongue. A sharp cry leaves you as your hands tighten in his hair, hips bucking against his large nose as he sucks on your small bundle of nerves.
“Dunk,” you gasp out, core pulsing near painfully as your pleasure mounts. He doesn’t stop, if anything you seem to be encouraging him. Rapid, bucking hips grow desperate as you chase your release.
“Come on,” he urges, eyes eager as he spares you a brief glance. That look in his eyes seems to be enough as you cry out his name, chasing your release. He reaches up, large hand smothering the bottom half of your face as your pleasure crashes over you. Your moans go muffled against his palm, eyes burning with unshed tears as he slowly lifts himself.
He waits for you to calm down, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips as he presses soft kisses along the curve of your neck.
When you finally catch your breath, you only have one question. “Where the bloody hell did a hedge knight learn that?”
Dunk snorts and leans back. “I’m not a blushing maid,” he admonishes.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you tease.
Dunk shakes his head, dipping down for another hungry kiss. You can taste your release on his tongue and it only stokes the fires of your lust. “Please,” you beg, reaching for his breeches.
His hand stills yours and he leans back, looking shamefully at the ground. “I’m quite… big,” he warns you.
You pull back with a huff. “You say that like it’s a problem. Not a maiden, need I remind you?” You scold him.
“Yes, well-“
“Dunk, do you wish to lay with me?”
His eyes go wide as he nods eagerly. “Then relax, love.” It doesn’t seem to sate him much, but it’s enough for you. You work on the laces of his breeches while his own hand clumsily undoes the ties of your dress.
He pulls it down just enough for your breasts to spill out, palms greedily cupping them as he dips his head to kiss you once more. You don’t get a chance to see what’s between his legs. But you feel the weight of it in your palm. The length, the girth.
Lords above, he might be right.
But you’re a Stormborn. You don’t back away from danger. You run to it. Or, in this case, allow it to split you in two.
“Are you sure?”
“Please, Dunk,” you encourage, wrapping one leg around his hip while he pushes your skirts back up. He spares you one last look before nodding. His hands cup your thighs and you let out a small moan as he lifts you easily, pressing you higher against the tree.
It’s been a while since you’ve lain with a man. But not so long that it feels like losing your maidenhead again. Dunk’s slow as he guides himself inside you, and you’ve been wanting him so long, you hardly feel the sting of his size.
The only thing your lustful body can think of is how deeply you want him to bury himself. Your nails drag through his hair, scratching at his scalp as you press hungry kisses along his jaw, his neck, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder.
He lets out a low hiss, grip turning bruising around your legs as he buries himself completely. The moan you let out is sinful, the pressure inside you feels close to exploding as he rests there for a moment.
“Gods,” he lets out a low noise that has pleasurable shivers running up your spine.
You pull back from him, tilting his chin down. “Please, move.” He gives you a shaky nod, one arm bracing against the tree as he uses the other to adjust you. Even that small movement is enough to have you keening.
The first roll of his hips is slow, tentative. Like he still worries he might hurt you. But then, you’re tugging in his hair, begging for more, and he’s snapping his hips against yours eagerly. Each movement jolts you further up the tree, the bark snagging at the lace off your dress.
You hardly care, legs clenching around him as you bite your tongue. Each thrust knocks the breath from you, feels so good it hurts as you try not to make a noise.
Dunk hardly even needs the tree; he’s so tall, so strong, he keeps you upright all on his own. That only serves to further your desire, your nails dragging along his back as he nearly kisses your cervix.
His thrusts begin to fasten as you clench around him. Your pleasure begins mounting once more. Either from your previous release or simply having what you’ve coveted for so long. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take much more for you to be squeezing tight around him while his warmth spills in you.
“Gods,” you mutter, arms limp along his shoulders as he shifts to hold all of your weight. You’re not eager for him to set you down. You doubt your legs will be working right now. The tips of your toes still tingled with the numb pleasure of your release.
“Are you alright?” He asks, slowly helping you down. Your legs tremble as you stand straight and you can only nod, tongue too loose to attempt conversation right now.
He pulls up his breeches while you work on fixing the laces of your dress. After a minute, when the fog has begun to clear from your mind, you admire his form. The thick arms that held you so easily, bigger legs that you still had yet to ride. Not to mention what rests between his legs. The gods surely had favorites. And you had to be one of them for them to have sent you such a man.
“Next time you wish to do that, do not hide behind the guise of honor,” you scold him but he can only grin at you. A boyish, incredibly self-satisfied look about him. “You only punish us both.”
Dunk nods, kneeling to pick up his sword. You’re not even sure when he dropped that. “Yes, m’lady.”
You take his chin between your fingers, pinching it and tilting his face toward your own. “I’m no lady.”
“No,” he laughs. “You’re not.” You scoff, reaching to swat at him. But he snatches your hand in his and hauls you easily over his shoulder.
“You brute,” you accuse, grinning at his chuckle. And more than grateful. There was no way in the seven hells you were walking back to camp.
Now, you only had to find a way to excuse those noises the others had heard. Perhaps you could lie, say it’s mating season for elk.
It’s certainly just become mating season for one beast, and you’re currently tossed over his shoulder. The poor thing has no idea what he’s just done.
the first time you ride ser dunk's big thighs ☘︎ ݁˖
-18+ big time size kink, thigh riding, cumming in pants, messy makeouts and some groping from dunk lol! ᥫ᭡
the first time you ever come upon the idea of straddling one of the giant knight's thighs is when you were standing in the empty training yard, save for the two of you. the last rays of the setting sun had bled from the sky, leaving the world in a deep, soft purple twilight.
you had finally convinced dunk to let you playfully practice as a knight yourself.
your muscles screamed with a sweet, familiar ache, a testament to hours spent with sword and shield in your hands…his sword and shield.
every movement he made seemed to echo in your own weary limbs. you were tired, bone-deep, but it was a different kind of exhaustion that was beginning to take hold, a low, insistent thrumming that started and spread like warm honey through your body…with his scent of sweat, earth and the cold steel he handled so expertly. with the deep, rumbling timbre of his voice when he corrected your stance, his large hands steadying your waist, his touch a brand even through the thick fabric of your linen dress.
ser duncan moved with a quiet grace despite his immense size, a mountain of a man, his broad back to you, the linen strained over powerful shoulders. then he turned, "you fought well today, m'lady. your form improves." he praises with a smile on his face.
"thank you, ser," you managed, your voice softer than you intended. you couldn't tear your eyes away from him. he was so large, so solid, the thought was sudden and overwhelming, a desperate, shameless need to be close to that strength, to feel it against you, to lose yourself in it.
he began to walk towards the shed armory, and you found your feet moving, following him as if pulled by an invisible string. he set the sword aside with a quiet clang and moved to sit on a sturdy wooden bench, the kind used for squires to clean their masters' armor. it groaned slightly under his weight, a sound that sent a jolt straight through you.
he looked up at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light from a single sputtering torch. "something troubles you m'lady?"
you couldn't answer with words. your throat was tight. instead, you shook your head and closed the distance between you, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. you stopped before him, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. hesitantly, you lifted a hand and placed it on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric.
his gaze didn't waver. he simply watched you, his patience an endearing thing.
he was a man who understood the language of the body, of instinct and action, far better than the fumbling complexities of words. you swung a leg over his lap, not to straddle him in the way a lover would, but to settle yourself firmly upon his powerful thigh. the hard, corded muscle of his leg was perfect, a solid ridge of pressure right against your clothed clit.
a soft gasp escaped your lips at the feeling.
his hands came to rest on your hips, not guiding, not pushing, just holding you steady.
"what is it you need, sweet girl?" his voice was a low murmur, vibrating through his chest and into yours. "did i tire you so? i’m happy to carry you back-"
you couldn't speak. you just shook your head, a blush creeping up your neck. instead, you began to move. it was a slow, tentative rock at first, a subtle grinding of your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh.
the friction was immediate, a delicious spark that ignited the low thrumming on your clit. it felt shameful, wanton, you were desperate to wash away the fatigue.
"do you ache?" he murmurs quietly,
you found a rhythm, your movements growing more confident, more urgent. your hands gripped his shoulders for leverage, your head falling forward, your brow resting against his.
your lack of response only prompted him to press a couple of slow sweet kisses to your cheek and jaw.
his thigh was so large, so solid beneath you, and the pressure was just right, his hands, which had been still on your hips, began to move with you. they didn't direct you, but followed your rhythm, his thumbs stroking circles over your hipbones, a silent encouragement from him.
the air grew thick with the sounds of your soft pants and the whisper of fabric against fabric. big palms coming down now to knead the flesh of your ass as if it were dough.
"dunk..." you can only mumble his name as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, your movements becoming more erratic, more frantic. just as you felt the first shocks of your climax begin to unfurl, his voice broke through the haze of your pleasure.
"do you want my cock?" his question was blunt, crude, yet spoken in that same low, calm tone. it cut through your desperation like a shard of ice, and your movements faltered. you lifted your head to look at him, his eyes dark pools in the torchlight.
you tried to form a response, to explain the feeling inside you. "no…i mean, yes...gods, ser, i don't know," you stammered, your voice breathy and thin.
"this...this feels so good. you're so...large. so strong. just this...the pressure...it's..." you couldn't find the words. how could you explain that this simple act, this desperate rubbing against him like a cat in heat, was more more overwhelming, than anything you had ever imagined? that the sheer size and power of his thighs and arms, the strength of them, was driving you to madness in a way the thought of his cock also did?
he seemed to understand. a ghost of a smile touched his lips, and his hands tightened on your ass, guiding you back into your rhythm. your hand trailed down to feel the hardened thick, length of his fat cock straining against the fabric.
"please…ser…please…"
"then take what you need," he murmured, his voice a deep, resonant caress.
"i need you, only you."
his control shatters at your raw confession. with a guttural groan muffled against your neck, he spends himself. you feel the sudden, intense heat bloom through the front of his trousers as he pulses, his thick cock throbbing with each powerful spurt of his seed that soaks the rough cloth. "pleasure yourself on me." pressing another semi wet kiss to your cheek with a sound that was your undoing. with a choked cry, you gave yourself over to the sensation completely. the coil inside you snapped with the force of a taut bowstring, and your orgasm crashed over you in blinding waves.
a cry tore from your throat as you convulsed against him, your body bucking and trembling. your nails dug into his biceps as wave after wave of intense pleasure pulsed through you, leaving you breathless and boneless. you could feel the wet heat of your release soaking through his trousers, a slick, undeniable proof of your desire marking his leg.
you collapsed against him, limp and spent, your face buried in the crook of his neck. he held you, his strong arms wrapping around your back, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.
for a long moment, the only sound was your ragged breathing and the crackle of the torch. you were vaguely aware of the mess you had made, a hot blush of embarrassment beginning to creep in on both your faces.
he had done this for you, given you this release without seeking his own really…just feeling you and seeing you please yourself on him was enough. the thought sent a fresh wave of warmth through your chest.
"better?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
you could only nod, a lazy, satisfied smile touching your lips.
wanted to make a sequel to my first Ettore fic, and @ewanmitchellcrumbs sex pollen writing challenge seemed like the perfect opportunity (very late to the party, I know, but better late than never, right?). Also, seeing Wurthering Heights made my Ewan obsession come back🙈
Pairing: Ettore (High Life) x Reader
Summary: Dibs caught you and Ettore in the act, but she had a punishment in mind that would benefit her as well.
Warnings: sex pollen, smut (18+ minors dni), noncon/dubcon due to sex pollen, male and female masturbation, p in v, breeding kink, cum (lots of cum), anal fingering, multiple orgasms and creampies, mind breaking, Ettore being a bit ooc, and two slaps
word count || 4.1k🤙🏻
part one | part two
Dibs watched you and Ettore’s fuck fest on the staticky camera recording, switching between two specific emotions: fury, and hope.
How dare you break the strict rules that were in place to keep better peace between inmates? She advocated heavily for the Box so this kind of thing didn’t happen. It wasn’t uncommon on Earth for inmates to have relations with each other, but it was forbidden on this vessel.
The more the twisted doctor watched, she started to feel a sudden, unwanted emotion: arousal.
Dr. Dibs growled under her breath as she felt herself become lubricated, her underwear growing wetter with every trebled moan you let out over the computer speakers. She couldn’t hear what the two of you were saying, but she could hear clearly the plap plap plaps of Ettore testicles tapping harshly against the curve of your ass with every thrust he forced into you.
Dibs sighed heavily as she gently massaged her clit, the fingertips of her hands pruning from prolonged contact with her wetness. Even though infuriated, this was the closest thing she could get to porn, and she missed it.
But most of all, she missed her babies.
Postpartum hit Dibs hard. The constant crying, screaming, the scratching and pulling, her hair started to fall out due to stress. She just wanted the noise to stop…just for a moment. The silence was so comforting, so therapeutic, she enjoyed it so much she forgot how she was getting the silence.
She regretted it every single day, she deserved to be here, and she longed to hear the screams and cries of her babies, because that would mean they’d be alive…but she killed them.
But now, you could bring them back to her. Ettore was a fine specimen, his cum viscous with healthy sperm. You, although very mentally disturbed, you were a physically decent concubine for her children.
Dr. Dibs, in all her psychotic experiments, managed to produce a fine powder that increased libido to the point of pain. Insemination wasn’t working, so she needed the men to impregnate the women themselves. It was against the rules, but you can't make omelets without breaking a few eggs.
Of course Dibs had to test it out first before distributing it among the male prisoners, and Ettore would be a fine specimen. He wasn’t worth anything, he was expendable. She’d put it in his food and let him loose like the wild mutt he was. And you, well…it would be punishment enough for your insubordination. She could sense how uncomfortable you were around Ettore, how you always looked over your shoulder and tensed when he was around. To be so aroused you’d stoop as low as to crave Ettore’s touch, one of the vilest criminals on this ship, it would be enough to put you in emotional turmoil.
Considering she was the one in charge, it wasn’t hard at all to put the powders in your food. She watched from afar in the cafeteria, hiding her smirk as you and Ettore scarfed down the food. You both were sitting on opposite sides of the room, each of you tense for different reasons. If they were trying to hide their forbidden affair, it wasn’t working all too well.
Ettore kept staring at you with those intense, predatory eyes—a wolf watching a lamb. You didn’t look at him at all, like if you didn’t see him he wasn’t there. Dibs allowed herself to smile at that, knowing that you couldn’t escape him, especially now that she’d force you and Ettore to lust for each other. She did debate the odds of you two finding others to have sex with, but knowing Ettore and reading his file, it wouldn’t go over well if someone he considered ‘his’ found someone else. If you were to choose someone else, Dibs was sure it would end in a fatality.
This would be fun to watch.
Whenever you feel like you wanna be filled with a real cock again, you know where to find me…
You didn’t know why the last thing Ettore said to you kept repeating in your mind, over and over, like a compulsion. You had convinced yourself that you would die before ever letting that disgusting man have his way with you again. But now, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his long, thick cock so perfectly slid in and out of your pussy, molding you just for him.
While sitting in the cafeteria, you felt Ettore’s eyes on you. Your body was tense, not even from the food that tasted slightly worse than usual, a chill going down your spine. You knew what he was thinking about, and you knew he was wondering if you were thinking about it too. You tried not to, really, but it was close to impossible when what or who you weren’t trying to think about was forced into the same metal can as you.
You felt another pair of eyes on you though. Dr. Dibs. You could handle Ettore, but having Dibs stare at you made your body feel like a deer in headlights. Where Ettore was a rabid dog—unpredictable and violent—Dibs was a lioness—calculating and patient—arguably much more of a threat when its eyes are fixated on you. It made you worry if she was planning something, or most likely, when whatever she was planning would be put into motion.
As everyone exited the cafeteria, you tried not to gag as Ettore winked at you as he passed.
You felt a headache coming on as you walked back to your room, your stomach twisting, your food obviously not sitting well with you. But you tried to ignore it, sitting on the side of your bed, letting out an aggravated sigh. Why were you feeling so bad? It’s not like you haven’t had the same disgusting mess hall food for the past year, so why were you feeling sick now? It didn’t make sense. You figured maybe sleeping it off would help.
But sleep never came, at least not fully or in a way that was satisfying. You found sleep for twenty minutes at a time, minimum. You kept being awoken by a jolt that shocked your whole body, something inside your system that told you that you needed to be awake. You tried to ignore those sensations, but those jolts were stronger than your will; each time you woke up, the harder it was to try to fall back asleep.
It felt surprisingly warm in the spaceship, the temperature always a somewhat comfortable setting with all the vents that blew cold air throughout the vessel. You felt like you could sweat through your prison scrubs. What really concerned you however, was how wet you were. Your underwear was soaked with your slick, your clit throbbing painfully. You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching down into your pants, whimpering when your fingers started to brush against your sensitive nub. Fuck, what was wrong with you?
You stumbled off your bed, hands and knees impacting the flooring harshly. You exhaled shakily as you forced yourself onto your feet, opening your bedroom door into the hallway—a wave of cold air hitting your heated face, your nausea alleviating slightly. But your cunt felt like it would burn away if you didn’t have some sort of release. So you did the only thing you thought you could do…go to the Box.
The walk down to the Box was an agonizing one, cramps like you’ve never felt before hindering your body’s ability to walk properly. Each step you took, a wave of slick leaked from your pussy, dull aches resonating throughout your core and abdomen. You felt like you were going to die if you didn’t have something inside you. You tried setting your mind on the Box, just a ladder away and you’d have some pleasure; but trailing off the beaten path, your mind wandered to Ettore. He’d have no qualms helping you with your…issue. But no, you weren’t allowing yourself that, no matter how much your body craved it.
You finally made it down the ladder and waddled to the Box, only to find it wouldn’t open. Usually, all you had to do was press a button and the door would open, allowing you access to dildos, vibrators, and sybians. But the door would not open.
You cried as you banged on the door, begging for the door to give; but logically, you knew it would be impossible. “Fuck!” You sobbed, sinking to the cold floor, your back leaning against the mocking door of the Box. You couldn’t take it anymore. You hastily removed your prison scrubs, each piece of clothing sticking to your skin uncomfortably. Once you were finally naked, you whined in annoyance as it did little to cool your burning skin.
Your hand traveled down your sweaty body, your head lolling back against the metal door once your fingers found your engorged clitoris. You rubbed roughly, the action painful but you couldn’t stop. Your fingers were already soaked, you didn’t even need to use your own spit as lubrication as you sunk two fingers inside yourself. It helped, but only a miniscule amount. You sobbed as you fingered yourself, the angle not being able to reach as deep as you wanted. The wet squelching did nothing to lessen your arousal, in fact, it seemed to only make it worse.
You couldn’t get yourself to come, and giving up, you removed your fingers and slumped against the Box. You sobbed as waves of pain shot through your, over and over again. Is this how you were to die? From being too horny?
As if the situation couldn’t get any worse, you heard the clanking sound of footsteps descending down the very same ladder you used to get to the Box. You prayed it wasn’t Dibs, for you had a feeling that witch was behind why you were in so much pain. If it was her, she’d probably make you feel even worse.
But you were not greeted by the face of Dr. Dibs, no—you were greeted by the dark, lustful gaze of Ettore.
After Ettore had fucked you that day in the rec room, it was all he could think about. Sure, he thought about sex all the time anyway, but it was the fact that he only thought about it with you is what made all the difference.
Ettore didn’t care for you in any particular way, all he wanted was something to stick is cock in. He thought you were the most attractive on the ship, Boyse a close second. But there was something about you that made him gravitate towards you instead. Maybe it was because he knew you were almost just as dangerous as he was. He saw you as a challenge, not a major one, but enough that he would have to put a little effort into it.
He couldn’t remember a time he came so hard with anyone else. It may have been due to the blunt force head trauma you inflicted, but his orgasm washed over him with such an intensity, he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to stop you if you had actually decided to kill him.
Ettore craved you. He craved your touch. Your cunt. He wanted you to want him. So, when he started to feel his cock swell painfully during the sleep cycle, he thought nothing of it. He was horny yet again, nothing surprising there. He gripped his cock and stroked like he had done many times before, thinking about your pretty bloody face as he came. But after that, his cock did not soften. Oh, so it was that kind of night. This also wasn’t shocking to him, he often touched himself multiple times every day. But once his cock didn’t soften after a few more times, he started to worry. He always had decent stamina, but this felt different. No matter what he did, or thought of, he couldn’t get his cock to stop.
Ettore felt the heat of it all as well. His sweat coated body made him writhe in his bed uncomfortably. Now, the beds weren’t all that comfortable to begin with, but he could not fall asleep. His cock and his mind were dialed to eleven. He couldn’t stop thinking about how good your pussy would feel, how good it would feel to empty his balls into your fertile womb. Fuck, he needed to find you. He wanted to have you again. No, he needed to have you again. Much like last time, he wasn’t worried you’d be able to stop him. Especially not when he was the horniest he’d ever been in his entire life, and that was saying something.
The man looked for you, sniffing you out like a shark. He growled under his breath when he found your room empty. But one thing he noticed: your sheets were soaked. A small, dark puddle lay in the middle of your bed. He put his fingers to it, bringing it up to his nose. He smirked when he recognized that familiar smell. Whatever was happening to him, it must’ve been happening to you too. You were so fucking wet. The only logical place to look next was the room that held the Box.
Ettore almost laughed when he heard your whines and whimpers as he descended the ladder, trying to reach the bottom as quickly as he could without falling to the floor. But once he did, he turned around to see you, a sweaty and pale mess leaning against the Box. You were completely naked, your hands tightly grabbing onto your breasts, your slick pooling into a puddle on the ground. Ettore’s couldn’t have been any more erect.
“What the fuck is happening to me?” You cursed, a desperate plea to nothing.
Ettore could only mockingly coo at your pitiful state. “Aw, you’re a needy little thing right now, aren’t you? So wet and aching for cock.”
“That fuckin’ witch did something to me!” You tried standing up, but your legs were too weak. Your eyes widened as you saw how hard Ettore was through his boxers, it was practically poking through the material. “Don’t come any closer! I don’t know what this thing is.” You threatened weakly, but your body was absolutely buzzing at a man’s proximity.
“It’s sweet that you care, but I think I’ve caught this little bug too. My cock keeps gettin’ hard, no matter how many times I jerk myself off. I need your tight cunt, or else I think it’ll explode.”
“I don’t give a shit if your dick explodes, stay away from me!” You started to crawl away, though you didn’t even know where to. You were positive you weren’t strong enough to even make it up the ladder, much less escape Ettore. But your body didn’t want you to, your body wanted to lay there and let him fuck you, but your mind wouldn’t let you.
“Where do you think you’re going, eh?” Ettore taunted, running towards your weak form, grabbing you by the ankles and forcibly pulling you to him as you cursed at him. “What are you gonna do, huh, kill me? Not like this, you aren’t.” He chuckled, spreading your legs, groaning at the sight of your glistening pussy. “Fuck.” You cried out as he leaned down to lick at your arousal, slurping up every last drop, but you just kept producing more. “Tastes so fuckin’ good.” He suckled at your clit, your whole body convulsing as your orgasm approached you faster than you thought possible.
“Oh, god, coming-!” You sobbed, rutting against Ettore’s face and coating the bottom half of his face with your slick. “Fuck, fuck…”
Ettore groaned, his dark smirk making your pussy clench around nothing. “Christ, girl, I didn’t even try. I wonder how many I can get outta you.”
You and Ettore both moaned loudly as he swiftly entered you. He set a brutal pace immediately, that wasn’t surprising, but what was surprising was how easily you took him, considering how your first time together went. He was so long and thick, but your walls welcomed him instantly, your hips canting up with every thrust to have his cock go as deep as it could go. Your mind was hazy with pleasure, and another orgasm already on the rise once again. “I can feel you fluttering around me. You gonna come again already? Such a slut, go ahead and come.”
Your body had no trouble obeying Ettore’s command, but you probably would’ve come anyway regardless. You sobbed as you still felt so insatiable, your cunt constantly produced slick that made his cock so easily piston into you. “Fuck, I’m coming.” Ettore groaned, filling you up, your walls milking him until he shivered. “God, I’m still hard.” He chuckled incredulously, flipping you over into your hands and knees and entering you again from behind. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna keep breeding this pretty pussy until I’m all empty.”
It’s like you weren’t in control of your own body. All you could do was feel it, and hear your ass slap against Ettore’s pelvis as you bounced back against him. His cock hit the very ends of you each thrust, your cervix certainly bruising from the force, but it made no difference to you.
Ever since your first orgasm, it’s like it didn’t stop, only lessen in intensity until it peaked again. You were scared, Ettore didn’t seem like he had any intention of stopping any time soon, his dick still hard and pulsing. But god, it felt so good. You didn’t even flinch when one of Ettore’s fingers prodded against your ass, gathering your slick until he was able to push into your puckered hole.
“Fuck, you’re so tight everywhere.” Ettore moaned, throwing his head back as you clenched so tightly around him that he came again, his spend leaking out of your cunt and dripping down your thighs. He laughed breathlessly, shaking as he slumped against your back, running his hands along your sweaty body, the feeling making you shiver. “Christ, I think I still have another one in me. How about you, luv?”
You could only whimper in response. You were so weak with overwhelming pleasure, you felt like your brain was turning to mush, only thoughts being of Ettore and his cock. “Please…” you managed to whine.
Ettore made you switch positions again, laying against the cold floor and having you sit atop of him. You could barely hold yourself up, your legs felt like jelly. You didn’t even realize you had been crying until Ettore reached up to wipe away some of your tears, giving you a gentle slap. Well, gentle for Ettore. It burned, your face already bruising, but it barely registered when he started to thrust up into you again.
“God…” You whined, your breathing unsteady as he reached deep inside you with the angle. “I can’t take anymore…” You cried, tears freely streaming down your cheeks.
“Shh, yes, you can. You can take it.” Ettore cooed, grunting in exertion, doing all the work despite you being on top.
Ettore brought you down, pressing your chest against his, allowing him to kiss you roughly. He pinned your arms behind you as he started to thrust as hard as he could, his balls slapping against your ass from the force. “Feels so good…” He moaned, sinking his teeth into your shoulder.
“Fuck…fuck…” You groaned, another powerful orgasm bubbling up to the surface, your whole body heating up uncomfortably as the pleasure was relentless. Ettore’s body was so warm against you, his skin so soft against you despite all the scars he had, a couple even caused by you.
You and Ettore looked into each other’s eyes, each of your expressions hazy with pleasure. His eyes were beautiful, you decided. A rare lapse of control over your thoughts, but you’d chastise yourself about it later. You didn’t second guess yourself before you licked up his face, tasting the salty sweat coated skin. Ettore smirked at you, almost fondly, which made your climax rush towards you. “Gonna come again.” You whispered, all the pleasure making you too exhausted to even voice how good you felt.
“Me too. Wait for me.” Ettore ordered, sitting up and allowing for a lotus position. It was far too intimate, but it felt so right. You reached back and held onto one of his legs for purchase, a final surge of energy letting you grind against him, your throbbing clit rubbing against his pelvis. The noises were obscene, the clicks of each other’s leftover slick and cum echoing in the otherwise empty room. “Ah, I’m gonna come. Fuckin’ come with me. Let go, my pretty slut.”
You held onto Ettore for dear life as your final and most intense orgasm washed over you, a resounding cry echoing throughout the space, Ettore’s finishing moan almost as loud as yours. If you were completely lucid, you would’ve been able to hear a security camera zoom in from across the room. But none of that mattered, what mattered is that the burning in your abdomen finally subsided and you were sure you couldn’t continue.
An exhaustion like you’ve never felt before weighed heavy, settling deep in your bones. All you could do was pant against Ettore, your head resting against his shoulder, a pang of relief washing over you when you felt his cock finally soften inside you. But he made no move to leave the position. You figured he was just as exhausted as you.
You and Ettore shivered as his cock slipped out of you, all his loads of cum leaking out of you. Sticky and uncomfortable, you tried getting out of his hold. He held on to you tightly for a moment before letting you shakily move off of him. But you couldn’t stand even if you wanted to, so you just moved to sit next to him, an awkward silence occupying the space.
As you both tried catching your breath, your conscience came back in full force. You just let Ettore fuck you again, when you told him you’d kill him if he did it again. Not only that, you enjoyed it. Sure, there was an outside influence that you didn’t understand yet, but deep down, you would’ve enjoyed it regardless.
“Think Dibs was behind this?” Ettore finally broke the silence, looking at you expectantly, as if you had all the answers.
“I have a strong suspicion.” You cringed at your hoarse voice, all your screams and moaning damaging your vocal cords slightly. “I never would’ve let this happen otherwise.” You lied, and Ettore knew you lied with how he chuckled.
“Right.”
You flinched when Ettore started to run his hand up and down your naked thigh. “Don’t touch me.” You hissed, trying to move away from him but he didn’t let you.
“You’re still gonna resist me, even after all this?” He scoffed, his grip on you tightening until it felt bruising. “You’re mine now, you know? Whether you accept it or not. Dibs doing this to us doesn’t change that, you were already mine.”
“I’m no one’s property. I’d rather die.” Ettore forcibly pulled you back onto his lap, and you were too weak to stop him. You cried in overstimulation as he thrusted his cock up into you again. “How are you able to get hard right now?” You asked in shock, your pussy too sore to handle another rough fucking.
Ettore hummed, his cock pulsing inside you. He only shallowly thrusted into you, surprisingly gentle, reaching down to rub your clit with his thumb. “You. Are. Mine.” He spoke softly, each word punctuated with a gentle thrust. “Dibs didn’t have to poison us for that to be true. We are on this ship until we die, there’s nowhere for us to go. You can’t escape me, escape us.”
“Ettore, please…” You whimpered, writhing in his hold, another unwanted orgasm forming in your core.
“Please? Please, what?”
“I…I—ah!” You cried out as Ettore thrusted into you harder, his thumb circling your clit faster. “You gonna come for me?”
“Please…”
“Please?” He mocked, biting your lip hard as your mouth opened in a silent scream as your climax hit you like a truck. “Good girl. See how your body listens to me? You can’t deny your body wants to be owned by me. I’m gonna come in you again, and you’re gonna accept it and be happy. Understand?” You could only nod as Ettore came in you once again, your mind shattering into a million pieces as he broke you.
“Who do you belong to, hmm?” You scowled, earning another slap on your cheek, your head jerking to the side from the force. “I asked you a question.”
“You…” You whispered.
“What was that?”
“I belong to you, Ettore.” Ettore smiled, his teeth sharp and eyes glistening with malicious delight. He would be the death of you, but that day was yet to come
“I’ll never let you go.”
From the security office of the vessel, Dibs was smiling.
Her experiment worked. She was going to get her babies back.
Summary: A new apartment with enormous windows puts you directly in the line of sight of your dangerously observant neighbour, and what begins as innocent glances quickly becomes a deliberate, silent game of watching and being watched. As the tension escalates into obsession, the barrier between you finally disappears, forcing you both to confront the reality of the desire you’ve been performing for each other all along.
Warnings: 18+ content, minors do not interact, smut, voyeurism, exhibitionism, mutual escalation, manipulative behaviour, male and female masturbation, p in v sex (protected and unprotected), creampie, both reader and Eddie have sex with other people, oral sex (m and f receiving), reader is an absolute throat goat. Eddie is late 30s, reader is early 20s.
6,211 words
a/n: I ain't gonna lie, this was absolutely inspired by I Get Off by Halestorm.
Hauling the last of the boxes up the narrow stairs leaves your arms aching, lungs burning as another mental curse is thrown at the building’s complete lack of an elevator. The irritation fades the moment the living room comes into view, replaced by the same quiet awe that made this place impossible to resist in the first place.
A massive window dominates the far wall, its thick frame carving the glass into neat, symmetrical panes. It stretches from the ceiling down to just below your knees, flooding the empty apartment with soft, natural light. The centre pane is cracked open just enough to let fresh air slip inside, stirring the stagnant stillness left behind by months of vacancy. The openness of it makes the space feel exposed in a way you hadn’t fully considered before, like nothing is separating you from the outside world at all.
Unpacking becomes a welcome distraction, attention turning first to the curtains buried somewhere in one of the boxes. They surface quickly enough - thin netting, sheer enough to let the light through while still offering some illusion of privacy.
Dragging the end table beneath the window, you climb carefully onto its surface, arms lifting to hook the fabric onto the rail left behind by the previous tenant. Once finished, instead of climbing down, you linger there for a moment, perched above the quiet apartment, curiosity pulling your gaze outward.
An identical building stands opposite yours, no more than ten feet separating the two.
And leaning out of one of its windows is, to put it bluntly, the hottest man you have ever seen.
He rests against the frame with lazy confidence, one leg propped on the sill. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the tip glowing amber as he takes a slow drag. Your eyes follow the movement without permission - from the long fingers holding it, to the tattooed arms revealed by a sleeveless black shirt, ink winding over muscle in dark, deliberate lines.
His hair falls in messy curls, like he’s only just rolled out of bed, framing a face that feels unfair to look at for too long. Full lips. Stubble shadowing his jaw. Effortless in a way that makes your chest feel strangely tight.
A soft sigh escapes before you can stop it.
Mortification washes over you.
Cheeks flushing, you scramble down from the table, heart suddenly pounding as if you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.
Ridiculous. He couldn’t have heard that.
Still… Just one more peek couldn’t hurt.
Carefully, cautiously, you lift your gaze back toward the window. He’s looking directly at you. And waving.
The smirk on his face is unmistakable - it’s slow, knowing, dangerous in a way that makes heat crawl up your neck and settle deep in your chest. There’s no hesitation in him. No awkwardness. No pretence.
He knows you were watching. And worse still…
He doesn’t seem to mind.
Swallowing hard, you force your hand to lift in a polite wave in return, hoping the distance hides how warm your face has become. Mercifully, he stubs out his cigarette and heads back into his own apartment, breaking the gaze first, releasing you. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes your lips and you step over to the small kitchen, out of view of the giant window.
The taps protest from lack of use, a metallic whine punctuating the silence in the apartment before the water finally gives in. You splash some onto your face, desperate for anything that might cool the heat crawling across your skin.
The plan had been to face your sofa to the window, but you didn’t quite trust yourself with that set up, so you settle for the sofa facing the wall next to the window. That’s not to say your eye doesn’t occasionally drift to the apartment opposite when you’re watching tv. Just glancing, checking out your surroundings, you tell yourself, repeating in your head like a mantra.
You quickly learn that your neighbour rarely closes the curtains. This has culminated in a lot of waving when your eyes meet. It’s becoming a problem, he’s going to think you’re some kind of peeping tom if you keep this up. Except… it’s not all one sided. In fact you’ve caught him looking more times than you can count and he doesn’t react with the same embarrassment you do when he’s caught.
If anything, knowing you’re looking seems to give him a kick.
The first time it happens you could pass it off as an accident.
It’s late on Sunday night, and you’re draining the last of your wine before heading to bed, when your eyes drift toward the window. The sight causes you to inhale your wine. You make it to the kitchen before the burn of wine in your nose and throat renders you coughing and spluttering.
Meanwhile your neighbour across the street is still damp from his shower, towel slung so low around his hips that a thatch of dark hair is visible just above the edge. Once you catch your breath and your eyes stop streaming, you walk back over, telling yourself it’s only to turn the TV off. I don’t need to see if he’s still there. You try to convince yourself, you really do.
He’s still there.
A pattern emerges, Saturday nights become a game of seeing how long you can take it before you’re looking over. It’s sick, you’re sick, he’s probably also sick. But you’re hooked, and it’s not like you haven’t been reciprocating. The summer heat provides the perfect excuse to wear less and less around your apartment.
This Saturday, you’re sprawled out on your sofa, the picture of casual lounging. Pretending to watch the TV, you glance at the clock above it. Thirty minutes. Long enough. And you tilt your head slightly, yep. There he is, towel on. At this point you’ve got to commend his meticulous hygiene. God knows how you could do that and not come off a massive pervert.
But then, his hands trace along the edge of the towel, rings catching the light in his apartment. You watch as his thumb dips below the fold of fabric, lifting it.
The towel drops to the floor.
Surprise jolts through you, your body turning fully toward the window before you can stop yourself. The movement gives you away.
He’s hard. There’s no mistaking it.
He winks at you and scoops the towel back up, pretending this was all just an accident. Your heart stutters in your chest. Heat floods your skin, spreading from your face down your throat and into your chest. Your legs tremble beneath you, and your mouth has gone unbearably dry.
As he retreats, you stand, throwing on a few more layers before heading out.
It’s not hard to find some guy willing to go home with you. In fact you’ve managed it before you’ve even left the first bar. His kisses are clumsy as you lead up the narrow stairs to your apartment, once more cursing the lack of elevator. The apartment is cold, you’d left the window open, you make no move to close it. You’re sure you’ll warm up quickly.
The door is scarcely closed before you’re guiding him toward the sofa. He lands with a soft oof, unable to take his eyes off of you as you pull your top over your head. He matches you, piece by piece until you’re stripped down to your underwear. You drop to your knees, gathering your hair in a loose ponytail, palming him through his underwear.
You’re impatient, and he doesn’t seem to mind, in fact he helps you to remove his underwear, groaning as you wrap your hand around his cock, hips juddering as you stroke him. His head is tilted back and his eyes are squeezed shut as your thumb plays with his sensitive tip. You take the opportunity, turning your head defiantly toward the window.
He’s sitting on his sofa, lit by blue light from his TV but you can tell he’s not watching it. His mouth sits in a hard line, one eyebrow raised. Satisfaction thrums through you. You turn your attention back to the man before you, licking a slow stripe up his cock and teasing the tip with your tongue. His breaths come hot and hard as you take his cock into your mouth, working him over until he’s trembling like a leaf.
You don’t look over at the window as you unroll a condom over your… date? Conquest? You don’t look over as you sink down onto his lap. A pang of disappointment sits in your gut as you take him easily. You rest your hands on his shoulders and lift your hips, his own hands resting on your hips and gripping you tightly.
“That good, baby?” He pants beneath you. You roll your eyes over his shoulder but you stroke his ego a little, moaning loudly, “Oh fuck, yes.” He murmurs, taking over the rhythm you set, clearly convinced he’s doing a great job pleasing you, now focused entirely on his own end goal. You spur him on, and while you’d never admit to this, you’re pretty convincing when you fake orgasms. As you moan his name, followed by cries of “yes, god, yes,” you hazard a glance toward the window. Your companion too far gone to notice your split attention.
Eddie feels like a pervert watching this, even if he knows you want him to watch... But when your moans punctuate the still night air, he has to bite his fist. His other hand palming himself over his jeans, he stops as another moan reaches his ears. Then he tilts his head, focusing on listening to you.
Faker.
He watches as you slip off your date’s lap. The awkward exchange makes it clear he isn’t staying the night as you both get dressed again. He waits until you glance over, then waves, giving you a thumbs-up. He laughs as you huff and close the curtains.
Still hard, he heads to bed, discarding his jeans before dragging a hand down his face, sleep already feeling impossible.
He doesn’t even know your name and yet you’re the only image he can conjure up as he spits in his hand and strokes his length, your face burned into his brain. When he shuts his eyes, you’re back on your knees, only this time it’s him you’re kneeling in front of. His breath hitches as your hand closes around him, your gaze never leaving his as your tongue drags slowly over his tip, deliberate, knowing.
“Fuck,” he hisses into the empty room, his hand tightening as the image sharpens. He feels you take him deeper, his head falling back as he imagines the strain in your throat, the wet warmth of your mouth, the way your eyes glisten as you look up at him. His fingers tangle in your hair, in his mind, holding you there, unable to look away. His other hand twists in the sheets beneath him, gripping so tightly the fabric pulls taut between his fingers. He releases it only to drag his hand lower, grabbing his balls, holding them tightly as he fucks into your throat, watching as tears spill over your lashes.
He grunts as he releases into your mouth, removing his saliva coated cock from your lips, watching as a line of saliva and cum connects the tip of his cock to your swollen lips. He wipes away your tears with his thumb before pressing it gently to your bottom lip. You open for him without hesitation, and let him see his cum coating your mouth. You close your mouth and swallow, a mischievous grin crossing your features as he exhales shakily.
Eddie grabs his discarded underwear from the floor, wiping up the mess that coats his chest and stomach, throwing it absently into the laundry basket, mind still fixated on you. Sleep finds him eventually, but even there, you follow.
The bed springs creak as you throw yourself back onto your mattress. The guy could have at least tried to get you off, you stare up at your ceiling. Jaw tight as you replay your evening with growing irritation. Your hand slips under your pillow, fingers searching for the cool plastic of your vibrator.
You don’t switch it on yet.
Instead, your hand drifts lower, rubbing slowly over your attention-starved clit. A soft sigh escapes you, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as your eyes fall closed. Your body moves without permission, hips rocking gently into your touch, your free hand sliding up to tease your nipple. Your fingers slip lower, teasing yourself, your mind already drifting where it shouldn’t.
To him.
The sofa creaks as you push him back onto it, the two of you tearing at each other’s clothes in a desperate rush until you’re both bare beneath wandering hands. He pulls you into his lap, his grip firm, deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You bring the vibrator between your folds, switching it on to its lowest setting, the soft buzz sending a shiver through you as he drags the tip of his cock slowly over your clit.
You try to push forward, chasing friction, chasing fullness, but he stops you, holding you there, forcing you to wait. Your breath catches. He keeps you suspended on the edge, your arousal slick between you, your body aching with the need to be filled.
Your hand tightens around the toy as you finally let it slip inside you, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as the sensation blooms through you. In your mind, he finally relents, letting you sink down onto him, stretching you slowly, deliberately.
You turn the settings higher, your legs trembling as the intensity builds.
“Fuck!” you cry out to no one in particular as he lifts his hips to meet yours, deeper than anything you’ve ever taken. Even the slightest retreat feels unbearable, your body chasing him desperately, unable to tolerate the distance. You press the vibrator harder, your other hand slipping between your legs, circling your clit as the tension spirals tighter and tighter.
Tears spill down your cheeks as you climax, your whole body trembling in the aftermath.
The curtains remain shut the next day, your cheeks feeling hot at the thought of seeing him again, and you surprise yourself with your restraint. The following day, however, you all but rip them off their pole, caught in some kind of perverse withdrawal. You notice that the apartment opposite has changed slightly; a table is now next to the window.
Before you can spiral into the absurd thought that he somehow moved out overnight, you see him cross his living room, heading to his usual smoking spot. He smiles when he sees you, offering a friendly wave which feels ridiculous in spite of two nights ago. You wave back, thankful for the excuse of heading to work before either of you starts acting up.
By the time you’re home the apartment opposite is dark, you’d never known him to go to bed before you, so you assume he’s out. Your own apartment is stuffy from you not switching the heat off before you left for work, you’ll pay for that with your next bill. You crack the window and watch as the apartment opposite lights up.
He enters first, holding the door open like a perfect gentleman. Heart racing, you duck behind your curtain as he closes the door behind a woman, his eyes flicking toward your window, predatory and knowing. He pulls her close, hands settling on her waist as they move together across the room, lips never quite parting. They stop at the table. His mouth moves against hers, a question you can’t hear, and she nods eagerly in response. He undresses her slowly, deliberately, his focus seemingly fixed on her, until her hands move to his shirt. That’s when his eyes lift.
And find you.
Your breath stutters. Every instinct tells you to look away, to disappear behind the safety of the curtain, but your body betrays you. You stay exactly where you are.
Watching as she undresses him, running her hands over the dark ink that adorns his body.
He doesn’t look away from you.
Not once.
He lifts her easily, like she weighs nothing, and sets her on the table with her back to the window, to you, positioning himself where he can see you clearly.
Where you can see him.
You watch as he pushes her back on the table, head dipping between her thighs. Her back arches in response, fingers tightening on the edge of the table, and something ugly twists low in your stomach. He straightens, breath steady, and looks at you again, running his tongue slowly over his lips.
Then he winks.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He uses his teeth to rip open a foil packet, and turns his attention back to her as he slides the condom down his impressive length, a hand rubbing at her thigh. Holding eye contact with her as he sheathes himself inside her, adjusting himself, but his gaze keeps flicking back to you, like he’s measuring the effect.
He wants you to watch, just as you’d wanted him to watch.
You settle onto the arm of your sofa, unable to stop yourself, your hand slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts.
He notices immediately.
His pace stutters, just for a second, before picking up again, harder now, more deliberate. You slide your fingers into yourself, your breath catching as you match his rhythm, your jealousy dissolving into something hotter, something heavier. You watch him lose control, his composure cracking in small, visible fractures.
He reaches between them, bringing her closer to her peak, but his eyes never leave you.
Not really.
He gives you a pointed stare as she writhes beneath him.
His pace becomes impossible to follow with your fingers alone, so you grind against your thumb instead, chasing the same desperate edge. Your body tightens, tension snapping all at once. Your eyes squeeze shut as you break, the world tilting around you, tears spilling freely down your cheeks.
You force yourself back, eyes opening again.
He’s right there.
Watching you.
You bring your fingers to your mouth, holding his gaze, tasting yourself, and something in him shatters. You watch as he drives himself deeper, coming completely undone.
Over the following week you notice the curtains get closed more often.
You’re paranoid you took it too far.
Between work schedules, it's already the weekend before you see him again. Not in his apartment, but at a bar you frequent. Tired of being driven crazy by your own spirals of paranoia and inability to not glance over at the window, so you head out, planning on grabbing drinks with friends. As you enter the bar, you hear the deep thrum of live music from the stage.
You locate your friends and settle in the booth with them, glancing up at the stage and freezing when you see him, your pulse quickens, imperceptible to anyone but yourself. His eyes are shut as he sings, curls damp with sweat that catches in the low stage lights. His shirt clings to him, outlining the familiar shape of him in a way that feels far too intimate for something so public. His hands move over the guitar with practiced ease, long fingers precise and confident.
The chatter of your friends fades into a dull hum around you. His eyes open mid-song, scanning the room without urgency, until they find you.
You notice the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Recognition.
Your breath catches.
The noise of the room disappears completely as the final notes fade. The set ends, and he pulls the guitar from over his shoulder, hopping down from the small stage. The silence continues as he stalks over to you, pressing his palms to the table as he leans over it, filling the space but not touching you.
“Evening ladies, did we enjoy the set?” His voice is warm, easy. Polite.
His eyes leave yours long enough to acknowledge your friends, offering them a charming smile as they answer eagerly.
He’s so close you can smell him now. Smoke. Sweat. Something warm beneath it. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s placing you. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you manage. “I live in the apartment opposite yours.”
“That’s right,” he says easily, like the answer had just come to him. “Big windows, huh?” His mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. “I’m Eddie.”
You offer your name in a painfully croaking voice. Eddie nods and makes polite conversation before excusing himself, heading back to his band. He takes a slow pull from his beer, and when his eyes lift again, they find you immediately. He doesn’t look away.
Not even when you notice.
Heat prickles across your skin, sharp and unbearable. You shift in your seat, trying to steady yourself, trying to listen to whatever your friends are saying, but your attention betrays you. Your eyes keep drifting back to him. And every time they do, he’s already looking. Eventually, the pressure becomes too much.
You excuse yourself with some vague mention of fresh air and push your way out of the stifling bar. The cold hits you immediately. You breathe it in deeply, greedily, like you’ve been underwater too long. The alley beside the bar is empty, quiet, the muffled pulse of music vibrating faintly through the brick behind you.
You lean back against the wall, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Try to slow your heart. Try to cool the heat pooling low in your stomach. Try not to think about him. Try not to think about the way he looked at you.
Footsteps sound behind you. Unhurried. Certain. They stop just close enough to make your pulse stumble.
“Well hey there, neighbour.” The teasing lilt in his voice sends heat rushing straight back into your face. “You gone all shy on me suddenly?”
You turn your head. Eddie leans against the opposite wall, giving you space, but not much. Close enough that you could cross it in seconds. Close enough that the distance feels deliberate. He watches you openly now. No glass between you. Just him.
The air is tense, the silence stretching tight between you.
You drag your eyes up from the ground to meet his. Something shifts in his expression. His arms unfold slowly, his shoulders rising with a quiet breath like he’s coming to a decision. He exhales sharply.
“Fuck it.” The words barely leave him before he closes the distance.
His hand finds your chin, warm and steady, tilting your face up to his. His mouth meets yours, firm and certain, like he’s been waiting too long for this.
There’s no hesitation.
No testing the waters.
His thumb brushes along your jaw as his lips move against yours, deepening the kiss, his body pressing you back against the rough brick. The cold of the wall seeps through your clothes, but he’s warm everywhere else, overwhelming, grounding. Your hands move without thinking, tangling in his hair, holding him there like he might disappear if you let go. Your heart is racing, pounding so hard it feels like it might give you away completely. Like he doesn’t already know.
His hands roam your body unabashedly, learning the shape of you through fabric and heat. You press into his touch without hesitation, chasing more of him, needing more. He pulls back enough just to breathe but his lips never leave your skin. They drag across your cheek, smearing lipstick as he finds your neck, pressing slow kisses there before nipping at your earlobe.
“Question,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely audible.
You’re not sure you could form a coherent thought if your life depended on it. “Hmm?”
“Your date.” His mouth returns to your throat, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “What was his name?”
You laugh softly, the sound breaking into a gasp as his teeth press harder. “I don’t remember,” you admit.
Eddie huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “That’s fair,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t remember someone who couldn’t make me cum.”
The words hit deeper than they should. “How do you know I didn’t-” The protest dissolves into a breathy sound as his hands find your chest, fingers closing over you through your shirt.
He exhales, almost amused. “You’re not exactly quiet,” he says. “And c’mon… anyone paying attention could tell.” His hand slips beneath your shirt, cold fingers meeting overheated skin. You jolt against him.
His other hand moves lower, deliberate, unhurried. He unbuttons your jeans with practiced ease, his forehead resting against yours, eyes locked onto you as he tests the boundary.
“Eddie, we can't do that here.” you whisper.
His fingers press lightly over you through damp fabric, and his mouth curves faintly.
“I know, I know, you’re a good girl really,” he murmurs. “Just warming you up.”
He withdraws slowly, like he’s proving he can. He fixes your jeans with careful hands, then takes your hand in his, fingers lacing through yours naturally, like they’ve always belonged there.
“C’mon,” he says quietly. He leads you away from the alley without hesitation.
“Wait,” you manage. “Won’t your friends mind?” He glances at you sideways, amused.
“Won’t yours?” You hesitate.
“If we’re both gone,” he continues easily, “I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”
“I really fucking hate the lack of elevators,” Eddie huffs behind you as you fumble with your keys.
The door clicks open, and before you can even step forward properly, he’s there, crowding you inside. He pushes the door shut and presses you back against it, his body warm and solid against yours.
His lips hover just over yours as his hand reaches past your shoulder, turning the lock with a soft click. You shiver. He’s close enough that you can feel his breath, but he doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. You fight the urge to close the distance yourself, to grab him and pull him down to you, to stop the waiting.
He notices. Of course, he notices. A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. “Aren’t you patient?” he murmurs. “And here I thought you’d be a feral alley cat once I got you alone.” He lets you have him then. His mouth finds yours, and you lean into him immediately, hunger overriding restraint as you kiss him back, deeper, harder.
He steps away from the door, taking you with him, never breaking the kiss as he guides you backward through the apartment. Past the living room. Past the window. Into your bedroom. You press your hands into his chest and shove him back onto your unmade bed. He lands with a soft bounce, surprise flashing briefly across his face.
He rests himself on his elbow, watching you with interest, you step forward, between his knees. Your hands skim over the rough denim of his jeans, fingers brushing the worn edges of his belt before you begin to unbuckle it. The sound of the metal sliding free feels louder than it should. He lifts his hips without being asked, letting you pull the denim down his legs.
He doesn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. Your heart pounds as you look at him like this, exposed, real, entirely yours to touch. You swallow, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear, easing them down after his jeans.
The shift in him is immediate. His breath catches. His fingers tighten slightly in the sheets beside him. You hold his gaze as your fingers curl around the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, breaking the barrier between you piece by piece. You let it fall somewhere behind you, forgotten.
His eyes track every movement. You step out of your jeans next, pushing them down your legs, leaving them pooled on the floor. Your underwear follows, discarded just as carelessly. You’re bare before him now.
His breath shudders. He sits up slightly, dragging his shirt over his head in one rough motion, like the fabric itself has become an obstacle, something standing between him and the full view of you. It lands somewhere beside him, unnoticed.
You sink down to your knees, taking his cock in your hand and gently stroking down, he hisses under your touch, ringed fingers clutching tighter at the sheets, as precum beads at his slit, your mouth waters, keen to know his taste. You lean forward, your tongue dragging over his soft balls first, then along his shaft before you pull him into your mouth, tongue lapping at him, tasting him.
Eddie’s chest is flushed and he’s breathing hard as he watches you take his length into your throat, thumb brushing away the tears beneath your eye in a gesture so gentle it almost undoes you. You pull back and alternate between sucking softly, letting your tongue trace around him, and taking him so deep that your nose is scratched by the thatch of hair above his cock.
“Doin’ so good for me.” He whispers, hands gathering your hair in a makeshift ponytail, tugging lightly at your roots to release his cock from your throat, only to use the hair clasped in his hands to ease you back down. Willing your throat to relax, you let him fuck into your mouth, feeling your arousal running down your thighs as he groans above you.
“Such a good girl,” he pants, pulling you off him, your mouth releasing him with a soft sound. His hands find your arms immediately, guiding you upward.
“And as much as I’d love to fuck this pretty face all night…” He kisses you before he finishes the thought, deep and consuming, and tasting himself on your tongue. The intimacy of it makes your stomach tighten. You shift forward instinctively, leaning into him, but his hands slide to the backs of your thighs instead, gripping firmly as he lifts you. The sudden movement makes you tense, your body anticipating what comes next.
A faint smile flickers across his mouth. But instead of pulling you down onto him, he turns you, guiding you onto your back with deliberate care. The mattress dips beneath your shoulders as he follows, settling himself between your legs.
He pauses there. Watching you again. Close enough now that you can feel his breath against your skin. His hair brushes against your thighs as he leans in, lips barely skimming along the sensitive skin there. He lingers, letting anticipation stretch tight between you, before exhaling softly. You flinch and a small whine escapes your lips, a not-so-silent plea. His fingers follow, parting you slowly, reverently, the smirk on his face diabolical.
“All this for me?” He asks, lazily dragging a finger through the evidence of your arousal, using it to rub over your clit with slick precision. You open your mouth, but whatever you meant to say disappears the moment his hand rises, his fingers pressing lightly against your lips. “Suck.” It's not a request, and you obey without hesitation. You can taste yourself on his fingers, your tongue hungrily lapping over his fingers until he pulls them out, a string of saliva trailing, falling over your breasts and stomach.
“Messy girl.” He chides, “Still, you must really taste good if you’re that keen.” He dips his head between your thighs, dragging his tongue from your soaked center to your clit, eyes fixated on you. He laps up your arousal like a man starved, arms locking your thighs on either side of his head, your back arches against him as he pushes his tongue deeper inside you, hands tangling in his hair. He flicks his tongue over your clit, watching as your body shivers, pausing briefly before wrapping his soft lips around your clit and sucking. The sudden pressure makes your breath catch, your composure fracturing completely.
“Jesus fucking chr-” You curse, your sentence interupted by Eddie’s fingers breaching you, your body so eager that it offers no resistance. The sensation doubling, your body reacting instantly, helplessly. Your hips move against him without permission, chasing what he’s building inside you.
Eddie twists his wrist and presses the pads of his fingers onto your g-spot, rocking them backwards and forwards, the sensation ending any hope of rational thought from you. You rock your hips against his face, chasing your high and he is only too happy to get you there, applying heavier pressure to your g-spot, tongue washing over your clit as his pillowy lips surround it.
He doesn’t rush. He controls the pace, the pressure, every subtle shift designed to pull you higher, closer, until your thoughts dissolve completely. You can’t hold his gaze anymore. Your head falls back, vision blurring, the world narrowing to sensation alone.
“C’mon pretty girl, let me feel you coming apart.” Eddie urges, voice muffled by your skin, but you still hear him loud and clear. The words send something sharp and electric through you.
Your body answers before your mind can catch up.
Your grip tightens, your back arching again as everything inside you snaps, pleasure cresting and breaking all at once. Your breath leaves you in broken fragments, your legs trembling around him as he holds you through it, steady, unrelenting until the last wave fades.
The mattress dips lower between your legs as Eddie hovers above you, your breath catching as you feel the tip of his cock brushing your thigh. He looks down briefly to line himself up with you and sinks into you, his gaze snapping back up to your face to measure your reaction. His jaw tightens, watching your face, searching for any sign of discomfort.
But there isn’t any.
Only the slow unraveling of you beneath him. He pauses halfway, giving you time, his hand settling on your hip, grounding you. You exhale softly, your body relaxing around him, welcoming him deeper. That’s all the permission he needs. He sinks the rest of the way in. You all but purr in satisfaction at the way the stretch burns.
“Size queen.” He laughs, feeling the way your walls hug him tightly. He draws back slowly, watching the way your expression shifts, the way your body responds to the absence before he moves forward again. He settles back on his knees, watching himself disappear inside you with every slow thrust.
Your legs wrap around him, drawing him closer as the steady rhythm begins to undo you completely, each thrust dragging precisely over your g-spot, pulling you to the brink of madness. He touches your chin, turning your face toward him. His lip catches between his teeth, restraint hanging by a thread. His hair sticks out at wild angles, a few grey strands catching in the low light. Dark ink that tracks over his arms, and is beginning to spread over his chest. You run your hand over his arms, feeling the way the muscle beneath flexes under your touch.
“You’re so fucking hot.” You whisper, half mesmerised.
“Flattery will get you everywhere sweet thing.” He responds, hooking his hands behind your knees, pushing them up, spreading you wider. He tears his eyes from yours to once more look at that spot where you join, his tongue tracing over his lips, collecting a wad of saliva before letting it fall onto your clit, the sudden wetness making you flinch. One of his hands leaves the punishing grip on your thigh to come down and trace patterns over your clit.
It's dizzying, and unfair. Made even worse when Eddie grips your chin,
“No going away this time, you’re going to look at me when I make you cum.” You nod dumbly, not entirely confident in your ability to comply. Eddie doubles down, picking up pace, slamming into you with filthy grunts.
Never once breaking eye contact, watching as your mouth forms an ‘O’ as you cry out for more. What was earlier a wave is now a hurricane of force, adrenaline and pleasure shooting through your veins, making your brain short circuit, and the whole time, Eddie is holding onto your chin, staring into your eyes and driving his cock deeper into you. You feel your walls tightening around him and feel his rhythm slip, chasing his own high, determined to have your pussy milk the cum from him.
He releases with a loud groan, pushing himself as deep as he can as his control finally breaks, shooting hot ropes of cum inside you. His head drops forward, sweat falling onto your skin as he rides out the last of his orgasm.
“Now who’s looking away?” you tease through ragged breaths. Eddie laughs, lifting his head up to look at you once more, watching the wince on your face as he pulls out and his cum leaks out of you.
He flops down beside you, stroking the hair out of your face in yet another devastatingly intimate gesture. “Eddie?”
Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b
15th day of the 4th moon, 128
They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.
She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.
I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?
Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.
I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.
She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.
They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.
I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.
When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.
I despised her for it.
Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.
When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.
Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.
It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.
I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon.
She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.
2nd day of the 5th moon, 128
The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.
She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.
I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.
I asked her why she did not wish to rest.
Her smile was as weak as her body.
“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”
She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.
Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.
They wilt in the damp, just as she does.
Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.
She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.
But she does not.
I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.
And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.
“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”
I had no reply for her.
11th day of the 6th moon, 128
She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.
The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.
Her breath was even, her voice was clear.
For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.
I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.
She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.
And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.
I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.
Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.
My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.
It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.
My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.
She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.
I never asked her for children.
True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.
I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.
And perhaps the latter is more cruel.
14th day of the 6th moon, 128
Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.
I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.
She never protested, and likely never would.
So I went to her.
Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves.
It was she who broke the silence.
“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”
I almost turned away then.
She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight.
It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.
When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze.
Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me.
- - the day of the 8th moon, 128
Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.
The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.
For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.
They speak of her. My wife.
“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.
I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have.
Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.
I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.
For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.
I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.
She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.
“Shall we dance, husband?”
I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.
I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.
I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.
“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.
I only said there was no need for her to apologise.
When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.
I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.
I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.
She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.
When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.
She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.
“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”
For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.
“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”
She replied with nothing.
Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.
19th day of the 10th moon, 128
She is with the maesters today.
I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.
Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.
Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.
Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.
A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it.
When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping,
I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.
The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.
She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.
It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:
“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”
And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.
I stared at it for a long while.
And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.
I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.
27th day of the 12th moon, 128
The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.
She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.
“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.
Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.
When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.
I did not tell her that I am.
2nd day of the 1st moon, 129
The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.
She surprised me tonight.
I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.
I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke.
But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead.
“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”
Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.
“If you were to take a mistress.”
I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?
And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.
“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”
She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”
She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.
There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.
She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.
Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.
5th day of the 2nd moon, 129
Am I not a man, but a beast.
She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.
She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.
She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.
When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.
I do not know what possessed me then.
One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.
It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.
I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.
Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.
When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.
She smelled of vanilla and amber.
What have I done?
I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing.
I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.
6th day of the 2nd moon, 129
I sought her out today.
The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.
She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.
I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.
She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.
“For what?”
For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.
She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”
She must have seen the confusion on my face.
“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”
Surprised?
She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.
How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?
She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.
I only said that she is not simply a lady.
She is my wife.
She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.
“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”
Gods. She can.
She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.
4th day of the 3rd moon, 129
Father is dead.
I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.
Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.
They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.
Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.
My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.
I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.
Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.
She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.
Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.
If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.
I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.
9th day of the 3rd moon, 129
Aegon is king.
The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.
For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.
I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.
My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.
She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.
The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.
Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.
And then the ground shook.
Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.
But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.
I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.
My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.
And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”
I could have laughed if I were not so angry.
12th day of the 3rd moon, 129
The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.
She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too.
Perhaps she fears that I might not return.
I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.
Could it be that I have changed?
I must go to Storm’s End soon.
The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.
Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.
It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.
She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.
“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.
She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.
I promised her I would return.
When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.
I do not wish to leave.
I do not wish to leave her.
- - - - - -
I am living in a nightmare.
She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.
The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.
I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.
Lucerys Velaryon is dead.
His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.
My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.
And such has ended in his death.
It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.
When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.
Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.
Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.
Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.
And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.
I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.
“I killed him.”
I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.
“Lucerys. I killed him.”
She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.
I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.
Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.
“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”
12th day of the 4th moon, 129
I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.
She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.
When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness.
For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.
14th day of the 4th moon, 129
I was not there.
I was not there. And I should have been.
I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.
My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?
I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.
The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.
Where were the guards? How could this have happened?
I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.
Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will.
I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.
She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.
And I wept with her.
25th day of the 4th moon, 129
The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.
Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.
At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting.
Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.
I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.
I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.
I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her.
This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?
2nd day of the 6th moon, 129
Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.
I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it.
They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye.
There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.
The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire.
Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.
She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.
13th day of the 6th moon, 129
Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.
Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.
I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.
She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.
When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.
I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.
She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.
I will not lose her.
She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive.
She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.
But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.
She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.
She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced.
I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?
I will not let it happen.
19th day of the 6th moon, 129
The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.
The council at least know my worth.
Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.
The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction.
The realm needs me now more than ever.
28th day of the 6th moon, 129
Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.
The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.
Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.
Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud.
There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.
7th day of the 7th moon, 129
I had nearly forgotten her.
The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.
She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.
For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.
I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.
“I had to see you.”
It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.
I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.
Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”
Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.
I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.
“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”
I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.
“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”
Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.
The man she grew to love.
I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.
I did not help her.
I cannot shake the look on her face.
I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.
And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.
24th day of the 7th moon, 129
Everything is unravelling.
Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.
Today was unbearable.
The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.
I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.
She has been here.
There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.
It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.
I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.
When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.
Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.
She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.
I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.
She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.
Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.
Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.
She is no fool.
“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”
I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.
I felt her fingers on my cheek.
“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”
I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.
I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.
I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.
1st day of the 9th moon, 129
Harrenhal is mine.
The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.
Save for one.
Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.
Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.
But I did not take her. I will not.
I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.
My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.
I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.
I will tomorrow.
For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.
17th day of the 11th moon, 129
Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.
Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.
And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.
I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.
Last night, I dreamt of her.
She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.
In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.
I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.
In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.
And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.
Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.
I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.
Dearest Wife,
I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.
I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.
How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.
I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.
Yours Always,
Aemond
4th day of the 2nd moon, 130
Alys spoke of visions today.
She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.
Almost.
She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.
She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.
She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.
They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should.
I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.
I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.
And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.
Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.
When the time comes, I will be ready.
My Dearest Husband,
Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.
I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.
I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.
The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.
I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.
I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.
Yours Forever,
Your Loving Wife
- - - - 130
The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.
Alys.
Alys.
Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.
And then my wife.
My wife!
She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.
I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.
In water.
My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.
I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.
What does it mean? What does it mean?
Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.
Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.
I am all and none. All and none.
The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.
But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.
My Dearest Aemond,
I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.
News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.
I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.
Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.
All My Love,
Your Wife
My Loving Husband,
Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?
Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.
Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.
I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.
I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.
I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.
Yours, always and forever.
Your Loyal Wife
My Beloved Wife,
I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.
Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?
Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.
Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.
I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.
Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.
Yours, now and always,
Aemond
My Dearest, dearest Aemond,
Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.
But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.
I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.
Please, remember me kindly.
Forever,
Your Loving Wife
My love,
It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.
Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.
Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.
I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.
I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.
I am yours,
Aemond
My love,
I await your reply like a lovesick child.
I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.
I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.
I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.
Please do write. My cherished flower.
Aemond
My darling wife,
I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.
But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.
You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.
Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.
Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.
I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.
This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me.
Fix me.
Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.
I will come for you.
Forever Yours,
Aemond
21st day of the 5th moon, 130
The winds howl so loudly now.
They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.
I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.
To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.
My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.
Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.
To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.
I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.
Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.
If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this.
I loved you.
With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.
The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.
Hi I loved your post called "Turned" with dewdrop and I was wondering if you could make a part 2??Like where dew and reader are older like in the last part where they saw each other again but something was different they felt different towards each other?? Sorry if it's confusing I don't know how to explain it. Also love your post!!
wanted to do this for awhile, only just got motivation to finally write it out haha. Thanks to all the people that asked for a sequel, here it is!
Pairing: Dewdrop Ghoul x F!Reader
Summary: After your childhood best friend turned you into a Ghoul, your bond with each other inexplicably changed.
Warnings: past child abuse, childhood friends to enemies to lovers, lots of yearning, attempted noncon, Dewdrop is very mouthy and brat (obvi), sire bonds (yes, kinda like in vampire diaries), soulmates kinda?, mates and mating rituals, bedding ceremony, a Satan™️appearance wow, blood pact, marking, and SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI, goes without saying), virginity loss, oral (f!receiving), fingering, blood eating, blood kink, knife kink, p in v, and creampie
word count || 9.1k words🤙🏻
part one | part two
It had been many years since your best friend turned you into a monster.
You could still feel the sharp fangs dug deep into the skin of your neck. The pain. The blood…so much blood. The feeling of the hot liquid rolling down your neck in rivulets until it created a puddle on the tan marble flooring.
You remember the look on your mother and father’s face when they realized their baby girl was turning into something inhuman, yet something so familiar. The horrified looks from people who were supposed to love you regardless of what you were–would forever be engraved into your mind. Unfortunately, you would actually remember forever, considering you were now immortal.
After your 25th birthday, you simply stopped aging. No wrinkles, no gray or white hair, no back pain and sore muscles. It sounds nice, if you didn’t remember the part where you can’t die, at least from aging. Having to leave behind your family was the worst thing you ever had to do. After the fact, you rarely saw your parents. And then one day, they just stopped visiting. No calls, no letters. Nothing. It’s like you didn’t exist to them anymore.
You remember sneaking out of the Abbey one evening when you were young, tracking down your parents and finding your old home. It was cold, nearing Christmas, you bundled up as much as you could without being too suspicious. Your old house was exactly the way you left it, little red and green lights strewn about on the porch. You still remembered where they hid the spare key, underneath the Baphemet statue next to the welcome mat. Although, to your confusion, the Baphemet statue had been replaced with a Santa statue.
It seemed like your parents weren’t home yet, they must’ve gone out somewhere. You looked for your old bedroom, heart dropping when you found it completely changed. The walls were no longer the pink and purple wallpaper you once knew, your twin sized bed with the little purple dragons scattered around the pattern of the duvet was now replaced with the various colors of the Power Rangers, the wallpaper now a royal blue with white stripes.
Your parents came home, with a little boy at their sides. You bounded up to your parents with the biggest grin, the changes to your room forgotten, your heart soaring at the sight of your favorite people. You have always imagined this moment. Your mother would scream, happy tears streaming down her face as she crushed you in a bear hug. Your father would fall to his knees, thanking whatever deity that his child finally returned to them.
Instead, your mother screamed in horror, wrapping the little boy in her arms, securing him close to her chest. Your father looked disgusted, like the biggest roach crawled across the floor. “Get that thing out of here!”
You weeped, reaching for the terrified couple. “I’m your daughter! Don’t you remember? Mommy-!”
You yelped as your father smacked you, your weaker body tumbling to the floor. “Get the fuck out, demon!”
You sobbed all the way back to the Abbey, tears blurring your vision badly, causing you to trip and fall. You scraped your knees on the concrete, but you couldn’t even savor the pain, your wounds healed almost instantly. One of the ‘benefits’ of being an immortal Ghoul.
Sister Imperator opened the big wooden doors to find you on the porch in tears and barely standing upright. “Oh my, poor sweet Ghoul. What have you done, child?”
Needless to say, you were kept a close eye on after that, a Sister of Sin always watching you to make sure you didn’t sneak out again–not that you planned to. You decided you never wanted to see your parents ever again, if you could even call them your ‘parents’ anymore. A hateful, fiery rage consumed you. Every thought you had, every time you wracked your mind for why this happened–all thoughts came back to Dewdrop.
One morning, you and the rest of the Ghouls were getting breakfast, part of the usual routine. Dewdrop always sat next to you. Always. If someone dared to sit next to you that wasn’t him, that unfortunate Ghoul would have a seat saved for them in the infirmary.
You picked at your food, thankful for the peace and quiet that seemed to grace you–until Dewdrop, as usual, plopped right next to you, uncomfortably close, blabbering on about his plans for the day. His most talked about topics were typically the most recent things he’d set on fire, or training to be a future bassist in the Ghoul project run by the Sister Imperator.
That day, you just couldn’t stand it.
You stood straight up from your seat, much to his confusion, and dumped your entire plate of food right on top of him. Dewdrop was always quick to anger, this time was no exception, and stood up with his teeth bared. “What the hell was that for?” He snarled.
“You ruined my life. I never wanna see you again.”
The two of you argued back and forth, until it escalated. The rest of the Ghouls and staff could only look on in terror, wanting to stop the fight but afraid of getting themselves maimed in the process. They could only do so much when you both scratched, bit, and hit each other. By the time big burly guards were able to pull the two of you apart, no one could tell whose blood was whose, whose injuries were whose. A multitude of claw marks, bites, and a cracked horn got you both an earful from the Sister Imperator.
For the next several years, the Abbey had to keep you and Dewdrop separated, for each other’s safety but also for everyone else. You two were violent, and hateful, and it wasn’t good for anyone to be around. A part of you felt bad that you were causing everyone to be so stressed, but then you always remembered what Dewdrop had done to you, even if he didn’t mean for it to happen. A freak accident, more like. But you didn’t come to terms with that until you grew up and finally realized it wasn’t really his fault. But it had been so long since the two of you had been apart, you and Dewdrop were doing your own separate things, and now he was gone a lot of the time now that he was in the band. You knew you had to make things right, you just didn’t know how.
It was late one night and you couldn’t seem to fall asleep. You shut your eyes tightly for several minutes, willing your brain to turn off, until you heaved a sigh of defeat. You stood up from your bed, put on your robe and decided to roam the halls of the Abbey until your body submitted to your will to sleep. The gardens were one of your favorite places on the property, after almost burning it down trying to gain control over your new fire-like abilities when you were a child, you did all you could to gain favor from the Earth Ghouls by taking care of the gardens along with them. It had been quite a few years since then, but you learned to like taking care of the plant life, even if you felt you didn’t owe them anymore.
It was there, in the middle of the gardens under a rising full moon, you felt a familiar presence watching you. Somehow, you already knew who it was. With him, it’s like you could always tell. Whenever he left on tour and when he came back, it’s like your souls were linked, you could always tell how close and how far he was. You imagined it was the same for him.
It had been years since you and Dewdrop interacted, you were barely ever in the same room together due to the unpredictable nature of your relationship. The most you two gave each other was a prolonged glance, an inexplicable yearning behind each other’s eyes, the reason unknown to you yet.
Dewdrop said nothing from his position in the shadows, the slight glare of his horns catching the light of the moon and his shining golden eyes the only thing you could see before he walked out closer to you. Your heart raced at the sight, a warmth radiating throughout your entire body before settling as a flutter in your stomach. He’s handsome, you thought, and frankly, a thought that never crossed your mind before now. The way he didn’t speak, only stared at you as he walked closer caused that flutter in your stomach to travel south.
You quickly backed away before you realized what was about to happen, Dewdrop lunging towards you with his claws outstretched, your heightened instincts as a Ghoul coming in handy than if you were still human. A part of you wanted him to catch you this time, but your logical side still ruled over your primal needs. “Dewdrop…” You spoke his name for the first time in years, feeling so right on your tongue, even if it was in fear. “Stop. Let us end this petty fighting.”
Dewdrop didn’t seem to hear what you said, or he did and he just elected to ignore it. He lunged at you again, but this time, he succeeded. You screamed as he grabbed you by the shoulders, the points of his claws digging into your skin, little pinpricks of blood pooling to the surface, staining your robe red. You closed your eyes in preparation for the bite that you were sure he would inflict on you. You gasped, your eyes flying open when you felt a wet, writhing muscle swipe up alongside your face.
He licked you.
“I’ve always wondered what you tasted like.” The first words Dewdrop spoke to you in years, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate your very being, your eyes becoming heavy lidded as a sudden heat washed over you. You didn’t understand it one bit, so you attempted to pull away, but Dewdrop was much stronger than you. His eyes that were clouded with something you couldn’t decipher, but you could definitely feel, started to clear–a look of almost realization overtook him, and he started to tremble. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me…I just-” He breathed heavily, his grip on you tightening as he retracted his claws, “I just had this feeling like I needed to see you and now…now I need you.”
You yelped as he threw you to the ground, his eyes again becoming blurred with what you now deduced was lust, the way his mouth flooded with drool and his pants tenting with what you were sure was the proof of his arousal. But why? Why now? You had no explainable reason, couldn't even think of one before he lowered himself on top of you. “Dewdrop, please, snap out of it!” You pleaded, tears trailing down your face as he started to undo the button of his pants. You yelled for help, for him to stop, trying to ignore the way your body started to light ablaze when he started to lick your neck like he was tasting his meal before devouring it.
“Gonna make you mine…” He promised, and you believed him.
But before Dewdrop could go any further, he was violently pulled off of you. He snarled and yelled at the guards to be let go, that he needed you, but he was restrained and taken away. You were traumatized, seeing him in such a state. You then were taken to Sister Imperator, who hopefully had some answers for you, because what the hell just happened?
A Sister of Sin wrapped you in a soft blanket as you waited for Sister Imperator to appear, a reassuring smile on her face not making you feel all that much better, but it was appreciated.
The Sister Imperator waltzed into the room with all the grace of someone of her station, she commanded all the attention in the room, her power enough to even make Papa Nihil cower in fear. But she didn’t scare you, she gave you a sense of comfort that you wouldn’t get from your parents. She replaced them in a way, but you were all the better for it. She was very understanding of how much these changes over the years have affected you.
You soon began to worry as Sister lit a cigarette, inhaled a deep hit before letting the smoke billow out into a cloud that lingered above her head. She never smoked, at least, not in front of you. She sighed before she spoke, “I’m afraid this isn't going to be the easiest conversation, my dear. But it’s a conversation we must have. Before we begin, I urge you to keep an open mind, for this might be the only way to get through this.”
“Sister, you’re scaring me.” You shakily replied, the blanket doing nothing to keep your trembling at bay.
She gave you a sympathetic smile, taking another drag of her cigarette before putting down on the ashtray. “I know you’re frightened, that’s to be expected when this kind of thing happens. But I want you to know, he didn’t mean to hurt you. Dewdrop wasn’t in control.”
You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean?”
She sighed. “I guess there’s no beating around the bush with this…” She took a seat beside you, placing a motherly hand on yours. “I thought I did my best teaching you the ways of the Ghouls, their temperaments of each element, their habits, rituals…but I suppose I failed to include one, which is my fault. I didn’t think it was important until now.”
“Please, just tell me, Sister.”
“When Dewdrop changed you all those years ago, we had no idea what would happen. We didn’t even think you would change. It is so rare. But alas, it did. You changed, and it left us completely in the dark. We had to go back deep into the archives, from thousands of years ago to find some concrete answers. We eventually found them…but we didn’t like what we saw.
Usually, Ghouls reach sexual maturity after they become fully grown and their brain fully develops, so around twenty-five years old. They don’t often choose a mate until well into their fifties…it seems that Dewdrop has had this process expedited. And we suspect that, perhaps, you two are connected. That you are fated to be his mate.”
“I don’t understand…I thought you said Ghouls can choose.”
Sister Imperator nodded solemnly. “We believe it’s different for transformed Ghouls. According to the old texts, the turned Ghoul belongs to the Ghoul that originally transformed them. I’m so sorry, dear.”
You shook your head, standing up with trembling limbs. “What, so-?” You chuckled incredulously, “I’m just his slave now, or something?”
“No, dear,” Sister stood with you, “you are his mate, his soulmate. It might not seem like it now, but you two have a powerful connection. Haven’t you felt it already?”
You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even deny it. She was right, you had felt it, that connection. You didn’t know what it was, until now. But you were too stubborn to accept it, even if the thought of being linked forever with Dewdrop wasn’t the most unappealing situation. “No, there has to be some way to stop this. Right?”
Sister Imperator frowned. “I’m afraid not. There is a mating ritual that Ghouls go through, but we can prolong it as long as you’d like. But you can’t hide from this forever.”
You scoffed, shrugging off your blanket in anger. “Where’s Dewdrop? We should talk, he can’t possibly want this either.”
“He’s being kept under the Abbey, locked away so he can’t hurt anyone, especially you. You can’t speak to him right now, the moon is full and he’s at his peak strength. If he sees you, his mate, not even the iron of the cage will be able to stop him.”
You ran to your bedroom in tears, all this information overloading your senses and sending you into a panic attack. Why was this happening? Why couldn’t it have happened to anyone else? You started to feel angry at Dewdrop again, until you reminded yourself that it still wasn’t his fault, no matter how hard you tried to think it was.
It was a long night waiting for the full moon to set, a long night of staying wide awake, trying to wrap your head around this predicament you suddenly found yourself in. You could have laughed at the irony of it all, you roamed the Abbey in hopes of being able to fall asleep only to be whiplashed and unable to sleep by all the information dumping Sister Imperator did. You needed to talk to Dewdrop, you needed to know his take on all of this.
Once the sun started to shine through the curtains of your bedroom window, you hurriedly dressed and rushed down to the cell where they were keeping Dewdrop.
As you neared the basement, you could smell him. Since when could you smell him from so far away? And the smell, it was…intoxicating. Your heart raced as you neared his cell. You were surprised at how the cells didn’t look like the typical prison cells you thought of. They were reinforced and sturdy, yes, but they also looked comfortable. The cells weren’t dark and moldy like you thought they would be, but it still broke your heart when you finally laid eyes on Dewdrop, who was already waiting for you at the door of his enclosure, his hands tightly gripped around the iron bars.
Dewdrop spoke your name sadly, an expression of regret and relief rolled into one. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you…again.”
You smiled weakly at that, thankful he was seemingly back to normal. “I assume Sister already told you what was going on?” Dewdrop nodded, embarrassed now. “So, it wasn’t your fault. None of this has been your fault.”
He tilted his head to the side in confusion. “But-”
“I know I told you, you ruined my life. But I was a child, all anger and no thought. You didn’t ruin my life, Dew, you made it better. I’m sorry that I made you think I hated you all these years, but I don’t. You’re my best friend.” Dewdrop smiling widely, unable to hide his relief and joy at your confession. “But…now, we’re in this predicament.” You chuckled nervously.
Dewdrop lowered his head in shame. “Right…” He giggled bitterly to himself, “It feels like I should apologize again.”
You leaned against the bars next to the door, sighing in defeat. “I just don’t know what to do, or how to feel. I never thought I’d be in this situation, ya know?” It must’ve been the bond that caused it, but when Dewdrop gave you a look of pity, you felt like kissing him. Instead, he reached his hand through the bars and gently ran the knuckle of his pointed finger over the apple of your cheek, goosebumps raising at the intimacy. “I…I should leave.”
“Don’t.” He grabbed your arm before you could step back from his enclosure, startling you before he quickly let go, chastising himself for being weak to his nature. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know how to behave around you anymore. All these urges…they scare me. I’ve never felt like this before, with anyone. It’s like, I wanna protect you–but ravage you at the same time.” He growled lowly, making your thighs clench together. He groaned, the grip on the bars tightening even more, the metal creaking at the sheer strength. “I could smell you before, but your scent is different now.” Drool started to drip out of his mouth, and you were suddenly thankful he was still in his cage.
Dewdrop suddenly let go of the bars and backed away to the other side of the cage, his breathing shaky. “Yes. Yes, you should go. Now.”
You were troubled by how fast you listened to him, legs burning as you bounded up the stairs as quickly as you could, accidentally running straight into the Sister Imperator. “You stupid girl!” She shouted, smacking the top of your head with not much force. “The moon hadn’t fully set yet! You’re lucky it was close to disappearing, he could’ve killed you!”
“I’m sorry…” You cried, shrinking yourself, feeling like a child again.
She sighed, pulling you into a hug, “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve been more clear. But all is well now. In fact, we can let him out tomorrow. His…urges will be at their weakest point–until the next full moon. So, if this isn’t something you want, but sure to stay away from him the days leading up to the full moon and at least the day after. He’s a good boy, but he’s still a Ghoul, and he will take what he wants if given the opportunity.”
When she said that, you blamed the ache between your thighs on the bond.
Over the next couple weeks, you got to know Dewdrop again. Honestly? You missed it. You missed him. You missed hanging out with all your friends together like back in the day. You were close with the rest of his bandmates since you were kids, after the falling out between the two of you, you couldn’t hang out with them like you used to.
One thing that was different was how possessive Dewdrop became after his…changes. He was more impulsive, and jealous, well, more than usual. If you and another Ghoul were getting too friendly, he’d steal you away with a glare to the offending competition. It often happened with Swiss, because he was always a friendly guy, but your friendship was completely innocent, but it never looked that way in a jealous mate’s eyes.
You thought Dewdrop would settle down after the full moon, but you supposed you were wrong.
It was hard to tell what was pushing boundaries and what was just normal Dewdrop behavior. He was always touchy-feely with you before, but those actions felt like they were done with different intentions now. But your biggest issue with it all was that–you had no issues with it. You loved his attention, but you chalked that up to just missing your best friend. His subtle touches, any excuse to be close to you, the way he looked at you like you were the only other thing in the universe; it got to you. You were ashamed how many times you had to touch yourself to be rid of the constant thoughts of him, him, him.
The worst of it all, Dewdrop noticed. Oh, god, did he notice. The way your cheeks flushed dark when you noticed his eyes trailing up and down your body when he noticed your scent change the next morning, his subtle smirk, and you knew his ego was being inflated to the size of the planet when he figured out you were coming around to the idea of being his mate. You didn’t know why you were still fighting it, like Sister said, you can’t hide from it forever.
Staying away from Dewdrop during his full moon cycle was harder than you thought, seeing him start to become more aggressive around you were the first signs it was time to put some distance between you two. Your heart ached when the Abbey had to put him in his cage, but it was for everyone’s safety. But then, you started to feel it too, those urges. It was easier to control than you thought, but the pain was almost unbearable. Your cunt clenched and throbbed with want, and it seemed Dewdrop could sense your turmoil from all the way underneath the building of the Abbey. You could faintly hear his mewls from the basement, calling to you, begging for you to come to him.
You didn’t know if you could take another month of this.
You loved him. You always had. You never imagined yourself with anyone else. Before you even knew what all this meant, your little child mind always wanted to be Dewdrop’s friend forever. But now, you’d be more than that; and that seemed perfectly fine to you.
The next morning, you went to Sister Imperator. “I want to be Dewdrop’s mate.”
She smiled, nodding her head in understanding. You could see she wanted to say something smart, but you appreciated her refraining. “I’ll make sure everything is set up for next month. Try not to tear the place down as you wait.” You didn’t entirely know what she meant by that, but it made you blush nonetheless.
When Dewdrop was finally released for good, you finally realized what Sister Imperator meant.
When you told Dewdrop your decision, it took everything in him not to pounce on you right then and there, but–he did kiss you.
You moaned in surprise as Dewdrop crashed your lips against his, passionate and deep, like he’d been waiting for this for years; and he might as well had. He coaxed open your mouth so easily, to press his tongue against yours, like he could telepathically tell you what to do. Once you admitted that you were his, you submitted so easily, so easy like breathing. A part of you wondered why you waited so long. He grabbed you by the waist, pulling you to him as close as he could, and you could feel the evidence of his arousal prodding at your leg, but he only kissed you. Even though you might have wanted it, wanted him, and him wanting you as well, you both decided to wait until the ritual.
But that didn’t mean you had to be completely ritualistic about it.
It was hard to tear the two of you apart, attached at the mouth at all times almost. But of course that’s not all you did. You talked to one another, learning all there was to know about one another, not wanting to have many issues going into this ritual that would tie the two of you together. But the more you thought about it, and learned about it, the more terrified you became.
The ritual, even in modern day, was still medieval in practice. Deep underground, even further than where Dewdrop was kept during a full moon, the Ghoul couple would travel down to a portal that would transport them to the Underworld where they originated from. Under the watchful eye of the Unholy Father, the two Ghouls would come together as one, marking each other as theirs for all eternity. The newly united couple would stay in Hell, not to be disturbed from their ‘honeymoon’ until they both overcome the powerful urges that came with being united. It was mostly the thought that you’d be watched was the most pressing issue you had.
Dewdrop tried to reassure you that it wasn’t that bad, according to other Ghoul relationships. But you still grew up human somewhat, the idea was completely foreign to you. You wished for privacy, and the fact that you wouldn’t get that with your mate was upsetting. But Dewdrop had an idea of how to alleviate some of that stress.
Dewdrop was never allowed to be inside your room alone, for obvious reasons, but he managed to slip into the shadows when the sun went down, entering your bedroom after a light knock. “You’re not supposed to be in here!” You fussed, but it was hard to take you seriously with how wide your grin was to see him. “You’ll get in trouble if you get caught.”
“Then I won’t get caught.” He smirked, taking a seat on the edge of your bed and patting the spot beside him, encouraging you to sit next to him. And like he was gravity, you felt yourself being pulled to him. You giggled as he brought your lips to his, a content sigh leaving through your nose as you melted into his touch, all too eager to give into his affection. “Mmm, my sweet girl.” He purred, and you made a little hum of agreement. “You know how you expressed to me how nervous you are for our ritual?” You felt your face heat up, but nodded your head. “I think I know of a way to help you, at least a little bit; so you won’t feel as nervous.”
Your expression brightened at his notion, eager to learn what he was talking about. “Yeah? What’s that?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good girl. I want you to lay down on the bed for me.” You had a feeling where this was going, but you told him you trusted him, so you did as he asked. “Our ritual will be your first time?” You nodded bashfully, but that answer seemed to please him, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I know it can be nerve wracking, even more because we’ll be watched. But I want our first intimate moments to be ours, not anyone else’s, not even Him.”
“Those are dangerous words you’re saying, Dew.”
But that response only made him grin devilishly. “I’m going to take your pants off, okay?” But you quickly sat up, taking his hands in yours, keeping him from tugging your pajama pants and underwear down your legs.
“If someone finds out we-”
“We’re not, my sweet girl,” he reassured, “not all the way. There are other ways to take pleasure without me being inside you, even though I want that…so badly. But this is about you, not me. We have our ritual in less than two weeks. I’ve waited for you for months, what’s one more?” He leaned forward, kissing you once more. “Still trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathed out, your heart threatening to beat out of your chest as you laid back down, relaxing your body, and letting Dewdrop slowly pull your pants and underwear down. You shivered as the skin of your legs pebbled in goosebumps, his hands almost feather light as they trailed down your now exposed lower half. Dewdrop drank you in, your expression flustered as he gently spread your legs, revealing your glistening pussy to his hungry eyes. Damn, he hadn’t even touched you yet.
Dewdrop caught your gaze, holding it there, waiting for that explicit consent. You bit your lip and nodded, and he smiled, his pearly white fangs on full display as he lowered himself in between your legs. Your smell had him drooling, the intoxicating aroma of your arousal pulling him in like a moth to a flame. If he was this drawn in this much under a new moon, how ravenous would he be under a full one?
You gasped as Dewdrop lightly raked his claws against the meat of your inner thigh, repeating those motions under you began to whine with need, and God, he could see it. He could see your cunt clenching around nothing, your clit throbbing, just begging to be touched. He couldn’t leave you in such agony any longer.
You let out a surprised moan as Dewdrop licked a tantalizing strip up your folds, kissing your sensitive nub sweetly, your body twitching at the miniscule feeling of pleasure. “Fuck,” he sighed heavily, “I knew you’d taste good.” He worked you with his tongue with a little more pressure, eliciting heavy sighs and soft whines from your pretty mouth. You’d been able to get yourself off with your fingers, but this was something else entirely, and you feared you’d never be able to get enough of it now that you’ve experienced it. But Dewdrop was not even close to done with you yet.
Dewdrop let his hands wonder, trailing up your stomach until he reached the peaks of your breasts, squeezing them through the fabric of your sleep shirt. Almost instinctually, you lifted the hem up and over your breasts, letting him feel the softness of the skin, his fingers pinching your nipples, the feeling shooting down to your cunt and causing a shock of pleasure to spread through your body. “Dewdrop, fuck-!” You whined, suddenly silenced by his larger hand covering your mouth.
“Shh, wouldn’t want anyone to catch us, would we? I need you to stay a bit quieter. Can you do that for me, sweet girl?”
“Yes, yes, just please keep going. It feels so good.” Then you felt a pressure against your entrance, Dewdrop’s thick finger, slowly pushing its way inside you. “Oh my Go-!”
“Shh…” Dewdrop urged, “you want me to keep going, right?” You placed his fingers inside your mouth in response, gently sucking on them to keep yourself quiet, pushing his head back down to your clit. He chuckled. “Oh, you’re going to be a real brat someday, huh?” You bit down on his fingers slightly as he added a second finger in your cunt, causing him to let out a low growl. “Careful, brat.”
You tried not to moan loudly as he reattached his lips to your clit, thrusting his fingers in and out of you at the same time, the feeling of pleasure was otherworldly. It didn’t take long for you to near your peak, his fingers curling inside and hitting a spot that made you forget to breathe. You might’ve been embarrassed at how fast you got close, but in that moment, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. “Dewdrop, don’t stop, please.” You moaned, reaching up to hold onto his wrist that was now gently holding your neck, and the other reaching down to tightly grab onto his hair.
“Don’t stop?” He teased, and you frantically nodded your head. “Yeah? Then look at me. Fuckin’ look at me. I wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.” His pupils were blown wide as you looked down at him devouring your cunt, your walls clenching around his fingers tightly, making him groan in approval. “Fuck, I can’t wait to feel my cock inside your tight little pussy, I just know it’s gonna feel so good. But right now, I want you to come for me, okay? Fuckin’ come for me.”
You couldn’t help but throw your head back onto your pillow, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm hit you like an avalanche–so much better than you could make yourself come with just your fingers.
“That’s my good girl…” Dewdrop moaned, slowly removing his fingers after he let you ride out your high, admiring the way they glistened in the light of your bedroom lamp. He couldn’t help but suck off the elixir of your climax, locking eyes with you as he did so. “My sweet girl, you did so good for me.” He raised from his position between your legs, hovering above you and kissing you gently. You could feel his bulge through his pants, pulsing with want, and all of a sudden you wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you once more. But before you could palm him through his pants, he snatched your hand away with a barely audible growl. “Don’t. I won’t be able to stop once I start, and remember, we can’t until the ceremony. I want to, trust me, I want to. But it’s for the best right now.”
You pouted, but reluctantly agreed. “Thank you, Dewdrop. I do feel better about it all now. I’m happy I’m going to become your mate.”
Dewdrop chuckled. “You already are, official or not. You became mine as soon as we met.”
The following days went back quickly, almost too quickly. Before you knew it, the Abbey and Sister Imperator started to prepare for you and Dewdrop’s ritual, which involved a lot of taking measurements for the robes you’d be made to wear. Certain Ghouls who often traveled to and from Hell prepared everything for the ritual on that side of the universe, and you started to feel like everyone was being dramatic about it all. You were informed there hadn’t been a mating ritual for a couple decades, so the Abbey decided to make a small celebration out of it.
The only thing that amused you was how Dewdrop hated the amount of preening these Sisters of Sin were doing for him. His measurements must be just right for his robes, his horns must be polished, his fangs whitened, every strand of hair in their proper place. “They’re acting like those robes won’t be torn to shreds when the ritual starts.” He growled.
You were in the same mindset as well, but you didn’t mind being pampered, it helped you take your mind off things. But you couldn’t ignore it any longer, as the ritual day finally came and your heartbeat rattled your ribs as a Sister of Sin bathed and dressed you. Per tradition and the upcoming full moon, you and Dewdrop had been separated until the ritual, so you had no idea how he was feeling or if he was having second thoughts. Surprisingly, you weren’t getting cold feet at all, despite how nervous you were. You wanted Dewdrop, you had always wanted him, and he made you feel loved; but this bond was sprung upon him just the same as you. In your heart, you knew Dewdrop wanted you–loved you, so you felt guilty wondering if he was starting to regret his decision. But the thought of Dewdrop boiling the water of his tub in anger as another Sister of Sin ritualistically bathed him made a smile come to your face.
Sister Imperator greeted you with a motherly smile as you were brought to the top of the winding stairs that would carry you down to the deepest parts of the Abbey, admiring the handiwork of the robes that decorated your form. “You look beautiful, sweet girl. You’ll be just fine.” You gave her a sincere smile in return, making the Sister silently gasp when you pulled her into a hug, before she relaxed and wrapped her arms around you.
“Wait, where’s Dewdrop?” You asked, noticing the lack of his presence.
“Don’t worry, my dear. He’s already waiting for you. Alright, on you go.” She nodded to the Sister of Sin by your side, signaling her to lead you down the staircase.
You underestimated how deep this place really was, the further down you went, the darker it got, lit torches lining the walls of the staircase until you reached the very bottom. It was a long dimly lit tunnel that led to a faint purple light, where you could already make out the silhouette of Dewdrop with his own handler, a tall and muscular Ghoul. The Sister of Sin walked by your side as you made your way to him, the closer you got the more that purple light took shape. The back wall of the tunnel ended, cobblestone opening up into a glowing, warbling purple pentagon like shaped portal that you assumed led into Hell.
Dewdrop looked like he could devour you, his eyes darkening as he saw a glimpse of what was beneath your robes, a blush making its way to your cheeks. You were allowed to wear something beneath the robes, to your surprise, so you made sure to pick something you knew Dew would not be able to resist.
The Sister of Sin bid you farewell, leaving you, Dewdrop, and his handler, who was also meant to be your guide once you went through the portal. You took Dewdrop’s hand as you both were led through the purple mist, whatever the portal was made out of tickling your skin as you walked through.
Whatever you expected Hell to be like, your imagination never could’ve prepared you for the real thing.
You were once told that Hell for humans is different for Ghouls. For humans, Hell was punishment, torture, and fire; endless suffering and falling. But for Ghouls, this was their true home, hunting grounds, and way of life. You and Dewdrop were both fire Ghouls, so the portal took you to the fire Ghouls natural habitat. You couldn’t believe Hell had different environments for specific Ghouls, but then again, you knew little to nothing about it in the first place before you were transformed.
The sky was a darkened orange, almost red, and the ground was flaky with lava flowing through some of the bigger cracks in the terrain. Caves were scattered on mountainsides as far as your eyes could see, making out little villages on the horizon that you assumed housed native fire Ghouls that had better things to do than come to Earth to play in a silly rock band. But on the path before you, led to a steep hill with scarce patches of dried grass at the top, a thick blanket with runes that you didn’t recognize stitched into the fabric that were arranged into a pentagram. It wasn’t as scary as you thought it would be, although the dagger that was set in the middle of the pentagram did spike your heart rate a little bit. Dewdrop squeezed your hand, giving you a reassuring smile before leading you up the hill, bidding farewell to the guide, leaving you two completely alone.
The loudness of the silence was deafening as you and Dewdrop settled atop the hill, staring at each other, wanting nothing more to tear each other’s ceremonial robes off. But just one thing was missing; your observer. “When are we supposed to start?” You whispered to Dewdrop, even though you were alone.
“Impatient, are we?” He smirked, causing you to pout, earning you a chuckle.
“How are you so…calm? It is a full moon, shouldn’t you be fighting tooth and nail to get in my pants right now?”
Dewdrop shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe because I know I can make you mine any moment now. I’m not locked away from you tonight, and never will be again.”
A strong, hot wind blew through the air–disrupting your conversation–the blanket long gone to the winds if it weren’t for you and Dewdrop sitting on it. You looked at him in slight fear, feeling a heavy presence forming in the sky. He gripped your hand, nodding in reassurance. It was like a shadow, loosely shaped that almost resembled a man, two glaring yellow eyes at the center of where a face would be. You could faintly make out the shape of two large horns that curled up and out of the sides of the ‘head’. Even as a demon now yourself, the presence of the Unholy Father rattled you.
In an instant, you had a feeling of what you needed to do, how to proceed. It’s like you could hear this voice in your head guiding you, but it wasn’t a voice at all, more like instinct.
With trembling legs, you stood up with Dewdrop. You came closer together, running your hands along one another, feeling each other’s heat radiating through the robes. Take them off, you jolted as the thought came into your mind, but you listened. With shaky hands, you slipped off your robes, revealing the bright red lingerie that you wore just for Dewdrop, blushing as you watched his eyes widened, then darken as he swiped his tongue over his fangs in hunger. In turn, Dewdrop tore off his robes to reveal nothing underneath, his cock already standing at attention, slightly bobbing in the air, before you two even started.
“Fuck…” Dewdrop growled, letting his hands roam up your arms, cupping and squeezing at your heavy breasts, eliciting a whine from your lips. He helped you out of your bra and underwear, mouth watering at the sight of your now completely naked body. Dewdrop leaned forward to kiss you, but he suddenly stopped with a flinch, clear that a sharp thought entered his mind too. The pact first…
You and Dewdrop kneeled back to the ground, picking up the dagger. The design was beautiful, red and black jewels covering the pommel, the silver blade shining even in the dim atmosphere.
Dewdrop held out his hand, motioning for you to give him yours, palm facing up. You froze as he lifted the dagger, the fear of the pain making you hesitate, but you stayed still as the tip of the blade pierced the thin skin of your palm. You hissed as the blade sliced the expanse of your palm, blood pooling to the surface as your hand throbbed. Dewdrop handed you the dagger, his palm facing up for you. You didn’t want to hurt him, but you reminded yourself this was part of the ritual. You pierced his skin, and he barely made a sound, not even when you made a similar cut through his palm.
You and Dewdrop let your blood pool in your hands, dipping your fingers in the sticky crimson and drawing shapes into each other’s skin. You didn’t even know what you were drawing, instinct taking over, only when you were done you realized it was the same runes from the blanket you were currently sitting on. You were both now covered in each other’s blood, drops running across your skin from the corners of the rune drawings. You probably looked like a mess, but you thought Dewdrop looked dangerously beautiful.
Wind billowed around the two of you as you were finally allowed to kiss each other passionately, all tongue and teeth, tasting copper and salt. But you didn’t want it to stop. Before you knew it, the shadow disappeared, leaving you two breathless and bleeding. “I guess he just wanted to see us bleed for each other.” You chuckled, panting from your arousal, the evidence running down your thighs. You guessed rituals turned you on more than you thought.
“I guess so.” Dewdrop responded, his hands wrapping around your midsection tightly, his wounded hand leaving a bloody handprint on your back. “Now I have you all to myself, whatever shall I do with you? The mind reels. Where to start?”
You shrieked as he pinned you to the ground, intertwining your hands, your blood mixing with his, feeling your bond become even stronger. You gasped as he licked up the side of your neck slowly, ruining a rune that was drawn there. “Mmm, my blood tastes sweet on you.” He groaned, his pulsing erection prodding against your core, your clit throbbing in tandem, your entrance clenching around nothing as you jutted your hips to him. “Needy, are we? Good. But I want to get you ready for me first.” Your breathing became shaky and unsteady as he trailed kisses and licks down your body, almost cleaning the bloody runes off your body.
“So wet for me.” Dewdrop breathed out, face to face with your center, seeing the slick that pooled at your entrance. “Did me painting you with my blood get you all hot and bothered, baby?”
You almost cried out when he licked up your folds, spreading them with his fingers to get better access to your throbbing bundle of nerves, letting that cry escape when he suctioned his lips against it. “Dew, yes!" You cried, unable to stop the buck of your hips as he made out with your pussy. You were close already, two of his fingers pushing into you making your eyes roll, a strangled moan escaping your lips as you reached that high. It was hot, almost unbearably so, the ground beneath you boiling and reaching temperatures that no human could survive, but it made the moment so much better. You and Dewdrop were already sweating the bloody runes off. “Please, Dew, please, fuck me. I want you, so bad.” You whined, eliciting a smirk from him.
“Yeah, you want my cock? Finally?”
“Please…” You begged, grabbing his hair and pulling his lips to yours, biting his lip until it drew blood.
“Fuck, I’m gonna make a mess out of you.”
Dewdrop lined up his cock with your entrance, sliding inside so easily, your arousal and aftermath of your orgasm making it a smooth glide. You both moaned together, your pussy so tightly clenched around him, causing him to briefly collapse against you with a groan. “Feels too good, fuck.” He laughed breathlessly. “Feels perfect.” Dewdrop pried your legs open further and thrusted into you once harshly, knocking the breath out of you, before setting a slower pace. You could feel every ridge and vein, rubbing against your sensitive walls so deliciously. God, he felt so heavy inside you, stretching you open to make you take him–the thought sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.
It was so intimate, Dewdrop on top of you, as close as two beings could get, his dark eyes gazing into yours, watching every facial expression you made as he pistoned his hips against yours. “I love you…” You whispered, bringing your hands up to attach around his neck, gently tugging at the roots of his hair.
“I love you too, my pretty succubus.” Dewdrop grinned, leaning down to kiss you, rocking his hips with more force, your breasts bouncing with every thrust. “I’ve always loved you, since we were children. I couldn’t ask for a better mate.”
Your heart soared at his words, finally letting yourself let go, not worrying about doing something embarrassing or without finesse. You let Dewdrop take care of you, allowing him to completely unravel you, ripping away all your layers to see the real you and piecing you back together, repeating that process with every orgasm he tore from you. He removed the hands that held together at his neck, pinning them above your head with his own, his fangs shining as he smirked. Your own fangs ached with an urge that you knew you wouldn’t be able to control.
Dewdrop gasped as your fangs connected to the skin of his shoulder, pressing in until it broke, your teeth sinking in, his blood pooling to the surface and dripping down your chin. “Mmm, your blood does taste sweet.”
“You bit me?” Dewdrop grinned darkly.
“Now you know how it feels.” You said lovingly, remembering what got you two here in the first place.
“Get on top of me, baby.”
Before you could respond, Dewdrop had flipped you over, his hands on your hips, guiding you to bounce up and down on his cock, his brows furrowing in concentration. “Fuck, I’ll never get tired of this cunt.” He grunted, smiling at your fucked out expression, the pleasure so overwhelming it was the only thing you could focus on beside staying upright, but he helped with that. His grip was bruising, his strength enough to hold you there, but he had been making you feel so good–you wished to return the favor.
You removed Dewdrop’s hands from your hips, pinning them above his head, your breasts dangling in his face, giving him the perfect opportunity to lick and suckle at them. His cock hit your cervix with every thrust, the angle allowing your core to be completely against his pelvis every time you lowered yourself onto him, your clit dragging against the wiry hairs that decorated his pubic region, creating a blissful friction that had you faltering.
You gasped as Dewdrop sat up abruptly, reaching up to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes, as if you’d want to look anywhere else when his face was so pretty when it was giving way to the pleasure you made him feel. “I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come inside you and you’re gonna take it all, understand?”
You moaned loudly as he thrusted up into you wildly, using one hand to lean against the ground as he planted his feet so he could thrust into you, his other hand keeping that grip on your hair, winding tighter and tighter the closer he got. The roughness of it all propelled forward another climax from you, the angle reaching the depths of you, bullying against that spot that made you feel like your body turned into static. “I’m gonna come too, Dew, I’m gonna come with you. Please, come with me.”
“Keep moaning like that for me. You sound so pretty. Scream my name when you come around this cock.” Dewdrop groaned loudly, his cock pulsing inside you, your gummy walls tightening around him like a vice as your orgasm shook you to the core, his own release washing over him along with you.
“Fuck…” Dewdrop panted, collapsing to the ground, bringing you with him. You smiled against his naked chest, the absurdity of having your first time in Hell making you giggle. “What?”
“I lost my virginity in Hell.” You continued to giggle, causing Dewdrop to roll his eyes, chasing your lips until you stopped.
“Wild, isn’t it? But you’re acting like this is over.” Dewdrop growled, and you could feel his cock hardening once again. “I get you all to myself, no one to disturb us, and I’m not going to stop filling up that pussy until I physically can’t anymore. Understand?”
“Yes.” You breathed out shakily, your legs trembling, anticipating the promise of more pleasure.
“Good girl.”
The hill had another path, the path that led to one of the caves on the mountainside, where you and your new mate would spend the rest of your time. You couldn’t even count how many times Dewdrop made love to you, and fucked you. By the second day, your mind was too broken from all the pleasure that you lost track, even of time itself. You two only stopped when you needed to, exhaustion giving way to thirst and hunger, but eating only threw gasoline on the fire that was your lust for each other, your flame growing brighter again. Dewdrop had you in every way you could think of, on your back, your hands and knees, against the walls of the cave. The cave only smelled of fire and sex by the time your mating ritual finally ended.
You were almost sad that you had to go back to Earth, these past several days had you glowing with happiness. But you weren’t from Hell, not truly; your home was at the Abbey, and with Dewdrop. Wherever he went, you knew you’d always follow, even if he wanted to stay in Hell forever.
After being in Hell for so long, coming back through the portal to the dark basement felt like stepping into a freezer, you had to tighten your robe around yourself and lean into Dewdrop for heat. All that preparation and no one thought to have an extra set of clothes ready for when you both returned. But everyone was so happy for you and Dewdrop, it felt like you were newlyweds. But you weren’t, it was something so much more.
You and Dewdrop were soulmates now–bonded, for all eternity–together as one.
Pairing: Michael Gavey (Saltburn) x f!reader (third person, no use of y/n)
Warnings: Very brief mention of drug use, heavy petting.
Word count: ~2k
Summary: Michael provides shelter when they get caught in a downpour, and reveals some uncomfortable truths.
Author's note: Happiest of birthdays to @dreamymoomin // @in-a-mountain-pool - hope you enjoy this little gift! No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.
It’s mid June in Oxford, a time when the air hangs thick and humid, the rain showers and storms as frequent as the blazing sunshine and cloudless skies. It’s an odd time of year, the feeling of transition as apparent in the weather as it is in the nearing finality of the end of term.
Exams have descended upon the students of every course, and while everyone studies hard, the need to let off steam is as burgeoning as the pressure in the atmosphere that promises thunder and lightning. The parties get wilder with every weekend that passes, a celebration of the turning in of coursework, completion of written assessments and an undeniable sense of finality; first year is drawing to its close.
She steps out of the wine shop on Turl Street, the nicest bottle she could find for under seven pounds wrapped delicately in navy blue tissue paper. Her friends in this city are of a different breed to what she’s used to back home; turning up to a party with a litre bottle of cider or a four pack of WKD Blue is social suicide. There is an unspoken, but incredibly obvious air of refinement, and if your face doesn’t fit then you’re destined for an incredibly lonely three years.
So, she has learned to play along. Turn up with fancy wine, pretend she’s one of them, until Felix and Farleigh show up with a wrap of cocaine and a bottle of Jägermeister, and things inevitably degenerate. They always degenerate. She makes her excuses and leaves whenever they arrive, she knows better now, having attempted to keep up in her first week, and then waking up the following day with an impending sense of dread and a general feeling of sickness that had continued to outstay its welcome after two days.
The social protocols are something she has perfected to a fine art; turn up, bring a bottle, ensure people see you, talk just enough to ensure you’re invited back next time, and then leave before things get too messy. It’s lonely, exhausting, and utterly unfulfilling, but it’s better than the alternative of being ostracised from her course mates.
As her feet land upon the pavement from the shop doorway, the sky blackens. Thick, grey clouds roll overhead and she looks up just in time to feet the first raindrop splash upon her cheek. Shit.
The sudden downpour makes her gasp, and though Trinity College is only a five minute walk away, she knows she’ll be drenched by the time she makes it back, so she runs in the direction of the Brasenose, seeking shelter beneath the covered entryway as she waits for the rain to pass.
She shivers, hair sticking to her neck, cursing under her breath as she watches the tissue paper that had been covering her wine bottle disintegrate in her hands. She shuffles to the side as she spots someone in her peripheral vision step beneath the entryway, giving them space as they lower the jacket they had been holding over their head.
“You’re not staying at this college.”
The brusque statement isn’t a question, it’s almost accusatory, and she snaps her head up, looking into the face of a person she recognises, but doesn’t know the name of.
“No…sorry,” she utters, awkwardly turning her bottle in her hands as more paper sloughs off of it. “Just waiting for the rain to pass.”
The rectangular glasses, sandy coloured hair and angular features are unforgettable. She had seen this guy hanging around with Oliver Quick towards the start of term and in the lead up to Christmas. When they’d all come back from break, she’d stopped seeing them together. Considering that Oliver now hung around Felix Catton like a shadow, it wasn’t hard to guess what had happened. She felt sorry for him.
“You could be standing here for a while,” he tells her.
She watches as a droplet of rain drips from the cleft of his nose, before her eyes flicker up to his. “Better than getting soaked on the walk back to Trinity.”
He hums under his breath, regarding her warily. “You could make it back in under five hundred steps if you walked quickly.”
“Or you could invite me in until the rain passes,” she replies hopefully, her eyes meeting his.
She watches him carefully as he blinks once, twice, three times, his mouth twisting in a mixture of confusion and apprehension as he considers her proposition. She is certain he’s going to refuse, until he utters a clipped “fine”, before turning to open the door.
Following him in and up the staircase, she wonders why she had been so bold. There is no denying she is curious about him, the maths genius that everyone says had shouted “fucking ask me a sum then!” during the Fresher’s dinner, but she would never ordinarily ask a complete stranger to allow her into their room. He’s not even leading her to the common area.
As the door to his room clicks closed behind her, she takes in her surroundings. It could not be more different to the rooms of other boys she has visited during her time at Oxford. It’s clean, tidy to the point of being orderly, everything has its place. The bedspread is pulled taut against the mattress, pens and pencils are lined up perfectly straight next to the neat pile of notebooks on the desk.
She feels her skin heat up when she sees him standing there staring at her. She hasn’t even introduced herself.
“Sorry,” she says, giving her name with an embarrassed smile, “probably should have told you that before inviting myself up. And you are?”
“Michael,” he says, “Michael Gavey.”
He reaches for her hand to shake it, but withdraws upon seeing the soggy blue tissue paper it’s coated in, and she silently prays for the ground to swallow her up as fresh humiliation burns hotly through her.
“Here,” he says, passing her a towel that had been carefully folded over the back of a chair, “dry yourself off.”
She gives a quiet thanks, setting her bottle down on the bedside table, before toweling her face, hair and hands. It smells faintly of Head and Shoulders shampoo, and it’s oddly comforting.
Passing the towel back, she busies herself with opening the wine as Michael works to dry himself. Using the end of a fork that has been left upon the bedside table, she pushes the cork through into the bottle.
“What are you doing?”
She looks up, watching as he wipes at the lenses of his glasses with a cleaning cloth. He’s actually quite beautiful without them, less severe looking, his eyes are strikingly blue. Forcing herself to avert her gaze, she replies: “well, I can’t see a corkscrew.”
“No, I mean, why are you opening it?”
She gives an easy shrug. “Something to do while we wait for the rain to stop.”
Taking a swig of the cheap chardonnay, she winces slightly and holds it out to him. He hesitates, eyes shifting between the bottle and her, before he tentatively reaches out to take it from her. His own face contorts in disgust as he drinks, causing her to laugh.
“Only the finest for five pounds fifty!”
“Christ,” he winces, passing it back to her. “So, what are you reading?”
“History of art,” she replies, slugging from the wine bottle once more.
“Fucking hell,” he scoffs derisively, mouth turning up into a sneer.
“Oh fuck off,” she shoots back playfully, perching herself on the edge of his bed. “We can’t all be maths geniuses.”
He eyes her curiously. “How do you know I’m reading maths?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
Recognition flickers in his eyes for a moment and she sees a tinge of pink flush his cheek, as he averts his gaze in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts hurriedly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s impressive, really, it is.”
“I don’t need one of Felix Catton’s vapid cunts to validate me,” he retorts, his tone suddenly icy.
Her brows arch, eyes widening as the comment hits her like a slap to the face. “I’m not…I’m not making fun of you,” she says quietly, “and Felix isn’t my friend, not that that’s any of your business.”
He narrows his eyes at her, putting his glasses back on. “Well, go on then.”
“What?”
“Ask me a sum. You’ve been dying to since you first saw me.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t going–”
“Just do it,” he interrupts with a sigh.
She chews her lip hesitantly, placing the wine bottle on the bedside table, before leaning back on her palms against the bed as she sits on its edge. “Alright. Two hundred and eighty four divided by sixteen?”
“Seventeen and three quarters,” he replies instantaneously.
It shocks her, he doesn’t really even have to take time to think about it.
“I’ve got no way of verifying if that’s correct,” she says, chuckling nervously.
“Hmm, why don’t we even the playing field then?” He says, coming to sit beside her.
She feels her breath hitch as the mattress dips beside her, his closeness making the humidity of the air seem hotter still.
“What do you mean?”
“You ask me a maths question, I’ll ask you a question, and it’s up to us if we believe each other’s answer.”
“Art history questions?”
“What do you think?” He shoots her a withering look.
“What sort of questions then?”
“Just ones about you. You’re in my room, after all, makes sense for me to get to know you.”
She swallows thickly, nodding. “Okay, that seems fair.”
“So, why aren’t you friends with Felix Catton?”
“I don’t like him,” she says honestly.
“Why not?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Just answer it.”
She wets her lips, considering her answer. It’s not something she’s ever really even admitted to herself before, let alone said aloud to another person. “I–I don’t like how he makes me feel…about myself.”
“Your turn.”
She turns her face towards him, noticing how close they’re sitting together. The smell of Head and Shoulders shampoo is more fragrant on him than it had been on the towel. “Eighty eight times ninety one?”
His skin breaks out into gooseflesh at the feeling of her breath upon it, and she smiles to herself as she watches him shift upon the bed, his answer slower than the first time. “Eight thousand and eight.”
He looks at her, his face so close to hers their noses almost touch. “Why do you hang out with Felix’s friends if you don’t like him?”
Exhaling shakily, she dips her face into the crook of his neck, feeling him tense beneath her touch, the proximity causing her own heartbeat to quicken. “Because I don’t want to be lonely,” she whispers. She ghosts her lips tentatively against the flesh of his neck, delighting in the way he shivers. “Six hundred times three hundred and twenty one?”
When he breathes out, it’s audible, the faintest hint of a whimper carrying alongside the expulsion of air. “One hundred and ninety two thousand, six hundred,” his voice is strained as he replies, an indication that he’s struggling.
He reaches across, long slender fingers gripping her thigh, out of desire to touch her or simply to ground himself, she is unsure, but she takes the initiative, slinging her leg over his lap. She can feel the rapid hardening of him through the fly of his cargo shorts.
“Why did you want to come up today?” He whispers, turning his head, nuzzling into her still damp hair.
“To get out of the rain,” she utters, gripping the front of his t-shirt as though it’s a lifeline.
“Liar, the rain’s stopped now.”
The darkness of his tone causes her core to squeeze involuntarily, excitement making her tummy flutter. “I was curious about you, you seem lonely too.”
“Do you want to stay?”
“That’s two questions,” she chides, pulling back, resting her forehead against his.
“Answer me,” he insists, his grip on her thigh tightening.
As she looks at him, his pupils dilated, full lips parted, she knows she has no intention of going to the party later. From the moment she met Michael, her plans had changed without her ever being aware of it.
“Yes, I want to stay.”
He leans in, lips pressing feverishly against hers, and as she kisses back, savouring the taste of cheap white wine upon his mouth, it feels as though the pressure has finally lifted. She hopes it rains forever.
‘Unknown Number: I said if he’s too pussy to date you, then he should move along and let someone else shoot their shot with you.’
‘Unknown Number: that someone else being me.’
‘Unknown Number: and this is me shooting my shot with you.’
When you replace a girl on your mom's cheerleading team, you don't expect much of your life to change. But, when your bully, Nate, reveals his feelings for you, you're thrown into a whirlwind of confusion, reluctance and desire.
Tags: enemies to lovers, bully romance, plussize reader, fatphobia, therapy-talk, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, protected sex, 69 position, face sitting, implied/referenced fluid and furry kinks (not between the characters), implied/referenced kidnapping/cannibalism (not between the characters), light spanking, body worship.
Part 1 < | > Part 3
****
“This one seems good.”
You and Kat stood between the crowded shelves of Book Nook the next day. The small bookstore stayed nestled on a corner near the hardware store. Sweet, rich coffee going through the air, the cafe took up half the store while several shelves stood on the other half. Right up front, the newest addition of your favorite series sat on a display table with dozens of copies. The Wicked Flames series was your favorite by far, and you were grateful it kept going. Holding the hardcover in your hand, you’d normally go for the slightly cheaper paperback for your mom’s sake, but not today. Waking up to sore thighs, legs, arms and everywhere else, you would heal your aching with whatever you wanted.
“Yeah,” Kat said, reading the back of her copy. “This one’s a mafia romance, I think.”
“Hm, cool,” you examined the front cover depicting a well-dressed couple in each other’s arms, each of them holding a gun behind the other’s back. “I don’t know about mafia romances though. They all feel the same to me,” you shrugged, flipping through and reading a few lines for a feel of it. “It’s always some scary guy meeting a good girl and a series of events leads to steamy sex and romance.”
“Come on,” she replied, “Not all of them end up like that.” She browsed the rest of the table, and smirked, “Unless you want to change it up and get a juicy sports romance?”
She shows you a book with a pink and red silhouette of a jock holding a girl with glasses. ‘Off the Field’ was written in white cursive letters.
“No thanks,” you gagged, turning from the book. “Light romances never interested me.”
“Right,” she nodded slowly, putting the book back on the table, “I forgot. You like the ‘mean to everyone but you’ trope in your leads. I remember you crushing on Xavier in that one book we read.”
“He was the perfect dark romance lead,” you reasoned. “He was the right amount of possessive and obsessive, a gentleman and an energetic freak. What was there not to like?”
“The fact that he was a masked serial killer?” Kat said as if this were obvious. “That might have been it.”
“He wasn’t a serial killer,” you remind her. “He was a vigilante like Batman.”
“Still a masked dude that murdered people.”
“Sorry that I have a more refined taste.”
The store had put down the first four books in the series, each one being about a different couple alongside other book recommendations, though there were ten books in all. You’d already read them, but thought about getting your favorite as a hardcover: Wicked Destiny. Xavier, a finance bro by day and a ruthless vigilante by night, falls for school teacher, Michelle, and becomes obsessed with her. A sort of stalker romance that intrigued you in fiction. Only in fiction.
“Yeah, which are total assholes,” she added, “You do have a type.”
“They’re not ‘my type’. I simply attract them, I guess,” you sighed.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket, and you naturally looked at it. An Instagram notification, it only said someone messaged you. When you opened it, you wished you hadn’t.
AtotheB69: I heard you’re going to McKay’s with Nate. That true?
‘Yeah.’ You’d forgotten to block him on other things too.
AtotheB69: wow girl, you move on quick
‘Nothing to move on from.’
“Is it Nate?” Kat asked a bit hopefully, the two of you moving over to another section.
“Aaron.”
“I thought you blocked him?”
“Not on Insta,” you sighed.
“What is he saying?”
“Nothing of substance. He wanted to know if I was really going to the party with Nate.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes.”
AtotheB: i thought u want to see me tho
‘Why would I do that? You dumped ME Aaron.’
AtotheB69: to make up
‘No thanks.’
“Men are so pathetic,” you grunted, picking up a thriller that caught your eye. “Now he’s saying he wanted to make up at the party. How much you wanna bet he’s only saying this because he saw Nate and I kissing?”
“My whole collection,” she said, taking one off the shelf.
AtotheB69: i miss you.
‘No, you don’t. You miss fucking me. Things must’ve fallen through with whoever you dumped me for, and now you’re crawling back to me.’
AtotheB69: doesn’t that show u how i feel about u?? Ditch Nate’s bitch ass and chill with me tonight. Just me and u.’
“Nah, I’m good. Nate’s hotter and got a bigger dick. Bye Aaron.’
You blocked him. You happened to learn the possibility of the second statement much earlier than you thought. Meaning to send a harmless gym selfie, telling you about his day, Nate's gym shorts were a bit tighter. A slight bulge showing on the side, you couldn't help commenting on it.
‘Working out gets you pretty worked up, huh? 😏’
‘Nate: oh shit lmao i swear i didn't mean to send that to you.’
‘Nate: do you like it though?’
You felt tempted to say no to dash his hopes, but your thumbs worked the answer before you did.
‘It looks bigger than I thought, that's for sure.’
You should not be humoring him. Humoring him was a one way ticket to Embarrassment Town. It starts with suggestive flirting and ends with him sharing your nudes to everyone.
“I gotta get Julius Caesar for English,” Kat huffed, already walking to the classics section. “I'm getting the Sparknotes version though. It makes my life a million times better.”
“Cliffnotes is just as good,” you replied, following her.
Then you stopped. Standing at the end of the aisle was Nate. You noted that the shelf only beat him by a few more inches. In a plain grey shirt you noticed his biceps and arms more than usual. They'd likely flexed when he lifted you off the ground last night, holding you with ease. You shook it from your head and hoped he didn't notice you. Of course he did when you and Kat reached the Shakespeare section.
“Hey,” he said. God, you never noticed how brown his eyes were. Not too dark or too light, they still stood out when he looked at you. “Nice seeing you here.”
Kat grabbed the Sparknotes book and slunk away before you could catch her.
“And surprised to see you here,” you said, gripping your book to your chest. “You need Julius Caesar too?”
“Yeah,” he said, showing you the Cliffnotes version of the book, “Are you?”
“Nah, I have mine at home.”
“That's a shame. I was hoping we could share and read it together,” he pouted.
“I prefer solo reading.”
He noticed the hardcover against your chest, and you saw him read the title and smirk. “I bet you do,” he stepped closer and you could smell the faint cologne on him. Other guys always doused themselves in it, but not Nate. “Is that the new one?”
“Yeah. It came out last week.”
“Did you like the last one? I thought it was kind of boring,”
“Do you know the name of it?” you asked, sensing a lie in his words.
“Wicked Dreams,” he answered, brow furrowed. “The one about the chick who hooks up with a ghost that visits her dreams. I felt it kinda dragged and the whole thing with the serial killer angle was kind of boring. She'd done it in the one before, so it was kind of repetitive to me, you know?”
“You got that from my review…” you accused, “And you follow me?”
“I read the book before I read your thing,” he answered, “And yeah, I follow you.”
“How?”
“I found you and clicked the follow button?”
“Why?”
“Because you're gorgeous and I like looking at pictures of gorgeous women? I'm not seeing where the confusion is here.”
“It's weird.”
“What is?”
“That you suddenly start liking me out of nowhere.”
“I don't think it came out of nowhere. I thought it was obvious after a while.”
You scoffed, “How was it obvious?”
“I thought the teasing and pet names and general attention seeking was enough for me,” he rolled his eyes. “It's sort of our thing, like Michael and Rosie.”
A couple from another book, you recalled the enemies to lovers story. “We're nothing like them,” you chuckled, “I'd say you're more of a Gaston than a Michael.”
“What? I am not,” he defended, though he still laughed with you. “I would never throw your mom in an insane asylum to get you to marry me.” He then added, “I'd slowly integrate myself into every aspect of your life until you fell madly in love with me, then marry you.”
“Oh please, like I'd let that happen.”
“It worked for Michael, and Rosie fell for him right away.”
“That's because she already liked him,” you replied, “And it's fiction. That wouldn't work in real life. Plus, my mom would see right through you and stop it from happening.”
“Hm, I don't know,” he said in a singsong voice, “She thinks I'm helpful and dependable. She said so when I gave her a jump the other day.”
“What? When?”
“Her car had broken down in the parking lot after practice and I offered to give her a jump since I had cables in my truck,” he said. “She said, and I quote, ‘You're a lifesaver, Nate. You have my full blessing to marry my daughter.’”
“She did not!” You couldn't help but laugh with him.
“She did, I swear. She said I'd make a great son in law.” You shoved him lightly, earning another laugh. He then said, “Can I pick you up?”
“Tonight? Sure, then I don't have to drive my mo-Nate!”
Using both arms underneath you, Nate lifted you off the ground like he'd done last night. He started slowly spinning you, laughing at your shock.
“Put me down,” you grumbled, holding onto him around his neck.
“Hey, you said I could.”
“I thought you meant tonight!”
“I can do this again tonight then?”
“Not this. I meant you picking me up in your car to go to the party, idiot. Put me down,” you couldn't stop the giggle that left you, unused to being held as if you were weightless.
“Not until you kiss me again,” he replied.
“I'm not doing that.”
His lips went next to your ear, soft and low, “Not even for the only guy who can lift and hold you like this?”
“Um, uh…”
“I'm not Aaron, Princess,” he said, “I can handle you perfectly fine. No weak shit here.”
You gulped thickly and tried not imagining that. You gazed around for signs of Kat, but she was on the other side of the store.
“Just one? I won't ask anymore after that,” he pouted.
“Take me over to the fantasy section, then I'll think about it.”
Positive walking and holding you would be difficult for him, you gasped when he walked with ease. “How often do you work out, dude?” you asked in shock.
“I do a lot of endurance and stamina stuff,” he answered, taking you past two aisles. “You know, to keep up with insatiable little bunnies like you.”
“Aaron told you…”
“Nah, it was a lucky guess,” he said, putting you down in the Fantasy aisle. “I mean, look at the stuff you read. Those aren't exactly vanilla books, are they?”
“That doesn't mean it's a reflection of the things I like.”
“Then why read it? For the enchanting love story?” He smirked when you looked away from him. “Well, I gotta go. I'll see you tonight, Cupcake.”
He placed a chaste kiss on your lips, then walked away. The exchange left you stiff in place, the warmth of him slowly slipping from you and his lips imprinting themselves in your mind. You had just gotten him out of your head, and he managed to get back in. Turning around, you saw Kat leaning against a bookcase and sneering at you.
“What?” you asked, annoyed by her teasing smile.
“Nothing. Just cute, that's all.”
“Kissing me without consent and carrying me around a store isn't ‘cute’.”
“But there you were giggling and doing the barest of minimums to escape his lustful clutches,” she giggled, her voice pouring with seduction. When you picked up a random book, she said, “I know you’re worried. I know you think it's all a big joke at your expense, but does it feel that way? It doesn't to me and I'm like you.”
“It's Nate,” you flipped through the pages, though you didn't read anything. “It's weird.”
‘Worth it,’ you heard him say in your head again.
“Maybe seeing you with Aaron bothered him? I mean, you never hooked up with any guys he knew personally, so he didn't have much of a reason to be jealous until now.”
“He told me he kissed me as a bet with Aaron,” you said bitterly. “He got fifty bucks and a chance to kiss me out of it.”
“Which he could be lying about.”
“I doubt he is.”
“Ask Aaron.”
“I am not asking Aaron.”
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry I don’t want confirmation that I’m a joke.”
“Fine, then I’ll ask.” She pulled out her phone and began typing before you could get the phone from her.
“Kat,” you pleaded, “Just drop it, please.”
Kat quickly typed on her phone, then made a final tap. “There,” she smiled in satisfaction, “If we’re lucky, your ex-fling will clear up some stuff for us. Now, I’m getting a latte. You want one?”
“Yes, please. A muffin too.”
Except you only picked at the muffin. While you and Kat poured over the book, Aaron’s response floated in your head. He’ll no doubt admit to the bet with a laughing emoji and you’d be proven right. Thinking of Nate’s lips on yours and his arms around you, you didn’t want to be right.
“Ooh, he messaged back!” Kat said during your opinion about the last heroine of the series. “Hold that thought-”
“-Kat, for real?” You watched her read Aaron’s message and a smile grow on her face, “What does it say?”
Kat didn’t answer. She put the phone on the table and slid it over to you. Aaron’s last message batted at the butterflies in your stomach.
AtotheB69: why would i make that bet?? Thats mess up. Nate’s got a hella crush on her, everybody knows that.
“He’s lying,” you immediately decided and pushed the phone away.
“Or he could be telling the truth.”
“Or he could be lying to save his own ass.”
“YN, why is this so hard for you to believe?”
“You know why,” you picked at the muffin, rolling a chocolate chip between your fingers but not eating it.
Or he’ll do it at the party. It would be the best place to do it. Everyone you both know will be there, and it’s the perfect spot for public humiliation. Mom eventually found the two of you, and bought the books. Neither you or Kat brought up Nate again the rest of the time. During your pedicures, he messaged you stupid things like:
Nate: this julius guy sounds like a real dickhead. No wonder they jump him.
Nate: do you really not like me picking you up? I won’t do it anymore if it does bug you.
Nate: i wanted to prove that it doesn’t bother me at all. I can handle you. All of you 😏
“And your friends?”
Nate: what about them?
“They’ll rag on you for liking me.”
Nate: YN
Nate: I’m the six-foot-five quarterback of the football team. I can lift way more than whatever you weigh and my therapist says I have anger issues. Do you REALLY think I care what they fucking think?
Nate: I’m gonna prove it to you tonight. Watch.
It did make sense when you thought about it. Nate was massive compared to most of his teammates and friends. Considering his track record of getting into fights, you didn’t see many people having the gall to bully him. As you start preparing for the party, you let yourself dive into the fantasy for a while. You and Nate being a real couple: Him taking you out on dates in the day time that aren’t in his house. Him giving you gifts and flowers and not being ashamed to say he liked you. Being close to him like you were in the store. Being in his arms and not worrying about when he’d find someone more suitable for society. You wanted to believe him. For once, you wanted to be proven wrong. Yet, as you slipped on your denim shorts and a crimson off-the shoulder top, that lingering doubt kept floating around. You’d think about Nate’s eyes staring down at you and praying the fondness in them was real.
Like the face he gave when he saw you coming down the stairs. He stood there as if time stopped just for you. He didn’t smile right away or make a flirty joke. Nate only stayed in place, holding a small bouquet of flowers, and looked at you. You didn’t know what to say or do with him simply staring like that.
“Are those for me?” you asked, giving a nervous laugh.
“Oh yeah,” he snapped back into reality, “Yeah. Here.”
The ruffled petals of the red and pink carnations were broken up by the small baby’s breath stems with their white blooms. A real bouquet, not something picked up anywhere, it had a red ribbon and wrapped in shiny green plastic. You looked up at Nate, seeing him nervously tuck his hands into his back pocket and wait for your response.
“They’re beautiful, Nate,” you said, “Thanks.”
“I didn’t want to be boring and get roses, so the chick at the store said carnations mean, like, love and and Maddy said they were your favorite-
“-You talked to Maddy?”
“Yeah, she gave me the whole ‘hurt-our-Judy-and-I’ll-make-sure-you’re-never-seen-again’ speech and said you like romantic gestures, so…here’s one of them,” he gestured to the flowers.
“That’s sweet.” You put them aside, unsure how to really react. “Really, thanks.”
“Glad you like them. We should get going,” he nodded to the door. “I can’t show you off if we’re standing here.”
“Show me off, huh?” You let him guide you by the waist to the door and open it for you like he lived there. “I’ll believe it when I see it, sir.”
“Then prepare to be amazed.”
****
“Nate, Nate, Nate, Nate!”
People chanted his name the moment he entered the house. You saw that typical cocky smirk go over his face when he heard them, clapping hands and nodding at people as he guided you through McKay’s house. You waited for someone to notice you with him. There’d be an envious eye or a disgusted glance in your direction somewhere. Some people did see Nate’s arm around you as he brought you into the kitchen where they set up the drinks. You spent less time on them and more time trying to find his friends. They’d likely be lying in wait for the plan to be put into motion and then pounce. Then you’d be humiliated for sure.
Nate poured you both shots and you each downed one right away. The burning alcohol stung your throat on the way down, but warmed your insides. You kept staring around the room, still expecting something to happen. Why did you agree to this?
“Hey,” he turned your chin away from the crowd, “Over here. Hi.”
“Hi,” you said nervously, watching him pour you both drinks in red cups. You thought of something he’d said earlier, “You said you’re seeing a therapist?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, taking a drink. “My mom made me go after my dad left us. She said I have anger issues.”
“Oh do you? I never noticed,” you smirked.
“Ha-ha,” he smirked back, laughing a bit after, “My mom said it’d be good for me to work out my problems in a healthier way than raging out.”
“Is it helping at all?”
“I guess?” he shrugged. “I don’t see much of a difference, to be honest. It’s all psycho-babble bullshit. I only go because she drops me off and waits for me outside. She even times it so if I’m, like, five minutes late so goes inside to see if I’m there.”
“What? She thinks you’re gonna run off or something?”
“She knew I wasn’t really into the idea, so she’s been super on top of me.”
“Do you like it now, though?”
“Sharon’s cool, and I guess it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t a judgemental bitch,” he said. He paused, looking at you for a moment before he said, “She’s the one who told me to ask you out.”
“What?”
“I told her I had a crush on this one girl that isn’t the sort of girl people expect me to like, and that I was afraid to ask her out,” he began. “She asked me why and I said because I worried about what my dad or my friends would say about it. I also told her…” he hesitated, looking down into his cup, “I also told her I wasn’t always nice to this girl; that I could be a dick to her sometimes, and made fun of her and stuff because my friends did. I wanted her. I really want her, but you know, I’ve been told my whole life that I’m only supposed to like a certain kind of girl. Tha-That jocks like me are meant to get with hot cheerleaders or the brainless preppy girls who eat like birds.
“You want to know what really fucking cemented it for me?” You heard the anger starting to linger in his tone, and you moved closer to him. “I was in fifth grade, and there was this girl named Kelly in my class. She was big too, but super nice and sweet and I really liked her. I remember sitting in the parking lot with my dad one day, telling him how nervous I was to ask Kelly to the fifth grade dance. You want to know what the asshole said when I pointed her out to him? ‘I didn’t know you were a whale hunter, son’.”
You might’ve not been Kelly, but that still stung. “I’m sorry he said that to you, Nate.”
“Yeah, he said a lot of shit,” he grumbled, taking a gulp of his drink. “Sharon, my therapist, said that society has a way of influencing us when we’re young. To her, I was mean to you because I was angry about my attraction to you and felt I couldn’t do anything about it. She pointed out that perhaps the reason I picked on you is because I wanted your attention, even if it was negative.”
“To be honest, now that I think about it, ‘Cupcake’ is a strange choice for a bully to use,” you said.
“It was the least hurtful sounding,” he said. “I tried being mean to really sell how much I wasn’t attracted to you, but I couldn’t. I’d…” he took a deep breath and looked into your eyes, “I’d see those eyes of yours and I’d…I don’t know. It wouldn’t happen. I dated girls my dad and my friends approved of, but I thought about you all the time.” He stared down at your lips, “And that pissed me off more because I’d think about you, then remember what my dad said and the shit he’s said before, and I wanted so badly for him to approve of me for anything, that I stuck to girls I dated. If my achievements on the field and in school didn’t get his attention, then maybe me dating a hot girl might. Not that it did. I never brought them home.”
“Your dad sounds like an asshole.”
“He is,” he agreed. “He walked out on us after my mom found these sex tapes he had in his office.”
"Woah, wow,” you coughed, nearly choking on the bit of liquor left in your throat, “Wow, that’s…That must’ve been a shock for her.”
“Yeah, it definitely was, especially since it was videos of him with loads of different people and doing all kinds of freaky shit,” he finished off his drink. “I thought I was a freak,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he poured himself another, “Then I saw what she was talking about. Jesus. It’d even make you blush.”
“And what do you mean by that, huh?” You asked playfully, downing the rest of your own drink. “Even it’d make me blush?”
“You read a kinky book series where there’s a masked man chasing a woman through a dark forest with the intention of railing her brains out,” he said flatly. “There’s also another one where they fuck in furry suits-”
“-Only one was in the suit, if you’d actually read it-”
“-I did and it was weird.”
“Oh furries aren’t that weird. Lots of people do it. The people in fluid stuff are the weird ones.”
“Yeah, that is gross. I’m surprised it wasn’t in that one book,” he snapped his fingers as he tried thinking of the name, “I forgot the name. It’s the one with the chef? That the girl gets kidnapped by him? It’s the super dark, weird one that everyone thinks was ghostwritten?”
“Wicked Kitchen,” you answered. “Yeah, that one is pretty dark. I don’t see how someone can fall in love with a dude that planned on eating them.”
“He ended up eating her in other ways too.”
“Oh god,” the two of you laughed together, “To be fair, she was on the dinner table so yeah…”
“But she was on her fucking period. That shit’s gross,” he huffed. “I skipped over that part.”
The two of you began talking about the Wicked series. Nate actually had read most of the very long-standing series, as well as the clean romance spin-offs that always featured a side couple. You found it refreshing to talk to someone besides Kat and internet followers about it. Did you expect it to be Nate? No. The two of you had been laughing at a part between the leads in a friends to lovers installment when someone came up to him.
“Hey Nate,” a petite blond in a frilly skirt and tight top smiled when she approached, “What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Hey, Arianna,” he sat up straighter, coughing to clear his throat, “Just been busy, that’s all. Football season started back up and everything so that’s taken up a lot of my time.”
“Yeah, I was at the game. You played really well,” she drew closer to him, “It’s a shame. You said you’d call me over the summer.”
“Yeah, I went on vacation with my parents.” A blatant lie that you spotted a mile away, but one Arianna didn’t pick up on.
“That’s cool,” she said, touching his bicep, “Do you want to dance with me?”
“Sorry,” he stood up right when she touched him and took your hand, “I’m not interested in Dexter’s leftovers.”
“Wow, Nate,” she said, face dropping from flirty to stone cold.
“Let’s go dance,” he said to you before pulling you towards the dance floor.
Once out of earshot, you spoke up, “You could’ve been nicer.”
“I was being nice,” he reasoned, bringing you to the crowd of dancers in the living room. Arms around your waist, he said, “Plus, she was flirting with me in front of you like you weren’t there.”
“I’m used to that, to be honest,” you replied a bit sadly. “Most people do that.”
“They shouldn’t,” he said, the two of you swaying even with the high-tempo music playing through the room.
Having to get closer to hear you, the faint cologne from before came back a bit stronger. The strong hands that held you earlier today slipped down your spine to the small part of your back where his fingers idly traced the spot. You stared around the room and noticed certain people watching you. Your stomach clenched inwards when you saw them whispering and talking. This could be your chance to get away before anything happens. You thought about Nate’s story and how too perfect it seemed. Guys like Nate didn’t take to therapy so well or considered it at all. This was all part of his plan to put your guard down just enough to go in for the kill.
But, looking up at him, you realized he’d been looking nowhere but at you. “What?” you asked.
“Just admiring you,” he said, giving a soft smile. “That’s all.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Compliment you?”
“Yeah.”
“How come?”
“Because we both know what’s really going on here.”
“What?”
“You’re fucking with me again.”
“I’m not fucking with you,” he insisted, “Would I like to be fucking you right now? Absolutely, but not with you.” His hands rubbed your back, causing you to restrain a gasp, “But I swear this isn’t a joke or a prank or anything like that. Sharon said you might react this way because of our, you know, history. You have nothing to worry about.” He pecked your lips lightly and pulled you until your bodies pressed together, “If it was, something would’ve happened by now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re in a vulnerable and very public position,” he answered. “If I wanted to do something, it’d be in the middle of a dance floor where loads of people would witness it. I’d have a friend in that corner,” he nodded to the left side of the room. “Another over there and someone on the stairs to get multiple angles, because I’d film it, of course. No bigger humiliation than one that leaves a digital footprint.” His arms encompassed you, and brushed his nose with yours, “Why would I wait this long?”
“The long game.”
He chuckled, “You’re so ridiculous.”
He bent down and kissed you again. ‘Worth it’ came back as he held you close to him. The big moment you expected when he kissed you did not come. All Nate did was use both hands to cup your ass as he deepened the kiss. Your hands resting on his shoulders, you took in the way his tongue easily slid into your mouth and onto yours. Like the last time, you felt yourself becoming slowly addicted to how Nate kissed you. He did it softly, but kept his dominance behind them. All thoughts of pranks and jokes went out the window when he cupped your cheek and kissed you.
“If you thought that,” he asked, lightly pecking your lips, “Then why did you come out with me?”
Liquor loosening your filter bit by bit, you answered, “Because a part of me hoped that you really did like me and wasn’t ashamed of it.”
“I do and I’m not.”
“Prove it.”
“Kissing you in front of all these people isn’t enough?”
“Nope.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“Shout it.”
“Shout it?”
“Yeah, shout ‘I love YN YLN’ and me-”
Nate tilted back his head and shouted into the air, “Hey everyone!” Some people turned their heads to his loud voice, “I love YN YLN! If any of your fuckers have a problem with that, take it up with me! Got it?!”
His sudden outburst made you cling to him laughing from secondhand embarrassment. A few people looked between the two of you, then began whispering while some were too drunk to really care much. While you did catch an envious look or two or three, nobody else said anything to him. As Nate said, who was going to give him shit over liking you? Turning to you with a cocky grin, Nate pulled you against him and kissed you again.
“I’m going to do it again,” he murmured, close enough that you heard him over the music.
“Do wha-AH!”
In one fluid motion, Nate lifted you off the floor bridal style this time. You giggled madly as the uneasy feeling of being off the ground hit you.
“Hold on, Cupcake,” he said, taking you through the house towards a staircase. “Let’s make our party more private, huh?”
“Nate!”
He carried you up the stairs easily. It began scaring you how easy he handled you compared to the one other guy who attempted to carry you. He brought you into one of the empty rooms, kicking the door closed. You bounced on it when he tossed you onto the bed, giggling and shaking your head at his ridiculousness. He quickly locked the door and then turned to climb on top of you.
“Have I passed your test yet, Ms. YLN, or is there another part to it?” He said, laying down on you and kissing you deeply. “Please tell me there is because, fuck, there’s things I want to do to you right now.”
Your body immediately accepted him, wrapping your legs around him as he kissed you. Fingers sliding into his short brown hair, giving it a slight tug, you slid your tongue past his lips. Soft smacking sounds came each time you two pulled away, tongues rolling together in your mouths. His body, strong and long, felt like a weighted blanket on top of you; his muscles tensed under his shirt when your hands slipped underneath the back of his neck to his shoulders. The resistance you’d been putting up slowly broke down as he kissed you. Magic blossomed in the fireworks bursting behind your eyes. It always felt awkward with other boys; their touch felt strange and unfamiliar to you. They never knew how to touch you, sometimes gripping too hard or thinking you were filming a porno. Not Nate. He roamed your body softly over your clothes, going over curves and rolls repeatedly.
He didn’t skip over them.
He didn’t turn off the lights.
He took his time getting to know what made your breath hitch, focused on pleasuring you rather than himself. It wasn’t what you expected from a guy like Nate, but maybe this wasn’t the Nate you knew.
“Fuck, you’re incredible,” he murmured on your neck, hands moving up your stomach to your ample chest. “I could do this forever.”
“Me too.”
Your hands broke from him when he took your top off, and he groaned in a breath. You’d put on a lavender bra for the occasion, mostly because you couldn’t find anything more comfortable. Nate didn’t stare long as he helped you out of your sandals, tossing them away before working on your pants. With Aaron, you felt nothing when he stared. Under Nate’s brown eyes, you warmed up at the apples of your cheeks. When you turned your head shyly, he gingerly moved it to look at him.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered before kissing you.
Then he took off his shirt. You knew Nate worked out and therefore had an athletic body, but seeing it up close was different. His collarbones showed more than you thought, and his chest was more defined. He smirked when he caught you staring.
“Like what you see, baby?” he asked, bending down to capture your lips again.
“I definitely do,” you finally admit as you run your hands up his torso.
“Wait until you see the rest.”
The rest of him looked equally delicious. His size surprised you, especially after all those times you thought he had a small dick because of his arrogance and big truck. When it pressed to your clothed sex, the both of you groaned together. Nate finally started kissing over your cleavage as he slowly pulled down your bra. He groaned against your supple skin when your breasts spilled out to the sides the way he always imagined. Nate didn’t waste time taking one hard nipple in his mouth, sucking and slowly rolling his tongue around it. He held you close to him when you shivered, almost as if he worried you might turn to smoke and disappear. His tongue flicked one of them rapidly, and you grinded into him. He knew you liked this. You didn’t know how, but he did.
You bit your bottom lip once he trailed soft kisses down your body. “Let me prove it to you one last time,” he said, lips pressed to your hips.
“Please…”
The feeling of his hands sliding up and down your thighs as he kissed them stirred your insides. His splayed out fingers explored them while his lips dotted them. When other guys did this, you laid there awkwardly waiting for them to get on with it. With Nate, your body melted like ice cream on a hot day. A certain need built in your panties once he began traveling towards the center. Soft kisses to your pantyline sent more sparks that filled your veins. Strong hands lifted your thighs higher, bringing your knees to your stomach and exposing more of you to him. He smirked when he spotted the tiniest wet spot in the middle. Nate glanced up at you as he pressed the lightest of kisses there. The gentle pressure was enough to make you want more, which he obliged. He kissed up and down your slit first, then added his tongue.
“You wore these for me, didn’t you?” he asked, playing with the line of the matching see-through and lace panties.
“I wanted to feel cute,” you say. “It had nothing to do with you.”
“Eh, I think it did,” he smiles, kissing your pussy in tandem with pulling your panties aside. “Fuck, there she is,” he groans once he uncovered your wet sex. “It’s so much nicer than I thought.”
“You thought about it a lot?”
“Loads of times.”
He licked a single stripe up the center. The tip of his warm tongue slowly swirled around the nub of your clit, making you squirm. You heard the soft smacks of light kisses, featherlight and quick as he started from the top to the bottom. It was electrifying. You laid flat on the bed with your hands to your chest as he took your clit in his mouth. The low hum from his chest briefly vibrated you, and you writhed underneath him. If you expected Nate to be good at anything, it was not this. His tongue was magical. It hit all the places that made you quiver on the soft bed covers. When he pushed your thighs further apart, hands kneading the soft flesh, the sensation of being pinned down and at his mercy turned you on more.
“Is this good?” he asked, voice husky and low. He knew the answer, but needed to hear you say it. In every fantasy of his, you told him so.
“Yes,” you exhale as two of his fingers push you open to expose your clit, “Fuck yes, that feels so good.”
Keeping you open, he licked and sucked you a bit faster. The two fingers rubbing you added more pleasure before they slunk away. Your body froze in anticipation when they touched your entrance.
“Is this ok-” he began to say against your sex, but you cut him off.
“Fuck yes.”
He slid one at first. It massaged your walls gently as it sank inside. His tongue focused on your clit still, lapping at the wetness forming there the longer he teased you. When you felt his finger hit the very center, curling and brushing slowly, you grabbed the pillows under you and pushed into his face more. Nate didn't stop you. He encouraged you with more moans and faster movements. Whether because you haven’t orgasmed lately, or because he naturally knew your body, you came faster than you’d hoped. The spot he kept pushing radiated pulses of pleasure that caused your clit to spark with sensitivity. You wriggled around when it happened, but Nate did not let up. He kept going, his tongue focusing on that spot above while he shoved a second finger inside. You swore he prolonged it on purpose, proving once again that his feelings and desire for you were real. He wanted you to know he always wanted you, though never said it out loud until a therapist told him he should.
“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured as he kissed your inner thighs, “Sit on my face.”
You paused, unsure if you heard him right. “Sit on your face?”
“Um, yeah?” He said, already laying down next to you and situating himself in preparation. “Hop on. You sound so pretty when you come, I wanna do it again.”
“Are you…Are you sure, Nate?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
“But, Nate I’m…”
“Oh my god, YN,” he groaned, “I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sorry, I just never had a guy ask me to do…that…before.”
“Yeah, because they’re pussies,” he scoffed, “Now get up here before I lose my mind and come all over myself.”
You looked down at his toned body to see his dick poking a large tent in his boxers. A wet spot already seeped through the dark fabric, giving away where his tip was and how he twitched inside them. Tentatively, you straddled his head in reverse and kept yourself a few inches above him to avoid suffocating him to death. This wouldn’t do for Nate. Hooking his arms around your thighs, he forced you fully onto his face. You gave a soft yelp when his mouth latched to your wet sex again and sucked firmly. In a backwards position, you ended up close to his cock. Tempted, you pecked the throbbing head through his boxers and earned a soft groan. Propped up on one elbow, you stroked the long appendage through the thin fabric. Boxer briefs, they'd ridden up to reveal his muscled thighs and long legs. You saw them tense slightly when you reached the very bottom of his cock, bordering on his balls which appeared more sensitive than most guys. You noticed him twitch whenever you cupped them before going back up his thickness.
“Stop teasing me,” Nate panted, mouth pulling gently at your soaked lips, “I’ve been dying to have those lips around me. Please…”
Still stroking him, you started kissing and sucking the wet spot on his black boxers. This made the spot grow around his tip, and you tasted hints of him on it. You did your best to stay still as Nate licked at your entrance again. It felt so good and you wanted more of him. You actually wanted Nate. You wanted him in more ways than just this one. His large hands smoothing up and down your thighs before grasping your ass cheeks only added to the feeling. This caused you to finally pull him out and gasp softly to yourself. He was big. Not so big you felt intimidated, but certainly above average. You hand around his base, you took the pink head into your mouth and sucked. Nate groaned deeply into you, your sex throbbing when he did this. Small droplets of precome fell onto your tongue as you went further down, tasting sweeter than you expected. You stroked what you couldn’t reach, which wasn’t too much but when in tandem with your mouth, drove Nate wild. His hips started pushing up to your mouth, trying to go deeper, but you kept your usual pace. It was quite fun teasing him this way.
However, like with most of your interactions, Nate shot it right back at you. Instead of fully filling your pussy with his tongue, Nate only put the tip. Only the end of his tongue went around your tender clit, lazily moving side to side and up and down. He chuckled when you whined, and kept the same pace the entire time. The two of you ended up in some strange Battle of the Teasers where one kept trying to elicit a break from the other. Your body gave away how much you enjoyed Nate in your mouth. Most girls didn’t like giving blowjobs, but you did. Hearing your partner moan and groan because of you always struck your arousal. Feeling their cock on your tongue and filling your mouth made you feel good about yourself; as if you were in control and not them.
Nate figured this out and did not hesitate to use it. Out of nowhere, when you’d given your mouth a break by stroking him, Nate flipped the two of you around. He pulled you to the edge of the bed, your head hanging off the end, and pushed himself back into your mouth. Long arms made it easy for him to bend over and reach to rub your clit again.
“Just like in those smutty novels we read,” he smirked, hips gingerly pushing into your mouth. He rubbed faster to hear you cry around him. “You told me Wicked Destiny is your favorite. I wonder why…” he kept going, and soon saliva and precome started spilling onto the sides. He pushed two fingers inside, filling you in both ends in a way that made you dizzy. “Is it the lengthy blowjobs and eating out? How he used her mouth like a fucking toy while he teased her?”
“Oh god, Nate,” you moaned hoarsely, swallowing the mixture in your mouth and licking around your lips.
“Answer me, baby,” he said, keeping the same pace with his fingers and hitting your g-spot again, “Is that why it’s your favorite?”
“One of them,” you confessed in a whine as you kissed his cock whenever he rubbed on your face, “I also liked one other thing.”
“Oh yeah? What?”
“When he fucked the shit out of her at that party they went to.” Now, this didn’t happen in the book, but Nate picked up on what you meant and smiled.
“I loved that part,” he said, pulling his fingers out to circle your clit. “It was my favorite.” He forced himself back into your mouth, pushing until you gagged around the head reaching your throat. “But, you’re going to come again before I do that. I want this as wet and sloppy as I can get it before then.”
And he meant it. When he pulled out to give your throat a break, he forced one thigh further away as he started fingering you faster. You used to wonder how women in porn videos could enjoy such a fast pace, but now you know. Nate could hit it without making it painful. He kept his fingers deep inside and wriggled his fingers, and this immediately undid you. Right as you started coming again, he thrusted back into your mouth.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he cooed as you clenched his fingers, “Good girl. Keep going just like that.”
He only pulled out of both sides when you finished, smirking down at your breathless, messy self on the bed. “Fuck me,” you said, that desire never leaving despite how much you came already, “Now.”
He pushed you back onto the bed, put a pillow under your hips and reached for his jeans on the floor. You watched eagerly as he tore open a condom, quickly rolled it on and then shoved himself inside you. Pure bliss filled you once he was inside. Usually, you’d be spent after a second orgasm, but not with Nate. You wanted to keep going; keep feeling him against you, inside you, in whatever way he could. Staring up at him, you watched the football star, this king of East Highland High, unravel in front of you. He held onto your thighs, keeping them apart as he rutted into your cunt. You saw the desperation, frustration and satisfaction coming over him. He was beautiful with his flushed cheeks, tight muscles and swollen lips. The usual cockiness in his eyes gave way to something like submission. Not to you, but to the dormant desires he kept locked up inside him. When he used a corner of the sheet to clean your face, he did this tenderly and with love in his eyes.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he muttered through gritted teeth, propped above you and causing your hips to angle upwards. “I’ve wanted this for such a long time. I don’t think I can stop…”
“Don’t then…”
He kept himself hovering over you, and started moving faster. The sound of your bodies slamming together joined your symphony of conjoined moans. Nate occasionally kissed you, your neck or your nipples. You clawed at his back when your need started growing again. Having come already, you knew it’d take a bit more than usual to make it happen a third time, but this didn’t bother you. Nate’s cock stretched you enough that you felt it, his head pushing deep inside you that you knew you’d be feeling it tomorrow. It was mind-bending after a while. Neither of you spoke as pleasure overcame the two of you, too focused on chasing the high you could only achieve together. Because it was inevitable how addicted you became to one another. When he put you onto your side, lifting your leg and sinking inside from behind, you knew this was the end. No way would you go back to Aaron or any other guy after Nate made your eyes roll back in a few well-placed thrusts. His breath cascaded down your neck and your heavy breasts filled his hands.
“I’m close…” he grunted in your ear, kissing your neck, “I’m so fucking close, baby.”
“Me too,” you whimpered, reaching to your clit to rub it in time with his thrusts, “Keep fucking me just like that…just like that.”
He didn’t change pace or angle as requested, instead pinching your nipples and kissing your neck and shoulder. Nate soon brought you to the edge, then pushed you off it in a few more thrusts. You came harder. You shook and clenched your fists when it hit you, then kept hitting you more after. The pillow you brought to your face muffled any moans someone might hear, but Nate heard them and pushed you onto your front with one leg lifted high up. Sensing your orgasm ending, Nate finally focused on his own. You feel his hands grasp and smack your ass.
“Fuck, I love your ass,” he pants, whimpering and grabbing it.
“You mean this one?” You start pushing back, purposefully making it jiggle on his hips.
“Yes, this one,” he smacked both sides with slight stings and grabbed them roughly. You heard the orgasm rising up in his voice, “I lov-love it. It’s so fucking hot…All round and soft.”
“Asses are your weakness, huh?” You teased, ass cheeks smacking into his hips, “Asses like mine?”
“Just like-like your-yours…Only yours…”
You giggle, panting and fighting your own sore muscles to keep milking his cock. A little more moving had his hands gripping your hips as he stiffened behind you. The headboard hitting the wall, mattress starting to faintly squeak, Nate’s groans overcame both. You kept going, cheeks meeting in the middle. Nate didn’t stop until the last trembling drops spilled into the condom, thrusting deep and hard. You felt the burn in your arms, your thighs, your knees and everywhere else. A layer of sweat coated you both once the heat died down, the two of you pools of jelly on the bed. A hazy afterglow came over you when he pulled out, leaving behind an empty feeling.
“That was incredible,” he panted, head against your shoulder. He kissed there a few times, “Absolutely incredible.”
“Very,” you agreed, gasping for breath.
There you laid in his arms, content and cozy in them. The sounds and music of the party became faint background music to your silence. People likely passed by the door and maybe overheard what was going on. You should feel embarrassed or a twinge of shame, but when you saw Nate’s dark eyes looking down at you on his chest, you couldn’t find it in you to care. You slithered up his side and snuggled close, briefly kissing his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, and the cleft of his chin. Nate hummed contently at the lips idly dotting his neck and chest with kisses while he stroked your spine. You wanted to know every part of him: the birthmark just under his pecs, the scar he’d gotten from falling out of a tree as a kid, and the particularly nasty one on his knee from a football accident (“Doctor said I was lucky it didn’t take out my knee. I wouldn’t be able to play if it did.”) You traced the lines of his muscles, which had softened and were less defined now. Nate did the same to you, discovering parts of you he didn’t know about before. So intimate in a way outside of sex, Nate Jacobs easily peeled away the layers you tried hard keeping together.
“The fair is starting next weekend,” he said, voice low while he kissed your breasts. Not in a sensual way, but explorative. “Want to go?”
“Sure,” you replied, fingers gently scratching his scalp until he came up to kiss you. “I’ll warn you that my mom might pull me away for a while. She enters the pie competition every year, and it’s a tradition in my family for everyone to go.”
“I can help out,” he shrugged simply. “After all, I am very helpful, remember?”
The two of you laughed and shared another kiss before peeling apart. As much as you wanted to, neither of you could stay in the random bedroom you’d found. Once cleaned up and dressed, Nate suggested going back to his house. His mother and brother weren’t home tonight (she had a date and his brother went clubbing on weekends), so you’d be alone. You smirk when you sense the suggestion.
“One time isn’t enough?” you ask, arms around his neck when he brings you into his arms.
“Not nearly enough,” he shook his head, and kissed you one more time. “Come on, Cupcake. I want a few more bites of you.”
He tugged you out of the room, and you were filled with butterflies.
'Worth it,' you said to yourself this time.
****
A/N: thank you for waiting forever for this part 2! I was in a bit of a slump mentally so writing was hard. I hope you guys enjoyed these two finally getting it on, and leave a reblog/like <3
‘Unknown Number: I said if he’s too pussy to date you, then he should move along and let someone else shoot their shot with you.’
‘Unknown Number: that someone else being me.’
‘Unknown Number: and this is me shooting my shot with you.’
When you replace a girl on your mom's cheerleading team, you don't expect much of your life to change. But, when your bully, Nate, reveals his feelings for you, you're thrown into a whirlwind of confusion, reluctance and desire.
Tags: enemies to lovers, bully romance, plussize reader, vaginal sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), multiple positions, multiple orgasms, choking, slapping, spanking, body worship, fatphobia, mutual pining, miscommunication and misunderstandings, angst with a happy ending.
Part 2 >
****
Aaron: “Hold up, you're not mad?”
You sighed as you read Aaron's text. Walking towards the football field, airpods in, a pang of irritation came when he interrupted your song. He’d started this at the end of the last period, saying he wanted to “tell you something”. You couldn’t help but be utterly annoyed. School fully drained everything in you, and you didn't have the energy to deal with closeted-chubby-chaser whining.
“No? Why?” you texted back, already feeling the conversation starting.
Aaron: “You for real gonna throw away what we have? You're not gonna fight for me?”
“What did we have? Besides 1am hookups and sexting outside school?”
You didn't care much for him in the first place. Aaron, tall with braids and umber skin, resembled every other guy who secretly chased after you. Muscled with toxic alpha male energy, they'd never admit they liked big girls. It was embarrassing for them. Personally, you found their need for male validation and approval as the real embarrassment. Aaron talked as if you openly dated. He talked as if you went on real dates to actual places where people might see the two of you. You tolerated his half-hearted interest because you were ovulating and liked the attention. But, that clearly ran its course and you couldn’t be bothered anymore. Your phone pinged as you reached the edge of the field, interrupting your music again, and you read his message.
Aaron: “But those times were good. We had something special, baby.”
“LMFAO if it's special, why are you dumping me??”
You laughed to yourself before screenshotting the messages. Going into a group chat, you sent the screenshot and waited. Staring up ahead, you saw your mom already in her coach’s uniform giving the cheerleaders a pep talk for the upcoming game. Laura Henderson coached and sponsored the East Highland High School cheer squad for nearly a decade now, and you couldn’t see anyone better suited. Standing in her green and white coach jacket, her short blond hair under her cap and professionalism on her face, you felt a bit of pride. Your mom had all the makings of those overbearing, narcissistic, perfectionist mothers who caused eating disorders and depression, but not her. She cared about your diet, and guided you, but never berated or discouraged you if you did “cheat”. (To Mom, ‘cheating’ wasn’t real and everyone is allowed, what she called, ‘happy foods’.)
KitKat: told you not to mess with him babe
Kat’s message came first, and you tried not groaning at how right she’d been. The image of the plump, dark-haired girl texting you from home brought on one part relief and nine parts embarrassment.
Jules💜: Omg wooooowww fucking loser
Jules, radiant and colorful, had been the first to tell you that Aaron wouldn’t be worth the time. She claimed boys like him were energy vampires, and he’d run you into the ground. A red flag, for sure. You hated telling her that you often fell for the red flags.
RueRue: Not surprising 😒
Insightful Rue, recently returned from rehab, told you Aaron was a brainless jock who’d use you up and spit you back out like gum. She often said blunt things like this, but you never took it poorly. It came from good intentions. It’d been her who saw his name on your phone when you invited the girls to a sleepover. You could’ve always lied and said it was school related, but you didn’t want to lie. Aaron likely lied about you, and you wouldn’t stoop to his level.
Aaron: It's hard to explain.
You rolled your eyes as you got closer to the squad.
“No it's not but okay. Bye Aaron.”
Blocked. You supposed it would happen eventually. They usually ghosted or dumped you when they found an approved girl to impress their friend group. You assumed Aaron had done the same. Sure, the usual despondency came through as you started walking between the bleachers and the open field. You rarely met a guy who was proud to show you off or didn’t care what his friends thought. They always wanted to keep you in the shadows. Like the last piece of cake, they stuck you in the bottom drawer to avoid anyone knowing about you. You tried telling yourself that Aaron wasn't much fun anyways, and that you didn't need him. You didn't need anyone.
But, having someone would be nice.
Jules💜: are you okay though?
“I'm good. He was a loser anyways, and his dick looked like a pencil. -1000/10.”
Right as you stopped to reply, something nearly knocked your phone out of your hand. Hand burning, you looked down to see a football laying next to the bleachers. You turned to the field to see some of the team chuckling together. A pang of resentment hit you when you heard their distant laughter. Girls like you have two uses to men: fulfill their needs or be entertainment. For jocks, it's typically the latter. You picked up the ball and held it one hand. Now, you could throw it back to them and keep going, but a particularly tall figure made you think differently. A voice that grated your nerves suddenly called out.
“Hey Cupcake, throw it back.”
Nate Jacobs stood amongst the rest of the players. A foot and a half taller than you, his broad shoulders and muscled body made him an imposing figure to everyone else. Nobody ever had trouble spotting him, even on a football field. Brown hair damp with sweat, his cocky smile filled you with equal parts dread and disgust. He'd likely thrown it in an attempt to ridicule you, and you’d make him work for it this time. The walk from the parking lot to grab cheer snacks was long, and with the “breakup”, you didn’t have the patience for him today. Seeing him from afar, the seething resentment boiled in you. What made them any better than you? Because he had a perfect, gorgeous body and you had yours? You didn’t meet his incredibly high standards for women? Thinking of Aaron and every other guy who’d wronged you, you put down the small coolers and held the ball at your side.
“Eh, I’m kinda tired right now, Jacobs,” you called back, gaining some attention. “How about you come over here and get it?”
You discretely adjusted the ball in your hand, putting your fingers on the front like your grandfather showed you years ago. Coming from a football family had its benefits. While more artsy than athletic, you like to think you gained some of the genetic coding.
“Tired from what exactly? Walking two steps?” he chuckled with his friends.
What’s sad is he’s not even funny. You could handle bullying if it was funny, but Nate had hits and misses. Usually misses.
“Why don’t you come over here and say that or are you too chicken?”
He caught the bait right away. Nate never missed an opportunity to bully you up close. You watched him jog, sweaty and panting, over to you. When he got within a yard from you, you stepped back on one foot and launched the football halfway across the field. Lucky chance, one of the players caught it and they all looked at you in surprise. Nearby, you heard the squad cheering.
“Nice throw, baby girl,” Mom called from afar. “Good job!”
Nate was the only one not cheering for you. The annoyance on his face was golden. You smiled up at him, “What was that about two steps?”
“Whatever,” he gruffed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if those coolers were empty.”
“Why would I walk with empty coolers? That’s a terrible food-sneak strategy,” you scoffed. “There’s too much in here and I can only swallow so much.”
“I bet you can swallow plenty when it’s good enough.”
“What?”
“See you around, Cupcake.”
He put his helmet back on and jogged back to the team. Most of Nate’s comebacks were taunts, with a cocky smirk following it, but not this time. It sounded almost suggestive. No, not ‘almost’. It did sound suggestive. Very. Your cheeks burned as the words vibrated in your head. Did Aaron tell him something about you two? Walking towards the group with the snacks, you placed them down as Nate's voice played in your head. His cocky smirk. His smugness. You hated the idea of him knowing intimate things about you that he’d use as ammunition.
“What did he say to you?” Mom asked, concerned as she drank from her water bottle.
“Nothing,” you brushed it off, “Just more unoriginal, unfunny, fatphobic remarks.”
“Just ignore him, honey,” she said.
“Already out of my head,” you assured her.
Though he wasn’t. You stayed by the water table, sipping water from a paper cup, and watched the team play. You stabbed daggers into Aaron’s wide back. It’d be like him to seek some kind of revenge for you blocking him. You should have seen it coming, honestly. He wanted you crying and begging him not to leave, and was mad when that did not happen. You promised yourself you’d never let a guy get to you that way. You stopped crying over boys in freshman year, and it’ll stay that way.
Because that’s how things work for you. It’s how they’ve always worked. In elementary and middle school, you’d develop a crush on a boy, fixate on only him, and he’d react with repulsion. His friends might rag on him for it; he’d avoid you like a disease. At first, you didn’t understand why. You liked to think you were smart with a good sense of humor. You tried molding yourself to the type of girl they’d like with hopes of winning them over. It didn’t work. They’d rather eat vomit than touch you. The ones who approached you did it as a prank or a joke for their friends to laugh at later. It stung. It pained you. It just fucking hurt. You’d see other girls be adored and showered with attention, while you stood on the outside. Only desperate, horny guys gave you any kind of attention. They seemed to believe you’d do anything for crumbs of affection from them. You proved them wrong every time.
Around high school you realized there was no point. You decided you might be better off on your own. There turned out to be benefits: guys didn’t catcall you, they didn’t ruin your good time, and they left you alone. Seeing the bright side of the situation was better than admitting the truth: you’re unlovable. Undesirable. You’re the girl they call up after dark to “come over and hang” because they don’t want to be seen with you in the daytime. You’re the girl they ravage at night, but then pretend not to know when you next meet.
You watched Aaron catch the ball, run towards the left side in the play, and be sacked by Nate almost immediately. A mediocre player, at best, you wondered how the idiot got on the team. He hadn’t gotten a yard from the scrimmage line. You couldn’t believe you wasted time on a jock who couldn’t hold onto the ball to save his life. When he did manage to get past during another play, Nate tackled him again and got the ball. You started pitying him.
Now Nate…there was a good player. Throwing perfect passes, dodging opponents left and right, never missing a catch or screwing up a play, he was the starting quarterback and captain for a reason. He kept himself in good shape regularly, and knew the game well. Your dad said the team sucked before Nate joined his freshman year; your mom did comment on his good form. You hated admitting it, but he was fun to watch on the field.
“Bro, what the fuck?” Nate came up to Aaron after he fumbled another play, “Get your head out of YN’s ass and lock in, dude.”
As captain, this was part of his position.
Aaron replied but you didn’t hear what he said. When he glanced over at you, you tossed your cup and walked over to the girls on their small break. You stood between Maddy, a slim dark-haired girl, and Cassie, a busty blond, and grabbed one of the energy bars in the bag. When you unwrapped and bit into the soft chewy snack, you noticed them both casting you knowing smiles.
“What?” you asked, looking at them both.
“Nothing,” Maddy shrugged, amused and grinning. “It’s just cute.”
“What’s cute?”
“Watching you and your man flirt on the field,” she answered with a giggle.
“Ugh,” you rolled your eyes, “Don’t be gross. I just started this bar.”
“The boy is totally into you,” she reasoned. “He's doing that whole teasing thing because he likes you.”
“Negging and bullying isn't the way to a girl’s heart,” you replied.
“It is to closeted-chubby-chasers,” Maddy said. “He wants a piece of Big Booty Judy!”
The three of you laughed when she started grinding behind you. Cassie joined in, and you shimmied out from between them with burning cheeks. ‘Big Booty Judy’, or sometimes ‘Judy’, became the squad's affectionate nickname for you. Mostly due to your ass, which you did admit was round and wide. Maddy once told you it suited your shape: tiny waist leading to wide hips and thick thighs. Aaron said it was his favorite part of you. Other guys liked grabbing or smacking it, which you weren’t opposed to in the right situations. But, sadly, it also became an aspect you resented, since it’s all they focused on.
Or your tits. Upperarms? Nope. Legs? Not at all. Squishy tummy? Hell no. They’d tell you that you had a pretty face or nice lips or gorgeous eyes, but that’s as far as the compliments went. What you hated was looking good facing forward, but the profile killed you each time. You stopped focusing on it as Maddy and Cassie stopped their dancing.
“I'd rather swallow a live goldfish,” you chuckled, eating into the bar.
“He'd rather you swallowed something else,” Maddy teased, earning a soft smack on the arm from you while she laughed.
You looked back onto the field where Nate got his hands on the ball. He stepped back a few feet before throwing the ball to the left, watching it be passed to Aaron, who fumbled it again. Nate's irritation was starting to read on his face. The clenched jaw, the burning dark eyes and aggressive voice gave it all away. You watched him call on their coach, taking off his helmet and complaining about Aaron. Nate seemed to be riding him pretty hard. You didn't want to admit it out loud or to yourself really. To say so even to the winds brought on a bit of embarrassment.
Nate was hot. If he weren't a total asshole, you might have fallen for him, but sadly he was. You tried not noticing the clef in his chin or the jawline that went for days. The way his brown eyes seemed to stand out bothered you, because it was hard to think up comebacks with them looking down at you. You hated how you noticed his small ticks, and knew about the oval shaped birthmark above his stomach. The small exchanges became a regular part of your day. The banter, the insults, the general sarcasm became your foreplay. You expected it every time and he did not disappoint. It felt odd if he didn't throw some sort of word your way. The day could be utterly chaotic, but when you and Nate occupied the same space, things went back to normal. When you didn’t see him, that small voice in the back of your head wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, and did he wonder the same thing.
Sometimes, only sometimes, you thought about those large hands around your neck and those eyes full of desire as he relentlessly slammed into you.
‘Good god, what’s wrong with you?’ you asked yourself, feeling put off by the snacks all of a sudden.
“Good job, ladies,” your mom said at the conclusion of practice, clapping for them. “You’re gonna do great tonight. Remember to bring all your stuff and don’t be late. We need to do warm ups before the game.” She walked over to you as you gathered up the empty bags and cooler. “How do you think they did?”
“I think they did great,” you answered honestly. “They always do, but,” you spotted a brunette walking off the field to the locker rooms, “Jaime seemed kind of off beat? Like, a little slower?”
Mom nodded, taking some of the bags and leading back to the parking lot. “Yeah, she was a bit weak today, but she told me she’s fine. I think the girl’s tired, that’s all. I’ve always said these schools mentally drain you kids. You sometimes come home with a brain full of Jell-o.”
“Homeschooling’s always an option?” you said, putting hope into your voice.
She chuckled, “Nice try, kid, but no dice. Those eight hours of peace are special to me.”
Her wink told you otherwise, and the two of you laughed. Once you both packed up the car and got inside, you pulled out your phone and saw more messages.
Jules 💜: You sure? You really liked Aaron.
“I’m fine, Jules. Great, actually. My life’s so much simpler without men in it.”
KitKat: Hey, I read Dark Flames, btw! It’s so fucking good! Christian sounds like a total dark romance dream!
“Right?? He’s so damaged but in like the best way hahaha”
You discussed the novel you’d reviewed on your Instagram while scrolling. Halfway home, Mom pulled you from your thoughts.
“What is the deal with you and Nate Jacobs by the way?”
“Huh?” You’d been in too deep in talk with Kat to have heard the first time.
“You and Nate.”
“What about it?”
“It seems like you’re both pretty drawn to one another.”
“Um, ew?”
“It doesn’t seem ‘ew’ when you baited him over to you or when he purposefully launched the ball in your direction to get you to notice him,” she said with a small smile. “I thought he was going to hurt you, but he directed it just enough ahead that it didn’t. You can tell if you really looked at him.”
“Didn’t you have coaching to do?”
“I’m allowed to look around,” she excused. “I noticed him watching you and Maddy and Cassie told me he bothers you sometimes. He looked like he had more than harassing you on his mind.”
“Oh god, not you too.”
“Hey, as terrible as it is, some boys do a bit of light teasing to get a girl’s attention. You know ‘bad attention is better than none at all’? Your dad used to do it too.”
“Did he call you ‘Cupcake’?”
“No, he called me Hot Pocket.”
“Huh?”
“One time, in college, I’d been microwaving a Hot Pocket in the shared kitchen at our dorm,” she began, “And he happened to be in the room when I took it out. You know, you have to be careful with that first bite, right? Well, your incredibly intelligent mother was in a rush to her next class, so I decided to just bite right into it. The damn thing busted everywhere! Hot cheese on my chin and shirt and it burned my damn mouth,” she laughed, shaking her head. “He saw it, thought it was the funniest thing ever and from then on nicknamed me ‘Hot Pocket’.” She paused, “How’d Cupcake come about?”
“More or less the same way. Freshman year, cupcakes, me eating one and him seeing the frosting on my face and making a really gross comment about it. I guess he loved his own genius so much, it stuck.”
“Oh, well they’re not all going to be winners,” she said.
“I know you’re not telling me that him bullying me is some kind of weird form of affection, because it’s not.”
“Not like you don’t dish it back. The girls tell you that you two can go back and forth like a tennis match. Maybe Nate likes a girl who can keep up with him.”
“Then he should look elsewhere. I’m not interested.”
“Give me a break,” she scoffed. “You’ve always liked the tall, handsome, strong-bodied bad boys. I’ve looked up some of those romances you read, young lady. The men in those books sound like nutcases and red flags, but the heroine always seems to fall for them anyways. It’s very telling about you.”
You knew posting your dark romance reviews was a bad idea. “It’s fiction. Real life men like that are trouble.”
“And the sex scenes sound steamy. I had no idea my daughter liked that kind of stuff.”
“Oh my god, Mom.”
“It’s nothing bad. I think it’s fine to explore your sexuality. I just hope you’re being safe when you do these things with boys.”
“Trust me. I'd never do that stuff with guys from school.”
At least, not in the way you’d like. Considering how little you trusted Aaron, you never truly revealed your fantasies to him. You kept them vanilla and basic. The smut scenes you wrote and fead were dirty and raw. Not only because readers ate it up, but because you liked writing your own self-indulgent fantasies. Of course, your fictional loves did more for you than the boys you found yourself tangled in bed with. Why share your deepest, darkest fantasies with a guy who will go back and tell anyone that’d listen? You kept that for strangers on the internet and Kat.
Relief rushed over you when you finally came home. After changing into comfortable clothes, you grabbed your laptop and picked up your newest romance novel. An enemies to lovers story, it featured a witty, confident female lead and a brooding, mysterious male who fixates on her and only her. The kind of guy who’d do anything to protect her; who loved and cherished her. Men like this didn’t exist. Not without serious flaws and flags redder than blood. This escape didn’t last long. Your mother knocking on your door pulled you from it right away.
“Hey, baby girl,” she smiled, “I need a favor from you. It’s a big one, but it came up last minute and there’s nobody else.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to fill in for Jaime.”
You put the book down, “Huh?”
“Remember how she was at practice? It turns out she ate Chinese leftovers for lunch and it got her sick,” she said. “She thought she could make it, but she can’t.”
“Then just work it out with one less cheerleader.”
“It’d ruin the formation and the choreography would be off,” she insisted. “You know all the dances. You know the cheers. It won’t be so bad.”
“No way,” you shook your head, already seeing how much attention you’d get over everyone else in the group. “I would just bring the group down.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, coming over to you. “You excel at everything once you put your mind to it. You can handle the routines. They’re not too complicated.”
The thought of wearing that tiny cheerleading uniform, waving glittery pompoms and being watched by tons of people made your palms sweat and toes grow cold. Being perceived after what Aaron might’ve told people is the last thing you wanted.
“Mom, I don’t know…”
“It’s only for one game. Please,” she took your hand in hers, “It’s our first game of the season. I need a full squad to cheer the boys on.”
“I highly doubt the guys care if you’re there or not.”
“The crowd does,” she said. “Just one game, then you’ll never do it again.” When you looked away, she said, “I’ll take you to that fancy new bookstore with the coffee shop attached. You can get any book you want, even those smutty ones you’re always reading.”
You pondered on this a moment. The sequel to Wicked Flames came out last week and you and Kat planned on going to Book Nook to buy your copies. “Can Kat come too?” you asked, side-glancing at her.
“Of course,” she grinned. “Then we’ll get pedicures afterwards. What do you say?”
You hesitated. You did once imagine being a cheerleader, but your weight often kept you away. It felt like putting a target on your back. That was in middle school. High school is different. You didn’t care so much what other people thought of you, even though the idea of it still scared you. You’d also get a good book, coffee and a pedicure with your best friend out of it.
“I don’t have a uniform.”
“No worries. Mama’s got that covered. Come on.”
You followed her into her bedroom where she began digging in her closet. “I had this made for you a while back. I always hoped you’d get inspired by the girls and want to join the squad. You’d make a great bottom for the pyramids, and you’d have no trouble lifting the skinnier girls.” She found a dress bag in the far back, “You’ve lost a little weight since I had this made, so it should fit well. It’s got enough fabric to cover that big butt of yours, Judy.” She handed you the dress bag, and winked. “Open it. See what you think.”
On the bed, you opened the bag to see the green, black and white cheer uniform. When you put it on, the skin tight long-sleeved top went to your midsection like the other girls’ and the skirt stretched across your hips and bottom like she said. Not too showy, but still enough that you felt uncomfortable in it.
“Obviously, you’ll wear shorts underneath,” she said, looking at you in the long mirror, “And we’ll grab some non-friction stick for your inner thighs, but you look so good in this. It’s exactly how I imagined. We can put your hair in a little half-pony? Put some rhinestones in a braid? You’ll look gorgeous.”
“You’re saying that to make me feel better about being basically naked.”
“Honey, you’re far from naked and you just need to straighten up a bit more-”
“-And suck this in-” you poked your tummy, which thankfully did not puff too much.
“-Though the top is a big snug around your boobs,” she said thoughtfully, tugging at the sides of your chest before you swatted her away, “But this doesn’t have cleavage so you’ll be okay. Oh god, can you imagine? Nate would have a hard time paying attention to the game.”
“We’ve discussed this: I don’t care about Nate or getting his attention.”
“Sure thing, baby. Anyways, come on. Let’s get going. I’ll help you pack what you’ll need.”
Seeing her preparation, you would’ve thought your mother poisoned Jaime’s lunch so she could have this moment. By the time you got in the car, you felt yourself about to throw up. This was a bad idea. What if people laughed? What if they forgot the game and focused on you instead? You imagined a crowd of people pointing and laughing as you performed every move. If you missed a step or moved too much, it’d be more noticeable since people would be watching you. Was a trip to Book Nook enough for this? Your anxiety grew more as you got closer to the school. Pulling out your phone, you quickly typed a message to the chat.
“Okay, so my mom’s asked me to replace one of the girls on the team. This may or may not lead to my demise, so I’ve decided that Kat gets my book collection, Jules gets my clothes and Rue can have my jewelry collection. Don’t bother deleting my internet history. Just throw the laptop away before my mom finds it. Livestream my funeral so my internet friends can be there too.”
Kitkat: LMFAO stop being so dramatic 🤣
RueRue: you’re cheering??? Since when???
“Apparently, my mom’s had dreams of me being a cheerleader and had some stuff already. I’m only doing it because she promised me a trip to Book Nook as compensation for the emotional damage I will receive tonight.”
Jules 💜: I think you’ll do great! Try not to think about what other people think so much and let go.
KitKat: still kinda fucked that she pressured you into something that obviously makes you uncomfortable
RueRue: because she secretly wants to do it
“I want to willingly sacrifice myself at the altar of public humiliation??”
RueRue: it’s not like she’s putting a gun to your head.
“No, but she is putting her parental authority and bribery skills to use here.”
RueRue: you still could have said flat out no and she’d have to deal. Book Nook is a lame bribe and you know it.
“Book Nook is awesome. You’ve never been so you don’t get the appeal.”
KitKat: it does look awesome
Walking into the locker room behind your mom, you sent one last message: “I’ll see you guys after. I have to put on the uniform.”
Jules 💜: how does it look??
“I’ll send a pic when I’m in the thing.”
“Ladies,” your mom called to the group in the locker room, “I found Jamie’s replacement for tonight.” She gestured to you and you shyly waved at this group of girls you knew well.
You expected some kind of rejection even from them, but instead you saw all smiles. “Big Booty Judy” was going to wear a skimpy cheer uniform and dance in front of a whole crowd of people.
“I didn’t think you’d ever want to. You'd be great for the team,” said Cassie, who was fixing her makeup in a small mirror.
“I’m just doing a favor for my mom,” you told her, putting your bag on a bench and pulling off your clothes. “And she said she’d take me to that fancy bookstore in town.”
“How did I know that was involved somehow?” Maddy asked, laughing softly. “No way you’d do this willingly. I kept telling you that you’d be a great cheerleader, but you keep saying you won’t.”
“Because I’d be awful at it.”
“Not with the moves I’ve seen you do on dance floors,” she said, carefully adding rhinestones to her hair.
“I was tipsy those times.”
“Bullshit. Stop putting yourself down,” she tossed a wadded up tissue, “Now.”
“You’re going to do great,” Cassie assured you. “Once you’re in the uniform and all dolled up, you’ll feel like a different person. It’s like putting on a Halloween costume. You’re not you. Just think about it like that.”
“Yeah,” Maddy agreed. “Just pretend YN and Cheer YN are different people then, if it makes you feel better.”
Cassie had been right. Once you’d put on the right sports bra, the shorts that smoothed out the skirt, and the makeup Maddy put on for you, you didn’t look like yourself. You couldn’t help fidgeting with the top and sleeves, which felt tight like a second skin. The skirt didn’t ride up due to some tricks your mother taught you, but it’d certainly lift if you kicked too high. Taking a quick selfie in the bathroom mirrors, you sent the best looking one into the chat:
Jules 💜: You look awesome!
KitKat: it actually suits you pretty well
RueRue: skin crawling yet?
Jules 💜: Rue!
“Oh, it’s creeping all over. I can’t keep a grip on these pompoms either.”
KitKat: we’ll be there to cheer on our new cheerleader! No worries!
“You guys are actually coming to a game?”
Jules 💜: we’d endure it in the name of emotional support!
RueRue: also your mom said she'd treat us after.
“Maddy says I should pretend to be someone else.”
KitKat: that might work for you. Pretend you’re a bitchy cheerleader and not our gentle YN <3
RueRue: you’d get the bitchy part down path lol
“Lmfao fuck you for real lol”
RueRue: lmfao
“It’s exactly how I imagined!” Your mom beamed proudly when she saw you at the door. “Maddy, you did the makeup so well! She looks amazing!”
“We can’t have our girl looking like trash,” she said, hip bumping you. “Big Booty Judy needs to look good for her man.”
“Ugh, gross.”
Nate did cross your mind as you walked with them to the field. It’d be the perfect time for a rude remark or a snide comment in passing. You could already see the amusement he’d find in you being a cheerleader for tonight. Coming outside to the cool air and the crowds, you wanted to sink into the ground. The cheers echoed from one side of the field to the other, carrying in the wind as the general excitement swelled. The first game of the season is always highly anticipated, so naturally most of the town was there. The reality of it hit you.
‘Don’t be you. Be someone else.’
The laughter and fingers you expected weren’t there. At least, not that you could see. People seemed more hyped about the game than you being on the sidelines. You searched the bleachers for your friends, needing to see people you knew wouldn’t taunt you. The handles of your pompoms felt slippery from sweat, and you tried not thinking about what people might say tomorrow. Who really cared? Nobody. With nerves bubbling your stomach, you joined the rest of the squad in the pre-game stretches and warm ups. Moving parts of yourself that aren’t accustomed to moving, you knew you’d be paying for this exertion tomorrow morning. You’d certainly be adding onto your Book Nook and coffee bribe for this. Once the group was done, the dancing began.
As your mother said, you knew the routines without needing much practice. You’d gone to enough practices to have the moves and chants memorized. The further you got into the dancing, creating a groove in your head, the easier it became. You slowly sunk into the cheerleader pretense and the nerves disappeared by the time the teams were introduced. The Madison Maddogs came from Madison Highschool, and they were a tough team from what you’d heard. The first game of the season, and East Highland was paired with them. A large group of big guys in white and red uniforms, they ran onto the field to the cheers of their side of the field and jeering from yours. It was when The Blackhawks of East Highland came out through smoke machines that you started cheering. Even with the two boys you disliked the most right now on the team, you still wanted them to win.
As they ran past the cheerleaders lined up on either side of the locker room entrance, Aaron noticed you first. He stared in surprise, dark eyes immediately scoping you in the uniform but you ignored him. It was Nate you worried about.
“Damn, Cupcake,” he called over the crowd as he jogged past, “You're gonna cheer just for me, right?”
“As if,” you replied with disgust on your face.
Because there was no mockery in his voice. You didn’t see the usual jeering laughter in his eyes. They’d darkened into something unfamiliar to you. He glanced over his shoulder, sneering as he gazed down at your body. You suddenly became self-conscious all over again. He’d likely started making a list of the insults he’d spew at you later in the night. You tried not thinking about it and ignored Maddy and Cassie’s knowing smirks as you went back to the sidelines. To think about it any further would lead to overthinking and you refused to do that. However, unlike Aaron, once the game was on Nate locked in and stayed locked into the game. While Aaron casted glances over every so often, Nate didn’t notice you at all. You expected some kind of taunt in passing, but no. Bullying you took a backseat to his need to win.
Your Blackhawks started strong, getting a few points ahead of their opponents but then the Maddogs started playing harder. They made it closer to the other side with each play, but then the Blackhawks would push back just as hard. Aaron got sacked three times; Nate didn’t get sacked at all. Aaron missed throws; Nate managed perfect spirals. You don’t understand your interest in Aaron after watching his abysmal playing. He might have been cute, but that was where it ended. You were glad he’d dumped you. It was starting to piss you off, honestly. You guessed your love for the team came from your grandfather having coached them for so many years. That was a side effect of coming from a sports family.
“Aaron, what the fuck is going on?” you asked in frustration halfway through the game. As he jogged past you said, “You fumble balls like you fumble girls.”
“Fuck you, fat bitch,” he spat back.
“Learn how to play, pencil dick.”
“YN!” Maddy laughed, hitting your side, “We’re supposed to be encouraging them, not talking shit.”
“Clearly the encouragement ain’t working,” you replied, laughing with her.
“Get into formation, Booty Judy.”
All the cheering in the world couldn’t stop this game. The Maddogs blocked the Blackhawks each time, becoming a wall for them to break through. Jason, one of the runners, scored them some points. However, Nate is who you kept finding on the field. Watching him was entertaining, almost thrilling. The thing you noticed was his love for the crowd. He loved hearing the cheering and the chanting whenever he made a good play. He stayed hyped up, even taking off his helmet and raising it like the douche he was. You cheered because that was what you came for, but also laughed.
What a ham.
Then, it came. The final play of the night. The two teams were tied, and this last play would determine the winner. They can always run out the clock and go into overtime, which might buy them time, but something told you Nate wouldn’t go that route. Nothing would boost his cockiness up more than making the winning play. You saw it coming before anyone else did. All the tension in you braced itself for an iconic win or a legendary defeat. Idly waving your pompoms, you focused on only him. Bending behind the center guard, he called out the play to each side before the ball got into his hands. He looked like he might throw it to the wide receiver already starting to run, but instead Nate tucked the ball to his chest and ran through the crashing players. Your heart pounded in your ears, and you found yourself cheering him on. He made it to the forty, the thirty, and then the twenty. One Madison player almost caught him, but Nate easily pushed him back onto the ground. He reached the ten, then finally the touchdown zone.
The crowd went wild for him, almost deafening your ears. Nate immediately took his helmet, hyped up and rode the high of the team coming up to him. As a cheerleader, you were obligated to go up to him with the rest of the girls to his congratulations circle. The pats on the back. The calls of his name. The congratulations. Nate soaked it all in, the boy almost drunk off the win they’ll talk about for days. You stayed on the outskirts originally, but someone-likely Maddy-jostled you through the inner part of the circle. The sweaty football players and cheerleaders nearly suffocated you with their size towering over you. You didn’t expect him to really notice you, but he did. For once, you gave him a proud smile, which he returned.
Before putting his arms around you.
Before lifting you until you were at level with him.
Before kissing you.
The musky smell of sweat, the salty trickles going down his face and matting hair to his forehead, did not register to you. Only the feeling of his strong arms doing the one thing no other guy was able to do. Suddenly, the world went quiet as Nate caressed your lips apart and slid his tongue inside. The brush of his tongue on yours sent rushes of warmth to your center. You couldn’t help but indulge in your most shameful fantasy: kissing your bully in front of a crowd. When he finally let you go, you felt dizzy and lightheaded like when you come up for air. He smiled down at you, grinning and blushing as he cupped your cheek and pressed his forehead to yours.
“Worth it.”
Then he left you standing there as his team nearly carried him away. He occasionally glanced back at you, laughing at your shocked expression. This left you to deal with the light teasing in the locker room.
“I told you he liked you!” said Maddy, taking off her uniform top. “Did you see how he kissed you?”
“It was so romantic,” Cassie sighed, “Him kissing you after making a big win.”
“He lifted me.”
“Which makes it even cuter.”
The guys you “dated” were too scrawny or not strong enough to carry you the way Nate did. They didn’t kiss you like that. They always rushed it or put too much lust behind it. Nate’s kiss felt different somehow, and you couldn’t place it.
‘Worth it,’ he’d said.
“McKay’s having a party at his place tomorrow night,” Cassie told them, texting on her phone. “I have a feeling a certain quarterback will be there.”
“Um…”
It’d been so unexpected. Never in a million years did you think Nate would kiss you or entertain the idea. It was so unlike him.
‘Worth it.’
“It was probably a dare,” you decided, pulling off the sweaty uniform and finally getting back into your old clothes. “It always is.”
“Kind of a weird dare.”
“Not if you’re fat,” you told her. “Guys do it all the time. It’s this sick, twisted game that assholes like to play: flirt with the fat girl, then make fun of her when she actually believes it. I never fully got it since it’s such a waste of time, but there you go. Aaron probably put Nate up to it to fuck with me, and Nate never misses a chance to do that.”
“Is it really that hard for you to believe Nate likes you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Um, because he's been a prick to me since ninth grade? He made that pretty clear after he put a spider in my locker.”
“That was then. This is now, and he likes you.”
“For a smart bitch, you're still blind as hell,” said Maddy.
“Am not. It was nothing. No big deal.”
‘Worth it.’
It didn’t feel that way. The feeling of his tongue rolling around your mouth brought warmth into your cheeks. The placement of his arms around your waist, the light pressure it took to keep you there, stayed with you. You didn’t know how to deal with it. Saying goodbye to the squad, you found Mom outside the locker room with a grin on her face.
“‘I’m not interested in him, Mom.’ ‘He’s a dumb jock, Mom.’ ‘I don’t like him, Mom’,” she said, mocking your voice with a teasing smile. “I saw that kiss. That didn’t look like two people who aren’t into one another.”
“I…” you began, “It was whatever. It wasn’t even good. It was gross and odd.”
‘Worth it.’
You ignored her teasing and walked towards the parking lot. By the car, you saw Jules, blond and skinny, Rue, thin and curly haired, and Kat, busty and dark haired, standing there with small smiles. Your stomach twisted into knots at the sight of them. Maybe they didn't see it. There had been too many people crowding you.
“You did awesome!” Kat beamed, hugging you tightly, “And you looked mega hot!”
“Did not,” you murmured, distracted. His lips made you flush with heat so easily.
“It felt weird seeing you as a cheerleader,” Rue said, “But you still did great.”
“It felt weird being one,” you agreed with her.
“How about I treat you girls to pancakes?” Mom asked, coming up behind you and opening the trunk. “We can all gush over her and Nate.”
“Nate?” The three of them looked over at you, and you turned away.
“You didn’t see it?” your mom packed up the bags in the back, “They kissed.”
“What?”
“Oh my god.”
“Gross.”
“Pancakes sound awesome,” you said, hoping to deflect. “Kat? You like pancakes, right?”
“You kissed Nate?” asked Kat in confusion.
You all piled into the van. “He kissed me,” you corrected.
“But you kissed back or did you just stand there?”
“I…I kissed back,” you blurted out, “But I only did because it was a heat of the moment experience and it’ll never happen again. He probably did it as a joke or a bet or something.”
“Kind of a weird joke,” said Rue.
“You’re telling me.”
A notification came through, but you ignored it. You already knew who it was, and you wouldn’t entertain him. You spent the drive to the diner explaining yourself and all the reasons you hated the kiss. All the while trying to conceal the glimmer in your eyes, and the itching to answer his message. He likely directly messaged you on Instagram, since he didn’t have your phone number. You didn’t dare reach for it with your friends and your mom watching you. People always packed the local diner after a game. Families and friend groups took up most of the tables, running the staff ragged with requests and refills. You saw the team taking up a far corner of the diner, chatting and laughing while waiting on their food. Your stomach twisted when you spotted Nate amongst them, telling a story that kept his friends hanging on his words.
“Ah damn,” you winced, “Looks like the place is full. Wanna check out the pizza place? I heard they got a buy-one-get-one special going on so extra pizza.”
“No worries, honey,” Mom said reassuringly, “I got us a reservation before the game. I wanted to make sure we got a table.”
The table ended up exactly where you expected: right next to the team. You did your best to avoid Nate’s gaze as you picked up the menu and engaged with the group. All of you having shifted away from the kissing talk, you thought you’d eventually get to push it from your mind. Yet, every time you looked to your left, there was Nate with his deep brown eyes and bright smile. You hated it. You hated how his lips imprinted themselves in your mind and his hands had kept you in such a tight grip. Most guys struggled to handle you, but Nate did it with ease. If he did exert himself, it never showed. You remembered the point your feet left the ground and you hung in his arms for those brief moments. When he let go, he hadn’t pushed you away or laughed in your face. He kept you close. He’d touched you so delicately, a way you never expected from him.
While everyone looked at their menus, you picked up your phone.
‘Unknown Number: you’re a better kisser than I thought.’
‘How’d you get this number?’
‘Unknown Number: Aaron. He bet me I wouldn’t kiss you in front of everyone and I did.’
‘So it was a bet?’
Unknown Number: yeah, got fifty bucks out of it.’
Why did this hurt to hear? It was Nate. This was the sort of thing he would do. You put your phone aside and concentrated on the menu. Yet, you barely took in anything. While the girls around you talked, you thought about Nate, Aaron and their stupid bet. You shouldn’t be surprised. You aren’t. Yet, a small pang hit your chest realizing you were-once again-right. When your phone went off again, you planned on telling him off before you actually read his message.
‘Unknown Number: and I finally had a reason to kiss you.’
Worth it.
“Want to split some mozzarella sticks , sweetie?” Mom asked from beside you, reading the menu.
“Sure.”
‘Don’t say shit like that. It’s weird.’
‘Unknown Number: it’s not. People kiss all the time.’
‘Not us.’
‘Unknown Number: we can make it an ‘us’ thing.’
You saw him smirking at his phone before putting it aside. You decided to do the same, not wanting to think about what he meant. An ‘us’ thing? Since when has Nate Jacobs shown any romantic interest in you? If anything, he’s shown disgust and sometimes pure distaste. You aren’t his type. He isn’t yours. Okay, so a lot of the guys you’ve hooked up with happened to be athletes with nice bodies, but that was coincidence. You could date different guys. You weren’t picky like Nate, who had a long list of likes and dislikes. He’d told you once when you’d both gotten detention for a heated argument in the cafeteria. Girls who dressed feminine, acted feminine, smelled like fruity body spray, wore ballet flats or heels and maybe sandals with fresh pedicures, tennis skirts and jean cutoffs, had good posture and many other tiny details that shouldn’t matter but meant the world to him. He also hated body hair, which you sort of agreed with honestly. Living as a big girl, you needed to look put together, fresh and clean all the time or otherwise people called you a slob. You waxed regularly, always had fresh manicures and pedicures, and wore more feminine clothes, you guessed. You preferred citrus body sprays over the floral or strong scented ones. You crossed your legs as much as you could manage, and kept your shoulders and back straight.
Oh god, you were his type.
Nowhere in that list did it mention a weight or figure or shape.
Worth it.
‘Unknown Number: u should get the club. You’d like it.’ His next message said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Unknown Number: it’s got turkey, white cheddar and avocado in it. You always eat turkey sandwiches. Sourdough bread too. No seeds.’
You did like avocado in your sandwiches and salads and seeded bread got stuck in your teeth. ‘How the HELL do you know that??’
‘Unknown Number: i pay attention?? You always get it when they have it at school. Get it. You’d like it.’
You noticed that’s what he ordered.
“What can I get started for you ladies?” the waitress came up to you with her notepad.
Everyone put in their orders, but you just said, “The grilled chicken sandwich with extra bacon, please, with cheese fries.”
“I thought you’d get the club,” Mom said, handing back her menu. “You always get it.”
“I changed my mind.”
Jules looked over at Nate’s table, and she laughed. “It’s because Nate ordered it.”
“What? No,” you said right away. “I didn’t feel like eating it tonight, that’s all.”
None of them were convinced. “Kat, what’s going on with you and Ethan?”
Kat saw your subject change, but still answered going into details about her relationship with a classmate of yours. You relished in the conversation, going on to talk about anything and everything as you ate your dinner. It was a bit more than what you normally ate, but you pushed through out of spite. Your phone lit up with each message, but you ignored him. You refused to give him any more of your time while with your friends. Behind their circle of safety, he couldn’t touch you. Him and his sudden change of attitude couldn’t reach you. Though, it sometimes wiggled in between the cracks.
It must be a joke or a prank. Aaron might still be sour over your breakup, and Nate is helping him get back at you because naturally it’s what he does. He’ll woo and charm you, get you to send him nudes or personal things, then tell everyone. He might invite you out, then stand you up while his friends watched. The sort to get your hopes up and laugh as he ultimately dashed them to pieces. Nate is cruel enough to do it. He didn’t normally participate in pranks, but the jokes and insults came easy to him.
‘Unknown Number: woooow you really ordered that because I suggested something you liked.’
‘Unknown Number: you take such small bites. Why? Just eat.’
‘Unknown Number: can I have the other half? That looks good.’
‘Unknown Number: I’m getting the brownie thing. You want to come over and we can split it? 😏 ‘
‘Unknown Number: you looked hot as a cheerleader btw I didn’t get to tell you before.’
‘Stop,’ you finally wrote back once you were in the car.
‘Unknown Number: why??’
‘Because I know you’re saying all this to fuck with me. Tell Aaron he’s an asshole and none of this is clever or funny.’
“You’ve been attached to that thing all night,” Mom said, slightly aggravated. “I’m about ready to take it from you and hide it.”
“It’s nothing,” you lied, looking out the window. “Sorry, Mom. I’ll put it away.”
You shoved your phone in your bag, and tried engaging in conversation with Jules who was behind you. It sort of hurt even if it was Nate. Guys didn’t pay attention to you like that. You were invisible until they got horny and needed a last resort. That little voice in the back of your head wanted his words and interest to be genuine. It’d be nice if someone did want you for more than your body. It’d be nice if a guy wanted to seriously date you, not keep you a secret. You wanted someone who was proud of you and didn’t live and die by his friends’ opinions.
As your mother dropped everyone off one by one, you tried ignoring your phone for the time being. You won’t give him the satisfaction of waiting on his every text. Him and Aaron could go to hell for all you cared. But, when you finally reached the privacy of your bedroom, you pulled it out.
‘Unknown Number: I’m not, I swear.’
‘Unknown Number: Want to know why Aaron dumped you today?’
‘Unknown Number: I told him to.’
‘Unknown Number: I said if he’s too pussy to date you, then he should move along and let someone else shoot their shot with you.’
‘Unknown Number: that someone else being me.’
‘Unknown Number: and this is me shooting my shot with you.’
‘Unknown Number: McKay’s having a party tomorrow night. We should go together. It won’t be as fun without you there ♥️ I’ll pick you up.’
‘Unknown Number: I’m gonna prove that I do like you because this is the year we stop fucking around and go on a date, fall in love, get married, have kids, and have a nice house in the suburbs. Alright? Cool. Pick you up tomorrow at eight. Don’t worry. I know your address already.’
You didn’t know what to make of any of that. In the shower, his words kept floating in your head. It sounded genuine, but too good to be true. When you got out, you screenshot it all and send it to Kat, your fellow plus size baddie.
“That’s fucking weird, right?” you asked her over the phone.
“I think it’s kind of sweet, not gonna lie. He notices the little things, and he seemed to be serious about going to the party with you.”
“Yeah, but it always sounds that way and then I get laughed at afterwards.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s going on here,” she said. “If it were a prank situation, he’d take you to a restaurant or something where he can humiliate you publicly. He said he wants to take you on a date, and it sounds like he’s been wanting to ask you for a while but didn’t.”
“But why now, Kat? Why is he suddenly doing this now? What made him decide he no longer hates me but wants to date me?”
“Personally, I don’t think Nate actually hated you.”
“Oh, be serious.”
“His jokes never went too far and he doesn’t call you particularly nasty names. The guy calls you ‘Cupcake’, YN.”
“Yeah, as an insult.”
“That’s a weird insult then. ‘Porky Pig’ or ‘Whale’ or ‘Jabba’ would make more sense as insults than ‘Cupcake’.”
“Jabba the Hutt was an infamous crime boss with loads of money and people feared him,” you said quickly, “But that’s not the point. The point is this is fucking weird and I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t want to believe him, but I want it to be real at the same time. I want him to want me but also don’t want to get my hopes up and it’s all a big joke and I feel stupid again. Aaron was embarrassing enough. I don’t need the biggest red flag in East Highland making me look dumb. He’d never let me live it down.”
“Look, I totally get what you’re feeling right now. You’ve done a lot of mentally and physically exhausting stuff today, so get some sleep and see how you feel tomorrow. Besides, you’re still going to the party anyway. It’s not like you won’t see him there. He’s giving you a ride too which means not borrowing your mom’s car.”
You took a deep breath and stopped your pacing, “Right. Sleep. That’s what I need.”
“Yeah, get some. You might feel better when you get up. It works for me every time.”
“Yeah, totally. Thanks Kat. See you later.”
“Later.”
You hung up and went to your bed. A million worries ran through you as you slid underneath the covers. You found yourself evading sleep by rereading his messages. Pouring over each one, you dissected them for a lie or a trick. You heard them in his voice to pick up tone and meaning, but that was hard through text. You reluctantly agreed to go with him to the party.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little… different?”
“Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
pairing: steve harrington x reader
warnings: established relationship, softservicedom!steve, sub!reader, first time bdsm, light bondage, rope, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, dirty talk, praise, pet names, light orgasm control/degradation, hint of possession kink, lots of check-ins, kink negotiation/exploration, nervous loverboy stevie, light angst, domestic fluff, steve's pov, aka ur his one-way ticket out of vanilla-town
word count: 4k
a/n: he ties you up but like, he loves you or whatever | playlist 𝜗ৎ
Steve Harrington can take a punch.
He’s taken plenty, actually. To the face, the gut, the ego.
He’s been thrown into walls, into worlds that shouldn’t exist. Walked away from concussions, black eyes, bruised ribs, a goddamn Russian torture lab under a shopping mall.
He can take a hit, is what he’s saying.
He’s learned how to breathe through the pain. How to swallow the blood and ignore the ringing in his ears. Tape over the cracks. Wash off the dirt. Pretend the ache doesn’t reach as deep as it does.
But the thought of hurting you?
That’s the one that floors him.
That’s the kind of fear that crawls up into his throat and sits there, trembling.
ꨄ
“Baby, you’re overthinking this.”
Your voice comes soft, lilting with amusement. You’re sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts: faded navy, collar slipping off your shoulder in a way that makes his brain fuzz out a little. He loses focus for all of two seconds before he starts pacing again, back and forth over the same six feet of carpet.
“I’m not,” he says. Biggest lie in America.
“Uh-huh.” You glance at the floor. “I think the rug might disagree.”
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair again, that nervous tic that’s been with him since high school. The same hands that used to grip baseball bats and steering wheels now twisting through his own hair, because it’s the only way he knows to keep still.
“I just... I don’t wanna screw this up. You said you wanted to try, and I do too, but—” He swallows. “What if I get it wrong?”
You tilt your head, eyes soft. “You won’t.”
“What if I do, though?”
“Then we talk. That’s the whole point, right? To figure it out together.”
He lets out a slow breath, nods.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
But his eyes won’t stop drifting.
Toward the bed. Toward the thing sitting there like a dare.
It’s a ten-foot coil of rope.
Soft, white cotton. The kind they sell in loops at Melvald’s, next to the gardening shears and seed packets. Ordinary, if you don’t know what it means. Harmless, except for the way it’s making his stomach feel like it’s going to launch out of his throat.
He stares at it like it might sprout teeth.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his wrist. “Come here.”
You tug him down beside you, thigh to thigh, your skin warm through his jeans. Your hand finds the back of his neck, thumb tracing over the ridges of healed scars he still avoids in the mirror sometimes.
“You know we can stop any time,” you whisper, smile gentle.
He nods. “I know. I want to. I just... don’t wanna mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you tell him again, even softer this time. Your eyes track him for a moment, quiet and fond.
Then you smile. Let your voice drop honey-warm, just a tad teasing: “Hey, how about you stop worrying for a bit and just kiss me?”
He huffs out a laugh, shaky. “Yeah, okay.”
That, at least, he knows how to do.
ꨄ
It started as a whisper in the dark, weeks ago.
Drowsy pillow talk turned into a question. Naked and tangled together, your voice soft against his chest.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little... different?”
He’d blinked up at the ceiling, pulse stuttering. “Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
It followed him around for days, that word.
Tugged at him while he showered, while he washed the dishes, while he tried, unsuccessfully, to focus at work.
He carried it with him everywhere, turning it over and over like a smooth stone in his pocket.
Wondering what it meant, coming from you.
You, who never asks for more than he can give. You, who makes him feel seen, wanted, safe.
He thought about it long enough that he started noticing things he hadn’t before. Like how your breath hitches when he gets a touch bolder with you, when he pulls you in by the hips, when his voice gets a little firmer, drops a little deeper.
And now that he's seen it, seen you, he can't unsee it. Can't stop imagining what this might mean for you.
For him.
What rougher might look like between two people who love each other the way you do.
ꨄ
Three days later, he drove all the way up to Chicago to run “errands.”
Spent the whole afternoon wandering through record shops, bookstores, antique stalls, looking for something he didn’t quite have words for, until he found it: tucked in the back of a cramped little store that smelled like incense and weed.
A zine.
Hand-stapled, smudged with black ink:
Soft Restraint: Notes on Safety & Play
The title alone made his pulse jump.
He flipped through it in a corner like a kid sneaking a dirty magazine.
Except... it wasn’t dirty. It was gentle. Thoughtful. It talked about trust and boundaries and “the quiet work of keeping someone safe.”
That part stuck.
So he bought it, stuffed it between two Duran Duran tapes, and drove home with his heart thumping double time. Spent the weekend cross-legged on his bed, reading safety notes and how-to guides, squinting at tiny diagrams while he practiced.
A shoelace around a chair leg. A necktie around a throw pillow. A silk scarf looped between two slats of his headboard.
Learning the rhythm of it: tying, untying, tightening, loosening. Two fingers loose, always.
"Every knot you tie is a promise, not a bond."
He memorized that line. Repeated it under his breath until it felt like prayer.
ꨄ
Tonight, that prayer’s being tested.
“Okay. How’s that feel?”
“Good.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Steve. It’s perfect.”
He checks again anyway, fingers trembling as he tugs at the restraint. It drapes in clean lines across your wrists, pale rope winding around the dark mahogany of his bed frame.
He hadn’t planned on using rope at all. Thought he’d get something familiar and harmless, like one of his many neckties (he’s got plenty, all unused), but the guide had warned about narrow fabrics cutting off circulation. He’d taken one look at the words nerve damage, muttered “jesus christ,” and driven straight to Melvald's.
Poor Don didn’t even glance up from his Wednesday crossword when Steve walked up, cheeks redder than a stop sign, and asked for ten feet of cotton rope.
Now, kneeling over you on the bed, his face is flushed that exact same shade of cherry. Hair a mess, shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, his lips swollen from all the times you pulled him down, stealing kisses whenever he leaned too close.
You’re grinning up at him now, happy and radiant and impossibly calm, which admittedly makes him more uneasy. Makes him more determined to get this right.
“You know,” you muse, “I’m starting to think you might’ve missed your calling as a Boy Scout.”
He snorts, loosening one knot just to retie it. “Yeah, well. If I’m gonna do it, I wanna get it right.”
“Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Breathe.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
It’s teasing, but there’s tenderness behind it. And when he looks down at you—at your hands, at your face tipped up toward him, smiling like you’ve never been safer—something inside him goes quiet.
“I’m never gonna finish this if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
Your laughter fills the room. It’s a sound he’d build a life around, if he could. He’s been thinking about that a lot, actually.
He stops fussing with the rope long enough to take your hand. Threads his fingers through yours, palm to palm, tracing the faint indents where your rings usually sit.
Wonders, not for the first time, what it would mean to add another one there someday.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Not just because you think I’ll like it?”
“Steve,” you smile, eyes certain. “I trust you.”
ꨄ
Trust.
Steve Harrington has been rebuilding that word from the ground up.
He’s spent years trying to be someone worthy of it. Chipping away the old armor, the fake cool, the paper-thin ego he balanced like a crown because it was easier than being known.
He used to be the king of pretending.
Steve Harrington knows how to take a punch because he’s been taking them his whole life—some with fists, most with silence.
His first heartbreak wasn’t with any girl. It was with a front door closing at age twelve, the sound of his parents’ car pulling away for another “business trip.” The kind that lasted weeks. He’d wander around his empty house with a bottle of Coke and the TV humming, pretending the static counted as company. His mom would call twice, maybe three times a month. Once, from Paris, to ask if he’d fed the dog they didn’t have anymore.
So he learned early: if you want to survive, you get good at pretending. You smile. You make it look easy. You become the kind of person people envy, so they don’t see how empty you are.
Smirks sharp enough to cut glass, laughter loud enough to drown doubt. He coasted on locker-room bravado and casual cruelty. Smoke and mirrors. Nothing but bullshit.
He used to think confidence meant control. That being untouchable meant being safe.
But monsters changed that. Watching his friends bleed changed that. Realizing he’d die for any one of those dumb, brave kids changed that.
You changed that.
You taught him that caring out loud is its own kind of courage.
That love isn’t what you earn by being impressive, it’s what you build by being honest.
And if he's being honest, if there’s one thing Steve's come to realize about himself—after monsters and heartbreak and all the quiet, ordinary fears that came in between—it’s that he’s never been cool about caring. Never. And when it comes to you?
He doesn’t even want to try.
He wants to be the guy who cares. Loudly. Clumsily. The guy who asks, who listens, who gets it wrong and learns. The guy who remembers the little things: the sound of your laugh, the weight of your hand, the way you sigh out his name when you’re close.
He used to think trust meant being liked.
Never getting dumped. Never getting left behind.
Now, he knows better.
It’s quieter.
It’s earned.
It’s work.
Tonight feels like a trust fall. His biggest one yet.
ꨄ
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
You wiggle them. “See? All good.”
He exhales. “Okay. The book said it should be, like, two fingers loose, so—"
“Wait,” you grin, “you read about this?”
He scoffs, ears turning red. “Well, yeah. Figured I should, you know… practice.”
You study him for a long moment, quiet.
“Wow,” you whisper, awe blooming behind your teasing smile. “So you’re an expert now, huh?”
Cheeks tinged pink, he grins, thumb stroking over the soft curve of your lips. Dips his voice all low and playful, edged with something daring:
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
You giggle softly, and he can’t help but lean down. To kiss you slow and sweet, even as everything inside him riots: heart hammering, mind buzzing, all his instincts screaming be careful, be good.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
He brushes his fingers up your arm, light as a sigh.
“Still okay?” he whispers.
“Still okay.”
“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He blinks, throat tight.
“I love you too.”
ꨄ
He eats you out first, always.
He gets lost in it, goes a little crazed for it, the way he tends to do when he’s down here. Tip of his nose glistening, pressing, soft nudges to your clit that punctuate the relentless pressure of his tongue as he licks his way inside. The taste, the feel, the rich heady scent and the slick glide of it against his lips—its enough to quiet everything else.
His hand slides up your thigh, past the junction of your hip, reaching up your stomach. But where he expects to find the familiar grasp of your fingers threading through his, that grounding touch he relies on to steady himself just as much as you do, he finds only empty air.
For a moment, he falters.
It’s strange. Disorienting, even. He’s used to that anchor, the feel of you squeezing back with a grip so tight it borders on desperation, a silent promise that you’re right there with him, holding on.
But now... now there’s space where your fingers used to be. And when he hears the dull rasp of cotton grating against wood... that’s new, too. So is the sight that greets him when he glances up, past the swell of your stomach, your breasts, the faint shimmer of sweat at your collarbone.
The subtle pressure at the bend of your elbows. The contrast of linen-white braids against your skin.
Steve’s gaze lingers there. Tracing the lines of it, studying it.
It’s a simple double-column knot, one he practiced over and over on a pillow until his fingers could do it without shaking.
But seeing it now, on you, it feels different. Alive. An extension of his touch in some strange, perfect way. And even though he can’t reach you there, can’t ground you the way he wants, it still feels right. Safe.
He lets that thought ground him instead as your hips start to stir beneath him, impatiently canting toward his face.
The sound of your soft whimpering pulls him back.
He smiles, eyes flicking down to the place he knows by heart, the place that beckons him louder than anything else.
Even in the low light, you’re positively dripping. Glistening under the dark glow of his bedside lamp, golden pools of warmth illuminating everything that’s wet: his fingers, his chin, the inside of your thighs.
He swallows hard, hand splayed over your knee as he gently pushes it back.
“God,” he breathes, tongue dragging across his bottom lip, licking up every bit of you left behind. “What’s got my girl so worked up, hm?”
You let out a soft groan, headboard creaking again as you tug on the binds.
His gaze flicks up. “Wrists feel okay?”
You nod, fingers flexing. Then, quiet as breath: “Steve?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Please?”
Heat flares through him. Something primal and tender sparking at the sight of your pleading gaze, made of equal parts awe and responsibility. He watches the rope flex against your skin, the way your body bends and arches with it.
Following the pull. Trusting the pressure.
Vulnerability, given fully.
It’s captivating. More stunning than anything he could’ve conjured up in his mind.
He almost tells you as much, right then, just how beautiful you look bound like this.
But then he remembers what you had told him, before this whole night started.
You wanted him a little different tonight.
A little firmer. A little meaner.
So he climbs back up your body. Swallows the softness in his voice and lets something steadier take its place.
His chest heaves as he leans down, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your temple, holding your face in both hands.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low. “All tied up like this. This what you wanted?
Your reaction is immediate, the creak of wood giving you away before any nod or whimper can. The sheets rustle under your back as you wriggle your hips.
“Y-yeah. ‘S what I wanted.”
“Thought so,” he hums, sliding a hand down to feel the velvety warmth of your slit. He drags a slow line upward, teasing over your folds, gathering up the pooled wetness on the pad of his index. Brings it back up to your mouth; he’s barely tapped his finger against your lips when you start opening for him, suckling instinctively.
“Wish you could see yourself right now,” he murmurs, watching the way your lips purse around his finger. “All spread out like this.”
Your hips twitch, the headboard groans.
“Soaking wet. Desperate. So greedy, you know that?”
“Stevie,” you moan around his finger, struggling harder. “Please.”
He tuts softly, pulling his hand away. “Stay still. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
The words land somewhere deep in his throat, the timbre of it surprising even him.
It’s new. Near frightening in its weight. But beneath that fear is a warmth, a rightness. A promise. Care that takes shape in guidance.
“I got you,” he whispers, chest pressing into yours. “Don’t pull too hard on the rope, okay? If anything doesn’t feel good, tell me.”
Your nod is all the permission he needs.
He shuffles closer, pressing against the back of your thighs and pushing them back. His own cock twitches against his stomach, tip red and swollen and leaking something fierce. He grants himself two quick strokes before he lowers himself fully.
The headboard gives a deep, resonant creak as he sinks in slow, reveling in the wet, plush stretch of your entrance. He watches your face the entire way. Doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside.
“Fuck, Steve—” you gasp, fists clenching tight above your head. “S-so—it’s so deep. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Right there?” He makes quick work of tucking a pillow under your hips, finding the angle that would’ve had you marking him in crescents if your hands weren’t folded helplessly above you.
“You like being tied up, baby?” He grunts, brows knitting as he starts rolling his hips; slow, deep rocking motions that have your lashes fluttering with every stroke. “Held down, made to—made to take my cock?"
Even now, after everything, hearing himself say it sends a hot flush crawling up his neck. That sudden surge of boldness, the raw, heady implication behind the words, it all sends a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. But you only mewl louder, head rubbing against the pillow as you nod fiercely.
“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. He can tell from the soft clench of your eyes, the tiny tears beading at the corners, just how much of him you’re feeling. “M-make me take it. Want to be... want to be good for you.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, hips pistoning faster, fingers circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts. “You’re so good. Taking me so good.”
Words start to fail you; your jaw falls slack, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Every thrust makes your head loll back, your eyes glassy and half-lidded as you try to hold onto his gaze. You’ve gone quiet in a way he recognizes, letting out nothing but soft, breathy little gasps that punctuate the rhythm of his relentless pace. It’s the way you get when everything's too much, too good, too intense, words unable to keep up with how you’re feeling.
“Oh god,” you inhale sharply, tightening around him all of a sudden. “Steve, I’m... c-can I… hm—"
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“Can I—ah, can I please come?”
“Hah, shit—”
Your question knocks the air out of him before he can even think. Hits him squarely in the chest with all the blunt force of a Mack truck.
He lets out a strangled groan: loud, guttural, punched out of his lungs and edged with something close to pain. He has to stop thrusting for a second, has to bow his head, press his forehead against your shoulder and fist the sheets to stave off his orgasm.
You’d brought this up during The Talk. About wanting to ask for permission. For his permission to come.
Still, it catches him so off guard it leaves him reeling, gasping for air.
He takes a slow breath to recover, eyes clenched tight. Then he resumes his pace, nodding against your neck.
“Y-yeah, go ahead, baby. Let me feel you. Come for me.”
He keeps his fingers working over your clit, his other hand tucked under your knee so he can hike your leg up higher and drive in at just the right angle. Sucks soft welts above your collarbone while he whispers quiet, adoring encouragements into your skin.
It’s not long before he feels you flutter around him, clenching hard—once, twice—your moans pitching higher and higher against his ear—
And yeah.
Yeah.
He gets it now.
Really, truly gets it.
Why there are books and movies and magazines dedicated to this stuff. Whispers of a world he never quite understood before.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.
There’s something near spellbinding in the way you move: the slow twist of your wrists, the curve of your spine, the turn of your face as you press your nose into your arm, one delicate teardrop rolling down your temple.
You look caught between two instincts; pulled into the warmth of him, recoiling from the depth of it, wanting to escape the intensity and reach for him in the same breath.
There’s no solving it, no containing it. No way to deal with it, except to surrender.
To feel it. To take what he’s giving you.
And he watches, struck silent, realizing that he’s the one drawing that reaction from you.
“There you go,” he grunts, keeping his thrusts deep, stroking over that sensitive spot inside you. There’s this strange, heady sensation that surges through him while he watches you squirm, his chest seizing with an overwhelming desire to protect, to hold, to keep. “Such a good girl. My girl. All mine, aren’t you?”
You nod through your orgasm, unable to do much else but whine and whimper and rock your wrists side to side as the pleasure crests.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it, baby. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm hits harder and longer than he’s ever seen it. You can’t seem to stop quivering, shaking, squeezing around his cock in long, drawn-out pulses, over and over. And every time he thinks you’re about done, there’s just a little more.
He rides it all out with you, his own climax washing over him with a quiet shudder. It’s insignificant compared to watching yours unfold; he’s too mesmerized to pay it much mind.
And afterward, it takes a few quiet moments for you to come back to the world. He waits, hand smoothing over your thigh while he stays buried inside you.
When your eyes flutter open, lashes jeweled with tears, you let out a soft laugh: a fucked-out, watery sound that floods him with relief.
He drops himself down, lips colliding with yours in a desperate rush of feeling. Knows he should give you another second to catch your breath, but this is the only way he knows to bleed out some of that intense pressure in his chest. Well, that and:
“God, I love you. Love you so much. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You giggle, panting softly, giving his lips another peck. “So... you liked it, then? The rope?”
“Liked it?” He huffs, nuzzling your neck, lips trailing soft kisses down your throat. “Baby, I fucking loved it. Can’t believe I got to see you come like that.”
You laugh at the ceiling, letting out a quiet puff of air. “Ok, good.”
He glances up at the headboard. “You feel okay? Wrists hurt?”
You hum quietly, flexing your fingers. “Not at all. Guy who tied 'em up did a really good job.”
He lets out an affectionate huff, dipping down for another kiss because he can’t help himself. “Oh yeah? He sounds hot.”
“Eh, he’s okay.”
He quirks a brow, pushing himself up on his hands—still buried inside you, still half-hard.
“Just okay?”
You nod, smile blissed-out and lazy. “Mm, yeah. I try not to encourage it. He—” A quick nudge of his hips forward, just a tad, and it earns a soft gasp from you. “—h-he gets a little cocky sometimes.”
He snorts, sinking down onto his elbows, licking a smirk across your lips.
“Don’t think you were complaining about his cock a second ago.” He mumbles, gently rolling his hips, feeling himself grow fully hard again. Knows he could go for at least three more rounds, easy.
He reaches his hand down to tease your clit, feeling the slick heat of you under his fingers, a living, pulsing reminder of just how hard he made you come. He knows you’re sensitive, especially after an orgasm so intense, but this—this was another one of your brilliant, wicked ideas: to draw out the pleasure, take whatever he wants to give you.
Your breath hitches against his mouth, and suddenly a dozen new ideas start rushing through his head.
“You wanna keep going?” he breathes, glancing up to where you’re still bound to the bed. His eyes sweep along the gentle indentations along your wrist: no irritation, no signs of strain.
“Mhm,” you nod, breathless, utterly boneless in his arms.
And wrapped up in the quiet power of your surrender, Steve’s mind starts to wander again.
To burnt pancakes and mismatched mugs.
To messy gardens and sun-warmed porches.
To footprints in flour and laughter filling the kitchen.
To days that start with your smile and nights that end with your hand curled in his. To shared plans whispered in half-sleep and the deep, unshakable comfort of knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ll be beside him through every season.
Love. Devotion. The sweetness of home he’s found in you without ever realizing he’d been searching for it.
And now, threaded through all of that, is something new. Something tender but fierce, a protective warmth that takes root in his chest.
He’s only just beginning to understand it. Only discovered it because you trusted him first—trusted him in ways he’s still learning how to live up to.
He hopes he’ll get to spend his lifetime cherishing that trust.
Cherishing you, if you’ll have him.
You smile up at him, hazy and adoring, and he mirrors it without thought.
“You want more?” he whispers, stroking your cheek in a quiet sort of promise.
“Yes.”
“Then ask me nicely, honey. I want to hear you say it.”
if you want to read abt how these cuties ended up together, this fic is sort of a sequel to this one!
annaxmalina
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
2087
jbbartram-illu
yousharknotpass
