marilyn thornhill x fem reader

awakened

tw: heavy smut and dumbification, deep subspace, mental/emotional manipulation, blood!kink, gun kink?, mentions of murder, strap-on usage, overstimulation.

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The fatigue and fear and anxiety set in only seconds after Marilyn guides you into the passenger seat of her car.

When you both finally got up from the ground, Marilyn held you against her body the whole way; hiked you closer to her side as you leant into her embrace. And she was so careful where she placed her hands on your figure, helping you over branches and rocks and slippery moss with your hand in hers, and the most protective grip on your waist that felt like sparklers under your skin.

The sun was finally almost all the way up, it bathed the forest trees in an orange afterglow that made you a little breathless; how it filtered through the canopy of leaves and hit particles in the cool air.

When the soft rays hit Marilyn's red hair, when it shines light on the blood of Tyler still splattered up the length of her neck and jawline, you realise you're falling in love all over again.

And Marilyn's always been beautiful, she's always been other worldly, and you always used to think her beauty was just always out of reach for you. But here, you're seeing her in a new light, a new setting, like someone took this painting from a different sunlit room and changed your entire perspective.

Maybe it's because she just did something that no one, in your entire life, has ever done for you; and never will. Maybe it's because she is now the one person in your life who genuinely, unconditionally loves you, to the point of death. (Because who else can say they've killed for you? There's nothing more loving to you than an act like that.)

Maybe it's because Marilyn essentially carrying you with your arm over her shoulder, bicep around your waist, is an image you never want to lose and never want to stop feeling.

Then at one point you slipped, and she caught you so easily in her hold as she chuckled fondly at your weakened knees, and her thumb brushed against your bruises, pressed down from the stumble, and your lungs filled with something so addicting you blushed in her embrace.

So you shouldn't be surprised, really, that the moment her touch leaves you, when her fingertips brush away from your skin as she gently lowers you into the front seat of her purple buggy, is a moment so terrifying to you, that you panic .

You don't want her to leave, you want the pads of Marilyn's fingers pressing into the notches of your ribs again, you want her hand at your throat gliding across your blood, you want her lips cleaning you up and drinking you in again. You want to hear her moan at tasting the red at your skin and lapping up what's hers.

Immediately, you reach out to Marilyn again, grabbing to her wrist with a worried, questioning whine leaving your lips; because if you aren't reminding the irrational side of your brain that she's here and never leaving, you might just dissolve into nothingness, like the melting snow atop the earth.

When Marilyn feels the touch, hears the noise that leaves your lips, she's turning back to you and softening almost instantly. She crouches by the car, takes your hands in hers and squeezes so reassuringly that your eyes water; when she cups your cheek, hushing you softly, you nuzzle into the touch and watch how the action has Marilyn's lips twitching on the fondest smile.

"Oh, darling," She breathes out, and your heart beats so fast so suddenly, that it aches. "It's okay, I won't be far."

You blush, fingers twitching in her hold shyly. You feel needy, and pathetically hungry for every drop of comfort Marilyn could ever give you.