Male Reader X

Reader x Willow Schnee (RWBY)

There's a melancholy atmosphere the moment you step into the room.

You are no fool. You know exactly why you feel that way. Willow is in here, somewhere. You step over the pile of books that lay sprawled on the floor – discarded during an outbreak of drunk rage, and round the desk at the back of the chamber. Laying against the back wall with a bottle still clutched in her right hand is the woman of the house, Willow Schnee. The lines under her eyes tell the tale, she is a woman lost and without purpose.

You sigh and lean down to make sure that she's okay. The bottle is empty and she's sleeping soundly, so you can thank whatever cruel god is watching you for that much. You clear away some of the debris and pull her away from her resting place, scooping her up into a princess carry. You carefully navigate your way to the couch by the door and lay her down somewhere more comfortable, before setting about the morbid work of tidying her office.

She doesn't use this place to work. It's somewhere for her to escape to when everything gets to be just a little too much. She has a fridge in here stocked with enough bottles to last through five apocalypses, and the lock on the door can only be opened by two people – you, her personal attendant, and her.

You spend a quiet half an hour sorting the damage, until the sound of a stirring matriarch pulls you from your cleaning. Willow doesn't seem as out of it as you first thought, or perhaps her tolerance for the alcohol induced agony she subjects herself to has grown to supernatural levels. She remains lucid, hanging her head in quiet shame at being caught in such an undignified state.

You've seen worse, but that won't be much comfort for Willow.

"What was it this time?" you ask.

Willow doesn't seem willing to tell you at first. She ruminates on it for nearly a minute before giving you an answer, "He didn't want to go to Whitley's birthday, again."

"So, you started drinking?"

"When have I ever needed a reason," she laughs sardonically, "What's to say that it wasn't social?"

"For one thing, a social drink doesn't end up with this much property damage, and for another, I'm the only person you speak to with any honesty these days." To even say that much is a stretch. There are layers and layers of secrets and feelings that you don't know the first thing about. You have a sneaking suspicion that she's bugged the entire mansion out of paranoia. Willow remains in a shameful silence as you finish off the last of the battered books.

You turn to face the older woman with a comforting smile, "You'll just have to make some plans of your own. The only person who's missing out is him." There's an unspoken agreement between the two of you to never mention the name of her husband. You'd curse that man to the depths of hell if you could. He's incapable and unwilling to realize the hurt he's causing to his own family, the fear that he's instilled between them. And perhaps it's because you share no blood that Willow is willing to place so much trust in you.

You keep a respectful distance from her as she tries to gather her thoughts. Your job is to wait on hand and foot for anything she desires, even when what she desires is nothing at all. But in all your years of working with Willow, seeing sides that nobody else has seen before, you never once expected her to leap from the couch and pull you into a sudden kiss.

The shock of it is such that you don't even recognize that it's happening until she pulls away. Her face is flushed, not from the wine running through her system, but an excitement that she surely has not felt for nearly two decades.

"Ma'am."

"Don't you Ma'am me!" she demands. Her breath is heavy. The smell of wine stings your nostrils as she keeps her face close to yours, "You know what I want."

You would never refuse and order from her professionally, but this is something entirely new. "But... your husband."

"He's my husband in name only," she responds, "A worthless, cruel, cold man who doesn't care about me or his children. Why should I respect our vows when he can't even muster the will to respect me? The craven bastard probably thinks we're sleeping together already! He just doesn't care!"

You look down to the floor. You've always admired Willow, you could even go so far as to say that you love her despite the difference in your ages. But could you stand risking her safety just for a moment of pleasure shared together? For Willow, it's more than that. She needs someone to be there for her. To show her affection and love in a world where ice closes in from all sides.

You wrap your hands around her hips and drag her into another kiss. Willow runs her hands through your hair and pulls you even closer, desperate to feel your lips meeting again and again. You fall back onto the couch and pull her with you. Your embrace only grows more intimate from there. You explore her body with your own hands, fulfilling a long-held fantasy of your own in the process.

Your clothes are torn from your body by her ravenous hands. Willow has no reservations about running her smooth palms down the front of your chest in admiration. Jacques was even older than she was, and her excitement about bedding a younger man was plain to see. You return the favour and unbutton her shirt, exposed her frilly bra and heaving chest. As a mother of three, Willow was gifted in a lot of ways.

"You're so beautiful," you mutter. Willow blushes and allows you to take control for the time being. You pull away her shirt and expose her upper body to the cool air of the office. Willow has aged like the wine she likes to drink so much. You lean down and kiss her bare skin. Willow deserves all of your affection after putting up with that bastard for so long.

A pile of discarded garments builds on the ground next to the couch as eager hands strip away layer after layer. The two of you are left completely naked. You can't help but stop to admire just how beautiful Willow's body is under the low light of the office. You'd never subscribe to such a vulgar way of speech, but she is certainly one of those 'MILFs' the kids keep talking about.

Willow doesn't want to wait any longer, she wraps her arms around your neck and pulls you down on top of her. Despite her ice white hair, her body is warm and welcoming. "Do it. Make me feel good." You don't keep her waiting. Willow moans as you enter her. You pump your hips greedily, pushing yourself deeper and deeper inside of her without restraint.

You bottom out and take a moment to ensure her comfort, she closes her eyes and hums to herself in pleasure. "Keep going, keep going. I can handle it," she assures you. You settle into a comfortable rhythm, enjoying deep, long strokes that hit the very end of her welcoming insides. You wrap your arms around her back and pull Willow closer. You're in a rush to the finish – there's no need to prolong the feelings that you're sharing now.

Willow wails in orgasmic pleasure as her climax hits, and you soon follow after her – plunging as deep as you can go and unloading inside of her womb. Willow's eyes open wide as she feels you pack her full to the brim. There's a moment of silence that settles over the room after as you try to catch your breath – her large chest heaves, covered with a thin layer of sweat.

"Hmf. It's a good thing I can't have children any more..."

You finally pull your flagging member out of her and admire your handiwork. "Are you sure?" you ask, quirking a brow, "Because if your only measure is the last time you slept with him, it begs to reason that you might be mistaken."

She laughs, "Well, I wouldn't mind having another – especially if it's yours."

You pull Willow into a romantic embrace and feel the chill of the room settle onto your body once more. She strokes your chest affectionately. She doesn't have anything to do or anywhere to go, so for the moment she can spend as much time with you as she pleases.

"One day. When he isn't holding a sword above our heads anymore, I'll leave this house and never look back."

You look down into her morose eyes and nod, "I'll be there with you when you do."

"...I know," she smiles, "Thank you."