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#my bones ache forever now

dante-mightdie · 1 month

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Can’t sleep thinking about chief-Price forever seeing you as a warrior after he watches you give birth to your first child- a woman will tear herself apart when at the end of it all she is promised her baby.

c/w: childbirth, babies, pain, fluff

it’s a cliche, but nothing could have prepared him for this moment. he’s stood outside the room you’re in, pacing back and forth listening to your agonised screams through the door

he heard your muffled yelling followed by frantic footsteps and soon enough he’s met with a midwife, beckoning him inside

“your wife is asking for you…” she mumbles, leaving price’s side to take her space at the foot of your bed. price flicks his eyes over to you and his heart breaks. you look so exhausted, drenched in sweat and your hair stick to your face

hands clenching around the sheets when another contraction hits you, pained screams ripping themselves from your throat. price was no stranger to this kind of sound, but hearing it from you was not something he ever expected to experience

your hands reach out for him when you finally lay eyes on him, sobs wracking your body

“please, john. I need you. I can’t do this by myself.” you plead, glossy eyes looking straight into his. his primal need to protect you has him moving to your side, gripping your hand and allowing you to rest against his frame

“unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, darlin’. but i’ll be here to help you. you’ve supported me through my battles and now it’s my turn to support you through yours, my sweet wife. I’m here.” he whispers into the side of your head, pressing a firm and lingering kiss to your temple

he never thought your gentle hands could do so much damage as you grip onto his own for dear life, nearly crushing bone when a contraction rips through your body with no mercy

a few hours later and that dull ache in his hand actually brings a small smile to his face as he lays in your shared bed, your body propped up against his chest and you’re snoozing peacefully. his burly arms supporting yours as you cradle your newborn baby to your chest <3

#captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #price x reader #captain john price #john price x reader #john price #captain price #price #chief!price

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anantaru · 7 months

Text

DAY 8 — DOGGY STYLE / ASS LOVERS

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — diluc, albedo, cyno, scaramouche

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, they need to touch your ass!!! they’re obsessed, doggy & prone bone, they are all ass men <3 it‘s confirmed trust me i‘m hoyo

𖧡 — DILUC

the lucid sense of domination you could feel whenever you're slotted underneath diluc's body was always there and on plain sight— with your ass being forthrightly presented to him, just the way he liked it.

for clarification, it wasn't a secret to you anymore that he was obsessed with your ass and touching it for that matter, whilst watching you perk your behind up for him, waiting on all fours— it's mouth watering to say the least and the vermillion haired man plants his hands against the fat of your ass immediately, hissing in deep puffs when he first presses the tip of his cock against your warm pussy, your body relaxing, aflame under his scorching trace.

"diluc.." you whine out, your face burning as you're being pushed around back and forth the bed— he's already so warm inside of you, and this position just made him feel even hotter whilst rubbing his shaft against your sore walls.

"you're— you're so good to me.."

at your luscious choice of wording, with your helpless utters being high on his blows and needy for more, the force of his hips suddenly picks up as diluc continues to listen to how you're saying his name, or well, moan it for him to eagerly listen to— frankly, it makes his cock even harder when you're vocal, his dick jutting all up inside, causing you to feel full.

he gasps, noticing the skin on your hole tightening, "fuck— i need you to say that again.." and it's so hard to keep himself from just cumming early on and spilling all of himself inside, to soothe the twitching burn in your heat and warm you up in such special way.

you whine, a sound all desperate and eager to please him, "y-you're so good to me." you say once more, noticing his grip tensing on your flesh, tracing his cock over your delicate sweet spots as if he wanted to have him size embedded on your cunt forever, the fast rolls of his hips pistoling you towards the edge of release.

"my love.." he grumbles from behind, slanting his body forward whilst wrapping one strong arm around your frame, his movements now becoming a dab sloppier, somewhat careless and messy, yet do not get fooled— because you see, his enduring strength never falters, it's growing behind every thrust and remains on its place as you need to take it all, your ass smacking back at his hips, whilst needful moans and praises leave both of your darling lips.

𖧡 — ALBEDO

you attempt to watch as best as you possibly could from a position such as this one, focusing back while albedo was putting formidable pressure on your ass before listlessly shifting one large pillow under your hips, so you could relax your muscles with your behind being perfectly shaped for him, staying in place so he needn't worry and can go all out on you.

from the grip on your plushy behind, he gives it another strong squeeze before his palms begin to ghost over your lower back, suddenly adding his weight on top, his hips now beginning to shift forward so he could sink himself inside your hole— very much aware on how long you have been waiting for this to happen with your sopping cunt fluttering around sheer air, clamping and letting go again, aching for something to fill it, someone for that matter.

he starts with one inch before adding another of his cock splitting you apart effortlessly, the stretch consisting of a mild burn that developed into a mind-numbing euphoria that touched the deepest ends of your nerves, and albedo pauses for a moment just to be sure, being aware that having you pushed into such position made you extra tight for him, your warm walls constricting against his shaft so agonizingly cramped that he feels like he was about to explode.

"you're... so tight." he grunts, experimentally wiggling his hips to find the right spot, "it's even tighter like this." he notes and it doesn't even surprise you anymore on how vocal he could become— at the same time, you could also debate that it's an abysmal habit from his work as an alchemist, which was demanding him to write down every last one of his experiments— or in this silly case, how well his cock felt whilst deeply pushed into you.

"how's that?" he mutters again, warm puffs of air touching the film of the sweat on your neck before he glides a long, deep spot on your walls, your thighs beginning to strain at how he handled you, never stilling his movements and examining several reactions your body made to the heightened breathing exiting past your parted lips to the pitchy tone color of your broken whines.

you cry out, little, shaky pants evidently notable when he nudges your cheek with his nose all sweetly, a grin on his face signalizing his happiness and gratefulness to this moment.

"it's perfect..bedo.." you mumble, your lower lip trembling as your pussy lubricates his girth with your arousal, a ring of whites lacing the skin on his shaft as your complete frame quivers under him the moment he throbs inside at your whistling affirmations, a mirage of dense clouds fogging his mind from the feeling of doing everything right, pleasing you just the perfect way.

𖧡 — CYNO

"you.." a gaping, gritty whine slithers over cyno's lips, trickling undermost the silhouette of his warm heaves before he leans his weight down on your back, to nibble on your shoulder, ghosting over the skin with his white canines.

the tone of him, it never changes, and he continues, "this feels so good, baby." mumbling again, smearing messy, wet kisses along your flesh while becoming quite irritated on the lack of responses coming from you— without realizing that you're practically crumbling under the heaviness of his cock crowding your clamping walls, "you.. you feel amazing."

granted, it's silly— and somewhat cute of him, when cyno gets so overwhelmed with the pressure building inside his stomach whenever he fucks you, it's almost as if he can see the twist form on itself, together with the force of his strong hips pistoling past the desperate grip of your walls, keeping your body steady while your bodies moves as one.

and don't get him wrong but there was nothing better than looking at your hazy facial expressions or your misty eyes, consistently fusing into a stronger version whenever he paces his hips a little faster, glancing down at your cunt flooded by his erection before spitting down to lubricate you further, again then— becoming rougher so you could scream his name how much you wanted to, so he could listen to you beg him to finally make you cum.

on the other hand, he loves watching your ass tightly squeezed against him, or how you're able to grind eagerly into his touch whilst holding onto the head board for your dear life, swallowing his cock back each time he drums himself inside— with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, able to just stroke the flesh of your ass and pull you into his cock with it, his strokes long and steady taking your breath away.

you make an affirmative noise, it being the only thing you could say as a large hand rubs over your thigh. cyno presses forward and buried his face in your neck, mouth open, almost feral alike rocking his hips, his cock slipping out with a slick noise as you welcome him all lovingly.

𖧡 — SCARAMOUCHE

there was no other way as to go on about that particular matter, but scaramouche always has to have his eager hands on your plump ass— or moreover look at it, even better when it's tightly pressed against his hips so he can easily fuck into you, together with watching how the fat of your behind messily nudges and sticks on his skin due to your pussy drooling of your slick.

how he needs to spill himself on top of your ass and lower back when you cry out in babbled whines, curse out at the overstimulation taking a heavy impact on your frame as he allows your cunt to milk him forever, noticing the strong grip of your pussy tightening ever so slightly on his shaft, holding him in before softening again so he could press his dick inside, all inches sheathed while you're greedily taking him.

his cock effortlessly spreads you, his broken grunts untangling butterflies inside your belly as he shivers at each new quiver of your walls around his dick. "you know you can talk, right?" scaramouche rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue whole his hips buck hard against your bristling heat, noticing how you yelp in a tireless bliss touching the edge of your pleasure spots.

without pretence— you're not entirely sure if he's saying that to tease you or have you agitated, since scaramouche knew how much you hated it whenever he edged you on, maybe ripped you off an orgasm because he liked the way you tend to beg for it afterwards. or if he really cannot see that you're actually struggling to even breathe out in an even matter, with his hips being consistent in their blows, unwavering, making it to say something coherent even a greater task.

"fuck.. kuni please don't tease me now." you breathe, hiccuping over your utters, noticing his warm breath fanning across your back, his nose tickling your neck, grinning at the little moans that leave your lips and oh, he has you spiraling now but hey, at least you're trying to meet his demands.

now, you're keeping yourself in place to move your body as one with his own, penetrative squelching noises reverberating off the walls as the flushed, leaking tip of his cock crowds the burning ends of you, kuni's palm itching to feel the soft trace of your ass again, or the trembles of your entire body resounding over his— the slick slides of wet skin on wet skin invading his ears.

maybe he won‘t be mean tonight after all and let you have it for once, and fuck— he’s immediatly noticing how he’s succumbing to his one and only weakness, which was you— at last, choosing his enchanting darling over his ego.

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conelluwrites · 1 month

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the red means i love you

Reader/Doppelgänger Francis (main focus on the doppelgänger aspect) (reader goes by she/her and is described with vaginal terms)

posted on my AO3

word count: 2.6k

title from The Red Means I Love You by Madds Buckley

Contains: monster fucking (doppelgänger fucking), headcanon design for non-disguised doppels, barbed dick, breeding, and blood drinking

You let the wrong one in, but maybe it's not as bad as it seems when you invite him back to your apartment.

“Mmm…” The voice sounds uncanny, too similar to Francis with the slightest hint of a purr that the tired milkman would never express, “I’m rather thankful that you let me in earlier, you know?” His uniform is clean and tidy, well put together in a way that Francis would never be able to achieve due to his early morning risings. His hair is just barely out of place. Things that no one would notice-- things that make her wish that she had called Francis’ apartment to see if he was home.

“W-Wha-!” The doorman stumbles back in fear, causing her to bump her back into the chest of the doppelgänger who all too readily wraps his arms around her waist. One of his hands trails down her rigid arm and grabs the hand of hers that is trembling its way towards the phone. Even if he didn’t intervene, the D.D.D. would not arrive in time to prevent any damages, he was in the safety room. His fingertips are inhuman, too sharp but not yet undisguised, as they intertwine with her own to prevent her from dialing the number she memorized so easily.

“Shhh, shhh… There’s no reason for you to be afraid.” He coos, brushing his nose against the exposed flesh of her neck. “No need to scream, no need to squirm, no need to put up a fight…” His voice is velvety but now lacks the tiredness the real Francis carries. It’s not surprising that he’s giving up his disguise piece by piece, she assumes that it must take some level of effort to be so near-perfectly disguised and she knows at this point she’s utterly fucked. “I could take you away from this annoying position forever if you want. No pesky D.D.D. agents, no more anxiety from our kind, no more living in fear. Sounds pretty nice, hm?” His free hand goes to hold her chin, his sharp thumb slightly digging into her jawline.

“But I gotta protect my neighbors. My job-- sitting here and looking at everyone and their documents, it might suck at times but it keeps everyone safe.” She says, her voice trembling. Her throat is bone dry from fear, her chest aches from the uneven breathing leaving her slightly open lips.

“Oh, my dear, that’s such a noble sentiment.” The doppelgänger sighs dramatically before shaking his head. He spins her around in his grasp, the hand that was holding hers goes to her waist. His fingers trace along her jawline, making sure to keep a gentle, but firm, grip on her so she cannot try to escape. There’s a bright grin on his face, his teeth too white to be human. “But how many times have they let you down? Surely they have failed you before. People are fickle creatures; they don’t appreciate what they have until it’s gone. I promise to protect you, sweetheart, just let me stay with you tonight, hm?”

Her mind races, so many thoughts of her own death and the death of her neighbors. “How do I know you won’t hurt me?” The answer is obvious-- if the doppel were going to hurt her, he already would have. He’s stronger than her, stronger than any human and she’s still in his grasp. If he wanted to maim her, he would have already. “You doppelgängers just want to kill and eat us.”

“Ah, you misunderstand me, darling! I could never harm a hair on your lovely head.” The doppelgänger earnestly insists. His thumb brushes gently across her cheek, trying to so lovingly convince her. “All I want is to hear more stories about your day and listen to those sweet little fears of yours… And yes, perhaps indulge myself in some delicious blood as well.” He’s whispering intimately, as if they’re a pair of lovers. The grip on her waist tightens slightly but remains mostly gentle, it’s almost comforting despite the sharp nails against her shirt. “C’mon… please trust me.”

“But I-” her voice dies out the longer she allows herself to fall into the illusion of mutual trust.

“It’s okay, my love,” he murmurs understandingly, “don’t overthink things, hm?” He kisses her temple tenderly, a perfect imitation of love between humans. His eyes flicker towards the phone, allowing even himself to dream of a different world where he could whisk her away and keep her all to himself. “Let’s just go for now, let’s go somewhere private where no one can bother us.”

She relents easily, tearing her gaze from his face and allowing it to travel down the white uniform before making its way back up to his face. “My apartment is on the first floor. We… We can go there together. We don’t have to worry about others seeing us, everyone else is in for the night.”

Francis’ grin grows even more, his canines growing sharper than any humans can be naturally, “That sounds perfect.” He sounds appreciative, leading him gently to the door to exit the safety room. The walk to the apartment is short. As the apartment door closes, the intensity changes slightly; he is watching her carefully while also taking the new space. “Nice place. So cozy…”

“Thank you….” She murmurs. “I figured it’s safer for you to be here than anywhere else in the complex.”

Francis’ doppelgänger hums thoughtfully before nodding in agreement. After the brief exchange, he takes the opportunity to explore the small apartment, touching things lightly as if trying to understand their purpose and history though touch alone. Every movement exudes confidence in his decision-making process, evaluating the potential of each object. “You’re so brave, you know. C’mere.”

She walks over to him hesitantly and stands there. The doppelgänger is taller than her. Despite it all, since he’s imitating one of her neighbors that she’s rather fond of, she feels herself relaxing. He wraps an arm around her waist casually, pulling her close while leaning down until their hands nearly touch. He inhales deeply, enjoying the warmth that a human being brings. He drawings circles on his back with his free hand. He continues to lean down slowly -- closer and closer to her neck. Her breath hitches as his nose finally meets her neck. Her hands meet his waist and tighten slightly, crinkling his shirt. Adrenaline is racing through her body, making her tremble slightly but she refuses to pull away. The way the doppelgänger rubes and nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck is the sweetest thing she’s experienced recently.

The doppelgänger lets out a satisfied rumble, savoring the sensation of her trembling beneath his touch. If anyone saw them now, they’d assume it was two lovers locked in passion. His lips brush against the skin he finds lightly before he stops abruptly. “Promise me something -- promise that you won’t run away.”

“...” She considers his words carefully. Every primal instinct in her is begging her to run, to get away as fast as she can. But she hasn't and, to be honest to herself, she doesn’t want to. She’s rather content staying like this, being in his arms with his face buried in her neck. She know he could bite her, sink sharp teeth in her neck and finish her life in less than a second, but she finds herself trusting that he won’t. “ I promise.”

“Good girl.” He praises softly, finally giving into temptation and pressing his teeth gently against her neck. Not hard enough to yet draw blood, just merely teasing her. His arm tightens around her as the gravity of her promise fully settles between the pair. The danger she’s in never fully dissipates but mixes well with the affection he’s showing her. “You deserve a reward for trusting me.”

“Oh? Like what?” She asks, her grip on him loosening as her body adapts to the unfamiliar situation.

Francis’ doppelgänger chuckles, the vibrations tickling her neck. “Don’t fret, just something that will make us both happy.” With a groan, he allows his disguise to slip further and further, his teeth sharpening. They puncture her skin ever so slightly, blood trickles immediately out of the small wounds. With a satisfied hum, he pulls away and licks his lips, allowing blood to pool. “Just relax, enjoy this moment.” She struggles out a broken moan; it’s not necessarily painful but it reminds her of how weak and vulnerable she is in the moment, a feeling that is intoxicating. “Relax.” he murmurs against her skin soothingly. There was no aggression or hunger driving him, it was just to provide nutrients for him to continue his time with her. Slowly yet deliberately, he licks up the collected droplets while sucking lightly on the wound. He alternates between suckling and licking the wounds, moaning.

“Y’gonna leave a hickey on me.” She sighs out, her body relaxing even further.

“Only for me to look at later.” He promises, his breath hot on her dampened flesh. The rhythm slows down until it stops altogether and he pulls away. Slowly and carefully, he raises his gaze to meet hers. “Now tell me more about those annoying D.D.D. agents.”

“I don’t know much about them, to be honest. They don’t hang around after the cleaning procedure and they don’t talk to me aside from congratulating me on living another way.” She says, swiping a bit of her own blood from his lips with his thumb.

“You should know more than that.” He growls. “We could use your help some day.”

“We? You want me to help the doppelgängers?”

“Of course. Someone like you, someone so skilled at calling us out… You could be helpful in our cause.”

“I don’t believe that’s such a worthy cause…” She murmurs, resting her head against his chest. His heartbeat is inhuman, too slow to be human, but it’s relaxing. “Though…”

“Though? You would be safe -- you’d be part of our family. Perhaps one day I could introduce you to some of the ones I’m closest to.”

“Mm.” She weighs his words carefully. In a disturbing, unacceptable way, it’s almost sweet. “I suppose that, as long as I’m protected by you, I’d be honored to meet them. Does that make us mates?”

“Indeed.” Silence stretches between them for a moment. “In our world, we share souls upon consummation.” He stares into her eyes after the statement, gauging her reaction based on his customs.

“Ah, like marriages for humans then? Do you want to consummate our bond?”

The doppelgänger stiffens slightly at first before relaxing. “Yes. But we must proceed cautiously.”

��Why’s that, my love? Is your genitalia that different?” She asks, leaning up to nuzzle her nose against his for a moment before pulling away and going to stroke his cheek softly. The skin is rubbery and like ice against her fingers.

“Hm… No, not quite.” There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence, he allows her mind to wander with possibilities. “Our release is also quite different, I believe. Is that okay?”

She’s quiet for a moment, allowing herself time to fully comprehend the possibilities ahead of her. “Yes. I want to be your mate, so please… mate with me the way doppelgängers do.” Francis’ doppelgänger feels a surge of triumph. The transformation starts gradually as he allows himself to rip through his disguise. The clothes rip and tatter, falling to the ground around him as she lets him go, allowing him to fully transform. Glistening black scales peek through skin like moonlight reflecting off ocean waves, his fingers grow out to sharp daggers, his arms and legs elongate as his muscles tense. His teeth barely fit in his mouth, the sharp points poking slightly over his lips. His cock is impossibly thick and long, tiny barbs lining the sides as it oozes black pre-cum. He lifts her effortlessly, his hands on her ass as he carries her to her bedroom and places her gently on the bed.

“Lie back.” He commands quietly, watching every breath he takes with anticipation and hunger. She lays back, obediently as he hovers over her patiently. There’s no shame or hesitation in his gaze as his hand travels up her shirt to lift it over her head. She tugs off her pants, leaving her in her bra and panties. His gaze is full of pride. “You’re mine now, my soulmate.”

“You’re perfect.” She says softly, cupping his face and kissing his monstrous face lovingly. Her lips meet his rough lips and pointed teeth. She winces preemptively as his sharp claws make easy work of her panties, tugging on the fabric until it tears away and reveals her glistening sex. The thick, black sludge lubricates his cock, making it ease into her cunt slowly and easily despite its grand size. She feels the tiny barbs grow slightly, just enough to dig into her walls to prevent her from squirming away or resisting.

He hisses appreciatively at the compliment and the feeling of her heat enveloping her slowly. “You’re tight.” He grunts out raggedly, thrusting deep. The sensation matches beast-like intensity, every movement echoing throughout the small bedroom.

“Hah, you’re bigger than I expected. So fuckin’ thick.” She pants out, her cunt swallowing his cock with little resistance. “I was scared about the bars, but shit… your cock is so perfect for me.” The doppelgänger lets out an animalistic moan at her declaration, his thrusts becoming more aggressive and intense.

“That’s it! Take everything I got!” He exclaims hoarsely, nails digging into her hips. “Answer me, would you want children?” He gasps urgently. Despite the heaviness of the question he posed, he keeps pushing relentlessly -- seeking assured release.

“I-I-! Yes! I want to swell with your young.” She says lovingly, moaning.

He roars at his words, bowing low to catch her lips. The kiss is filled with dominance and ownership. “Perfect.” He growls into her mouth, shifting positions easily so she’s on top of him. “Ride me until we’re done.”

She straddles him easing, wincing as the shift in positioning digs his barbs deep into her cunt. “Fuck, baby…” She breathes out, her hands on his chest. Her hips raise up and down rapidly despite her legs trembling greatly.

“Let me see those pretty eyes looking into mine.” He orders hoarsely. He hisses as her cunt adjusts. The pain she felt was only temporary, but served its purpose well: reminding her whose body she was riding, a dangerous creature holding immense power over her. His own gaze burned with need and desperation, pleading silently for satisfaction.

She looks into his eyes obediently, so full of adoration for the monster. “I-I-...” Her breath hitches, she can’t finish her sentence. She’s too embarrassed to admit her love for him. Instead, she leans down to kiss him. Her soft lips meeting his rough, uneven ones.

“Say it. Tell me how much we mean to each other.” He demands huskily. His barbs grow slightly more, haling her movements for a single second. It’s a sign of his nearing climax that’s mirrored by her frantic movements once she adjusts to the growth.

“I love you, fuck, I love you!” She moans loudly. Her cunt begins to quiver and massage his cock. “Cum in me, cum in me, cum in me.” She whimpers as his barbs dig in even more as her tight walls convulse around him. Suddenly she can feel a torrent of his dark, murky cum release deep into her cunt. His cock swells greatly, making her gasp and cum around him. Her slick dribbles down his cock and coats him. Her body slowly relaxes as his barbs retract but he remains swollen. She lays limp against him, breathing heavily.

He roars hoarsely, pumping several times harder with his thickened cock. He remains still, breathing heavily with his arms tight around her as he lays on his side, holding her tight to his chest. It’ll take several minutes for his cock to decrease in size, but it’s unlikely that either of the two will be awake. “Our bond is sealed.” He rasps against her ear, nuzzling gently against sensitive skin.

#francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #tnmn milkman #tnmn #doppelganger #doppelganger francis mosses #banner by cafekitsune

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undercoverpena · 9 months

Text

home and the ghost mug

simon “ghost” riley x reader (cod)

this is unedited, and born from a random thought as I put away dishes and cleaned my kitchen at 1am. warnings: none. themes: fluff, cute mug moment, ghost and a non-military partner. just toothrotting 1am thoughts.

you don’t like to think you live alone, but you know you spend more time waiting, than you have with him.

this time it’s been months. the last contact weeks ago. it’s normal, but it doesn’t lessen the frustration you feel—or how it balls and clumps with worry.

you know you signed on to this. married yourself to the wondering and standing by when you bought the house with him. it’s why you’ve perfected the art of keeping busy, remaining distracted.

today, your mind slips. falls down on the job, scrapes the skin from your knees and bruises your heart. thoughts appearing, the faint sound of his gruff voice echoing in the walls. unable to unsee the shadow of his last time here—how broad he appears in your door frames.

it’s the slip up that means you unconsciously make a tea for yourself in his mug. a no-go, a thing you never do. the cup sacred, forever off limits unless he’s here. the one you’d bought as a joke, wrapped it in paper and watched him stare at it when he unveiled the skull on the side with the bone handle.

“this bought for me?”

“well, it’s not for next door, simon.”

suddenly, you don’t fancy tea. your heart aching, all heavy and downtrodden in your chest. so you pour it away, washing it out and putting it away quickly. because you know it’ll sting seeing it on the drainer in the morning. practically punch you in the gut—because your mind will trick itself into thinking he’s home. that he’s back. for whatever time he can spare.

by the time his car pulls onto the drive, the house is coated in darkness. the moon full, high in the sky. shimmering a luminescent glow on everything and anything it can touch.

you must be tired, shattered. no murmur of his name or quickened footsteps when he slides his key on the lock, when he takes his boots off. he does do it with precision, care—almost mouse like for a man that’s more mountain than man. shoving them away in the contraption you bought sometime between the two of you moving in and him coming back to you.

and because the house is quiet, silent. a pin being dropped sounding like a shout, he begins his routine. the one where he shoves the things away he doesn’t need to have. not needing reminders of what he does as ghost when he’s trying to focus on being simon.

his routine concludes with a shower in the downstairs guest bathroom, watching the places he’s just been slide down the plug hole, all out of sight, out of mind. you know this routine, keeping some of his casual clothes—sweats and tees in a drawer, for moments like this.

even if he should expect it by now, he still smiles as your genuineness. your kindness. the one that comes ti you with ease.

it’s why he craves being next to you, being able to hear your breaths—close his eyes and allow the evidence to bury the niggling worries he amasses when he’s not with you.

but, joining you isn’t possible. discovering you star-fished, snoring lightly—one of his t-shirts covering and concealing you. practically burying you. and so he closes the door, heads back downstairs. running a hand over the back of his head, feeling clumps of long and short hair from his bad diy cut you’ll undoubtedly have things to say about.

but it isn’t until he’s walking past the kitchen, does he notice the mug and glass cupboard ajar. a thought appearing, his hand retrieving his mug and placing it on the side. a sign, he hopes—a bold exclamation that he is home, in case you wake before him.

you don’t wake before him. simon and fucked up body clock, as usual, wakes at the first break of sunlight. only rising from the guest bed when he hears the floorboards above. your feet eventually coming down the staircase, all slow and heavy, his mind imagining you rubbing your eyes, softly sighing at another day.

he waits in the doorway—the one connecting the guest bedroom to the kitchen—watching you come to a standstill, eyes blinking as you stare at the mug.

simon doesn’t know the error you made yesterday, that you’re going through a crisis of whether you’d put it away or not. whether you’d lost your mind from missing him so much.

he just knows you’re not reacting. not whispering, never mind shouting his name. so he clears his throat, loud, purposeful.

and your head spins—he’s even pretty sure he hears it crack—and then the reaction he expected lands.

it erupts over your face. an explosion of confusion and joy, tear-filled eyes and a large smile, before you’re in his arms, face buried against his chest as he feels you shake with sobs he hopes are because you’re happy.

“take it you’re happy i’m home?”

“more than you think.”

his chin comes to rest on the top of your head, fingers stroking up and down your back.

the mug becomes a sign, a beacon.

it only ever used to indicate he was home—a trophy that remains on the side, until he gets the call that he has to go.

then he is the one to put it away, hating how he turns to always find your lips being chewed by your teeth.

“it’ll be back out before you know it.”

“it better be.”

simon doesn’t promise. because he knows—as do you—that there’s none he can keep in the games he plays. he comforts you without words, his mouth slanted over yours.

I’ll always fight to get home to you.

#ghost x reader #cod ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii x reader #cod ghost #ghost cod x reader #ghost cod mw2 #ghost cod x you #mwii x reader #ghost x you #Simon Riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod mwii #cod mw2 ghost

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jasmines-library · 2 months

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Remus Lupin whose sense of smell heightens around the full moon. You come to him and you’re stinking of Sirius. Obviously, he’s really jealous, especially around this time, and he’s clutching you to his side, rubbing his scent all over you, basically claiming his territory.

Lunar Possession

(Art not mine, found on Pinterest. Cred to original owner)

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: When I say I dropped EVERYTHING the second this came into my inbox...

Warnings: Pre-full moon remus angst, possessive-ish (?) remus

Word Count: 1.7k

⛧ MARAUDERS MASTERLIST⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Remus Lupin was not in a good mood. He was antsy. With the full moon so close, everything put him on edge: His ears seemed to twitch at the smallest shift in the floorboards and his nose seemed to smell every person that passed his dormitory door on their way to and from the common room. It made his stomach churn, like a boat being tossed about on the sea. It made his head pound in a steady rhythm that made it hard to focus on anything else beside the tedious beat. It was followed by a tightness too; pressing harshly against his temples.

Remus thought he should be used to it by now. He had been dealing with the effects of the full moon for practically as long as he could remember, but he would never truly get used to it. Having you and Sirius by his side always helped though. Remus wouldn’t ever dare admit it out loud, he spent far too much time trying to convince the two of you that he was dangerous and not to be trusted, but you and Sirius calmed his nerves. You made the transformation just that bit more bearable.

He would forever remember the day that you revealed your animagus form to him. Remus could hardly find the words to express how he felt. Never before in his life had he had someone care for him the way that you and Sirius did. James too. He was scared at first, Remus didn’t know how his friends were going to react when he told them about his lycanthropy. Almost certainly he had expected you to run and to never speak to him again. But that night you did the opposite and held him close. And Remus had never felt more loved and accepted. Now, of course he was cautious at first. Angry. Scared. But slowly the three of you had talked him into realising it was a good idea: He was coming home after each transformation with fewer injuries and seemed to be managing much easier with your help. Of course, seeing the scratches and cuts appear on his friends bodies each night made him grimace and try to convince you to stop. He was supposed to protect you and, instead, he was allowing you to get hurt. But you stayed. And Remus was impossibly grateful for that.

Remus groaned as another ache shot through his body, and he turned tugging the blanket closer to him. The moon made him feel the need to hold you close all of the time. He yearned for the smell of your shampoo and the coolness of your skin flush against his. When the moon made him get like this Remus often found himself missing class. All of the people just made his nerves sizzle. Unfortunately, your boyfriend's condition did not mean that you also got a free pass to skip class. Or Sirius for that matter. So, instead of having you close, Remus lay curled up in his bed as his bones ached, waiting antagonisingly for you to return.

When you finally pushed the door open quietly as to stop it creaking, you were clinging onto Sirius’ arm. You arm was looped between his and you leaned your head against the crook of his shoulder. The two of you had been like that all day, he could tell.

You and Sirius had had a busy day to say the least. Not only had potions class run over, but you also had homework that you needed to catch up on during your lunch break. Not that you actually got much done with Sirius around. Sirius was an observer. He could tell from the way you held your shoulders higher than usual and walked with heavier steps that you were stressed. So he did all he could to help you relax a little. Knowing that you were also worried about your boyfriend, he placed gentle kisses to your forehead whilst you worked, or stole them from your lips in the corridor. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you to his chest to try and expel the tension from your body. Your boyfriend's efforts seemed to have helped because by the time the bell finally rang and the doors spilled open to reveal the flood of students, you were feeling much better. Especially because you could now fill the empty space that Remus’ absence had created.

“Rem?” Your voice was quiet and tender, near a whisper in case he was asleep, or was finding everything too loud.

He peeked his head out from under the blanket, his hair tousled from hours of restlessness. You smiled at him brightly. It was enough for him to return it, and lift his sour mood.

“Hey, Dove.” he greeted, shuffling out of bed to greet you. He couldn’t help but eye his boyfriend who stood with his hand placed tenderly on your lower back. Remus’ fingers twitched. “Good day?”

You hummed, slipping off your shoes and making your way over him to wrap him up in your embrace. You knew it had likely been a tough day for him. “Better now you’re here.”

As you took another step closer to him and away from Sirius the tender moment between the two of you was interrupted. At first, Remus had thought it was because he was standing right next to you. That his nose was getting confused, another side effect of the moon, but now you were standing right beside him across the room from your other partner, Remus knew that he was not mistaken. You stank entirely of Sirius: warm, musky, rich, honey-like and a little earthy. It was complemented by the faint smell of cigarette smoke and leather from his jacket. Normally, the boy would savour the smell of his partner, but you smelt so much like him that it completely drowned out everything about your scent. Something possessive inside him seemed to switch on.

Remus snatched you up immediately, pressing you so tight to his chest that you thought he was going to smother you. He couldn’t help the glare he sent to his boyfriend over the top of your head. Glowering, he pressed a kiss to your head as his fingers reached to fiddle with the hem of your jumper, trying to inch it upward.

You pulled away and frowned at him. Sirius also bore a similar expression. “Moony?”

“You smell of him.” It was a simple statement that came out almost as a growl in his voice.

“Who?”

Remus gestured to Sirius, who had moved to sit on the edge of his bed, with a nod of his head. When he spoke, his tone was filled with something Remus did not possess often. Jealousy. “Sirius.”

Sirius furrowed his brows, before realisation crossed his face and he gave you a look. Remus was feeling left out. He had been feeling rotten all day and now he was being left with a constant reminder of how you and Sirius had been spending the day clinging onto each other instead of him. To make matters worse, the moon was making him possessive: he needed to state what was his.

“Take it off.” Remus’ voice was demanding, but you could hear the need hidden deep behind it. “Please.”

You nodded, your hands slipping over him as you helped him to remove your jumper. Remus tossed it to Sirius and pulled you back to him. Although the jumper was gone, which had helped a little, he could still smell his boyfriend all over you. Understanding this from the way Remus shifted antstily, being the loving boyfriend that he is, Sirius moved to Remus’ trunk to pull out one of his jumpers for you to wear. Before he could reach it however, Remus snapped.

“Don’t touch them.” Remus moved toward his trunk and took a sweater before a very startled Sirius could react. Siri nodded slowly, taking a step back and raising his hands in a surrendering gesture. When after seeing you slip it on, the boy released a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding. It was better, but his mind still screamed at him: mineminemine.

“You alright Moons?” Sirius asked hesitantly, unsure or not whether to approach or not. Remus was still holding you close to him, peppering you with kisses, though he seemed to be less tense now.

He hummed, twisting toward his boyfriend but still not letting you go. This time his expression held much less venom than it had before “Sorry…” He started “I don’t know what came over me.”

Sirius took his chance to move toward him. Instinctively, Moony turned you away, but instead of trying to move you as he thought Sirius would, his boyfriend placed an arm on his shoulder. “It’s alright Rem. I understand.”

Remus tucked your head beneath his chin as your hand wandered to his own to fiddle with the rings on his fingers. “Still. I guess I thought I could handle being alone today… but it was all just a bit much. And seeing her come in here smelling of you…”

“Shh” Siri hushed, smoothing Remus’ hair. “You want to lay down?”

Remus nodded. “Is that okay with you, Dove?” He asked.

“Of course.” You smiled. Taking Remus’ hand you moved over to the bed, shifting the covers out of the way so you could climb beneath them. Remus followed, tucking you close to his body once more, and then Sirius lay on the other side of Remus, resting his head on his shoulder.

Remus relaxed into the mattress as you ran lazy circles over the palm of the hand he was using to keep you in place. He pressed his lips to your head.

“I love you.” He murmured. “I’m so glad I can call you mine.”

“And we are glad to be yours.” Siri told him.

“Thank you for doing this. I’m sorry if I overreacted…”

“Never.” You said. “Anything for our Moony.”

Remus pulled you closer to him. You had a feeling you weren’t going to be moving anytime soon.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

MARAUDERS TAGS:

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

#marauders x reader #wolfstar x reader #wolfstar #marauders #Remus Lupin #Remus Lupin x Reader #Sirius black x reader #Sirius black #full moon #werewolf #possessive #remus lupin x sirius black #remus x sirius #Remus lupin x Sirius black x Reader #Remus x Sirius x Reader #fluff #angst

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missmeinyourbones · 1 year

Note

ohhh my god oh my god #25 “you won’t stop shaking” + gojo, I am holding my hands out and looking at you with big eyes <3

NSFW 18+. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED FOR INTERACTING.

cw: afab!reader, oral (f receiving), cum eating, reader referred to as "girl" once, gojo is my favorite person to write overstimulation for bc he is so pathetic and soggy, ANYTHING FOR YOU DEM MY DARLING

...

you can't stand him. he's living between your legs and you can't stand him.

looking down from where he slightly rises, he comes up like a god you remember reading about when you were younger. one so powerful that he parted the sea with a mere wave of his hand.

you watch his eyes light up as they land on your quivering thighs.

he catches your gaze for a moment, and you try your best to slow your breathing. stop heaving from your orgasm and fucking control yourself. but something about the way his sight falters from your face and back to your shaking hips makes your heart skip.

"look at you," he sounds like he's in awe, giant palms carefully caressing your soft thighs when he whispers, "my sensitive girl."

you bite your tongue at the smug words he's trying so hard to disguise as sweet ones.

it's cute, it is, and he wants to coo and peck and cry about how delicious you are. but satoru is as satoru does, and with an insatiable ego, he persists.

"you won't stop shaking," he speaks the obvious as if he's proving his point, "poor baby."

he allows his lips to softly soothe your hiccuping frame, tracing themselves along your torso and pelvis, leaving warm kisses of pride across your damp skin.

he can briefly make out the mumbled "asshole" through your clenched and chattering teeth. but he does, he hears it—and as most things from your lips do, the name goes right to his dick.

he laughs against your skin, allowing his teeth to gently graze against the thick of your stomach as he rubs soothing circles by the bones of your hips. you feel him smirk against you when you let out a gasp at the impulsive sharp feeling.

"shhhh, don't go being mean now. you've been such a good girl for me."

you don't know if it's an act of kindness or malice, but satoru's hand goes to massage your inner thigh and it swipes your swollen clit in the process. you jump at the sudden contact, and you don't miss the laugh he lets out under his breath.

rubbing and kissing the fat of your sore thighs, he sighs against your sticky skin, "was it too much for you, baby?"

yes, your body aches to scream. almost. i don't know, but i loved it just as much as i loathed it.

you don't answer, so satoru softly taps your ass.

"hey?" he searches for your response.

"no," you quickly tell him, your voice not sounding nearly as stern as you meant for it to.

"no?" satoru's tone goes airy as he smiles like a fucking cat.

slowly, teasingly, he lets his kisses linger, each one inching closer and closer and closer to your cunt when he finally stops just outside of your folds.

"so," he drawls annoyingly, "you're saying you could handle more?"

shakily, stubbornly, you nod.

satoru chuckles at the silent confirmation.

"since when are you so shy? aren't you the one who just rode my face till you were raw about twenty minutes ago—"

"shut up, satoru," the embarrassing frustration bubbles from your throat before you can stop it.

down by your hips, satoru's eyes flicker from your body to your face again. he stares at you for a moment, like he's thinking hard about something. and it feels like forever before eventually, he raises his eyebrows and scoffs in disbelief, "huh."

his tone irritates you—far too casual and knowing to be as short as his response is. your hands hit the mattress beneath you in pure exasperation.

"what?!" you borderline snap at him.

he lets your anger linger for a moment before shrugging.

"thought i woulda fucked that attitude outta you by now," he casually breathes, attention slowly drifting from the scowl on your face to the wetness beginning to pool between your legs once more, "but i guess i didn't."

smugly, he readjusts himself between your thighs, and before you can make a noise to protest, encourage—you don't even know at this point—the tip of his pointed nose brushes against your clit and you think you see stars.

"well, you know me, angel," his voice drips of a sweetness you can't quite place as his tongue returns to its home inside of you.

"i love a good fight."

#satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru smut #gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut

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vikdelrey · 9 months

Text

SOFT

ft. roronoa zoro

summary. unlike what many people think, zoro prefers sweet, reassuring sex by the woman he loves. wc. 750

cw / tw. fem!reader, soft!zoro, somewhat dom!reader unprotected sex, pet names (ex. sweet girl, sweet thing, baby) soft sex, riding, mdni 18+ readers.

an. this is my first attempt at writing a fanfic, i hope you enjoy! comments and reblogs are appreciated :) (also we need more one piece writers ugh)

most people who knew, or knew of zoro we’re always surprised to see him with such a sweet and compassionate girl. even the sheer size difference made others uneasy with their own thoughts. “god she’s strong for taking all.. that.” the voice came from a few blonde girls who were giggling behind you two. oh, how wrong they were.

zoro wasn’t a very romantic man, to say the least, but he knew how to be gentle with you. he made sure to watch the way your body moved when he touched you. the sounds you made when he did something you liked. he could be rough on occasion, but never without your consent. “what ya lookin’ at sweet girl?”

you were lost in thoughts about what those girls were talking about when zoro sleeping on your shared bed caught your eye, until he caught you stealing a glance. “oh just admiring you.” the tips of his ears immediately flushed a cute shade of pink. “not much to admire these days.” your smile dropped as he turned his head away from you.

it was the scars. zoro didn’t know if you still found him as attractive after being apart for so long. you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by bringing it up so you never did, which also contributed to the newfound insecurity. “don’t say things like that zo. i think you’re perfect.” it wasn’t long before you were placing yourself into his lap. “in fact, i think you look so handsome right now.”

there it is, that playful smirk on his face as you ran your fingers through his green hair. “yeah baby?” you replied with a quiet ‘mhm’ followed by a peck on his lips. “i can show you just how handsome i think you are hm?” you pulled away to trace the scar over his eye, giving it a quick peck before your thumb traced his lips.

zoros lips parted as your hips lightly rocked against his own, pulling low gasps and groans from your him. your small fingers rushed to rid the swordsman of his pants, aching to see him. “someone excited.” he chuckled at your antics. his rough hands began to kneed at your nightgown, slowly lifting the thin fabric to reveal your plush thighs spread over his. your lack of panties made his mouth go dry.

“lift your hips zo.” he followed your command and watched as you tugged his pants and boxers down his hips. zoro had never seen you so eager to jump his bones before and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t slightly boost his ego and turn him on. you wasted no time crawling up further on his cock making him hiss.

he felt your small fingers wrap around the base of his cock, quickly tugging as you kissed along his jaw. nothing could compare to this feeling. “slow down sweet thing you’re g’na give me whiplash.” you giggled against his tan skin, pulling away to face your lover. “i love you zoro.” his name came out as a whine as you lifted your hips and began to sink down onto his throbbing cock. “ngh fuck baby s’tight.”

the erotic noises he made couldn’t be contained anymore. your hand began to wonder his skin and you stared down at him with so much love and affection. “i love you so much yn. s’much mm-.” your hips kept a steady pace, keeping him in between calm and cumming. “you look so beautiful right now zoro.” his hips stuttered as he let out a breathy moan at the compliment. “could look at my sweet boy forever.”

it sent him over the edge within seconds. the featherlight touches, the compliments, the tightness of your warm walls around him. “m’cumming god! shit m’fuckin’ cumming!” the sight below you had your head spinning. your big strong man, trembling under you. “just a little more baby.”

he was trying so hard for you. his legs trembled, noises were escaping his throat that he had no idea he was capable of making. “mmh so close, just- ngh.” tears began gathering on his lash line, the overstimulation making his back arch ever so slightly. “yes m’cummin’ baby!” his arms caged your body into his, panting softly into your ear as you rode out your high. his body finally became calm, his soft snores filling your ears. all you could do was admire him, his watery eyelashes, and flushed face. you couldn’t have asked for more than this.

#roronoa zoro #one piece #one piece zoro #one piece smut #zoro x reader #zoro smut #roronoa zoro smut #roronoa zoro x reader #sub roronoa zoro #dom reader

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fathomlessgaze · 3 months

Text

perfect: zayne takes solace in hearing the heartbeats of those he loves deeply, which now includes one more little one

all fluff dw, husband!zayne/reader, ~.9k

warnings: reader is pregnant + called a mother, maybe not canon compliant but spoilers about mc's lore and allusions to zayne's lore (mainly myths story + maybe that dawnbreaker anecdote), zayne being a doctor + lots of heartbeat ments but i didnt research so maybe medically inaccurate, i believe in (future) girldad!zayne

an: i haven't written ff in 5ever + didn't edit on top of this so my apologies LOL im just really downbad for this ice man n wanted to write smthn rq

the soft, muffled clinking of keys and the creaking of the front door ruffle your slumber, your eyes slowly fluttering and flickering to the entryway where, sure enough, your husband steps inside. as he catches a glimpse of your, supposedly, sleeping form, a soft grin takes over his features and you think, maybe, you’d like to see where this goes.

he puts his bag down by the console table and takes off his shoes and you steady your breath, hoping he hasn’t noticed your lingering gaze under your lowered lids. fishing out his stethoscope, he hangs it around his neck as he takes cautious steps towards you, tip toeing to avoid all the creaky spots of the hardwood floors. he’s slow as he lowers himself on the couch, taking a moment to admire your curve of your jaw and the pout of your lips before putting in the earpieces.

zayne really was trying to be careful. he’d taken the metal between the fabric of his jacket, an attempt to reduce the jarring difference between its chill and your warmth, and moved as slowly and quietly as he could as he sat next to your snoozing figure on the sofa.

he watches carefully before his stethoscope finds your heart and its rhythmic beating fills his head. while it isn’t new news, the reminder that the organ that keeps you alive is perfectly well and healthy always brings ease to his own, this time given a physical form through a quiet exhale falling from his lips. clear and strong, not a single hint or vibration of the fragments that used to plague your being, your heart beats in time with his, he’d like to think. he allows his eyes to get misty, a faint smile and chuckle escaping as he tries to wipe the tear that threatens to fall with his free hand.

he stays like that for a minute more, simply relishing in how far you’ve both come. he remembers that surgery like it was yesterday, with how demanding and long it was, the aches settling in his muscles and bones by the end of it, only to jump head first into the delicate, intensive recovery you needed and he helped you through. and he would do it again and again, if that’s what it would take.

oh, how your fingers itch to brush the side of his face, cup his cheek in your palm and brush the stray hairs behind his ear. you can always tell when he starts reminiscing, how a moist sheen covers his beautiful eyes, furthering just how precious they are. but before you can move your arm from where it rests on your leg, he’s taking back the chest piece into his palms, holding it gingerly.

with one hand, he gently runs his fingers along your stomach until he finds a spot that causes his eyebrows to raise for the slightest moment, before the stoic expression returns to his face. the now cool metal in his other hand replaces his other hand, and, if it weren’t for the quirk of his lips, the soft smile and endeared look in his eyes, you would’ve been none the wiser to what had happened. he takes in the rhythmic beating in his ears. that’s…your baby, well and healthy and all he could ask for. a small sigh escapes his lips. he could stay here and listen to it for forever.

maybe you should cut the act.

fluttering your eyes open fully, you meet his tinted cheeks with a coy grin. “what’re you doing?” you ask, feigning innocence.

he brings his hand to his neck, scratching slightly at the pink-tinged skin before clearing his throat. “i–uh–i thought it would just be nice to see if we could hear her heartbeat yet.”

you lean forward, biting your lip to stop the knowing smile from escaping as you rest a hand on his shoulder and rub his cheek with your knuckles. “and do you?”

he nods, his rare beam coming to the surface before he kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger. “it’s beautiful and strong, just like her mother.”

before you can reply, he’s removing the ear pieces and fitting the stethoscope around your head, the quiet rhythm now taking over your senses. it’s gentle, delicate, but definitely there and determined.

“that’s our baby,” you murmur. suddenly emotion washes over you and you rub your eyes with your sleeves. “oh, zayne, it’s lovely.”

he bobs his head, taking one of your hands in his to hold the metal still against you so he can now use his free hands to brush the droplets from your cheeks and wrap you in his arms, snug in his embrace. with a gentle kiss to your temple, he lets out a shuddering breath, not daring to speak before he can stabilize the shakiness in his throat. “it’s perfect.”

“y’know,” you start, a small laugh escaping as you try to not cry into zayne’s button-up, “this is all i could’ve ever wanted, i think. if you told me when we met as kids this would be my life, i don’t think i would’ve believed you, but this is perfect, just as it is, you, me and her.”

he nuzzles his head against your neck, a quiet agreement taking form as a faint kiss on your shoulder. “this is the life i’ve waited years, forever, for.” he squeezes your frame slightly, holding your closer. “it’s so perfect.”

#i didnt proofread this at all i finished n was like okay thats a day LOL #zayne x reader #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne fluff #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #love and deepspace fluff #l&ds x reader #mine

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alavestineneas · 1 month

Text

i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men chapter 1 - chapter 2 word count: 6,5K

author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!

Kaitain, 10176 AG

The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.

''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''

The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''

''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''

''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''

The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.

One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''

Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.

The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.

The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.

YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.

''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.

''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.

YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.

YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.

Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.

YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.

When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.

God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.

The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.

That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.

''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.

''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"

Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.

''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."

Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''

So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.

He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.

''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.

Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."

They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''

The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''

Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''

The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being seen made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''

The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.

She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors. ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,'' Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.

Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.

Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?

''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''

''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.

''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''

Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.

''You know I walk without guards.''

Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.

''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''

''Yes,'' her sister nods. ''I'll take you,'' it means.

So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.

Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.

Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.

Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.

Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.

''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.

''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''

''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''

Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.

Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.

The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.

Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.

Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there. ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,'' she whispers again and again.

She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.

The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.

''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.

Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.

The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.

''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?

''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.

Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.

YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?

Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.

So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.

The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.

''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.

The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.

She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.

"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.

Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.

"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."

The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.

YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"

Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."

YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"

"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"

She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.

Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.

Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.

''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.

The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''

Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.

''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''

YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.

''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''

YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.

''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''

''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''

Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''

''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''

Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.

Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.

''What is it, sister? Speak .''

''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''

The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.

It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.

''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''

Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''

''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''

''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''

''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''

''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''

The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''

She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.

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haechansdoll · 10 months

Text

my little doll - ml x reader

Pairing : Boxer!Lee Mark x f!Reader

Description : Humans have hormones, you understand that much. But does that explain why you can't stop the filthy daydreams that fill your head whenever you see a specific redhead? Does it excuse you for getting turned on by him simply breathing in your direction? And to make matters worse, he is off-limits, if your father found out you were messing with his prized boxer? You would be chained to a tower and your red-haired crush would be used as mincemeat.

Warnings : Bloody Nose, Perversion, Dom/Sub, Power Play, Panties, Caught Having Sex, Overstimulation

Wordcount : 20k

Hormones.

You dearly hate them, you hate how your chest does somersaults at the mere sight of him, or the fact you have to cross your legs when his voice tickles your ear, let alone the mocking sensation of arousal that forever plagues your core at the sweet little pet names he sure loves giving you. From the crimson red hair that falls over his shoulders, typically pulled back with a loose-fitting clip, a matching pair of eyes that have this undeniable sultry and charming glint to them, or the scars from broken bones or other mishaps he has yet to give you a story about that stick to his powerful arms and mesmerizing torso.

If anyone were to find out about the things that run through your head, the lewd imagery, the erotic scenarios... you would never be able to show your face again. It's normal to have less-than-pure thoughts, right? You're no less human than the next person, everyone has desires and fantasies!

But does that excuse the fact you've desperately been waiting for any chance you can get to go and relieve yourself? That the more you stare at him, the more you think about how good he may be in bed? His muscles flexing with each thrust, imagining the length and girth of his cock, would his voice be gruff or husky?

The recollection of your inner desires has you aching, it is humiliating, to say the least. Especially when the man who is the center of these very thoughts just so happens to be standing behind you, one hand on your shoulder, the other guiding your wrist. The close proximity has you feeling sick, between his voice right beside your ear and his hands on your arm.

To be honest, aren't you sick? Pretty sick in the head to be lewding Mark without his knowledge, what would he think of you if he were to learn of these sinful scenarios you let consume you? You simply cannot help it, any woman in your position would probably be the same, right? Thinking of all the things those hands can do, how his rough fingertips would feel between your legs, his tongue against your...

It isn't like anyone knows either, after all, it would spread like a wildfire if anyone were to find out about your less than an innocent crush. In your opinion, you do quite a good job at masking it, not too clingy to him but also not completely avoiding him. After all, he is your father's "student" if you could say that, often training under the watchful gaze of your dad.

Sometimes it still feels like just the other day when you two first interacted, him introducing himself, saying how he works under your dad. You heard of him from your father often boasting about this guy he is training. You figure it would be another older guy, rough around the edges, not good enough to be eye candy. You couldn't have been any more wrong, completely in shock to learn that this "guy" was not only a lot younger than you expected but looked like those Greek statues.

You can never quite focus when he speaks to you, eyes wandering ever so discreetly, ears deafening when you catch sight of a bead of sweat dripping down his neck, how the lump in his throat bobs while he talks or drinks water.

Even now, as you throw another punch per his instruction, your focus is entirely elsewhere. Not on the way he tells you to twist your wrist when launching your fist from your body, but rather how good it feels when he speaks right next to your shoulder, each word making your eardrums vibrate. If only he knew that you weren't very focused on his self-defense lesson, but rather how good it would feel to have those big hands wrapped around your neck or your thigh... anywhere is fine by you.

Most nights you find yourself fantasizing about Mark…Mark, all the filthy scenarios possible flooding your already corrupted mind the whole time you feel yourself up. Gripping your sheets and pretending it's his hair, breathing into your pillow to try and mask the sounds of pleasure you just can't keep in. You feel awful every time you finish, though. Hastily fixing yourself and going to shower, hoping the water will wash away sin.

Alas, you know that any level you go to repent would never erase the tainted marks of lust from your body. You're trapped in this, like a stalkerish fan swooning over her celebrity crush. Again, thanking whomever it concerns that mind-reading is not a thing.

A hand comes down onto the top of your head, drawing you from your deeper workings, "That time was really good," Mark praised with a grin, fingers dripping from your skin, much to your dismay, "Try it again without me guiding you, put your all into it!" If you had any less self-control, a moan would have passed your lips from his perfect voice, each word rolling off his tongue like honey from a spoon.

Times like now you wish you had a deeper relationship than what is now accessed, that way you could just grab at his arms and give him the prettiest bats of your lashes all for the sake of begging him to take you somewhere private. That's all you want right now, to feel his soft lips on yours, to taste his tongue that probably will feel minty from the gum he is currently chewing. The simple privilege of being able to kiss him would surely kill you.

You throw another punch and really start to feel that ache in your shoulder, but Mark calls it a "good burn", something you remember even your father saying back when you were little. Your eyes glance to the clock hung on the wall, usually, you are hoping time will fly by, but right now? You hope it goes painfully slow, who knows when the next time will be when you have him so close with his hands all over you.

"I think you've mastered how to punch someone, I'm a little scared by how quick you are..." The playfulness in his voice does more than make you smile, it also contributes to the arousal that continues to soak into your panties, which you can probably assume are ruined at this point, "Let's practice a kick for if you're being restrained by two people."

The last thing you expect is to feel him come up from behind and wrap his arms around your torso, restraining your arms and keeping you firmly pressed to his solid front. You would have cum right there if it wasn't for how focused you were on the veins in his arms or his flushed knuckles, "So if someone comes from behind, they'll most likely grab you in a way to trap your arms." His voice vibrates in his chest, which in turn vibrates against your back.

Mark gives you a bit of a squeeze, a soft gasp fluttering from your lips not because of the restriction on your lungs but rather how if you arch your back just enough... you would probably feel the one thing you daydream about. The one thing you imagine fucking you every night when you touched yourself.

"It'll be hard to elbow them, and depending on how tall they are you may not be able to head-butt them... so you can take one of your legs and then jab your heel into the arch of their foot, the point is to fracture or break those bones because then it'll either make them immobile or they won't be able to run after you when you get away." You nod your head along to his words, "Or, some people say to put as much as you can to lean forward because attackers expect you to thrash in their arms or try to hit them."

Mark lightly nudges you as a means to lean forward, you almost think not to, afraid of the hormones that are already driving you up the wall. But you do it anyway, leaning forward, despite the fact he is pressed into every inch of your backside, "Take both of your hands and grab at one of my legs, whichever you think is easier, and then you're gonna pull as hard as you can to try and knock me off."

You almost feel bad, but you assume that since he is giving you this lesson, he expects to get roughed up a little. So despite your inner conflict not to, you lean forward as much as it takes to grab the leg closest to you, that being his right leg, and firmly gripping his calf and pulling his leg towards you. You're almost surprised by how easy it was, one second he is holding onto you, his breath wafting against the back of your neck, and now he is flat on his back.

"That caught me off guard," He says in disbelief, without your knowledge his crimson eyes watch how you slowly stand up straight after successfully breaking free of his grasp, "I shouldn't underestimate you considering how intense your father is with training." He notices your panties peeking through the fabric of your yoga leggings, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip, and staring until the red fabric is no longer peaking through.

"When I was little he taught me some basic things," You turn around to offer him a hand, which he gratefully takes, "But I don't think the moves I learned when I was little will be much assistance now." You help him up with a smile, for a moment you forget the tension that had previously been eating you, "Thank you for helping me, you make it more fun than it should be."

The crimson-haired boxer offers you one of his signature smiles, flashing those pearly white teeth you always think of dragging your tongue over, "You're adorable," His fingers playfully give your cheeks a pinch just to see you pout, "Let's do one more move before you gotta close up, I think you have it in you to give it a try." Who are you to argue? After all, it means more time to ogle over him, to feel his hands, to dream up filthy scenarios that have your pussy throbbing.

What you don't expect is to feel one of his hands fall on the dip of your waist to stabilize you, the other coming down to hook under your knee and slowly lift your leg, "You're pretty flexible, I expected that... naturally everyone's legs are stronger than their arms. So sometimes if you see an opening, go for a nice high kick right into either their chin or nose." So that's why he is holding you like this.

His words, just for a moment, blur as you look at his hands on your body. The position is oddly provocative, it is easy to just picture you both nude, his cock driving in and out of you just like this. His hands holding your soft thighs wide open for him, one leg hooked over his arm as those very fingers tease your clit, his other hand snaking up your front to tweak your nipples and torturously squeeze your tits.

It's disgusting, filthy that all he is doing is holding you like this to guide you and you're imagining him fucking you just like this. It's horribly wrong, sickening - but oh, it would probably feel so good like this. His tip would rub against that sweet stop your fingers can barely reach, his breath against the very shoulder he would mark with hickeys...

"There we go," His voice sounds so close it nearly makes you flinch, "Okay, you want to aim with your heel and not the tip of your shoe because it can strain your ankle or even hurt the arch of your foot. So lock your leg as you swing it up and pretend like you're jabbing someone with your heel." You wish his cock was jabbing your insides, but nonetheless, you strike your heel into the air effortlessly.

Mark whistles at the power in your leg, what he would give to see you beat the shit out of someone. He is sure you could probably even take him out if you tried, which is another reason he hopes he never gets on your bad side. The first reason being that your dad would kill him.

"Maybe I should start practicing with you," He muses when you smoothly bring your leg back down, "I bet you'd be able to break me down, especially with a kick like that." What you would give to simply watch him train with your father, you've seen it a handful of times. How he drives his fists into the punching bag, or the muscles in his thighs stiffening when he tries to knock his sparring partner down. He always leaves you drooling, hoping to feel those very hands wrapped around your throat or to ride his thighs while he teases you for being such a slut.

As much as you would love to spend the time with him, you know you wouldn't be able to handle all the touching, to see him sweating and his muscles showing through his less-than-covering tank top. Sometimes he even goes shirtless, which is ten times worse and even more hormone-inducing. If only there was a way to confidently tell him, "I've wanted to have sex with you since I first saw you, so please do whatever you want with me."

"I think you'd probably break me..." The words weren't meant to come out sounding so sexual, leaving a pinkish blush on his cheeks and at the tip of his ears, "But we can always practice like this whenever you want." You miss how he shuffles in place, trying to knock your first sentence from his head. Break you? He knows what you meant... but even he has some not-so-innocent thoughts.

With it being time to close, regulars gradually leave the gym, bidding you a farewell per usual, the machines slowly becoming empty. Though the only person who patiently remains, discreetly watching passing figures as they leave the building, is the redhead you have been eyeing all day. It is rather exciting, watching the final person pack up their things and leave, finally granting you the privacy you've desired all day.

You begin the process of locking up the gym, working the locks on the alternate entrance, as well as pulling the drop-down fence that cages the windows. You two often leave through the back door, so you always lock up the front earlier than you both intend to depart. Whenever he stays a little later than usual, he often waits for you to close and you will leave together.

Being so focused on closing the main entrances and front of the gym, you don't notice the figure approaching you from behind, not until a shadow casts over you and you notice the lighting change. Not until a hand falls onto your shoulder, to which you peer behind you to see Markall packed up, "Did you bring a sweater? It's supposed to be cold out."

"I didn't, but it's fine because my car is right there." He knows it is, but he also knows that you tend to park quite a bit away from the apartment you share with your father because it didn't have a parking garage, "I'll be fine! Worst case scenario I catch a cold and can't come to work tomorrow." That's when you remember an important detail about tomorrow, one that you've been looking forward to all week.

"You have a match tomorrow, right?" Comes your voice amid his needless thinking, "Dad is making the plans, he's been running around all day... I think he may be more excited than you." You try to change the subject, knowing he will be persistent regarding you taking his sweater.

"Yeah, and that's another reason you should take my hoodie... that way you don't get sick and you can be there to cheer me on." His words make you feel so warm and fuzzy inside, is he really that worried? Does he really want you there to see him? It's too much, you may just pass out knowing he wants you to cheer for him in the crowd!

You heard rumors of professionals possibly attending, managers of some sort. It all sounds a little too good to be true, but knowing your father he is always pulling strings. To locals, it's considered a big deal because of the chance to gamble bets, entertainment... The matches are memorable. Mark likes the attention, to hear people chant his name and praise him, that adrenaline he gets when he is so close to winning. It is a drug, an addiction he just cannot shake. He needs support.

Finally, you take the hoodie from his hand, pulling the thick fabric over your head and covering yourself, "Thank you, Mark." He is so sweet, it makes you feel guilty for letting these thoughts ravage your brain. For allowing yourself to lewd him constantly, he has been nothing but respectful with you and all you can think about is how fucking good it would feel to sit on his face right now.

"Are you gonna be there to give me some good luck?" His words catch you off guard, give him some good luck? you never really see him before his matches, usually, only after will you congratulate him and offer to take him out for something to eat, per request from your father. It is a tradition to celebrate after a successful fight. Most of the night you will ogle over him, how good he looks with a slightly swollen lip, or how you would kill to lick the little bit of blood sticking to the fresh wound on his brow.

What could you possibly do to give him good luck? You will have to think of something, you can't disappoint him, "Since tomorrow is a big deal, I guess I have to make sure you have as much luck as possible, right?" Your words bring a grin to his face, you've always been so kind yet carefree. He likes that a lot about you, how you don't take everything so seriously, and never feels like he has to walk on eggshells around you.

Whatever it may be, he likes getting some sort of recognition from you before he fights, you leave this positive and sweet taste in his chest. He finds that he tries harder with you around, whether it be to impress you or earn plenty of praises and compliments when the match is over. He doesn't care what you come up with, so long as it's from you.

Mark Remembers that you're off the clock and should get home before it's too dark, "A-Anway," He clears his throat and adjusts his gym bag over his shoulder, "Let's get out of here, I think we both could use a shower..." Despite his words, he is eyeing how exhausted you look, sweaty and your eyes a little swollen from overworking yourself. It reminds him of the time you went on a run with him, an innocent invitation he gave you since he never really sees you outside of the gym.

To his surprise, you weren't at all a bad runner, but unfortunately, your stamina does not nearly match his and he can still remember how cute you looked, tripping over your feet and waving your hand for him to slow down. The sweat that stuck to your face, neck, chest... how you were shivering all the while scraping to regain some oxygen in your lungs. Your fingers holding onto his arm, leaning into him with your eyes closed.

You had looked so pretty that day, but all he could think about was whether or not you'd look the same if he were to have sex with you. Would the sweet bead up the same? Would your eyes get heavy once it was over? Would you pant and cling to him like now, doing your best to keep up and not collapse from exhaustion? That was the first time he ever thought of you other than as a friend, and ever since it feels like the daydreams have gotten a little worse.

Not nearly as explicit as yours, though.

God, you want to fuck him so bad. You want to ride him until your thighs burn, to feel his teeth marking your skin with every push of his hips, to open your mouth just so he can spit in it... reminding you that you're nothing but a perverted, disgusting, awful whore. That's exactly what you are. A brainless, hormonal...

Right, you're supposed to be leaving. With a final adjustment to the sweater he had kindly given you, you lead the way to the back door of the gym. You wish you didn't have to depart so soon, just before he had his hands all over you! Touching your legs, holding your waist... can't you turn back time just enough to go through that all over again? Even if it's just him guiding you to a proper punch.

What you would give to feel those hands on your tits, or cupping the apex of your thighs. Would it feel different from when you touch yourself? Probably. His fingers are bigger, thicker, rough... you can only imagine the way they would curl to rub that special spot inside of your walls. You bet he would be able to make you squirt, you can only imagine it... if only.

"Make sure you sleep early," He chimes from beside you, "That way I can see you early before I have to go prepare for tomorrow night." It is bizarre how insistent he is on seeing you before the fight, did you do something different to yourself? Deep down, you're praying he may just have a little crush on you, but you doubt it. He could like anyone, he would never choose you... right?

Nonetheless, you don't let your selfish thinking distract you from the handsome man beside you. What doe sit matter whether he likes you or not? At least he talks with you. But every human has selfish desires, yours just happens to be wanting the crimson-haired boxer beside you to be yours, "I wouldn't miss a chance to see you," The words come out faster than you could bite your tongue, but with the cat out of the bag you roll with it, "Maybe I could bring you something to eat?"

The suggestions noticeably brighten him, the two of you coming out of the back door which you begin to lock for the night, "That would be nice, remember those grape leaves you had made that one time? I'd kill for those..." Neither of you misses how his voice noticeably quiets, as if he only wants you to hear that, for the huskiness in his tone to catch your ears.

To say it doesn't cause a million and one butterflies to waltz in from your stomach into your chest, would be a lie. It would be a lie to deny how the most minuscule quirks he has always leave you in a state of your own temporary bliss. You wish you could hear him whisper over and over, to come up behind you like in those cliche romance films from the 60s. For his arms to encase your midsection, lips meeting the shell of your ear, telling you how his day is better now that he is home with you.

Oh, what you would give to live out a shitty romance film from however many decades ago with Mark. To be that mindless trophy wife even if for a day, to forget all responsibility and for him safely coming home to you to be your only worry. To spend your hours cooking and cleaning, making yourself look your prettiest if it means letting him use you to destress.

You just want to make him happy, is that so wrong? Maybe.

"I'll be sure to make you some," You say back, eyes falling from his to instead look at your sneakers, "W-Well, I'll see you early tomorrow... I'll be sure to bring your sweater back." You miss the subtle smile due to your eyes being elsewhere, a smile that lasts until you look back up to him, "Drive home safe, I can't wait to see the fight tomorrow."

The two of you bid your farewell, Mark keeping his eye on you up until you safely enter the comfort of your car, and only then does he get into his own. You always miss those gentlemanly gestures he does, how he never leaves until he sees you're safely in your car, always keeping an eye out for you whenever you go off to the bathroom. He gets so worried over you being just a minute too long, and part of him excuses it for a "need to protect" urge in him.

But a very small part of him has already learned to accept he may or may not have feelings for you, whether they are romantic or platonic, he cannot pinpoint; especially because he hasn't even fully accepted the fact he has potential feelings for you.

Regardless, you drive away, unaware of how he waited for you to leave first. The entire ride home, all you could focus on was the cologne that stuck to the hoodie he let you borrow. How the masculine odor filled not only your nose but the car. It felt mocking like the hoodie knew how down bad you are forMark, but you try not to let it get to you. You try not to imagine how it would feel to bury your face into his shoulder and smell the cologne stuck to his skin.

That familiar heat floods between your legs, reminding you of how awful you are. Even with him gone, you can't stop the dirty thoughts. Maybe you just need to get laid? Maybe it's less that you like him, and just you being horny and deprived of intimacy.

You know that isn't the case, but it's nice to pretend it is.

What would his favorite position be? Would he prefer you on top? Bent over? If you had to decide, you'd want to be able to see his face, to watch how good you can make him feel. No amount of brainstorming could probably compare to how sexy he would look engulfed in pleasure, nor how he would sound. You take him for someone who tries to hold back their moans, not wanting you to know you're being good for him.

"Oh, god..." You whisper under your breath as you continue to drive, knuckles bulging from gripping the steering wheel so hard, not to mention the ache in your lower back from how far you've arched yourself to try and ignore the throbbing in your clit. It's ridiculous, here you are driving home on an empty street, your apartment building isn't even that far away...

And yet you find yourself pulled over on the side of the road.

The entire time, you mentally scold yourself, eyes frantically looking about all the while you sick back into your seat. Your nose is buried into the collar of the sweater, the familiar scent comforting you while your hand moves under the waistband of your leggings and then under your soaked panties. Were you really this wet? Usually, you would be riddled with shame, but now? You can only thank yourself, knowing it will make it all the easier for your fingers to snake themselves inside of you.

You know that your fingers will never compare to the real thing, and most of the time you don't even get much pleasure from them being inside of you, but that minor sense of fullness somehow is just relaxing. Between your index and middle fingers being knuckle deep inside of your pulsating entrance, your walls clenching around what little space your fingers take up, and your palm grinding into your clit.

"M-Mark..." His name is always falling from your tongue, every time you find yourself viciously rubbing your clit in desperation, or grinding into the soft fabric of your pillow. Whatever you may be doing to pleasure yourself, his name is the only thing that you manage to utter during the entire process. Praising him for making you feel so good and whimpering how it's too much for you.

If only he could see you now, curled up in your car and humping at your hand, panting and whining for the only man you've thought about for however long you've known him. If only he were here, to witness how filthy you are, that you're anything but sugar and honey - you're not sweet at all, you're just a needy nymphomaniac.

You spread your thighs just a little more, fingers dipping in and out of your entrance only to then come out and give your neglected clit circular rubs before seeping back inside of your pussy, "I wanna cum,Mark~" Imagining it is his fingers pumping in and out of you, that it's his palm that continues to grind into your poor clit.

With the fabric of his sweater pressed firmly to your nose, it helps to muffle your pathetic sounds; strings of his name and pleas floating within the air of your car. the only other noise being the wet squelching sound of your fingers inside of you. It all feels so lewd, to be touching yourself like this in your car. If anyone were to find out, surely you would be not only shunned, but you'd never hear the end of it.

But god his hands felt so good on your thighs and waist when he was training you earlier, they were so warm, so big... his palms rough when they dragged over the skin of your arms. You wish he would've gone just a little higher

"F-Fuck... ah~ fuck me,Mark-" You squeak when your fingers nudge at your walls a little too roughly, further hiding your face in his sweater as it gradually becomes harder to contain your whimpers. The thought of him praising you, calling you his good girl, and saying you take it so well - would he pepper your teary face with kisses? Slow down to make sure he doesn't completely ruin you?

Your insides feel hot, tortuously hot. Every grind of your clit into your palm gradually brings you closer to the anticipated climax. Are you catching a fever? You know it is just your body readying itself for the oncoming bliss, the buildup in your stomach that feels like electricity, "I-I'm cumming," You breathe out a strained whine, "F-Fuck, I'm cumming... I'm cumming~!" You lose your voice as your fingers focus on your clit, rubbing back and forth against the poor nerve.

"M-Mark~ fuck, fuck, fuck- nngh~!" It all happens so quick, the squirting of your climax soaking into your panties and leggings, tainting the skin of your hand and pruning fingers, luckily not too much getting on the seat of your car. But it isn't the mess, it's the pulse you feel in your clit, a neverending throb that has your walls clenching and unclenching.

You must look wrecked, between how you've managed to bizarrely sink into your seat, your leggings and panties slightly pulled down and your fingers covered in a mess of your cum and slick. You feel ridiculous more than you look it, having just touched yourself in your car to the thought of someone who most likely sees you as nothing but a friend.

Once again you feel like you're taking a walk of shame; pulling your panties and leggings back up despite the uncomfortable and icky sensation of how wet the fabric is, adjusting yourself in your seat, and looking around for any ongoing or incoming cars. Only when you deem it safe, pulling out of the spot you had parked to continue your trek home, all in silence as a means to reflect on yet again letting your lust get the best of you.

All you can do is hope that when you get home and take a nice warm shower and make those grape leaves poor Mark asked for, that it will somehow erase this awful encounter with yourself from your head. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day. Though, you doubt it will take eight hours of sleep to cure you of the hormonal devil on your shoulder.

To make matters worse, the familiar chime of your phone interrupts your mental meditation on what just happened. Though, it isn't your phone that makes things worse, but rather the fact that the very name you see in the notifications bar is the one person you were hoping to get out of your head. You almost think not to answer, let alone look at it, but you could never do that to him.

Upon opening the message, you nearly cry with guilt - how can he be so sweet? Why do you have to be so awful?

Remember that time we went for a run? I forgot I took this pic of u when we finished... after u started to vomit because u pushed urself 2 much. U looked cute tho (:

Scrolling up you hold back the urge to get on your knees before some religious statue and beg for forgiveness. There he is smiling at the camera, holding it high enough to catch himself but also you in the back, to your surprise you don't look awful. Sure, you may be on the verge of death from running so much, and even sweatier than him, but the sunset somehow brought it all together.

And did he just say you looked cute?

You bite back the urge to squeal and get into a car accident, but mostly not to verbally freak out. Does he really think you're cute? Really? You almost don't want to believe it, why would he think you're cute? You don't dwell on it too much, happily accepting the compliment and rereading the message over and over again until another one comes through.

We should do it again, I had fun <3 see u 2morrow, don't forget the grape leaves!

Why does he have to be so perfect? It's always the nice guys who are barely out of your reach. Not that you deserve Mark, someone as obsessive as you doesn't deserve that sort of happiness - not when you focus more on wanting to have sex with him every day, rather than building up the courage to just ask him out.

Maybe tomorrow you will try.

The following morning comes all too quickly, but you give yourself credit for having not had a wet dream - something that shamefully occurs often - and waking up to the sound of your early set alarm without trouble. You're never usually up at this time, but keeping your promise to the crimson-haired man you think about more than you do yourself is your top priority. It would be awful to say you will be there with breakfast, only to diss him.

And surely he would end up not liking you at all, he has mentioned being prejudice against people who do not stay true to their words.

You like to think that you got ready so quickly, so haphazardly due to your stress over possibly being late... but you know it's because of how excited you are to see Mark and the fact he told you he wanted to see you before he would have to go and prepare for his fight.

Before you leave, you make sure to grab his sweater which you left neatly folded at your desk. When you got home after your shower, the first thing you did was throw it in the wash and put it as far away from you as possible - that damned sweater, you should have never accepted it because look what it made you do! Nonetheless, you are grateful he thought of you and your health and that is the reason you washed it, to cleanse it of any and all evidence of the sin you committed in your car last night. It is still humiliating that you allowed yourself to lose that self-control, but at least you're not in denial.

If your father were to have seen you with that hoodie, you are almost certain he would have recognized it and interrogated you. Luckily, that didn't happen, because if it had you aren't sure you would be able to explain without the flooding images of last night filling your head and driving you up the wall.

But none of that is your concern, not when you have to make it to the gym in time for him, you're certain he should be there at this time, as well as your father who is preparing the back building where all boxing training, practice, and matches go on. Your only hope is neither of you bumps into your old man, but with how analytical he is, he practically smells when and where he needs to stick his nose into business that isn't his.

As you pull your car into the lot of the gym, noticing the familiar vehicles that belong to both the man you are excited to see, but also the one you hope you don't bump into, the butterflies begin to catch up. He wanted to see you, even to now you still replay those very words, asking you to come by earlier so he could see you before he had to go and prepare himself for the night.

The nerves are beginning to start, you never quite got over that feeling that you were stepping into unfamiliar territory. You've known Mark for quite some time by now, can't you just get over it and walk in there? It isn't even him that you're fearful of, more so the eyes that may follow you the moment you step into the gym. What will others think? You're never so early, and walking up to the redhead with a bento box? You can only imagine the rumors this will start.

Yet, you suck it up. Your father didn't raise you to run away from things, worst-case scenario is he can't talk right now and you end up looking like a fool. You doubt it, but there are a hundred and one possibilities you are anything but prepared for. But isn't that what makes it exciting? The unknown.

Not really, you hate the unknown. The entire walk to the front door of the gym, as well as entering it to see not many people you are familiar with there, which isn't surprising since you work from the afternoon until it gets dark. Nowhere in sight do you see the redhead you have been waiting to see since you last saw him yesterday evening, and you aren't even sure where he could be.

Part of you worries you may be too late, but you figure if he were to be anywhere he must be in the back building. The only issue is you would have to possibly come face-to-face with your father, not only to hand back Mark's sweater but also breakfast you prepared for him. You almost think to just bail, claim there is a ridiculous amount of traffic and you're still on the road, but he isn't stupid.

And you're also not gonna hurt his feelings.

You carry yourself towards the back doors of the building to find the separate structure where all the boxers practice and train, it is rather run down in comparison to the main gym, but it makes sense since most of the fights that go on here go on without the knowledge of authority. You aren't even sure if your father has a proper permit for this building, but he's gotten away with it before, and you're sure you've seen local officers in their casual attire attending the matches.

But all of that is beside the point, not when you enter the building and come face to face with chaos. Between people moving chairs and tables around, cleaners mopping at the floor, boxers gathered to the far end of the building where you see your father. Unfortunately, there is noMark-

Before the figure behind you can even speak, this weird tingle down your spine alerted you to an approaching figure, which you quickly look back only to be met with long red hair and a bare, sweat-tainted torso. Had he always been so tall? So big? You have no clue where to even look, your eyes jumping from his chest to his shoulder, raking over his long hair, and finally locking with the familiar crimson eyes you are used to. You feel silly for staring at him, but you just can't help it.

"You made it," Comes his voice, a grin plastered onto his face at the sight of you holding his sweater and the bento box, "I see you brought me some gifts, is this what I think it is?" The tip of his finger points at the box of grape leaves, to which you hold them out for him to take, your words trapped in your throat at the sight of him completely shirtless in front of you.

Mark opens the box and whistles at the plentiful amount of grape leaves you had prepared for him, "You spoil me~" He hums while bringing one to his lips, taking it all in his mouth in one bite. Your eyes lock on a droplet of oil that is stuck to the corner of his mouth, how his jaw looks when he chews, the bob of his adam's apple whenever he swallows. You can only imagine how much better he would look swallowing your cum, if only he was there last night to catch your juices in his mouth when you made yourself cum like that.

"How is everything coming along?" You finally find your voice, even if to just ask a question, from what you can tell most of the necessary tasks are just about done - which would leave Mark with an hour or so to get ready for the match later this afternoon - and most are just focusing on creating space to accommodate the customers coming to watch.

Nights like this your father makes the most money, charging for entry and snacks. You call him a shark for how he robs these people with his ridiculous fees, but what business is it to you? If it's what the people want, you're sure they would pay any amount just to watch some men beat each up other up. You weren't a fan of boxing until you first seen Mark, only ever wasting your time to see him in the ring.

When he swallows his third grape leaf, much to your shock, his eyes scan the room with an unsure shrug, "I'd say it looks fine, I've been trying to help out but your father refuses... keeps saying I should just go and warm up in the gym." You would figure as much, your father has favorites and those favorites tend to get the better end of the stick.

You smile seeing how happy he is with the bento box you prepared for him, nothing makes you happier than when someone enjoys your cooking. Especially the person you like, a lot. It feels good to just be able to look at him and feel nothing but that giddy crush feeling bubbling inside of you, without the added turn-off of your anything but pure imagery that infests your less than perfect brain.

"There aren't too many people in the gym... maybe it will do you some good to stretch or something before you gotta get ready." Mark knows you're right, and he doesn't particularly enjoy doing absolutely nothing when everyone around him is up to some sort of agenda, "I don't plan on going anywhere now that I'm here, it wouldn't make sense... did you need help with anything in particular."

Of course, part of you is hoping to hear something like 'yeah, can you suck my dick?' but you know that won't happen. It is quite humiliating to even think that, how nice his thighs would feel in your palms, his cock shoved balls deep in your throat, tearing up and choking from the size. You bet he tastes just as good as he looks, and he looks like he tastes really good.

Mark closes the bento box, "Actually, yeah..." The three fingers the were covered in the thick oil that the grape leaves are cast in are one by one popped into his mouth, and oh is a sight to admire. His tongue dragging over the single-digit before dragging it out from his mouth with a light pop, "You mind wrapping my hands for me? I never do it tight enough."

You've seen him struggle plenty of times with that hair of his, thick and down to his lower back. You aren't sure how he manages to take care of it, after all, it always looks so silky and voluminous. The women in those shampoo commercials could never compare, you're sure if Mark ever got into doing commercials he would have shelves empty within the first two seconds of the ad.

Who wouldn't want to sit there and stare at him? His voice shaking every bone in your body, the way his muscles flex with the slightest movement, his pretty white teeth, not to mention thick lashes, and the way they frame his sharp eyes. Anyone would be happy to hear him talk, let alone drag their eyes over every dip and curve of his powerhouse of a body.

Before you are quiet for too long you come back to your senses, "Of course!" It comes out rather too enthusiastic, but Mark either doesn't notice or care. Especially not when you walk past him in that pretty little skirt of yours, you look so delicious clutching his sweater to your chest, your hips swaying in the most hypnotizing way. God forbid anyone, let alone your father catches his eyes checking you out from behind.

He follows you like a lost puppy, drooling over your legs and how soft they must be, how your thighs would feel amazing to just lay his head down on them. He's always found you attractive, and your sweet personality makes it ten times better. Whenever you wear those yoga leggings, he finds himself staring too long at you, watching you walk until you disappear somewhere.

What he would give to see you in cute little stockings, holding that skirt of yours up for him to admire the adorable panties you have on. Would you be into that? Letting him stare down at you, memorize every inch of your body, rub you through your panties, and push your shirt up and over your soft tits. The things he would do to you if you gave him the chance, and today he hopes he can coax you into paying more attention to him.

The two of you enter the gym, seeing that only a few other regulars have joined the same faces from when you came. The only sound being of the equipment and the cheesy music playing through the loudspeakers. Onlookers glance for a moment, watching the two of you as you both settle at one of the benches. You know they only look because they're interested in Mark and what he could possibly be doing with you. But who cares? You get to have an excuse to hold his hand!

"Did you sleep well?" He asks while fishing into the pocket of his shorts to pull out the hand wraps, "To be honest, I was a little worried about you since it was so cold... that's why I texted you, to make sure you were okay." Every word leaves you more and more in a state of speechlessness, he truly did care. All night that's all you could wonder if he genuinely cared and it turns out he did.

You contain your excitement, not wanting it to show how happy that made you, "Really?" You squeak out, "I-I was fine... your sweater kept me warm." You hide the flustered look by focusing down at the gauze in your hands, unwrapping the elastic material, "I made sure to wash it before I brought it back, I was pretty sweaty last night."

He finds you adorable, how your pretty hands hesitantly grab one of his and hold it in your lap. Your skin is so soft, so warm, he has to hold himself back from just squeezing or dragging his palm over the exposed skin. You're so careful with how you bring the gauze over his knuckles and between his thumb and index finger, making sure it is neither too tight nor too loose.

"Too bad, you always smell really good..." He watches your expression with a smirk, not missing how you tense up, "You never answered my question about whether or not you slept..." He loses his train of words as he watches your fingers trace over his knuckles. You're gentle, treating his hand like it's the most fragile thing you ever held, between the way you've fastened the gauze just right and are now just adjusting the wrap to better cover his abused knuckles.

The only thing on your mind is whether he takes proper care of his hands or not, does he make sure to clean them up and put ice? To massage all the kinks and knots out? You worry too much for him, not that he could ever tell. The tips of your fingers trace what scars aren't being covered, admiring how much he has probably been through to get this far. You've seen the way he trains, hours without a break, and always pushing himself, that's how stars are made.

Would it be so bad...? You feel conflicted, despite your hand already gradually bringing his closer to you, has anyone ever made sure he took care of himself? You try to do so, but sometimes your selfishness gets in the way. Is there anyone he lives with that pampers him? What you would give to be that person; rubbing his aching shoulders, kissing the bruises and cuts he has, washing his hair and back for him...

"y/n-" Your name leaves his mouth with a stutter, crimson eyes caught on your lips pressing delicate kisses to his knuckles. Your lips are soft, shimmering slightly from the lip-balm you have on, not to mention the warmth of your breath wafting against his hand. He doesn't protest, more so in awe at how pretty you look, how you don't even seem to be aware of what you're doing.

To say he hasn't pictured this exact scenario a hundred times or more, you wrapping his hands before a match, kissing each finger with one of your beautiful smiles. All he can do now is soak in this mini victory, a dream come true if you will. Your eyes peering through your lashes when your lips pull away from his hand, the cutest look of shame flashing on your pretty face, "Sorry, it just looks like it hurts..."

Mark stays silent as you hold his wrapped hand, reminiscing on how your lips felt on him, wondering if they would feel even better elsewhere. He doesn't respond right away, placing his unwrapped hand in your lap with a smile, "I liked it..." He says while you start to wrap his other hand, "Y-You should do it more often."

You never expected him to say something like that, not that you expected him to be upset with you. To be honest, you weren't entirely sure what you were expecting his response to being when you pulled away. Part of you thought the atmosphere would grow awkward, unwanted even. Yet, here you are repeating the process with his other hand, the entire time you can't keep yourself from glancing up, only for your eyes to lock with his and his lips to curl into a smug smirk.

Just as you had with his other hand, you sheepishly bring the newly wrapped knuckles to your lips. Of course, this time you aren't as confident, but he finds it just as pleasurable. Your pretty eyes locked with his, kissing at the scarred flesh and trying to sit still. He can tell you're embarrassed simply by your body language, which you shouldn't be, he likes this show you're putting on for him.

Only when you finish, lowering his hand from your face and sitting up straight on the bench opposite to him, does Mark get a good look at your face. You would look good with a swollen bottom lip, irritated from his teeth nipping and tugging at it, and he wouldn't mind giving your cheek a playful bite, too. He realizes he doesn't quite want you to move away just yet, the simple act of you wrapping his hands already leaving him craving more of your attention.

"Could you help me with my hair, too?" You are only a little surprised by the question, especially since you've seen him put up his hair - despite it looking rather rough around the edges and a bit too low - and be perfectly fine with it. But you wouldn't turn down the opportunity to be close with him for a little longer. Did he ask that because he wants the same thing? You want to believe it.

Mark hands you the tie around his wrist, watching you come to a stand and circle around to stand behind him. His hair looks shiny, like layers of red silk on his head, "You have nice hair," You shyly state, putting the tie around your wrist as you start to gather his long and thick hair in your hands, "I bet you'd look nice with a half-up half-down style, but keeping it all up is probably for the best so it doesn't obstruct your vision, right?"

He wanted to answer you, but your voice sends such a chill through his spine, your warm breath hitting the back of his neck as you work to make sure not a single hair has fallen astray. Your fingers are like heaven, rubbing against his scalp, combing through the heavy bundle of red hair, "The last time I wore my hair down for a fight," He holds his tongue when you lean forward, the softness of your tummy pressing into him as you lean over his body to make sure you gather the hair in front, "I-It kept getting the way and stuck on things..."

You hum softly, not even really aware that the fact you're practically laying over his back to pull back the loose strands have him swelling in his briefs. Fuck, he would do anything to fill you up right here, let everyone watch him do it too. Pretty little y/n get her pussy stuffed for being a teasing little whore, panties around your ankle, barely fitting him inside of you.

"You'll do great tonight," You say loud enough for only him to hear, "And um... maybe after we can go out for dinner?" Mark almost laughs at the predicament, it seems you beat him to it, "I-I mean, only if you're up for it, I just know this place with really good western dishes and I wanted-"

"Would you believe me if I said I was gonna ask you the same question after the match?" Your heart lodges in your throat, he is serious... right? Of course, why else would he say that? But it feels too good to be true! Would he really ask you out for dinner? It feels like everything is just falling together with the more the day goes by; wanting to see you before the match, wanting to ask you out for dinner, kissing his knuckles, touching his hair... it feels too perfect.

Technically it is because it seems your fifteen minutes of heaven is up when the familiar face of your father approaches you both, your fingers fall from the red hair you had been playing with, "I've been looking everywhere for you, kid... and you've been here the whole time!" His hands go up in the air, urgingMark to stand up, "Turns out we are actually behind schedule, the guys who came for the match are here an hour early so we gotta get you changed and ready to go in thirty minutes. Understood?"

PoorMark looks like a deer caught in headlights, "H-Huh? I thought the matches weren't until later...?" Even you are a tad confused by the situation, the matches are always held later in the day, wouldn't it be inconvenient to start now when there aren't even any customers?

But it turns out everything happens for a reason, "That was the impression I was under, but it turns out the new kid I hired to put up posters and shit put in the wrong damn time. So not only are people expecting a match in the next thirty minutes, but I haven't even finished getting the beer and shit out." Your father seems to be off the walls, between the anger in his tone and the way his brows are knitted close together, you don't think now is the time to upset him.

"You, go get changed and ready." Your father pushes Mark in the direction to the dressing rooms, "And you," He smiles while taking your face in his palms, "If I see that redhead getting too friendly with you I will kick his ass, now go and get yourself something to eat from the back you look half-awake." That's your father for you, even protective when the nice guys are around.

Alas, you do not argue, now is probably not the best time to tell him you wanted to go to dinner with Mark later tonight. You follow his orders to go and help with the food and beverages, you're sure he wouldn't want you working, but you figured with all the stress of the times being wrong you could help even just a little bit.

This is the most chaotic you have seen the gym, people coming with nowhere to go just yet, workers running around with chairs and tables and mops, carrying cases of whiskey and soda and things alike. If you weren't used to such disorder, for sure you would have cracked under the pressure of everything. Working a gym that also happens to have a "secret" boxing system in itself is just a mess.

Deep down, you feel bad for everyone and seeing the boxers rush in and out half-dressed in their uniforms and still trying to help, but at the same time, the fact that everything has been pushed earlier simply means you not only get to go out with Mark sooner but most likely stay out with him longer. You only hope that the stress of this mishap and the fight doesn't ruin those chances and he forgets, or even worse, just doesn't want to go out anymore.

As usual, you know that is just your overactive imagination and the pessimistic side of you, always questioning your worth and whether or not an opportunity is real or not. A lot of nights you spend laughing at yourself, how silly you were for holding so much doubt and worry over nothing; now is one of those moments.

When you should be focusing on helping to carry this case of water to the back building, you're wondering how Mark is coming along. He looked a little under pressure the last time you saw him, what if he might need help? Probably not...

But he did say he needed a little good luck before the match.

Maybe visiting him will somehow ease his nerves, despite him being a big guy with a lot of confidence, you are sure even men like him can be on edge for something like a boxing match. It's like football in high school minus being in high school and the football, right? Before game adrenaline, eyeing up the enemy, mentally and physically preparing yourself for the fight of your life. Everyone wants to win.

The only difference is that you know Markwill come out on top, you've never had as much faith in anyone as you do with him... which is why your feed deters from the back door to the second building in favor of finding which room Mark may be holed up in. Every dressing room has a name on it, and there are only five being used tonight because most of the boxers being trainees.

Your father is a big perfectionist, and if he doesn't have one hundred percent faith in you, then there is no way he will have you representing him. You learned that a lot growing up, but you think that's one of the reasons you crave perfection over minuscule things like how the gym equipment is set up, and where the towels and waters out, how things are accessible. They do say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

As you make your way down the hall of vacant and occupied doors, your eyes finally catch sight of the familiar name done in the familiar striking handwriting you have seen thousand times over. Mark has this little within quirk that you can easily identify, always sharpening his letters and irregular capitalization. You've always liked coming to work to see his name on the sign-in sheet, always so bold and pop from the rest of the list of names.

For a moment you almost hesitate to knock on his door, but it is either now or never that you speak to him. You bring your knuckles to the door, knocking three times before stepping back and waiting. You don't hear anything on the other side of the door, could he have already left? It is a possibility, out of everyone his costume has always been the most... let's just say revealing. Mark is meant to be the eye-catcher, he is young, has bold red hair, is big and intimidating all the while looking soft.

All the boxers have their teams, and Mark's just so happens to be a nice, scary piece of eye candy. Not that you mind at all, more for you to look at! But when the door doesn't open, you come to the conclusion he isn't there, turning on your heel to head back out and see if anyone needs help. You're disappointed to say the truth, having wanted to talk with him for a second before the match, but not everything can just fall into place.

You get about ten feet from the door before you hear the sound of a door handle turning and the squeak of its opening, "y/n?" The familiar voice stops you in place, you had thought the door belonged to someone else but turning to look into the crimson eyes of the person you had been hoping to see, "Hey, what's up?" He is only a little shocked to see you there, to be truthful he was hoping it was you on the other end of the door when he hurried to get to it.

But you standing there, he almost didn't believe it for a second, not until you scurried your pretty little self back the way you came to meet him at his door, "N-No! I just thought you could use a little help, you looked distressed when you had to rush out of there before." Your words sink in for a moment, you were worried. He finds it rather cute, you worrying your head over him and wanting to be a good helper.

"Is that so...?" He hums, smiling when you slowly crack under his gaze, "Can you help me get this shitty top on? Your father forgot to order a bigger size so we are trying to compromise." You're a little flustered to help him with his costume of all things, you'll be alone in a room with him and his uniform barely covers anything. Between the fact, his entire torso is revealed aside from the signature black arm sleeves, and you'll be dangerously close to him? You are melting and you aren't even entirely in his room yet.

No matter what, you refuse to turn him down, not now. You look both ways down the hall before quietly entering his room, the door shutting behind you both, "I'll be sure to order a resizing for you," You say and examine the rest of what should be a part of the top of his costume, "He must have gotten you mixed up with the new guy, but that's okay people aren't here to judge you for what you're wearing!"

Mark sits down for you, letting you adjust the arm sleeves on his arm, due to the collar and shoulder pieces not fitting him, they won't have anything to be held up with, "I find it kinda funny how big your dad is about image and impression, considering he has men beating on each other for like four hours straight." Your fingers feel hot against his skin, apply a makeshift tape to the inside of the hem of the sleeves so that it has a better grip on his biceps.

"I was thinking... maybe instead of staying for everything to finish, we could just go out as soon as my match is over?" Your heart leaps at the suggestion, you're starting to think that he can read your thoughts, that the entire time you were freaking out over that dinner date not working he heard it all and was now making sure you could rest assured. Again, once again your imagination going over the top, but it doesn't kill a girl to dream!

With nothing more to modify regarding his costume - which you realized he never needed help with it to start and he was giving an excuse for you to stick around - you circle to look him in the face, "I would like that, I don't really... I kinda only go to these matches to watch you." He knew that but you don't know that he knows, so he pretends he is shocked, "A-And because the matches are earlier than they were supposed to, maybe we have time before or after dinner to do something else?"

His mind wandered, he won't deny it, what could pretty y/n possibly have in mind for before or after dinner? He'd love for it to be you bouncing in his lap with your tits spilling out that top of yours, you'd probably love that, wouldn't you? Mark can just imagine how good you would look, squealing and gasping, doing your best to take his big cock, even crying a little because you don't wanna mess up and not be good enough for him.

Fuck, you look so tantalizing standing there, your fingers messing with one another in front of you as you wait for a response, "What did you have in mind?" Mark wants to know what sort of ideas you have brewing in your head. Here is he wanting to fuck you whenever he gets the chance, and poor you have no clue. Part of him wouldn't be surprised if you have fantasies of your own, it's always the one who acts all sweet and sugary that ends up being sour and spicy.

"I-I'm not sure... but we could figure it out later, right?" He is a little disappointed you didn't have anything specific you wanted to do, but he figured as much since everything is so last minute. Nonetheless, he can't wait to see what happens later, he knows you'll make it work just like you always do.

The silence that falls for a few brief seconds doesn't last long when a knock comes at the door, to which you look over in horror. You don't need someone walking in and seeing you here, especially if that is your father. But Mark has it under control, going over to the door and peeking out. You can't see who it is, but you can hear their conversation from start to finish.

"You're on in five, so get that uniform finished and get out there, 'kay?" You figured it was your father with how strict he is when it comes to time, "Also, have you seen y/n?" You freeze up at the mention of your name, you'll be dead if he so much as smells you in this room, which is the reason you sink further into the corner and as far away from the door as possible.

"I haven't, but I'll be done in a minute, don't worry." Less is more with your father, and thankfully you can hear the sound of him going on with whatever it was he was doing before checking on Mark. The door clicks shut and only then do you let out the breath you had been holding, "Shit, that was close..."

If only he knew how badly your heart was racing, and you wish you could say it was out of fear, but all you feel is hot, that adrenaline of your father finding his sweet little girl in the room of one of his scary boxers. What would he think? Sure he would tie you up in the tallest tower, but he would for sure hasMark's head on a pike in the gym. You almost miss that he is beginning to gather his things and ready himself to go out to the ring.

You still haven't given him any sort of good luck; no pep talk, no awkward friendship bracelet, no bouquet of cheap flowers. Why were you even here then? You wonder if he is disappointed, he did specifically say 'are you going to give me some good luck?' yesterday and here you show up empty-handed. But the last thing you want is to leave him with no sort of confirmation that you wish him the best.

Before he can leave, you are quick to make a move, "Mark-" You stop him with a grab to his wrist, crimson orbs look over broad shoulders to meet your own, "You said you needed good luck before the game..." What are you doing? You have nothing to give or show...

Markwaits in suspense, he had entirely forgotten the very words he said yesterday. He didn't mean it he was just teasing you a little like he always does. But the fact you remembered? He is flattered, albeit confused because he doesn't see anything in your hands and you don't have a bag or pockets on you... his head wanders, maybe a kiss? He would be more than just happy with that, through the roof even!

But as he watches you, tense where you stand and caught in some sort of conflict, the last thing he expects is to see you bend forward. He isn't quite sure what it is you're doing at first, but then your hands shimmy up and under your skirt.

What makes it even more of a smack to his face is when he sees something pink and lacy being slipped down your legs. Maybe it was how dumbfounded he was, but until you slipped your pretty legs out from the fabric and hold it out for him, does he realize that little pink lace is your panties, "A-A good luck charm for Red Riot from his... from his number one fan."

The two of you stand there for what seems like forever, did you kill him? He looks almost dead where he stands, his eyes wide, and locked on the bundle of fabric in your hand. You almost worry you did too much, "Kick some ass." You quickly take his hand and shove your panties in them, hurrying out the room with the most flustered yet satisfied grin on your face. You did it, sure it may have been a bit much, but your feelings are out there and the ball is in his field. Now it's his job to decide whether he accepts it or not.

You hurry out to the back building, knowing your father is most likely being driven up the wall by not knowing where you are. You concoct an excuse in your head, you were just in the bathroom because something you ate didn't sit right. He would believe that, right? He's always doting after you like you're still his little princess dressing up and walking around in sequins and glitter.

The building is a lot more crowded than you expected, but it is easy to find your father after shimmying through the crowd, "Where the hell were you, y/n? I was asking everyone and running around like crazy, I thought some psycho had-" You stop him with a gentle pat to his back, oh if only daddy knew what exactly it was you were doing, "Whatever, it doesn't matter, right? You're here, and you better be making sure you leeches don't go over and try to steal snacks."

Almost directly after, your father is surfing through the crowd to try and sell gym merch, memberships, popcorn, and peanuts. He has always been a businessman at heart, and you are anything but shocked to see him with his bag of random foods and trinkets to sell to customers.

The chaos doesn't last long, the familiar ring of the bell that calls attention to the crowd has the room quieting. You are familiar with the process of hyping up the crowd, when you were little and watching boxing matches on television with your father, you would imitate the spokesperson to make him laugh. You always wanted to do something like that, have all eyes on you as you do nothing but talk.

But you grew out of it inevitably, though it doesn't mean watching someone else do it makes it any less enjoyable, "Anyway, let me stop boring you all with meaningless conversation... let me welcome the man representing this very ring, Red Riot!" Everything else was a blur, Mark happily coming out, but if anyone could tell something was off it was you. The way his eyes wolfishly searched the crowds, as if he is expecting something or someone to be there...

Only after the spokesperson finishes introducing the redhead to the crowd of wild and returning fans, does he return to that strange behavior of looking around, he doesn't even pay attention to his opponent who is trying to antagonize and rile him up. What you least expect is for him to walk straight across the ring to where you are and lean down so you can get a good look at his face, "You're crazy," He whispers with one of the scariest smiles you've ever seen, "I think I figured out what we could do before dinner, you better be in that dressing room when this is over."

If anything could describe the things you felt right then, it would be both fear and excitement. Especially when he shamelessly reaches through the ring, knowing your father is completely distracted and grabs you by the collar of your shirt, and pulls you forward. You trip over your own feet, holding down your skirt when you remember you gave your panties to the crimson-haired man that has you in the palm of his hand.

Mark presses the sweetest kiss to your cheek, and if it weren't for the fact you both were in public, you would have grabbed his face and smashed your lips right onto his. But you take what you can get and flash him your prettiest smile before he has to let you go and return his attention to the man he is supposed to fight.

Everything feels surreal, your fingers constantly reaching up to touch the exact spot his soft lips had found your skin. God, if you were to die you would be totally fine with it after having that kiss, the match feels like a blur. Usually, you are ready to cheer him on, but now? All you can manage to do is watch and wait for it to be over, and with the way, the fight is going? You're certain the poor guy he is against is going to fall any second.

Mark dodges the third punch the guy has thrown, you're starting to think he is growing desperate and exhausted. Why else is he just throwing random and uncoordinated punches? You've seen it a thousand times before, they always start going wild when they are tired and desperate. And you know Mark well, he isn't a fan of a sloppy opponent. This is why, although you flinched, you're also not surprised by the force he puts into his punch to humble the man in front of him. You hate how messy things can get, the sweat on them, blood... it's like watching two wild bears claw at one another's throats.

"Ouch! Looks like you're gonna pass out there, buddy... thinking of calling it quits and handing the win to Red?" You wish he would say yes, that he would just give up and let Mark have it for the night. You can barely find it in you to worry over some boxing match when he demanded you to meet him in his room. All of these scenarios are burning through your head, and even if it isn't what you want, you would be more than happy with another kiss.

Between the punches and swings, the blood you just noticed was dripping from Mark's nose and onto the lips he had kissed you with, it is all so overwhelming in addition to your hormones going crazy. You have never wished for a boxing match withMark to be over so badly, and it isn't even that you don't want to see him fight! You just want to see him elsewhere, specifically in private... specifically where he is undressed.

But when you see the man get Mark in a headlock, your heart drops for a second, he has this, right? You know he does, but you hate how long it's taking him to get out of that. You always get nervous for him when he takes a few seconds too long to take the advantage back, "Oh, do we have a possible turn around?" You can't stand him being stuck like that.

The only thing you know that could possibly give him the energy he needs to get out of that headlock is someone cheering for him. And sure the whole room is cheering from him, but he specifically told you, 'hearing you cheer is different from hearing everyone else, so use your voice!'

With all you have, you take a deep breath and cup your mouth to amplify your voice, "You got this,Mark!" And if anyone can pick your name from the crowd, it is him. It's like watching someone suddenly going through a drug boost, the way his arms coming up and tug himself free of the grasp around his head, all you can do is continue to cheer for him until he finally lands a good enough punch stun the guy. Red eyes find you in the crowd, and although he looks scary with the swollen lip and blood from his nose, you still get butterflies when he gives you that charming smile and a wink.

"Never mind, Red Riot has once again held his ground! Don't forget to place your bets in the back on who will win and possibly receive a free gym membership for two months!" It feels like you have been standing there for a million years, the snack table isn't even at the top of your priority list right now, you couldn't care less if they stole everything including the table!

The fight is already in the hands of the very man you have been cheering for this whole time, you didn't doubt it for a second. It is only a matter of either that man tapping out or Mark knocking him out and you don't care which it is. You are on the tips of your toes with how things are looking, Mark has insane stamina but you can tell he is getting a little fed up and tired, "Knock him out, Mark!"

He lands a punch to the abdomen, the man curling over to armor his stomach, which anyone knows is the worst thing you can do. Right then and there, you knew it was over, especially when right after Mark knocks him directly in the nose and the guy goes falling back. He may not be unconscious, but his body language, the wooziness to his movements... you know he is finished.

"Aaaand~" Everyone counts down from three, "We have checkmate! But are we surprised with who is the winner? No!" You don't even listen to what the man has to say, not when the referee climbs the ring to hold Red Riot's fist in the air, a formal symbol that he has taken this week's fight.

And when he looks right at you with that goofy smile of his, you can't help but to practically jumping in place with your biggest smile, blowing him a kiss. Of course, you didn't forget his demand for you to meet him in the dressing room. The moment you see him climbing out of the ring, you are high tailing out of that building. Could your father be calling for you? Maybe. Do you care? Absolutely not.

Not when you are holding down your skirt and running double-time right out of that humid building to get to where you need to be. Every muscle in your body is aching, every nerve aflame. If you could describe what it was you were feeling, it's like teetering over the edge right before you cum. To feel everything in your body working, like a thousand electric shocks straight to your core.

You're so focused on getting down that hallway and into that room, your ears are deaf to the oncoming footsteps rapidly approaching behind you, "Gotcha!" A scream catches in your throat when you recognize the arms that wrap around your midsection and pick you up, no one else wears black arm sleeves like this, "C'mere." His hand grips your jaw, forcing you to look back at him just so his lips could finally meet yours.

And you should be disgusted by the blood from his nose rubbing off on your upper lip, or how you can taste the iron on your tongue. But you have waited so long to kiss him like this, even if it wasn't you imagined a hundred times over, it feels better than you could ever concoct in your imaginative brain. His lips are not at all chapped, they are soft and plush and perfectly mold with yours.

Only when his tongue playfully swipes at your bottom teeth do the two of you break apart for air, eyes locked together in a moment of silence. You've never felt like this, as if you have a million and one little feathers moving around all inside of you, "I don't what I'm gonna do to you first." His voice is like a growl against your nape, the vibrations deep and rumbling into your sensitive skin.

He doesn't let you go yet, his arms remain tight around your torso as he carries you in front of him the rest of the way to the room with your toes barely touching the ground, "What are you going to- ah~!" Your eyes tear up when he sinks his teeth into your neck, slamming the door behind him with his heel, "M-Mark... mm~" He doesn't let up on your neck, sucking at the already darkening bite mark he has created. If someone were to tell you that you would be in this situation, with Mark Markholding you snug against his front and forcing you to bend over the vanity in his dressing room, you wouldn't believe them.

"Fuck, I was so close to grabbing you and dragging you right back in here when you gave me these," He digs your panties from his pocket, "You thought that was cute, huh? Tugging these off right in front of me like that?" You know he isn't expecting an answer, but you can't expect but to give him the smuggest nod you can while looking at him in the mirror, "You think you're so cute, don't you?"

The way he speaks with you, it's almost on the dot with every fantasy you have had. To feel like the perfect bittersweet brat just for him, if this is the reaction you will get then you plan to push his buttons more often. Every word that leaves him has you further hooked on his line and you will do anything just for him to keep whispering those things in your ear, for him to grab your face and make you meet his eyes.

"I wanna kiss again..." You give him your sweetest pout, doing your best to peer over your shoulder and trying to reach behind you to bring him closer, but he is having none of your little needinesses. Your hands are gathered easily in one of his big palms, pinned in front of you at the desk, "Mark, please~"

He gives you a shake of his head, his free hand coming up to grab your chin and keep you still for him, "Nuh-uh, look at you..." His thumb swipes at your upper lip, "Got blood all over you, babe..." You felt it and tasted it the moment you kissed him, but you couldn't care less, your tongue dragging over your upper lip to clean it up. And you didn't miss the wolfish look in his eyes, watching your tongue drag over that blood and smear it even more.

Before your tongue can retract back into your mouth, he is quick to lean forward and press his lips to yours so his tongue can pry its way into your mouth. You don't fight it either, this is exactly what you had wanted and you are getting it. His tongue tastes like mint and a hint of iron from his busted bottom lip, but it is all good to you, if you could you would dance your tongue with his until you were on the brink of asphyxiation.

But you know that isn't possible, not when he is already pulling away from the kiss in favor of leaving a trail of them down your tender neck. It tickles, but you take it like you're supposed to, only somewhat flinching when he finds the bruise he had already left. It feels like needles, burning under the playful tracing of his tongue over the bite marks in your flesh.

"Jerk..." You're silenced with a sharp spank, and you should be whining over it, but you've wanted this time and time again. You have no room to complain that it left your poor ass burning, not when it has you craving another. He likes your little resistance, how you give him something to dance around. As much as he enjoys the idea of you being his submissive little lamb, this little game you have going on is all the more interesting.

Without warning the bottom of your skirt is tugged up, your bare and wet pussy coming right into view, "Look at you, walking around with nothing under this... I bet you enjoyed that, look at how wet you are." Mark's hand is so hot on your ass, tugging it to pull your pussy nice and open for him to look at. You look so soft, so sweet, if he could he would take a nice bite out of you right now.

"Fuck, you think you can fit it?" You try to answer, you really do, but you can't stop focusing on his hand mocking you. The way it slowly circles your ass, the pad of his thumb barely grazing at your slit, "You want it, don't you?" You nod slowly while watching him through the mirror, how his abdominal muscles flex with every movement of his body, the sweat that sticks to his skin, not to mention the evident strain in his pants.

Everything feels hot, from the tip of your nose down to your toes, it's like you've been engulfed in hellfire... in a good way. Everything he does to you feels good, even if it's just locking eyes with you in the mirror, or readjusting your hips to take in every dip, curve, and roll on your pretty self. It doesn't matter what he does, and you know that the reason he has you so worked up is simply that it is him.

You are aware that the two of you are strapped for time, being here and like this is as unconventional as it can get. You know you can't be too loud, and you both can't take as long as you want, but you plan to make the most of it. If anything, you still have time to possibly exchange that dinner date for something else and you're sureMark wouldn't mind that, not with how you can feel his breath down your spine.

As much as you dreamed of your first encounter with him to be romantic, the moment you slipped off your panties and put them in his hand drew the line between a romantic night out and the potential that night you both won't be able to keep your hands to yourselves, "You're gonna watch me fuck you," He points at the mirror for you to look, not that you haven't been staring at yourselves through it this whole time, "I want you to see the slutty faces you make."

For a moment, you actually believed that he would finally fuck you, as foolish as that is, but rather than pulling off his own pants he is guiding you to sit on the vanity desk with your front showing in the mirror. The awkward position forces your pretty thighs open, giving you a look at just how ruined your pretty little cunny is, how your slick sticks to it and dribbles just a little onto the vanity you are sat on.

No words are exchanged between the both of you, his eyes are locked on your changing expression while yours are locked on his wandering hands. His fingers snake their way from your waist, gradually moving upward and under your shirt. His palms are rough and calloused, still wrapped in the gauze you had done prior to the fight, pulling at the sensitive skin of your torso. The fabric has the hairs on your neck standing up and when his large hands grope your tits through your bra you feel a familiar electric shock goes straight to your core.

"What're you making that face for?" You hadn't realized the way your face scrunched up in response to his hands, and the cocky smirk on his face only makes you all the more embarrassed, "Are you sensitive here...?" To test his intuition, his fingers push under your bra to feel at your bare tits, grinning at how soft they are and the way they fit so nicely in his palms.

You hate how it makes you feel, how every swipe of his thumb over your nipple has your hips bucking just a little, "M-Mark... mm- ah!" You're caught off guard by the mean pinch he gives your pert nipples, giving the sensitive buds an observant twist, watching your every reaction and every little twitch of those soft thighs. You look perfect, completely at his mercy and leaning back into him as his hands do what they please under your shirt, "Hah... y-you don't have to be so harsh..."

"No?" You shake your head in response, a cute little pout pulling at your bottom lip, "But I like how you react and look," One of his hands pull from beneath your shirt in favor of hiking up the bottom of your skirt to reveal your swollen and dripping pussy, "You seem to like it, too... making a mess all over yourself." He isn't wrong, you love it. You love the burn of your nipples with every painful twist, how your tits feel sore from his tight squeezes.

But simply touching them aren't enough for him, he wants to see them. You're already a pretty little thing, he doesn't doubt for a second your tits will only add to the list of things he likes about it. As well as to the list of things that turn him on, you being at the very top of that list.

You peer over your shoulder expectantly, eyes flicking from his down to his lips, you give him the only hint he needs to lean forward and slot his lips with yours. His tongue tastes just as good in your mouth as it did before, dancing teasingly and brush under your tongue. It's a wet, icky feeling but also one you wouldn't want to share with anyone but him. And with you so distracted by his tongue dancing with yours and tracing over your teeth, it gives him the perfect chance to do as he pleases.

One hand is swift with guiding your shirt up and over your tits, and it doesn't take much effort for his two fingers to get the clasp behind your back to snap open. The only obstacle being the straps that prevent him from completely taking the article of clothing off, but you're already on it, all without breaking the kiss you are sharing with him. While you work your arms out of the straps but also keeping your shirt on just in case you two have to make a run for it, Mark focuses his attention on your spread legs.

Opening just one of his eyes allows him to see the arousal that sticks to your cunny shimmers against the light of the room, all he has done was kiss you and play with your tits... you're a perverted girl, getting this wet over nothing, he bets you were thinking things that would leave even him a little shocked. Maybe later he will make it his mission to drag those fantasies out of you.

With the way you're situated on the vanity, feet planted on the desk as to give him the best view of your entire body in the mirror, it is easy for you to spread your legs impossibly wider for his hand that continues to slowly travel down your navel. The kiss breaks, only for you to little his jaw and neck with kisses, stopping right under his ear to begin sucking your own hickey into the sensitive skin.

Nothing could have prepared you for when his fingers finally met your throbbing clit, dragging over the neglected nerve, barely applying pressure with how he circles your clit and smears your arousal over your pussy, "You're a messy little thing, aren't you?" A pathetic hum of agreement passes your lips at his question, one you know he didn't expect you to answer. But he doesn't pay too much attention to that, not when he is dragging his fingers down between your folds to spread you open, "Fuck, you're so tight..."

Mark prods his middle finger at your not-yet-prepped entrance, watching how your walls suck his finger inside in desperation for some sort of relief. All this teasing and beating around the bush has your poor insides churning from the suspense. It's only one finger, but just as you expected that one finger feels a million times better than your two fingers. He knows how to curl them, to rub at the spongy patches inside of you, "Mm~! I-It feels good there..."

"Where?" He coos at your relaxed expression, "Here?" His finger rudely jabs at the spot he knows is making every muscle in your body go lax, to which you flash him a less than pleasant glare, "I'm just playing with you." His index finger is careful with how it slowly eases itself inside, pushing in with your middle fingers and getting you used to the stretch. It feels good, no discomfort in the slightest, and you can assume it's because of the way he continues to mess with that single spot that had your knees buckling.

His fingers push in as far as they can go just to mess with your walls, grinding and curling at the sensitive patches of nerves, only to remove both fingers entirely just to give your poor clit a few wet pats, "Ngh-Markiii, stop teasing it hurts..." He knows it does, he can see it in your twisted expression with every tap your clit receives, how you go from relaxing in his arms to flinching at the abuse.

But he can't help himself, not with how adorable you look bucking into his hand when he circles your clit, or your thighs twitching at the intrusion of his fingers. You look stunning, grabbing at his wrist when he is too rough, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. If it means seeing you continue to make such soft noises and to continue to breathe out his name like that, he'll keep doing what he has to do.

"If you don't want me teasing you, what do you want?" Oh, he can tell you weren't ready for that. It reads entirely in your flustered expression, and his fingers continuing to pump inside of you aren't doing anything to help... especially with the lewd squelching sounds your cunny just can't seem to stop making. It's humiliating, to say the least, how your pussy sucks his fingers inside desperately, the eroticism of watching his fingers disappear inside of you.

"M-Mark...: You don't even want to say all the things you want him to do to you, how do you tell him you've always wanted this? That night and night again you have touched yourself to the thought of him doing just about everything to you, from bouncing you in his lap, riding his face, bending you over, and having his way with you. You don't know where to start.

Mark can read it in your eyes that you have your words lodged in your throat, "If you don't tell me, this is all you're gonna get," He emphasizes his words with the pats of his fingers against your clit, "So be a good girl and speak up." You know he won't let you go until you give him exactly what he wants, the words are right on the tip of your tongue!

Your breath gets caught in your throat when his fingers slip out from your cunny, only to begin rubbing your clit back and forth, "I-I..." You squeak as he only seems to be rougher with you, purposely making you trip over your own words, "Mark~ fuck, fuck fuck-" Your fingers dig into his wrist, "I-I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna-" A strangled breath gets caught in your throat when he quickly pulls his fingers from your clit, "W-Wait, I was close,Mark!"

"Answer me and I'll let you cum."

His lips on your throat make it all the more difficult, but without the added pressure of his fingers abusing your poor cunny, you finally muster up the words to tell him, "I want you..." He gives you that look, the one that shows he expects more, "I want you inside me-"

"What do you want inside?" He coos, fingers brushing under your chin to bring your focus to him, "My fingers?" You shake your head with a subtle smile, "Hm... this?" He sticks out his tongue at you, only to earn himself another shake of your head. He feigns ignorance, pretending he has no idea what you could be possibly talking about.

Your sneaky fingers reach behind you, Mark didn't even notice because of how absorbed he was with your cute tits, cupping at the bulge in his pants, "This..." He didn't expect you to be so bold, not after how stubborn you were just being, but he likes the playful squeeze you give him, "Does that answer your question?" Your snooty little comment earns a sharp pinch to your clit.

"Yeah, it does," Through the mirror you can see him undoing the belt that holds up his pants, watching the cargo material fall around his thighs and revealing just how strained his aroused cock is against his briefs, "C'mon, get down and bend over the desk." You didn't expect him to be so quick to give you what you want, but deep down you think he still has something up his sleeve.

Without arguing, you climb down from the vanity as you were told, watching Mark in the mirror as you lean forward and put your weight on the desk. As much as you were watching him, he was also watching you. His eyes dragging down the curve of your back to your soaked pussy peaking from under the hem of your shirt, he has imagined this very scenario time and time again, and here you are right in front of him.

Somehow the real thing requires so much more thought than if it were only in his head, knowing whether you're okay, making sure you're not uncomfortable. No longer is it all just him and his dirty thoughts, he has to worry about your feelings too. And he is fine with that, but he never expected himself to feel like he has two tons on his shoulders by simply looking at you. It's one thing for you to be in his head bent over, but for you to be bent over actually in front of him? Well, let's just say his nerves aren't cooperating.

Maybe you noticed this, enough that briefly stand up from your previous position to meet his gaze, "I'm kinda nervous..." If he knows it isn't just him that's a little fearful of the unknown, there is a possibility it could bring back his confidence, "We can start slow and find our flow, right? that's how it's supposed to be." You're right, and he knows you are, maybe it was the thought that you had these high expectations that were making him nervous.

Little does he realize, as much as you want to be pretty enough and good enough for him, he wants to be just the same for you. But seeing the way you look at him, no sort of judgment or expectancy behind your eyes, giving him your signature smile, helps to melt all of that frustration and uncertainty away. You've always been good at doing that.

He isn't sure what came over him to cup your cheeks like that and pull you into a kiss, and sure the two of you knocked teeth from how urgent the kiss was at first, but the passion behind the kiss seemed to cast every sliver of doubt and second-guessing aside. All of your focus is on him, and his focus is on you in that very moment.

The electricity that surges through you with every push of your lips against his, tugging at his lip only for him to bite back and do the same to you. It's like you two found a middle ground, the kiss connecting you both in a way nothing else could, blindly guiding you two in the position you both need to feel comfortable. Somehow you finding yourself seated on the vanity desk and his hips between your spread thighs.

You break the kiss, lungs burning from holding your breath for as long as you could, eyes falling down between your spread legs, "Ah..." Your breath catches at the sight of him beginning to push inside, you didn't get a well enough look at how big he is, but the feeling alone is a little unnerving. You aren't even sure how much is in, but it feels like more than you truly think it is.

"Don't pay attention to that," His voice is hushed, grabbing your attention and making you pick your head back up, "Does it hurt?" To be honest, it doesn't, it's more like this full stretch that is only slightly discomforting. Something you weren't prepared for but believe you can handle. You shake your head, not wanting him to think he is doing something wrong, which he isn't.

His hair looks so soft, albeit messy because of the fight, but nonetheless still silky and you can't keep your fingers from combing into it, "I want another kiss," Your fingers tug the tie from his hair and watch the red locks fall to lay over his broad shoulders, "Unless you're too nervous to kiss me, hm?"

Your challenge ignites a fire within his chest, you sure know what things to say and when to get him riled up. And what you just said about him being too nervous? Oh, he isn't having it. Mark doesn't even need to speak for you to see the "game on" look in his eyes, and it doesn't make you any more shocked when his hand finds your throat and uses it to pull you forward.

The air is knocked from your lungs at the jerk of your body forward to meet him halfway, but you don't complain for a second, not when he gives you the confidence you had thought disappeared. It feels good to have that authoritative role back in him, for him to be taking back control with how he wants you and what he wants to do to you. Through the sloppy kiss that he has you locked in, you can feel your body being laid back on the vanity.

To your surprise, you have enough room to properly lay back, and with that Mark takes advantage of it. The desk perfectly supports your weight, allowing him the chance to grab your right leg and hoist it over his shoulder to create a more open angle for him to have you in. Immediately you can tell the difference in the feeling with this position, it pushes deeper at your walls rather than just rubbing past those spongy patches.

"Ngh... fuck, th-there it..." You can't form the right words to tell him how good it feels, even with the slow and controlled pace he has set for you, "Mark, I can take more. Please." You don't even try to hide the need in your tone, how it comes out as almost a whine rather than a polite little request. And he doesn't mind the demand, if you need more he is going to give it to you. After all, you're used to being daddy's little princess.

"You really think you can take more?" You nod your head, your hum of affirmation coming out as a moan, "Yeah? I don't think you can." His words contradict his actions, his back arching forward as he picks up the pace. No longer is the room echoing with nothing but moans and the obnoxiously wet sounds of your overwhelmed cunny, but the added volume of skin slapping skin makes what you both are doing here all the riskier.

His cock is ruthless, no matter the pace he uses you can feel every vein and the slight curve of his member, it feels too much even if he isn't giving you enough. The size itself is a problem, and he likes to use that to tease you; you're too small, you can't take it... it doesn't matter. If he finds a way to make you feel little and weak in comparison to him? He goes for it.

And you don't mind, you like the dominance, how he keeps you pinned down with one hand on your throat and the other pinning your left thigh down. You feel completely at his mercy where you lay, unable to do anything but take it, "Mark, fuck, fuck-"

"Shh," He warns you, "Don't forget where we are." And you haven't, the whole time you two have been doing this all you could do was worry over someone walking in or by or something, "Don't need your father finding out his little girl is getting her sloppy pussy stretched open... and it'll make it worse if he finds out I'm the one doing it." You know that, but you're a big girl, you don't need your father's permission to get laid!

Unfortunately, you keep that attitude too. Why should you have to keep quiet? You're having fun, that's no one's business but yours and Mark's. "B-But... but I like it-" You gasp when your right leg is brought down from your shoulder in favor of both knees being pinned to your shoulders, "Ah- too much, too much, too much~!"

Mark, as much as he loves your sexy moans and cutesy whimpers, he doesn't love the idea of either of you getting caught like this, and what better way to fix the noise problem than shoving the panties you kindly give him right in your mouth? And it's only better that the pink of your panties looks nice hanging from your glossy lips.

"That's what you get, babe..." He pants out each word and adds salt to the wound by flashing a cocky grin, "Bad girls who can't keep quiet when they're told get dirty panties in their mouth." If only he knew the things he was doing to you, the strikes to your core his cock cause, how his intimidating dominance over you has your insides turning, "But you don't need your voice to make you feel good, right? Look at you..."

It's ironic that he asks you to take a look at yourself, a mirror is just behind you and you can't see yourself from this angle. Luckily for you, your redhead is one step ahead to make sure you can really see how slutty you look right now with those panties shoved in your mouth. Mark takes your hips, wordlessly guiding you to turn around onto your stomach and plant your feet back on the ground.

You are forced to look yourself in the eyes, to see the little tears pricking the corners of your eyes, look at your swollen lips and your panties, and to make it all the more humiliating, Mark is standing right behind you. He is staring right at you, making sure you know he is there and watching you, and if that doesn't make you nervous... you aren't sure what does.

A hand comes down to grip your chin, fixing your head to look straight at the mirror and more specifically yourself, "Don't look away from that mirror, understood?" His voice is at least two octaves lower than before, rumbling in the pit of his chest and vibrating against your back. It shakes your core, but in the best way possible, tingles running up your spine and back down.

It isn't long before the warmth and fullness of his cock is sinking back inside of your gummy walls, making itself comfortable deep inside of you to the point his tip kisses gently at your cervix, "It's all the way in, y/n..." He whispers into your ear, "You ready? You think you can take all of it?" The only right answer is to nod your head, humming desperately and letting him know you're ready, you want it. And who is he to deny that? His pretty girl wants her cunny stretched, why shouldn't he give in and let her have it just how she wants?

Unlike before he doesn't let you prepare yourself, oh no, the pace went from zero all the way to one hundred in exactly one second. It was like being plowed into, the force of his hips bouncing you off and into the desk. And if you looked horrible and worn out before, you looked twice as bad now. Your sparkly eyes rolling back to make way for the oncoming flow of tears, your entire body trembling with his thrusts.

"Mmph~! Nngh-" Even through the panties he can hear you, muffled and incoherent but still like music to his ears. You take him so well, struggling maybe, but you don't complain for a second about him being too big... and it probably is because your panties are down your throat. But if you really did need him to stop, he is sure you would find another way.

"Feels good, right?" He can't tell if you're nodding or that's just your head moving in sync with his forceful jerks, "Having this little pussy nice and filled... bet you couldn't wait for this the entire match, right?" If you were able to answer, you would be screaming yes from the hills! But instead, you can only stare him in the eyes through the mirror, tears and all, and he can see just how drunk you are on his cock. A pretty whore for him to fuck.

If he had known you were such a perverted slut, so needy to have a dick train you, he would have grabbed you by your cheeky yoga leggings and made you ride his dick while he did bench presses. And seeing you like this? You would have done it without question.

"You're getting all tense, y/n..." His eyes trail down to watch himself disappearing inside of you, and the ripple of your ass smacking his hips, "You gonna cum? This pretty cunt gonna make a mess for me?" You're more than just close to cumming, it's like a fire in the pits of your core, and every pass of his member inside of you has your thighs jumping and twitching, "Yeah, that's it, babe."

Oh, you wish he wouldn't call you that, the things it does to you... and the overwhelming pleasure of his tip plunging into your poor cervix? You feel like you're on the verge of passing out, "Don't look away," He keeps your head straight and makes you look straight ahead at yourself, "Watch yourself cum." You aren't even sure if you have it in you to hold it in long enough to properly look at yourself, let alone the energy to keep your head up.

Your eyes are locked on the mirror, your breath fogging it up with the forceful pants your lungs push out. If you were wearing makeup, you're sure it would be leaving streaks down your cheeks from the tears. They aren't tears of pain, not even close, but rather ones of overstimulation. You aren't sure how much longer you can last, but you don't have time to dwell over it, not when you watch the hand not pinning your waist to the vanity snakes down between your legs.

If the panties weren't in your mouth, you would be protesting and begging him not to. You aren't sure you could handle it! His cock is already tearing your poor cunny in half, his fingers will surely break you. But you can only watch in fear, and anxiously wait for his fingers to meet your throbbing pearl between your legs.

"Mmph~! Mm-" Your nails dig into the desk and back arches to try and get away from his fingers, but Mark doesn't give up, "Mm! Mmm~!" He knows you're protesting, he knows it's too much for your sensitive little cunny. But he wants to see you come undone, to see more of your pretty tears and those sparkly eyes roll back in absolute bliss. And with the vicious pace his fingers inflict on your burning clit, you aren't far from that edge.

"That's it, babe... that's it, I wanna taste this pussy when finish. I bet you taste so sweet, just as sweet as you look right now..." And he isn't lying, you've never looked as stunning as you do right now. No angel could compare to you, nothing. The sweat coating your skin and your juices tainting the apex of your thighs, "I got you, baby-"

He doesn't have the chance to finish his pep talk before he feels you come undone beneath him, your squeals and whimpers completely muffled by your stuffed mouth. Your poor nerves going off of the wall, thighs jumping and nails digging at the wood of the vanity, and your pussy squirting all over his cock and onto your thighs. You're embarrassed by the mess, but to Mark? It is the biggest ego stroker he could have encountered... he got you to squirt.

"Fuck, good girl, good fucking girl..." Mark slows the thrusts, as much as he wants to cum he can see how worn out you are, "Take a deep breath, princess. Just like that," You try your best to do as he asks, but it's so difficult with how quick your climax comes and the panties being in your mouth. You put all of your weight on the vanity, fingers clawing at it as if it could help ease the electricity shooting through every inch of you.

Mark sees you and he thinks he may have been too rough, "Shh, c'mere." The panties are taken from your mouth, saliva soaked into the thin fabric and sticking to your chin, "You okay?" Fingers, although rough and calloused, gently brush over your cheek to gather your tears, he worries he may have forgotten himself somewhere and been too hard on you.

And your expression, weak and twisted, for a moment makes him feel horrible. What had he done? This was his first time having sex with you, something he has wanted for so long, and he just screwed it up. His eyes watched your every move, lips opening to say something and hesitating for a minute, you were probably pissed at him.

"Y-You..." Little tears prick at your eyes and he panics, "You didn't even cum inside of me, was I not doing enough?" For a moment, silence befalls the both of you other than your pathetic little sniffles. Were you really... that worried over him finishing? Is that really what has you on the verge of crying? If he could, he would eat you up right where you stand in front of him, you're too cute.

Two hands cup your swollen cheeks and bring your face close, "You want me to cum inside of you? That's what you worked up?" You nod your head all while leaning into his hands, "You're so cute, but I think you need to take a break, babe. You're shaking." He can tell you're teetering right at the edge of too much, he fears if he does anymore he may actually hurt you.

"But I want..." He shakes his head and kisses the tip of your nose, "Then... Then I'll suck it off." You won't let up so easily, he just gave you the best climax of your life, and if he thinks you'll let him walk out of this room with blue balls he is more than just wrong.

Mark wants to argue, he knows you should clean yourself up and you both should get out of here. He isn't even sure what time it is or how long it has been, the fights could very well be over and neither of you has any clue. But what harm can you getting on your knees do? Maybe give you a sore throat, but he is sure with how loud you were, muffled or not, you are already on the train to a strained voice.

"Make it quick, I still wanna take you to dinner." Even after all of this, somehow taking you to dinner may just be the highlight of the night. Sex is great, but for Mark Markit is the intimate, quiet moments that mean the world to him. All those times you would open early or stay late with him, he cherished those memories. Unlike him, you could not care less about dinner or memorable moments or anything, you're far more focused on what his cum might taste like. You've thought of it a million times, and finally, you will be able to know.

You ease yourself onto your knees in front of him, Mark fixing his pants out of your way and leaning back against the desk as he watches you make yourself comfortable. If he thought you looked beautiful lying underneath him with your knees by your ears, he isn't sure what to call you on your knees. Your gorgeous eyes looking at him through those lashes of yours, tongue dragging out and over your lips.

"Don't hurt yourself, pretty girl... I saw you struggling before when I started picking up the pace." You don't like being talked down to, but you know that's just him trying to get you worked up and you won't let him have that satisfaction.

All of your weight is put onto your knees as you lean forward, the tip of your warm tongue licking your own cum from his cock, "Be nice to me or I'll use my teeth." He can't argue with that, and he knows you will do it. Your tongue drags over the veins, tracing them carefully, breath hot and fanning over his ready-to-burst member. If he had it his way, he would grab your pretty face and fuck this squishy mouth of yours, but he already pushed it and he wants you to go at your pace now.

"Fuck, that's good... tap it on your tongue for me," You stick out your tongue and do as he says, "Shiiiit, you look so hot right now." You know you do, if anyone could see the hearts in Mark's eyes, it's you... and those hearts are practically jumping out while he watches you rubbing your tongue over his messy dick, doing everything but putting it in your mouth, "C'mon, y/n... please."

"You want me to put it in my mouth?" You feign innocence while looking up at him, giving him puppy eyes and suckling at his tip. Mark nods breathlessly, even so much as adding an extra, needy please to really show you how much he wants it. He was so kind to give you exactly what you want, it would mean not to do the same for him!

Making yourself comfortable, you open your mouth wide enough to fit his tip inside, tasting that sweetness of your juices on your tongue. Is this what heaven feels like? For him to be guiding your mouth on his dick, cooing words of praise every time you successfully ease the tip in your throat without hurting yourself or choking too much.

The two of you see, hear, and know nothing but each other at this moment. Eyes locked together and no sound other than him breathing shakily and the rare pass of your name on his tongue, mixed in with the disgusting wet sounds of your throat stretching over him. You two wouldn't have been able to pick up on the footsteps coming down the hall, or the call of two very familiar names who just so happen to be missing at the same time.

And neither of you would have been prepared for the door to open, let alone, for the one person both of you feared catching you to be standing in the doorway in shock, horror... and Mark locked eyes for just a second, a second that allowed to see the seven layers of hell in your father's eyes, before the door slammed shut and feet moved down the hall faster than you could pull off of Mark's cock.

"I... I think we should get out of here before he comes back."

#nct dream #kpop smut #nct #nct haechan #haechan hard hours #nct imagines #kpop #haechan #nct dream smut #nct smut #mark lee smut #mark lee #mark smut #mark lee hard hours #nct dream masterlist #nct masterlist #nct 127 #czennie

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riordanness · 4 months

Text

nightmare dressed like a daydream — [w.wonka]

wordcount: 1.1K

warnings: nightmares and reader has ptsd

requested: no (but feel free to <3)

As usual, the nightmares hit as soon as I close my eyes.

Memories of the life I used to live, the people who used to control my every waking minute. The ache of my bones, the pounding of my head, the intense loneliness that would try to consume me.

Will had been the light shining through the darkness of my life, but in my dreams, he never came back for me.

I was left stranded in Mrs Scrubbit’s chicken coop, or left to scrub and scrub the dirt from a pile of clothes that never ended.

I would often wake in a cold sweat, or screaming, or crying, or sometimes all of them at once. My hands would be clenched so tightly around the sheets that my knuckles would be white. My breathing would be heavy, and I’d be near impossible to calm down.

Except for when Willy Wonka was there. Because that boy was a miracle.

Just his touch, and a few gentle words would slow my heart rate. My breathing would calm, and I would focus on reality again.

Reality was being safe. It was being with Willy, helping him make his astounding chocolates. Reality was being happy every day. Being free everyday. Reality was falling in love with Willy Wonka.

Tonight, my dreams were much the same. I was small, and alone, and the darkness and freezing cold of the chicken coop were smothering me. The awful smell filled my nose, I was chilled to the bone, and I had almost given up.

But just at the moment when Willy was supposed to show up and rescue me, whisk me away to safety and to freedom, he didn’t come. He didn’t show up at all.

He left me there to be trapped forever.

I wake with a start, a strangled cry choking out of me. Tears are still fresh on my cheeks, and my chest heaves with sobs.

Barely a moment passes before my bedroom door opens. Willy rushes through, and drops to his knees on the floor beside my bed.

“Hey, hey,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”

He reaches for me, pulling me close to his chest. I cry into his shirt, fists clutching at the material.

“You… I was… alone,” I cry, utterly distraught. You’d think, after having the same nightmare every night for weeks now, that I’d be a little less sensitive to it, but it was so painful every time. Painful in a way I just couldn’t describe properly.

The thought of not having Willy in my life, this boy who now meant the entire world to me, this boy who had rescued me from my terrible life and set me free, that realisation of him leaving me there hurt like nothing else.

Waking up to realise it was just a dream, and that Willy would never do that, was so relieving I just cried even more.

But here, wrapped in his arms, I knew I was safe. I knew I didn’t need to worry about being alone anymore. Because I wasn’t. I had Willy Wonka by my side, and I probably always will.

“I would never leave you,” Willy whispers into my hair, as his fingers play with a strand of it.

I wonder if maybe he can read my thoughts. He always seems to know the exact right thing to say to make me feel better, to ease my worries and anxieties and to calm me right down.

“You never need to worry about being alone again.”

His words are like a sip of hot chocolate, warm and comforting, spreading that happy feeling all over me.

“Hey,” Willy says in a hushed voice. “Can you let me go for a second, sweetheart?”

I realise how tightly I’m clutching onto him, and I quickly let him go. “Sorry,” I say, brushing my tears away with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry.”

Willy shakes his head. “No you don’t need to be sorry. It’s not your fault you had to experience all of that. It’s perfectly natural to have nightmares about it.”

He gets to his feet. “I’m going to just grab my suitcase, and I’m going to make you something.”

I ease myself back onto my pillows, trying to hold onto the feeling of relaxation I feel while in Willy’s arms a little longer. “Okay.”

He disappears, and quickly returns with his case, which he sets on my desk. He sits down, rummages for a while, and soon enough, comes back over to me with two items. A mug, and a small piece of chocolate.

Willy sits gingerly on the edge of my bed. “Hot chocolate,” he says, handing me the mug, “for obvious reasons.”

“Hot chocolate is the world's best beverage invention,” I quote him, a small smile playing around my mouth.

Willy nods, and grins, and holds out his palm. On it lies a little circular chocolate, silvery blue in colour. Right in the middle is a little symbol of a… snake? No, two snakes, intertwined around a little stick.

A caduceus, I think. The ancient Greek symbol of medicine.

I pick up the chocolate, holding it carefully between my fingers. “What is it?”

Willy shrugs. “Try it and see.”

I pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly. Instantly, I feel a strange but delicious feeling crawling all over me,

I swallow, and the warm feeling only spreads further. Everything inside of me seems to relax, like melted chocolate and a smile has been injected into all my muscles and nerves.

“What is this?” I ask, looking up at him. For the first time since he came in, I really notice how tired he looks. His eyes are slightly glazed-over, his curls are unkempt and messily splayed across his forehead. His shirt is rumpled, but his smile is still as bright as it always is.

“It’s… uh, just something I made for you.” He looks away as he answers.

I laugh lightly. “Well, of course. But what is it?”

My best friend glances back at me. “Love,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s love.”

I have no idea why or how, but just his words fill me with more warmth and joy than any amount of chocolate ever could.

“I love you,” Willy says.

“I love you too,” I admit slowly, my eyes suddenly too shy to look at him. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

He smiles, and I’m sure it’s brighter than the sun itself. “I’m glad.” He leans forward and presses his mouth to mine, and I swear, sugary sweets couldn’t compare at all.

#wonka #willy wonka #wonka x reader #willy wonka x reader #wonka 2023 #willy wonka movie #wonka movie #wonka movie 2023 #timothee chalamet #timothee chalamet x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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fineprintedsunsets · 5 months

Text

Кролик; Bunny

ೃ⁀➷ It's the dreaded time of month and all you want to do is curl up in bed. Your soldat has other plans. ೃ⁀➷ p in v sex. dirty talk. soldat!bucky. mentions of blood. period sex. (soldat not giving a fuck). breeding kink. mentions of pads/pain. fingering. possible typos. ೃ⁀➷ 1.2k

i hate my period so much, writing about this brute helps me cope🧸

seb masterlist

Oh no. No. No. Not today. Not now.

Fuck, You hate mother nature.

The sheets of your bed are stained a red hue. Little spots and specks paint the white fabric and your thighs are sticky with blood.

Your fucking period. If you had enough energy you could just slam a fist into the wall, broken bones be damned.

You whimpered and whined all the way to the shower, stomach aching, legs weak. You made sure to tear off the sheets and add them to the heaping pile of laundry in your room.

As soon as you stripped yourself of your clothes and felt the steaming water hit your skin, all was forgiven. The sound of water hitting the cheap chipped tile was so relaxing you would give everything you had to be in this state forever.

Unfortunately, a girl has a water bill.

ღ

You changed your clothes, put on low-cut shorts, and bought a shit ton of pads. It was only the first day and your flow was already heavy.

The cramps were bearable, but you could tell they were going to get a whole lot worse. Which led to your current state, in bed, lights turned off, head against a cold pillow, and blinds drawn.

An unbreakable fortress of cold pillows and snakes you managed to hoard in anticipation for this day's arrival.

You couldn’t turn on the tv, the light was harsh and irritating. So you just sat in darkness, eating Resses and groaning in pain.

Your only thought was “when would he arrive"?

ღ

“Кролик” (Bunny) a heavy voice woke you from your sleep. A familiar musk of gunpowder and him filled your head.

“You're bleeding.” He says from the shadows. You find your fingers gripping your blankets in both anticipation and fear. Your breath hitches.

He smells it, smells you.

“You need to be bred.”

Fuck.

The Winter Soldier, soldat, in his six-foot-tall frame, rounds the side of your bed. The harsh fabric of his suit, made to withstand all kinds of obstacles was now in front of your vision.

The soldat didn’t bother to take his combat boots off before sliding into bed with you. He kneeled on the mattress, denting it.

You waited in anticipation, legs slightly parted, breath coming in slow gasps as heat filled your entire body.

“Remove your shorts. Or is it too painful?” In a way, he’s mocking you, a way of saying you will always need his help. If you weren’t drunk off him right now, you’d recoil. Sober you would not have heat pooling in her core right now.

“Hurts- Soldat. Please take them off.” You wiggled your hips to emphasize. The soldats mask covers his face, muffling the groan he made when sliding the fabric off your legs.

Your body jolted when cold metal fingers met your clothed core. You tried your best to hold in the moan you held in your throat.

“Shh…quiet, кролик” You know there’s blood on your panties, you know the soldat does too.

Except, he doesn't seem to give a shit. His fingers prod at your entrance before removing your panties entirely, along with the pad stuck to them.

The soldat looks at your cunt, the mask hiding any real facial expression. You shiver from the cold air hitting your exposed folds.

He takes two metal fingers and slides them through your folds, gathering both blood and slick. The soldat purrs as you whine. “Relax -Going to hurt, stay still.”

You do as you are told, unable to stop the soldat as he places a flesh hand against your stomach, while two metal digits slide into your cunt.

"Beautiful, sweetheart.” The Soldat hums, pushing down just a little on your tummy as the digits slowly slide in and out of you. The pain eases at whatever he’s doing to you, and pleasure becomes more prominent.

You can hear the sound of your slick as he fingers you, your back arching off the bed as he picks up the pace, adding more pressure to your stomach. “Good, кролик. Right there.”

“Doing so well for your soldat. -think you can cum for him? Hmm?”

Fuck. The edge is so fucking close and your itching to barrel over it. The soldier can feel your cunt squeezing his fingers and can see the look in your eyes as you're about to come.

His metal digits speed up, going at a pace that is sure to push you over the edge. He releases his flesh hand from your stomach to pinch your aching clit.

It’s over from there. “Soldat! Soldat- fuck ” you cry out, heart pumping and legs shaking as he works you through it, pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“So good for your soldat. Look so pretty when you come for him, so beautiful.” The soldat slides his fingers out of you, wiping your juices on his pant leg.

The soldier undoes his belt buckle, sliding off the weapon-studded pants and throwing them into the darkness of the bedroom. His cock is throbbing, angry, and red.

“Ready to be bred, Кролик? Take all you're given?” His boxers are next, his metal hand wraps around the waistband. The fabric is torn from his body in one snap.

Your legs shake and your hips squirm as he lines his cock up with your entrance, his body crowding over you, balancing himself with a hand on the headboard. “You're so wet. I bet I’d just…”

His cock nudges your fold, “-Slide right in.” The pain hits you immediately as the soldat bottoms out. You can hear him curse in Russian under the mask, as he rests his head on your shoulder.

Skin meets skin as he gives time for you to adjust to his size. You’ve taken him many times before, but it’s different on your cycle.

It’s like your womb opens up a little more for him.

“So good, sweetheart.” He moans, sliding out to just half of his length before snapping his hips to you. You can feel everything. Every throbbing vein on his cock, every breath he groans through his mask.

The Soldat always has a primal urge when you're bleeding, he needs to come inside you, needs to breed your cunt.

He wants to mark you as his.

“Soldat-" you moan, feeling his cock slide out another couple of inches, until he’s balls deep again, kissing your cervix with the tip of his cock.

The entire bed shakes with the force of the soldat fucking you, and he fucks you hard. He’s so needy, desperate to fill you up with his seed. His moans and groans do not go unheard as his flesh hand presses on your stomach.

“Watch me fuck you, Кролик. See me sliding in and out?” All you can do is nod your head, words do not come easily.

Winter Soldier presses that hand on your tummy, pushing down as he stills, balls pressed to your skin as his cock twitches inside of you. “Feel me in your guts."

A few more thrusts has you clamping down on his cock, and when the soldier feels it, he goes fucking feral.

“Milk your Soldat's cock while he fills up your pretty pussy.” The soldier does exactly as he promises, shooting rope after rope of cum inside you.

Later, he flips you on your back so your pressed to his muscled chest, cock stuffing you full, keeping his load inside you. The Soldat mutters something like, “helps with the pain.”

And damn him, he’s right.

#fanfic #masterlist #oneshot #marvel #smut #buckbarnes #bucky barns fanfiction #bucky x reader #buckybarnessmut #winter solider smut #fluff #the winter soldier #wintersoldier #winter soldier smut #period fic #buckybarnesperiodfic

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loganlermanstanaccount · 9 months

Text

Rigor Mortis (part 7)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 6, Part 8

summary: You spend some time with Miguel.

warnings: smut. f receiving oral, fingering, grinding, switchy behaviour from both sides, angst. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: this chapter beat my ass icl

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.3k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all-consuming grief,

It’s going to be a warm night. It's ushered in by the kind of dawn that bleeds red and gold, tawny and autumnal in the waning light. Like the washy colours of a Renoir, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing the thing he swore black-and-blue he wouldn’t. Reminiscing and romanticising; for the first time in a while, Miguel is able to see the sun set, legs splayed on the brick of his front steps.

Sitting by worn metal railing, he’s still in his work clothes. He chucked his rucksack on the step above, leaning long legs onto the ones below. They don’t ache as much as they used to, well-trained by a couple months of running and spending more time in the gym. There’s a shake in the fridge, labelled ‘Tuesday, PM’ that he’ll gulp down before bed, and one labelled ‘Wednesday, AM’ that he’ll take before setting off in the morning. In the morning, with cloudy skies and street cars to keep him company. There’s too much pollution, light or otherwise, for him to see some stars. He hasn’t seen stars in a while, now.

Long days seem to have turned into just days somewhere along the way. He can’t quite pinpoint when, and doesn’t really care to, but he thinks his brother would call it “progress”. There’s a grimace on his face as he thinks about it; a word that tastes like mud and feels like swirling cement in his mouth. It’s all bullshit, really. Gabi’s paltry attempt at therapising him, one which he would usually nip in the bud - taking metaphorical shears to slash at weeds and dense conversation. Catch-up calls about how he feels, how he’s doing – when he’s fine, he always is – as if Gabi is waiting for a shoe to drop.

He’s waiting for Miguel to have an epiphany, a breakdown the size of a collapsing star. It’s not coming, he keeps telling his brother, and the sooner the younger O’Hara realises – without the wide eyes and the pity – the better for the both of them. After all, Gabriel is his baby brother, and he’s spent his whole life worrying on his behalf: playing hide-and-seek in little closets and putting back together broken toys. Trying to drown out the sound of shouting and broken plates. They’re too old for all that, the worrying and gulping back tears, walking its well-travelled paths – and it doesn’t feel right that Gabi should do the same for him.

He sighs, deep and heavy and rolling down that quiet street. After what feels like forever, he’s tempted to lie down, to rest his head on the stone, close his eyes and think of something else. Of someone else - lots of someones, at this point in the day. He’s not the weepy type, but he is tired; shaking off the wear and tear, and fighting off sleep.

Then he sees it; a figure walking towards him, all sandals and khaki shorts and smiles. Mr Estevez, donned in his year-round attire of a polo shirt, a little tight around the middle, and cargos cut off below the knee – finally appropriate, considering the weather. He’s strolling closer like he’s got all the time in the world. If Miguel wasn’t so exhausted; the bone-deep kind, the kind that seeps into skin and lines a casket; he would’ve been annoyed. Instead, he hisses, furrows quickly deepening.

“Buenas, Miguelito!” Mr Estevez beams, scratching at scraggly facial hair.

Miguel frowns, but greets him nonetheless: that politeness drilled into him during childhood rearing its head.

“Buenas tardes, tío.” He grits his teeth as he gets up from his seat, creaky joints and all.

His landlord, the building’s handyman, owner of half a dozen shops all over the city, and Miguel’s uncle-that’s-not-really-his-uncle; Mr Estevez wears many hats, staying bright and informal regardless. He’s known the older man since he was 6, so he can’t be too disappointed; his tío has been late for weddings, funerals, and his little boy’s birth – it’s not much of a surprise that he’d be late now, too. Miguel stretches out a rough palm, and the man stops just shy of his hand, completely ignoring it. Before he knows it, Miguelito is engulfed in a great big bear hug, with wet kisses pressed to the apples of his cheeks. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, as usual, so they hang limply; arms flailing to his sides like a t-rex.

They separate, and he coughs at the great big hand that slaps his back. Grumbling, he walks up to the door, bag over his back, and stands expectantly. Mr Estevez doesn’t follow, instead dusting himself down to sit on the steps.

“I just need to get into the building.” Miguel starts. “Forgot my keys, and I've been here for hours. M’tired, and I–”

“Let’s sit, Miguel.” He scoots over, making space. “Look at the stars.”

It’s clear the older man isn’t moving. Begrudgingly, he obliges. “We’re in the middle of the city. You only see “stars” in the river – beer bottles and tinned crap reflecting the lights.”

“Language.” He gets a sharp nudge to his ribs.

“Discúlpame, tío.”

They stew for a moment, bathing in the silence that follows. The man besides him is the first to speak.

“I spoke to your mother.”

He’s scoffing and moving to get up, before feeling a firm hand on his shoulder.

“She’s worried, Miguel. Says you haven’t called in a while.”

“She hasn’t called me either."

“She’s stubborn.” The man besides him chuckles, bringing gentle eyes to meet his own. "Pig-headed. Remind you of someone?"

Miguel rolls his eyes, he just can't help it.

"She’s also the one that moved back home, so either way–”

"You know it's all been hard on her."

" –on her? It's been hard for her, surrounded by family, after she abandoned me? A-After…" His voice gets dangerously hoarse, threatening to crack under the weight of those words.

He can't stand the pitiful look sent his way: brows drawn, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Sorry. It's… It's nothing. I'm fine. Just fine."

"I didn't ask if you were fine, Miguel."

–even though you're definitely not okay. That part is left unsaid, spat onto the pavement like bitter backwash.

Mr Estévez sighs, ruffling a hand through Miguel's hair. It makes him hiss and dart away from the hand, pouting like he's a little kid again. He doesn't like it; the way he feels like all this life he's lived has been for naught. Trials and tribulations, and yet he doesn't feel that ache of growth; still stuck in the shoes of an awkward teenager.

"You think too much, Miguelito. Always have." He smiles, the kind that deepens the wrinkles around his mouth. It twists Miguel into knots, mouth dry as he tries to untangle himself from that feeling. "I'm worried about you, kid."

He sniffs, eyes trained towards the pavement. There it is again, worry; complicating and unravelling what was meant to be just another day.

"It's today, isn't it?"

All Miguel does is nod, shakily. It's been 2 years since his heart was ripped out of his chest. It heaves now, an erratic rise and fall he’s doing his best to control. Breathe, deeply and calmly; try not to think about his little girl in that hospital bed, and those blank eyes staring back.

“M’fine.” It comes out more desperate than he intends it, and he curses under his breath. If Mr Estevez hears the crude language, he doesn’t react.

Miguel is tense, hunched over the bag on his lap and curled into himself like prey – spitting and prickly and clearly uncomfortable. He’s never been the weepy kind, but the older man can’t help but think it’s a shame; so much love, and nowhere to keep it but inside. Miguel's bottled it up; the memories of precious Gabriella, all that warmth she brought out in her father; and he's turned them to poison pills to keep himself sick.

Miguel would never admit it, of course. He’s too stubborn. Pig-headed.

His tío sighs, moving to get up. He groans, in that dramatic sort of way he knows Miguel can’t stand, but still, there's a rush to help him up. Producing the door keys with a flourish, he pulls from the depths of cargo pockets, and unlocks the main door. Ushering in the younger man, who has grown so tall he needs to duck as he climbs the narrow stairs, there’s a finger prodded into the back of that cotton button-up.

“Miguel?” He starts, revving up a conversation he’s been meaning to have for a while now.

“Hmm?”

They both wait by the entrance of the apartment. The keys jingle in Mr Estevez’s hand.

“If I open the door, will I find out that you’ve driven away another one of my tenants?”

Conveniently, there seems to be a rather interesting spot in the hardwood that Miguel pokes with a dress shoe.

“...depends on your definition of 'driven out', tío.”

“That’s the third one this year! Not even 2 months– I knew there was something up. Not a single one of those little smiley faces to my messages, and–"

“I’ll make up for his side of the rent, you know I will.”

“I don’t like it. You should be saving up, to go get a house and settle down somewhere."

“I like living here, and I’ve said multiple times I’d pay the extra to live alone–”

“And then what? You rot in your room for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t– rot feels a little–”

“Nonsense. You’re lonely, Miguelito. If you don’t like it, you move out.”

They both know he won’t. It’s not really an option; the apartment is affordable and he likes living so close to his old neighbourhood, his old haunts. It’s like he’s tethered to that place with a bungee cord wrapped under his ribs, always snapping back.

“No promises, tío.”

“Doesn’t matter, Miguelito.” He sighs, scratching at stubble. “It’s been hard to find other tenants, with half the neighbourhood drying up. But as soon as I do–”

He points an accusatory finger at Miguel, and the sentence is finished for him.

“...best behaviour, I know.”

“Best behaviour.” Mr Estevez repeats, and starts to fumble with the keys. He throws a little comment over his shoulder. “I liked your lady friend, ages ago… the scary one, with the blue hair. She was–”

“Xina’s not scary, when you get to know her.”

“She was funny. Very pretty. Always paid rent on time, gave me food when I came to fix the heating…”

“It's out again, by the way.” Miguel chews his lip, with a strange expression. “And yeah, she was.”

The door swings open. Mr Estevez doesn’t let him off the hook, though, engulfing him in a warm hug. This time, in the doorway of his apartment, eyes screwed shut; he doesn’t try to wriggle out of it, melting into his tío’s arms. It feels different now that he’s not a kid: angry and hurting with a different sort of ache, but he leans into it, all the same.

~~~

There's a pressure released from the apartment, lately. Miguel feels… well, first of all, he feels ; thinks with his heart and not his head, sometimes. It's lighter, coming home with that weight on his shoulders and with someone there to distract him from it. Living life, he thinks, for the first time in a while. Vivid and vibrant and awake ; relishing the autumnal weather. It's always been his favourite season, despite how childish he thinks having a favourite season is; something you had asked him on a whim one morning.

Normally, he wouldn't entertain it, and with all the shit Pete spews, sometimes, he's had plenty of practice ignoring it. A well-timed dirty look, and then he'd get his head down and work; occupy himself with something less frivolous. But when you say it, with half a piece of toast sticking out of your mouth, it doesn't feel like a chore to answer. It doesn't feel like a stupid question, and he finds his face growing warm at the thought of you caring about these little things – wanting to know him , however that comes.

And so, his answer is Autumn. It's a little stilted; but catching him off guard after a run will do that to him. It's purely practical , he says, eyes tracing the slopes of your body in that shirt and shorts that stops at your thighs; high enough that he feels like a perv for looking. Autumn has temperate, even weather. Perfect for sweaters and hoodies. Warm enough that you don't need a jacket. Just right. You snort, nudging him. Bullshit, Mig. You flutter your eyelashes mockingly, your tone light. You just think it's the prettiest.

And he hums, catching you off guard. You're both drawn towards that little window over the sink, the one that overlooks a fire escape and the street. He's had that view for three years, now. Sleeves always rolled to his elbows as he does his washing up, but never quite looking. The street just below is framed in its windowpane, quite the pretty picture. Crisp leaves scattered on the sidewalk, carpeted in red and honeyed amber. And he can feel it from the other side of the glass; smell it, touch it, taste it. Autumn: hot chocolate and giggles, the crunch of leaves underfoot, and cupping tiny palms to warm them up. Sunsets seen for the first time, watched through bus windows on the way back from school – he misses those the most.

"You don't think it's beautiful?" You say, leaning your head towards the half-open window.

You don't notice, but he looks over to you, swallowing roughly. He says it with a small voice.

"I…I do."

You're darting to the bathroom not too long after, breaking the spell. Frustrated, he resists the urge to curl up into a ball and scream into his palms. He's got what he wanted; a good fuck, a pretty face, a warm smile. Friends, at the most, who happen to get the other off after a long day. A welcome distraction, at the least. He's got what his body has been telling him he needs for the past few months. It makes him feel weird, so oddly settled; but, all things considered…

Miguel is doing okay.

“...and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I swear , I left him…o-on read and he won’t stop texting me.”

Really, actually; he’s doing fine.

“It feels weird– mmffuck– but I can’t ignore him any longer.”

Maybe even… good. Better than okay.

“I still have a bunch of my stuff over there. At least half of it is clothes and books, a-and I’ve put it off for as long as I can…”

He hums in response, pulling quiet curses from you, above. Pressing the flat of his tongue onto your clit, your hips jump up and he purrs ; rearing up to dive even deeper into your pussy. Too quick for him, you catch on, hand in his hair to pull him up.

Sitting up on your haunches, he rests his head on your bare thigh – licking the taste of you off of his lips.

You tilt your head, looking at him with those eyes he can’t help but marvel at. A beat passes.

“...so?” You start, expectantly. “Will you help me or not?”

His response comes in the form of teeth nipping at pillowy skin. You yelp, and swat him away whilst he chuckles.

“I’m serious , Mig. It’s too much to pick up by myself. And you’re the only person I know with a car…”

“ Ouch, hermosa. ” He frowns as you peter off. “Is that the only reason you’re fucking me? For my car?”

“If I say it’s because of your sparkling personality, will you help me?”

For a moment, it seems like he’s got his brows pressed together like he’s seriously considering it, but it ends up being just smoke and mirrors. He’s pretending , biding his time to hook a hand under your legs and force you to lie down onto the bed. Your head hits the covers with a gentle thump as he hikes up the lip of that big tee even further; squeezing your thighs around his head like earmuffs.

It’s when he makes eye-contact, tongue circling your hole, that you realised you’re fucked. Up until now, he’s been toying with you – playing with his food, so to speak – lazily swirling his tongue around your clit and pressing buttons to see exactly where to push. And you'd welcomed it, a hand in his hair as you talked about your day – which he'd asked for, of course.

Now, he's insatiable, eating you out like a man starved; all tongue and wet kisses to your swollen bud. You're slightly raised up on his shoulders, clamping around his tongue as he fucks into you fervently. Big palms spread you wider, and he hums into it, content.

"So pretty ," He sets you down, pupils blown as he studies the way your back arches and the way your legs shudder in the sheets. He slides upwards, sitting next to you, tracing a hand across the gentle curve of stomach that peeks out from your big t-shirt.

Still coming down from your high, you're only just able to register it: he looks mesmerised, a dopey smile plastered on his face.

"What?" You scoff when a moment passes, and his hand inches closer towards your lower lips.

"M'just looking." He shrugs, with a little smile on his face. "I'm not allowed to look?"

You scoff, but you're still shaky so it comes out a little more pathetic than you intend. Nevertheless, you start to sit up but he stops you with a gentle hand at your chest.

"Call him." He says, pressing two fingers to your clit and then down to your gushing slit.

Maybe it's the way he hunches over you, eyes flicking towards your lips, or the way he slips those fingers in; but your eyes go wide, and you're choking on your next words.

"Call… Call who?" Playing dumb, dancing on a razor's edge, and Miguel only quirks up an eyebrow at the stupid question.

"You know who." He says it low, smooth and dulcet as he curls his fingers at that sweet spot, experimenting. "I'll help you, fine. But I want you to call your ex, too. Let him know when to expect us. Is that okay, sweetheart ?"

That last word comes with a twang, the lilting tone of what sounds like mockery. He twists the knife, nudging the flat of his palm onto your clit – still tender and throbbing from your last orgasm.

Before you change your mind, you pick up the phone laid face down on the bedside table, pressing shaky fingers to its screen. You don't dare to look up, knowing Miguel is watching; dark eyes studying your every move.

Flicking his wrist this way and that, he swallows roughly as your fingers stutter on the screen. Not completely satisfied, he still has the time to look smug, settling into a comfortable pace. Finally, your phone rings with a tell-tale dial tone. It rings once. It rings twice, and–

"Hello? " The voice is muffled as it says your name. Put it on speaker, Miguel mouths and you oblige.

"Hey, J-Jamie." The phone is shaky in your hands, so you lay it out next to you on the bed.

"It's late, baby." You don't have time to be annoyed at his tone – or the unwarranted pet name – because Miguel speeds up, pumping in and out of you with a little more force.

"I… I know. S-Sorry." You clamp down the moans that threaten to erupt, rocking your hips in time with the thrusts.

Head lolling back into the sheets, you spend a good ten seconds in oblivious bliss, until Jamie breaks the silence.

"You've been ignoring me for ages, baby… and then you call out of the blue. What is it?" He's tired, it sounds like. Irritated for sure.

"Just w-wanted to–" Miguel presses his thumb to your clit and you jump. Once back down to earth he has to prompt you to answer. "-my stuff! Fuck , I just want to pick up my stuff."

"...now?"

Tomorrow. Miguel mouths.

"Tomorrow. " You repeat, wrapping a hand around his forearm to slow him down. It's too much, too fast; and he has the audacity to add another finger, scissoring out to stretch your cunt.

"O-kay. " He clicks his tongue, with some things rustling in the background. "Okay. You're acting weird, but..."

You're conflicted. His tone makes you melt, reaching for your phone to answer when Miguel snakes a hand under your shirt, palming your tits. To your surprise, he presses shaky kisses to the skin, rolling around your nipple with the flat of his tongue. You keen, clamping a hand around your mouth to stop the noises that spill out.

"...we still need to talk about what happened. About how we left things."

Anger flares up at your chest; hot at the sheer gall. He wants to talk? Now, when you had been met with a brick wall of silence; begging and begging for even a simple explanation?

What made it sting even more was that even after the breakup, everything happened on Jamie's terms. He broke up with you, providing little warning. He completely ghosted you, refusing to answer countless calls and messages. And now, he wants to talk; to make himself feel better and wank off his own ego, no doubt. It's not bitterness that makes you press Miguel closer, to revel in the pleasure that he gives you, you convince yourself. It's for you ; finally, unabashedly, just for you.

You don't bother to answer, hanging up the call with a click. Tugging at his hair, you pull him off with a wet pop; slick-soaked fingers slipping out of your cunt.

He cradles your chin, angling you upwards.

"You okay? Too much?" It barely registers; you're too focused on the tangle of curls framing his face, and the rosy pout of messy lips.

You shake your head, writhing against the sheets.

"More." You move his hand over to rest between your legs. "Please, Miguel."

His eyes flutter, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Eyes on me, baby.”

He says it with sobering clarity, bolstered by just how precisely he slots against your bare pussy. You can feel it, the full length of his cock; pressed up against you as he slips it out of his sweats. Head spinning, it slaps onto your stomach. Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. Oh fuck. He's big.

"Just like that." He coos, spitting into his palm and pumping his cock. “Wanna see how pretty you look when I make you cum.”

~~~

When tomorrow comes, you’re still sore from the litany of bruises and hickeys littered. It’s a Saturday, and you’re up bright and early. Well, Miguel is up bright and early, clattering around in the kitchen as you wake up.

He seems energised, mug of coffee in hand whilst you rub the sleep from your eyes. You waltz into the kitchen through the open doorway, morning breath and all.

"Morning," You say, soft and giggly at the way he jumps ten feet in the air, too wrapped up in himself to notice at first.

"Morning." He breathes, melting when he sees you in the shirt he had picked out for you last night. He shakes himself out of it. "Hungry? I can make something."

"No, no. M'good." You sidle up to the counter, head clocked at the fancy machine on the heavy slab. There's a question on the tip of your tongue, one you roll between your teeth. "Could I have some coffee? I mean… could you show me how?"

Where you expect laughter, mockery, or surprise that you've lived here for months and can't figure out the coffee machine; he nods, patient and calm. You ask him more questions; curious with every flick of a switch, and the way he lights up when talking about it. To your surprise, you want to know more – anyway that comes.

He's talking about expensive beans, and his favourite roasts – and a place across town that sells the exact kind he likes, but it's too fucking gentrified for him to go there more than two or three times a year. That makes you giggle: his little pout, the press of brow; and he looks up in surprise before joining you in light laughter.

You finish, pouring cream into his special mug with a flourish, and he steals a sip before you can. You elbow him away, angling for that stolen taste. When you do, it is deep and rich; sweet in a way that reminds you of Miguel, grounded and balanced and silky. In short, it's the perfect cup of coffee. More than content, you hum.

"Is it good?" He asks because he's already making mental notes, planning to greet you with a hot flask of the stuff in the mornings – if it means he gets that smile, of course.

"Very." Fervently you nod, lips curved to the ceramic as you blow; and Miguel is trying really hard not to stare. Maybe it's the fact that he's seen you in a way not everyone gets to; pretty and vulnerable and writhing on the tip of his cock; but it has him fending off vivid daydreams. Your lips wrapped around his length, his hand pressing you further down, feeling that warmth as you choke on his–

He blinks and you're gone, padding off to your room with that mug of coffee. You return not too long after, phone in hand and tapping away at the screen. Miguel ignores the way it makes him feel, having your attention and then losing it just as quickly. Like a kicked puppy, he resists the urge to beg for more – of your time, of your attention – turning away to clean up instead.

"I spoke to Jamie," You start, leaning with your back to the counter as he rolls up the sleeves of a comfy sweater. "He said he'll be around later in the evening, after his shift. Around 10. Is that okay?"

He shrugs, not caring either way. You're a friend, and he's helping you because that's what friends do. He can still taste you on his lips, but it doesn't mean anything. Not in a way you'd want, anyways.

"Sure." He doesn't turn around, stealing glances at the open window whilst he clatters around. "I've got a session later on anyways."

He catches a flash of something on your face, and you're pushing it away; prickly and uncomfortable. In his defence, he's stopped bringing people over for faux chemistry tutoring and there's less banging coming from across the wall. Less , but not completely gone, because you've learnt he has a penchant for dropping shit and cursing like someone's Dad.

But you can't help but think about Sarah , and Jia …. and how close he would get to Sita on the dining table. Fuck .

You're sighing now, tracing the curve of his jaw as he settles in front of the window: jaw set, arms crossed, and distant. He does that sometimes, goes off somewhere else – all teeth and claws. Tense, brows drawn up in a way that makes you want to smooth them out.

You put your phone down and mug away, sliding across linoleum to gently nudge his shoulder with your own.

"Are we…" He starts, and you track his line of sight to a quiet street below. He hums, without looking away. "Are we good?"

It makes you turn. You blink, as if out of all the nonsense you bicker about daily, that was the most ridiculous. Good? Good? Of course we are, of course we always will be. How could we be anything else? You shut it down before it spills out of your mouth, overzealous and desperate.

He clarifies with a nervous cough. "Last night. Was it… good?"

His frown deepens, and you wonder if it's just you that hears it in his tone. His real question, the one that makes you splinter and creak like a felled oak tree: Was I good? Am I good enough?

"Yeah. " You say it like the most obvious thing in the world – and to you, it is. For all his flaws; assholery and its trimmings aside; Miguel has never been a bad lay. You don't even think he has it in him; he couldn't half-ass it if he tried.

"It was–" Fucking amazing . The kind of thing you'll fuck yourself to for the foreseeable future. Cathartic and breath-taking and hot . All of the above.

Miguel finishes your sentence with something a little less… horny. "It was a lot, wasn't it? I wasn't really thinking, how uncomfortable it could be for you, and–"

Gently, you laugh and cut him off. "I've been having mediocre sex for basically the whole of my adult life, Mig. This is… exciting and new. I like it, I really do."

Exciting and new. It brings him crashing back down to earth. You're enjoying the way he makes you feel, the thrill . Not… him. Not really, anyways. That pang of disappointment feels different, for some reason. He's never liked the song and dance of flirting, but he cherishes its rewards: of being wanted, and someone wanting him . So that fiery flame of need; deep and heady; is unfamiliar under his skin.

"We can slow down, if you'd like." You bring a hand to his arm, warm and gentle. "I don't mind. We can go back to just messing around on the couch…."

You've got a cheeky smile when you say it; a vague memory of a different time, when you had gotten a little too comfortable on the sofa, leading to hands stuffed in trousers and pressed up against one another. Quick and desperate, you had wanted to see him fall apart; like he did your first night together, and the next, and the next.

He gets closer, sandwiching you between the counter and his body. With a gentle hand, he strokes your hip, bunching up the fabric to get a peek of thigh.

“What do you like?” He’s deadly serious, red-brown eyes searching your face for something he can’t quite place. And just like that, the air is thick with tension. All you can manage is a limp shrug.

“I don’t know, really.” It comes out as a croak , as you’re much too occupied with the shrinking gap between you both. “I haven’t done the things you’ve done.”

You’re making assumptions, of course. Filling in the gaps of what you’ve learnt in the past few months; of alleged threesomes and a laundry list of women at his feet. He’s an asshole; pretty and gruff and sarcastic; but God , he knows how to touch you just right.

“I could show you.” He slots a knee between your thighs and your head spins. “Make you feel good. ”

Before you can think, you’re nodding; chewing at your lip to bite back moans when he rucks up your shirt. He nudges your legs apart, both hands on your waist as he slots himself between them. You can feel it; quickly hardening, loose underneath sweats. Miguel slides wide palms to your ass, kneading its globes. With one hand, he picks up your leg by the thigh, and snakes the other to your pussy. Bare, because you’re trying to kill him, of course, and he groans at the feeling of his hand at your cunt; already wet and pliant for him.

After a few wet taps to your hole, obscene, he slips himself out and you heave; pussy fluttering at just the thought of him inside you. Gathering up your slick on his palm, Miguel pumps his weeping cock, pressing its tip to your hole.

"Still sore, Miguel." You hiss, looking down at where you both meet with the prettiest pout he thinks he's ever seen.

It has you clawing at his back for purchase as he finally sinks in, stretching you out in that wonderful way he did last night. Except this time, he's slow and careful; steeling himself with shaky breaths.

"Oh, fuck. " He settles in about halfway, stopping to hike up your leg just a bit higher. "Want me to make you feel better?"

He says it breathless and crooning, forehead comes to rest on yours. With that other hand flat on the counter, you're lifted up to only toes on the floor, and he angles himself to buck up; filling you deep, and cock sliding past that sweet spot inside. He sets a pace, grinding into you, rather than fucking. If last night was dirty ; taboo, quick and primal; then this morning feels different. Intimate and reverent, he rolls his hips perfectly ; sending flashes of that first night down your spine.

With the moans that spill out of your mouth, it takes all of Miguel's willpower not to swallow them in a kiss. Impossibly close, he traces up your thigh with a large palm; eventually pressing into the small of your back. Arching into him, your lips barely brush together, and you're both panting into open mouths; drunk on pleasure.

"Miguel." There's a warning somewhere in your tone; underneath the layers of lust, you remind him of your previous agreement.

"I… I know. " He swallows, nose pressed to yours, eyes screwed shut. He thinks if he opens them, he might spill into you right then and there.

He's trying, he really is, tracing your cheek with his nose and mouthing at your neck – light kisses against the skin. He smells like coffee, bittersweet and heady, and you groan, rocking into him in a way that rubs up against your clit – before finding an ounce of restraint and putting a hand to his neck.

You apply a little pressure, intending to push him away, but he likes it: eyes fluttering open, and mouth curved into a little O. It's a pretty sight that has you drooling, tits pressed against him as he practically purrs . And so, you pull him closer; nails dancing underneath his shirt, whispering filth into the shell of his ear. You're close, grinding into him like the push and pull of waves, merely waiting for the crescendo of orgasm to take you out to sea.

"I'm close, Miguel." All he can do is hum, pulling you closer. "Fuck, I feel so good. You make me feel so good."

"Yeah? " He asks, needy in a way you haven't quite seen before.

"M'gonna cum," You nod. "...because of you, baby. You did good. So good. Shit, ohh –g-god–"

You clamp down on him, gushing around him with shaky legs. And Miguel is good; patient as he watches you fuck yourself through the aftermath. When it finally slows, he slips out with an obscene squelch clamping a hand to the base of his cock and leaning heavily on the counter.

"It's okay," As if on cue, you kneel in front of him as best you can, tugging down your shirt to expose collarbone and the swell of tits.

Miguel growls, grunting as he splatters thick cum across your chest, pumping his poor cock through it.

He wouldn't have lasted a second longer, not with that smile across your face; smug as you swipe fingers across your chest and lick up the mess he's made.

He's sighing, tucking himself back into gray sweats and pulling you up with a hand in yours; grumbling as you absentmindedly follow him to the sofa.

You're leaning back onto the arm of the tattered material, and he settles to sit so your legs lay in his lap. He's frowning, again, and it makes you giggle, still licking up what's left on your fingers.

He rolls his eyes, tapping a spot on your chin. A fat glob of his cum, dripping from your jaw to your neck. You miss it on the first swipe, and he gets impatient on the second, grabbing your hands and clambering over you. He drags the flat of his tongue to your skin, licking it up for you – and your eyes go wide. That… that felt good.

You giggle at the sensation, so attuned to your roommate that you can hear it: his eyes clattering into the back of his skull, as he rolls his eyes a second time.

"Is that okay?" He says it into the skin, pausing over a particularly tender spot. "Not too far?"

"Feels nice, Mig." You sigh, content. Sun streams in on a lazy morning, and you're sore in the kind of way that feels good; fucked out and blissful.

You lean into it, and then he sucks , teeth clashing onto the skin as he gives you a hickey and the juncture of your jaw. You wriggle, and he pins you down with one big hand holding down your arm, nipping and kissing and soothing it with a flash of tongue. This time he smiles, wrapping around your middle, tugging down your shirt to decorate your chest with hickeys. You play with his hair, wrapping soft curls between your fingers.

You spend a little too long like that; curved into him, spines moulded to the shape of each other. It feels nicer than either of you would care to admit; the pretense of sex wrapped around you both like a thin veil. Before he leaves, Miguel indulges himself just this once; head on your chest and sinking into those arms wrapped around him. You smell like coffee and sweat and Autumn, somehow. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, for a bit longer.

Miguel is okay. He's doing just fine.

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼#spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #spiderman 2099 x reader

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catfern · 1 year

Text

nsfw alphabet w ellie

pairing: ellie williams x reader

music: me and your mama - childish gambino

word count: 3.1k (whoops)

warnings: strap usage, masturbation, A VIBRATOR?? (briefly), possessiveness, slightly pervy!ellie, worship / praise kink mentioned, predator / prey kink mentioned, this is just porn.

an: the nsfw alphabet is all i know. i see it in my sleep. seriously i planned on doing this for ellie but i didn't expect i'd go this quickly. at least now i know the alphabet off by heart (i didn't know it before im dumb dumb stupid)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

ellie is all. for. it. she goes all out even. she knows she can be rough, she has self awareness, and she is hyper aware of just how fragile you can be. she needs to take care of you. she’ll run a bath, light some candles, or let you slip your full body weight on her as you doze in and out, sleeping through your orgasm(s). it doesn’t matter, anything that brings you from that fuzzy, pussydrunk slut that she loves to torment back to her kind, loving girl is anything worth doing.

she’ll sit on the side of the cold porcelain bath, stroking the muscle aches out of your legs and taking the care to run the warm water along your lower belly. she’ll watch as your breathing slows, your head sinking slowly. and then she’ll carry you to bed, hide you away under the blankets to recover from the reckoning that is her.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

ellie is in love with your hips. it’s a perfect anchor point for her hands when she’s holding you, obsessing over you. she feels along the sculpt of them with her finger tips, memorising the bone structure, the softness of the skin. she’ll sketch them in her journal, rough and undefined, obsessive and raspy. She is obsessed! She’ll hold onto them as she moves her way up and down your body, pressing wet kisses from chest to navel. she'll press small bruises into the sides as she loses herself in your cunt, trying desperately to hold onto to the tangible reality of you.

honestly? ellie really likes her arms. she was always seen as this scrawny little snot-nosed kid, so growing up and growing into her stocky frame, broad shoulders and toned arms, it’s something she’s proud of. and of course, her arms lift you up against the wall, her arms drive the power as she stretches her fingers in your walls. so of course, her arms are a fan-favourite as well.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

god, ellie is savage.

your cum is sweet, a nectar on her lips worth tasting. she’ll lick her way up your inner thigh, tasting you like wine. she’ll bring her fingers to her lips, sucking the white lace with a fervour, your smell all over her, in all of her senses. there’s no escaping you, your taste. it’s almost unnatural, otherworldly, the hold you have on her when her head is between your legs. she is both briefly and forever yours, bound to you through the sickening sweetness of your slick.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

i mean… ellie is a switch.

she tries her HARDEST to never let it show. she is, after all, the protector, the big tough fighter who swings unrestrained at anyone who looks at you with malice. but.

she just loves you so so much. and you’re so.. so.. beautiful.

it’s really mean of ANYONE to assume she wouldn’t swallow her pride and fall on her knees for you, with soft hands and pleas to let her in and let her taste you. she actually really really loves when you’re a tease, and you’re a little confident. she loves it because she can find her place so easily in your shadow, following you like a lovesick puppy, ready to do anything you want her to. hold her hand and take her anywhere, she’d follow willingly and with a little grin.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

she’s definitely on the more experienced side of things. she’s a slut what who said that?! nah, she fucks around, she likes to try things out! so when she finally finally lands you, she knows her way around. she likes to brag about how little time it took for her to figure you out, but honestly, it’s not like you were hiding anything. she definitely shows off her experience in how confidently she fucks you, in how relentlessly she ignores your pleas to stop because she knows you’re just sensitive and she knows you can go another round.

Shh, babe, you can take it. I know you can.

Just shut up and let me make you feel good. You know I can, stop fucking around.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

ellie is all about having you in her lap. your legs spread, wrapped around her torso as she holds you, buries herself in your neck as her fingers dive inside you. feeling the way your ass grinds against her thighs as you beg for release, for friction against your puffy clit. fuck, and the access (!!) it gives her to your tits, to palm them, grab at the fat and grip them, pulling at your nipples roughly to send soft stings down your spine. holding onto the small of your back as you throw your head back, anchoring you to her as if there were no real separation.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

ellie is a class-A shithead, and it’s really no different during sex. she’s a tease, she likes to poke fun at you, especially if you’re laying, dazed and fucked out.

Aw, look at you. Jeez, you really can’t take much, can you?

She’s really just an asker of questions, especially when she knows you don’t really have the words to string an answer together. This can be serious or teasing, but either way, it’s ellie reminding you just exactly why you put up with her ratbag attitude.

What did you say, babe? Speak up, I can’t hear you.

Tell me how you like it or we won’t keep going.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

ellie does not give one single, flying fuck what she looks like downstairs. as long as it’s not unruly, and doesn’t get in the way, she’s fine with it. in fact, does she even understand the concept of being completely bare? absolutely not. it’s ridiculous in her mind. a waste of time. she trims back only the necessary, to look and keep relatively clean.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

she’s never read any romance, or watched any romance. she’s not a consumer of romantic media but god, does she hit every fucking mark when she wants to. the soft, tender kisses, the slow hands, the praise. she can be very romantic when she wants to be, when the pendulum of her personality is sitting perfectly between her two extremes; her warm infatuation and her cold command.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

ellie got off to you way before anything romantic happened, shamefully. Just ask her journal. She’d hunch over it at night, in such unnatural and possessive form, obsessing over the peek of your stomach she saw that day, or the curve of your waist as you walked. Or more often than not, she’d piece together how you looked under all those layers, drawn in harsh charcoal lines. daydreaming about what it would feel like to have your hands on her legs, ghosting their way into her thighs. how it would be to have you under her, those perfect tits bouncing at her command as she thrusts her fingers, slick with your imagined cum, inside you.

after you two got together though, she’d snapshot every piece of you in surprising detail, shoving her hand in her pants at the memory of you. at everything she got to do to you, to do to the body she daydreamed about.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

ellie is the duality of man. she most definitely has a worship and praise kink, it goes with her obsessive side. she has painted you in every crevice of her being, and sees you in her peripheral vision by design. you’re everywhere she is, so naturally, she worships you. you, a deity, her, a disciple, she’ll kiss you tenderly, on her knees as she sings praise in your ear. and the moment you return it, with kind words and you’re so good, baby, thank you. FUCK. she’s all over you, gently, but passionately, worshipping every part of you like you were pieced together solely to be god’s divine on earth.

when she’s less obsessive, she’s possessive. hers, hers, hers. she would keep you all to herself if she could, it’s all she really thinks about. i feel like ellie would definitely develop a bit of a predator / prey kink (@bambiesfics her fic is the direct inspo) because of her primal need to have you, to cage you. you belong to no one else, and you’re hers to do with what she pleases, which is always making sure you feel perfect.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

gonna repeat myself AGAIN! when you get involved with ellie williams, you are all hers. there’s absolutely no sharing, no showing, no knowing. she’ll fuck you in the house, all doors locked, all curtains closed. one hand over your mouth, the other stretching your walls viciously, there’s absolutely no aspect of you that she’s willing to escape to the eyes and ears of others.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

a dress. any dress. going commando, having no bra, bending over, grinding on her, dancing on her, the list goes on, but we’d be here all night if i were to do that. seriously, just you, but especially you in a sluttier form. keeping certain parts of yourself uninhibited, all for her, or at least she likes to think that. god. one time you wore nothing but an apron LORD. that really was all for her. any time you’re willing do anything just for her and no one else, the knot ever so tightens in her stomach.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

ellie would never hurt you. there’s a little leeway, with a light slap to keep you focused, or the absolute abuse she hurls at your ass and cunt when she has the opportunity, but really, truly, properly hurting you. she knows that some people really like it! but she could never. you’re too precious to her, it hurts her soft side too much to let it slide. she is that big strong man, after all. she’s gotta protect what’s hers.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

ellie is all about the giving (service sub much!!). she loves the sounds you make, the feeling of your legs clamping around her head like a gilded cage she begged to be in. and god, is she good at her job. she’s gentle most of the time , takes her time, listens to the softest of moans that slip through your lips, feels for your heartbeat on her tongue to know exactly when to dive her tongue inside you like she’s starved.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

it rlly does depend. like i’ve said, she loves to take her time with you, unravel you slowly like a ribbon in a knot, working her fingers into your gaps to pull you apart with precision.

sometimes though, it’s just not enough. she gets jealous easy, and her jealousy isn’t pretty or whiney or healthy. her jealousy leaves bruises, and bites. her jealousy drives your head into the headboard relentlessly, beating you down into the rhythm in her head. mine, mine, mine. she’s fast, she’s uneven, for once, it’s not about you. it’s not even about her. her ruts and growls are primal, something completely untouched, the energy is raw, unforgiving, toxic as she rams into you at top speed, little regard for your choked moans or pleas to slow. you deserve this, she deserves this.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

quickie? don’t know her. as desperate as ellie is for your touch, your taste, she thinks its only deserving that she devotes her time to you, to show you how much she cares for you, wants to make you feel good. plus, there’s a million things she wants to do to you while fucking you, so pulling you aside for a minute isn’t really gonna cut it.

and of course, it comes with the added bonus of making you wait. she loves a needy girl. so desperate and whiney, pleading with her for just 5 minutes of her valuable time. and she’ll turn to you, with a wild smirk, and tell you to wait. she’s busy, she can’t deal with you right now. god, your disappointment is tempting, but it’s even better to come home to you waiting for her, yearning, wet and pliant like a good girl.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

i mean, she’s an adrenaline junkie, so definitely. if you have an idea in mind, she’s happy to try it. as long as it sounds fun, and includes her getting to smack your ass once in a while, she’s game.

taking risks during sex, however, isn’t reallyellie’s thing, unless you ask of course. She’s mean, she’s unhinged and a little bit pervy, but consent is her top priority! she never, ever wants to make you uncomfortable, or hurt being around her, so she’s not risking doing anything you wouldn’t like.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

ellie is surprisingly steadfast. she doesn’t tire quick, she doesn’t let herself falter. sometimes, sometimes, she slows. gets too caught in the thick haze, the dull noise of your moans underneath her, the buzzing pleasure in her cunt. but she picks herself up quick. most of the time, your needs come first, and she keeps a personal best, in her journal, of how many times she’s made you come back to back, so she likes to push her limits.

usually, when the tables are turned, she can only last one round though. poor, sensitive girl. she can't take much, handle her with care.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

ellie has a strap, sure. but c’mon, she’s a bit more creative than that. she enjoys the roughness that using a strap brings, but feeling you, actually feeling you. that’s different. stretching her fingers inside your puffy walls like she’s never known the feeling of anything else, manoeuvring with the precision that only a guitarist’s fingers could have, that a strap could never offer.

she does, however, like the jaunt of your hips when she has a vibrator on your clit. it’s big, it’s loud, it’s purple, it tells everyone exactly what you’re up to, but she doesn’t care. she watches how your eyes screw shut, how your legs move to close but she stops them, pinning one knee down on the bed with a harsh push. and she’s gotta admit, the feeling of the slight vibrations in one hand, as the other pushes inside of you, strong, slow. okay, okay, maybe she does like some toys.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

ellie is brooding, and grumpy, yeah, but she’s also fun. she loves to tease, to remind you of all the little sounds you make, all the things you blurt out during sex that you probably wouldn’t have said otherwise.

Don’t worry, darling. mommy will get that for you.

Come on! I wanna hear you say it again, it just sounded so good rolling off those pretty lips.

when she’s really horny which is all the time, she’ll tease you in public spaces. out in the club? she’ll brush a hand over your clothed clit while dancing. what? she didn’t do anything, ‘don’t look at me like that’. out to dinner? she’ll whisper all the things she’d really like to be doing with you on top of that table. Don’t act shocked.

Then, when the night is over, she’ll run a finger along your wet slit, and smile, like it’s a prize.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

ellie is LOUD. she’s all in for the effort, the strain. she grunts as she pounds into you, like an animal. crazed and low. she’ll moan into your pussy like a bitch in heat, sending the vibrations running up your spine. she loses herself in you, loses all inhibition. there’s no secrets with ellie. you’ll know exactly how good you make her feel.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

ellie really enjoys girls with long nails! i can hear the masses coming for me now with pitchforks and torches, but hear me out!!

listen, longer nails, ACRYLICS?, stroking down the back of her neck as you hold her, digging into her shoulder blades as she slams into you.. i mean. she’s all about leaving marks, both on you and herself. she enjoys showing off the vicious red streaks you leave on her back when she’s inside you, and on her shoulders as she’s eating you out. it’s a reminder to everyone who she belongs to.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

ellie is toned. she’s not rlly a gym rat, so her muscle sits where she uses it most. she has incredibly strong legs, surprise surprise, from casual jogs and full-on, run-for-your-life sprints. she has sleek, muscular arms from carrying heavy duty weapons, and her back muscles are insane, you’d think she does laps and laps around a pool every day. she’s scrawnier around her shoulders, but it weighs even with her frame. and nothing gets in the way of her holding your body weight on her forearms as she dives into your throbbing cunt.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

oh, she yearns. fuck, just about anything you wear, or anything you do, gets her even slightly buzzing. she loves her soft moments with you, where she just holds you, dances with you, jokes with you, but you can count the days that didn’t end with sex on one hand. she needs you badly. and yeah, she has, and will continue to, beg for it, just in case you were wondering.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

ellie doesn’t like, leave planet earth right after finishing. she’s tired, but she knows you’re so much worse for wear than she is. so she’ll take the time to care for you, hold you close and whisper sweet things, and then, as your breathing slows, and your body slumps, she passes out. like you could not get a hold of her if you were blasting an emergency siren in her ear canal. she doesn’t wake up until she’s scheduled to, until the shrill, familiar tones of her alarm clock jolt her awake (which, lets be honest, she sleeps until like, 1pm). if you need her before that time, go ask someone else. she will not help you.

#ellie x fem reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams smut #ellie williams blurb #ellie the last of us #ellie williams #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fanfic #tlou fic #tlou part 2 #smut alphabet #smut headcanons #the last of us p2

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