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yeyinde · 2 months

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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valeskafics · 3 months

Text

"Inauguration" - President!Coriolanus Snow x Bimbo Wife!Reader

a/n: an anon request for more wife!reader x coryo. can be read as a standalone or a followup to "insatiable" 🩷

Summary: You and Coryo celebrate his election.

Word Count: 2,500

Rating: 18+, MDNI

TW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, daddy kink, semi public sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hunger Games/Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

It’s finally come. The night that you and Coryo have been planning for since you first met in elementary school all those years ago. The two of you would climb up to the roof of your parents’ house, gazing at the stars, talking about your hopes and dreams. Yours? You were never quite sure. They changed every few months, something Coryo found rather amusing. You were flightier than a bird in your plans for the future. An opera singer, a prima ballerina, a senator, a fashion designer. And yet, he supported you in each and every endeavor. His goals never once changed however.

He wanted to be the President of Panem.

With his family’s circumstances, it was a lofty ambition, but you were always his staunchest supporter. He knows he could take on the world with you at his side. And now, three years after your lavish wedding, he sits beside you, his hand on your knee, tapping his finger impatiently as the votes in the latest presidential election are tallied. You rest your hand over his, smiling at him sweetly.

“I’ll be proud of you whether you win tonight or not,” you assure him, resting your free hand on his cheek, “But you’re going to win. I know it.”

Coryo chuckles, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, nerves getting the better of him, “Thank you, baby. I just…”

“I know,” you say, kissing his forehead, the feeling of your lips against his skin soothing him in a way little else can, “I know, Coryo.”

And then, it’s as though time stops. Lucky Flickerman announces the results of the election.

That Panem’s President Elect is none other than Coriolanus Snow.

You cover your mouth, squealing with excitement before throwing your arms around Coryo in a tight embrace, “You won!”

Frozen in shock for a brief moment, Coryo quickly recovers, pressing his lips against yours in a passionate kiss, letting all the stress of the past few days melt away from him, relaxing in your arms as he threads his hands in your hair. He knows they’ll be coming to grab him to give his acceptance speech anytime now, but all he can think of at the moment is how perfect you feel in his arms, how gorgeous you look smiling at him so proudly.

“You’re going to mess up my hair,” you giggle, gently moving his hands away, “We have to look perfect for the photographers!”

“I’m the President, baby, I can mess up my wife’s hair if I want,” he laughs, bringing his lips to yours once again, ignoring your whines of protest as he tugs at your silken locks incessantly.

But you don’t mean your complaints. You never do. You love everything he does. The way he touches you, adores you, worships you. He’s the epitome of a perfect husband. Coryo continues moving his lips against yours, only pulling away when the urge to breathe hits him, quickly burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting at your soft skin after catching his breath. You smile, running a hand through his platinum locks.

“You have to give your speech,” you remind him, moaning softly as his teeth graze your skin, “Coryo, you can’t stay back here forever.”

“I don’t think Panem would mind waiting a bit longer,” he replies, running his nose along your collarbone, inhaling your natural scent deeply, “Smell so good. The speech can wait a little longer while we celebrate.”

“Coryo,” you whine, pouting slightly in that way he’s always found so irresistible - after all, you’re so adorable when you beg, “You’ll make a bad first impression. Aren’t you the one who said first impressions are everything? You’re the President now!”

“Sure, first impressions are important,” Coryo murmurs, his hand sliding up under your dress to squeeze at the soft, warm flesh of your thigh, “But I want to enjoy my victory first.”

“Coryo, we are not having a quickie in here!” You declare, “Do you remember what happened at Ravinstill’s party when you dragged me off to the bathroom? It’s all people talked about for weeks!”

“Come on,” he pleads, his eyes boring into yours as he trails kisses along your jaw, “What’s the problem with me loving on my beautiful wife? Hm? My First Lady?”

“Didn’t say I had a problem,” you mumble, trying to hold fast to your insistence on not letting him have his wicked way with you, “But you have to make your speech. Coryo, those people voted for you-”

“They can wait a few minutes,” he says firmly, pulling you onto his lap so that you straddle him, your core pressed flush against the bulge in his trousers. Only your silk panties and his pants separate the two of you know as he grinds himself against you, groaning at the feeling, “I’ll do the speech, baby, don’t worry. Just in a few minutes.”

You giggle as his hands move to caress your ass, squeezing gently, kneading your flesh between his hands, his cock twitching at how soft you are beneath his fingertips, “We’ve been married three years and you’re still such a horndog.”

Coryo snickers, kissing you again, biting down gently on your lower lip, tugging at it, admiring how soft and red it looks at his touch before whispering, “It’s your fault, you know that?”

“My fault?!” You ask incredulously.

“Uh huh. Your fault. You make me so damn hot for you.” He nips at your earlobe, his breath tickling your skin as he murmurs, “You’re like my own little private seductress.”

His words make you burst into giggles, grabbing onto his shoulders to steady yourself, “You’re a dummy.”

“A dummy who tells the truth,” he insists, “You drive me crazy and I love it.”

You rest your forehead against his, gazing into his eyes, your voice so gentle and kind it makes his heart ache as you speak, “I’m so proud of you, Coryo.”

Coryo kisses you again, this time, slower, more tender but still just as deep. His lips are hot against yours, his tongue dancing against your own as you continue grinding yourself against him, the heat growing between the two of you. He runs a hand through your hair, brushing it off your shoulders in that way he always does. Always taking care of his pretty little wife.

“You have no idea how good it feels to hear that from you,” he admits, “I’m so overwhelmed by all of the praise, and I love it, really, but from you? It’s different.”

“Cuz I’m not kissing your butt,” you nuzzle your nose against his, making him laugh, “I’m just loving on you.”

He nods, beaming as he rests a hand on your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. You turn to place a kiss to his palm, the gesture so intimate that it makes him want to melt. This is what he’s always loved about you. How unapologetic you are in your love for him, your devotion to him. Ever since you were kids, the two of you stayed together through it all. And now, all these years later, here you are. The President and his First Lady. Which begs the question…

“Do I have to wear skirt suits now that I’m the First Lady?”

Coryo lets out a full-bodied laugh at the disgusted tone to your voice and the way you wrinkle your nose before teasing, “You can wear whatever you want, but I wouldn’t mind a skirt suit that shows off those killer legs.”

“But they’re boring!” You protest, “I look nicer in my dresses!”

“Mmm, you do look gorgeous right now.” Coryo runs his hands along your curves, cupping your tits, squeezing gently, admiring the way your eyes flutter shut at his touch, “This the one I picked out for you, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you nod, “The one you picked.”

“Love seeing you in things I’ve picked out for you. Bought for my sweet little girl,” he coos, groaning when the two of you are interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door, “We’re coming!”

You take his hand, leading him to the aides who escort the two of you to the stage of the Presidential Palace. You grimace at Coryo slightly.

“Did you have to pick this dress? Everyone’s gonna say the First Lady’s a hussy…”

“Yeah, well, you’re my hussy. They can ogle all they want, but only I get to touch my pretty baby and rip that dress off of her,” he smirks, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling you into another kiss as Lucky begins wrapping up his intro, “I want you up there with me when I give my speech. Not standing at the side of the stage. I want you in my arms as I give it.”

Your eyes widen and you rest your hands on his chest, “Are you sure? This is your moment-”

“Our moment,” he corrects, “None of this would’ve been possible without you loving me and supporting me. This is your win as much as mine.” Coryo lowers his voice to whisper something else in your ear, “And when this is all over, my little hussy can take that dress off and-”

“Coryo!” You gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth, eyes going comically wide.

He bursts into laughter, his body shaking, completely wrapped around your little finger. The President of Panem, in the palm of your hand, helpless to do anything but be bent to your will. He gives a furtive glance at your lips before his name is announced and it’s time to walk out onto the stage. The two of you are a vision as you walk out with confidence, waving at the crowd, Lucky placing a bouquet of white roses in your grasp before shaking Coryo’s hand. Coryo turns to you, plucking one of the flowers from the bouquet, tucking it behind your ear with a grin. The crowd cheers as he presses his lips to your forehead. You are the youngest First Couple in Panem’s history and by far the best looking. The people adore you - the President and his gorgeous wife, waving to the throngs of people. The perfect couple.

You gaze up at Coryo adoringly as he gives his speech, and it’s evident to everyone watching how much you love him. And how much he loves you as he smiles back at you every so often, unable to focus entirely on the crowd. Rather than being annoyed by this, the people find it endearing. The charming, intelligent President and his kind, beautiful wife. You two are so in love, and you know that these photos will be plastered across all the magazines of Panem for the next few months.

As he wraps up his speech, Coryo pulls you into an extremely passionate kiss - one that isn’t quite appropriate for public consumption, your foot popping up as you wrap your arms around him. And the crowd goes crazy, clapping and screaming and cheering at the sight. It’s a beautiful moment, confetti falling all around you two as your love and Coryo’s victory are celebrated in tandem. Coryo announces to the crowd that he needs to go celebrate with his wife, surprising you when he hoists you over his shoulder and rushes off stage, earning another round of applause.

The two of you finally get the privacy you so desperately crave in the dressing room, where he sets you down on the table where your hair and outfits were done. You wrap your arms around his neck, your legs around his waist as you gaze up at him.

“Was I good out there, Daddy?”

“You were perfect, darling,” he coos, kissing your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, and finally your lips.

“I think you mentioned something,” you whisper breathily, “About ripping this dress off of me?”

“Did I promise that?” Coryo bites his lip, fingers toying with the halter strap of the dress, sliding down toward your cleavage, “I’m not one to break a promise.”

You let out a yelp of surprise as he keeps his promise in the most literal sense of the word and rips the fabric off of you, leaving you in just your silk panties and high heels. You stare up at him, mildly horrified.

“Coryo! I liked that one! I didn’t mean literally!”

“Oops,” he replies, quite unapologetically, “It’s a shame you don’t have anymore.”

You roll your eyes at the jab, smacking his chest playfully, “Coryo!”

“That’s not my name here, kitten, you know that,” he chuckles, pushing your panties to the side, his fingers tracing your slit, collecting the wetness that’s pooled there, teasing you before bringing his fingers to his lips, moaning obnoxiously as he tastes your essence, “Seems like I don’t have to do much to prepare you. Already so wet for me. Such a good girl.”

You unbutton his pants, freeing his long, veiny cock, the tip a dark pink color. You watch him shiver at your touch as you spread the precum that’s gathered at the head of his cock with your thumb, bringing the digit up to your lips to suckle at it with a giggle, tasting him as he did you. Before you can say anything, Coryo sheathes himself inside you with one thrust, leaving you a moaning mess, your bare back hitting the cool glass of the mirror as he ruts into you, holding your body against his own. Your lips part in a mewl of his name, bucking your hips up against his to meet his frenzied, almost animalistic pace.

Coryo fills you so perfectly with every thrust, the fat head of his cock slamming against your sweet spot, making you cry out, clinging to him desperately as he rolls his hips against yours.

“Going to look so pretty with my cum leaking out of you,” he rasps against your ear, “Your tummy all round with my baby, tits all heavy with milk. Fuck, baby, you want that, don’t you? You want me to fill this sweet little pussy up? Fuck a baby into you?”

It’s something the two of you have been thinking about for nearly a year now, and you find yourself nodding, head falling back against the mirror, “Yes, Daddy. Want that so bad, oh my God.”

“I’ll always give my pretty baby what she wants.”

You come around him, your entire body shuddering with pleasure as you reach the crescendo of your shared pleasure, feeling him give one, two more thrusts, before spilling himself deep inside of you with a growl of your name. He moves his fingers to collect any cum that’s dripped out of your cunt after he pulls out, pushing it back in with his fingers, thumb rubbing against your clit as he coaxes another orgasm from you, arduously slow, driving you mad with every touch.

“What do good girls do after they’ve come, honey?” Coryo asks.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” you grin cheekily, “Thank you.”

#coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coryo x reader #coryo x you #coryo snow x reader #coryo snow x you #hunger games x reader #hunger games x you #coriolanus snow #coryo snow #coryo smut #my writing #coryo oneshot #bimbo!reader

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d10nyx · 29 days

Text

over again

ft. leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dark content, heavy dub-con, forced ddlg, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, fingering, p in v, creampie, mentions of past drugging, daddy kink, lots of pet names

a/n: took me forever n ever to write this ahhh sorry :/ hope you all enjoy it !! feedback always appreciated !! hopefully the writers block will finally perish.

word count: 1.6k words

14 weeks. 98 days. 2352 hours.

Leon leaves the house at 7.30 am every morning, except for Sundays. From Monday to Thursday, he's home around 6 pm. On Fridays, he isn't home until around 9 pm. Saturdays are the worst because he's home just after lunch.

Usually, when he comes home, he goes to the bedroom and unlocks the door to let you out. He threads his hand in your leash to take you upstairs, giving you a kiss on your forehead as he takes you to the kitchen to eat a meal. He gives you your food on a pink, plastic princess plate with plastic cutlery, and cuts the food into bite size pieces. More often than not, he hand feeds you.

You don't fight it. You'd learned your lesson. You refused food from him once. For 2 out of your 14 weeks locked up in his home, he'd underfed you to the point of starvation until you were begging him to feed you. He sat you in his lap, cooing all sweet as you chewed and swallowed every mouthful he'd given you. That day was the first day he slept with you.

It wasn't all bad. He was sweet. Gentle. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend he was a loving boyfriend. Someone who cared for you, not the creep who'd snatched you from the street after you had a few too many drinks at your friend's party, promising you a better life, safe from the world.

But he isn't sweet, or nice, or kind. He didn't do this for you, despite what his twisted brain tells him. You can pretend all you want that he's something other than what he is, but it doesn't change what he is. A monster.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Where's my little princess?” Leon's asking as soon as he walks into the house, kicking his shoes off and hanging his jacket up at the door. You recently got free reign of the home for being on your best behaviour. Didn't even have to keep the leash attached to your collar anymore. Lucky you.

“Here, daddy.” You say meekly, poking your head out of the living room to approach him, fiddling awkwardly with the edge of your shirt. Head down, so he doesn't have to see the defeated expression on your face as you force out the words, swallowing thickly to hold back your tears.

“You have a good day, sweetheart? You do any coloring in those cute little books I got you?” Leon's hands come up to your cheeks, gently stroking his thumbs back and forth across your cheekbones. You shake your head, gritting your teeth to stop yourself from saying something.

“No? Why not, baby? You don't like them? I got the one with lots of kitties. Pretty girls like you like cute things, don't they?” He coos, squishing your cheeks in his hands to make your lips all pouty so he can lean down and give them a little kiss, letting out a loud ‘mwah’ as soon as his lips make contact.

“You eat at least? I left some food in a lunchbox for you.” You shake your head again, and this time it seems to elicit a worse reaction. His brows furrow, and his hand grips your face even tighter. “No? Silly baby… can't do anything without daddy, can you? Come on. Daddy'll feed you, cutie.”

He heats up some food for you and puts it on a plate. The pink, plastic princess plate. He sits you on his lap and feeds it to you from a fork. Pink, plastic fork. The routine is the same, no matter how much you wish for it to change. When you finish eating, he presses a tender kiss to your head and rocks you in his arms.

“Such a good girl. Good girls get rewarded, princess.” He murmurs, pressing soft kisses against the skin of your neck, trailing them up until he's nosing at the hair behind your ear. His hand slides up your thigh and under your skirt, his thumb swiping your swollen bud through the already damp fabric. It didn't matter if you didn't want it. Your body didn't seem to understand what was happening - all it knew was Leon made you feel good. You hated how compliant you got when he touched you, how any thoughts of defiance melted away.

You go limp when he touches you. Docile. You let him do what he wants to you, just like a good girl should. Back-talking daddy is a big no-no. He wrote that in big writing on the rule list that's pinned to the fridge. Escape didn't use to seem impossible, yet now the thought never even crossed your mind. You'd tried, but he kept a tight lock on you. You wouldn't be surprised to find out one of the many injections he gave you when you were unruly had a tracker in. He always seemed to know exactly where you were.

You whimper as he dips his hand under the waistband of your panties. He parts your puffy lips with practiced ease as he continues on with the next part of his routine. 98 days later and he's mapped every inch of your body perfectly - found out everything that has you keening under his touch. Your hips buck as he runs his fingertip between your folds, gathering slick before rubbing small circles into your clit.

“Poor, dumb baby. She's soaking me already. You couldn't make yourself feel good when daddy was gone, huh, sweetheart?” His words are followed up by a finger burying itself in your tight heat, curling to find that gummy spot that has you clenching around him and bucking your hips. “Pretty princess cunt's been drooling for me all day.”

A choked sob leaves you when he pulls his cock out and sits you on top of it. He pulls you down until he's buried to the hilt, groaning as you tighten around his length. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, peppering it with tiny little kisses. You can't help but cry whenever Leon fucks you. 98 days later and you still sob whenever he bullies your cervix with his dick. No matter how many times he makes you cum or makes you go dumb on his cock, it doesn't change anything. He took everything from you - your family, your friends, your job.

You hated yourself more than Leon. For letting him break your walls down. For clinging to him as he tightens his grip on your waist, manhandling you on his cock, lifting you up and down. For finding yourself missing him when he's at work.

“Love…love you, daddy…” Your words come out more like a cry, nose all runny and cheeks wet with tears as he fucks up into you, his head shifting to hang back in pleasure. His fingers dig into your waist as he hears the words, a breathy laugh leaving him as he smiles - all toothy and bright like it always is when you say that.

“Love you even more, princess.” He grunts out, leaning back on the seat to force himself deeper into your pussy, guiding your hips back and forth so you're grinding his cock inside of you, rubbing your pretty clit against his happy trail. You gasp at the sensation, your hands gripping into his shoulders as your brows furrow in pleasure.

“Daddy… daddy…” You gasp out as your orgasm hits, your lips parting as you gush all over him. The look on your face as you cum is enough to have his balls tighten, his teeth gritting as he starts to shallowly thrust into you once more, chasing his own release. You always cry when you cum, and Leon always kisses the tears away when you do, his lips pressing against the wetness on your cheeks repeatedly. Another part of the ritual, another moment repeating day after day.

“Want daddy to fill you up, sweet girl?” He grunts, nipping at your neck as he wraps his arms tight around your waist in a bear hug, holding you steady as he fucks up into your drippy cunt. “Gonna warm you up right in that cute lil’ tummy.”

His hips stutter as his orgasm hits him, his jaw going slack as he presses the tip of his cock right up against your cervix, filling you to the brim with his sticky cum. He slides a hand under your shirt, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into the skin of your tummy.

“That's it. Keep it all in, okay? Daddy doesn't want to see his little angel spill a single drop.” He says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. He holds you there for a couple of minutes, cradling you against his chest until it's time to go to sleep.

Before bed that night, Leon ushers you into the bathroom. Like every night before this one, he gently grips your jaw with one hand as he stands behind you, his other hand gripping your pink princess toothbrush as he brushes your teeth, his eyes locked onto you through the mirror. At bedtime, he tucks you in and curls up behind you, spooning you with one hand on one of your tits, and the other wrapped tightly around your waist.

Tomorrow is a Friday. He wakes you up at 6.30 am with a kiss to your head as always, a warm cup of milk in one hand and your breakfast in the other. He feeds you off of a pink, plastic princess plate and presses a kiss to your lips before leaving at 7.30 am on the dot.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #tw dark content

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tojisun · 3 months

Text

!! hurt and comfort; simon’s pov (re: bimbo!reader); mentioned johnny; dark simon but only if u squint very hard // work is a continuation of this one ^v^ // bimbo!reader mlist

divider by @/plutism <33

simon noticed how quiet you’ve gotten, demure smiles and puffed out laughs never breaching past the first trickles of giggles. you seemed distracted, eyes glazing over and your fingers pausing from where they were playing with the loose threading of your sweater.

well, technically it was his, but you’ve long stolen it from his bunk and simon truly would rather cut off his arms than ask it back from you.

simon waits, mulling over how to approach you, how to talk to you when you're obviously worried about something, but then you take the first step.

“simmy, why’re you with me…?”

the hesitation in your voice makes him ache, his heart wrenching itself from the cages of his ribs, threatening to smother him with his grief. he parts his lips open, a question on the tip of his tongue — "who made you doubt my love?" — but he holds himself back, choosing instead to take your hand in his.

you look up at the first touch of his fingers along the back of your palm, the pads of his fingers gliding softly, tentatively, before reaching to tangle them with yours. simon's breath hitches at the weak smile that tugs up at your lips, a wet sheen lining the corners of your eyes.

"oh, petal," simon murmurs, pulling your hand up to his lips so he can press a kiss along the ridges of your knuckles. he earns a wet giggle as you shoot him a shy look, surreptitiously holding back your tears, and simon briefly wonders if you can feel your nose twitching because of your aborted sniffles.

"i'm with you 'cause i love you."

he shifts when he says this, giving himself more room to use his other hand — greedily reaching forward to cup your cheek, thumbing the skin just underneath your eye.

"you understand?"

it is a gentle prodding, one that he hopes was able to hide his own hesitance because if you are doubting his love, if you are questioning why he is with you, then-

then.

does that mean he isn't showing it enough?

simon breathes in sharply, his own world caving in, and it is only the hold he has on you that keeps him tethered. his mind runs on overdrive, the what-if's a catalyst to his unstoppable spiral: what does he need to change? how else can he show you his affections? how else can he reassure you? what can chase away your doubts?

simon's fear grows, threatening to creep up from the base of his throat and to spill into the space between you two, but even so, he forces himself to stay steady. to hold onto you just as gently.

he can process this later on his own — confide in mactavish if he needs to — but right now, in this moment, simon needs to comfort you.

to show you that his promises — "yeah, sweetheart. you and me, together forever." — are true. that he will fulfill them.

that-

"yeah," you reply, voice less wobbly but not any less unsure. "i understand and trust you, simmy, i do! it's just that they..."

simon's gait changes, his trained ears picking apart your mumbled words.

'they.'

someone did this. someone had tainted simon's love for you; made you doubt his intentions. worse, someone made you doubt yourself.

"shh," simon coos, pulling away just a bit before finally picking you up from your spot beside him and dropping you gently on his lap.

your arms loosely curl over his shoulders, hips swaying as you make yourself comfortable on top of him. simon's hands find purchase on your ass, not really doing anything salacious, especially not with this atmosphere, but only holding on to ensure that you don't wiggle yourself to the floor on accident.

you're watching him with big doe eyes, looking all parts his princess even when sadness continues to reverberate from you. simon presses forward to rub his nose against your own, startling a squeak from you — a distraction before his careful questioning.

"tell me everythin' from the start, petal," simon whispers. "let me help you, yeah?"

"okay," you sniffle, nodding softly.

and you do: you tell him about noah thompson, the frat boy who couldn't take "no" for an answer and insisted on bothering you even when you told him that you were taken. that you were spoken for. you told him about noah who insisted that the perfect match for you was someone you could be with everyday — "he taunted me, simmy. asked why you're never around." — and, especially, someone younger. you told him about noah who, in his frustration at your continuous rejection, began to steer hatred your way; calling you "dumb" and "stupid" and "easy."

the last one was said in a hiccupped cry and simon was quick to wrap you up in his embrace, tucking you underneath his chin and murmuring promises and reassurances because you are not dumb nor stupid nor fucking easy.

gods. you are such a perfect girl, the sweetest of them all. the kindest. the loveliest.

and noah knows. that is why, shrouded in his jealousy after seeing the token of his affection be so protective of her lover, he said those things to you. but simon doesn't say that. he doesn't craft anything that could make it look like he's making an excuse for noah's disgusting attitude. so instead, he remains quiet as you pick up your words again.

because, finally, simon is presented with the root of your sadness: noah telling you that simon could only ever be with you for your body.

"i told him you couldn't be because if you're only with me for my body then, simmy, you would've left a long time ago! you wouldn't spoil me and mitty," simon almost coos at the new nickname you gave mittens, "and you wouldn't introduce me to your friends! you wouldn't take me out to see the penguins or go to the butterfly gardens with me. and that's just some of the stuff i remember because you do so much for me but he won't listen!"

simon isn't shocked by the sob that ripples from your lungs as you press your face on the crook of his neck, crying out in your frustration. simon's own lips wobble, his previous self-doubt now crushed at having heard you protect him with such ferocity. at having believed in him with such confidence.

he rubs your back with his palms, unwavering in the flow of his praises and comfort. he presses a kiss on the top of your head, then your temple, before planting multiple along your damp face. you try dancing away from his lips with another wet huff before finally collapsing in his arms in your exhaustion.

"i'm sorry for askin', simmy," you mumble. "i know you love me but-"

"s'all right, petal. y've got nothin' to say sorry for," simon replies, tightening his arms around you. "i'm glad that you came to me and asked. i promised you, didn't i? that we'll take things together, as a team?"

"mhmm," you say with a soft nod. "as a team."

"that's right. you and me: a team."

you crash on his lap and simon basks in the quiet seconds before carrying you to the bedroom. he tucks you underneath the sheets, making a mental note that he has to come back and at least wipe your makeup off and, if he takes a while, then wake you up just enough that you can wash your face.

but for now, he has things to do.

fishing his phone out, simon shoots a message to johnny: "find me something on noah thompson."

"how much?" johnny writes back.

"enough that he won't bother petal anymore," simon replies.

a minute rolls by when johnny messages him again, "we've got something." then, "will she know?"

simon hums to himself. "no," he writes back.

johnny doesn't send in any more replies, but simon understands. no more needs to be said, anyway. not when it's about you.

tagging: @ghostsbimbo @kenz-ee @yannauauau @yaebaal @ivymarquis @liwooa @loonalockley @kariiiel @hawsx3 @durkakakayata @littlecellist

#suns.f #bimbo!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #female reader #suns

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gatecoeur · 2 years

Note

a flyer lands in your hands. it doesn’t matter where you are, who you’re with, or what you were holding. there’s a flyer in your hands. its printed on remarkable stock and slightly holographic, the colors bending and twisting as light washes over separate parts of it. you recognize the face looking up at you, and the name is one that can never be forgotten.

as you hold your invitation, suddenly recognizing that it is an invitation and not just a flyer, a voice creeps into your ears. it comes from all sides, prompted by nothing and no one, and if it weren’t for how sugary sweet it was as it crashed against your brain, you might have cause to be concerned.

“April 21st, Dearest Arelette!” the voice chirps, practically a giggle in how elated it was. “Save the date! or else.”

{ @valourie }{ ... o o p s }

8 avril, 2022. endroit non déclaré. 23h30, heure locale.

The missing persons backlog had been insane. Sometimes it felt like she was the only person who cared enough to offer up such work since The Blip.

Ever since Arrie had found Eser's Marine friend, it seemed that her skills in tracking had been spread further than she could've possibly anticipated. Who's to blame, the brunette had no clue, especially when people's petty exes and controlling parents contacted her. Arrie only ever took the serious cases anyways - the ones that truly needed her help. At first, it was just cross-country, but it quickly expanded to an international scope.

Being who she was, Arrie had a hard time saying no, especially when some of these missing people were ones the local forces had given up on. Recently though, she had been homesick for New York City. It was only a few days ago that she had realized how much time had passed - pushing on four months of this sometimes exhaustive work was finally taking its toll. The shapeshifter was sifting through one of her casefiles when a completely unfamiliar flyer showed up. Wait... Not a flyer. Arrie recognized the face and the name. 27th birthday? Huh. Arrie should've realized Ana was a few years younger than her. Then the voice echoed in her head, and Arrie audibly groaned.

GREAT. Now she had to deal with a potentially angry Ana if she didn't show up, on top of everything else. Which could very easily be the case, if this last job gets any more complicated. Sighing to herself, Arrie took a sticky note and quickly scribbled something down, before slapping it into the inner cover of her notebook. REMINDER: April 21st - Ana's birthday. God help me if I'm not back in NYC by then.

#;la reponse #v;a world forever changed #;drabble #valourie #(( more likely than not Arrie called in a favour to just get teleported to the party and back XD ))#(( cuz an upsetti Ana is one of the worst things she could imagine having to deal with ))

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woso-dreamzzz · 2 days

Text

Shirt Swap V

Magdalena Eriksson x Child!Reader

Fridolina Rolfö + Zećira Mušović x Hardersson!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: After the Denmark-England game

By the time you've been returned to Magda and the Swedish girls, you're high on sugar, still wearing Keira Walsh's shirt and finding everything unbelievably funny.

Pernille dumps you in Magda's arms, kisses her softly before hurrying off.

Magda looks at you with wide eyes.

"Where's Rocky?" You ask her.

"What?" She says," No hello for your Morsa?"

You shrug. "Hi, Morsa. Where's Rocky?"

She sighs. "Up in our room. Did you have fun at the match?"

You nod, pulling on your shirt. "Keira Walsh gave me her jersey, see?"

"I can see. And what's this one?"

There's another jersey bundled up in your hand and Magda has an inkling of whose it is.

"Mary Earps!" You chirp," She's England's keeper! She's going to win keeper of the year."

Magda laughs, hefting you a bit higher as she makes her way back into the dining hall. "Is she now?"

You nod. "She is. I know she is."

"You used to know Earps, you know. When you were little."

You frown as Morsa sits down at her table with Frido and Zećira. "No, I didn't."

"Yes you did. Earps used to play with your Momma at Wolfsburg. The same time as Caro did and you remember Caro."

"I don't remember Mary."

"That's okay." Morsa starts to place some food onto your plate. "You were very, very little. I'm still surprised you remember Caro so well."

"Caro's cool," You insist," She scores goals like Momma and talks like Ingrid."

"And Mary isn't?"

"She's cool!" You insist," But I didn't know I knew her when I was very little."

"I've got pictures." Morsa shows you pictures sent from Momma when you were younger.

You were a pudgy baby, you think. Your cheeks are full and your head is kind of big but Morsa's right. There's lots of pictures of you and Mary Earps.

She looks younger too, like you, but she is holding you and she is smiling.

You think for a moment. "Can I wear her shirt please?"

Moster Frido laughs. "I thought Keira Walsh is your favourite player in the world. Are you telling me you'll swap her shirt for someone else's?"

You rolls your eyes. "Keira Walsh isn't my favourite player in the world. My favourite player in the world is Zećira."

Zećira reaches out for a high five that you happily give her.

"Oh, silly me," Frido laughs," But Keira Walsh is your second favourite though. Are you sure you want to swap her shirt for Earps'?"

You give her another condescending look that really has Frido wondering if you were really Magda's because the expression was all Pernille.

"They're only shirts, moster," You say, patting her hand in a way that somehow makes Frido feel like a little child," I don't have to wear them forever."

Zećira snickers. "Yeah, Frido, she doesn't have to wear them forever."

Morsa laughs but helps you change right at the table as you cram food into your mouth.

"Can I wear this one to bed?" You ask her when your head pops through the neck hole and she laughs.

"You're asking me but I don't think you're actually asking me, are you?"

You give her a toothy grin and she ruffles your hair.

"Momma says it's always polite to ask."

"Yes, you can wear Earps' shirt to bed."

You go back to your food, interspersed with accounts of the game and how worried you were when Keira Walsh went down with her knee.

"Morsa," You say randomly," Can Rocky sleep in bed with me?"

Frido and Zećira start laughing, almost hysterically, at the stricken look on Magda's face at your question.

"No, princesse," She says," You can't sleep in bed with Rocky."

"That's okay," You reply," I was only asking to be polite."

Magda chokes on her drink, suddenly feeling out of depth in her parenting here. None of the books ever covered what to do when your child was asking (or really telling) you about sleeping with her pet rock.

"Princesse," She says," I don't-"

"That's a great idea!" Zećira butts in with a grin that makes Magda's eye twitch in outrage," Why don't we go bring Rocky down here and show him your new shirts!"

You quickly wiggle out of your seat and hold your hand out to Magda. "Keycard, please, Morsa."

"No," Magda says, still scrambling to keep in control of the situation," You're not bring the rock down here."

You shrug and turn to Frido. "Keycard, please."

Frido, the traitor, hands over the keycard and you skip off with Zećira to grab Rocky.

#woso x reader #magdalena eriksson x reader #magdalena eriksson #fridolina rolfö x reader #fridolina rolfö #zecira musovic x reader #zecira musovic #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso #the big adventures universe

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areislol · 6 months

Text

A time to tell

► PAIRINGS. genshin men x gn! creator! reader

► GENRE. sagau, reverse isekai, domestic life/slice of lofe, explicit/sexual (18+ for the nsfw chapters) themes.

SYNOPSIS. albedo created a machine where it would bring back their creator, who was stuck in another world, back to where they belong. but instead of bringing you here to them, it brought them to you.

WARNINGS. eventual smut, harem, angst with comfort.

STATUS. on going//i will try to update as fast and best as i can but i do procrastinate a lot so.. i do have school and work to do so updates may be a bit slow.. i will try my best though!! i do not have a specific update time, i just update whenever I finish a chapter so please bear with me, i wish i had an allocated timetable or something but i just can't fit that into my schedule (posting on a specific time).

EXTRA. i started this series because i needdd to feed my love for reverse isekai fics and i saw that there werent a lot so i was like !!! why not create my own? also, the chapters that had NSFW content in them will have the 🔞 logo beside the chapter name.

- reader is in college (has a part time job)

TAGLIST. open

> RECOMMENDED SONGS WILL BE INCLUDED IN THE CHAPTERS <

“y/n, we will be here for you for however you want us to be, we will leave even if you asked us to just please, please don’t leave us.”

chapter index

i. chapter one - the start of it all

◇─where you find yourself in a room with 24 handsome men, the thing is.. you know them from the popular game that you even played and spent hundreds of money on.. genshin impact!

ii. chapter two - the morning after

◇─the morning after everything had happened, you decided to do a little bonding session.. which was by watching your favourite movies with them of course!

iii. chapter three - a shopping spree

◇─you decide to go shopping to buy some things for you and the men, you bond by watching movies with them and playing UNO.

iv. chapter four - "you really took took care of us, huh?"

◇─a couple days goes by after meeting the men, all is going good, your daily routine has changed, and the fact that you start work tomorrow too doesn't help anything at all.

v. chapter five - Back to work

◇─you have to return back to work after having your days off, little did you know you would find out something that would absolutely make you feel at unease and that would make you paranoid forever.

MINI FIC - Merry christmas! (wait why are we supposed to say that again?)

◇─celebrate christmas with them!!

vi. chapter six - The stalker

◇─not in a million years did you expect to ever get yourself a stalker, how did you? no idea. but with the sudden help of a woman she manages to find a way to catch the stalker. will you and your friends or well, the men, see her ever again, and will they meet for the good or bad?

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serpentandlily · 7 months

Text

Untouchable III - Azriel x Reader

Untouchable - Azriel x Rhysand'sSister! Reader ✨

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you have always had feelings for Azriel, your court's spymaster. But after centuries of watching him pine after your own cousin, hoping he'd eventually move on, your wish came true. He moved on-with Elain, your brother's mate's middle sister. Unable to watch him fall in love with someone else again, you flee from Velaris, from him. But things are a lot more complicated than that - more complicated than you ever imagined.

Warnings: angst

a/n: Okay all your comments/reblogs have literally made me dieeee laughing. Y'all are so funny lmao. Hope you enjoy this one! I had lots of fun writing it <3

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III ➻❥ Part IV ➻❥ Part V

➻❥ Part VI ➻❥ Part VII ➻❥ Part VIII ➻❥ Part IX ➻❥ Part X

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Part III

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The cool night breeze kissed the flesh exposed by your silk nightgown as you sat on the railing of your balcony, dangling your legs over the edge. You could faintly hear music and the sound of laughter as Velaris came alive around you. You blew a loose strand of hair out of your face as you gazed up at the bright moon glowing down on you in the night sky.

“I need some advice right now, Mama,” you whispered into the night. “Everyone seems to be finding their place in this world but I…I don’t know where I belong or what I’m even here for. And everything has been falling apart recently and I could really, really, use one of your hugs right now.”

After the disastrous training session this morning, you had spent the rest of the day watching over Nyx. Being with him made you feel better. Your nephew was a reminder that there were more important things in your life than a certain shadowsinger and his crazy mood swings.

But now Nyx was asleep and you were left alone with your thoughts once again.

Azriel had been so rough with you today, so cruel. And your heart panged with the thought that he would never dare treat Elain, or even Mor, like that. You let out a sigh and drew one knee to your chest, resting your head against it. Would this heartache ever go away? Or were you cursed by the Mother to forever yearn for a male who would never want you?

Somehow you could sense him before you even heard the flap of wings. A thud sounded behind you and the smell of night-chilled mist and cedar flooded your senses. His presence felt heavy and dark and you refused to turn around despite the way it put you on edge.

Silence. Nothing but tense silence filled the air. If it wasn't for Azriel's looming presence behind you, you might've thought you imagined him coming. You waited a breath...then another. Still nothing. You felt him take a step closer to you; his shadows eased their way between your arms, over your shoulders, through your hair. You could feel his warm breath on the back of your neck.

Another moment went by and you couldn't take it anymore. You blew out a low breath.

"I didn't snitch on you if that's what you're thinking," you scoffed, your gaze never straying from the moon. "You can blame that on Cass. So if my brother sent you here to apologize, save it."

Silence once more. Your grip on the edge of the stone railing tightened. Why wasn't he saying anything? Why did he come here?

"Rhys didn't send me here." You almost jumped at the sound of his voice, your heartbeat rising. "In fact, your brother forbade me from seeking you out."

Yet here he was, going directly against his High Lord's orders. Your brows furrowed but you refused to turn around, refused to look at him. So much had changed between the two of you in the last twenty-four hours.

"So why are you here?"

"I hurt you." His voice was as dark as his shadows.

You glanced down at your bandaged hand. The image of his cold face as he struck down on you with his sword replayed in your mind. But you weren't sure which had hurt more. The slice down your palm or the words he had spat at you.

"You did."

"Y/n..." he whispered your name. You felt his hand ghost over your shoulder, as if he were about to touch you, but his touch never came. "I'm sorry. I was...I was angry and I took it out on you—”

"You weren't just angry, Az," you cut him off. "You were angry with me. Why? What did I do to earn your ire?"

You finally turned around and gasped as you caught sight of his face. He had a black eye, his left cheekbone was surrounded by black and purple bruises, and his bottom lip had been split open, though it looked to be already healing. His hair was tousled as if he had spent hours running his hand through it, some pieces hanging down his forehead.

"I deserved it," he said, darkly as your eyes searched his face for any more injuries. You knew your brother had been behind them. "You've done nothing wrong. Like I said, I wasn't angry with you."

You let out another scoff and jumped down from the railing. The ground was cold against your bare feet as you brushed past Azriel and strode towards the glass doors leading to your bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

You waved a dismissive hand in the air. “I refuse to entertain a conversation with you if you’re going to blatantly lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” he ground out through his teeth.

You whirled around, crossing your arms. “Then why did you say all those things to me? If you were just angry, why not let off steam by sparring with Cass like you always do? You targeted me.”

“I didn’t mean any of the things I said, y/n.”

“You still said them.”

“Fine,” he snarled. He stalked towards you looking like a fallen angel straight from Hell, wings and all. You couldn’t help but take a step back. “Do you want to know why I’m so angry, princess?”

You gasped as he pressed a large hand flat against your sternum and pushed you against the wall, holding you there. Your eyes widened as you stared up at him. His expression was dark, his jaw clenched.

“I’m angry because you let that undeserving, piece of shit male put his hands all over you,” he growled. “I'm angry you even let him look in your direction.”

You glared up at him. “Why should it even matter to you?”

“Because it does.” He slammed a hand against the wall beside your head causing your heart to pound in your chest. “It fucking does.”

“Why?” Your voice was a mere whisper.

Azriel sucked in a breath, his head dropping into the crevice of your neck. You didn’t think your heart could beat any faster or you might possibly die. He splayed his hand out on your stomach, holding you in place.

“Azriel?” you questioned, uncertain of what he was doing. He had never acted so erratic around you. You went to take a step forward but he slammed you back against the wall with the hand on your stomach.

“Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t move.”

Your breath got caught in your throat. He trailed his nose up your throat column, barely brushing against the fragile skin. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at his touch, at his closeness to you.

“Az,” you started, placing your hand on his chest. “What are you—”

You stopped talking as he laid his hand over your much smaller one. He closed his eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Don’t touch me.”

But his hand squeezed yours, keeping it in place. You were so confused—so utterly confused by his behavior. He pried your hand off his chest after a moment and you let your arm fall limp.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was so low, it sent a shiver down your spine. His hand gripped your hip so tightly, the fabric of your nightgown bunching in his fist.

When his eyes opened again, he looked wild—feral. His hand slid up your waist, grazing the side of your breast, until it lingered on your throat. Heat started to coil inside of you. Fire burned a trail through your veins. You couldn’t find any words, your mind suddenly empty of every single thought except one.

Azriel took a deep inhale and you were certain he could smell your arousal. Your cheeks turned pink with embarrassment. But his pupils dilated at your scent, making his eyes look black, as the hand that was on the wall clenched so tightly, parts of the brick chipped off, clattering to the floor. His other hand moved up your throat to cup the side of your cheek, a scarred thumb brushing against your skin.

You swallowed audibly, frozen in place. You could scent his own arousal, could feel it pressing against your stomach, as his hard body kept you as its prisoner. Your mouth parted in a gasp and his head dipped down, his nose brushing against yours. And then his lips hovered over yours and you held your breath. Your body screamed at you to do something, anything. But he had ordered you not to move, not to touch him.

Your heart nearly stopped as his lips feathered yours and you waited. Waited for him to make the final move, to press his lips against yours for real. To kiss you. Something that had only ever happened in your dreams. But instead, he let out a loud grunt of pain and pulled himself away from you so quickly, it felt like you had been slapped.

You blinked up at him, disorientated. “A-Azriel?”

He let out a frustrated growl, running a hand through his hair, as his whole body seemed to tense. When he met your eyes, goosebumps covered your skin because of the darkness in his gaze. The hand at his side clenched in and out of a fist. Like he was restraining himself from something.

You were shaking like a leaf, glad the wall could support you, otherwise you were sure you would’ve crumbled to the floor. You waited for him to speak, to say anything that might explain what the hell had just happened. But when he finally did, his words were like a spear to the heart.

“Do yourself a favor, princess, and stay the hell away from me.” The words came out in a snarl and his huge wings snapped out, casting a dark shadow over your form. Before you could even say anything, he launched himself into the air and disappeared into the dark night sky.

The breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding in was expelled out of your lungs and you slid down the wall until you were on the floor, drawing your knees up to your chest. Your mind whirled as you tried to figure out what just happened.

But hours later, when the sun began to crest over the horizon, you were still so lost.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

A few days passed by without you so much as catching a glimpse of Azriel. Apparently, your brother had sent him off on some mission, likely out of spite. Or perhaps even for your benefit. As much as you wanted to see him after that night on the balcony, his absence gave you time to think about what you wanted or needed to do.

Ultimately, you decided the next time you came across him alone, you would force him to talk to you, to tell you what the hell that night was about. It was only fair. You deserved an explanation after all. He had treated you like shit, then came to you and nearly kissed you, before disappearing. And his words had been ringing in your head every single night.

Do yourself a favor, princess, and stay the hell away from me.

They made no sense to you. It had seemed like he wanted you that night, judging by the arousal you had scented, the feel of him against you. And you knew he could tell you wanted him too. So why would you be doing either of you any favors from staying away from him? It made no Godsdamn sense and you needed an answer to his cryptic words. So you would demand it of him the next time he came around.

You stretched your legs out on the couch, yawning as you placed a bookmark to keep your place in the novel you were in the middle of reading, and snapped it closed. It had been a long day of taking care of Nyx while Rhys and Feyre had to attend to some courtly duties. The house had been noticeably vacant today, just the two wraith twins occasionally floating in to check on you and baby Nyx.

Normally Elain was around to keep you company on days like this but even she had run off somewhere for the day. You had just started to get up, ready to retire to your bed, when the front door slammed open. You jumped at the noise, whirling towards the foyer. Rhys and Feyre weren’t due back until tomorrow morning, so who else could it—

Elain stumbled into view, followed by Azriel. Both hadn’t even noticed your presence as they kissed wildly, bumping against the walls as they moved inside. The scent of Elain’s arousal flooded the room and you choked on the scent causing them to break apart in surprise.

Your stomach sank at their appearance. The top buttons of Azriel’s shirt were undone, exposing some of the tattoos on his chest. Elain’s hair was in disarray, her lips swollen, as if they had been up to this for a while now. Well, that explained why Elain had been gone all day.

You stared at them with wide eyes as hurt slammed its way into you. Azriel had returned from his mission. He had returned and had sought out Elain. Hadn’t even thought to come to you to maybe give you some explanation of that night. You were probably the last thing on his mind right now anyways, that much was clear.

“Oh my Gods,” Elain exclaimed, placing a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I knew Feyre and Rhys would be gone and assumed you’d be in bed by now.”

Azriel said nothing, only stared at you with a cold, unfeeling look. You felt your breath shallow out, your nerves causing your hands to shake. You wanted to scream, wanted to vomit, to cry. But you did nothing. Just mustered up a small smile and muttered, “It’s okay.”

Elain went to say something else but Azriel grabbed her hand and leaned down to whisper in her ear, holding eye contact with you the entire time. “Come on, let’s go.”

He smirked as she blushed red and you could do nothing but just stare and stare at him. You didn’t move an inch as he pulled her away and up the stairs, Elain giggling the entire time. You didn’t move even after you heard her bedroom door slam close.

You thought there was no way he could’ve hurt you more, but you had clearly underestimated him. How could he? How could he…act like that with you and then just carry on as if nothing happened? How could he just carry on with another girl after that charged night? You hand clenched the book you were holding as you struggled through your feelings.

Your already broken heart somehow found even more ways to tear itself apart. But unlike months ago when you had caught them in the same predicament and cried all through the night and eventually fled from Velaris, no tears came this time. No tears at all. Instead white hot anger burned through you instead.

You were tired of being captive to your own feelings. Tired of letting the stupid shadowsinger have so much power over you. You were so unbelievably tired of being constantly hurt by him. You couldn’t even use the excuse that he had no idea what he was doing to you when he had just made it so clear he did.

Your jaw tightened and you gave yourself over to the rage you felt. He had told you to stay away from him. So you would. But you sure as hell were about to make it impossibly hard for him to stay away from you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The next two days, you did exactly that. You ignored Azriel entirely. Didn’t so much as look in his direction. At training each morning with the Valkyries, you made sure to have a sparring partner ready to go before he could even open his mouth and demand you train with him. You didn’t greet him, only hugged Cassian good-bye each day, and pretended you didn’t hear him when he would call out your name.

Meanwhile, you had spent your time in heated negotiations with your brother. You were ready to carve a place out for yourself in this court and after many discussions with him, Feyre and Mor, you three had reached a compromise. A certain letter that came from the continent had helped you plead your case.

And that is why when Rhys stood up at family dinner, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention, you knew exactly what he was going to announce. You kept your hands folded in your lap, your shoulders held back, and your body angled away from the end of the table where the shadowsinger sat.

“Another announcement in a week?” Cassian laughed. “Don’t tell me Feyre’s having twins!”

Everyone chuckled as Nesta slapped him on the back of his head. He only grinned at his mate, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. You smiled at their interaction despite the envy that crept its way into your head. Oh how you wished for that kind of love. Perhaps one day you would find your own mate and forget about the shadowsinger entirely.

“Gods no,” Feyre chuckled from beside Rhys who conjured a piece of parchment in his hand. “We come with some news from the continent.”

“I received some correspondence from Prince Cedric,” Rhys explained. “The King of Vallahan’s first born son and Heir to the Throne.”

“Go on, read it to them,” Mor said with a giddiness that caused you to smile.

Rhys read from the letter out loud:

To High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand,

I am writing to you because I have had the pleasure of spending the past month in the company of your lovely sister, y/n. I must admit, your sister has charmed my heart with her kindness, grace, wit and loyalty to your court. We know very little of Prythian’s courts here on the continent, but if your sister is a shining example of your citizens, I must admit, I am all the more curious about your court. As you might know, I am next in line for the Crown and my time may be coming soon.

In a world dictated by power, alliances between territories have allowed for stability and peace. When my time to wear the crown comes, I would like it to also come with the forging of two strong realms. With the utmost sincerity and goodwill, I believe a union between our territories through marriage would not only reward me with a beautiful bride, but prosperity and peace between our people. I assure you, High Lord, that I will propose with sincere commitment to your sister, to give her a life filled with love and respect as my future Queen.

I understand that this is not a decision that will be made without proper communications, so I am prepared to meet with you at your earliest convenience to discuss this matter further. I hope you consider my request and I will remain with anticipation until you reach out.

Sincerely yours,

Prince Cedric of Vallahan

Heir to the Throne

A fork dropped on the table somewhere behind you and the room was silent for a moment before Cassian let out a loud whistle. “Holy shit, y/n!”

Mor cackled, reaching over the table to give you a high five. “That’s right, our girl bagged herself a Prince.”

Your cheeks turned a bit pink at the attention. To be honest, you had no idea that Prince Cedric had been captured by you. It wasn’t like you engaged in any romantic courting or even so much as touched each other's hands. But your mere personality had won him over. Too bad he just wasn’t the male your heart had set its course on.

“Not just a Prince, girl,” Amren chimed in. “A future King.”

You could feel a heavy gaze settle on you from the other side of the table but refused to look that way.

“And what about you, y/n?” Nesta asked. “Did the Prince win over your heart as well?”

“I must admit, the letter came as quite a surprise to me,” you answered honestly.

“To me, as well,” Mor jumped in. “I mean, it’s not like they spent much time together outside of the formal dinners and parties we attended while there. Unless, of course, you snuck off with him while I wasn’t watching, you naughty wench.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I assure you, I was a proper lady during our time at the King’s Cross.”

“You certainly weren’t a proper lady during our time in Nysa,” Mor mumbled under her breath with a smirk. You kicked her under the table with a glare.

You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at Azriel this time. He was already staring at you, his jaw set, his fist clenched around the stem of his wine glass. You could’ve sworn a bit of jealousy shined in his eyes. You quickly looked away, not wishing to show him you even cared about his reaction, though you did.

“Well, as fun as this is,” Cassian said. “There’s no way you’d marry off your sister to go live in another territory. Right, Rhys?”

Rhys looked inclined to agree but Feyre nudged him in the gut with her elbow. “If that is what she wishes, she will always have my blessing. It is her choice, of course. But a marriage is not the announcement I planned on making today. I merely read this letter to you all to show you how successful y/n has been as a representative of our court. And because of that, we have officially decided to not only give her the title of Emissary, but she is also going to take over Mor’s position in the Court of Nightmares since Mor has had her hands full with negotiations on the continent.”

“It's about time you let your sister prove herself as a valuable member of this court,” Amren said, the closest thing you’d ever get as a congratulations. She did give you a small smirk, pride shining in her silver eyes.

“She has always been a valuable member,” Cassian snided but smiled at you regardless. “If this is what you want, y/n, then congratulations! I’m glad I’ve taught you all the ways to kick ass, especially if you’re now going to be spending more time in Hewn City.”

You laughed but gave him your thanks. Feyre proposed a toast for you and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face for the rest of the night as they planned for announcing the shift in leadership to Hewn City. You had already bought your dress for the occasion, ready to make the shadowsinger eat his heart out. You even felt a bit vindicated as a certain male decided to spend the rest of his own night brooding in his shadows.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Azriel tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. Both his mind and his shadows seemed to be in a permanent state of chaos ever since dinner. He couldn’t get the image of you smiling as Rhys read the Prince’s letter out of his mind. He had never considered the possibility of you leaving this court, had never thought Rhys would ever allow that.

He threw his sheets off, standing up and prowling towards the floor length mirror in the corner of his room. His eyes fell on the skin above his hip, on the small tattoo of Illyrian wings with a sword going straight through the middle of them.

He wished he could take truth-teller and slice that bit of skin right off his body. But even with its absence, the burden of it would never disappear. He let out a curse, pure rage racing through him. How could he have known things would turn out this way? How could he have known how much pain that tiny tattoo would eventually bring him?

His fist shot out, punching straight through the mirror. He was so angry he didn’t even feel the pain of the tiny shards of glass piercing his scarred flesh. Gods, this was all so fucked up. So incredibly fucked up.

His heart pounded as he thought about how you had felt pressed against him that night on your balcony. How your scent had driven him crazy. How stunning you had looked under the moonlight in that tiny nightgown. The Princess of Night was an accurate title for you and all your beauty.

He fell on his knees, the broken shards of glass crunching under his weight, letting the blood from his hand drip down on the floor. No pain would ever compare to the one he felt now. The pain of craving you. Craving the touch of your skin, the taste of your tongue, the moans he could drag from that pretty little mouth.

And Gods, the way you had looked at him. He had almost caved. Had almost decided to burn it all to the ground for one chance to taste you, feel you, claim you. But he couldn’t. So he went back to doing what he always had–keeping you at a distance. It hurt to do so, even more so whenever he saw how much it hurt you, but it was better this way. You needed to move on, needed to look for love elsewhere.

Life had always been unfair to him but this, this was quite possibly the worst of it. For he knew he would always yearn for you, crave you, love you—but only ever from a distance. Because for him, you…you had been made untouchable.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

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#acotar #azriel #original character #fanfic #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar fanfiction #angst #azriel fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #shadowsinger x reader #acotar series #fanfiction #acotar writing #azriel fic

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garfunklefield · 5 days

Note

What about a Gojo prince x a princess reader and its love at first sight? Then maybe they have some breeding-kink related sex, and perhaps they say I love you?

Whimper Like a Prince!

18+ viewer discretion is advised

fem!princess!reader/prince!Satoru Gojo Warnings: perverted gojo, heavy breeding kink, arranged marriage, creampie, p in v sex, pussy eating, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, L bomb, gojo will whimper trust, love at first sight, porn with plot or should I say plot with porn :), bathroom masturbation, gojo cums in his pants Word count: 4591 DESC:You and your new husband procreate

Back at it again with the subby gojo

Satoru never thought of himself as a pervert. In fact, he considered himself basically asexual, from how no one had ever interested him. No woman or man ever caught his attention, not even a little bit. There had to be something wrong with him, his parents thought so. They deliberated for days before going to their son and telling him about you. You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be the perfect woman to marry into the Gojo clan. And you were the one they had signed him off to be married to.

“Seriously? Not even in a say in my own wedding?” The Prince groaned, throwing his head back and letting white locks flow across his forehead. It was a pain to have to share a room with someone. Become married. All of it. It was a pain! He didn’t want to know anyone, he didn’t want to know you. He couldn't care less if it offended his parents or hurt your feelings; He didn’t want to do it.

His life was fine! He could do whatever he wanted without a woman bossing him around. This would ruin it. This would make everything all wrong. Satoru said nothing else as his parents continued to lecture about how this would be good for him, a change of pace. How you were calm and reserved and perfect. All that bullshit he was tired of hearing. He didn’t care how perfect or beautiful you were, he didn’t want you. So he declined to see your photos and got up, strolling out of the common room and into one of the hallways.

What's worse is they didn’t tell him that when he woke up the next morning and got dressed in the white suit they had laid out for him, Satoru was going to be wed. It was a pure white suit, white coat, and white undershirt, paired with white shoes and pants. It was a bit weird, making him look paler than he actually was. He looked like a demon, staring at his own blue eyes in his reflection. Who was that man? Who was the beast before him who was watching with a hungry gaze? A beast who longed to be forever alone. Satoru wasn’t scared of intimacy but he sure as hell didn’t like it. Maybe he avoided it as much as possible, that wasn’t wrong, was it? He didn’t need to be intimate with anyone as long as he had a say in it. So safe to say, he was a virgin. Unless you count fooling around with his best friend, which he didn’t.

One maid knocked on his door and spoke quietly, saying his parents requested to meet him in the outdoor corridor. Gojo nodded and silently rolled his eyes, praying it wasn’t for scheduling the wedding. What he didn’t know was he was walking into his own wedding. He didn’t pay attention to the loud fanfare outside, it was probably just one of his parent's parties he was being forced to make an appearance at. Whatever, it wasn’t like it affected him in any way to say hi to a few guests. Then he could retreat into his room and hide underneath a blanket until the world disappeared.

“Toru, honey, in here!” His mother, the queen, called out from a column that lined the huge archway, leading outside. He perked up at the sound of his mother's voice and followed it closely. Although it was hard to hear from all the music and noise, he managed to find her. She was in a long white gown, which didn’t catch him off guard, it was the scene behind her. A wedding. His wedding. Half of the seats were people wearing white, signaling his side of the family. Then the other half wore red, signaling yours. It made sense, his kingdom's colors were blue and white to symbolize a Gojo’s typical eye and hair color.

His mouth twitched on the edge and slowly hung open, gaping at the scene, “Mom… are you fucking with me right now?” Satoru turned to look at her, with his eyes widening in a newfound rage. He was getting married now!? Now!!! In front of all these people! Oh but the mysterious and perfect you was nowhere to be seen.

“Now, now… don’t give me that. It’s for the better,” she smiled reassuringly and attempted to put a hand on her son's shoulder blade, to calm him. Instead, he shrugged out of her grasp with a grumble and straightened his suit jacket. There had to be a way to get out of this. There had to be a way to get out of all of this.

“Introducing!!!” A loud man shouted from a balcony overtop Satoru and his mother, “The crowned prince, Satoru Gojo, and the Queen!” A large spotlight flickered over to the both of them, stopping him in his tracks as he attempted to leave. He stared into the light like a deer caught in headlights unsure what to do. He was fucked. He was totally and utterly fucked.

He felt his mother nudge his side, with a tense and tight grin upon her frail lips, “You have five seconds to stand straight before I slap you Satoru,” she spoke between her smile. Her son did as he was told and straightened his posture, turning on the perfect mask of a prince who wanted to get married. His eyes turned kind and his smile flashed wide. He looked like the perfect prince about to be wed to some nobody.

His mother grabbed his hand and pulled him down the aisle, smiling and waving to everyone as she did so. Satoru refused to truly make eye contact with anyone, he didn’t want to exist. He wanted to pretend this was all some fucked up dream he was going to awaken from at any moment. Just getting pinched and sent back into bed was all he wanted. The Queen let go of his hand and signaled him to go on further, standing on the pedestal designated for the two truly participating in this wedding. He didn’t look as the loud man cleared his throat and introduced you by your name, he didn’t care to learn it. But something took over Satoru, maybe it was curiosity or just pure boredom, but he looked over at you.

And his … his heart stopped.

You were purely and utterly perfect in every shape of the word. Your face was adorned with jewels and makeup from your homeland, all red. Your hair was the same fiery red, and put up into an intricate style. But he wasn’t looking at that. Your face, your beautiful face. It was unique and something he’d never seen before. Features, that were all different from those of him and his family. Fuck … he liked it a lot. The way your lips jutted out in a regular stance, painted with a deep crimson. Then his eyes trailed down to your chest.

Satoru never thought of himself as a pervert … until he met you. Your breasts were thick and filled with fat, hanging perfectly against your body. They perked up against your dress in a way that couldn’t have been natural, maybe by a bra of some kind that he couldn’t see. Your dress collar went low, exposing the skin between your breasts. There was something about him he wanted to squeeze and palm until you couldn’t take it. He wanted to rip apart your dress and taste your sweet nipples, feeling you grow wet under his touch. This sudden lust was becoming too much and it didn’t help he took in the rest of your figure. Your stomach lightly jutted out against your tight dress, followed by thick love handles and hips. He caught himself salivating just at the thought of pressing you against the wall and becoming suffocated by the plush, soft skin of your thighs.

He turned away from staring at you and instead began to worry about the problem brewing in his pants. A very apparent and very erect problem. He was straining against his tight boxers and even tighter slacks, desperately aching for release. He wanted to rip apart his pants and touch himself while watching you stare at him indifferently. He loved it, fuck, he loved you. Was that possible? Was he just so overcome with lust it was blurring the lines of love? Well, he had never felt love before, so maybe it was the same as lust!

You approached him, with an older man on your left. He let go of your hand and let you step onto the pedestal yourself, coming face to face with your future husband. He couldn’t even feign disinterest or boredom, being this close to you was agony. Satoru’s body was purely on fire and he needed you to put it out with your touch. He stared at you, waiting for something to happen. The officiant began to speak her speech, but he heard nothing. All he could do was stare into your wide eyes as you stared into his. Did you feel the same thing as him? Were your souls becoming intertwined with every passing second, or was it just him?

“...Do you take Satoru Gojo to be your lawfully wedded husband?” The officiant asked you, turning your attention away from your future husband. You looked at her, then at Satoru.

Biting your bottom lip, you nodded, “I do.” Your voice. Your fucking voice. He was going to cum in his pants. Your voice was angelic, pure gold sliding into his senses. It was beautiful, you were beautiful! Everything about you was absolutely beautiful.

“Satoru Gojo do-” The officiant began but she was cut off by Satoru’s abrupt, “I do.”

Your eyes widened at the sight. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking but he didn’t care about that. He wanted to touch you so bad it was starting to hurt him and his cock. He was throbbing and aching for release, aching for you to release him from these chains. All you had to do was just touch his hand or his arm, and he’d find peace.

“By the power vested in me by the kingdom, I pronounce you two man and wife. You may now kiss the bride,” she cleared her throat, stepping back and motioning to the newlywed couple. Satoru’s heart jumped from his chest to his throat. Kissing? They were going to kiss? Oh no. That was bad. That was going to be very bad.

He stared at the officiant to you, pressing his lips in a thin line. Well… she did say kiss. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Satoru quickly began to convince himself he’d be fine, which was a mistake. He stepped forward and put two hands against your cheeks, inhaling to take in your warmth. You were the living embodiment of perfection, the soul of beauty, and the goddess of his life. Who cares if you just met two minutes ago?! Love at first sight can exist! Without saying anything else, he gave you a look which you nodded to, signaling you were ready for the kiss.

Then your two souls became one and your lips pressed together. Annddd he came in his pants. Satoru didn’t mean for it to happen but the pleasure of being so close to you, smelling your scent, and feeling your body warmth. It felt so good, he let himself slip and found himself cumming into his pants from the sensation. Your lips were so soft and glossed up, molding against his in a very G-rated kiss. Although, he wished for more. He wanted to taste your tongue so badly. You pulled away first, staring at him. His face was red with flushed bits of pink scattering his hazy cheeks. His lips were delicately traced with gloss, and his eyes were fogged over. Small panting breaths came out of him as you both looked at each other.

“Did you…” You mumbled, nodding your head in the direction of his pants.

“...Nu-uh…” Satoru whispered back, pulling back completely and clearing his throat, “BRB for normal reasons now,” he flashed his mother a winning smile and then promptly walked off the podium. It didn’t really matter, as the families had begun to mingle. So no one noticed him slipping out and wandering back to one of the many guest bathrooms in the palace. You watched him walk away with a different look in your eye that he didn’t have time to dissect.

Satoru had one goal in the bathroom: clean his underwear and not take too long. He dropped his pants and stared at himself in the mirror, he looked like a complete mess. Nothing had ever made him cum like that. Sure he never felt attraction to people but he was a guy! Morning wood is a real issue. He let out a sigh and assessed the damage, pulling off his pants and underwear to begin to properly clean it. But something else took over him as he pulled out a roll of toilet paper. He could just fuck himself to the thought of you in here and no one would know. He could touch himself and think about how you felt against his touch, your plump skin, and your warm lips.

A hand trailed from the toilet paper down to his growing and twitching cock. It was aching to be touched. His palm covered the tip and then sank, snaking around the shaft. With a small and gentle motion, he began to rub himself off. His hand didn’t feel as good as he knew yours would. Something about your small hands against his cock, taking him and feeling him in the ways he liked. Then your pretty mouth, gagging on his dick. He could practically feel your lips sucking his tip, and your tongue trailing around his urethra hole. It was too much for him and he had just begun to jack off, quickly cumming into his hand. It was a quick wave of pleasure that ran up his length and shot out his tip, into his hand. Satoru let out a shaky moan and kept stroking himself, cumming against the pleasure.

Fuck he needed you so bad.

Satoru had no idea you’d be waiting in his room after he got out of the bathroom. His underwear was completely past saving and he needed to change into something less cum filled. When he saw you seated on his bed, two arms crossed against your breasts he gasped. Two brows raised in confusion furrowed a bit, “Wh… Why are you in here?”

“Did you cum in your pants?” You raised an eyebrow at him, watching him with your same blank stare. He blinked a few times. Oh! So you did notice more than he thought!

He let out a small laugh and closed the door behind him, locking it subtly as he did so, “Whaaat? Why’d you say that?”

“I heard you moan when we kissed. You got all … flustered,” you explained, motioning with your hands. As you moved, your breasts bounced against your skin, exposing them to Satoru’s perverted gaze. He was half paying attention and mainly salivating. He wanted to rub his swollen cock on your nipple and feel it harden, then fuck your tits until he came all over them. Then he wanted to grab them until you couldn’t bear it from sensitivity.

“Why are you in here?” He asked, a low tone taking hold of his voice. You both were married now. It wouldn’t hurt to get more acquainted, would it? And it wouldn’t hurt to be more bold now, would it? Satoru began to approach you, kicking off his shoes and pulling at his white tie, his eyes on you like a predator on his innocent prey.

“I… wanted to ask if you were okay,” your eyes met his and you bit your bottom lip. Fuck… just like that. He wanted you to bite your lip as he went down on you and fucked your tight cunt with his tongue. He wanted you to cross your eyes as he pumped you full of his kids, of the next generation. God, just the thought began to make him hard all over again.

“Then why’re you on my bed?” He tilted his head, shrugging off his suit jacket and letting it hit the ground. You swallowed and moved both hands from your sides to rest behind you, stretching yourself back a bit. All for him, huh? He didn’t know you were a little tease.

“Satoru,” you began but your breath caught in your throat when he was too close. He stood between your slightly spread legs, using his own knee to spread yours a bit more. The tension was so thick he could practically cut it with a knife. He needed you so bad, to run his hands along your fat skin and taste the wetness leaking from your cunt. He knew you were wet, you had to be. There was no way you’d be in this position and not be even the littlest bit aroused. He was aroused, it was obvious from the boner in his pants.

He breathed out your name and sunk onto his knees, “If you don’t stop me in five seconds, I’m continuing,” one hand ran up your thigh, up your stomach and grabbed hold of your panties, “One,” he pulled at the hem of your underwear, “Two,” he pulled it down your thighs with one hand, “Three” it was down to your ankles, “Four” your dress was pushed up past your hips, “Five,” his mouth was face to face with your soaked pussy. You were gorgeous, perfect flaps waiting to be spread open by his mouth.

“Sa..” You went to begin but his mouth was on your spot. You weren’t going to stop him anyway. Two fists balled up against the sheets and you felt him press a hand on your stomach, signaling you should lay down. Your legs found themselves thrown up against his shoulders, so he could be even closer to your wetness. Two hands suctioned against your hips and he did his magic. For someone who had never eaten pussy he was surprisingly good at it, lapping at you like you were the best meal he’s ever had. You tasted like savory heaven, something he’d never want to give up. His tongue rolled around your cunt for a few moments before he latched onto your sweet cunt, sucking like he never had before. He felt you tense up, rolling your hips to the sensation, and he knew he had found the perfect spot to please you.

“Pl.. f-f-fuck… pleas- hah.. Mmm… please,” you whimpered, gasping and arching your back to the sensation. He wanted you to cum just had he had several times before. Satoru pulled his face back from your pussy, his chin glistening with your wetness, and pulled one hand from your hip. He needed to make you cum any way he could, and he’d heard that fingering made women feel pretty good. With ease, he sunk digit after digit inside of you, filling you up with three fingers. You felt so warm and plush, sticky, and … fuck warm.

“What a whore, huh? You take all my fingers…” Gojo mumbled, leaning forward and pressing his mouth on your clit. He pushed his fingers in then out, and in then out, in a rhythmic dance to stimulate your senses. He felt your spongey walls clench around him when he hit your perfect spot and kept going, making sure to abuse it as best he could. His mouth helped too, licking your juices up as if there was no tomorrow, in his mind there wouldn’t be. He had to make the best of here and now as if he’d never get this chance again.

He could tell you were close when your noises got louder, and your voice reached a higher octave. You moaned and groaned his name, begging to release all over his face. And when you did, you did something a bit unexpected. You squirted. Your body tensed and you rolled your hips a few times, going silent before a loud moan escaped your lips. Satoru didn’t stop and didn’t stop when he felt you cum all over him. It sprayed over his face, just getting a bit of his chin and neck but he didn’t care. Fuck, he thought it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen!

Satoru pulled back and grinned, “I’m gonna fuck you until I can’t cum anymore, kay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, bringing you up further on the bed by your arms then promptly pouncing on you. You gasped when his mouth assaulted yours in a sloppy R-rated kiss. His tongue lapped yours and tased your saliva, moaning for more. It felt so good, building a burning sensation deep in his stomach. He needed to get off, and he needed to get off now. You heard him moan and whine into the kiss as he did exactly what he wanted to and touched your full breasts. He squeezed and palmed the skin just to hear you moan and whimper that it was too sensitive. That’s what made him strain more against his pants.

He sat up and took off his pants, well attempted to. Satoru struggled against his belt, to the point where you had to sit up and help him. You cleared your throat and pulled off the belt, beginning to unbutton his pants, “So… did you also learn about the marriage yesterday?”

The white-haired male let out a lust-filled laugh and nodded, “Didn’t know it was happening today, though.” Once his pants were unbuttoned he shimmied out of them and his boxers, kicking them to the side and getting right back on top of you, “Mm…” he moaned against your mouth as he brought you back into a kiss, “I’m gonna fuck you till you’re swelling with my kid,” you moaned into the kiss when he said that, joining him in filling the room with your joint noises.

Satoru pulled back and looked down at his cock. He was throbbing and leaked precum onto the sheets, in between your spread legs. It didn’t take him long before he grabbed the base of his cock and stroked it a few times, “You wanna be bred?” He asked, his voice almost hoarse as he spoke.

“Mhm,” you cried out, whining like a little sub bitch. You reached out to grab his hand, “Just fuck me already…” You didn’t have to tell him twice. He continued to slowly stroke his cock as he lined it up with your folds, pressing the tip into your cunt just to see your reaction. You were so warm he had to stop himself from cumming right away, but he stayed strong and pushed in. Fuck, a whimper escaped his mouth and he leaned down to kiss you again. The kiss was desperate and messy, just aching to relieve the burning desires swelling in his body. It was electric how he felt about you in that moment, he needed you so bad it hurt. He didn’t just want to fuck you, he wanted to live in your ribcage like a little parasite.

He pulled back, then thrust in again, “F-hah.. Shit.. mm-m fu..fuck,” he threw his head back at the pleasure rising up his cock. He’d never get this kind of sensation from just simply fucking himself. Sure, fucking himself to the thought of you felt good, but this was on a whole other level of pleasure. You were warm like a sauna and he wanted to just thrust in you until you couldn’t walk, until you were full of his cum. So he began, thrusting in you like you were nothing more than a sex object. You gasped and pressed yourself against the mattress, before arching your back and rolling your hips as you did when he reached your pleasurable spot. You both were so sensitive, Satoru more so from the fact he had already cum twice, that he came within seconds of penetrating you. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop when you cried out and came for the second time, or if he was feeling too stimulated, he wanted you full. He wanted to watch you bulge from his cum and carry his kids.

“F-fuck… I’m gonna.. Mm- fill you.. Hah.. with my- mm.. Kids,” he groaned, looking down at your perfect form. Satoru buried his head in the crook of your neck and bit down as the pleasure was getting to be too much. It was all-consuming, filling his whole body and all of his senses. He could feel his body jerking and spontaneously moving with every jolt of ecstasy. You were the same, crying out and wrapping your arms around his neck. He was balls deep in your wetness, taking in your noises and the plapping from both of your bodies together in pure bliss. He felt himself spill over again into your pussy, cumming to the point where it was beginning to hurt. But he didn’t want to stop, even though his dick was starting to become numb. It almost tickled at first when he kept thrusting through the sensitivity, but then it started feeling good again. So good he couldn’t help but bite even harder on your neck. You were talking it like the good slut you were, soaking up his cum and begging mindlessly for more.

Satoru gasped and kept thrusting, even though he was beginning to realize you might’ve milked him dry. He let out a whimper and pulled his head back to look at your dazed expression. Your makeup was smeared, mascara pooling at your eyes and lipstick against your cheek. He didn’t care, you were still gorgeous.

So he was surprised when he felt himself cum again and he blurted out, “I ..f- mmshit.. F-.. love… you.. Iloveyouiloveyou.”

His dick was so tender he was beginning to lose feeling in every motion, so his thrusts began to slow to a stop. He pulled himself off of your sweet cunt and plopped down beside you, taking in gasps of air as if he was going to die at any minute. Now he knew why men were addicted to sex. Sex was amazing! Marriage was amazing! How could he have dismissed it so early on without even giving it a try? If this was how sex and marriage truly were, he would’ve done this such a long time ago!

“You… love me?” You murmured, turning your head to look at your husband. Gojo looked back at you with wide eyes full of … well tiredness and confusion. He was so out of it that he didn’t even process he had said it until you pointed it out. A few silent moments passed as he tried to think of what to do. Well shit, now he might not have that amazing explosive sex anymore.

“I love you too… I think. It’s weird, I felt like I did when I first saw you,” you continued, turning on your side to watch him with delicate eyes. You … also loved him? If he wasn’t sore and numb in his dick at the same time he would’ve fucked you again.

Satoru let out a breathless laugh and outstretched one of his arms to rest on your waist, “Yeah, me too.”

#gojo saturo #satoru gojo #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jujutsu satoru #jjk satoru #satorugojo #gojo jjk #x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #x reader smut #smut #garfunklefield writing

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milswrites · 16 days

Text

The light which persists

~ Azriel X Fem!Reader

Summary: Azriel finds his source of happiness in the most unlikely of places.

Warnings: Smut 18+ Minors Dni (p in v)

It's strange how Azriel could identify the very moment in which his life had just changed forever. All it took was one look, a second-long glance in your direction, and the shadowsinger was certain that his entire world had just shifted. Whether it be by the cauldrons design or his own, Azriel had no doubt that your fate was to be entwined with his.

It was unbeknownst to Azriel, how a flower as lovely as you could bloom in the toxic gardens of the Court of Nightmares. Yet here you were, sitting across from the male in this tedious meeting, a soft smile adorning your lips as Azriel admired you in all your beauty. A rose untouched by the thorns of her less than savoury counterparts.

The radiant aura you permeated acted like a beacon, a glowing light of warmth and comfort. Your bright signal subconsciously drawing Azriel into your safe harbour. He had yet to hear your voice and Azriel was already sure that whatever sweet nectar poured from your lips would coat his mind like honey, pulling him deeper still into the soothing waters of your tangible soul.

Azriel failed to register the dull words which Kier was speaking, his thoughts occupied by you and only you. In fact the shadowsinger found it impossible to tear his eyes from you. Afraid that if he were to do so for even a second, whatever hypnotic spell you had cast upon him would be severed and his world would be rudely shifted back to the mundaneness of its usual orbit.

Instead, his hazel eyes stayed locked on you, Azriel’s searching gaze committing your delicate features to memory. Noting the slight furrow of your brows knitting together and the growing pout of your plush lips as you listened to Kier’s absurd proposition, his chest tingling with satisfaction at the sight of the flames which flickered in your determined eyes. And when you finally spoke, each syllable which fell from your lips had Azriel clinging on for more, entranced by the power which laced every well-spoken word.

Azriel had only received but a taste of your presence and yet he was already addicted. The tantalizingly delicious way your light coursed through his veins was a feeling the male wished never to forget. He would bottle it if he could, squirrel away a piece of your light and take it back with him to Velaris so he could experience the high which had been gifted from you whenever the male wished.

And so, with your gravitational pull too mesmerizing to resist, the shadowsinger became a ghost in the ebony halls of Hewn City's palace. A shadowed phantom haunting the corridors, hoping to receive just a glimpse of your warming light with the goal of replenishing his well. Returning day after day to silently bask in the glory of your presence.

Even his shadows had fallen victim to your siren’s song, enraptured by the comfort your luminesce provided. The smoky tendrils slipping from Azriel’s control in order to seek you out and soak up the warmth of your prevailing light.

It was therefore no surprise when you noticed the new little followers who trailed after you like lost puppies as you walked through the winding halls of the palace of nightmares. Bringing you a warm satisfaction when you were able to return them to the blushing shadowsinger who always seemed to be hiding nearby.

It wasn’t long before the days where Azriel’s visits to the Court of Nightmares which were once filled with harrowing screams and cries for mercy were now few and far between. Instead, no longer needing to pine after you from a distance, his visits involved friendly walks through the gardens in Hewn. The twisted vines and dull flowers failing to hold a candle to the beauty which was you.

Azriel’s senses were right that day he had first met you, it was destined for both of your fates to be intertwined. Far behind were the days of being strangers, and soon, so were the days of being friends. The shadowsinger’s growing love for you was why it didn’t take long for the cruel city to become one of Azriel’s favourite places to be.

It was the highlight of Azriel’s day, wandering through the winding avenues of Hewn City as he made his way to your home under the cover of his obedient shadows. Following the faint glow which led him through the familiar streets, its presence holding the draining aura of the wretched city’s air at bay until he had safely passed through the threshold of your home.

And just like the day he first met you where you knocked his world off kilter with only one glance, a single look at your beaming face as he entered was all Azriel needed to feel the worries of his arduous day start to slowly ebb away.

A single look being enough to remind the male just how in love with you he had grown to be. Thankful that the prayers whispered from the dark cage of his childhood had finally been answered, because the gods have given him you.

Only you had the power to illuminate his life. Your presence a lighthouse which called him back from the festering darkness of where he once inhabited. Azriel could withstand anyone, any place, even the looming evil of the Court of Nightmares, if only it meant he was weathering them with you.

One look was all it took to muddle his senses and scramble his thoughts. Clearing Azriel’s mind of all the sweet things he had planned of saying to you as his lips came to meet yours instead.

Azriel kissed the same way he fought, rough and calculated. Each skilled brush of his tongue and sinful nip to your swollen lips done with the intention of drawing sounds of pleasure from you. But Azriel didn’t only kiss to please, every swirl of his warm tongue sought to absorb more and more of your comforting light. The two of you locked in a passionate kiss which was only growing wilder as he attempted to sate his never-ending hunger for you.

His scarred hands explored every inch of your body that they could possibly reach as his salacious lips moved to devour the soft skin of your neck, sucking and biting at your sensitive flesh until the purple marks of his labour began to appear in the wake of his reddening lips. Pleased with the desperate manner of which Azriel was attacking your neck you teasingly pulled away from the male, lips pulling into a smile as you goaded him, “What no hello? You’re not going to ask me how my day has been?”

Groaning at the distance you had created between you, Azriel closed the space once more, leaning forwards until his lips tantalizingly brushed against your ear. Using his teeth to gently tug on your lobe until his lips upturned into a cocky smirk, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine as he spoke lowly, “Why should I when we both already know that your day is about to get a whole lot better?”

“Confident in your skills are we?” you teased, not missing the twinkle which flashed in Azriel’s lustful gaze.

“Why don’t I show you?” Azriel asked, hovering his warm lips over your own, your sultry eyes glancing up at him through the shadow of your eyelashes, “And then you can tell me just how good my skills are.”

Azriel fucked well, there was no doubt about it.

Having done the act with him hundreds of times you were familiar with his unforgiving pace and the brutal force behind his thrusts. Azriel fucked like a man starved, seeking to steal every ounce of pleasure from you possible with each wild snap of his hips.

Yet tonight something was different, Azriel still drew the same cries of strangled pleasure from your lips, though his hips worked at a slower pace. The male taking his time to tear you apart, the leisurely pounding of his cock into your heat working to slowly bring you to your completion.

Tonight Azriel wasn't just fucking you, he was making love. His eyes, once blown black with lust, were now filled with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher and each languid thrust of his insatiable hips pulled soft moans and whimpers from your mouth. Your sounds matched by the shadowsinger's strangled groans escaping from his own lips at the newfound softness of the moment.

His stable hands entwined with your own, fingers laced together as he gently moved your hands to rest on either side of your head. Trapping you beneath him as he patiently drew you closer and closer to your high. Azriel was an expert of torture, never failing to stop the arduously slow rhythm of his thrusts no matter how much you cried for him to go faster.

The heat from his loving gaze becoming too difficult to withstand at the steady pace he was keeping and so you snapped your begging hips to meet his, allowing his cock to hit that sweet spot inside your core, urging the male to seek his high quicker.

A low rumbling laugh tore from his mouth, that cocky smirk once more returning to his lips as he continued his torturous pace. "So good for me princess," he crooned, his words stirring the butterflies in your stomach, aiding to pull you closer and closer to the high you were nearing, "You take me so well." The regular pulse of his hips unwavering, the repeated rhythm inching you closer and closer to satisfaction.

"Keep your eyes on me" he warned as the blissful wave of release began to wash over you, a scream of pleasure escaping from your lips as he finally began to speed his thrusts, "Don't stop looking at me my love."

It was Azriel's turn to reach his high, but it wasn't just satisfaction he was chasing, it was the glowing ball of light which stemmed from you that Azriel longed to absorb. Each mighty thrust working towards reaching that light, growling with the effort of reaching his completion.

Once he had found it, and that familiar golden glow had settled in his chest, Azriel's hunger was sated as his high washed over him and he spilled into your aching core. Panting in time with you as he carefully drew his cock from your heat and pulled your aching body into his soothing embrace, whispering sweet words of affirmation into your ringing ears. Aiding in bringing you down from your crushing high.

It was in the wake of his overwhelming pleasure, still inebriated by the intoxicating feel of your warming light, that the words slipped unceremoniously from his lips. "Come with me" he blurted, that unknown emotion from earlier still dancing in his begging eyes.

"What?" you asked breathlessly, unsure what it was that the male was asking for. Sensing their master's wavering nerves, his shadows had made their appearance. Slowly travelling across your heated skin, their soothing caress, acting to cool your burning flesh.

"To Velaris" he explained, the words leaving his mouth with a anxious gulp, "Come with me to Velaris."

Your eyes blow wide at his question. Thoughts becoming clear as the wave of your pleasure retreated. It was love you had seen in Azriel's stare, which you had felt in his passionate thrusts and searing kisses. Love which fueled his shaking nerves at the prospect that your answer would be anything other than yes.

"You deserve so much more than this cursed city" he continued, gentle hand coming to meet your cheek, his grounding touch drawing you from your tempestuous thoughts, “The world deserves to see so much more of you, you’re wasted here. This city, it just kills off everything good, everything pure. You deserve to live, to share your light with likeminded people."

"My light?" you questioned, not quite understanding what it was that Azriel was trying to convey.

Azriel moved the now shaking hand which was settled on your cheek to rest against the center of your chest, taking a few minutes to absorb the steady beat of your heart before continuing to speak.

"I don't know what it is, or why it's there. But I see it, the same light I only ever see on one day of the year, on Starfall. It calls to me, you call to me. . . I don’t know if we are mates, but I just get this feeling, the same one I felt on the day I met you, that this light was made for me. That it’s guiding me towards something. . . towards you.”

You looked down to where his hand was resting but was disappointed to see there was no light shining, yet the intensity of your lovers gaze already told you everything you needed to know.

“Is it there now?” You ask, noting the way Azriel’s hand had stopped trembling at the realisation that you believed him.

“Yes” he smiled softly, and whilst you couldn’t see the light yourself you could have sworn you saw the reflection of a warm glow in his hazel eyes, “it’s always with you, like my shadows.”

As if answering their masters call his shadows had begun to swirl around where his hand was placed, you could only assume they were dancing with the mysterious light that Azriel had likened them to.

“So Velaris huh?” You ask, looking deeply into Azriel’s hopeful eyes, “When do we go?”

And with those four words all of Azriel’s wishes had come true. The male no longer needing to bottle your calming light, sipping at his reserves until he was blessed with your wonderful presence once more. No, this time when he left he would be bringing his star to Velaris with him. To his home.

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