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luveline · 6 months

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𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧

remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses).

requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.”

Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.”

Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you.

He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat.

“What time is it?” you ask.

You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?”

“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.

“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.

You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.

Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds.

He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.

You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic.

You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him.

You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling.

He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him.

His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed.

You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips.

“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.”

“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.”

He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one.

You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.”

“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.”

“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.”

“Can you sit up, at least?”

“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?”

“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard.

You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Was that a dracula impression?”

“I command you.”

You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out.

And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.”

“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him.

Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?”

“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.”

“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.”

“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…”

Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity.

“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.”

“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.”

“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.”

“But for how long?” you ask.

Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to.

You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms.

“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?

“Do you want to start now?”

You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.”

“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.”

You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now.

You shut your eyes.

He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums.

A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?”

Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say.

“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life.

It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along.

“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath.

Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.”

“Do you want to?”

And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too.

“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–”

“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.”

Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?”

“Remus–”

“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.”

“So you like me?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Oh,” you say, lifting your head.

Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth.

“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.

“You first.”

Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo.

“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder.

“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess.

Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.”

“After that?”

“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely.

You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed.

—

Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud.

Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid.

He flinches.

You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but.

I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you?

What are the rules here?

Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay.

He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep.

He should let you sleep.

“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm.

“Mm?” you hum.

“I need to ask you something.”

You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do.

“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.”

“I just need to ask you something.”

“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness.

The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?”

It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you.

He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him.

“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple.

“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.”

Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense.

The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?”

Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek.

“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate.

“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.”

“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says.

“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.”

“Please don't!” you say.

You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways.

Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.

“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say.

“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight.

Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it.

“I'm chucking them out!”

“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?”

“What?!”

You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?”

Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm.

“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”

“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.”

“James,” you say softly, all sympathy.

Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company.

“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.”

Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him.

A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off.

Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease.

There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D <3

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moondirti · 2 months

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kyle yearns for his captain's approval. you're the perfect medium through which he can secure it.

featuring: gaz x fem!reader x price. very consensual. fondling. inspection. fluff. praise kink. objectification. cucking? anal play. mentions of dp and breeding. 4k words of nonsense.

when price asks gaz if he's got anyone at home, gaz answers.

truthfully. he'd be hesitant to admit that he does to anyone else – soap especially, what with his track record of worming his way into people's pants – but his captain is... his captain. jonathan price. a real force of nature, cursed with an uncanny determinism and a habit of getting what he wants regardless of if those around him are willing. gaz knows that price will find out eventually; when the ring he's been planning to purchase for months finds it's way onto your finger, and he requests a change be made to the dependants section of his paperwork. perhaps before then too, if he really did some digging. but gaz also knows that, if there were anyone to trust with this precious knowledge, it'd be him.

so, he tells him about the little number he's got tucked away in a home in south oxfordshire. it's the lazy afternoon before a big mission, and he shouldn't be drinking but he is, a tumbler cradled between his palms and the burn of rye whiskey loosening his tongue. price doesn't speak, just listens, as the sergeant gradually devolves into more and more detail about your meeting, your courtship, the work you distract yourself with when he's not around. and despite his reverence, he admits it all breathlessly, a sheepishness pervading every word. how is he expected to keep his composure when the air is so heavy? unrelenting scrutiny and the potent waft of cigar-smoke draw a hot flush to his skin, the older man humming every so often as a prompt for him to continue.

he wants to, oddly enough. gaz is a reticent man, second only to ghost when it comes to keeping his life private. but something about this circumstance has him ready to lay it all bare. he wants to tell price about how you kiss his neck, the wicked fucking ways in which you use your mouth to milk him dry. he wants to pull out his phone, scroll through the hidden album full of pictures of your tits, of home-made films that paint you in a cum-covered, dazzling light. he wants price to know that he chose right, wants to hear the praise whispered in his ear as his captain lays a sturdy clap onto his back.

instead, he shrugs.

"not much more to tell, cap."

"damn shame." price taps his cigar to rid of the ashes. "sounds like a proper match, garrick. good for you."

and it's enough. a big enough lump of wood to keep the needy fire in his belly roaring. he shifts in his seat to dissuade the heat, rubbing his jaw in contemplation like he hasn't already thought of a perfect way to reap more.

"tell you what, sir. we survive this next assignment, i'll bring you over to meet 'er."

it's a hairbreadth escape, but they do manage to make it back alive, albeit a bit more scarred than they once were. gaz gets home late at night to find you awake, waiting on him despite the incredibly short notice he'd given you for his arrival. it's there – in the foyer, his nose buried in your neck as you babble on about how much you missed him, and what you'll make for breakfast to celebrate, and questions like hey, are you okay? that cut looks fresh or when was the last time you slept? – that he breaks the news. you'll be having his captain over for dinner in two week's time.

of course you're overjoyed. you've been begging to meet the people he risks his life with ever since he told you what he did for work. the planning is immediate. you're dumping recipes on him the next morning, asking for his opinion on what appetiser, main, and dessert your guest of honour would enjoy best. and what's his poison, anyway? i can get my hands on a nice bottle of scotch if you think it'd be worth it. kyle doesn't have the heart to tell you that nothing you'll do would matter much, that price has already taken a liking to you. besides, if anything, your homemaking ability makes him chub up in his pants. best not to rob himself of that delight.

the night arrives as quick as it had been put forward. gaz has to dodge your attempts to put a tie on him, stifles your complaints with a kiss and insists that it's not that kind of dinner party. you're confused (bless you) but flit around making last minute preparations in your bustier midi-dress anyway, kitten-heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors. at a certain point, he can tell that you're fussing over nothing and pulls you by the hand to stand by the doorway with him.

"there's something i didn't mention earlier." he whispers when you're finally settled, tucking his index finger under your chin. your brows knit anxiously. he pecks the canyons between them, stroking your bottom lip until the frazzled energy bleeds from you.

"why would you wait? there's not enough t–"

"not exactly something you can plan for, doll. s'just gonna happen." when you fail to push him for more context, he sighs. "price is expecting to see you."

"sure... that's the whole point, isn't it?"

"no, sweetheart." gaz's free hand wraps around your waist, lowering until it reaches the plush sweel of your ass. his touch lays breadcrumbs for you to follow, leading you down the very depraved path he's trekked a million times the past few weeks. "i mean all of you."

your lips part in realization. oh. he's scared straight for a second, heart hammering like it always does when he reveals a darker fantasy to you. but you merely smile – anxious, sure, pupils clouded with fresh concern, but a smile nonetheless – and accept his admission gracefully.

"and you want me to let him?"

gaz nods. "if you'd please."

you place a chaste kiss on his cheek, careful not to smear your makeup onto his clean-shaven skin. "okay."

he visibly slackens, an edge of playfulness cutting it's way back into his tone. "what's say we take those panties off, make things easier when the time arrives?"

"can' remember the last time i had a beef welly this good, love. family recipe?"

"yes, actually! but it took me some time to perfect for my own. the original called for sherry in the duxelle, but i always thought wine was better suited."

kyle doesn't know if he's ever been more proud of you.

you're a vision. the paradigm of charm. he half feared things to would be awkward following your conversation at the doorway, but aside from the first few minutes of price's arrival – the time it took everyone to thaw the ice of unfamiliarity – you've been anything but stilted. in fact, he worries that you missed the true implication of his request – of the direction things will take later – given the way you laugh openly. the ease in which you bridge conversation topics. your attentiveness, eyes roving over both your boyfriend and his captain to ensure everyone has everything they need. you certainly don't act like a girl who's going to be nakedly appraised tonight. all the expected clumsiness, the stumbling over your own words, replaced instead by eloquence and quick wit.

sweet girl. bloody... beautiful, darling girl.

price seems to think so too. he chuckles heartily at the stories you offer of kyle failing learning to waterski during your anniversary trip to mauritius (and offers his own insight too, something along the lines of how you'd expect the sergeant to be better balanced, given he's survived hanging off a helicopter before). offers some solid advice on how to deal with the ostentatious coworker whose been bugging you for months. and when you question him about his personal life – a line every good soldier knows not to take with their CO, which has gaz wincing internally – all your guest offers is a genuine, crinkle-eye smile. no doubt appreciative of the non-intrusive manner you ask.

he shoots gaz a look before answering, and it's one full of tacky warmth. a look he's seen several times on the field, molasses sweet and satisfying, one that invades his private thoughts too often to admit. whose effect he knows only comes off in a cold shower, a quick pump to his cock if you're not around to help relieve it. something like approval. unspoken praise.

"wish i could say i've been blessed like the two of ya. married to my work, m'afraid."

"oh." you wave your arms, standing to clear the table of dirty plates. "don't be ridiculous, john. you're a wonderful man. put yourself out there and i'm sure it'll come to you." you say it like it's breathing, and just as easily prance away to the kitchen, your voice losing to the clatter of silverware in the sink. thus, when you yell out something about dessert (price is really only able to decipher i made madeira! over the illegible chorus of cabinets closing) kyle is the one to answer you. well-trained in untangling your voice from any sort of ruckus, poor cell reception and moans and drunk gibberish and the obstructive fabric of his hoodie when you sob into his chest.

"maybe later, doll!" he voices back, scratching the back of his neck as he takes in the food still laid out in front of them. picked apart by hungry forks but still, enough to make up days worth of leftovers.

"mm. the girl stuffed me full, garrick." price stretches from his seat. "if i didnt know any better, i'd reckon you lot were fattening me up to feast on me come winter."

gaz stores the remains of your meal into nearby tupperwares then follows suit, urging his captain to follow him into the lounge. "please," he laughs, nodding when the man pulls a cigar from his pocket and twists it in a silent question. "she thinks they starve us out there. tries to make up for it by feedin' me into oblivion when i'm home."

"speak for yourself. i could do with a home-cooked meal every now 'n' then." the captain takes a puff of the maduro between his fingers, lets the smoke cloud his hindbrain. your house smells so much like you, like kyle and you – warm laundry and anise and jasmine – that he feels a quick lick of guilt at ruining the fragile balance of it. too little too late, too – the scent of leather and oily spice pervades the space.

but you don't mention it once you waltz back in, smoothing your hands across the back of your dress. "if we don't get a chance to try the cake tonight, remind me to send you home with some, john." gaz poorly conceals his laugh with a cough, sinking into the cushion when you shoot him an offended look. "what?"

"nothing," he pouts, then hides his next words behind the back of his hand, whispering to price. "i told you."

"i can hear you, you twat!" you flick his ear, brows furrowed in faux irritation as your boyfriend wraps an arm around your legs.

"i know! hey– i know, gorgeous. was only joking." his forehead nudges your tummy, restless until you comb your hand over his tight curls. "th'captain knows that too. isn't that right, sir?"

"of course."

"you laugh now, but wait until you're halfway through a month long mission. you'll wish you had me around!"

"don't i know it." kyle murmurs, the fingers at the back of your thigh slowly creeping upward. the skirt of your dress slips, climbs up your legs with the motion of his forearm, and all too suddenly he remembers your lack of undergarments.

fuck. he almost forget he pocketed your panties. and you... you've been so natural, such a good hostess despite the cold brush of air constantly on your cunt. it flips a primal switch inside him – that same trigger that'd prompted mention of this night in the first place. blood rushes to his cock so fast it hurts, desperation flooding his lungs until the only thing he can breathe out is your name.

"hmmm." you smile in return. and if price weren't here, he'd bury his nose into the canyon between your legs and take a deep inhale of your natural musk.

but he is, and so all gaz can manage is a quiet: "how about you show the captain our little surprise?"

"oh?" the man in question hums. dangerously relaxed, two legs spread and his posture curved as he watches the little display you put on for him. "what's this about a surprise, then?"

you bite your lip, raking your nails down from your boyfriend's neck to his shoulder and placing a tight, reassuring squeeze there before breaking away. nothing is said as you push an ottoman between price's knees, making sure it's steady before pushing him to rest against the back of the couch.

"do you like my dress?" you practically purr, bending over as to pronounce your tits. kyle's breath stutters, watching for the way superior's eyes take in your form. gratification swells in his belly when he just smiles, patting your hip.

"s'that really a question that needs to be asked, lovie? you know the answer."

an adorable mix between a shrug and giggle is all you give. "kyle says you want to see me."

"aye. i do."

"and i wanna make him happy."

"same for me."

and kyle thinks he could just cum in his pants if this keeps up. he feels filthy, both an observer and the main act in this spectacle. the knowledge that his captain doesn't just want you, the love of his life, but him too works away at him, hollowing him out until he's nothing but a husk of docile yearning.

"so, what'll it be?" you say.

"turn around. elbows on the ottoman, knees on either side of my thighs."

you obey instantly, lamplight catching the heated flush of your skin while you position yourself according to price's wishes. your back arcs so that your ass is prominently within his view, plump even beneath the loose material of your dress.

"kyle."

"sir." he coughs, shifting to conspicuously adjust the aching mass tucked in his waistband.

"on your knees, son. righ' here beside me. when i ask a question, you're expected to answer."

"yes, sir."

"got tha' that, lovie?" he grunts. "respond now, and then it's silence from you."

"okay!" you wiggle your hips, forgetting yourself for a moment. "sir!"

this gaz can do. following orders. grounded pragmatism, however far this is from a professional setting. he figures price has gleaned as much, has given him this task so he doesn't flounder off track throughout the evening and ruin things for everyone. the hard part is over then, all of that hesitant foreplay – of opening up, getting you to agree, of the stretch of time it took for everyone to warm up to one another – wrapped up for something simpler.

all he has to worry about is answering promptly and correctly while he watches his captain–

flip your skirt over your hips.

a low whistle. then, two hands on your backside, kneading the soft flesh there. working either globe apart like dough, the glistening seam of your most private parts spread open to prying eyes. price appraises your cunt for the first time like he would a winning showdog, or the sky on a particularly pleasant day. all utilitarian-like. if it weren't for the bulge in his trousers, your boyfriend would almost be offended.

"no panties, hm?"

"no-" you start, squeaking out an apology when you earn a firm swat to your thigh.

"i asked her to go without them tonight. thought... you'd appreciate it, sir." kyle replies, swallowing the saliva that arises upon seeing your lips flutter.

"good lad." a hot flash of arousal breaks across his chest. the captain lets go of his grip on your ass, watching how the fat jiggles back into place, then returns to squeezing it. "surprised i couldn't smell 'er, way she was dancing around us all night."

it isn't a question, so gaz stays quiet.

the groping continues. sometimes its light – brushes of calloused palms across the area, disturbing the stillness like a rock skipping over water. you ripple when he pokes, shake when he taps. other times, and increasingly once price notes your resilience to pain, it borders on rough. moulding your flesh into compact pinches, jabbing his thumb into the softness so hard it'll bruise. you take it all with grace, a low whine building in your chest that he let's go unpunished.

"she's taking this well. you rough her up often?"

"when she asks, sir." he thinks for a moment, catching your wily smile from the corner of his eye. minx. "likes it more than i do giving it to her."

"need someone to take care of the both of ya." price chuckles, then moves on, oblivious to the way the sergeant's hips buck at his implication. or, maybe he notices – probably does – and stores it away for another time. "looks like a greedy little pussy to me." his thumbs hook onto either side of your labia, pulling it apart like fresh bed to reveal the sloppy mess between. your clit is enflamed, angry for being neglected for so long. if you were allowed to speak, kyle can guarantee with almost a hundred percent certainty that you'd be whining to be touched. "look a' tha'." price's accent grows thicker. "fat little thing just jumping for attention."

he curls a finger, then flicks the swollen bud. a loud moan bursts from you, your face falling between your forearms as you hold yourself back from begging. gaz would've acquiesced by now, would've rubbing the bundle of nerves raw the second you fanned your pretty lashes up at him.

but price snaps it three more times in rapid succession, which apparently is too much for you to handle because you yell. "p-please!"

he remedies your slip up with a slap to the same area. the crack on impact echoes long enough to tell him that one hurt. "shhh. so spoiled, sergeant. how often do you make her cum?"

"a-at least three times a go, sir."

"what's the record?"

"eight."

"and the longest you've held off?"

kyle hesitates, bowing his head for the reprimand he knows is coming. "never... never tried. sir."

"tch."

a precision blow. swift but petrifying. the captain's managed to find both your loose strings in a matter of minutes, tugging to see them come undone on his lap. gaz has got the unwavering urge to rest his chin on his strong thigh, put it on the record that he isn't weak willed, just indulgent. something that can be easily remedied, with his guidance. if he'd let him.

and you...

you're gyrating your hips, begging for some pressure on your aching centre. price gives it to you, though not in the way you expect, pinching your clit and tightening his hold until you're motionless, muscles trembling but otherwise perfectly poised.

so the inspection continues. he fans out your vulva, exposing the hole that clenches around nothing. a laugh wracks his frame at the sight, the aftermath of it husky. amused. "begging to be filled, a'right. how many cocks has she had in 'ere?"

"just mine, sir. and her toys."

"how about at once?"

kyle's never been so bold with you; has always held back that godless part of him, that needy dog he sees his comrades often embrace. pure, unfettered degeneracy. you're soft, and pretty and good and a high-functioning member of society. and he's never once wanted to see you hurt, uncomfortable or bite-mark-bloodied, despite the way his mind screams at him to at least ask. see if you'd be willing to appease that side of him.

yet you visibly shiver at the thought proposed by price, gooseflesh pocking your skin, and he knows he should have thrown caution to the wind.

"one, sir."

he watches the man's finger outline the circumference of your opening, dipping in by the millimetre to test the waters. "shame. could probably stretch her out. get 'er nice and loose for whenever you wan' something to keep you warm without the commitment."

the finger plunges in.

gaz watches you swallow his superior to the last knuckle in what must be a world-record, no time to blink lest he misses it. price goes with the motion, setting his free hand onto your ass to keep you steady as he wiggles his digit to make space amidst the tight embrace of your walls. or, that's what he thinks is happening. the only indication he has of things are the lewd squelches your cunt emits and the face of pure ecstasy you pull. but he's well-versed enough in your bodily functions that he's sure of his estimate.

"scratch wha' i said. nothing beats this." his superior groans, and for the first time that night, adjusts himself in his pants. kyle wishes he would pull it out, allow himself the relief of freeing a raging hard-on from its confines. but kyle also wishes that he could be given something to do, something with his mouth perhaps, to sate the unaddressed thrill in his bones. it wouldn't take a smart man to figure out that both wishes are very much correlated. "fucking suffocating clutch. wouldn' pull out if my life depended on it. pussy like this isn' made for that, garrick."

"sir?"

"you cum inside her, lad?"

"i- yes. i-i do. she's on birth control."

"best to see to that, then." he says, like the contraceptive is an obstacle and not a consolation. you release another, long-winded moan, to which price pulls his finger out to pat your vulva. like taming a wild animal. "though what i said still stands. could always do with a loose hole."

his hand inches up.

this time, it's gaz who groans.

loudly. his eyes fluttering halfway shut, hands tugging at the tight fabric over his groin. you throw a curious look over your shoulder, concern glossing your pupils until you confirm that the source of the sound isn't pain, but pleasure. ecstasy at finally having his wants vocalised, that incessant impulse that nags and nags and nags anytime he's fucking you from behind, tight rim practically leering up at him, tempting him to thrust upwards and 'accidentally' slip in.

"you like that, sergeant? hm? ever use this asshole? it looks unbroken to me."

"y-you're... not wrong, sir. i–"

"but you want to?" he finishes for him, scooping some of the abundant slick from your cunt and slathering it onto your back entrance. it's not enough lubrication to do anything but press one thumb in, but he repeats the process to push the other in alongside it.

"yeah."

you give him a look that can't mean anything except we'll talk about this later and he can bloody kiss price if he was given permission to, if not for anything but helping him open this impossible subject with you.

"we'll see to tha' some other day, then."

his thumbs retreat. your hole winks shut again. gaz is torn between looking at you or his captain, but the latter man robs him of the indecision by bringing his dominant index and middle fingers to his lips. they're shiny with the remnants of your fluids, as if he needed any incitement to wrap his mouth around the digits. he works at them until price's fingers prune, laving his tongue around the knuckles, against the nail beds, all the way through to the fold of skin between them.

so desperate to please, to see to it that 'some other day' is everyday henceforth.

a future with price by your sides. beyond just the field. the bite in your supple existence. spice supporting anise and jasmine, some aphrodisiac blend that'll carry you through to the end of your lives, happy. sated. a mediator. commander. captain. his captain.

"that's a good boy."

he could really get used to this.

#unedited!#this idea's been over my ass like a symbiote #cackling and rubbing its greedy little hands together #kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader x john price #kyle 'gaz' garrick x reader #john price x reader #john price x kyle garrick #pricegaz #kyle garrick #gaz garrick #captain join price #john price #x reader #female reader #call of duty

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peachesofteal · 6 months

Text

Light On- single mom/neighbor fic Simon Riley/female reader Prompt: 1 of 2 for sickfics / requested by multiple

I’m going to need a raincheck for dinner tonight.

Simon frowns at his phone. You’re bailing? You seemed excited about it when he asked earlier in the week, offering to take you and Emmaline down the street to the little café on the corner for dinner. It had taken him days to work up the courage, needlessly pushed on by Johnny’s ‘encouragement’ relentless text messages filled with date ideas, and bad pick-up lines.

Still, you had said yes. Had asked if meant Emma too, and he took secret pleasure in the way you seemed so relieved when he tilted his head and told you, of course.

Okay. Is everything alright? He fires back immediately, wondering if the crying that he’s been hearing on and off all morning has anything to do with you backing out.

I’m not feeling great, and neither is Emma. I think we’re coming down with something. Coming down with something, like you’re sick? You’re sick? Anxiety twists in the pit of his stomach, worrying curling his fingers into a fist with a clench.

Alright. Let me know if you need anything? He waits for a text back, an answer of some kind, an assurance that you’ll seek him out if you need help or need anything.

It never comes.

Six hours later, Simon is at your door.

He has grit his teeth through the day, paced around his own flat endlessly, tried everything he could think of to distract himself. Every time he heard Emmaline wail, his stomach flipped, worry, fear, breaking down his logical sense, the analytical part of his brain until he was standing in front of your door, waiting for the inevitable click of the handle.

When it comes, and you’re standing on the other side, his heart sinks.

He should have come over soon.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He says it as softly as he can, a newfound pitch of his voice that seems to only be reserved for you, trying to allay the panic that has started to form as ice inside his chest.

“Sorry about the noise.” You croak, and he smothers his wince. You sound awful, voice nearly gone, like your throat has been rubbed raw with sandpaper. Emmaline is clad only in a diaper, and when he looks closer, he can see the stain of what he thinks must be her vomit on your shirt. Over your shoulder, dirty bottles, dishes lay stacked next to the sink, a laundry basket with a mountain of baby clothes piled high sits on the table.

“Can I help-“ You sway, arm tightening around the baby, and he doesn’t think, doesn’t stop himself, he just moves.“Alright,” He murmurs, wrapping an arm around you, supporting both you and Emmaline by shifting you into his side, one hand against Emma’s back. She feels warm, but not nearly as hot as you, and panic tries to bubble up his throat again at the blaring heat that’s coming from your skin. “I’ve got you.”

“Sorry, ‘m a little dizzy.”

“It’s okay.” He keeps you close, turning you back through the door. Emma makes scratchy, unhappy noises, and he rubs his thumb against her skin. “Shhh. I know, I know. You’re okay.” You lean into him harder, and he accommodates it, moving the two of you towards the couch. “I know, you’re not feeling too good are you?” He says to Emma after he gets you down on the couch, hands now around her back, waiting for a sign of permission from you to lift her.

“She can go down. If you-“ Your breath gets caught in your chest, and you curl forward, his hand going to your shoulder, your body shaking with a cough. “If you want to try.” You whisper once you recover, brows knitted together in misery, and he cradles her, rocking her back and forth, mimicking your usual movements.

“You stay right here.” He nods to the couch, using a fraction of the voice he uses on Johnny, and you immediately nod, eyes shuttering closed with a slow blink. “Just rest.”

Emmaline is still crying when he opens the door to her room, the first he’s seen it, pale green walls and dark wood crib, small rocker in the corner next to a changing table. It’s a comforting space, decorated and cared for with love, and for a moment, his mind wanders to an image of you, painting the walls with a swollen belly, or curled in the plush rocker, reading a book to Emmaline, still nestled inside you. He wasn’t there for it, but he just knows you were so beautiful, the kind of glow that would have stopped him in the street. You still stop him in the street.

Emma wails, bringing him back to reality with a softer cry than earlier, and he keeps her close to his chest, murmuring low and soft. “Shhh. You’re alright, baby girl. You’re okay.” He continues the rocking side to side thing you usually do in a standing position, mumbling things to her, stroking his fingers down her cheek, her forehead, bouncing and swaying at the same. “Are you not feeling too good? Is that what’s got you all upset? Yeah. I get kind of grumpy when I don’t feel good either.” He coos, little lashes slowly blinking up at him, transfixed on his face during his stream of chatter until they begin to slip shut, her mouth still hanging half open. He holds his breath, staring in astonishment at her sleeping face, half shocked, half ridiculously pleased.

“Have you taken anything?” He barely sits on your ottoman, leaning over to get a better look at you, uncomfortable with the way your eyes seem glazed over, how slow they are to react. Maybe you need to go to the hospital?

“Some naproxen, a bit ago.” You look exhausted, eyelids heavy, and he can’t stop himself from pressing the back of his hand to your forehead.

“You’re really warm, sweetheart. Do you need a doctor?” Tell me what to do, he wants to beg. Tell me how to help.

“No, jus’ sleep.” A confused look flickers across your face. “Oh my god, did you…” you swallow a cough, his hand sliding down to cup your shoulder, thumb soft against your dirty t shirt. “did you get her down?” He nods, slowly, fighting the small grin that tugs at his lips.

“Wow.” You breathe, and your hand drags up your chest to where his still sits on your arm, fingers intertwining in his with a small squeeze. “You really are our hero.” He smiles at you, because how can he not, heart warm and full in his chest, the feeling something he hasn’t experienced in a long, long time.

There’s a moment, a second extended into a minute, maybe an hour, he’s not sure, where you don’t look away from him. Where you look at him, really look at him, and see him, see his twice broken nose, the scar on his cheek, the one above his eyebrow. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to hide or look away, just holds himself still, staring down at you on the couch, sweat dotting your forehead and neck, still beautiful with your fever parched skin and tired eyes.

“Simon.” You whisper, and he thinks, maybe… he’s supposed to kiss you right now. That if he were braver, if Johnny were here to egg him on, if he felt like it wasn’t taking advantage of your weakened state… he might. But instead-

“Why don’t you close your eyes, love. Try to get some rest. I’ll stay. See if I can get some of these dishes done. I can get her if she gets up.”

“You don’t have-“

“I know.” He soothes. “I know I don’t, but I’m here. Let me help.” Let me help you. Let me be here.

You take a deep breath, as deep as you can manage, and then your voice is light, but so sweet, and so, so trusting when you say;

“Okay, Simon.”

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley

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monstersflashlight · 11 days

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Everytime you make a new story I get so curious about the aftermath

You don’t have to make it a story, but after the story with the purple dust and Minotaur and orc couple, what happens???

First of all, thank @karleequinn for the idea of making the lady in the shower the same as the witch in the woods. Great idea for this story! Second, thank you for the prompt, I loved this story and I really wanted to make a follow up, and you gave me the perfect excuse. And thanks to everyone who asked for a second part of this. Hope is as good as y'all hoped. :)

The morning after

Orc x minotaur x fem!reader || oral sex, anal sex, lowkey voyeurism, lowkey praise kink (pretty vanilla) (part 1 of this if you haven't read)

You woke up with a pounding headache and feeling way too hot. Your whole body felt like it was inside an oven kinda hot. You tried to move, to get the fucking blanket off you, but the blanket wouldn’t move. You opened your eyes carefully, there was a faint glow from the window, like it was early morning and the sun is rising. You looked down and saw two strong arms around your middle, one dark brown, the other green. What the-

Oh shit.

Memories flooded your brain as you checked yourself, the ache between your thighs, your hips, your jaw… They fucked you thoroughly. Omg, you couldn’t believe you were weak enough to ask them to fuck you. You confessed your darkest fantasies about them. Omg. You were going to die of embarrassment.

Your thoughts were shut down by a deep sleepy voice next to you. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” The minotaur said, his grin so big you wanted to close your eyes and pretend the real world didn’t exist. He was beautiful, and you probably looked like a mess. He kissed your forehead and excused himself because of bad breath. The gesture so tender it made your eyes watery.

“Morning.” You mumbled, burrowing your head against his furry chest, suddenly shy.

“We should talk.” He whispered against your hair. You nodded, not lifting your head. You weren’t the one for confrontations, but it was inevitable. You came to them panting and crying because you were unable to cum, and they made you orgasm so hard you blacked out. That required a conversation. “Wake up, dude!” The minotaur flicked the orc’s ear over you, his hand still caressing your back up and down.

“Five more minutes.” The orc grunted against your neck, his tusks creating a phenomenal sensation ran up your spine as they touched your neck. He planted a kiss there, making you groan. That did it. He sat up so fast your body was propelled to the minotaur in front of you, who tightened his grip around your middle.

“You. You are here.” He stated, looking at you like you are a vision, which is probably very far from your current state. But amazement filled his features either way. He looked like he woke up on Christmas morning, and under the tree was the best gift ever.

The minotaur chuckled and sat up, carrying you with him. “Of course she is, you dickhead. Stop acting weird.” He manhandled you until you were sitting on his lap, your back to his front. At some point they put a way-too-big shirt over you. You thanked them silently, you really didn’t want to have this conversation naked.

“I- I. But she… She’s the… The witch did it.” He stuttered, looking at the minotaur intensely, his eyes watery. You didn’t understand what was happening, but a silent conversation was occurring over your head.

“She did.” The minotaur agreed.

“What did she do? What witch?” You asked rapidly, confused. “Someone needs to explain.” You stated, crossing your arms over your chest. The minotaur behind you uncrossed them and hugged you closer.

“She promised us the one was coming.” The orc clarified. As if his words were self explanatory and you weren’t confused as fuck about what he was saying.

“The one?” You asked, not believing what they were implying. There was no way you were the one for them. They had each other. You were a nobody.

“Yeah, she said the final piece to our puzzle was closer than we expected, and she would send her to us.” He explained, making your head dizzy with realizations. That couldn’t mean… There was no way they were talking about the witch in the woods, the one who blew you that weird purple thing.

“The witch from the woods.” The orc said out loud, reading your thoughts. “We were looking for a third in our relationship. We love each other but sometimes… Sometimes we miss having someone more, someone to care about, to cherish. We posted our offer online, and she answered. She came here and explained about her powers and how she could find the one for us. She was so sure… She only asked for one thing: she must have us before she could find you, so…” The orc explained slowly, his eyes never leaving your face, his full attention on you. You shivered, it was intense to have him looking at you like that.

“She’s the shower girl!” You finished, making the both of them gape at you in surprise.

“How do you know that?” They asked in unison, making you giggle.

“Your pipes are connected to mine apparently, my bathroom is basically a big amplifier.” You explained. You wanted to tell them more. Tell them how you masturbated to the sound of them. Tell them how you liked to brush your teeth at the same time they did so you wouldn’t feel so alone… But you didn’t. That would be too embarrassing to share. It wasn’t time for that. Not yet, at least.

“Oh fuck, I’m gonna die. She heard me sing.” The orc lamented as his face turned bright green. You giggled and kissed his cheek, making the blush deeper.

“You are so damn cute.” You cooed at him, pinching his cheek.

“I’ll show you cute.” He growled as he launched at you and started tickling your stomach, making you scream and squirm. Your ass rubbed against the very hard minotaur’s bulge under your ass. The minotaur groaned, and you both stopped. The three of you were panting, and you could see the orc’s erection against his flimsy pants. Fuck… You could still feel him inside of you, the ache in your pussy so good you wanted to whimper. You moved your hips experimentally, rubbing yourself against the minotaur.

“Stop it.” He ordered, but his hips pushed up, making his erection fit perfectly between your ass cheeks and drawing your attention to the fact that you weren’t wearing anything underneath the shirt. You whimpered, and they both froze.

“You… You want us?” The orc asked. You remembered the exact moment when he asked you the same thing the day prior, how desperate you were, how willing to go to them for help. Now your head was clear, and your insides were twitching with excitement and anticipation.

“If you want me...” You looked between them, trying to see their reaction. The looks you saw there were so tender and so deep that you blushed fiercely. And then they moved in tandem.

One second you were sitting on the minotaur’s lap, and the next you were flat on your back, shirt off, and a big minotaur’s head between your legs. The orc sat beside you, his erection a few centimeters away from your mouth, but before you could stretch your neck to lick it, the minotaur’s tongue ran over your still sensitive pussy, making you cry out. The orc shushed you, whispering sweet words at you as the minotaur licked your pussy like it was ambrosia.

“Grab his horns, he loves that.” The orc instructed. You did just that, grabbing them at the base and squeezing. “Good girl.” You shivered at the orc’s words as the minotaur’s growl resonated against your clit and made you moan. “He’s very sensitive there.” The orc chuckled when you did it again, making the minotaur suck hard on your clit.

The orc moved, getting his precious dick away from you. “Where are you going?” You asked, breathless and needy. Your jaw was still hurting, but you didn’t care if you get to have some orc meat down your throat. You’d suffer gladly to have that pleasure.

“To prepare him.” He told you, making the minotaur groan against your pussy, licking you fervently, making out with your pussy like a pro. You rose a confused eyebrow. “To fuck his tight ass.” He grinned as he slapped said ass, making the minotaur whimper. That was the best sound you heard. You were always a sucker for men who whimpered, but minotaurs who whimpered? HOT.

“Can’t I suck you?” You pouted.

“Not today, sweetie.” He told you, his voice incredibly soft. “We were pretty rough with you last night.” He added, smirking at you, his tusks framing his smile beautifully. “You won’t be having any dick today.” He sentenced, making you whimper.

“But soon?” You asked, eagerly.

“Soon.” They both agreed rapidly.

And then there was no more conversation happening. The sounds they made, the complete greed eating your pussy. The sight of a big minotaur between your legs, your hands guiding his movements as you stroked his horns, and an even bigger orc fingering his ass until he cried out… You were in heaven. In monsterfucker heaven.

When the orc started to push inside, the minotaur stopped, making you whimper. “Don’t stop. Our pretty human needs orgasms.” The orc ordered, smacking the minotaur’s ass hard. You whimpered, why was that so fucking hot?

“You are so big.” The minotaur mumbled against your flesh, slowly licking your opening, his big tongue doing marvels to your pussy.

“You can take me. You always struggle but you love a big cock, and you know it.” He bottomed out in one thrust and all three of you moaned, the movement giving pleasure to all. “I can’t wait to show our pretty human how much of a whore you are. I bet she loves to play with your balls as I’m sitting on your cock. I bet she wants to play with that remote control vibrator you love so much. We can go dinner, I’ll prep you, she plays you… Yeah, you like that idea, right? I can feel your hole clenching. God, you feel so good.”

The mix of the orc’s words and the minotaur making out with your pussy set you off. You orgasmed hard while grabbing his horns so hard you think you hear him whimper. When you came back from your high, you looked down to him, his head is no longer between your thighs. The minotaur’s head looked up to the ceiling as the orc took your place holding his horns, making him arch his back impossibly. He was completely exposed to you, his dick leaking, his mouth open and his chest expanding with panting breaths. He looked glorious. They both did. And they were the hottest monsters you’d ever seen.

Your hand went to your pussy instantly, matching the orc’s thrusts with your own fingers. They were better than a porno, and being allowed to watch them fuck was the highest high you ever gotten. You felt dizzy with desire, so aroused you could feel the blood pumping in your veins, the heat running up and down your arteries. Your body felt like it was going to boil.

“I’m close. So close.” The minotaur groaned as he grabbed his big dick, jerking off furiously, pulling at your legs to get you closer to him, positioning his dick right over your quivering pussy. Your wrist touching the lower part of his dick as you pleasured yourself under him.

“On her. Do it on her.” The orc orders. “Come, now!” He added.

Both of you came at the same time, juices gushing out of you and his cum hitting your abdomen, your tits, your jaw… You were painted completely on his release. The orc was not far behind, looking directly into your eyes when he thrust deeply and growled, burying his seed inside his minotaur boyfriend. Now your minotaur boyfriend, too? You hoped the answer to that was yes.

You rolled over, all three of you laying on your backs breathing hard. “So… Are we a thruple?” The minotaur asked nobody in particular. All three of you laugh.

“Yeah… that seems about right.” You answered, turning to your side so they could hug you close. “I guess I’ll have to send that witch a gift basket or something.” You whisper to yourself as you fell asleep between your monster boyfriends.

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m0chaminx · 6 months

Text

Coriolanus Snow | Roses Grow Thorns

*•.¸♡Request: Pls pls pls do a part 2 too the snow x reader fix it was so amazing and I want more of them 🙏🙏🙏🙏‼️‼️🩷

*•.¸♡Prompts: none

*•.¸♡Warnings: Coriolanus, Cori isn't insane (ish), Snow is slight ooc, jealousy, hurt comfort, fluff ending

*•.¸♡Paring: Coriolanus Snow x F!reader

*•.¸♡Summary: Coriolanus learns his favourite flower grows thorns

You confront Coriolanus about his relationship with Lucy Gray

*•.¸♡Words: 2k

Part 1

People danced, swaying with their partners in a circle as you stood on stage, strumming your guitar and singing to the crowd. Lucy had just finished the first half of her set, so you took the stage to fill the silence. Coriolanus sat with Sejanus at a table across the room, large glasses of some sort of liquor. Coriolanus looked up at you and smiled.

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

You call the shots, babe

I just wanna be yours

Your voice trailed off slightly as Lucy raced to Coriolanus and Sejanus, throwing her arm around his shoulder and leaning between them. You shook your head and continued to play, trying to ignore Lucy Gray practically hanging from Coriolanus’s arm.

Jealousy, an unwelcome guest, clawed at the edges of your heart, leaving an ache in your chest. No words had been exchanged, and no actions had passed between you two. It overtook the corners of your mind, urging you to believe that Lucy Gray should sense the unspoken connection threading its way between you and Coriolanus.

Each shared trip to the lake, every stolen moment when Coriolanus chose to spend his fleeting free hours with you — these fragments of time saved in your mind like photos in an old book. Yet, as you observed Lucy Gray standing there, a vision of radiant smiles and hushed confidences exchanged with Coriolanus, a wave of emotion surged. It was as if the world momentarily lost its colour, and the whispers of uncertainty left an indelible mark on your heart.

You clenched your hand, trying to ease the shaking in your hands.

Secrets I have held in my heart

Are harder to hide than I thought

Maybe I just wanna be yours

Every night for the past week following that evening, Coriolanus Snow would tap gently on the glass of your window. You would turn your head and he would smile, the same bright smile that made your stomach flip and fill with butterflies. You crept across the wood floors and opened the window, looking down at the blue-eyed boy. “Are you busy?”

You would simply laugh at him. You grabbed your coat and slipped out the window, Coriolanus gripping your waist to help you down properly. He would smile, slip a scarf under the window to close it without locking it and you would slip away unnoticed, descending into the velvety embrace of the night.

In those quiet moments, Coriolanus would slip your hand in his own, his warm hand covering yours as he laced your fingers together. He guided you through the dense labyrinth of woods, you knew these woods better than he did but through the nights as he led you to the lake, you questioned if you ever knew them at all.

The Mokingjays sang into the night as if calling to the small fireflies to light the way. “I brought matches,” Cori said, looking back at you. He tugged on your hand bringing you closer and you couldn't help but think about Lucy Gray running her hand along his shoulders. “We can light a fire. Maybe catch some fish.” You nodded and Coriolanus smiled.

You reached the lake and Coriolanus set his bag down, quickly gathering everything to start a fire. You walked to the edge of the water, your mind running faster than you could even start to comprehend. “Think we’ll catch anything?” He asked, stopping to look up at you.

You looked back over the water, looking at the fish no bigger than your palm swimming just above the sea floor. You shook your head, keeping your eyes on the moonlight dancing on the waves of the water. “Nothing big enough to eat,” You said. Coriolanus nodded and turned back to the fire.

Once the fire was made you sat on the ground beside him, leaving enough space so your shoulders didn’t touch. You both sat in silence, Coriolanus’s knee bouncing softly.

The flames danced and flickered, the golden glow flickering in Coriolanus’s blue eyes, you settled onto the ground beside him. You shifted slightly, making sure your shoulders didn't touch. The silence stretched between you, Coriolanus's fingers drumming against a stick he held in nervousness.

Coriolanus's knee bounced softly, mirroring the unsteady rhythm of both your hearts. The mere inches that separated you felt like an unbridgeable chasm, as long and confusing as his thoughts. “Did I do something?” His voice cut through the silence like a knife and you turned towards him, your eyebrows furrowed. “You seem distracted. You’re not talking like you usually do. You’re sitting far away.” You bit your lip and shrugged softly. “What’s wrong?”

“What did I sing tonight?” You turned to face Coriolanus. “Tonight. I sang, I wore the red dress so everyone could see the white rose you gave me. But what did I sing?” Coriolanus stammered. “You don’t spare a second glance at me during our shows, you talk to Sejanus when I do perform and you let Lucy Gray hang off your arm like she was yours.”

He spoke your name softly, trying to shuffle closer but you stood quickly. “Don’t do that Cori,” You pleaded. “I’m gonna go home, I’ll see you later.” You turned on your heel. Making your way back through the woods.

Coriolanus sighed, dropping his head into his hands as you walked from his view.

The next morning you stared at the ceiling, stretched out on your small bed. You twisted a small rose between your fingers, the thrones pricking your skin occasionally. The knock at the window made you jump. You turned your head to look at Coriolanus standing on the other side, smiling ever so slightly. You sighed and set the rose aside before walking to the window and pulling it open. “Corio-”

“Don’t talk,” he said quickly. “Don’t say anything, just follow me.”

“Cori-”

“What did I just say?”

A frustrated huff escaped you as you forcefully closed the window, shutting out the annoying sounds of crickets. Pulling the blinds closed with a swift motion covering Coriolanus’s face, but you caught his smile dropping. You donned your jacket and stepped out the front door, stopping in front of Coriolanus just as you turned the corner. He extended his hand, a warm smile playing on his lips. Suppressing the annoyance that still simmered beneath the surface, you offered a muted response, "Just lead the way," your words carrying a hint of resignation.

Coriolanus nodded and started to lead you through the woods, the sun still yet to rise properly. “You sang I Wanna Be Yours,” Coriolanus muttered. “No, I didn't ask Lucy Gray. You wrote it after you met your old girlfriend but you haven't sung it since. That’s why it was so important to you. And why you wanted me to remember it.”

You hummed and tried to hide your smile. “So you were paying attention.”

Coriolanus spoke, low and earnest, his gaze fixed on you. "I always pay attention," he assured, a sincerity etched into his words. The weight of his gaze, coupled with the firmness in his tone, sought to reassure you. "And nothing is happening between Lucy Gray and me. She was helping me with something," he explained, his words carrying the weight of truth and an unspoken plea for understanding.

“Which is?”

Coryo smiled, “Keep following me.”

You followed Coriolanus, walking in silence until the sun rose completely. He stopped at a rock wall, a small dirt trail winding around it. He reached out, slipping his hand into yours and leading you down the track. “Roses don’t grow in 12, the ground is too hard,” Coriolanus started. “Lucy Gray told me just beyond the rock wall there is ground soft enough to grow flowers. Sejanus used his father's money to get some seed and…” Coriolanus stepped aside as you reached the bottom of the track.

You smiled, Coriolanus’s hand slipping from yours as you stepped further into the growing rose field. Dozens of rose bushes had started to grow, small red and white flowers sporting. Small raindrops covered the flowers, the sun reflecting off of them like diamonds. You crouched, smiling as you ran your hand along the rose petals.

A soft smile played on your lips, and Coriolanus's hand tenderly released yours as you ventured deeper into the growing rose field. Rows of rose bushes, adorned with tiny red and white blossoms, unfold before you, blossoming like a garden from the Capitol. Small raindrops adorned the delicate petals, capturing the sunlight in a dance that shined like diamonds. Your heart swelled. You glanced back at Coriolanus who shared the same smile.

You carefully crouched down, your smile growing as you traced the velvet texture of the rose petals with your fingertips, each delicate touch slow and careful as if the rose would fall apart. Coriolanus smiled as he watched you, his stomach filling with butterflies as he waited for you to speak.

"Wait..." The urgency in your voice sliced through the air as you stood, swiftly pivoting to face Coriolanus. His smile disappeared, replaced by a stark seriousness mirrored in your eyes. Your heart fell to your stomach as your voice shook, "You said Sejanus got the seeds from his father. If the Peacemakers find out, they'll take you away." The gravity of your words hung heavily in the charged atmosphere. “Cori, they’ll take you to the hanging tree-”

“They won’t,” Coriolanus said quickly. He stepped forward holding your face in his hands, his thumb tracing the lines of your cheekbones. “No one is going to take me away. No one is taking you. Or Sejanus, or Lucy Gray.” You raised your hand, settling it on top of his. “This place is ours, yours and mine. No one is going to take that.”

Yours and mine.

You smiled, laughing softly as you looked up at Coriolanus, his blue eyes meeting yours. “You got me roses?” You asked.

“You said you liked the Capitol flowers more,” Coriolanus remembered. “I can’t exactly take you to the Capitol, so I thought I’d bring the best part of the Capitol here.”

“Besides yourself.”

A warm smile graced his features as he leaned in, closing the distance until his forehead gently met yours. "Do people in the Capitol kiss differently than the districts?" His inquiry, spoken in a hushed tone, carried a hint of curiosity and a touch of playfulness.

“I think…” you leaned up slightly, bumping your nose against his, “you should find out.”

The brush of his fingertips against your jawline, tracing a delicate path along your skin, igniting a shiver that danced down your spine. As he cradled your face, your breath hitched in anticipation, your eyes staring at his chapped pink lips. Drawing you closer, the final shared breath seemed to linger, suspended in the charged atmosphere, before he sealed the connection with a kiss that felt like a spark that lit a fire. Your heart echoed the rhythm of the thousands of times you had dreamed of this moment and your hands instinctively wound around the back of his neck, the embrace pulling him closer.

Your stomach twirled, filling with butterflies as one of Coryo’s hands moved to wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer. He pulled away, his breath coming out in small pants, your breath in sync with his. You opened your eyes, looking up at his half-closed eyes tracing over every part of your face. “I love you, Coriolanus Snow.”

He whispered it back.

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#m0chaminx #coriolanus snow x reader #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x lucy gray #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x you #the hunger games #hunger games #ballad of songbirds and snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #Spotify

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ceilidho · 6 months

Text

prompt: vegas wedding (ghost/reader)

Your fingers trail over to the other side of the bed and touch something solid.

It jolts your body back into itself, mind awake when you register the heat of warm skin where there shouldn’t be skin. Not next to you in bed. The other side of your bed is usually cold to the touch, the sheets still pressed and tucked in place, undisturbed because you tend to stick to your side. They’re rumpled now, the sheets; tented under the body next to yours.

You open your eyes only to instantly shut them. There’s an ache in your forehead that throbs when the sunlight filtering in through the gap in the windowblinds hits your eyes. You remember drinking the night before, but not much more than that. Actually, you don’t remember much from the night before besides getting dressed up in the hotel room with your friend before parting ways in the casino.

Getting out of bed feels like it takes every ounce of energy left stored in your poor, aching bones. You turn on your side ever so carefully before shimmying out of bed, woozy enough when you stand up that you have to grab onto the bedside table to keep from crumbling into a ball on the floor.

It sparkles in the light when you happen to glance down. One big, gaudy rhinestone in the centre and then a band of diamonds all the way around. It’s heavy on your finger, accentuated by the emotional weight and repercussions of it that threaten to actually make you topple over this time.

“No, no, no, no,” you whisper to yourself, trying to pull it off and wincing when it doesn’t budge past your knuckle. Too small. You must have really shoved it on the night before.

You wince at the thought of how much work it’ll be to take it off. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt though—it catches around your knuckle, but rests perfectly when you push it back down to sit on your finger like a ring should.

The man under the covers—it’s an assumption, you’ll admit it as you don’t know for sure that it’s a man—makes a noise, shifting in his sleep. Your blood coagulates in your veins as your head whips over your shoulder to watch him carefully for any sign of wakefulness. For the first time since waking up, you get a glimpse of the man probably wearing a ring matching yours and he—well, he really takes up his side of the bed.

The big lump under the covers doesn’t move as you stare at him. You don’t allow yourself more than a glance, charting the slope of his back muscles and the top of his dirty blond hair. He lies on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow facing away from you, obscuring his face. Probably better for you.

Still fighting the urge to scramble out of the hotel room with your things, you allow yourself one smug moment. He’s handsome, whoever he is—you’ve certainly pulled worse. More to your credit, you somehow talked him into getting hitched in Vegas. His back rises with every breath; you stare for a while and wait for the periodic soft, gruff noises that he makes in his sleep. When he turns over onto his back, you muffle a squeak when the covers tent under his barely covered morning wood and slowly back away and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The shower doesn’t help at all; it just prolongs your panic attack that worsens every time you glance at the door and imagine the man sleeping in your hotel bed waking up on the other side. It does feel good to wash off the grime from the night before, however, scrubbing every nook and cranny of your body.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you come out, only a complementary hotel robe wrapped around you. You freeze. Big shoulders undulate when he rolls them back, stretching them out after a long night’s sleep. When he stretches an arm up to scratch his upper back, you almost whimper at the way his arm bulges.

“Thought you could sneak out, is that right?” he grunts, his accented voice rippling down your spine. You hadn’t expected it to come out of his mouth, not this large, blue collar-looking man with his muscled pectorals and the bit of pudge around his middle, softness that comes with labour and not vanity. He drags his hand over the scruff growing on his face, only slightly darker than the hair on his head.

“…I’m not really sure what to say,” you blurt out, reflexively tightening the belt cinching your robe in place. Conscious that your day-old clothes are still sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor, nothing underneath your robe.

The man stares at your chest like he knows it too. “‘Course you do, love. Probably would’ve skipped off if I hadn’t gotten up, tail tucked between your legs.” His stare flicks down to your legs then, eyes growing heated, half-lidded. You frown.

“That’s how this goes, isn’t it? We, uh, do…this…that…last night or whatever,” you stutter out, face hotter than you’re comfortable with it being, “and then we go our separate ways. That’s what I’d expect from anyone.”

“‘Anyone’ isn’t wearing my ring on her finger,” he points out, tilting his chin towards your hand. You hide it behind your back.

“That was an…” you clear your throat, “unfortunate detail. I can fix it though, I swear, just…just give me your email or something and I’ll send you the papers.”

This is precisely the most uncomfortable moment of your life. Thus far, anyway. You’ve had worse things happen to you, but as far as uncomfortable things go, little else comes close to subtly implying that you’ll serve a man whose name you don’t even know divorce papers. It’s certainly not what you expected from a weekend girls’ trip to Vegas.

He tilts his head, eyes locked on you. “Don’t worry about all that, love.”

“Why? Do you—I can give you my email address instead, if you want to…if you have a lawyer friend that’ll help.”

“No. Don’t need help with something that isn’t gonna happen.”

You can feel your temper getting the better of you. This whole weekend is shaping up to be a bigger headache than just the hangover you’re nursing. “A divorce—I’m talking about getting divorced, if that isn’t clear.”

“It is. It just isn’t happening.”

He’s being far too casual, unconcerned with your fists clenching at your sides, eyes lazily sweeping you up and down. He yawns like a big cat.

“What are you talking about?” you hiss, taking a step towards him. Trying to seem intimidating even though your heart is beating erratically in your chest. “You can’t just say no. This shit happens and then—why wouldn’t it happen? It’s just a divorce!”

“Don’t believe in divorce, love. I gave my word.”

His words hit you so hard that it briefly rocks you out of your headache. “That’s so—that’s so stupid! It’s practically an annulment anyway! We didn’t even, you know—” your voice drops to a whisper, embarrassed, “—consummate it.”

“Maybe didn’t get to the whole course, but we didn’t do nothing,” he teases. A subtle thing, barely a twitch of his lip to let you know that he’s toying with you. Men like him toy with their prey like cats with a mouse.

He probably isn't wrong. You might remember it with time, but he looks like a man that’s seen you naked. It’s an infuriating look.

“Look, I’ve got—my friends are probably wondering where I am anyway.”

“Give ‘em a call; you can tell ‘em you spent the night with your husband.” No mistaking it now, the heat in his eyes. Nor the blankets bunched in his lap in lieu of his clothes, a fact you’d been carefully not letting yourself focus on for fear that you’d wind up just staring at his crotch.

Like you are now, helpless to do anything as he drags the sheet away, letting it slip off the bed. His thighs are dusted in dark, coarse hairs, wide enough that you could comfortably sit on one of them. He gives one a pat too, beckoning you towards him.

“Come back to bed,” he suggests, dick resting red and heavy against his stomach, big enough that you know you would’ve remembered having that inside you even if you’d blacked out. “Let me wake my wife up the right way.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost/reader #ghost cod #ghost x reader

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hotreadingwitch · 2 months

Text

Bucky x Reader - Whiskey & Wine

Content Warnings/Kinks: OMEGAVERSE-ish, arranged marriage, praise kink, alpha kink, cum swallowing/play, choking, licking, hickeys, fingering, oral sex, penetrative vaginal sex (+ knotting), impregnation/breeding

Silent, stoic, cruel even, but undeniably 100% Alpha. Y/n had only heard reverent praise and scared whispers regarding the character of her soon-to-be husband James “Bucky” Barnes. She figured it was lower-level werewolves, ones with no real connection to him, that spoke of him this way. Maybe, though logic made her think otherwise, he was simply a kind man with a bad reputation. Surely not, but all she could do was hope…

The traditional march played as the wedding planner, a female werewolf of her future husband’s pack, ushered her down the aisle. Almost tripping on her heels, she tried her best to put one foot in front of the other. She passed her parents, the same ones who’d offered her up for the engagement in the first place, as well as members of both their packs sitting within the small church. Bucky’s back was broad, his stance dominant, powerful, and intimidating. Only when she was firmly planted next to him did he finally spare her a glance.

His gaze flicked up and down her face, as if he were tracking her or waiting for a particular shift in expression, one of fear perhaps, like he was used to seeing. She jutted her chin, packing away the stories of malice she’d heard about the man standing beside her at the alter, for sanity’s sake if not for her own self-preservation, because, though potentially cruel, he was possibly the most beautiful person she’d ever seen in her life. Her face must’ve flickered with the internal conflict warring within her because Bucky’s gaze sharpened, drinking her in like he’d sip whiskey over ice, slowly and with leisurely purpose.

Then, just as he’d finished looking her up and down, clear hunger in his eyes, his nostrils flared and his eyes widened. She knew then, flush creeping up the back of her neck, that they’d noticed it at the exact same time…the scent, the intoxicating smell. To her, he oozed of leather, wood, salt, and fire, but also, somehow, of home. His scent was so strong it was almost like a siren’s call. What she smelled of to him she did not know though it seemed he was struggling similarly. Her lips parted as her cheeks heated, almost curious enough to ask, as if the eyes of both their packs weren’t watching curiously from the church pews mere feet away.

“Ready, Alpha?” the officiant asked, clearing his throat.

Bucky’s stare was icy, causing the other man to jump slightly. It was as if he didn’t wish for the moment to be interrupted. She tucked that information, as well as the overwhelming realization of what his scent meant, away to deal with after the ceremony.

Y/n could barely focus on the words the officiant was saying. The religious component of weddings had never truly interested her. After a while, they were coming close to the end of their vows,

“…through sickness and health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part? The officiant asked.

“I do” Bucky responded, with so much certainty it startled Y/n.

“And you, Y/n’ he prompted, “do you promise to take James through sickness and health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”

The arrangement between them was to broker peace between two confrontational tribes, a marriage made for her on behalf of her parents and his mother. He was older than her by maybe 10 years or so, having just ascended, becoming the Alpha of his pack when his father died. She met his gaze, feeling suddenly, for the first time as if she had a choice. It was something in the open way he was looking at her that made her feel as if she could trust him, as if she didn’t need, let anyone want, to run anymore.

“I do”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged in relief and Y/n was so fixated on the movement that she almost didn’t hear the officiant say, “You may now kiss the bride…”

Y/n’s face heated as Bucky gazed at her with nothing but pure want. The hostility they’d both had prior to meeting each other simply melted away, as did the rows of werewolves viewing the moment between them. His hand gently gripped her face, tilting her face upward. Her eyes fluttered closed as he came closer until suddenly his warm lips brushed against hers.

It was modest, controlled even, and over within seconds. In other words, Bucky’s kiss was nothing like what she’d expected. As she opened her eyes disappointment coursed through her until her eyes caught on his. That smirk, that slight narrowing of his dark gaze. He might not be giving it to her now but he sure as hell would be when a hundred pack members weren’t looking at them in their hotel room that night.

The crowd cheered as they turned toward them. Bucky’s lips grazed her ears then and she could practically hear the smile in his tone when he said, “Later…”

She blushed, taking his hand before making their way up the aisle, walking towards the big church doors and their future.

Click. The door locked behind them.

Bucky’s tall form moved towards her, easily overpowering her space with just a few steps. The hotel they’d been put up in for the night was massive, overlooking the city’s famous skyline, with a king-size bed in the centre of the space. His hand rested on her waist, his thumb caressing her skin. Even the heat from his hand through the fabric of her dress was enough to make Y/n's feelings from earlier all come to the surface. Y/n gazed up at him and judging by the way his tongue ran across his bottom lip, he could tell exactly what she was thinking about.

“I don’t want to overstep Y/n…” Bucky started, his hand still grazing her waist.

“I want you to” she interrupted, “Overstep, I mean…I want whatever you’ll give me tonight”

He cleared his throat and for a second she thought she may have misread the situation, his lingering looks, his words…his scent. Insecurity made her cheeks heat.

“But only if that’s what—“

“Shh,” his hands moved to her warm cheeks before his lips landed on hers, silencing her self-doubt in seconds. She’d normally balk at a guy telling her to shush and yet when Bucky did it her feminist cares went out the window. He kissed her fiercely then, humming onto her lips with pure satisfaction. His hands moved down to her ass as they stumbled backward towards the bed, pushing her down onto the silky sheets. He chuckled darkly as she bit at his bottom lip, dragging her sharp teeth across the delicate skin, “You’re gonna be trouble aren’t you?”

“I’ll be whatever you want me to be” she found herself whispering back, eyes still closed.

“And if I just want you Y/n?

That got her to look at him, to truly look, intently searching his gaze.

“Then you’ll have me” Y/n finally kissed him again, groaning into his mouth as his hands travelled across her body, “Take me, Bucky please, I need you…”

His hands moved down, checking her expression to make sure she was both turned on and willing, pushing her wedding gown up so that it sat around her waist.

“Fuck” he swore at the sight of her.

“Like what you see, husband?” She joked, playfully showing off her lacy, white panties to him.

But all she could do was gulp as his eyes darkened quicker than a rolling storm and he began to slowly roll up his shirt sleeves until they rested just below his elbows, giving her a front-row seat to his strong, veiny forearms.

“This arrangement is not—” he started only to stop and collect himself, rubbing at his stubbly chin, “You may joke about it now Y/n but the next time the word ‘husband’ comes out of your mouth it’ll be because you can’t help but scream it”

Before she could even respond, his hands were back on her, caressing the underside of her thighs, spreading her legs wide with gentle but firm pressure. She gasped as he slid her underwear to the side, hungrily taking in the sight of her slick pussy.

“Fuck, you’re soaked for me baby…” he groaned as his fingers started to run up and down her slit, “…Ruining these pretty little panties”

She whined in response, his fingers felt so good her eyes fluttered shut, her brain zeroing in on the pleasure.

“Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she whimpered at the gentle contact, bucking her hips up to meet his touch.

“Good” he declared, his confidence infectious, turning her on even more.

“Yes,” her voice was breathier now, desire taking over her body and mind, the need to please him stronger than her will to live.

Bucky’s finger traced up from her slit to her clit, the simple motion making her shiver and moan softly. He rubbed circles around and around it, languidly, as if he could tease her pussy all day. Her slick made his subtle movements smoother than silk.

“Such a pretty pussy baby” he kissed at her inner thigh, his growl muffled as he sucked on her skin, “So fucking hot…and all fucking mine”

Bucky touched her like she was a goddess, like he believed she deserved to come again and again, as long as it was for him and only him. And she could tell it turned him on to touch her. Not only did his pants look extra tight, but his gaze was dark, and his cheeks flushed beneath brown stubble. He groaned as she ground her hips up, feeling his fingers with more pressure, making her eyes flutter shut.

“Look at me Y/n or I’ll stop touching you right now”

When her eyes snapped open, Bucky’s gaze was piercing.

He came up her body as slow as a predator, his tongue grazing her neck in a strong line, cool air tracing where he’d licked mere seconds later. She couldn’t help but shiver. The smooth lick turned to kisses, a smattering of gentleness that combatted his strong command over her pussy and made her melt into him, somehow even more than she already was.

“…I need you to look at me while I fuck you with my fingers, okay baby? Can you do that for me?” He said as he slunk back down.

“Yes,” she gasped needfully, not taking her eyes off of him.

“Yes, who?”

“Yes Alpha” she whined, pulling his hand back to her.

He slid two fingers into her wet hole, up to the knuckle, and she rocked her clit against his palm, chasing her high, taking everything he was giving to her and more without once breaking his gaze. His other hand mapped her thighs, tracing over her soft skin, almost obsessively. Her back arched at the feeling.

“So wet, so fucking tight…” his lips pressed between her thighs, causing her to gasp.

She whimpered and whined with every flick of his tongue as he licked like her pussy was coated in the sweetest honey.

“My needy baby…” He goaded her, making her groan, “Are you gonna cum all over this tongue?”

“Yes, fucking yes” she growled, gasping, “Don’t stop”

His fingers pumped, curling inside her as they did, his tongue lapping at her clit, until she was on the edge. Her body felt suspended in the air as if she was about to free fall. Back arching, she came, bursting all over his expert tongue. Only after she’d shuddered her way through the feeling did Bucky stop, removing his soaked fingers and sucking up all her juices.

“See that wasn’t so hard baby” he smirked.

“Yeah?” She glared, “Why don’t we see how long you can last being teased like that?”

Bucky’s eyes slowly lifted to hers, “You’re that desperate for my cock?” She aimed to gently slap his shoulder playfully but he caught her hand, grasping it tightly in his, “And here I thought you were a good girl Y/n…or maybe you just want to be fucked like you’re bad?”

She couldn’t help the whimper that escaped her lips. Bucky grinned fully, canines on display, before throwing her further up the bed.

“Hands and knees” he commanded, his voice thick with lust.

The time for teasing was clearly over. Y/n flipped over, adjusting herself so that she was in the position he wanted. If her first mistake was being too playful, then her second was looking back over her shoulder just in time to see Bucky unzip his pants and pull out his giant cock.

“It’s too big Bucky…” she whined at the sight, tightening instinctively.

“You can take it baby” he stroked her clit softly between kisses on the back of her neck, warming her up again, “I know you can”

His praise made her practically light up inside. If he said she could take then that meant surely she could. To show she wanted it, she arched her back, letting out a small “please”

He spread her folds, opening her entrance to him before sliding in. She moaned at the feeling, not able to help the way her insides clenched immediately around him. Throwing her back, she was already beyond being far gone. Bucky’s hands swept across the swell of her ass, squeezing the flesh so hard she felt the action in her bones. He thrust slowly, teasing her, dipping his cock in and out of her until he was completely coated in her juices.

“Fucking soaked for me” he growled as he continued, “You've been thinking about taking my cock all night baby?”

“Yes” she whimpered and fuck, she really was a complete mess for him, putty in his veiny, sexy hands.

Bucky’s thrusts continued, speeding up slightly until she couldn’t help but beg him to go faster.

“Please…” Y/n whined, flustered by his teasing cock, “I need it…it—faster—fuck”

His hands ran up the space between her breasts from behind before settling around her neck, pulling her up so that her back was flush with his hard chest. Her heartbeat thundered beneath his palm as he squeezed, the pressure gentle but firm.

“You need what, baby?” His voice was rough in her ear, the sound of his breath so erotic she almost came right then and there, “Use your words and tell me like a good girl”

“I need you to fuck me faster—roughly, please”

If her request felt stupid to express aloud, Y/n’s embarrassment was literally fucked out of her instantly with the power of Bucky’s next thrust. Her back arched, making his cock hit deeper and causing her to gasp. He slammed into her relentlessly and when she looked back he had that feral grin on his face again. It was like he needed it like this, hard and fast, too.

“Bucky…” she whimpered, the noise garbled in her throat.

“Yeah, say my name baby, fucking scream it” he growled, his voice both intimidating and warm.

She clenched tighter around him, moaning at the intensity of the feelings her body was experiencing. He nudged her legs farther open with his knee in response, pushing deeper, eliciting another rumbling groan from her.

“…Right there” she whispered breathily as his groans of pleasure tickled the shell of her ear, turning her on even more.

He thrust and thrust and thrust, pushing so deep into her she thought he’d break her. But she didn’t break, in fact, she felt that with Bucky she probably never would. Moaning she bounced her hips back, driving into him, her pussy practically grabbing him and pulling him further inside. Her mind was turned on by Bucky sure, but her body, that was another thing altogether. She seemed to be having a reaction to him that even her mind couldn’t control. It was something deep within her that was attracted to Bucky, something both restless and needy and cellular.

Logically, she knew he must be her mate. Logically, she knew that having a mate, having sex with a mate, was explosive. What she didn’t know was just how explosive it would truly be.

“As soon as I smelled you, I knew you belonged to me” he groaned, his thrusts puncturing each sentiment, “Sweet wine, berries in the summertime…Perfect, you’re fucking perfect for me Y/n”

“I feel—“ her breathing became more and more laboured with each thrust, “—the same way”

His strong hand, gripped her face, tilting her lips backwards to meet his. Their kiss was passionate and full of all the things they both wanted to say. But they’d found each other, by a stroke of luck they had, and that was all that mattered. Words could wait.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna cum…” he groaned, his grip on her hips tightening even more, “You know what’s about to happen, baby?”

“Yes,” she affirmed, telling him that she understood before whining, “Please..”

Y/n could feel it swelling beneath her but it didn’t scare her, if anything it made her want his cum more. The need to have him filling her was so intense, her pussy clenched harshly around him. With any other man her tightening that much would surely push him out but not with Bucky, not with her mate. She could feel his knot, his wet lips on her neck, his hand reaching down to flick at her clit, each pleasure making her gasp. Bucky was everywhere but more importantly, he was everything.

“Squeeze me, yes—fuck” he growled in her ear, “Taking me so good—taking all this cum for your Alpha”

“Yes, yes, yes—shit” she chanted, her body blissed out as the waves of her orgasm began to wash over her, “Please don’t stop”

“I won’t baby, never”

It was Bucky’s lust, his confession, and his confidence in their future together that sent her fully over the edge.

“Fuck” he breathed in a harsh breath as her pussy started to milk him.

She breathed in deeply, holding it in her lungs as the pleasure washed over her, making her body twitch and her back arch. And Bucky held her through it all. His hands roved over her with reverence, taking in her perfect form as it writhed before him as if he was in awe of his skill and how he was able to make her feel that good.

Only when she’d finally finished and he’d deflated, did he pull out of her. She knew then that, after this experience, they’d never part. They’d needed to fuck it out and now the rest of their lives would be better for it. His lips met hers before he began tracing her warm skin, planting kisses in the wake of his gentle fingers.

“You know…” she started, blushing as she immediately caught his focus, “You told me what I smelled like to you but I didn’t tell you what you smell like to me”

“And what do I smell like?” He smiled playfully, eyes still soft and hazy from his orgasm.

“Home”

#fanfiction #fanfic #smut #marvel #marvel fanfic #oneshot #marvel smut #bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes smut

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void-of-unparalled-chaos · 3 months

Text

The Literal Phantom of the Opera (DpxDc prompt)

When Cassandra Cain first began taking ballet, her fellow dancers quickly warned her about the ghost haunting the theater.

"He likes to watch us. I see him looking down at the stage from the catwalk all the time."

"It looks like he stole one of the Phantom of the Opera masks last time a tour came through, but its been covered in stars!"

"I heard him when I was acting in Wicked. I was alone in the green room doing some last minute practice and I swear he was humming along while I was singing!"

"It was the phantom who stole my makeup from my dressing room I just know it!"

"Haley from front of house didn't believe he existed until they came backstage to grab supplies for seat repairs. I don't know what they saw, but now they refuse to go backstage."

"That ghost is evil. It pushed me down the stairs to the office and I tore my suit on the railing. Do you know how hard it is to find an all white suit on short notice? I'm lucky it didn't break my ankle!"

"We used to have balconies before the renovations. Sometimes it sounds like someone is moving inside the walls where they used to be."

"I'm not sure that the ghost is fully aware we're performers. A few years ago when Heathers was here, the actress for McNamara said that it felt like someone was hugging her after Lifeboat."

"I've seen him without the mask. His face looks like it was just... shredded. I only saw it once, but I'll never forget that face."

"I heard that he likes to mess with the equipment in the control booth."

Cass isn't sure that the ghost is real, but she is sure that the other dancers think he's real. They often gossip about the theater ghost in hushed whispers, knocking on wood at the very mention of him. Her teachers prefer not to talk about the ghost at all, but they don't deny its existence.

It's not until she is practicing alone on stage and feels eyes on her that she thinks there might be something to the ghost rumors.

#this is inspired by the theatre i work at which is supposedly haunted :)#also inspired by Phantom of the Opera (how has no one done this yet?)#if anyone decides to make a fic of this:#i don't know how backstage and company people interact but i sure as hell know the chaos front of house gets up to #i am more than willing to give you FOH dialogue from personal experience #dpxdc #dpxdc prompt #dpxdc prompts

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xnecromantia · 1 year

Note

“ if i were to kiss someone, it would be you. “ (from Erik? Totally okay if you're not feeling it!)

A Hundred Kissing Prompts II Accepting

"Did you know that today marks another century of us knowing each other?" The Wytch mentioned happily, his arm linked through Erik's own as they walked alongside a riverbed. "We are older than this very river, and yet you look exactly the same as when I first met you." A laugh escaped him as he looked up at the other male; neither a wrinkle or grey hair to evidence the passage of time. His features remained soft and his eyes retained the kindness that instantly soothed a troubled soul. It was no wonder the deceased trusted him. Although his own appearance never changed with age, Mortis' heart had -- sorrow taking hold and revealing itself in the form of tired lines underneath his eyes. It was an impossible change for an immortal - to be affected in such a human way - but the events of Shademarsh had altered him.

Coming back to Erik and the sanctuary he offered had helped to mend the wounds he received from that night, alleviating the darkness and bringing light back to Mortis' soul. Patience and reassurance made it easier for the Wytch to smile each day, to laugh and engage in conversation; a gradual healing process to retrieve who he once was. And he was forever grateful for that.

"I wanted to commemorate our friendship by making you a gift." Since Shademarsh, his desire to create had disappeared -- but now he had somebody to create for. A chance to express his affection in the form of handmade jewellery. His coven often gifted pieces to those they cared about, taking months to make with how intricate they were. No two designs were the same, making them highly unique and custom to the person they were made for. Pausing in their walk, he retrieved a small pouch from the pocket of his hoodie and held it out for Erik to take. Tipped over, a silver ring fell out; a series of overlapping bands that twisted into a beautiful pattern. Between the bands, glass was set and contained a whirlwind of colourful specks. "Wait -- look," he added enthusiastically as he gently tapped the ring, which caused the specks to shimmer and dance. "I infused a bit of magic into it, so it will never dull." He explained, pausing as he allowed the other to try it on.

"I wish I could give you more, but I hope this token shows how much I appreciate you, Erik." Mortis continued, reaching out with both hands to hold one of his. Drawing it towards his own cheek and resting against it, he smiled up at the fairy. It was the same hand where the Wytch had placed a Mark of Friendship on Erik's little finger many centuries ago, mirroring the same place he had his. "Even after our time apart, it was like I never left. You gave me sanctuary without hesitation. I was hurting, but you made everything better. You mean a lot to me, cara--"

'--if I were to kiss someone, it would be you.'

The words were clear as day, spoken inside his mind. It was a moment or so before he comprehended what happened, and when he did, Mortis huffed out an amused laugh. Did he mean to share his thoughts with him? "I heard that." He squeezed Erik's hand lovingly, eyes aglow with gold. All he could do was smile, chest feeling fit to burst. Placing both hands on Erik's shoulders, the Wytch gently pulled him down until they were level. "If I were to let someone kiss me..." he started, before leaning in and pressing their lips together. It was short - sweet - but the message was there. "...it would be you."

#itokunii #v; leave behind your heartache #whispers in the woods ( prompts )#( I love them your honour )#( also Erik stop being so tall )#( gotta invest in a stepladder for Mortis )

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mistywaves98 · 11 days

Text

Just this one thought that I had in my head and has been sitting in my drafts for a long time

Step bro! Scara who fucks you in front of the mirror... ¡Warnings!: NSFW, Stepcest, Mean-ish Scara, Belly bulge, Possible dubcon turned consensual(?), Proceed with caution!

It really wasn't what it looked like! You were just trying to find that book he 'borrowed' from you and never returned and you opened one of his dresser's drawers only to find a bunch of his underwear! It was truly an accident, but that's not what Scaramouche thought when he barged through the door, only to be met with the sight of you frantically trying to close the drawer. But what else was he supposed to think as he sneaked up behind you, arms curling around your waist as he teased you for being such a naughty step sis. You deserved punishment, right?

And that's how you found yourself bend over the same furnishing, getting your pussy pounded by his dick. His chest was flush against your sweaty back still covered by your jersey that he was too lazy to remove, his mouth right by your ear, allowing you to hear all the dirty whispers and groans as your walls clamped around him. "You're such a pervert, y'know that? Looking through your step brother's drawers like a creep. Were you hoping to steal one of my boxers to get your slutty pussy off later, hm? I bet you were."

Scaramouche grinned as one hand grabbed a clump of your hair, pulling your head back roughly as you moaned from the stinging sensation. He used the sight of your now exposed neck as an opportunity to sink his teeth into the tender skin, sucking and biting the flesh till a purple-red mark was left. He continues to leave hickeys all over your neck, occasionally groaning as your pussy squeezed his cock a bit tighter whenever his canines brushed a particularly sensitive spot.

Your palms were pressed against the glass of the mirror which was now fogged up from your excessive panting, body rocking against the coarse wood of the dresser. The movement causing some of his belongings resting atop it to clatter onto the ground, but Scaramouche couldn't care less. "Fucking hell— you're taking me so easily, like a whore... God—! Keep moaning like that f'me. You're lucky mom and dad aren't home yet..." He hisses into your ear, giving your ass a sharp slap before slamming his hips against yours, his tip painfully piercing your cervix.

You tried to apologize, even though you really didn't need to, but your step brother merely laughed as he continued to rail you into oblivion. Your inner thighs were a mess of your own slick mixed with his own and it only worsened with each thrust, the constant squelching resonating clearly in your ears and making you blush. The knot in your stomach was tightening, indicating your impending orgasm.

Scaramouche could feel his own climax approaching as well and it only prompted him to be rougher with you. One hand remained in your hair, the other rubbing a couple circles around your clit to make you whine before moving up to grasp the hem of your top, pulling it up and shoving it into your mouth. Your eyes widened as he exposed your torso, making you bite down on the fabric, saliva soaking it instantly. He fixed your gaze onto the mirror, making you watch just how lewd you appeared through the blur.

You felt blood rush to your cheeks as your eyes fell to the prominent bulge in your stomach no doubt formed by his girthy cock. The way it moved in and out of you made your eyes roll back, causing him to grin in response,"hmm? You enjoying the view? Look at your body, on display like a slut..." Even you couldn't deny how erotic it was, the scene looking like it was straight out of a porn film. Suddenly, your breath hitched as his slender fingers abruptly pressed down on the bump, making you wail as your cum coated the base of his cock.

Scaramouche moaned in delight at the sight of his adorable little step sister gushing around him, the sight enough to make him pull out as he came all over your lower back. The both of you remained in the same position for a while, trying to catch your breaths as the exhaustion caught up with both of you. Just then, you could've sworn that you heard the front door unlock...

#genshin smut #x reader smut #smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader smut #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader smut #scara smut #scara x reader smut #✧･ﾟ:* meena's memos! ✧･ﾟ:*#tw stepcest #tw.dark content #tw.stepcest

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comfortless · 3 months

Text

Only Other

chapter two of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of violence & gore, more groping, allusions to abduction, dubious consent to a nonsexual genital inspection, animal death, minor character death, masturbation.

wc: 10.6k.

<- previous.

Everything feels unsound, a thicket of heavy vine curling it’s way up from the dirt to settle over you, in your belly, hair, anywhere. Sharp thorns and sap so thick you could drown.

Gaius is here, again, poised with his arms folded over his chest. You swallow thickly after you ask him to repeat what he’s just said. Something about eyes and ears between every crevice, beneath every board. He had a litany of reasons to believe you were not the sweet little maiden he had promised a halfway decent life to.

Careful as you thought you were, sneaking past the gate to roll in moonlight with the giant men of myth and smell the beasts and their pelts past the wall… The following morning had been the downfall of bliss. People take note when wolves begin to sniff around their cattle, and it’s no surprise that König was noted doing just that when he brought you back here on his horse with some sort of bloated pride when he named you his ‘Göttin’.

“Disrobe,” Gaius commands for the second time. The voice that comes from cracked lips and weathered jowls never falters: always so self-assured, stern, and where it may have sparked an interest in you from anyone else, here… it only feels vile. He’s the embodiment of the city itself: worn, cracking, splintered filth, left alone to wind and twist out of control.

You imagine he must have taken up the demeanor during his days as a centurion, but your head clouds when you try to recall the many times he’s monologued those times to you. Like his proposal, the dowry and arrangements, all of it feels blurry in your mind. You lose yourself to it when the strap is slipped down your shoulder, your body goading you do as asked for the sake of fewer future headaches.

There are no lemures looming over your shoulders these days, they only guide his hand, his voice. They haunt you in the shape of Gaius, an old hawk that screeches the commands you’ve no place to refuse.

The stola drops to your ankles with a dreadfully slow sweep, a century passed in a bolt of lightning. It pools down at your feet in a river of white. Graciously, Gaius doesn’t prompt you to remove the breast band where the truth of your bout lies embedded in little bruises, the mark of teeth scraped right by your areola in a rolling fit of passion.

Your betrothed boxes you in against the bench until the backs of your knees meet the wood, guides you down with weighty palms until you’re seated: feet pressed onto the seat, knees brought back toward your chest. In earnest, your stomach froths with a displeasure and embarrassment, but this is not the first time that the man had taken to inspect your pussy as if it’s your only worth in the world.

Whichever malady he possesses to make him like this… you could only hope that König did not have it. This weak, old soldier would be nothing short of a toothless dog should your bull take to charge him.

What was a dull glimmer of longing for his safety immediately sours to a wish for his goring when those cold fingers tug your loincloth aside and you’re laid bare for him right there on the bench.

The old creep inspects your cunt as though he were a medicinal woman. His fingers part your parched labia, not so much as a dewdrop of arousal there— completely unlike how your body had only seemed to melt and sing its pleas for König. He doesn’t whisper his pleasures in Latin about how pretty it is down there, doesn’t capture your mouth in a kiss that scorches you right through, only probes and prods at your slit to see if there’s any give.

Of course there isn’t.

It wouldn’t have mattered if you let the entire barbarian camp take their turns with you; you wouldn’t be any more blooming for Gaius. Men like him didn’t have the slightest idea of how to make a lady soft and dewing, they only thought that they did.

You knew with a certainty that this wasn’t normal by any stretch. After the first instance, asking the women nestled against their open windows, humming to sleeping infants curled on their chests only prompted sympathetic stares. “Have you no midwife?,” one had replied, face paled as she looked to you: the pitiable woman who had been inspected like a strange fish just for bartering with a man at his market stall for bread. Gaius had not found a thing then, and you had only begun to doubt his intelligence.

… Did he even know what a hymen was?

You will keep your secrets, and he will always play the fool. That’s just how peace would operate once you did share a roof with him.

“Well?,” you prompt, shifting a little in your seat when his cold fingers move to grip the plush of your parted thighs, examining closer with a low, raspy gasp.

A feint that earns no response.

Seemingly satisfied by a lack of a shimmering semen trail or whatever dullards like Gaius sought, he scowls and backs away, hands falling to his sides. There’s no bulge stirring beneath his toga, either. There’s an absence of anything that would make your relationship seem anything more than some strange transaction.

If anything at all, you have become a kept dove, clipped wings and cooing in a gilded cage. No more a wife than a pet or a pretty, glittering jewel. Something meant to waste away its days possessed.

You didn’t even know why he had chosen you, a lady with no gold, silk, or land to her name. Everything you owned he had given to you. Father, mother… whether or not you even had siblings, you were uncertain. Trying to remember only stirs up another aching in your head and you’ve had more than enough to worry about lately without the added sting,

“You’ve done no wrong.” It’s decided in a cold tone of voice. There’s a belief there, but only because the truth of the matter would make him look entirely the part of the fool that he seemed to play without notice.

“As I said.” You won’t run pleading to Juno for her forgiveness this time, or ever again. For the goddess of marriages and women to bless you with… this. Surely she never favored you very much at all.

You wouldn’t waste your bronze coins on fortune tellers anymore, either.

“Mind your words, girl.” He pats your cheek, feigning an affection that has never been present in this villa, in this city at all. You feel little more than like one of the slave girls— not whipped into submission, their plight was always far worse, but if you looked into their eyes for a moment too long, you knew you would find a part of yourself held there.

You nod your head and carry on puppeting yourself as you always have. Conversation comes stiffly as he wanders about your little home, noting what would need fixing before the night of your wedding, checking your food stores and even helping himself to a bone cup filled with wine. Even with it offered to your lips, speaking with him does not come any easier.

Finally, you utter the words that have nagged at the back of your throat since the day of his proposal, “Why do you want for us to be wed?”

The man pauses as he sets the cup aside, finger drumming at the rim momentarily as he regards you with an upturned brow.

“Your father’s dying wish was for us to be married.”

“Yes, but… who was he?”

“A great warrior.” That’s the only explanation you ever get, even when the confusion paves way to a simmering concern. How could you not remember your own kin? It seemed so unfathomable. Seeing so many large families walk these same streets as you… and yet you only had Gaius, hardly better company than a corpse.

“That’s all that you ever tell me.”

“… You will make a great wife.” He concludes the conversation, gives you a firm kiss on the cheek and leaves you to stew in the nothingness that haunts this place as though it were an ancient tomb.

Your days remain the same, nothing ever changing in your eternal cage that only grows ever-colder, more and more like a crypt.

Stitching, weaving, flowing. The animals needed tending, the marketplace was always bustling, and you’ve stopped listening to the poets. Their words only make you feel colder now.

You have met the things that lurk beyond these walls, and they do not speak of bubbling creeks and your gods; they soak their weapons in you, whisper like the trees and bellow like the mountains, ride their horses into battle without a scrap of armor on their hides. They don’t even fear the lemures or Jupiter’s lightning strikes. Maybe not even the changing seasons; harvests must be plentiful when your home isn’t surrounded by chalked clay and ivory.

You don’t turn to Juno any more, but you do turn to Mars. You pray not for the empire, but for his bastard.

Her altar had been tucked away to a corner of your room, replaced now by a stagnant cup of wine you dutifully purge and refill each night, a stray dagger you had acquired from a thieving child on the street, and a strip of red fabric torn away from an old tunic belonging to your betrothed.

When night comes and the weight of it all curls over your shoulders, you find yourself tugged down to the floor on your knees, whispering great fortune for that arrogant beast who had promised to take you to bed when next you meet. It always starts the same, your voice pleads to Mars, only to dither off to murmurings of a different name.

Though he remains distant, barking and bleeding out prey far from you, some semblance of him remains tucked between your ribs. A small echo, one that only seems to grow into a roar when your eyes close and you dream of wolves and their sharp-fanged promises, wisps of wind through low-hanging branches and not paved streets, dirt giving way beneath your feet.

He holds you in those dreams, whispers to you about your false gods when you stand over a stream, points out the only two in existence amidst the reflection with a curled finger.

In those dreams, you think you hear the voice of Mars, a fluttering leaf on the breeze detached from what he’s come to be: it tells you of thyme and rosemary, a foreign glade, of death and longing, and never does it breathe fire.

Then, you wake, ripped from the Elysian and back to wander Orcus with a heavier weight upon your soul.

— — —

Mars answers your prayers in the late autumn.

You do not wake to the sounds of horses or crackling fires outside, only something quieted and peaceful. The street beyond your window is silent as you stretch out to see what’s stirred you; not an animal or a man lies in wait, only the cool gloom of the moon tucked beneath clouds above.

Time only seems to pass more viciously these months. There’s a wedding to be had when the seasons changed; your yellow-red veil had been stitched with trembling fingers nicked several times over by needle, the lectus had been prepared and set on the first floor of the villa. The red cloth covering the modest couch seemed a threat in itself. You don’t hazard it a glance when you wander out of the door to take to the street tonight.

Dim moonlight does little to guide you, only making each shadow seem to stretch and warp in mocking, uninvited guests to set your shivering heart spinning.

There is just no time anymore, not here.

There, sits an owl atop a roof. Its dark wings stretched out as if to begin another flight, to coo its retribution to the sleeping city. You don’t dare to attempt to capture it, there would be no ritual tonight and no care if some harbinger brought doom to this place. It regards you with shimmering yellow eyes, and you think, for just a moment that you see the same feral look in them that you saw in your warrior. The bird wasn’t always the omen that others may claim, sometimes it’s only a sign.

The son of Mars has returned, his horse is waiting to take you upon its broad back and carry you to the mountains and the sea.

The chill on the breeze only guides each step you take as you clamber through that chipping hole in the wall and flee to the field once again. Strangely enough, the air even feels different out here, colder still but devoid of the shadows that climb and crush. The soldiers usually stationed outside the wall are not present now. You only reason that it was rare that they ever were, anyway, always too bathed in wine and kisses from flighty little women slaves to focus on the scape just beyond.

And there, further out from the opposite bank the stream, you see the glow of a fire.

It was strange to see the Goths had returned before your city’s own soldiers. Perhaps you had slept through their march, tucked away at some vast banquet filled with pillaged riches, the finest of wines and the most fresh of smoked meats before you had even begun to stir. Peculiar thing, being so accustomed to the rituals of men that for the most part you had learned not to even bat an eye. It mattered not, anyhow. What you sought was not another Roman to steal away your aspirations to take you as his woman.

Your pace is light and tentative, feeling the earth sink and mold around your bare soles. The thorns risen up from grass dare not poke you with their spines, the owls lurking in the trees do not chase or call, and the horses in the pastures seem at ease.

Even in a world bathed in black and silver, you feel golden, warmed from temple to ankle by that someone other lurking just beyond reach. The other gods could be condemned— it was Mars at your side all along.

The barbarian camp is in a similar state to when you had first seen it, just as you are with the ends of your gown drenched in water from the stream.

There are fewer to their numbers now. You count only three: two busied away with roasting meat over the fire, one running his blade over a flat stone at the mouth of his tent. You recognize them, somewhat, as you step closer, each just as imposing as the first with thick hair and wild eyes, but there’s no sign of König, not here in the open.

You’re stricken by fear immediately, clouding your head with doubt and worry: not for your own safety, but at the thought that your warrior was left to rot in the forests beyond, struck down by some other barbarian king.

You’re stood at the edge of the camp when your breath grows thin, pulse racing as your veins try in earnest not to burst with panic.

One of the men rises from the fire, gruffs something at you in his mother tongue, a deep rumbling like the rocks of old mountain and the timber of trees: like König. He stands before you, a wild mane of dyed hair atop his head, so deeply crimson and maroon you would even think it had been colored with blood from sheep or man, perhaps both.

He claps you on the back with a strong hand, the shove nearly enough to send your shivering form tumbling to the dirt, before you’re righted with a strong grip on your wrist. Then, he laughs.

“Come. König,” the man barks in his heavily accented voice, tugging at your wrist as if you were a mere calf to herd.

Your panic dulls somewhat, enough to wriggle out of his grip and shoot him a glare you had only previously reserved for your betrothed. Intent on playing the part of some strong yet benevolent noble woman it seemed, as you straighten yourself out and ignore the way that the mud and blades of grass stick right to the dirtied hem of your loose robe.

“He is here?” You ask after a moment, feeling a bit misplaced as this other, less familiar giant stares down at you. His eyes are not blue, but gold when the light of the fire pit illuminated him.

This one does not understand as much as you had hoped, because he only murmurs more incomprehensible words and pushes your forward with a palm placed right between your shoulder blades.

You don’t trip, but you had half a mind to hiss at him then, until you realize he is only leading you towards that same ugly tent from before.

The pelts have been changed out, somewhat. There is less gray now and more brown, hides from deer and boar alike, taken from their months of travel. The maroon fabric remains, layered beneath in such a way that seems to make it only seem more alive and bleeding this time.

“Keep warm.” The man speaks up again, and there is no mistaking the amusement in his voice. Insulting, what he dared to insinuate with those two words, yet… there’s a cloud of fuzzy, warm excitement billowing up between your breasts all the same.

The flap of the tent is held up by your own trembling hand, elation tinged with an anxiety, a clustering song played without harmony in your very bones. Though, it settles so easily when the light of the moon mingles with the candles within the cradle of wool and leather.

König is sat, recognizable from his very being, laden with scars and coarse light fur, vast as he had always been. However, his face has changed. Gone is the bleeding shroud you had seen upon him before: the cloth has been tossed away on the mattress, revealing a face that both chills and heats you to the very base of your being.

His face is not unlike others you have seen, maybe upon gladiators a time or two once the helmets were discarded and the dancing with beasts and men alike had subsided. There are scars there, too, a broken face revealing a menagerie of pain from the bump upon his nose to the chip in his tooth as he smiles. His eyelids are still smeared in darkened mud used to make him seem that much more sinister in battle, streaking down his cheeks not unlike the carmine that tended to use to paint your own.

Those eyes though… they stand out above all else, heart wrenching and sullen, and still, they rise to crease at the outer corners when his stare meets your own.

A man with more polish would have concealed the state of himself from a maiden; turned his face away and covered his nudity in the furs lining his mattress. You’re thankful that König is not like those men. His stare is as open as his body’s own articulation: he only lies back into the bed and beckons you near with a curl of his fingers to his calloused palm.

“I made offerings for you.” To you, but thankfully that phrasing doesn’t make its way out. You take your place on his mattress, carefully placing a palm over his chest just to feel— to touch, to be nearer to your god in some way. The time apart hasn’t been entirely cruel, but ‘kind’ would never suit it well either.

Your touch is answered by a heavy grip around your forearm, a gentle yet demanding tug that leaves you sprawled across him like some tiny animal gripping onto a tree: your head presses against his bare stomach, one hand tucked to your chest while the other is quickly pulled up to meet his mouth. König kisses you, right on your palm in some peculiar sort of reverence.

“Your blessing was enough.” You feel his mouth stretch, the brush of teeth against your flesh as he grins, something you’ve missed.

It’s a ruse; there are winding strips of fabric haphazardly tied over his chest, thick with the stench of iron. The blood is dried, but you could only imagine the state of the wound beneath it. Months upon months of travel with a chest wound… your heart crumbles, struck with worry then.

The seax sits intact, however, propped up against one of the wooden poles keeping the shelter in place. Even sheathed, you could assume with how dutifully the barbarian cared for his blade that it had been cleaned, sharpened and greased to keep rust at bay. Though the benevolence he had coaxed from you had not saved him, a part of you was almost pleased to see the weapon unscathed.

“You’re hurt,” you hear yourself say, far away, out amidst the turning leaves that surely watched him take a spear or a dagger, maybe even an arrow, toward his beating heart.

“Hm…? Men get hurt in battles, meine Göttin,” he says, so nonchalant, as though the fear of dying out amongst the trees and hungry animals did not exist for him at all. “You worry?”

You pull your hand away from him when he playfully nips at your fingertips; even wounded König seems more inclined to bite and make you squeal than settle into this expanse of fur to rest and heal.

Of course you’re worried, men fall to mere scrapes in time: grime coaxes its way in, wounds fester with an almost laughable ease, infection paves way for fever and…

“Take care of me…?” König’s voice comes soft, the softest you’ve heard. Gone now is that boyish, mocking lilt, replaced by something akin to trepidation. Fear for him does not come from the shouting of men with blades held high, but in small whispers begging for affection.

“Sure…”

The ruddy bandages are pried away from his chest by gentle hands, uncurled and left on the dirt floor to the side of the bed. The wound in his chest is not as severe as you had expected, a few centimeters deep, jagged as it curves upward… whoever had done this had not had the opportunity to properly pierce him before the offending weapon had been pried from their hands. Crushed. Followed by what you could only imagine was the attacker’s fretful shrieks when König advanced upon him.

Your fingers brush over the wound, gentle, as you inspect the blaze of red around its edges. There’s no clear indication of infection, but when a clay jar of honey is plucked from König’s belongings and brought to your hands, you dutifully dab the wound in its sweetness.

You tell him how it will heal, using the phrases you’ve only heard from the physicians about the city, failing to mention that you had not tended to someone like this before. He breathes his appreciation in a soft rumble when you wrap his chest in strips of cloth, tightening it comfortably just to tie at his side.

“Did you kill the man who did this?,” you ask once you’ve stripped yourself bare, shed your clothing to lie in a heap with the ruined bandages he had previously worn. Your body rests at his side, arm curled over his middle. A woman’s warmth was necessary to heal a warrior… perhaps it could remedy a forgotten god, too.

“All of them,” he hums into your hair, a whisper of a voice harboring words that should chill you to your very bones. König only appears pacified as he speaks, never minding his own madness, nor the blood caked beneath his fingernails.

You ask him what these men were like, who could have been capable of wounding a man as mighty as himself, and in turn he laughs. Surely, the gash must ache, but his voice never falters when he gathers you in two treelike limbs to pull your body ever-closer to his own.

He tells you that they were familiar, that your men in their dye red tunics held their spears and struck down some of his men but could not hope to best him.

He tells you of the cowardly ambush, how the warriors of your city turned upon his own with shouts and anger after a slave woman had been released. The way the woman spoke… as if she knew more about you than you ever had, how he could not bare to watch her suffer when she even resembled you in some ways: older, but still so very much like you. He had felt killing her captor to return her to the forest was the only way he could keep your favor.

While you listen in a stasis, stuck ridged against him as your mind drifts, pulls memory from the darker corners within your skull, he strokes at your shoulder, presses his nose right up to yours.

The man who had struck him was smaller… weaker, he had not survived König’s first blow, but… There’s a frothing madness in his eyes like the sky threatening storms when he tells you that he could not bear the thought of a man that would think to harm anyone like his goddess finding a way to return. His attacker was ripped limb from limb, body burned with the rest of those that followed his order.

You remain entirely silent, taking in this whispered tale as though it were breathed from the mouths of the gods themselves.

You never needed to pray to Mars, to Juno, to Vulcan…any of them. The embodiment of fear lies as a welcomed presence next to you, stroking along your back as though you were a mere kitten while he breathes this gory story against your lips. The smile returns when he finishes, pets at your jaw as if awaiting a reward for his perceived good deed… and you allow his madness to slip right past your teeth.

The touches brush over you like the featherlight breezes of the past spring, fingertips grazing from your waist to neck, nails leaving lightened stripes over the flesh he carefully claws at, gathering your skin, the meat from your bone, to roll between each pad of his digits. There’s further worship, a desperation to ensure that you are still here as he pants into your mouth, grips at your hip to pull you closer to where he aches the most.

There’s no pelt sprawled over his groin to hide himself from you, no thin linen to protect where he wishes to reach most. All you have is your words, and a thumb delicately rubbing over his bandage. When the kiss breaks, only then do you think to speak.

“When you’re better.”

The man makes his protests, gives his cock a few strokes as he hisses into your ear about promises, the horse, how long he’s dreamt and waited. You don’t need to be convinced, but now… your mind is riddled with what’s occurred in your months apart. Though the tension remains thick and wafting in the air between you, the physical could wait until you’re both sorted.

While you remained stuck and forlorn, struck by longing and misery, he had only found some semblance of meaning for all of what has eluded you, slayed every man who he could envision bringing you- anyone like you- harm, came back with another wound to fold over into a puffed scar.

You’ve only been waiting for your own sentencing.

Your warrior softens when your eyes begin to swim, fragile and overwhelmed as you’re tucked away beneath him. He only holds you, protective with an unwavering grip as the moon sweeps through the tent with its melancholic comfort that finally pulls the tears right from your eyes.

“Meine Göttin…,” he whispers against your temple, before you press your face into a broad shoulder, hiding tears and frail hiccuped sobs. “I prayed only to you.”

The words come barely audible, though they were never truly necessary.

You feel them in every touch, every hurried whisper as he coos his apologies in that keening voice, every kiss pressed over your warmed face when relaxation snares your limbs, and you do bloom further against him. The comfort and adoration is near staggering, taking you in and pulling you under, further below than even the rivers of your dreams and the ocean just out of reach could ever hope to.

As though this were the most natural thing…

The altars of your villa before were mere practice for the worship of lying next to your own deity; bastard son or Hercules, a wolf or a wild boar, none of it mattered.

He sighs, cups your face to kiss you just once more, something far more chaste than what you’ve come to know from him; the small peck to your lips holds more weight than the clatter of teeth and tongue from before. When you begin to drift off to a dream of a glade filled with nymphs where the trees breathe sap that tastes of honeysuckle, all bathed in the glow of starlight, you only feel the need to silently pray for one last thing: that he will never let you go.

— — —

It’s only on the seventh morning that you come to a realization over a breakfast of figs and water from the stream just below the hill— one that you haven’t been home. You feel at home enough here. The stuffy villa seems only a distant memory when you’re seated across from him, the giant who showers you in so much love it feels warmer than the great flames of Vulcan’s own fury.

No one has come to seek you out, either. Gaius had to have had an idea, should he have even bothered to search for you in that now desolate home. The few soldiers you have witnessed on their patrolling across the field never seem to turn an eye to the barbarian camp. You fill your pots with water, taking aid from König’s men, and never once have they turned to you.

Judgment always seemed so swift with all apart from destiny. You reason that this is surely what it must be, a destiny painted high above in the stars on nights where the mist does not curl up to conceal them from your gaze. You watch them sometimes, when König relaxes his grip in sleep: you turn to the outside of the tent to stare up at the expanse of stars and hear the stories of this nameless king from the mouths of the very men who have braved each storm with him.

They tell you in shattered language of stories you know with a certainty must not be entirely true. They range from talk of the hundred wives König supposedly had that he released all when he met you, of the temples built in his name all lined with gold and the names of jewels you had never once heard spoken, of how he had even slain your great god Jupiter… You have always listened with great amusement, wondering just how highly he must speak of you to have his men lie for him so brazenly.

Laughter follows you back to König’s tent each night, waiting to hear the cries of their king expending his love upon you that never come. You tend to his wound, observing its healing as the days come and go, and with each rebirth of the sun, his touch only seems to grow more imploring, his words sweeter than even the fruit held up in your palm.

In the haze of the morning sun spilling in from the parted flap of the tent, his eyes seem alight with an unnatural flame when he pulls you in to seat you upon one of his muscular thighs, far too rowdy for an injured man. You think not to refuse him when he laps at the juice from the fruit that has trickled down your chin.

“I love you.” He professes his devotion in that same pleading voice, an arm curled around your middle to keep you securely in place. Another thing that you never needed the words spoken to know.

You bring a fig up to his mouth, feed him with a kiss to his cheek and a whispered confession of your own. From the moment you saw him tending to his seax on the bank, your heart had become a howling, skittering animal in the cage of your ribs. You murmur words stolen from the poets against his jaw, about love and flowers, the mating dances of beasts and gods alike. With each word spun, he clutches you tighter, echoes them in his mother tongue.

The confession ends in a kiss that leaves you cloudy, aloft, a union of tongue and soft panting that leaves each nerve thrumming rapidly. The bowl of fruit slips from your lap, left to scatter over the ground forgotten.

König lowers you to lie back on the bed, teeth nipping and raking down along the column of your throat, over your pulse… back to your breasts that he caresses in two large palms.

“Not yet,” you remind him. His touch grows more insistent, thumbs pressed to your nipples to roll over them until your back arcs and your thighs tremble. “You’ll open your wound…”

“I am fine,” he huffs when he releases you from such delicious torture. “Let me…”

You can not bring yourself to tell him the true reasons as to why you can not. Not yet. You’re a mere stroll away from the city’s beckoning gates, from the place where you’re set to be wed only a fortnight from now. The mouth of Orcus that will drag you back in and keep you caged away from him… it would be too bittersweet to make your passions clear when your doom still imposes upon you with just a glance outside. If it ever comes… and you silently begged to any greater thing that it never would.

“When you’re healed… when you take me away from here,” you promise.

König listens in his own way. You see a flash of mischief when he separates from you with one final generous squeeze to your breast. This isn’t just the casual acceptance that comes with children being scolded, but an urgency to contend your words, a desire to prove himself buried in those shimmering eyes.

“Meine Göttin thinks that I am weak, hm?”

“That is not what I said.”

“I will show you.”

All at once, König rises from the mattress, casually shedding the bandage over his chest to discard it. You want to protest to whatever it is that he’s doing, but you knew very little of the minds of these men, their proclivities and desires, only that above all his intentions only seemed to be to prove himself worthy of worshiping at your feet, between your parted thighs…

As if to taunt you, the stiffened cock between his own legs bounces, drools when he stands. Your head spins as you force yourself to sit up and look into his eyes instead.

“What are you doing?,” you ask when he gathers his seax from the place he’s left it propped up, followed swiftly bu the pelt he usually donned around his middle with its leather straps and worn, gray fur.

“We will go on a hunt, hm? I will show you how…” He trails off with a grunt as he fastens the straps, finally conceals the pale, proud pillar when the fur comes to cover his groin. The seax follows as it’s tied to his narrow hip, the pommel glinting in low light as he approaches the opening of the tent and gestures for you to follow.

He should not be going on a hunt, and you… still did not even possess a weapon to aid in such an endeavor. Still, the thought of seeing him actually in the midst of a heated battle stills your breath for a moment, spurs you forward to follow along behind him.

The men around the camp speak with him for a time, prattling on in their mother tongue, gesturing out towards the trees with grins brimming with excitement. They all seem enticed by the prospect of felling some noble creature to drag back to their camp, make a true sacrifice for the goddess made mortal that lurks here. König dismisses them with a wave of his hand, clearly intent on being the only one to gift you such an offering.

He barks an order to the man that led you to his tent, and within moments this other man brings a Roman spear to your warrior, recognizable by its intricate engravings and barbed tip. König weighs it in his hands for a moment, glances back at you with a grin that simply screams his satisfaction of holding a trophy pried from the grip of one of your own detestable soldiers.

You follow after him through the dense forest bordering the clearing. The trees have long since shed their summer green, replaced instead by reds and golds, the dead falling to bathe the forest floor in bronze and brown. König walks slowly as to not cause too much sound to pass beneath the weight of his bulky body, encouraging you to do the same in a hushed demand with each crunching leaf beneath your soles.

Finally, he comes to a halt overlooking a small ridge that overlooks a small clearing. The brush and thickets rise high here, no doubt the birthing place of brambles and thorns, ground passive and untouched by all except the animals hiding within trees and bedded down in burrows. One still walks, awake and alert, a brilliant red stag with antlers more vast than even the horns of the bulls sent off to play war with the gladiators.

The creature is stationary, chewing cud with each movement of its dainty little jaw. It’s tail twitches, ears flicking on occasion when a bird swoops too close or the sound of a snapping twig out in the distance echoes through the forest. It’s a beautiful, delicate thing, but still strong and sturdy. The stag looks perfectly at peace here, not noting the wolf that watches over the ridge.

By the time that the deer does catch sight of König, it’s already too late. The arm holding the long spear is already pulled back and raised high. When the creature moves to resume its prance, the weapon is sent spiraling through the air, twisting and spinning in the absence of a breeze like a living thing until its point is found bedded in the stag's protruding belly.

The creature bleats in pain, writhes and kicks as it comes crashing down to a bed of brittle leaves that clamor beneath its weight. You close your eyes when you see the ground painted with blood from its seeping wound, and König begins to descend upon it. There are other sounds that follow, thudding blows in quick succession that leaves very little to your imagination; you’re only grateful he brought such a pretty thing a swift death.

You walk ahead of him on the way back to camp as he carries the animal’s corpse, politely telling him that if you look, you will not eat.

He gives his spoils to the other men once you’ve reached the camp again. They cheer, readying their blades to carve the creature up for a meal of venison and whatever amount of wine remains in their stores. The rations had been cut off since the others had failed to return, it wouldn’t be long until there was no wine left without one of them fetching work for coin within the city and purchasing it himself; still, König ensures that your cup is filled to the rim with it’s tart sweetness, grape with notes of something earthy, a mixture of thyme embedded into it to bless it with scent like a pomander.

You seat yourself in his lap, looking every part of a pretty earthen goddess as he presses his face to your bare shoulder, traces shapes into your hip while you sip from your cup. His men do not stare, either, regardless of your state of nudeness. There’s respect here, embedded into their flesh, their beliefs, and you only feel the part of a noblewoman when you take note of it. You are not just any man’s woman, but their leader’s most revered treasure.

The others pick apart your harvest of flesh, hang the skins to dry for further use, the antlers and bone left in a heap to be cleaned, then sharpened and carved. Your stare is appreciative as you watch them work away, never having seen this side of things from your modest villa. A fire is stoked when the usable meat is peeled away from what remains of the bones, ribs and femur, others that you could not hope to name.

“See?” König chimes as he takes hold of your hip, squishing you closer, tighter amidst the space of his palm. “Not weak..,” he hums into the hair at the back of your neck.

His touching grows more persistent, eager as the tips of his fingers graze your inner thigh; though appeased, you were not keen on the idea of straddling him before the eyes of his men as though you were only a breeding pair of foxes, screeching your passions into the forest for birds and bears to hear. When a throb resounds from his stroking, you wind yourself away to sit at his side instead, jaw resting on his knee and cup raised up to hide your breasts from his field of view.

“I did not say you were. Just hurt.”

He gives an impatient grunt in response, but allows you to linger in this new position, taking to stroke at your face and shoulders instead.

When the meat is cooked to their standards, still bloody and near raw to your own, the men chatter away between mouthfuls and thick swallows of their wine. You try to keep up, forcing yourself to commit some of their more common turns of phrase to mind— obvious yeses and nos, the way that they call one another, the names that would sound strange on your tongue but suit the others all the same. When your expression falls to confusion, König whispers translations into your ear; they’re discussing the Romans… what they will do if their rations are cut entirely, something about a deal struck before your interest summers and you resort to eating the venison you hood in silence.

It is not that you feel out of place, only lost. These men live in a separate world entirely: there is no talk of ironed out politics, organized festivities, of weddings an plotting for farmland. There is laughter here, even song when one of the trio seated across from you and König begins to bark out a loud chorus from a tune that your warrior so sweetly explains to you is about a woman who ventured out to elope with a cave-dwelling bear. Peculiar wild men that they were, you don’t even bother to question how that could ever possibly work.

When the afternoon sinks into the coziness of evening, you walk hand in hand with König back to his tent, and just as with any other night, there are cheerful, foreign goads and tedious little sounds elicited behind you. The wine had you peaceful for a time, but its haze has since passed. Your sheepishness is apparent at the implication, but the wolfish grin König shoots back at his men is anything but.

You know he expects to fulfill his promise entirely— make you his lover, wife, whatever he seems to see you as. That could not happen… as much as you thrum for him with each brush of his warm palm against your backside or upon your face, eternally gazing up at him with your dumb and doting stare.

To your credit: when his gaze crawls over you to take every bare expanse of flesh in, he only sees a beauty that he seemingly can not comprehend. The tells range from the tightening of his jaw, the twitch of each digit when they meet your skin, the way his nostrils glare and eyelids sag. His profession from earlier was anything except just that: it was a truth.

As he strips away his pelt and sets his blade aside, your hands rise to press against his shoulders, forbidding him to go any further than this simple reveal. And you speak true, explaining your exasperating engagement with the foul man who made certain you were spied upon, your distaste for your life within the walls itself, and lastly the marriage that would occur once the seasons did change.

Your eyes feel nothing short of pure liquid when you seat yourself upon his mattress for what you assume would be the very last time. Your voice tapers when you reveal that those very reasons were why you had come to him that night for the horse, why you came back even now.

König listens until your voice is reduced to a somber whisper, broken up by weak sniffles. The flirtation in his gaze is lost, and there’s no grin that splits apart his thin lips. You think that, if he asked you if you felt similarly to him then, that you would break down in full, but he doesn’t.

Instead he hisses something in his mother tongue, a singular word: “Scheiße.” Then, another laugh is coaxed from his throat, the dozenth that you must have heard this night alone. He seems fully unperturbed, unbothered when he descends upon you as if you were nothing more than the very deer he had slaughtered earlier.

“It is fine. Alles gut.” He covers your face in kisses, biting at your cheek when you squirm against him. “I can fight him, hm?”

Stupid… so terribly impulsive and cute. You sigh as if exasperated with him, but envelope him in your embrace anyway.

“I just want to be free of all of it,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Then we will be free,” he confirms. We. No longer just yourself, and you almost bring yourself to ask if he has truly meant it before you're reminded of his declaration with a swift kiss that punches the air from your chest and leaves you shivering.

You hold him tighter still, fingers weaving into his hair to massage at his scalp and draw back in a tug when his head cocks to nip at your jaw. Again, always, he encompasses you, pulls you down into darkened water that warms and thumbs around you. You lose yourself more and more with each touch, thumb brushing over the pulse of your neck, teeth nipping at your clavicle, the brush of his groin as he rolls his hips to meet the plushness of your thigh.

You ache, cry when he guides your nipple into his mouth, languidly lapping over you until his salivating is evident over your tit. He only grows less patient the more vocal you become; one hand remains played to the side of your head while the other steadily slinks down past your naval, trails off to grasp at you hip and steer you closer before descending lower, where only his blade had dared venture before.

“I have dreamt of this, meine Göttin,” he purrs when he shifts his hips. His cock rests heavy over your thigh, weeping the sheerness of its own demand to paint your flesh. He guides your hand there to palm at his steadily growing arousal, curls your hand around his length and guides it up to stroke.

His chest rumbles his pleasure as he groans against your cheek; the sounds are somehow more surprising than the ones you had heard outside the brothels. Before König… never had you heard a man voice his pleasure, and though it may have been emasculating to some, it only makes you wet, there where his fingers reach to pet once he’s satisfied with the pace you’ve set as you pleasure him.

Your thumb grazed over the flushed tip, smearing the preejaculate that drools from it, his hips buck then. Your own sounds join his chorus when he ghosts a fingertip over the hood of your clit, buried his middle finger into your cunt. The entire ordeal is lazy, lazy as the slow kisses that connect your panting mouths.

With each twitch of your wrist as you milk his cock, you’re met with a finger probing deeper. At some point, one becomes two, a try for three before he draws back and realizes you’re too close to begin to take anymore.

“Tight..,” he appraises in a low voice, tongue lapping over your teeth as you writhe at his side.

You pick up pace at his praise, adoringly offering him your love with quickened sweeps of your hand, of your thumb over the weeping head, until he begins to throb in your hold. König mutters a curse against your jaw as he struggles to keep his hand steady then, bludgeoning you with his fingers, circling your clit until you begin to whine.

The heat builds within you so quickly you begin to see the night sky beneath your eyelids— an expanse of stars, of glowing blooms, and all at once the heat becomes too much. You curl into yourself, struggling to keep the demanding cock in your grip as you grind your hips down upon his hand to ride out your orgasm, bleary eyes and weakened by the intensity of it all you merely muffle your cries against his waiting mouth.

It takes no time at all for him to finish then, thick spurts of white seed paint up from your mound to your belly, coating your fingers in its stickiness. He hurts his teeth through it, intent on stifling the desperate little sounds building up in his throat, kisses you with even more fervor when you bless him with another tug to milk out every last viscous drop as it kicks and throbs in your hand.

He settles briefly, trailing kisses from your jaw to shoulder, then rises to part your legs with a strong grip around each thigh. For a moment, you almost think he’s prepared to fuck you proper, but the thought dissipates when he gathers his own seed over the head of his still hardened cock, settles it against your cunt, and grinds his seed against your salivating hole.

Your whine is clipped and almost pained when he brushes over your clit, hips rising to pull away when you feel the tickling burn of overstimulation. It doesn’t last; satisfied that he has left his spend close enough to your pussy that he may as well have laid claim to it, he crashes down over you, head pressed between your breasts.

König’s breath still comes in a pant while he huffs his affection for you: praises, those three wonderful words again and again. His tone is tender, reverent, as he tells you that he loves you… immediately following it with a stout and crude declaration of how roughly he will fuck you when the time does come.

“Do you mean what you said…?” You find your voice when he finally stops whispering the filth of his fantasies to you, when your cunt ceases its pleading for more. Right now… it would not be as special anyhow. Your fate still lies in the grasp of another, and as much as you wished for it to align in full with him, that simply was not so.

“Ja,” he answers immediately, no hesitation when he commits himself in full to you, the Roman woman who had tamed him down with her silly whims and ache for him. “I will take you to the mountains, the sea, …the stars if you ask.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, filled with mirth as he speaks of such impossibilities. There is no place in the stars for two misplaced lovers, but you don’t dare say that. The things that fill your imaginations would leave even the poets balking, scrambling for the words pretty enough to describe a love so peculiar.

— — —

You had not questioned why they remained, that was your folly.

You had never thought that you would even care should you see the city fall. Though… dread immediately strikes your heart with ice and silver when you’re bolted awake by the sound of shrill shrieks and loud crumbling. There’s a war just beyond the veil the tent provides: loud sounds of heavy feet, shouts, even the clash of metal upon metal if only for a single stuttering beat of your heart.

Vulcan has descended, rode right through on flaming steeds with flame rising from his open maw. You know it with a certainty without even approaching the opening to look. But you do. You do move away from the empty mattress, finding the space where König had slept against you, snoring softly and tugging you closer in your bliss, entirely devoid of any warmth. The air is warm, tinged with the heat of coursing flames, but the bed is cold, frigid like the fear that cinches at your heart and steals the breath from fluttering lungs.

There’s ash in the air, falling like the first snows of winter when you make your way out of the tent, coughing into your hand as it clasps over your mouth and nose. The air is so thick, noxious and darker than even the backdrop of velvety sable marking the horizon. Your eyes track the twisting, feathering pillars of flame as they rise even higher than the wall: a gold and red death.

Shadows scramble across the field— men, women, then the horses, the bulls, that come thundering past. The animals trample and shriek: broken bones, hooves driven through skulls to erupt into mush, leaving twitching, scorched corpses in their wake.

Fire billows up only to fall and rain down, back onto the murderous beasts in some abstract punishment. You watch the puppets writhe and squeal; perhaps your own cries join them, wailing and crying out as all you’ve come to know is engulfed, smothered, destroyed. What the fire does not take, the shattering structures do.

Amidst it all is glee.

There are shouts of men on horseback that come out as the victory roars of men amidst battle, yipping and howling as all is reduced to rubble around them. Your feet do not guide you toward the chaos, they do not bring you to peace either, only far— far as you can go.

The smell alone makes it worse than it ever appeared in your dreaming. Blood, oil, cinder and ash that plummets deep down into your stomach, pushing back up to purge what became of the deer. You feel how that creature must have: alone, terrified, certain that death was biting at your heels. If you had fur it would bristle, antlers would plow through the brush to carry you to safety, but… you do not. You’ve only the ability to gather yourself enough to fall. You descend down the hill in a painful roll as your legs give out beneath you.

You want to close your eyes, to sink into the stream and bid the fire away with desperation alone. When you lower to the grass to wretch, fingers digging into the earth, your gaze snaps back to the scene just beyond the stream.

You know, know dreadfully well that the people here that have managed to escape were hunted down in a veil of inky blackness. The ghouls of myth could not compare to this… This was very real, real as the scent of cooking meat and hair and wood.

And you watch and wait for the fire to burn out, for the animals to cease their rampage and fall back to a calm that never comes.

You stand to your feet, meekly trembling before the wrath and chaos, and you wait with splintering nails clawing at your thighs and unshed tears blurring your vision. There was always a price to pay for freedom, you had seen it time and time again in gladiator pits, monetary and dull, but never this…

And you know the price for yours was paid in fire and vengeance, promised before you ever even had the notion to disappear at all. There was always tension between the Goths and your people. This was bound to come about sooner or later, but the guilt of potentially being the catalyst to it all brings you back to your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring out into the abyss in silenced fear, but eventually all that fills the quiet is the dull roar of the fires still burning and the dull sounds of a horse’s trot growing nearer. Just across the bubbling little stream, untouched by the death beneath the full moon, is König atop his sable steed. The creature huffs just as König cocks his shrouded head, prompting you in his silence to say anything— deliver your blessing, your thanks, your kisses.

Yet, you can not bring yourself to deliver anything but a weak, anguished wail.

The stream is crossed before you’ve even the time to raise your head, limbs gathering you up to pull you against the broad chest of your god in the cruelest tenderness. You feel limp there, atop this frustrated horse, in the arms of the man who had sacked this city. They will come for him, kill him too… You will be alone with nothing and no one, and stupidly, you find yourself longing for the comfort of calling to Juno in that bedroom you would never see again. All of this just for pleading for the very horse you now perch upon.

He lets you cry as holds the reins in one hand and carries you away from this desolation. The horse walks further than you have ever even seen. The stream before the barbarian camp is not the only, there are orchards and glades and fields of tall grass even further beyond it. You take in the beauty as the city becomes a glimmering speck far behind you.

König only remains silent, stroking your back with his free hand, so lovingly and gentle you find it almost impossible to believe him capable of such cruelty. Your mind is tired, limbs weighty and chest aching from breathing in so much smoke. You do not even realize your exhaustion until you find yourself in a fitful sleep.

There are no dreams, no wonderful comforts, only slow breaths and pained whimpers.

When you do wake, the sun has risen in full.

You’re lying on your back amidst withering grass, a pelt thrown over your body and a figure sat at your side. There’s no longer the stench of smoke, no drab gray clouds hanging over your head. The air is light and tinged with the tartness of buckthorn. There are white, puffy clouds hanging up in the vast blue of the sky, and as you blink, a thumb moves to stroke at your cheek. Soft, so soft and even tentative when it rises to your temple.

“You should have slept longer.” König’s voice comes, not reprimanding, but in a gentle surge of breath. He sounds as exhausted as you still feel.

You’re angry… but you know not why. It feels performative, almost, when you shove his hand away. You want to wail for what you’ve lost, but that voice never comes. Gaius? A home you never liked? The lectus that would be used as a stand to consummate a marriage you had begged to avoid for months on end? What was lost?

“You are going to die.” Your whisper comes strained, tight and tinged with your own misery.

“You worry for me again?”

You shake your head at that, fierce as you turn on your side and away from him again. The dying grass digs into your flesh beneath the fur, scraping like claws, like König’s very touch.

“We are not going to die, little one,” he continues as he moves closer to you, trying to gather you up into his arms in an act of comfort. Your tension rigidly leaves you, though you try to force yourself to remain closed off, it does not happen. You mold against him when he lies at your back, hand splayed over your stomach.

“I never said we. Just you,” you huff. Your hand meets his wrist as his thumb begins to stroke at your naval. The desire to push him away again only dissolves when he winds out of your grip to take your hand into his own, forced lower to feel the cold earth and the warmth of each digit beneath your touch. “They will hunt you down.”

“Then I will die at your side.”

You don’t respond to that, finding his desire to further prove whatever this was entirely incomprehensible now. It is not endearing, you force your mind to reason. This man was more than just tedious at times, but dangerous to… To burn an entire city on a whim then curl against you like this… You whimper, keening and sorrowful as you squeeze your eyes shut— force the macabre thoughts out.

“You are like me,” König continues, a low rumble as he lowers his head to press his cheek to the side of your neck. Even amidst the chill of winter, he’s so warm, so soothing, enough to make you melt like wax from candles… perfumed by his own sweat and the ash he left in his wake, so earthy and lofty all the same. “Kleine Göttin…”

“No… I’m not.”

“You come from the mountain,” he urges with a kiss to your shoulder. His grip around you becomes more insistent with each muttered word, the pads of his fingers pressed further to dimple your skin. “The slave woman told me so.”

You didn’t know the woman he spoke of, you didn’t know anyone still living apart from himself and his men. You want to yell, to drill it into his very skull with your words, but even more than that, you want this comfort.

You want to feed him figs, allow his tongue to sip the wine from your own, and to fall asleep against him with his breath tickling at your scalp. More, to share the life with him you once promised to a deceased man buried in ash…

Truth be told you were not even sure of your standing, Roman or barbarian… Though you had never told him that, his resolute tone leads you to believe all of it. You had always longed to bathe in rivers rather than crowded bathhouses, to crest the tops of mountains and taste fresh honey on your tongue… The titan promises you all of those things and more with his tight hold and in a purred, breathy, “I love you.”

All that you could not prevent dissipates in a plume when you twist around to bury your face against that chest, curl your fingers into his hair and breathe out your resistance in its entirety. The most pitiful of surrenders.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other

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wintfleur · 3 months

Note

🌷 [ surprise ] with quinn!! maybe angst with happy ending ?

౨ৎ arguments on the dock and nosey brothers

°. — pairings ( Quinn Hughes x female! Reader )

°. — summary ( Jack can’t keep his mouth shut, causing an argument between his brother and his girlfriend )

°. — details ( g; angst, fluff. w; slight cursing, I think that’s all. wc; 1.5k )

﹕─┈ prompt ~ a sudden kiss to catch there partner off guard

˖ ་ 💭 roro’s notes ( TYSM FOR SENDING IN A REQ LOVEY !!! when I tell you that it PHYSICALLY hurt to write angst with Quinn . . . I’m telling you the truth. I absolutely loved writing this, and I really hope you guys enjoy it. I’m actually shocked that I wrote this in 3 hours. Please don’t be a silent reader, your thoughts always keep me motivated to keep writing <333 )

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You didn't wait to hear Quinn's answer as you walked out of the kitchen and out through the back door that led to the backyard and lake. You slipped your bare feet into what you assumed was Luke's slide Ons and quickly made your way down the steps and onto the dock. You let out a heavy side and brought your trembling hands up to your eyes, rubbing them as your mind tried to process the new news.

“Thanks’ a lot Jack” Quinn hissed at his younger brother who couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut, shaking his head in annoyance and leaving the kitchen to quickly follow after you. Both of the brothers flinch when they hear Quinn slam the back door. Jack’s shoulders sank and he turned to look at Luke who was already giving him a disappointing shake of the head. “How was I supposed to know he didn't tell her yet?”

“I don't know. Maybe the fact that Quinn told us to keep it to ourselves because he was still trying to figure things out?” Luke retorted sassily as he put his bowl in the sink before leaving the kitchen to go play some darts downstairs. Jack groans and rests his head on the cold island counter, he feels terrible. His heart had sunk when he saw the look of hurt on your face when he said those words. Jack whispers to himself “Good luck Quinn”

Quinn slowly made his way down the wooden steps that led to the dock, he could see you standing in the middle of the dock, your body stiff as you stared out at the water. Quinn knew you knew he was there, the sound of the wood creaking under his weight as he walked onto the dock . . . but you refused to take your eyes off the water.

“I know you're upset, and you have every right to be . . . but please just hear me out, '' Quinn spoke softly as he moved to rest his hand on your arm only to let out a sigh as you moved out of the way from his touch. You keep your eyes on the water, hoping that it would help calm you down as you whisper, “When did you find out?”

“Two weeks ago,” Quinn whispered regrettably, his eyes down at the water. You scoff bitterly and bring your hand up to wipe at your eyes, hoping that your tears of frustration wouldn't fall. You finally turn to face him, your arms folded over your chest. Quinn looks at you and he feels his heart sink at the look of hurt on your face and the tears in your eyes, but that was nowhere as painful as hearing the hurt in your voice as you spoke loudly.

“You're right, I do have every right to be upset. You found out two weeks ago, two weeks you have known that you wouldn't be with me for our anniversary . . . two weeks you have listened to me gush about planning our trip . . . our trip that you knew was never going to happen.”

“Why didn't you tell me Quinn? . . . i would have understood'' you whispered, and you would have. You know you would have but finding out he kept it a secret for so long hurt. You never wanted to get in the way of his career, his dream, knowing how important it was to him . . . but you were important too. A single tear slides down your cheek as Jack's words echo in your head.

“It's a great opportunity, it's just a shame he's going to miss your guy's big day” Jack says after he swallowed his last bite of the wonderful dinner you had made for your boyfriend and his brothers. You paused your movement on rinsing your dish and turned around to jack with a look of confusion “Big day?”

“Yeah, your guys' anniversary? He's gonna be gone for like two weeks” Jack shrugged, and your heart dropped at the new information. You turned your gaze to your boyfriend who was giving Jack a heated glare while Luke looked between the couple awkwardly. You looked into your boyfriend's eyes as you asked, “Is that true?”

“Baby i promise it's not like that i was ⸺” Quinn started as he tried to explain it to you, but you couldn't help but cut him off.

“What is it like huh? When were you going to tell me? ⸺ if you were ever going to tell me at all. Where you going to tell me the day before or where you going to let me wake up alone to find out myself that you were on the other side of the fucking country!” You shouted as you threw your hands in the air in anger. Both Luke and Jack wincing inside of the house as they look out the window to spy on the two of you.

“Don't be dramatic you know i would never do that to you” Quinn shook his head as he took a step towards you, his heart hurting that you would even think he would do that to you. But he knew you were just upset, that you really didn't mean your words and all he wanted to do was pull you into his arms.

“Well i used to also think we didn't keep secrets from each other, clearly i was wrong” you snapped as you fully turned to face away from him and moved to sit on one of the wooden chairs. You close your eyes and let out a heavy breath, resting your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. You hated arguments with quinn, they rarely happened ⸺ but when they did it was emotionally draining.

Quinn frowns and moves to get on one knee in front of you, his hands softly rubbing your arms, knowing that it helps calm you down. “I would have told you quinn . . . i wouldn't have kept it a secret” you whispered sadly as you lifted your head out of your hands, locking eyes with quinn who looked at you with regret in his eyes. “I know baby i know you would and I'm so sorry.”

“I’m not going to tell you not to go, I know this is important for you and I won't hold you back . . . I'm just sorry you felt like you couldn't tell m⸺” you abruptly stop talking when you feel quinn holding your face and his lips on yours, interrupting you and catching you off guard. Your eyes fluttered close and you felt yourself melt into the kiss, pouring all of your emotion into the kiss.

Quinn reluctantly pulled away and rested his forehead on yours, his gently hold on your face not wavering as he whispered breathlessly “You are more important to me, you will always be more important to me . . . i didn't say anything because i wanted to make sure you could come with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open at his revelation and you lean back a little, Quinns hands falling to rest in your lap and taking your hands into his as he looks at you with nothing but love “I know it's not the anniversary you wanted . . . but we would be together, and Elias has been helping me plan it. I was going to tell you i swear, i was just waiting on the confirmation that we can stay in the honeymoon suite at the hotel we would be in.”

“Really?” You whispered as tears reformed in your eyes, this time not of frustration ⸺ but of a strong emotion of love and guilt. Quinn was quick to wipe your fallen tears, giving you a small smile as he whispered “Don't cry baby, I'm not upset it's okay.”

“The things i said i⸺”

“You didn't mean them, you were upset and hurt” Quinn cut you off as he caressed your cheeks before leaning forward to place a soft kiss on your nose, a smile forming on his lips at the adorable nose scrunch you do.

“I’m sorry” you sniffled as you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend's shoulders in a hug, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck. Quinn chuckles and wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer. His knees were starting to hurt, but you were more important than the fleeting pain. Quinn kissed your forehead before saying “I’m sorry too.”

The couple both close their eyes, enjoying the feeling of being in each other's arms after the emotional rollercoaster they just were on. The only thing they could hear was each other's heartbeat and the sound of the water that was around them. It was perfect and peaceful until you heard Jack yelling from the porch “Since you guys are okay, does that mean you forgive me too?!”

“I’m gonna fucking kill him” Quinn groans as he hides his face in your neck, breathing in your scent to calm himself down. He was in fact annoyed with his brother, this wouldn't have happened, and he would have been able to tell you about the news in a much better way . . . technically jack’s the reason why you cried, and Quinn was sure to use that against him. You giggle and open your eyes, looking out at the water and the beautiful sunset “I’m sure it would be easy to convince Luke to help us.”

˖ ་ 💭 roro’s notes ( one forehead kiss from Quinn and everything wrong in my life would be healed . . . please Quinn one chance I beg 😻 )

°. — taglist ( @cixrosie @toasttt11 )

#﹕─┈ 𝜗 roro's 1k celly 𝜚 #﹕─┈ roro’s works #quinn hughes #qh43 #vancouver canucks #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes fic #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #nhl blurb #nhl hockey #nhl fanfiction #hughes brothers #jack hughes

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peachesofteal · 6 months

Text

Light on -single mom/neighbors fic Simon Riley/female reader Prompt(s): fire alarm, reader backstory, reader cooks for Simon, requested by multiple.

The chair at your kitchen table is small.

It’s so small, he’s half afraid he might break it, the rickety wood creaking under his weight, and he shifts, leaning back to test its ability, hoping it won’t give way on him. The wood makes a louder groaning sound, and your voice carries from the hall, half of a jest in your tone.

“Are you trying to break my furniture?” Shit.

“No.” He shoots to his feet, patting the little wooden chair like he’s trying to comfort it, embarrassed that he’d been caught. “Jus’ trying to test it, make sure it’s not gonna collapse on me.”

You have an eyebrow raised, returning from your bedroom with a pajama clad Emmaline, little red onesie dotted with deer, your hand patting her back firmly and bouncing her in your arms at the same time, her little brow furrowed like she’s irritated with you.

“It’s fine. I’m just kidding.” You look down at her and sigh. “Are you going to let me put you down so I can finish dinner?”

“I can take her.” He offers, and you flash him a relieved smile.

“Hear that?” You hum in her ear, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Your favorite person wants to hang out with you.” His stomach clenches.

“Come here baby girl. Let’s let mum have a break, yeah?” He reaches, and you bend down to place her in his arms, the smell of your skin, your hair, the scent of your laundry detergent flooding his senses. Emmaline is so small in his hands, but he’s growing more comfortable holding her, and when she settles against him easily, he can’t help the warmth that flares in his heart, overflowing through his body with pride, and… something else. Something strong. Something he thinks he knows the name of, but is too afraid to voice. Something that has him dreaming about giving you his last name, giving it to Emmaline too, tacking Riley onto the end of both you, as a stamp, a seal, a promise.

“She still needs to burp.” You tell him softly, pulling the cloth from your shoulder and arranging it onto his, fingers lingering when you smooth it out. “Do you know-“

“Yeah.” He assures, swiftly, and you smile again, hand brushing against his when you give her on last little pat on her back.

“Okay. I’ll work on dinner then.”

“You ah- don’t have to keep feeding me.” He tells you, even though the full plate of pot roast with stewed carrots, potatoes, and gravy makes his mouth water, massive portion settled in front of him like you’re trying to make sure he’s never hungry again.

What a good girl, he muses indulgently. Good little mum. Good little wife. Emmaline coos in his arms, still awake, settled on his knee with her back to his stomach, one hand firm around her tummy. He bounces her, one hand with a fork stabbing into a carrot, the other holding her steady. Safely.

“I can take her, if you want to-“

“No. You sit.” He inclines his head, and you blink, before automatically folding into the chair diagonal from him with your own plate. The room is quiet, fork chiming against china, until you speak again.

“I don’t mind it.” You swallow, taking a long sip of water. “Cooking. For you.” You whisper it to your plate, like it’s a secret, like you’re ashamed, and he tamps down the urge to reach for you. “You do so much for us, you’ve- I don’t know how to repay you.” You’re mine now, sweetheart. You don’t have to repay me. It’s my job to take care of you. Take care of you both. It almost all comes out of his mouth, but instead he changes hands on the baby, putting his fork down and extending the one closest to you, palm open on the table, a gentle entreaty.

“I don’t mind, helping. Someone’s gotta take care of you girls.” Your eyes go wide, lips parting, before you’re collecting yourself, looking down into your lap with a stunned little smile. “Sweetheart, I-“

The words are robbed from him, stolen by a screeching, blaring noise in the hallway, a high-pitched alarm that has him out of the chair, shoving the table with one hand and positioning himself between the door and you, curled over Emmaline who’s now crying, startled.

“Fire alarm.” You wince, but when he doesn’t relax, your expression goes waxy, soothing, and your hand finds the inside of his elbow. “It’s just a fire alarm, Simon. People fuck with the pull station now and then. Probably nothing.” It takes a second, a second too long for his brain to catch up, and when it does, he blanches, looking you over for fear, repulsion, of him. Distaste of the secondhand reaction that he just cannot control.

He doesn’t find it. Only blithe acceptance. Understanding. He clears his throat. “Let’s get outside then.”

It’s cold outside. Winter is in full swing, and he’s happy he forced you into your winter jacket when did, amid your distraction, too pre-occupied with wrestling a screaming Emmaline into her coat and hat, swaddling her up in a fluffy blanket before you even stopped to think about yourself.

“It won’t be long.” You tell him, alternating between trying to soothe the baby’s frantic tears, and looking around anxiously. “Station seventy-four is just a few blocks north.” Station seventy-four? “Look, see?” You point, cooing at Emma, red emergency lights flashing down the street. You stray closer to him, pressing into his side, and he puts his arm around you, squeezing your shoulder. You’re… nervous, and he’s not sure why. The fire alarm didn’t seem to rattle you too much but now, you’re chewing on your lip, eyes scanning across the people milling about outside.

“You alright?” He murmurs, and you nod.

“Just cold.” You reply through clenched teeth.

It doesn’t take long for the fire service to get the building sorted, and once they give the all clear, you break from his side, beelining towards the front of the building. He’s about to jog after you, surprised at the pace that you've managed to make, when he hears someone calling your name. Practically yelling it, and he pulls up short.

It's a firefighter. He approaches you with an open palm, like he's trying to corner a wounded animal, and your face pinches at the corners, hand cradling the back of Emmaline's head. Simon inches closer, getting within ear shot, using the dark and the people still scattered about to sink into shadow, becoming Ghost, silent, unnoticed, and lethal. Nearly unseen.

"-are you?" The firefighter asks, staring at the baby in your arms with wide eyes.

"I'm fine. We're fine." You reply stiffly, looking away with a grim, haunted expression.

"You never come down to the station... we'd- we'd love to see you both. Or if you ever needed anything, we're here for you. We-"

"Thanks." you cut him off, trying to turn away, but he steps after you, protesting.

"I know it doesn't-"

"Officer." An older man interrupts, sharply, and the younger firefighter straightens.

"Captain."

"You're needed for system reset." He instructs, and the officer takes one last look at you, something conflicted in his face, before nodding and stepping away. "He's not wrong." The Captain tells you gently, and you shake your head.

"We don't need anything from you."

"You need community. Support. The station is a family, we look after our own."

"I'm not your own." You snap. "He was! He was your own. And how well did you look after him, Captain?" The words are vicious, pointed like arrows, seeking to maim, to hurt, and the look on your face is so anguished, so tormented, that Simon can't stand to see it for one more second.

"Everything alright?" He steps between you and the Captain, positioning his body so that you're half hidden, and your shoulders immediately slump, tension draining from you when you look up into his face.

"Yeah, let's go inside. It's too cold out." You tell him, and he nods, casting a glance over his shoulder at the frowning man, letting his hand slide over your shoulder and down your spine, directing you inside and keeping you close.

"Are you sure you're okay?" He asks again once you're in the hallway outside your door, and you turn into him, close enough that he can lean his nose down to skim through your hair.

"I'm okay." You whisper, fingers finding his at his hip. "We're okay."

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley

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lancermylove · 1 month

Text

I Love You, And I Hate It! (HC)

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Pairing: Leaders x gn!Reader

Warning: None

Prompt: You yell at him that you love him but hate it.

———————————————

Leona

Leona was lounging on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when you flung open the door to this room and stomped closer to him. Locking eyes with him, you spoke seriously, “I love you, and I hate it!”

Then, you spun on your heels and stomped out of the room, your footsteps echoing with a resolute thud against the stone floors.

A smirk tugged on the prince's lips as his gaze followed you storming out of his bedroom.

"They love me, huh?" He whispered to himself. Picking up his phone, he texted you, "You sure you hate me, herbivore? You just bared your heart to me. Meet me at the botanical gardens at sunset. Don’t bother protesting—you won’t want to miss what I have planned."

Even though he was calm on the outside, Leona's heart was racing out of control. He was glad that none of the other beastmen were in the room. If they were, they would have heard how fast his heart was beating.

Malleus

The prince stood in the dead woods near Ramshackle, his eyes locked on the ghastly orb in the night sky. There was an eerie calmness about him, but as soon as he heard your storming toward him, Malleus shifted his gaze to you.

Looking up into his glowing, emerald eyes, you broke the tranquility of the forest with your determined voice, "I love you, and I hate it!"

Before Malleus could respond, you turned around and stomped away into the shadows of the forest.

Though the prince was surprised, there was a warmth in his expression. Without a second thought, Malleus raised his hand and created a magical path to guide you back to him, stopping you from fleeing.

"You endeavor to flee after such a confession? No, not this night." His soft voice echoed through the forest, "Return to me, child of man. We shall speak of these matters that stir such turmoil in your heart."

As you slowly walked closer to him, you saw a light blush on his pale cheeks.

Vil

When you entered his room, Vil was doing his makeup. Though he noticed you in the reflection of his mirror, he didn't say anything and continued to apply lipstick.

Stepping closer to him, you met his gaze in the mirror and borderline yelled at him, "I love you, and I hate it!"

You weren't sure if it was the volume of your voice or your words, but Vil's hand slipped, causing his lipstick to swipe along his cheek. But before he could fully process your words, you turned around and walked out of his room.

With a sigh, he gently removed the lipstick streak on his cheek and quickly texted you. "Why date, my dear potato? Return to my room at once. We need to have a proper discussion regarding this matter, and I also wish to teach you how to use your indoor voice."

After sending the message, Vil looked at his reflection in the mirror and smiled warmly. The unexpected turn of events had added a pink shade to life's palette, and he was eager to see how everything would turn out.

Riddle

Riddle was sipping a piping hot cup of tea in Heartslabyul's garden when he saw you marching toward him. From your expression, he thought something might have happened to you, and you wanted to rant to him.

Just as he was about to invite you to sit down and ask if you wanted some tea, you drew in your breath and loudly proclaimed, "I love you, and I hate it!"

The last thing you saw before you walked away was Riddle nearly dropping his floral ceramic cup on his dorm uniform.

He was too fixated on the word "hate" to fully process what you had told him. For a while, he thought about why you hated him and went through all the interactions between the two of you to figure out if he said or did something to make you hate him.

Then, it suddenly hit him. Did you just say you loved him? His eyes widened, and his face turned the color of his hair. Covering his mouth, he tried his best to keep his emotions together.

Riddle's heart was beating so fast that he felt like he was going to faint at any moment.

Idia

Idia was too engrossed in his game to hear you entering his bedroom. As soon as you stepped closer to his chair, Idia turned around with widened eyes and nearly chucked his game controller at you but stopped mid-air when he saw it was you.

For a moment, the two of you had a stare-off before you decided to clear your throat and blurt out, "I love you, and I hate it!"

Turning on your heels, you walked out of his bedroom just as quickly as you had entered. Idia stared at you in horror, still fazed by you catching him off guard by entering his bedroom.

When his mind registered your words, piece by piece, Idia's jaw dropped, and his hair slowly changed from blue to pink.

"They...l-lo-lo-lo....ve me?" Idia felt his whole world spinning, but then he realized his game was unpaused and had a moment of panic.

Even though he lost that round and all his hard work went to waste, Idia secretly felt happy. For the rest of the day, he had a toothy grin.

Azul

Azul stood in the Monstro lounge with his back to you, and while you couldn't see what he was doing, you could tell he was busy. Despite that, you walked closer to him.

As soon as he greeted you without turning around, you loudly said, "I love you, and I hate it!"

Just as you turned around and walked away, you heard the sound of multiple glasses breaking. Azul had a tray of empty glasses in his hands, and your words caught him off guard.

Though you walked away without stopping, Jade and Floyd rushed out of the office to see what was going on. The twins were amused and surprised by Azul standing frozen in place.

The octopus's mouth was wide open, his eyes were the size of discs, and his hands were still in mid-air, holding the tray lopsided. He looked like he had seen a ghost.

But the most amusing feature of the eels was Azul's bright red cheeks. They exchanged a look, wondering what had transpired.

Kalim

Kalim was walking through the halls of Scarabia, bored out of his mind. When he saw you, he gave you the widest grin possible, but his smile quickly wiped away.

Your expression - was he in trouble? Did he do something he wasn't supposed to? Kalim was nervous.

Taking a deep breath, you met his gaze and somewhat angrily said, "I love you, and I hate it!"

Kalim's mind negated the 'I hate you' part and only focused on the first half of your statement. So, as soon as you turned around to walk away, he ran up to you and wrapped his arms tightly around your waist.

Before you could react, Kalim kissed your cheek and yelled, "I love you too!"

Though the moment was supposed to be a cute, happy one, Kalim's mouth was too close to your ears. So when he yelled, your ears vacuumed and started to ring, causing you to feel dizzy. However, he didn't notice and continued to hold you close to him.

———————————————

➣ Twisted Wonderland [1][2][3] ➣ Main Masterlist

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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 5 months

Text

Kinkmas (10)- Let It Snow

Natasha X Reader 18+

Summary: When a mission on Christmas Eve goes wrong and leaves you and Natasha stranded in a random cabin in the woods, you can’t help but be disappointed at the way you were going to spend your first Christmas together. Natasha, however, shows you that it’s not so bad being stuck together.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of Missions, Brief Angst(?), Fluff, Teasing, Smut, Dom Reader/Sub Natasha, Soft Smut, Fingering, Oral Sex, Begging

Kinkmas Masterlist

Your gaze was firmly locked on the fire that crackled in front of you, eyes taking in every little flame that flickered and wavered, the orange hue illuminating the abandoned cabin the two of you had found, the warmth desperately needed.

Your body was pressed up against the redhead’s, front flush against her back in an attempt to keep her warm, your clothes draped over old furniture near the fireplace in hopes of drying it off, the fabric soaked as you trudged through the blizzard that occurred outside as you seeked refuge in the abandoned cabin. The two of you immediately searched for sheets to wrap up in, needing to take off the wet clothing and make a fire to prevent hypothermia, the two of you luckily trained to adapt in these situations.

So here you were, the two of you locked in an embrace in front of a fire, bodies wrapped up in old cotton sheets as your arms snaked around her middle, head resting atop of hers as you felt her shiver slightly, your eyes still transfixed on the fire in front of you both, lost in thought.

“Detka?” Natasha hummed softly, trying her best to read your body language and lack of communication as you sat silently behind her, your arms a little tense around her waist, legs seemingly unable to remain still as you bounced one of them slightly, nerves and discomfort evident in your features. She tilts her head back slightly, causing yours to move from her silky locks, eyes blinking as you look away from the fire to her mesmerising green, snapping yourself back to reality.

“Are you alright?” you ask as she looks at you curiously, gaze wandering over your features as she takes in your slightly red cheeks, the tip of your nose also red from the cold weather you’d previously endured, gaze lifting to the subtle way you scrunch your eyebrows, worry and confusion creeping onto your face.

“I’m fine,” she whispers back, honesty lacing her tone making your brows furrow a little more, confused as to why she was looking at you in that way, her fingers trailing down your forearms and down to your fingers, interlocking them softly, intimately, as she made sure you were alright, not used to seeing you like this after a mission. “Are you alright?” she asked cautiously, not quite sure as to what had caused this unusual mood from you, your gaze flickering away from hers nervously, the action not being missed by the spy. Something was definitely wrong.

“I’m fine, love,” you murmur back, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, listening to the whistling wind outside and for anything or anyone else, your body still on edge from the mission, adrenaline still flowing throughout your body as you tried to remain calm and collected, pushing your slight paranoia to the side.

“You’re an awful liar, Detka,” she teases softly to lighten the mood, turning around in your arms and prompting you to let her hands go, your eyes naturally drifting down to the exposed skin that you could see before snapping back up to her eyes, the small smirk toying at the corner of her lips indicating she saw your gaze, cheeks tinting a darker shade. “What’s wrong?” she asks, fingers moving to play with the baby strands at the back of your neck as she straddled your lap, your mind trying to remember how to function with her sat on top of you like that, the dark spiral of thoughts about the mission seeming to fade from your mind.

“I…” you start but the raise of her brow and the look in her eyes has you pausing in your lie, a sigh of defeat leaving you as you snake your arms around her once again, wanting to pull her impossibly closer. “I don’t want to be here,” you mutter as your head rests against her shoulder, her fingers sliding up into your hair and scratching at your scalp, lulling you into a more relaxed state, body still a little tense though.

“Surely I’m not that bad as company,” she whispers once again with a slight teasing tone, your lips naturally pulling into a smile at her actions and words, her ability to calm you something you’ve always appreciated. “Why don’t you want to be here?” she asks, her tone soft and curious, waiting for you to answer and help her solve the mystery of your current mood.

“Because it’s Christmas Eve Nat,” you say, a little annoyance in your tone that wasn’t directed at her, more the Hydra agents that ruined your mission and made you miss your ticket out of the snowy terrain. Her green softened at your tone, her mouth parting a little, having thought you didn’t want to do anything special for Christmas. “I just- I just want to be home, with the team, with you,” you explain, feeling rather stupid for ranting, the secret plans you had going to waste, “Instead, I’m here, in this freezing cabin not knowing when we’re going to leave, if we’re safe. What if one of the Hydra agents followed us? What if-”

“Hey,” she says, cold fingertips cupping your cheeks and guiding you to look up into her green, her fingers brushing over your warm skin softly. “Don’t go down the spiral of what ifs,” she murmurs gently, knowing it was the worst thing to do after a mission, your eyes trained on hers, letting the emerald soothe you. “We’re safe and we’re together, just focus on that for the moment Detka,” her voice was wrapped in a comforting tone, your lips forming a small smile at the tender one she offers you, lips titling to briefly meet hers.

“I know but,” you trail off, a hint of doubt still gnawing at the back of your mind, “I think I’m going to check outside once more,” you say, letting out a heavy sigh as you go to move, her body on top of yours preventing you, her hands moving to your shoulders, firmly keeping you still.

“You’re not going outside to check Detka, we’re safe, I promise you,” her words are slow and laced with confidence and care, trying to emphasise to you her point, wanting you to stop worrying. “Plus, the weather outside is frightful, and the fire is so delightful,” she sings softly, a huff of laughter escaping you as you cast your gaze back up into her alluring green, unable to stop the small smile creeping onto your lips as you shake your head at her antics.

“Nat,” you whined a little, her simply chuckling softly, fingers trailing along your bare shoulders, dipping lower behind your back to lift the sheet back over you.

“You’re the one who mentioned Christmas,” she teases, lips pecking yours intimately as you melt against her body, arms wrapping back around her body and caressing her perfectly sculpted curves. “Promise me you’ll stop worrying, Detka,” she whispers as her forehead leans against yours, your eyes fluttering shut as you try your best to forget about the haunting mission, your mind focussing on her and only her.

“Ok,” you murmur back, tilting your head to catch her lips, claiming them briefly and further allowing you to delve into the thoughts about her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted Christmas to be special,” she murmurs after a comfortable silence, your head pulling back from hers to look into her apologetic green, noticing each and every swirl of emerald overflowing with love. The two of you had never mentioned anything about the festive season so Natasha naturally assumed you weren’t a massive fan of it, your immediate response to shut anything down about it her biggest indicator.

“It’s ok,” you mumble but Natasha gathers that you don’t truly mean it, “It just means my surprise plan can’t fail because it can’t happen,” you joke, trying to make yourself feel a little better as the last few weeks of planning a surprise without her, the infamous Black Widow, figuring it out was difficult and involved a lot of effort on your behalf.

“You planned something?” she asks, her head tilting curiously making you smile sheepishly, an excitement and flood of warmth filling her at your thoughtfulness.

“Maybe,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulders innocently to tease her, knowing you were going to spill everything to her as you’d been waiting ages to see her reaction to it, it just sadly wasn’t going to be the way you wanted it to be.

“Tell me all about it, Detka,” she encourages, fingers returning to the back of your neck, her eyes slowly drifting across your features as you both admire one another, your thoughts successfully straying away from the mission entirely.

“The first step was to bring you breakfast in bed,” you explain, watching how her eyes soften as you continue, “I persuaded Wanda into helping me learn how to make syrniki,” the dish a traditional Russian cheese pancake you overheard Nat talking about once, saying how she hadn’t had them for years and craved them. Natasha’s heart was unable to process the overwhelming feeling of love bubbling in her chest, warmth enveloping her entirely as she can’t help but gaze at your wide smile, excitement replacing the worry in your eyes.

“Syrniki,” she corrects softly, your pronunciation a little off making you blush a little, remembering Wanda’s teasing comments on your pronunciation as you somehow kept adding syllables.

“Syrniki,” you try again, her smile growing a little wider as you say it correctly, your fingers trailing higher up on her back and tracing over the various muscles that twitched under your slightly cold fingertips, your mind thinking through rest of the plan, deciding on what to tell her. “I’d bring you those and traditional Russian tea before we go into the living area for a surprise,” your tone growing more excited, her brow raising expectantly at your words.

“Surprise?” She asks amused, a hint of curiosity lacing her tone as your genuine smile makes her ponder what it could be, the spy usually able to figure out what you were hiding. “I assume you’re not going to tell me then,” she whispers, leaning down briefly to let her lips ghost yours as you scrunch your nose cutely at her antics, knowing how she was going to try and trick you into giving her what she wanted.

“Nope,” you say while popping the ‘p’, claiming her lips cheekily as she can’t help but roll her eyes at you playfully, “You can interrogate me all you want, I’m not spoiling this one,” you murmur against her lips as she brushes hers over yours once again, her gentle breath caressing your mouth.

“Even if I use my very specific skill set on you?” she teases, tone dropping an octave as you merely chuckle at her seductive words, not wanting to give in despite the warmth pooling between your thighs.

“Nope,” you repeat, popping the ‘p’ once again to further torment her, her huffing a laugh out against you before melting further against your body, arching her back slightly to press further into your toned and warm body. “And then after the surprise,” you say, exaggerating the word to tease her even more, the surprise being a visit from Yelena as Natasha had struggled to locate her sister after the two of them met to save the Widows from the Red Room, having mentioned it to you multiple times how she wished to see the blonde again. “It’s present time,” you say, grin somehow growing as you think about the domestic scene of the whole team just spending time together, trying to be normal instead of heroes of the world for a moment and relax with one another. After that it was going to be the plan Natasha already knew with Tony and Clint bringing their children around, everyone in charge of helping out with the various bundles of joy and dinner Wanda was in charge of, the redhead excited to spend time with the mini Bartons as always. “Then, later on after dinner and the children have gone to bed, I was hoping to give you another present,” you murmur, a hint of suggestiveness underlying your words as her smile turns into a sultry smirk, her brow raising a little once again as you sit up straighter, letting your lips brush over hers again while your arm wraps around her waist, Natasha welcoming your subtle advances.

“Another present huh?” she sighs out as you lift her off your lap and flip the two of you around, gently laying her down on the old bear rug, the sheet sprawling behind her and accommodating the red locks that cascade down onto the cream material. “What does this present entail?” she softly murmurs as her fingers guide your head down to meet her lips, claiming them softly as her legs wrap around your waist, encouraging you to press your body into hers, one of your hands bracing you above her body and the other cupping her cheek, deepening the soft kiss.

“It involves me showing my girlfriend how much I love her,” you rasp out into a kiss, tongue effortlessly sliding into her mouth, the two of you fighting a little for dominance as the kiss gradually grows more intense and messy, the redhead eventually caving and giving in to your wet and wanting mouth, a small moan leaving her. Your lips tug into a smirk as she lets you take control, your mind fogging with desire as you pull back from the passionate kiss, panting for breath as a string of saliva connects your lips, her tilting her head back up to crash her lips back to yours, a sudden intensity and lust taking over you as your bare bodies press into each other, her nails scratching down your back satisfyingly. “How much I love her beauty,” you husk out, trailing your kisses along her sharp jawline, nipping occasionally to watch the creamy skin tint red momentarily, soft gasps leaving her at every teasing touch, her head lolling back and encouraging you to go lower. “How much I love her moans,” you whisper, mouth at the shell of her ear, a small groan leaving her as your hand drifts lower, nail scratching down her abdomen, feeling her muscles twitch and tense under your sinful touch, the pad of your finger resting at her hip bone, tracing idle patterns to make her head spin with arousal. “The taste of her on my tongue,” your tone sultry as you swipe your finger through her folds teasingly, coating your digit in the arousal that’s pooling between her thighs, Natasha’s heart pounding against her ribcage as arousal has consumed her sane thoughts, her eyes meeting yours and overwhelmed by the sheer amount of love in them, your enamoured gaze going straight to her core.

“Detka,” she sensually sighs out, your lips finding hers once again, pouring all your emotions into it as her back arches off the sheet slightly, giving you the space to slide your hand more comfortably between your bodies, your finger brushing over her clit and earning a soft moan in response, the sound causing a throb between your thighs. You drag your finger through her slick, spreading it around her wet sex as she moans once again, your head spinning with the thought of her as you work her up slowly, your lips a contrast to your steady pace as the two of you refuse to part, a mischievous idea entering your mind, your teeth gently dragging her lower lip down before releasing it, casting your gaze to her eyes, enticing her emerald to stay trained on you.

“It’s just a shame it’s not Christmas yet,” you murmur teasingly against her lips, pulling away from her body as far as you can before her legs instinctively wrap back around your body, her strong thighs effortlessly pulling you back into her.

“It’s Christmas somewhere in the world right now,” she reasons while pulling you by your shoulders back down, a chuckle leaving you as you return your hand to between her thighs, her teeth warningly nipping your lower lip at your playful actions. “Please,” she whispers against your lips and you can’t help but smile smugly at the pleading tone to her voice, her hand wrapping around your wrist and silently requesting you to give her what she desperately wants.

You move your finger back through the abundance of arousal that’s pooled between her thighs, sliding your finger to her clit and slowly circling it to begin with, your mouth claiming her lips once again, addicted to her soft, plump ones while her hands bury themselves into your hair, keeping you as close as possible. As you touch grows more confident and firmer, moans spilling from her lips and her hips rolling against your hand, you sigh into her welcoming mouth, the kiss that was feverish and teasingly full of tongue breaking off as she struggles to reciprocate it, your mouth descending down her jaw and the column of her throat, teeth scraping against the warm skin tauntingly.

You can feel the vibrations of her muffling a moan when you slide your finger down to her entrance, teasingly thrusting it in before sliding it out, coaxing her to chase your finger with her hips as she bucks against you, the redhead able to feel you smirking against her skin.

“I want to hear you,” you mumble against her neck as you continue in your journey down her body, a desperate sigh leaving her as you enjoy watching her give you control, the power going a little to your head. “You’ve got to tell me if you want something,” you tease, lips meeting the burning skin of her shoulder, your touch driving her delirious with desire as you toy with her body in all the right ways, every brief touch sending heat between her thighs, your finger coated in her arousal.

“Detka,” she groans, a little reluctant to beg just yet, your smirk growing wider as her body shows her desperation, your mind savouring this side of her as it was rare she’d let you be so in control of her body. “I…” She trails off as your mouth ghosts over her sensitive chest, tongue flicking over her nipple tauntingly, revelling in how she arches her back into your touch, fingers tightening their grip in your hair.

“You what, love? You need to use your words for me,” your words and dominant tone makes Natasha’s composure crack, an unrestricted moan leaving her lips as she gives in to submission, your lips pressing a gentle kiss to each of her breasts, your finger continuing to tease her entrance, waiting for her to tell you what she wants.

“I need you,” she whimpers out ever so quietly, eyes squeezed shut as she focuses on the way your mouth kisses everywhere but where she wants you at her chest, lips peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along her soft skin. “Fuck me…Please,” she pleads, your head leaving her chest and claiming her lips passionately, your finger finally sliding into her earning a broken moan, pleasure jolting through her body.

“That’s it,” you praise as she moans into your eager mouth before you part from her mouth once again, letting the room fill with the sinful sounds that spill from her lips and the wet sound of your finger sliding into her dripping core at a torturous pace.

“Please Detka, Fuck,” she groans when you kiss lower down her body, teeth nipping at her hip bone as you slide your finger back in slowly, purposely taking your time with her as you intended to drive her mad with your touch, her eyes fluttering open and casting down to where you were, meeting your enamoured gaze as you curl your digit inside her, the redhead’s mouth parting at the feeling. “Shit, just like that, please do that again,” she practically begged as you thrust your finger back in, hitting her sweet spot perfectly while heat floods through you at the sound of her desperate voice.

“Do you need more, love?” You mumble against her skin as your mouth hovers over her intoxicating core, wanting to hear how desperate she is for you, your finger persisting with your deliberately slow pace, gradually building the pleasure within her as her hips gently rock against your hand, pleasure building at the pit of her stomach.

“Please,” is all she moans back in response, your resolve crumbling, unable to resist her anymore as your mouth licks a stripe up her core, moans escaping you both at the feeling.

Your wet and warm mouth sparks pleasure and delirium within her, her hips bucking up against you as you nuzzle your face closer, desperate to get a better taste of her heavenly arousal on your tongue, intending to show her exactly how much you love her.

The sound of her lewd moans and the taste of her on your tongue makes you lightheaded with the thought of her, addicted and constantly craving more of her as your tongue swipes through her folds, pleasure flooding through her body as you thrust your fingers into her faster, forgoing with anymore teasing as you couldn’t handle anymore, never mind her.

Her fingers tighten once again in your hair, nails scratching your scalp to create a dull pain while your hands wrap around her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer as you get lost within her, lips wrapping around her clit and sucking firmly as you focussed on every little reaction she offered you. You longed to forever remember the desperate moan that was ripped from the back of her throat at the way your finger curled and mouth sucked on her at the same time, the hitch of her breath as your tongue swirled around her clit, the way her body twitched as pleasure took over her, swiftly pushing her towards her release. You needed to remember it all.

Her hips soon started to roll against your mouth, coating your chin in her slick as your tongue lapped at her clit, alternating between sucking firmly and swirling your tongue around her, sinful sounds spilling from her lips as her body started to tremble in your grasp, her moans growing louder at you slide in another finger, stretching her out beautifully.

“Detka, I- Please,” are the only words that she can manage as one of her hands shoot down to grip the sheet beneath her, knuckles bleeding white whilst her other one persists in keeping your head between her thighs, needing you to push her over the edge. “Please don’t stop,” she groans as you curl both of your fingers against her sweet spot, her vision almost blurring at the overwhelming feeling of love and pleasure coursing through her body, your body desperate to watch her fall apart at your touch.

“Look at me,” you rasp out against her core, the vibrations from your words causing her hips to buck against you harder, a whimper leaving her at your tone. When her eyes stay squeezed shut due to the euphoria flooding through her, you ask her again, your tone dropping an octave to gain her attention, “Look at me, Love,” you repeat, lust and desire swirling in your eyes at you peer up at her between her legs, her body waiting for you to let it experience the wave of pleasure. When her emerald caught yours, it was like time froze for a moment, the way each swirl of green that were laced with desperation stared at you had you forgetting about everything else in the world but her. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, needed you to make her come, to fall apart in your arms. Fuck you don’t think you’d ever be able to get the sight out of your mind.

“Detka,” she moaned and you were gone at her pleading tone, a moan spilling from your lips as you curled your fingers perfectly inside her, tongue still lapping at her clit.

“Come for me,” you murmur against her, keeping your eyes on hers as you watch them roll to the back of her head momentarily, her head lolling back and showing off her defined jawline as her hips stutter against your face, body tensing. A broken moan escapes her at the amount of pleasure that floods through her, her fingers almost tearing through the sheet as she lifts it to her mouth, trying to muffle the small scream of your name as her release crashes through her.

Your lips pepper soft kisses against her inner thighs as she attempts to recover, your fingers tracing random patterns against her skin as you wait for her to look back down at you, your eyes admiring her, in awe of her beauty as she lays beneath you, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

Soft pants spill from her lips as she moves her fingers in your hair, pulling you back up so you were hovering over her body, hand quickly wiping the remnants of her arousal off your lower face before kissing her softly, her arms wrapping around your body, wanting to keep you as close as possible, her red locks tickling your cheek as you press another kiss to her forehead, a soft chuckle leaving her.

“God you’re incredible,” she mutters, speaking her thoughts involuntary making you laugh as you roll onto your side, pulling her naked body into yours, wrapping the sheet back around the two of you as the fire crackles in the background, the warmth a gentle reminder of your situation, not that you minded anymore. You were with her, that’s all that mattered.

Upon feeling you smile smugly against the top of her head she moves so she’s hiding her face at the crook of your neck, rolling her eyes at your antics as she can picture the look on your face right now.

“Don’t even,” she mumbles, your body shaking a little as you try to stifle your laugh, unable to express the amount of joy that you were feeling.

“I won’t,” you whisper back, giving in this once as you didn’t want to ruin the tranquil atmosphere, her fingers travelling up and down your back soothingly, her gentle breath tickling your skin. “Thank you for distracting me earlier,” you murmur, truly grateful for her always being able to care for you, the simple act of asking you about your Christmas plans easing the worry that built inside you. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you say whilst pressing a kiss to her silky locks, her smile growing at your soft words, a hint of mischief appearing on her face.

“You'd probably still be staring at that fire,” she mutters playfully, another laugh escaping you as your heart melts in your chest, your nose pressing against her hair further and relishing in the smell of her shampoo, losing yourself in the domestic moment with her.

“Shush,” you mutter out in faux annoyance, the redhead smiling against your skin and nuzzling closer to your warmth, a relaxed sigh escaping her. “Merry Christmas Nat,” you murmur after a while, the comfortable silence lulling the both of you to sleep, your arms securely wrapped around her middle, the two of you locked in a tender embrace.

“Merry Christmas Detka,” she murmurs back, kissing your skin softly, unable to comprehend the love she has for you as the snow outside continues to fall gracefully from the sky, showing no signs of stopping.

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