#the plot armor is thick with this one

[nixthelapin]

You know, I liked Lila as a character much better when she was just a lonely girl who lied to get attention and clout rather than some evil mastermind who somehow has three (3) different identities and has a secret lair in the catacombs under Paris.

But the writing team doesn’t want to hear that.

[wambsgansshoelaces]

roman fic about to drop hype me up 🥸

you’re both about to be like this

[barnesonly]

Round Two

possessive!bucky barnes x reader

summary: Tension explodes in the training room when Bucky walks in on you sparring a little too close with Walker. He doesn’t say much but when he takes over the session… well. Jealous!Bucky Barnes it is.

word count: 3397

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, degrading kink, dry humping, fingering, oral (f receiving), PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, breeding, overstimulation, possessive behavior, jealous af, fully consensual by both parties although not explicitly stated.

A/N: Sigh. I had this in my head ever since watching Thunderbolts* and recent work of @iamthatonefangirl pushed me into finally writing it down. Do not expect much plot from it… or any plot at all. Writer has no regrets.

The training room was filled with the rhythmic thud of your boots against the mat and the sharp, quick breaths you shared with Walker. His presence was overwhelming — tall, broad-shouldered, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, mixing with your own rising warmth.

You circled each other warily, muscles taut, eyes locked like predators. Walker’s grin was cocky, but there was an edge of respect in it. “You’re stubborn,” he said, voice low and teasing.

“Yeah, well,” you shot back, dropping into a defensive stance, “you’re slow.”

His laughter was rough as he lunged forward, grabbing your wrist and twisting, forcing you down toward the mat.

You fought against him, every inch a battle — but he was strong, and before you knew it, your back hit the padded floor.

Walker was on top, chest pressing against yours. You could feel the solid heat of him, the strength beneath his armor. Your arms were pinned, but your eyes stayed locked with his, breaths mingling in the tight space between you.

“You holding back?” he whispered, his breath warm on your face.

You smirked, muscles flexing as you pushed against him, trying to twist free. “Not a chance.”

His hands slid down your arms, skin to skin, the contact electric, and for a moment, the fight faded into something else — a tension thick enough to choke on.

Walker shifted, lowering his mouth to your ear. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding loud in your chest, and the taste of his breath — spicy and close — sent a thrill racing through you.

With a quick movement, you twisted, trying to flip him off you, but Walker caught your wrist and held you fast.

His face hovered inches from yours, the faint scrape of stubble against your cheek making you shiver.

“Almost had me,” he murmured, voice rough.

Your fingers brushed his jaw, accidental but electric, and his eyes darkened, holding you captive in that intense gaze.

Neither of you moved. The room was silent except for your ragged breathing and the thudding of your heartbeats, syncing in the small space where your bodies met.

You felt the heat pooling low in your belly, the line between fighting and wanting blurring with every second.

Walker’s hand slid up your arm, fingertips trailing lightly, sending sparks where they touched.

Your lips parted, breath hitching.

The door slid open, and Bucky Barnes stepped inside. He paused, taking in the scene: you pinned beneath Walker, bodies close, breaths heavy and mingling.

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

You pushed Walker off with a quick grunt, breathing hard but flashing a grin. “Round two?”

Walker gave a lazy shrug, stretching one arm. “Wish I could, but I gotta run.”

You frowned in disappointment. “Already?”

“Yeah,” he said, smirking. “But maybe Bucky here can take over.”

Walker clapped Bucky on the shoulder before heading out, leaving the two of you alone.

Bucky’s eyes locked onto you, sharp and cold like ice cutting through steel. His jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear the grind.

“I guess I’m stuck with you now,” he growled, voice low and rough - no hint of warmth.

You blinked, caught off guard by how harsh he sounded. “Stuck? It’s just training, Bucky.”

He took a step closer, his gaze burning holes through you. “Yeah, well, sparring with him? That looked less like training and more like… whatever that was.”

You frowned, heat creeping to your cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky’s lips curled into a bitter smirk, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, come on. You don’t get that close with Walker — arms locked, skin on skin and expect me to not notice?”

Your heart thudded loud and fast. “We were sparring, Barnes. You’re reading way too much into it.”

Bucky scoffed. “Whatever.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky lunged forward, his movements sharp and aggressive — like a storm about to break loose.

His fist came at you harder than necessary, forcing you to scramble back and dodge. This wasn’t training. This was punishment.

“You getting cozy with Walker?” His voice was low, clipped, cutting like a knife. “Don’t think I’m just gonna stand here and watch.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a grip that was rough and unyielding. You winced but didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“Not on my watch.”

Bucky closed the space between you, chest pressing against yours, fingers digging into your arm like a silent command. No words explaining it. No apologies.

Just the cold, hard truth of his possessiveness, raw and undeniable.

He dropped back into stance, voice sharp. “You want to spar? Fine. But don’t expect me to be gentle.”

Every strike was laced with frustration and something harsher — a need to remind you who was in control, without ever saying it.

And the tension between you? Thick enough to choke on.

The second Bucky’s hands locked around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your breath hitched, heart pounding. His metal hand closed over your wrists behind your back, holding you captive with a grip that was equal parts demanding and possessive.

You could feel the hard, unmistakable press of him — his arousal, firm and urgent against your lower back, the weight of it making your breath falter.

“Thought you could get close to Walker and not have to deal with me?” His voice was a low growl, rough with something dark and dangerous.

His breath ghosted over your ear, warm and intoxicating, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. Your body burned where his pressed against you, every nerve screaming with need.

Without warning, Bucky’s metal fingers tightened on your wrists, tilting your hands upward so he could lean in, lips brushing over your neck, trailing a rough kiss down to your shoulder.

You gasped as his body pressed harder, hips grinding just enough to make it impossible to ignore what was between you — the undeniable proof of how much he wanted you.

“Not so fast,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “You don’t get to tease me like that.”

His touch was rough, needy, his control slipping as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, fingers digging in possessively. You could feel his arousal straining against the fabric of his pants, pressing into you with a hunger that matched your own.

Your skin tingled where his metal hand traced slow, demanding lines along your ribs, igniting a fire that burned hotter by the second.

You let out a soft gasp as his hips pressed into you again, the hard length of him undeniable. Heat flooded your core, your thighs pressing together instinctively. His breath was right against your neck, lips just barely grazing your skin.

You could’ve leaned into it, let him take what he clearly wanted — but instead, you smirked.

Then you twisted.

With a sharp pivot of your hips, you slipped out of his grip, ducking beneath his arm and spinning away. Bucky stumbled half a step, blinking like he hadn’t expected you to escape.

“Thought you were gonna teach me a lesson,” you said, breathless but smug as hell.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing, jaw flexing hard. “You think this is a joke?”

You shrugged, backing into a loose stance. “I think you’re wound a little tight. What’s the matter, Barnes?” You tilted your head, letting your eyes flick deliberately down his body — right to the straining bulge in his pants. “Need a break?”

The fire in his eyes ignited.

He was on you in a flash.

This time when he moved, it wasn’t just precise — it was brutal, desperate, controlled only by the thinnest thread of restraint. His fists came hard and fast, forcing you to block, deflect, move. He wasn’t holding back anymore.

You ducked, landed a light kick to his thigh, then laughed when he caught your ankle mid-move and yanked, dragging you closer.

“Still think this is a game?” he hissed.

You were breathless, heart pounding, adrenaline and arousal tangling into one intoxicating buzz.

“Depends,” you teased, lips curling. “What do I win if I pin you?”

He growled and shoved you back, body surging forward to slam you to the mat. This time, it was no accident when his hips landed flush against yours.

No pretense. No holding back.

Just his hard cock pressing into your core, and his hand pinning both your wrists above your head.

His breath hit your cheek, ragged and heavy.

“You want to play?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “Then fucking play.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Bucky hovered above you, pinning your wrists down hard against the mat. His chest heaved, muscles tense and trembling with restraint, but it was the weight of him between your legs that really made your head spin.

You shifted — just barely and that was all it took. Bucky’s hips snapped forward, grinding his cock against your clothed core with a force that stole your breath.

“You like teasing?” he growled, the sound rough, ragged. “Keep fucking squirming. See what happens.”

You did. Of course you did.

You tilted your hips up with slow defiance, grinding back against the thick heat of him beneath his tactical pants. The friction was maddening, perfectly filthy — your underwear soaked instantly as you dragged yourself along the length of him.

A dark, broken sound ripped from Bucky’s throat, and then he was moving — grinding into you with a rhythm that had your head rolling back and your thighs trembling.

His metal hand kept your wrists pinned above your head while his flesh hand gripped your hip, hard enough to bruise, dragging you into each thrust like he needed you to feel every inch of him through the layers.

“You don’t get to look at him like that,” Bucky hissed, rutting harder. “Don’t get to give that to anyone else.”

You gasped, back arching as his cock rubbed right where you needed it, again and again, pressure building fast and tight in your gut.

“Bucky—” you started, but he cut you off with another deep, grinding thrust.

“No.” His voice cracked, low and dangerous. “You wanna act like a brat, I’ll fuck it out of you right here.”

Your moan was shameless, head spinning as his cock rubbed against your clit just right, over and over, your core clenching around nothing, desperate and soaked and grinding back without shame.

His lips were at your jaw now, rough stubble scraping, breath hot as he fucked into you with relentless rhythm.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me.”

And god — you could. Every thick, heavy inch of him dragging over your leggings and your throbbing clit, every possessive grind claiming you without a single word of affection.

Your back arched beneath him, body on fire, every nerve burning where his cock ground against your soaked leggins. The sounds you made — ragged, breathless, needy — only pushed him further.

“Fuck,” he growled, his lips grazing your neck. “You’re dripping. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

You nodded and before you could answer vocally, his grip shifted — your wrists still trapped in his metal hand as his other slid down, slow and rough, until his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your leggings.

And then — rip.

You gasped as the fabric tore in his fist, panties along with it, shredded like paper. Cool air rushed over your soaked pussy, your thighs twitching at the sudden exposure.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but the way he was looking at you — eyes dark, jaw clenched, starving— shut you right up.

“Look at you,” he muttered, fingers gliding through your wet folds, spreading the slick mess you’d made. “Grinding all over me like a desperate little thing.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Two thick fingers slid inside you — deep. The stretch sudden and perfect, dragging a cry from your throat as your walls clamped down.

“Fuck, that’s tight,” he hissed, burying them knuckle-deep, his thumb brushing against your clit with brutal precision.

Your body jolted, legs shaking, and he just smirked.

“This what Walker gets?” he growled, curling his fingers just right. “Or is this all mine?”

You couldn’t answer — you couldn’t think. Every pump of his fingers sent sparks through your spine, your hips lifting, chasing more, chasing everything.

“Say it,” Bucky demanded, voice low and threatening. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

He pushed in harder, rougher, hitting that spot that made your thighs quake.

Your moan broke into a whimper.

“It’s—” you choked. “Fuck—yours, Bucky—it’s yours—”

His thumb circled your clit, slow and punishing. “Damn right it is.”

His lips found your neck again, biting down just hard enough to mark you, all while his fingers fucked you open—relentless, possessive, and dripping with control he was seconds away from losing.

Bucky’s fingers pumped into you hard and deep, curling just right as your hips rolled helplessly beneath him. Your body was slick, trembling, pleasure coiling fast and tight in your belly. You were so close it hurt.

And just when you were about to fall apart—he pulled away.

“No—fuck, Bucky—” you gasped, reaching for him, hips twitching.

He didn’t say a word—just grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, dragging you down the mat until your soaked pussy was right in front of him. You barely had time to breathe before—

His mouth was on you.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your slit, collecting every drop of wetness before diving in, deep and hungry, like a man starved.

Your back arched, a cry breaking from your throat as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue circling with maddening pressure.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

He groaned against you, the vibration sending a shock through your spine.

Then he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice low, dark, mean.

“Tell me,” he said, breath hot against your dripping pussy. “Could Walker ever make you feel like this?”

Your thighs trembled around his head, body burning with shame and arousal all at once.

“I—no—fuck, Bucky, no—”

He smirked, just barely, before burying his mouth between your legs again, licking and sucking like a man obsessed, like he was trying to drink every sound you made.

His hands held your thighs open, thumbs pressing bruises into your skin as his tongue fucked into you, slow at first, then faster, messier.

You were soaking his face, writhing under him, hips lifting off the mat in desperation.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled, voice rough against your soaked heat. “No one else gets this.”

Then he sucked your clit hard and you shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you, a scream tearing from your throat as you came on his tongue, thighs clamping around his head, whole body twitching uncontrollably.

But Bucky didn’t stop.

He kept licking, kept sucking, dragging every last wave from you until you were shaking, a broken mess beneath him.

Finally, he lifted his head — his mouth wet with your slick, eyes dark and burning.

“Next time you think about sparring with Walker,” he said, voice wrecked, “remember what I do to you.”

You were still shaking from the orgasm he pulled out of you with his mouth — slick, breathless, your body twitching as he rose up over you, his face glistening with you.

Bucky’s hands slid under your thighs, lifting them roughly as he shoved his tactical pants down just enough to free his cock—and fuck, he was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip, already hard and twitching.

He didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He dragged the head of his cock through your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick before lining up at your entrance.

“Walker wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he growled, dark eyes fixed on your ruined body beneath him. “He couldn’t handle this.”

And then he slammed into you — deep.

You choked on your breath, nails digging into the mat as his cock split you open, stretching you so full you thought you’d lose your mind.

“Bucky—” you gasped, but he just grabbed your waist, pulling you into another brutal thrust.

“Say my name again,” he growled, snapping his hips forward. “Let the whole fucking tower hear who’s making you feel like this.”

“Bucky—oh my god—”

He fucked you like he meant it. Like every thrust was a punishment and a reward all at once. Deep, fast, grinding into you so hard your whole body shifted up the mat.

One hand pinned your hip while the other—the metal one—gripped your throat, not tight enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

“Mine,” he hissed, thrusting deep and slow now, cock dragging over your g-spot. “You understand me?”

You were crying out with every stroke, legs wrapped around him, back arching as the head of his cock hit you just right again and again.

“I said—do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes—yes, Bucky, yours—”

“That’s right,” he grunted, voice wrecked. “This pussy, this body — all fucking mine.”

He pulled out almost completely — just the tip barely inside — then slammed back in with a growl that sounded like it came from deep in his chest.

You shattered again, coming hard around him, clenching so tight he cursed loud, barely holding on.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, fucking you through it, grinding his cock into your spasming walls like he needed to burn your name into his skin.

And then he snapped — hips stuttering, breath ragged, and with a broken, desperate grunt.

He came inside you. Deep and hot. Filling you up.

He didn’t pull out. He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, cock still twitching as he spilled every last drop into you.

The mat beneath you was soaked. Your legs were trembling. And Bucky?

Still didn’t move.

Still inside you.

Still possessive as hell.

Your body was limp, fucked-out and buzzing, still quivering around the load Bucky had just spilled deep inside you. You were warm, stretched full, his cock still hard as he stayed buried in you for a few long, heady moments.

Then, finally, he pulled out with a thick, wet sound — your walls clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you gasp.

You felt it almost immediately. The slow, sticky drip of his cum sliding out of you.

But Bucky didn’t move away.

His gaze dropped between your legs, jaw clenched, and you could feel the way he was watching it—the way he watched himself leak out of you.

And then he looked up at you. Eyes darker than sin.

“Not done,” he muttered.

You opened your mouth to ask what he meant — but then his metal hand slid down your stomach and between your legs.

Two fingers — cold, slick, thick — pushed into your still-sensitive cunt.

You cried out, hips jerking, but Bucky held you down, his flesh hand gripping your thigh as he pumped those fingers deep inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Keep it in,” he growled, curling his fingers. “You think I’m gonna let it go to waste?”

Your head dropped back against the mat, spine arching as he fucked you with his fingers, thrusting everything he’d spilled back into you.

“Made you take every drop,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “And now you’re gonna hold it. You hear me?”

Your cunt fluttered around his fingers, overstimulated and soaked again already.

He pushed deeper, scissoring you open, fucking his cum back inside like it belonged there.

“You were made for this,” he murmured, tongue dragging slow and hot against your neck. “To take me. To be filled by me.”

You whimpered, trembling as his thumb found your clit and circled it — lazy, almost cruel.

“God, look at you,” he rasped. “Still so fucking tight. You think Walker could do this to you? Make you this full? This messy?”

You moaned his name, your legs shaking, your body giving in all over again.

“Say it,” he said, voice sharp against your throat. “Say who this pussy belongs to.”

“You, Bucky—fuck—yours—”

“That’s right,” he growled, fingers curling just right.

You came again — a raw, desperate sound tearing from your throat as you clenched around his fingers, body rocking helplessly as he fucked you through it, never letting a single drop escape.

He didn’t stop until you were crying — sobbing his name, broken and full and so far gone you didn’t even know where you ended and he began.

And even then, his fingers stayed buried in you, possessive and proud.

“Next time you even think about sparring with Walker, remember how I filled you first.”

[asapeveryday]

: ̗̀➛ No Light, No Armor

knight!paige.bueckers x princess!reader fantasy au

warnings: use of pet names, power imbalance(?) kinda goes both ways tbh, oral sex (r.receiving),reader is inexperienced , semi-risky sex, more plot than porn lol sorry

synopsis: you’re sheltered royalty, hidden behind vine-veiled cobblestone and powder pink gossip. being treated like a child has only made your less-than-innocent cravings more intense. it doesn't help that your new personal knight gives you more attention than you're used to. in fact, it only infatuates you more. (aka, we're kinda deprived and paige is...there.)

sierra says: i had so much fun writing this! kinda struggled w dialogue bc i wanted to go slighhhtly formal but also paige speaks pretty informally irl so i had no idea how to write her lines while making it sound like her. but its an au so its okayyyyy its not that srs.

THE CLICK OF your embroidered flats against the cool, polished castle floor are only hidden by faint giggles and the swish of fabric against bare ankles.

The two of you must be more careful. You bite your tongues and cover your upturned lips with beautiful hands to muffle the noise. A woman’s chortle holds power your father would rather die than allow you to take advantage of. No, you’re barely even allowed to grace a male with your presence, let alone slip any noises within proximity.

Still, you and your friend can’t help but squeal as you duck and scurry through the castle halls, hiding behind crevices and thick pillars to avoid being caught.

Your friend, daughter of your fathers advisor, had overheard her father and yours talking in hushed tones. Something about recruiting fresh blood, young and eager soldiers who ache to serve under the king. The best of the lot, a grand total of five extraordinary knights, were to be assessed today in the hall just north-west of your living quarters.

Naturally, both you and her decided it was only right to asses these knights yourselves. From afar. Quietly.

It’s exciting, the notion of the word fresh, meaning new. Young. Emphasis on young, most knights were—they had to be in peak condition of course—but your fathers preferred personal knights had grown older. He began to worry their temptations may precede them, that your youth may stray them from their duty.

You were wholly uninterested in the knights. They were silent creatures, just empty eyes behind sheets of armour, only opening their mouths to forbade you from freedom under daddy’s orders. If they had lingering stares that followed a gown hemmed too short, or a neckline too low, you hadn’t noticed. You tried not to notice them at all.

But still the rush of sneaking away to gawk at these new, alien beings is adrenaline racing on its own. If your father knew of your intentions, you’d be locked away till your wedding day.

“They’re tall.” Nika, your friend, smirks, head poking out from behind the wide pillar you’re both hiding behind. “Come look.”

Carefully, you shuffle over and peep your eyes just over the old marble slab that shields you. You can seem them a little ways down the curved palace hall, the five of them adorned in their shiny silver walls and guarded helmets, swords in their hilts, eyes hidden beneath metal. Alien, inhuman, a separate type of being from yours.

“How old do you think these ones are?” You whisper, and she shrugs,

“Papa said one of them was yours, so that one must be the youngest.” She mutters back, and you nod. Your father was far too paranoid to have a seasoned, older man stand guard by your room at night.

“The others may be slightly older.” Nika adds. “They’re all within marrying age, that’s for sure.”

“You want one?” You smirk, glancing at her. Her face grows pink but she shakes her head. “My wedding’s arranged already. No point in ruining it with an affair.”

“You’re not wed.” You scoff. “No such thing as an affair without a husband.”

“Not everyone can be so adventurous, princess.” Nika nudges you. “Trust me, I’d like to. But Papa would have my head on a platter served for luncheon before allowing even a rumour to float past him of my…activities.”

“Too bad.” You sigh, staring further at the knights, their perfect posture, their ridged obedience. “I believe every girl deserves to have a moment for loose behaviour.”

“Will that be your first rule as Queen?” Nika grins.

You shrug. “Pray that I find someone with enough heart to allow it.”

“A man of royalty would have you hung.” Nika snorts. “But a knight…perhaps.”

You almost gasp at the comment, eyes widening in her direction. “A knight?” You huff trying to stay quiet. “For me?”

“Why not?” She hums. “They have more heart than any royal man. One tough as nails, I’m sure. It’ll take more than…what’d you say? Loose behaviour? It’ll take more than that to shake them.”

“They’re poor.” You frown. “It’d be impossible.”

“Well I’m not saying you have to wed one.” Nika’s brows furrow. “But you could certainly bed one. And I doubt it’d be as much of a problem as any other man.”

“I guess so.” You hum, considering the sentiment. “But they’re so…distant. They never speak out of fear of my father. They rarely lift their helmets for the same reason. And when they do I’m often dissatisfied.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.” You frown. “Too rugged, most of them. Stubbly, the kind that hurts when it grazes your cheek.”

“Princess.” Nika raises a brow. “If you want a man then the stubble is your sign of one. No man with a face bare as a baby is old enough to defend you at night, let alone take care of you.”

“Is that so?”

“Definitely.”

“Shame.” You sigh, gazing back at the knights as Nika’s dad drawls on about some Palace rules. “I figured I’d enjoy the smooth kind more.”

“No skin is smoother than a woman’s.” Nika nods solemnly. “Real men are rough as rock. Especially knights.”

The two of you watch in silence as the knights heed every word lectured to them, stances unchanging, still as statues. You wonder how a knight could possibly be your key to sin, when they’re so obedient, so loyal to the institution that imprisons you.

It’s only when your father’s advisor leaves that they become humans in the slightest, posture still straight but less stiff, heads tilting towards each other for quiet conversation.

“What do knights talk about, Nika?”

“The ones who fight in the wars are like barbarians.” She says. “All talk of their battles, their wins, their injuries. And food. And beer.”

“And those in the palace?”

“I haven’t heard them talk.” She shrugs. “Well, I have. But not enough to know of what.”

“Would you spy for me?”

“I’m not the one who has a knight posted outside their quarters from dusk to dawn.” She scoffs.

“I’ve tried.” You huff. “The last one didn’t utter one word in the years I knew him. Sometimes I wonder if father sews their mouths shut.”

“If they’re like the ones who brave the battlefield, it may be for the better.” Nika grins wickedly, and you just click your tongue.

“See those ones? They speak so softly. Look at how they cock their heads to exchange their thoughts.” You continue, eyes still on the five silver giants.

One of them turns their back to you, and you notice something slight. It shines in the sun, differently from the metal that they wear. Golden against silver, like silk. The slightest strand of blonde hair, peeking between the slices of armour left for mobility, the parting between the helmet and the backplate.

It’s not too unusual for them to have longer hair. Many men do, perhaps not that long, but long nonetheless. Even so, the pin-straight strand of hair throws you off, brings a femininity to figures you’ve only ever associated with rough edges.

You don’t mention it to Nika. You just watch the blonde knight whisper to another.

“Perhaps we have some chatterboxes in the palace for once.” Nika muses as she watches them. “Young blood breeds new tradition. Mouths can’t be sewn shut forever.”

“Indeed.” You mumble, eyes still latched onto the knight with golden hair. “They can’t.”

YOU’RE INTRODUCED TO your new guard that evening, summoned out of your quarters by a soft knock at the door. Outside waits your father and the silver-showered knight.

He’s taller up close, significantly more lanky than your last few knights. His posture is straight, confidently so. You can’t tell if he’s staring at you, or if his head is simply in your direction. His eyes are obscured by the metal grates on his helmet.

“This one is the best yet.” Your father assures you, nodding in the knights’ direction. “I know we’ve had too many changes darling, but I believe it’s best to have a consistent guard, rather than swapping them out.”

You cross your arms, uncaring of the company in front of you. “That’s only what I’ve been telling you for the past ten years. How am I supposed to form a relationship with the one who’s meant to keep me safe, when that person is constantly changing?”

“Ah, see that’s where you’re misled.” Your dad tuts. “You must trust your guard, not have a relationship with them.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.” You frown.

“Nevertheless,” He smiles, bulldozing through any opportunity for argument, “this knight is here to stay. Age will not be a problem. If all is well, you’ll be protected by this one till the end of their days.”

You glance at the knight, who doesn’t even stir.

“You may attempt to have a relationship.” Your father chuckles. “But it will be futile. I’ve given a full rundown of my instructions already. You understood well, did you not?”

Your father half-glances at the knight, who you notice is even taller than him. The knight finally shifts, nodding surely. “To the bone, your highness.” The knight says.

Your eyes narrow.

The voice. Muffled beneath the metal, it’s hard to make out. But it’s higher than you’d thought it’d be.

“Just how young is this one?” You ask.

“None of your concern.” Your father grins. “You may go back inside now. Goodnight.”

Without any room for question, the order is given. The knight turns back to the walls that surround the outside of your quarters and stands ready with one hand on the hilt of his sword. Your father gleams happily, nodding at you to go back to your room.

With a huff, you do, stepping back into your prison. You stand against the door in wait, listening for the sound of your father’s footsteps until they can’t be heard.

And then you open the door again, just slightly. The knight’s armour creaks as his head turns to glance at you from beside the door.

“You’ll be protecting me till you’re too old to move in that suit.” You smile, trying hard to spy a pair of eyes between the metal grates of the helmet with no luck. “I see no harm in knowing your name.”

The knight turns his head away, staring back ahead at the empty hall.

“Typical.” you scoff, burnt by the rejection but not surprised. “Can’t even give me something as simple as a name. What am I meant to call out when some bandit attacks me?”

There’s a little noise inside the suit of armour. An exhale, maybe even a huff.

“You thought that was funny.” You grin, and the knight goes rigid. “You’re a fool to follow every rule my father gives you. He thinks I’m meant to trust you without knowing you at all. I’m never going to call out for you if that’s the case.”

The knight says nothing. You stare at him a little longer, aching for a response of any kind like the chuckle from before. He doesn’t give you that satisfaction.

You’re about to close your bedroom door when he shuffles.

“It’s not as simple as you think it is, princess.” He says, the last word sending a shiver down your spine.

That voice again, not high like the women you know, but certainly not a man’s. It drips with confidence and oozes amusement yet also something raw beneath. Nothing like something you can place.

You look him over again, once, twice. Something glints in your vision.

A dark gold, straight as embroidery thread. It shimmers just slightly under the armour against the light of the lantern mounted on the wall. Long, blonde hair.

An idea runs through your head, a stupid, impossible reason for that shocking voice and promise of lifelong service.

You wait. The knight says nothing more. You ponder, deciding whether or not to voice your question. Then you decide against it.

You close the door.

The knight is good.

Good at being present, at standing guard and staying awake, unlike the last one who grew too old to stay up till dawn, allowing you to slip out at night. Good at hovering a safe distance behind of you, far enough to give you privacy, some semblance of freedom, while close enough to be able to intervene should context permit it.

Good at being silent. At listening, not through walls like the one you had at sixteen, but rather at the comments you drop under curtesy’s and diplomatic quips.

When a joke falls flat, or a rude comment goes unnoticed, you never fail to hear a noise from behind you. An exhale, a scoff. If you’re lucky, that low yet girlish voice will let a chuckle slip.

But the knight is also an anomaly. Sometimes the chuckles are ones that catch you off guard, that make your breath hitch at their tone.

The flecks of blonde you see between cracks of armour make your brain buzz. The way he moves is nothing like the brash, abrasive men of steel you recognize.

You try every day, to see through those metal bars in his helmet. To catch a glimpse of eyes, lips, nose, anything.

You have no luck with that matter, but you do manage to crack a code to hear that entrancing voice more often.

Though, the first time isn't an accident.

It was a dark day, the kind that often made you feel isolated and alone. The type of night that either brought insomnia or nightmares.

That night brought haunted dreams that woke you up shivering, dreams of falling forever, of being locked away till your curls grow white and wirey.

The knight is in your room before you realize you're shrieking, metal lit by the lantern he holds, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Princess." He says softly, voice muffled beneath his helmet. In an instant he's analyzed your state, pulling the hand from his weapon to the side of your bed. Distant, but ready to offer up his services.

"I don't wanna stay here." You breathe, chest heaving. Your face is wet with tears, chest glittering with the sheen of sweat. It doesn't even occur to you to feel exposed in your night gown, the frilly white one that sits too low past your collarbone. "I can't—I can't be here till I wither away."

"You're young." The knight reassures you, setting the lantern down and kneeling by your bedside, iron clanking. "You're still young. Your life is just beginning, and it won't be wasted away here."

You scoff breathlessly, shooting the tin-warrior a nasty look. "Don't be a fool." You bite. "Look at me, look at everything you watch me do. Every single day I live like a child, I'm treated like a child, I'm followed like a child." Your eyes flare. Despite the fury, you still feel your bottom lip tremble, visions of your old, withered body never making it past the palace still fresh.

The knight just shifts, and you can't help but wonder if it's a shift of guilt.

"I mean honestly," you sniffle, "I'd thought when I had my first bleed I'd be womanly enough to have some freedom, but it only got worse." You chuckle sadly. "Turns out the prospect of marriage is only more reason to keep me hidden away."

"...yes." The knight mumbles carefully. "You really shouldn't discuss those matters with me."

"You're not disgusted." You say. "Are you?"

"More terrified of what the court may do to me if someone hears you." The knight says, and you can hear a slight smile.

"Why aren't you?" You ask suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Why aren't you disgusted?"

The knight shifts again, and you see another fleck of gold hair under his chest plate. "I'm more familiar with those matters than most."

That statement alone is enough to confirm any suspicions you may have had before.

Before you can poke around much further, he rises from the side of your bed, takes the lantern and nods to you stiffly. A farewell.

"Wait!" You sit up. "I'm not finished with you!"

"You're too smart for your own good, princess." The knight says. His broad back turns away, and your room grows dark as he walks out, door clicking behind him.

Something burns in your stomach at that retort. You even dream again that night, but it's not nightmarish at all.

And so, you take advantage of the next terror. A few nights later. One where you step foot off of a palace balcony and never hit the ground, cursed to eternal falling.

It's not enough to wake you in cries for help, but you do come to consciousness damply, nightgown sticking to your legs from sheer cold sweat.

You wonder if he would come if you called. Though you didn't have a name to taste for him. Perhaps that would be your goal for the night.

Instead, you opt for a few whimpers, eyes screwed shut, body scrunched tight against your pillow. It's awkward, but it works. You feel the light of the lantern against your closed lids, and you hear the clank of metal as he enters.

"Princess."

There it is again. The voice. The tightness it causes inside of you.

Slowly, you allow your eyes to open.

"Another nightmare?" The knight asks kindly.

"You'll discover I have many of those." You sigh, making your voice small, pathetic. "I'm imprisoned, even in my sleep."

"A dramatic prisoner." The knight chuckles, kneeling once again by your bed. "In another life you're a playwright."

"Don't make me mourn the idea." You scoff.

"So tonight, what is it that scares you?" The knight asks,

"A common one." You hum. "Out of questionable circumstances, I lose my footing on the balcony and fall."

"Gruesome, princess."

"Not quite." You sigh. "I never hit the ground. I just tumble down through the air. It's sickening, really. Endless torture."

"I can imagine." The knight hums. "Should we make that a new punishment for those who commit treason?"

"Perhaps." You say, smiling just a tad. Slowly, you peel your covers off of you and trail your hand gingerly from your chest to your stomach. "I wish there was something to cure this. It was only a dream, but I really am sick to my stomach."

"Careful." The knight mutters, shifting to pull the covers back up. The feeling of cold chainlink metal grazing your arm makes you shiver with delight you've never experienced before.

"I can't stay long." The knight says. "But I really am sorry that you can't get a good night's rest."

"It's not so bad anymore." You shrug. "At least I can rely on you to be there. It's nice to hear a voice other than the few I know by heart now."

"I'm going to get in trouble for talking to you so much, princess."

"I know." You frown, pouting slightly, hoping that somewhere behind that metal helmet lay eyes that catch on the plumpness of your lips. "But it's more help than anyone's ever offered. I--I don't dream so harshly after we've spoken."

The knight pauses.

"I'm glad." He settles.

"One day I'll want to call out to you." You add, trying your best to look sweet and persuasive. "I'll need a name to do that."

The knight gets up slowly. "If I could give you that, I would." He says. "But trust me when I say I'll be there before calling out even becomes an option."

You scoff, shooing the knight away playfully. Though you think about those words until sleep claims you again.

"I dreamt of you." You sigh a few weeks later. The knight is perched by your bedside again, you're turned on your side, hoping the way your breasts cling to the fabric of your nightgown catches the right eyes. The lantern light is routine now, but intimately so.

"Oh really?"

"Indeed." You sigh, breathless. "I dreamt that I had a nightmare, and a knight came running in."

The knight cocks his head.

Days with the knight were different now. You had your suspicions about the sex of whoever may lay beneath the helmet, but it didn't deter you in the slightest.

If anything, it made a sense of passion burn inside of you. You can just feel it, those possibly-feline eyes glazing over your every move. It doesn't seem as imprisoning, but rather empowering.

It certainly helps when the knight drops little comments between the hours.

"Careful, princess."

"I'll always be there."

"That look just might find you a suitor."

"If I could have my post be inside of your bedroom, without a doubt I would."

Every word set you ablaze. More than you think that metal-tease could be aware of.

"So," the voice drawls, smooth against the night. "I came to your rescue?"

"It wasn't you. I could tell, even with the armour." You continue. "Well, I thought I could. That was the problem. I had this feeling that it was someone else, but there was no concrete proof."

"No?"

"No." You frown. "You all look the same, after all. Even voices blend together after a while."

"So this scared you?"

"Of course." You say. "I trust you to comfort me, nobody else has had that pleasure."

"Aren't I lucky." The knight scoffs.

"Don't tease." You huff. "It's true. Your presence is magic. And that knight made me fear the magic was gone."

"What if it was me?"

"Well, how would I know?" You shoot back. "With no name to call for and no face to recognize, you could be a bandit in armour for all I know."

"I'm sorry for that." The knight says genuinely.

"If you are then fix it." You smile. "Give me something to recognize you by, even in my dreams.

"Not much I can give, princess." The knight says, and you can feel the smile in every word.

"I can think of plenty." You sigh, holding out a hand to touch the cool metal helmet in front of you. "But I don't want to get you into trouble."

Slowly, you run your fingers over every ridge and bump, trailing through the metal that casts shadows over the eyes. "But these could do with some uncovering." You hum. "Eyes are the window to the soul."

"You care for a mere knight's soul?"

"More than you may know." You smile.

The knight stiffens ever so slightly.

"Go ahead, then." The voice says, dangerously quiet.

You lift the hinged iron, resting it higher on the helmet, and a rectangle of skin is bared to you. Eyes, round and inquisitive, stare back at you.

Bright. And blue, like royalty from far away.

You swallow. "Beautiful."

The eyes blink. You wonder what features may lie below them. Just from seeing these eyes, you have an idea of the nature of those features. Full, soft and feminine.

"You're a woman." You breathe, finally saying it out loud.

The knight flinches, pulls back from your hand, and hastily shifts the metal slate over her eyes again. Your heart sinks as she gets up and begins to retreat from your room.

"Goodnight, princess." She says. Her voice is almost too low to hear, before you're engulfed in silence.

The knight does not speak more than a word to you from that point onward.

Days pass slowly. Routine becomes bland and boring again, there's no rush in your heart or tightness in your core at the sound of her voice anymore. Just stiff nods in your direction. Blank metal that holds no warmth, no ounce of frosted colour like it did that night.

What's worse is that your nightmares have halted, instead being replaced by a much more sinful species of dream that leaves you waking up exhilarated. Dreams that feature cold iron on your skin, blonde hair tickling your abdomen, blue eyes that stare up at you, preening, begging, giving.

Nika doesn't help.

"I can't even fathom it!" She squeals, half whispering, half yelling. You turn around to see if the knight is watching. If she is, you can't really tell. But she lingers far enough for conversation to be safe.

"No?" You respond mindlessly.

"No!" Nika huffs. "I mean, the boy has to be lying, he's only a valet after all, but servants know all kinds of things so then again—"

"Nika, calm yourself." You shush.

"I can't!" She groans. "A female knight? In what world? How is this possible? Why wasn't this made aware to me?"

"Why would it be?"

"If i'd known that was an option, I'd be on a battle field slaying enemies right now."

"You're joking."

"Dead serious." She frowns. "I'm more jealous than anything. Who is this girl and what does one have to do to trade places with her."

"You never know." You shrug. "It might not be as fun as it seems. Who says she's fighting?"

"Well, she's here, so obviously she's not." Nika rolls her eyes. "But she's got the title nonetheless, lucky bastard."

"What else did this valet say?" You whisper.

"Oh, just some foolish boy-things." Nika waves. "He claims she's gorgeous, but I don't think that's possible for a knight. All of the men are rough and rugged. I doubt a woman would be different. I can see it now, a handsome woman. Though gorgeous fits his description more."

"Gorgeous?" You quip, interested. "How so?"

"Oh, he's an idiot." Nika laughs. "Described her like she was an angel. Long blonde hair, full lips, pale skin." She hums. "Big, blue eyes."

You try not to grin to yourself at the details. "And she really is pretty?"

"Yes, princess." Nika smirks. "You gonna ask daddy what he can do to send her over? For your sake and mine?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." You shrug, straight-faced. Nika just snorts, and the rest of the stroll is silence.

Nightfall bleeds through the windows of your room as you stare at yourself in the mirror. It's well after midnight, but you feel as awake as ever.

Your heart is beating fast beneath your beautifully embroidered dress. It's one you'd had made for when the time came to start accepting suitors, in your favourite colour. Form-fitting around the bosom, enough to make your breasts pop, but flowy just below that. It glitters in the night. You've done your hair up too, not extravagantly, but just enough to look effortlessly good.

This is all moving too slow for you. You want to see how much it'll take before your knight breaks.

Slowly, you approach the door to your room and open it. Just a tad.

You see her, leaning against a pillar just in front of your room. You can't tell if she's stark and awake, or nodding off. All the better.

Careful and practiced, you slip out without a sound.

She doesn't turn.

You can't help but internally celebrate at that. All you have to do is walk behind your pillar, and hope she doesn't turn your way. If she hasn't recognized you yet, perhaps she wasn't very good after all.

You manage past the pillar with much difficulty, finally succeeding in making it to an empty corridor. Finally, you can let a breath escape your lips at the relief. She'll be in a shock if she checks on you throughout the night.

You're too busy internally celebrating in the empty hall before a firm hand wraps around your wrist, and pulls you back.

"Oomph!" You squeak, almost bumping into a full wall of metal. Looking from the hand on your wrist to the face towering above you, your heart sinks to see a knights helmet staring back.

"Going somewhere?" She says, that stupidly amused voice sending shivers down your spine.

She still holds your wrist.

"Let go of me." You grind your teeth.

She does. You wish nothing more to see what expression that angelic face holds right now, at the sight of you all prettied up and caught red handed.

"Back to your room, princess." She snorts.

You stand brave.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The knight steps forward. "Clearly you were planning on it."

"Says who?" You shuffle back.

"Nobody wears a dress like that for nothing." The knight says, sauntering forward. "How is it that you have a secret beau that I haven't known about in the months I've been your knight?"

You can hear the stint of jealousy in her voice. You hope her eyes are burning with it, the thought makes your thighs clench as you step back again.

Of course, she steps forward.

"Are you cold, princess?" She bites. "Your arms have turned into gooseflesh."

"Quite a chatterbox now." You scoff. "Did you grow tired of pretending you have no voice?"

You back up, slightly jumping when your bare back hits the cold, marble walls of the palace. The knight has you herded like prey, the height of her truly evident now.

"Does he know how often his dear princess has her knight in her quarters?" She asks innocently. "Does he know how late the hours turn?"

"Why should he be concerned?" You shoot back. "This knight has no name and no face I'm familiar with. What is there to worry about?"

"Funny, since you lack that information yet still beg for my comfort each night without fail."

Your face burns. It's worse that you can't even see hers.

"Who's the boy?" She bites.

"You won't ever know." You pout.

A gloved hand comes to tilt your chin up. Her fingers are gentle, but cold.

"Tell me." She whispers, and you almost melt. "Unless there isn't a boy after all."

Your lip trembles, and your legs even shake under your weight. You've never felt like this, only dreamt of it, fantasized about it it's a page out of your sinful, awful, dishonourable story book. So beautiful you could almost smile.

"Take the helmet off." You whisper. "And I'll tell you."

Her hand leaves your chin like a ghost, and her arms raise to meet the hard material of her helmet. In a swift motion, she pulls the helmet off.

Long, hay-coloured hair spills out from the helmet like a cascading waterfall, settling around the silver of her shoulders.

Angel is an understatement.

Her eyes, the one part of her that's stayed consistent in your dreams, they bore holes into your soul unlike anything you've encountered. Iced blue irises stare at you so knowingly, like they've perceived all that there is to notice.

Lips—pink, plush and full. Slightly parted, an exhale leaving through them. High cheekbones, long lashes. Mousey brown brows. Pale skin, a decent contrast to yours.

"So?" She mumbles, blinking slow. "Talk."

"Not much to say now." You mutter, genuinely awestruck. "I've gotten what I wanted."

Her expression furrows. You almost fold over.

"That's too bad princess, because I'm not satisfied." She cocks her head. "What a desperate plea for attention."

"You don't mind." You hum, glancing at the tinge of pink in her cheeks, the rush of blood to her ears. "You like this just as much as I do."

"Shouldn't royalty be more chaste than this?" She mumbles, eyes still unbreaking from yours. She begins to pull away.

"Wait!" You squeak, your hands flying out to grip her forearms, pulling her forward. She's left pinning you between each hand against the wall, your grip steady on her wrists.

Her eyes widen in suprise, the tiniest noise escaping her mouth. It's like music to your ears.

"Princess," She mutters, "what is it, exactly, that you want?"

You chew your lip, nervous in thought. Though, it does feel good to finally see her eyes follow your expressions, to catch her looking at your mouth.

"I'm naive." You whisper. "And sheltered, and unknowing of the world."

Her brows scrunch, but she listens.

"And you're a woman. And a knight." You continue. "You've probably experienced more now than I will in a lifetime."

"You're so wrapped up in your isolation." She huffs, shaking her head. "If you're so desperate to be free, make an effort to be."

"Listen." You pout, and without hesitation, she does.

"One day, my father will realize I can't be here forever." You mutter. "And then I'll be wed, and led into isolation once more. And then I'll be left confused, and unknowling, floundering around and relying on another man to teach me what there is to know."

She raises a brow.

"I know of sex." You finally say, and you swear her heartbeat quickens.

"I refuse to give my maidenhood unwillingly, to an imbecile I wouldn't have chosen, nonetheless."

Her fingers flex beside your head. "And how can I help with that?" She frowns.

"Knights are experienced." You mumble. "I want you to show me what there is to know."

She just stares at you, face unchanging, eyes piercing holes through you, undressing you between every blink.

"You want me to fuck you." She states quietly.

With batting eyelashes, you nod.

"It won't be what you think." She mumbles. You don't miss the glances at your lips, the way one hand leaves the wall to cup your face. The cool tingle of metal against your skin makes you shiver. "I don't know what fantasies you dream up in your head, but you have no idea what you want."

"It doesn't matter." You hush, almost shaking with excitement. "You're already alone with me, cornering me in the corridor this late at night. If someone were to hear of this..." You trail off, eyes glinting with the slightest bit of malice, "it'd be quite bad for you."

"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" She grunts.

"No." You hum. "But if it gets to that, you might as well make this time with me worth it. Take advantage of the situation."

"And if I don't?" She cocks a brow.

"I don't do well with rejection." You say, gazing up at her innocently.

She understands the implication. The stakes. She knows this is a huge risk, taking the princess she’d sworn to protect like an animal in heat, right here in the empty corridor. With that invigorating, false-innocent look you’re giving her, she knows there’s no winning.

Her lashes flutter, and she leans into you slowly. You feel as if you might just float on air, with the way her thumb grazes back and forth on your cheek so softly, the way her lips just barely ghost yours. You can’t help but stare at her as her nose tickles yours, as your faces slot against each other like the stones that line the wall as of the palace.

Her lashes graze your cheek, her lips part ever so slightly, and finally plant themselves on yours. Gently, with utmost care. She kisses you like a butterfly drinks nectar from a flower, fleeting and instinctual, light as a feather.

You can’t help but stand up on your tip-toes and chase after her every time she pulls away. Your first kisses with her are dreamlike, they’re a fantasy against the dim light of the hallway.

“You’re the most evil princess i’ve ever met.” She whispers against your cheek, pressing her lips against your powdered skin between each word. As she trails towards your jaw, she says, “Dressing like this in hopes of seducing me, calling me into your room each night with your nightgown too loose and your sheets thrown off.”

You shiver as she nips at your delicate skin, exhaling as her mouth trails down to your neck. “You noticed?”

She scoffs, breath warming your neck. “Of course I did. I was lucky I had that helmet, or else you would’ve had me hung for being a pervert the first day we met.”

You begin to chuckle softly, but your laughter is cut off by a soft whimper you didn’t know you were capable of. It’s not surprising, not as she presses open mouthed kisses to your collarbone and your breasts as they press against your low-cut dress. Her knee slips between yours, adding a friction you haven’t felt before in your life.

You’re ablaze, skin tight and mind buzzed as she smothers you with kisses, as her knee rocks against your groin. You can’t help but rut against her too, chasing a high you’re not even aware of.

Your hands grip her shoulders, hips jutting against her leg, before she grabs your wrists and pulls them towards the wall again.

“Stop.” She huffs.

“Wh—” you huff, the tension in your stomach drying out. “Why?”

“You’re going to finish before I’ve even done anything.” She says, smirking like she’s won a war.

You pout, face burning. “No I’m not.”

“Oh, princess.” She drawls. “You have no idea.” She says, and this time when she presses a kiss to your lips, it’s open mouthed. Her tongue ventures into your mouth before you can even register, and when she pulls away a string of saliva connecting her to you follows.

And then she pushes you flush against the wall, hands grabbing your hips, and kneels down to the ground.

The sight of her staring up at you, blue eyes wide, is a dream come true.

“You’ve been asking for a name to call out.” She licks her lips, finding the bottom of your dress and toying with the edges. “It’s Paige.” She says, and then she lifts up your dress, and ducks under.

The best you can do is slap a hand over your lips to muffle your noises as you feel her fingers graze the bare skin of your thighs, as the cold chain link metal on her arms raises every hair on your body. As her fingertips reach the hem of your undergarments and pull down.

And then you feel it, warm against your naked skin, sopping wet and needy.

“Paige.” You whine, muffled behind your palms. Her hands grip your legs, spreading them apart wider as her tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending jolts of feeling throughout your body.

You peel one hand from your face to hike up your dress, finally catching sight of her as her mouth attaches to you. You watch, intent and exhilarated, as she sucks on your clit, swirling her tongue around it circularly, dipping into your hole with every shudder of your body.

Her eyes are closed as she does it, like she’s completely devoted to your cause. You shouldn’t be surprised, she is your knight after all. How good would she be if she wasn’t devoted in all areas of her work?

And god, is she good.

She shakes her tongue back in forth, she nuzzles in closer to you like you’re seeping nectar instead of arousal. Her voice, Paige’s voice, escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and shake above her, as your thighs try to close before she forces them open again. She splits you open, body and soul, with her mouth alone in that empty corridor.

“Paige,” you whine, head thrown back agains the cold wall. “Fuck, I feel—I think I’m..” you trail off, swallowing another moan before someone comes to investigate the noise.

The noise is another thing, besides your voice and hers, you’ve never heard a noise so crude as the result of her fucking you with her mouth. It’s embarrassing but powerful, that in itself is enough to build you up.

Something deep in your gut is tightening like a sailors knot. She seems to notice, maintaining the perfect pace and pressure until you’re bucking and jolting against her. Her hands, her large, rugged hands, handle you like you’re just another piece of weaponry to her.

Even that thought isn’t enough to dull your high. You come hard, bursting against that wall and biting back a whine as she licks your thighs clean of anything that escapes you.

You’re left panting and fuzzy as she rises from her kneel on the ground, metal clanking, lips glistening from saliva and sweet arousal. Her eyes are open again, blue bullets that shoot with full precision. Gently, she wipes a stray tear from your cheek.

“Alright, princess?” She asks voice raspy.

You nod, eyes fluttering shut when she leans in again for a shorter, more chaste kiss that still somehow sends you reeling.

“Take me to my room, Paige.” You sigh with satisfaction.

She smiles like she’s got something up her sleeve, but you’re still surprised when she swoops you off of your feet, and carries you bridal style back to your room.

You’r even more surprised when she places you on your bed, and closes the door behind her, still inside with you.

No nightmares taunt you for the rest of the night. In fact, you barely sleep at all.

tagsˏˋ°•*⁀➷

@booposaurusrex @jujueilish @juumecca @iknowwhatyoutellyourfriends @cowboybueckers @azzisworld @tengens5thwife @ellehoops @jadasogay @idkkk343 @elleaitch22 @ilovepaige3 @gabriella-dawn @onlyhereforpazzi @stargirlbils @classicvines03 @saverdelrey @bamblebini-blog @evanpeterstoe @yailtsv @matildas123

[its3nvy]

"Wear the hat, ride the cowboy" Billy the Kid

Summary: After drawing the wrong kind of attention at the saloon, Billy comes to your rescue. Having to pretend to be his for the night, which leads to a ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy’ situation ;) 

Tags/warnings: mdni (18+), porn with no plot, angst, size kink, riding cock, overstimulation, fingering, breeding kink, creampie, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, slight knife kink

Note : This is my first time ever writing smut and I haven't edited it a lot so this should be fun. (Tell me if it's good or not pls)

tags: f!reader, smut

word count: 3.7k

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Curiosity led you to the local saloon one evening, where Billy often engaged in poker games. The air inside was thick with the smoky residue of cigars, and the occasional clinking of glasses underscored the distant melody of a forlorn piano. As you pushed through the creaking doors, your presence hung in the air, drawing the gaze of rough patrons whose eyes bore into you with a kind of familiarity you had never known. Unaccustomed to the bold gazes and suggestive comments that swirled around you like a threatening storm, you sought refuge at the bar. A man behind it was taking someone’s order.

You looked around, your eyes finally found Billy's familiar frame, surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke, engaged in a high-stakes poker game.

“Hello, darlin’,” a drunken man stumbled toward you.

“Hello, sir,” you gave him a small smile, trying to avoid his intense stare.

He leaned against the bar to keep his balance. “Come on, darling, don’t be such a prude. Talk to me.” His hand reached up, attempting to caress your face.

From afar, you saw Billy, his eyes—usually mischievous and full of life—met yours with a fleeting recognition. Without uttering a word, he rose from his chair, his cowboy boots echoing a heavy cadence on the worn wooden floor.

The drunken man's intrusive advances persisted, his slurred words creating an uncomfortable tension. "Don’t play hard to get, honey. I can show you a good time," he insisted, his hand becoming more insistent. Ignoring the drunkard, you turned back to the bar, hoping for intervention. The man persisted, his persistence turning aggressive. As his hand encroached upon your personal space, a shadow fell over you. 

Billy's presence loomed, his gaze colder than the steel of his revolver. Without a word, he grabbed the man's hand, his grip firm and unyielding. “Leave her alone," Billy's voice cut through the clamor of the saloon, his words echoing with a subtle menace.

The tension escalated, a palpable undercurrent surging through the room. The patrons, sensing the imminent storm, shifted uneasily. Billy's eyes held yours, a silent reassurance amid the brewing chaos. The drunk man, now confronted by the notorious gunslinger, stumbled backward, a mixture of recognition and fear contorting his expression. With a final warning glare from Billy, he slinked away into the crowd.

Billy turned towards you, his eyes softening as if to assure you that the storm had passed. 

"What in the hell are ya doin’ here?", he murmured, his tone both gruff and concerned as he reached you, seizing your hand and guiding you to the quiet side of the room. "I needed to go out, Billy," you replied, your voice carrying a note of defiance and desperation.

He hissed, a trace of irritation etching lines across his rugged features. "You can’t. You gotta go home. These people here are dangerous," he warned.

"And you don’t think me leaving alone would be dangerous?" you shot back, your gaze a defiant challenge to the protective facade he wore like impenetrable armor.

"Shit," he conceded, his irritation mingling with a begrudging acceptance of your undeniable truth. "Alright, I’m finishing up my round, and then we can go," Billy relented, his tone an admission of defeat. "But you play along with me, ok? If they don’t think you're claimed, they'll see you as fair game," he said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that cut through the smoky haze, demanding an unspoken oath.

“Ok,” you huffed out.

He pulled you towards his table with a rough yet oddly comforting grip, a silent acknowledgment that, for a fleeting moment, you were to be sheltered from the men surrounding you as long as you stayed with him. "Wait," he murmured, his hand lingering on yours. With a swift motion, he removed his hat, worn and weathered from a life on the precipice.

You extended your hand to stop him. "Billy, you can’t," you insisted, your voice barely more than a whisper, laden with the implications of his gesture. “You know what this means.”

"That’s the point," he declared, his crooked grin returning like a bittersweet promise of protection. As he placed his hat on your head, it became a proclamation, an unspoken claim made before the watchful eyes of everyone present, and a promise of a heated night that lingered in the air like an unspoken secret.

"Now, c’mere," he commanded, pulling you towards him as he settled into his chair, drawing you onto his lap. You bit on your lips, a mixture of anticipation and fear, the heat rising to your cheeks as the proximity between you tightened like a coiled spring. This was the first time Billy had been so close, and the magnetic pull of his presence ignited an unfamiliar fire within you.

He looked up at you as you bit your lips, his gaze a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken tension that hung thick in the air.

As he resumed his poker game, you felt his breath against your neck. "Pass me the whiskey, doll," he asked.

You leaned against the table, inadvertently pulling your hips tighter into his pelvis, sensing his hardness between you. His hands reached out against your hips, gripping you and keeping you still. "Careful," he warned against the shell of your ear, his breath raising goosebumps along your neck, a sensation that heightened the electrifying energy between you.

As you handed him the glass, he took a swig, and then, with a deliberate slowness, leaned down against the side of your neck, planting a lingering kiss. "Thank you, doll," his gravelly voice murmured, the aroma of whiskey lingering in the air.

Billy's fingers grazed lightly along your waist, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. His gaze met yours once more, a silent invitation lingering in his eyes. It was then that you became acutely aware of the speculative glances from the patrons, their curiosity fueled by the undeniable connection unfolding before them.

The weight of Billy's hat on your head felt like both a shield and a beacon, marking you as his amidst the prying eyes of the saloon.

The night passed on and as the final hand of poker concluded, Billy rose from his seat, still holding you close. "Wrapping it up for the night, boys. See ya tomorrow," he declared, his voice a mix of weariness and determination.

He grabbed your hand, guiding you out with a certain urgency. The saloon doors swung open, thrusting you back into the harsh glow of moonlight. As you stopped in front of his horse, he turned around and said, "What the hell were you thinking, coming here alone? You know how they treat women here."

His words cut through the night air, a mixture of concern and frustration etched on his rugged features. The distant sounds of revelry from the saloon formed a dissonant backdrop to the charged atmosphere between you.

You met his gaze, a swirl of emotions reflecting in his eyes. "I just wanted to have one free night, Billy. Just one," you replied, your voice carrying a note of desperation. Billy's jaw clenched, a silent acknowledgment of the dangers lurking in the shadows. "This ain't the place for that, especially not for someone like you," he muttered, his grip on your hand tightening as if to emphasize the point.

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The moonlight cast shadows across his face, revealing the hardened resolve etched into his expression. "I can't have you wandering into places like this, doll," he continued, a trace of vulnerability underlying his gruff tone. "It's too damn dangerous."

Billy sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to release the tension in the air. "Let's get you home," he said, his voice softened. With a final glance back at the saloon, you moved towards his horse. As you approached, he placed his hands on your hips, lifting you onto the horse with a gentle yet firm touch. You instinctively grabbed his forearm for support, your eyes locking in a shared moment of intimacy. 

The ride home was a silent journey through the cool night air, the rhythmic hooves of the horse creating a steady cadence. You sat in front of Billy, the warmth of his body enveloping you, his strong arms encircling your waist as you traversed the dimly lit trails. 

As the horse navigated the uneven terrain, Billy's embrace tightened slightly, offering both stability and reassurance. His chin rested on your shoulder, his warm breath tickling your neck, and in that intimate proximity, the weight of your unspoken desires lingered like an invisible thread weaving through the darkness.

Arriving at your doorstep, Billy helped you dismount, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. Your eyes met, a complex tapestry of emotions woven between you. He spoke, his words a whisper carried away by the night breeze, "Be more careful, doll. This world ain't kind, especially to those with a heart as tender as yours." He placed his hand against your cheek, caressing it lovingly.

"Billy," you responded, the ache in your voice carrying a mixture of gratitude and longing. He placed a loving kiss on your forehead, his touch a hushed plea for silence. "Go to sleep, doll. I'll come by tomorrow morning," he whispered, giving you a kiss on the forehead, turning away.

"Billy, wait," an urgency surged within you, desperate to find a reason for him to stay. You took off your hat, intending to return it to him, a feeble attempt to anchor him in the moment. “Keep it. I prefer it on you,” he remarked, a bittersweet acknowledgment that stirred emotions too complex to unravel.

Locked in a gaze that spoke volumes, you inched toward him, a silent plea lingering in the air. As your fingers tightened around the hat, a palpable tension filled the space between you. His intense blue eyes held yours, revealing a tumult of unspoken struggles and desires. Your gaze shifted to his lips—slightly chapped yet irresistibly inviting. 

Closing the distance, you reached him, and, without hesitation, pressed your lips against his. The kiss was a desperate plea, an attempt to convey the emotions that words couldn't capture.

Billy's initial surprise melted into a shared passion, and for a moment, the world around you faded. His arms encircled you, pulling you close as if trying to etch the moment into his memory. As the intensity deepened, you let go of the hat, your hands finding their way to his jaw, pulling him even closer. He tasted your soft lips and felt your warm skin. He pulled away slightly, breath mingling with yours, lips lingering, an anguished pause in the silent night.

"Fuck, doll," he groaned, your foreheads leaning against one another, his hands gripping the fabric on your waist. You looked up into his eyes, witnessing the inner battle reflected in his gaze as he grappled with the decision to restrain himself or not.

You approached your lips to his cheek, giving him a slight peck, when you heard him whisper, "Fuck it." His lips crashed to yours, hungry, hot, and demanding, stealing your breath in a heated rush. His hand came up, cupping your jaw, angling your head to deepen the kiss as he slicked his tongue inside your mouth.

“Come, let’s go inside, yeah?” He asked. You nodded at him, as he gave you a quick kiss, ushering you inside, “good girl.” And in an instant, he’s moving toward you, wrapping his arms around your body and pressing you to his chest. You press your lips to his and moan at the taste of Whiskey. His tongue slides over yours in slow strokes that make your cheeks warm, but it’s when his teeth nip at your bottom lip that a whine escapes. 

His rough, calloused hands drop to the cusp of your neck, gripping your hair just tight enough to make you hiss. You arch into his touch as he starts to explore your body, mapping out every dip and curve. 

“Billy- Please… do something.” He moans a response into your neck as his lips slip down to leave love bites along the column of your throat. 

Eager to feel you, Billy tried to pull at the strings of your corset, but to no avail. It was too complicated to remove in the dark, and with the emotions aptly blinding him, Billy had no patience to try.

In the dark, you heard a flick of a knife, and you felt a cold tip of the blade against your skin before Billy’s voice comforted you, “Be a good girl and don’t move, ok?”

A rip ran through the air as Billy sliced your corset in half from the back. You stayed perfectly still, trusting him completely to cut the clothing off of you without harming you at all. The moment Billy had cut your corset, he dropped it to the floor and pulled your top off with it.

He immediately lets his hands drop to your breasts, nipples already pebbling from the cool air. He pinches and pulls at them for only a moment before he’s trailing kisses down your stomach.

Bilily stops just above your hip bones, “May I?” he asks, blue eyes peering up at you. “Yes. Billy, please.” You beg him, voice thick with desperation. He chuckles and then rubs his hand over your throbbing clit. He slides one, then two thick fingers into your dripping pussy. A whimper bubbles from your swollen lips as he pulls back to spit on your heat. His fingers curl, digits stretching and scissoring inside you. Your head feels like it’s spinning, arousal leaking from your cunt and down Billy’s fingers. 

Your hips are unable to escape his assault on your g-spot when he pins you down, and you let out a moan you hardly recognize as your own. “Shit, you’re so wet.” His teeth catch his bottom lip as he smiles down at your fucked-out form. 

Billy’s hand never slows, even as he grinds his palm into your poor clit. You cum not long after, waves of pleasure crashing over and drowning you in euphoria. Your body is trembling as you come back to Earth and Billy is there, watching you from between your thighs. He places a kiss on your sensitive clit before he stands back up, towering over you. 

“Please. Fuck me, Billy.” You say through heavy breaths. He feels his head spin at the sound of your voice. 

“Whatever you want, doll.” 

Billy lays you across the couch and crawls over you, leaning back to release his aching cock from the confines of his pants. Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of him, pre-cum drips from his flushed, red tip.

He fists his cock at the sight of you below him, lips parted and breasts heaving. Billy leans his body over yours, trapping you between him and the cushions below you. You can feel the muscle covering his torso press against your tummy. He ruts his cock through your pussy, the head catching on your clit deliciously. You both moan at the feeling and link your fingers together. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. I’m gonna make you all mine”, Billy coos down at you, searching your face for any hesitance. You nod at him, earning you a keen smile and a quick kiss. “It’s gonna hurt, doll, I’m sorry.” Squeezing his hand, you hold your breath when he lines himself up with your entrance.

You gasp when his tip slips into you, already feeling like he’s split you in two. Salty tears start to well in your lash line at the burn of Billy’s cock stretching you out for the first time. He’s much bigger than you anticipated and you dig your nails into his skin. 

“I know, I know. Just breathe.” He tries his best to comfort you, gritting his teeth at the feeling of your cunt around him. His heart stings at the sight of you crying for reasons other than pleasure, but he can’t help it when his hips buck, pushing himself another inch deeper.

Billy knows he should feel guilty for liking the way you screw your eyes shut, the way your cunt flutters around him even though he’d worked you open already. He’s not even halfway inside you and your legs are trembling around his waist while he holds himself back from pushing in balls-deep. He can’t help but feel a sense of pride swell in his chest at the effect he has on your body. 

Billy’s hand leaves yours and drops to your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb. Your mouth opens into an “O” shape and your sloppy cunt grants him another inch.  He can feel the velvet of your walls drawing him deeper, euphoria building in your veins. With every circle drawn, Billy pushes in further and further until he’s finally buried to the hilt. He stills for a moment, letting your cock-drunk mind play catchup with your body. “I’m gonna move, is that ok, doll?”

He pulls out, making you whine at the empty sensation, then, he’s driving his hips forward again. You loop your arms around his neck as he attacks your insides. Any words you have die on your tongue as Billy sets a rough, passionate pace. His tan skin, covered in old and new scars, feels slick against yours as his cock splits your mind in half. You can feel Billy everywhere, you can taste him, touch him, smell him, see him. He’s completely overwhelmed your senses and given you nothing to think about other than him.

The air around you is humid and thick, the scent of sex swimming through it. Billy slips in and out of you with ease, the clear strings of your slick and his pre-cum coat your pussy lips like a gloss. You let your gaze fall on him, watching how his brows furrow with concentration while he molds your insides into the shape of him.

Billy lifts your hips in the air to get an angle that allows him to hit even deeper, pumping his cock into you so hard that the air is forced from your lungs. There’s no one else you could want, no one else who could ever make you feel like this. 

“Shit Billy. I’m so close.” You moan, a familiar warmth starting to coil in your tummy. He nods and slots his lips against yours for one final kiss. His tongue explores your mouth as his dick strikes your g-spot, sending you headfirst into bliss. You cum hard as every nerve in your body is set aflame. His hot, sticky cum floods your walls and leaks from around his cock. 

Silence lies thick in the air aside from your heavy breathing and the soft kisses you share. Billy leans back to peer down at where you’re connected and shakes his head at you. 

He picks you up and places you over his hips, leaning you back. “Can’t waste this, doll.” He tuts at you, gathering the cum leaking from your abused pussy on his tip and pushing it back in. Throwing an arm behind his head, a fucked-out grin crosses his features as you sink down on his cock, letting him rub against your most sensitive spots. A strangled moan sounds in the back of your throat as he slowly pushes back into the deepest parts of your cunt.

His tongue darts out to lick the sweat off of his cupid’s bow, large hands moving to slide down your hips to grab at the fat of your ass. He guides you up and down on him as you babble and cry.

“I’ve got you, doll.” His words send a shiver down your spine and you brace yourself on his broad shoulders. Your cunt flutters around him, “Fuck Billy’-” you cry out.

Billy groans at the sight of a white ring around his shaft, made from a mixture of his and your cum. “So tight… taking me so fuckin’ well.” He bucks his hips, tip grazing your g-spot just right, just enough to make your eyes roll up into your head. “C’mon, doll.”

He leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, then captures your lips with his. He swallows every moan and hiccup as he pounds into you, only slowing when you clench impossibly tighter around him. Stars are dancing in your vision and pleasure is burning in your veins. You hear him swear again, he lets his head fall back onto the cushions and plants his boots flat on the floor. You nearly scream as he fucks back up into you. He’s growling something in your ear, but his words sound so far away. 

“Cum on my cock, doll. C’mon, do it. Do it for me.” Billy babbles in your ear as he loses his rhythm, now just slamming his hips into yours with all the force he could muster. Your arms are clinging to his neck and he has you trapped against him. White, hot pleasure hits you like a ton of bricks as you squirm on Billy’s lap. His teeth sink into your shoulder as he pumps his hot, sticky cum into your womb. 

He lays back on the couch, letting you rest against his chest.  With a tender touch, he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your hair. His lips lingered for a moment. As he pulled back, his fingers began to stroke your hair slowly, each caress a testament to the unspoken passion that simmered between you.

“From now on, that hat stays on you, doll. Let everyone in town see you belong to me."

send me billy thoughts or requests pleaseee :)

[swordgrace]

& 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: you and your husband decide to take advantage of the quiet gardens near the red keep.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: drabble — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 4.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught, semi-public sex, gwayne is a switch, cunt-drunk gwayne, sex in the red keep gardens, teasing, hair-pulling kink, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, groping, making out, dirty talk, mild praise kink, p in v sex (unprotected), mild scratching, soft ending.

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am on the Gwayne train right now, I just adore writing for him. This is a smaller story, and I think writing some drabbles might do me a bit of good! I hope that you all enjoy! ❤️ Thanks so much for the love & support!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐚.

The smell was akin to a perfumed dowager, the air thick with roses and honey, petals drifting along in the evening breeze. It was a stark contrast to the pungent scent of the rest of the city — perhaps that is why you favored the gardens.

Orange tendrils of a waning sun spread across the leaves, verdant and bright, turning the gardens all sorts of colors — shades of emerald and gold, intermingling with the many flowers there.

Most souls that had occupied the gardens had made themselves scarce, turning it into a paradise that only you shared with another. You often admired the general splendor even when it was crowded, but now, it gave you a rather unobstructed view.

The various palette of the gardens, particularly any deeper shades of forest-green, matched that of your husband’s doublet, embroidered with golden thread. It was strange to see Gwayne removed from his armor, his silvery vassal that kept him well-protected.

In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, there were days spent in respite, much to your delight. Though, war would steal him away from you again — you intended on making the most out of each moment, beseeching him to remain by your side. He obliged you, fortunately, and you never objected to it.

A golden hour, brightest before dusk, painted you in shades that Gwayne had committed to memory, your features bathed in dying light. You were swathed in gowns of cerulean, a deeper shade of azure that had brought him to heel when you emerged with it on.

Merrily, he often touted that he had the most beautiful wife in all of the realm, and such a sentiment didn’t change nor waver. It was resolute, done with a fondness that made its way to you.

“Perhaps, once this conflict comes to a close, you and I shall return to Oldtown,” Gwayne’s gallant resonance cut through the contented silence, his timbre often filled with regality, the elegant poise of a well-learned Knight. “I’ve grown surfeited by this grisly place.”

If Gwayne had not been so proficient with a blade, you suspected that a quill and his sharp tongue would’ve done him a world of good in another lifetime. His flowery speech had charmed you time and time again, and you were left captivated.

Oldtown had become your home, a sanctuary of which you and Gwayne had built a peaceful life together. With Prince Daeron in your care, it was something of a family — one that you suspected would grow in the near future.

“As have I,” With a gentle sigh, your fingers danced along his velvet-clad forearm, your arm interlaced with his as he led you through the teeming labyrinth. At twilight, it had become wonderfully quiet, a place of solace away from the bustling hum of the Red Keep. “It is a dour place.”

Dour was a mere understatement — Gwayne knew what harm this city could do, crushed beneath the oppressive weight of the Red Keep. Even in its architectural splendor, it remained a shadow, haunting your every step as it loomed above the both of you.

Even in the sanctuary of the Gardens, one could not escape it. He did not envy his sister for being sequestered here for most of her lifetime — he imagined that it likely led to a path of misfortune and frustration. Being in Oldtown, he could afford many liberties, freedoms that weren’t permitted in King’s Landing.

As you continued on your path, a stone terrace opened before you, a comely overlook with a sizable gazebo, marked by dimly-lit torches. Save for the picturesque view of Blackwater Bay, it was surrounded by foliage and flora on all sides.

Gwayne felt your concern in waves, an unspoken sentiment, knowing that he would be called to leave again. Cole’s armies were rallying to march to Harrenhal, and he was summoned to ride alongside him, the second-in-command. You had made your disdain for this known, and Gwayne couldn’t fault you for it.

“I would sorely dislike it if our time together was to be spent in silence,” He watched you through cerulean hues as you rounded the gazebo, moving toward the overlook. Waves gently lapped at the outcropping of rock, breaking upon it, saltwater kisses peppering your cheeks. “I have a duty, dearest.”

A begrudging sigh tore past your lips, and you staved off the sudden onslaught of turmoil. You had come to-terms with the inevitability of his departure — you had dealt with it once before, but the sting never lessened. “I understand. I loathe you and love you for it.” You murmured, your smile threadbare.

Your answer retained a twinge of lightheartedness to it, in the face of a bleak future. Gwayne couldn’t help but scoff, visage dancing with amusement as he stepped toward one of the massive walls of gardenias. Plucking a pale blossom from its stem, he crossed the stone to you, a gesture of affection.

“Loathe me, is that it?” Gwayne wouldn’t have your last moments together spent in melancholy — and you seemed to be in agreement. He placed the blossom behind your ear, carefully tucking it into place. “Have I vexed you so easily?”

Planting a palm against his chest, you allowed your fingertips to trace across plated velvet, dancing toward the Hightower sigil, embroidered into the collar. He was resplendent in noblemen’s garb, painfully handsome and fresh-faced, save for the healing cut upon his lip and bruised brow.

A taut, muscled arm moved to snake around your waist, effortlessly caging you in against him. Your saccharine scent invaded his senses, swarming around his head like a thick haze, one that he delighted in. Beneath the evening sky, he made his ardor for you known, a real and living thing.

“You are swift to credit yourself, husband. I may resort to knocking you from your pedestal.” You teased, tender voice growing softer, a mere purr to his ears. Gods, you were wonderfully divine — Gwayne brazenly squeezed your hip through your gowns, auburn brows lifting in amusement.

Instead of puffing his chest with a playful retort, Gwayne could no longer resist the tempting curve of your lips, craning down to kiss you. It was a sweet mingling of mouths, slow and exploratory, happy to take their time with one another.

The first inklings of an amorous heat crackled between the both of you, a rapturous hunger that hadn’t been sated since he returned from Rook’s Rest. You simply could not get enough of your beloved husband, hands clamoring from his plush doublet to his mane of copper tresses, gripping them tightly.

Even with the thicker material of your dress, Gwayne greedily grasped at your curves, able to feel the pliant swell of your physique beneath. You had already seduced him with your steep necklace and ample bosom — sometimes, you were more of a salacious minx than you were a maiden. He enjoyed you both ways.

Your chambers in the Red Keep seemed so far away, and neediness began to take root, desire flourishing where propriety could not. As you insistently tugged upon his auburn locks, Gwayne felt his cock stir to life within his trousers, twitching as if to remind him of his carnal need for you.

“Incomparable, I must confess,” Gwayne exhaled, hot breath fluttering across your visage. Hints of wine retained their presence upon his tongue, skin smelling of woodland musk and fine soaps. “Not a single wandering eye to find us here.” His timbre dropped into a delectable purr, lips pressing themselves to the curve of your jaw.

Exhilaration struck at the pit of your stomach, coupled with the familiar wave of arousal, its inklings slick and warm between your legs. “What are you implying, husband?” You asked, breathy and wanton, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

A low, teasing hum slipped betwixt his lips, mouth molding to your flesh, gliding across the slender column of your throat. One hand dropped to cup your derrière through the thicker material of your dress, longing to see it around your feet, instead.

A sheepish moan tore past your mouth, unabashedly stoking the fire that simmered between the both of you. Gwayne greedily lapped at your sweet skin, like a thick honey upon his tongue. “It is just you and I, sweetling. Might you indulge me?” He hummed, desperate to have you now that desire had taken hold.

Gods, you wanted him terribly.

It was a fascinating twist, with Gwayne wanting to have you here, given the publicity of the locale. He was often a man to take you to your chambers in the name of chivalry, but this daring, yearning side to him — you quite enjoyed it, his change of heart.

“Gods, I love you.” You sighed, feeling him relocate the both of you towards one of the thick, stone columns that held the gazebo aloft. It was rough against your back, but you cared little for it, hastily unlacing the bodice of your dress. The silken smallclothes you wore beneath would suffice.

A low, stifled groan escaped Gwayne’s mouth, cerulean hues sharp and amatory, roving over you with a thinly-veiled desire. “Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, wife.” He murmured, swiftly relieving you of that mound of azure velvet.

The simple slip you wore beneath clung to your curves, accentuating your physique in pale shades of ivory, nipples peeking through the thin material. His hand slithered beneath, seeking to find the slick heat of your cunt, pushing your legs apart with his thigh.

Gathering your slip within your hands, you tugged the material up, until it pooled around the swell of your hips, giving him unhindered access. Gwayne careened forward, mouth colliding with yours, lips desperately craving every fiber of your being.

His other hand moved to cup your breast through your gown, thumb languidly swiping over your pebbled nipple, teasing the bud as he rolled it between his fingers. A sharp, noisy gasp escaped you, followed by the unrestrained sound of a moan.

Your hands clamored to perch atop his shoulders, sinking down into the velvet, longing to see him naked. If you closed your eyes, it was easy to imagine, but you desired the real thing. With haste, your digits slipped toward the line of golden clasps along the front, aiming to get it unbuttoned.

“You minx.” Gwayne panted into your mouth, digits beginning to stroke along your slit. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. Lips twined in hot clashes, and he never allowed it to devolve into something sloppy. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you.

As you unclasped his doublet, he moved his arms enough to relinquish the stuffy weight of the fabric, musculature lean and taut, his skin pale and glittering in the gentle twilight. It let you squeeze his shoulders, tracing over the freckles there, reveling in his bare flesh.

Gwayne released a few breathy ‘I love you’s’ into your lips, before he relocated to the sensitive column of your throat. He spoke with reverence, as if he had come to worship his goddess, lay himself down at your feet. Your fingers wove themselves against the nape of his neck, tugging on his copper locks.

Practiced, dexterous digits continued to caress along your cunt, before pushing past your folds. He grazed your clit, sending a rush of goosebumps cascading down the length of your spine. “Gwayne,” You moaned, the sweetest melody to his ears as you rocked forward, desperate for any shred of friction. “Please!”

His cock twitched again within his breeches, aching with something powerful, needing to be inside of you. Patience was his virtue and his agony — he still wanted to taste your first. He continued to knead into your breast, evoking another blissful whine from you.

Despite wearing his honor and chivalry like a coat of armor, he cared little for the consequences of potentially being caught. He would ravish his beloved wife here in these gardens — there was no sin in such an act. Kissing along your jugular, he felt you grip and pull on his hair, filling him with an excitable fire.

“Gods, I must taste you,” Gwayne groaned, voice tinged with an alluring husk, palm continuing to caress the plush swell of your breast. The thin, silken strap of your slip began to sag, and he did not fix it, exposed to the unblemished plane of your collarbone. “If you will permit me to do so.”

“You needn’t ask, husband,” A wanton whimper left you when Gwayne’s digits abandoned your cunt, though it would soon be replaced with the fine heat of his greedy tongue. Through a lovesick gaze, you observed in rapturous silence as Gwayne sank to his knees, as if he were preparing to pray. “I belong to you.”

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Molten heat surged within your belly, churning with a violent anticipation as you braced one hand atop his shoulder.

A sight to die for, to kill for — Gwayne would’ve fought a thousand battles if it meant that you were the reward at the very end, a resplendent maiden in all of your glory. He would’ve endured torture unimaginable for you, razed down armies, destroyed cities all for you.

The first lap of his tongue caused your knees to buckle, raking hot embers across your cunt. He wedged his way in between your legs, shoulders keeping you apart just enough. Gwayne was quite candid about his enjoyment of tasting you — thoroughly cunt-struck.

A groan stirred within his chest as your fingers grazed through his copper tresses, finding their purchase near the base of his skull. He did not relent, tongue carefully splitting past your folds, greeted by the saccharine onslaught of your arousal.

“Gwayne.” A breathy sigh tore past your parted lips, lulled into subservience from the steady, exploratory laps of his tongue. He was sluggish, allowing the anticipation to mount, nose brushing along your mound.

Your taste was ambrosial, thick and heady, like a haze that he had no desire to escape from. There were many moments where he’d dreamed of this, on the march to Rook’s Rest, sprawled across his cot, fantasizing of you again and again.

He quite enjoyed the way in which you sighed his name, passion bubbling forth from your chest, head rolled back against the stone column. Careworn palms reached for your haunches, delighted to take their fill of you, caressing along the backs of your thighs.

“Exquisite,” Gwayne exhaled, catching his breath to press a string of kisses all along the inside of your thighs. “By the Seven, you taste divine.” He groaned, drunk and dizzy from your cunt. A soft moan escaped you as you coaxed him back, and he willingly obliged.

With another hot, eager lap of his tongue over your core, your knees rattled like leaves in the breeze, feeling his shoulders bully their way between your legs. A brusque, warm breeze fluttered throughout the gazebo, bathed in the waning light of the sunset. Stars began to glisten overhead, unhindered by the clouds.

Gwayne’s eagerness was palpable, able to be felt as he buried his face into your cunt, cerulean eyes fluttering shut in an expression of bliss. A groan stirred within his throat, fluttering throughout his chest as you fisted his auburn tresses, soft beneath your palms.

You could not get enough of him, keeping your hands on him in whatever way you could, chest heaving with wanton sighs. Carnality and desire permeated the air, the atmosphere thick with desperation. You always treated each moment as if it would be your last.

His mouth fervently worked against your slick cunt, sending pleasant shockwaves into the pit of your stomach. Goosebumps danced along your spine, followed by a shiver that made you moan. Your hips rolled forward, shamelessly grinding yourself into your husband’s waiting lips.

With a flick of his tongue, Gwayne sought the pearl of your cunt, lips eagerly kissing their way to your clit. He planted feather-light kisses around that sensitive clutch of nerves, causing you to tremble, digits tightening within his hair. Your grip was ironclad, but it was pleasurable for him, knowing you were enjoying yourself.

“Gods, Gwayne,” You whined, listening to the lewd noises of your chivalrous paramour suckling on your clit. Another onslaught of molten heat swirled within your stomach, seeping into your bones, manifesting as arousal between your thighs. “Do — Do not stop!” The urgency in your voice had increased exponentially.

If there were any evening stragglers in the Royal Gardens, you prayed to the Seven that they would not stumble upon the both of you.

The sight itself was inherently sinful, with you haplessly pressed against the stone column, gallant dress strewn across the ground, slip sagging along your physique. Gwayne’s emerald doublet had joined your garments below. You reveled in the sight of his head between your thighs, causing you to whimper.

Gwayne could detect when you were accelerating towards your release, able to feel the twitches and tremors in your thighs. He soothingly stroked along your silky flesh, interchanging between the greedy suckling of your clit, to long, broad strokes of his tongue.

His lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. Gwayne worshiped you, kissed the ground you walked upon, and he did not feel an ounce of shame in it.

His cock throbbed with a desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of depravity. You hadn’t a clue of the things you did to him.

In a brazen maneuver, his tongue prodded against your entrance, gingerly thrusting inside of you. You gasped, biting at the inside of your cheek, digits raking through his auburn locks. You let your grip loosen, hips careening forward into his mouth again.

Gwayne ravished you, with the ravenous appetite of a starving dog. He moved back just enough to lap at your cunt, making a blazing trail from your entrance to your clit. “I’m close,” You huffed, issuing some warning to him before the dam had burst altogether. “Gwayne!”

It was the only word you knew in the present, his name — it rolled from your tongue in a delighted cry, laced with ardor and reverence. You reached your peak, shamelessly spilling yourself upon his tongue, and he was enamored with you.

With careful, sluggish strokes of his tongue, he delicately cleaned the mess he made of you, allowing you to bring yourself down from your peak. Even if the intensity had made you burn at a fever pitch, you were far from finished, tugging on Gwayne’s tresses to get his attention.

“Take me, husband,” It wasn’t a request — it was a demand, a command made upon a yearning wife. Desire glistened like a thick sheen within his cerulean eyes, which happened to widen at the sight of you. “Please.” You didn’t have to beg — Gwayne wanted you just as terribly.

He swiftly rose from between your legs, pupils dilated with lust as he steered you toward the stone bannister of the overlook, wide enough to support you. You sat down, hastily fumbling with the leather ties of his trousers. Gwayne parted your legs again, bending over you as he sought your mouth.

The taste of arousal — yours — fell heavy upon your tongue, lips clashing together as you desperately sought to free his cock from its confines. “I need you,” Gwayne husked against your mouth, pearlescent teeth briefly snagging on your lower lip. “Gods, how I’ve missed this, missed you.”

“Gwayne,” A moan escaped you, intermingling with his husky pants and sonorous groans. His forehead nudged against yours, lips hot and needy, and you were more than happy to reciprocate. “I need you, I …” Your voice tapered off when his cock slid against your folds.

He kept you steady, hands caging you against the bannister, the stone biting into your back as he kept you at an angle. Silk gathered around your hips, friction wafting between the both of you as he thrust forward, cock sinking into you.

Hitching a leg around his waist as best as you could, your hands roamed to his chest, nails digging into his collarbone as he began to find an erratic pace. He was loving and passionate, even still, but there was something inherently quick about his rhythm.

Perspiration glittered along his brow from the warm evening, yet it did not stop him from pounding away at you. His cock filled you perfectly, providing a delectable stretch that made your toes curl. It wasn’t an intimidating thing, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him.

Through his clenched teeth, Gwayne sang your praises, savoring the way in which your cunt constricted around him, as if drawing him in. “Seven Hells, your cunt is perfection,” Such lewd, crass words sounded so eloquent coming from his lips, as debonair as a Prince. “I cannot get enough of you, sweet wife.” He groaned.

Despite his crudely-spoken compliment, you were lost within the throes of your own pleasure, body rocked into submission by each snap of his hips. His cock bottomed out within you, movements swift yet punctuated, as if every thrust possessed meaning.

You loved Gwayne unconditionally — perhaps too much, if such a thing were possible. Your chest heaved with sweet, passionate sighs and gentle moans, forehead occasionally brushing against his. His hands kept themselves firm along your waist, curling into the silk of your slip.

His cock battered away at your slick cunt, aided by your mounting arousal. Everything felt so feverishly warm, as if you had been set ablaze, nerves feeling like they were steeped in fire. “More,” You moaned, and it effectively caught Gwayne’s attention. “Gwayne, please.” He was weak to your soft pleas.

Your beloved husband lacked harshness when it came to intimacy, something you adored about him. Even when his thrusts became desperate and erratic, chasing after his release, he never resorted to using you. His lips sought the column of your throat, nose brushing along your jugular.

A string of kisses peppered themselves against your sweet flesh, with the occasional suckling of his lips to your neck. A myriad of throaty whines and whimpers continued to leave you in droves, cunt pathetically clenching around him.

Buckling forward, Gwayne planted one palm against the stone bannister, the other caging in around you as he continued to pound away into your needy cunt. He kissed you wherever he could, dwindling into desperation and the innate desire to taste your sweet flesh.

His lips parted slightly, a strained grunt escaping him as he thrust forward again, until there was nowhere left for him to go. Gwayne pulled back just enough, the head of his cock still inside of you before he moved forward again. The friction made you shiver, fingers grasping at the nape of his neck.

His name continued to slip from your mouth, over and over again, like a whispered prayer. Your nails left behind red crescents upon his skin, sharp brands of your lovemaking. Gwayne groaned against your throat, desiring to kiss you once more, lips laying claim to yours with a fervor.

With another snap of his hips, Gwayne shuddered, nearly collapsing into you as he reached his peak. Hot ropes of seed brazenly spilled inside of you, warming your insides as he attempted to catch his breath. You pressed your forehead to his, breathing with him, allowing your hands to slack.

Gwayne politely removed himself from you, mindful of your garments as he fixed your gown back into place. The slip itself was disheveled, but he ensured its tidiness before you got dressed again.

“How divine you are,” Gwayne hummed, planting gentle kisses along the side of your face before it ended at the curve of your jaw. “Beautiful beyond comprehension.” He murmured, using two digits to delicately place the strap of your slip back upon your shoulder.

“You flatter me, husband,” Your smile was warm and amiable, the brightness of springtime, bringing a rosy flush to his features. “I quite enjoyed your brazen streak.” Through a smitten confession, Gwayne kissed your brow, lips twitching into a debonair smirk.

“I am not ashamed of ravishing my wife, be it in our chambers or in the garden,” He replied, reaching for his velveteen doublet and your azure dress. It was easy for him to slip back into the stuffy material, and he was more than happy to assist you. “I cannot get enough of you.”

His words were tantalizing, as if intended to bring about another string of salacious thoughts. Gwayne stood behind you as you stepped back into your dress, helping to lace your bodice up again. He planted a kiss along your exposed shoulder, and then to the crook of your neck.

You reached for his hand, letting it drape across your shoulder as you pressed a delicate kiss against his bruised knuckles. “You shall have me, Gwayne — for as long as you desire me.” You sighed, feeling his nose brush along your cheek, the warmth of his body pressing in behind you.

With a kiss to your temple, one oozing with such fondness and ardor that you feared you might melt, Gwayne’s lips hovered near the shell of your ear. In the twinkling dusk, he held you close. “Forever, then.”

[eclipixels]

Meanie

Rafayel x Reader

Content: Rafayel's brattiness goes a little too far and he makes you cry

[2,026 words]

      It had been one of those days, the kind that felt cursed from the moment you opened your eyes. The kind where every little thing seemed to pile on top of the last, weighing you down until the smallest inconvenience felt like the final straw. And as if the universe hadn’t already decided to test your patience, Rafayel had spent the entire day being an absolute brat.

      It had started first thing in the morning, before you’d even had the chance to fully wake up. You’d stirred from sleep, groggy and aching, only to realize that you were freezing. Confused, you reached down and found nothing but the thin sheet clinging to the edge of the bed. The thick comforter, the one that had been keeping you warm all night, was completely wrapped around Rafayel, who was snuggled up in a cocoon of stolen warmth.

      You shifted closer, nudging him lightly in an attempt to reclaim even a small corner of the blanket. “Raf, share the blanket.” you mumbled, your voice heavy with sleep.

      All you got in response was a low groan, followed by him rolling even further away from you, tightening the comforter around himself like it was a suit of armor. Then, with the kind of sleepy arrogance only he could manage, he muttered, “Figure it out, princess.”

      Your eye twitched.

      Unbeknownst to you, this was his dumb way of wanting you to cuddle him. He assumed you'd snuggle him for warmth.

      Biting back a grumble, you decided to let it go. Maybe he was just half-asleep and unaware of what he was doing. Maybe he’d share once he woke up properly. Maybe—

      Nope. The second you tried to tug the blanket back, Rafayel let out the most exaggerated, drawn-out sigh, like you were personally ruining his entire morning. Then, instead of being a decent human being and sharing, he grabbed your pillow and placed it over his face with a dramatic huff.

      Fine. Whatever. It was probably a good time to get out of bed right now anyway.

      Dragging yourself out of bed, you shivered against the cold air and forced yourself toward the bathroom to do your usual routine. That’s when you realized you got your period. Great. Just great. The dull ache in your lower stomach had begun, and each step sent an uncomfortable throb through your body.

      You headed to the kitchen in search of your favorite tea, knowing it would help. Just the thought of it eased your tension slightly. But as you arrived, the familiar aroma already filled the air. Standing at the counter was Rafayel, cup in hand, his lips curling around the rim as he took a slow, satisfied sip.

      Are you serious right neow. Bruh.

      “Please tell me that’s not the last of my tea.” you started cautiously, eyes darting toward the empty tea box on the counter.

      “Yeah,” he blinked at you, then, with zero remorse, he shrugged. “I can have Thomas get you some more.”

      You took a deep breath. Counted to three. Reminded yourself that murder was illegal.

      He wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was just being Rafayel. A walking headache disguised as a very pretty boy.

      Fine. You’d handle it. You’d push through. You’d make do with coffee instead. It wasn’t what you wanted, but at least it was warm.

      You thought maybe, just maybe, that would be the end of his antics for the day. But no. Oh, no. He was just getting started.

      He spent the rest of the morning flicking the strings of your hoodie whenever he walked past, tugging at them just enough to be annoying. He poked you randomly for no reason and whined when you wouldn’t share your ice cream with him. When you had finally settled onto the couch to distract yourself with a movie, he’d waltzed in and changed the damn thing right as the plot was getting good. And when you glared at him, he just shrugged and said, “It’s not my fault you have bad taste in movies.”

      For the record, your taste in movies was excellent. He was just an insufferable little gremlin.

      You tried, really, really tried, to brush it off. To let it slide. Because normally, this kind of thing didn’t bother you that much. Normally, his teasing was something you could handle, even enjoy in small doses. But today was different. Today, your body hurt, your patience was thin, and everything felt heavier than it should.

      And then came the final straw.

      You had spent the entire afternoon resisting the urge to snap at him, telling yourself that he’d get bored eventually. That he’d stop pushing your buttons and go back to being tolerable. But then, when you were sitting at the dining table, desperately needing just one tiny moment of kindness, you spotted it—Rafayel’s favorite raspberry cream puffs. A fresh, buttery, flaky piece of heaven, sitting untouched with a sticky note of his name.

      You hesitated before asking. He’d already gotten on your last nerve,so maybe he’d take pity on you this once.

      “Raf,” you started, careful, cautious. “Can I have a bite?”

      He glanced at you, then at the pastry.

      For a moment, you thought he might actually say yes. His fingers drummed against the table, and he seemed to be weighing the question in his head. But then, right when hope sparked in your chest, he picked up the pastry, raised it to his lips, and took the biggest, most exaggerated bite humanly possible.

      Your mouth dropped open in disbelief.

      And that was it. That was the moment your already fragile patience snapped like an overstretched rubber band. You didn’t even have it in you to argue. Instead, you felt your throat tighten, hot frustration prickling behind your eyes before you could stop it.

      It wasn’t even just about Rafayel; everything felt overwhelming, and all you wanted was for him to be sweet to you today. The weight of the day had pressed down on you like an unbearable blanket, suffocating in its intensity. It wasn’t just the cramps or the discomfort; it was everything. The hormones, the exhaustion, the world itself feeling just a little too sharp around the edges. And yet, Rafayel had spent most of the day being bratty, teasing, occasionally infuriating in that way only he could be.

      Tears streamed down your face as you froze.

      “Baby…” Rafayel’s voice broke through your spiraling thoughts, softer now, tinged with something almost hesitant. “Are you crying?”

      You turned away from him, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling, but it was pointless. He tried stepping towards you but you stopped him.

      “Go away,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

      The words weren’t just a request; they carried weight, a command laced with the bond you shared. Rafayel felt it immediately. His chest lit up with the warmth of it, the magic forcing him still, locking him in place as though the universe itself had pressed pause. His lips parted slightly, caught between protest and realization.

      And then, as if the pieces of a puzzle had finally clicked together, understanding dawned in his sharp sunset eyes. He had felt something all day, an ache lingering at the edges of his awareness, but he had brushed it off. As a sea god, human pain wasn’t the most agonizing thing in the world to him. He could experience it, but it never debilitated him. So, he hadn’t paid much attention to the dull cramps, the underlying discomfort. But now, as he took in your curled-up form, your teary eyes, the way you refused to even look at him—he felt dumb. Of course. You were on your period. And he didn’t do a single thing to help you feel better.

      He got so wound up in wanting your attention that he didn’t realize how miserable his attempts were making you.

      “Do you hate me?” Your voice was small, fragile in a way that twisted something inside him. He hated that you even felt like you had to ask.

      “Of course not,” he said, voice rougher than he intended, thick with something unspoken.

      “Then why were you being such a meanie?”

      That nearly made him laugh, but the sniffle that followed kept him firmly grounded in reality. He let out a slow, heavy breath, dragging a hand through his lilac hair as guilt settled deep in his bones.

      “I’m so sorry, cutie. I just wanted your attention.”

      You didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, he thought you were going to push him away again. But you didn’t. And in Rafayel’s mind, that was progress. Carefully, as if waiting for you to stop him, he reached out and wrapped his arms around you. His grip was firm but gentle, protective without being suffocating. He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in.

      “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured against your hair. “Whatever you want.”

      At that, you finally peeked up at him, lashes damp. A spark of mischief danced in your eyes, and your lips curled into the beginnings of a smile.

      “Anything?”

      Rafayel nodded, unwavering. “Anything.”

      And that was how he found himself being dragged around for an entire day of doting on you.

      The moment the words left his mouth, you wasted no time in taking full advantage of his promise. First, it was bubble tea. Not just one, but three different flavors because, in his words, you needed options. Rafayel handed over his black card, watching as you delightedly picked your favorites.

      Then came the hoodie situation. You wanted those fluffy weighted ones. He ordered five because why not? Not just that, he got you a few dresses and accessories too. Of course, they had to be designers, because if he was going to spoil you, he was going to do it properly.

      Your cramps were still bad? No problem. Rafayel ran you a hot bath, complete with rose petals because apparently, a ‘normal bath’ wasn’t enough. He even adjusted the water temperature to be exactly how you liked it, using his evol abilities to keep it warm for as long as you wanted.

      He acted as though all of this was some grand inconvenience, sighing heavily every time you asked for something new, dramatically rolling his eyes, but the twinkle in them never dimmed.

      When you asked him to get you a heating pad, he gave you an offended look. Why were you asking for a heating pad? He was right there? He pressed his palms against your lower abdomen and you felt it start to warm to the perfect temperature.

      While you scrolled through your phone, he sighed. His fingers absently traced circles against your side as he did. “I have become a mere object for your convenience.”

      You grinned, completely unfazed. “Correct.”

      At one point, when you asked him to bring you snacks in the middle of the night, he left and came back with an entire grocery bag full of your favorites.

      “You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered, setting it beside you with a huff.

      You beamed up at him, eyes full of mischief. “I am lucky.” To emphasize your point, you popped a piece of chocolate into your mouth, chewing happily as if you hadn’t been crying just hours ago.

      Rafayel squinted at you, suspicion written all over his face. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

      You shrugged, feigning innocence.

      He sighed heavily. so dramatically, as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. Then, with zero warning, he threw himself onto the bed on top of you, arm draped across his forehead like he was in some kind of tragic play. “This is karma, isn’t it?”

      You hummed thoughtfully, pretending to consider. “Maybe.”

      But the truth is, he didn’t mind. Not one bit. Because seeing you go from overwhelmed and teary-eyed to giggling and carefree—seeing you feel loved, taken care of—was worth every second. If spoiling you until he was broke meant you’d smile like this, he’d do it a hundred times over.

[heliosunny]

Hi hi! I really like your fanfiction style and plots!!

Can you write fanfic with a magician!reader and a crown prince!Phainon? Like, in their world, wizards are feared because they wield great power because of magic and can become a serious threat, and therefore they are wanted.

Phainon and his guards get into trouble and the prince is seriously injured. Reader finds them and, despite all the risks, brings them to their shelter and treats them. They intrigued Phainon, because he expected the reader to leave them to die. He was not going to leave, but he had to, because his guards did not want to be near the reader for more time.

After a while, when his wound has completely healed, he returns to the reader's house, but discovers that reader has left it. However, this did not prevent him from finding a reader and bringing him to the palace as his partner, to the horror of his parents and the nobles.

And no pressure! Take as much time as you need!

Yandere!Crown Prince Phainon x Wizard!Reader

The night was thick with mist, curling between the skeletal trees like ghostly fingers. The moon hung high, its silver light barely piercing through the dense canopy. You had learned to tread these woods without a sound, a necessity, really, for a wizard like you.

Magic was danger. Magic was hunted.

You kept to yourself, a mere phantom in a world that would sooner see you burned than thanked. Yet tonight, fate had different plans.

A low groan shattered the silence. The sound was close, just beyond the brambles lining your hidden path. Carefully, you stepped forward, parting the branches to reveal a scene of carnage.

A group of armored men lay scattered like fallen statues, their gleaming armor dulled with dirt and blood. Some still breathed, but your attention snapped to him, the figure at the center of it all.

The crown prince beloved by his people.

Even wounded, he was an imposing sight. A gash split across his side, the crimson staining his once-pristine attire. His grip on his sword was weak, yet his expression promised death to any who dared approach.

His men were conscious enough to move, barely, but none had the strength to rise. A group of assassins, perhaps? Or a botched ambush? Whatever had happened, Phainon had fought like a beast to keep them alive.

And now, he was dying.

You should leave.

But you hesitated.

Perhaps it was the sheer absurdity of it all. The prince, the future ruler of this land, bleeding out in the dirt like a wounded animal.

With a whispered incantation, the shadows thickened around you, concealing your presence from prying eyes. You stepped closer.

One of his guards stirred, his gaze sluggishly finding you through the haze of pain.

“W-Who…” he rasped, struggling to raise his weapon.

You lifted a hand and muttered a single word. His eyes rolled back, body sagging as unconsciousness took him. A simple sleep spell—one that drained you more than it should, given how careful you had to be. The others were too far gone to notice.

That left only him.

Phainon’s head snapped up at your approach. Even on the brink of death, his presence was suffocating. His lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, but sharp. “You are not one of mine.”

“No” you murmured. “I am not.”

His fingers twitched around his blade, but you had no intention of giving him the chance to use it. With a swift motion, you knelt beside him, already pressing your palm against his wound. His body tensed like a bowstring, every muscle coiled.

“What—”

Warm light pulsed beneath your touch, the air thrumming with unseen power.

Realization dawned in his blue eyes.

Magic.

The fear did not come, not like it did with most. No, Phainon did not fear you.

He was intrigued.

“Why?” he demanded, voice laced with something between suspicion and fascination. “You could let me die.”

“Because I choose not to.”

The warmth of your magic pulsed beneath your fingers, light seeping into the torn flesh at Phainon’s side. Golden runes flickered to life, weaving over his wound like threads of starlight, sealing torn skin and knitting muscle together.

“You wield powerful magic”

You ignored him, focusing instead on the lingering damage. It was deep, and healing him entirely would drain you too much. This would have to do.

The final rune faded, leaving behind only smooth, unbroken skin. You pulled back sharply, wiping your blood-slicked fingers against your cloak.

“You’ll live” you muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Phainon exhaled, shifting experimentally. The pain was gone.

Time to go. You stood, already murmuring the incantation beneath your breath. The ground trembled softly as a gust of wind whipped around you. Shadows curled, lifting you gently off your feet as your broom shot into your waiting grip.

His men stirred, one of them blinking awake with a strangled gasp. “P-Prince—”

But Phainon wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you.

You didn’t give him the chance to speak.

With a sharp kick, you soared into the night sky, the forest shrinking beneath you as the wind carried you higher. The chill bit at your skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight that lifted from your chest.

You should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.

You didn’t have to look back to know.

He was following.

You cursed under your breath. What was he thinking? His men were below, weak and vulnerable, calling out for him. He had a kingdom to return to. A duty to fulfill. And yet—he pursued you.

You spun midair, broom jerking to a halt. Your voice rang out.

“Go back.”

Phainon didn’t falter. His silver hair glowed under the moonlight, his eyes burning like ice set aflame.

“Why?”

“Because your men need you. Because your people do. Because I do not want to be followed.”

Below, his guards called for him again, their voices frantic.

A flicker of something crossed his expression—annoyance, reluctant acknowledgment.

For a moment, you feared he would refuse.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he exhaled and shifted away.

“Very well” he said. “For now.”

The last two words unsettled you.

But you didn’t wait to decipher them.

With a final, sharp glare, you turned and vanished into the night.

The temporary spell had done its work. Phainon had survived, but his wound still required proper treatment once he returned to the kingdom. His men had been too relieved to question how their prince had been saved, too eager to leave the forest and return to safety.

But Phainon had not forgotten.

Even as he lay in his gilded chambers, the finest physicians tending to him, his thoughts drifted back to you. To the warmth of your magic. The sharpness in your voice. The way you had looked at him—not with fear, not with awe, but with annoyance.

Once his wounds had fully healed, Phainon wasted no time. He demanded his parents search for you. The king and queen only exchanged weary glances before shaking their heads.

“You ask us to reward a wizard?” his father scoffed. “You should be grateful we do not send hunters after them.”

“Grateful?” He leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the gilded armrest of his chair. “You would prefer I let the one who saved your heir vanish without a trace?”

“They did not save you out of loyalty” his mother interjected, her tone gentler, but no less firm. “They helped you and left. Be grateful for that.”

He heard the unspoken words beneath her breath.

Be grateful they did not finish you off.

But Phainon had never been one to accept things so easily.

The moment he was able, he searched for your hidden home.

Only to find it abandoned.

No trace of you remained. No remnants of the magic that had once lingered in the air. It was as if you had never been there at all.

That should have been the end of it.

But for Phainon, it was only the beginning.

He would find you.

---

Life in the shadows suited you.

After leaving your old home, you settled in a new place—far from the reach of the kingdom, hidden among the wild forests where few dared to tread. Your days were spent in quiet solitude, gathering herbs, tending to your spells, and ensuring your presence remained unnoticed. You moved often, never staying too long in one place. It was safer that way.

You had no interest in the affairs of royals. But even in the most remote corners of the land, rumors had a way of finding you.

Whispers of the crown prince’s survival had spread like wildfire. People spoke of it with reverence, how their beloved prince had returned from the brink of death, stronger than ever. How even the finest physicians had been baffled by his miraculous recovery.

Some said it was divine intervention. Others claimed it was his sheer will to live.

But one rumor, in particular, made your blood run cold.

The prince was searching for someone.

At first, the stories were vague. He had taken an interest in an unknown savior. A healer, perhaps, or a skilled mage who had vanished without a trace.

Then, the details sharpened.

He sought someone who wielded forbidden magic. Someone who had left him when he was too weak to follow. Someone who had defied him.

You stiffened when you first heard it, your fingers tightening around the basket of herbs you had been gathering. You had always known the risk of saving him, but you had thought that once he returned to his kingdom, he would forget you.

Clearly, you had been wrong.

----

The gathering was always held in secret, deep within the wilderness where only those attuned to magic could find it. It was a rare chance for wizards to convene without fear—a fleeting moment of safety in a world that sought to burn them.

You had never attended before. Too many eyes, too much risk. But this time, you had a reason.

You needed ingredients for a new spell.

The air buzzed with magic as you moved through the market stalls draped in enchanted fabrics and glowing sigils. Wizards of all kinds were here—some veiled, some bold enough to show their faces, all of them powerful in their own way. Incense and dried herbs filled the air with an earthy scent as you carefully examined a bundle of moonshade petals, their silver glow faint under your touch.

You didn’t notice the presence behind you.

Not at first.

A sharp inhale.

A breath against your hair.

Your muscles locked. No one got this close. Your first instinct was to lash out, to summon the wind and shove the intruder away. But before you could react, a voice brushed against your ear.

“I’ve finally found you.”

Stiffly, you turned your head.

The man standing behind you was different from the one you had last seen bleeding in the dirt. The pristine prince, dressed in silver and royal blue, was gone. This version of Phainon was something else entirely.

His white-silver hair had grown longer, strands falling over his forehead. His usual noble attire was replaced with something more discreet; a dark cloak, simple leather armor, a sword at his hip. But no disguise could ever hide him.

And as he leaned in ever so slightly, drinking in your scent once more, his lips curled into something between a smirk and a sigh.

“Did you think you could run from me?”

The moment Phainon reached for you, whether to grab your wrist or simply to keep you from fleeing, you moved. A sharp pulse of magic burst from your body, the force of it sending Phainon staggering back. The nearest stalls rattled violently, enchanted trinkets shattering upon impact. Gasps rippled through the gathering as wizards turned to watch, their whispers sharp with unease.

The scent of scorched air filled your lungs as you raised your hands, power thrumming at your fingertips. You should run. But something in you rebelled at the thought of simply letting him take you.

Phainon chuckled, his stance shifting as he caught himself. His blue eyes gleamed with something unnervingly fond.

“You’re still as breathtaking as I remember” he murmured, brushing off his cloak as if you hadn’t just blasted him. “But surely you knew this was pointless.”

“Stay away from me.”

He tilted his head, considering you. Then—he lunged.

You barely had time to react. You shot your hand forward, magic crackling in the air as a gust of wind slammed into his side, knocking him off course. He grunted, boots skidding across the dirt. The ground trembled beneath you as you pulled more power into your grasp, ready to strike again—

But he was fast.

The moment you blinked, he was upon you again, forcing you to jerk back just in time to avoid his outstretched hand. But he wasn’t trying to strike. No—his fingers curled, reaching for your waist.

You twisted away, fury igniting in your veins. Fine. If he wanted a fight, he’d get one.

The air around you shimmered as you sent another pulse of energy directly at him. This time, he wasn’t fast enough.

The spell struck him square in the chest, sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, coughing as dust billowed around him. A thin trail of blood dripped from the corner of his lips.

The gathered wizards scattered. Whatever curiosity they had harbored was now outweighed by the risk. A prince—a royal—fighting a wizard was dangerous. No one wanted to be caught in the crossfire.

Within moments, the ceremonial grounds were nearly empty. Only you and Phainon remained.

“You hurt me” he murmured. Not with anger. Not with resentment.

With delight.

Your fingers twitched, and the air around you shifted. With a whispered incantation, your broom shot into your grip, magic thrumming beneath your palms. You were ready to leave.

But so was he.

Phainon moved just as you did, his speed forcing you to take an extra step back, your heartbeat spiking. He was injured, yet still too fast.

You scowled, gripping your broom tightly. “What do you even want from this?”

His eyes never left yours. “You.”

“You should be grateful” you snapped. “I saved your life, and this is how you repay me? Ruining my work?” You gestured to the ruined ingredients scattered across the dirt. The delicate petals, the crushed herbs—all useless now.

“I’ll find more for you.”

You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want you to.”

You were done with this.

Without another word, you gripped your broom and prepared to take off again, but—

A glint of light. A flicker of magic.

Phainon lifted a stone between his fingers.

The sight of it made you pause.

Dark veins of power ran through its surface, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A rare artifact, used only for temporary enchantments—but at what cost?

“Where did you get that?”

“Does it matter?”

It did. He must have taken it from someone—or worse.

But Phainon only watched you, waiting.

The moment the stone’s power wrapped around you, you knew something was wrong.

It was subtle at first—a numbness in your fingertips, a sudden silence where your magic should have been. Then, the realization hit.

Your magic was gone.

Temporarily, maybe, but it didn’t matter. That was all he needed.

Phainon wasted no time. He moved swiftly, catching you in his grip before you could even attempt to fight back. Without your magic, your broom was useless. Your strength alone was nothing against him.

The next thing you knew, you were here. Locked in the prince’s chambers, high above the kingdom you had spent your whole life avoiding.

You had tested the door the moment he left—locked, of course. The windows, too, were secured with enchanted glass. Even if you could break them, the fall would be too great. You were trapped.

And Phainon?

He was preparing.

You could hear the water running from the adjoining room, the faint splash of movement as he bathed. You didn’t have to see him to know what he was doing—cutting his hair, washing away the dirt of travel, shedding the rugged disguise he had worn just to find you.

You had to try.

Even if your magic wasn’t back yet. Even if the fall could kill you.

You pressed against the window, fingers searching for a weak point in the enchanted glass. It wouldn’t budge.

But he had underestimated desperation.

With a sharp inhale, you struck. A hard blow against the glass, then another, until finally—a crack. A surge of hope rushed through you. You struck again, harder this time. The glass shattered.

The wind howled against your skin as you gripped the windowsill. This was it. You would have to jump before Phainon—

A hand clamped onto your wrist.

Pain. A sharp gasp. A warm drop of something splattered against your skin.

Blood.

Phainon’s grip was ironclad, but his other hand—the one he had used to catch you—was cut deep, a jagged shard of glass slicing into his palm.

He didn’t seem to care.

With one fierce yank, he pulled you back into the room, his breath hot with frustration as he slammed you against his chest.

“Are you out of your mind?!”

You barely registered his words—because suddenly, you felt it.

A spark. Like a fire reigniting after being smothered for too long.

Your magic was back.

Instinct took over before you could think. Your hands, still trembling from the shock, moved over his bleeding one. A soft glow pulsed from your fingertips as the wound began to mend, closing rapidly as though it had never been there.

It was then that you noticed—the damp heat of his skin, the lingering scent of soap.

And the fact that he was only wearing a towel.

The sound of your struggle hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Footsteps—several of them. Voices murmuring outside the door, uncertain but growing louder.

“Your Highness?” a man called. “Is everything—”

The door cracked open, and you caught a glimpse of not one, but three men peering inside. Soldiers, perhaps attendants, all of them pausing in shock at the sight before them.

Phainon—barely covered.

You—flushed and breathless.

It took them less than a second to misunderstand.

For a long, agonizing moment, no one spoke.

Then, unable to help yourself, you raised an eyebrow. “Are you holding a bath model contest or what?”

One of the men choked.

Deciding you had more than enough of this, you snapped your fingers, letting your magic slam the door shut in their faces. A flick of your wrist and a rush of energy later, Phainon was fully clothed, his usual regal attire appearing in place of the towel.

Your work here was done.

“Right” you muttered, dusting off your hands. “This has been an experience. But now that my magic’s back, I think I’ll take my leave—”

A hand caught your wrist.

Again.

But this time, Phainon didn’t try to pull you closer. He just… held on.

“Don’t go.”

“…Why?”

He swallowed. “I need you to cure my sister.”

You hadn’t even known he had a sister. You crossed your arms, giving Phainon a skeptical look. “I’m not a healer.”

He didn’t hesitate. “It’s not an illness. She was cursed.”

That made you pause. Curses were a different matter entirely. If that was true, then perhaps—

“…Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll take a look.”

Phainon exhaled, as if relieved, and led you through the palace halls. He stayed close, but you ignored it, focusing instead on the task ahead.

Soon, you arrived at a dimly lit chamber. A woman lay motionless on the grand bed, her breathing faint, her complexion pale. Even from the entrance, you could feel it—lingering magic.

A real curse.

You stepped forward, examining her carefully. The energy clinging to her skin was thick, unnatural—a spell cast with intent, not by accident.

Phainon hovered behind you, silent, watching.

Minutes passed as you traced the curse’s signature, considering your options. Then, with a sigh, you straightened. “I can break it” you said simply. “But I’ll need time to prepare the spell.”

Phainon gave a slow nod, as if he had already expected that answer.

You left, mind already racing with the components you’d need.

Meanwhile, in the chamber you had just departed—

Phainon remained. Alone, save for the girl.

His expression shifted. The moment you were gone, the warmth vanished from his gaze, replaced by something else—something cold.

He stepped closer to the bed, his voice a low murmur.

“Make sure to play your role well.”

The girl flinched, unable to move much under the weight of the curse. Fear flickered in her wide eyes.

Because she wasn’t his sister.

She wasn’t anyone.

Just an unfortunate soul he had plucked from the streets. Just another piece in his carefully laid plan.

And you, his true goal, still had no idea.

The days that followed were suffocating.

Despite being assigned a maid, Anna, and a knight, Brant, to check on you and provide whatever you needed, Phainon was always there.

Even now, as you prepared the spell to lift the curse, he sat beside you, idly crushing the herbs you had handed him. His presence was oppressive, his knee brushing yours far too often to be accidental.

“…Why are you still sitting here?” you asked, side-eyeing him.

Phainon didn’t even look up. “I just love the warmth of people.”

You stared at him for a long moment.

“Is that so?” you muttered.

Fine. You’d test that.

You glanced toward Anna, who was tidying up nearby. “Anna, come here. Stand next to the prince for a bit.”

Anna blinked in surprise but obeyed, stepping closer. You moved away.

Phainon frowned. His hands, previously steady, hesitated over the herbs.

But just to be sure—

“Brant,” you called, turning to the knight. “Your turn. Stand beside the prince.”

Brant, ever dutiful, wordlessly approached. You took another step back.

Phainon’s entire expression darkened.

He barely glanced at Brant before abandoning the herbs altogether and standing—immediately closing the distance between you.

You exhaled, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You sure you like the warmth of people?”

“I do.” His gaze locked onto yours, unwavering. “But you’re the only one that matters.”

At this point, you were convinced that Phainon would literally do anything you said.

No hesitation. No complaints.

So, naturally, you decided to push it.

You plucked a random leaf from your ingredients and shoved it into his mouth.

"Chew" you ordered.

Phainon, without a second thought, did. His jaw moved, grinding the leaf to pulp, his blue eyes fixed only on you.

You narrowed your eyes. "That could be poison, you know."

He kept chewing. Unbothered.

It wasn’t poison, but he didn’t know that. And yet, there he was, completely unfazed, still obediently chewing like it was some kind of sacred duty.

"Spit it out" you snapped, reaching forward.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, waiting until your fingers were inside his mouth—

Then he shut his lips around them.

What.

You glared at him. "Let go."

He just stared at you, mouth stubbornly shut.

You tried pulling your fingers free. No luck.

You pressed his jaw. Nothing.

He wasn’t biting down, but he wasn’t letting go either.

Oh, for the love of—

Fine. Desperate times.

You took a deep breath, reached forward—and tickled his sides.

Eventually, pinching his side finally did the trick.

Phainon flinched, jaw loosening just enough for you to yank your fingers free. You scowled, wiping them on your sleeve before storming off to wash your hands.

“Handle the rest yourself” you muttered over your shoulder.

He just sat there, utterly unbothered, still chewing the remnants of the leaf like some devoted fool.

You exhaled, tired beyond belief. “I’m going to sleep.”

Phainon perked up.

“I want to stay here and sleep too” he said easily, like it was a completely normal request.

You turned to him slowly. “No way in hell.”

You had changed your mind. Without another word, you grabbed your broom, fully intending to take off and leave him behind.

Phainon, undeterred, followed. “Let me on too.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “It won’t hold us both.”

But before he could start another argument, you sighed and flicked your fingers, casting a spell to summon a second broom.

“There. Now go away.”

Phainon examined the broom for a moment, then climbed on.

Watching him struggle to stay balanced was the most satisfying thing you’d seen all day.

The two of you eventually landed on a tall tree, its thick branches sturdy enough to sit on. From here, the kingdom stretched out beneath you, its golden rooftops glimmering under the moonlight.

Phainon sat beside you, his usual cloying presence somehow softer in the night air.

“The kingdom has always feared wizards” he murmured, gaze fixed on the city below. “Power that can’t be controlled terrifies them.”

You stayed silent, listening.

“But now that you’re here,” he continued, turning to look at you, “I want to change that.”

You snorted. “Good luck with that.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “You don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I don’t care.” You leaned back against the trunk, stretching your legs. “I’m only here for one thing. When I’m done, I’m out.”

Phainon’s hands curled into fists, but he said nothing.

Satisfied, you pushed off the branch, summoning your broom with a flick of your wrist.

Without another glance at him, you flew back to your room.

Morning came too soon.

You were still half-asleep when Phainon dragged you out of bed.

Dazed and irritated, you barely managed to register your surroundings before you found yourself standing in an ornate hall—filled with too many people.

It didn’t take long to piece it together.

Phainon stood beside you, grinning. His parents—the king and queen—sat before you, their expressions frozen in shock. Nobles lined the room, their whispers filling the space.

He was presenting you.

To his parents.

To the nobles.

As his partner.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. You should have just stayed asleep.

The king was the first to recover. His sharp gaze narrowed on Phainon.

“Phainon,” he said, voice cold with disbelief, “what is the meaning of this?”

Phainon didn’t hesitate. “I’m introducing my partner.”

The room erupted into murmurs. Some nobles looked scandalized. Others glanced at you like you were a wild beast about to attack.

You? You barely cared.

The queen’s lips parted slightly, her grip on the armrest tightening. “This is sudden. You never mentioned—”

“I didn’t need to,” Phainon interrupted smoothly. “It was only a matter of time before we stood here.”

A noblewoman to the side scoffed. “A wizard? You cannot be serious.”

Your gaze flickered toward her—briefly. She flinched, looking away.

The king exhaled sharply. “This is absurd. You expect us to simply accept this?”

“I expect you to respect it.”

The tension was thick. The nobles muttered amongst themselves, their expressions ranging from outrage to uneasy calculation.

You, meanwhile, were just waiting for this nonsense to end.

A nobleman sneered, crossing his arms. “A wizard in the royal family. How ridiculous. Who’s to say they won’t curse us all in our sleep?”

Your patience was already thin.

You turned to him, “Watch your mouth.”

He tensed.

“You should feel lucky,” you continued, smirking. “I’m not a grumpy wizard, or you’d already be a pile of ashes.”

The room fell silent. Some nobles stiffened, others shifted uncomfortably.

Not wanting to waste another second in this mess, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit.

If only Phainon had found someone else to obsess over instead.

That thought lingered.

Fine. If he wouldn’t let go, you’d make him.

You’d craft a love potion and set him up with someone else.

Back in your room, you wasted no time.

You gathered your ingredients—rose petals, moonlit water,.... Carefully, you mixed them in your cauldron, stirring with precise intent. The potion had to be subtle. Strong enough to shift his affections, but not suspicious.

The thought of finally being free from his overbearing presence fueled your work.

A few hours later, the potion was ready.

A single vial of shimmering, rosy liquid.

Now, all you needed was a target.

Phainon was constantly surrounded by nobles, maids, attendants—surely, one of them could do. Someone beautiful, someone obedient enough to make him lose interest in you.

After some observation, you set your sights on a noblewoman—Lady Elnora. Sweet, well-mannered, and conveniently harboring a quiet admiration for Phainon.

The plan was simple: slip the potion into his drink, then let nature take its course.

You prepared everything, waiting for the perfect moment.

But as you would soon learn—nothing ever went as planned when it came to Phainon.

Slipping the potion into his drink was the easy part.

A gathering had been arranged that evening—a small banquet among the nobles. Phainon, of course, had dragged you along, refusing to let you out of his sight.

You’d use it to your advantage.

While he was distracted speaking to his father, you subtly poured the shimmering liquid into his goblet. It dissolved instantly, leaving no trace.

Now, all you had to do was steer him toward Lady Elnora.

As planned, you struck up a conversation with her, making sure Phainon was close enough to notice.

She was warm, polite, charming. Exactly the type he should fall for.

And then—he turned toward her. His blue eyes softened.

It was working.

You let out a slow breath, feeling something close to relief. Finally, freedom.

But just as quickly, that relief vanished.

Because instead of stepping closer to Elnora—he turned back to you.

With the same, unwavering obsession in his gaze.

He reached out, his fingers grazing yours with sickening devotion.

"You look beautiful tonight" he murmured, voice softer than it had ever been.

The potion had worked.

But not on Elnora.

It had made him fall even harder for you.

Panic shot through you like lightning.

Without thinking, you shoved Phainon away.

His eyes widened slightly, but he barely stumbled. Before he could react further, you turned on your heel and ran.

You needed space. Distance. Sanity.

Your feet carried you through the halls, past startled nobles and confused servants. You didn't stop until you reached the room of the cursed girl.

The air inside was thick with lingering magic, but her condition was nearly resolved. The spell you had been working on was almost done.

Good. The sooner you finished, the sooner you could leave.

You didn’t dare return to your room.

Not when Phainon was undoubtedly searching for you.

So, for the next few days, you did your best to avoid him entirely.

You switched locations frequently, using whatever magic you could to mask your presence. The palace was vast, but not vast enough when the crown prince himself was actively hunting you down.

Every time you turned a corner, you half-expected him to be there—waiting.

The potion would wear off eventually. It had to.

Until then, you just had to stay hidden.

When the effects of the potion finally faded, you cautiously emerged from hiding.

You expected Phainon to come storming after you the moment his mind cleared. Maybe demand an explanation, maybe double down on his obsession.

But what you didn’t expect—

Was to find him collapsed in the bath.

His silver-white hair floated in the water, his breathing uneven. His usually sharp, possessive gaze was absent, unfocused.

With a sigh, you pulled him out of the bath, his body unnervingly cold.

Dragging him to a nearby chair, you grabbed a towel and started drying his hair with little patience. "You really don’t make things easy, do you?"

Phainon didn’t respond right away.

Once you were sure he wasn’t about to collapse again, you leaned back. "The curse is nearly lifted. A few finishing touches, and I’m done."

His blue eyes, now clearer, met yours.

"And once that’s over, I’m leaving."

Phainon blinked slowly, as if his mind was still catching up.

Then, he exhaled sharply. “...Leaving?”

You crossed your arms, leveling him with a firm look. “Yes. That was always the plan.”

His grip on the towel tightened. “And if I say I won’t allow it?”

You scoffed. “Then I’d say that’s not your choice to make.”

“We’ll see about that.”

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t engage further.

Instead, you turned to leave.

You had work to finish. And if he wanted to fight you on this?

Let him try.

----

You didn’t expect the cursed girl to bolt the moment she was free.

But the second the last traces of magic dissolved, she barely spared you a glance before sprinting out the door, fear in her eyes.

Weird. But not your problem anymore.

What was your problem, however, was what happened later.

You had been watching from a distance, blending into the crowd as Phainon stood before the entire kingdom.

Then, he spoke. Loudly. Boldly.

"I declare myself the right-hand man of the wizard!" His voice echoed through the square. "And with their power beside me, I shall take over the kingdom!"

You went full mode: WHAT.

The crowd erupted into chaos. Nobles paled. The king and queen looked moments away from passing out.

And Phainon? Phainon looked entirely too pleased.

Without thinking, you stormed forward, pushing through the gasping spectators.

You reached him just as he lifted his sword—probably seconds away from actually beheading someone.

“NOPE.”

You grabbed him, yanking him back before he could do something irreversible.

Because clearly—this man had lost his mind.

The teleportation spell worked—kind of.

Instead of your current home, you landed in your old one.

Dust floated in the air, untouched furniture sitting exactly as you had left it. Clearly, something had gone wrong with the spell, but that didn’t matter right now.

What did matter was the crazy man in front of you.

Phainon stumbled slightly from the sudden shift, but instead of looking confused or angry—

He grinned.

“Running away with me?” he mused, tilting his head. “How romantic.”

“You absolute lunatic.”

The fight had been explosive.

"You have no idea what you just did!" you had shouted.

Phainon, still ridiculously pleased with himself, had only smirked. "On the contrary, I knew exactly—"

You had silenced him with a spell, shoved a leaf in his mouth, tied him up, and gagged him with another cloth for good measure. Then, with a deep breath, you transformed into him.

The plan? Fix this mess.

You returned to the kingdom, adopting his mannerisms, his voice, his smirk. Before the stunned court, you apologized, claiming you had been forced under a spell.

It was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

His parents, their expressions unreadable, finally spoke. "We have no such son."

Oh.

Then came the swords. The arrows.

Instinct kicked in—you cast a defensive spell without thinking.

The room gasped.

And just like that, Phainon had magic in their eyes.

Now the kingdom believed their once-beloved prince was a wizard.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

So, you did the only logical thing.

You ran.

Back to where you had left the real Phainon.

You yanked the cloth away and retrieved the leaf from his mouth.

Before you could step back, he bit your ring finger.

You hissed, but before you could retaliate, he simply smirked.

“That’s like a wedding ring” he mused, tone infuriatingly casual. “For you.”

You nearly punched him.

Instead, you shook your hand free. "No. Absolutely not. And you are not coming with me, either."

He tilted his head. "Unless—" he dragged out the word, voice full of mock innocence.

"Unless you want me to return to the palace," he continued smoothly. "Start a little wizard hunt. Maybe collect a few as slaves."

Your jaw tightened.

"They’ll blame you, not me," he added, watching you. "You did impersonate me, after all."

He was baiting you. And worse—he wasn’t bluffing.

You barely had time to react when the door slammed open.

A ragged figure stumbled inside, looking around like a starving beggar.

You froze. “Princess?”

She barked a laugh. “Hell no.”

Your stomach dropped as she grinned, eyes glinting with something wild.

“Ahh, Prince Phainon” she drawled, turning to him. “Lemme tell you a secret. I ain’t no princess.”

Then she spilled everything.

Phainon. The curse. His plan.

You turned to him, “Is that true?”

Before he could answer, the girl suddenly lunged, a dagger flashing in her hand.

Snap

Her body slumped to the floor.

Phainon flexed his fingers, watching her lifeless form. Then, he turned to you with an easy, unbothered smile.

“Oops,” he said. “Sorry to let you witness that.”

You shoved Phainon aside, heart pounding as you crouched beside the girl.

No pulse. Dead.

Phainon stretched, completely unfazed. “Well,” he mused, “you can kill me, if you’d like. As long as it’s you, I don’t mind.”

You barely processed his words before—footsteps.

People. Coming closer.

You forced yourself to stand, hands trembling as you muttered the teleportation spell. The air around you twisted—

Then, darkness.

You woke up days later.

The scent of food. Soft sheets. A familiar ceiling.

Your house.

And Phainon, sitting comfortably nearby—completely at home.

You blinked blearily as Phainon extended a plate of food toward you. “You should eat,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “You were out for days.”

You took the plate, but your gaze narrowed. “You’re still here.”

He smiled, completely unashamed. “Of course. You’re here.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up. “I should just use you as a specimen” you muttered. “A homeless like you would be perfect for wizard experiments.”

His eyes lit up. “Gladly.”

Fine. You’d call his bluff.

With a flick of your fingers, a dagger flew from a nearby table into your grasp. You grabbed his hand. “Alright,” you said coolly. “I’ll cut your finger off for a potion. Deal?”

Phainon’s grin widened.

“That would be amazing,” he murmured, leaning his finger in closer. “As long as I can stay by your side.”

Without hesitation, you brought the dagger down.

A sharp slice.

His ring finger hit the floor.

Phainon barely flinched. His breathing hitched—eyes widening in thrill rather than pain—but he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a breathy chuckle.

"Ah…" He stared at his bleeding hand, then at you, voice soft with awe. "You really did it."

You ignored him. Carefully, you picked up the severed finger.

But instead of using it for a potion, you placed it in a jar, sealing it tight.

"You're keeping it?"

"If you ever turn your back on me" you murmured, "I’ll make you suffer in the worst way possible."

He exhaled, almost giddy. "That just makes me want to stay by your side even more."

You sighed, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it against his bleeding hand.

Phainon didn’t flinch.

“You really are kind”

You scoffed, tying the cloth tighter just to make him wince. “Don’t mistake this for kindness.”

He only laughed.

The room fell into silence as you finished dressing his wound. When you finally let go of his hand, he didn’t move away.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling.

“You can stay.”

His eyes brightened.

Whatever this scenario was—whatever twisted bond had formed between you and Phainon—you knew one thing.

It wouldn’t end anytime soon.

[thanksbutno98]

Fallout

John Price x wife!reader OC

Summary: John Price faces the fallout with his wife after missing his youngest child’s birth.

Warnings: NSFW, angst, smut, porn with plot, barley a lactation kink¿, makeup sex, talks of divorce, mentions of child birth, domestic arguments, not edited.

——————

A ringing took over John Prices ears like it had many times before. It was the same high pitched squeal he heard after a close call near one of Soaps explosives or when he’d cracked his head off the side of an armored vehicle while in a brawl.

His icy blue eyes were unblinking and fixed on the brown carpet underneath his military grade dusty boots. Hunched over he had his elbows resting on his knees and hat placed on the side table next to him. The noises around him seemed to be drowned out by this ringing as John’s brain tried to work out what he had just heard.

“John?” Finally the voice who had now repeated his name for a third time broke through.

Lifting his head up John’s gaze fell on the woman who sat in front of him. She was medium build with black springy curls and tan skin. Dr. Valdez was staring through her thick rectangular glasses expecting a response. John only stared at her blankly, no emotion peaking through which the doctor found unusual. With a measured sigh she shook her head and glanced down at her notes, then back up at the man dressed in camouflage cargo pants and a fitted beige quarter zip.

“Your wife just told you she thought about leaving you. And you have no response?” There was the ringing in his ears again.

Hearing those words come from your lips had to be his mind playing tricks on him. But now, hearing your couples therapist repeat it; that meant you had truly uttered those words. That you, the love of John’s life, had contemplated leaving him.

Glancing from the corner of his eye John could see you wiping your nose with a tissue, unable to look in his direction. John’s ears tuned in again and he could hear your sniffles and choked breath as you tried not to sob. It was then that he realized his lack of response might only be hurting you more. So he tried to come up with anything to say.

“What is there to say?” John unclasped his hands for a second, unintentionally dismissing the truth you had just so painfully shared.

“There should be plenty to say. How does that make you feel, John?” Dr Valdez asked only for silence to envelope the room. So she continued.

“Your wife is crying. She’s clearly very upset and just told you that you missing your daughter’s birth was so hurtful she thought about leaving.” Hearing this again was testing John’s patience.

John felt blindsided, ambushed. How could he talk about this when he had no time to process it? How could he talk to you about it with a stranger involved? It felt like an invasion of privacy or a breach of trust. It was all too much and part of him knew he deserved to be held accountable but the other truly resented you for even thinking that way. In this heart wrenching moment John felt you were trying to hurt him just as much as he hurt you as payback. Although this was far from the truth.

“You don’t need to keep saying it.” John snapped back, unable to hide the nasty look he had cast at the therapist.

“You’re upset?” Dr Valdez asked.

“I’m-“ John paused, biting his tongue before it betrayed him. He was angry, feeling spiteful and wanting to say something equally as hurtful.

“Yes, I’m upset.” With a frustrated sigh John sat up straight, ran his right hand down his face, then leaned back into the couch you were both sitting on.

“Could you explain what you’re upset about?” These questions were driving John mad. Wasn’t it obvious?

He felt pushed to have his thoughts figured out so quickly. What he wasn’t understanding was this was an open conversation to talk about things. He wasn’t on trial or needing to have the perfect response. The therapist was here to facilitate a clear line of communication between you two since you hadn’t been communicating at all on this subject.

“Y/N wants to leave me. Are we going to act like we didn’t see that coming? She’s always hated my job because it gets in the way of. . . Life, I guess. I knew it would amount to her leaving so yeah, I’m upset. I’m upset because I thought I’d have more time before she walked away.” Showing his hurt and emotion was hard for John, so like always he lead with anger.

“See it coming!? That’s a bullshit response and you know it John.” You snapped at him utterly offended and with big tears in your eyes.

Never once in your entire marriage did you show a single sign of wanting to split up. John saying this only added to your hurt, like you were some heartless woman who had one foot out the door this entire time. As if you had some blame to take in this situation when in actuality he was the one to put work above you and your daughter’s health and well being. For John to say you would be the one to leave was beyond hurtful.

To you John was the one who left and he left often to potentially get blown up halfway across the world. You stayed home and took care of your family. And when he came home you took care of him, supported him, loved him with all your heart. But it wasn’t enough to keep him home for the birth of your daughter.

“Now, let’s keep the profanities out of this. John’s sharing his feelings and thoughts. That’s what you’ve been asking for, right?” Dr. Valdez put her hand out signaling you to calm down.

“Yeah, but not like that.” You blurted out.

You had just shared the most vulnerable aspect of what John missing Lily’s birth did to you. For the first time you had truly contemplated if your marriage would survive. Talking about it here was suppose to help you feel better but it had you feeling even more wounded by John’s response.

“Let’s allow John the space to say what’s on his mind so we can work through this together. He’s had very little time to process what you just told him.” She stopped you but you felt yourself bristle up and reacted how you expected John to, with anger.

“No. He left me 9 months pregnant and only gave me five minutes to work through it before he was out the door. I always have to put up with his leaving and sometimes theres no return date. He doesn’t get to have all this time to figure things out, it’s not fair.” You took a steadying breath trying to stop yourself from bursting into tears or throwing the decorative pillow next to you at John.

“I’m going home.” You stood from your spot on the opposite end of the couch as John. Wiping your eyes and tears streaked cheeks you walked across the room to the door and exited without glancing back.

“See what I’m dealing with.” John motioned to the door and looked at the therapist. Dr Valdez looked at John completely unimpressed.

“I don’t think that’s helpful.” She shot down John’s snarky comment.

“Well, I should go after her.” Clapping his hands against his knees John stood and grabbed his hat.

“John, can I give you some advice, not as a therapist?” Dr Valdez asked, also standing. John nodded not really sure how she could help. In his opinion these sessions only stirred up more trouble for him at home.

“Love her through this. If you wall up or get angry now it’s going to push her away and build even more resentment. Then she really might leave.” Patting John’s shoulder he looked down at his feet and then nodded.

You leaving was the absolute last thing he wanted.

John exited the office and went down to the parking garage where his truck was. To his surprise you weren’t there. Walking over to the opening that looked over the surrounding area John spotted you walking down the street, well more like storming.

“So bloody stubborn and proud. She’s going to walk home.” John spoke to himself in utter disbelief.

Blinking a few times John scratched the back of his head before he hopped in the truck to go get you. He rehearsed what he should say to try an convince you to get in. John knew his hard headed wife could be even more stubborn than him at times so it would be a challenge to get you to ride home with him.

Pulling up next to you John rolled down the passenger side window to get a better look at you.

“You really going to walk the whole way home?” John called to you but you didn’t bother to look at him.

Functioning from your emotions wasn’t how you normally worked. You tried your hardest to be reasonable and rational especially around John. He was a man who didn’t tend to function from an emotional place unless anger decided to rear its head.

You were consumed with anger and felt yourself reacting in a way you normally scolded your husband for. But for once you didn’t feel like being introspective. Your hurt was deep and raw enough you finally didn’t care how it affected the great Captain Price. He missed your daughter’s birth. That was a fact and there was no easy fix. You were allowing yourself to not hide how damaging it was for him to put work above you over and over. Now it had truly gone too far.

“Darling, please get in. We don’t have to speak. It’s getting late and I don’t want you walking home in the dark by yourself.” John pleaded with you. His eyes continued to glance at the road as he slowly followed next to you.

“Oh so now you care!” You snapped, eyes filled with a fiery rage John wasn’t accustom to.

“Of course I care. Please get in.” John asked again trying to be as sweet as possible.

“No. I don’t want to be around you.” You continued to walk down the street getting odd glances from passerby’s as you were being followed by your husband’s truck.

John let out a frustrated huff at how stubborn you could be. Pulling over he threw the car in park and swiftly got out and went after you. Jogging down the street John watched you from behind storming in the wrong direction from home. Grasping you lightly by the elbow John took a step back as you whipped around and stepped toward him like you were ready to fight.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me ever again!” You hissed in his face. John had his hands by his shoulder silently telling you he meant no harm.

Without a word he dangled the car keys in front of you as a silent offer. You watched as the silver keychain he bought you when you were dating shone in the street laps warm glow. It was a silver dog tag with both your names and your old anniversary date from before you had gotten married; he had it custom made. The memory of him giving it to you and how loving and sweet the gesture was made you angrier. That man back then would have never left you in the lurch. But this version of him, that stood in front of you had, and it made everything hurt all that more.

Snatching the keys from his large hand you pushed past him and went over to the truck. It felt just that you got to drive home and John was left to walk. To you it was a punishment and what he deserved. So you got into his truck and left him there. Maybe being left behind would have him feeling a fraction of the abandonment he left you feeling all those months ago.

——————

Walking into your bedroom John found it empty to his surprise. The kids were already tucked in and asleep when John arrived home hours later. It took him over two hours to walk all the way home and it gave him time to think; but more importantly it gave him time to cool off from being mad.

Checking the bathroom John found it empty too. Quietly John exited your room and went to check Lily’s nursery thinking you must be nursing her. Opening the door John’s chest felt strange. It felt like a void opened up seeing you asleep on the floor of Lily’s nursery. You had found an old sleeping bag and took your pillow with you. Lily was sound asleep on her tummy with her bum in the air. She looked like a little ball in her cream colored sleep sack.

This moment felt similar to John offering you the car keys. He would much rather be the one to sleep on the floor while you got to sleep in a comfortable bed. Much like he willingly chose to walk home and give you the truck instead. To him maybe the little digs and punishments would add up enough that you could forgive him. Or maybe it would help him make peace with what he had done.

Slowly coming into the nursery John crouched down and went to pick you up like he had a hundred times. He had carried you to bed more times than he could count from the couch and this felt no different. As soon as his hands began to slip underneath you, you startled awake. It happened so fast but you pushed John off of you causing him to loose his balance and plop back on his bum. You were puffing out ragged breaths clearly startled and eyes wide. John expected the normal barrage of apologies from you for startling like that but they didn’t come. You had always been jumpy.

“What did I say about touching me.” You quietly hissed trying not to wake up your four month old.

“I was going to carry you to bed.” John said simply, not making a move to stand up.

“If I wanted to sleep in bed I would’ve locked you out.” Again another venomous remark.

“Why are you sleeping in here then?” Dumbstruck John asked.

You two were both speaking in a hushed tone as you sat on the nursery floor.

“Because you may have left me all alone but I got the most beautiful baby and I just want to be near her.” You wanted to say these words with just as much anger but it fell off half way through. Saying the word ‘baby’ had you breaking, the words becoming shaky.

Lily had become your comfort through the abandonment John left you with. For months instead of acknowledging your hurt you poured love into your new addition to the family. She was perfect and had done nothing to deserve her father missing her first moments in life. So you overcompensated with love and iced John out.

Casting your eyes down to your lap your fingers curled into the nylon of the sleeping bag. Clenching your teeth tightly the hot tears ached behind your eyes and spilled down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry.” John went to wipe your tears away but stopped himself.

Not touching you was going to be hard. You had already been avoiding his touch for the last four months but now it was outright not allowed. You had been putting pillows between you both at night claiming you needed them for your back. Little attempts to peck your lips were avoided and John had only gotten the corner of your mouth but mostly your cheeks. You stopped cuddling on the couch and even turned him down to watch movies or television together.

Sex was completely off the table and the few times John tried to initiate it you told him your stitches were still healing; although that hadn’t been true for months. The lack of physical intimacy both sexual and non was what pushed John over the edge and had him finally agreeing to couples counseling. Not being able to hold you at night when he could hear you quietly crying or lace his fingers with yours as you walked down the street with your kids was torture.

“Should I leave you here then?” John asked as you continued to lightly cry into your hands.

“Please.” You croaked out.

John felt his own eyes begin to ache from how heavy his heart was becoming. Slowly John stood and made his way to the door. Stopping before he shut it behind him John took in the sight of you. Crumpled on the floor in front of your babies crib and crying into your hands. It broke his heart. All he wanted was to take this hurt away from you and he hated himself for being the one to inflict such heart ache on to the woman he loved most in this world.

“I love you.” John voice quivered as he spoke. Tears coming to his own eyes as he shut the door behind him not able to stay and wait for you to not say it back.

——————

“Are you sick daddy?” Evelyn asked from where she was sat at the kitchen table. She had an entire pancake on the end of her fork that she was eating bite by bite not wanting to put in the effort to cut it.

John had finally appeared much later than usual for breakfast. He had sat awake almost the entirety of the night. Television, reading, his phone, nothing helped get his mind off you sleeping in your youngest room. John eventually turned the lights out and laid down to hopefully force himself to sleep. To his dismay he ended up staring at the ceiling with his mind racing until 6am. By the time he finally fell asleep his alarm clock went off an hour later and he hit snooze until 8am.

John didn’t know if you would want to see him at breakfast so he chose to shower and try to stay out of your hair for as long as possible. Walking into the kitchen he saw Jj and Evelyn eating pancakes like they did most Sunday mornings. You were by the sink washing up with Lily in a baby carrier napping against your chest. John tried to give you a soft smile but it was obvious you were refusing to look at him. Coming over to you John came close but not enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Darling? I really think we need to talk.” John spoke softly so you could only hear him.

“About what? You leaving again?” Your words cut deep and you meant for them to.

“Dad’s leaving?” Jj asked seemingly distressed by the notion.

“I’m not leaving.” John was quick to set the record straight.

“If you need space I can stay at Sam’s.” John whispered to you.

Hearing that had you quickly looking over to your husband but he was already walking toward the backdoor. Him wanting to stay somewhere else had you instantly regretting being so hurtful. You didn’t want him gone or out of the house, but you understood why he thought that since you were using him as a verbal punching bag. You watched as he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and headed out.

“Where are you going? Can we come?” Evelyn asked John who gave her a genuine smile. It had been awhile since you saw that happy side of him.

“‘Course you two can. Finish up and meet me in the truck.” With a kind smile he turned to you and you watched that charming smile flatter. John nodded as a way to say goodbye and headed out the back door.

“That was weird.” Jj looked at you funny as he grabbed his plate and walked over to the sink to put it there.

“What was?” You asked giving your son a smile although you just wanted to curl up and cry.

“Dad didn’t kiss you or say bye.” Jj was as perceptive as always, picking up on the subtle things no matter how hard you tried to hide them.

“Did he not?” You feigned ignorance trying to make things seem like they were no big deal.

“Mum?” Jj asked coming closer to you and slipping his hand into yours.

“Yeah?” You asked seeing his father’s eyes as he looked up at you.

“When are you and dad going to be normal again? Or is this what happens when people have babies?” Jj asked in a hushed voice. He didn’t want his sister noticing the odd behavior he had been witness to the past few months.

“We’re working on it. But don’t you worry yourself.” There was no point in lying to your son. He was too perspective for his age and he would be able to tell if you lied to him; and that wasn’t a way to build trust.

It hurt you to your core that Jj had picked up on the turmoil between you and John. The fact he thought it might have something to do with having a baby made you wonder how long he had noticed this fissure.

“Okay.” Jj smiled softly, gave you a hug, then kissed Lily on the cheek.

“Bye mummy!” Evelyn ran up to the sink and put her plate in and then was running to the back door with Jj.

——————

“Where’s your dad?” You asked Evelyn and Jj as they came through the back door.

“He said he had to help Gaz with something.” Jj said as he kicked off his shoes.

They had been gone all day, even missed dinner. It left you alone in the house with just Lily. You thought John had taken the kids to spite you but it dawned on you that maybe he was giving you time to focus on Lily. After the previous night and you sleeping in her nursery it would make sense you might want some time to cherish her.

“Oh.” You whispered to yourself.

“Did you eat?” You asked watching as Evelyn bounced over to you.

“Yep! Daddy took us all around London today! We had so much fun!” Evelyn squealed. Hugging you around the middle then placing the fancy little red shopping bag on the counter.

“That’s from daddy.” She smiled hugging you again.

“Wished you could’ve come mum.” Jj smiled waving for Evelyn to follow him.

“C’mon, we promised dad we’d brush our teeth and go straight to bed.” With that reminder both your kids gave you a hug and kiss and went on their way.

“Goodnight mummy! Will you give me a kiss when you come upstairs?” Evelyn asked from halfway down the hall.

“Of course.” You called over your shoulder inspecting the little red paper bag.

It was finely made and had to be from an expensive store based off the quality. Opening it up you saw a ruby red square box sitting at the bottom. Taking the shiny expensive looking box out of the bag you slid the top off. Inside was a decadent sticky toffee pudding and you quickly grabbed the bag to check if it had a store name, and it did. It was the bakery you and John loved back when you were dating and living in that decrepit old flat. You were both so broke at the time you could only afford to stop there on special occasions or that time you won a raffle at work for free dessert. What caught your attention was that John remembered what you always got even though it had been almost ten years since you last went there.

The gesture was just as sweet as your first bite of that dessert. It had your mind replaying memories of times long past. Launching your sticking toffee pudding into the near by river was the memory that stuck out the most. Those days of a young lieutenant John Price so madly in love with you it was palpable at times. It turned the dessert bitter on your tongue. You missed those feelings and that kind of young love, how that man back then would have done anything for you.

——————

It was later than John ever came home. So late in fact you had given up and assumed he was staying somewhere else for the night. Him not telling you this had you wondering where he was sleeping and then feeling uneasy about him not coming home. The idea he was cheating crossed your mind for a second but then you felt like an idiot for even thinking that. John would never and you knew that.

But never before had you two been in a position like this. Where you admitted to him you thought about doing a trial separation because seeing him after he missed Lily’s birth was too difficult for you. You ultimately decided against it, loving your husband too much to ever be without him. Now you were still left with that hurt and had no way of truly dealing with it. Wondering now if telling John had caused him to go seek comforter in somebody else’s arms.

You had thought about it. Not cheating but being held and making love with the man John was before he hurt you this deeply.

Him giving you this space had you feeling strange. You’d realized how mean you’d been since your counseling session and wondered how he hadn’t gotten upset with you. It was hard because you were so hurt that you kept pushing him away with your actions and words. While he continued to be kind to you and love you through this. But all you wanted was to feel close to John again.

Laying in bed and staring over at his empty side of the bed it felt similar to when he was deployed and you were truly alone. The memories of your past hard times coming to mind and how they didn’t compare to this. You craved those days and the man John was before this happened.

You wanted to be held by your lover again. To be kissed by the man who chased after you to ask you to be his girlfriend. You wanted to be the mess of a woman you were the night he dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him. These moments were seared into your memory and when you thought of them and the hard times you were facing in those days they seemed to fade away and be replaced by this true sense of love and being loved.

Your mind continued to wander finding itself hooked on the idea of what it felt like to be loved like that. To be held tenderly in strong arms and shown physically how deeply John adored you as you made love. You missed that. It was ever present in those days of first dating, right after he proposed, and after you were married. You couldn’t remember the last time you two made love like that and when things had devolved into only having sex. There was no shame in it but you missed feeling cherished like that more so now because things had become so loveless.

You heard your bedroom door creak open quietly then followed by near silent foot steps as John came in. Sitting up you flicked on your lamp to see John looking at you in surprise. John was convinced you would be asleep by now which is why he came in at all.

“Where have you been?” You demanded to know.

“I wanted to give you space.” John looked tired and you picked up on how he didn’t answer the question. You watched as he tossed his wallet on to his dresser and then rooted through it to grab pajamas. Soon he was heading for the door.

“Where are you going?” You asked again.

“Sleep on the couch.” John didn’t bother turning to look at you as he tried to leave.

“Wait.” You spoke abruptly.

Turning, John saw you staring at him with those big bright eyes he’d fallen madly in love with over a decade ago. You looked different than you had earlier, it seemed the anger had finally left you.

“I want you to kiss me. Like you did when you asked me to be your girlfriend.” It was embarrassing, to ask your husband this and part of you wondered if he even knew what you meant by it.

Your request had John stilling. An uncertainty clutching his chest as to why now you wanted him. It had been so long since he last kissed you, fully kissed you like he meant it. The idea of getting to do that again had John speeding past the alarm bells going off in his head and ready to feel you under his finger tips again.

John slowly came over to your king sized bed. Kneeling on it, he made his way to you and crowded your space. Taking his right hand he laced it through your hair with confidence, his fingers tugging at the roots and pulling your head back with little force. It was possessive, like he was of you at that time in your lives. John pressed his lips to yours firmly and held you right where he wanted and yours moved along with the same hungry intention. It felt familiar and tasted of your past desire for the young Lieutenant. Your lips slotted together and moved in tandem as a heat began to build between you both. It was desire that started to flood your veins and it felt addictive in this moment. You felt young again for a second and wanted to chase after that feeling and leave behind who you were.

Pulling away John looked at you closely, trying to figure out what was going on in your head.

“Now kiss me like you did when you asked me to marry you.” The words were just above a whisper and John’s mind wandered to the young woman you were that early morning.

You had been crying because you so desperately wanted a family with him but he had been on the fence about having children, thus keeping him from proposing. John remembered how he planned on proposing the following week but ditched his original plans because in that moment he knew you couldn’t wait another second on his account. He loved you so much he wanted to wash those tears away and he did. He dropped to one knee in a puddle and asked you to be his one early morning in the misty rain.

John didn’t kiss you this time. He leaned in close and hugged you like he had done that early morning. Holding you close John felt that young woman in his arms again and just like then you began to cry. Only this time it wasn’t because you were excited to start a family and life together. You were mourning the loss of trust and wishing you could go back to these moments when life didn’t seem all that bad compared to now.

John slowly pulled away to wipe your tears but you didn’t give him the chance. Wrapping your arms around his neck you kissed him desperately. Pulling him closer you were soon lying on your back with John hovering over you, tears still streaming down your face. It took him off guard to have you making out with him and pulling him in to you with lustful intentions. Breaking away John was surprised to see you chasing after his lips.

“Darling, we’ve gone from me not touching you to this. Are you sure?” John was a bit breathless as he asked. Apprehension was taking over not sure how things had changed for you so quickly. He wanted this, craved your body but mainly he longed for your love.

“I want to feel you again. Like we use to. Before everything fell apart.” The admission made John’s heart still.

This was you coping. Not what he thought it was. John was hoping you were reaching out to him because you missed him and wanted his comfort as the man he was today. But you wanted reminders of the past, something to pacify you tonight to hopefully make the pain go away.

“I-I’m going to go sleep on the couch.” Slowly John slipped from your arms and got out of bed. He could see the devastation in your eyes immediately, not being use to rejection from him.

“Please, John.” You sat up clutching your comforter to your chest. Pleading eyes were fixed on your husband as he slipped out of bed and grabbed his pajamas.

“What you’re asking for isn’t something I want. I’m sorry.” Apologizing felt pointless in a moment like this.

Rejecting your advances now of all times felt cruel but John couldn’t go from how you two had been to shagging like you did when you were younger. It was a way to ignore the now and drown out what was going on in your lives.

“Please.” You begged again, desperate to feel anything besides the crushing weight of abandonment.

“I want to be enough now. And we’ll get there eventually. But let’s not do this thing where we pretend. It’s only going to hurt more.” John admitted to you not able to give you what you wanted.

It hurt just as deeply as everything else did to hear that.

“Okay.” Nodding your head you reached over and turned off your lamp, the room now shrouded in darkness.

“I love you, John.” You spoke with certainty as your bedroom door opened.

“I love you too.” And with that your door clicked shut.

——————

The smell of fried onions was what woke John up, the sound of sizzling soon followed. It’s was a symphony to John and it culminated in the familiar feeling of being home. But then his mind caught up to him and he was soon reminded of the turmoil in your marriage.

Taking a centering breath John tossed off his blanket and got up from the couch. He was dressed in black sweat pants and a blue athletic t-shirt. He took the time to fix the couch back up to normal and put his blanket back in the chest that sat on the right side of the room.

John wondered what you were making this morning and if you would be making enough for him. Yesterday he didn’t want to test the waters and decided to go out early to eat. It was nice having the kids tag along for the day it made everything feel a lot better.

Walking into the kitchen he expected to see his family all sat at the kitchen table ready to eat but he only found you at the stove. Instantly John thought you let the kids sleep in. To John’s shock he watched as you turned to look at him with a shy smile. You weren’t ignoring him anymore.

“I made your favorite.” Your eyes fell to the plate in your hands and John saw you had made a full English breakfast for him.

“Thank you.” John’s words were barely audible, a tight lipped smile gracing his bearded face.

It was strange feeling this uncomfortable around one another. You attributed it to your inability to treat John with love and care and instead allowed your anger to get the better of you. John didn’t know what to expect from you. It was like emotional whiplash constantly and he was exhausted but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying to fix things.

“Where are the kids?” John looked around and then back at you.

“My dad took Jj and Evie for the day and Lily’s with your sister.” Your eyes scanned John’s face trying to read any emotion he might show you, but he stayed stoic.

“Calling in all the favors.” It was an attempt at humor but you both awkwardly stood in your kitchen.

The silence was deafening and you wanted this weird tension to end between you two. It almost felt easier being angry because seeing how uncomfortable you made John was causing you to look inward at your actions. And you could see how horrible you’d been.

“Eat. We can talk when you’re finished.” It felt forced but you pushed your hands out and offered John the plate of food. It was your lame attempt of winning him over which you knew was far from enough.

John wasn’t particularly hungry but no part of him could reject you for a second time. Nodding a silent ‘thank you’ in your direction John took the plate and sat down at the kitchen table. He quietly ate and watched as you cleaned up the kitchen, the both of you staying silent.

Eventually he had finished his food and you were now sitting at the kitchen table together. With two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits between you both you tried to make this as comfortable as possible.

“I’m sorry about last night. I’m embarrassed for the way I acted.” You opened up the conversation having been plagued by your behavior. The anger was easier for you to stomach than being desperate for sex and being rejected for having impure intentions.

“Don’t be. You wanted to forget for a moment. I can understand that.” You could see the pain in John’s icy eyes. He was a clever man and it was no surprise he had figured out what was going on last night without having to talk about it.

There was a long lapse of silence that you tried to fill by taking a sip of your tea. John sat silent looking off into the distance while he stirred his tea.

“I’m still so angry at you and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to move on or forgive you.” Instead of beating around the bush you decided to get straight to the point.

“You can be angry at me for however long you need. I’ll always regret my decision and be sorry for leaving you in such a vulnerable time.” John couldn’t get himself to look at you.

The shame he felt reached down to his very core and he didn’t think he was deserving of forgiveness. The hard truth he realized on his walk home yesterday was that you had every right to leave him for what he had done. Any sane person would have. But you were still here and he didn’t understand why.

“Why did you do it? I know worked called and they said you had to. . . But why? Why didn’t you say ‘no my wife’s due any day’?” It was a question you had been asking yourself and you racked your brain endlessly wondering why John didn’t push back on his orders.

John stared down at his hands, scared the truth would only upset you more.

“Please tell me John and be honest.” With pleading eyes you begged for John to be honest.

“I thought we had time. Your due date was far enough away I thought I could make it back. I thought. . . I thought I could make everything work out and wouldn’t lose my job and still be there for you. . . Clearly I was wrong.” You could hear the pain in John’s voice as he admitted his intentions. How he thought he could have the best of both worlds but ended up failing you.

“Your jobs that important.” It was meant as a question but came out as a statement. Because this was fact to you.

“I can’t just not show up. You know that’s not how this works.” John tried to reason only to be given a nasty look.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. What happens when I need you or the kids need you and work comes up again? You going to leave us all in the lurch?” The meanness was coming back as you felt anger spike your veins.

“I don’t know.” John practically blurted out feeling under pressure. He normally functioned well under pressure but this wasn’t the kind he was use to. Having to answer to you about how he failed and abandoned you was becoming too much.

“You don’t know? John that’s not good enough.” You pushed even more watching as John seemed almost panicked to have the right answers.

“I promise I’ll make things work, you just have to trust me.” John hated the way you looked at him. The trust from before was absent and he felt desperate to have your loving gaze back on him.

“I don’t know if I trust you like that anymore.” You couldn’t look John in the eyes as you told him that. Hearing that made his ears ring like they had when you admitted to thinking about leaving him.

“Let me build that trust back up. I know I can’t do it in a day or even a year. But please, let me show you because that’s all I can do. It’ll just take time.” Hesitating to take your hand John pushed past being uncomfortable about touching you. So he took the risk and lightly took your hand. It felt nice to not be pushed away and you willingly held his hand too.

“Time.” You nodded being able to stomach that this might be able to fix itself with John’s efforts and a ticking clock.

“I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much and I want you to hold me and love me with everything you have. But from one moment to the next I go from that to being so hurt and upset I could throttle you. It doesn’t feel fair to pull you close and then push you away.” This was the biggest thing you had been struggling with in your journey to forgive John.

“And that’s why you wanted to separate?” John asked, having never heard the true reason. It hurt him to even admit to himself you had those intentions.

“I thought about it because I didn’t want to be around you at first. But then I realized having you gone was so much worse. I was hurt and was trying to figure out anything to make myself feel better.” As hard as it was to have this conversation it was long overdue. You had been avoiding talking about it for months only bringing it up in couples counseling.

“Did you really consider it?” John asked his hand tightening in yours.

“Yeah, at the start before you had come home I did. But then you held Lily and I knew in that moment I couldn’t do it. I needed you just as much as she does.” Pressing your lips into a firm line you willed yourself to stop crying. It seemed that was all you could do most days now.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ever put you in a situation like that. You went through it all alone and I should’ve been there. You must have been so scared.” The words came tumbling out as John tried his damndest to hold himself accountable. It was all for your sake and he was ready to truly hear what his absence had done to you.

“I was.” You admitted and finally broke into sobs.

——————

“Dads suppose to be here.” Jj grumbled as he tied up his cleats. You were crouched in front of your son with Lily on your hip while you gave him a pep talk before he joined his football team for his match tonight.

“Focus on the match. You’ve still got me and your sisters in the stands.” Ruffling your son’s hair he rolled his eyes and jogged off towards his team to do warm ups.

With a heavy sigh you made your way back to Evelyn who was playing with your phone in the bleachers. She had roped the man sitting next to her into helping her with the phone game. You awkwardly apologized and reminded your eldest daughter not to talk to strangers. She cheekily asked how she was suppose to make friends then. You took your seat and plopped Lily in your lap as you waited for your son’s championship game to start.

John had been roped into another assignment at work and was off to God knows where last week. It was tough having him leave, it had those old resentful feelings cropping up again but he was very understanding about them. Giving you space when you needed it and showing you love when you asked. Jj was extremely upset because he knew his dad would miss his big match. To your surprise John promised he’d be there before even checking with work. You didn’t believe him but you weren’t going to tell anyone that.

“Fuck, sorry, excuse me. Sorry.” John’s voice stuck out amongst the chatter around you.

Your head snapped in the direction of his gravely tone and you saw John making his way to your seats. He was still dressed in his military attire; beige cargo pants, and a fleece army green quarter zip with a collar. He had ditched the hat showing off how his hair had gotten a bit longer and his beard was starting to get over grown.

“Didn’t save me a seat?” John’s smile was bright as he pointed to either side of you because there was no room for him amongst the other spectators.

You could only blink at him, words caught in your throat. John was right you didn’t save him a seat because you didn’t think he would make it. It didn’t seem to upset him there was no seat. John simply picked up Evelyn who squeaked and hugged him and plopped her in his lap so you could all sit together. Evelyn introduced John to her new friend and the two men hit it off once they realized they were both Liverpool fans. You sat there quietly playing with Lily’s hair. Your heart thumped loudly and you felt your heart swell that John was sat next you, his broad shoulder bumping into you every so often as he chatted.

“Didn’t think I’d make it?” John leaned over and whispered in your ear. He then placed a welcoming kiss to your cheek.

You could only smile at him in surprise, your head nodding, confirming his suspicion.

“Good, I’ll keep proving you wrong.” With a cocky grin John turned his attention to the match that was just beginning.

It was hard to keep your eyes on your son’s game when you had John sitting next to you. Continuously you were glancing at him and a few times you brushed your hand over his forearm or thigh to check if he was real. You wanted to scream out in joy that he made it but also keep yourself from getting to excited because if he disappointed you later it would hurt more.

Jj was ecstatic when he saw John at the end of the match. Babbling on and on about winning and if John saw how well he played. It made your heart swell to see your husband cheer Jj on from the stands and walk with his arm around the young boy as you all made your way to the cars. Jj asked to ride with John to the restaurant he chose and you all headed out.

John took notice to your soft gaze on him all of dinner and the little comment you made of wishing you had all taken one car. To him that meant you wanted to be around him and that was a step in the right direction.

Once home John helped with the nighttime routine and got the kids down to bed easily. Soon enough he was showering in your bathroom leaving you to your own devices in your shared bedroom. Listening to the sound of the shower you looked through your pajama drawer trying to figure out what to wear. Normally you threw whatever was easiest on but tonight you wanted to feel pretty. Because tonight you found yourself craving John like you use to. The only thing holding you back was how he had turned you down the last time you tried to initiate sex.

Taking out the silk night dress you knew John loved you slipped into it and ditched your bra and panties. Taking a moment you admired how the powder blue fabric looked amazing on your skin and the white lace spaghetti straps and bottom of the skirt accented the piece nicely. It was on the short side and came down to just above mid thigh and cinched at the curve of your figure.

The sound of the shower turning off had you quickly dashing toward the mirror. Pulling your hair out of the ponytail you had it in, you quickly played with your hair to make it fall in a way the framed your face nicely. Taking a deep breath you nodded at yourself finding the bravery to try and seduce your husband after five months of keeping him away.

Stepping out of the bathroom in just his boxer briefs John was ready to settle into bed and hopefully get to hold you as he drifted off to sleep. To his surprise he found you lounged back on his side of the bed in that little nightgown that drove him mad.

With wide blue eyes John’s gaze wandered up the exposed skin of your legs, admired your pert nipples through the silk fabric and the settled on the shy smile gracing your beautiful lips. He didn’t bother speaking because he knew you weren’t doing this to forget like you had before. You were laid out in front of him for the man he was now not who he use to be.

“Are you sure?” John checked in not wanting to read too much into things and make sure you were okay with him making advances toward you.

“I miss you. All of you. And I want you.” And with that response John was smiling softly at his very beautiful wife.

With that confident walk where his hips swayed you giggled lightly as John came over to you and crawled on top of you. You wiggled down the bed so you were lying flat with your head resting on his pillow. John hovered above you, hands on either side of your head and admired the way you stared back up at him. He had slotted one thigh between your legs and ever so gently leaned forward so the taunt muscle pressed against your pelvis giving you the option to grind down if you ever so pleased.

Lacing his finger through your hair John took in your features with care. He took notice of how time had aged you like fine wine. The wrinkles in your skin were barely present and they had amounted to cute laugh lines from the times you had shared together. Your eyes were just as bright as the day he met you. Moving slowly John focused on your plump lips and finally pressed his own against them.

It felt like sticking a fork in a wall socket.

Your whole body reacted as electricity shot through your veins. He tasted of younger years that had aged deliciously. No longer did you crave that young Lieutenant but were desperate for the man he had become. Your lips continued to move in tandem a heat building between you both. Pressing your hips skyward you ground your cunt against John’s bare toned thigh. The muscle was the perfect soft yet solid thing to press yourself against. The wiry hair of his thigh only added to the erotic pleasure that was building in your belly. Groaning softly John pulled away from the slow yet searing hot kiss to look down between you two.

“No knickers?” John breathed, his right hand coming down to your thigh and pushing the silky blue fabric up to pool above your hips.

The sight of your bare cunt grinding against his thigh had John ready to bust almost immediately. It had been five months since you two last had sex and it was finally occurring to him just how pent up he was.

“Fuckin’ Hell.” John muttered.

You watched as John continued to scan your body and you felt his apprehension. It made John seem stiff and unsure yet the way his eyes devoured you made you feel beautiful beneath his wandering eye. You knew instantly he didn’t want to push too hard too fast. So you helped him. Slipping the straps of your gown down you slid the fabric so it was now pooled around your waist, leaving your breasts exposed. They were full and larger from breast feeding and you knew how much John loved this part of having a baby. With a guttural groan John’s mouth was back on you. Hairy face shoved between the valley of your breasts and he sucked and nipped at the supple flesh. A light gasp was pulled from you feeling John suckle at your nipple.

“I need you John.” You whispered and your very attentive husband was springing into action.

Pulling away with a pop from your right nipple you watched John swallow the nectar he’d gotten from your full breasts. John’s hand grasped your hips and pulled you down the bed. He moved to be between your things and finally graced you with the sight of his pretty cock. It stood tall and it had been so long you swore you forgot how massive it was. John had tossed his boxers to the floor realizing this was the first time in a long time you admired his naked form. Leaning forward John positioned himself over you and locked eyes, searching yours for reassurance. He wanted you more than anything but did not want to make you feel that you couldn’t back out now.

“I’ve missed you. Please, John.” The breathy words had a small smile dusting John’s rugged features.

With matching love struck looks you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him close. His arms slid under your shoulder blades and hugged you his burly chest. The action had John slowly sliding in to your sopping wet warmth. Your velvety walls parted for him and wrapped him up just like you did in your arms. The stretch felt other worldly, a mix between pain and pleasure while your body adjusted to the intrusion. You could feel John’s cock head nudging at the deepest parts of you sending a shiver up your spine.

“You’re so beautiful.” John groaned into your ear. Settling his weight on you your bodies now flush together. The pressure of your lover above you and his body molded into yours was the perfect comfort as his hips slowly pistoned in and out of you.

“I love you. I love you so much. Fuck, you feel so good.” Your breathing was picking up as John spoke.

You couldn’t form words with the breath being pushed out of you with each slow measured thrust. It was sensual the way John moved. Earnestly trying to get as deep as possible while holding you tenderly, a focus on your pleasure and having you impossibly close. So close he could feel you under his skin, coursing through his veins, John wanted to be smothered by you.

“I love you. I absolutely adore you, darling.” Feeling John’s hot breath against your ear added to your desperation. His lips were kissing your neck, teeth every so often nipping at your earlobe.

The wiry chestnut hair of John’s chest rubbed against your breasts and his scratchy beard was leaving your skin raw on your shoulder and neck. His much large frame dwarfed you making feel small, safe, protected in his capable hands. It felt amazing having his muscular body pressed against you, you could hardly focus on his hips bucking into you. The pleasure was there but the comfort of being in John Price’s arms and feeling so loved was truly the better feeling.

John was mesmerized by the way you felt beneath his finger tips. How your finger nails scratched down his back, squeezed his ass when it felt particularly good for you. He thought he would only last a minute or two with how long it had been. But feeling you pliant beneath him, hugging him, holding him as close as physically possible, loving him in the most intimate way was intoxicating. You felt amazing around his cock but nothing compared to being loved by you in this moment.

He had missed you. From your touch to the way you smiled at him. Feeling how your love was returning to your marriage in a physical way was more of a relief than getting off ever could be. It meant John had done right by you. And that was the better feeling, now you shared that wrapped in each other’s arms.

“You’re mine? Always be mine?” The normally possessive statement became a question tonight. It was a plea for you to never leave and you both knew that.

“I’m yours. I’ll always be yours.” The confession had John’s lips crashing into yours, devouring your soft moans.

John’s pace picked up the both of you becoming desperate and losing yourselves in the pleasure. Pulling away only slightly a thin strand of saliva connected you as John rested his forehead against yours. With an adoring gaze you two stared into each other’s eyes both feeling the tension build and build until you teetered on the edge of your climax. You loved the way John’s pupils ate up almost all of the gorgeous icy blue of his eyes. While John was lost in your bright eyes that had become hooded with pleasure while his hips moved faster and rougher.

“I’m so in love with you.” John confessed as if it were a sin to feel that way.

“John, oh fuck. God, I lo-” the words caught in your throat and you wanted to tell him you loved him too. But with the perfect snap of his hips rubbing against your clit for this long you finally came. Gasping and muscles tightening you moaned John’s name and chanted it like a mantra.

“Darling-“ John grunted, a shaky breath forcing itself from his lungs. You both maintained eye contact as you felt a warmth flood your quivering cunt. John’s body shook as his orgasm tore through his body, months of pent up sexual tension flooding into your pretty cunt. So much filled you it was leaking out of you with John still fully sheathed inside of you.

Catching your breath John settled against you making it hard to breathe, but you didn’t mind. Rubbing your hands up and down his back he squeezed you closer. Soon enough you both were lightly laughing and John was taking you with him while he rolled on to his back. With legs intertwined you soaked in this moment together never wanting it to end.

“You know I’ll always love you.” After speaking John placed a kiss to the crown of your head.

He loved this feeling of having you resting against his chest, sweaty and worn out from making love after so long. You both laid in the sticky mess you created and there was a silent communication after a shower you’d be changing the sheets. A year ago John took a moment like this for granted and after everything he would be cherishing you a lot more.

Playing with the tufts of hair on John’s bulging pectorals it felt like a daydream. You didn’t think you two would get to a place where you could enjoy each other again let alone make love. But here you were listening to the steady rhythm of his heart and feeling cherished in his strong arms. Having John show up and keep his promise was the first step toward healing. You thought back to how he told you it would take time and he was right. It left you excited to see him continue down this path for the sake of you and your family. Some may call you foolish for being so hopeful but maybe this was how trust was built.

“And I’ll always love you.”

——————

“Why are you so happy?” Evelyn was giving you a bratty look as you set out a huge breakfast for your family.

“Just am.” You smiled at the young girl who gave her father a funny look.

“What?” John asked around his fork as Evelyn looked at him skeptically.

“What are you so happy about?” She turned the question on to her father. You and John shared a look knowing exactly why you were both so happy.

After last night you woke up in the middle of the night and coaxed John awake for another go. Only this time you sat atop him and showered him with your love. Then this morning was a lot less about love and a whole lot more about getting your back blown out; but you weren’t complaining. In fact you egged John on to go harder the whole time.

“I’m happy to be home.” John fibbed. It wasn’t an outright lie he was truly happy to be home but his chipper mood was truly due to you.

“Yeah right! You’re way past normal happy. You’re Liverpool just won a match happy.” Leaning closer Evelyn narrowed her eyes trying to pick John apart. He could only lightly chuckle and go back to eating his breakfast.

“Well Jj did win his match last night. Can’t I be happy about that?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow at his very suspicious daughter.

“Mum and dad are just getting on, leave it be.” Taking his fork Jj tapped the edge of Evelyn’s plate to get her to stop staring.

“They’re always getting on what are you talking about?” Giving Jj a confused look she turned her attention to you.

“Mummy tell me.” Evelyn pleaded.

“I think you’ve had too many pancakes and they’re going to your head. Your dad and I are just happy today. Isn’t that a nice thing?” Your comment didn’t seem to persuade your oldest daughter. In fact it seemed to light a fire under her and she needed to know the reason why.

“You’re both big fibbers and I’m going to figure out why you’re so happy! Did you get one of those coupons in the mail again for half priced icecream!? That made daddy really happy once!” Evelyn’s guess had you snorting out a laugh. The coupon was John’s excuse to take you all out for icecream and to his dismay it ended up being expired.

“No I didn’t get a coupon.” John chuckled deeply now wanting to go check the mail to see if maybe he had.

“Okay, then was it. . .” Evelyn tapped her chin as she tried to think of another reason.

“Baby Lily did something cute!” Jj tried to guess but Evelyn clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval.

“No, that’s too obvious. It has to be. . . Auntie Sarah’s going to watch us so you two can go on a fancy date and smooch!” Pointing her finger at John, Evelyn’s statement felt more like an accusation.

“Not a bad idea.” John winked at you.

“I’ll give her a call.”

~~~~~tag list~~~~~

@exhaustedpotat0 @glitterypirateduck @ivymarquis @crazymela @what-0-life @boredfairy4 @hihhasotherfixations @stephanswhxre @shanjisan @k4es @luvleywrites @kita03-0 @midwesternwitchery @aleynaleia @suckerforbassist @misshoneypaper @theaonlax @blackstar9005 @tooterbutt @havoc973 @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @freshlemontea @cosmoscoffeee @sae1kie @ohworm-writes @ghostslittlegf @fanficwriterlover @arminarlertssword @faceache111 @azu21 @thirstyb-ches @nini-11-08 @sgtgarricks @kiki-is-hyperfixating @mayflysdie

[cerastes]

dreamer how can i come to terms with the talk on the street that our friend kelsey exploded in a tragic main theme 15 incident with no survivors.

im thinking of offering up my soul to lowlight in a feeble attempt to guarantee her safe passage through the event

It is Not looking good for her, my man. That Main Theme 15itis seems to be terminal.

But, personally, maybe this won't resonate with you at all, but as someone that Likes Kal'tsit A Lot as well... I think it's possibly the highest honor, and one likely reserved for Kal'tsit, to be able to die.

What I mean by this is that Arknights is live service gacha game. As a character, by necessity, you either live forever thus stakes for you will never truly hit, at least not when it comes to whether you survive something or not, or you are a non-playable disposable character that has to go quickly and oftentimes unceremoniously. A playable fan favorite has thick plot armor, because of course they can't kill your favorite, and every character can be Your Favorite to someone. This hits double as hard for Arknights, because it's a cast where half if not more of the playable cast is literally terminally ill. Death is a very ingrained aspect of the world of Terra. It is one that permeates and fuels the narrative, even (Theresa's death, Oracle's ego death that births Doctor, the death of Oracle and Priestess' civilization that leads to everything happening in the first place, death moves the setting like nothing else), but you know your characters Won't die, so the tensions regarding who lives and who dies can never be meaningfully tied to Amiya, to Ch'en, to Popukar, to Leizi, to whoever, because they won't die and you know they won't die.

Kal'tsit, being Lowlight's specialiest beloved original character, a character he's had and carried and nurtured for who knows how long, who is first seen in his pixiv gallery for Pixiv Fantasia a decade or so ago, gets to do what others can't do if the the word on the street is true, she gets to properly die. Not a borderline ridiculous death at the hands of some generic NPC looking dudes with names like The Accountant and The Bandit, not a fast hamburger death in the same chapter she is introduced, a true, impactful death that in turn, like all the other deaths before, brings for something, in this case, closure for her and freedom for Mon3tr. It's not too dissimilar, again, to how Oracle has an ego death at the hands of Theresa and from this event, Doctor is born, or how Ch'en's entirely worldview had to be crushed to dust for her to pick herself up and be her own person instead of chasing the shadow that tells her what and how to do everything, and so on.

I love Kal as a character and I am bracing for it if it happens, but, at the same time, she really gets to have something that escapes the confines and shackles of her medium: A death only she could have.

I know I would save this luxury for, and only for, my most beloved character, were I the main creative mind behind a successful game with a myriad of characters that I can't touch.

[whatremains-if]

PLAY THE DEMO (TBA) 

Nothing could quite match the thick tension of a young, emotionally detached adult stuck in the same space as their equally distant and emotionally disturbed family…well, maybe everything except a mysterious illness outbreak. 

As the virus begins to spread like wildfire, suddenly faced with unimaginable grief and loss, forced to kiss all sense of normalcy goodbye.

With life as you knew it falling apart and danger lurking around every corner, pushed to confront the same past you tried to escape. Reconcile with your estranged family, band together with an unlikely group of survivors, and learn how to navigate through the end of the world as you know it.

content warning: Intended for mature audiences rated 18+. Contains strong language, sexual themes, drug and alcohol use, graphic violence, body horror, mental health struggles, references to assault, and both physical and emotional abuse, depictions of sexual content and other potentially triggering material.

what will remain?

Dragged along to some boring town in the middle of Midwest butt-fuck nowhere in the middle of your college semester. Being ripped away from the big city life, your college friends, even what was left of your father's lasting physical memory—all because your mom fell head over heels with some new guy who made her feel like the best thing to do was move on and start over. 

She promised your brother and you that it was all supposed to be a fresh, blank chapter. Promises of having a new job, making a few new friends, and a whole new start—things being presented on a perfect silver platter. It sure is a shame that none of those promises will be fulfilled.

What starts as a weird news report on the news about some virus sweeping the nation spreads into full-blown chaos. A bloody cough. A sudden scream. A neighbor turning into a feral, flesh-eating monster before your eyes. 

The world begins to fall apart faster than you can process it. One moment you’re rolling your eyes at your mom’s hopefulness, and the next you're hopelessly fending for your life. 

Suddenly, you’re no longer just the new city-slumming family in town. It’s all on you to protect your family members, navigate around a collapsing world, and figure out who you can trust when everything feels like it’s rotting from the inside out. The days of peace are gone, and in the end, the question isn’t just whether you will survive…but what kind of person will remain of you.

STORY FEATURES.

Choose your survivor's name, pronouns, sexual identity, appearance, survival style, and more.

Form stronger or ruin the current and new relationships that you have, with the choices you make throughout the story effecting your survival experiences and significant plot changes.

Figure out just how far you're willing to go when it comes to the safety of your family and those that you consider your allies.

Customize your favorite melee or ranged weapon of choice.

Choose whether to form platonic or romantic bonds with other survivors.

Engage or escape, loot or shoot. Learn which fighting style truly fits your character.

Decide who you should indulge your trust in: family, friends, or the government.

ROMANCE OPTIONS.

Along the way, experience unique character routes depending on your section of RO's. The possible romance options being:

.ᐣ  Callan ( M ) — The Realist … Cal is known for his blunt, sharp-tongued, and annoyingly impossible demeanor. He’s the type of guy who somehow managed to make his presence known without actually needing to raise his voice. He’s not the type to sugarcoat or give pep talks. Just the facts, the plan, and the quickest route to survival. Efficiency is his guilty pleasure, and anything outside of that tends to get side-eyed into the dirt. Hardwired to prioritize logic over feelings, he clashes easily with anyone who moves on impulse or emotion, especially in high-stakes situations. His version of loyalty is heavily armored but earned through grit. Trust isn’t freely given, and it’s even harder to earn back once it’s lost. His past is a landmine of choices he doesn't speak about—and likely never will. Still, under the right conditions, his sarcasm cuts through the tension like a blade, delivered so dry it could start a drought. He might never call himself a hero, but when it counts, he’s the one keeping the group from completely falling apart.

.ᐣ  Ezra/Eliza ( M/F ) — The Sparkplug … All bright eyes, fast hands, and a running commentary that never quite turns off. Their curiosity is relentless, their energy infectious (or exhausting, depending on who you ask), and their pockets are always filled with scribbled notes, a cassette player, or that dusty camcorder they use to “document something real quick". They’re the type who lights up when talking about random stuff, old tech software, hero comics, or why the government is secretly terrifying. Most people tune them out before realizing they actually know their shit. And they do. They just don’t always know when to shut up about it. Born into a warm, affectionate home, they carry that love on their sleeve. With impulsive touches, shoulder nudges, and zero understanding of personal space. Beneath the corny puns and awkward cadence is someone afraid of being dismissed but still unwilling to back down when it counts. They’re not the strongest, or the fastest…or even the bravest, just someone trying. And sometimes, that’s all that matters.

.ᐣ  Saint ( M/F ) — The Live Wire … There’s something about them that just feels… off. Not in a dangerous way (maybe a little), but in that “why are you smirking right now?” kind of way. They talk like they’re halfway into a dare and halfway into calling your bluff. And the worst part? They’re usually right. They have this unnerving ability to pick things apart: small details, route patterns, people’s behaviors. The twitch in your voice, even the flick of your eyes when you lie. They clock it all. They won’t mention it until it matters or until they’re bored and want to watch you squirm. While most spiral under pressure, they just power down. Their emotions don’t flare, they simply just flatline. But don’t mistake the quiet for calm. Confrontation is their second language. Their humor? Sharp, inappropriate, timed just wrong enough to kill a room. But some people laugh anyway. Maybe it’s honesty. Maybe it’s chaos. Or maybe that’s just how they know how to truly connect with someone.

.ᐣ  Raymond ( M ) —  The Quiet Heart … Ray’s not the kind of guy who takes up space when he enters a room, he’s the kind who fills the cracks. The one handing out dad jokes like candy, patching up moods with lighthearted banter before people realize they needed it. Humor isn’t just a shield for Ray, it’s a bridge. A way to keep things moving when standing still feels too close to falling apart. There’s a quiet strength in how he exists: always listening, always helping, always moving. He’s at his best when his hands are busy.  Always hauling supplies, fixing busted gear, anything to avoid thinking too hard. When the past sneaks in, it shows. He zones out. Shuts down. Then he tries again. He’s not loud or commanding, and that makes people underestimate him, until they see how steadily he shows up when it matters. He doesn’t need to lead or save the day. He just wants to help. To ease someone’s burden. Ray’s not trying to be a hero, just not helpless again.

.ᐣ  Zoey ( F ) —  The Reluctant Medic … Zoey wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s lifeline. She’s only a pharmacy tech because her family owns the place, and her “expertise” comes from memorizing pill names and dosage charts well enough to keep the old folks’ bottles full. No real education, just enough to stay employed. She doesn’t look useful in a crisis: quiet, twitchy, and standoffish by default, but dangerously impulsive when it counts. Raised in a strict religious household with more siblings than boundaries, Zoey never fit the mold. The town treats her like a recovering addict. She barely talks about her family, when she does, it’s clipped, like she’s pulling words from a wound. Most see a snappy girl who flinches when you’re too close and doesn’t trust easily. They don’t see how hard she works to stay upright. Or how loudly she hates herself, second only to her parents. But when someone’s bleeding or breaking, Zoey’s there. Shaky hands. Quiet prayers. Trying, always. Even if she doesn’t believe she’s worth saving.

OTHER LINKS.

ro intros.

playlist.

pinterest.

kofi jar.

....dedicated to all the apocalyptic loving losers like me and most importantly @anya-dev and her inspirational interactive novel scout :)

[enoiocean]

𝓳𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓾𝔁 franklin saint x black!reader

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა 12k words — set in LA Beverly hills in 09, rich!business man!franklin saint x black!fem!reader , age gap - ( reader is 21 , Franklin is 30 ) porn with plot , Rough Sex , Daddy kink, veryyyy long read , multiple parts coming , this is for a mature audience , please read with caution !

This job didn't really feel like a...job.

You didn't have to abide by a certain dress code, you didn't work around only women , the building was beautiful, and the first day you arrived for the interview, you wore a black skirt with matching stockings and heels and a white long-sleeve top to balance it out—nothing too revealing, nothing too vulnerable, just a blank slate. Your hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail , so taut it made your temples throb, but there was something satisfying about the control of it. and The black-framed glasses weren't prescription, but they made people trust you. Smile wide. Lip gloss is subtle. You'd rehearsed it in the mirror. Professional. Approachable. Just enough. You couldn't help but be excited.

The building was enormous—a towering monolith of glass and steel. Inside, it was a time capsule sealed in style. The decor hadn't been updated since the 1970s, but not in the way of disrepair—more like reverence. Golden-hued lighting bathed everything in a soft, cinematic glow. Velvet chairs in jewel tones sat beneath smoked glass tables. Brass fixtures caught the light like secrets. The air smelled faintly of aged leather and expensive cologne, like the ghosts of men who once closed deals with handshakes and half-truths still lingered in the wallpaper. It was retro, yes, but effortlessly, arrestingly beautiful. Like stepping into a beautiful memory .

The woman who greeted you was tall, alabaster-pale, and sculpted into her perfectly pressed ivory suit like she'd been born in it. Her hair was lacquered into place, not a single strand out of line, and her heels clicked with surgical precision as she walked—sharp, efficient, utterly devoid of hesitation. She didn't smile. She didn't need to.

She guided you past the front lobby, a space so unnervingly quiet it bordered on the sacred. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was pressurized. The hum of office phones rang out in soft, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat barely holding on. Somewhere behind frosted glass, voices murmured—thin, bloodless conversations spoken in fragments, too hushed to decode. No laughter. No interruptions. Just the mechanical whisper of a machine well-oiled and too proud to acknowledge its own humanity.

Her eyes—those eyes—slid over you like she was appraising livestock. No warmth. No welcome. Just a quick inventory. Your shoes. Your posture. The way you held your purse like it was armor. Her gaze was clinical, transactional, the kind of look someone gives a thing they're considering purchasing—not a person, a product. She didn't bother with a smile. She nodded. Once. Like she'd already met ten versions of you and decided you were just another mold from the same batch.

18th floor.

The elevator ride was long. Too long. The silence felt oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen, something waiting. It binged like the pulse of a dying animal. When the doors opened, you were hit with the sharp, cold sting of perfection. Marble floors. 70s walls. A decor that screamed luxury, A hallway extended in four directions, each path ending in a sealed door—identical, marked with a gold nameplate. Outside every door sat a single desk, and behind each desk, a woman. Perfect posture. Impeccable grooming. Typing with the precision of gunfire. Their fingers danced across the keys in exact, rhythmic motion, inhuman in their steadiness, like they'd rehearsed this moment to death.

They didn't look up. Not really.

One of them glanced at you—brief, slicing, surgical. Eyes like frosted glass.

Your stomach flipped. Not a flutter. A full inversion. That sick, hot tumble of instinct trying to speak before your brain can form words. But you kept walking, heels clicking across the marble like you belonged here. Because you needed the job. Because "figuring it out" doesn't pay rent, and retail was starting to feel like a punchline to a joke you'd already heard too many times.

Your landlord was hiking the rent again—like your building had suddenly earned the right to call itself luxury just because they painted over the mold and installed a broken security camera in the stairwell. Going back home wasn't an option. You couldn't stomach your mother's passive-aggressive sighs or your father's not-so-subtle lectures about "readiness" and "real-world responsibility." They still talked about you like you were a kid who wandered too far from the sandbox. Moving back would only make them right.

You heard about the job from Vince. Your sister's boyfriend. The guy who drank straight from the bottle and always smelled like car grease and weed. He said his friend needed a secretary. Some executive downtown. Something vague and high-paying. You didn't ask questions. You just said, "Tell him I'm interested."

Next morning: bing. Inbox. One new message. An email dressed up like an invitation to a secret club. Subject line: "Thank you for your interest in FS Enterprises."

No job description. No bullet points or salary range. No qualifications or application portal. Just a single line dripping with urgency: "Show up here Friday."

No signature. Just an address. Downtown, where all the high-profile politicians and businessmen are.

You Googled. Nothing.

You searched and searched. Still nothing.

No company website. No mission statement. No reviews. Just a trail of digital dust—like the whole thing had been scrubbed clean or had never existed to begin with.

And still, you got dressed. Still, you showed up. Because your sister trusted Vince, and Vince didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd sell you into something.

Not on purpose, anyway.

Right?

Your fingers gripped the folder tighter in your hands as you walked toward the door at the end of the hall. Heavy wood, dark-stained and polished to a mirror shine. A gold nameplate sat flush in its center, gleaming like it had just been cleaned, though no one ever seemed to touch it. The letters engraved were too clean, Franklin Saint.

You knocked. Three short, quick taps. The sound of someone pretending they weren't terrified.

The silence that followed was too thick, too heavy. You almost felt like the sound of your knuckles hitting the door had been swallowed by the walls. You didn't know what you were walking into. Not really. It was all so surreal—the smell of cologne mixing with the faint undertone of something artificial, like the air had been scrubbed clean of any trace of humanity. The hallway behind you felt a lifetime away, everything shrinking into the space just in front of the door, everything focusing down to that very moment.

You could hear your heart beating in your ears.

And then, the door creaked open, slow, deliberate.

You'd imagined Franklin a hundred different ways, but now that you were here, staring at him, all those versions faded. He was tall, maybe too tall, with a suit that swallowed him whole, sharp and tailored to perfection. His skin was beautifully dark with no imperfections, and his eyes—those eyes— they lit up when they saw you, squinting a little. His smile was bright, white, and straight.

You couldn't help yourself. You smiled back. It was the only thing you could do in that moment, the only thing your body would let you do. Your hands got sweaty, your breath shallow. You were a thousand miles away from the girl you thought you were before you stepped into this room. Now, you were something else—something in-between, trapped in the tension of his gaze. And you couldn't look away. Couldn't stop.

His voice came soft, almost too soft for the size of his frame, "You must be... (❀), right?" His eyes flickered over you, a quick scan that felt like a full-body examination. He smiled more.

You nodded, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Your mouth was dry. You couldn't even remember the last time you’ve been this nervous.

He stepped back, letting the door swing open further, a silent invitation that felt more like a command.

"Come in. We have a lot to discuss."

The door clicked shut behind you, and for that moment, it was just the two of you.

He didn't ask you about your work history. He didn't ask why he should hire you. He didn't even look at the paper you clutched in your hands, the one you had memorized the night before. He didn't care about any of that. Instead, he asked about you about who you were, not what you did. His voice was soft and polite, the words cutting through the air with a precision you could almost feel on your skin. He asked if you were still in school, if you liked it, where you grew up, and if you were from California.

It felt almost casual, like he wasn't trying to dissect you. Like he wasn't testing you. But you could tell that, couldn't you? You could tell he was watching. He was listening not to your answers but to the way you gave them. He wanted to know how you thought and how you felt. What you cared about.

And each time you answered, you found yourself talking longer than you intended, telling him more than you meant to. You rambled about things you loved, about places you'd been, and about the little things that made you feel like you were truly alive. The way the ocean smelled after a rainstorm. The way the sun felt on your skin when you woke up before anyone else did. Why you loved photography. Why you loved fashion. You couldn't stop yourself. You couldn't even try. You were unraveling, piece by piece, and you didn't know how to stitch yourself back together.

He didn't write anything down. He didn't interrupt you. He didn't glance at the clock for the time and didn't look anywhere else but at you. And every time you spoke, every word you let slip, he leaned in a little more. Not physically, no. But emotionally. His eyes locked onto yours, absorbing you. He wasn't just listening. He was consuming.

And all the while, you felt like you were in the middle of a dream—a dream that was beginning to twist, beginning to become something dangerous. You couldn't name it, couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew that in this room, in this space with him, you weren't in control anymore.

And you didn't want to be. Not really.

The interview lasted an hour, but it felt like a reunion with a long-lost friend—someone you'd forgotten you needed, someone you hadn't realized you missed until they walked into the room. You didn't remember exactly when it happened, but somewhere between your rambling answers and his unblinking stare, the clock seemed to disappear.

You stood up to shake his hand, your legs slightly unsteady under you, like you were waking from a dream you hadn't wanted to end. Your mind raced in that final moment—was that enough? Did you say the right things? Did he see through your act? Did he see you as just another ditzy, young girl, spinning in circles, thinking she could handle belonging in a place like this?

But before the doubts could claw their way up your throat—before logic or fear or that sick little voice in the back of your mind could poison the moment—he shattered them. Just like that. His hand found yours, firm and warm, grounding, pulling you back into the room, into your body, like a lifeline tied to something you couldn't quite name.

"Sign these," he said. His voice was smooth in that dangerous way—like silk hiding the blade. He slid three pristine sheets of paper across the desk. Blank. No headers. No legal jargon. Just space. Space waiting for your name.

"Bring them back to me Monday. You'll start then."

And that smile—God, that smile. It didn't sell a job. It sold something else. A promise, maybe. Or a secret you weren't ready to be trusted with. You didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Your pulse was sprinting. You were vibrating with questions—about the papers, about the man, about what this was.

You didn't know if you wanted to bolt from the room, heart hammering like a warning, or stay and crawl deeper into whatever rabbit hole he was offering.

But your mouth moved before your mind could catch up.

"Mister Saint, are you sure you don't want to look at my resumé—"

He cut you off, clean. Didn't even glance up. just opened a drawer and pulled out a pen and a leather-bound book. The kind that smells expensive. The kind that's meant to hold things you're not supposed to share.

"Here," he said, eyes still bright. "This is all you'll need; go over it and remember everything in it."

You barely heard the next words, not with the way your blood was rushing in your ears.

"What type of computer do you prefer?"

It was the kind of question that made no sense in that moment. You blinked at him, thrown off, suddenly aware of how little you truly knew about this man, about this space, about what was even happening here.

You glanced at the pen in your hand. It was small, silver, and engraved with what looked like a symbol, a logo, but it was so tiny, so simple, you couldn't make out the detail. The book, thick and bound with care, felt heavier in your hand than it should have, like it had weight beyond its pages. But all you could do was stare at him, waiting, trying to process what just happened, trying to figure out how the hell you were supposed to answer that question.

Your voice stuttered out, softer than it had any right to be. "I... usually work with Macs. But I'm flexible."

And then—he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

He nodded, like that was the answer he expected.

"Beautiful," he said. Slowly. Like the words were designed to be unwrapped one syllable at a time. "That's why I chose you."

Your breath caught.

"I'll have something set up for you by Monday," he said, casually. Almost like a favor. Like he was offering you a seat at a table you didn't know existed.

Then his eyes flicked back to yours, and something in his voice curled, slow and deliberate:

"You'll be fine."

Just like that, you were here. three months in. Sitting in front of his door every day, behind a desk that you could do anything with. A blank canvas waiting for you to carve out something real, something personal. You looked at the MacBook Air; you couldn't believe he got it for you, like it was some cheap thing to play with. You placed your small trinkets on the desk. A small plant with deep green leaves, hopeful and stubborn, clinging to the light that never seemed to be enough. A picture of you and your friends, their laughter forever frozen in a frame that suddenly felt like a memory you didn't want to forget. A cup holder, silver star-shaped, And the small stuffed bunny—like an Easter relic.

You liked the space. The lighting. The way the windows let in just enough natural light to make everything feel alive, like it wasn't all just polished steel and glass. The small details grounded you in a way you hadn't expected. The world outside might've been spinning out of control, but this little corner was yours. And that was enough, for now.

The four women sat in front of you; beautiful older figures leaned over their own desks. They didn't speak much to you. No casual introductions, no offers of friendship. They just murmured the occasional "Good morning" as you walked past them every morning to your desk; they'd talk to each other, laughing and gossiping. Your heel clicks a little heavier, a little more uncertain. You were always a few minutes late. Never much of a punctual person. And every time you passed them, you felt their eyes on you, their glances lingering longer than necessary. But they never said anything, and you never asked.

You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, your mind a little too distracted to focus on anything "important." You thought you'd be dealing with endless emails—replying in that perfect, overly polite tone that corporate types love. Or maybe scheduling meetings for Saint, organizing his calendar like you'd seen secretaries do in the movies. But nope. None of that.

Instead, your day started off with coffee and a doughnut. His coffee, just the way he liked it: black, no frills. And the doughnut—glazed and sweet, the kind that makes you feel like you're doing something right. You gave it to him with a smile, like a ritual offering, and he took it from your hands like it meant something.

His fingers brushed yours—accidental, probably. But they lingered. His eyes met yours. They didn't just see you. They read you.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Simple question. Too simple. But the way he said it—it unzipped something in your chest.

"I'm okay," you said, soft, almost shy. Your smile slipped out on instinct, like it had been waiting for permission.

He watched you smile. Really watched. And then he nodded, slow, like he already knew the answer before you gave it.

You let him in at ten o'clock. A man in a charcoal suit, cologne too expensive, nerves twitching in the corners of his mouth. Mister Saint didn't rush. Didn't bark orders. He just stood when he was ready, nodded once, and disappeared behind the door with the man trailing behind him like a child being summoned by his father.

It was quiet. Peaceful, almost. You took a moment, enjoying the stillness, the calmness of the space. You didn't have to fake it. It wasn't a rush of anxiety or pressure. Just... you. And a desk.

You tapped the keys, barely noticing the rhythm. A soft click-click that soothed your nerves more than it should. Instead of working, you found yourself scrolling through clothing websites. You didn't need anything, but hey, it was fun to look. So many pretty dresses and shoes that made you feel all sorts of ways—cute, fun, alive. You had the money for what you were scrolling past now, the way Franklin was paying you. You're imagining what you'd look like in them. A little daydream, a little fantasy.

Maybe he'd like this skirt.

Maybe he'd hate it.

But notice? Oh, he'd notice.

Your lips curled. Just a little.

You didn't ask how old he was. Didn't need to. Thirty-something. Close enough to know better. Far enough to ruin you.

And you?

You were starving.

You drooled.

Not in the cute, girly way either. No, you thirsted. Hard. Quiet. Secret. Like an addiction that made your palms sweat and your stomach tighten. Every time he walked into the room, your spine snapped straight like you'd been caught doing something wrong. Because you were. At least in your head.

I mean, who wouldn't?

Franklin Saint was perfect. Not in the glossy, magazine way. No, this wasn't boy-band pretty. This was grown-man, carved-from-concrete perfection. Big. Broad shoulders under tailored suits. Thick forearms veined like tree roots. Biceps you wanted to lay your head against after he ruined you.

He looked like he could pick you up without effort—over the shoulder, into his car, across state lines—and no one would stop him.

But it was his hands that really did it. Those hands.

You found your eyes drifting to them mid-conversation like gravity had a preference. Watching the way his fingers flexed when he gripped a glass. Watching how he rolled a blunt—slow, neat, precise. Watching the calluses catch the light when he touched his jaw or rubbed the back of his neck

You stared like a fool.

You tried to stop. Tried to keep eye contact like a grown woman. But then his thumb would stroke the rim of his glass, or he'd drum those thick knuckles against the table, and it was over. Your mouth would go dry. Your thighs would clench. And your brain? Gone. Just static and heat and the thought of how those hands would feel between your legs.

That's all it ever was—just fiction you played in your head.

Smutty little flickers of a world that didn't exist while you clicked through YouTube videos, watching tutorials on makeup, how to get the perfect glow, and how to do a bouncy, fun curl without frying your hair. You smiled at the thought of trying those things at home later. Maybe a new look for the weekend? Who knows? You liked how it felt to just zone out and let the hours pass by. You weren't thinking about deadlines or pressure. Just... being. The soft buzz of the computer felt like a constant hum that kept you company.

You read over that book he gave you over and over; it didn't consist of anything top secret like you thought it would. The pages were lined in his handwriting—tight, clean, no wasted motion. Like him.

"Monday: Pick up suit from dry cleaners in Beverly Hills. Dark navy, double vent, Brioni."

"Coffee: black, hot, touch of honey if I'm pissed. No cream, never sugar."

"Call Mama on Thursdays. Remind her I'm breathing.”

"Jerome likes the good cigars. Louie, don't. Don't bring 'em to the club."

His blood's in these pages. His rhythm. His rituals. Shoe sizes—11.5, Italian cut only. Suit sizes, jacket preferences. Pocket square colors.

And then the numbers. Phone numbers are like pressure points.

His mother's. His aunt and uncle. a lawyer. The second lawyer. A name you don't recognize—Twanda (DON'T ANSWER UNLESS BLEEDING).

You read that part twice. Maybe three times.

You didn't know who she was.

But now you want to.

"You like the job?" A smooth voice pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up, slightly startled. One of the women from the desk across from you was smiling. She wasn't typing anything, just turned toward you, her posture confident, arms casually crossed, legs crossed in that effortless way people do when they're just... comfortable.

For a moment, you couldn't help but take her in. She was beautiful. Like, really beautiful. Reminded you of someone—a little like Vanessa Williams, if you had to put a name to it. Her skin glowed, rich and smooth, her hair slicked back in a professional yet somehow effortless way. She had that vibe, that calm, controlled energy. Like she knew something you didn't. There was a nameplate at the edge of her desk, half-blocked by a stack of blank papers and a glass of water that hadn't been touched.

Gina Camplee. You tucked the name into your mind.

You blinked, trying to focus. "I-I like it," you said with a smile, your voice a little higher than you wanted it to be. Your nerves were still making themselves known, even though you were happy. You were always happy. That was just who you were. "It's... quite a bit easier than I expected." You chuckled a little, hoping it sounded natural. It did to you, but who knew what it sounded like to someone else?

She raised an eyebrow, her smile turning a little more knowing. "Easier than you expected, huh?" Her voice was smooth, almost teasing, but not in a mean way. She seemed genuinely curious, like she was giving you a chance to explain.

You nodded, giving a shy smile, trying to ease into the conversation. "Yeah, I thought there'd be more... pressure? Or a lot more to do, but... I don't know. It's been calm." You shrugged, not really sure why it felt so strange. It was just a job. But it wasn't just a job, not really. There was something else, something off about it that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

She studied you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a little. It felt like she was measuring you, seeing if you were hiding something or if you were just really that... naive. Maybe it was the way she sat, the way she carried herself. It was the kind of confidence that only came with experience, with knowing exactly how much to reveal and how much to hold back.

"I'm sure it's calm now," she said, breaking your trance. "But things have a way of getting... interesting around here." She uncrossed her arms, leaning back just a little. "Franklin likes to keep things unpredictable."

You nodded, smiling brightly. "I'm up for interesting!" You couldn't help it. The optimism just bubbled out of you, no matter what. You weren't about to let any of the unknowns get to you, not yet. You hadn't even been here long enough to feel any of that "pressure" everyone seemed to talk about. Right now, you were just... here, and that was enough.

She smiled again, this time a little softer, but there was something behind it that made you pause. It wasn't a judgmental smile, but a knowing one. Like she had seen this story before, maybe more times than you'd ever know.

"You'll find your rhythm," she said, her voice lighter, almost reassuring. "just show up and do what he says, easy."

You nodded, trying to let the words sink in, but your thoughts were already drifting somewhere else. Somewhere that was just a little too far ahead. "I will," you said, smiling again, because that's what you always did.

You couldn't help but wonder, though, if she knew more. If she knew what he did outside of this perfect, pristine office. She had to, right? She must have seen something, heard something. Franklin Saint wasn't the type of man to just be... normal. You knew his name, his age, and that he hated smoking. That was it. Nothing else. Not a single glimpse of what lay beneath the tailored suits, the sharp eyes, and the polite smiles.

You glanced up at her again, catching her eye. "Hey, uh..." you said, your voice softer this time, tentative. "Can you tell me more about him?" You weren't sure why you asked. Maybe it was the curiosity. Maybe it was the way he made you feel—like you were just a little out of place, but in the best way possible.

She turned toward you again, this time raising an eyebrow, her expression almost teasing. "You want to know if he's married?" she asked, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Your face heated up, the flush creeping up your neck. "I—" you stammered, embarrassed that she'd caught you so off guard. Of course, that wasn't what you meant. You just... wanted to know more. But she could probably tell the real question before it even left your mouth.

"If he was," she said, her voice almost a whisper, "the wife wouldn't appreciate the way he looks at you." She said it matter-of-factly, like she had seen it a hundred times before, like it was just an obvious truth in the office.

Her words hung in the air like a sharp breath. You stared at her, stunned, trying to figure out what exactly she meant. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and you quickly forced your gaze back to your desk, your fingers playing nervously with a pen. You couldn't dwell on it—couldn't let yourself get lost in that thought, not now, not when the office was so... quiet and unpredictable.

Just as Gina's words began to settle—curling around your ribs like smoke you couldn't exhale—the call box on your desk crackled to life, that familiar static popping like a nerve firing too close to the surface.

"Sweetheart, I need you."

Franklin's voice oozed through the speaker, thick and smooth like honey sliding over a blade. That word—sweetheart—again. Always, sweetheart.

He never used your name. Never "Miss," never the clipped professionalism he reserved for everyone else in his orbit. With you, it was different. There was always a softness laced with something heavier. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Like you weren't on his payroll but his tongue. Like you were meant to come undone just from the sound of him.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything. Just a generational thing. Men like him always spoke like that—charming, old-school, slightly patronizing. You told yourself not to linger on it. Not to romanticize the way his voice dipped when he said it. Not to ache when he lingered on the word like it tasted good.

But gosh, you ached.

You wanted it to mean something so bad it stung.

You rolled your chair back and rose slowly, smoothing your skirt with trembling fingers before you walked to his door. You opened it just in time to see the older man he'd been meeting with step past you, cologne thick and sour in the air as he muttered something under his breath. He didn't look at you. He just nodded stiffly and shut the door behind him with a soft click, like punctuation.

Then it was just you and Franklin.

He stood by the window, backlit by late-afternoon gold, arms folded across his chest, the fabric of his suit hugging him like it was tailored by God himself. Still. Regal. A statue made of heat and ego.

His gaze landed on you—so pretty. he thought

From your hair, pulled tight and neat, to the subtle gloss on your lips. Down the curve of your chest, the gentle dip of your waist. The way you chose a light pink blouse today that matched with your brown pleated skirt, tight enough to make him wonder how long you'd stood in the mirror, smoothing it, adjusting it, planning it.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

The shape of your thighs. The way your knees knocked ever so slightly inward, like your body didn't quite know what to do under his gaze. The heels were modest, office-appropriate, but the way your toes pointed—nervous, uncertain—lit something in him. Something interesting.

"Hi, Mr. Saint... How did the meeting go?" You asked, soft and stammering, your voice slipping out too gentle, too exposed.

The smile you offered was all surface—mirror-polished, practiced to hell. It was the smile you wore when you needed to pretend your hands weren't twitching, that your pulse wasn't sprinting behind your ears. But Franklin saw right through it. Saw how your fingers danced at the hem of your blouse, tugging, fiddling, betraying you in real time.

He tilted his head, just slightly. That look of his—half amused, half predatory. Like he knew exactly how to unravel you and was only deciding how long he wanted to take.

He didn't speak. Not yet.

He let the silence bloom.

It stretched long and thin between you, a thread pulled tight. The kind that holds breath hostage. The kind that says, Don't move.

Then, one step.

Just one.

He moved closer to his desk, dragging his fingers across the edge—mahogany catching the gold of his watch, glinting like a threat. Every gesture precise. Controlled. Like even his silence was curated.

"The meeting went..." He paused, like he was choosing his words for effect, "...very well...Did that guy look trustworthy to you?" He asked, like it was a genuine question.

"I... I'm not sure," you said, truthfully. Your arms instinctively folded in front of you, a light barrier, your smile thinning. "He didn't say much."

Franklin hummed, a low, amused sound that vibrated more in your chest than your ears. He kept his eyes on you, like you were the one under investigation.

"Exactly," he murmured, jaw tightening for just a flicker of a second. "and people who don't talk much? They're either hiding something, or they think they're smarter than everyone else."

He leaned back on the desk now, hands gripping the edge behind him, legs slightly spread, relaxed like a panther in the sun—gorgeous and deadly. Watching you. Reading you.

"Which do you think he is, sweetheart?"

Your throat went dry. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, like that'd help you dodge the heat crawling up your spine. Franklin had a way of making a question sound like a test, like the answer mattered more than you realized.

"... I think he just doesn't say much, like he... he lets his business do the talking," you said, finally. The words came gently but whole, carried by a thread of courage you barely felt. Your eyes held his—just enough to show you weren't scared, but not enough to drown in him. Not yet.

And then—he smiled.

Not soft. Not kind. Not the sort of smile you earn. This one was sharper. Like he'd already solved the riddle and just wanted to hear what shape your mouth would make trying to solve it, too.

It wasn't approval.

It was interest.

"Good girl," he said, and the sound of it coiled straight through you. Low. Warm. A little too pleased.

Your body lit up before your brain could catch up. That phrase—good girl—you'd only ever heard it in those private little daydreams. The ones you had no business entertaining. The ones that made your thighs clench under your desk while you chewed your lip and tried to remember how to breathe.

Now it was real.

And it wrecked you.

You didn't know what to say. Didn't trust your voice not to give you away. All you could do was stand there and feel the heat rise from your chest to your cheeks to the place between your legs that tightened, traitorous and alive.

"I like that," he murmured, the edges of his voice rougher now, velvet fraying at the seams. "That you pay attention."

He moved, slow and sure, circling the desk like it wasn't furniture but a piece of terrain. Like you were the destination. Each step quiet, deliberate—like he had all the time in the world to close the space between you.

Your spine straightened, like instinct, like prey spotting the slow approach of something much larger than itself.

"Thank you, Mr. Saint—" you started, breath catching on the edge of your words.

"Just call me Saint, lovely," he cut in, flashing a grin that was all sin dressed in silk. Teeth barely visible. Heat behind the charm. A joke with a blade tucked in its belly.

"I'm only thirty."

"Okay..." you said, hesitating for the briefest second before letting it fall from your mouth, "Saint." The word felt strange on your tongue—too casual, too intimate—but it came out anyway, soft and unsure, like you were tasting it for the first time. And maybe you were.

He heard it.

Felt it.

Watched it settle in the space between you.

He leaned back in his chair like he owned gravity. Legs spread, one hand lazily draped over the armrest, the other toying with a gold pen like it was a cigar. His smile was a smirk now, slow and knowing. Like he'd just slipped a key into a lock and was waiting to see if the door would open.

"How lovely does that sound?" he said, voice dipped in molasses, eyes trained on yours. "You should use it more often."

And fuck, your face burned.

The heat crept down your neck, across your chest, blooming in your belly. You blinked hard, trying to keep still. To hide how your body betrayed you. But it didn't matter. Franklin saw it. He always did. You shifted just slightly on your feet, and that was enough.

He clocked everything.

"You like working for me so far?" He asked, tone light, but there was nothing innocent about it.

The way he looked at you made the air feel thicker. Like if you breathed too deeply, you might swallow more than oxygen.

"I... I do," you said finally, the words barely above a whisper. "It's different here. Quiet. Clean."

You looked around, pretending to study the office like that was what had your attention, not the way Saint was watching you like he could read the heat under your skin.

"...And you're not like the other bosses I've had."

He chuckled, low and amused, like you'd just handed him a compliment wrapped in a secret.

"No, I'm not," he said. "And I don't plan to be."

There was a pause. Heavy. Lingering. Then—

"Come here for a second," he said.

Not a request. A command, soft-wrapped in charm.

Your legs moved before you could even think about it. You stepped around his desk, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a metronome marking time, every beat louder in your chest.

He watched as you approached—like he was measuring your steps, your breath, and the way your skirt moved when you walked.

When you were close enough to smell his cologne—sharp, woodsy, expensive—he slid papers over to you.

"Read the small paper to me first, out loud," he said, his voice even, casual. Then added, "Then the two others—go over them for errors."

You blinked, thrown for half a second by how mundane the request sounded. That's it? Just read?

"Read it?" you asked, like maybe you hadn't heard him right.

"Mhm," he hummed, settling deeper into the leather, thighs parting just slightly. Just enough. And you knew it wasn't for comfort—it was deliberate. Calculated. The kind of move meant to short-circuit whatever train of thought you were clinging to.

"Out loud."

Your fingers reached for the paper with a shake you hoped he couldn't see. It felt like silk against your skin—thick, creamy, clearly expensive. Not something that got printed on an office copier. It looked like it belonged in a gilded envelope, carried by hand, maybe with a wax seal to match the weight of his name.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. "Please join us—"

"Skip that part," he said, with that same low firmness, like velvet wrapped around command. "Start from my name."

You swallowed. Nodded. Your fingers tightened just slightly on the edge of the paper. "Franklin Saint, you are invited to the 40th birthday celebration of Weston Port. RSVP at the number provided at the bottom of the invitation. We would love to have you here”—

He cut you off with a soft laugh. "Love to have you here," he repeated, his voice rich with something mocking. His mouth curled into that half-smirk, the one that always felt like he was letting you in on a joke with teeth.

Then he tilted his head, eyes still locked on yours.

"That guy hates me, by the way."

You lowered the paper slowly, pulse skipping, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or choke on the heat rising up your chest. "Why does he hate you?"

His smile stretched—wider this time, not kinder.

A quiet kind of cruelty in the corners of his mouth.

"Because his wife prefers me."

It wasn't a boast. It wasn't flirtation, either.

The way he said it—it was fact. Cold. Solid. Undeniable.

The air shifted.

The words didn't hit like a joke. They landed like a dropped match on gasoline, sharp and sudden, making something ignite deep in your gut. You froze—lips parted, breath caught halfway to your lungs.

Jealousy came quickly. Hot and ugly.

Possessive in a way that made no sense.

You had no claim on him. You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still—it burned. Low in your belly, a molten thing curled around your spine and made your fists clench just slightly around the paper.

Franklin watched you with that maddening calm, the kind that said he'd already dissected every inch of your reaction before you even had the chance to hide it. Like he could smell the jealousy on you. Like it pleased him.

You looked down at the papers again, tried to focus, tried to pretend the tightness in your chest wasn't there—but your hands were trembling now. Barely, but enough. Enough to betray you.

He waited a beat, letting the silence press in again like a thumb to your throat.

"Now," he said, slow and sure, voice thick with authority. "go over the other two. I want clean copies. No spelling errors. No missed details."

You nodded, eyes flicking back up to meet his.

You knew. But he was studying you again, reading every twitch in your face, every slight shift in breath.

You could feel it. The way his gaze followed your pupils as they darted from side to side, trying to keep up, trying to look like you knew exactly what you were reading—even though you didn't. Not really. Just enough to fake it. Just enough to please him.

and again, your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

"Is his wife's name... Twanda?" You asked, voice low, almost ashamed of how badly you needed to know.

You risked a glance. And there it was. That smirk again. That wicked amusement curling at the edge of his lips like smoke.

He chuckled, soft and dangerous. "I'm glad you're remembering the book," he said, leaning back.

You could feel it radiating off him now—the satisfaction. Not just that you remembered. But what you remembered. He saw the jealousy in your question, bleeding through every syllable, and it lit something in him.

His baby. Jealous.

He liked it. He liked it too much. You didn't know it, but he did—every damn night he pictured you. His girl on her knees. Obedient. Beautiful. Unguarded. The thought kept him up, aching.

"You told me to, so I did," you murmured back, still focused on the pages in front of you.

You were done.

You’ve been done.

But flipping through them gave you something to do with your hands. Something to hide behind, because eye contact now would wreck you.

He huffed a little, leaning forward just enough to make you feel it in your chest. Then his voice dropped, close and quiet:

"Twanda is a close friend of my mother's," he said finally, his voice easy now, like he wasn't aware of the war he'd started in your chest. "She used to call a lot. And I mean a lot. Trivial things."

He shrugged, all casual indifference, like it didn't matter—but something in the way his jaw flexed said maybe it did.

"She got the hint, maybe," he added, more to himself than to you. "The last time I spoke to her was Christmas."

That landed in the air with a soft finality. No bitterness.

No regrets. Just a fact. And yet you couldn't stop the flicker of relief that bloomed inside you, wild and warm.

You nodded like it was nothing. Like you didn't just unclench your jaw.

"Got it," you murmured, going back to the papers with renewed focus, though the words on the page were a blur now, your mind far from ink and margins.

"Got a boyfriend?" he asked, his voice casual but dipped in something more—curiosity, maybe. Or calculation. Like he already knew and was asking for the sake of watching how you'd react.

Your fingers paused at the corner of the page, still touching the paper but no longer moving. You looked up slowly, caught between surprise and uncertainty, eyes just a shade too wide. The kind of look that wasn't rehearsed.

He caught it.

"Oh—sorry. A girlfriend?" His tone softened, a half-correction, eyebrow lifting like he was opening the door wider.

You laughed, quick and quiet, covering your mouth out of instinct. "No, no. Neither," you said, voice light, but the air around it felt heavier. "Ended something last year, around July. Since then it's just been... me."

You didn't mean to trail off like that, but the words sat strange in your mouth—familiar, but tired. He didn't speak, just nodded once, slow, like he was letting it settle. Like he understood more than he let on.

"Long one?" he asked after a pause, eyes still on you, but softer now. Less study, more presence.

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the edge of the paper. "Yeah. Long enough to feel like a part of me went with it. We were together for a while. Thought it was going to be... I don't know. Everything....He cheated, so”

Who the hell could cheat on someone like you? Franklin couldn't wrap his head around it. The way you walked into a room like sunlight—soft but impossible to ignore. Smart, sweet, with a voice that made even silence feel intimate. You weren't just beautiful; you were rare. The kind of woman a man should get on his knees for. And some idiot threw that away.

Good. That meant you were free now. That meant he could have you.

And Saint wanted you. Not later. Not in some slow-burn fantasy he dragged out over months. Now.

He watched you from his seat, jaw tight, chest heavy with it. Your smile. The curve of your throat when you laughed. The way your fingers curled around the edge of your chair like you needed to hold onto something. He wanted to be that something.

Fuck waiting.

He'd be lying if he said the thought hadn't crossed his mind—sweeping everything off his desk, your gasp swallowed in his mouth, his hands gripping your wrists as your back met the cold wood. Him, between your thighs, desperate and rough, finally tasting the thing he'd been circling for weeks.

And you'd let him. He saw it in the way your gaze lingered too long, in the way your thighs shifted when the room got quiet. You wanted it too. Maybe you didn't know how to say it yet. Maybe you were still telling yourself you shouldn't. But Franklin Saint didn't deal in shouldn't.

Just one word from you—one look—and he'd show you exactly what it means to be wanted.

When you finally put the paper down, ready to tell him you'd found no errors, something small thudded against the carpet. You looked down—pencils, a lots of them, scattered and rolling across the floor like tiny messengers of clumsiness. Your breath caught. You realized they'd slipped off the edge of the desk on your side. Your fault.

"I'm so sorry," you said quickly, already half-bending down.

What you didn't see was the flicker of a smirk slicing across his face behind you. It came and went like lightning—quick, precise, almost cruel.

"It's alright," Franklin said, smooth as velvet. "Could you get those for me, lovely?"

His voice was calm, but there was something heavier sitting beneath the surface. Like thunder building behind a polite sky. He wore that look again—the one that made your stomach dip. Gentle mouth, shadowed eyes. A man pretending at softness, while something darker simmered behind his gaze.

You nodded without thinking.

"Yes, sir," you said, your voice quieter than you intended.

Then your knees hit the floor, bare against the plush rug, and you bent to gather the pencils in your hands. One by one. Delicate. Careful. His silence stretched above you, a humid thing.

He watched, eyes hooded, as you reached further under his desk—watched the way your hand went instinctively to the hem of your skirt, trying to hold it down. Modest. Careful. But it was no use. The skirt was too short, and you'd worn nothing beneath it. No tights. No shorts. Just skin and nerve endings and a poor little excuse for a barrier.

His gaze didn't flinch.

The air in the room shifted, heavy and slow like molasses in the summer. Tension swelled, thick enough to chew. On the surface, you were just picking up pencils—a harmless task.

He turned everything into intention.

You could feel it, the weight of his stare glued to your body, and suddenly your own heartbeat was deafening. Slamming through your chest, echoing in your ears. You stayed on your knees, breath shallow, fingers curling around pencil after pencil, each one slower than the last. One by one. Deliberate.

It wasn't just tension anymore. It was anticipation.

Then—you felt it.

something you didn't think he would be so bold to do.

As you had been picking up the lines of graphite, he had tucked his leather shoe underneath your skirt and lifted it up, making your eyes widen. Your heartbeat falls into the depths of your innards as cold sweat starts to rear its existence after the catalyst of Saint's actions. You felt the tip of his shoe rub against the fat of your ass, and hearing his shallow breath added a hotter tension into the room that made you feel suffocated. All you did was look back as your body shook, feeling the nerves reverberate through you.

"... What are you-"

"Shh... You're so pretty like this... on your knees." He lifted your skirt even higher to expose the lacy pink thong and your exposed ass. "So sexy," he continued to whisper his seductive praises.

He sat back in his chair, letting the tip of his shoe press into the fat that made a plushy indentation that made his cock twitch within his trousers; you were so vulnerable, so unknowing, and he just wanted to take you right then and there as he felt your shuddering body to his touch. His smirk only widened when he witnessed you weren't doing anything.

But that was the point. You were simply there—kneeling, soft, unguarded. And that made it even better.

He saw the way your lip caught between your teeth, trying to quiet the sound building in your throat.

And gosh, that little motion? That was his favorite part.

"Oh, do you like this, sweetheart?" He wasn't going to make you answer; he liked you all nervous and too embarrassed to admit that you liked having your own boss appreciate and want to use your body. He felt like he had won the lottery with how willing your body was for him.

"Hm, I love having you around... It's so sexy when you walk around the place... But I want more than you just playing secretary." He watched as your pupils swallowed the color of your eyes as you looked at him through a shuddering chest from broken breaths.

"Turn around for me; I want to see that pretty face more clearly." At your own volition, you quickly obeyed without hesitancy, watching as he opened his legs and the growing bulge that was starting to develop underneath his navy trousers, imminently making you blush as you watched how your body affected him, how just the sight of your panties was making him rock hard underneath the cloth.

"You're a good girl , aren't you?"

"Mmhmm," you nodded in your timid response as you looked up at him with those 'fuck me' eyes.

"Yeah, you are," he said, his voice warm now, praising like a reward. He leaned forward, his hand finding your face with startling gentleness. Big, firm fingers cradling your cheek like it belonged there. Your body responded before your mind caught up—cheek nuzzling into his palm, chasing that heat, that gravity. Subconscious. Instinctive. You fit against him like you were made for it.

Whatever doubts you'd carried—those silly thoughts that he'd never even notice you, that someone like Franklin Saint couldn't possibly see you that way—they melted under the weight of his touch. Under the closeness. The heat that poured off his body like static before a storm.

"How about you take care of me... I've been feeling so stressed... I'm sure you can help me out with that, can't you?" His voice was just like whiskey, smooth in its feeling but also a sensation of burning with how warmth pooled around your core and started to soak around your slit as your clit throbbed under the desire to be touched and to touch him.

"What do... What do you want me to do?" You whispered, almost pathetically, as your pillowy and glossy lips parted as if you knew exactly where this was going; you weren't completely stupid.

"I want to use that pretty mouth of yours for something good," he said, voice low and heavy with intent, fingers moving to unbuckle his belt. The metallic clink cut through the thick air like a warning—or a promise—and your breath hitched on instinct. The sound made your thighs press tighter together, your pussy throbbing against the now-soaked lace barrier that barely held your arousal in check.

He lifted his hips just enough to slide his trousers and boxers down in one fluid motion, and there—his cock sprang free, thick and heavy, proud in its demand. The sheer size of it made your breath catch in your throat. It was flushed, already hard, with the tip glistening like it had been waiting just for you. He didn't need to say another word. That clock spoke volumes.

"Be a good girl and suck it..." he murmured, one hand resting lazily on the armrest as he stared down at you like you were his reward. "You wouldn't want your boss stressed, would you?"

You shook your head quickly, your voice trembling with need. "No. No, I wouldn't."

Your hands rose to wrap around the base, fingers struggling to meet on the underside as you pumped him slowly, reverently. The vein along the length of his shaft throbbed against your soft palms, your thumb swiping over the bead of pre-drip dripping from the swollen head. His breath stuttered—a sharp inhale through gritted teeth.

You looked up at him, locking eyes with that dark, unreadable gaze, and then leaned in. Your tongue dragged a long, slow stripe up from the base to the tip, savoring the heat and weight of him, the way his cock twitched under your attention. His hand tightened on the armrest.

Then you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, wet and warm, lips stretched around his thickness. The taste of him, salty and heavy with want, coated your tongue as you moaned around him—soft, muffled, sinful.

Franklin's head fell back, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, fuck, yes, you're so good at that." His fingers started to tangle in your previously neat hair, causing frizzy strands to strike up as he smoothed his palms over your scalp, gently bucking his hips to guide his cock further into the warm and soaking valley of your mouth and throat.

You softly gagged at the feeling of his fat cock pressing against the back of your throat; you loved this, feeling your glossy lips stretch around him and tasting his salty length as you continued to suck and feel him.

"A-aah, yeah, you're taking me so well," he whispered another praise before he started to feel a little greedy. "Why don't you take that blouse off... I want to see those pretty tits."

You took your mouth off of him in a loud, wet popping sound that made him shudder as the cold air pressed against his cock, continuing to palm and pump his throbbing length as he watched you unbutton the silk blouse until it became discarded cloth on the floor, soon accompanied by your black lace bra.

You felt that pleasurable tingling feeling within your walls and a heated coil that was heating up as it tied together tightly when you squeezed the mounds of your chest for him, letting soft whimpers protrude from your lips as you squeezed onto the sensitive buds when looking into his darkened gaze.

Franklin leaned forward, slow and deliberate, like a shadow swallowing light. His hands peeled away from the armrests, the tension in his shoulders rippling as he shifted over you, dominant and calm, like he had all the time in the world to savor this.

Then—his palms landed on your chest, warm and heavy, cupping the weight of your bare breasts. No hesitation. No apology. Just need to meet with ownership.

He kneaded them slowly, thumbs rolling over your sensitive nipples, dragging them into stiffness. You gasped around his cock, the sensation electric, like he was rewiring your nerves. He never broke eye contact. He just stared down at you like you were his sweetest sin, his most beautiful disaster.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with pride and lust. "Such a mess."

Spit trailed down your cheek, the slick sheen around your lips catching the light, your eyes glassy with pleasure and overwhelming need. Your thighs squeezed together as you moaned to him again.

You were flustered, ruined—his good girl brought to the edge.

His presence was demanding, yet arousing at the same time; a superior shouldn't be doing this to their secretary, but let's be honest, the fantasy has been around for as long as can be remembered; it wasn't like you were complaining that an attractive older man wanted to use you as a cocksleeve. Of course, there was the little voice in the back of your mind telling you that this power dynamic was wrong; you were his employee, and it was highly inappropriate for him to be treating you like this, but the libido soon squelched the rational down as your heated core was wanting to take him on further.

You made his head fall back onto the headrest of his office chair again when you continued to leave swirls from your tongue on the tip of his dribbling cock, tasting that salty and creamy precum as you watched his chest fall up and down in broken tandem to his labored breaths. You could feel your panties become completely soaked when a slow, gushing release came down in your finish as you wrapped your breasts around his large cock and heard his sensual moans fill his office room up.

"Fuck, aaah, keep going, don't stop, making me feel so good," he kept caressing your cheek as he watched you leave kitten licks on the tip of your warm, plushy breasts hugged around his shaft. "Such a perfect, sexy girl."

You sucked on the tip of his fat cock, watching him bite his lip.

"I'm so close... Stop for a moment."

The command was sharp but hushed, laced with restraint—his voice strained from holding himself back. You obeyed instantly, lips releasing him with a soft pop, breath catching as your mouth ached and your chin glistened with the evidence of just how good you'd been.

"Stand up," he said.

You didn't think twice. Your legs were trembling, barely holding your weight, but you stood—still buzzing from the heat of his hands, the ache of his cock in your mouth, and the denial that left you soaked and desperate. Your fingers ghosted over the hem of your skirt, trying to fix it, even though the fabric clung to your thighs, damp with your own arousal. You felt exposed. Ruined. Beautiful.

Your eyes never left him.

He moved with a smooth, unbothered calm, reaching into the drawer beside him like he'd done this a hundred times before. No urgency. No shame. Just pure, collected dominance. You watched him pull out his wallet, the soft leather creasing in his palm, and then—between two fingers—he slipped out a small, gold package.

Your breath caught.

"Get on the desk," he said, his voice low and rich, thick with the promise of everything he'd been holding back. "Spread your legs so I can see."

Your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You turned, the edge of the desk cold against your thighs as you climbed up, palms pressing into the wood for balance. Slowly, you leaned back, your knees parting inch by inch, the cool air meeting the heat between your legs as you revealed everything to him—lace soaked through, clinging to swollen lips, proof of your need written into every curve and shiver.

Franklin stood there, gold wrapper in hand, eyes locked between your thighs like a man staring at salvation.

"Fuck, baby..." he groaned, the sound raw, almost a whimper. There was nothing controlled about it anymore—just want. Heavy. Undeniable. His composure cracked in real time, and it only made your core throb harder, slick gathering with every second he looked at you like that.

He stepped closer, his hands finding the waistband of your panties, fingers curling into the lace.

One sharp tug.

The soaked fabric peeled from your skin like second nature, dragging across your sensitive folds and stealing a gasp from your lips. He didn't move slowly. He didn't ask. He took. The lace hit the floor in an instant, forgotten.

And there you were—open, glistening, your plump, wet cunt exposed to the thick air and his starving gaze.

you lean back a little more, and slowly spread your thighs more, opening up more so the ball of nerves would be exposed as well as your dripping hole. Your heels were gone, kicked off in the heat of it all. Now your soft, pretty white toes gripped the desk's edge, barely holding you in place as you arched slightly,

Your pussy sat there in the light, bare and soaked and ready, a perfect picture of surrender and need.

Franklin He stood frozen for a heartbeat—mouth parted, jaw slack. The raw hunger in his face wasn't subtle. It was worship. It was claiming.

"Shit ..." he breathed, more to himself than to you, like he wasn't sure how he'd held back this long.

The gold wrapper crinkled in his fist as he fought with it, hands no longer slow or calculated—now frantic, desperate to be inside you. He tore it open, pulled the rubber free, and with one long stroke, slid it over his thick, leaking cock. The sight of him standing there, hard and ready, made your hips twitch off the desk in anticipation.

He wrapped his fingers around the base, gave himself one firm pump, eyes never leaving your dripping cunt.

And then—he stepped closer to your legs.

Your legs instinctively slid closer together, thighs brushing, nerves creeping in like a shadow. For a moment, you let the reality of his size sink in—the sheer weight of it, the way it curved in his grip, thick and pulsing. You tilted your chin up, eyes wide and uncertain, a soft breath catching in your throat.

"Franklin... It's so big, I— I haven't had that big before—"

Your words came out like a whisper, stammered and laced with equal parts awe and fear.

But he didn't soothe you. He didn't stroke your hair or offer gentle words.

No.

His voice cut through the air like a blade—rough, commanding, dripping with authority and hunger.

"Spread them," he growled, stepping closer, the tip of his cock brushing your inner thigh. "Or I'll spread them for you."

That tone—it flipped a switch inside you. Something primal. Something submissive and aching to obey.

You weren't used to it. Not from him. Not from anyone.

Which is why your thighs flew open , trembling as you obeyed instantly, wide and dripping and ready. Your pussy glistened under the light again, exposed and aching, your core fluttering with anticipation and the sharp thrill of giving up control.

Franklin's hand wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and pulsing with heat as he dragged it slowly through your folds, letting your slick coat every inch of him. He moved deliberately, smearing himself in your arousal, the swollen head brushing over your clit just enough to make your back arch and a broken whimper slip from your lips.

Your hands lifted—finally—like your body couldn't stay passive any longer. They found his arms, fingers curling into his firm biceps, grounding yourself in him as he bit down on his bottom lip, gaze locked between your thighs. His cock slid up and down again, gliding with ease now, teasing your entrance as he groaned low and deep in his chest.

One hand gripped your knee and held, keeping you wide open. You tried to close your thighs reflexively, overwhelmed, but he didn't let you—not even for a second. His fingers dug in, possessive, commanding, holding you in place as his cockhead smeared your wetness across your folds again and again, each stroke making the tension coil tighter in your gut.

"You're so wet, baby..." he muttered, voice distant, lost. Like he forgot where he was—forgot about the office, the company, the windows overlooking downtown. None of it mattered now. Just your cunt, open and ready. His temple dropped back, jaw slack with a sigh that sounded like worship.

"Ahh, f-fuck." Your eyes couldn't leave his face. He was beautiful like this—undone, needy, lost in you. You were soaked, ruined, panting—his.

A mess.

Then, with one greedy, careless push—he found your entrance. You gasped. Bite your tongue. He slipped in too easily, too naturally, as if your body had been made for him.

He moaned under his breath, hips rolling as he fed more of himself into you, slow and relentless, until he bottomed out. His hips pressed flush to yours, his balls snug against the curve of your ass, and you let out a fragile little sound, something between a gasp and a moan, helpless to the fullness.

"You okay, baby?" He murmured, breath unsteady. One of his hands moved to your waist, his thumb stroking your side. "How does that feel?"

Your walls clenched around him involuntarily, sucking him deeper, as if your body didn't want to let him go. He shuddered from the feeling, his eyes softening, something dangerously close to adoration swimming there.

You could barely breathe. You were floating.

And then it came out of you—raw, unplanned, honest.

"Daddy... it feels so good," you whimpered, your voice all breath and silk, breaking apart under the weight of him inside you. Eyes wide, glassy, cheeks flushed—the picture of soft surrender. You looked like the sweetest kind of mess, like the type of girl who gets what she wants just by pouting pretty and parting her thighs. A spoiled little pillow princess laid out and ruined just right.

Franklin looked down at you, heat licking through his chest at the sight. His jaw tightened, but that smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, knowing, cruel.

"I know baby," he murmurs in a taunting way. "I know."

"Don't s-stop, i–i'm almost there—" you gasp, the words tumbling out in pieces, each syllable cracked open by the rhythm of his thrusts. You're begging now—for air, for mercy, for him to never stop. Because you're right on the edge, teetering on the brink of something too good, too deep. Bliss, heaven, him.

Franklin's grip tightens on your waist, and he leans in until his forehead presses to yours, eyes blazing.

"I won't," he pants, breath ragged, voice rough with focus and fire. "I won't. I promise, princess."

His words hit you like a vow, low and serious, each one chased by the sound of skin against skin and the heat of his body overwhelming yours. He doesn't stop—not even for a second. His hips stay steady, relentless, chasing your high like it's the only thing that matters.

And the way he's looking at you—like you're the only girl in the world, like nothing else exists but your shaking body under his—makes you fall apart just that much faster.

You were a dirty girl, and you knew it. You knew it the second you opened your legs and let him see how wet you already were, how easily your body betrayed every little game you thought you could play. You thought you'd last, thought you could take it and keep some kind of control—but Franklin Saint stripped that away from you with nothing but a look and a few deep, unrelenting strokes.

Now you were here—writhing beneath him, back arched and breath catching in your throat. You were moaning into his ear, the words filthy, soft, and broken. almost slipping, "I love you, I love you," like he was the last man you'll ever be with. It was just the way he filled you so deep it felt like he lived inside your bones.

You were so close.

"I can't, baby... Uh, fuck daddy." Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to melt more. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he's basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.

"You want to cum pretty?" He pants on your face for a second, seeing how your eyes were starting to roll.

Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. He grabs onto you tighter, like he's afraid you might slip away. His thrusts turn rougher, deeper, and more desperate—driven by something primal and possessive. You can feel the muscles in his back shift under your hands, feel the heat radiating off him, and see the way his shirt sticks to his skin with the sweat he's working up just for you.

"Touching' me like that," he growls near your ear, voice thick with heat, "is going to make me lose my fucking' mind."

You can feel the tremble in his arms, the shake in his breath, and the way he fucks you like he needs it. Like you're the only thing keeping him grounded.

"cum for me, baby. I'll give you everything you want, princess ... whatever you need," he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, his voice so soft.

The cries tearing through the room are yours—but they barely sound like you anymore. They're ragged and raw, wrecked beyond recognition. So pathetic, so desperate, like a girl who's never known anything like this. Like a girl who's unraveling with him buried so deep inside, it feels like he's splitting your soul wide open just to claim it.

Your body jerks beneath him, hips twitching with every thrust like you're chasing the end, like you need to take him with you. And he matches it—his hips punching into you with purpose, power, like he's determined to finish with you, in you, no matter what it takes.

He expected this from you. Expected you to be needy, expected your sweet cunt to be this wet, this messy, this perfect.

And still, the way you clamp around him with every pulse of your orgasm nearly undoes him. It's a miracle he's still inside, thick and hard, when you're so slippery, so drenched, his cock sliding through the heat of you like velvet wrapped in wet silk.

He thrusts into you like he's got something to prove—like every brutal thrust is a punishment and a prayer. His rhythm is ruthless, unrelenting, the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked flesh echoing off the office walls like filth wrapped in rhythm. There's nothing sweet about it now—this is pure possession, raw and animal, like he's been saving this part of himself just for you.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave pulling you under, leaving you limp, trembling, a boneless mess. But he doesn't stop. Not even a little. He uses your body like it's his right, his reward, barely coherent with the things he's saying—gritted praise, ragged groans, something about how tight you are, how good you feel, how his you are.

Then his muscles snap taut.

He throws his head back, curses low and feral, and pulls out of you so fast it makes your breath hitch. The condom's off in a blink. His jaw clenched, his hand jerks his cock once, twice—and then hot, thick release spills from him, shooting across your stomach, your cunt, painting you in sticky ribbons of lust. He groans through it.

And when he's emptied himself, when the haze finally lifts, he collapses into his chair, chest rising and falling fast. He's still facing you—still watching.

You're frozen in place, arched and open, breath coming in frantic little stutters. Your thighs twitch. Your body's ruined. Your mind Gone.

beautiful.

[shiyorin]

#Thanks @roroco316, your ideas is the best (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~

#When Primarchs send dick pic to you

#Rogal Dorn/Perturabo x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#RIP Reader

#NSFW, non-con, many things

The Imperial Palace on Terra hummed with activity, its gilded halls filled with the usual bustle of servitors, tech-priests, and various officials going about their duties. But deep within its labyrinthine structure, in a secluded chamber reserved for one of the Emperor's sons, something decidedly unusual was taking place.

Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, is very confused. His massive form, usually the picture of stoic control, now radiated an unfamiliar tension. The Primarch's face was flushed, his breathing heavy, and an uncomfortable tightness had taken up residence in his groin.

Dorn growled in frustration, running a hand through his close-cropped white hair. He didn't understand what was happening to him. Was this some new form of xenos attack? An Enemies of the Imperium plot? Whatever it was, it was interfering with his ability to focus on his duties, and that was unacceptable.

As he turned to pace back across the room, Dorn's eyes fell on the data-slate resting on his desk. An idea formed in his mind, one that both excited and confused him. Perhaps if he documented this strange condition, he could better understand and combat it.

With decisive movements, Dorn strode to the desk and picked up the data-slate. He fumbled with the unfamiliar camera function, his large fingers clumsy on the small device. Finally figuring it out, he positioned the slate and began to remove his armor.

As the ceramite plates fell away, Dorn's impressive physique was revealed. Muscles rippled beneath skin marred by countless battle scars, a testament to millennia of warfare. But it was what lay between his legs that truly captured attention.

Dorn's cock stood at full attention, a monument to masculinity that would make even other Primarchs pause. It jutted proudly from a nest of curls, its girth easily as thick as a mortal man's forearm. Veins pulsed along its length, leading to a swollen head that glistened with pre-cum.

The Primarch's face flushed deeper as he aimed the data-slate's camera at his engorged member. He felt ridiculous, like some kind of deviant, but the urge to capture this moment was overwhelming. With a grunt of determination, Dorn snapped the picture.

Staring at the image on the screen, Dorn felt a mix of embarrassment and... pride? Yes, there was definitely a part of him that was pleased with what he saw. But what to do with it now?

Again, an inexplicable urge seized him. Before he could second-guess himself, Dorn's fingers were flying over the data-slate's interface, sending the image to the one person he felt might be able to help him make sense of this situation: you, the Imperial Agent he'd worked with on several classified missions.

As soon as the image was sent, a wave of mortification washed over Dorn. What had he done? This was completely inappropriate behavior for a Primarch! He needed to explain himself, to provide context for this madness.

Dorn began typing out a message to accompany the image:

"Dear Agent,

I find myself experiencing an unusual physiological response. My genitals have become engorged and I feel an overwhelming urge for physical contact. I believe the most efficient course of action would be for us to engage in sexual intercourse. Please prepare yourself, as I will be arriving at your quarters shortly to address this situation.

Regards, Rogal Dorn"

Satisfied that he had explained himself clearly and concisely, Dorn hit send. He then began to reassemble his armor, his movements hurried and clumsy in his eagerness to reach your quarters.

Meanwhile, in another part of the palace, you were reviewing reports when your data-slate chimed with an incoming message. Expecting more mission briefings, you casually glanced at the screen - and nearly dropped the device in shock.

There, filling your entire display, was the most impressive cock you'd ever laid eyes on. Your mouth went dry as you took in its massive size, the way it curved slightly upward, the prominent veins that promised to make you feel every inch when it was buried inside you...

You shook your head, trying to clear the sudden fog of lust that had descended. Who in the Emperor's name would send you such a thing? Your question was answered moments later as a text message popped up.

As you read Rogal Dorn's blunt, matter-of-fact explanation, your eyes widened in disbelief. "???" you muttered, re-reading the message to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, had just sent you a dick pic and was now on his way to fuck you?

Before you could fully process this turn of events, a thunderous knock echoed through your quarters. Your heart leapt into your throat as you realized Dorn hadn't been exaggerating about coming right away.

With trembling hands, you smoothed down your uniform and went to answer the door. It slid open to reveal the towering form of Rogal Dorn, but your eyes were immediately drawn lower, to the massive bulge straining against the Primarch's codpiece.

"Agent," Dorn rumbled, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. "I trust you received my message and are prepared to assist me with this... situation."

You swallowed hard, your gaze alternating between Dorn's intense eyes and the promise of what lay beneath his clothes. "I... yes, my lord. Please, come in."

As Dorn ducked through the doorway, the full impact of his size hit you anew. He was easily twice your height, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the entrance. The thought of taking his cock - that magnificent beast you'd seen in the picture, made you clench in both fear and anticipation.

'Oh Throne,' you thought, a mix of panic and arousal coursing through you. 'If he puts that thing inside me, I might actually die.'

But as Dorn began to remove his clothes once more, revealing inch after glorious inch of sculpted muscle, you found yourself thinking that there were far worse ways to go.

The Primarch's cock sprang free, even more impressive in person than it had been in the picture. Pre-cum beaded at its tip, and you had to resist the fear when you saw it.

Dorn's eyes raked over your form, dark with a feeling he didn't fully understand. "I find myself... eager to proceed," he said, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of his overwhelming need. "How shall we begin?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was sure to be the ride of your life. "My lord," you said, your voice suppressed the trembling "why don't you start by showing me exactly what that cock of yours can do?"

A rare smile tugged at the corners of Dorn's mouth as he advanced on you, his massive erection leading the way. "With pleasure, Agent."

As Dorn's large hands wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly, you sent up a silent prayer to the Emperor. May the Emperor protect you.

*****

Perturabo, the Primarch of Iron Warriors, was in a foul mood. His massive form paced the confines of his private chambers, tension radiating from every inch of his superhuman body. But this wasn't his usual anger, no, this was something far more primal and embarrassing.

He was horny. Painfully, achingly horny.

The Primarch growled in frustration, his hand unconsciously drifting to the impressive bulge in his armor. He hated this weakness, this base desire that clouded his thoughts and distracted him from his grand designs. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the burning need that consumed him.

With defeat, Perturabo began to remove his armor, piece by piece. As the last ceramite plate clattered to the floor, he stood naked, his massive cock jutting proudly.

Perturabo's dick was a thing of beauty - if one appreciated monstrous, superhuman genitalia. It stood at an impressive 10 inches when fully erect, thick as a mortal man's wrist, with prominent veins running along its length. The head was a deep, angry purple, already glistening with pre-cum.

Despite his self-loathing, Perturabo couldn't resist wrapping a hand around his throbbing member. He stroked himself slowly, a low groan escaping his lips at the sensation. His other hand reached down to cup his heavy balls.

As he pleasured himself, Perturabo's thoughts drifted to you, the Imperial Agent who had been a thorn in his side. Your fierce intelligence, your unwavering loyalty to the Imperium, your lithe body that he longed to break…

Before he could stop himself, Perturabo grabbed his data-slate. With one hand still working his cock, he snapped a picture of his erect member. The image was intimidating, his massive hand wrap around the shaft, veins bulging, pre-cum dripping from the tip.

Without allowing himself to second-guess, Perturabo sent the image to your personal vox channel.

Instant regret flooded him the moment he hit 'send.' What in the name of the Warp was he thinking? He was a Primarch, a demigod of war, not some pervert sending dick pics!

Frantically, Perturabo tried to recall the message. To his immense relief, the system informed him that the image had been successfully retrieved before you could view it. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

'You definitely hadn't seen it,' Perturabo thought, a mix of relief and... disappointment? washing over him. How dare you not witness it? The audacity!

Meanwhile, in your quarters aboard an Imperial vessel, you were having a mild panic attack. You had indeed seen the image before it was retrieved, how could you not notice a message from a Primarch? And now you were sweating bullets.

Your hands shook as you typed out a quick response: "Lord Perturabo, I didn't see anything in your last message. Was there something you needed to communicate?"

You hit send and immediately regretted it. What if he took offense? What if he thought you were lying? Oh Emperor, you were so screwed.

Back in his chambers, Perturabo read your message with growing anger. You had seen it. You must have. And now you dared to lie to him? To a Primarch?

With a growl of frustration, Perturabo typed out a scathing reply: "Do not attempt to deceive me, Agent. I know you saw the image. Your dishonesty only compounds your offense."

And then, driven by a mixture of anger, lust, and wounded pride, he reattached the photo of his erect cock to the message and sent it again.

Your eyes widened in shock as your data-slate pinged with a new message. You opened it, praying to every saint you could think of that it wasn't what you feared.

Your prayers went unanswered.

There, filling your screen, was Perturabo's massive member in all its glory. You felt your mouth go dry as you took in the sheer size of it. How was that even possible? It had to be as thick as your forearm!

Despite your fear, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal. You quickly shook your head, trying to dispel such dangerous thoughts. This was Perturabo, for Terra's sake! He'd crush you like a bug if he ever got his hands on you.

With trembling fingers, you typed out another response: "My Lord, I assure you I didn't see anything in your previous message. I would never lie to you."

You hit send and immediately curled into a ball on your bed, praying for a quick and painless death.

Perturabo read your latest message with growing fury. How dare you continue this charade? Did you think him a fool?

"Enough of your lies!" he typed back, his fingers nearly cracking the data-slate's screen. "You will cease this deception immediately, or I will show you the consequences of toying with a Primarch in person."

As he sent the message, a new idea formed in Perturabo's mind. If you insisted on playing dumb, perhaps it was time for a more... hands-on approach to communication.

With a few quick commands, Perturabo accessed the ship's systems. He located your quarters and activated the emergency teleportation protocols. In a flash of blue light, he materialized in your room, still gloriously naked and fully erect.

You screamed in surprise and terror as the massive form of Perturabo appeared before you. You scrambled backwards on your bed, eyes wide as saucers as you took in the Primarch in all his naked glory.

"L-Lord Perturabo!" you stammered, trying desperately to look anywhere but at his imposing erection. "I-I don't understand-"

"Silence!" Perturabo roared, his voice shaking the walls. He stalked towards the bed, his cock bobbing with each step. "You claim you saw nothing? Then allow me to give you a proper view."

Before you could react, Perturabo grabbed your ankle and dragged you to the edge of the bed. He loomed over you, his massive frame blocking out the light, his cock mere inches from your face.

"Look at it," he growled, his voice a mixture of anger and lust. "Look at what you've done to me, you infuriating woman."

You couldn't help but obey. Your eyes locked onto Perturabo's member, taking in every vein, every twitch, the bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. You swallowed hard, a confusing mix of fear and arousal coursing through you.

"I... I see it, my Lord," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Perturabo's hand shot out, gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "And what do you think of it, little agent? Does it please you? Does it terrify you?"

Your mind raced, searching for the right answer. What could you possibly say that wouldn't result in your immediate demise?

"It's... impressive, my Lord," you finally managed, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Truly befitting a Primarch."

A slow smile spread across Perturabo's face. "Good answer," he purred. "Now, since you've finally admitted to seeing it, I think it's time we put it to proper use, don't you?"

As Perturabo's free hand began to tear at your clothes, you realized that your earlier fears had been misplaced. You weren't going to die today….

[utilitycaster]

For a campaign that was supposed to have higher stakes I gotta say it doesn’t feel like they ever showed up. There wasn’t any finding out for any of the fucking around. Just, I don’t know what happened that BH ended up with plot armor a mile thick but it just feels bad.

What was the point of any of it, if none of it mattered, and no one had to deal with the consequences of their actions?

Yeah again it's like, a solid 90% of the results are fine-to-great actually but almost none of it feels like it followed or was earned. If I may I think this is the greatest condemnation of the oft-repeated defense of "but it's improv." Improv is about picking up what your partners are putting down. Improv is about seeing their choice and saying "yes, and". It feels like throughout this campaign a choice would be made (far less often than they should have been, but sometimes choices were made at least) and the response was not "yes, and" but "ok, well" or "anyway, then." And frustratingly a lot of it was Matt setting up the scene and then "ok, well" or "anyway, then"-ing himself: The Ruby Vanguard has a poison that prevents healing and resurrection! And then instead of "yes, and that means going up against the Vanguard requires a careful strategy because they can permanently kill you and you only have a few uses of the antidote" the improv inevitably was "ok, well, they don't use it when they attack Bells Hells." And it felt like that was the whole campaign - not even with the characters not dying but just, them being entitled and unpleasant and everyone kind of being like "anyway, then people are irritated as they have been in the past 5 encounters with you but they still let this go forward."

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Parts of a Castle

Arrow slits - Defenders could fire arrows out, but attackers could not shoot in through these narrow holes.

Banners - Showed the symbol of the lord and his king.

Battlements - Defenders standing here could bombard attackers while staying sheltered.

Blacksmith - Skilled metalworkers provided armor, weapons, and other equipment.

Curtain wall - Thick stone walls kept the castle’s inhabitants safe from attack.

Drawbridge - This wooden bridge could be raised to cut off access to the gate.

Dungeon - Prisoners could be locked away underground, with no hope of escape.

Entranceway - A single narrow entrance meant attackers could only approach one at a time.

Gardens - Grew vegetables to eat in case of siege.

Gatehouse - The castle entrance was heavily defended. It was often built as a narrow tunnel with wood or iron gates at either end. Holes in the ceiling (murder holes) could be used to pour boiling oil or water on attackers in the tunnel.

Gatehouse towers - Towers on either side of the gatehouse allowed defenders to rain arrows, stones, or boiling water on anyone attacking.

Great hall - The feasting room, where the lord would hold banquets for his knights and guests.

Lord’s chambers - The lord and his family had private rooms in the strongest part of the castle, known as the solar.

Moat - Cut into the rock and often filled by diverting a nearby stream, the moat kept attackers away from the walls.

Postern gate - A side door acted as an emergency exit in case the castle was ever conquered.

Towers - Circular towers allowed defenders to fire arrows in any direction.

During peacetime, a castle was home to the lord, his family and servants, and guards known as men-at-arms. Many castles were like little villages inside, with kitchens, blacksmiths, gardens, stables, and a chapel. If they were attacked, the people inside had everything they needed to survive until help came.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References More References: Medieval Period ⚜ Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character

[dovesdreaming]

Lost in the tide

Summary: You and Harry were best friends til you took your chance at a new beginning on the isle. When reunited he finds his forgiveness in a passionate kiss.

Request

Masterlist

-

The Isle of the Lost had always been your home. It was dark, gritty, and full of danger, but you never cared about any of that, not when you had Harry Hook by your side. Harry had been your best friend for as long as you could remember. From sneaking around the Isle, plotting mischief and laughing at the chaos you caused, to watching the waves crash against the shore in rare, quiet moments, he had been your anchor in a world that didn’t offer much comfort. Being the daughter of Maleficent and sister to Mal came with its own set of challenges. Expectations weighed heavily on you, and while Mal embraced her role as a leader on the Isle, you had always felt a different pull, something that made you long for more than what the Isle could give. You and Harry had often talked about escaping, about breaking free from the chains that bound you to this place. But when the time came for one of you to leave, when Auradon came calling, you took your chance. And Harry had never forgiven you.

Now, years later, your heart pounded as you stepped off the boat, the familiar sights and smells of the Isle hitting you all at once. The air was thick with the scent of salt and grime, the streets bustling with the same chaos you had left behind. It was as if time hadn’t moved at all. Yet, everything had changed. Especially you. You were back on the Isle for one reason: to save Ben from Uma and her crew. But despite the mission’s urgency, your mind was consumed with only one thought, Harry. The boy who had once been your best friend, the one who had stood by your side through it all. The boy you left behind. The one whose anger still haunted you. “You alright?” Mal asked from beside you, sensing your unease. “Yeah, I’m fine” you lied, giving her a quick nod. “Let’s get this over with”. But as your group made its way toward the docks where Ben was being held, your heart raced faster with each step. And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, there he was.

Harry Hook stood near the edge of the dock, leaning casually against a post, his ever-present hook twirling in his hand. His eyes, sharp and glinting like shards of ice, were locked on you the moment you came into view. He hadn’t moved, but the intensity in his gaze was enough to make your heart skip a beat. The years apart had changed him, he was taller, broader, his features sharper and his demeanor even more dangerous but those familiar blue eyes, filled with a mix of anger and something else, were the same. And just like that, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“Well, well” Harry drawled, pushing off from where he’d been standing and taking a step toward you. His lips curled into a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence. The prodigal daughter returns”. You swallowed, trying to keep your composure. “Harry...” “Don’t” he snapped, his voice cold as he cut you off. “Ye don’t get to say my name like that anymore. Not after ye left”. His words hit harder than you expected, a sharp pang in your chest. You’d known he would be angry, but hearing it, feeling the bitterness in his voice, was worse than you imagined. “I didn’t have a choice” you said softly, meeting his gaze.

Harry’s eyes darkened, and he took another step closer, the space between you shrinking. “There’s always a choice, lass. Ye just didn’t choose me”. The hurt in his voice was undeniable, and you flinched at the rawness of it. He’d always been so strong, so confident, but now, standing in front of you, there was vulnerability there, a crack in the armor. You glanced down, your fingers curling into fists at your sides. “I didn’t want to leave you, Harry. But Auradon… it was an opportunity, a chance for something different. You know that”. “Auradon” Harry spat, his voice filled with venom as he stepped even closer. He was right in front of you now, his breath hot against your skin as he stared down at you with an intensity that made your knees weak. “Ye got your perfect life, didn’t ye? While I was stuck here, rotting on this godforsaken Isle”.

“I didn’t have a choice” you repeated, your voice cracking. “I had to go, Harry. You don’t know how hard it was-“ “Ye left me” he interrupted again, this time his voice softer but no less fierce. His hand came up, the metal of his hook gleaming in the dim light as he pointed it at you. “Ye left me here alone”. You bit your lip, your heart aching at the pain in his voice. You wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, to tell him everything you had never been able to say. “I never wanted to leave you behind” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You were all I thought about”. Something flickered in his eyes at that. Surprise, maybe, or disbelief, but he didn’t move, his body still rigid with anger. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with everything that had been left unsaid over the years. “I didn’t hate ye, ye know” Harry finally said, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes softened slightly as he studied your face, and he let out a harsh breath. “I thought I did, but..I was just jealous. Jealous ye got out. That ye left me”.

You reached out tentatively, your hand brushing lightly against his chest. “I never stopped thinking about you, Harry. Never”. His breath hitched at your touch, his body tensing beneath your fingers. His free hand, the one not gripping his hook, came up to catch your wrist, holding it in place as his eyes bore into yours. “Do ye mean that?” he asked, his voice low and raw. You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “I mean it”.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could feel the warmth of his hand on your skin, the way his chest rose and fell with each shaky breath. And then, with a growl of frustration, Harry closed the distance between you, crashing his lips against yours in a kiss that was as desperate as it was fierce. You gasped into the kiss, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair as you kissed him back just as eagerly. Years of pent-up emotion and unresolved tension poured into that kiss, the heat between you building with every second. Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you flush against his body, and you could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat as his lips moved against yours, hungry and demanding.

He backed you up against one of the wooden posts of the dock, pressing his body into yours as his lips trailed down the side of your neck, nipping at your skin with a wicked grin. “Ye don’t get to leave again” he murmured against your throat, his breath hot and teasing. “Not without me”. You shivered, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. “I’m not going anywhere”. “Good” he growled, his lips finding yours again in a searing kiss that left you breathless. His hook brushed lightly against your side, the cold metal sending a thrill through you as he tilted your chin up with his free hand. “Because I’ve spent too long thinkin’ about this, about ye”.

Your pulse raced as his lips hovered just above yours, his voice dropping to a low, seductive whisper. “And now that I’ve got ye… I’m not lettin’ go”. The mission to save Ben could wait, just for a little longer. For now, all that mattered was the heat of Harry’s touch and the way he made you feel like you had finally come home. And this time, you weren’t going to let him go.

-

Thank you for reading!