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sytoran · 10 months

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ARSONIST'S LULLABYE

kinktober day 011 | cheerleader!natasha x player!reader

"don't you ever tame your demons but always keep them on a leash" — arsonist’s lullabye, hozier

summary. natasha gets more attached than expected after a one-night-stand with the college's infamous player, both on the field and with the ladies. however, she's always been good at getting what she wants.

rating 18+ | word count 7438 (shittt)

note. natasha is 18 and y/n is 19, y/n is described to be masc-representing (eg. cropped hair, compression tee + grey sweats, tattoos, piercings)

note ii. please please please please take your time to read it, you don't understand how long i've spent pondering over every intricacy in this fic.

note iii. drinking game: take a shot every time i say 'don't fall for the player'

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

Don’t fall for the player.

This was a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Students in this renowned college came from all walks of life — from children of billionaires to self-made achievers, from prodigal minds to brilliant brains. One thing stood for certain, though, and that was the infamous Y/N L/N.

It was a rumour, tried and true, that every single girl — regardless of their sexuality, physical appearance, or social status — would all eventually fall under the spell of the school’s “player”. Try as they might, victim after victim fell helplessly for an effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

The chase never lasted long, a one-sided apex predator hunt. Once you had your eyes set on someone, there was simply no escaping the undeniable fact that the following morning, that girl would wake up in bed next to you.

Problem was, you had this rule, written in stone: Never sleep with a girl more than once.

Alas came the cruel and vicious cycle of girls falling under your spell within milliseconds, only to have their heart shattered within the next twenty-four hours. Sometimes even less.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) The wiser ones kept a distance, but either way, one fact stood true, the moment one stepped into Avengers Institution.

Don’t fall for the player.

Little did you know, soon would arrive a thorn in your plans, an unwanted distraction, your ultimate downfall.

All due to an equally irresistible girl by the name of Natasha Romanoff.

***

“You’re fuckin’ impressive for a freshman, Natasha,” Pepper whistles, clapping her on the back. “Consider yourself a member of the Avengers Institution’s cheerleading squad.”

Natasha nods breathlessly, dropping the pom-poms onto the ground. She had just completed a complicated routine for the cheerleading tryouts, a rigorous one with flips and twirls that required pristine balance.

“I guess that’s expected from a girl who was with the Red Room,” Sharon adds, somewhat snidely. She was another freshman trying out for the cheerleading squad, with a snake-like smile that was coated with too much venom to convey any sort of genuineness.

Natasha returns the smile blankly, false emotions overtaking her face like second nature — propriety, expectations, rectitude. She knew what those words meant, when they put emphasis on the Red Room.

The Red Room, in question, was one of the highest-class organisations internationally that trained talented young female cheerleaders. With a near overly-daunting curriculum, payment fees so impossibly high, and only the most renowned instructors, the Red Room was essentially associated with filthy rich wealth and spoiled privileged kids.

And such comes the tragedy of warped views on capitalism and the unfairness of the world. Sharon leans next to Natasha’s ear in the false pretence of picking something up, but her lips move dangerously swiftly and whisper, “Daddy’s money lets you get everything you want, hm?”

It only takes a second, and then the faux-innocent perpetrator briskly moves away as if nothing had occurred. Natasha stands still, the gripe washing over her back like a cold shower. She steels her shoulders, refusing to be provoked. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born with a silver-studded spoon in her mouth.

Shrugging off the strange looks some of the other girls give her, Natasha hides her annoyance by fiddling with her short skirt. Alongside college came the novelty of less-strict clothing etiquette, and that resulted in the most miniscule cheerleading skirts Natasha had ever worn in her life.

“Ready on the count of three,” Carol announces, tapping her clipboard with a ballpoint pen, surveying the expanse of the wide field.

It wasn’t Natasha’s fault she simply got everything she wanted.

“One.”

An invisible force of magnetism pulls Natasha’s gaze to the bleachers above the field, unyielding and unstoppable. There stands a tall and dark figure in a relaxed position, looking directly at her with piercing eyes. A shiver of anticipation sweeps through the air, and Natasha feels goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Two.”

Aloof charisma exudes from the person’s very presence, so compelling and captivating that it takes Natasha a moment to realise that there’s another girl standing next to the enigmatic soul. She’s chatting animatedly, under a false belief that she’s got your attention, but Natasha knows better.

Her eyes travel over the person’s sculpted figure clad in a leather jacket, tacit confidence written in your lazy smirk and composed posture. Electricity erupts in Natasha’s bloodstream, sending shockwaves coursing through her mindwires, forcing her to look back up to your alluring, forsaken eyes.

“Three.”

Natasha’s body moves mechanically, practised and poised. The rhythm thrumming from the portable speaker seeps into her practised muscles without her brain actually registering it, still reeling from the sheer impact of you.

If there was a fracture in her composure, if her routine was ever-so-slightly off, if her legs trembled more than it normally would’ve, Natasha would blame you.

Natasha would blame you and your stupid smirk, your silly leather jacket, your sickeningly magnetic allure. How you made her feel unstoppable with that come-hither gaze, then left her so low when your eyes inevitably left her.

And suddenly, like a golden key slotting into place, the words Natasha had heard whispered in the hallways finally made sense. The coveted prayer that could only be spoken under hushed tones and divine lips.

Don’t fall for the player.

When Natasha finishes the series of tumbles that ignites impressed cheers from the senior cheerleaders, she lifts her lowered eyes back to the bleachers.

Only to find your lips locked with the blonde girl from before, your hands creeping dangerously low on her back. You move like a predator python, the silver piercings in your ears glinting in the light with every of your calculated moves.

A burning feeling courses through Natasha’s veins, like an ugly green monster unfurling gradually, indescribable anger making her jaw tick.

Don’t fall for the player? Well, now that just sounded like a challenge.

***

Natasha makes her way through the crowd of students filing out from the lecture hall. The chatter fades to a background buzz in her ears as she beelines towards a group of more bearable folks.

“No, they’re a sophomore,” Wanda explained, leaning against the locker door.

“Who’re we talking about?” Natasha intercepts with a curious gaze, slinging an arm around Clint lackadaisically. Professor Banner’s lectures were highly educational, but he tended to drone on a little, and she could feel the rising boredom making its slow crescendo into the back of her mind.

Clint raises his eyebrows amusedly, then lowers his voice in humorous dramatisation. “The player.”

Natasha’s face flashes in recognition at your title. Several things flit across her mind in rapid succession — a fetching character, a lofty smirk, and a pretty girl hanging off a forearm.

“So, this uh… What’s her name?” Natasha tries to ask subtly, faking an expression of indifference. Clint, as always, side-eyes her with a playfully accusatory glance. Natasha shrugs with an odd feeling of guilt.

“Well, I’m a sophomore too, so I do have the guilty pleasure of knowing Y/N L/N,” Wanda said with a bit of a grin.

“Knows her in more ways than one!” Sam cackles, ducking as Wanda swipes at him.

Natasha feels that burning feeling rising in her chest again, and perhaps it was due to the knowledge that someone else had experienced being in bed with you — which was arguably silly, because of course you slept with plenty of women, but that didn’t quell her growing unease.

“Was the sex really that good?” Clint asks bluntly, folding his arms as he leans against the locker next to Darcy. Natasha chokes on air.

Wanda only raises an eyebrow, as if to question the poor boy of his doubts of your sexual prowess. Her knowing smirk told a thousand tales, of your sentient being seemingly reincarnated from a Goddess of Sex, of your mighty skillset of lust, the ultimate sapphic enigma.

“You tryna pull a lesbian, birdboy?” Natasha asks dryly, nudging Clint in the rib. The jibe doesn’t even give her that satisfaction. Thinking about you again had unnerved her very skin, causing clammy hands and a dry mouth.

“She leaves all the girls the morning after, though, so don’t get your hopes up,” Wanda sighs wistfully, waving her hand in the air as if she prophesied of a legend. “It’s a one-night-wonder. Kind of like an eclipse. Only happens once, but when it does, it’s really astronomical.”

Natasha flexes her fingers to get her blood flowing. All this talk about your specialised skillset in bed was making her heart flutter, in the best way possible, but maybe that per se was the worst thing possible.

Because she might acknowledge that you were attractive, but that didn’t necessarily mean she wanted to sleep with you, right?

“And that’s why it's a common tongue around here,” Wanda concludes. “Don’t fall for the player. Simple as that.”

On cue, the noise in the hallway comically fades to silence. The gathered crowds of students make way for a quickly striding figure, clad in the same dark clothing Natasha thought about day and night.

Crossing the hallway with an easy purpose and confident composure, you walk past girls who could be seen swooning. Your gaze slides over them casually, sending small smiles here and there but never really quite focusing.

Until your eyes meet Natasha’s, of course. Like a love scene straight out of a drama, your composure cracks fractionally, and your loose confidence is subverted. It only takes a second before your persona snaps back into place.

“Hey, Natasha,” A smooth voice spills out from your angel-crafted lips. Your voice runs over her weak-willed skin, suddenly so vulnerable in your presence, and then you’re gone.

Natasha stills in place, staring after your disappearing figure. Your two words had left such a searing imprint into the front of her mind that it was honestly concerning. The chatter rises again, as if you were never there.

“Looks like you’re Y/N’s next conquest,” Wanda comments, mildly impressed. “Good luck, my friend. Just remember, don’t fall for the player.”

***

Why on earth there was a dorm party on the second day of school was a question that would forever remain unanswered.

Perhaps the adolescent spirit was the root cause of it, free and tameless and reckless, or maybe it was the temptation of alcohol and attractive folks, intoxicating and thrilling.

Either way, Natasha was here for a good time, not a long time.

Her short midnight dress flounces as she makes her way over to the partially occupied couch, the rather risky slit making its way up her thigh to reveal awfully beddable skin.

“Hey, babe!” Wanda calls enthusiastically, waving her over. There’s a Matrix movie playing on the screen, Natasha isn’t clear of which one, and there are students sprawled over the couch, the floor, and on each other.

She ends up playing a game of truth or dare with strangers, driven by warm bodies and the repetitive encouragement to indulge in a little bit of ‘fun’.

“Truth!” Darcy yells drunkenly, almost crushing her red solo cup of cheap alcohol.

“Jeez, woman,” Carol mutters, sighing at the tipsy girl’s antics. “So, truth— ever had a threesome?”

A bunch of ‘ooh’s wave like a ripple through the huddle of students, but Darcy answers with surprisingly quick coherence for a woman on her sixth cup of beer. “Hell yeah,” she drawls. “Y/N and Jane. Best night of my fuckin’ life.”

Natasha feels that wildly uncomfortable feeling of butterflies fluttering — no, thrashing, around in her stomach. It’s absolutely ridiculous that she’s so easily unsettled by you.

Said Jane Foster flushes in her seat, clearly embarrassed at having her sex life exposed. She waves a hand, trying to quiet down the growing hoots and whistles. “I mean, is it really that surprising, guys? I’m definitely not the only one! Okay, jerks, who else has laid with the famed Y/N L/N?”

Immediately, all eleven women in the dorm room have their hands raised. Well, all except Natasha, that is.

“Oh, she’s a free woman!” Valkyrie yells out, pumping her fist, and the crowd of women let out victorious cheers. “Our last standing soldier!”

Natasha smiles awkwardly in the limelight of all these older students, the strangling sensation in her gut growing stronger.

Seriously? ‘The Player’ has already slept with all these pretty girls in her second year? I would never sleep with someone who treats sex so meaninglessly…

Natasha refocuses on the game, dispelling all her thoughts that seemed to constantly circulate around you. In the bleachers, in the hallway, and now in a dorm party…

So why is Y/N L/N a muse in my mind? Why is she so inescapable?

After about six rounds of revealing shameful truths and accepting rather pointless dares, Natasha’s ready to ditch the scene altogether.

She’s barely touched any alcohol, but it was honestly a shame that her imagination was still so lucid. Getting some of that cheap beer into her system would probably help her to relax quicker, and to stop thinking about you.

“Hey, uh,” she whispers to Wanda. The older girl pulls her gaze away from the current life of the party to regard Natasha with a drunken smile.

“What’s up, Nat?” Wanda drawls, sprawling forward a little too close for comfort. Natasha cringes at her beer-tinted breath. Wanda murmurs softly, “Hey, you got a lil somethin’ in your eye. Looks like a little cloud… Oh, that’s just the light. Silly me, silly–”

“Wanda, I’m gonna head back now. Don’t worry about me,” Natasha says, slightly impatiently but affectionate nonetheless, patting Wanda’s head.

“Awh, okay,” Wanda responds drunkenly, breaking off into a little giggle as Natasha gets up. “Hey, Nat?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fall for the player, yeah?” Wanda asks with an innocent smile, but her eyes are reminiscent of a ghost doing its last haunting. Then Wanda’s gone, gone with the wind, her attention lost to the exhilarating game of truth and dare.

There’s a moment of quiet in Natasha’s mind, save for the explicit Nicki Minaj song playing in the background with lyrics that would make a stripper blush.

She had heard that simple statement all too many times. Almost like she was meant to hear it. Like it was a premonition, a foreshadowing.

With the odd feeling of being defenceless, Natasha makes a beeline for the door. She’s had enough of silly conservations and awful thoughts; conversations that encircled around the subject of The Player, and awful thoughts of hers that always ended up being about you.

However, a shining bottle of cheap alcohol catches Natasha’s attention from the makeshift bartending station, essentially a kitchen counter. “Wouldn’t hurt, I guess,” she mutters under her breath, reaching out to grab a bottle for herself.

“Ah, that beer’s shite. The good one’s in the cupboard.”

Embarrassingly startled by the familiar smooth voice that greets her, Natasha jumps in her own skin. You again, she thinks with such indignation. What kind of sheer audacity did you have to approach her, after you were making out with another girl just the other day–

All coherent thoughts left Natasha’s mind when her eyes rake over your short-sleeve compression shirt that clung to your abdomen and arms like a vacuum-sealed package. Paired with grey sweats, it was such a beguiling mixture of taut muscles and casual wear that had Natasha growing hotter under her skin.

“I guess it’s alright for me to assume I’ve chosen the right attire for today,” you say, folding your arms in a little bit of satisfaction. That has Natasha staring at the black tattoos that decorate your thick forearms, and she’s half-crazed by the alluring sight.

Perhaps you’re showing off a little more than you normally would, but the girl standing before you was one that had invaded your mind for days on end, which was entirely uncharacteristic of your constantly horny brain.

“Can I ask you a question?” Natasha asks snarkily, returning your confidence with her very own crossed arms. Your eyes don’t miss the way her awfully kissable lips form the words on her tongue, and you certainly don’t miss the way her crossed arms push up her cleavage.

You lick your lips imperceptibly, and you notice the way Natasha’s eyes follow the movement with a hawk-like gaze. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” you respond easily, taking a single step closer to the object of your desires.

Natasha scoffs at the pet name, but you can see your close proximity subverts her composure in the slightest. Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you reach out to place your hands on her altar-like hips. She bristles under your touch, but she doesn’t move.

“Why’re you so fucking arrogant?” Natasha finally asks, hating how breathless she sounds, struggling to keep cool as your ring-adorned hands thumb the material of her short dress. You’ve got her entrapped between the kitchen counter and your sinfully sculpted body, with no way of escape. (Not like Natasha was looking for one.)

“Brat.” The dry laugh that sounds from your throat has Natasha’s heart pounding, a choked sound of pleasure caught in the back of her throat. Your big hands have moved to her sides, cradling her waist tenderly but withholding power, as if you’re ready to dig your fingertips into her soft skin at any given moment.

She thinks it’s unfair, the way your eyes are damn near psychedelic. They’re screens of mercury, smouldering and smoking with the way it trails over her body. If you’re a spark of fire, Natasha is a pool of gasoline that feeds your will.

Hot lips slant against Natasha’s ear lobe, taking it between your teeth as she shudders. Natasha’s breathy release of air as she fights to keep silent has you tugging on her earlobe with pure want.

“Can I ask you a question?” you ask, your voice a touch lower than it had been before, your hands tightening its grip on her deadly hips, the metal of your rings cool against her hot skin.

The overwhelming sensation of your big hands, hot lips and sharp teeth is enough to have Natasha’s eyes fluttering shut. She almost loses control of herself, almost lets herself fall victim to your hypnotic touch — But then you pull away, and a desperate little whine nearly falls from Natasha’s lips.

The cheerleader swallows as she stares at your crafted face, your eyes darkened with something far deeper than want, your lips tugged upwards into a devilish smirk.

“My room or yours?”

Natasha would like to say that the rest was a blur, and her alcohol-tainted memories got lost in translation — but it was a shameful and unequivocal statement that she had been entirely sober, and yet recalled every single detail of that night to vivid precision.

***

Natasha remembers you pressing her up against your door, a fervent urgency of lust unlocked within the confines of your dorm.

“So fucking desperate,” you grunt, hips knocking into Natasha’s front as you pin her against the door, lithe legs wrapped around your muscled torso.

“Shut the fuck up,” she spits, throwing her head back as your sharp teeth sink into the softness of her porcelain neck. The edge of your canines are hard and unforgiving, just how Natasha likes it, just how you scatter dark hickeys across her pale skin.

You smirk at her brattiness, finding it an exceptionally arousing trait of hers. “Pretty girl, you’re not the one in charge,” you tease, with your words and with your hands, dragging your fingertips up and under her short dress.

Natasha remembers her fingers twisting into your hair as you play her like a fiddle, teasing and edging and so blatantly talented like a prodigal concertmaster.

She whines as the cool metal of your rings nudges her nipples, her sensitivity skyrocketing with the shock. “More,” she tries to demand, but it ends up sounding like a helpless whimper and your hands move with such purpose.

You don’t help her cause by taking a hardened bud between two fingers and tugging, cries and whimpers following your fingers. Heaven is the way her breasts look all marked up by your mouth, hardened nipples and raw skin dancing in your vision.

Natasha’s nails dig into your hardened abdomen, scraping at your every muscle for all it was worth. It was something about you, something about the look in your eye, something about the way you commandeered her body with such precision and control like it was meant to be.

Natasha remembers her complete relinquishment of power, giving herself up for you, with a sick urge to be fucked within an inch of her life and then some.

Your right hand slides across her damp inner thigh to brush at her demesnes, and the sheer wetness that awaits your fingers makes you growl against her skin. “So fucking wet,” you grunt, peeling apart the thin material of her panties that cling to her sodden pussy with strings of slick.

Natasha wails, face completely flushed and so utterly gorgeous, and you can’t help but meet her lips with clashing tongue and teeth. She moans as your pierced tongue explores her mouth, and you drink up her cries of pleasure.

“Wanna fuck you silly,” you pant against her ear, fingers tracing the outline of her pretty pussy, dragging arousal along with it. Your knee keeps her legs spread nicely apart for the taking, and the vulnerability you bring out of Natasha is perhaps also the hottest thing.

Humiliation is the way Natasha agrees so quickly, nodding dumbly in acquiescence, thinking it would be nice to feel her brain melt to mush with your thick fingers and prodding tongue.

Natasha remembers the earth-shattering pleasure that wracks her body, as you divulge in providing, by leaps and bounds, the best sex she’s ever had.

Three fingers slide in and out of her dripping cunt at a phenomenal pace, and Natasha’s panting like a dog, tight velvet walls clenching around the thickness of your fingers for all it’s worth.

Finger-fucking her against the door like a heaven-descent, you bask in Natasha’s cries of pleasure. It’s never been like this, never been this heated. With Natasha, you felt like you were ascending.

“You’re gonna make a mess on the fucking floor,” you bite, a low gasp caught in the back of your throat. Natasha’s head lolls to the side, high-pitched whimpers making themselves known as she drips down your wrist and her thighs.

Natasha remembers the unravelling, the way her body seizes up out of its own accord, electricity erupting behind her half-lidded eyes.

Your hands dig into the plush of her thighs as you bring Natasha to a stupendous climax. Your fingers curl harshly, hitting her sweet spot and drawing out obscene noises from her.

“Fuck–” Natasha chokes out, high-pitched and breathy and absolutely delightful. Her hips jerk in your hands as your fingers move inside her.

“Another,” you grunt, not a request, and before Natasha can get ahold of her senses your fingers are thrusting again. She wails as your wrist jackhammers into her wet cunt, slick sounds echoing around the four walls of your room.

The second orgasm arrives even more harshly than the first, and Natasha clings onto the broad muscles of your back as you pin her against the door, toes curling and eyes squeezing shut.

She thinks she could find solace in the way your arms entrap her in a certain type of warmth, almost as if you don’t want to let her go.

But that would just be a hopeless fantasy, wouldn’t it?

Natasha remembers waking up the next morning to an empty bed.

The morning air is too cold on her bare skin. Your side of the bed isn’t even warm anymore. You must’ve left ages ago, in the dark of the night, and that thought in itself has Natasha choking on emotions she’d rather not feel.

Her clothes are still strewn on the floor and the furniture is a mess, a mockery of how far she’d let you go last night, driven by an inescapable high.

This is the game you play. Toying with girls' hearts like it was child’s play, making them feel like they were one in a million for one night only. All that alluring charisma was ugly and falsified, viewed through rose-tinted glasses.

This is the game you play, and Natasha Romanoff had fallen victim to it.

Don’t fall for the player.

Now, it was just another warning sign that she’d overlooked, and she was just like those other girls, stumbling into your open arms and cocky smirk.

Vehement fury slugs inside the cheerleader, as she forcefully picks up her strewn clothes.

Then she looks around the dorm room, your room, and time stills for a moment.

She’d expected it to be somewhat furnished, like all other dorm rooms were, maybe a cactus in the corner or a poster of a rockstar. Instead, your walls are blank and there isn’t a trophy or an award in sight.

You’re the captain of the football team, above average in academics, yet there isn’t a trace of the mark you’ve left as a student at Avengers Institution. There isn’t a trace that you’re a living, breathing human, with emotions that craft your very humanity.

Scarily enough, she feels like she’s laid in the bed of a complete stranger.

And suddenly, Natasha understands.

Don’t fall for the player.

Suddenly, everything feels a little too real, and Natasha comprehends that the statement holds far more depth than what your reputation suggested.

You were just fucking scared.

Scared of commitment, scared of growing attached, scared of being abandoned. You feared getting your heart broken, and thus you feared the longevity of relationships that involved love and romance.

As Natasha picks up her strewn clothes from the floor, with aching limbs and dishevelled hair, only one statement rings in her mind.

Don’t fall for the player.

“Maybe I will,” Natasha whispers to the ghost of your handsome, misunderstood self in the room. “But haven’t you heard I always get what I want?”

***

You couldn’t fall asleep.

You watch the empty sky as you sit on the empty rooftop of the school at four in the morning, a cigarette hanging limp between your lips. There’s an underlying anger bubbling beneath your skin, an itch that you can’t find, simply stewing there to your frustration.

Romance was bullshit.

It was plainly obvious from the way girls approached you. Flirty eyes and feather-light touches meant only one thing. And they were all so pretty, so who were you to complain, right?

All those girls always ended up in your dorm bed, sweaty and short of breath. Your heart would pound, and your mind would go wild with endless possibilities of what could happen if they just stayed.

“You can stay if you want,” you muttered off-handedly to one of your first few hookups in college. The look that the girl returned was so unimpressed that you never asked that question again.

But it was okay, because sex was something that you were good at, and those girls had their fun. It was okay, even if there was something missing. It was okay that your reputation preceded your identity. Even if those expectations spiralled far beyond your control.

With every passing girl you brought to bed, the gnawing hole in your chest only grew bigger. You craved something that you couldn’t obtain. Even if your heart was crawling out of its ribcage every time a girl breathed your name, every time she laid a hand on your chest.

Last night, Natasha Romanoff took that gaping hole in your chest and ripped it right open.

“Please, Y/N,” Natasha had whined, and there was reverent devotion in the way you held her hips, in the way you pulled her close.

“Stay,” you had wanted to whisper, so badly, so many times, but her hands were streaking red marks down your back and her body was shuddering under yours.

So you kept your forbidden mouth shut and continued to do what you did best. All the ‘what-ifs’ were just hopeless dreams. You couldn’t stay, you couldn’t commit. You weren’t allowed to, not after the expectations that had been set for you.

Romance was bullshit, after all.

“You seem troubled,” a female voice announces from behind you, but you don’t bother to turn back. Taking your silence as consent, the girl sits next to you.

“Give me a light,” the girl says, leaning closer to you, and only then do you turn to look her over. Blonde girl, 5’8, blue eyes. Freshman.

“Sharon Carter, right?” you ask indifferently, and the girl lets out a bemused huff as she makes her comfortable next to you.

“Wow, so you do know every girl in this school,” Sharon comments, and there’s a teasing lilt in her voice that hints at how this is going to end up.

You pull out a cigarette, passing it over to the blonde girl, noting how her fingertips brush over yours for a second too long. “Maybe I do,” you respond with false cockiness, the smirk overtaking your face almost unconsciously.

This is the right thing to do, you convince yourself, as Sharon’s hand creeps to your thigh. One girl after the other. You couldn’t get attached.

“Impressive. Put away your light. It’s healthier to destress in another way,” Sharon whispers, tossing her cigarette to the rough concrete.

What a waste, you think, but then the same could be said about a lot of other things in your life.

For a fraction of a second, you contemplate your existence. You wonder why you’ve ended up this way. What you’ve done to deserve girls throwing themselves at you when you began to despise all of them.

When Sharon brings her lips closer to yours, and you find yourself meeting her halfway, because you’ve done it so many times.

There’s this tugging of your heart that almost feels like guilt, but you shove it down and drag your tongue between a set of lips. All too easily, your hands draw patterns across her chest and her thighs, a mastered craft that came mechanically.

Even if it is the right thing to do, it doesn’t feel right.

Your head is swimming with unbearable thoughts of Natasha Romanoff, and you try to erase her on the tongue of another girl who could never compare.

It doesn’t feel right, but it’s the easy way out, and it’s what’s expected of you.

Always has been.

***

“Fuck, Y/N—” is the first thing Natasha hears when she meanders into the bathroom the morning after.

She had wanted to get an early start on the new morning, but alas, fate had it out for her.

For a while, Natasha is surprised that she isn’t surprised. You’ve got a pretty blonde girl on the bathroom counter, one hand up her skirt and the other twisted in her hair.

The girl throws her head back in a bout of pleasure, and Natasha’s thinking that maybe she looks a little familiar. It’s her cheekbones, strung high like a haughty prick. “Daddy’s money always gets what you want, hm?” rings in her head.

A spark of fire burns any ounce of indifference Natasha has to ashes. Sharon Fucking Carter.

Sharon’s painted nails were digging into the expanse of your shoulder blades, and it looked downright painful. Your dexterous fingers were plunging into her sodden cunt, rendering her barely coherent.

It all looks so wrong, and Natasha wants to crawl out of her skin before the jealousy eats her alive.

“Fucking hypocrite, aren’t you?” Natasha spits venomously, hands clenched into fists of fury, making her presence known.

When Sharon jumps away from you like she’s been burned, Natasha can’t help but let evil glee surge through her stomach. Serves you right, she thinks, staring at your dishevelled hair that somehow only made you look more handsome.

It’s different, this time, with your eyes darting as if you were unsure of yourself. (Astonishing, considering your mean streak of being cold as ice.) There’s resentment in the way your face sets, and a type of hurt that causes Natasha to falter.

“Daddy’s little bitch,” Sharon scoffs, fixing her skirt with no attempt to hide her disdain. “Why don’t you fuck off, huh?”

Natasha scoffs, eyes widening in fractional aggression. “I-”

“You should go, Carter,” you say monotonously, almost defeated but wavering on the edge of frustration.

The blonde girl whips her head around to stare at you with incredulousness written in her wide eyes. She lets out a dry laugh of betrayal. “Fuck, look at the two of you. Match made in hell.”

The bathroom door slams shut with a piercing thud. Both you and Natasha don’t flinch.

“You didn’t have to call Sharon a hypocrite,” you mumble, flicking your head back to look in the mirror.

There’s something off about you that no one else has ever had the privilege of seeing. It makes Natasha’s heart soar and her blood boil simultaneously.

“She wasn’t the one I was calling a hypocrite.”

A moment passes between the two of you where you flick an invisible switch.

“I’m the hypocrite, Romanoff?” you ask, evidently provoked. A crazed look in your eyes draws Natasha’s attention, because you’re putting on a false facade all over again.

“Am I the hypocrite for fucking another girl? It’s all I do, isn’t it? That’s what I’m known for. You don’t get to be so butthurt because you were just a one-night.”

A sickly sourness lines your mouth as you spew words that aren’t true, because your heart was fighting every battle to get to Natasha Romanoff.

“What you’re failing to realise,” Natasha begins stately. “Is that this isn’t about me. Fuck it if I’m just another girl on your ever-growing fuck list. Because maybe I am. But you’re lying to yourself if you think you’re happy.”

“Oh, so now you’re determining my emotions for me,” you retort with as much snark as you can muster. “You weren’t acting this high and mighty last night in my bed.”

“Quit the act,” Natasha scoffs, then letting a bittersweet smile cross her face. “You’re hiding behind weak retorts because you’re scared. Scared of being alone. But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Lost, your hands twitch, and you allow yourself to believe that maybe Natasha is your salvation. Defense mechanisms kick in, but you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Sorry to disappoint, Romanoff, but don’t try to play therapist. I’m not some kind of victim you’re going to diagnose,” you sneer. “I’m free to do whatever the fuck I want without your judgment.”

“Free?” Natasha asks, an incredulous look in her eyes. She laughs in mockery with an unwavering gaze. “You’re not free. You can’t go a day without fucking a girl. You’re a prisoner, and you’re shackled by your own desires and wants. Except this time, that luxury has become an addictive coping mechanism.”

Dark eyes flash with a glimmer of danger, and you’re so much like a trapped animal gone hostile that Natasha’s heart breaks a little.

“You’re wrong,” you answer, but your hands are shaking so violently that you hardly seem like the person she once thought you were.

Where complete equilibrium once was, a desperate frenzy of unease is what exudes from you now. Natasha feels a twinge in her heart when you whisper “You’re wrong,” again, this time substantially more quiet and resigned.

“Prove it, then,” Natasha challenges, bringing a hand up to cup the side of your face. Her eyes search yours so desperately, and you’ve stripped naked in front of a hundred girls, but you’ve never felt more vulnerable. “Prove that you’re more than whatever they say about you.”

With the strange urge of tears pricking at your eyes, you stare at Natasha with all the hopelessness any broken heart could muster, and for a moment you can see the doubt in her eyes. Like you’ve disappointed her, just like all the girls who’s hearts you’ve broken.

But when you first kissed Natasha Romanoff, it was never going to be just another one-night, was it?

With the final semblance of humanity in your burden-stricken mortality, you drag a shaky thumb along Natasha’s cheekbones like it’s the most delicate thing in the world, and the deeply-rooted self-loathing inside you fades away, just a little bit.

Your parted lips meet Natasha’s in a prologue to an unfinished symphony. You delve in like she’s your last lifeline, and maybe Natasha is, from the way she rests her fingers on your hips with a gentleness you’ve never experienced.

A carnal urge washes over you, because this time you’re not afraid to admit that you want Natasha Romanoff. You spread your hands, feeling up as much of her as you can, running it down her back then squeezing at her rounded ass—

And then Natasha’s pulling away, and only then do you hear the cluster of footsteps approaching the washroom.

“Tonight,” she whispers with a hint of smirk. Natasha goes on her tippy-toes to press a kiss on the tip of your nose, and then she’s gone.

You stand there with wide eyes, in the washroom where students filter in, lingering with the ghost of Natasha Romanoff’s lips and a piece of your heart melted onto the floor.

***

You were positive you were going to start ripping off your skin if you didn’t start fucking Natasha Romanoff in this exact moment.

But that would be a bad idea, because you were in the middle of a psychology lecture, and Professor Harkness probably wouldn’t appreciate that.

After a torturous hour of you shifting in your seat, you sprint out the lecture hall. Thanking the heavens that it was your last lesson of the day, you dodge and weave through the crowd of students in the hallway.

“Hey, Y/N,” A small group of sophomore girls call out, checking you out like a piece of meat. Normally, their flirtatious winks and little skirts would have you folded in an instant, but you couldn’t wait a moment longer.

You send them a polite smile and continue on your hasteful journey, missing the comical way their faces fall.

Upon your dutiful research, you knew where Natasha’s dorm was located, but you planned to stop by your own dorm to pick up a little something. (Okay, maybe the something wasn’t that little.) You yank open your door with purpose—

Only to find Natasha already sprawled out on your dorm bed, dressed in one of your shirts and nothing else. You almost pass out. Almost.

“Nat,” you groan, locking the door behind you. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not before I come, I’m afraid,” Natasha sighs with a pleased smile. She beckons you over with a come-hither motion, spreading her legs in invitation.

You bite back an affected noise in the back of your throat, pushing Natasha back down on to the bed with fervour. With a crushing sense of urgency, you slide your hand between her pretty thighs, not waiting a single moment.

“Slow down,” Natasha instructs, tilting your head up to stare at her blown pupils. “Take your time. Don’t just fuck me. Do it like you mean it.”

Upon hearing those words, a rush of pride washes over you and then you’re so eager to please, desperate to somehow prove yourself.

Your fingers find the hem of her shirt and tug it over her head, revealing the bare mounds that are Natasha’s tits. A shaky exhale leaves your lips as your fingertips experimentally brush over her hardened buds.

“God, you’re built,” Natasha moans, running her hands over the edges and curves of your muscle. It’s tight and taut under her touch, so defined and carved.

You shudder under her explorative touch, returning your attention back to the beautiful girl in front of you.

You were so used to hot, fast, explosive sex that turning back time was such a jarring awakening of everything that you were missing out on.

It put things into perspective, that you had never actually made love. And since this was your first time, you were determined to do it right, especially for Natasha.

You trail open-mouthed kisses down her sternum and stomach, savouring the taste of her skin. Your hands grasp at her tits, enjoying the feel of it in your hands.

You’re experiencing things you never got to experience, like the rise and fall of Natasha’s pale chest, the way her eyelids flutter gently.

Temporarily avoiding where she needed you most, you hear Natasha let out a whine. You tease her hole with your tongue, smearing her slick messily.

“Fuck,” Natasha curses, winding her fingers into your hair. “Please, I need it,” she whines, as you lick at her clit.

“M’kay, baby,” you mumble against her wet folds, because you could never deny Natasha of anything, could you?

You slide your tongue in her twitching pussy, and begin one of the most passionate love-making sessions

You listen out for when Natasha hitches her breath, when her hips stutter, when she mewls out. You learn the instrument of her body, understand and test out the different reactions you can draw out.

After minutes of what seem like pure bliss with erratic breaths and pleading keening, you speed up and the reaction is immaculate.

“Y/N,” Natasha cries, as your tongue goes in and out of her dripping cunt. Her slick goes down her thighs and your chin, making the most obscene noises.

It’s wet and squelching, and you proceed to devour Natasha’s pussy for everything it’s worth.

For a millisecond, Natasha wonders if anyone has ever died from being eaten out too passionately. Erotic Oral Overdrive, maybe.

Her first orgasm comes in a gradual crescendo, her hips rocking in waves as you dutifully match her unwinding.

Natasha lets her eyes flutter shut as the moment overwhelms her senses. Until the silence is finally broken by you.

“Got a little something for you,” you say with a quirked brow, sliding your hand into the bedside cabinet to retrieve that little something.

“Oh, fuck,” Natasha whines, upon seeing the biggest strap-on toy she’s ever had her eyes upon in her life.

You ease in the cock with no amount of trouble, through Natasha’s already slick cunt. You start with a gentle pace, because you’re trying to be slow.

Apparently, Natasha has different plans this time around.

“Harder,” Natasha growls, digging her nails into your muscled back. You let out a low gasp, because you’re already so deep inside her divine pussy, and you didn’t think you could go any deeper.

Gripping her thighs and spreading it as far apart as you can, you thrust impossibly deeper and your hips slap against Natasha’s.

Her eyes roll back, and she arches off the bed as you continue to thrust and make a nest for yourself inside her.

“Y/N, ungh– please, fuck—” Curled toes wrap around your back as she writhes against the bed.

With the way your cock bulges against her skin, you’re quite sure you could actually split Natasha in half. She’s clawing at your back, calling out your name to the ceiling.

When you pull out, Natasha whines, velvet walls clenching tighter around to keep you deep inside. But then you thrust all the way in again and a scream rings around your dorm room.

You don’t give a flying fuck about the noise level as you pound into Natasha, splitting open her pretty little pussy. “So fucking tight and wet,” you moan into her ear. “All for me, baby?”

It’s fucking possesive, the way you manhandle her to look at her rolled-back eyes and slack jaw.

“Mhm– yes! Oh God, yes, please, Y/N!” Natasha shrieks, clenching so tight you swear you can feel her wet pulse through the huge strap-on.

But it isn’t just any strap-on, and Natasha realises this with a breathy gasp, because it’s a squirting strap-on, and then you’re unloading into her ruined cunt with a deep growl.

Natasha wails, legs in the air, as you pump your seed into her pussy. It’s thick and flows out in pumps, and she milks your cock dry.

“Good girl, Nat,” you breathe, rocking in slow motions so she can recover from her high.

Finally, you collapse on top of Natasha as she lets out a breathy laugh. “What happened to not fucking the same girl twice?”

“You’re infuriating,” you grunt, rolling your hips once in retaliation. You delight the small victory of Natasha whimpering under you.

Natasha rolls her eyes at your impertinence, leaning up to press a small kiss on your forehead. “Infuriating? More like irresistible.”

It’s your turn to laugh, grasping her hips and pulling her impossibly closer. “You’re right,” you whisper truthfully. You think you could stay like this forever.

“Stay if you dare,” Natasha whispers, letting her hand trace over the curvature of your angled face. As you lay above her, you turn your head so that your lips brush against her palm.

Your warm lips are so delicate that Natasha could almost weep, and that’s all the response she needs before breathing a gentle sigh, hence letting sleep drift her consciousness away.

For the first night amongst many, a quiet calm settles in your dorm room ‘til the sun rises again.

***

Don’t fall for the player.

Once upon a time, that used to be a warning, circulating within the hallways of Avengers Institution, whispered under hushed breaths and divine lips.

Tried and true, was the rumour that every single girl in this school would eventually fall victim to The Player’s effortless charisma and unstoppable magnetism.

And this might be true, because whenever you strolled the hallways or scored a touchdown, you were bound to have admirers cheering your name or flirty winks thrown in your way — However, there was a catalyst. A change, if you would.

Boys looked on in jealousy, girls looked on in intrigue. (Or maybe jealousy, too.) What used to be a smooth mouth and wandering hands became a delicate kind of control, saved for only one particular student.

Gone was your blatant charisma and swagger in treating other girls, because now there was only one on your mind — Natasha Romanoff. Be it in on the bleachers, in the hallways, or during dorm parties, never were you seen without the girl who always got what she wanted.

And that included the very subject of the mantra that defined Avengers Institution:

Don’t fall for the player.

so... this was one full month of work. i've never been this dedicated to a singular project. wow. uh, please reblog. it's the only true way of supporting your little creators on this app, so help me out here. thanks for reading. out of curiosity, which part did you like the most?

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

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atrwriting · 3 months

Text

comfort — aegon x fem!reader

did anyone else fall victim to season 2 completely changing your viewpoint on aegon? i used to fucking hate this guy. honestly i still hate season 1 aegon. i almost didn't post this because i hate him soooo much. i've chosen to separate season 1 and season 2 aegon because the show and book are works of fiction — but please read with caution. at the end of the day, this is still aegon — and he is still a royal asshole and should very much be locked up in jail.

but like why did season two make me feel bad and want to comfort this fucker like what the fuck

as always, warnings: aegon is a fucking warning, smuuut, aegon has a praise kink, oral sex, p in v sex, aegon is a bit of a meaniehead in this, alcoholism, my own sick and twisted self indulgence because i like swear i could fix him

i refuse to fucking edit and im only slightly sorry

____

“i never wanted to be king..." he mumbled, drinking his wine. "to keep them safe... and for what? for what!?"

your heart fell at his words. it split and shattered into a million pieces, but slowly. the pain was so slow. it froze you — held you in its grasp so the only thing you could do was stare at the king, who sank slowly into his own despair — and also his chair.

you swallowed — unsure of how to proceed.

“more wine, your grace?” you asked, hoping to appear cheerful.

with his back turned, his own answer was his outstretched hand with his goblet in his grasp.

your pour was hefty.

he sighed before he brought his chalice to his lips, taking two gulps of the deep plum liquid. you didn’t want to linger — for you knew the king enjoyed his solitude or the company of a young lady.

you wanted to make haste before he remembered either of the two.

“is there anything else i can do for you, my king?” you asked. “i can fetch you something to eat —“

“no,” he spoke. “i’m not hungry. — sit with me. pour yourself a glass.”

your eyes widened as your clutched the wine. sit — with the king? and share wine? you had never heard of such a thing. you had heard of his crude, and horrible behavior — but not this. definitely not this.

but what else were you to do but obey? nothing. absolutely nothing. you had no choice.

you pulled out the chair, and aegon pulled another glass toward his. the king... retrieved you a glass? you had set the wine down on the table so you could pull your chair out with shaking hands, hoping to keep them steady. aegon, the king, had taken it upon himself to not only get you your own chalice, but also pour wine for you.

gods, you thought. what have i found myself in?

“thank you, my king,” you spoke, settling into your seat. “would it please your grace to drink in silence?”

he tapped his fingers on the top of the table. you could not meet his eyes, for fear of upsetting him. you weren’t sure if you could feel his eyes on you, but you did not want to make the first move.

“the servant girls like you — they do not look at me,” he spoke, taking another swig of his wine. “due to my actions as a boy, no doubt. i must assure you — i am a man now. a king.”

“of course, your grace,” you answered. “we are very lucky to serve you and your family.”

“very lucky…” he scoffed, a sad smile on his face. he was not displeased with you — and you couldn’t place why, but you could tell it was not you. you surmised it was something else. “lucky? to work in this castle? when war brews closer every day?”

you swallowed thickly, unsure of how to proceed. you shouldn’t have. you really shouldn’t have — and you knew it, you could feel it in your bones — but a part of you also knew that it could do some good. maybe not a lot, but at least some. “we know that you would do anything to protect this castle — and the people inside of it, your grace. we are lucky.”

was it a lie? yes. none of the servants believed that they were safe, and those that did — they did not credit aegon. they might credit the webs alicent could weave, aemond’s dragon, or cole’s stones — but not aegon. definitely not aegon. not even aegon gave aegon, himself any credit, for he knew the truth. everyone knew the truth — but where would self pity get the king? where would his low self esteem place you and the small folk? nowhere. absolutely nowhere.

and that’s why you lied.

you lied through your fucking teeth.

you had to lie — for the good of the realm. for the good of the small folk. for your own good.

and what did he do? he laughed.

he fucking laughed.

you weren’t surprised — you knew that he was difficult to reason with, prone to expressions of raw, irrational emotion.

what you didn’t expect was that his laughs turned into tears.

you don’t know why — but you immediately stood.

sitbackdownsitbackdownsitbackdown, someone in your head chided. sitbackdownsitbackdownsitbackdown.

but you didn’t listen. you should’ve listened.

you stood and took a few steps towards the king.

thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

your heart pounded in your ears, and soon you though you could feel it rise into your throat. you would’ve choked on it if you had waited any longer to do what you wanted to.

you reached for his hand — not really knowing what you would do if you had successfully intertwined your fingers with his. it didn’t matter — for aegon smacked your hand away. he snapped his head up to look at you, glaring.

he immediately stood from his seat, towering over you. his eyes were ablaze, consumed by anger and threats. his lips were thin in a snarl, having replaced his sadness with aggression.

“you dare touch the king?” he bit, holding you by the wrist.

you gasped as he yanked your arm, a strangled cry leaving your lips. “i wanted to offer comfort, your grace —“

“offer comfort?1” he spat once more, shaking his head in disbelief.

“yes, your grace,” you said softly. “only comfort.”

his eyes took a moment to soften, but when they did… you regretted coming into the room altogether — even if it was your job to serve him. you could have asked someone else. could've, could've, could've.

but then...

oh, then...

a bittersweet taste rested in your mouth once you saw regret, shame, and guilt all swirl within aegon’s purple irises. all three. like three flames, all from one dragon — consuming the very thing before it until there was nothing left. his eyes, once filled with glee, then tears, and then anger, and now this? this? — you didn’t know how to proceed, or if you should at all.

he was the king — but at the end of the day, at the end of it all — he was just a young man.

just a young man.

“i am sorry, your grace,” you whispered, not daring to move. “it won’t — it won’t happen —“

“i am sorry,” he immediately blurted out.

your eyes snapped up to meet his. you seemed to be as surprised to hear his apology as he was to find himself saying it.

he dropped your arm.

“you were kind to me…” he spoke, trailing off — seemingly trying to find the words. he was looking down at you, studying your expression.

you feared the mix of emotions were present on your face, and you were worried how that would affect a safe exit from this situation. “i should not have reached for you, my king, and for that i am —“

“i shouldn’t have lashed out at you,” he interrupted you. “no one has ever…”

he didn’t finish. he couldn’t finish, you realized. and by the look on his face — he knew he couldn’t finish that sentence either.

“it’s alright,” you spoke, and meant it. “i just wanted you to know — you weren’t alone, your grace.”

he didn’t speak. he just… slowly nodded in acknowledgment and in thanks.

you repeated the gesture, curtsied, and left the room.

you did not expect to see the king again — but you also did not ever expect to be called to his chambers in the late hours of the evening.

you grew fearful and weary — what did he want with you? he had never shown interest in you, especially not since the incident a week prior. you avoided him like the stranger, and he most likely was glad for it — or so you thought.

when you entered his chamber, you found him in his night shirt and riding leathers. he was standing in the middle of the room, only illuminated by the burning hearth. the red and orange flames accented the bags under his eyes, and his teeth that were stained with wine.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” he accused suddenly.

that was all he said. small folk like yourself were not trained to… deal with accusations such as that. he was not an equal — he was the fucking king.

“i was embarrassed that i had forgotten my place,” you spoke, curtsying. “my apologies, your grace.”

“your apologies?!” he bit, tossing the empty chalice of wine onto the floor. he stalked towards you with purpose, not stopping until he was inches from your face. “apologies? what good are they if you’ve been in my goddamn head for a week?!”

he was seething then — beyond recognition. consumed by anger, unable to bring himself back to level. his skin was of a flush that suggested emotion — frustration, distrust, betrayal. his eyes, though purple, were bloodshot red. with each word he shouted, spit spewed from his lips and collected at the corners of his mouth.

and then you realized: the king wasn’t angry — he was hurt.

“what is bothering you?” you asked, ignoring his initial question while trying to keep your own resolve level.

“...what?” he demanded, confusion and anger now mixing together in his brow.

“your grace,” you began. “tell me what is wrong.”

he took a step back. his eyebrows knit together as if he didn’t recognize you — didn’t understand why you were here, who you were, or what you could want. distrust was the only thing at the forefront of his gaze, but you knew you had to break that barrier. you knew, you knew, you knew.

this time — he did not flinch when you reached for him. he did not flinch when you pressed a soft, open palm against the side of his tear-stained face. he did not flinch when you stroked your thumb on his cheekbone. he did not flinch when you placed your other hand on his other cheek, and pulled his face down to rest his forehead against yours.

“i will not avoid you again,” you whispered.

he didn’t reply, but you felt him relax against you. you entwined one of his hands with yours, and led him towards the bed.

you discarded your night robes, leaving you in your night shift. aegon watched in awe — and his jaw slightly fell open when you got on the bed, and stretched out your open arms to him.

“join me, my king?”

aegon couldn’t help himself. he glossy eyes raked over your body, barely hidden by your night shift. the cool night air of the castle caused your nipples to harden underneath the linen, leaving your breasts looking supple enough to taste. the outline of your waist and round hips were enough to make his cock stir in his leathers, but he found his hands beginning to shake. fucking delectable he found you. he may have taken off his pants, but it was not to fuck.

aegon, the king of the seven kingdoms, climbed onto the bed and rested on top of you. you wrapped your arms around his mid section as he nestled his nose into the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet smell. one of your hands began to tangle itself in his short, wavy locks — forcing aegon to relax in a way that flying, wine, or fucking could never do for him. a sigh of relief left past his lips — one that he didn’t know he was holding, nor one that he thought he was capable of releasing.

you kissed the side of his face, causing emotions to swell within his chest he never experienced before — was never prepared for. if his initial reaction wasn’t to freeze, he would’ve lashed out at you. called you names he didn’t mean. pushed you out of bed in a way he didn’t mean. and never speak to you again in a way he didn’t mean. thankfully, he froze. he froze for long enough that he convinced himself that he could relish in this sweet feeling — even if only for a short while.

“you are so sweet,” he whispered, before drifting off to sleep.

you fell asleep for a short while later, letting yourself enjoy the weight of the prince above you. it calmed a certain anxiety in your chest, and you were selfish with it — hoping to take whatever the king would give.

you felt him stirring on top of you after some time — well into the night, and well into where only hot coals rested in the hearth at the center of the room. they glowed red, but there was not enough heat nor light to reach you and aegon. you held him tighter for warmth, pulling the blanket up over the two of you in the cold darkness.

“surprised you haven’t told me i’m crushing you yet,” he spoke into your neck, breath hot against your skin.

a small laugh died in your throat. “i’m very comfortable, my king.”

you began to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck, twirling the curls in between your fingers. he hummed at the sensation, obviously enjoying it. one of his hands was dragged up the length from the top of your thigh, to your breast. the fabric of your linen pulled with his hand, but it stopped when his hand found the curve of your breast.

aegon stared at the sweet, delectable looking nipple that was poking through the linen due to the night chill. he held the weight of your breast in his palm, and used his thumb to draw circles on the nub. the roughness of the linen, coupled with the cool sensitivity of your bud, and the rising tension in the air made warmth spread throughout your body. aegon, well… aegon watched you watch his hand. he watched for any sign of displeasure — because he would’ve withdrew. he would’ve withdrew if you did not look as though you would enjoy it if he continued.

“tell me to stop if you wish,” his voice was soft and cautious in the lack of light as he played with your nipple. he would’ve stopped, he so would’ve — but he was hoping so desperately that you would let him wrap his lips around your sensitive nub and suckle, possibly with his other hand between your thighs as he played with your supple folds. “if you tell me to stop, i will stop.”

“…i don’t want you to stop,” you whispered into the darkness, no longer trapped in fear, shyness, or insecurity.

something in aegon’s chest leapt.

through his pink lips, his tongue poked through and wrapped around your sensitive nipple through your night shift. the taste of linen was foreign and strange, but aegon craved to see the look on your face when you felt the combination of the cool air, his warm, wet mouth, and the linen all working together to create the most delicious feeling of friction you had ever felt on such a sensitive area.

and by the look on your face — aegon was right.

aegon grew confident — bold even. selfish. he lightly bit the sensitive nub, causing a sharp intake of breath from you. he chuckled against you — pleased with your frustration in response to his teasing.

“a good king would show equal attention to both breasts, wouldn’t he?” he asked, in between kisses to your nipple. “can i take off your shift and show you?”

“please,” you whispered, shivering with chill and pleasure.

though your shift was opaque and did not leave much to the imagination, aegon could not believe his eyes when he took of your shift. he would burn all shifts if he could — therefore barring you from every covering up your beautiful body. your beautiful, perfect skin caught what light the fire could spare and aegon watched as goosebumps rose on your skin with every pass of his hand. you watched him as he stared at every bit of your front, letting his hands run up and down your body.

"i have never felt anything so soft," he spoke, before leaning his head forward.

he couldn't help himself. how could he? he was the fucking king. he didn't have to waste time with pleasantries. he had your consent, and he had your willingness, and he had the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen right before his eyes. he was greedy as he suckled at your breast; pulling and tugging the sensitive nub between his lips and rolling it. he did the same with your other breast, but with his hand. he could play with your breasts all night long if you let him, and he considered asking.

but then... oh, then... then he smelled the faint sweet aroma of your slick building and trying to escape from your lustrous folds in between your thighs.

that had never happened... with a woman he hadn't paid...

your nipple popped from his mouth, and now he played with both nipples in between his thumb and index fingers. you gasped at the sensation — so sensitive. you glanced down at aegon through your thick lashes and flushed cheeks.

he was peacefully smiling — while you were on the cusp of insanity.

"i feel as though i have been neglecting other parts of you," he spoke with a knowing smile. his beautiful eyes were no longer red and teary, but bright and hopeful. "as a good king, will you let me make it up to you?"

"yes," you gasped, trying to fight the urge to rock your hips into him. "please, your grace."

he wasted no time.

he slid down the length of your abdomen and threw your legs over his shoulders. his breath was hot and heavy on your cunt, making you shiver at the juxtaposition of the cool night air. you could hear him humming — pleased — below you as he spread your wet lips. aegon watched as the small flames caught the wetness and let ghosts of past flames dance on your more precious spot.

he couldn't help himself. he licked up the length of your slit.

you immediately threw your head back, gasping. your fingers fisted the silk sheets of aegon's bed, hoping to ground yourself.

you heard a scoff from below you before aegon grabbed one of your hands, and put it on his head. you cooed in response — pleased — before tanging your fingers throughout his strands. he hummed in approval against your clit, making you shiver once more.

"you taste so sweet," he whispered. "like nectar."

he spread your folds before he wrapped his lips around your most sensitive bud, sucking on it. two of his fingers found your leaking hole and pressed in slowly, nudging at the inner wall. your hips were writhing at this point as your head filled with all sorts of nonsense. heat and pleasure and smoke and wine — they curled in your psyche like beings in the water, playing together. aegon was relentless with how he lapped up your juices, greedy for more and more.

he couldn't stop. he wouldn't stop. the way your fingers curled on his scalp — scratching and soothing — was all of the encouragement he needed to keep going. he let your writhing hips work on his face. a good king would never deny a lady the extra friction she needed to reach her peak. your peak. all he wanted to do was bring you to your peak so he could see the fucked out look on your face. he wanted it so badly he began to dig his own his against the silk sheets, cock straining to find any sort of relief. he was beginning to grow feverish, which only inspired him to work a your faster and messier. he wanted your climax. he had earned your climax.

"'m so close," you whined. "'m so close, my king. please don't stop... please..."

he found himself pushing a third finger in, demanding your orgasm from you. that orgasm was no longer yours — but something he could give and also take from you. you would experience it, but it would be his. his win. his glory. his trophy.

and when your hips snapped up... he knew he had you.

he slammed your hips down onto the bed to keep you from moving — keep you from moving away from his tongue. his tongue was relentless in the way it continued its work on your clit as you came. you shoved your head into the pillow as all of your muscles went taut, letting wave after wave after wave after wave crash over you and pull you under. you were gasping for air, twisting and turnin away from aegon as the sensitivity became so much. too much. bittersweet, making you push him away but wanting to pull him towards you.

he ripped himself from you when he was finished, your juices flowing still caught on his chin. through your post-orgasm haze and half closed eyes, you watched him through your half-closed eyelids. there, aegon stood over you, fisting his cock over your body.

"inside me, your grace," you whispered. "please."

that was all aegon needed. with one swoop, his cock had bested the threshold of your cunt. his lips found one of your breasts, suckling on the nipple, as he began thrusting his length inside of you.

your hands found the back of his head, pulling at the roots of his hair. your small gasps were music to his ears as he rocked his hips against yours, chasing his high.

"you're so good, aegon..." you whined at the feeling of aegon taking every sensitive area for his own. "so sweet..."

his heart strings were pulling at her words as a flush reached his cheeks. he was not embarrassed, no — he was encouraged. a woman — a perfect, beautiful, and supple woman lay before him and begged for his touch. for his caress. for the pleasure he could bring her — the both of them. she held him so close to her breast as he fucked his cock into her. the intimacy of the position had awakened something carnal in him; something sick and twisted that wanted more, and more, and more.

"that's it... just like that..." you spoke. "take what you need, my sweet. you're so good..."

his hips were beginning to stir at your words, foreign to his ears. he was rutting into you like an animal now at your praise, sure to leave bruises on your breasts by the sunrise.

"all yours..."

fuck. fuck. fuck.

he didn't know what to do.

it had never crept up on him so fast.

a blush was rising to his cheeks he had not known since his first orgasm. an exasperated gasp was rising and falling in his throat, ready to escape and fill the room.

"so good for me," were your final words.

aegon came with a sob. a fucking sob. he snapped his hips twice into your sopping wet cunt before his balls tightened, tightened, and tightened — shooting whatever he could into you. thick, hot, white ropes decorated the inside of your cunt in the most pathetic and desperate manner. his hips continued to rut his spend into you, desperate for his release. you could hear his whines and cries in your ear, working himself through his own orgasm as your sweet words of praise guided him to where he needed to be.

"that's it, sweetheart," you spoke against his ear, causing him to shiver. "you're just so good for me, my king."

all he needed was a bit of comfort.

____

comments and critiques plz :P <3 xox - L

#aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon the second #aegon ii #aegon ii targaryen #king aegon #aegon targaryen x reader #hotd aegon #hotd s2 #house of targaryen #house of the dragon #house targaryen #aegon smut #aegon fic #aegon imagine #aegon angst #aegon love #aegon comfort #aegon sad

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captainfern · 1 year

Note

REQUESTS OPEN ?!?!?!? PLEEEEASE ,MAY I ????

May i request a piece for our boi Casper ( Ghost ) 🥹🥹? Something along the idea of : mutual pining with reader being an absolute sweetheart to Ghost (and everyone else but mostly Casper) BUT it starts with Ghost trying to make reader go away by being a dick to them to avoid dealing with the feelings, reader gets hurt and upset and then turn into the most cold stone souless person every seen by mankind and ofcourse Ghost is mad and trying to fix it but how to do that when nothing works .... Confess \o/

Can be nsfw if you want it to be, I can bet on anything that no one will mind :3

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Orion

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

[“Orion” by Metallica]

[18+]

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• summary - a bit of grumpy x sunshine. grumpy fucks it up and really, really wants to apologise lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 5k • warnings - fem!reader, grumpy!ghost at the start but that doesn't last long lol, porn with a sprinkle of plot, a bit of subby!ghost [he begs— you're fucking welcome whores 🙏], oral [f!receiving], unprotected piv, mutual masturbation, orgasm denial?, ok it's not "a bit" of sub!ghost it's a lot of sub!ghost, he whines and whimpers in this btw, praise, begging, good lord this is self-indulgent, strong language

thank you anon !! i've changed it a little, just because i don't think ghost would be a complete dick, just a grumpy and if he does act like a dick, he doesn't mean it fr <3 but i hope you like it anyway !!

and hehe yes i made it nsfw i can't resist i mean look at that man

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He was hopelessly in love with you.

And it fucking pissed him off.

How could he not be? You flounced around base, smiling and giggling at god knows what. You cooked for the task force, helped clean, kept them company in the rec-room, all with a dazzling smile plastered on your face.

You were kind and respectful, too. Always did what Price told you, like a good little rookie. Always listened to Soap's advice, improving your shooting techniques. Always understood Gaz's signals, knowing exactly what he was thinking, and what he wanted you to do. And always, always being so good for your lieutenant.

You waited on tenterhooks at every word that came from Ghost's mouth. He watched the way you listened to him, your full attention on him. Sparkling eyes watching his next move, ears in tune to the slight huff and puff of his brewing anger. It seemed you knew how to deal with his emotions better than he did.

And it pissed him off.

You never seemed to get angry with him, frustrated or upset. No matter how many times he raised his voice, reprimanded you for doing something utterly moronic. You just nodded, apologised calmly, smiled and walked away, leaving him smouldering inside his own grievances.

"What the fuck are you doing, rookie? You're in the fucking way."

"Sorry, Lieutenant!" You chirped, bounding away.

And that wasn't the only way you put up with him.

Some days were hard for Ghost, dealing with everything going on inside his head. He struggled to admit it, too. So when he found himself in the barracks kitchen at three in the morning, frustration bubbling inside him, he threw the jar he had struggled— and failed to open— at the wall. It burst, shattering into a million tiny pieces, sprinkling across the floor like shards of crystal. The contents— strawberry jam, if he remembered correctly— slugged down the wall, a vibrant red trail smearing against the paint.

You entered, maybe awoken by the shattering of glass, finding Ghost heaving silently in the kitchen, chest moving at a million miles per hour as his heart raced.

You stretched a hand in his direction. "Are you—?"

"Don't." Ghost hissed.

You retreated.

"Do you need—?"

"Didn't I fucking say don't?" Ghost snapped, eyes flashing.

He knew that was harsh. Saw it in the way your bottom lip trembled every so slightly, and your sparkling eyes dimmed in the low light of the kitchen. But, you didn't give up. Of course you fucking didn't.

He watched you silently as you grabbed the broom from the edge of the room, and began sweeping up the glass. He continued to watch as you scooped up the shards of glass, every last glittering fragment, and toss them into the bin. You even cleaned the large smear of jam off the wall, humming quietly to yourself as you did.

Ghost just watched.

Once you were done, you turned to him, offering a sympathetic smile. Then, you walked to the refrigerator and plucked another jar of jam from the door. You offered it to him, still smiling.

"This one's raspberry. Not strawberry, unfortunately, but I think it tastes better, anyway." Maybe you were just trying to make him feel better. If you did, it worked. Spitefully well, too.

He took it from you. He didn't thank you, though, just turned away with a muffled sigh. You continued to look at him, a soft smile still on your lips.

He wondered if you were expecting a thank you. Probably. So when he went to open his mouth, when he went to mutter out a thank you, he turned, and you were gone, shuffling out of the kitchen, still humming to yourself.

A week later, Ghost was still intent on denying whatever it was he felt for you.

The five of you on a day off, relaxing around the rec-room. You played pool with Gaz, laughing. Melodic. You looked so carefree, so effortlessly beautiful, and it made Ghost's cheeks heat up beneath his mask. Fucking hell.

You were quite handsy with the sergeant, too, Ghost noticed. Hugging and touching, arms around his waist, fingers trailing his arms. Ghost watched from across the room, seething silently. Gaz made you laugh again. Again and again and the sound of your laughter was making the grip Ghost had on his glass almost earth-shattering. All white-knuckle and pure jealously. Not like he admitted that to himself, though.

You eventually turned your pretty face towards Ghost, lips curved.

"Fancy a game, L.T?" You battered your eyelashes, biting your lower lip briefly. Or was that in Ghost's head?

"Pass." Ghost forced himself to grunt, heat blooming in his chest.

You pouted. "Aw, come on, Ghost—!"

"Pass." Ghost repeated, cutting you off with his deep baritone.

You closed your mouth, but still his grumpiness didn't deter you. You shrugged to yourself, turning back to Gaz with that signature smile of yours.

"Another round then, Garrick?"

"You're on."

A few days after that, Ghost was reaching his breaking point.

He was trying everything in his right mind to keep you away from him. To stop you from being such a goddamn angel, doting on his every doing. He wanted you to see who he really was, who he felt like he really was.

You were particularly happy this day. Seemingly bouncing around the barracks, the pure essence of you permeating the entire space— burning white, tooth-rotting sweetness, smelling of everything that Ghost loved. Loved about you. Fuck, he was mad.

You circled the room, hugging each of your comrades. You hugged Price like the father-figure he was. Short and sweet, but warm and comforting. You had your head to his chest, mumbling something that made Price smile, eyes squinting.

Then you hugged Soap. The bastard swept you off your feet, making you giggle. He said something to you that had you snorting out a bemused laugh, smacking him lightly on the chest when he put you down. He pat you gently on the head before you were sprinting to Gaz.

The way your face lit up made Ghost's heart clench.

You practically threw yourself into Gaz's arms, your arms around his shoulders as his circled your waist. He pressed you close— too close for Ghost's liking— rocking you gently as you thanked him. For what? What the hell were you thanking him for?

After what seemed like an eternity of Ghost burning daggers into you and the sergeant, you broke away, and began to approach Ghost. He froze in place, back to the kitchen counter. What were you doing? Approaching him looking so happy and perfect?

He acted out. On instinct.

You opened your arms, and he skulked away.

"Don't you dare," he grumbled, backing away. "I am not in the mood for whatever it is you're doing today, rookie."

Your smile faltered. A millisecond. "But, Ghost—?"

"Seriously, rookie," Ghost said sternly. "What's got you acting like this at eight in the morning?"

At that very moment, he felt his heart break into thousands of pieces.

Your smile dropped.

The glimmer in your eyes faded.

Without a word, you left the room, and Gaz hurried after you. Ghost followed your departing form with curious eyes. Then, he turned to Price and Soap, who were looking at him in dissapointment.

"What?" He gritted, jaw ticking.

"You're a fool, L.T. A real fool." Soap shook his head slowly.

Ghost huffed. "What d'you mean?"

"You're always acting like a complete dick to her," Soap continued. "Even on her birthday."

Ghost's heart leapt into his throat, stomach twisting, making him nauseous.

"Her... birthday?" Ghost tried not to let the waver in his voice sound through.

Soap nodded. "Yeah. S'why she's in such a good mood. Gaz got her something nice, I think—"

"What Soap's trying to say is that you, being a stubborn prick, has made her special day... not so special." Price added, digging a cigar and a lighter from his pocket. He left the room, heading outside, offering no more words, making Ghost's nervousness swell.

He turned to Soap, desperation clawing his insides. "What should I—?"

"Go and apologise, ya fuckhead." Soap beat him to it.

Wordlessly, Ghost left, hurrying towards your bedroom. When he got there, Gaz was just leaving, and the sergeant gave the lieutenant a stern look.

Ghost was almost breathless. "I need—"

"No, you don't, Ghost," Gaz said softly. "You've done enough."

"But—?"

"Seriously, Ghost, just leave," Gaz continued. "You're always so grumpy towards her, anyway. Just leave it."

He pushed past Ghost. Ghost stood outside your door, the urge to open it almost overwhelming. But he didn't. Hands in fists, nails digging into his palms, he walked away.

He needed to hit something.

•º•

You successfully avoided him for a week. He commended you internally for your ability to avoid him like the fucking plague. But, he hated it. He hated the way he made you feel, and he hated the way you were making him feel. His emotions were all over the place, and he desperately needed to get them in check.

So, he came to a conclusion.

He needed to apologise.

Well, he had been trying to. You weren't having any of it. He respected that.

But now, he was inching past his ability to remain respectful. Each time your smile faded when he entered the room; each time you ignored a simple favour or request of his; each time you wrapped yourself into Gaz's arms after a long, strenuous mission.

That sent him over the edge.

It was a stormy night, complete with heavy rain and the distant roll of thunder, when Ghost idled outside your bedroom door. He was a war-machine, a killer— but he was desperately working himself up to knock on your door. He was nervous.

So when he did finally knock, his heartrate was elevated.

You opened the door a crack, peering into the shadowed hallway. Ghost saw your eyes flicker across his body; how rich they were in emotion. He rushed forward and quickly jammed his foot in the door, noticing you begin to push it closed.

"What do you want?" You hissed, so devoid of your usual sunshine.

"Can... can I talk to you?"

A moment passed. Then, you opened the door, and let him inside.

Your room was exactly how Ghost had imagined it. Just like you. Warm, cozy, sweet-smelling. It was dripping in everything that was you. Ghost inhaled deeply, watching as you plonked yourself down on the edge of your bed, body illuminated by the soft golden light of your lamp.

You crossed your arms over your chest. "Well?"

Ghost just released it all. Everything he wanted to tell you, he did. He apologised profusely, again and again. He admitted to being a complete dickhead, and then apologised for that. He thanked you for putting up with him, for listening to him, for understanding him so well. And at the end of it all, he confessed.

"I'm in love with you."

You gaped at him.

"Always have been."

You were at a loss for words.

But Ghost wasn't. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't.

"I love you, rookie. I really do."

You blinked at him, then slowly got to your feet. He watched you, heart slamming against his ribcage, cheeks stinging hot beneath the fabric of his balaclava. He watched as you neared, lifting your hands to cup his face over the material.

"Prove it."

Ghost swallowed, throat dry all of a sudden. "What?"

"Prove how much you love me." You whispered, biting your lower lip.

This time, Ghost knew the action wasn't just in his head.

Because when he pressed closer to you, placing his gloved hands on your waist, he saw you release your bottom lip and curl your mouth into a smile. The smile he loved.

"I'm sorry, for everything." Ghost whispered as he backed you towards your bed.

"I know," you said, sitting on your bed and hooking your legs around his waist, pulling him down on top of you. "So show me."

Ghost couldn't help himself. Even with the mask still on, he slammed his mouth onto yours. He expected some kind of protest as he parted his lips, tongue pressing to the smooth fabric, heat and moisture smothering yours. But you didn't— you sighed outwardly, becoming pliant as you moved your own lips, revelling in the solid heat of his tongue against your own through the fabric.

He let out a low sound, a mix between a grunt and a whine, as he pressed himself closer to you. He was slowly getting frustrated by the material barrier as he kissed you. He pulled away, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to the lower part of his mask. It snapped, and made Ghost's breath hitch.

It's like you could read his mind as you looked into his eyes.

"You wanna take it off?" You asked, fingers at his neck, where the end of the balaclava sat snugly near the base. Your fingers squeezed gently, and he exhaled loudly.

He whined, hushed, from the back of his throat. "Yeah..."

"Yeah?" You grinned, gently rolling the mask upwards. It cleared his neck, then over his jaw, exposing his mouth and nose, before finally being ripped from his head entirely, leaving him exposed to you.

He usually would have felt nervous. Self-conscious, definitely. But not tonight. Not when, as a clap of thunder sounded outside, you moaned at the sight of him, and yanked his face back towards your own. It made his cock harden, painful in his cargos, as your mouths interlocked again. Your tongue swept into his first, and he let out another low noise, your fingers tugging at the roots of his hair.

Ghost shifted you both, making sure your head touched your pillows, resting comfortably. Still kissing, his hands explored down your body, skimming your sides, your thighs. Your hands tightened in his hair when one of his hands drifted inwards, brushing your upper inner thigh. He panted as you pulled him away from you, blond locks clutched in your fist. He looked down at you, eyes and lips just as glossy as each other, cheeks pink.

"You still want to apologise?" You asked, other hand drawing around his face and cupping his jaw.

He nodded, slightly, not doing much in your grip.

"Good," you hummed, pleased. "Get on the floor."

He did as he was told. Straight a-fucking-way. Now kneeling on the floor beside your bed, you sat on the edge. Slowly, ever so slowly, you pulled down your pyjama pants. Ghost watched you, completely rapt, as your fingers worked your underwear down your legs.

"Fucking hell..." He whispered as you kicked your underwear away.

You put your backside onto the edge of your bed, beckoning him closer. He shuffled further, and you placed your legs across his shoulders as his hands snaked up to grab at your thighs. Your core was bare to him under the golden lamplight, practically glistening. He withheld a moan as he leaned forward, attempting to put his mouth on you. But, you stopped him— clamping your thighs on either side of his head.

This time, he did let his moan out, high and breathy as he looked up at you through long, blond lashes, head encased between the plush of your thighs.

You looked down at him, tutting. "What do you want?"

He blinked at you, eyes narrowing slightly.

You flexed the muscles of your legs, tightening the weight of your thighs against his ears and cheeks. He grunted, closing his eyes.

"Well?" You prompted. "Tell me, Si."

Maybe it was the use of the nickname, of his real name. Maybe it was the heat of your flesh searing the sides of his head. Maybe it was the way his erection was growing impossibly hard inside his pants. Whatever it was made Ghost whimper. Fucking whimper.

Embarrassment, red hot, flared across his face.

"Want to taste you," he whispered, face burning. "Please."

"This is how you wanna apologise?" You teased, bringing a hand down to his head, massaging his scalp. "Wanna make me cum on your tongue?"

He tried his best to reply, groaning deep from his chest, hands kneading the flesh of your thighs. "Please, baby, please."

You chuckled, releasing the tension in your legs. "Only because you asked so nicely."

Ghost was elated. He practically surged forward, licking a fat stripe up your slit. You mewled, hands clinging to his hair, as he ran his tongue up and down your folds. He repeated his actions, before dragging his tongue downwards, circling your dripping hole. Nose nudging your clit, his tongue delved inside you, making you shudder.

He was in heaven. The small, breathy noises you were making; the way you gripped and pulled at his slightly grown-out hair; the taste of your arousal that was leaking out of you. His cock jumped with each stroke of his tongue, his own arousal building with each subtle sound he elicited from your pretty mouth. His large, gloved hands massaged your thighs, groping the soft flesh. He enjoyed the warmth near the sides of his head.

"Feels good, Si." You breathed, and Ghost's cock jumped again.

He groaned into you, vibrations sending your mind spiralling. Heat was building in the base of your tummy as his nose continually nudged against your swollen clit. Ghost was grunting and groaning quietly into your sopping cunt, lapping up every bit of arousal he could. Pearls of it slipped past his lips, rolling down his chin, iridescent in the light. He didn't care. Of course he didn't. He was fucking loving it.

You moaned again when Ghost quickly moved his tongue in a zig-zag motion up your slit, before sucking your clit into his mouth, front teeth grazing it gently. Your hips bucked, urging him closer.

"Si, oh my god— ha, fuck— feels so good," you keened, pleasure unfurling inside you. "Fuck, doing so good, Si. Such a good boy—"

Ghost short-circuited as you came in his mouth. He dipped his head to stuff his tongue back into your hole just in time, catching your release in his mouth. But your breathy words, good boy, echoed around his skull and made him whine, impossibly loud, into your cunt. He felt his stomach pang, balls tightening, before he fucking came in his pants, whispering your name into your fluttering hole.

His face grew hotter than it already was when he pulled away from you, dragging his right cheek across your inner thigh, light stubble tickling you. You breathed deeply above him, watching with hooded eyes as he placed a line of gentle kisses from your bikini line to your knee.

You massaged his scalp, and his eyes fluttered.

He was wondering if you noticed that he—

You released a breathy laugh, and his eyes snapped open, immediately finding yours. You tugged your legs away, planting them on the floor. Ghost continued to kneel in front of you.

"Aww, my poor baby," you muttered, and it would've been patronising if Ghost wasn't so whipped right now. "D'you cum already?"

He grit his teeth. "Don't—"

"S'okay, Si, it's okay," you smiled, patting his burning cheek. "I understand. I tasted that good, huh?"

You laughed again, another roll of thunder cracking outside. Ghost nodded, ashamed almost, but not regretful. He'd die a happy man if he could spend even another second in your wet cunt.

"Come on then," you said suddenly, scooting back onto your bed. "Since you're so desperate, right?"

He looked at you and then slowly got to his feet, legs trembling slightly.

You leaned against your pillow— looking like an absolute angel— spreading your legs as you wiggled your bra off, exposing your tits. Ghost's cock grew again, sticky with his own spend. You dragged your hands over your tits, tweaking your nipples while Ghost clambered onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. He was still fully dressed.

Not for long, clearly.

"Clothes." You said simply, and he obeyed.

Your hands dragged down your body, skirting across your stomach as Ghost pulled his gloves and shirt off, his trousers following. He huffed, pulling his underwear off and dumping them on the floor, ignoring the obvious that was splattered inside. Now bare, he kneeled back between your legs, a hand settling on one of your ankles, the other gripping the base of his cock.

Your hands dipped between your legs, and he let out a gravelly whine as you pushed two fingers into your wet cunt, the other hand moving a finger to your puffy clit. He was salivating.

"You know, I've liked you for a long time, Si," you said, voice a bit whiny. Ghost licked his lips. You continued, voice a whisper. "Mm... 's how I touched myself thinking about you."

You demonstrated perfectly; two fingers knuckle deep in your hole, another pressing tight circles to your clit. You mewled his name.

"Oh, fuck." Ghost whispered, hips and cock bucking into his fist. Just once. The look you gave him made him pause. All fucked out, blissful, in complete and utter control.

"Mhm, yeah— my grumpy lieutenant, always telling me what to do. Always so rough with me," you crooned as you fucked yourself with your fingers, Ghost's eyes burning into you as he lazily stroked himself. "S'just... that's not you, is it, Si? You don't wanna be rough with me, do you? You just wanna be my good boy, I know."

Ghost whined, releasing his cock and crawling up to you. He grabbed your hands, pulling them away from your cunt, much to your amusement.

"Fucking Christ, don't say that—" Ghost hissed as he brought your hand to his face, drawing your two fingers into his mouth and sucking your arousal clean off.

You smiled. "What? Considering you came in your boxers untouched, I'd say you like being called that."

Ghost groaned, fingers leaving his mouth with a wet pop. A string of saliva followed, and it broke when he chased past your hand, pressing his mouth to yours. You kissed, hot and heavy, for a minute, the rain hammering the roof outside. You moved a hand down, skating down his abs, before gripping his cock.

"Hah—" He breathed, gasping into your mouth as you pumped him, fingers wet with his saliva.

You kissed him still: sloppily, as you jerked him off. He barely responded, lips pliant against yours, eyes closed as the pleasure of your hand around his cock sent him into a daze. You licked into his mouth, his tongue struggling to meet yours, as you pumped him faster and faster until you could feel him twitching in your hand.

"Mmm... gonna..." Ghost murmured, drunk, against your mouth.

You pulled your hand away.

"Ah— fuck no," Ghost swallowed a frustrated moan, voice muted as you pushed his head away.

You licked your lips as you looked at him. He could've cum from that sight alone.

"You want to make it up to me, right?" You asked.

He nodded, cheeks red.

You leaned in close, pressing a kiss to the curve of his jaw. "Then fuck me."

Ghost's mouth dropped open in a short lived moan before you were kissing him. Kissing him so hard it made him dizzy; high off the sweet taste of you.

Meanwhile, he was clumsily aligning his cock with your wet cunt, his tip reddened and leaking pre, rolling in rivulets down the sides of his rigid cock. The head notched your entrance, and you released a shaky breath. He pulled out of the kiss.

"You... alright?" He asked, sounding more than a little breathless.

You nodded. "Mmmfuck, yeah."

"You sure?" He asked, the head of his cock sitting heavy at your entrance.

You looked him directly in the eyes, and he released a low sound, bending to kiss you again.

"Please," you said into the kiss. "Need you to fuck me, Si."

"Okay," he murmured, dragging his lips along your jaw. "Okay, okay, fuck, okay—"

He eased his cock into you as he mumbled incoherently, cursing. You were so wet, so warm, so fucking tight. He nipped at your neck, distracting himself so he didn't cum straight away because he did not need that kind of embarrassment haunting him for the rest of his life. Your arms curled around his broad shoulders, fingers flexing along the rigid plains of his muscles, tips brushing each smooth scar.

"That's it, Si, that's it," you told him, lips to the shell of his ear. "Feels good— so full."

He whimpered into your neck, face and body hot as his cock sunk further into you. His hips slapped to yours as he finally bottomed out, just as he moved himself out of your neck so that he could look down at you. As usual, you looked absolutely stunning; eyes glazed, kiss-bitten lips parted.

He couldn't help himself.

"You're beautiful," he said as he pulled his cock all the way out, before slamming back into you. "So beautiful... so pretty... such a pretty girl."

You hummed a moan past the smile spreading on your lips, Ghost finding a pace and rhythm as he bullied his cock into your wet heat over and over again, heavy balls slapping the curve of your arse as you were jolted against your mattress.

Ghost's hands were all over your body, as if he was committing it to memory. Running up and down your sides, groping along your tits, fingers dancing across your throat. Large hands moved to your thighs, massaging the plush flesh. Gently, he grasped the backs of your knees and slowly pushed your legs upwards, towards your chest. You smiled lazily at him as, still drilling his cock into you, he tucked your legs to your chest, pressing his body impossibly closer.

You tossed your head back, moaning loudly at the new angle. His warm hands on your legs, the heat of his hard body against yours, his fat cock stuffing you full. The sounds he was making. You were incased in pure ecstasy.

Ghost was a whimpering, whining mess above you. The big boy with the skull-face, so dangerous and imposing and deadly, reduced to such a sensitive, desperate being.

He was still whispering things under his breath, eyes periodically closing each time your cunt pulsed around him.

"S-such a pretty girl, my pretty girl," he uttered before a keening moan. "Hah—fuck— mmm—my god."

Already, you noticed the shift in his pace and thrusts; growing sloppier, yet he still nailed that spongey spot inside you that made you dig your nails harder into his back, stretching you tighter.

"Feels good, Si?" You prompted as he flopped his head back into the crook of your neck, hulking figure still pinning your legs to your chest, his hands heavy on your thighs.

"So good," he whispered into your neck. "So good, baby, fuck— 'm not gonna last."

You arched closer into him as the head of his cock kissed your womb. You could feel him in your stomach, and clearly, so could Ghost. He moved backwards, out of your neck, parting your bent legs. He could see the imprint of his cock deep inside you, a small bump in the soft mound of your tummy. He groaned deeply, pressing a hand to it. Then, you both moaned in unison, before he was snapping your legs back against your chest and spearing his cock inside you with newfound vigour.

"Gonna cum Si." You told him, pressing kisses along his face.

"Yeah?" He caught your lips, licking into your mouth for a second. "Yeah, come on then, baby, please."

A thick jumble of come on baby, come on's left his mouth, followed by almost pitiful please's.

You came around his cock as the rain hit the roof, a flash of lightening appearing behind the curtains of your window.

"Simon—!" You gasped.

Your sounds, your smell, your everything was making Ghost go fucking insane. Your cunt squeezed him as you came, your arousal amplifying and slicking each of his desperate movements. His cock sunk in and out of you with wet faps as he barrelled towards his orgasm.

"Hah... hah... fuck— m'gonna— hngh fuck— w-where do you want me?"

He was still so deep inside you. How could you say anything else but; "Inside, please, Si."

"Ah, t-thank fuck—" Ghost muttered, making you smile up at the ceiling, eyes blinking slowly.

His whole body was burning up as his orgasm crashed over him. He thrusted once, twice, getting as deep as he could, as he came inside you. He moaned, stifling it in your neck, rutting himself against you as you were filled with rope after rope of warmth.

"Good boy, Si, so good..." You murmured as he fucked his cum into you, broad figure shuddering as he caught his breath, your fingers raking down his back.

"Fucking hell..." He whispered.

His movements stopped, and the both of you took a moment to catch your breaths. You were still pressed tight to one another, his cock stuffed inside you, barely beginning to soften.

You ran your hands down his back as he released your legs, allowing you to flop them against your bed as he settled on top of you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his nose along the curve of your shoulder and neck, nosing the junction of your jaw below your ear. He placed a kiss to the soft skin.

You both listened to the heavy rain loud against the roof.

"You alright?" You asked, running your fingers through his overgrown military-grade cut. I guess the mask meant he didn't have to get a haircut as often.

He hummed sleepily against you. "Yeah, love."

A beat passed, then; "You alright?"

You smiled. "I'm good. Really good."

He kissed the spot below your ear again. "Good."

Comfortable silence again. Ghost felt as though he was on cloud nine— curled up with you, satiated and happy, his cock still deep inside your cunt, which was now slowly overflowing with his cum, leaking onto the bed. He pressed his nose to the pulse-point near your ear. You smelled so good.

And to top it all off—

"I love you, Si."

He felt his heart explode.

He hugged you tighter. "I love you too."

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

would ghost ever do this "irl"? absolutely not. is this fictional and am i delusional? one hundred percent.

#captainfern #captainfernsalutes #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #fem reader #ghost x f!reader #cod ghost #ghost cod #ghost smut #ghost call of duty #cod smut #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #captain’smetallica

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