#I am going to hell

[starfinss]

ᴏꜰ ᴛᴇᴀᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇᴅᴅʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇʟᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱ — ᴡʀɪᴏᴛʜᴇꜱʟᴇʏ

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: Genshin Impact

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Wriothesley + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 12,925

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: After beginning work as a doctor at the Fortress of Meropide, Siegwinne decides you and the Duke are a good match, and will do anything in her power to get you to together, even if she has to take drastic measures.

Or, alternatively, Siegwinne adds a little something extra to the Duke's tea. Chaos ensues.

As soon as the suture needle so much as touched the man sitting before you, he was already flinching away.

“That hurts!” He cried, “please, doctor, be gentle with me.”

It was almost laughable, really. Monsieur Phillip was a hardened criminal, or so you’d been told. He was a career criminal, you remembered the Duke remarking, and he’d been sentenced to serve time in the Fortress of Meropide for a myriad of things, such as assault, and even attempted murder, but here he was, a hulking mass of a man, whimpering in pain at the slightest prick of a needle. 

“Hush,” you said, tutting gently, “the quicker I start, the quicker it’s over. Now hold still.”

He flinched back again, eyeing the needle like it was out to get him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Please try and relax. I can assure you, I did go to medical school.”

Before he could say anything else, you made the first stitch, carefully, but quickly enough so as not to cause him too much pain. Even with the numbing gel you’d applied, it seemed that the patient’s pain threshold was quite low. It usually removed enough sensation that any leftover pain would be no more than a pinch, but even with that, you could see tears beading at his lash line.

A hardened criminal, indeed.

You finished the sutures quickly before bandaging the injured shoulder and giving Phillip some care instructions.

“And,” you said, “no more getting into altercations about work times, okay?”

Phillip sighed, casting his eyes away from you.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smiled, kindly. “That’s doctor to you.”

It wasn’t wholly unexpected. Men tended to have lower pain tolerances than women did. You’d given stitches to many people before, and when it came to whining, the men tended to be the most common offenders. 

After Phillip left, you checked up on a woman who was resting in one of the infirmary beds, and after taking her temperature and walking away with your clipboard, you nearly tripped over Siegwinne, who had somehow snuck into your path without you noticing.

“Archons,” you exclaimed, a hand flying over your heart, “I need to put a bell on you.”

Siegwinne ignored your remark. “May I see the patient’s chart?”

You handed it to her. “The patient shows signs of improvement. Her fever has broken, and her delirium has started to clear up. She should make a full recovery.”

Siegwinne hummed meaningfully. “Very good. I was worried about that one. I am glad to hear she is healing well.”

You nodded, then turned, starting towards your desk, but before you could make it, Siegwinne called your name, making you pause.

“Yes?”

Her expression remained impassive, eyes curious, unsuspecting, and she tucked the clipboard under her arm as she closed the distance between you.

“Have you seen the Duke today?”

There it was. You didn’t know what you’d been expecting aside from this. Ever since Siegwinne had caught onto the fact that you’d developed a crush on the Duke, she’d tried to do everything in her power to set you up with him. In the beginning, that was all it was. A crush. It was a crush in the same way one would develop an infatuation with a colleague or schoolmate, based on their appearance or the limited positive interactions they had with them. It was no secret that Wriothesley was an attractive man. He was tall, and handsome, anyone with eyes could see that. You’d heard the whispers among female inmates and guards alike. You were not unique in feeling some form of attraction to him. 

But to Siegwinne, your silly crush was an opportunity. 

“You’re a good woman,” she told you, “and His Grace is always stressed. I fear for his health. I think you would be the right person to keep him company. You are a good match. Your influence and affection would do him much good.”

Siegwinne came to you with this a few months after you’d started work at the Fortress, completely out of nowhere, stunning you to silence. You had no idea how she’d caught on to your feelings, and when you expressed as much, she went into a rambling tangent about human behavior, something about the dilation of pupils, and how she’d been taking notes, and that was when you cut her off.

“Absolutely not.”

But nevertheless, she persisted. 

Siegweinne’s matchmaking attempts rarely ended conclusively, since she tended to see things as a logical cause and effect, and did not at all fit the way any normal human would attempt to court another. They mostly involved putting you and Wriothesley into situations that forced you to speak or interact with one another, with little to no regard to how much said situations were an inconvenience to you. Her first attempt, as such, embarrassingly enough, involved telling the Duke you’d had some kind of accident with an inmate, and when he came to the infirmary to check in, finding you unharmed and working at your desk, all that ensued was a lot of confusion. You wondered why he’d come all that way to see you, and he was surprised to find you not laying on one of the infirmary beds.

But, what her attempts did do, was make the way you felt about Wriothesley, which was no more than a passing fancy at first, grow into something more. 

And despite your best efforts, that only made Siegwinne latch on even harder. 

“Hello?” Siegwinne said, shaking you from your thoughts, “I believe it is polite to answer a question when asked one, or have human customs changed?”

You brushed off her unintentional rudeness, instead answering what she’d asked you.

“No,” you said, “I have not seen His Grace today. He’s a busy man, Siegwinne. You know that.”

“Well, you should go see him.”

You sighed, leaning down to take your clipboard from under her arm, then crossing to your desk.

“I don’t have a reason to go see him,” you said, sitting down, “and like I said, His Grace is a busy man.”

She didn’t push after that, simply going back to work as you did yours, and you tried to put it out of your mind. You and Wriothesley were friends, you’d say. Even though you usually found yourselves meeting in less than normal circumstances, you were still fond of him. You enjoyed his frank, matter-of-fact personality, and dry sense of humor, and he seemed to enjoy your company as well. Your relationship was as casual as it could be between you and a man who was technically your boss, and friendly enough that you had conversations outside of work related matters. You’d never let Siegwinne know this, but her repeated and clumsy attempts at setting you up were not without some benefits. 

That was fine, you supposed. You’d bonded over Siegwinne and her antics, and built a friendship over a shared love of tea, as well as an author you both enjoyed, among other common interests. But that was it. As much as Siegwinne, and, begrudgingly, you, would like to say otherwise, you and The Duke were only friends. 

And, it seemed, as you settled into that fact quite comfortably, Siegwinne only grew more brazen in her attempts at Melusine style matchmaking. 

Her latest attempt involved trying to shut you in a locked room with The Duke, which failed when Wriothesley produced the master key in order to open the door. It happened a little over a week ago, which made you nervous, because Siegwinne didn’t like letting too much time pass between her less than gentle shoves. You were almost completely certain that Wriothesley knew what was happening, he’d have to be stupid not to, though he hadn’t said anything about it. This was probably to spare you from any further embarrassment, which you appreciated. 

The situation was hopeless. You knew that well. But Siegwinne didn’t, and that was beginning to become a problem. You didn’t know why you’d let her get away with this for the handful of months that you had, but maybe, deep down, you hoped that something would actually come from all her meddling. 

And apart from that, you had a certain degree of professionalism to uphold. Wriothesley was your boss, and you were both his employee and his doctor. As much as you found yourself wishing otherwise, pursuing your feelings, even if that was an option, just wasn’t ethical. 

But still, you could dream, you supposed. Dreaming was harmless. 

“I need you to run an errand for me.”

You turned in your chair, raising an eyebrow at Siegwinne, who was staring over at you innocently, a thermos in her hands. You looked at it, then back at her, puzzled.

“Siegwinne, I’m not in the mood.”

She frowned. “To do your job? How unbecoming. I’m simply asking you to deliver this tea to the Duke. His Grace is suffering from a headache. I delivered some to him this morning, but the problem still persists.”

You glanced at the thermos again. “Tea? What’s in it?”

She immediately became defensive, and for a moment, you almost felt guilty for doubting her. 

“Medicine!” She cried, “what do you take me for? I’ve brewed a painkiller into the tea. It should help with His Grace’s headache. If you don’t trust me, you can take a sip yourself.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why can’t you do it?”

Her brows pinched together in annoyance, and maybe a little indignance. “I have to go see a patient, thank you. A young man is complaining of nausea, and finds it hard to stand because of it, so I am going to see him in his cell. Now, will you bring His Grace the tea, or not?”

You sighed. In your own mind, your hesitance was completely justified. Siegwinne had tried to trick you into being alone with Wriothesley many times before this, but then again, if the Duke was actually feeling unwell, and you refused to bring him medicine, what kind of doctor would you be? 

And so, you relented. With another sigh, you stood, snatching the thermos from Siegwinne’s outstretched hand. 

“Fine,” you said, “I’ll be back as soon as I drop it off.”

If Siegwinne was disappointed by this, she hid it well. She simply nodded, then crossed over to her desk to busy herself with her medical bag. You glanced over a few more things at your own desk before scooping up the thermos and leaving the infirmary after calling a quick few words of parting to Siegwinne, who only nodded. 

You shivered a little as you left the infirmary. Siegwinne tended to keep it warmer there, with a space heater sitting in the corner to combat the cold dampness of the rest of the Fortress of Meropide. It was better for the patients, she said, if they had somewhere nice and warm to rest and recover. You were fairly certain she also said something about humans and their preference for warmth, but that wasn’t important at present. 

The clang of your boots against the metal floors rang out as you walked, head held high, thermos in your grip. The air smelled of iron and brine, a scent you’d grown used to in the time you’d been working in the Fortress. Artificial light cast everything in a sort of ominous hue, and the low strength of it left everything in partial shadow. It used to make you nervous, not knowing what hid behind them, using them like masks. Now you knew that whatever was waiting for you was something you could handle.

You glanced down at the thermos in your hands. It was warm, likely just brewed. There was no way Siegwinne would have you serve the Duke cold tea. The thermos was plain; unassuming. It was slate gray, probably stainless steel. You turned it over in your hands, studying it. It was just tea. You had no reason to think it was anything other than that. But with Siegwinne, you’d learned to expect the unexpected.

Absently, you stepped into the elevator to take you down to the administrative floor. The car jerked, and with a mechanical clank, began to move. You turned the thermos over in your hands again. It’s just tea. For the Duke. Your poor, ailing boss. You twisted your mouth. It was fine. There was no way Siegwinne would ever do anything to actually harm Wriothesley. You tapped your nails against the surface of the thermos, almost jumping from your skin when the elevator came to an abrupt stop as it reached its destination, jostling you where you stood and ejecting you from your tangled thoughts. 

You sighed as you left the elevator, tucking the thermos into your arms and against your chest. Everything was fine. If Siegwinne took anything seriously, it was health. You’d caught her staring intently at you on many occasions, and when you asked her about it, she told you she was making sure you were healthy, in a very matter-of-fact tone, like it was obvious. She may be odd, but she wasn’t going to try and harm anyone. 

As you reached the doors to the Duke’s office, you reached into the pocket of your skirt, digging out the key to the lock. Because of the Fortress’s status as a prison, it was only natural that important areas such as the office of the warden would remain locked. The only way to get in was if you had a key or if you were invited by Wriothesley himself. There was also the off chance that the Duke left the doors unlocked, but that was uncommon. Regardless, before you put the key in the lock, you raised your hand, knocking on the door with a great clang. 

“Your Grace?” you called, though it was unlikely he heard you through the thick steel, “I’ll be coming in now. I have some tea for you.”

And with that, you pushed the key into place, twisting. With a grunt of effort, you pushed the doors open.

It was as you were opening the door that you heard him, calling to you. It was muffled under the mechanical clank of the doors, making you only vaguely aware of his call of your name, and you hurried to close the door to answer him. The lock clicked as you did, signifying that the mechanism had reset to its previous locked state. 

You expected Wriothesley to call out to you again after your lack of response, or even possibly to come see you. It was unlikely that Siegwinne would send you on an errand without previously announcing your arrival. But instead, you were met with silence. You gripped the thermos more tightly, hesitating.

“Your Grace?”

You heard something else then. A soft intake of breath, only able to be heard because of the complete lack of noise, save for the quiet hum of machinery from beyond the doors. Then, you could hear him clearing his throat. 

“Yes,” you heard Wriothsley say, from up the stairs, “up here.”

You sighed, relieved, as you made your way up the curving staircase and into the main office.

And as for things you expected to see, this was not among them.

Wriothesley was sitting at his desk, but he looked more than a little disheveled. His coat had been discarded, draped over the back of his chair, and his tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. His waistcoat was also unbuttoned, as were the top two buttons of the dress shirt he wore underneath the garment. His gloves had also been removed, laying out on his desk beside an empty teacup. His hair was tousled, more than usual, and his face…

You furrowed your brows, suddenly concerned. His face was flushed, a deep pink settled in the apples of his cheeks, very evident against his usually pale skin. Breath, feather soft, expelled itself through parted lips, almost too quickly, as he looked over at you, brows pinching together, as if pained or troubled before the expression calmed. Wriothesley straightened, clearing his throat again, and he was hurriedly fixing his clothing, deft fingers doing up the buttons of his shirt, smoothing back over his hair. 

His eyes fell to the thermos in your hands, lingering, before sliding up to your face. 

You stared at him, your concern growing more by the second, and after a beat, you crossed to the desk, setting the thermos down.

“Your Grace,” you said, “I’ve brought you painkillers for your headache, but you look… May I examine you? You do not look like you’re feeling well.”

“Examine me,” he repeated, then took a slow breath, squeezing his eyes shut before shaking his head, as if clearing away a fog. He swallowed, raking a hand through his hair, and it was then that you spotted sweat beading on his forehead. 

“Yes,” you said, gently, already in doctor mode, “please, let me help.”

He cleared his throat, for what was probably the third time, and you narrowed your eyes. You were rapidly beginning to get suspicious in addition to concerned. There was something he wasn’t telling you. Absently, you found yourself mentally scolding yourself for neglecting to bring your medical bag.

“I’m fine,” he said, though he certainly didn’t look fine, “please, don’t trouble yourself. You’ve come all this way for me, so would you at least sit with me for a cup of tea?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. It was fine, though, you supposed. Staying around wasn’t a terrible idea. It would give you a chance to more closely study the Duke’s behavior, and try and figure out what the problem might be. And so, you stepped to the table off to the side, picking a clean tea cup from the collection displayed there. 

“I don’t need any, really,” you said as you leaned over to take the thermos from the desk, “Siegwinne made this for you, for your head. I am happy to sit and talk with you, though, if you want me to.”

Wriothesley smiled easily. “If you like, I can brew you a cup from my personal collection of teas. What do you like?”

You flushed, feeling special, and you turned to busy yourself with arranging his cup of tea to hide the pink in your cheeks. 

“You already know my preferences, Your Grace,” you said, over your shoulder, “just a cup of earl gray is fine.”

You heard shuffling, then the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and you knew the Duke was rifling through the collection of teas he kept stored in his desk. Shifting your focus, you removed the small travel cup attached to the top of the thermos, then unscrewed the lid. Immediately, you were hit with the scent of the tea. It was unexpectedly sweet, and sort of floral. It certainly wasn’t the Duke’s usual style, that was for sure. You took another lungful of it, and could make out notes of various medicinal herbs, including rosemary and feverfew, both known to help with headaches. You could also smell a hint of lavender. But there was still that floral, sort of rosy scent, undercut by the bitter, citrus aroma of the feverfew. It smelled a bit like rainbow roses; of petrichor and morning dew and sweet fresh petals. It certainly had herbs in it, some of which were known to help with what the Duke needed, but the combination of them that you were able to discern was puzzling to say the least.

You put it out of your mind, chalking up the roses to being there to help with the bitterness of the feverfew. With a sigh, you poured the steaming liquid into the teacup. It was sort of a deep rouge color, bordering on purple. A nice color, you decided, and not entirely unexpected with what was contained in the tea. You placed the cup on a saucer, then carried it, alongside the still half filled thermos over to the desk, setting them before the Duke. In exchange, he handed you the tea bag you’d requested, which you accepted gladly. 

After you’d filled a cup with boiling water, which the Duke always seemed to have on hand in any nearby kettle, ready for a quick cup. You added the tea bag, as well as a few spoonfuls of sugar, then took your seat on the couch by the tea table. 

Wriothesley’s face twisted as he took the first sip from his cup, seemingly troubled. 

“It’s very sweet.”

You tilted your head. “Is it not to your liking? I’ll be sure to tell Siegwinne to tweak the recipe.”

Wriothesley waved a dismissive hand. “No,” he said, “I just wasn’t expecting it. It’s not my usual style, but I don’t dislike it.”

You nodded meaningfully, blowing over your tea once more. 

“How are things over in the infirmary?” He asked, and you sat up straighter, engaged. 

“Fine. The usual. I had a man who was scared of needles just before I came over,” you said, “I’d barely touched him before he was telling me to stop.”

Wriothesley laughed, amused. He took another swallow of tea.

 “Oh, really?” He said, “Monsieur Phillip, I suspect? That man always gets into brawls, but is terrified of medical treatment. And he never wins those brawls. The gardes always have to pull the other guy off of him.”

You hid your smile behind your teacup. “I know,” you said, “Siegwinne is always scolding him when he comes in for being reckless.”

Wriothesley rested his head on a closed fist, thoughtful, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Maybe a few rounds in the Pankration Ring would do him some good,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t go putting any ideas in his head,” you said, “he might become a permanent resident of the infirmary if he starts entering into any matches.”

Wriothesley made a face, pale blue eyes moving to rest somewhere in the depths of his teacup. “Maybe he’d pick up a few things about proper combat, though.”

It was your turn to laugh. “Maybe, but at the cost of his health.”

You enjoyed this. It was hardly the first time you’d been invited to stay for tea, in addition to being personally invited to tea a handful of times before. Wriothesley’s presence was pleasant and inviting, despite his intimidating stature and appearance. His height dwarfed many other people, and you’d seen few as tall as he was, save for the Iudex, who was far more slim than the Duke was. Where Monsieur Neuvillette was tall and lithe, Wriothesley was broad and powerfully built. His sheer size alone, made only more prominent by the bulky coat he wore around his shoulders, was enough to intimidate anyone.

But despite that, he was an amicable and good-humored man, earnest and straightforward. He made you feel at ease, and your growing affection for him settled low and warm in the spot behind your heart. 

His face was getting more pink, you noticed, with a start. You took another sip of tea, watching him closely. His brow furrowed, just briefly, and he was fiddling with the bands of leather around his throat, as if they were suddenly too tight. He shifted in his seat, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Your Grace?” You said, and he seemed to snap out of whatever had overtaken him, regarding you with raised eyebrows and an expectant expression.

“Sorry,” he said, “what were you saying?”

You studied him, eyes narrowed, and he laughed, a little awkwardly.

“You’re doing that thing Siegwinne does,” he said, “the thing she does with her eyes. I don’t know how you replicated it so perfectly. There’s nothing wrong, I promise. It’s just suddenly kind of hot in here. Do you feel that?”

You shook your head. In fact, to you, the room was cold. Just as cold as the rest of the Fortress, save for the infirmary. It was the reason for the thermal lining in the pale blue overcoat of your uniform, the color that marked you as medical staff, as well as the reason for the thicker uniform fabric worn by the majority of the other general staff. 

“No,” you said, and Wriothesley looked puzzled. 

“Oh,” he muttered, puzzled, “I was warm earlier, but I’m starting to get… hot now. I don’t suppose that’s normal?”

You cracked a smile at that. “No, I don’t think so.”

A spell of silence passed before your mind snapped back to what he’d just said.

“You were feeling overly warm earlier? When did that start?”

Wriothesley furrowed his brows, considering your question before answering. He took another sip from his cup, then poured more of the contents of the thermos into it.

“This morning,” he said, “I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started, but it was maybe shortly after I had a cup of tea.”

You snorted, amused. “You realize how little that narrows it down, don’t you? You drink more tea than anyone I know, Your Grace. I need a measure of time, not cups of tea.”

He chuckled at that. “I apologize. I believe it was after Siegwinne delivered the tea she made for my head. Which is feeling much better, by the way. I think what I’ve been drinking while we’ve been chatting has helped kick the rest of it. I’m almost finished with the thermos.”

Suddenly, you made the connection. 

Almost robotically, and with learned efficiency, you went over the contents that you’d smelled in the tea, along with their uses. Feverfew, maybe some lavender, and rosemary. All of those had various uses, though they all had one thing in common, which was pain relief. Finally, there was the rainbow rose. The petals and buds were used for medicinal purposes, and could be used as such, similarly to common red roses, for anything ranging from headaches to a sore throat. 

Something was missing. Something was wrong. The scent itself had been off.

“The tea,” you said, “from before. Was it sweet?” 

Wriothesley nodded, taking another gulp, and finally, pouring the last of the contents of the thermos into the cup. “This brew is sweeter, though.”

You stood, then reached for his teacup, bringing it to your nose and inhaling. You caught the same things as before, but as you mulled them over, something else clicked. 

Siegwinne wouldn’t. Would she?

“It’s really hot,” Wriothesley said, and you could see the sweat beaded at his hairline, sticking the hair at his temples to his skin, cresting down his cheekbone. 

You reached out, and when the back of your hand made contact with his burning forehead, he flinched, making a soft sound in surprise and alarm.

“Why is your skin so much colder than mine?”

Your skin wasn’t cold. In fact, your body was at an average temperature, kept warm by the layers of clothing you were wearing. By your own assessment, your hands were probably relatively warm. You frowned, reaching into your pocket and withdrawing your penlight, circling the desk to situate yourself closer to the Duke.

The way he was looking at you when you drew closer was strange. Almost hungry. Famished, ice blue hues swept over your form, and you watched as his hands, previously resting on the desk, folded in front of him, over his lap. 

You moved closer, leaning halfway over to him, hand making contact with his face to tilt it towards you. He flinched at your touch, breath shuddering, and you studied his eyes closely before muttering a warning and shining your light into his face, instructing him to follow the light with his gaze.

“This isn’t… necessary,” he protested, weakly, and you ignored him. His pupils were blown wide, dark pits in the center of the sky blue of his irises. 

“Mydriasis,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him as you switched off your light and pocketed it. 

Your hand dropped from his face to just under where his jaw met his throat. You pushed aside the leather straps, just enough to access his pulse point, pressing two fingers to the spot. His heart was racing, quick and erratic, and you felt him shudder, breath heavy, his jaw setting tightly as your hands drifted across his skin, probing and searching. His skin was burning with heat, feverishly so, and coupled with the elevated heart rate, the blown pupils, and the way he seemed to flinch whenever you made contact with his skin directly, you could only make one conclusion.

“So,” you said, backing up to stand up straight, “this started after you had the first brew Siegwinne dropped off, yes?”

Wriothesley nodded. “It did.”

His voice. It had dropped several octaves in the time you’d been examining him, and you cursed the effect it had on you, coursing hot through your bloodstream. It felt so deeply unprofessional for a doctor to even think of her patient in the way the brief thoughts that fluttered through your mind suggested you do.

“Is it worse after this second batch?” You forced yourself to say.

He huffed a laugh. “You could say that.”

And it was then when you noticed, from where you were standing, that Wriothesley’s belt was undone. Rosy hues colored your cheeks as you yanked your gaze away.

“You need to tell me all of your symptoms,” you said, “spare no detail.”

Panic briefly flashed across his face as he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

“Hot,” he said, “I feel far too warm. Do I have a fever?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was purposely hiding the truth, but nonetheless, you answered.

“Yes,” you said, “but I believe it’s because your body is overheated and not because you're fighting an infection. I just said not to leave anything out, Your Grace, please tell me everything. As your doctor, I–”

“I’m… Archons, I don’t want to say it,” he paused, searching, almost frantically for something else to focus on. “What was in that tea?”

You swallowed, leaning back to rest against the desk. 

“Herbs,” you said, “rosemary, feverfew, and lavender. All meant to help with pain and headaches. But I could also smell rainbow roses.”

Wriothesley brightened. “Yes, I thought that was what I tasted. It brings such a unique flavor to the table, don’t you agree?”

You fought a smile, endeared by him, but now was hardly the time. You needed to figure out what was wrong with him, not to discuss tea. 

“Yes,” you said, “but it was strange. Too sweet. It only gets to that level when the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose are included alongside the powdered roots of a rainbow rose, in which case the combination can make–”

Oh. Oh. 

As you were talking, it clicked into place. The scent, which you’d thought was much too sweet before, suddenly made sense. Sumeru rose must have been the final ingredient. It was flavorless when consumed, but smelled quite sweet. When combined with rainbow roses, the scent of the two grew overpoweringly saccharine. Unless diluted, it would almost resemble a syrup. If the rainbow rose petals were boiled alongside the powdered roots of the Sumeru rose, it could become a powerful medicine able to soothe a bad cough. But if the roots of both plants were powdered, the results were…

You cursed yourself for being so stupid. Of course, Siegwinne would see nothing wrong with this. Medicine was medicine, regardless of what the outcome of its ingestion spelled, so long as it got the desired result. To her, the suggestion of something unbecoming would be taken with great offense. 

“‘Can make?’” Wriothesley supplied, and were already imagining the ways in which you were going to rip Siegwinne a new one.

“I need your symptoms. Now. I am a doctor, Your Grace, I promise I will be as non judgemental as possible, just please–”

“Damn it,” he interjected, face hidden in his hands, “I’m aroused.”

Anything you’d just been about to say left your mind, swept away by dread, because you knew what was happening.

Siegwinne was evil. You could already picture her expectant, innocent face, asking just how her little ‘experiment’ had gone, and it filled you with boiling rage. 

Though, there was also the fact that she could simply be misinformed. Melusines had different reactions to some medicines than humans did, and it was equally possible that she simply thought that, if dosed with the tea, the Duke’s feelings for you, if he had any, would just be made more prominent. For her sake, you hoped it was the latter. 

“Aroused,” you parroted, trying hard to stay professional and failing miserably, because this was unethical on so many levels, “tell me more about that.”

He made a strangled, startled sound. “You want to know more?” 

You wanted to melt into the floor. “I need to know how strong the dose you’ve been given is.”

“Dose?!” He said, “of what?”

You refused to look at him. “When mixed together, the powdered roots of a Sumeru rose and a rainbow rose create a powerful aphrodisiac. I believe the first dose you received was a weaker version, and this one is much stronger.”

Silence followed as Wriothesley took in the information, then cleared his throat.

“Do you have an antidote?”

You raised your head to look at him properly. He looked almost haggard, the flush from his face creeping down his neck. 

“There… kind of isn’t one.”

Wriothesley made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat, hands raising to card through his hand, and it was then that you noticed it. Now that his hands were no longer hiding it, you could see it, there, outlined against the dark fabric of his slacks. 

He was hard. 

A wave of suffocating, shameful arousal washed over you, and you forced yourself to look away, to ignore it.

You could only begin to imagine how he was feeling. The way you were feeling was nothing compared to him, his condition undoubtedly much more intense than your own physical reaction in response to his arousal, and you could feel his eyes on you as you scrambled to find a solution. 

“What am I going to do then?” He asked, “it’s getting… I’m sorry, It’s getting rather unbearable. I tried everything. It’s impossible to ignore, and I know I can’t use my hands.”

You spared him a glance. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, “I was already trying that. It wasn’t enough.”

Oh. The unbuckled belt. His disheveled state when you’d walked in. He’d already been dealing with the effects of the first dose, or at least attempting to. The call of your name, as you were entering the office. The silence before he summoned you up to the second floor.

Fuck. He’d been thinking of you. 

That had to be one of the hottest things you’d ever heard, professionalism be damned. Arousal rolled over you like a breaking wave, making you bite into your lower lip.

You knew what needed to happen. You knew the effects of this particular drug would take, and you knew that the only way to relieve his symptoms was either to very painfully wait it out or to… find relief. In this case, that entailed another person. 

“You need to have sexual intercourse,” you said, “or you can wait it out.”

Wriothesley cleared his throat. “Wait it out,” he said, “right, I can do that. How long will that take?”

You twisted your hands together. “It… depends. You were likely given a pretty strong dose, even for someone your size. By my estimate, it would probably take several hours for it to work its way out of your system.”

He chuckled dryly, humorlessly. “Great.”

You cleared your throat. “Do you have someone I could… call? A girlfriend?”

He snorted, as if amused by the idea. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

That would make sense, you supposed, if he was calling out your name, and not the name of another woman. 

“We both know what Siegwinne is doing,” Wriothesley said, “not just with this, but for the past few months. I can’t pretend I’m not fond of you, and neither of us can pretend there isn’t something between us.”

It was like the ground dropped out from under you at the sheer brazenness of his admission. You stared at him, thunderstruck. 

“You… what?” 

A cavalcade of thoughts crashed together as you rapidly attempted to process what he meant by that, but he barely gave you any time before he started speaking again.

“Look,” he said, “if you don’t feel the same, I can accept that. I’ll wait it out, and we can pretend this never even happened. But if you do, are you even… slightly interested in um… helping me? Because honestly, I feel like I’m about to explode.”

Heat coiled low in your stomach, threatening to overtake you as the lovely rasp of his voice made any of your logical thoughts close to meaningless. This was so vastly unprofessional. He was your boss, and you were his doctor. But something dangerously close to want was settling neatly over that space you usually reserved, that you looked to for reassurance about your professional standing with the Duke, to tell you that your feelings for him, ever growing, were improper. 

And when you turned, watching his face, the way his hungry gaze traced your body through your uniform, something in you snapped, and you threw caution to the wind.

Head lowered, face flushed, you swallowed your rationality and any remaining hesitance you had left. 

“I suppose,” you said, “I could use my hands.”

Wriothesley’s body jolted in anticipation, and his eyes betrayed his hesitance, darkened to steel blue with lust as he nodded once, then once more.

“Hands,” he repeated, “yes, hands are good. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

You found it touching that he was at least trying to take your comfort into account, even when he was drowning in desire, and you took a slow step forward as he shifted, pulling his chair out enough to allow you room to situate yourself on the floor in front of him. As you took another step, he took his coat from the back of his chair and laid it at his feet, another gesture you appreciated. 

Once you reached him, you knelt down between his thighs, and he watched you with burning eyes, flinching when your palms smoothed over his clothed thighs, jaw tightening. Medical curiosity echoed briefly in the back of your mind, taking note of just how sensitive the drug had made him to the simplest of touches, how he shivered as your nails grazed against the insides of his strong thighs. 

Fuck, he was radiating heat. So much so that it was beginning to affect you, and you shifted back on your knees to remove the overcoat layer of your uniform, leaving you in the blouse and underskirt beneath it. Wriothesley’s eyes followed your motions with rapt attention, and when you moved forward again, settling, you felt him jolt when your palm met his leg once again.

This close up, you could see it, just how much he was straining against his trousers, his erection pressed against his zipper, and hesitantly, you cupped it in your hand.

The Duke gasped at your touch, fingers twitching where he’d curled them around the armrests of his chair, then tightening in a white-knuckled grip as you ever-so-gently squeezed. He twitched against your palm, and you removed his belt entirely, dropping it to the floor with a clatter before you were unfastening his button and zipper.

You palmed him through the fabric of his underwear, and you could already feel how big he was just from that. A sort of eagerness threaded its way into the burn of your arousal as you pushed away any remaining layers, pulling him free.

Fuck. He was so thick, and when you slowly wrapped your hand around him, your fingers just barely met. He was long, too, though you supposed it made sense for a man of his size. He was flushed red, painfully hard, and when you squeezed, you felt him twitch once more, his body tightening like a coiled spring. His hands tightened their grip on the armrests, flexing, and you felt his hips shift forward, unconsciously. 

The first stroke made his head roll back, the sound he let out one of relief, just from that simple touch alone. It made you squirm in place, the sound of his voice and the stricken hitch of his breath causing the desperation of his arousal to bleed into your own building need. Precum was beaded at his tip, and you almost wanted to lean forward to lap it up, especially as more leaked out in response to the way you were stroking him in slow, even movements. 

Heavy breath expelled through clenched teeth, followed by a low, low groan as your thumb found his tip, rubbing in slow circles, and it was then that you leaned forward, giving into temptation as your tongue pressed to the underside of the head of his cock in a slow lick.

“Oh,” he gasped, “oh, you don’t have to– oh, fuck.”

He cut himself off as you lapped at his slit, groaning through his teeth. He was already completely lost to pleasure as you pumped the base of him, and when you took him into your mouth, sucking on the tip, you heard him curse, a sound drawn out with a low, decadent groan. 

“You said your hands– oh!”

Arousal was settling low and smoldering hot in the pit of your stomach, pooling between your thighs, and you whined as he whispered your name. You released him from your mouth, hands moving to rest on his thighs, and you dragged your tongue up and along the underside of his dick, gathering up any precum that had dribbled down. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his slacks, lips grazing the side of his shaft, and he repeated your name, louder, voice twisted with an urgency that made your blood sing.

It was embarrassing, just how quick you’d gotten like this, punch drunk on the reactions he gave you, the way his body reacted to your touch. It filled you with an addicting sort of power, one that threatened to overtake you if you weren’t careful. But right then, all you wanted was to add fuel to the ever growing fire. And, with the way he was breathing, rough and ragged and broken, you doubted he’d be opposed to that. 

Your tongue flicked out, against the fold of skin just below his tip, and he tensed, crying out helplessly. When you finally took him in your mouth, fully, his head fell back against his chair, a feral groan tearing itself from his throat as your tongue pressed firm against him. Your hand moved from his leg to encircle the base of him again, squeezing and stroking in tandem with the slow bob of your head, and making the Duke gasp at the sensations. 

When you sucked, just a little, Wriothesley babbled a string of curses, hips twitching up towards your mouth, and when you ducked down, bobbing your head, one of his hands flew from the armrest to the back of your head. You thought he’d push, or maybe take control, but all he did was lace his fingers into your hair, unmoving. His body shuddered under the roll of your tongue, under the press of your free hand to his stomach, creeping under the layers of clothing covering him, his skin fever hot against your own.

You took him deeper, and he twitched, hips jumping as you hollowed out your cheeks, drawing back before surging forward once again. You relaxed your jaw further as his hips bucked, and he muttered an apology, breathless and feverish. His head pitched back as you rubbed your thumb against his base, and he twitched again, sharply. When you looked up at him, through your lashes, he was gazing down at you with hooded, burning eyes. There was desperation in his cool blue hues, a wordless plea for anything, everything you could give him.

And with everything you had, you delivered. 

You dropped your jaw, swallowing as much of him as you can, drinking in the sound of his breath shuddering, tapering off into a low moan. You sped up, gradually, and the sounds he made were so madly erotic that you found yourself aching to reach between your thighs and take care of your own growing need, but you could hardly focus on anything apart from taking him as deep as possible without choking. The sheer girth of him was enough to make your jaw sore, and when you moved forward again, he hit the back of your throat, making tears catch in your lashes. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, drawing the word out with the sound, long and low and you kneened around him, making him curse and buck. 

The hand not tangled in your hair raised to his face, balling tight, and he bit down on his fist, stifling his uncontrolled cries of ecstasy, eyes squeezing shut, brows pinching in concentration. He was trembling beneath your touches, twitching against your tongue, and when you moved back to suck on the tip, slow and indolent, the noise that left his mouth was nothing short of pornographic. 

“Yeah,” he seethed, voice breathy, needy, “fuck, yeah, don’t stop.”

Not a chance in hell you were doing that. You clamped your thighs together, squeezing around nothing, and you knew you were soaked, evident in the way your panties were sticking to your skin, your thighs tacky with sweat and the soak of your own arousal. Your hand curled into a fist where it rested on his stomach, then flattening once more and flexing, searching for anything to anchor yourself. When you took him into your mouth once more, fully, he bucked his hips, groaning with no regard for volume. He was close, teetering on that edge, evident from the way his grip on your hair grew tighter, the way you could feel the muscles in his stomach tensing, and when you took him deep and sucked, he moaned, long and low, the sound almost forced from his fraying lungs. The sensitivity had to be maddening, you decided, and you’d use that to your full advantage. 

Slowly, you pulled back, lapping at the leaking tip, hand working tirelessly at the base of him, and you barely had any warning before he tipped over the edge, back arching, breath all but leaving him. You shifted back in surprise, reflexively, and cum painted itself across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the seam of your lips. You closed your eyes in an attempt to keep anything from getting into them before you were hurrying to take him in your mouth, sealing your lips around him. His hand was fisting in your hair, and the sound he made, a low, breathless groan, was one of sheer, debauched relief. 

You sucked, and he let out an obscene moan as you swallowed down his cum, hips jerking, the hand previously fisted between his teeth flattening against the desk, palm slamming down, just once, and you heard the rasp of wood under fingernails as he moved to grip the edge. 

You slowed, working him through the intensity of his orgasm, as he twitched and throbbed under your touch, the sheer volume of cum surprising you. It leaked from your mouth, down your chin, and you did your best to swallow as much of it as you could. He slumped, boneless, against his chair, and when you moved to clean him with your tongue, you got to listen to the delightful sound of him gasping from oversensitivity.

“Fuck,” you heard him say, dazed and utterly breathless, “fuck.”

Slowly, you drew back, and his eyes followed you, breath hitching and gaze darkening as he took in your appearance. The sight of you, knelt before him, covered in his cum, was enough to make him groan aloud, cheeks flaring pink.

“Archons,” he said, “that has to be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You let out a short, breathless chuckle.

“Do you have a rag or something?”

He nodded, once, and you stood on shaking legs before leaning sideways against the desk, and he pulled you closer, gently wiping your face clean with a tissue before depositing it in the trash situated under his desk. 

“How do you feel?” You asked, and he huffed what may have been a laugh, nearly disbelieving.

“That was… Incredible. But I’m still, um…”

You crooked an eyebrow, watching him, expectantly.

He looked almost guilty. “I’m still hard.”

Oh. Oh. 

You weren’t completely surprised. You didn’t know if a blowjob alone would be enough to work the drug from his system, and clearly, it wasn’t. Not that you minded. Your own arousal was a steady pulse below your skin, working like a second heartbeat. Desire coursed through you, and you pressed your thighs together once more. You wanted it. You already knew that. You wanted him. 

“Alright,” you said, and what was left of any phantom of resolve, or the shreds of your until recently professional relationship with him all but vaporized, “sit back.”

“You don’t have to,” he started, the protest as fragile as glass, but you cut him off.

“I want to. I’ve… wanted this– you– for a while. So please, Your Grace– Wriothesley. I want it all. If you’ll have me.”

That was all it took. With a low, shuddering breath, a signal of his rapidly fraying restraint, he was yanking you forward and into his lap, his fingers working the buttons of your blouse open, hurriedly shucking it down your shoulders once undone. He made quick work of the ties fastening your skirt to your body, and you briefly shuffled off of him to drop it to the floor, along with your stockings, before resituating yourself on his lap. 

“If I’ll have you?” He rumbled, the low, rough ombre of his voice sending prongs of lightning down your spine, and he yanked you closer, mouth dragging along the curve of your jaw.

“How could I possibly refuse?”

And then, for the first time, he was kissing you. 

His lips were burning hot against yours, and your fingers found his hair, threading into messy locks, nails dragging against his scalp. He huffed a sigh into your lips as he nudged his tongue between them, tilting his head to slot his mouth more firmly against yours, and when his tongue dragged against yours, you moaned, low and soft, into his mouth. He kissed you slow and deep, almost a juxtaposition to the way he was feverishly running his hands, large and calloused, down your body, and when his fingers grazed over the patch of nerves just where your lowest rib met the curve of your waist, you shuddered in his hold. 

You could taste the tea he’d been drinking on his tongue, cloyingly sweet, and it was almost too much when mixed with the heady, spiced smell of his cologne. Everything about him was overwhelming you in the best way possible, rendering you pliable and soft in his hands. Fuck, Wriothesley needed his own warning label. It was almost funny, really, just how riled up you were when he was the one who had been drugged with an aphrodisiac. 

His teeth caught your lower lip as he drew back, tugging, before he was diving back in, hands planted firmly on your hips, and you let out a stuttering gasp as he pulled you forward, his bare cock pressing against your stomach. 

The way he shuddered at the contact was enough to make your head spin with arousal, and when you shifted forward once more, just to see what he’d do, the grip on your hips grew to nearly bruising. 

“You have no idea,” he husked, low and rough, the very threads of his sanity slipping from between his fingers, “how hard you’re making it to hold back.”

His words shot straight between your thighs, and you rolled your hips again, loving the way he stiffened. You felt his palm, dragging slowly up your body, then finally moving to cup your breast through the fabric of your bra, squeezing. You arched your chest into his touch, his name whisper soft on your lips. 

He unfastened your bra after some fumbling, his coordination clearly beginning to become impacted by the drug. Once the garment was discarded, he barely gave you time to breathe, and you gasped when his head dipped down, mouth dragging across the valley of your breasts, skating along the side of one before his lips found one of your nipples, drawing it into the heat of his mouth.

He groaned at the taste of you, indulgent, as he laved his tongue over your flesh, hands sliding up to grip your waist, holding you in place, allowing him to explore the newly exposed skin with his mouth as much as he pleased. He was strong, his grip like iron, but it didn’t prevent you from slowly rocking your hips, rubbing your clothed cunt against his bare cock, and the way he groaned into your skin was a sound of delirious pleasure. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, almost disbelieving, “fuck, I’m a lucky man.”

His tender words made your heartbeat quicken, and you squeezed him closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Your hands slid down his chest, fingers catching on the buttons of his shirt, and you quickly unfastened them, pushing the cloth away to smooth your palms over his bare skin. Gently, you pushed him back against the chair you were both situated in to look at him, and the sight before you was almost too much.

You already knew he was muscular, that much was obvious by just looking at him. But beneath his clothing, among thickly corded muscle was a patchwork of scarred flesh. You’d known about some scars; three of them crept up over the collar of his shirt, partially hidden by the straps he wore around his throat. There was also a collection of them on his arms, and of course, the one under his right eye. The ones that were hidden wove their way across his chest like a roadmap, some of them faint, and others more prominent, pale threads across his already pale skin. You laid your palm against him, tracing the one closest, and he shuddered, leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your fingers skimmed down his chest, to his trim waist, and when your thumb caught in the deep v at his waist, he let out a soft grunt. 

One of his hands moved from your waist to your hip, squeezing the plush flesh, then migrated to the apex of your thighs, and when his middle finger rubbed you through the sodden fabric of your panties, a high, breathy whine tore itself from your throat. He pressed harder, and your back arched, eyes falling half-lidded when he circled your clit through the fabric.

Then, without warning, he was pushing the cloth aside, and the feel of his calloused finger dragging across your entrance was enough to make you jerk in his hold.

He dipped his head, forehead making contact with your shoulder, and it took you a moment to realize he was watching himself, observing the sight of his hand between your legs. When your hips twitched, he used his opposite hand to hold you steady, effectively forcing you to stay in place as he did what he pleased with your body. 

“Please,” you whispered, and that was all it took for him to tire of his teasing, sinking his finger inside you with a slow, indulgent movement.

You gasped, the sound bleeding into a moan when his finger curled inside of you, and he pushed you down, forcing you to take him to the knuckle. You whispered his name as he curled his finger again, and when he added a second finger, you squeezed your eyes shut. He groaned at the sound it made when he thrust his fingers into you, the lewd, embarrassing schlick of you around him, and you had to take a moment for your jumbled thoughts to catch up with you. His fingers were so much thicker than your own, not to mention longer, and he was hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. He thrust again, and you cried out, hips twitching, causing him to tighten his grip. 

The curl of his fingers hit a spot inside of you that made you see stars, and when he felt the way it made you tighten around him, he began to abuse it with everything he had. 

“Oh, Gods,” he groaned, “you’re so wet.”

You could do no more than gasp as his palm ground against your clit, and he held you there, forcing you to take it as he pressed in slow, maddening twists of his wrist before replacing his palm with his thumb.

It was arousing how easily he could manhandle you, and you had absolutely no desire to fight against him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were getting close, embarrassingly quickly, and you could do nothing to stop yourself from hurtling towards that end, walls throbbing and contracting around his fingers.

One of your hands shot between you, encircling his thick wrist, and you weren’t sure what the purpose of that was, either to push him deeper or simply to find purchase, but you did know that your desperation made his dick twitch where it was pressed between you, forcing him to stifle a groan.

You convulsed in his hold, hips jerking in his iron grip, his name on your lips, and with a final press of his thumb against your clit, you came hard around his fingers, biting down into his shoulder, and he worked you through it with slow thrusts that made stars and celestial bodies dance across your closed eyelids. You called his name, urgent and drawn out, yet high and needy, and he replied with a groan of his own, his free hand flying from where he was holding you in place to wrap around his own cock, palming it, thumbing the head, forcing a moan from between his teeth.

You slumped heavily against him as you fell from your high, and when he withdrew his fingers, you let out a shuddering breath, the sensitivity sending your thoughts into nonsense. Your head was spinning, thoughts in a daze, and all you could feel was him as he panted for breath. 

Seconds of silence, only interrupted by heavy breathing, passed before you rose on unsteady legs to discard your panties before you were settling over him once more, and he watched with hazy eyes as you shifted forward, pressing your bare cunt against the underside of his shaft in a slow grind. His mouth fell open in a silent cry, brows pinching upwards, the sensitivity clearly unbearable. Suffocating, maddening lust worked its way through your bloodstream like a toxin, and you knew he needed more, from the way his hips rutted up in halfway thrusts as you rubbed against him.

“Fuck,” he choked, head falling back as the tip of his cock caught against you, “I wanna–”

You rocked forward, and his entire body jolted, tearing a groan from deep in his chest.

“What do you want?” You asked, breathless, and he lifted his head to look at you, the fog of desire in his eyes downright sinful.

He yanked you close, trapping his cock between your bodies, and into a frenzied kiss, his restraint all but gone as he unabashedly moaned at the feel of your skin. 

“I want,” he husked, mouth pressing open kisses against your jaw, and he stopped, breath hot against your ear, “to be inside you.”

Your breath left you in a rush, and you drew him into a deep kiss, one he returned with vigor, hands smoothing down your body to grab at your hips, pressing you forward and against him once more, and when you pulled back, his eyes were wild with desperation and maddening lust. 

“I don’t have protection,” he said, and you shook your head, dismissing him.

“I’m on birth control,” you said. Siegwinne made the tonic you took, something she supplied even to female inmates to help with lightening periods. But right now, it would be used for its intended purpose. Wriothesley nodded as he took this information in, seemingly relaxing a little.

“Please,” he mumbled, and you blinked, surprised to hear him beg for anything, but you were hardly going to deny him, “I’m going insane. I need you.”

You took a shuddering breath as you shifted up, using one hand to brace yourself as you took his cock in your hand, pressing him against you. You both cried out in unison at the feeling, even the slightest whisper of much needed friction enough to make you feel lightheaded, and you felt his hands grasp your hips, urging you downwards.

You sank down, slowly, and even the tip of him was a stretch, a dull ache blossoming as you pressed closer. Both hands landed on his shoulders, breath heavy, and he groaned lowly at the sensation.

“Slow,” he said, fighting for control, “c’mon, you can take me. Relax, deep breaths.”

You nodded, once, as you did as he instructed. Your knees shuffled as you pressed yourself down, met with more resistance, and forcing you to stop, gasping for air. He was only halfway in and you already felt full, stretched to accommodate him. It was unfamiliar and new, and you weren’t used to this, but his grip was tightening, and with a deep breath, you thrust down, taking the rest of him in one quick motion. 

The sting of the stretch danced across your frayed nerves like a livewire, and you grit your teeth, head slumping forward as Wriothesley let out a long, low groan, both of his hands rushing to your hips, squeezing, keeping you in place. 

A string of curses left his lips as his head fell back, and you could feel him throb inside of you, so deep you could hardly believe it, stuffed full to the brim. 

“Just– oh, or you could just take it all. Fuck,” he quieted, breathing heavily, before speaking again, “are you– did that hurt you? Are you okay?”

The pain wasn’t horrible, and you hesitated to even call it pain. It was just an ache, dull and unpleasant, but you’d been wet enough that taking him hadn’t caused you any actual damage. You sat still as you adjusted, the aching burn of the stretch rapidly fading into something maddening, replaced by a desperate need. 

“I’m fine,” you said, voice strained, “I’m okay.”

He nodded, once, before drawing you close, linking your mouth to his in a kiss far more gentle than you’d expected. You felt him throb, and when you squeezed, you got the pleasure of hearing him groan your name.

“You’re so tight. Please, please– yeah–”

His head fell back as you rocked your hips, lifting yourself up, only to sink back down, and when you repeated the action, he groaned helplessly, a string of almost nonsensical praises spilling past his lips, only serving to make you want to wreck him even further. 

Sheer, uncontained relief was tangled inextricably with every sound he made, his hands squeezing your hips as you took him again, and again, and again, and oh fuck, you felt like you were being split open, impaling yourself repeatedly on his fat cock. The burn from before turned into pure ecstasy, the stretch of him inside of you intoxicating, and you buried your face into the crook of his neck as you moaned out his name. He wasn’t even bothering to stay quiet, not that it mattered, nobody could hear from outside the heavy office doors, which was an advantage right then. 

You keened as his hips rose to meet you, the base of his dick rubbing against your clit. You sank down, taking him fully, ejecting any rational or sensical thought from your head, grinding in deep, easy circles, and you could feel blunt nails digging into your hips as he held you in place, totally drunk on pleasure. 

His grip eased as you slid back up before taking him again, and he was kissing you frantically, one of his hands flattening against your breast, rolling the nipple under the rough pad of his thumb, making you whimper into his mouth.

“Faster,” he hissed, pulling back to meet your eyes, “faster, ride me faster.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, using them as leverage to move yourself faster, arching your back as the new speed made you see stars, and you whined, burning pleasure shooting through you at the grind of his cock against your clit.

“Good girl,” he groaned, dizzy with pleasure, “yeah, just like that.”

You could feel yourself getting close again, and you groaned his name as you swiveled your hips. Your thighs were beginning to burn with the exertion, even with just the short time you’d been moving at this pace, and when he felt you shudder, his hands found your waist, helping you along.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” Wriothesley panted, “that’s it, fuck me just like that.”

He was moving you with his own hands, easily, and you tried your best to move along with him, swiveling your hips whenever he bottomed out, and his head fell back in rapture, gasping for air. 

Your orgasm was approaching fast, and you were helpless to its pull as you sped up, chasing after it frantically, the sound that filtered through your clenched teeth one of desperation. You felt like you were losing yourself, and when you sank your teeth into the soft flesh of his throat, an unrestrained groan fell past his lips, his hips bucking up with enough force to make you see stars. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you tipped over the edge hard, stilling as you clung to him, sobbing his name into the curve of his shoulder.

You tightened to a vice grip around him, throbbing as your climax crashed over you, and you heard him growl at the sensation, hips bucking, still working his cock up into your messy cunt. Before you could even start to come down from your high, you were moving, and the frigid steel of the floor met your back, rapidly heating from contact with your skin. One of his hands gripped at your leg, tucking beneath your knee and holding it up, and then he was driving forwards, hips slapping against yours as he filled you once more.

He paused, shaken by the intensity of the sensation, before his head pitched forward, breath heavy, and he was thrusting again with a renewed vigor, nails digging into your flesh. 

His name was the only thing on your tongue as he fucked you, so good it made you feel like your head was emptying itself out. His mouth found yours as he leaned forward, supporting his weight on his forearm, laid beside your head, giving him more freedom to do what he pleased with his hips. The base of his dick was rubbing against your clit once again, and you whined, squirming beneath him, but he wasn’t letting up.

“Wriothesley,” you gasped, head fuzzy, completely cock drunk as he broke the kiss to mouth at your neck, “deeper.”

He groaned, low and indulgent, and when his hips snapped forward, filling you completely, your back arched against his chest.

“Deeper?” he repeated, the baritone timbre of his voice lowered to an uneven bass, “you want it deeper? That what you want, gorgeous?”

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, give it to me.”

A low, rough chuckle was the only warning you got before he was thrusting forward, hips flush against yours, and he repeated the action, again, and again, and again, making you bite your lip to keep from wailing at the intensity of it all.

“Oh, fuck,” you heard him gasp, stricken, indulgent, “fuck, yeah, that’s it.”

It felt so good you could hardly think, and when you babbled his name, lust drunk and fucked dumb, he pressed soft kisses along the column of your throat, almost like a reward, a thank you for letting him do this to you. 

His pace was growing sloppy, but he showed no signs of letting up, and in the back of your mind, you figured was probably just going to keep on going, even if he came. It was rapidly beginning to become far too much for you, and you moaned, high and breathy, when he rammed himself all the way in, grinding his hips before pulling out less than a quarter of the way, then thrusting back in. He was so deep, and you writhed under him, fingernails scraping against the floor before you were clinging to him. He was moaning, low and breathless, the way he was moving causing you to helplessly spasm around him, forcing you violently over the edge when the base of him rubbed just right against your aching clit. 

You could feel tears, beading at your lashline as the sensitivity became maddening, but he wasn’t letting up, even as you arched and bucked and wailed beneath him, the intensity of your climax rendering you incoherent. He knew exactly what he was doing, just how to push every button he needed to, and you were halfway between deliriously begging for more or sobbing at the sensitivity. 

A string of curses left his lips as he came, gushing hot and thick inside of you, but he wasn’t even pausing, even as his groans tapered into breathy moans from the way he was overstimulating himself. You could feel him, throbbing, pulsing inside of you as he filled you, uncaring of the way his cum  dripped out of you. The sound of it, combined with the slap of skin against skin, was unbelievably lewd, but you hardly had the wherewithal to even think, let alone be any kind of embarrassed. If anything, it only drove you higher. 

“Fuck,” Wrothesley cursed, low and broken, “I need it again, please, again– fuck!”

He shifted back, grabbing at your legs and pressing them down beside you, and you thanked the Archons you were flexible as he continued, leaning forward once he had you in the position he liked and taking your body with abandon. He was hardly bothering to hold back his strength as he hammered into you, and your head fell back against the floor with a soft thud, eyes rolling back. 

You’d never felt like this before in your life. Your legs were growing sore, and your back was going to be stiff from the way he was fucking you into the floor, but you didn’t care, not as you got to listen to the way he was saying your name like a prayer, how he was caressing and kissing your body like it was sacred. Exhaustion was a heavy weight against the blurred edges of your mind, and all you could do was lay there and take it as he chased after what he so desperately needed.

It didn’t take long for him to grow close again, and he whispered your name as his end quickly approached. You yanked him into a kiss, which he returned with a groan of ecstasy, and then, with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he was cumming. The force of it made his entire body tremble, and the sound he made was one of satiated, relieved bliss as he emptied himself out inside of you, the heat of him almost suffocating, burning you from the inside out.

His hips jerked with unconscious movements and spasms as he drifted down from the staggering height of his climax, his breath heavy, and he slumped, weakened, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. His mouth pressed lazy kisses against your skin, and you lifted a hand to run it through his hair as he finally, finally began to grow soft inside of you.

The two of you lay there, still joined, for what felt like hours, bathing in each other’s warmth and the afterglow of it all. His breath fanned across your skin, feather soft as he lifted his head to join your lips together, before he slowly pulled out, rolling off of you, dazed. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice hoarse, and you arched your back, flexing your body. You winced at the soreness. You were undoubtedly going to have bruises from how hard he had been gripping you. 

“I’m fine,” you said, “are you–”

He snorted. 

“Yeah,” he said, “that uh… that did the trick.”

You laughed, a little breathlessly. You didn’t know how you’d be able to stand after that, genuinely. Your legs felt like jelly, and a deep, all consuming exhaustion was settling over your senses.

“You think it’s gone?” You asked, “the drug, I mean.”

He looked at you sidelong. “I don’t feel uncontrollably horny anymore, so I’d say so.”

Wriothesley sat up, flexing his shoulders. He tucked himself back into his pants, and then he was gathering you into his arms, rising to his feet.

“What are you doing?” You asked, and he raised an eyebrow at you.

“Taking you to the bath,” he said, “I have a bathtub, in my living quarters.”

You relaxed, settling into his arms. “Oh.”

His living quarters were attached to the office, through a door you’d somehow never noticed before. You were far too tired to take in any of the details of it, instead opting to close your eyes and rest your head on the nearest comfortable spot on Wriothesley’s chest, which he didn’t seem to mind at all. 

He set you in the tub, and after the water was run, you were surprised to see him climbing in along with you. It wasn’t unwelcome, and seeing him completely bare was hardly a bad thing, and you were pleasantly happy when he began to gently wash you, and once he was finished, he tugged you back, settling you against his chest.

The bathroom was silent, save for the musical sound of running water, and you allowed yourself to close your eyes, settling into the comfortable atmosphere. 

“I meant what I said, you know,” Wriothesley said, and you opened your eyes to look up at him.

“What?” You asked.

“About being fond of you,” he said, “you’re… an amazing woman. I want–”

You leaned up, kissing him, and effectively giving him an answer to his thoughts. He sighed into the kiss, content, one large hand rising to cup your face, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

“I guess Siegwinne succeeded,” you said, and Wriothesley smiled, amused.

“I guess she did.”

You stayed in the bath much longer than you expected, until the water became cold, and once that happened, Wriothesley whisked you off to the bed, tucking you under the covers after supplying you with one of his shirts to wear. You smiled when he joined you, now dressed in a pair of sweats, chest left bare, and curled up beside you, tucking you close to his chest. 

Sleep came quickly after the lights were switched off, the exhaustion from before spreading over you like wildfire. 

And, when he thought you were asleep, you felt him, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his body relaxing against yours.

BONUS:

You were agonizingly sore. Your stiff muscles had stiff muscles, and while Wriothesley was sheepish, and apologetic, and promised he’d treat you to dinner to make it up (which you would be taking him up on), it made walking back to the infirmary the next morning a little difficult. 

What was even worse was the look on Siegwinne’s face when you entered, ruby red eyes knowing as she watched you approach.

“How’s the duke?” She asked, and you handed her the accursed thermos without saying anything.

“Fine,” you said, slumping down into your chair with a sigh. 

She smiled. “Good. Are you seeing him again tonight?”

You turned, brows furrowed. “How did you know about that?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Someone saw you leaving his office this morning. I suppose what I put in the tea worked a little too well.”

You stared at her. “Siegwinne, you put an aphrodisiac in his tea.”

She paused, concerned. “No I didn’t. I put a supplement to further enhance his desire for you. If we’re being frank, it’s closer to a love potion. Just to get rid of any inhibitions. It’s medicine. But it isn’t meant to cause anything like–”

You rolled back your sore shoulders. “Yeah, well, it did.”

Her face went pale, but she briefly covered it up. “I… suppose I miscalculated.”

You laughed, then. Really laughed. It startled Siegwinne, who stared at you with growing concern.

“It’s fine,” you said, “whatever, Siegwinne. At least you don’t have to keep going with trying to set us up. Focus your energy on making ‘love potions’ that aren’t aphrodisiacs in humans, okay?”

She flushed, quiet, then nodded, once, her eyes taking on a determined look. You were beginning to regret saying anything. 

With a smile, and a good natured nod, she put her hands on her hips, ever the dutiful nurse.

“I’ll get right on that.”

Fin.

[saltylovesvessels]

the hanged man

[darsynia]

Crew Resource Management | Lloyd/f!reader

HAPPY APRIL FOOLS! This is not okay. At all. Though it's me so that's probably hilariously naive of me to say.

Summary: Lloyd pulls a practically unforgivable April Fool's prank WC/Warnings: 2,400 | Explicit sex, the mustache gets WORSE

Excerpt:

Lloyd’s leaning up against the wall reading a Russian newspaper when you bring the completed folder over. You can tell by the way his hands tighten on the newsprint that he heard your high heels clicking on the marble floor, but you’re wholly unprepared for what you see when he lowers the pages.

“Holy shit, is that a, a Chaplin mustache?” one of the armorers stutters, almost dropping the gun he’s cleaning.

“Not at all,” Lloyd says warmly--but now that you can see his face, there it is, clear as day. You can even see a little hint of stubble on either side of the damned thing.

The entire office falls silent.

CREW RESOURCE MANAGEMENT

“Wait, you’re dating that guy?”

“Dating? No. I’m not crazy.” You make a note to buy a pack of thumbtacks to jam into Raoul Belloq’s leather seats the next time you cross paths. “You should know your boss only told you my boss and I are involved to fuck up your dynamic on this op. Do better.”

“Rich to hear that phrase from a woman with so little self respect,” the woman says, but there’s an uneasy edge to her melodic French accent that tells you she doesn’t know about the Hansen-Belloq rivalry. Amateur.

“There’s self respect, and then there’s knowing what it’s like to be railed by that big meaty dick.” Your eyebrows lift skyward, and as you speak you can feel your neck doing that sassy thing Lloyd does when he’s being a douche. Ugh. Fucking is one thing, but mannerisms? 

Belloq’s loaner (Isabeau? Isolde? Whatever) is staring now, but Hinata just calls out from behind two monitors; “Oh, does he have a big penis too?” 

You snicker a little louder than you otherwise would have, just to ruffle ‘Isabette’s’ feathers. Before you can retort, a voice booms from the open doorway.

“You’ll never find out, Hin. You’re too ugly for a pity fuck.” Lloyd Hansen strides in, a rumpled folder in one hand. He holds it up in front of his face. “Someone pull out and redo the pages that have blood on them. I need these font-matched and printed in 30 minutes.” You hold out your hand, but he stops a foot away from the newcomer, waving his hand near his nose with his free hand. “Someone smells French.”

“Raoul told me you’d be rude,” the woman snaps.

“He told me you’d be mostly useless. Disprove the ‘mostly’ part.” Lloyd thrusts the folder right into her chest, spins on his heel, and stalks off to the coffee station.

“Free computer right here,” you offer.

‘Isadora’ rushes over, which is something, you suppose. She starts sorting the loose pages and mutters, “How can anyone work well together like this?”

“Closed ecosystem. Believe it or not, that ‘ugly’ line was a compliment.” Hinata grins. “He has terrible taste in women.”

“And that was an insult. A pretty lazy one, too,” you chime in, tuning your voice to a lower register to add, “Maybe it’s deserved; I have even worse taste in men.” From across the room, you see Lloyd tense up for a few seconds. He loves when you use that voice on him, but you’ve never done it at work before. Then again, your track record for reading him is abysmal, even weeks into… whatever the fuck the two of you are doing.

You focus on the task at hand, glad to see that Belloq isn’t as shitty at picking operatives as he is at inter-organizational ‘warfare.’

It’s just about 28 minutes later when you and ‘Isabert’ finish the job. You’d decided to print out everything and post-stress the paper so it doesn’t feel so ‘fresh,’ in case there’s a non-zero chance of matching printer quirks. 

Lloyd’s leaning up against the wall reading a Russian newspaper when you bring it over. You can tell by the way his hands tighten on the newsprint that he heard your high heels clicking on the marble floor, but you’re wholly unprepared for what you see when he lowers the pages.

“Holy shit, is that a, a Chaplin mustache?” one of the armorers stutters, almost dropping the gun he’s cleaning.

“Not at all,” Lloyd says warmly--but now that you can see his face, there it is, clear as day. You can even see a little hint of stubble on either side of the damned thing.

The entire office falls silent. 

“I give up. This is no fit place to work!” Belloq’s tech declares, clutching her things in front of her like a shield.

Lloyd smirks. “I knew you’d surrender.”

The rest of the day is taken up by work. Lloyd heads off to meet with an informant, leaving his phone behind as requested. Every so often it buzzes with messages and the screen wakes up, showing off that he’d changed the image to a movie poster for The Great Dictator. It’s almost the end of the day when you pass by the phone again, right as it buzzes with a rejected call.

The name listed is one you recognize. It’s a woman your team uses for disguises, including prosthetics and wigs. The message says, ‘Let me know how long it lasts. You know, for science.’ 

You’re almost disappointed--but just then, a string of profanity sounds out from behind one of the tech analyst’s computers.

“Share with the group?” you ask, instantly recognizing Lloyd’s influence in your vitriolic tone. Goddamnit.

“It’s April Fool’s today. I can’t believe I got excited about a DC/Marvel crossover film! Fucking Disney!”

Everyone left in the room starts talking at once, most of them saying they’d held back pointing out the ‘holiday’ to keep from ruining the ruse for anyone who didn’t realize. Soon enough they all trickle out, and you’re the only one left. 

It’s the day you and Lloyd usually have your Toxic Coworkers With Benefits time, but you pack up anyway. Far be it from you to meddle with science! He almost certainly didn’t get enough attention for his stunt, and you’d love to see him try to sleep without fucking the thing up--or will he show up with it looking ratty tomorrow and wait for someone to comment?

You go to lock up the main room, but the key doesn’t want to go in. You struggle with it for a second before you’re suddenly pulled back into a solid, familiar body. Lloyd’s hand slides around the waistband of your suit skirt, seeking the clasp. You stay silent and enjoy the adrenaline rush as he finds it, sliding all four fingers past it and abruptly turning them sideways.

He swears under his breath and pulls his hand back, growling in your ear and nipping at your shoulder through your jacket and blouse. 

“Oh no, did the metal clasp give you a boo-boo?” you croon. “I had to start buying the expensive ones because you popped the buttons off like four different ones, asshole.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel the evidence of his interest through both sets of clothes. You arch your back for the friction, held close by his other hand heavy against your stomach. Lloyd chuckles and brings his injured hand up against your lips.

“Suck.”

You flick your tongue out to push against the boundaries of both his injury and his patience. Both are puny. You’re almost knocked off your feet by the suddenness of his movements, spinning you around and yanking the hem of your pencil skirt up to your waist. You catch a glimpse of his unzipped cream-colored trousers straining around the bulge of his dick, held up only by his still-cinched belt. He’s wearing dark crimson boxers, and it’s so fastidiously hot, you can’t resist pressing up against him, grabbing two handfuls of his preppy-ass shirt to pull his head down to kis--

You shove him away.

“Take it off.”

“Which part, honeymuffin?”

“The rat-tail under your nose.”

Lloyd strokes a languid hand along the thick line of his cock jutting through his gaping zipper and tuts. “You called this meaty earlier.”

You’re horny and pissed off, and absolutely not. In seconds, you’ve got your fingers digging at the edge of his outrageous lip prosthetic, ripping it off. Lloyd doubles over, one hand at his face and the other at his crotch, and all you can think is that he deserves it. Which is probably the most Lloyd-like thought you’ve ever had, Jesus fucking Christ, the things this man does to you.

You’re still standing there like a vengeful spurned lover (which you are. No way did he think you’d fuck him wearing that), the thrice-damned fake mustache prosthetic dangling from your hand when he stands up. He’s undone his belt buckle, so his pants drop to pool around his shoes, which is somehow hot. It’s unfair.

“I should have expected that,” Lloyd says, but he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds like he’s barely holding in the kind of glee that only comes out when he’s sniped Belloq’s target out from under him for free. 

Then his hand drops.

The Hitler mustache is still there.

“Somehow you’re more quiet now than when you’re choking on my cock,” Lloyd observes, obviously amused. “As usual, you didn’t see this coming.”

You shiver just thinking about it. He’s really good at getting you to orgasm unexpectedly. It’s his full lips and those clever, thick fingers, even more so his chaotic, corrosive personality.

“I can’t believe you made it worse!” you groan, unable to maintain your fury with the heat of arousal burning you up. Damn him.

He kicks sharply, pulling free of his puddled pants while somehow still looking darkly menacing as he advances on you, lips curving into a smile underneath that damned mustache.

You lift your chin. “I’m not fucking you with that thing on your face. No one is. No one hates themselves that much.”

“You do.” He’s approaching with stupidly sexy menace. “But you’re no desperate, obedient bitch. You’re a thoroughbred. You need to be broken.”

He stops two feet away and pulls off his polo in a single, fluid movement, reaching for his undershirt next. The two of you are standing in the foyer of your office space, and he’s stripping you emotionally bare even as he takes every scrap of his own clothing off. 

“Fuck off.”

“Oh, I will. Inside you.”

You are so screwed, because this is maybe everything you ever wanted. 

Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you fix your eyes on his ridiculously offensive mustache and ignore the rest of his spectacular physique as best you can. He’s moving toward you, stalking you like prey, and you’re so wet he’s going to mock you for it.

“We’re both punishing ourselves here,” Lloyd says conversationally as he hooks the index finger from each hand into the thin lace of your panties, pulling them away from your hips as if testing the elastic. You tense up, ready for him to turn feral, ripping and taking and wrecking--but his expression turns as tender as you’ve ever seen it. He inclines his head, but you know him. His kisses are dominant, careless, pleasure-seeking on his behalf only.

You turn your head away, gritting your teeth, and that’s when Lloyd drags that motherfucking mustache from your chin across your cheek, ending with his soft lips whispering in your ear.

“Beg me.”

You’re corralled with so much tension on your underwear, his naked, muscular body looming over your mostly-clothed one, and one word keeps echoing in your head, his favorite rebuke, the one he’s somehow never wielded during your reckless intimacy. 

“Boring,” you spit. “Predictable.”

As you knew he would, Lloyd rips his hands away from your hips, tearing the delicate lace to shreds. With your head held high you yank your skirt back down, turn away from him, and head for the door, the sharp retorts of your high heels echoing off of the high ceiling.

You expect to be grabbed, for your sopping panties to strike the back of your head, for Lloyd to make a cutting remark that ends this tumultuous mistake between the two of you once and for all. Instead, you make it all the way to the elevator unmolested, and you don’t turn around, not even when the doors close and the car starts to move. It’s the only concession you make to the shameful ache in your chest. 

You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want that goddamned mustache to be the last part of his face you see--because he’s absolutely going to fire you.

Maybe you can go work for Belloq.

Deep breath in.

Long, unsatisfying breath out.

Too soon, the car stops and the doors open. You don’t have time to turn around before you’re propelled into the corner of the elevator by a panting, still-naked Lloyd. His expression is distorted in the reflective walls of the elevator, and you have to remind yourself to be scared instead of desperately turned on. He jabs his hand against the control panel and throws himself against you, hot and angry. An alarm starts to sound.

“I hired you for this,” he growls, thrusting three fingers inside you. It’s shocking and erotic, taking your breath away. “Only this. It’s all you’re good for.”

We’re both punishing ourselves.

“I love it when you talk dirty, baby,” you tell him in your most sultry, honeysoaked voice.

He lets out a grunt, grabbing your hips to anchor you for a punishing, glorious thrust. As ready as you are, the angle is almost too much, leaving you bruisingly full, fluttering your cunt against the intrusion in a way that draws a shuddering breath from Lloyd. Your hands ache from your tight grip on the railing, but you know what’s next; any second now he’ll start to piston in and out of you, driving both of you into a haze of pleasure-pain. With every second he waits, you crave that movement even more.

Lloyd holds still.

“Look at my reflection.”

“No.”

With the alarm blaring insistently, he presses his upper lip against your ear. The inveterate asshole has done this before, but his mustache was wider then.

“Look up.”

You need to be broken.

You close your eyes.

The crackling static of the intercom startles you into bearing down on his cock, prompting the hitched, involuntary moan you recognize as Lloyd’s highest praise.

“Is uh… Are you being-- do… do you need help?” 

Lloyd lifts his head. “That depends. You allergic to nuts?”

“Huh?”

“Turn off the alarm and fuck off, or you’ll show up at the ER with a throatful of your own testicles.”

“But--”

“Do as the gentleman says,” you rasp, deliberately using Lloyd’s favorite voice and arching your back. He starts to chuckle, caressing his hand against your hip before slamming first one, then the other against either side of the wall. 

You open your eyes without meaning to, embarrassment heating your face when you fully understand the rutting position he’s adopted. He rocks back and you make eye contact right as the static flares up again. The hapless building manager is completely drowned out by the noises both of you make when Lloyd starts fucking into you like he needs it to breathe. It’s ruinous, life-altering, far and away the best fuck of your life, eyes locked onto the ice blue triumph of your boss and his goddamned Statement Mustache.

note: the word 'pants' snuck in, sorry about that! Reader's in a skirt also I use 'somehow' a million times

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

You Get Me Closer to God

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: France

Warnings: Words & Actions that will damn me to hell; Poorly written smut; blasphemy

Summary: Father Daryl wasn’t an ordinary priest. He drew out your curiosity and curiosity killed the cat…but satisfaction brought it back.

A/N: I am going to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200

gif by @mcbride

The smoke stung your eyes a little as it wafted upward from the cigarette hanging between your lips. Your eyes narrowed as you watched the priest arrive with two sisters and a young boy. A strange combination, but not the strangest you had ever seen wander into the walls. 

You had been with this same group of nuns since just after the end of the old world. You had traveled from America just before the turn, backpacking and adventuring with your boyfriend and the friends you shared. Partying, sex, drugs, and copious amounts of alcohol and bad decisions. 

You were the only one left now. 

The sisters had taken you off the street, quite literally. Half dead, beaten, and left for the hungry ones who would eventually stumble upon you. Sister Catherine had ensured your stay, even when you balked against most of their beliefs and practices once you were well enough to attend sermons and lessons. 

Though Sister Catherine still tried to persuade you to join them, they had all but given up, Mother Superior only allowing you to remain because it would be nothing short of a sin to cast you out into the clutches of the sick that wandered in search of flesh. You did your chores and kept your nose clean, well enough. 

You plucked the cigarette from your mouth and crushed it beneath your boot heel, following the sisters and their guests further into the compound by way of the narrow trail in the small garden. 

The sisters carried weapons, which was odd enough, but the priest laden with them, his scrutinizing gaze taking in every inch of the area around him. You knew that look well. Memorizing entrances, exits, weaknesses. 

You fell in behind the group as they entered the makeshift sanctuary, keeping enough distance to not be detected. Something told you (the way he turned his head and angled it, listening) that the priest knew you were there regardless. 

Father Daryl, you learned, observing from one of the pews in the back. The four were passing through, on a mission of which they would not divulge the details. Sister Catherine was content enough with letting it go, leading the group to their quarters for the night. While the sisters and boy bowed their heads with the sign of the cross, Father Daryl did nothing more than observe. Your eyes narrowed, following them as they approached. 

“Ah, this is Y/N. Our resident non-believer.” Sister Catherine gave you a teasing smile as the strangers took you in, no doubt wondering about your outfit of a cut off tank top, leather jacket, and black distressed jeans that disappeared into well worn combat boots. 

“I believe, sister.” You shot back. “I just don’t go about it with a constant stick up my—” Sister Catherine cleared her throat sharply and pinned you down with a look. “Sorry.” You muttered, the grin you wore anything but. Risking a glance at Father Daryl found one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk.

Curiouser and curiouser. 

You stood but remained inside as the group was led away. You didn’t miss Father Daryl sparing you one last glance over his shoulder. 

After Compline, when the sisters had retired to their chambers for the Great Silence, you slipped out your door as you did most nights. A cigarette already hanging from your lips, you walked along the loggia, bringing your lighter up toward your mouth. You never lit the thing, eyes narrowed at the small cloud of smoke billowing up from the terrace below. 

You leaned over the thick banister, spotting Father Daryl easily. He was sitting on the back of one of the stone benches, his boots on the seat. Your first thought was to leave him be. It was late and engaging in conversation during the Great Silence was severely frowned upon. Even guests were asked to participate. 

But Father Daryl wasn’t just a guest. He was a priest. 

You kept your steps light as you descended the stairs and made your way outside. The tip of his cigarette glowed red before diminishing and he held the smoke in a little longer before exhaling. He was savoring it. 

He was flicking the ashes by the time you stood behind him, opening your mouth with snark on the end of your tongue. 

“Ain’t easy to sneak up on me.” He drawled, never turning to face you. 

You straightened, eyes blinking wide. “You’re American.”

“Get that a lot.” He mused in a low voice. Cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, he flicked it to disappear somewhere in the shadows. “Whaddaya want?”

“You’re a priest.” You stated plainly, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Appears so.” The way he grumbled out the remark was unexpected. You crossed the last few steps and climbed into the back of the bench next to him, leaving ample space in between. 

You could feel his eyes on you though he had yet to move. “You’re smoking. Didn’t you take a vow to refrain from voluntary destruction of your body or some shit?”

One corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk as he pointed toward the dark, starry sky. “We got a arrangement.”

“Uh huh. And what about the Great Silence?” You probed further. 

“Th’fuck’s that?” 

To your bewilderment, he didn’t bat an eye at what you initially presumed was a slip of the tongue, however unlikely. You were stunned into silence, mouth agape while continuing to stare at the man with eyes like saucers. When you never found words, he simply shrugged a shoulder and looked back to the stars. 

“S’diff’rent in America.”

You snapped your jaw shut with an audible click of your teeth. Something was definitely off here. You didn’t know much about the man in front of you but he was no priest. He didn’t seem to care much about hiding that fact either. You could sense he was dangerous. Anyone who would need a disguise yet care so little to keep it had to be. Still, you didn’t feel threatened. 

“I see.” You whispered, continuing to study him. He was an attractive man. Older than you, certainly. Your wandering gaze made it to his hand hanging off the end of his knee when you were struck with an idea. One that could benefit him but would definitely benefit you. 

After all, it had been a long, long time. 

“How different?” You asked, scooting close enough that your shoulders were nearly touching. He glanced down at the decreased space between the two of you and then looked at you from under his lashes. 

“Diff’rent. Why?”

“It’s just… we haven’t had a priest here in so long and…” you shifted to angle your knees toward him, giving him your best doe eyes, “would you take my confession, Father Daryl?”

His back went straight, jaw ticking with how hard he was clenching his teeth. “Nah. Don’t think that’s—”

“Please, Father! I don’t know how long I’ve got left in this world. None of us do. I’m so scared that if I don’t confess, I’ll—” You buried your face in your hands, shoulders trembling as small broken sobs escaped from between your fingers. 

“Okay, alright. Just… stop all that.” He made a gesture toward, well, you in general just as you lowered your hands to your lap. 

Gotcha.

“Follow me. I’ll show you to the confessional.” You hopped down from the bench, adding a bit of extra sway to your hips the moment you heard his boots against the concrete behind you. “We really should wait until tomorrow for this, rules and all.” You whispered as you guided him into the chapel. “I’m sure the sisters would understand, though, given I haven’t been the most…devout during my stay.”

Daryl simply nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot under your gaze. “S’this the thing?” He motioned to the booth with a sweep of his hand, looking as if he might bolt at any given moment. 

“Mhm.” You nodded, opening the door for him to enter. The fact he didn’t yet realize he’d been busted was amusing, but you weren’t just out for a laugh. 

“Right.” He cleared his throat and stepped inside. With a sly grin, you followed right behind him and pulled the door closed with your back pressed against it. There was about enough room for him to turn and look at you with wide, blue eyes. “Pretty sure you’re s’posed to be on the other side.”

“Nah, I like this side.” You slipped off your jacket and pulled your shirt over your head, letting both fall to the small area by your feet. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” You purred as you pressed flush against him. Daryl held his hands out away from you as far as he could in the limited space. “What’s wrong, Father? Don’t you want me?”

“Ya know I ain’t no priest.”

“Mhm.” You ran your thumb over his bottom lip while your tongue traced your own. “If you don’t want me, I can go. Do you want me to go?” 

“No.”

“Then sit down and let me tell you my sins.” He allowed you to grip his shoulders and push him onto the small bench. With hardly enough room to bend, you had to do some maneuvering to toe off your boots and shimmy your jeans down your legs to lift your feet out of them, pulling the rosary Sister Catherine had given you from the pocket first. 

Daryl was watching you silently. When you twisted an arm behind yourself and unclasped your bra, his hands moved to his belt buckle. You didn’t wait and straddled his lap wearing nothing but your modest cotton panties. He was still working at his zipper when your clothed cunt brushed the top of his knuckles. 

“Damn, woman, ain’t even touched ya yet.” His trousers were open but his cock was still held captive in the confines of his underwear. 

“I’ve been a bad girl, Father.” You purred, rolling your hips against his groin as your mouth slanted over his. He responded with equal fervor, licking your bottom lip before tugging it with his teeth. You couldn’t have stopped the full body shiver if you tried. A gloved hand palmed your breast, his bare fingertips warm as they rolled and pinched your nipples. “I’ve lusted after a man. A dangerous man.”

With a smile against his mouth, you worked a hand between your bodies and into his pants, stroking him languidly while you draped the rosary over his head, twisting it to press tightly against his throat. Daryl growled, his hips bucking into your hand when you pulled him free. 

Large hands drifted over your ribs and down to your hips, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. “Off.” He demanded leaning forward to capture your lips as he pulled the garment down over your ass, holding you steady while you lifted one leg and then the other, letting them dangle from your ankle. 

You didn’t wait, found that you didn’t want to; sinking onto him with your jaw slack and eyes closed. The initial stretch burned, it had been so long since you’d taken a lover. Daryl filled you perfectly, your dripping cunt molding around his length. 

“Fuck.” He breathed, his head falling back against the wall. Apparently it had been a while for him as well. “You’re fuckin’ tight.”

You smirked and rolled your hips, gasping when his fingertips pressed into the skin there. “Such language, Father. So unbecoming.” A moan punched out of you when he thrust upwards, jarring you suddenly but hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. 

“Shuddup.” He snapped. His hands slid around to cup your ass, kneading and spreading you open, digging in his fingertips to manage a firm hold. With his help, you set a brutal pace, moans and whimpers echoing in the empty chapel. 

You twisted the rosary again, the beads digging into his throat. Using it as a leash, you pulled him to you, licking inside his mouth. “Fuck, you feel amazing.” You keened, enjoying the painful grip digging into your ass that only tightened with your words. 

Daryl growled, the sound strained against the pressure on his throat. His face was slightly red from exertion and lack of oxygen, but the twitch of his cock within you didn’t lie. He liked it. 

You felt the scorching heat begin pooling in your belly, the frantic way you were riding him quickly coaxing your orgasm to the surface. The twitch and slow pulse moving against your velvety walls gave away that he was soon to follow. His jaw was set, grunts and breathy whimpers spilling out of him each time your ass slapped his clothed thighs. 

Biting your lip, you stared into his lust blown eyes before placing your mouth directly in front of his. “For Thee have I kept the purity of my body, and to Thee have I entrusted my soul; wherefore, preserve Thou Thy lamb, O good Shepherd.” Making a choked noise against the rosary constricting even tighter, Daryl used his hold on your ass to lift you, pounding up into you from below. Your words were jarred and fragmented, breaths coming faster as you neared the precipice. “Do not permit…the beast which seeketh to devour me…to consume me, and…grant me to prevail over the evil desires of my flesh!” The last word broke off into a shout of his name. Seconds later, you felt him pulsing within you, warmth spreading and coating your walls while your pussy milked him dry. 

Panting, you released your grip on the rosary and fell against his shoulder, your body moving back and forth with each heaving breath he managed. “Amen.” He croaked. You chuckled but remained as you were for a moment, relishing the feel of him softening inside you. Letting him cum in you was probably one of the worst decisions you’d ever made but you had a track record of those a mile long. “Don’t think ya can say enough’a them hail Mary’s or whatever for what just happened.”

This time you gave a hearty laugh, sitting up on his lap while he slipped out of you. You kept him pinned where he sat but he didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he appeared to be quite content. Holding onto the silly scarf he wore, you leaned back to grab your jacket, smiling when his hands came up to ensure you didn’t fall. 

Plucking a cigarette from the coat pocket, you dropped it back to the floor and struck the lighter, inhaling as the paper lit up and burned down.  You even felt inclined to share, turning your hand to let him have a draw after every one of your own. 

“I hope you realize,” you paused to blow out the smoke, “that I’m coming with you when you leave.” His brow drew inward as he took the offered hit. 

“Ya don’t even know me or what we’re doing.”

You shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Sick of being cooped up here.” The man hummed, but didn’t exactly agree. “Look, you can let me go with you willingly, or I can sneak off and follow you afterward. Your pick.”

He stared for a moment, eyes narrowed behind the smoke that billowed from his mouth. “Don’t leave me much of a choice, does it?”

“Nope.” You grinned. “Besides, I may need to confess every once in a while.” 

[elliespuns]

When you're helping your grandfather get seated into his favorite recliner

[retrobr]

hello folks i'm about to make your lives worse

this line from some comic for some reason made me think about the possibility that charles (i'm talking about the one from the movies) most likely was never truly loved.

from what we can tell, his parents never really cared about him, and raven was probably the only person who loved him at least a little bit; but, you see, raven has had her own demons that she had to fight (such as problems with self-acceptance), and she couldn't constantly provide him with love and affection. thus, she wasn't always by his side.

regarding his potential lovers, i guess that they were mostly humans (if not all of them), and not all the humans were fond of mutants, especially of someone who could read their minds. they probably left charles when they found out about his peculiar mutation.

the only person who could've actually loved him was erik. but, as we are all aware, eventually he left charles too and took raven – the only one who cared about charles, i repeat – along with him. just consider this: maybe charles thought that erik might at last be the right person in his life, but it didn't happen.

but that's not all: imagine if after all that happened, raven, by some occasion, told erik that charles has never known what it's like to be loved by someone, and erik actually feels horrible about it because he left him behind and basically took raven away from him. 

erik, at least, received some love from his mother, and the potential love that he could've provided charles was never shown. erik abandoned him, just like everyone else did.

[regegade]

I'm officially banned from discussions on benny after this one

[soda-arcade]

committing very immoral acts involving trying to attach a soul to a crab (i am wanted by several planetary agencies)

ask @goldenpot8o for any lore questions :]

[cambion-companion]

Put me in horny jail for this but the idea that if you sleep with Haarlep, Raphael can feel everything...um yeah that's hot.

[blocksgobrrr]

posting for another fandom feels like cheating… i am CHEATING ON XISUMAVOID

[smilingformoney]

Three Secrets

Summary: Hans Gruber x reader | smut | You're a member of Hans Gruber's gang of thieves, and when you take the blame for another's betrayal, Hans grants your last request.

Or: you get fucked violently by Hans, and then you die.

I watched Die Hard, got horny, and this is the result.

Dedicated to @snowblossomreads, who so lovingly enables my thirst for this dead old man.

Warnings/content: smut, dubcon, gun kink, all your holes get penetrated (yes even that one)

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

“Who warned die Polizei?!” Hans roared as he returned to the safehouse, panting and out of breath, his tie askew. When there was no answer from his fellow thieves, he roared in anger and smashed his fists on the table, causing the carefully-stacked Marks to collapse into piles and scatter across the floor.

“I WANT A NAME!”

The thieves began staring at each other suspiciously, agitated by the news of a betrayal and - although they’d never admit it - frightened of Hans’ anger.

With a sudden BANG!, Hans shot down the man nearest him. Probably not the rat, and certainly a good thief - but Hans was angry, and he wanted to punish someone.

You stood up immediately.

“It was me,” you lied.

It wasn’t you, of course it wasn’t. You would never betray your friends. But you also couldn’t sit there and watch Hans take his anger out on them.

The barrel of the gun met the underside of your chin, and you closed your eyes as you steeled yourself for the shot…

But it didn’t come. You dared to open your eyes, and you were met with Hans’ fiery gaze, his face dripping with sweat, a nasty snarl on his face.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t pull the trigger, Schlampe,” he growled.

You knew of a thousand reasons. You weren’t the rat; you were an asset to the team; you liked being alive. But Hans cared about none of those - all he wanted was to sate his anger.

“Do I get a last request?”

Hans’ eyes narrowed, then he chuckled darkly. “Perhaps,” he replied. “What is it?”

“Schlampe, you called me. I am no slut, Hans. No man here has touched me. No man has ever touched me.”

Hans laughed and turned to his men. “Do you hear that, boys? Die Schlampe wants to be fucked before she dies!”

The men laughed, far too many of them looking at you with hunger.

“I don’t want them!” you insisted as you stepped closer to Hans, the barrel of his gun digging deeper into your flesh. “I don’t even want to be fucked. What I want… is to suck your cock.”

As soon as the words left your lips, the men gathered went feral, cheering and whooping, shouting out words of encouragement to Hans. He, meanwhile, seemed merely amused.

After a pause, he grabbed you by the shoulder, spun you around, and marched you out of the room, gun pressed firmly against the small of your back. Wordlessly, he guided you through the house, leaving behind the wooting animals that called themselves men, and once he reached his bedroom, he pushed you inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

“Turn around slowly,” he said in a low, menacing voice, one that struck fear in most, but for you it only sent a rush of arousal through your body.

When finally you could see him again, Hans’ eyes were alight with danger, desire and anger. So long as that gun was trained on you, you knew any moment could be your last, even if your mouth was full of his cock - and, shit, you hoped it would be soon.

“So the little virgin wants to suck my cock, does she?”

He gestured at her body with his gun.

“Take those off. I don’t want any hidden tricks.”

Sure. That was why he wanted you to strip.

You pulled your t-shirt over your head, and Hans licked his lips when his gaze landed on your chest. Next you slipped off your shoes, then the rest of your clothing, leaving you in nothing but your bra and knickers.

Hans raised his eyebrows. “Did I tell you to stop?”

You had hoped to at least keep some of your dignity before your last meal, but this was Hans Gruber you were dealing with. He never did anything in halves.

You reached behind your back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall from your shoulders, then hooked your thumbs under your waistband to push your knickers to the floor.

And that was how you found yourself stark naked in Hans Gruber’s room, staring down the barrel of his gun, not daring to break eye contact with him, no matter how desperate you were to see if he was aroused.

“Show me your technique first, Schlampe. Open.”

You obeyed, and panic shot through your heart when the barrel of his gun - safety most definitely off - slid past your lips and threatened to choke you as it passed over your tongue and settled at the back of your mouth.

“Well?” Hans prompted. “I’m waiting.”

Of course he had a fucking gun kink.

You tried to ignore the metallic taste as you began to move your head back and forth, ever so slightly, trying not to get too close to the trigger. What a way to die this would be.

“Will you suck my cock with this little passion, Y/N? It is your last request, after all. You’re supposed to enjoy it.”

Bastard. Sadist. Psychopath.

You hadn’t been lying; you really hadn’t been with a man before. How were you supposed to show him your cocksucking technique on a gun when you had never even practised on the real thing?

You closed your eyes, hoping it would help you to pretend the barrel was a dick. You tightened your lips around it, telling yourself it was the most delicious thing you’d ever tasted, that it tasted like flesh and sweat, not metal and gunpowder…

You could hear Hans breathing heavily, alongside the sound of a belt unbuckling. You chanced a glimpse, and when you saw his other hand sliding under his waistband, you let you an involuntary moan.

He grinned, looking like a devil as he palmed himself under his boxers, finger far too close to the trigger of the loaded gun you were currently allowing him to fuck your mouth with. Because he was, he had taken over the movement, and while one hand rubbed up against his cock, the other pulled the gun from your mouth, only to send it back in violently, and you grunted with pain as the metal tip collided with the roof of your mouth.

“I could pull the trigger at any moment,” Hans said, speaking aloud the very fear that sat at the forefront of your mind. “You would die sucking my gun, wishing it was my cock, dead before you knew what was happening. How does that sound, Schlampe?”

Fuck. He was asking you a question, and still he was thrusting his gun into your mouth; you were sure he would leave a bruise.

Not that a bruised mouth would matter soon, once you were dead.

Hans suddenly pulled the gun from your mouth, switched on the safety and returned it to the holster on his hip. You gasped for air, glad to be free of the metallic taste and the imminent threat of your head exploding.

He placed his hand on your head and pushed down, forcing you to your knees as he pulled his cock from the confines of his boxers, and you couldn’t help but stare.

You always knew Hans had big dick energy. Now you knew he had the size to match.

“I will show you mercy,” he decided. “You’ll get my cock… and maybe I’ll blow your brains out with my cock down your throat.” He held his erect cock to your lips, and instinctively they parted to allow him in.

Fuck, he was big. Too big; you thought the gun might have been more comfortable. It may have been cold and metallic, and ready to blow your brains out at any moment, but at least you could breathe. As Hans pushed further past your lips and over your tongue, you felt the muscles in your jaw protesting as you stretched them out as far as they could go.

His tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged. If Hans noticed, he didn’t care. Tears began to fill your eyes, and through your watery vision you could see that he was hardly even halfway in.

Hans grabbed either side of your head with his hands and tilted your head upwards, forcing you to look at him.

“So full, and I’m hardly even in,” he growled. “Now, are you going to just stare at me, Schlampe, or are you going to suck. my. fucking. cock?”

You decided to go with the latter.

You tried to pull your head back slightly, but Hans’ large, strong hand on the back of your head kept you in place.

What were you supposed to do? He wanted you to suck, but he clearly didn’t want you to move back. That only left forward, but you rather enjoyed breathing.

Ah, but you had another option - your tongue. At the moment, it was flattened uselessly under his cock, but perhaps you could - yes! You managed to loosen it slightly, just enough to allow it to slide along his shaft. You hadn’t realised before how veiny cocks were, but you certainly knew now as you traced a line along one that ran from the head, down the underside, and past your lips. Curious, you raised a hand to the rest of him and gently ran your thumb from your lip, tracing the vein all the way to the base, where it was lost in amongst his pubic hair, which was surprisingly coarse, much coarser than your own.

Somewhere above you, Hans hummed with satisfaction, and you hoped you were doing well. If you weren’t, you supposed you would know by the prod of a gun in your temple.

You stuck your tongue out as far as you could past your lips, then retracted it. You followed the movements of your own tongue with your lips, and you were relieved when Hans allowed you to do so, his hand on your head loosening its grip slightly as he allowed you to pull back until you felt his lip threatening to pass your lips. You were just about to go back in when Hans decided to take control of the situation - as if he weren’t in control already - and, twisting your hair in his hand tightly, he tugged your head back towards him. The movement was so sudden, so violent, that your gag reflex had no time to kick in, and this time you found your nose buried in his hairs, his thick cock gliding down your lubricated throat.

Before you had chance to adjust to your new position, Hans began to violently fuck your mouth - or, more accurately, he fucked himself with your mouth, as his hips were perfectly still, whilst his fist in your hair tossed your head back and forth, leaving you in a whirlwind of pain as he tugged on your scalp, choked you with his cock, and stretched your jaw beyond what you’d ever expected possible.

Your eyes flicked up, and through your streaming tears you could see him, staring down at you with a hungry snarl. Sweat began to drip down from your temple – whether from exhaustion or fear, you were unsure. You were terrified, you were in agony, you were suffocating… and you were undeniably turned on.

“Mhm… a perfect mouth for fucking,” Hans growled as he wiped a tear from your cheek before bringing it to his mouth and sucking it off his thumb as if it was the nectar of the gods. “Such a shame to waste it.”

Naively, a hope rose in your heart - perhaps, if you were good enough for him, he would spare your life after all, punish you by making you into his personal cockslave. It wasn’t exactly the life you craved, but it was life.

Suddenly, your lungs filled with air as you instinctively inhaled deeply, your body reacting before your mind had even the chance to process what had happened - his sudden withdrawal from your mouth, leaving you a simpering, drooling, gasping mess.

His hand still in your hair, Hans tugged you to your feet. You winced in pain, although you were glad to be breathing freely again.

Your heels had hardly touched the carpeted floor, however, when Hans threw you violently back. The pain in your scalp was replaced by pain in your calves as they collided with the bedframe just moments before your back hit the mattress, and you let out an oof as the air was forced from your lungs.

You gasped desperately, and once you were finally in a state to look up, you saw that Hans had removed his jacket and tie, and was in the process of removing his shoes. Even in his carnal state, he took the time to neatly fold his clothes. This gave you the chance to recover, however briefly, and you adjusted yourself on the bed, finding a more comfortable position with your head against the pillows.

You’d seen Hans’ body before - just last summer, a particularly lucrative job had allowed the gang enough funds to holiday in the south of France, and it was there, seeing Hans in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, that you had developed an attraction to the man.

You had even seen his arse once, after a drinking game dare from Karl resulted in Hans mooning ein Polizist from a moving car.

And, of course, you had seen his cock just now. But you’d never before seen him completely naked – until now.

He crawled over you like a panther on a hunt, and you fully expected him to continue until his throbbing cock slid into your mouth so that he could fuck your head into the pillow.

Instead, he stopped as his hungry grin reached level with your own lips, and he ran his tongue along them testingly. You parted your lips obligingly, and he chuckled.

“Two years you’ve been with us now, Y/N,” he mused. “Two years that perfectly fuckable mouth has been in front of me and I did nothing. It’s only now, after you seal your fate, that your true talents are revealed. Pity.”

You were tempted to offer your mouth to him, to offer him every hole to be taken whenever he liked, so long as he kept you alive. But that would be begging, and Hans abhorred beggars. No, he had to come to the idea himself.

“How many other secrets are you keeping from me, Schlampe?” Hans growled. He shifted his weight back slightly and for the first time you realised he held his tie in his hand. He grabbed your wrists, crossed them over one another above your head, and used the tie to secure them to the headboard. Once satisfied with the tight knot, he began to run his hands down your body, starting from your face and down your neck towards your chest, as if challenging himself to touch every inch of your flesh before it turned cold.

He took your nipples between his fingers and twisted them harshly, eliciting a loud yelp from your throat.

“I asked you a question,” Hans said plainly. “How many secrets do you still keep?”

Was he seriously interrogating you right now? Was that what this whole thing was, just a way to torture information from you?

Information you didn’t have, because you weren’t the rat.

You had to draw his attention away, to remind him what a waste your death would be.

“Two,” you gasped as an idea struck your brain. “I have two more secrets.”

“Only two?”

You nodded, trying to suppress a whine as his fingers squeezed on your nipples again.

He surveyed you for a long moment, his amber eyes staring into yours, as if hoping he might find some hidden information in there.

“It would be a shame if your secrets died with you,” he growled. He sat up fully now, and his cock came back into view, still erect, throbbing and glistening in the light with a mixture of precum and your spit.

He let out a sigh of relief as he stroked himself, his eyes never leaving your squirming form beneath him. With his spare hand, he pushed open your legs, tugging on your hips to bring them close to him. You took the hint and wrapped your legs around his waist, presenting your soaking wet cunt to him.

“Will you tell me your secrets before you die, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you replied immediately, understanding his meaning.

“Good. I would hate to take the from you by force.”

You felt his cockhead pushing against your lower lips, then past them, then – it slipped inside, aided by your gushing juices.

Hans gave you no time to adjust. If he remembered you were a virgin, he didn’t care as he sheathed himself inside you, cock crawling up your tight walls, forcing them to stretch open for him.

You bit down on your bottom lip hard, trying to ignore the pain as he finally bottomed out. He barely gave your walls a chance to adjust to his size when he withdrew again, only to thrust forward again. He was nothing short of stabbing you with his cock, venting his anger at your apparent betrayal.

His thrusts picked up pace, and soon enough the pain had subsided, leaving only the pleasure.

And oh, what pleasure. Was this what you had been missing out on for so long? You had never dared make a move on Hans, never dared risk his anger if your proposal angered him. You wished you had made a move, that you had spent the better part of the last two years getting railed.

What a wish to make on your deathbed.

If you weren’t already busy moaning with pleasure, you might have laughed.

This was your deathbed, quite literally – and you were getting fucked into it like there was no tomorrow, because for you, there wasn’t.

Hans not only had a massive cock, but he had incredible stamina too. He pulled out, and you weren’t ashamed of the whine that left your throat when he did so, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. His cock was throbbing, almost twitching, and leaking so much precum it seemed as if he might cum just from a change in the wind.

He wouldn’t, though. Of course not. He was Hans Gruber, and he came only when he chose.

He made no clever pun about secrets now. He just took your hips in his large hands and turned you over, ignoring your grunt of pain as your wrists rubbed against your bonds.

He also ignored the veritable scream of pain you let out when he stretched open your arsecheeks and pushed inside your final hole, the last secret you hadn’t known you were keeping from him.

You sobbed into the pillow. You couldn’t help it. Although painful at first, his cock felt good in your cunt, the stretch painful but pleasurable too. This, however, was nothing but pain.

Any hopes you might have had of your own orgasm were now dashed. You felt nothing but pain as Hans stabbed into you again and again, and over your own sobs you heard him, growling and muttering something to himself under his breath.

“Dumme verdammte Schlampe,” you heard. “I’ll teach you - oh, I will fucking show you - you don’t - keep - secrets - from - me!”

He stilled suddenly, hilted deep inside your arse, and Hans let out nothing short of a roar.

Your head was dizzy, the world spinning, and you continued sobbing into the pillow as Hans finally withdrew. You couldn’t move, you just lay there on your front, covered in sweat, tears, and - although you couldn’t see to be sure - blood and cum leaking from both your holes. Even so, you missed Hans’ warmth when he moved away from the bed.

After a minute, water began to run from the bathroom. Five more minutes, and the water stopped. Some movement and shuffling of fabric. Still, you didn’t move, too stiff with pain.

You certainly didn’t move when you heard the cocking of a gun, and you felt the barrel pushing against the base of your skull.

“Any more secrets?”

Your hopes were dashed. He wasn’t going to spare you after all. No, he had just fucked you raw, and now he wanted what he had always wanted - the truth. To him, you were a rat, not to be trusted and certainly not to be spared.

The truth, you knew, would get you nowhere.

So you lied.

“Nein,” you mumbled, face still smushed against the pillow. You daren’t move.

Somewhere above you, Hans sighed.

“A shame,” he muttered.

It really was a shame. Those were nice bedsheets, ruined now with her blood…

…and her brains.

[fifteenloove]

I hope I won't have to see a certain Brazilian player anywhere near Jannik's draw in Rome ...

Have Faith, His Excellence is cooking.

[meimeiherokitten]

Yeah, ok. I did it. I wrote a crossover fic. I'm going to hell.

Anyone else want Roy Kent and Izzy Hands in bed together?

Yeah, it's niche. And entirely self-indulgent. And silly. But I needed to feel better after this week, ok? And my two favorite characters humping is therapy, k?

[weirdw33b]

I did something so silly

I got bored, and silly me decided to put the plot into an AI generator and tagged comedy

Here's a screenshot on what I got

Idk, I know I really shouldn't be using AI, but I got too bored I'm afraid

Once again, I'm so sorry

[steampunkskull]

Mary Magdalene: the tomb is open!

Mother Mary: Where is Jesus' body?!

Peter: *looks sheepish*

Thomas: Well...in our defense he told us it was bread.

[sleetkissed]

But what about poro version???

How could I forget about Poro!Esteri ?