#conversation tag: kyle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tojisun · 2 months ago

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simon riley x john price x f!reader prev

tags: d/s (dom john, switch simon, sub reader); smut; binding and gag; hinted daddy kink; objectification kink; authority kink (& issues)

The yawning used to escape him, trickling into streams unchecked. That is then; it is an estuary now. It is something delicate. Vulnerable. Simon wonders when did his desires become visible and rippling. When did they form tendrils swimming past the noose he’s got on them?

Terrifying. Simon's desires are terrifying. He cannot map the exact moment that they began, just that they did, and now he finds himself crumbling at the slightest look. At the barest of touch.

Simon wants his captain.

He dreams of John. He dreams of how he will take the older man with hot lips and scalding prayers. He dreams of a pleasure so great, it leaves his captain shaking. Stuttering with quiet tears and swollen lips tugged up in a satisfied grin.

“C’mere, boy,” his captain—this version of him that plagues Simon’s dreams—says, all soft and sweet and coy in that way that will leave Simon’s throat aching like it is clogged with caramel and taffy, and he falls to his captain with a whimper.

He strips his cock with his rough hands when he wakes up, teeth biting into the flesh of his lips to muffle his moans. He thinks of the slope of his captain’s neck, the bend of it when he drops his head when he is exhausted. He thinks of his captain’s beard, how it felt on his skin in the burst of moments when the older man would turn to brush close to Simon in whispered conversations. He thinks of the soot on his captain’s boots; he thinks how he will not care—he will lick it clean if John asks.

Cum sprays in his hands, shooting across his stomach to land on his chest. Simon groans, his eyes shut close as he savours the moment. He waits for the shame to lick past the desire, for clarity to wash away the hunger, but his need grows.

It settles.

Ah, Simon thinks, peeling his eyes open. That’s how it’d be.

There is something different in Johnny’s gait, and Simon stalks close like an apex predator stalking the wounded prey. He expected shame or even denial from his friend, but what he sees instead blinds him with envy.

Johnny’s been claimed; he’s been moulded into Kyle and his darling girl’s doll. In a moment of weakness, he unleashes his jealousy and bares his teeth to the mutt.

When his captain finds him, he takes one look at Simon and laughs. It is loud and booming, the kind that rumples the corners of his chest, and he is struck; frozen in time like he is young once more, wilting under his—

Under his father’s gaze.

“Ye’ jealous boy,” John says, his grin too sharp to be a friendly tease, then he leaves.

Simon watches him go with his lips pursed.

Something changes within his captain, after that. He is always stalking close, always a breath away. His eyes are sharp and knowing, heavy as they trace over Simon’s body. For his part, Simon doesn’t try to shake him off, rather, he basks in the attention.

It is not warm or fluffy. It is burning, almost accusing, but Simon takes what he can get and this is his for however long his captain wants him.

It is Kyle, greedy man that he is, who breaks the facade.

“He’s testin’ you, LT,” the younger man says, bringing the flickering fire of his lighter to Simon’s stick. Simon doesn’t reply but he turns, head jutted to hear Kyle better. He meets Simon’s eyes head-on.

“He’s got a bird,” Kyle begins, the admission coming out so smoothly from him like it is some sort of retribution. Simon supposes it is—he did taunt his puppy, after all. “Cap’n’s about to leave ‘er for a mission, an’ I think that he wants to leave ‘er to you.”

Smoke leaves Simon’s lips in stuttered wisps. Kyle shoots him a crinkled smile. “He’s not doin’ that—” the weighted attention, the obsessive hovering, “f’r you, sir.”

Simon doesn’t give him a reply. He knows that it is nothing but an attempt at hiding.

When Kyle leaves, Simon begins his hunt.

Names, relationships, places last visited—Simon finds them with ease, bypassing encrypted and locked accounts as he sinks his teeth further into the tender acres of his captain’s secret. A bird, one that Kyle knows of before Simon could.

He doesn’t know what to name the taste lingering in the back of his tongue but it makes him angrier. Greedier.

He realizes he’s found her when he sees you.

And, oh. The ease, the way each code that he tried had worked—his captain wanted him to find you. Shivers rack his body, making him twitch and his mind grows heady because he takes this for what it is.

A reward.

Or, better yet, his invitation.

John introduces the two of you, waxing poetry about Simon, promising you that he will be kind. That he will be here to protect you. And you laugh through it all, bright and bubbly, thanking your boyfriend’s colleague for volunteering to help. Neither John nor Simon corrected your assumptions.

Boyfriend.

It is such a juvenile term but John had looked so proud, his chest puffing up and his lips wobbling as you bulldozed through your words, fluttering about how you didn’t need protection, bee-tee-dubs. Simon watches as John pulls you into his arms, whispering in such a soft voice that Simon feels—

Stilted.

This isn’t the John that he knew.

This isn’t the John that he wanted.

The jealousy that threatened to burst in his veins petered into a soft ripple, calming down at the sight before him. Because you can have this John, the one that is too soft and too gentle and too human, but Simon has the one he wants.

The one hardened by the war; the one who smells of cigars and soot and ozone; the one who barks out orders; the one whose gaze is hard, sharp, edged like every narrowed gaze is a slashing. Simon has the John that matters.

Simon wilts into himself then, distancing himself from the two of you. The domesticity, the cozy flat, the lined books and art-nouveau-style mirrors and bookshelves—yes, you can have this. Simon isn’t envious of this.

Before he leaves, John turns to Simon, his warm hand cupping Simon’s jaw. Warm eyes stare at him. “Well, then. Take care of y’rself too, ‘kay?”

He asks like he did not just strip the layers of reassurances that Simon cloaked himself in, leaving him bare and vulnerable before John’s callused touch. He is too startled to reply, and John finally makes himself scarce, leaving two yearning souls waiting for his return.

Simon didn’t intend to overstep beyond the morning check-ins and the nightly tuck-ins, but routine takes root and he finds himself unwinding in the little corner of your flat.

It isn’t too difficult—you are a warm host. You know not to ask much or to speak too loud, and Simon wonders how much of this is learned behaviour. Is this John in your form; is it his captain teaching you how to live with someone so torn and so broken that Simon is seeing so much of it in the way you look at him, the way you talk to him?

But it’s too much. Like muscle memory or something natural like breathing. It is like a reflex; your kindness just is. It gives him comfort, how your sweetness is innate.

It’s two in the morning when he understands why his captain keeps you.

He hears it by accident; murmured conversations slip through the crack of your door. Simon was just about to close it when John’s voice pierced through the static.

“Simon treatin’ you well, baby?”

A moan drips from your side, and Simon startles at the following squelch.

“He—hnn—he is, daddy,” you pant out, sniffling. The bed creaks, the sheets rustling. “I want the two o’you.”

“Shh,” John consoles, all faux worry. “Soon, baby. Be good f’r him, okay?”

Simon doesn’t bother hearing whatever you said next, choosing instead to march back in his room. He drops to the mattress, head falling to his hands. He breathes in, trying to will off the fever, but John’s voice rings in his head, then your quiet mewls, and Simon knows that it is futile now.

Hunger thrums, it builds.

His cock is in his hands in the next breath.

Simon looks into your eyes, trying to see how you could have hidden your desire for him; trying to map out how you managed to lock it up so that he wouldn’t notice. But your furrowed gaze and your confused smile shows him something that is fascinating—you are a fraud.

You’re not sweet. Well, you are, but not in that wide-eyed way that you and John showed Simon the first day thathe introduced you to him; not in that curling innocence that you shrouded yourself in. You are not John’s shielded bird nor his pampered dove.

No.

You have been playing John’s game; your cards are just as hidden, if not sharpened, and your dice are edged. You were cheating, creating all this miasma to reel Simon in. The river to his estuary.

Cunning girl.

“Si?”

But Kyle already sent him a curt message: Captain’s back. And Simon knows enough of the game to play it.

“C’mere,” he grunts and pulls you close. Your squeak is devoured by his lips, and something hums in his chest like he’s finally at the precipice of being full.

That is how John finds the two of you—you, bound and gagged and spread open in Simon’s room; your cunt is all bruised and leaking and stuffed with a toy; and Simon, smoking close to the window, his ass perched on the windowsill, watching. Waiting.

John laughs and it is so mean. The howling in Simon’s head screeches to a halt because finally. Finally, he has his captain back.

“Oh, sweet girl,” John croons as he steps close to you. Your teary eyes gaze up at him, begging, but Simon watches as all that John does is trace his knuckles along your splotchy cheek. “Y’haven’t been good, have y’?”

Your reply is nothing but a muffled complaint. John clicks his tongue. Simon straightens up, back going taut, his cock hardening in his briefs.

“Stop complaining,” John tuts, flicking at your nipples, making you howl. Gone is his softness, replaced, instead, with someone overpowering.

Oh. Simon thinks that he is falling in love again.

John makes Simon fuck you, and it is all parts delicious, and good, and painful.

Simon’s not allowed to cum—not in you, not on your thighs, or even in his own hands. John forbids it. And Simon knows better than to fool his captain; not only is he stalking close, with a lit cigar propped in his lips and his wandering hands pawing at your heaving chest or cupping Simon’s jaw, but he dictates everything.

He tells Simon when to pull out, gruff voice barking out orders once again, before reaching over to clamp his hand shut around the length of Simon’s cock like his captain cannot trust him to not cum. Simon feels the stirrings in his gut, pushing and cornering him, and he feels small when his captain uses him this way.

John’s thumb brushes over his slit and he hisses in his oversensitivity, making his hips twitch. John clamps his hand tighter in warning, a warning growl ripping from his captain’s chest, and Simon stutters out his sorry’s. He doesn’t mean a single one; he doesn’t even want John to loosen his hold because Simon loves it like this. Painful. Humiliating. Him, being reduced to a twitching mess.

“Look at him, baby,” John murmurs, his voice lilting to a spark of softness, the first of the night. Simon’s eyes fall on you at his captain’s words, and his chest seizes at the teary mess that you make.

You have been beautiful in your measured sweetness, but like this, sobbing and begging and at their—because John still allows Simon to ruin you—mercy, Simon knows that you have never looked more beautiful. Is this why John is addicted?

John’s other hand pushes your hair away from your sweaty face. “Isn’t he pretty?”

All you can do is gurgle something behind the gag in your mouth. You’re not even looking at Simon, drawn to the only person in the room who’s still in his clothes, another layer of John’s total control. You are studying John, arching towards his caresses like it didn’t matter how Simon truly looked, you were just giving out a reply for John’s pleasure.

Simon gets it, he does, because you are just like him, after all.

He finally cums in John’s hands. He cums to the scene you make, rutting your pussy so desperately on his captain’s face, smothering him with your slick and your folds. John takes it like a fucking champ, his tongue working overtime before sucking at your slit like he will die of thirst if he doesn’t swallow your juices.

It’s so debauched that all John had to do was pump his hands on Simon’s cock twice before he’s spraying his spunk all over his captain.

He’ll burn this image in his mind. Fuck. Where’s his phone when he needs it?

“Good?” John asks, gliding his fingertips along the expanse of Simon’s arm.

Simon grunts, trying his best to stay quiet with you sleeping between them. John huffs a pleased laugh and ducks down to press his lips on the top of your head.

You grumble, twisting, before cuddling up to Simon.

“She’s clingy,” he grumbles like he isn’t pulling you closer to him too.

John fondly rolls his eyes at him before turning to shut the lamp off.

J Mactavish: hypocrite

note: god this didn’t come out the way i wanted but if you stuck until the end, thank you so so much <33

#suns #simon ghost riley x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #captain john price x reader #priceghost #priceghost x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #john price #WELP HERE IT IS

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shotmrmiller · 1 year ago

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simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

#it's cute but it's not #sorry! he's crazy!#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you

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dallasevans-gardner · 9 months ago

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Hello. What are some "dos and don'ts" for you sexually?

Hello there, this is always a fun type of question to answer.

I'll start with don'ts since there's definitely less: Anything related to scat and vomit is an instant no from me. I'm also not all that into pet play or age play either. Permanent markings are a no for anyone other than my Dominant but even then it's a bit of a grey area and we'd have to seriously discuss it before I'd willingly agree to it.

As for the do's those vary depending on the moment: I'd say some of my favorites would include hair pulling and ironically enough just playing with my hair would most likely make me melt for you, I'm also into spanking, scratching, biting and temporary marking. Which is just to name a few because there's quite a bit that I do enjoy.

#conversation tag: all #conversation tag: kyle #kyle

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nsharks · 5 months ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-eight —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

France feels just as haunted by ghosts, the kind that cling to silence.

The next morning, you follow the road south near the Belgium border under a punishing sun and suffocating humidity. Sweat pools under your clothes as you leave the coastline behind, passing overgrown rose bushes and grand estates crumbling to rotted beams. Without the raft or truck, supplies rest on everyone's backs, lighter now with all the food you’ve already gone through—a stark reminder that you’ll need more soon.

You were the last to wake, stirred from a deep sleep by the sounds of bags being packed. It shouldn’t be surprising—you’d slept well after two orgasms. It’s a miracle the night’s events didn’t spill into your dreams, but now, in the daylight, keeping them at bay is harder. Thankfully, Kyle and the two kids create a buffer as you all follow Price’s lead. Their presence helps keep your eyes from drifting to him. You force your gaze on the passing signs, making a mental game out of trying to pick up on some French. It's distracting enough. So far you've gathered that sortie means exit and allez means something like go.

The first break comes when your shoulders burn from the weight of the backpack, the straps biting into your skin. You slip it off with a groan, sinking to the ground, and nurse the canteen of water. Just enough to wet your throat and keep the dizziness at bay—rationing is a habit.

Price's plan echoes in your head: Méteren by nightfall. That’s ten hours of walking, minimum. Your toes throb at the thought, each step promising fresh blisters, but you force yourself to focus. The faster you reach Switzerland, the safer you’ll all be. If the place they heard of is actually waiting there.

"Hey. Do you want this?"

Blue lowers beside you, offering a near-empty jar of peanut butter she was snacking on.

"Not much left but it's really good," she shrugs.

"I'll finish it off, thanks."

The salty taste is not exactly refreshing, but you choke it down anyway, the boost of protein more of a necessity than a pleasure. Blue pulls at the grass beside you, her gaze drifting to Ari, who’s sharing food with Kyle. You try not to look, but your eyes flick to Ghost anyway.

The mask is still on, as always. Why is he obsessed with it, even after you just saw him naked? Despite its presence, you can still see the furrow between his brows as he pores over the map with Price. Sweat rings the collar of his black tee, and his biceps flex as he gestures down the road. You’re definitely checking him out when he catches your eye mid-conversation, adjusting his mask, and without missing a beat, you turn your attention back to Blue.

She is staring at you, her brow furrowed.

You instinctively touch your neck, your thoughts racing to the bruise hidden beneath your hair.

“Do you think he likes him?” she asks abruptly.

You blink. “What?”

“Ghost,” she whispers, leaning closer. “Do you think he likes Ari?”

Relief floods you. “Oh. I mean, sure. He's a good kid.”

“He’s not a kid,” she corrects with a huff. “He’s thirteen.”

“That’s still a kid, Blue.”

She rolls her eyes but hesitates before adding quietly, “He kissed me.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “What?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down. And don’t tell Ghost.” She pinches your arm, her cheeks reddening.

“I won’t,” you assure her. “But… when? How?”

“The other night, when we kept watch. Just on my cheek, but still.” She pulls her knees to her chest. “He's cute. I think I like him, but… what if he doesn’t actually like me? What if he just sees me as a kid?”

Her uncertainty tugs at something deep in you. “Have you talked to him about it?”

She shakes her head, looking horrified. “No way. What if he doesn't feel the same? It could get weird.”

“Then kill him,” you deadpan. At her glare, your lips twitch. “Fine, I’ll kill him.”

She snorts despite herself. “Be serious.”

“Okay, how about this—just ask him, ‘Why did you kiss my cheek?’ Keep it simple.”

Blue considers this, her expression softening. “I could do that. But it has to be when Ghost isn’t around. Which is almost never.”

You're telling me. You pick at your nails, avoiding her trusting gaze as your chest tightens.

The sound of Price's boots back on the gravel ends the break.

Even after the brief rest, your limbs drag with exhaustion for the next few hours, but the extra calories push you forward. You make it to Méteren before nightfall. As the guys pitch tents, you rip off your socks to survey the damage. Open blisters stare back at you. With only so much gauze in your kit, you've been hesitant, but you cut a conservative strand and wrap up your heels.

Behind a bush, you change from your sweaty clothes and hope there is freshwater somewhere to wash them in the morning. You dab a rag with a bit of water from the canteen and scrub the biggest offenders; armpits, between your legs, the back of your neck. Changing into a clean shirt, the sound of them unpacking the sleeping bags beckons your heavy shoulders and sore legs. You head back to the tents, ready for sleep, when you overhear Ghost volunteer for first watch.

"Twix will help me."

You hope the surprise isn't visible on your face as you nearly drop your backpack, swinging your gaze at him.

"I will?"

"It's been a few days since you've taken watch."

Your lips roll together then flatten, shoving down the blush that crawls your neck at the thought of being alone with him. Kyle looks like he is ready to take your place, but you nod in resignation, clear your throat, and finish tugging on the zipper over your clothes. "Yeah, of course. I'll help."

The others disappear into the tents, and you turn to sit on a fallen log, bow in hand. But before you can settle, you feel his presence—a shift in the air just behind you, then the solid pressure of his hand curling around your forearm. Without a word, he guides you forward, pulling you with an ease that leaves no room for hesitation. Your body moves instinctively as he leads you out of earshot of the tents, behind an abandoned car. It is now you realize he's changed into a black hoodie and shedded the tactical vest. He leans his rifle against the side of the car and looks down at you, saying nothing for a few seconds.

"Did you take away my chance to sleep and pull me over here just to stare at me?" you whisper, arms crossing against the gentle breeze that has cooled with the fallen sun.

He exhales through his nose before responding. "About yesterday."

You blink at him, hoping you don't fail at hiding how even the mere mention sets your nerves alight. "What about it?"

The way his eyes move slowly over your face suggests he is searching for the words. Finally, he says flatly, "It was just fucking. A distraction."

"A distraction," you repeat slowly under your breath. The bluntness hits you harder than expected. You bite the corner of your cheek, a bit too hard, and you narrow your eyes. "You really think I don't already know that?"

His broad shoulders roll back in a shrug and his tone shifts far too casual for your liking. "I just didn't want you getting the wrong idea."

The wrong idea. You rip your gaze away, scraping your fingertips into your arm, before looking back at him with a forced shrug of your own. "I can handle fucking, Simon. Like I said, I'm a big girl."

There is an audible inhale, then a low chuckle rumbles in his throat as he leans in, his darkened eyes locking onto yours. He cages you in with his arms, the familiar heat radiating from his touch and already making your brain fuzzy. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you onto your toes as he tears off the mask and lays it on the hood of the car. The glimpse of his strong jaw and the flick of his tongue wetting his lips sends a shiver through you despite the lingering irritation at his words.

"Yes. You are," he murmurs, his voice rough and low, before capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that feels like the deep, soothing release of sinking into warm water after aching for relief.

You could kiss him for hours, you quickly realize, pleasantly fascinated by how hot and demanding his tongue feels against your mouth. He tastes like how he smells. Pine and salt. You submit to the pace of his lips, every graze of his teeth making your heart thicken. You move your hands through his hair, scratching his scalp, pulling him closer.

"There's something I need," he mumbles, voice etched with a tremble of impatience, and his fingers clench your shirt. With his other hand, he blindly reaches for the car door and forces the rusted thing open with a few tugs.

"What do you need?" you breathe out, secretly thrilled that he wants you, again, even when it's been only twenty-four hours since he last had you. The mutual desire erodes the fatigue in your limbs and awakens your arousal.

Without an answer, he spins your bodies, easing into the passenger seat, then pulls you in with him, closing the door with a soft click. The position is awkward at best—your head bumps into the roof, one knee wedged painfully into the center console from the lack of space. The car smells like stale leather and dust, but thankfully not like rot. It's far from enticing, but none of that matters when he forces the seat to recline, creating just enough room for you to lay on top of him.

You can feel him, hot and straining within his jeans, as you kiss him again and begin to move your hips instinctively. It is a thrilling notion, that you have made him hard so quickly, and you wonder if he ever touched himself like you did, stroking his cock with a callused hand that he imagined as you. The image of it, in combination with the friction on your pussy, has you greedily reaching to undo his belt buckle.

He breaks from your lips with a grunt and grabs your wrist. "Not that."

Huh?

You don't have the chance to question him before the notch in his throat bobs, and he begins unzipping your jeans, instead. "My face. Sit on it."

The blush on your cheeks is hidden in the car's small, dark space. His half-lidded gaze lifts to yours, and you nod absently before helping him push your pants and underwear to your ankles, shifting awkwardly to discard them to the floor. His hand immediately moves between your bodies, his fingers brushing against your wetness with a sharp inhale. It should make you embarrassed, but it doesn’t—not with the way he watches you, his other hand peeling off your shirt, the whites of his eyes flashing over your naked body with such unabashed hunger that you realize it must’ve been simmering in him for as long as it has in you.

Again, you're the only one undressed. His hands knead the plush of your ass, the massage to your sore glutes drawing a moan from you. He pushes you up his chest and you move your knees, until his face is level with your cunt, nose caressing your throbbing clit. You have to grip the headrest of the backseat to keep yourself steady, neck craned. His palms cup the backs of your thighs, keeping them apart.

He's already put his mouth on you, but for some reason, this time feels more vulnerable. You become unconsciously alert of the fact you are not the girl you used to be, the one who shaved every inch of her body before going on a date, and scrubbed her skin with perfumed body wash. You have been sweating all day in the French humidity, and not a single part of you is hairless. When he attempts to pull you to his mouth, you resist with a wiggle of your hips.

"You don't—we don't have to do this, you know. I mean, I haven't shaved in years and—"

He bites your thigh. "Stop talking."

"Ghost, I'm disgusting."

His brows furrow, confused, before he exhales a soft laugh, breath fanning your cunt. "I don't care."

You writhe. "No, seriously—"

"I'm a big boy, Twix," he throws back you.

His tone is final, and with that, he ignores your protests and tightens his hands on you, pulling you to sit on his jaw. His tongue licks a bold stripe from hole to clit, then back down to your hole, where he swirls it a few times before pushing in. Your mouth hangs open in a silent surrender. It is you at his mercy now. His mouth feels even hotter on your cunt for some reason, causing your head to lull forward because of the ceiling, hair dangling.

Your nails scrape into the leather. His tongue fucks you, nursing the sore flesh that his cock had stretched. He pushes you down with more force, and meets the juncture of your thighs with an arch of his neck, pressing his face deeper. There is a small worry that he might not be able to breathe, but it is erased when his tongue visits your clit with a heady groan, the vibrations of his vocal chords making your muscles flinch. He circles it with a light pressure. You reach down to grip his hair, silently demanding more. He listens, pressing his tongue harder.

"Fucking... yeah, like that."

One of his hands glides up your stomach and squeezes your breast. He keeps sucking, toiling with your puckered nipple at a similar pace. Despite the uncomfortable position, your hips buck and thrash. Your hand slaps against the window as he makes a sloppy mess out of you. The overgrown stubble on his jaw scrapes between your tightened thighs and the sting adds to the overwhelming sensations. You attempt to lift off, seeking a break, but he growls and strikes your ass, forcing you back down.

He licks at you expertly, as if having figured you out in just a few minutes. You screw your eyes shut, a small but swift orgasm rolling through you when you hear him slurp at your folds. He gathers it with a sweep of his tongue, humming. The aftermath leaves your trembling, breath jagged, as a larger one grows towards release.

"Been thinking about that all day," he whispers against you, continuing his ministrations. "Got another one for me?"

His tone feels mocking and desperate at once. Your nails press painfully into the condensation-painted glass. Your other hand fists back in his hair, curling and uncurling, but there is no point in trying to fight it, not when he parts your cunt with his fingers so he can lick more of it. You cum again, harder, almost convulsing as your head bangs upward. It feels never-ending, your moans uncontrollable. He laps you through it, even more relentless, drawing the pleasure for a near-minute, until your lungs can hardly function and you feel like you might collapse.

Your body is pliant and jelly-like when it finally fades. He takes hold of your waist to keep you upright, and pulls his mouth away with a dribble of leakage down his chin. Already, you know it will be impossible to forget that sight, his eyes dazed as if he is the one who just came twice.

His touch turns somewhat tender when he helps you back down to his lap. He doesn't bother wiping the obscenity from his mouth when he kisses the corner of your lips, firmly, then helps you slip back into your clothes since your brain doesn't seem to have full control over your limbs yet. It's when you place a hand on his thigh to shimmy on your jeans that you feel a distinguishable wet spot.

He finished, too.

The discovery makes your chest swell, and you nibble at your lip as you finish changing.

"Thanks," you whisper to him.

He doesn't say anything. He keeps the seat reclined and allows you to lay limp against him, feeling the uneven pace of his heart that matches your own. Clearly, he is a man of his word. This will not be a one time thing, even if it is just fucking. You sigh in sheer exhaustion from the day's activities, unable to ignore the weight in your eyelids as you inhale the residual musk in the air between your bodies. His chest feels firm and warm, a decent place to rest your head, and you think you feel a touch caress your hair.

You are supposed to be staying up to keep watch, but he doesn't seem ready to move you. Somewhere between wondering how long you can keep this hidden from Blue, and dreading how far you will have to walk again tomorrow, you drift to sleep.

When morning arrives, you are not curled up in a car, but tucked in a sleeping bag.

Ghost must've put you here, but you have no recollection of it, squinting your eyes against the harsh incoming of sunlight through the nylon walls. Nereida is in the bag beside you, not Blue, which offers a thread of relief. You carefully extricate yourself without waking her and join an awakened Price and Kyle for breakfast.

This morning feels slower than the last. Satisfied with the distance covered yesterday, Price is content with just making it to a town called Englos today. Then, you can focus on finding food and water during the evening.

Your energy is replenished with tomato soup and stale crackers. Blue sits with Ari to eat, and you casually glance at her, but she gives you a subtle shake of her head. No, she hasn't talked to him yet. You offer a small, forced smile and look away.

The day's journey begins after what you would guess is around 8 am. As you walk, you redo your braids, tucking the strands into place so they don't stick to your forehead. Kyle falls in step beside you in comfortable silence, while Ghost moves to the front of the group. He treats you exactly as before—offering only the rare glance of acknowledgment. As if you hadn't just sat on his face last night. As if he hadn't ate you out like you were a source of sustenance.

Though, you’re grateful for his distance. It makes it easier to stay discreet. If he were to look at you too long, you might give yourself away.

It's just fucking.

Nothing but small towns and sprawling fields surrounds you. You pick up a few more words of French and think back to how your parents took you here, but never to the countryside. It's beautiful. Picturesque, even, except for the occasional skeleton tucked between ambery stalks of wheat. You pass through a place called Bailleul, where the remaining buildings remind you of England, when you spot black graffiti inked on a small clock tower.

N'allez pas à Fleurbaix.

"Allez means go," you murmur, stepping over some broken glass. "So what does n'allez pas mean..."

"Picking up a new language?"

You swing your head at Kyle, blinking, and he chuckles lightly at your reaction.

"Yeah. I thought it might come in handy when chatting with the thriving local population."

He shakes his head in amusement. "Have you been here before?"

"When I was a kid. Once to Paris, and once to a ski resort."

"Ah. So you were one of those kids."

You frown. "What kids?"

"The kids who had money to go skiing."

You shrug, thinking back. "I mean, we weren't rich by any means. Just comfortable."

He nods, the companionable silence resuming as you replay the graffitied words in your head. N'allez pas must mean do not go. Do not go to Fleurbaix. You are about to ask Kyle if that is where you are headed when he speaks first.

"Are we good, Twix?"

His question throws you off guard. You make eye contact and he raises an expectant brow as if he is referring to something...

Right. He kissed you. It feels like forever ago since it happened, but it was only a week maybe. The memory almost makes you cringe, especially in comparison to what you've done with Ghost the past two days.

"Yeah," you dismiss breathily. "Yeah, of course. We're good."

He seems genuinely relieved by your answer, smiling with a sliver of teeth. "Good. I'm glad. I was an idiot and not in the right headspace. But still, I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I've been trying to give you space."

"It's fine, honestly," you tell him. "We are all under a lot of stress."

He releases a breath, then brushes a shoulder against yours. "So we're friends, you and I? Or something like that."

You nod with a little laugh, shifting the backpack. "Something like that. By the way, do you know if we are going by a place called—"

"Gaz. Come here for a moment," Ghost calls.

His tone is abrupt, causing everyone to halt. Without question, Kyle jogs over, his boots scraping against the gravel as he moves toward Ghost, who is crouched on one knee, fingers brushing over the matted grass at the side of the road. You squint, trying to figure out what’s caught their attention, and step closer to get a better look.

"A lot of them," Kyle says quietly, his palm pressing gently into the flattened vegetation. Now, you can see it—clear signs of something recently passing through. The ground is torn up, the plants bent and trampled. "It can't have been long ago," he adds, frowning as he observes the damage.

Ghost doesn't look up as he responds. "A horde went through here. Maybe in the last day." He inhales the humid breeze, and shifts his gaze toward Price. "I can smell them from the east."

"We could run right into them if we keep following the D231," Price mutters, drumming his fingers on the rear of his gun. He glances at the nearest road signs, then unfolds the map. "We could shift west for a few kilometers, through Fleurbaix, then cut back toward Englos."

"I just saw something that warned against going to Fleurbaix," you speak up.

Ghost's brow rises. You ignore the nerves that prickle your cheeks beneath his stare.

"I mean, there are signs saying keep out of everywhere by now," Kyle reasons. "That's probably from the start of the infection."

"It's either Fleurbaix, or risk a run in with the horde," Ghost says.

You nod, more so to yourself, and murmur under your breath. "Fleurbaix it is, then."

Bailleul fades at your backs as you keep moving.

The scent of Greys lingers in the shifting air, but it is difficult to detect amid the strong aroma of flowers that pop up in every shade, replacing the fields of wheat. Roses, violets, and some yellow one you don't recognize ornate the rolling hills for as far as you can see. The buildings turn more upright, strong stone that has yet to falter from neglect. You keep reading the signs, even though you don't have the map to refer to, and your spine tightens when you read Fleurbaix: 1 km.

You unsling your bow without thinking, tapping your nails against the wood.

The road becomes a bit windier as it cuts through some small farms. You even spot a few cows roaming the overgrown pastures which Blue seems curious by. You notice more painted words on the sides of the homes: Nous devons expier nos péchés. It repeats a few times, but you fail to translate it. The only part that clicks is nous, which you think means we.

We something... something...

After crossing a small bridge over a dried creek bed, you excuse yourself to relieve your bladder.

"Keep going, I'll catch up."

You step over what looks like a metal dog chain left on the road and situate yourself between a tree and old BMW. Squatting burns your thighs, and reminds you of your dried cum on them that you've tried, yet failed, to completely wipe off. You clench your teeth as you pee, when there is a sudden sound behind you that makes you flinch, and you quickly zip back up before whirling around. A rat—your shoulders sink. It sits up on its hind legs and stares at you with beady eyes.

"I guess I'm just jumpy sometimes, little guy," you whisper, leaning in. "You would be, too, if you've had to deal with what I have." The rat doesn’t blink. "Right. Well, I’m sure Ghost would think this is incredibly sexy—me having a talk with a rodent."

You sigh, watching him scurry away, but then another rat darts over your boot. You jerk back, gaze following its direction to an old building—a schoolhouse or chapel, judging by the circular stained-glass window below the roof. Beautiful shrubs lines the sides, seemingly well-kept. The door hangs ajar, with more vermin pouring out in an endless line.

"Jesus. Quite a lot of friends you have, huh?"

You glance down the road. The others are still close but walking ahead. You should catch up. It's not safe alone. But against your better judgment, you step toward the door, pushing it open. Rats scatter underfoot as a thick, rancid smell hits you. Death—fresh and cloying, even more so than the flowers.

Blood streaks the stone floor inside, pooling where vermin feast. Splintered pews lead to an altar. You freeze. Lying there ceremoniously is what's left of a body, hardly recognizable—ribs torn through flesh, a dangling optic nerve, a mangled groin. A plethora of bite marks cleave through the remains. Bile rises in your throat as the sound of gnawing echoes through against the sun-lit walls.

But what truly grips you is the writing, in blood, draped over a small cross.

Nous devons expier nos péchés.

You whip around and run, the door closing heavily behind you.

"Simon!" His name claws up your throat.

#simon ghost riley x you #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley #zombie apocolypse au

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decaffeinatedcandycane · 11 months ago

Text

Random headcanons: You set their wallpaper of a spicy picture of you

Featuring: Task force 141

Warnings: suggestive, NSFW

Captain John Price:

He rarely unlocks his phone during the day, so you assume it is safe to set his wallpaper to you wearing nothing but his hat, sitting on the bed, legs spread, hands tied in the front with a silky ribbon and one of his cigars between your lips.

You did not account for the fact that sometimes Price shows memes to his team or fact checks stuff in front of others, so you can imagine the shock on his face when he unlocked his phone to show Soap something.

Soap: Sir? Is this-

Price: Yes, it is

The conversation ended there, with the Scotsman leaving the room in a subtle, yet fast manner, trying to hide the forming buldge from his captain, who, on his side noticed everything, but decided not to comment on it, in order not to make the situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

Yes, Soap avoided Price for the entire day and they have never spoke about the incident again. Even though the captain notices his Sergent hungrily eyeing you from time to time, which makes his mind wonder of certain possibilities. (If you are into it)

As for you, you did get your punishment, after you spent 20 minutes laughing at your husband story.

Y/N: Poor Soap

Price: What about me? I had to avoid unlocking my phone all day.

Y/N: You never unlock your phone.

Price: There was not a reason for it, luv.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

This man is phone rotting, whenever he is away from others and has some free time. Whether it is Reddit, Tiktok, or texting you - obsessively, he is on his phone - period.

For his picture you wear a sexy black lingerie, barely covering you and his balaclava. You are sitting on the sofa, with your elbows on your knees, leaning into the front camera, his dog tags hanging from your neck.

Simon goes feral.

He is immediately finding a quiet place from where he can call you and jerk off, while staring at your picture.

He will beg you to praise him, order him around and guide him in what to do and you can say anything - and I mean, anything.

This man is a slut for you. He is a huge switch. When he turns submissive he is completely at your mercy. Just, please, tell this man what to do and how you want him to do it.

Bonus points if you video chat and touch yourself, while edging him. He will try to hold himself back, but if you push him enough, he will cum within minutes.

This is how much power you have over him. Use it wisely.

And yes, Simon will absolutely fuck you stupid the moment he gets home. And will insist on taking pictures together, so he can keep something while on deployment.

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

He will open his phone in front of Ghost and get lost, staring at the photo of you, hand mindlessly grabbing Simon's tight.

For his picture, you are laying face on the bed, back arched, wearing nothing but tight blue panties with the scottish flag on them. Side boob is slightly showing.

Soap doesn't even register Simon or where his hand is, who is shifting from side to side, but not peeling his eyes off of you, nor removing Soap's hand from his tight.

When the Scottsman finally snap from his trance, he is texting you every spicy thing he can think of and sending you pictures of his, and Simon's buldges with the caprion:

"Look what you did, darling. LT wants to stop for some dinner tonight, now too. Make sure to recreate the picture once we get home. We are gonna put some English in you too."

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Another chronic phone user. Gaz is on his phone 23/19. He is obsessed with animal videos and staring at ya'll pictures. Editing and candid photo stuff is his drug.

You warn him in advance that you will send him something, as he has the habit of showing off his editing skills*ahem* your cutesy couple photos *ahem* to either Price, or Laswell.

The last thing you want is to flash his superiors.

So, you tell him to unlock his phone at a specific time and make sure he is alone.

The picture for him is you wearing his sunglasses, naked, on the balcony. You are sat on a chair, legs crossed. The picture is taken at sunrise, right when the sun is softly highlighting your chest.

Somehow Gaz didn't time this right, he expected a attachment, not a wallpaper - in his defense, and he opened his phone in the middle of a briefing.

The sergeant dropped his phone on the ground while trying to catch it, creating the (trying to hold a hot stone effect). Price shot him a questioning look, but kept talking, pretending not to notice how Gaz picked his phone face down and put it in his pocket.

For the entire briefing Gaz couldn't focus on anything but your picture. He tried so hard, not to get a boner, but knowing you took the said photograph while he was sleeping, maybe 15 minutes before he got up for work - got him wild.

He went radio silent the entire day and when he got home, he didn't bother talking, or greeting you - Gaz just lifted you up from the couch and smashed his lips into yours.

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mrsparrasblog · 1 year ago

Text

I just listened to "My Tears Ricochet" and had an idea.

TW: Angst *laughs in free therapy*

So, imagine the boys need to fake their deaths. How macabre it is that they attend their own funerals, wanting to watch their loved ones. (These are standalone scenarios they don't fake their death together)

Price: You were his wife for all these years, always waiting for him to return. The funny thing was you could clearly remember the last argument before he left.

"Love, just one more tour, and I'm coming back to you. Then we can start a family and all that, but the boys need me."

"It's always the last tour with you. When is it really the last?"

"This time, I promise."

To some extent, he was right. You thought it was his last tour, but it wasn’t fair. You knew it was over when you got the call from General Shepard. Your husband was dead. You lost the love of your life, and all you got were his dog tags and a check large enough to end world hunger. You slapped your friend after she said at least you were financially secure now.

Price watched you from behind a tree. He saw how you clung to his grave, hugging it tightly and lying on it as you always used to with him. Your dress was dirty, and the tears wouldn’t come anymore.

When Laswell and Nik approached you, you screamed at them, blaming them for not protecting your husband. You trusted them, and now you couldn't bear to let anyone else near his grave. John wished he could comfort you, tell you he would come back to protect you, but he couldn’t. Instead, he sent Simon, who endured all your insults, screams, and even a punch to his crooked nose until you were ready to move on.

Kyle: You and Kyle were born on the same day, in the same room, in the same hospital. It was like a movie; he was your best friend since forever, your first everything, and you were his. It was a love like in all those movies. The only thing separating you was the military, but you stayed home waiting for him. Not even war could separate you. Last year, he brought you that ring. You remember lying in bed, cuddling him as he promised you that you were allowed to die first. He knew you wouldn’t survive his death. So he made the silly promise that you would die first. He thought it was the first promise he ever broke to you.

Kyle had to be held back when he saw you crying at his grave. “Guess I’ll find you in the next one, love. Sleep well.”

Ghost: He was never good at love, and he was sure no one would come to his funeral. No one knew "Ghost," and Simon Riley had been buried since 2009. But then he saw you, the cute medic he always tried to push away. He was afraid of hurting you or corrupting you. How could he have known that pushing you away wouldn’t stop you from loving a dead man?

All the conversations came flooding back:

"Here, Lt. I made you red velvet cookies, your favorite."

"You're going to sit down and let me fix that, idiot."

"You're beautiful, Ghost."

"You're enough."

"It's kind of silly to be in love with someone whose name you didn’t even know. I hope you find your peace, big boy." You placed lilies on his grave and left. In that moment, Simon Riley realized he was loved, and he would burn the world down to come back from the dead just to return to you.

Johnny: Contrary to popular belief among the team, Johnny wasn’t a whore. He was a loving husband and father. That was written above "Sergeant" on his grave, at least.

His funeral was crowded with people who wanted to pay their last respects. Most of them were blue-eyed MacTavishes. Then there was you, holding your three-year-old in your arms. He didn’t understand why everyone was crying or why Dad wasn’t there anymore.

Johnny watched you sit at his grave, sighing as you talked to your husband. "James doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he misses you. He wanted me to give him a mohawk. It looks ridiculous, just like you. I know you’re rocking it in heaven. Just please wait for me, okay? Don’t want you to hoe around in heaven," you chuckled, holding back the tears. "You watch us from there, right? Can’t miss the birth of your princess, can you?"

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vingtetunmars · 27 days ago

Text

Stevie Doesn't Know...

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Being Steve Harrington’s twin sister means always living in someone else’s shadow, under the surface, you're just trying to feel seen. That is, until a chance encounter with Eddie Munson sparks an unexpected connection.

part 2

tags: Reader is Steve’s twin sister, roughly takes place between season 2 and season 3, SFW, overall fluff, meet-cute(?), secret relationship (in part 2), mutual pining, developing relationship, they're just soft for each other your honor. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: This is my first ever fic, so please bear with me. If you have any suggestions or thoughts feel free to reach out to me (please be nice 🥺). Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

word count: 3k

masterlist

You never really hated high school. It just never quite felt like it belonged to you.

People smiled at you in the hallways—tight-lipped, polite, surface-level smiles that came with your last name. Harrington. Like it was a crown you wore, passed down from Steve.

To most people at Hawkins High, you were just the quieter, smarter, slightly more tolerable version of your brother. “Steve’s sister.” Never mind the fact that your GPA could bench-press theirs or that you ran student council meetings with enough bite to scare actual adults. They didn’t care. You weren’t a real person to them—you were Steve’s sister who didn’t make a mess and remembered to smile.

So you smiled. Every morning. Even now, as you moved through the hallway past rows of metal lockers and neon-colored posters for the winter formal, the same fake grin tugged at your lips.

A locker slammed shut next to you.

“Council meeting’s still on today, right?” asked Mindy, the senior secretary who wore her cheer uniform like it came with a superiority complex.

You nodded. “After seventh period.”

“Cool, cool,” she chirped. “Oh! And hey, there’s a party at Kyle’s tonight—his parents are out of town again.” She grinned, clearly not inviting you just yet. “You should totally come.”

You opened your locker, swapped out your English textbook for Chemistry, and waited.

“And like—” Mindy added quickly, her voice pitching upward, “If Steve’s around, bring him?”

There it was. Right on schedule.

You gave her a practiced smile—half-assed, barely curled at the edges—and shut your locker. “I’ll let him know.”

You didn’t say yes. You never said yes. You just walked away, the sound of your Converse on linoleum echoing down the hallway like punctuation.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Seventh period passed in a blur of equations and doodles in the margins of your notes. After the council meeting, you finally stepped outside, the air already cooling into that signature late-fall crispness. The parking lot was nearly empty.

You considered heading home. You could’ve taken the long way, past the neighborhood where the autumn leaves were still clinging to the trees. You could’ve gone to the arcade. Or the library. Or just—anywhere that didn’t involve someone asking about your brother.

But you didn’t expect to find him sitting on the curb, chain smoking like he wasn’t technically banned from school property after last week’s fireworks stunt in the boys’ bathroom.

Eddie Munson.

The freak. The guy who played guitar like his soul depended on it and made people uncomfortable just by existing too loudly. You’d seen him in the halls before. You’d sat two rows behind him in Honors English last year until he flunked out. You weren’t friends, not really. Just two people whose orbits occasionally overlapped.

He didn’t see you at first.

You almost kept walking. You almost didn’t say anything at all.

But then—

“You know you’re gonna die with those lungs, right?”

His head snapped toward you, brows raised like he expected a punchline. He looked you up and down, eyes lingering on the school ID clipped to your lanyard.

“Oh,” he said. “Royalty speaks.”

You snorted. “Hardly.”

There was a beat of silence. He blinked, like you’d just said something in another language.

You tilted your head. “What? You think I’m gonna write you up or something?”

He shrugged, flicked ash from his cigarette. “Dunno. Just surprised you acknowledged me. Usually your kind has blinders for the unwashed masses.”

You raised a brow. “You mean people who sit alone after school chain-smoking Marlboros in the parking lot?”

He looked at you again, this time with more curiosity than sarcasm. “You’re not as much of a Harrington as I thought.”

You shrugged, offering the tiniest smile—this one not fake, but not fully real either. “Guess you don’t know me.”

He took another drag, then said, “Not yet.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The thing about Hawkins High was that everyone fit neatly into their little boxes. Jocks. Cheerleaders. Band geeks. Burnouts. Even the ones who tried not to belong ended up in their own category—like Eddie Munson, who made being an outcast feel like a damn art form.

You weren’t supposed to talk to him. Not because anyone said it out loud, but because it just wasn’t done. You were student council. Straight-A’s. Some teacher’s favorite. You were a Harrington.

So when you found yourself walking into the library during study hall, the last thing you expected was to spot Eddie Munson camped out in the farthest corner—feet kicked up, a tattered fantasy novel in hand, and a sketchbook open in his lap like a secret he wasn’t ready to share.

You would’ve left him alone.

But then he glanced up and said, “Look who it is. Council Queen.”

You sighed. “Do you ever not give people nicknames?”

Eddie leaned back in his chair like the whole world was a stage. “Only the ones who are boring.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So I’m not boring?”

He seemed to consider that for a second. “Not yet. You’ve got potential.”

You rolled your eyes and sat a few chairs away—not close enough to seem like you were seeking him out, but not far enough to ignore him either. You pulled out your notes and started reviewing for an upcoming history quiz.

“Lemme guess,” Eddie said after a beat. “American Revolution?”

“World Wars,” you replied without looking up.

He let out a dramatic groan. “Man, I barely passed that class. Too many dates. Not enough dragons.”

You stifled a laugh. “Well, there were enough battles, if that helps.”

“I dunno,” he mused, tapping his pencil on the edge of his desk. “Would’ve paid more attention if it had orcs or something.”

You shook your head but didn’t tell him to shut up.

After a few minutes, you noticed him glancing at your notes. Not in a copying kind of way—more like he was genuinely trying to make sense of what you’d written.

“You know,” you said, “you could probably pass this year. If you actually tried.”

Eddie gave you a skeptical look. “What makes you think I want to?”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” you replied, gesturing to the stack of books on the table. “In the library. During study hall. You could be skipping.”

He blinked like he hadn’t considered that you might notice details about him.

A pause settled between you. Not awkward. Just… curious.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “You got me. I’m trying. Might as well graduate before the world ends.”

You smiled at that. Not the fake smile you gave to party girls who only wanted Steve’s number. A real one. Small, crooked, surprised.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you said, turning back to your notes.

Eddie watched you for a moment longer, then smirked and opened his book again.

And for the rest of study hall, you sat there—quietly, separately, but somehow in the same kind of peace. Like two kids who had accidentally wandered off the map and didn’t hate the company they found.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Suddenly, he's everywhere.

One day, you passed him in the hallway and gave him a nod. The next, he was already sitting in your usual study hall corner when you walked in, a second chair dragged out for no one in particular. After that, it was lunch outside behind the bleachers—he said the cafeteria made his skin crawl—and you just… started showing up there too.

You never planned it. It was like some weird, unspoken schedule only the two of you understood.

Eddie would make fun of your neatly labeled folders. You’d mock his absolute refusal to use lined paper. He’d tell you about his latest campaign, sketching monsters in the margins of his algebra homework. You’d quiz him on history while he threw pencils at squirrels and pretended not to care. But he always remembered the answers.

There was something safe about being around him. No pretense. No performance. No Steve’s sister nonsense.

Just you.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It was one of those strange after-school afternoons where neither of you had anywhere to be.

You were sitting across from Eddie in the back corner of the library, pretending to work on student council flyers while he doodled little bats and swords in the margins of a notebook he wasn’t even pretending to study from.

Somehow, the conversation wandered—casually at first—from school stuff to the past, to old reputations that still lingered like cigarette smoke.

And then Eddie said, without looking at you, “You know, your brother used to be a real dick to guys like me.”

You paused, pen hovering mid-air.

“I know,” you said quietly.

He didn’t say it cruelly. Just plainly. Like it was a fact he’d carried around long enough that it didn’t burn anymore.

You shifted in your seat. “He’s not like that anymore.”

“I’ve noticed.”

There was a beat of silence, then you added, “Still, I’m sorry. For how he used to be. He’s my twin, yeah, but he doesn’t speak for me.”

Eddie looked at you for a moment—really looked at you.

Then he shrugged, smirking a little. “Honestly, I stopped holding that against you the moment you made fun of my Dio shirt and didn’t follow it up with a hair flip and an insult.”

You huffed a laugh, a little relieved.

“I don’t do hair flips,” you said.

“Exactly my point,” he replied, tapping his pencil like he’d solved a riddle. “You’re not him. Never were.”

You blinked.

That shouldn’t have meant as much as it did.

But it did.

Because most people only ever saw you as a footnote to Steve’s reputation—his smarter, quieter, more polite twin. A fun twist on a familiar character. Even the compliments felt borrowed.

But Eddie? He said it so simply.

You’re not him.

You felt seen in a way you hadn’t expected. And honestly? It left you a little speechless.

Eddie went back to doodling like he hadn’t just rearranged something in your chest.

You stared at him for a while longer, wondering when exactly things had started to shift.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You were just trying to kill time. Saturday afternoon, no student council meetings, no tutoring sessions, no expectations. You walked into the music store on Main for the quiet, for the rows of records and the occasional hum of something being tested over the speakers. You liked it there. It felt like a place that didn’t need you to be anyone.

The bell above the door jingled behind you just as you were flipping through a bin labeled Classic Rock / Staff Picks.

“I’m not stalking you, I swear,” said a familiar voice.

You looked up, and there he was. Eddie Munson. Denim vest, unruly curls, a tiny tear in his shirt sleeve like always. He looked like he belonged in a record store. You didn’t.

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re not.”

“I mean, I could be,” he added with a smirk. “But I feel like that’d ruin the whole ‘slow burn indie drama’ vibe we’ve got going.”

You snorted. “You think we’re an indie movie?”

He nodded toward the back of the store. “Only if there’s a scene where we judge each other’s music taste in complete silence.”

You followed him.

It wasn’t planned. It never was.

You browsed together for a while after that, shoulders bumping now and then, fingers almost brushing in the cramped aisles. You argued about The Clash vs. Talking Heads. He talked smack about synth-pop when you admitted you kinda liked it.

“I feel like you’re the kind of person who secretly likes Fleetwood Mac,” you said.

He scoffed. “Secretly? Nah. I’m man enough to admit ‘The Chain’ kicks ass.”

You laughed. A real one.

He stared for a beat too long.

You pretended not to notice.

Eventually, you ended up near the little listening station in the corner, headphones too big for your ears, vinyl spinning on a dusty turntable.

He watched you tuck your hair behind your ear as you adjusted the headphones and dropped the needle.

Your eyes closed. You swayed slightly. He didn’t know what you were listening to, but he knew he’d never seen you look more yourself.

Like the version of you no one at school got to see.

You opened your eyes, caught him staring.

He didn’t look away this time.

“What?” you asked, half a laugh in your voice.

He shrugged. “You’re just…”

He trailed off. Words fumbled somewhere between his mouth and brain. He looked down, suddenly very interested in the scuff on his boot.

“…Different than I thought,” he finished lamely.

You watched him.

He looked like he was waiting for you to laugh at him. Or roll your eyes. Or say something biting.

But you just said, “You too.”

There was a pause.

Then he asked, “You wanna go get fries or something?”

You blinked. Not in disbelief. Just in surprise that he asked.

Like this wasn’t just some weird afterschool friendship you both stumbled into. Like it could be more. Like maybe it already was.

You smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

By the next week, you were swapping cassette tapes like they were secret codes. Eddie gave you one labeled For Better Days in black Sharpie. You gave him a mixtape called Study Fuel that was half Bowie, half The Smiths. He said it was pretentious. He listened to it anyway.

He started walking you to your car when no one else was around.

You started waiting for him by his locker after seventh period.

It wasn’t a thing. Not officially. Not yet.

But when his pinky brushed yours one afternoon as you passed him a note—stupid, doodled lyrics and inside jokes—you didn’t pull away.

And when he looked at you after, not smirking but watching, really watching you like he saw something no one else did…

You looked back.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Harrington house was quiet that night — just the low hum of the fridge and the soft hiss of the shower running upstairs. You were sprawled on the living room floor, textbook open in front of you, pretending to study while the same sentence blurred in your vision for the third time.

You were smiling, just a little. That kind of soft, absent smile you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“You’re either having a mental breakdown,” Steve said from the doorway, “or you’re into someone.”

You glanced up, startled. He was leaning against the doorframe with a glass of water in one hand, looking entirely too smug for someone who couldn’t pass pre-calc without divine intervention.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so nosy.”

“And you’re being weird.”

He walked over, flopping dramatically onto the couch, water nearly sloshing out of the glass.

“I’m not being weird,” you muttered.

“You’re smiling at your homework. Geography homework. That’s suspicious.”

You tried to glare, but he saw right through it. Always had.

He let the silence stretch for a second before speaking again—quieter this time.

“Seriously, though. You seem… I dunno. Lighter.”

You blinked. That caught you off guard.

“I do?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like… you’re not carrying the whole damn school on your back for once.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at your textbook and let that settle in your chest.

He waited.

That’s the thing about Steve—he could be a pain, but he was patient with you. Always had been. You could tell him anything, and he’d listen. No judgment. Just a quiet, solid kind of love.

But still, this one was yours.

For now.

So you just said, “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

Steve gave a slow, knowing nod.

“Well,” he said, “whoever or whatever it is… keep it. You deserve to feel good.”

That time, you didn’t hide your smile.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He leaned back with a grin. “Now come make popcorn. I’m starting a movie and I need emotional support.”

“You mean you need someone to explain the plot to you.”

He pointed at you dramatically. “Exactly.”

You laughed, closing your textbook and pushing up from the floor.

Whatever was blooming between you and Eddie… it could stay secret a little longer.

For now, it was enough that you knew.

And Steve knew you were okay.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It started awkward.

Not just regular-Eddie awkward, but nervous Eddie. A rare breed. You spotted it immediately: the way he kept bouncing his leg under the cafeteria table, the way he scratched at the back of his neck like his skin didn’t quite fit.

You were sitting outside again, a half-eaten apple in your hand, a history notebook open but ignored between you.

He cleared his throat once. Then again.

“Hey, uh,” he started, staring hard at the pavement. “So—okay—this is probably stupid.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Great opener.”

He gave you a look. “Let me finish.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

“There’s this… thing. Thursday night. At the Hideout.” He was fiddling with a piece of string from his jacket sleeve now, twisting it around his finger like it owed him money. “Corroded Coffin’s playing. Just a couple of songs. It’s not, like, a real gig. Mostly drunks and a few dudes who mistake us for Sabbath.”

You tilted your head. “Are you… inviting me?”

He winced. “I don’t know. Am I?”

You blinked, then grinned—slow and amused and maybe a little fond.

“Well,” you said, “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“Will I get to say I knew you before you were famous?”

Eddie’s eyes lit up, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight. “If you come, you’ll be part of the origin story.”

You tossed your apple core into the trash and stood up, slinging your bag over one shoulder. “Thursday,” you said. “I’ll be there.”

He nodded, visibly trying to play it cool. “Cool. Yeah. Totally cool.”

You laughed on your way back inside.

He watched you go, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe he’d just pulled that off.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Hideout smelled like beer and cigarettes and old amps. The stage was barely six inches off the ground, the crowd maybe a dozen people deep, most of them nursing cheap drinks and ignoring the music.

You stood near the back, your hands tucked in your coat pockets, heart doing stupid things in your chest the second Eddie stepped onstage.

He was different up there.

Still himself—loud, cocky, electric—but amplified. His voice rough and raw, his guitar loud enough to shake your ribs. He didn’t look like a high school burnout up there.

He looked right.

You didn’t cheer like the drunk guy near the front or yell like the girls in the corner.

You just watched.

And he saw you.

Halfway through the second song, between lyrics, he looked right at you. Not at the crowd. Not at the door. You.

And he smiled.

Not that showy grin he wore like armor. A real one. Soft. Open.

It ruined you a little.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

After the set, you found him outside behind the bar, sitting on an upside-down crate and smoking a cigarette like it was the only thing keeping his hands steady.

He looked up when he heard you approach, eyes a little wide, hair wild with sweat and adrenaline.

“You came,” he said.

“You weren’t half bad,” you teased.

He scoffed. “We were loud. That’s about it.”

You sat beside him, knees bumping. “You looked happy.”

He went quiet. The good kind.

“I was,” he said eventually.

You turned to look at him. “That’s rare?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Kinda.”

The air buzzed between you, quiet and heavy, like the end of a song that hadn’t quite faded.

And then he said, almost too softly, “I kept looking for you.”

You blinked. “During the set?”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to yours. “Made it easier.”

You didn’t think.

You just leaned in.

And for once, Eddie Munson didn’t run his mouth. He didn’t joke. He didn’t fumble or flinch.

He just met you halfway.

The kiss was slow and tentative at first, both of you careful, like you weren’t sure this was allowed. Then it deepened—warmer, steadier—like you were both finally breathing after holding it in too long.

When you pulled back, he stared at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of gravity.

“Okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “That was…”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

Neither of you said it out loud, but it was already understood.

This was real. This was yours.

And it was a secret worth keeping.

Part 2

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagines #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things x you #stranger things #eddie munson x harrington!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson fics #kar's fics ☆

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rowarn · 1 year ago

Text

THEE DEARLY WED !

kyle 'gaz' garrick/reader | MDNI

tags: noble!reader, noble!kyle, arranged marriage (not to each other), forbidden love

cw: technically infidelity (kyle and reader cheat with each other despite both being engaged), loss of virginity, cunnilingus, wet and messy, body worship elements, consent, soft!kyle, piv, soft sex, simultaneous orgasms

a/n: thank u to everyone in the silly discord server for helping me decide on this one LMAOOOO i never woulda done it without you. also!!! don't expect any kind of accuracy on this, it is merely a work of fiction!

; it was decided when you were young that you would get married to someone you didn't even love. your heart belonged to the electrifying Lord Kyle Garrick despite him being in the same boat as you.

8.1k words

From the time you were a child, you had been fated to marry someone chosen by your parents. It was a silly, annoying custom among nobility and one you simply didn’t get a choice on. He was decided for you the moment you were born.

It’s all you’ve ever known. Your betrothed, Owen Knightly, was someone of high standing. It would be remarkably good for your family to marry into his.

You may have even been content with the life you were given if he had never come into your life. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if you weren’t in love with someone you simply couldn’t have.

You met when you were children. You were barely five years old and he was a few years older than you. It was one of your fondest memories, one that always brings a smile to your face when you reminisce.

“This is Lord Kyle Garrick,” your mother had crooned as she introduced you to the young boy who knelt upon one knee and gingerly kissed your hand. It was a sweet, innocent display of affection that had you swooning right then and there.

Your families ran in the same circles, the Garricks were on equal social standing as your own family. Every party and gala that the two of you were invited to, you managed to gravitate towards each other. Both of you knew how wrong it was – how it would ruin both yours and your families lives if you stepped one foot out of line. But the draw between you two was undeniable. You could see it in his eyes when he stared at you from across ballrooms, the longing that you experienced just the same.

Fate was incredibly cruel and fickle. You watched as Kyle grew to be a handsome man, desired by aristocratic families from all over the country. He was handsome, well bred, and so kind. You’d have to be blind to not see how incredible of a man he was.

Anyone would be lucky to be his betrothed.

You just wish it was you.

Unfortunately, the lucky person he was engaged to was chosen for him from the time of his own birth, someone whose status would benefit his family. The two of you were never fated to be together. It was a painful, irrefutable fact.

Still, that didn’t stop the two of you from making eyes at one another every time you saw each other at aristocratic gatherings.

He was the only thing that made a long, boring gathering interesting. Every time you received an invitation to a gala or a ball, you felt the excitement of being able to see him again.

Even if you were with your own fiance and he was with his.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Kyle greeted, bowing down to place a kiss to the top of your hand.

“Hello to you, My Lord,” you smile, meeting his gaze for an electrifying moment.

The two of you break eye contact quickly, all too worried about raising suspicion.

Your gaze met his fiance’s who stood off to the side, nursing a glass of wine. She seemed completely disinterested in the conversation going on, instead glancing around the room.

“Our wedding is coming up awfully fast,” your fiance mused, placing his arm around your shoulders affectionately, “Isn’t that right, darling?”

It made your skin crawl but you mustered up a proper, practiced smile to shoot him, “Yes, it’s just a few weeks away. Oh, My Lord, you’ll surely be attending, correct?”

“Oh come now,” your fiance chided, “Lord Garrick is surely preparing for his own upcoming wedding. He’ll be much too busy to attend ours. What a silly question for you to ask.”

“Nonsense,” Kyle smiled, a sight that made your heart race despite the irritation you feel towards your fiance’s condescension. His dark eyes flitted to you, dropping to your lips before meeting your husband’s gaze again, “I wouldn’t miss such a blessed union.”

“You flatter us, My Lord,” you breathe, biting your lip. Hearing the man you love praise your upcoming wedding, even if it was a charade he put on, made your heart ache terribly in your chest.

“My love,” Kyle’s fiance wraps her arm around his arm, making your heart seize up in jealousy.

Kyle barely glances at her, instead keeping those deep brown eyes on your, “Yes?”

“Can we dance?” she asks, pointing in the direction of all the couples currently dancing in the center of the room.

“Of course,” he agrees easily, bowing gracefully at you and your fiance, “Please excuse us.”

“I say we should have a dance as well,” your fiance says, taking your hand, without even bothering to see if you wanted to in his, to lead you to the group of dancing people.

You fight back a sigh as he pulls your close against him, your chest pressed against his. One of his arms wraps around your waist, holding your other hand in the air while you rest your free hand on his shoulder. It was a practiced pose you’d learned all your life but it still made you want to curl your lip in disgust at being so close to this man.

The two of you begin to sway across the dance floor in time to the gentle rhythm of the music playing through the room. You stare over your fiance’s shoulder at all the people scattered around the ballroom. You find this entire endeavor to be rather dull, just high society people sucking up to one another in an endless cycle.

“Isn’t that right, darling?” your fiance’s voice grates in your ear, drawing you out of your daydreams.

“What?” you ask, meeting his gaze, “I didn’t hear you.”

“You’re so cute,” he gushes, clicking his tongue, “Always zoning out. Don’t need to think about anything when you’ve got your fiance here.”

You bite your tongue, feeling your eyes twitch at his continued condescension, “I was just admiring the beautiful ballroom.”

“Indeed,” he hums as he spins you around the dancefloor, “As I was saying, however, that Lord Garrick is an incredibly refined man, is he not?”

“Of course,” you agree, wishing so badly you could look around the room to find the mentioned man just to catch a glimpse of his handsome face, “His family is held in such high regard, after all. It’s only natural.”

“Indeed,” your fiance agrees, “And his upcoming union will only increase their status.”

There’s a lapse in the conversation as you both continue to dance. The mention of your beloved’s wedding tastes bitter on your tongue, sullying your mood even more. You zone out until the music slowly comes to a stop, slowing your steps to a complete stop.

The music starts up again, another song beginning to play immediately. Your fiance opens his mouth to say something but stops short.

“Excuse me,” a familiar, smooth voice interrupts the two of you.

You turn to see Kyle standing there in all his glory, smiling kindly, “If you would be so kind as to let me have the next dance.”

“I was just about to go get myself some refreshments anyway,” your fiance grunts, passing Kyle your hand.

He takes it gently, treating you like the finest, most delicate glass. It sends shivers down your spines, just feeling his skin against yours.

“I thank you,” Kyle bows politely before leading you deeper into the crowd of dancing couples.

Once hidden away from the prying eyes of your fiance, Kyle tugs you snuggly against him, assuming the same position you had before. His spicy, floral scent invades your senses and makes your eyes flutter at how nice it smells.

“Where did your fiance go?” you find yourself asking, though you don’t particularly care about her whereabouts.

“Not sure,” he responds, “Said she wanted to go talk with some friends.”

“I see,” you hum, eyes drifting to your hand clasped in his. His thumb occasionally strokes over the soft skin atop your hand.

“I’ve been dying to have a single moment alone with you this whole evening,” he confesses, keeping his voice low so no one nearby could hear the adulteress confessions coming from his lips.

“My Lord,” you breathe, your heart picking up as you meet his soft gaze. He looks at you in a way you’ve never seen him look at anyone else and it makes you flustered, “I was so happy to learn that you were also going to be here.”

“As was I,” he agrees, squeezing your hand in his, “I wish so desperately the two of us could slip away unseen.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve found ourselves alone,” you muse, chuckling to yourself.

“There will be a rather gaudy announcement shortly,” he says, “If you can slip away during it, I’m sure that no one will miss either of us so long as we’re back in time for the desert to be served.”

“Where shall we meet?” you ask, all too aware that this song was winding down.

“There’s a balcony overlooking the back gardens,” he says, the two of you slowly coming to a stop.

“I’ll be there,” he smiles at that, carefully dropping your hand to your side despite the fact neither of you want to let go of the other.

You miss his touch as soon as it’s gone but you know that you can’t maintain physical contact with him without gossip and speculation filling the hall. It’s already a dangerous game the both of you play with the way you’ve spent secretive moments alone despite your engagements. You crave so desperately to be able to love him publicly like other couples.

“I know you will,” he bows, kissing the top of your hand before turning on his heel and vanishing into the crowd on the other side of the room.

You have no choice but to find your fiance afterwards, despite the way dread fills your stomach when you lay your eyes upon him. He’s standing among noblemen, chattering away.

When you come into view he beams, “There is my beloved betrothed,” he says, “Such a sweet little thing, no?”

“Ah yes,” one of the other men hum, looking you up and down in a way that makes you cringe internally, “You are a lucky man, Owen.”

“Aren’t I?” your fiance wraps his arm around your waist, tucking you firmly against him, “Such a lovely doll all for me. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, as expected, but such a pretty face. Anyone would be envious of a man like me in my position with a beautiful fiance on his arm.”

You want so badly to roll your eyes at his insults and pompous attitude. Instead, you tune out the conversation and choose to look out over the party hall where all sorts of people mingle.

Your gaze finds Kyle from across the room. His fiance is on his arm and that prickly sensation of jealousy fills your chest but quickly vanishes when he looks away from the people he’s talking with to smile at you.

The melodic sound of a bell ringing across the room gets everyone’s attention. It falls completely silent as the host approaches the top of the stairs, dressed extravagantly to the nines. As she begins to address the crowd, you catch Kyle slipping out.

You turn to your fiance, “I’m afraid I must go to the washroom.”

“Take your time,” he nods, “Do return before the cake is served.”

“Of course,” you smile and carefully follow Kyle’s lead and slip out into a side hall.

The labyrinth of halls were easy to navigate since they were all too similar to your own manor. The music and chatter from the party quickly faded the further into the manor you got until you were finally at the doors leading to the balcony. You push it open, slipping through the opening before letting them softly close behind you.

Kyle stood, leaning against the balcony, staring off into the gardens. He was beautifully illuminated by the full moon and it made you breathless.

He turns to look at you, smiling, “I knew you’d make it.”

“I always do,” you whisper, taking his outstretched hand when he offers it.

“You look absolutely marvelous,” he breathes, pulling you close to him just like when you were dancing. Only this time, he spins and presses you back against the railing of the balcony. He crowds himself around you, leaning in to brush his lips against yours but not quite sealing you in a kiss. Your breath stutters in your chest, your noses grazing together from the proximity.

“You look handsome yourself,” you whisper against his lips, “I wished so badly to be the one on your arm this evening.”

“You’re all I’ve thought about this whole time,” he assures, hands gripping your waist, pressing himself even closer to you until his hips meet yours, “Every time I look at her, all I can think about is you. I wish it was you I was marrying.”

“Me too,” you whimper, “Owen is such a pig. All he does is talk down to me. He thinks me nothing but stupid.”

Kyle clicks his tongue, “That idiot has no idea what he has. He has everything that I desire and he doesn’t even know how to appreciate the life handed to him.”

He reaches up and cups your cheeks, hands warm and soft against your skin. He smells so good and the dark look in his eyes, illuminated by the moonlight, makes your heart race.

He can’t seem to help himself anymore, surging forward to press his lips completely against yours. You gasp into the kiss, winding your arms around his neck to pull him even closer. One of his arms winds around your waist, pulling you up onto your tiptoes so your chest is pressed completely against his.

“I adore you,” he breathes before kissing you again, unwilling to break the kiss for more than a second as he talks, “I’ve never wanted anyone in my life more than you.”

As you’re hidden away on this balcony, secretly kissing the man you truly love while your betrothed is waiting for you to return back to him just down the hall, you feel tears pricking your eyes. You sniffle and Kyle pulls back, eyes softening at the sight of your tears.

“What is it, my heart?” he asks, thumbing your tears away despite the way more takes their place.

“I love you, Kyle,” you confess.

“And I love you,” he smiles but it only makes you cry harder.

You pull him snug against you, hugging him as tightly as you can. He hums, winding his own arms around you to return the hug. His large hand rubs your back until you’re left just sniffling and hiccuping.

“I hate this,” you whimper, “I wish I could marry you.”

“I know, my heart,” he sighs, pulling back to cup your cheeks again, “These cards we’ve been dealt in this life are so unfair.”

“How am I supposed to marry that man when you’re all I want?” you ask, taking his hand in yours.

He nods his head, “I feel the same. I know for a fact you’re who I’m meant to be with.”

A silence lulls between the two of you as you both lament the lives you’ve been given. While you both had everything materialistic one could want, neither of you could have what you really, truly desired.

With you still tucked against him, he whispers in your hair, “We should be getting back before anyone misses us.”

“I don’t want to,” you whine, “I want to stay here with you forever.”

“I know, my heart,” he mutters, “I wish that were possible.”

You sigh and haphazardly straighten your clothes out, “Let’s get the rest of this evening over with.”

“You head in first,” he urges you to the door with a hand on your back, “We don’t want anyone to see us come back together.”

You turn around and lean up, pressing one final, fleeting kiss against his lips before you turn and disappear through the doors. Leaving him behind makes your heart feel like a lead weight in your chest but you push through it and force one foot in front of the other down the winding halls.

You follow the sounds of the party still going, music and bustle of people getting louder and louder the closer you get. Stepping back inside, you notice everyone’s chatting happily and eating cake. Your eyes scan the crowd before falling on your fiance who is still chatting away with the same noblemen as before. You take a sharp breath, steeling yourself as you approach him, plastering a practiced, fake smile on your face.

“Ah, there you are!” he greets with a broad grin, “I’m sorry I didn’t get you a piece of cake. I didn’t quite feel like holding it.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes and instead shrug your shoulders, “That’s quite okay. I didn’t want any anyway.”

Your fiance nods, “Probably a good idea. Don’t want my betrothed putting on weight before the wedding!”

He and his friends laugh and anger flushes through you. Your jaw hurts from how hard you clench it shut so you don’t snap at your fiance. You catch movement out of the corner of your eye and turn to see Kyle’s fiance rushing up to him. He catches her as she throws herself into his arms and you once again feel the sting of jealousy.

You avert your gaze and tune in and out of the boring conversation your fiance is engaged in.

“Say, have you been crying, darling?” he asks, finally taking note of your red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, no,” you laugh softly, “I’m afraid I’ve been struck down with a nasty case of allergies. All these roses must be emitting some dreary amounts of pollen.”

“Ah,” he nods, taking a bite of his cake as he looks around at the array of roses decorating the ballroom. “That makes sense. They are quite beautiful though. Perhaps we should have some planted once we’re married.”

You plaster on a fake smile again, “Maybe.”

He sends a smile to you in return before turning his attention back to the other men. You promptly tune out and let your eyes glance across the hall, hoping this entire ordeal will be over soon.

Before long, the party begins winding down and people begin to leave, bidding goodbye to one another.

“Oh, Lord Garrick,” your fiance greets as said man comes up to the two of you.

“Hello,” Kyle smiles, “I just thought I’d come and say goodbye.”

“Oh yes, goodbye, My Lord,” Owen bows.

Kyle turns his gaze to you and lifts your hand to his lips, giving you one last kiss goodbye. You wish so badly you could feel his lips press against yours again but you know that won’t be happening again for a terribly long time.

“I believe the next time we’ll meet will be your upcoming wedding,” Kyle said as he straightened up.

“Most likely,” you nod, “Unless someone plans to have another party again.”

Kyle huffs a laugh, “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

You smile at the sound of his laugh. His fiance tugs on his arm, bidding both you and Owen goodbye before they’re off.

“I guess we should head off as well,” he says, much to your relief.

Your bed sounds absolutely heavenly right about now. And you, quite honestly, just want to get away from your pig of a fiance and put this night behind you.

Before you know it, the wedding is just a few days away and anxiety practically consumes you. It seems like the days pass all too quickly. The apprehension of a wedding you want no part of seemingly making it creep up faster.

Your days are filled with wedding preparations. You and Owen spend your time sampling food to decide the wedding menu and signing invitations that are to be sent out as soon as possible. It’s a rather dreary time.

One weekend, you finally have a chance to escape the anxiety-inducing manor. You make your way into town, intent on doing a little shopping for yourself.

You’re wandering from shop to shop – thankful that you’ve managed to get out without any of the help on your tail. It was all hands on deck as the manor was prepared for the wedding and after-party, except for you, that is.

You’re busy looking at an array of expensive, imported fabrics when someone calls your name from behind. You whip your head around and find Kyle standing there, pretty, brown eyes wide and sparkling.

“Kyle,” you whisper.

He says your name again, taking a few, long strides over to you until he’s standing in front of you, “I was passing by and I swore I saw you in here.”

“It’s me,” you smile, already feeling your heart race at having him so close to you once again.

“I see that,” he laughs, raking his gaze down your body before finding your eyes once again, “You look lovely as always.”

“Thank you,” you feel your cheeks flush at the compliment, “What are you doing in town?”

“I had some errands to run,” he explains with a shrug, “What about you? I’m surprised to see you out and about with the wedding preparations.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, “I managed to find an opportunity to get out of there while everyone was preparing the venue for the wedding. You should see the place, it’s a frightful vision with all the decorations and flowers.”

“Ah, of course,” he hides his laugh behind his hand, “The wedding is awfully close now isn’t it?”

Your smile fades and you hum, anxiously turning to look at the fabrics again, “3 days away, I’m afraid.”

Kyle falls silent behind you, watching as you comb through the materials. Your shoulders seem so heavy and there are dark circles under your eyes that no amount of powder on your face could hide.

He reaches forward and snags your hand up in his, “Come with me.”

“Where?” you ask but eagerly follow behind him as he leads you out of the store. He could lead you to the end of the world and you’d follow him.

The streets are noisy and bustling, thousands of people going about their day and lives. It feels nice to not be tailed by your servants because this way you can just feel like a normal person in society. With your hand tucked within Kyle’s, you almost feel like a regular couple going about your day together.

Kyle leads you through the maze of the streets before the two of you find your way to his carriage. The horses idly lift their hooves and step back down, clearly antsy to get going.

“Where’s your driver?” you ask when he opens the door for you.

“Left him at home,” Kyle answers easily, “Don’t worry I’m an excellent driver. You’re in good hands.”

“I’m not worried,” you giggle, sitting back when he slams it shut for you.

The spicy, floral scent that seems to always waft off him still lingers in the cabin. The carriage rocks as Kyle hoists himself up into the driver’s seat, taking the reins for the horses before setting off.

The hustle and bustle of town is left behind as the two of you make your way to a destination you don’t know. You look out the window, admiring the view of nature. With the gentle lull of the carriage and the soft sound of the horse’s hooves on the ground, you realize just how sleepy you are. The wedding preparations were apparently more exhausting than you realized.

Your name sweetly being called is what roused you. A soft hand cups your cheek and you open your eyes to see the handsome face of Kyle.

“We’re here,” he coos, taking your hands to help you stumble out of the carriage.

You look around, finding yourself standing in front of an imposing manor.

“Where’s here?” you mumble, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

“Another manor that my family owns,” he says, slamming the door.

“I see,” you hum, taking a look around. It’s a lovely place with neatly trimmed hedges and a fountain in the center of the circle driveway.

“What about the servants here?” you ask, allowing him to lead you up to the grand doors.

“There aren’t any here at the moment,” he assures, “All the servants are currently occupied with my own wedding preparations. You don’t have to worry, we’re alone here.”

“That’s lucky,” you laugh, sharing a soft look with him.

Once the two of you are inside, you take in the beautiful manor. There’s a beautiful staircase and the walls are adorned with expensive paintings, some of which you recognize yourself despite not being too knowledgeable on art.

“This was to be my home after my marriage,” he explains, waving for you to follow him up the stairs to the next story.

“I see…” you hum, trailing your fingertips over the beautiful wood banister but then pause, “What do you mean ‘was’?”

He stops in front of a door and pushes it open with a soft creak. You peek inside and discover a lavishly decorated bedroom. Being alone inside of a bedroom with a man who is not your fiance was incredibly improper. But Kyle is the man you love so you step inside with your heart racing in your chest. It feels so wrong, this rule was implemented in you your whole life being broken like this.

“I mean,” he hums, “If you’ll hear me out on what I have to say then the wedding will no longer be on. Neither will yours.”

Your heart lurches up into your chest as he leads you to take a seat beside him on the edge of the bed. He takes your hand in both of his, cupping it in his lap, stroking his thumb across your knuckles.

“What are you saying?” you ask, voice tight.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” he explains, “I want you. I don’t want to see you married off to that pig of a man they’ve set you up with. I don’t think I can live a life married to someone else when all I can think about every single day is you.”

“Kyle…” you whisper, squeezing his hand tightly, “Are you saying you want to call off the weddings? Our families wouldn’t–”

“No,” he grumbles, “I don’t want to call off the weddings. I want to marry you. Our families would never allow it but,” he takes a deep breath, “If we’re not under their charge anymore then what can they possibly do?”

“You want to run away?” you gasp, anxiety filling your chest when he nods, “But that-!”

“Our lives would be infinitely harder,” he smiles ruefully, “We wouldn’t have any of the comforts we have now. Our families wouldn’t support us. We’ll be disgraced by society and our friends. It’ll be hard but it would mean we can be together like we desire.”

“Kyle…” you whisper, eyes wide as you stare at him.

“I understand it’s daunting. And if you choose to tell me no then I will do as you wish and continue to live my life this way,” he breathes, “I will continue to live with the agony of only getting to see you in secret, if that’s what you wish. But…” he reaches forward and cups your cheek in one big hand, “If you say yes then I will kiss you right now and I will show you just how much I love you and how much I need you to be mine.”

Your lips are parting before you can even make heads or tails of your own thoughts, “Yes, Kyle.”

Just as he promised, he surges forward and presses his soft lips against yours. The kiss is desperate and heated with one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head, keeping your lips firmly planted on his.

You whimper into the kiss, the euphoria of having your love’s lips once again too much to bear. You feel the bedding beneath you as he pushes you down, holding his own weight above you with one hand to avoid crushing you. But you crave to feel his body against yours.

You wrap one arm around his waist and pull him closer so his chest is flush with yours. Despite the layers of clothes separating the two of you, you can feel his body heat permeating through to you.

That spicy, floral scent that wafts off of him is all around you. Your heart flutters in your chest and your hands tremble like leaves in the wind as you desperately grasp at him. He doesn’t break the kiss, even as you feel the hardened press of his member between your thighs.

The air feels thick with every inhale, a foggy haze settling over your mind the deeper the kiss gets. After a moment, he finally breaks the kiss only to dive down to press his lips to your neck. His hands flutter around your clothes, working the buttons and ties open so the fabric can easily be pulled away from your body.

With every inch of bare skin exposed, his lips touch upon it and goosebumps rise in response. Your trembling fingers grip the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing to feel grounded to him as his lips wrap around one of your nipples.

You whine, back arching when his hand comes up to roll and pinch your other nipple between his fingers. You’d never been touched like his before and it felt electrifying, each swirl of his hot tongue making your thighs twitch where they rest around his lithe hips.

“Kyle,” you gasp, “C-Can you–?”

“What?” he asks, barely separating from your breast to ask.

“T-Take off your shirt,” you request, cheeks feeling impossibly hot from the new stimulating pleasure your body is receiving.

He chuckles, parting from the torture he’s inflicting on your nipple to sit up on his heels. He pulled off his suit coat, letting it fall to the floor. You watch with wide eyes as he pulls his tie free from around his neck before his fingers drift to his waistcoat to pull the buttons apart. You follow those long, pretty fingers as they meticulously undo his shirt button by button until the smooth expanse of his chest is exposed to your greedy eyes.

You reach up and slide your hands up his chest, pushing the articles of clothing off of his shoulder until he lets them drop to the floor to join his jacket.

He’s on top of you again in seconds, large hands gripping your waist, your skin dimpling under the grip he has on you. You whimper when he cups your breasts, thumbing over your nipples as you sigh in pleasure.

“Will you let me undress you completely, my heart?” he whispers, sounding breathless.

“Yes, please, Kyle,” you nod, eagerly lifting your hips so he can free your lower half of the last bit of clothes that cover your body.

He sucks in a deep breath when your pretty form is fully exposed to his gaze for the first time. He knew you were beautiful but like this, with shy hands over your bare breasts and smooth thighs clenched tightly together to hide the most intimate part from his greedy, prying eyes.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispers as if any louder would break the sanctity the two of you have cultivated together in this bedroom, “Why do you hide from me?”

“I-I don’t know,” you respond, cheeks burning hot as you avoid his gaze, “I feel so shy like this.”

He smiles, pretty teeth on full display, eyes crinkle up when he does. Gentle hands cupping your knees, he tenderly strokes your skin, “There’s no reason to be shy around me. I adore every inch of you and your body. Won’t you let me admire you like you deserve?”

His gaze is so soft and kind that you feel your body relax at his assurance. Your arms fall to your sides, letting him see those pretty tits again. His mouth waters at the sight of your perked nipples.

But then you let your thighs fall open and the prettiest little cunt he ever could have imagined opens up to his greedy eyes. Your folds are shiny with a layer of slick and his tongue suddenly feels much drier than it did a second ago.

He realizes, in that moment, that he needs nothing more than to quench this apparent thirst right there between your legs.

You gasp when he grips beneath your knees and spread you open even wider. Your hands fly to cover your face, unable to take the embarrassment that floods through you when his face gets closer and closer to your pussy.

Two fingers dip into your folds, a loud, sticky noise sounding when he parts them. Your clit is puffy and swollen while your little hole twitches and drools messily at the contact. Slowly, almost painfully so, his tongue falls from his mouth to lick a wide strip over your cunt. You practically wail when his tongue drags over your clit, the little bud hard and twitchy against his muscle.

His lashes flutter at the sound. It encourages him to lick over the bud again. It earns him another sound, like a little reward for every correct touch he gives you.

He focuses there, pinning your hips down when you start twitching and wiggling beneath him. His tongue swirls and swirls around your clit, drool and slick coating his chin and dripping down to the bed. He doesn’t care, the mess isn’t even on his radar. He’;s too lost in the sweet taste of you dancing on taste buds. You taste better than the most exquisitely crafted meal he’s ever had in his life.

Your hands slam down to grab the bedding, fisting it desperately until the fabric creaks under your grip. The feeling of his tongue swirling and licking your clit is too much, you feel like you can’t take a breath deep enough. He moans and sighs softly into your cunt with every sweet little sound you gift to him.

One of his fingers finds your entrance, the little hole clenching pathetically around nothing.

He detaches his lips from your clit, swallowing the sweet slick filling his mouth before asking, “Have you ever touched yourself here before?”

Your cheeks flush unbearably hot at the question but find yourself shaking your head, “N-No.”

He sweetly smiles at you, “I’ll be gentle.”

He hums thoughtfully and after a second, he begins sliding one of his fingers into you. It burns, even that minute stretch and his heart aches at the wince on your face. He leans forward and lets his tongue find your clit again, slurping it into his mouth so he can wrap his lips around it. The feeling makes your entire body tremble, your jaw falling open but no sounds actually come out.

He doesn’t let you think too much about this feeling, using your relaxed, almost brainless state to introduce a second finger. It finally makes a whine break through from your chest, back arching and eyes rolling back into your head once he sinks them to the last knuckle.

You never would have thought that something like this could feel so good. Your brain feels hazy, like no coherent thoughts can form. All you can focus on is how wonderful it feels to have Kyle’s thick fingers stuffed inside you while his pretty lips suckle on your sensitive clit.

“K-Kyle!” you wail, feeling a hot ball swell up in your tummy.

“What is it, my heart?” he coos, looking up at you through his lashes.

“I-Is it supposed to feel like this?” you meekly ask, lips swollen from biting them through your pleasure.

“Like what?” he asks, slowly moving his fingers snug inside your walls, careful not to hurt you. You’re coating them in sweet, syrupy slick and it’s a marvelous sight.

You twitch when he does that, your head falling back against the pillows, “Good.”

“You deserve nothing but pleasure, my heart,” he coos, eyes locking back onto the sight of his fingers stuffed inside your cunt.

When he pulls them back, they’re coating in a milky white sheen. The sight makes him moan under his breath, carefully fucking you with them in preparation for something bigger. He keeps the pace slow, not wanting to overwhelm you with pleasure. His fingers crook upwards, hitting that gooey little spot inside that makes your hips buck up. Your cheeks burn when you hear the filthy, wet, sticky noises that come from where he’s fucking you open on his fingers.

He can’t believe he gets to see you like this; open and exposed for him. Any ounce of shyness has completely evaporated, allowing him full view of you in your basest, dirtiest state.

“I’m a lucky man,” he huffs to himself, still fucking his fingers into that perfect spot in your cunt. You’re making the sweetest sounds and twitching so cutely on the bed from how good he’s making you feel on just his fingers alone.

You can’t even bring yourself to answer, too consumed with how fucking good it feels being fucked with his fingers. While you’re too dizzy to even think straight, he brings a third finger to your hole.

It burns when he pushes it in but he brings his thumb up to rub your clit. You relax again, pain and pleasure mixing intoxicatingly, allowing the third digit to easily slide in alongside the others.

He has you worked open on his three fingers, fuller than you’ve ever been in your life. You’re so hot and wet inside that it feels like his skin is burning, he can’t wait to know what it feels like to have you speared on his cock.

“K-Kyle, wait!” you wail, reaching down to grip his wrist.

He freezes, letting you push his hand away. His fingers slide out of your cunt, your little hole clenching around nothing now that it was empty.

“What is it?” he asks, panic gripping his throat, “Did I hurt you?”

“N-No, I just…” you’re panting as you clumsily sit up, “I-I just wanted a break. It was…a lot.”

His anxiety melts off of him and he smiles, “Alright.”

“Can I…” you look down at his own pants where you can see the bulge of his cock against his thigh. Even clothed, it’s intimidatingly big. You swallow down the anxiety at the sigh and reach out to palm at him.

“Oh, let me undress,” he pants, quickly shedding the last few layers until he’s as naked as you are.

His cock is long, thick and pretty. It’s hard, twitching against his stomach as it drools precum down the shaft. You lick your lips and reach your hand out, glancing at his face to make sure that he’s okay with it before your hand wraps around him. He sighs, shoulders relaxing where he stands at the first bit of pleasure on his neglected cock.

He reaches down to guide your hand, showing you how he likes to be stroked. Your movements are clumsy and your grip is unsure but the sight of his fat cock wrapped up in your pretty hand is enough to make his cock drool messily all over himself.

“Can I…” you look up at him, pretty eyes sparkling, “Can I use my mouth like you did for me?”

His cock twitches at the question, imagining what it would feel like to have his cock buried in your tight, hot throat. But he finds himself shaking his head despite how badly he wants it, reaching out to run his thumb over the seam of your lips.

“It’s dirty, sweetheart,” he coos, “You don’t need to do that.”

“But you did it for me,” you argue, pouting at his words.

He smiles, “It’s different. I live only to give something as divine as you pleasure, my heart. You don’t need to degrade yourself for me like that,” you open your mouth to argue but he pushes you back onto the bed, “Besides, I want to get to the main event.”

“This isn’t over,” you pout but settle into the pillows, letting him arrange your legs so they’re situated around his hips.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he laughs, “You are quite stubborn.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” you giggle, feeling incredibly at ease despite the imposing image of his monstrous cock resting on your stomach, showing you just how deep he’s going to reach when he’s inside you.

He leans down, letting his weight rest on one arm above your head. You feel safe, protected under his body like this and can’t help but wind your arms around his neck when you have him so close.

“Can you just relax for me, my heart?” he asks, lips brushing against your ear as he uses his free hand to direct his cockhead to your drooling entrance, “Just relax…that’s it. So good for me.”

You’re so wet and slippery as he slides the head between your folds that it’s embarrassing. Your body twitches beneath his when he slips the head over your clit before pressing against your entrance again. Your jaw falls open as he pushes inside ever so slowly, centimeter by centimeter.

Your nails bite into his shoulders but he ignores it. He knows it has to burn, has to hurt with how tight your precious little cunt is around his big, fat cock. He forgives you for clawing up his back like this because it’s the least he deserves for bringing your divine body any kind of pain. But he knows it will all be worth it when he’s finally balls deep.

You’re making the sweetest sounds as he works you open, sinking himself deeper and deeper with every passing second. Before long, he balls are pressing against your ass and his pelvis meets your clit. Your walls seize around him at the pleasure, a moan of his own breaking from his chest. There’s a deep ache from the way the tip prods against your cervix but even that still feels good.

You can’t keep quiet even if you wanted to as he begins slowly and gently working his hips back and forth. You have this delirious look in your eyes, they’re sparkling with your pupils blown wide and you stare at him like he’s a god. This pleasure you’re feeling for the first time is hypnotic, addictive.

“You can’t ever marry anyone else now, my heart,” he coos, gripping your chin so you look at him, “No man will ever be able to satisfy you like I can.”

You shake your head, “Don’t want anyone else, Kyle,” your words are slurred as you speak them, “Only want you. I only love you.”

“That’s right,” he whispers, sweat beginning to bead along his forehead, “Only me. You’re all mine, I won’t ever share you again.”

He pulls back to look between your bodies, seeing the way you’re creaming messily around his cock. It aids in the movements, makes them smoother and deeper. He prods against the gooey, tender little spot deep inside of you that makes your moans pitch higher and your pretty eyes roll back into your head. You’re the vision of sin.

One of his hands finds yours, threading his fingers between your own as he pins it to the bed. He uses it as leverage to work his cock in and out of you. His hips slap against yours over and over again.

He hits that tender, sweet little spot inside you that makes lights explode behind your eyelids. You eagerly spread your legs for him, wanting to feel him more and deeper. You’re gasping, moans being punched out of your lungs every time he sinks completely inside you.

You’re making a mess around his cock, thick strings of sticky cum connecting his hips to yours. Filthy, sticky, wet noises of your cunt being fucked just like it deserves fills the room.

“Kyle,” you huff, jaw falling open as your eyes widen, “I-It feels…”

He knows. God, does he know. He feels the way your walls seize around him, clenching and spasming as the orgasm builds inside of you. His balls draw up, his own orgasm brewing inside him.

“Hold on for me, my heart,” he pants, “I want us to cum together.”

“Wh-What do you mean?” you manage to stumble out, eyes fighting to roll back into your head but you want to see him.

He looks beautiful, sweat coating his skin. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon outside, painting the room in beautiful shades of orange that only make him look ethereal. The light coming in from the window behind him gives him a halo, he looks positively enchanting and you find your mouth suddenly feels dry.

This man is yours, all yours. He’s yours to hold and to keep. No one can keep you apart anymore. He’s here with you in this bed, sealing his own fate to be with you for the rest of his life because he loves you like he’s never loved anyone else in his life.

From the day you were born, you were told you were to be with someone else. But you knew, in this moment, that you were truly destined to be with Kyle. You were put on this Earth for the sole purpose of finding him and loving him for the rest of your life.

You squeeze his hand in his when he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. You’re both panting and gasping into each other's mouths.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers, cock aching and twitching within the tight, snug, grasp of your precious little cunt, “Don’t look away.”

You wouldn’t be able to look away even if you wanted to. He has you hypnotized, big, pretty eyes are deep pools of black. His pupils are blown impossibly wide and his lashes flutter with every wave of pleasure he feels within your pussy.

Your body seizes up as that tight thread of pleasure suddenly snaps, “Kyle-!”

His lips meet yours, sealing you into a kiss as his brows furrow. The blissful clenching of your cunt brings him to his own end. He grunts as he spills inside you, rocking his hips to work both of you through the electrifying, dizzying high that you share together for the first time.

You’re whimpering and whining into his ear as he works the two of you down with lazy, messy humps of his hips. His cock is softening, coated in a hot, sticky layer of your cum and his. It’s a filthy mess, dribbles from his length when he pulls out. Your cunt still clenches through the aftershocks, spilling out onto the bed – not that he cares.

Your arms wind around his waist and you pull him flush against you again. You don’t want him to go anywhere, you crave having his body close to yours as you catch your breath and wait for your heart to stop pounding like a scared rabbit.

He lays on his side beside you, curling himself around your body as he tucks himself protectively into his chest. There’s a comfortable, soft silence between the two of you. You can hear the birds outside as they chirp and you can hear Kyle’s soft breaths and beating heart.

“We’ll stay here for a few days,” he suddenly says, “After that, everyone will begin looking for us. We’ll have to leave town by then.”

“Where will we go?” you ask, affectionately kissing his chin so he’ll look down at you.

He smiles, brushing some stray hairs out of your face, thumbing over the soft skin of your cheeks where they’re still flushed hot from your activities. You kiss his thumb when he rubs it over your lips, “I’m not sure. Somewhere that no one will recognize us – where we can start a new life.”

“Anywhere will be a good life as long as I have you, Kyle,” you assure, leaning up to peck his cheek this time.

“I feel the same, my beautiful,” he kisses your forehead, “magnificent,” he kisses your nose, “betrothed to be.”

He seals those words with a sweet, soft kiss to your lips.

this work belongs to rowarn. do not modify or repost to other websites. reblogs OK!

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