#spring boot security

[engenhariadesoftware]

Conectando uma Aplicação Spring Boot com Banco de Dados MySQL

O que é o Spring Boot e como ele facilita o desenvolvimento de aplicações Java O Spring Boot é uma extensão do popular framework Spring, projetado para simplificar o processo de desenvolvimento de aplicações Java. Ele elimina a necessidade de configurações complexas e torna o processo de desenvolvimento mais rápido e eficiente. Com Spring Boot, você pode criar aplicações prontas para produção…

[starkeysbunny]

fashion killa

cause she a fashion killa, and i’m a trendy ….

pairing - drew x model!baddie!gf!reader

summary - when drew heads to coachella for the first time with his girl, who’d been many times due to her job. the it couple known for their fashion sense, dancing in tune to songs at the festival rials up both them, and the crowd.

warnings - sexual tension :p

⠀.ᐧ.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ೃ❀࿔˙ ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ೃ❀ᮬ࿔˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ೃ❀࿔˙ ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ೃ❀ᮬ࿔˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ॱ

the sun was beating down harshly, gusts of wind blowing dust all around. i felt drew’s arm pull me closer under his grasp. his strong bicep, wrapped around my shoulders.

“baby, ‘should pull the bandana up.” he says gently, his fingers reaching around by my neck to fiddle with the bandana wrapped around it.

“it’s too hot. i’ll get sweaty.” i mumble.

he sighs, his hand coming up to run through his hair. “but dust is gonna get all in your-“

“not happening.” i smile softly, turning my head to look up at him.

he chuckles, his hands lifting in mock surrender, his arm stays wrapped around my shoulder though. “alright, alright. i’ll stop.”

drew and i were at coachella. he’d never been before, and i go nearly every year. after the first two times, it wasn’t because i wanted to go anymore. it was because brands would hire me to go just so they could design my outfits for the three day festival in the palm springs dessert heat.

so naturally, drew and i being together for the past eight months, it was his turn to be dragged along to this event.

“i don’t get the hype. i mean, yeah, it’s fun, whatever. but like, why pay all this money to be severely dehydrated and covered in dust for three days?” he had told me earlier while we were ironically enough, in the encapsulated and air conditioned vip tent.

we were currently watching doja cat’s set. we stood in the vip section near the front, which was to the left side of the stage by the regular ga pit.

i was wearing a low rise denim skirt that barely held in my ass, a vintage chanel crop, paired with givenchy boots and my layers of gold jewelry. bangles on my wrists, a necklace, hoops, and many, many rings.

while drew, of course, wore his carhart brown work pants, and a loewe white tee, with a blue bandana wrapped around his head.

doja cat was currently playing, starting her song agora hills. i turn slightly to reach into my shoulder bag—which was on drew’s shoulder because why would i carry it when i had him? i grab a piece of gum, sticking it between my glossed lips.

i look up at drew to see him already grinning down at me. the slight scruff growing around his jaw and the mullet peeking out behind his neck making my stomach flutter. “want a piece?” i ask sweetly.

he shakes his head. “nah, thank you though, baby.”

i close up my purse and pat it gently as it rests comfortably, secure in drew’s bicep.

i turn back to face the stage, drew’s arm now fully wrapped around my chest, his hand grasping onto the opposite shoulder as he holds me close against his chest. i sway against him, my hips moving as i watch the performance. i chuckle when i hear a certain part of the song that i knew.

i look up at drew from my spot against his chest, a smug smile on my lips.

“rub it in their face,” i begin reciting the lyrics, my hand lightly tapping against his chest at each accent in the lyrics. “put a rock on her hand.” i raise my eyebrows, wiggling my left hand in his face teasingly.

he smirks, a small snicker escaping his lips. i turn back to the stage and i feel him lean down slightly, his lips snaking against my ear. “don’t worry, baby.” he whispers. “one day you’ll be walking down the runway with a rock on your hand. my little wifey.” he teases, gently biting down on my ear playfully.

i smile, feeling his arm pull me tighter into his chest. my manicured nails come up to hold onto his forearm against me. my eyes drift over to the ga side of the crowd, and see a huge majority of the audience’s phones no longer on doja—but pointed and zoomed in on drew and i’s interaction.

ever since drew and i started dating, the speculations and whispers were circling like wildfire. the it girl model with the new up and coming actor. who wouldn’t talk about it? but we had hoped to keep it private the first couple months—just us, no outside thoughts.

and we did, not officially confirming anything until about our fourth month in. even then, we didn’t actually confirm. our relationship is private, but not a secret. we don’t really post each other, maybe once or twice. but, drew and i couldn’t give two shits about any of it. we knew we were real, and that’s all that mattered.

“oh, they’re gonna eat that shit up, babe.” drew chuckles lowly, catching the same thing i saw.

i shrug. “let them. if all those girls that obsess over you think we’re married, maybe they’ll back off.” i joke with a smirk.

he scoffs. “you think those are your biggest problems? what about all the guys that have a subscription to vogue and cosmopolitan just to see you? i swear walkin’ in to this damn festival, why’d you think my hand was on your ass tryna hold down this little skirt, huh?”

i shake my head with a chuckle, smacking his chest playfully. “you love this skirt.” i turn slightly in his arms, my glossy lips pouting up at him.

he snuggly grins, his hands reaching around and squeezing my ass in the skirt, lifting me slightly with it to bring me closer to his lips. “hell yeah, i do, baby.”

-

it was now ten at night, the air simmering down to a much cooler temperature. drew and i were making our way back to the main stage for the headliner, asap rocky.

we were walking in tune, in the space between the barricade and the stage, security guiding us and trailing us. drew’s arm was lazily draped around my shoulders, my left hand holding his by neck. my bracelet jangle as we walk, my hips swaying in my skirt that had somehow gotten lower as the day went on. i think it was because drew kept pulling is down every chance he got…

my bandana was now wrapped around my head. as we were many drinks in at this point, earlier we were in the vip tent and i was slurring, all over drew as i rambled about how i wanted to match with him, so he helped me and tied my bandana around my head like his.

the crowd scrambled loudly when they noticed us walking by the barricade, screaming, clamoring, flashes from cameras. i grin, when i feel drew instinctively pull me closer into his side, my scantily clad body pulled tight into his warm frame.

“y/n! drew! oh my god!”

“y/n, give me a chance!”

“drew! drew! i love you!”

“you’re so hot, y/n!”

“marry me!”

i giggle under my breath and look up at drew, seeing him roll his eyes subtly at their comments. we finally make it over to the vip section. it was much more crowded now, and drew situated us so i was standing in front of him, pulled flush against his chest so i could watch the show and he could keep an eye on everything.

i hardly needed security when i had drew.

we waited patiently, quietly talking as we waited for the show to start

then, the lights went down, strobe lights flashing as the intro of fashion killa started.

i grin, turning in drew’s arms to face him. “it’s our song!”

he smiles. “it is,” he chuckles lowly.

my arms lace around his neck, his hands finding their home on my hips. i move to the music, a grin on my lips as i move my hips.

“cause she a fashion killa..” i giggle, my head plopping into drew’s chest.

“and i’m a trendy..” he trails off, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

the song continues and i look up at him, my gold jewelry blinging in the lights. he smirks with a chuckle, singing along to the lyrics.

“my bitch a fashion killa, she be..” his hand comes to my ass, tapping it at each beat. “busy,” .. tap. “poppin,” .. tap. “tags.” .. tap.

“she got a lotta prada,” he grabs my hands, extending his arms as he swings me out, then pulls me back in close to him. “that dolce and gabbana,” he chuckles as he bops his head.

i giggle, burying my head in the crook of his neck. he grabs my arms again, his hands sliding up from my forearms to my wrists as he lifts them above my head. “wearin’ all the cartier frames..” he chuckles as he sings with asap.

we continue to dance and i turn around for a part of the song, my back against drew’s chest. i reach into my purse on drew’s shoulder, pulling out my camcorder. i record part of asap singing the song before drew snatches the camera from my hands, making me turn around.

he starts to film me to the song and i chuckle, my hands sliding down my waist to my hips, rolling them, my jewelry dancing with my movements. he groans, throwing his head back. he stops the recording and stuffs the camera back in my bag, his hands quickly coming to my hips and pulling me back into him.

“fuck, baby…” he says under his breath. his hands come up to my cheeks, holding my face close to his. “baby, you and me…” he sings.

“me and you.” i finish with a grin, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug against his chest.

the song continued, drew and i playfully dancing around, singing, hands all over each other. the night went on, drew taking videos of me on the camcorder, me stealing it back taking videos of him. my ass against his front as he rolled my hips against him, drinks making us a bit bolder in public.

almost everyone in the regular ga, somewhere throughout the set, lost their attention off asap, us captivating their gaze instead.

there would be millions of videos online tomorrow of us—but we didn’t care anymore. it wasn’t a secret. it was just private. just us.

-

what i imagine the camcorder looks like at the end of the night… 😝

[toxicanonymity]

THE LEAK

PAIR: billy loomis x f!reader WC: 2200 filthy words SUMMARY/NOTES: AU where billy lives and is acquitted of the murders. he's your sleazy landlord, and he's obsessed with you. big ty to @clawdee for a thot that did a lot. love this moodboard by @aurorawritestoescape for the vibes. WARNINGS may not have full detail. 18+ adult content. stalking and other perv behavior, detailed fantasies of each other (in yours, he's forceful and can lift you), jerking off, dark use of cum, light degradation, (explicit) reference to billy x stu. sex toy, what the ask says, oh and idk, what if he sucked it?

PART 2 HERE

You haven’t saved his number, but you’re starting to recognize it. His text says, you’ve got a leak. gotta come inside sry. Great, so this psycho is slinking around when you’re not there. And what’s worse: you won’t be back for days. He must have seen you packing your car. While you’re trying to remember if you put all your toys away at home, another whoosh from your phone startles you. He’s sent an image. Not of the leak, no… This image makes you hot with the primitive urge to be bred. 

The pic is from Billy’s point of view, looking down. It shows the bottom half of his sweat-stained white tank, a peek at his happy trail, and, god help you--a massive bulge in his light-wash jeans. His big, tan fist is holding a wrench. And finally, framed by his poorly-tied work boots, his toolbox sits on your kitchen floor. It’s definitely not the focal point. 

You quickly close the picture, but less than a minute later, it’s open again, and you’re zooming in. Your primate brain is saying sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it sit on it, and a heartbeat throbs between your legs. Ugggghhhghghgh. Does he have to look like that? Does he have to be so big?  Does he have to hold a wrench? Does his belt have to be tilting like something might escape from his jeans? A stiff, veiny vision springs into your mind, and you try to push it away. Your panties are already at slip-and-slide status. 

Meanwhile, Billy is making himself at home at your (his) place. He takes his time stalking around your space with the eyes of a predator. It feels like it used to when he wore the mask. There’s something about you that stirs his darkness awake. He’d never stab you, although he doesn’t mind the vision of a knife at your throat. 

He walks past your dresser, bypassing your underwear drawer. He’s more interested in the dirty laundry. He pokes through your unwashed clothes and finds something to his liking: a red thong with a white-streaked gusset. He shoves it in his back pocket, but not all the way. The glimpse of red fabric is a nice touch, like a pocket square for his ass. Too bad you’re not there to see it when he squats to look under your bed. Maybe one day you’ll get smart and buy a security camera–one that you control.

-

Oh, and you didn’t put the toys away, you little vixen. At least not the big dong anchored to the edge of your bathtub by a suction cup, standing proudly with a slight curve.  He can't help but smile as he bends over and braces one hand on the tub. He wraps his hand around the shaft and pulls. Strong suction cup.

/// He imagines you straddling the side of the tub and sinking onto the dick. A little “uh!” when it bottoms out. You gently rock on it, then fuck yourself thinking of him, unaware that his is thicker. ///

He palms the growing lump in his pants, then unbuckles his belt. He sighs through his nose and gently grabs his crotch, relieved to have more room for growth. 

He squats down, panties hanging out of his back pocket. He sniffs the dildo–smells like silicone. Lame. But he opens his nostrils and inhales deeper as he runs his nose down the shaft and could swear he gets a little whiff of you. He kitten-licks it with curiosity and detects the slightest hint of something tart. Then he licks up the shaft and gives the tip an open-mouth kiss. Billy’s never approached a cock this way before.

/// Normally it’s his meat between someone else’s lips. Always in control. It’s not every day he has a dick in his face, but if he does, it’s usually in sixty-nine. And he’s probably jerking it with his hand, choking it like it might kill him first, letting it slap his open lips with each stroke before catching it in his mouth and straight gobbling it, greedily consuming it, commanding it with his tongue, dead set on flooding his mouth before he shoots his own load down Stu’s throat. ///

He lets one knee down onto the discolored vinyl floor, then takes the head fully in his mouth, hand wrapped around the base. As he lowers his head on the shaft, it becomes apparent this is not just a dong. It’s not going to curve down his throat. It has a rigid core. He inspects the dick and finds buttons near the silicone balls, but when he presses them, nothing happens. It’s dead. Maybe he’ll charge it for you while you’re gone. He’s a nice guy like that. 

He returns his mouth to the tip and takes just a few inches. In a few days, you’ll be riding a toy that has traces of his saliva all over it. He sucks hard, harder, then tastes something. It's heady and chemical. He lets most of the shaft out and sucks just the head. He tastes it again. He takes his mouth off the dildo and there’s a little drop of cloudy liquid beading at the dickhole he hadn’t noticed. Holy shit. 

He looks around the tub, picking things up, putting them down–how many bottles of shampoo do you need? Some of these feel almost empty, begging to be re-homed to his bathroom. He gets up and searches your cluttered counter, rummaging around, looking for the juice. He checks himself out in the mirror, and his little smirk widens. He looks hot: Biceps swole from working out. Cock straining his unbuttoned jeans.

He snaps a pic before resuming his search. When he looks under the sink, jackpot. A bottle of synthetic “kum.” He unscrews the lid and you sure have used a lot of it. He sees the bottle half-full, ha ha. Until he pours out just little. He'll replace it.

Billy's phone dings with a text from you. Thought this day might never come. Your text reads, all good? Hah. Of course there’s no real leak, aside from his cockhead. 

You’re stopped at a gas station. At the moment, you care more about what's in his pants than your complete loss of privacy, so you’re playing along. The urge to text him had been too strong, and now your heart is racing, awaiting his response. When he hasn’t replied in five minutes, you feel like an idiot. . And then you’re just mad. Of course he hasn’t responded. He must be feeling so smug right now. You get back in your car. If you weren’t two hours away, you’d speed home to confront him. 

/// As that plays out in your mind, it devolves into a filthy fantasy. When you bust in the door demanding to see the alleged leak, he gets a wild look in his eyes. I'll show you the leak. He charges at you and you don't move. He manhandles you up against the wall, pinning you there while he smells your hair. Oh, he’s strong, really strong, and he’s rock hard pressing himself up against you. You’re dyin’ for this cock, he growls in your ear. Oh, how you wish he was wrong. He’s there to lay pipe, and you want it. ///

Back in real life, you’re staring into space until a van driver's stare snaps you out of it. You find your hand between your legs, heel of your palm pressed against your throbbing front….still parked right there at the gas pump. The man quickly looks away, and your face catches fire. You can’t drive like this. Soaking wet, you get out of your car again. You know the gas station chain has clean bathrooms. Clean enough. 

You lock the bathroom door behind you and are confronted with your face in the mirror--wrecked with horny desperation. You wash your hands with that pink scented soap, dry them, then unbutton your shorts. Leaning with your back against the wall, you plunge your hand into your shorts. What a mess-no panties, soaked through. You rub your puffy cunt, then gather some slick and slide it up to your sweet spot for a quickie. 

Closing your eyes, you pick up the scene right where you left off, this time grinding your bare, dripping pussy against your hand. 

/// You imagine he’s got you up against the wall. He cups your crotch over your obscenely short daisy dukes, then easily slips his middle finger under the inseam for a dip. Found the leak, he taunts as his thick finger pushes into your needy hole. Already got your panites off for me? He tilts his head, making a strand of hair fall in his face. You're dyin' for it.

Don’t - fucking - move, he warns with a glare, then takes his arm off your chest to unbutton his pants, freeing his cock in a hurry. Once his bare cock is grazing your midsection, both his hands end up between your legs. He rips the pathetic, dripping inseam of your “shorts.”  Then he forcefully grabs both your thighs and lifts you against the wall.

And just as he’s shoving his stiff cock into you, just when his girth is stuffing you full, the tension snaps in real life. ///

You shudder and your thighs quake and your mouth opens wide with a nearly silent moan. Slowly rutting against your hand with each bursts of pleasure, you hear yourself whisper, billy as your hips slow to a stop. 

He knows you want it bad. Of course you want it. He’s him–He was pre-trial detention for a week before he started getting fan mail. Now he’s far from Woodsboro, out of Cali, out in the sticks of a town that’s not even on the map. He’s a nobody with a trailer park. He likes it that way, and he’s still got it. You’re playing hard to get, and that really gets him hard.

Getting a text from you at all feels like a runway traffic controller is waving him in for the kill...so to speak. He doesn't reply right away, but it's not because he's playing it cool. He's just mulling how far to go with his reply. He tucks his erection into his waistband and takes another POV shot with his legs framed by open doors of your under-sink cabinet. The smushed head of his cock barely visible against his abdomen.

Too far? Maybe. He’ll save that one for later. Right now he has something to take care of anyway.

. . .

Ten minutes later, he’s reclining on your bed, edging himself with the kum as lube, open bottle on the nightstand. He doesn’t use your panties, or the pics he’s secretly taken, or the audio he’s recorded from outside the thin walls of your trailer. He doesn’t need anything but his mind, and the fact that when you get off in private, you stuff yourself with imaginary cum. You’re that much of a cumslut. He’s never been so stiff and swollen. 

/// It’s so clear in his mind. You ride that cock with one hand braced on the tub, one on your breast. Your eyes are closed and you're moaning. You mutter billy under your breath, fuck, billy, gushing at the thought of him fucking you raw. Your thighs tremble, desperate for his load. Fill me up, billy. When you’re just about to press that button on the dildo, in real life he sits up and grabs the bottle of kum. He brings the open bottle to the tip of his cock.

Then, you press the button and moan please, please. As you begin to fill yourself with his cum, panting yes, more— his whole body shakes. He moans out loud in your room. His thick ropes join the fake cum as he thinks of you blasting more than one load up your cunt. He just knows you don’t stop at one. You don’t stop until you’re spent, and a big mess of his jizz is leaking out of your used, over-stuffed cunt.  ///

He loses count of how many ropes he shoots into that bottle. The last of his load dribbles out. He sets the bottle down on the nightstand, take off his sweaty shirt, and collapses on his back, just breathing for a minute, looking at your ceiling.

-

When he’s recovered enough, he tucks his cock back into his boxer briefs, sits up, and looks in the bottle. His cum is visibly different from the synthetic stuff. He screws the lid closed, holds the bottle near his unzipped jeans, and shakes it in a jack-off motion. He opens the bottle again. “Yeahhh,” he says to the mixture. He’s gonna have to do that again. While you're out of town, he'll be adding a lot more to that bottle. 

His phone lights up on the nightstand, reminding him of your text.  He slings his dirty shirt over his shoulder on his way back to your bathroom. He puts the bottle back where it was.

Then he takes a mirror selfie, disheveled and flushed, with a visible farmer’s tan. His bare skin glistens, and his belt is left unbuckled. 

He sends you the pic and a text: yea just finished

---------

masterlist

More landlord billy loomis HERE

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fic notifications: I rb on @toxicfics after at least one person has enjoyed the fic bc it calms my nerves lol

Thank you for reading and tysm for interacting with my stories!! I've been going through it recently, as you may can tell from my lack of fics. Your enjoyment and encouragement makes a difference on a personal level, not just as a writer - I'm grateful for you all ♥️

[novthirty]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter two]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

a/n — this chapter did not come easily to me</33 finals has been kicking my ass but i’m near the finish line at least!! for now here is a plate of teeth rotting fluff with a side of pining 💕 taking my time to develop their relationship, since it would take a lot for sylus’s heart to be swayed by someone other than the mc. but of course we’ll be back to the full angst by the next chapter ☺️☺️

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open! series masterlist | part one | part three

chapter two: pendulum— spring blooms even in the barren cityscape of the n109 zone, and before you know it, you’ve carved yourself a place in sylus’s life. but like a pendulum stuck in perpetual motion, the two of you swing back and forth— growing closer and retreating with every movement. wc: 6.8k

The arrival of spring marks four months since you stormed into Sylus’s life, upheaving everything in your path. From the moment you quite literally landed in his world, you had been a wildcard— blindsiding him at every turn. But the first time you intentionally surprise him comes when the clock strikes twelve on April 18, and he enters his office to find a cake on his desk. Decorated in black and maroon frosting, it’s lined with edible glitter and topped with his name in crooked cursive, and a crow-shaped candle, to boot. He takes a swipe— it’s a hint of cranberry and… wine? 

Moments after, you stride in from behind with Luke and Kieran, carrying gifts and wearing patterned party hats, singing a terribly off-key rendition of the birthday song. 

“Happy birthday, Sylus! Make a wish!” 

He blows the candles and makes a wish. (There’s only ever been one thing he’s truly desired.)

“Do you like the cake? The chefs helped me decorate it!” You say as you slice it into even triangles, giving him the largest piece. 

Luxurious as his precious office may be, it’s still a tight fit with the whole Onychinus family crammed inside. Luke and Kieran occupy the side chairs while you’re perched on his desk with Mephisto on your shoulder, wearing his own red party hat. (The crow stares menacingly at the crow-shaped candle left to the wayside.) You’re sitting right in his periphery, and his eyes drag downward from your oversized sweater, down to your exposed thighs clad in only shorts. His cheeks heat up and he averts his gaze, glad that you’re all too caught up in conversation to notice.

You hop off the desk once you clear your plate, clapping your hands together, “It’s present time!”

Luke and Kieran are dramatically solemn as they hand over their present, wiping away a fake tear, “We battled against hundreds of bidders to secure this for our beloved boss.”

Sylus takes the thin present, crudely wrapped with a cartoonish dinosaur paper, unravelling it to discover a vinyl record. A vintage edition, the last one missing from his collection of a late artist, one that you had likened to someone named Frank Sinatra whenever he would play it on the office sound system.

“It’s acceptable,” He says, but the twins have been with him enough to know that it’s Sylus language for ‘Thank you for this amazing gift, I will treasure it until my dying days.’ Or at least, that’s what they tell themselves as they dramatically jump in joy. 

He initially didn’t expect you to bring a present— although with your personality, he should’ve known you’d be appalled at the idea of coming empty-handed. Throughout the celebration, his eyes are immediately drawn to your uncharacteristic nervousness, which you hide well under the veneer of a joyous mood. But he can spot you fidgeting with the strings of the ribbon, the way you hesitantly place the gift on his desk. It unnerves him to see your usual force of nature dimmed, looking like a scolded puppy with your tail low and eyes sheepish.

The package is thick and lumpy in his hand, yet perfectly wrapped with a ribbon to top it off. (You wouldn’t have stood for anything less.) He delicately undoes the ribbon, carefully unwrapping the gift to find a soft knitted cardigan, with a embroidered patch of a crow sewn onto the breast pocket. 

“Did you make this yourself?” He asks, looking back up at you. 

“Yeah,” You answer, shifting hesitantly from your spot on the desk.

You don’t have a lot to your name in this world, and for a man like Sylus— who can summon nearly anything he desires with a snap of his fingers— there wasn’t a whole lot you could give. So instead, you resorted to your knitting needles, pouring your heart and effort into every stitch using some of the softest yarn you knew of (which took several spools of, considering his size, and made a significant dent in your wallet). But the days leading up to the surprise celebration still wracked you with nerves. Would it look too frumpy on him? Would it look too simple? Would a man who prefers opulence even appreciate such a simple gift?

But Sylus runs his fingers carefully over each delicate stitch, unable to comprehend how every inch of this cardigan was made with your own bare hands. People will bend over backwards to earn his favor, but no one has ever put so much genuine effort and care just to make him happy, on such a measly event as a birthday, no less. 

He doesn’t know what to say as you await his reaction, caught off guard by the heartwarming gesture you’ve just given him. And so, he ends up detracting, “How did you get my measurements?” He narrows his eyes at you mischievously. 

He spots the tick of your eyebrow as your face morphs from nervousness into annoyance. “I send in orders for your replacement clothes when they get ruined on missions,” His eyes dance with mischief as he looks away in mock skepticism.  “What's that look for? How do you think I got them?!” It turns into banter— as it always does between the two of you— but inwardly, you feel relief when he wears the cardigan immediately.

The celebration is a silly endeavor that lasts no more than an hour before he kicks everyone out of his office. But try as he might, he can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day— nor does he take off the cardigan.

When May comes, you rope him into the preparations for Luke and Kieran’s birthday. Due to your incessant nagging, he’s since downloaded your shared digital calendar— complete with monthly, weekly, daily, and hourly agendas— and chosen to ignore it. “The calendar exists for you to be on time,” You seethe whenever he steps into his office late, the little shit smirking as if you didn’t just rearrange his schedule to hell and back for that one hour-long meeting he missed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s exempt from any festivities you enforce upon the household.

The twins’ celebration is a significantly more chaotic affair than his, involving a two tiered cake and a booking for a laser tag arena. The event is more so you and Sylus babysitting the two hellions as they wreak havoc upon the civilians unfortunate enough to encounter them. It ends with a trip to the medical ward and a formal apology to the owner of the arena. But despite the casualties, it’s the most fun Luke and Kieran have had since they joined Onychinus. (Fun that wasn’t self-orchestrated, at least). 

Your presence brings a liveliness to his found family, something that grounds you all in this high-paced line of work. A presence that, little by little, seeps into his life to the point he can no longer imagine living without it.  

—————————————————————

“Is this payback for nagging you too much?” You huff after squeezing yourself into another ruffled monstrosity. 

He lounges on the plush sofa like it’s his throne, swirling a glass of wine in his hands as he watches your suffering like live entertainment. He belongs here, you think, surrounded by opulence and marbled floors. A dragon surrounded by treasures.

As if it wasn’t enough that you make sure his life keeps running smoothly, Sylus recently enlightened you with the task of accompanying him to the next protocore auction. With your closet still bare of anything other than essentials, you tried to beg off the event with the excuse of having nothing to wear— only for him to drag you to a fancy boutique. You should’ve expected it from the rich bastard. “If you don’t want to go, you can just tell me. No need to make excuses,” He drawled. “It's not like you have a choice either way, Miss Secretary.” 

Being raised in a middle-class household, your eyes widened at the array of extravagant dresses brought out for your perusal. The fanciest place you had been to up until now was the chain seafood restaurant down the block from your family home. The staff led you to a private dressing room, where you were now trying on a number of lavish dresses and shoes.

“Slave driver,” You cursed him under your breath, as you strapped yourself into another pair of heels behind the curtain.

“No one's forcing you to wear heels,” He calls from the lounging area, hearing your struggle. “With me by your side, you could wear pajamas and no one would dare say a word.” 

You stood up, balancing yourself on the thin heel and peeking out the curtain to glare at him, “I have willpower. If you’re dragging me to a fancy auction I will not look unprofessional next to you.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Sure, darling. Whatever you say.”

You muttered that to yourself for the next hour or so, I have willpower! as you tried on a number of ridiculously uncomfortable (especially for how expensive they were) garments. You believed yourself a little less with each one. 

Eventually, you settle on an elegant black dress, a practical and comfortable choice that would fit multiple occasions. He insists that you could have chosen something more extravagant; but considering this was on Sylus’s card, you didn’t want to push your luck with the price tags. He goes to the cashier to pay as you’re changing, only for you to come out to thrice the number of bags.

“This is not�� just the dress and heels I tried on,” Your shoulders tense, peering into the bags and spotting the other pieces you mentioned liking, as well as more luxurious everyday items you never even glanced at, considering the purpose of your trip here was for formal wear. 

“I figured it would be practical. This won’t be the last event you’ll be accompanying me to, after all,” You internally withered as he smirked at you knowingly, “Besides, you did say your closet was looking bare, hm? Let's fix that.”

What you thought would be a quick trip turns into hours as he insists on buying you new clothes. “Everyone employed under Onychinus has a uniform budget,” He reasons with you. 

For mission gear and weapon repairs, you want to retort. You narrow your eyes every time you come out of the changing room to see twice the number of things you initially picked out. Your discomfort only grows with each stop, every shopping bag serving as a reminder of the exorbitant costs. 

By the time you get back to the compound, you intentionally look away from any receipts for your own peace of mind, instead getting to the pile of work waiting for you at home. (Home. When did this place become home?) Memorizing important guests and clients, researching proper etiquette, learning enough about protocores to not seem like a total fool at Sylus’s side. “I'm a liberal arts student, I wasn’t built for this shit,” You mutter as you flip through scientific records that look like a foreign language. You miss when protocores were just colored shapes that made your team overpowered.

Even with all the preparation you’ve done, you still find yourself wracked with nerves on the day of the auction. Though, you think you’re doing a good job of hiding it, sipping wine at Sylus’s side as he peruses the various protocores on display. Fortunately, you haven’t had to do much talking; your role so far has been taking notes and pulling up important documents when needed. 

You feel out of place in the lavish ballroom, but then again, you feel out of place in this world in general. You manage to mingle and socialize with the contacts you’re familiar with, but as the hours pass you start regretting your choice of footwear. Sylus, of course, notices. “Let's take a break,” He says halfway through the night. You follow him to a lounging room, taking a seat as he leaves to grab drinks, when a man approaches you. 

You vaguely know of him, having communicated with him— or rather, his secretary— through emails on official Onychinus business before. It’s a light conversation, he asks you where you’re from, why you’re here. You can tell his intentions by the way he leans forward, eyes glittering as his cologne invades your senses (You desperately try not to breathe in the overpowering scent). You decide to indulge him as you wait for Sylus to return; he seems nice enough, after all.

Right until you mention that you’re Sylus’s secretary. All of a sudden, his gaze turns steely and derisive— as if you’re no longer a prize to be won, but something beneath him. His compliments turn into insinuations of your character, “Some people really know how to… position themselves, huh?” He shamelessly takes a step closer, a lecherous grin on his face, “Maybe you should start thinking about who to… align with next.” 

You’ve never been a hot-headed person. But standing here, being belittled at what’s supposed to be a formal, respectable occasion, is not something your parents ever taught you to tolerate. “Excuse me, but that is extremely rude and I'd like for you to leave this table,” You respond coldly. “My boss will be returning any time soon.”

This only fuels his disparaging comments, your fist tightening against the table as he continues to degrade you to your face. Behind the two of you, Sylus overhears everything. His fist tightens around the stem of his glass as he marches over, prepared to strike it against his head— but as always, you never fail to surprise him at every turn.

It takes one more crude comment to break the camel’s back; a woman can only have so much patience. You grab his glass and throw the wine in his face, his expression morphing into one of disbelief and anger. “Leave me alone before I find something else to throw at your face,” You spat. 

The scene attracts attention from the other guests in the room as the man curses at you, pulling a gun out of his left pocket. You step back, heart bursting out of your chest at the sight of the weapon. 

Before he can even aim, Sylus has already stepped in, grabbing the pistol with one hand and his neck with the other. “Ah, here I was thinking that the rules clearly stated no weapons,” His grip tightens as the man chokes in his grip, “Lucky for me, I only need my fists.” 

Though it may have been lifetimes ago, Sylus's draconic tendencies still show through his temper— and less often, his desire to protect. The moment this rat intended to hurt you, his vision turned red and his fists were no longer under his control. 

It takes your pleas to stop and Sylus nearly strangling the man before security steps in, called by passing onlookers who’d observed the entire incident. The man was powerful and could have gotten away with threats, maybe even plain murder, if only it weren’t Sylus that he crossed. “An insult to her is an insult to me,” He admonishes the organizers as they bow in apology after the whole ordeal. All the while, you’re shrinking underneath the piercing gazes of those who witnessed the events unfold.

The incident is enough for him to call it a night. You breathe a sigh of relief as you step outside. Though you were shivering inside the air-conditioned ballroom, the balmy air now brushes against your skin, summer humidity taking its course after a fleeting spring. Your heels clack against the pavement, feet dragging with every aching step as your new heels haven’t broken in yet. Sylus had forgone his usual motorcycle and had a private driver bring the two of you to the event, but with your early departure, you were left to walk aimlessly around Linkon City as you wait for the car. 

“The event was rather disappointing, really.” He languidly commented, as if he didn’t nearly strangle a man blue.

“No shit, considering you beat someone up.” You huffed, crossing your arms and walking ahead of him. “You've been eyeing one of the protocores on their display for a while. Now your plans have been derailed—“ 

“Darling, if they’re not competent enough to screen their guests properly, then they have no business selling protocores.”

“But still, this man is your business associate,” Your brows furrow as you rub your forearms, goosebumps forming from the breeze passing by. “This incident is going to cause you unnecessary trouble.”

His footsteps stop, and you turn around to face him— an uncharacteristically solemn look on his face as he takes off his jacket and drapes it across your shoulders. He says your name, “He pulled a gun on you. Do not think I won't prioritize your safety above my business ventures.” The man wasn’t even worth using his evol for, succumbing pathetically to his mere grip. His lost partnership is nothing to Onychinus. 

You shuffle your feet guiltily, drowning in the oversized blazer. Sylus offers his arm to you, “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to eat, shall we?”

You take refuge at a family-owned diner a few blocks down, the smell luring you in with the promise of greasy food. The two of you stick out like a sore thumb, with your floor-length dress and his suit, as some of the only customers left in the last hour before closing. The analog television in the corner drones with some football game, as you and Sylus feast on burgers and milkshakes after a night of experimental hors d’oeuvres you couldn’t even pronounce.

You’re dead at your feet, too weary to care much about your surroundings since you left the venue. To your surprise, it’s Sylus who breaks the silence, “I apologize for what happened earlier.” You look up in surprise, “You’ve been silent for the better part of the night, I didn’t realize it bothered you this greatly.”

The guilt slowly crept up on him, seeing how shaken you were after the incident. He forgets sometimes, that not everyone has been exposed to the dangers of his world. You were a civilian— and not only that, a good person. Soft and averse to violence in a way he never had the privilege to be. Though you may work for him now, it was only from the safety of the Onychinus compound, shielded from the darker elements of his job.

You smile wearily, “I'm just tired, don’t worry.” You set your burger down and fiddle with your hands, “To be honest… it did bother me. I've always been taught that violence should be a last resort, to only use as much force as the situation demands.

“But you’re right. There's a lot I don't understand about this world… but I know that if you’d stepped in a moment later, it could’ve gone much worse.” There’s more to the N109 Zone than the storyline you’d grown familiar with in your world, or the distant image you’ve formed from the safety of Sylus’s office. Like it or not, this would be your home for the foreseeable future, and you can’t live on the same moral framework you once did.

He smirks, “And what would I have done without my dearest secretary?”

You raise your milkshake snootily, “Crash and fall apart, of course.” 

It eases into light banter after that, something more familiar to the both of you. At some point, you even accidentally spill sauce onto his blazer still laying atop your shoulders. “Oops, sorry,” You apologize without an inch of remorse in your voice.

He’s quick to retort, “Ah yes, my designer blazer of which there were only five made in production.”

You roll your eyes and drone sarcastically, “Oh no, the millionaire stained his limited edition jacket, boo hoo.”

“I’d like you to know—” He starts again after taking a bite of his burger, looking comically serious despite the small crumb by his cheek. You suppress the urge to wipe it off for him. “—as much as I admire your courage to stand up to a man a head taller than you, I'd rather you not throw drinks at crime lords unless I'm by your side. Not even my name could protect you if he pulled out that gun even a moment earlier.” 

Though he’s managed to keep you relatively out of the spotlight, after tonight, there was bound to be more eyes on you. As much as his name affords you power and protection, it also paints a target on your back. He appreciates that you don’t stand for that kind of disrespect, but he will always put his foot down when your safety is on the line. 

You take a deep breath in, looking out the window to the soft streetlights and the clear stars of a summer night. “That was really reckless of me, I know that. I appreciate that you came to my defense, and I won't do it again. It’s just that…” You turn to face him once again, giving a lighthearted shrug, “Sometimes, this whole world still feels like a dream to me. That my actions won’t matter in the end, no consequences. That any moment now, I'll wake up, and…” 

You trail off. You like to avoid that train of thought when you can. 

“Your presence is more important than you think,” He mutters your name. Not Miss Secretary, not darling or dear, but your name. “So, you can’t disappear on me anytime soon.” I still need you around, goes unsaid. 

The clock strikes ten and the owners kick you out, “You lovebirds better get home, the trains will be running their last stop anytime soon.” Neither of you step in to correct them, bidding the elderly couple a good night.

For a minute, you’re lost in the haze of a starry sky and a full stomach, humming a song from your old world— when suddenly, you trip over a step you didn’t see, comically twisting and falling on your butt. 

He starts with a chuckle and evolves into booming laughter, Sylus absolutely losing it as you pout in offense, “You’re absolutely insufferable!” You exclaim as he cackles at your attempts to get up on the thin heel of your shoe. You’ve never seen Sylus like this, even in the game. Eyes sparkling under the glow of the streetlights, bellowing with genuine uncontrollable laughter.

You begrudgingly accept his hand even as he uses the other one to wipe his tears. “It was not that funny,” You huff— but his laugh is so ridiculous you can’t help but giggle. You continue walking, his hand never leaving yours.

Midsummer is marked by the longest days of the year, of perpetual sunshine and the drone of cicadas. The N109 Zone was anything but that, the total antithesis to what was once your home. But under this night sky— surrounded by good food and good company, the weight of his stare and his hand clutched in yours— you think that maybe, just maybe, nights could be enough for you, as well. 

—————————————————————

Over the blinding camera flashes and the roar of jeering crowds, you hold tight to the bouquet in your arms, jumping and cheering for Sylus even though you have absolutely no clue what’s going on.

It was a few days before that you stepped into his private boxing ring and found out about his upcoming match. “I don't know why I'm surprised. I bet no one knows it's actually the big bad Onychinus leader up there in the ring. You probably have some stage name, no? Something corny like dragon or crow.” His deadpan stare tells you all you need to know, “How original.”

Despite your less than enthusiastic response, like a proud parent, you still show up to the day of the match with a bouquet and a vintage camera you scavenged from the compound. “Smile for the picture!” You holler from outside the rope as he wraps his fist in tape, a deadpan stare meeting the flash. 

“What are you doing here?” He jumps the rope to meet you at the sidelines, the stands slowly filling in behind you, “This isn’t in your job description, you know.”

“I know that? I scavenged through that contract for any loophole to get out of your auctions, just so you know,” You scoffed, setting your bag down with a thump on the grimy cement floors. " Of course I'm gonna be here, it’s your match!” You blabber on about the flowers, how they’re supposed to mean fortune and good luck. But his thoughts are otherwise occupied. 

He had thought this might be a little… juvenile, for you, watching two grown men beating each other up for a medal and prestige. It seems like an activity you’d be distasteful of, but you’re here, you showed up and… are decked with all sorts of essentials, apparently. He peers into the bag to find a first aid kit fit for war, enough towels to supply a family, an electric fan, all stuffed inside a misleadingly small tote bag. His heart stutters in his chest. Not even the twins or Mephisto attend his matches.

When the event officially starts, you stay at his corner the whole time; from his pre-fight rituals to pep-talking during downtime, dabbing at his sweat and blasting an electric fan over him as the coach reams his ass. His own personal cheerleader supporting him from outside the ring (never mind the fact you couldn’t tell whether he was winning or not). 

It’s hard to watch, having to cringe and look away as Sylus gets brutally socked in the face, blood splattering out of his mouth as the crowds yell to finish him. It’s even harder to watch him in the locker room afterwards, head down and pride bruised.

“Let me patch you up,” You take a seat on the bench, dabbing a cotton with ointment to his split lip. You know his evol will heal everything by the time he gets home— but some bruises bloom where no one can see.

“My knuckles may be bruised, but I'm not incapacitated,” He glares at you as you bring out the ladybug-patterned bottle of ointment. Hmph. You thought it was cute. “Don’t you have more important things to do than play nurse?” His words cut more than usual, a light blow to your ego but you stand your ground.

“Unfortunately, my boss took the day off to go participate in modern day bloodsport. So no, actually. I don't have anything better to do.” You roll your eyes, twisting the bottle closed. 

“Well, you must be disappointed. You’ve wasted your day off placing bets on a losing dog.” 

He can’t hide the bitter taste in his mouth, not when he still hears the jeers of the crowd, still feels the pounding headache from being pummeled on the floor. His ambition has always been both his trump card and Achilles heel, and he wants nothing more than to push your comfort and reassurance away. (He doesn’t feel he deserves it.) But as always, you read him like a book. 

“Hmph. Who says I bet on you?” You cheekily suggest. 

He scoffs in offense, “I suggest you stop talking if you’d like to receive your paycheck intact.” 

You smile and roll your eyes. There’s your Sylus. “It's still my job to be there, win or lose. Not as your secretary but as your friend. If it helps—“ You poke his cheek. “—you’re still my big, bad, scary boss. Even if I just witnessed you get beaten to a bloody pulp.”

He's so focused on watching you pack your things, that you startle him when you wrap your arms around him. He stiffens; it’s been far too long since he experienced physical contact that wasn’t drenched in violence. But he relaxes into it, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. “Come on, let’s go home.”

—————————————————————

The nights are endless and tiresome as your insomnia persists, but as months pass by with no sign of returning to your world, you learn ways to cope. 

On some evenings, you decide to sneak into the kitchen, pulling out flour and eggs for all sorts of midnight snacks. It reminds you of a simpler, albeit more stressful time; taking a break in the wee hours of the morning, setting aside your notes to make comfort food with your roommate. 

Sylus eventually discovers your nighttime activities, slipping into the kitchen to find you covered in flour, making enough cookies to feed an army. “It seems like a rat has snuck into the kitchen,” He teases, “You do realize we have private chefs on call, right? You could have ordered food if you were hungry.” Despite his words, he still rolls up his sleeves and grabs the bowl from your hands, mixing a stubbornly resistant batch of batter. 

You silently accept the help and move on to shaping the cookies. With his help, the treats are in the unnecessarily massive oven and freshly baked within the next hour. The two of you spend the rest of the evening indulging in freshly baked cookies and talking about everything from work to the surprising amount of gossip intel you’ve accumulated about his business associates, until he asks you why you’re up this late.

“I was hungry,” You shrug, but he raises an eyebrow, knowing full well that you’re not telling the truth. You sigh, “You already know I have trouble sleeping. At least this way my hands are occupied..." These days you can’t even fall asleep at all, succumbing to deep exhaustion mere hours before your shift. 

It hadn’t escaped Sylus’s notice, the way your eyebags have deepened, your movements sluggish and back hunched, even though your work remains the same quality. He'd insisted once, that you take a day off, but you’d laughed and said, “And do what? Explore the lovely sights of the N109 Zone?”

“As an employee of Onychinus, you have full access to the medical ward. You can schedule a doctor’s consultation, if that’s what you need,” He carefully suggests.

“That would be nice,” You answer noncommittally. You don’t know how much medicine differs between your world and his, but you probably have to get that done eventually. 

The two of you clear a whole tray of cookies, leaving another for Luke and Kieran to feast on in the waking hours and cleaning the kitchen upon your insistence. “We have cleaners who can take care of this in the morning,” He complains. 

“Hush, that would be rude,” You admonish him and place a rag in his hands. He sighs and wipes the counter anyway.  

You bid him goodnight, but make no move to go to your bedroom, instead sitting at the counter scrolling through your phone. He clicks his tongue, and much to your surprise, pulls you by the arm, “What– Hey! The hell are you doing?”

“It seems I need to resort to physical force to make you rest,” He drags you down the dimly lit hallways and into your room. He hasn’t been inside of it since it was just an empty spare, collecting dust for the past years. But as the door swings open, it’s practically unrecognizable. Every nook and cranny is filled with traces of your presence; books stacked on the floor, a sweater slung over a chair. It fills him with reassurance that you’ve made yourself at home, even if you still feel out of place in this world.

“You didn’t have to manhandle me into bed,” You pout, and slightly warm when you realize the potential innuendo in your words. “I’m not a child.”

“You certainly act like one sometimes,” He retorts, “Should I sing you a lullaby?”

“Oh god, no, please—“ He smirks at the horror on your face. 

“Rockabye baby, on the tree top,” His voice croaks out shakily, in complete contrast to the absolute confidence and mischief on his face as he taunts you. You burrow yourself underneath the blankets, “When the wind blows, the cradle will—“

“Stop! Please boss, stop the torture!” You dramatically call out from beneath the covers, kicking your feet, “I'll sleep if it means i never have to listen to that again.” You glare at him with the pillows pressed to your ears.

He barks out a laugh, with a surprising lack of offense at the blatant insult towards his musical capabilities. “That better be a promise,” He bids you goodnight, shutting the door and closing the lights on his way.

As he comes down from the midnight sugar rush and the warmth of good company, he thinks, when was the last time he could laugh so easily around a person? 

—————————————————————

It becomes a somewhat regular occurrence between the two of you. Whenever the urge to bake strikes, you can expect that Sylus will be wandering in soon after, alerted by either the clanging of cookware or the smell wafting through the corridors. The kitchen becomes a refuge on sleepless nights, the two of you working in perfect synchronization with each other. Whenever you finish, he waves off your stubbornness and walks you to your room, making sure you don’t wander off again in avoidance of slumber. 

One night, he comes home from a week-long mission gone slightly wrong. What was supposed to be an infiltration of the enemy base turned into a battle of bullets, as he quickly realized that the reconnaissance team’s information was wrong. Though the opposing side was dealt a bigger blow, he’s a little more than worse for wear, dragging his feet inside the compound, knuckles bruised and stomach rumbling. It’s one of those days where he wonders the point of it all. Where everything has gone wrong, and he wants to do nothing but hibernate, the sleep deprivation and lack of real food finally getting to him despite his resilience.  

His streak of misfortune continues when his phone chimes with a text, the chef on duty informing him of a family emergency. Sylus grants him a day off with a sigh, and sets off to the kitchen to make the easiest meal he can think of right now.

You find a pathetically exhausting sight when you enter the kitchen: Sylus covered in cuts and bruises, hair ragged and bloody, chopping vegetables with the pace of a snail. You want to slam your head into the wall. “Sylus, you haven’t even changed out of your mission gear. What the hell are you doing in the kitchen?” You ask, intent on taking over but he steps away.

“The chef has taken a day off, so we’re on our own,” He continues chopping without so much as a blink of an eye.

You sigh, “It doesn’t have to mean you’re on your own. Come on, Sylus. You just got off a long mission. Let me take over,” You try pushing against him, to which he doesn’t even budge but you spot the way he winces when you press against his shoulder. “We cook together all the time, anyway. Go get cleaned up while I finish here.” 

It’s a painstakingly long back and forth between the two of you until he begrudgingly agrees to leave. By the time he comes back, freshly showered and wearing the cardigan you gave him (now one of his favorite pieces), you have not only the salad prepared but one of his favorite dishes on the stove. There’s enough for Luke and Kieran to join, “Something smells good!” Two heads pop into the kitchen as soon as the food is prepared, “I thought we were fending for ourselves tonight!” 

The four of you eat together at the dining room; it’s not a sight often seen in the compound, with how busy everyone is. But grief washes over you with the familiarity of it all, a family sitting down to have a meal together. You know it’s a privilege only you have experienced at this table, and your heart aches that they have never known it. And so, you try to bask in the coziness of a home cooked meal and good company.

“Miss Secretary, we’ve been meaning to ask,” Kieran begins after they finished recounting their recent mission, “How did you get here? I mean, we know that you came from another world and all… But how did you manage to get here? Did you mean to?”

Bless their hearts, the twins have seen so much in their life that not even the idea of other worlds can shake their curiosity. You appreciate how he carefully approaches the topic, even if you can see the eagerness plain as day on both their faces. So, as much as you don’t like to linger on this topic, you decide to indulge them. 

“No, I didn't mean to go here. In fact, I didn't even know it was possible. My world– while different– was far less developed than yours,” You delve into a sanitized version of what happened to you. A silly incident that led to you waking up in the N109 Zone, dimensions away from your own world with no way to return. You keep the anxiety hidden beneath the surface, surprised at your own ability to hide your grief.

By the time you finish, the twins have even more questions— most of which you can’t answer, except one, “Are you going to go back?”

Beside you, Sylus’s heart stutters in his chest. He can't say he hasn’t thought about it before, that he’s never considered the possibility of you leaving his life just as you had carved your place in it. But he’s never had to confront the reality of whether you even wanted to be in his life. After all, you were alone in this world with nowhere to go. What other choice did you have but to stay with him?

“Well, the question is more about if I can,” You smile bitterly. “I've scoured most of Onychinus’s resources, but there’s nothing similar to my case. And it’s not like I'm a scientist who can figure this out with time, so…” Your voice trails off in disappointment, the topic growing cold as you run your fork against the scraps left on your plate. 

It hurts him to see the look on your face, the hopelessness in your tone. He never lingered on the thought of how much it must hurt you, to be so far away from your home. It follows you until after dinner, when he insists on washing the dishes, “I can’t make the cook clean as well,” He says, yet you still linger on the island counter, staring into space.

“You'll always have a place here,” He reminds you, breaking you from your reverie. He’ll never let himself be soft for just anyone— but his guard tends to melt in the face of your presence. You look up at him in surprise, “Although you once said it’s only until you return to your world, you’ll always have a place in Onychinus. So long as you want it.”

What goes unsaid is how he cannot imagine his life without your presence. Without the post-it notes on his monitor, waiting for him at the start of each day. Without the incessant reminders you’ve somehow managed to link to his phone. (A part inside of him screams about a deeper loss; of nights spent under kitchen lights, of soft knits and your perfume permeating the office space, of your warm smile at the end of a cold, hard day.)

A soft, genuine smile transforms your face. “Thank you,” You whisper, heart still raw from recounting the most traumatic event of your life.

The sleep deprivation must be getting to him, he thinks. Under the warm kitchen lights with soft melancholy in your eyes, he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful. He’s filled with a strong urge to lean forward just a little more, to close the distance and place his lips on yours— before he shuts his eyes tight. He shakes his head. What is he thinking? Kissing you when you’re vulnerable, kissing you when his ex-lover still lingers in his mind each day. But he can’t deny that slowly but surely, you’ve crept into his thoughts, occupying his mind more than he would like to admit. 

He longs for this domesticity he’s never known until now; cooking and cleaning together, taking care of each other at your lowest moments. He can see this being forever and that thought scares him. On this warm summer night, the last of the sunshine before the autumn cold sweeps in— he thinks, once again, of the lover that was taken from him. Of the lifetimes he’s waited for her to return, for them to live the soft life they were robbed of. But his heart is nudging him to the possibility of something new, something so precious; and he wonders when the day will come where he must make a choice.

—————————————————————

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[harmonyrae]

A Devilish Duke

Synopsis: You must be cursed, doomed to be an old maid, no one will ever marry you. You’ve tried to restrain your rebellious nature, but when you meet the devilish Duke of Tartarus, you genuinely have met your match. His brazen behavior could completely ruin your reputation. So why aren’t you running away?

AN: I tried my best to be historically accurate - my Google history is crazy & I have 7 pages of notes. However, some modern terms are just way easier to use for a smoother reading experience. All photos taken from Pinterest.

Content Warnings: SFW (future works could have NSFW elements fyi), plot & angst, violence & blood, death of parental figures mentioned, Sylus is a brat, Simon Basset coded tbh

Word Count: 7k

Another season, another abysmal attempt at impressing the Queen. While you hadn’t tripped like last season, you certainly didn’t improve your reputation. Instead of stumbling over your own feet, you stumbled over your words. Why couldn’t you just curtsy like everyone else? Even Angeline Ashby has a better chance at finding a match this season, and she’s a lecherous cow. 

The warm glow of the rising sun was the final straw, you weren’t sleeping tonight. You crawl out from under the blanket and shuffle to the wardrobe to find your riding coat. You braid your hair and tuck it down the back before grabbing your boots. You tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen and sneak out the backdoor, crouching down for a moment to lace up your boots. 

The hem of your skirt dampens with the morning dew. You pull your coat sleeves down over your hands, you can’t wait until the warmth of spring extends into the early morning hours. It’s the only time you can be yourself, when you can go for a ride without hearing your mother lecture you about using your fathers hunting saddle. You’ll always be grateful your father taught you to ride astride, you only rode side saddles when you absolutely had to. 

The door of the stable creaks loudly and you wince as the horses whinny in response. You slide through the door and approach the first stall. You peek over the gate and see your mare, Misty, eating. The stable boy must have already come by, which means you don’t have to be as quiet. 

“Misty…”

She shakes her head, strands of her silky black mane falling down over her face. She snorts, slowly walking up to the gate to greet you. You rest your hand on nose and she nuzzles closer. You take a few minutes to dote on her, giggling as she licks your hand in search of a treat. 

“Come on girl, let’s get out of here, yea?” 

She sighs and backs up to let you into her stall. You throw on her horse blanket before putting your fathers saddle on her back. Reaching under, you secure the girth before slipping the bridle over her head and attaching the rein. You adjust the stirrups, patting her side while whispering praises. You lead her out of her stall to the stable doors and out into the paddock, closing the door behind you. A subtle click, and the back gate of the paddock locks, the open field before you begging to be explored. You use the gate to step up and swing your leg over the saddle, tucking your skirt underneath before sitting down. 

“Okay girl, let’s see where we end up today.”

You tap your heel against her side and she starts to walk, as she warms up you give the command for her to trot. The chilly morning breeze is a welcomed sensation, your mental anguish is finally silenced as the air whips past your ears. Another kick and she’s off, her muscles flexing under you, effortlessly carrying you far away from the stuffy manor you call home. You finally lean forward and tighten your hold on the reins. 

“Go on girl! Go!”

Misty speeds up, galloping through the field as the sunrise paints the sky gold. Your eyes burn from the rush of air, your cheeks ache from smiling, you’re free. Or at least you’re feeling free, your reality is far less enjoyable. 

You ride along the river, watching the water flow and break off in countless directions. You follow one of the streams and down a hill towards a large pond. Ducks waddle across the field towards the water, their babies close behind. You direct Misty to take a turn around a large oak tree along the bank and scream when you spot a man standing just an arms length away. Misty narrowly avoids him and neighs loudly, another horse lifts their head and responds, anxious hooves sinking into the wet soil next to their master. 

“Whoa! Whoa girl!”

You try to regain control of Misty, but your skirt bunched beneath you causes you to slide. You release the reins and cling to her neck as one of your feet slips out of the stirrups. With one harsh kick of her legs, you’re falling. You close your eyes, bracing for a painful landing and yelp when you feel arms wrap around your torso, catching you. 

It takes you a moment to realize the man you almost ran over has caught you. You’re laying on the ground in his arms, frozen. You cautiously look over your shoulder only to realize your hair has freed itself from your coat, the braid fully unwound, your wild curls covering the man’s face. You roll away from him and sit up, sweeping your hair over your shoulder in a weak attempt to mask your embarrassment.

“What were you doing? She could have kicked you, getting so close like that!”

When you finally lift your head, your stomach drops. Of course, only you would nearly kill the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. He sits up, resting an arm on his knee as he gives you a once over. His black dress shirt is unbuttoned, showing a tantalizing view of his toned chest, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His clothes are caked in mud, but his face is clean, aside from a smudge of mud over his right cheek. Silver white hair swoops down across his forehead and as he lifts a hand to wipe away the mud from his cheek you catch a glimpse of a small gold hoop hanging from his ear. A prominent nose, sharp jaw, plump lips, but nothing is as striking as his eyes. The deep crimson reminds you of red velvet cake or your favorite wine. 

“A ‘thank you’ would have sufficed.”

No, his voice reminds you of red velvet cake with how rich and delicious he sounds. His words finally resonate and you instinctively scoff. Gorgeous or not, he shouldn’t have run up on Misty. You look around and don’t see her, panic slowly building in your chest.

“Oh really? You want a ‘thank you’ for scaring off my horse?”

He raises his brow, clearly surprised with your tone. 

“If I’m not mistaken, you almost ran over me. And I could have let you break your arm, would that have made you happy?”

“Oh, you’re so right! Thank you so much, my knight in shining armor truly saved the day!”

You hear hooves approach and turn to see Misty slowly returning to you. She greets the other horse with a soft neigh. The other horse, who is just as gorgeous as their rider, responds in kind. You groan as you struggle to stand up, you may not have hit the ground, but sliding off of your saddle certainly strained your muscles. You gesture for Misty and she trots over, lowering her head to accept your pats. 

“She looks fine to me. And you’re welcome.”

You whip around and glare at him. He brushes off his trousers and stands, his full height making you momentarily forget why you were angry with him. Thankfully, his smirk reminds you. 

“So you’re not only daft, you’re insufferable as well?”

“Daft, no. Insufferable? Debatable.” 

You roll your eyes and turn back to adjust Misty’s bridle. Not that it’s askew, you just need something to do with your hands. 

“I imagine if you had been riding side-saddle that might have gone worse.”

You tense, the reality of your situation setting in. You were riding in a manner deemed “inappropriate” for a proper young lady. You’re only wearing your nightgown with a riding coat and boots. And you’re alone with a man in the early morning hours. 

“I’m shocked, really. Your riding was impressive.”

As anxious as you were, your temper was still too hot to ignore. 

“Oh? And what’s so impressive about it? That I know how to ride astride or that I know how to ride at all?”

“I’ve never seen a woman –”

“Ahh, so it is because I’m a woman. I swear if men would stop focusing on what’s between my legs and rather what’s between my ears, perhaps society could finally move forward!”

The man is stunned, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze burns straight through you, and you’re suddenly aware of every breath, every blink, every strand of hair billowing in the breeze. He steps closer.

“I was going to say, I’ve never seen a woman ride so skillfully. But please, continue making assumptions about my intentions.”

You shake your head. 

“Arrogant as well. You’re quite the gentleman.” 

You don’t wait for him to respond, reaching up to hold onto the horn of your saddle to jump up. Balancing on your stomach before pushing yourself up into a sitting position. Your feet aren’t even in the stirrups before you’re giving the command to trot, waving at the man over your shoulder.

“Next time, don’t run up to a panicking horse. Have a lovely day!”

You hear the man laugh as you take off across the field, back the way you came. You rush home, unsaddling and brushing Misty quickly so you can head inside to start a bath for yourself. If your mother catches you with your mud stained riding boots and nightgown, you’ll get locked in your room every night until the end of the season. 

Thankfully, your mother doesn’t find out about your misadventure. She’s far too excited about the ball starting in a few hours. She spends extra time braiding and pinning your hair into the most uncomfortable undo. 

“The Duke visiting this season will help you.”

“How so?”

“Well, everyone is talking about him. His choice to reside in his mothers estate, the ball he is hosting tonight will be the first time its doors have been opened in nearly 30 years. He’s lived on his fathers estate his whole life, no one’s seen him since he was a child.”

“So they won’t have time to talk about my failures if they focus on him.”

“I have faith this season will be much better for you than the last. Just… don’t speak when we are welcomed by the Duke. Just curtsy and smile. Your sister and I will exchange pleasantries.”

Cordelia was finally home. While you loved her husband, you hated being apart all winter while they stayed in his home in Verona. She would be attending the ball with Rafayel, which would surely be the next topic of conversation after the Duke’s affairs. 

“Now stand up, let’s get your dress.”

She slips the dress over your head, careful to not undo her hard work. She adjusts the sleeves to sit just off your shoulders, given your smaller than average chest size, you could wear more unique styles without turning heads. Your mother encouraged it, claiming it gave you a “more feminine frame.” You slide on the matching gloves and face the mirror as your mother adds the final touches. 

“What kind of theme is ‘red’? Has the Duke ever hosted a ball before? A color is not a theme!”

“I think it’s a grand idea, it’s simple. Understated.”

“You cried tears of joy at the Windleton’s circus themed ball last season.”

“I can appreciate all styles! Now shush, get your shawl and let’s go. Your sister is waiting.”

The carriage ride to the Duke’s estate was lively. Rafayel and Cora discuss the renovations they’re doing to their winter home in Verona. Rafayel promises your mother his opera will debut in the Ton first before taking residence at the Verona opera house. Cora quietly asks about the cut on your arm, which you hadn’t noticed until now. You must have cut it during the fall this morning. You try to distract her with a story about Misty, but she just gives you a sceptical look - she can always tell when you’re lying. 

The Duke’s estate is larger than you had imagined. Your mother oohs and ahhs while Rafayel leans close to his wife.

“He’s the Duke of what again?”

“The Duke of Tartarus, he was born here but moved after his mother died. I heard he’s only been back a little over a week, I’ve no idea how he prepared to host a ball so quickly.”

“Money can make the impossible possible.” You mutter under your breath.

You stare at the manor in the distance, wondering why the Duke returned and what his plans were. You’re sure by the end of the night there will be plenty of rumors to discuss. 

You take Cora’s arm as soon as you enter the manor, she’s always been your safe haven amongst the chaos. She pats your hand before looping her other arm through Rafayel’s. Your mother leads you through the crowd to stand in line to greet the Duke. You can barely see past the wall of guests to get a good look, so you settle for taking in the intricate details of his home instead.

Dark red walls, black and white wood floors, intricate iron railings line the staircase and second floor balcony, chandeliers with onyx crystals. Rafayel gasps and points to the ceiling. When you look up you see a breathtaking mural, creatures of fantasy dance across the vaulted ceiling as if they’re flying. 

Tall windows, lined with velvet drapes, cover the entire south wall. Just outside you can make out a large garden and hedges so tall, you’re sure there’s a maze of some kind. You shuffle forward into the ballroom where a full ensemble plays and guests dance. Waiters float through the crowd, carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne. 

“Oh! I see him. Oh he’s so handsome!”

You hear your mother whisper, rather loudly, and crane your neck to get a better look. Your hand flies up to your mouth to stifle a shout, your mother and sister stare at you in shock. You didn’t look at them, you couldn’t look at anything other than the Duke. The man you met this morning, the man you nearly killed this morning, is the Duke of Tartarus.

He stands in front of the crowd with a confident smile, his sharp features much softer in the candlelight. He bows to each guest before motioning for them to head to the dance floor and enjoy the affair. He’d changed out of his mud-caked trousers and undone shirt for a dazzling red velvet tailcoat, a matching waistcoat with a golden brocade pattern and black trousers. His white silk stock tucked neatly into his dress shirt. He looked radiant, truly noble and very different from the dirty wanderer you first met. 

You turn to your mother and grip her hand tightly.

“Mama, I am feeling quite ill, I don’t want to embarrass you further by getting sick in front of the Duke. I will call for the carriage. I’ll be sure to send them back before I turn in for the night.”

Just as you’re about to let go and head straight for the door, your mother pulls you back. She loops her arm around yours and locks you in place beside her.

“You are not leaving the Duke’s party before greeting him. If you still feel poorly after, you may go. But right now, you will smile and curtsey and make a good impression with the Duke, do you understand?”

You whimper and nod. Cora places a hand on your shoulder, but before she can say a word you’re being pushed forward to stand before the Duke. You bow your head and stare at the ground, praying he won’t recognize you. The tall man beside the Duke clears his throat and gestures to you and your family.

“Your Grace, Baroness Raeton, Viscount and Viscountess Rafayel and Miss Raeton.”

You curtsy and as you stand you try to move behind your sister. 

“Your Grace, it’s an honor to be invited tonight. Might I say, your home is gorgeous.”

“Thank you Lady Raeton.”

You hear those around you gasp softly and your stomach drops. You’re about to slide behind your sister even further when a pair of boots appear on the floor in front of you. You bite your lip and slowly lift your head. The Duke stands before you, his smirk now a full blown grin. He looks down at you and you swallow hard, forcing your knees to bend as you offer another curtsy.

“Your Grace.”

“Miss Raeton. Miss…”

He looks over to your mother who is surely in total shock by now, she stutters before responding.

“Seraphina, m-my daughter Seraphina.”

“Miss Seraphina Raeton. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing a smile. When you open them, you see the Duke reach out his hand and look down at your wrist.

“Your dance card, if I may?”

You lift your hand and turn your wrist for him to see your card, but instead of writing down his name he pulls the thread loose and takes the card completely. You stand there for a moment, your wrist still extended, before looking at him with wide eyes.

“I don’t believe this is necessary if I am going to be your only partner for the evening.”

You, your mother and sister all gasp. Rafayel tries to cover up his laugh with a cough. The crowd around you reacts similarly, either gasping at the Duke’s presumptuous declaration or snickering at your baffled expression. 

“I will find you before the next song. I have a few more guests to receive.”

And just like that, you are dismissed. Your mother grabs your arm and nearly drags you off to the side of the dance floor. 

“Seraphina Charlotte Raeton, explain how he knows who you are this instant!”

“Mama…” Cora attempts to calm your mother's poor nerves. “Sera, have you met the Duke before today?”

You slump against the wall and cross your arms.

“Well… no.”

“Then why did he say ‘again’ - ‘it’s a pleasure to see you again’?”

Your mother was attempting to whisper, but it came out as more of a shout. Those around you were clearly listening in. Cora and Rafayel stand in front of you, blocking their view.

“I may have… gone on a ride this morning and… seen him…”

“Seraphina please tell me you were not using your fathers –”

“Hunting saddle, yes, I was…”

Your mother clings to Cora, she fans her flushed cheeks with her other hand.

“Did he only see you riding or did you speak with him?”

“Mama… I don’t know if we should be –”

Your mother squeezes Cora’s arm and she gives you an apologetic nod - she tried.

“I… I might have almost… ran him over and then fell off Misty and he caught me.”

Rafayel snorts, earning him a slap on the shoulder from his wife. 

“Sera… please tell me you were polite and amiable.” 

When you don’t look her in the eye she turns to your sister.

“I am going to get some fresh air, Rafayel, won’t you join your mother-in-law for a stroll around the Duke’s garden?”

Rafayel looks between you and Cora, confused. Cora nods her head and he smiles, offering his arm to your mother. 

“Cora, please… watch your sister. Make sure she doesn’t tarnish our family name any further tonight.”

She pulls Rafayel towards the door leading to the garden, leaving you alone with your sister. You turn and face the wall, balling your hands into fists. You can’t seem to fill your lungs and the enormous ballroom suddenly feels much too small. Cora’s hand settles on the small of your back and she rests her chin on your shoulder.

“Is Misty alright?”

You laugh weakly and rest your forehead against the wall.

“Spooked, but alright.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I called him daft.”

“Oh Sera…”

“And insufferable…”

“And don’t forget, arrogant.”

The Duke’s smooth voice makes you jump, you spin around and collide with your sister. She holds your arm and prompts you to curtsy.

“Your Grace.”

“Are you ready for our first dance, Miss Raeton?”

You stare at him like he has a second head, he surely wasn’t serious about dancing with you the whole night… right?

Cora nudges you with her elbow and you stumble forward, accepting his hand as he leads you to the dance floor. He stands across from you, hands behind his back, that cynical smirk as steadfast as ever. As the song begins, you panic, suddenly worried you’ll forget the steps to the simplest quadrille. The Duke reaches out, giving you the tiniest hint for your first step and as infuriating as he is, you’re thankful.

“You were not… serious about dancing with me… the whole night… right?”

“Completely.”

You grit your teeth and try your best to ignore the chill that runs down your spine each time your hand touches his. Half-way through your second dance, you decide you simply won’t talk to him. His snide remarks and smug expression wouldn’t bother you. You’d suffer through however many dances he wanted and then find a corner to sit in for the rest of the evening.

The Duke didn’t seem to mind the silence, he simply watched you. He steps up and lifts your hand to his shoulder, other pairs surround you as the waltz begins. The one dance you never enjoyed. Something about being led made you feel like a horse. 

“Do you truly find me insufferable?”

He finally breaks the silence and you jerk as he draws you closer with his hand on your waist.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

“Well, this does appear to be a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”

“I beg your pardon? It appears no one taught you proper etiquette. Taking a ladies dance card? Dancing the whole evening when you should be receiving guests.”

“I’ve always felt the host should partake in the festivities. What do I have to gain from engaging in mindless chatter all evening?”

“So dancing with me in utter silence is a better use of your time?”

“It certainly is more enjoyable. Aside from the accusations.”

“Why did you take my card?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

You maintain your smile, to anyone watching you were having a pleasant conversation with the Duke. You shake your head.

“I wanted to spend time with you, sweetie.”

You gasp and attempt to pull away, intent on running straight for the door. You’ll walk home if you must. The Duke’s grip on your waist tightens and he keeps you close. You glare at him, onlookers be damned.

“Have you no shame? You’re being incredibly improper.”

“I would have thought a young lady who prefers to ride astride and speak her mind would appreciate a genuine conversation. You are proving to be a difficult study.”

You’re at a loss for words. This man is unlike any you’ve encountered. Bold, brash, shameless and entirely intriguing. You attempt to scoff, but it comes out as a pitiful huff. When you finally find your voice you look at him directly, feigning confidence.

“I should slap you for your brazen behavior, but given this is your soiree, I shall restrain myself.”

The Duke laughs.

“I do so appreciate your candor. If you’d like the satisfaction of watching someone attempt to do so, attend my bout tomorrow evening.”

“I… I don’t…”

“I’m sure your brother-in-law already knows the details. Young ladies are more than welcome, it’s not as barbaric as you think. And perhaps… I would like to see you there.”

You’re once again rendered speechless. The Duke spins you as the song comes to an end. You face him and curtsy.

“T-Thank you for the dances, Your Grace.”

“Sylus.”

Your skin warms just thinking of saying his name. He bows.

“Good evening, Miss Raeton.”

Misty was restless, she wasn’t used to you just sitting in her stall, she expected a ride. You run the brush through her mane once more.

“Sorry girl, not today.”

She snorts and you kiss her forehead before reaching for another apple from the basket you brought. After spending the morning in the sitting room with your mother in utter silence waiting for suitors - how never came - you needed a break. Spending the afternoon in the stable with Misty seemed like the best option. 

“Thought I’d find you here.”

Cora’s voice makes you jump, which causes Misty to grunt, but once she sees Cora, she’s as happy as can be. She paws the ground and Cora giggles as she opens the gate. 

“Hey girl. I missed you too.”

Misty was a gift for both you and Cora from your father. You took to riding instantly while Cora preferred spoiling her with apples and oats. She holds out a hand and you pass her the brush. 

“Are you sure you want to go this evening? I don’t like lying to Mama.”

You hike up your skirt and step up on the iron bar lining the gate, you rotate to settle yourself on the thick wood panel along the top. Holding onto the wood pillar beside you, you swing your legs. Lying to your mother was the least of your worries. Curiosity was getting the best of you, the Duke, Sylus, is too confusing. He acts more like a stable boy than a member of nobility.

“I’m sure. And we’re not really lying to Mama, I told her I wanted to spend time with you and Rafayel. I barely know my brother-in-law and I need to make sure he’s treating you well. Seems she’s just as eager to know.”

Cora leans against Misty and gives you a pointed look.

“Yes, but telling her we are visiting Monsieur Arnaud to discuss Rafayel’s opera is too far. Rafayel hasn’t had a chance to call on him and if Mama, somehow, speaks to him…”

“Then we can tell her that Monsieur was feeling poorly and we went for tea instead.”

“Why are you going through so much effort to see the Duke again?”

I laugh a bit too loudly.

“I don’t want to see him, I want to watch him lose. Rafayel said Sylus is facing –”

“Did you just… call the Duke by his given name?”

You nearly fall backwards off the gate.

“Did I?” 

Cora nods, her teasing smile makes you blush.

“Rafayel said the Duke is facing the current champion, who hasn’t lost a match in two years.”

“What if the Duke is a skilled fighter? What if he wins?”

“I… He won’t. Surely.”

Cora continues brushing Misty and lets you simmer. Your foot twitches and you want to jump on Misty bareback and ride into the hills, away from the mess you’ve made.

“Mama is still angry with me.”

“She’s not angry, she’s worried. Mama knows you and Winnie will be… challenging to find a proper match. I have no doubt you’ll find someone, you’re quite a catch.”

You roll your eyes and snicker, Misty neighs and for a moment you think she’s mocking you. Then you hear the stable door open and look over your shoulder to see Rafayel with a hand over his nose.

“If we’re going we need to leave before sundown, clouds are gathering.” 

“You can come in Rafayel, Misty won’t bite.”

Cora pats Misty who shakes her head playfully.

“Well, she might. If I tell her to.”

You stick out your tongue at Rafayel and he puts his free hand on his hip. 

“It smells awful, I’m not going to the match smelling of horse shit.”

“Rafayel!”

You laugh at Cora’s scolding. She’s not even pregnant yet, but she certainly has a child. Rafayel is a handful, not that Cora minds. It’s been clear since the day they met they’d fallen in love instantly, you could only dream of being so lucky.

“Vulgar, but not wrong, you both should change.”

Cora gives Misty one last pet before reaching up to help you hop down. You kiss her on the forehead and toss the remaining apples in her feed bucket. You follow Cora and Rafayel into the house to freshen up where you spend far too much time contemplating what to wear to a boxing match. You dab your mothers scented powder over your collarbone and down your chest. 

“And I’m supposed to think you don’t want to impress the Duke?”

You spin around and catch Cora sneaking into your room. She doesn’t let you respond, she just turns you back around and fixes your dress. The dark red linen was comfortable and the ruffled sleeves give you a hint of shape. Cora isn’t shy about reaching into the front of your dress to adjust your stay, propping your chest up like they’re on a shelf. You swat her hands away and tighten the laces of your boots.

“Sera! You cannot wear those!”

“No one will see, it’s not a ball or social event where I need to look like a perfect lady anyways.”

Cora shakes her head, but doesn’t argue. She simply grabs your arm and hauls you down the stairs to the entryway. Your mother chases after you and Cora as you walk to the carriage.

“If it rains, don’t let your skirts get wet. Don’t travel home if it starts to storm, I’m sure Monsieur Arnaud would let you stay the night. And be sure to thank him!”

You wave to her as the carriage sets off for town. Once she’s out of sight, you lean back in your seat and rub your temples. Cora rests her head on Rafayel’s shoulder and chuckles.

“And you wonder why I tend to worry over everything.”

Rafayel kisses the top of her head and sighs with a smile. Cora has been calm since marrying Rafayel, like her worries are less troublesome. He’s made her peace his priority and you’ll never be able to thank him enough for that. 

The carriage enters town just as the sun sets, plunging the streets into a red haze of candlelight and shadow. When you arrive at the lounge you are escorted inside by two burly men wearing matching top hats. You’re taken all the way to the backroom, where a boxing ring is set up and rows of chairs are propped up on wooden palettes surrounding the ring. Almost all of the men wear top hats, you assume it is a sign of some kind of membership. There are a few women in attendance, most of them are serving drinks with too-wide smiles. You cling to Cora, who clings to Rafayel, who walks through the crowd with ease. 

“Right here, best seats in the house. Not too close, wouldn’t want to stain your dresses.”

You raise a brow and he points to the edges of the ring where you spot dark stains.

“Blood?” Cora whispers.

Rafayel nods and urges us to sit. He waves down a man in a white top hat. He approaches and takes a small piece of paper from Rafayel. Once he leaves Cora crosses her arms and glares at him. He gives her a sheepish smirk and bats his lashes. 

“It’s just a bit of fun, my love. I didn’t want the Duke to have no one betting on him. If he loses, it’s not going to hurt us.”

“You’re gambling?” Cora slaps your knee and shushes you. 

Rafayel turns his attention to the ring and begins to clap. You turn to see a large man with a shaved head emerge from a side room. His arms are as big as your head. You swallow hard, this must be Sylus’s opponent. Sitting back in your seat you look at your hands and start to realize where you are and what you’re doing and the image this may be portraying, not that any of these men care, but you do. 

“Sera…”

Cora taps your arm and nods her head in the direction of the ring. You look up and see another door open. You spot the top of Sylus’s head, his hair bright against the dark wood paneling of the room. The crowd around him slowly disperses, making way for him to walk to the ring. An unfamiliar sensation washes over you. Your cheeks flush, your stomach tightens, there’s so much pressure on your chest you want to scream. 

Sylus’s opponent was bare chested, but he had not elicited the kind of response Sylus had. His trousers cinched tight around his narrow waist, a deep line running up his abdomen and chest, muscles flexing as he walked, his wide shoulders gave way to toned arms. You watch his chest rise and fall, mesmerized by even the simplest of movements. His shoulders shake with laughter as friends gather around him to wish him luck. He turns for a moment and you gasp at the sight of his back, defined muscles under soft skin. Cora shakes your arm, quickly reminding you where you sit. You let your eyes slowly trail up Sylus’s body and when you meet his eyes you don’t bother trying to look away. He’d seen you staring, and while you’d expect to be mortified you just… aren’t. 

Sylus smiles and nods. You don’t realize you nod back until his smile turns into a cocky grin. He jumps up into the ring and rolls his shoulders. His opponent, Johns or Jonston or Jones or whatever, sizes him up. Sylus is well-built but definitely smaller. You roll your bottom lip between your teeth and shift uncomfortably in your seat, aware of how warm the room has gotten. Or is that just you?

A loud bell signals the start of the fight and the crowd cheers as the larger man - whom they’re calling Jones - hurls himself at Sylus. He lands a few blows to his sides before Sylus drops to the floor and rolls. The sudden movement surprises Jones and he stumbles to catch up with him. The fight continues like this for what feels like hours, Jones swinging wildly and Sylus dodging and rolling. Finally Jones roars and tackles Sylus to the ground, he slams his fists into Sylus’s face and you cover your mouth, a sob caught in your throat. 

“There we go Jones! Knock him out!” “Show him who’s boss! Attaboy Jones!” “Duke’s got nothing on you Jones!”

The crowd jumps to their feet, arms waving, hands clapping. You stand to see what’s happening, dragging Cora to her feet since your hands are locked around her forearm. You watch Jones continue to throw punches. Sylus twists and knocks Jones to his side, landing a solid hit to his gut in the process. But as soon as he’s up Jones kicks him down again. Jones grabs a fistful of Sylus’s hair and presses his face into the ground. You see blood gush from his nose and when he bares his teeth they are painted red. 

“Sera, we should leave…”

Cora has to shout for you to hear her over the crowds chants. You shake your head, but she still tugs on your arm. You pull free and turn to stand on your seat to see over the rowdy crew in front of you.

“Another minute and Jones takes the title once again!”

You stare down at the ring, Jones on top of Sylus, blood splattered, he’s barely fighting back. He opens his eyes and immediately finds you, not that you were hard to spot - standing on your chair was making you stick out like a sore thumb. He holds your gaze, his eyes wet with tears from the force of Jones’ punches. Your lip trembles as the noise of the crowd becomes deafening. And then…

“What! How?!” “Jones get up!” “What are you doing Jones?!”

Sylus throws his head back and blood spews from Jones’ nose, sending him flying backward. He releases Sylus and tries to steady himself. Sylus spins and pins him down instantly, his fists pounding into Jones rapidly. Thunder shakes the building as Sylus turns the tide in his favor. With one last brutal swing, Sylus knocks Jones out cold. The crowd, once cheering for Jones, goes completely quiet. Sylus stands and cleans the blood off his face with the back of his hand. With a single smile, Sylus earns the respect of every man in that room. Cheers of admiration ring out and you shake as you laugh, totally in awe of the man before you. 

“Seraphina, get down this instant!”

Cora grabs your skirt, you hop down and she catches you. She wraps her arms around you and presses her face into your ear. 

“What is wrong with you? Climbing on a chair like a child!”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I wasn’t thinking. “

Cora grabs your arm and weaves through the crowd to stand at the bar. 

“Rafayel went to get his winnings and speak to the Duke. He said to wait here.”

You nod and wave down the bartender. Ignoring Cora’s judgemental glance, you ask for a beer. The bartender laughs and fills a glass for you. You’ve finished your drink by the time Rafayel arrives, most of the crowd has dispersed as well. 

“They’re closing the lounge because of the storm. There’s an inn across the street, we can stay there for the night. I just need to fetch something from the carriage. Stay here until I get back.”

Rafayel rushes out the door, pulling his jacket off to place over his head. 

“I need to find the facilities, I’ll return shortly.”

Cora trails after you.

“Sera, I don’t think… Can you wait?”

You look over your shoulder and shake your head.

“I won’t be long.”

You wait until she concedes and returns to the bar. As soon as she’s sat down, you quickly walk to the side room where Sylus emerged from. You’d seen him return after the crowd had finished congratulating him. You quietly turn the knob and slip inside. 

The room is dark aside from a few candles in the far corner. You take a cautious step forward to get a better look.

“Bold of you to come in without being invited.”

You freeze, your eyes searching for him. You see a hand reach out and pick up a glass off a small table, as you move closer, you see Sylus sitting in a high-back chair nursing a whiskey. He winces as the liquor burns the cut on his lip. He lifts a cloth and dabs the blood away.

“You’re insane.”

He chuckles and finishes his drink before standing. Your breath catches when you realize he’s still without his shirt. His hand wraps and bloodied rags sit in a heap on the floor next to the chair. You look up at him, your rage barely contained. 

“He was larger than you, he could have killed you, and for what? A bit of fun?”

“I thought you wanted to see me suffer for my, what did you call it, ‘brazen behavior’?” 

“Had I known what this would be, I never would have come!”

“Then I’m glad I didn’t divulge that information.” 

“What is wrong with you? Do you enjoy mocking me? Putting me in situations where I’m bound to be flustered?” 

“Your current state is completely your doing, unless you intend to admit seeing me in pain affected you emotionally?” 

You take a step closer.

“The only emotion I have when I’m around you is anger. You are truly the most impertinent, ill-mannered, nonsensical man I have ever met!”

He takes a step closer, the warmth of his breath fans across your face. 

“Then why were you so afraid when I was pinned down?”

Your pulse quickens and that familiar pressure in your chest slowly builds once again. Every harsh word dies on your tongue as you lose yourself staring into his eyes. You challenge him at every turn and he drives you insane, but you’re itching to know more about this man. You gasp for air through parted lips. Your vision blurs and only his lips are in focus. The dip of his Cupid’s bow, the plump center of his lower lip. The sensations you felt earlier crescendo and you feel yourself falling right into Sylus’s arms.

Your hands reach up to hold onto his face as his arms circle your waist. The moment your lips meet an intense warmth rushes through your chest and straight to your lower stomach. He groans into your mouth, ignoring the sting of the cut on his lip and the tenderness in his jaw. Your hand slides around his neck through his hair, keeping him as close as possible. He guides you backwards and cradles your head before your back hits the wall. His other hand slides down your shoulder, lightly grazing the skin of your collarbone. His tongue traces your lip and you gasp.

“Sylus…”

Hearing you say his name makes him more desperate. He spreads his hand across your lower back and pulls you flush against him. The firmness of his chest against yours sends tingles down your arms. You remove your hand from his face to trail down his chest and he shivers. His thumb traces your jaw and gently tugs at your chin, your lips part, and his tongue slides into your mouth. You whimper at the new feeling and grab onto his shoulder, searching for something to steady yourself. He moans into your mouth as he feels your fingers glide through his hair. You press your chest against him again, eager for more. But he pulls back.

“No. I won’t do this.”

He lets you go and rushes out the room, leaving the door wide open. You lean against the wall, trying to catch your breath. Your body burning and a strange warmth between your legs making you twitch. You touch your lip and let out a quiet sob. He just… left.

“Sera?”

You look up through tear-filled eyes to see Cora standing in the doorway. She takes a step into the room and as the light spills in she sees what state you’re in. She stops, her hand flat against her stomach. Her cheeks flush and she closes her eyes.

“Where’s the Duke?”

You take a breath, your body trembling with suppressed sobs. 

“H-He left.”

Cora opens her eyes and stands tall, pushing her shoulders back. You’ve never seen her look like this and you don’t know if you should be afraid or in awe. 

“I’m going to kill him.”

🐝❀🐦‍⬛

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[nerdygirlramblings]

Meghan Trainor's "Wrap Me Up" has me feeling some kinda way

poly!141 x fem!reader

"We'll be home by Christmas Eve," John sighs. It's been a long mission, made even harder being away from you at the holidays.

"Oh, John," your voice catches. You will not let him know you're about to cry. You take a deep breath and put as much love as you can into your reply. "That's the best gift I could ask for."

Half a world away, he smiles at his phone.

~~~

Two weeks later and you receive word from base the boys landed safely, and Johnny textes when they leave so you wouldn't be spooked when they troop through the door. That gives you a 40 minute window to make sure the gift you arranged is wrapped and under the tree.

You'd ordered takeaway from everyone's favorite kebab place. You know they would have preferred home cooking, and if it weren't so close to Christmas, you would have had a whole roast going for them, but you put effort into their gift and want it to be perfect.

You dash to the bathroom, arranging your hair to highlight the big red bow. Your makeup is understated, a barely there, natural glow accentuated with some gold glitter near your eyes.

Finally, you pull on the lingerie set you'd bought just for this. Red and lacy with ribbons holding most of it together. You'd practiced putting it on a few times already, making sure you could secure everything. As you tie the final bow, the one that held your breasts in, you dust more glitter across your collar and cleavage.

You are already wet, and the boys won't be here for another fifteen minutes.

You know how to take care of your boys, and this present was going to be as much for you as for them. You hadn't had a good orgasm the whole time they were gone. Even the toys they'd gifted you, molded from their cocks, weren't enough. Yes, they'd been together and thus not in so much of a dry spell as you, but you also knew quickies on cots and hand-jobs in the field were a far cry from what they wanted. What they craved. What they deserved.

A nice night at home, fucking, cuddling, and reconnecting would make everyone feel better.

You hear gravel crunch in the drive and lay yourself out on the area rug in the living room, white lights twinkling in the spruce behind you and a fire crackling behind the grate. You're grateful the house has a slight entryway with a wall hiding their Christmas surprise from immediate view. As a final touch, you turn on the radio low to some traditional holiday music.

The door opens and you hear bodies shuffle in, thuds as they drop their gear and remove their boots.

"Bonnie!" Johnny calls, tired but you hear the relief in his voice too, "We're home! Where are ye?"

You pitch your voice to carry over the music. "I'm in the living room." You watch their shadows move, and then there's a body in the doorway. It's Simon, his face bare in the safety of your home, searching for you and effectively blocking the others from seeing anything yet. He doesn't think to look at the floor, so you lightly say, "Happy Christmas, Si."

His eyes snap to you, and you watch the change come over him. He goes from weary to energetic in an instant. "Why isn' this a nice present," he says as he stalks to you. Kyle and Johnny follow him in and track his movement, clocking you immediately.

"God, doll," Kyle sighs. "What a sight you are." He too has a spring in his step you're sure was not there a moment ago.

Johnny moves so fast he's on his knees next to you before Simon reaches you. He stretches a hand out to pull the end of the ribbon across your chest, but you smack it away. When he pours, you simply say, "This is a present for everyone. No opening it without John."

"Oi, Cap! Get cher arse in here!" he bellows. Kyle and Simon are fully in the room, kneeling like Johnny, hungry, revenant looks on their faces. They haven't tried untying anything, but their hands twitch. You can tell they'd like nothing better than to pull open the bows and ribbons and lay you bare.

John finally comes in, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Until he finally pulls himself into the moment and sees you on the floor. His back straightens, shoulders unfurling. He stands larger in his frame. There is pure want in how he looks at you.

"Welcome home, Captain. Happy Christmas," you say, smile stretching wide. He starts walking as you continue. "You boys have been so good, I thought we could start with presents first this year."

John shoulders his way past the others, taking a space immediately in front of you. The others shuffle around to give him space and access.

"You said our return was the best gift you could ask for. Well, you're the best gift we could ever get." He leans forward and captures your mouth in a searing kiss, one hand on your head and the other going to the bow Johnny tried to undo.

The others take it as permission to finally unwrap their present.

main masterlist

[the-flaneur]

scarlet fury (cl16)

pairing: dark!charles leclerc x sainz!reader

summary: following his explosive outburst on the radio, what better way to relieve his anger than by getting back at his teammate?

warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW -> smut ft. rough sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), hate sex, a little bit dubcon (but reader is still consenting), possessive!charles, charles using you (literally and figuratively) to fuck over carlos

wc: 2178

[masterlist] [requests]

as you nervously awaited the end of the race in the garage, you knew this weekend had not been good for your brother, or his teammate. practice had been all over the place, with the mercedes surprisingly looking as the fastest car so far this weekend (although lewis had told you in confidence that he was very concerned about the race pace and the tires) and the greatest attention was on max’s potential championship winning race.

however, as the race actually progressed through the garage screens, your heart sank.

your ferrari boys had somehow dropped behind max, and both mercedes, and when carlos’ mechanics refused to let him pit, you rolled your eyes at the camera which you knew had been panned towards you that very second. it was frankly frustrating at the very least, you thought, glaring daggers at the back of ricky’s head.

but when your brother’s pit lane shenanigans were being called out by sky sports, you sighed internally, watching him cut across the line before darting back out. and it only got worse when charles had gotten on the radio to berate your brother about fighting him on track. the battle for constructors was vital right now, and your brother was not making it any easier for them to stay in contention. eventually, as the ferraris rounded the last corner together, you let out a small grimace at the camera. 

charles’ furious outburst had left a trail of expletives echoing through the cockpit, he gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white. his face was twisted in anger, eyes narrowed to slits as he focused intently on the rear of carlos' ferrari ahead. the tension radiated off him like heat, every muscle coiled and ready to spring into action. meanwhile, carlos apparently to him, seemed oblivious to the commotion, his concentration solely on maintaining his position and crossing the finish line in third, securing a mercedes 1-2 and a ferrari for the podium.

as brian tried to calm charles down over the radio, his anger simmered dangerously beneath the surface, barely contained. when charles finally spoke, his voice was low and aggressive, each word dripping with venom. "tell carlos if he wants to play dirty, i'll show him what his face on the track looks like," charles growled, his gaze never leaving the road ahead. "i'll fuck him over." the threat hung heavy in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. charles' hands tightened further on the wheel, his knuckles cracking with the force. 

as soon charles slammed his car into parc ferme, he stormed out of the cockpit, his racing boots pounding the asphalt as he marched straight towards the garage area, pushing angrily passed ferrari personnel who were cheering and celebrating carlos. oh just how pissed off was he, you thought, his face was still flushed with anger. but when he glanced over towards you, there was an undeniable hunger burning in his eyes as they locked onto yours.

you were no stranger to charles’ passion, healthy or not. as carlos’ younger sister, you had attracted the attention of many young men and women, most of all being his very own teammate. although you had rebuffed charles’ advances at first, you were not immune to the monegasque's charm and had soon found yourself  sneaking behind carlos’ back to meet with him in hotels across the world.

without a word, he charged over to you silently, grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you into his driver’s room, locking the door shut behind you. in the dim light, charles pinned you against the table, his body pressed hard against yours as he claimed your mouth in a rough, demanding kiss. his tongue invaded your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands roamed over your curves, grabbing and squeezing roughly.

now, consumed by fury and humiliation, charles was about to unleash his pent-up aggression upon you. his muscular frame loomed over yours as he stripped off his racing suit, revealing a chiseled torso glistening with sweat. he grabbed you from your thighs before seating you on the table, like a sacrifice ready for her god.

“charlie…” you whispered, nervously, watching him roughly push down his boxers, freeing his massive, throbbing erection. pre-cum drooled from the tip, glistening in the dim light. charles grabbed your ankles and pulled your legs apart, spreading you wide open for him.

"you think you're so smart, don't you?" charles hissed, his breath hot against your ear as he yanked your panties down your legs. "playing both sides, i’m fucking my teammate’s little sister... you're just a dirty little slut, aren't you?"

"you think you can handle this, princess?" he taunted, rubbing the swollen head against your slick entrance. "or are you just another pathetic little tease who can't take what she dishes out?"

with no warning, he thrust deep inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. a guttural moan escaped his lips as he savored the tight, scorching heat of your pussy gripping him like a vice. he began to pound into you mercilessly, each savage thrust jolting your body against the cold metal table.

"you think your precious brother deserved that podium?" charles growled, his voice low and menacing. without waiting for a response, he grabbed your thighs and yanked them apart, exposing your soaked pussy to the cool air. "i'm going to teach him a lesson he'll never forget."

charles roughly thrust his rigid cock deep inside your quivering cunt, not bothering with foreplay or gentleness. he gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he began pounding into you with savage intensity, each brutal stroke punctuated by a grunt of exertion and rage. the table creaked ominously beneath you, its metal legs scraping against the floor with every powerful impact. your back arched, pressing your breasts against the unforgiving surface as charles relentlessly fucked you, his thick shaft stretching your tight walls to their limits.

"d-do you like this, you little slut?" charles snarled, his breath hot against your ear. "did you think i would let your brother get away with this? ruining my chances in the wdc?" he reached down to roughly pinch and twist your nipples, sending jolts of pain through your body that only heightened your arousal.

"nnngh... no, please..." you managed to gasp out, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and desperate need. you knew you were at his mercy, completely powerless under his dominant grasp. charles continued to ruthlessly pound into your dripping wet pussy, his aggressive thrusts causing the table to shake violently. 

"no? then why are you so fucking wet, huh?" he sneered, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he held you in place for his relentless fucking. despite your protests, your body betrayed you, responding eagerly to the brutal pounding from charles. 

"shut up and take it," charles barked, his grip on your hips tightening as he increased his pace. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the small room, mingling with your muffled moans and whimpers. "this is what happens when people cross me."

“but i didn’t,” you whined as charles fingers sank deeper into your ass, gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he continued to rut into you mercilessly. his thick cock stretched your tight pussy to its limits, the forceful thrusts causing you to cry out in a mix of pain and pleasure.

"you're damn right you didn't!" he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "but you're going to pay for your brother's sins nonetheless." with each brutal stroke, he punctuated his words, driving home the lesson he intended to teach.

despite your feeble protests, your body responded shamefully to the treatment, your inner walls clenching around him as if begging for more. the lewd sounds of your sex filled the air, a symphony of grunts, slaps, and muffled moans that seemed to spur charles on.he stepped back, his massive erection bobbing angrily before him. with a cruel smirk, charles grasped your ankles and flipped you onto your stomach, your face pressed against the cold metal of the table. "so i get to use you however i want, since your precious brother screwed me over."

without further warning, charles drove his thick cock back into your dripping folds from behind, slamming into you with unbridled ferocity. his heavy balls slapped against your clit with each merciless thrust, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain through your sensitive body. charles' relentless pounding sent waves of intense pleasure coursing through your battered body, each brutal thrust pushing you closer to the brink of ecstasy. despite the harsh treatment, your cunt clung greedily to his pistoning cock, desperate for more of the rough, punishing friction.

as charles continued to rail you from behind, his meaty hands slid up your sides to roughly palm your small tits, pinching and twisting your sensitive nipples until they throbbed in time with your racing heartbeat. "you love this, don't you, you filthy little cumslut?" he taunted, his hot breath washing over the back of your neck.

"ahhhn... oh god, yes! i-i love it!" you panted out, voice strained with a mix of pleasure and humiliation. each brutal thrust of charles' thick cock sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you quivering body. your hips bucked involuntarily, meeting his punishing strokes as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations. moan after moan spilled from your lips, a litany of wanton pleasure that only fueled charles' dominance.

"mmmph... harder, please! fuck me harder, charles!" you begged, pussy clenching greedily around him, milking his cock for every drop of seed as you teetered on the brink of a mind-shattering orgasm.

"that's it, scream for me," he growled, his voice a dark rumble in your ear, "let everyone hear you scream my name, you dirty little slut!" charles commanded, his voice low and menacing as he gripped your hips tighter. "i want carlos and the whole motorhome to know who's dominating your needy and pathetic cunt right now."

your cries of pleasure rang out, echoing off the garage walls as charles pounded into you relentlessly. "yes, yes, fuck! ahh, i'm yours, charles! only yours!" you wailed, the shameless declarations spilling from your lips as you lost yourself to the intense sensation of being thoroughly claimed.

as your body tensed and trembled, charles buried himself to the hilt one final time, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he unleashed a torrent of hot seed deep within your spasming depths. "take it all, you dirty whore,"

he spat the words out in a guttural snarl, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied his balls into your willing pussy. the sensation of charles' thick cum flooding your insides triggered a powerful climax, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his spurting cock as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you.

as the aftershocks subsided, charles slowly pulled out, his softening member leaving a trail of sticky fluid dripping down your thighs. he stepped back, admiring his handiwork – your ravaged body, marked by the signs of his brutal possession.

"well, that should teach your brother a lesson," charles said with a satisfied smirk, tucking his spent cock back into his racing suit. "now get dressed and get out of here before i decide to punish you some more."

as the overwhelming sensations of charles’ battering against your swollen pussy finally caught up with you, your vision blurred and you felt yourself slipping into unconsciousness. the last thing you registered was charles' strong arms scooping you up and carrying you out of his cramped driver's room.

some time later, you found yourself lying on a plush bed in an darkened room, your head throbbing and your body aching in all the right places. groggily, you opened your eyes to see charles standing beside the bed, a smug expression on his face. 

"i brought you here because i thought your brother might appreciate the... gift," he said, holding out a piece of paper. it was a handwritten note, scrawled in bold letters: "for carlos sainz jr., signed charles leclerc. consider this a taste of what your sister can dish out. next time, keep your hands to yourself on track."

charles dropped the note on the bedside table with a smirk, clearly pleased with himself. "i figured he'd get the message loud and clear," he said, leaning against the dresser with a casual air. "maybe next time he'll think twice before trying to steal my glory again."

he glanced down at your disheveled form, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "you look like you could use a rest after our little encounter. just remember, what happens on track, stays on track... unless i decide to bring it back to the pits, of course."

with that parting jab, charles turned and sauntered out of the room, leaving you to ponder the arousing turn of events and the lingering ache between your thighs. the note seemed to burn a hole in the tabletop, a tangible reminder of the stormy passion that had erupted between two teammates in las vegas.

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[quarterlifekitty]

https://www.tumblr.com/quarterlifekitty/769444052505624576/simon-as-the-embodiment-of-that-bullshit-saying

*holds out my glass and waits for it to be filled*

cw: dubcon/noncon

“Birdie thinks she can fly off from the nest, huh? Nah, sweet’art. That’s not gonna work f’me,” he grits out, shoving you towards your own bed once he’s got the door secured.

Sweetheart. He’s never used that word without venom and cruelty towards you.

“The fuck is your problem? You treat me like dirt under your boot and then get mad when I try to leave? You can’t have it both ways, asshole—“

He sighs, loud and indignant as the springs of the bed creak under his weight.

“You been fucked lately? Course not— I’d know if you had,” he laughs to himself as if this is just some light ribbing. Banter between mates.

“None of your fucking business. Go torture someone else— I’m getting out of your hair, ok? Go celebrate, you prick,” you spit back at him.

“Damn, you must be in heat. That’s it, innit? Need to act like a stray, get it out of your system— then you’ll come right back home, ready to act like a house kitty again. I can give you that,” he says like it’s a favor he’s doing you. His hands are at your pants, pawing and yanking them down while you kick.

“Get off, Ghost— I don’t need anything from you!”

A hand wraps around your throat. You might be good with a weapon, but there aren’t any here— and he has the mass to win.

“Y’know I’m not afraid to start squeezin’, darl’. How much breath you think you’ll have to lose before you start actin’ sweet?” He flexes his fingers in warning, waiting for you to still before he resumes carelessly, fervently undressing you. Doesn’t even bother with your top— he’s just after one thing.

“Such a pretty, wet cunt. This what you were tryin’ t’hide with all that hissin’, kitty?.” He tears his tac gloves off with his teeth, shoving a hand between your legs while the other goes back to the column of your throat, reminding you to behave. “Fuck— an’ she’s tight, ain’t she?” He growls as a finger is inartfully pressed into you.

“Why are you doing this—“

“Told ya. To keep you where y’belong.”

[konosohn]

MDNI. top amab reader x bottom könig [manhandling, unprotected sex, mating press, creampie, german]

I want him to snap my neck between his thighs. Thanks.

You can hear your security deposit saying it’s final farewell with the crack your front door makes as the wood of the jamb splinters. Though, as König presses himself into you, your (likely) damaged doorframe is the last thing on your mind. Your duffle slips from your grasp and your hands fly to his hips to stabilize him against you.

“He—” His mouth finds yours before you can even greet him. Time is a valuable resource when you spend most of it apart on deployment, and you waste none of it, eagerly kissing him back.

It’s desperate and sloppy, your tongues tracing over each other’s lips and teeth clacking together. You can taste the sweat on his upper lip and the bitter remnants of his eyeblack tracing down his face. Your hand blindly reaches for the lock and the second you hear the deadbolt click your fingers are slipping behind him and under the band of his pants.

One of your hands grabs at his ass, dragging him forward to grind your hardening cocks together. The other trails down between his cheeks, drawing a line down to his hole that has his spine tingling. Before long, you’re knuckles deep in him, spreading him open on your fingers. He moans into your mouth, hands clutching the fabric of your shirt as you skillfully zone in on his prostate.

You keep your bodies pressed together as you haphazardly make your way to the bedroom. Every step is utilized; curling your fingers inside him, pulling his pants down just a little further, pushing your aching hard-on into his hip. Eventually the heels of König’s boots hit the foot of your bed. The sheets are forfeit and you readily ignore the reality of the number of liquids and black boot prints that will find their way onto the pristine fabric.

Squatting down, you hook your hands under his thighs, effortlessly lifting his hefty frame up and over onto his back. He sinks into the mattress with a soft grunt. From this angle he looks so pliable, shirt riding up and legs up in the air, his dick lying heavy and useless against his stomach. You love seeing him like this. He towers above everybody he meets, including you, but he’s absolute putty in your hands.

Your eyes catch sight of his own mostly unpacked bag sitting in the corner of your room, clothes streaming out in the direction of the door presumably from when he heard you arrive. A small smile creeps up on your face.

You plant one knee on the bed, looming over him. Your hands slot themselves in the pits of his knees, pressing them up towards his shoulders, and you lean down to coo at him. “Were you waiting for me?”

He nods breathlessly in response, nose brushing against yours. You feel his hand slip between you to cup the erection currently fighting to get out of your pants. His fingers quickly find their way to your belt, hooking under the leather strap and undoing your buckle in record time. It’s not shocking when he nearly rips the button of your pants from its threads to get your zipper down.

His hand grabs at the band of your boxers and yanks them down enough for your cock to spring out. A breathy “scheiße” passes König’s lips as your dick slaps against the cleft of his ass. You can feel his hole twitch against the underside. It’s hot and soft, and every quiver has your cock leaking.

Your teeth catch your lip when you feel his fingers wrap around your length and give a gentle tug. It takes no convincing, you follow his touch eagerly as he guides you. You fall forward, planting your hands on either side of his shoulders. The action closes the distance, pressing your tip up against his rim.

Both of you are breathing way too hard before you’re even started, but the threat of relief after months of not being able to fuck raw until both your bodies are slick with sweat and littered head to toe with love bites has both of you by the throat.

You groan into his neck as you finally start to breach his entrance. König’s legs envelop your waist, strong thighs squeezing your sides as you sink deeper into him. His insides are tight and wet, pulsing around you with every inch. You feel the vibrations of his moans against your lips as you finally bottom out. His voice is low and sweet in your ears.

You adjust your position above him, straightening up to stand over him. One of your hands run from his ass and up his thigh to hook under the back of one of his knees again. “You feel so good, baby.” Your knee digs further into the mattress, your body weight driving your cock to the deepest parts of him until your balls are squished snugly against his crack.

“Fuck,” The air feels like it’s punched out of his lungs. His hands reach to grip at the backs of your thighs, drawing you impossibly closer.

Your fingers dig into the meat of his legs as you pull back out, leaving just the head of your cock inside him. The squelch is nothing short of obscene as you sink back in. Your arms are trembling from the feeling of his tight heat wrapped around you, squeezing you with every inch you slip in. You try to maintain the gentle pace, but as you catch sight of his face, flushed skin streaked with melting eyeblack, hair stuck to his forehead, and glazed over steel blue eyes, you lose your resolve.

The cry he lets out when you slam your entire length back in sends a wave of heat up your neck. His head is thrown back into the mattress, nails scratching at your thighs as you repeat the motion over and over, fucking into him like it’s the last time you’d ever get to. He moans uncontrollably in that raspy indelicate voice, his legs straining to spread further against the pants gathered at his knees.

Your pace is relentless as you pull back against the tight resistance of his hole only to thrust right back in. You groan in the back of your throat as he arches his back off the bed, putting his shoulders into the bed and pressing back against you. All that height and all that muscle and yet he’s still so good at getting fucked. You can’t wait to fill him up.

One of your hands slips down to run your thumb along his bottom lip, “You’re so pretty like this.”

He whines at your words, feeling the tip of your thumb slide across his bottom row of teeth. The skin of König’s ass is blotched with red from your hips. You hardly even notice the sting anymore, too preoccupied with burying your cock inside him over and over.

“Schatz— I can’t, ‘m gonna cum!” His words flood your senses, insides wringing your cock as one of his hands flys to wrap around his own dripping hard on.

You watch his fist franticly work his cock, his hips rolling back against you until he snaps. Thick ropes spurt from his slit, splattering across his heaving abdomen. Heat surges down your stomach to the tip of your dick as his hole constricts around you. All of your body weight goes towards getting as deep as possible inside him, rocking your hips against his until the warmth in your belly finally comes to a peak. Deep resonating moans spill from your lips as your cock throbs inside him, filling him up with weeks worth of yearning.

Your legs finally give out on you, and you topple over onto him. Your hips work gently against his, riding out your high for as long as it will let you. His arms drape across your back as you both bathe in the aftershocks. Your softening cock pops out of him, and your temporarily sated lust preens at the feeling of your cum seeping out of his entrance. You lift your head to look at him, and he meets your eyes with a look that’s equal parts adoring and exhausted. You press a small kiss to his stubbled chin, eyes taking on the gaze that he knows he can’t say no to. It comes as no surprise to him when you ask,

“One more time in the shower?”

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ don't let go, okay? | gojo satoru

wc: 2.1k

summary: it has to be some sort of fate that you happen to be stuck with gojo on valentine's day.

contains: f!reader, slowburn, fluff, reader and gojo are 21, reader and gojo are ‘guardians’ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentine’s chocolate tradition, reader’s cursed technique (vaguely), kind of pining

a/n: in the 'conversations on love' universe but takes place before the main series (would be nice to read but not necessary to understand this). theme song for this is what love is by zimmer90.

part of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within 'conversations on love'. also included in how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)

The night is crisp when you step into it, the clean cut of a cool breeze tickling your cheek; it sweeps past you in the edge of winter and spring. 

You walk along the street. 

A sort of faded, vintage hue paints Shimokitazawa, wooden boards with worn down signages holding names of antique shops in every corner. The night feels older here, retro lights tinging bars and pubs more maturely than those nearby in Shibuya. At the street across, the sign of a cafe is flipped the other way to formally open the speakeasy it transforms into. 

You’ve only been here twice before: once with Nanami and Utahime years ago, while searching for old vinyl records the three of you had gotten into, and another with Tsumiki, some time last month because she’d mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops. 

Who would have thought you’d be back so soon? With—

“Satoru,” you call out, half-giggling, “why are you sniffing?” 

Gojo trails just a few inches behind you, body bent over closely to catch a whiff but not near enough to touch. Each inhale he takes is punctuated with the sound of whizzing air, condensing to fit through his nostrils. 

“You smell like chocolate.”

Out of all the plans you’d anticipated on Valentine’s Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them. 

You shake your head knowingly, the corners of your lips curling; Gojo can smell sweets miles away, you could honestly mistake it for his cursed technique. 

He pulls back, falling into step with you. 

“Tsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.” 

Heavy jazz floats through the air as you pass by a bar entrance, the music muffling as the doors fall shut a few seconds later. Your boots clack against the pavement. 

“Oh?” Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, “What kind?” 

You snort as you dig your hands further into your pockets. For someone who claims to be all-seeing and all-knowing, Gojo is a lot more inquisitive than he seems; his nonchalance is but an added security much like his infinity is, dissipating only in company he’s comfortable sharing that side of him with. 

It’s been a while since Gojo’s been ‘home’ in the past week, so you don’t blame him for wondering. 

“Tomo mostly,” your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, “though I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasn’t looking.” 

There’s a slight stagger to his step as his shoulders tense up, his sunglasses shifting higher as his ears push back. You bite down your laugh. 

For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojo’s grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of them—to Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely. 

‘Home’, which is where the kids stay, but it’s neither yours nor his—just a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. You’re with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, there’s hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you haven’t seen much of him either, besides the rare instances of bumping into him along the halls of Jujutsu Tech, a whine almost always drawn from his throat. 

You see his curiosity as an effort to check in.

He only hums, hollower than his usual responses. The sound of his footsteps fill the gaps of what would typically be a seamless back-and-forth with you; you try not to comment on it. 

Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojo’s silence feels unsettling—as if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you can’t quite get a read on just yet. 

So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around when—

“Did you?” 

The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night. 

Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?

“Hm?” you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better. 

He doesn’t answer. 

You stop walking. 

“Did I what?” you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.

(“Did you make honmei chocolate?” he means.) 

Still, no answer. 

The tips of Gojo’s ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.

His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing. 

“Wanna see something cool?” he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didn’t ask you anything, as if you didn’t ask what he meant—as if you didn’t just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare. 

The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But you’ve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means. 

You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldly—a crazed look you’ve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him. 

There’s really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the mission’s location—an abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighborhood’s nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere quieter, more secluded. 

Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you can’t quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought. 

“C’mon, it’ll be quick.” he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, “I’ve finally perfected it.”

A beat—skipped before your heart races. 

You wonder if he knows, if he’s using this to his advantage, because—

—when have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way? 

The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely ‘to assist’, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. It’s more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum. 

They shouldn’t have called on you, of all people—you’re on Gojo’s side. Always. 

A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.

“Fine.” 

He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. It’s a clear road ahead of you, the streets emptying out to more greenery; your senses are filled with the smell of the earth mixed in with the faint cotton of Gojo’s cologne. 

This is bad for your feelings. 

(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.) 

There’s something brewing between you and Gojo, neither of you have just addressed it yet. He pulls away when the moment is too close but still looks for you first after missions, an almost automatic question to either Shoko or Ijichi about your whereabouts.

You’ve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns away—a reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold. 

When the space is vacant enough, he steps a few inches to your right, left hand stuffed inside his pocket as he shakes his arm hesitantly, almost awkwardly. 

“You have to hold on to me,” he instructs you. 

Your eyes widen, equally surprised and shy as you slowly take your hand out of your coat and slip it into the empty space, resting it on the crook of his elbow. Gojo freezes very slightly. 

He shakes it off just as quickly, “You might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.” 

Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than you’re both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day. 

Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin. 

“Don’t let go, okay?”

Another beat—followed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder. 

You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek. 

“Okay,” your fingers curl around his arm tighter. 

He lifts his other hand up, crossing his fingers as he recites the mantra to his domain. In an instant, the greenery around you disappears, stark white taking its place. 

“What do you think?” Gojo asks almost immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. Your fingers stay curled onto the crook of his elbow, sandwiched between his forearm and bicep; his other hand rests a few centimeters away from yours, nearly touching. 

You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheet—

“It’s…” you try to find the right words, “... empty?” 

He gasps exaggeratedly, “Hey!” then pouts in fake offense, “I made it porcelain white at least. This isn’t pure white you know.” 

You eye him from the side.

He chuckles, breaking his act, “You should be honored.”

A pause—his tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable. 

“You’re the first person I’m bringing in here.” 

His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too. 

You’re touched, knowing how secretive he’s been on perfecting his domain since Toji and Geto; he only ever tells you and Ijichi about it. No one ever pressured him into achieving his perfect domain, but he feels like his existence necessitates it. 

“It’s clean,” you finally say, playing along, “I like it.” 

He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile. 

“Shame I can’t really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.” 

You snort, knowing full well that Gojo’s very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire place’s aesthetic off of that. 

“Someday,” you catch his eyes again. 

(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeat—pink noise that can’t possibly be a product of your technique. 

In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.) 

He hums before looking back to the empty space, “Acoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.” 

You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined it—if he had meant it or not. 

. 

The special grade is dealt with within a quarter of the time it took you to travel to here, but Gojo seems to bear the consequences with another one of his migraines—a mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawa’s night life as you exit the neighborhood. 

You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he uses—an imbued blindfold maybe? You’ll have to think about it some more. 

(When you both get ‘home’, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. It’s a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of it—a fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter. 

The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.

You don’t end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. It’s a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichi—a tradition you’ve kept up since you were 16. 

But, his box has an extra piece, and you even tailored each one to all his favorite flavors: sakura, strawberry, zunda, and anko; his card is the same one you left half-written, just now fully spelling ‘Satoru’. 

So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and he’s realizing that he likes it that way—he might prefer it much more, actually.)

a/n: haven't written col in a while but this is the official launch of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within the 'conversations of love' universe! there are lots of details that connect to some of the col works but this happens before all of the ones released so far (so you don't need to read the main series to understand this, but it would add to the full experience if you do!).

thank you notes: @augustinewrites love u my valentine, this fic wouldn't exist without you 🥹 + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read 🥹 ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[marscardigan]

war of hearts — chapter i. meet the realm’s delight

series masterlist

summary: royal au. ellie williams had a reputation as one of jackson’s most skilled spies. no matter the cost, she always accomplished her missions, and never dared to fail. everything changes when she is ordered to assassinate the only daughter of the wolves’ king. the lines blur. and the mission that should have been easy and fast, becomes anything but.

word count: 3.3k

Spring came early that year.

Outside the castle walls, the city hummed with life. The market square was bustling with merchants selling all types of meals and fine silks, their voices rising with laughter. The scent of fresh bread drifted through the streets. Children wavered between the stalls, their shrieks of joy getting muffled with the voices of their parents.

Inside the palace, however, the sounds of the city were only a distant melody. Sunlight poured through stained-glass windows, scattering patches of red, blue, and green onto the polished floors. Servants bustled about with hurried footsteps, balancing trays of wine and fresh fruit, their whispers echoing faintly against the high ceilings.

But in the eastern wing, where no urgent matters of the court reached, you lounged in a sunlit chamber, draped lazily across a cushioned chaise. No duties weighed upon your shoulders yet—no council meetings, no diplomatic pleasantries, no tiresome lessons in proper decorum. It was one of the privileges of being a princess, free from the immediate burdens of ruling, yet surrounded by luxury and expectation.

The walls were adorned with shelves overflowing with books, their spines worn from use. A great hearth crackled with a low-burning fire, a lingering remembrance of the fading winter.

A tray rested nearby, holding a goblet of expensive wine and a plate of honeyed figs, untouched for now. The scent of lavender drifted through the room, carried by the gentle breeze slipping in from the open balcony doors.

The tranquility of the morning was disrupted by the steady rhythm of boots against the pavement. You didn't bother to rise from your comfortable sprawl to know who it was, but you still shifted your gaze toward the doorway as the heavy wooden doors creaked open.

And there she was. Abigail, your father's most trusted knight, and your personal guard. She was clad in her usual armor, the gleaming silver polished to perfection, and her sword belted securely at her waist. Her blonde hair was tied back in a practical braid, revealing her sharp features, her expression composed.

"Your Highness," she greeted, inclining her head slightly. She had always been formal with you, no matter how many times you told her to drop the titles. However, you both knew there was a friendship underneath all those pleasantries.

You hummed in response, reaching for a fig from your tray, twirling it idly between your fingers. "Abby. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her lips twitched slightly, almost amused, but she remained composed. "Your father has requested your presence in the council chamber."

"Oh. What for?"

When she heard the smallest concern in your voice, she hesitated. That alone made your stomach twist. Abby was not one to falter. "The Scars are growing impatient," she said at last. "The streets are already whispering rumors about an upcoming war."

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, oblivious to the sudden chill in the room.

You studied Abby carefully. There was something different in her posture—not quite fear, but something close. A heaviness in her stance, a tension in the way her hand rested near the hilt of her sword, as if she expected violence to erupt at any moment.

"Take me to him," you finally said, standing.

Abby hesitated, just for a moment, before giving a single nod. "As you wish." She turned on her heel, leading the way.

You didn't know how you, of all people, were asked to be there. But soon that question would be answered by the king itself.

The council chamber was as cold when you entered. All the men turned to look at you, their gazes shifting uncomfortably beneath their cloaks. Some of them, men who had known you since you were a child, looked away entirely. As if they were ashamed. As if they already knew the burden about to be placed upon your shoulders.

Silence appeared to be welcomed then. Only one man remained unaffected. Your father sat at the head of the council table, his posture unwavering, his chin tilted slightly upward with command. King Isaac Dixon was not a man easily shaken.

He called out your name, his voice low and steady. You stepped forward, keeping your expression carefully neutral, and hiding your nervous hands behind your gown. "Did you want to see me, Father?"

"Sit with us," he instructed, motioning to the chair nearest to him.

You obeyed, as Abby remained by the door, but her eyes never leaving your figure. Isaac exhaled through his nose, folding his hands together atop the heavy oak table. "I trust you've heard the rumors."

You met his gaze evenly. "If you are referring to the whispers of war, then yes."

A low murmur rippled through the councilmen. You ignored it. The king inclined his head. "Then you must understand the gravity of our situation."

You did. You wished you didn't, but you did.

"The people grow restless," he continued. "Fear festers in their hearts. Fear leads to doubt. And doubt—" he glanced at the men seated around the table, his voice hardening, "—leads to disloyalty."

You remained silent, your nails biting the soft flesh of your palms.

"This war is inevitable," he said, matter-of-factly. "We cannot prevent it. But what we can do is control the narrative. We can give our people something else to focus on. Something grand. Something that will shift their attention away from the looming threat outside our walls."

"The realm needs hope." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "And nothing inspires hope quite like a royal wedding."

Your stomach twisted. There it was. You willed yourself not to react, not to let the horror creeping up your spine show on your face.

Isaac leaned forward slightly, his hands still folded together. "We need alliances. Strong ones. Wealthy ones. Noble families with power, with armies. Families that will not hesitate to stand at our side when the time comes."

A marriage for protection. For power. Not for love. You swallowed, the taste of iron sharp on your tongue.

"And what if I refuse?" The words were quiet, barely above a whisper.

The room stilled, Abby as well. For the first time, your father's expression shifted—something colder settling into the sharp angles of his face. "You will not."

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a command— It was simply fact. Your throat felt tight, but you nodded.

Isaac eased back into his chair, his features smoothing once more. "To make this more… palatable, we will host a masquerade ball. A grand affair, one that will bring all the noble families from the neighboring realms under our roof."

A masked ball. A spectacle to parade you before potential suitors. Your fingers dug into the velvet of your gown, hidden beneath the table.

"You will dance," Isaac continued, as if this was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "You will charm. And you will make your choice by the night's end."

The weight of the words pressed against your ribs, suffocating. A choice. That was what he was offering you. But not truly. The choice had already been made.

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to remain composed. "And if I do this," you said, voice carefully measured, "you believe it will be enough to distract our people?"

Isaac studied you for a long moment. "They will have something to celebrate," he said. "That is all that matters."

Another silence. You didn't look convinced, but again, t¡it wasn't your choice to make.

"They love you. Once the war comes, and you are newly married, they will want to protect you. They will fight for you. Die for you."

Then, reluctantly, you lowered your head in something close to acceptance. Isaac nodded once. "Then it is decided," he said, turning his attention back to the council. "The invitations will be sent at once."

The murmurs started up again, the men already discussing logistics, preparations. As if you weren't even there.

You felt something inside you crack. But you did not let it show. Instead, you sat there, spine straight, hands resting neatly in your lap, and heart quietly breaking inside your chest.

The council meeting had been ended for hours now. The nobles had dispersed, their voices trailing down the grand halls as they busied themselves with preparations.

You had remained seated long after the men had gone, your posture rigid, hands still neatly folded in your lap. The weight of it all pressed upon you, the mere thought suffocating.

And then, finally, when the last murmurs faded beyond the heavy doors, your father spoke. "You are upset."

It was not a question. You exhaled through your nose, tilting your head slightly toward him. The golden candlelight flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows along his jaw.

"I am not upset, Father."

A lie. He smiled, as if he could hear the falsehood in your voice. "You never could deceive me, little one."

You almost scoffed at the endearment. Isaac leaned forward, resting his elbows against the table. "You think I am cruel."

You stiffened. "I think nothing of the sort."

Another lie.

"You are my daughter. My only daughter; not by blood, but by something much stronger. Do you believe I would send you into this blindly? Do you truly think I would place you in any harm willingly?"

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your gown. "It is not harm that frightens me."

His brow lifted slightly, intrigued. "Then what is it that frightens you?"

You hesitated, but only for a moment. "A future that is not my own."

A pause. Then, Isaac sighed, shaking his head. "You are still so young." His voice softened, as if speaking to a petulant child. "You do not yet understand the ways of the world."

You clenched your jaw, but you said nothing.

"I have protected you," he continued, voice lower now, measured. "Since the day I married your mother."

At the mention of her, your throat tightened. And he noticed. He always noticed.

"I have done everything for you," he pressed. "Sheltered you. Kept you safe from the horrors beyond these walls. From the men who would see you as nothing more than a pawn."

You swallowed, hard. "And yet, you now hand me to one of them."

Isaac exhaled sharply through his nose, as if exhausted by your defiance. "How come you still think this is about you?"

That startled you. "What?"

"This is not about you, child. This is about our people."

A cold, heavy silence settled between you.

"They need something to hold on to," he said. "Something to celebrate. Do you understand? War is at our doorstep, and a kingdom cannot be ruled through fear alone. They must have hope. And you will give it to them."

Your lips parted, but no words came. His hand found your shoulder, firm and steady.

"You will be safe," he promised. "You will be loved. You will have everything you could ever need."

You stared at the empty goblet before you, not daring to face his gaze. "And what of what I want?"

His fingers tightened, just slightly. "This is what you want."

Your breath caught in your throat. Because the way he said it made you doubt yourself for a moment. Hadn't he always taken care of you? Hadn't he always given you what you needed? Hadn't he always known best?

Your silence must have pleased him, because his grip loosened, a softer expression crossing his face.

"I know this is difficult," he said, his voice lowering to something almost tender. "But you will see, in time. You will see that I everything I have ever done is to protect you."

You exhaled, long and slow. There was no point in fighting it. There never had been. Isaac gave your shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before stepping back.

"The ball will proceed as planned," he said. "It will be a grand affair. A night to remember."

Your lips pressed into a thin line, the words feeling like a cruel joke.

"I promised your mother I would take care of you" he added, already moving toward the door. "And that is exactly what I am going to do."

And then he was gone. You sat there, staring at the candle's wavering flame. And despite everything, despite the dread sitting heavy in your chest, you felt the faintest echo of his voice in your mind.

This is what you want.

And you wondered how many more times he would have to say it before you finally believed it.

Before Abby could knock at your door, a muffled moan escaped from inside. Her brows lifted slightly. A quick glance down the hallway confirmed there were no wandering servants, no prying ears to hear it. A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she settled back against the wooden door, arms crossed over her chest.

Minutes passed, and the door finally creaked open, and from the dimly lit chamber emerged one of your companions—a lady of noble blood, her cheeks all flushed. She barely met Abby's gaze as she hurried past, fingers fumbling with the buttons of her nightgown.

Amusement flickered in Abby's expression, but she remained silent, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut behind her.

The scent of lavender and sex lingered in the air. You sat before your dresser, running a silver brush through your messy hair.

Abby took a step closer, her smirk widening. You met her gaze through the reflection of the mirror, eyes still laced with the hazy satisfaction of your earlier indulgence.

She could still see pearls of sweat running down your forehead, how tired you looked.  And still, you managed to look as alluring as always.

"I trust it was worth your time?" Abby mused, leaning against the post of your bed.

A slow, languid smile spread across your lips. "Believe me, it was."

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "I hate to intrude on whatever fantasy you've made up for yourself, but Lady Charlotte is married."

"And yet," you hummed, setting down your brush and turning to look at her, "she still comes to my bed when she is needy."

Abby exhaled through her nose, her gaze dropping to the floor for a fleeting moment. She knew of your lovers—all women, most of them married, some of them not. She also knew the weight of this knowledge. It was a secret that, in the wrong hands, could destroy you. And yet, you had entrusted it to her.

"Lucky you," Abby murmured, tilting her head. "Your father's knights spend their days fighting for power, and you—" she gestured vaguely toward the bed "—collect it underneath your silk sheets."

You let out a soft chuckle, rising from your seat with slow, deliberate grace. "Power comes in many forms, Abigail."

Abby fought the way her stomach twisted at the sound of her full name on your tongue. Your gaze flickered over her, sharp and knowing. "And tell me, did you come to scold me for my indulgences, or is there another reason you stand in my chambers?"

The teasing tone in your voice did not stop her from straightening. The humor faded from her features swiftly. "I came to talk to you about council met with your father this morning," she said, voice low.

That caught your attention. Your expression remained poised, but Abby knew you well enough to see the shift in your stance, the way your shoulders squared as though bracing for impact.

“And?” you prompted.

"Invitations will be sent before dawn."

You swallowed, hard. Suddenly, you felt dizzy, and you had to sit on your bed. Eveything was happening so fast, and you wouldn't be able to stop it, not this time.

Abby looked at you, her blue eyes drowned in concern. But your facade turned warm again, before she could even express her distress. Both of you sat there, in silence, knowing how everything would change after that ball.

"Let's just hope the people are happy about the announcement."

The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the wooden beams of the tavern. The Tipsy Bison hummed with the murmurs of men exchanging gold and frauds in equal measure.

Ellie Williams sat at a table near the back, half-hidden by the flickering light. A deck of cards rested in her hand, her fingers idly shuffling them as she leaned back in her chair, one boot propped against the table's edge. A game had just ended in her favor; her winnings—a small pile of silver coins—rested beside her. She had played without much interest, more for the satisfaction of watching the older men bristle when they lost to her than for any real need of coin.

The chair across from her creaked as someone lowered themselves into it. A heavy presence. Familiar. "Ellie," came the gruff voice.

She exhaled slowly, not bothering to look up from her stash of cards. "Joel."

He studied her for a moment, dark eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his worn hat. Then, without a word, he slid a folded letter across the table. Ellie regarded it with disinterest at first. Only when she noticed the wax seal—a deep crimson imprint of the royal crest—she paused.

Her brows furrowed. "What's this?"

Joel sat back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "An opportunity."

Ellie picked up the letter, feeling the weight of it, the expensive parchment thick beneath her dirty fingertips. She turned it over, breaking the seal with a flick of her thumb.

Then she snorted. "A masquerade ball?" She cast him an amused glance. "Didn't take you for the dancing type."

Joel remained unimpressed. "It's not for me. Read further."

Ellie's smirk faded as she scanned the invitation more carefully. The name of the kingdom was one she recognized. Their armies were strong, ruthless. But they were at war.

Her fingers drummed once against the table before she looked up again. She seemed insulted by it. "You want me to attend this?"

Joel inclined his head. "Not as a guest, obviously."

She arched a brow. "Then as what?"

He was silent for a moment. "As a hunter."

Ellie set the letter down, interest finally piqued. But she tried not to let it show.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze sharp. "War is on the horizon. The Wolves and the Scars are ready to rip each other apart, and when that happens, their gold will spill just as quickly as their blood." He leaned forward slightly. "Isaac's desperate to keep his people from turning against him after everything that happened. He needs alliances. Soldiers. And he's using his daughter to secure them."

"A royal wedding. A union to distract the people and gain favor among the noble houses."

Ellie's frown deepened. "And where do I come in?"

Joel's voice was even. "You take her."

Silence settled between them. Ellie stared at him, waiting for a hint of jest. There was none.

"You want me to abduct the princess," she stated, more to hear it aloud than to seek confirmation.

Joel only nodded. Ellie let out a low whistle, leaning back in her chair. "Gotta say, old man, that's ambitious—even for you."

"She's the king's precious treasure," Joel said. "If we take her, Isaac will pay. And if he won't, someone else will."

Ellie considered this. A princess was no small prize. Wars had been waged over less. If she was delivered into the wrong hands, she could be used as a weapon, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game far greater than herself.

"And if she resists?" Ellie asked.

Joel's gaze didn't waver. "Then you kill her."

Ellie studied him for a long moment, the weight of the words settling between them. There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for debate. She pondere her options, and realized she had done worse things for less payment.

She glanced down at the invitation once more, tracing the elegant script with her thumb. A masquerade. A grand event filled with nobles, music, and wine. A perfect place for a thief to slip in unnoticed.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Well," she mused, tucking the invitation into the inner pocket of her coat, "guess I'd better find something nice to wear."

[lay-z]

Simon Riley is your nemesis.

cw/info: 18+ | time skip; cheating/infidelity; smut; angst; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

He’s here.

Standing on the opposite side of the field by himself under the old chestnut tree, his heavy gaze is glued to the lush grass of the soccer field. He looks slightly different than he did the last time you’d seen him a few weeks ago—a little more put together and somehow even bulkier. Strong.

He’s watching you, observing the way you walk over to the sideline, settling down next to the parents and waiting for the game to start while his heart is nearly bursting through his chest, sweaty palms stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans.

Meanwhile, you could sense his presence before you could see him—you somehow always do—and after greeting the other parents currently present to watch their kids play, waiting for the game to start, you politely excuse yourself and make your way over to him.

It finally stopped raining three days ago, and now it’s a surprisingly warm and sunny April spring day; warm enough to wear one of your new dresses. Tommy, who turned five just last month, has a soccer match and while John is running errands with Annabelle, having a daddy–daughter day, you stayed to support your son.

The moment you start walking over to him, Simon straightens his broad shoulders; trying to keep his nerves at bay. He didn’t expect this to happen. You haven’t much as spared him a glance since your wedding.

He’s filled with tension, a mix of anticipation and trepidation building up in him as you approach, his eyes trailing over your curves, your new hairstyle, the way the sun dances off your dewy skin—

Bloody hell. You’re still the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on.

He clears his throat, looking slightly awkward, as you come to a stop right in front of him.

“Hey,” he manages, a hint of uncertainty lacing his gruff tone, muffled by his mask.

“Hey,” you greet back, slightly less awkward as you take off your expensive pair of aviator sunglasses to get a better view of him.

Even in this weather, he dresses in thick jeans, combat boots and hoodies. His skull balaclava secured in place.

“If you wanna keep a low profile, I suggest leaving that bloody mask at home, Riley.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smirk beneath the black cloth as he shrugs unapologetically. “Can't help it, pet,” he replies with a quiet chuckle, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his trousers.

It’s been some time since he’s seen you this up-close without any disturbance, and he uses the moment to study you closely, his gaze taking in every inch of you, lingering on the way your summer dress hugs your curves; how the colourful floral pattern on the crème-coloured fabric accentuates your complexion.

Seeing you dressed like this, all loose and free, makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. You’ve changed some since having your second child and his fingers itch to touch as his eyes flicker down to glance at you ample bosom.

For a brief moment, he wonders if you’re still breastfeeding.

“Mhm, sure.” You kiss your teeth appraisingly as you give him another once over before crossing your arms. “You came to watch Tommy play again.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you can't blame him for being here and trying to see his son grow up—albeit from the shadows.

You’ve been wondering how he knows when and where Tommy has his matches, he certainly didn’t ask John, but then again, it doesn’t surprise you at all that he keeps himself informed.

“That obvious, huh?” he mutters jokingly, lifting one corner of his mouth in a slight smirk. His gaze drifts off to the side, watching the kids running onto the field and warming up, their parents cheering them on. He knows Tommy is one of the fastest, never afraid of the ball, a bloody Liverpool fan—thanks to Price.

He lets out a quiet sigh as he looks back at you, his expression turning serious, but you caught that flicker of longing and sadness in his tawny eyes.

“I can’t stay long,” he adds, his voice low. “Just... jus’ wanted to see him, y’know?”

And despite everything, you can’t not worry about him.

Your stomach churns and you hug your arms around yourself tighter as you gaze up at him, squinting against the bright daylight without your sunglasses. John didn’t tell you about a new upcoming assignment, and the news don’t fail to piss you off.

“Where are you going?”

His gaze locks with yours, and even through the balaclava, you can see the slight frown on his face. Simon hesitates before answering, debating whether he should tell you the truth or not; he can tell that you don’t know about it yet. Finally, he heaves a heavy sigh and looks towards the field again, avoiding your gaze.

“Special Forces business,” he answers simply. “Can't say more than tha’.”

You let out an involuntary snort, a rather whimsical sound, before cupping your hand over your mouth and nose. “Sorry.” You make a dismissive small gesture with your other hand. “I just–”

Composing yourself again, you continue: “Uh, nevermind.”

You don’t want to mention John right now and how he usually always tells you where he’s going whether he’s allowed to or not.

However, Simon can practically read the thoughts running through your head, and another pang of guilt hits him.

“Listen…” he starts slowly, taking another careful step closer to you. “I–” he pauses, fighting the urge to reach out and touch your face, your arms, your hair. He wants to feel you again, to hold you, to pull you close, to be near you. It’s been years since he last held you—his woman.

Your lashes flutter as he murmurs your name and suddenly, the warm air around you seems to fizz with tension. Dangerous tension, but you stand your ground; refusing to flee despite knowing better.

“What?” you rasp, tipping your head back to gaze up at him with bright doe-eyes.

“Use your words, Simon.”

His heart is pounding in his chest at the sound of your voice saying his name so sweetly, at the way you look at him, eyes practically sparkling in the sunlight. He can almost feel the electricity crackling around you, and he feels like he might go insane from it. He steps even closer, practically towering over you now, chest to chest, invading your personal space. His dark eyes are fixed on your face, drinking in every feature like he’s never seen you before.

His throat feels dry when he swallows thickly, his voice is gruff, raw with the emotions he’s holding back as his words rumble from his chest: “You know what, pet.”

The wooden door to the storage room falls shut behind you with finality; the sound echoing through the empty club house building while everyone is outside, watching the soccer games on the fields, enjoying the nice weather.

You should feel utterly ashamed about this—how easy it was for him to coax you away from the herd of your flock like the big bad wolf he is—but you cannot bring yourself to think about anything else but him right this moment.

It’s dark and dusty and you can barely see him except his large silhouette, thought you sure can feel him—big hands, once so familiar, groping and roaming over your body with urgency while you’re slowly backed up against the nearest wall.

Your breath gets caught in your throat at the feel of his hands on you, at the way his body towers. His touch is rough, desperate, fingers digging roughly into your hips, your waist, and your thighs as he presses himself against you, pinning you against the chilly wall.

His forehead drops down to rest against yours, and his ragged breathing mixes with yours.

“God, I missed you,” he whispers gruffly, voice rough with need.

The words are stuck in your throat—I missed you, too,—but you swallow them down and focus on his presence instead, the here and now.

A brief indulgence, it’s what this is.

“Take your mask off.” Your hands are fisting into the front of his hoodie, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away for good.

And yet, you find yourself standing on your tiptoes like a lovesick schoolgirl to nudge your nose against his clothed one: “Kiss me.”

Simon takes a shuddering breath, his fingers gripping your hips tightly over your dress, his body trembling with the effort to not lose himself in you, to not fully give in to the desire coursing through his veins like molten molasses, but your voice, the way your fingers curl into his hoodie, the way you ask him to kiss you—it’s his breaking point. He doesn’t hesitate a second as his mask hits the floor carelessly. Fuck, he’s missed this.

He cups your face with both hands and his lips crash onto yours. God, you taste just the same.

The kiss is rougher than anything, all teeth and tongue; both of you drowning in your shared passion. It’s been so long, too long, and that knowledge makes him kiss you even harder, his tongue pushing into your mouth with a possessive need while he cups your jaw and squeezes to make you open up wider. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place against the wall, while his body presses you into it, trapping you there.

It’s like a shockwave to your system as his lips connect with yours for the first time in years.

Shock and awe, because this isn’t supposed to feel this good, this bloody right, and you should put a stop to this, but his chapped lips mould as perfectly to yours as they used to; his tongue licking into your mouth so eagerly that it’s taking your breath away; tasting of cheap cigarettes and peppermint gum.

You can feel your pussy throb and slick up within seconds while he sighs into your mouth; toying and nipping at your lips as playfully and feral as ever.

And it’s a losing battle. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak—

“I–fuck–” Holding his face steady in your hands while your breaths mingle and his forehead rests against yours, you can feel your brain short-circuit. “I need you.” I want you.

He’s drunk on you, on the taste, on the feel of you against him. Your ragged breaths, the feel of your fingertips, the little sounds spilling from your throat—it’s all driving him insane. His hand sneaks under your skirt, his calloused knuckles grazing your quivering inner thigh. So bloody soft.

Your words are his undoing, the ones he was never meant to hear again. He knows he doesn’t deserve this.

“You have me.” You bloody own me. The words come out guttural and raw, more of a growl than anything as his fingers dig into your flesh. A shuddering breath leaves your throat as the pads of his fingers slowly rub along your clothed slit, and he groans when he finds the cotton damp already.

Reaching out with a shaky hand, you cup his crotch in retaliation and feel a familiar bulge straining against his jeans, large and warm, and too big for your palm.

Simon lets out a deep, ragged grunt at your touch, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest as he feels your hand on him after so much time of neglect. He’s been outright starving for you, for the feel of your hands on him, the way your supple skin feels against his, and he grinds his shaft into your palm, his body trembling and his cock weeping into his boxers with need. His eyes are closed, and his forehead is still pressed against yours.

“Fuckin’ hell, I'm losin’ my bloody mind here, love.”

Cupping the back of his head with your free hand, you swiftly ruck up his hoodie and undo his belt before unzipping his jeans with your other hand. He doesn’t stop you, only breathes hard, and when you finally slip your hand inside and past his boxers, you slowly start stroking his throbbing cock, earning a deep exhale of relief from him.

There’s so much you want to say, but you keep biting your tongue and let your eyes fall shut as you touch and explore him, drinking in his reactions while you feel his thick shaft throb in your grasp.

Simon leans into you, his hips rocking instinctively into your hand as his cock twitches and leaks precum into your palm, the feel of your touch igniting a blazing fire within him. He’s been craving you so badly, his body aching for you. He’s drowning in the sensations, his brain short-circuiting as badly as yours.

Both his hands are roaming over your body under your dress skirt, exploring the curves he remembers so well, his lips leaving a trail of heated kisses on your neck.

“God, I–” he breaks off, his voice rough, “I’ve missed you so fuckin’ much.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, brows furrowed in a pained frown as you keep rubbing his length almost reverently, stroking back his smooth foreskin until he hisses at the sensation. “Me too.”

Simon can feel the heat pooling low in his gut at your touch, your quiet admission, and he fears he might finish in his boxers at this rate, his breathing coming out ragged and harsh. He presses his hard, muscled body against yours, pinning you to the wall as he buries his face in the crook of your neck; inhaling your scent, the familiar smell of your skin sending a wave of emotions through him.

“I need more.” He breathes against your throat, chapped lips dragging over sensitive skin, teeth grazing over your pulse point while his hands grope your plush thighs.

“Then take it.” It’s all you can reply as a myriad of emotions threatens to choke you.

And when you give him permission, you can feel the rough pads of his fingers teasingly caress over your upper thighs and hips before he pulls and slips your cotton panties off your legs while his face never leaves the crook of your neck; shaky breaths puffing against your flushed skin. He gropes your ass cheeks with a string of muttered curses and chuckles at your squeak of surprise, when he squeezes them hard enough to make your pussy lips spread.

You swat at his biceps with a soft hiss, but that only spurs him on, and he rucks your skirt up before gripping the backside of your thighs and lifting you up effortlessly to wrap around his hips as he pushes you up against the wall.

You’ve almost forgotten how playful and passionate you tow used to be with each other, and for a split second, an almost carefree smile ghosts over your lips.

There’s a tense moment, a brief pause, where he’s holding you there, his fingers stroking the flesh of your thighs as he rubs the sticky tip of his cock through your slick folds. He takes a deep breath through his nose, his lips pressing against your forehead, savouring the feel of you against him.

“You're so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice gruff. “For me, right?” He sucks in a breath. “Say it.”

You let out a small whimper, a pathetic noise in the dark of this dusty storage room. It’s a surreal moment; teetering on a nightmare and yet you’re clinging on to it. To him.

“For you,” you obey softly. “All for you, Si.”

The nickname slips out and then his cock slides in without any trouble, like he’s never left, like he’s been stretching you out every night like he’s supposed to. You gasp and groan in unison and your spine arches at the intrusion; toes curling inside your ballerina shoes as he bottoms out while your whole body buzzes deliciously.

You’ve gotten more sensitive since the pregnancies, and for a split second, you worry he might not like what he’s feeling, but then he lets out the most wanton moan—loud enough for you to swiftly clamp your hand over his mouth to muffle it momentarily.

“Fuuuuck.”

He’s truly losing his mind now as it spins with the feeling of you around him, his eyes rolling back in pure bliss as he feels you silken walls ripple around his rock hard prick. He’s home. There’s no better way to describe it. He’s missed this, missed you, the way you move, the way you feel, the sounds you make. He has to take a deep, grounding breath, his grip on your thighs tightening as he tries to calm his racing heart. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

He’s possessed, desperate and hungry; needing to touch every inch of you, to touch every place he’s been craving and longing for so badly. His lips find yours again, his tongue driving deep into your mouth. It’s a possessive kiss, raw and hungry, and he can’t get enough of you, of the taste, of the way your body fits against his.

“Touch me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist while your dress is tucked under your armpits, keeping it out of the way. Your whole lower half is bared to the warm air inside the stuffy storage room, rear pressing against the cool wall as he starts thumbing your rapidly swelling clit while you moan into his mouth. His admission that he’s been dreaming about this, about you, makes your pussy clench and flutter around his thick shaft buried deep inside your sopping walls.

And then, you obey him as you drag your shaky hands over his buff chest, feeling the fabric of his black hoodie under your palms. He must be sweating bullets and your mouth waters at the thought of your tongue licking over pale, scarred skin—lapping up his salty taste.

When you cup his face tenderly, you lean in to capture his lips once more; deep and passionate, eagerly swallowing his low moans.

He can’t get enough of you, of the feel of your skin against his, of the taste of your lips on his own. His body responds instinctively, his hips starting to rock slowly, the movements rough and desperate, like he can’t get close and deep enough.

“Love ya,” he grunts, his words raw and ragged. “Been so goddamn cold without you.”

It’s a confession filled with pain and regret, the words spilling out before he can stop them. He’s vulnerable, he’s broken, and he’s desperate as he presses you against the wall, his body trembling with the effort to hold it together, to not let the emotions he’s been bottling up tightly swallow him whole.

“Need you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice rough and strained. “Need ya so damn bad, love.”

You bite your tongue in return, unwilling to reciprocate his love confession yet. He doesn’t deserve to know that you never stopped loving him; that you never quite stopped being his despite the name Price engraved on your golden wedding band—the bloody ring that seems to be searing the skin around your ring finger in reprimand.

In your lust-filled frenzy, you’re tempted to take it off and throw it into the darkest corner of the room.

“Then fuck me like you mean it,” you retort instead as you wrap your arms around his neck to stay close, to breathe with him. “Our son is outside playing soccer with his friends and I don’t have any fucking time for this.”

His eyes darken at your words, a low, primal groan escaping from his throat. He obeys, because he always has; because he’ll do anything you ask of him, because he still has no damn dignity when it comes to you.

Simon grips you more firmly, his blunt nails biting into your flesh as his hips start to snap upwards. “Like this, huh?” he snarls. “Want me to make ya feel me, love? Make ya feel how much I fuckin’ need ya, how goddamn much I missed ya?!”

“That right?” you manage to grunt, still holding his face as you keep your forehead pressed against his, sweat now starting to make your skins sticky.

He’s holding onto you, desperate to keep you close, to make you feel him, make you feel and remind you how much you’re his. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breaths ghosting over your skin, and his words are almost a reverent prayer: missed you, missed you, fuckin’ missed you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, his grip tight and possessive, as his hips angle you towards him just a little bit better before he practically bounces you on his cock like a ragdoll; biceps bulging with the effort underneath his hoodie.

Soon enough, you can hear how embarrassingly wet you are while he pumps his hips and fucks you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you gasping and mewling for him.

“Fuck, baby,” you whine, lips brushing against his temple while his fingers dig into the plush fat of your ass.

Baby. It’s just one word, but it tears through him like a bolt of lightning. He loves you so goddamn much, he always did, and now, he’s drowning again, concrete weights pulling him under. He can hear the slick sounds of your body taking him so well, the way you whimper and whine against his ear. And he wants you to say it again, wants to hear that word spill from your lips again and again.

“Don’t call me tha’,” he grouses with a huff.

“You called me love,” you hiss in return, nipping at his cheekbone. “I’ll call you whatever the ah! f-fuck I want.”

He lets out a low growl at your defiant words, his powerful hips snapping into you with more purpose now; grunting and cheeks flushing at your comment, because you’ve always known how to get under his skin. He grips your thigh, pulling you down onto him rougher, his cock driving into you with determined, punishing thrusts.

“You,” he grits his teeth, “are goddamn infuriating.” Simon wants to shut you up, to make you focus on him, on the way you feel, on how good he makes you feel.

He wants you to say that you’ve missed him, that you’ve craved his touch, his presence. Something, anything to hint that you still love him, that you still need him.

The pleasure is almost unbearable and you go limp in his arms; too overwhelmed and too focused on your strange feelings at the same time. You can feel your orgasm readying to break you apart in his embrace, though you know Simon is right here, all too eager to catch you as soon as you fall.

As you bury your face in his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure, you suddenly feel your throat tighten and your eyes well up with fat tears.

Meanwhile, Simon can already feel you coming apart in his arms, can feel the way you tremble and clench around him. He knows the bloody signs; has studied them during his time with you. It’s everything he wants, everything he’s missed, and it almost undoes him. He clutches you close, one hand wrapping around the nape of your neck to hold you tight against him, and his movements become even more desperate, borderline frantic as the harsh sounds of skin slapping skin fills the small room.

Simon can feel the tears building up, too, feel the lump in his throat grow bigger until it nearly chokes him. He doesn’t quite know what cocktail of emotions he’s currently experiencing, but he’s too lost in it all to care. He’s struggling to contain himself; struggling to hold back his own sobs as he buries his face in your hair, his body shaking with the effort, his muscles tight. His whole body is taut with tension, getting lost in the way you’re making him feel.

He can’t hold back the words anymore; they come out in broken whispers against your skin: “I love you. God, I love you so fuckin’ much, I missed you, I love you, baby. I love you,” he utters like a mantra as his eyes squeeze shut, causing his tears to spill.

His words push you over the edge and rip you apart at your carefully mended seams, cracks and holes where he’s trying to sneak and settle in again.

And you’re too weak to deny him.

You cry out in pleasure and pain as you hold on to him; arms wrapping around his muscular neck tightly while your tears soak into the fabric of his hoodie, and you cream around his throbbing cock like your needy cunt has a mind of her own.

As if your body knows how to take him despite years of not having him; of being depraved from the man you love.

Simon can feel you, he can feel every inch of your body as it clenches and tightens around him, and it’s too much, too much, too goddamn much.

He can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything but cling to you, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. His hips are stuttering, losing their rhythm, and he’s so close, so damn close; trying to hold on, to savour this, but it’s too much, too much, and he’s breaking, he’s breaking, he’s breaking—

“Say it. God, baby, please jus’ say it,” he groans, begs, demands, his voice a ragged, desperate gasp. “Say you miss me. Tell me you miss me as much as I miss ya, love.”

You grit your teeth until your jaw aches, muffling your pathetic mewl as he fucks you to the brink of overstimulation. With your eyes squeezed shut, you whimper against his neck: “Come f'me, baby. Just, please... come–”

The sound of you, the words you’re panting into his neck—it’s not what he wants nor needs to hear, but he’s willing to take whatever you offer him, and it pushes him over the edge at last. Simon gasps out your name, his body shuddering, his vision going white. His balls draw up tight; his cock throbs violently as he fills you up with his needy load. He holds on to you, his bulky arms wrapped around you like a vice.

All spent, his body trembling, his head spinning, he keeps grinding his hips, desperate to keep his sensitive cock nestled against your womb. It’s intense, and yet he can’t stop the words that spill from his lips once more, as sincere as they are raw: “I love you. Oh, God, I love you. I missed you so much, loved you every day... every fuckin’ day.”

He’s losing himself completely, but he welcomes this madness if it means he gets to keep you at last. He can’t let you go, can’t bear to feel you slip away again.

He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, and his chest heaving with the exertion. With a hoarse, broken voice, he rasps out the words again, pleading, begging you: “Please... say you still love me.”

Your heart is thudding so harshly in your chest that you fear a cardiac arrest for a second while your brain is filled with cotton, only slowly processing the moment—what just happened, what you’ve done.

Slow tears are still running down your burning cheeks as you pull pack to gaze at him, sniffling softly, and in the semi-darkness of this random storage room, you can barely make out the shape of his features, the blackness of his eyes.

When you cup his cheek with one shaky hand, you feel wetness beneath the pad of your thumb, causing your breath to hitch and your heart to shatter as you realize that he’s crying, too—yet you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“Why... Why does that even matter, Simon?” you croak out. “This won’t happen again. It–It can’t.”

He can hear it in your voice, the way you’re already pulling away, already shutting him out again.

It’s like a knife to his wretched, rotten heart.

He tightens his arms around you, refusing to let you go, refusing to let you slip away, and refusing to pull his softening cock out of your warm, welcoming cunt. His eyes are dark, his expression fierce, even with the tears streaming down his rugged face.

“Because it matters,” he says his voice rough with emotion. “It matters, dammit!”

He pulls you closer against his chest, his grip so tight it’s borderline painful, like he's afraid that if he lets go of you, even just for a second, you’ll disappear into thin air like a rainbow bubble that gets popped, and he won’t let that happen—won’t let you slip through his fingers like drift sand.

His grip is unyielding, his body tense as he holds onto you tightly, keeping you pressed against the wall. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing ragged as he tries to control the maelstrom of emotions that are surging through him.

“Please,” he whispers, “Please don’t push me away again.”

Your nimble fingers tangle in his hair roughly while you caress your other hand over his broad back soothingly, and you feel the damp, heavy fabric of his hoodie as his sweat soaks through it.

It’s so hot in the room at this point and the weight of what you two have done is starting to push down on your chest, making it harder to breathe all of a sudden.

“I’m married to John,” you weep into his neck, nails digging into his skull. “We have a baby together now and Tommy... Tommy calls him daddy, Si–” Your voice cracks and you hold him tighter, trembling in his arms.

“And I can’t forget what you’ve done to me.” To us.

His heart is clenching painfully in his chest as he listens to the words you’re saying, each one a stab to his gut, though he can’t hold back his desperate response nor the fresh wave of tears spilling over and dripping onto your skin.

“I know,” he says, his voice thick with regret, with guilt. “I know, baby, but I regret it. Every day. Every fuckin’ day I regret it.”

He frantically blinks away his tears as he trembles against you, and he knows how pathetic he must be sounding right now, though he cannot bring himself to care.

“I’ve never stopped loving you. I will never fuckin’ stop lovin’ you.”

If you vote, please consider reblogging, liking, or commenting! Thanks :)

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.3k - boothill finds you digging around in junk and then offers you a gift he hopes you won't refuse... [plsdontflopplsdontflopplsdont-]

the heavy metal clinking of boothill's foot steps clank their way to your shop's door. an all too familiar door he'd always find himself going up to whenever he was in need of repair- big or small. the swiveling security camera you keep at your entrance blinks with red-lit life and moves to start following his movements as soon as he enters it's field of vision.

who knows if you're ever actually paying attention to the camera feed or not though. you can be careless like that. sometimes you're just out- couldn't be bothered or could care less about the remote feed linked directly to your phone. other times, you're so focused on some project you neglect it entirely.

based on the sign hanging on your shop's door he was familiar with- it seemed that this time in particular you were out.

boothill didn't need to know how to write- much less read well- to take a wild gander as to where you had wondered off to. putting his spring loaded and metal jointed hands on his slim waist, his chin dips with an amused chuckle and shake of his head. the cowboy lifts the toe of his mechanical boot and twists his body fully 'round; his spurs scrapping across the ground during his lazy about-face. with one foot in front of the other and thumbs hooked through the hollow crops of his trousers, the galaxy ranger makes his way towards the junk yard.

it would never occur to the standard person to spend their free time digging around a scrap yard filled with junk thrown out for a reason- but you were anything but standard. if you weren't tinkering around in your shop or finishing up a repair or commission, you were scrounging around the grounds for material or 'hidden treasure'... which was key for just slightly more valuable junk.

a typical haul for you would be a few pieces of scrap metal you could use for wielding, the rare unstripped screw or loose gaggle of bolts, and all sorts of wire. if it saved you a few credits by finding material instead of buying them, you weren't one to argue with free trash.

passing under the wire-metal gate leading into the fenced-off territory, his thumbs still tucked into his pant legs, his ears stay sharp. listening for any sound of you digging around in some heap while his head swivels back and forth to try and catch a glimpse of you.

"ey, sugar, you around!" boothill shouts, one of his hands detaching from his hips to cup around his mouth. he wanders further in, gets more ground, before calling out the same sentence a second time. shaking his head in bewilderment on how far in you had gone digging, he goes even further still and tries calling out a third time.

"here!" you finally answer back. your voice echoes around him, bouncing off the scrap metal and spooking the rats and other critters that call the junk yard home. his head turns in the direction of your voice, the way his body leans towards it before his feet start carrying him that way never took notice in his own mind.

eventually, he makes it to you. squat down to the ground, under the rusty remains of some poor saps long eroded escape pod from whatever solar system they crashed in from. he crosses his arms, then his ankles, leaning his metal shoulder on the ruined dome you were digging under.

the ranger had no idea how long you had been out here, but judging by the half full bag you kept on your shoulder and the grease sticking to your neck and exposed skin he could guess it's been a bit. he chuckles when you dig out a rusted, broken pipe of... something, before tossing it over your shoulder with a disappointed click of your tongue and looking up at him. your cheeks had some gunk on it too, probably from you wiping the back of your gloves on it.

"fancy diggin' around in junk?"

"it's not all junk."

"the fudge it aint," he scoffs. to him, it absolutely was all junk. "this aint called the dang junk yard for nothin, sugar."

"it's a scrap yard."

"stubborn-bottom." you move to stand up, clapping your gloved hands together before taking them off so you could use your hands more freely. "good to see ya took my advice and startin' wearing some forkin' gloves around here." he eyes around at all the rust and sharp metal. "gonna get tetanus or somethin', and we can't have that."

"im liable to get tetanus from you before anything else," you joke so straight-faced it didn't feel like a joke. his crossed arms drop along with his jaw and his stance straightens as he uncrosses his ankles.

"ey', i aint as forkin' filthy as you pretend i am, and you know it." you shrug with a half smirk that was so dismissive he was tempted to keep arguing. you push the goggles you were wearing over your eyes to avoid getting anything in them and possible irritation onto your forehead. seeing the contrast between your sweaty, grease and dirt marked skin and the clean skin that was protected under the goggles had him scoff. "yer filthier than i am, by the look of things."

you roll your eyes and move to climb out of the rusty treasure trove of junk you had deemed no longer having anything of value. reaching out, boothill offers you his hand. you take it easily as he starts pulling you up and out to stand in front of him. your hand drops from his when you stand safely in his bubble, and he isn't sure if you know how close you are or not.

your nose is always so focused in tinkering around or messing with work that you can't always... read the room so to speak. its endearing, until it gets frustrating anyway.

"so, what're you here for this time? need something fixed again- i swear if you already burned through that new servo i replaced a month ago, im going to take off your arm and you won't get it back for a week."

"well, that's awful sweet of you." you knew by his dry tone and sneered lips that exposed his sharp teeth that the word sweet was definitely supposed to be a different five-letter word starting with 's'. one that his broken beacon (which you refuse to fix out of entertainment) wouldn't allow him to say.

"seems like an appropriate consequence to me, considering i don't charge you for repairs."

"i ain't here for not goose-dud repair," he hisses. "i had planned on givin' ya somethin', but based on your sweet attitude i aint so sure about it now."

"you brought me something?" he nods. "from a different solar planet?" he could see the curiosity start to ignite in your eyes. he nods again. you stuff your gloves into a pouch in your pants that he swears you've sewed another pocket into, before you're marching away from him and towards the entrance he had marched from at the beginning of this search. "well come on, let's get a moving!" you shout over your shoulder.

his synthetic voice chuckles at your back. eagerly waltzing after you.

boothill soon finds himself sitting with his knees apart and comfortably lounging with his arms on the back of your worn-down, two-cushioned couch the moment you two got back to the shop. he had taken himself to your quote- reception room, as he waited for you to unload your finds from the junkyard (meaning you just took your bag, flipped it upside and let its content spill out unceremoniously onto your worktable before you would eventually sort through it at a later time).

the tapping of his metal toes against your floor echoed dully against the rug under the sofa as you soon made your way to stand in front of him, hands on your hips and an expectant look in your eyes. flicking the brim of his hat cheekily to get a better look up at you, he lifted his chin.

"my attention is yours," you dramatically sigh, hands flaring to your sides before bouncing back against your legs.

"im flattered, sugar," he jests back. still, he shifts. the small pouch he had strung to his belt that was home to his array of extra fire rounds was soon detached from him. the string of which was used to tie it to him previously, hangs lazily from his metal fingertips. with a raised, semi-skeptical brow, you carefully take it off his hands.

"if this is some sort of prank," you warn. his hands raise in the air with his elbows still resting comfortably on the back of the cushions he was leaning against, gesturing that he meant no harm.

slowly- cautiously- you pull open the bag and remove two different items that had been nestled safely inside.

tossing the now empty bag onto the couch next to boothill's leg, you took each item into one hand and looked between them. one was a small crystal that was no larger than the center of your palm. shining a swirling color of green and blue, you could only imagine that it would look even prettier properly polished and with a light shining behind it. in the other was a small box, one that could be opened with a rusty lid. giving it a small rattle revealed something to be inside. doing so revealed a small robot that had been covered in rust, missing a robotic arm and wires spilling out from under the cracked and broken screen that would most definitely have acted as it's face.

"what's all this?" you ask softly. boothill stands from his lackadaisical lounging on your sofa to come and waltz up to your side. he pointed at the robot sitting sadly in the container he had brought him in first.

"i found this lil fella and thought you'd have a gas fixin' him right up. as for that," he points to the crystal of dual-swirling shades next, "accordin' to my scanners, that there's a pretty dadgum power source." boothill takes the small crystal from your palm and hovers it just above the robot. "it suits him, don't it?" he chuckles.

in truth, the slightly dingy looking crystal shard was too magnificent compared to the busted and rusted robot. but, with a bit of work, repair and love, perhaps the color of the crystal really would look nice against polished sheet metal.

"i figure givin' you somethin' else to tinker with would be more... enriching than just your usual forkin' machines." and it could keep you company, but he didn't say that out loud.

when you would get it working like he knew you could, maybe you'd stop and think about him while he was away chasing his reality out as a galaxy ranger. if you could just spare a single thought towards him every day because of a small robot and shiny rock? he'd be tickled pink.

"he's cute," you whisper gently and boothill wonders if you know you said it out loud at all. he chuckles, bringing his hand up to cup the designed dents atop his cowboy hat. taking it off his head, he gently drops it onto yours, gaining your attention back from the gifts he had given you.

the way you lift your eyes to look at him- filled with something akin to excitement and fondness- and gently cradle the small rusty robot with his hat now shadowing your face, he could almost hear the wires in his chest running on turbo. he'd had to cool down asap before he overheated or crashed.

taking a step back- for his own sake- he leaves his hat on your head before patting your back.

"get to it," he softly tells you. you mutely nod, an excited smile breaking out over your lips as you trot towards a different room. it was a small private work space you retreated to for personal projects. boothill was one that was usually allowed inside since this room was where he would get his tune ups most times.

with boothill following your back, he watches you trot to your work bench. you gently set the robot's box down and remove it from inside. the crystal you submerged in a bowl that you soon fill with polish to let it soak. it took all of ten minutes before you're surrounded by tools and wires and equipment made for digital repairs. all the while boothill remade his comfort in a worn-down rocker you kept in the corner, content on staying put until he was forced to leave. whether it by your or by his next bounty.

he couldn't very well leave you with his hat either, even if it looked better on you than him.

the next time boothill comes into your shop after that gift drop off, it wasn't a visit but a proper repair. running out of cooling agent for his internal hardware was just waiting for a disaster to happen. his synthetic-coded laugh burst into the room jollily as when he sat down on the stool he always planted his ass in for repairs, a small, shiny robot- with the cutest digital expressions and a small blue-green swirling crystal placed in the center of its chest- was waddling across your work bench. a vile of blue cooling agent the near size of his small metal body grasped tightly in its robotic arms.

it chirped happily with a digital reverb when you thank it for bringing the coolant over.

boothill was indeed tickled as pink could get seeing you already attached to the lil fella. he wondered what you named it.

a/n: smol robot go beep-boop (i love the idea of mechanic!reader just having a cute lil guy to follow them around like a puppy :(( [big thanks to @/birinboom and my partner for letting me pick their brain on what gifts boothill ended up giving to the reader bc i had no idea lol smooches <3]

[fanaticsnail]

All i could think about when I saw this post was the hey doc series and how flustered some of the boys would be hearing some of those key terms, like sleeper agent triggers 😂

Shut up, Captain.

Hey Doc Masterlist

Word Count: 1,900+

Art by @thenotsofantasticlifestory. Check out Sto's other works!!

Synopsis: Wire comes into the medical bay and you're immediately springing to action. A crowd gathers at the door as they listen to you and Wire share a moment together that sounds far from innocent.

Themes: Wire x gn!reader, suggestive themes, spicy language, Kid Pirates x reader, surgery, blood, extractions, you are 'Doc' - the doctor of the Kid Pirates.

Notes: The way I cackled when I saw this ask, obsession. I didn't know which way I wanted to go with it, but I'm glad I went this way. I hope you like it too!

“Hey Doc?” A panicked voice called from your door, “Emergency, honey. Help. It-... It's stuck.” Turning in your seat, you took one moment at the tall, hooded commander’s face and immediately dropped your jaw.

“Wire.”

“It looks worse than-.”

“-Sit in the cot, Wire,” you ordered him, immediately moving to fetch your gloves hidden in your desk drawer. Turning directly around, you drew over to your office door and flicked the latch to lock the notch fully secured as you always would before you began a serious consultation.

You flicked your gloves in your hand as you made your way over to your sterile equipment to acquire all you need to treat the larger man. Drawing them over your fingertips with haste and a smack of the ring at your wrist, you flew into action with a haste you didn't recognise.

As he drew casually over to the bay and made himself comfortable reclining against the chair, you immediately bodied his chest with your elbows to pin him back against the surface. He looked at you with wide eyes as you bore down your weight on him.

“Listen to me really carefully, Wire,” you utter softly and firmly towards him. “You need to follow every single thing I have to say, alright? Nod for me.”

The taller man did as he was told, bobbing his head gently up and down while darting his eyes between yours.

“Good job. Now hold still.”

Stomping with heavy leather boot heels through the lengthy corridor on the Victoria Punk, Eustass Captain Kid’s amber eyes fell on an unusual sight gathered at the door to his doctor’s quarters.

Ears pressed to the door, eyes wide, bodies tense, and faces otherwise shocked: Bubblegum, Heat, Boogie, Killer, and Hop stood in momentary stasis as if frozen in fear. The only indication that there was no fear to be had was the rosy blush blooming on their faces, ears and trickling down their necks. Each person was red-faced while darting their pupils away from the door alongside leaning in closer.

“The fuck are you all do-?”

“-Shut up, Captain!” The joint hiss reverberated from the chasms of the chests and flooded from the lips of the small crowd. Kid curled his upper lip, flinching a little in shock at the immediate reaction. Arching his shoulders back and rolling his neck to relieve some tension, He took two steps forward and crouched in front of the door. Lowering his voice as he drew his eyes directly in front of Hop’s closed ones, he bore his intensity directly into her.

“What the fuck are we all doing?” he whispered softly. Hop opened her eyes but continued to stare at the door while her ears pricked up.

“Doc is domming Wire,” she hushed her tone in response. Kid’s eyes widened briefly, nudging her head out of the way to press his ear directly to the door.

"Open up more for me. Go on, I know you can stretch wider."

“Mmmmghfh-!”

“That's it, Wire. Doing so good for me. Keep it up just like that and you'll be finished soon enough.”

Kid recoiled away from the door, staring at the wood in disbelief before darting his eyes around the crew in front of him. Each of the five in front all drew up a dark blush on the skin revealed to him. Killer's flushed neck swelled as his Adams apple bobbed back a collection of saliva.

“Kil, how long have they been at this?” Kid hissed through clenched teeth at his first mate. Killer choked back a small cough and turned his mask towards Kid.

“About an hour,” the blonde responded, moving his ear towards the door and attempting to peer through the locked port in the door.

"Little bit of pressure coming up, just lay back and let me do the work," you purred affectionately at the taller commander. "I'm gonna have to push down on your tongue to keep it from flapping around too much.”

A muffled groan rose from Wire’s chest, causing the audience to internally shriek at the sentence.

“Since when does Wire get dominated?” Kid whispered down to Heat. The scarred firebreather glanced up at his captain and turned his head to the side.

“He doesn't. That's why we're all shocked as hell that it's happening-.” Heat’s voice cut off mid sentence as a particularly shuddered, keening whimper sprung up into the air from behind the door.

"Can you hold it a little longer, or do you need a break?" you asked, steady voice never wavering, "Almost there. I promise I'm really close, Wire. Just a little longer, and a tiny bit more pressure, and it'll come."

“Gods,” Boogie whispered softly, turning his head to the side and shrieking internally, “I really don't think we should be listening in on this. Kind of private-.”

“-Shut it, Boogie,” Kid whispered hurriedly, leaning in closer and listening to the sounds of soft rocking and moans from Wire expelling out. “This is a once in a lifetime thing. Didn't think Doc had it in ‘em to take on Wire, but bloody hell.”

At one more extremely loud moan, a joint sigh of relief was heard between both you and Wire. There were immediate sounds of sucking and suctioning mixed with fluids being spat into a bucket beside you both.

"Oh, so good Wire,” you praised him further, smacks of latex leaving your hands as the material fled from your skin, “Did such a good job. We got there in the end, didn't we?”

“Thanks, Doc,” Wire gasped through sputters of breath, “I'll get out of your hair now. Thanks for taking care of me, honey.” The sound of Wire’s breathy pants, his exclamation punctuated by his announcement of his next steps, and shuddered exhale caused the audience to jolt back from the door and begin to scatter throughout the hallway.

“Alright then, Wire. Just leave me with the clean up, why don't you?” you laugh over your shoulder as he unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. Immediately meeting with an audience of six gathered over the threshold, he took a moment to peer down at them and furrow his brows.

“What the hells are you all doing out here?” Wire queeried with his brow arched and mouth slightly swollen larger than it was earlier in the day. Each person began to ‘um’ and ‘ah’ for excuses until Kid stepped forward and began his line of questioning.

“Knew you had the hots for Doc, but didn't think you'd actually act on it.” He shrugged, peering on past Wire as you halted your clean up at your sterilization bay. “Good on you, Wire. Weird that you'd let ‘em dom you immediately. Would've thought you'd-.”

“-What the fuck, Captain?” you call, turning around with your face flushed and eyes wild with rage. “This isn't a brothel, this is a medical bay. One: if I was to take a lover, it wouldn't be in this fucking space.” You gesture to the room and begin to step towards your captain with rage in every step, “And, two: Wire was literally just sitting in a chair with his mouth open while I was fishing glass out of the inside of his cheeks.”

Eustass Kid looked from you, then to Wire who's lips parted to reveal pink-stained gauze on the inside of his lips. Before Kid had an opportunity to ask the question as to ‘why’, you immediately answered.

“Some idiot accidentally placed glass in an ice bucket on the top deck. Wire made himself a drink with it, and as soon as he took a sip, several shards of glass split the insides of his mouth,” you growled, gently shooing Wire from your space alongside the rest of the crew at the door, “Thanking the gods that he didn't swallow it, and chose to spit it as soon as he realized, but the damage was done.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you snarled sarcastically at your loitering crowd while waving Wire on with a smile. The rest of the crowd fled the scene, Heat catching up with Wire and asking him follow up questions about the ice, and whether it was discarded before Dive got to it. Wire spoke to the best of his abilities with the gauze in his cheeks, but Heat managed to understand due to the fact that he spoke similarly when he first got his facial scars.

The only two members that remained were you and the captain, who was staring down directly at you with an unreadable expression on his face. You furrowed your brows in puzzlement, scrunching up your nose and glaring at him.

“What?” you asked with a small hint of venom in your tone. Kid took a step towards you, narrowing his eyes and judging your expression with his curiosity.

“Nothin’,” he snarled in return, lips pouting as he upturned his chin away from you, “Just sounded like you were getting cozy with the giant, is all.”

You growled up at him, taking a step forward and almost chest to chest with your captain as you bore into him with your fury. He couldn't help but then back around to face you, taken aback by your rage.

“If I did, it would not be in my medical bay for the same reason you don't take a partner in your workshop,” you snapped at him, pushing him from your door into the hallway with every step forward. “This is my space. A space where I do my job and take care of my crew. This is my sanctuary, my domain, and I will not desolate the space by claiming a lover in it. Now,” you shoved him back with your hands on his pectorals and watched as he stepped back to overemphasize your shove.

“I have a medical bay to clean and sanitize,” you whisper, taking the door in your hands and beginning to close the door, “So, do your job and get us closer to the Heart Pirates so I can switch out with them and see what their med bay is like-.” You attempted to shut the door, halted by a metal hand drawing up to grip the top of the frame.

“-Oh, come on,” he smirked down at you, tilting his head to the side and drawing his body closer, “You haven't even thought about it once?”

“No,” you utter firmly, prying the metal from your door and slapping at it, “Now do your job, and leave me to mine.” Kid chuckled at your tone of voice, lifting his metal hand up and releasing your door from his grip.

“You sure you wanna go through with this, Doc?” he asked you, his smirk leaving him and replaced by a genuine look of uncertainty, “Don't wanna lose you to them if I can help it.” His tangerine colored eyes scanned yours, darting between them as you softened your features with a sigh.

“I'd never leave you, Cap,” you reassured him, reaching your hand up and clapping him on the shoulder. Sharing a soft moment with him, neither of you speaking while he gazed down at you, you ruined the moment by whispering as intimately and quietly as you could towards him.

“Now get the fuck out of my space.”

“Aye, Doc,” he cackled, releasing the door entirely and stepping away from your medical bay, “And we'll be seeing the Polar Tang in about a day.” You nod with a smirk, closing the door in your captain’s face and returning to cleaning up the mess left behind by Wire’s accident with the glass in his drink.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @nerium-lil @sinning-23 @a-killer-obsession @saraptor-art

[velvet-paradox]

Redeemed

Fandom: Call of Duty Pairing: König x Female reader Summary: While helping your boyfriend do a little spring cleaning, you come across his old gear. You've seen him wear it in pictures but to have him put it on for you… Length: Medium/Long Warnings: NSFW 18+ ONLY, strong language, explicit content, established relationship, kinda' sorta' roleplay even though is himself, degradation, name calling, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, p in v (unprotected, wrap it up!), creampie, oral (f & m receiving), detailed smut. ENJOY!!!

beg me for it (bitte mich darum) my love (meine liebe) my honey bee (meine honigbiene)

"What about this one?" You call out, shifting a rather large cardboard box away from the dusty window. You sneezed for the tenth time. Helping your boyfriend clean out his attic before the fall came. You'd gone through old clothes, holey jackets, boxes of books, notepads dated from before you two had started seeing one another.

"Nein. That is just some old paperwork, put it over there by the others." König answered, tearing open a box of his own at the opposite side of the attic. It wasn't a big space, it did not accommodate his size at all as he was crouched down in a squat. His ass looked great, you thought as he was none the wiser of your ogling.

You moved another box and saw a big, beige duffel bag high on a shelf. It called out to you.

TAKE ME DOWN! TAKE ME DOWN!

"What's this?" You mumbled, mostly to yourself as you reached up on your tip toes, hands reaching out for the thick black straps.

"What's what, meine honigbiene?"

"Whatever it is it's fuckin' heavy! Ow!" The bag came down, hard against your chest making you topple over into yet another cloud of dust. Like clouds of it making the air up here a little thicker than need be.

"Be careful, my dear." König said, spinning on his feet. He coughed and you heard him walk over to you. He wasn't a gentle stepping giant by any means. "Oh liebe don't look in there-"

You unzipped the bag just as he reached you, his hands on top of yours to stop you but it was too late. You saw a helmet that resembled a spider, there was another mask that looked similar to Simon's, along with an array of secured weapons and flares. "This is your old gear."

"Ja." König hummed behind you, pulling out a foreign piece of material to you, completely nostalgic for the man. You'd seen it in pictures around his home but to see these key pieces of his past self was something different. Vulnerable. König mused over a pack of unopened flares, a few ammunition magazines. "I haven't put on the mask in so long… there was a time, believe it or not that I never took it off. Only to wash it of course but, this was my face. This was König."

"Will you put it on for me?" An intrusive thought popped in your head like champagne bubbles. You bit your lip before your brain could short circuit that you would ask such a thing. You knew he was an operator, high ranking, cultured and experienced. He'd mention some things in passing that were a bit on the grim and dark side. He'd dealt with the trauma and guilt, what he had to do to survive, to make it out and up rank. To be praised for his hard work and dedication.

"The mask? Certainly not. That version of me is over, I couldn't begin to tell you what that man has done, who I'd become if I were to put this thing back on. 's not for your pretty little eyes, honigbiene."

"Bitte? Just once. For me."

"Oh no, don't start with talking my language to get what you want."

König held your face with the other hand, shoving his mask back into the duffel, he kissed your head. "And don't pout, you're face will remain that way."

….

You heard him before you saw him. Sure he wore boots, custom Doc Marten's to be exact, so hearing him clunk around wasn't out of the ordinary but- he sounded heavy. The sounds of his outfit, the light SWISH of his standard issue pants got closer, he was getting closer.

You covered your face with your hands. You had to. It felt like instinct. Once König was in the living room with you, the air felt different. Your skin felt hot even though a chill went down your spine once he stopped walking. You heard his gloves creak. He cleared his throat and tapped his foot.

The only coherent thought once your eyes adjusted to the sight before you, was a gentle "Oh."

Your lover was… fucking massive. The way his shoulders rounded, he stood a little taller, a little prouder. That glitter in his blue eyes let you in on the smirk that laid hidden behind his black and red streaked mask. Especially with his hands behind his back, standing at attention.

Helmet, vest, forearm plates, shin guards, enough cargo pockets to put damn near anything but the kitchen fucking sink.

"Do like what you see, my dear? Your legs are practically falling open for me."

He wasn't lying.

Sat on the couch, your legs moved apart at the sight of him covered head to toe in tactical gear.

"What do you think?" König asked, rocking in place. His waist looked good enough to eat. The urge to bite him all over was overwhelming and you'd be lying if you told yourself this wasn't a major turn on, or that you were in fact getting excited. The damage, the chaos, the bloodshed he'd left behind while wearing his tactical gear made you itchy.

"It's different. I mean, I've seen pictures of you in your gear but. Woah. It makes you look… bigger." You spoke with your hands as he nodded slowly.

König moved one of his hands from behind his back, made a fist then motioned for you to come towards him. You did so on shaky legs and tiny feet. He towered over you on a usual day, he's a behemoth of a man and yet when you looked up and up at him, you couldn't help but feel like a bug. An insect about to be squashed.

"You wanted to see me in my uniform," König softly spoke, putting his gloved middle finger under your chin and gave it a light tap. "Here I am. Up close and personal."

You licked your lips. "What did you do in it?"

"Everything. Fight. Kill. Fuck."

Your eyes darkened. You weren't a jealous person and obviously he'd had a life before you much like you did yourself. But to hear him speak so clearly, so thorough, clinical even about the adventures he'd had in this attire had you weak.

"Will you fuck me in it?"

König snorted, his mask puffing out a little with his breath. "You're quite serious?"

You nodded.

"Then I am afraid mein liebe… it wouldn't be me that fucked you if that's what you're looking for."

You furrowed your eyebrows until his words started to make sense, stringing and looping together to make loose ends meet.

Of course you would be fucking your lover but… with him dressed in his old gear, old habits would die fucking hard. He'd be König, your König. But if you wanted him like this… you would be fucking KorTac's colonel.

….

König grabbed you by the waist and pushed you up against the wall behind him, grabbing both of your hands in just one of his, the rubber pads of his gloves marking up your skin. You gasped. He chuckled and dug around in one of those cargo pockets on the front of his vest, without breaking eye contact he pulled out a pair of zip tie handcuffs.

They dug into your flesh, pinching just enough to air on the uncomfortable side, in front of you before König pushed himself up against your back, mentioning that if you were to refer to him as anything other than sir or colonel you were to be sorely punished. Spanked within reason. Broken with trust. Fingered without mercy in any hole of his choosing. You clenched around nothing.

You felt the foreign pockets of his vest dug into your shoulders, he circled his hips against your rear with a low hum that vibrated through you.

"You've got yourself a safeword, have you?"

"Mhmmm. Pocket knife."

"Good girl." König praised in your ear, grunting when he slipped his hand between your thighs, clicking his teeth when you wiggled back against him. "Spoke too soon, apparently. You're radiating heat, honigbiene. Are you wet? Should I inspect?"

"Bitte."

König snarled and grabbed your leggings and yanked them down to your ankles, he moaned when he realized you weren't wearing anything else underneath. He moved his hand to the front of your face.

"Take it off."

"How?"

"Bite down."

You whined and took his glove between your teeth, he pulled his hand out and cupped your sex. You writhed in his hold. His hand was so hot and so big and it felt so damn good between your legs.

"Wet already? What a little horny thing you are, my dear. You like this don't you? Pinned down, held in place, vulnerable in the best way possible. "Give in to me, biene. Give in to your colonel."

You yelped when his fingers, testing your leaky entrance for awhile, coating the pads and finally breached your hole, splitting your folds apart to get to the softest, spongiest, spot inside you.

"Well well…" König pressed his face to the back of your head. "What have we here? Is this turning you on, biene? The way your sweet little pussy keeps sucking in my finger is giving me the answer your voice cannot."

"Please!"

"Please what, my dear?" He asked, making his palm flat, your clit throbbed and ached to be touched, the friction of it hitting once more as he fingered you deeper, his thick thumb tapping the hood of it gently which each thrust.

Suspended between bliss and absolute torture, your body betraying you by twisting and rocking back and forth, pushing yourself back against his ministrations with your hands splayed on the wall in front of you.

"I need more."

"More what?"

"More of you. Inside me, König."

He tsked and removed his hand completely, making you hang your head in shame.

"Failure so soon, pet? Gonna' have to work on that," his heavy presence and warmth left you too suddenly, he peeled himself off your back and turned you around once more, eyeing your lower half. "You can be obedient, can't you honigbiene? Desperate to be a good girl for me. Show me your dedication."

König thudded his big boots over to the couch, plopping down with too much weight the whole scooted back at least an inch, legs splayed out wide, hands on his thighs. His still gloved one patted an inner thigh.

It proved to be difficult to shimmy over to him with your leggings around your ankles, stuck to your crew socks. You were careful not to slip on the silky material. It felt hamulating to shuffle over like that but also the way you needed to keep your knees together, your thighs together, rubbed your sex deliciously.

Once in front of him, he rubbed the warm skin of your outer thighs, then between them spreading your legs apart until the fabric of your legging tugged and pulled at your feet.

When his gloved hand slapped against your cunt you jumped. "Bad girl. What two names we're you given to address me?"

You whined, locking your fingers together, desperately wanting to close your legs. You were already a pulsating mess but this… oh this was something else.

"Tell me!"

"Sir." You jumped.

"And?"

"Colonel."

"Good job, biene. And what do you just call me?"

"Kön--König."

Another slap to your center made you shut your eyes and bite your lip.

"Did I not promise punishment if you did not behave."

"I forgot!" You whined and twitched when he switched hands, teasing your entrance once more, just pressing, not intruding, just letting you know he could pierce through you. " 'm sorry, sir. I won't forget again."

"Hmph. We'll see about that."

König is a very calculated man, knew how to draw you i like a moth to a light source. He grabbed you, pushing you down to the couch with a bounce and grabbed at your legs, kneeling down in front of you. He pulled off his vest to reveal the tightest looking thermal shirt, it made his muscles look huge, he could choke you out in seconds with how they moved. And that made you wet and weak to the manhandling of your body. His hands pulled at the back of your knees, just your lower back on the cushion now and he hooked your legs over his massive shoulders.

"Show me your pussy, baby. Go on, open her on up for me now." With your bound hands and aching sex, the way his eyes fixated as you spread your legs.

"Good job, pretty. So wet. I think I just saw her clench, are we needy biene?"

"Yes sir! I am I am so fucking needy for you."

"Good." König moaned as he lifted up the hem of his mask, licked his fingers and spread your folds before diving in to worship you.

….

He had you where he wanted you, tettering on the edge of the couch cushions, lost in pleasure as König ate you out, tongue fucked your cunt, spat on your asshole until you screamed for mercy. Grabbing at his hair. The hot and cold juxtaposition from his tongue ring brought your orgasm closer and closer.

"Colonel bitte, I can't… I can't take much more." You sobbed and bucked your hips up into his face, he chuckled darkly, smacking his lips and moaning as you felt the bridge and tip of his nose bump up against your clit.

"You're gonna' take a lot more once you cum," König groaned, rubbing all of his fingers, rather quickly over your pussy, making you feral. "Oh biene, can you hear that? You're fucking pussy is juicing up just right, you're gonna' cum aren't you, princess? Cum all over my fingers or my face, you've redeemed yourself so far."

"I um I--"

"Keep them open now. Come on pretty thing, I am giving you an option and if you don't use your words I'll just-"

"I'm so close, please!" You whine, tilting your head just right to watch in awe and bliss how fast you were losing control, your legs jerked against the sides of his head.

"That's not what I asked, sweetie."

"Fingers! Please colonel, fuck. Fing-ger fuck me, make me cum please." You sounded pathetic but it was just too much, his mouth, his fingers, his words and sprinkles of praise lit you up like the Fourth of Fucking July.

He quickly switched tactics, as he usually did to keep you on your toes. On edge for what he'd planned for you two next. But this complete dominance, his control, left you dizzy.

Instead of curling his two fingers deep into your core, hollowing you out to make room for his thick cock, he turned his wrist, palm down as he rocked them into that way. Magnificent.

You squirmed and squealed and shouted out profanities in English and a few you'd learned from your lover, like you were speaking in tongues.

Almost there, almost there, almosttherealmosttherealmostthere…

Then-- there was nothing.

No fingers, no mouth, no tongue!

You opened your eyes to see König standing above you, taking off his belt, unzipping his pants.

"I was so close."

"I know," he tilted his head and took his cock out. You clenched around nothing, licking your lips when he moved the mask just out of the way for him to spit on his own dick. You loved watching him do that. The first time you two had sex, he spat on it while staring at you, a smirk on his handsome and scarred face. It was hot then and even hotter every time after.

His boots pounded against the floor, jerking himself off as he got closer, slapping his cock against your pussy, your arousal making the stickiest noises to fill his living room.

"Colonel!"

"What a needy little slut. Just a little bit foreplay and you're a fucking mess, look at you. You think you deserve to cum, have you earned it?"

"You said I, you said I was gonna' be redeemed." Tears filled your eyes as he slapped your inner thighs, one after the other. He then dragged his nails down your heated flesh.

"Changed my mind, now sit up and open your fucking mouth." König helped you by placing his hard and cold shin guards against your knees and helped to push up. "Lift up your shirt too."

With the way your hands were bound, thumb to thumb in a praying motion, proved to be a little too difficult and König was getting impatient. So he grunted and grabbed your shirt, yanked it up, your tits spilling out from your bra and on a whim, it seemed, he just hooked it around the back of your head. On perverse display.

"That's much better. You look like a fuck toy, is that what you are, baby? Just a hole to fill, keep my fat cock safe and warm. No teeth. Stick out your tongue." König barked at you. Cursing something in German soon after you obliged, followed orders.

He plopped his cock against your tongue, you could faintly taste yourself on it, mixed with the beads of pre-cum. Delicious. You moaned around his length, his hand on the back of your skull, which he could easily squeeze and crush it in an instant, and had you bobbing, and gagging and drooling over it.

König made the dirtiest sound, low in his throat as he face fucked you, every time you pleaded with your eyes for a little release he'd slap your cunt again. Over and over until it was sore. Your clit aching and throbbing for some attention, your pussy reacting to his purposeful ministrations to make you as messy and sticky as possible.

Your König did not treat you this way, at all. In fact he made love you almost every night, claiming feeling you there, on him, in you felt safe. Comfortable. You were home. So this filthy pace, his thumb pressing down on your clit, that twisted look in his eyes as he watched you slobber all over him, down your neck and over your chest was a sign of delight.

"What a good little throat slut you're being honig, just delightful! You suck me down like you were made for it, were sweetheart, were you made to suck this cock so well?" He chuckled and finally pulled off when you nodded dumbly.

"Good girl, now then," he sighed and took a step back, a heavy string of saliva connected your swollen lips to the crown of his cock. "Do you prefer to look at me while I take you, or do you prefer to be hollowed out on your hands and knees?"

"Both." Came out of your mouth like you'd had one too many, trying to catch your breath.

"Both? You are greedy. Come here now! Hold still." He grabbed your hands and lifted you to your feet like it was nothing, and held them up above your head, your wrists screaming. "Keep them there."

He tore off the other glove and pulled down the cups of your bra, uncaring that your spit would be all over his palms as he kneaded your breasts, thumbed over your nipples.

"Oh colonel, please sir, that feels really good. Keep going."

"Sounds like it, you are so… breathy." You could hear the smile in his voice, his voice low and swirled with lust. "I love these tits so much, I just…"

He was on his knees faster than you could blink, for a man of his stature he's quite swift. He lifted his mask once more and mouthed of your breasts, groaning and growling and holding you close under the ribs, pulling at you to get further into his mouth. "I love you."

"Th-thank you sir. I love you too." You tried to remain calm but this fucking behemoth was working you over and for fucks sake would he fuck you already. You could another flood of desire and wetness slip through your folds as he licked and sucked. That damn tongue ring was worth the investment.

He pulled off your left nipple with a light pop and got back up to his feet and spun you around, you fell over on to the couch the long way, scrambling with your hands to push yourself up and into position, only to have your lover mold you to his liking. Whacking your thigh and hoisting up your hips against his groin.

"Now pretty thing… say that again for me, say it back to König."

"Oh fuck."

You did eventually find your voice after being rocked back and forth, his cock slipping in between your legs, gathering more and more of your arousal, the head of his cock bumping into your clit on purpose. He pushed into you slow for the first inch, feeling your walls spasm made him pause for a moment before you gave the go ahead with a pat to knee underneath you. He split you open, humming at the sounds coming from you, wiggling and trying to fit him all the way in at this angle. He pulled all the way out, spread your cheeks and spat once more before easing his way back in. Only to do it again and again, moaning how perfect you looked all gaped and wanting.

He fucked you hard and fast after that, the cushions feeling scratchy against your sensitive skin, your heated and exposed chest and stomach. The jangle of his belt knocking against your hip, the crotch of his pants getting soaked with your juices. He's never been this harsh before!

"Can't say anything, can you biene? Good. You don't need to fuckin' talk, just give and take. Feels so good."

"You always f-feel good, sir."

"Good answer!" was followed by a hard spank as he pounded into you even more before stopping all together to circle his hips and rub against that spongy bit that made you holler.

"Sir! Can I cum now? Bitte, I've been so good. Please?" You gasped into the cushions, your face wet with drool from all your whining and moaning. Your shoulder pushed deeper into it.

"Ja, ja! Cum on my cock, honigbiene. Cum for König."

You instantly came.

And came some more.

He couldn't wait for you to face him, see him in all his glory. So he gripped your shoulder, fisted your shirt for extra leverage and rolled you onto your back. He flicked one of your nipples harshly, enjoying the reaction and sunk back into your cunt.

Unrelenting as König massaged you from the inside out, letting you push and pull him back in like the tide. You arched and damn near fell off the couch but he caught you, cradling your hips, slipping off your socks and leggings, chucking them to the ground his his vest.

"Keep holding yourself open for me, honig. You're doing such a good job, what a good girl you turned out to be tonight hmmm?" König said while spitting on and stroking his cock again above you.

"Please sir, I'm begging you to fill me. I need to be stretched out." You cried, keeping your legs open was tedious at this point but necessary to get what you wanted.

"Bitte mich darum."

The wheels of your brain started to reel, you knew the words separately so… oh.

"I need it, colonel. I need you so badly, inside me sir, bitte bitte."

"Wanna' cum together, pretty girl. Show me that face."

He grunted when saw you smile and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck, drawing him in.

"Do one thing for me honig, grab my cock, that's it," König moaned around your fist, feeling your juices on your palm as he shifted. "Can you guide me in, show me the way?"

You rubbed the head of him between your lips.

"That's it."

You helped him glide back home, in and out, safe within the confines of your pussy. His neck rolled under your hands and you moved up your pelvis. He sunk in deeper.

"Good girl now," he gulped, framing your head with his forearms, his chest lowering down to yours. "Fuck yourself with it."

"What?"

"You heard me. Fuck yourself with my cock, like you do with one of your toys."

In. Out. In. Out.

Just that simple action had you open mouthed and pouting at how good he felt. You already came hard once, another explosion was nearly the horizon the more you fit him in, the more fuller you felt. You used him as a fuck toy, crying out his title's, holding onto his mask.

"Kiss me."

König flipped the mask up enough to comply, he tasted salty and sweating. He fucked his tongue into your mouth to the rhythm of you fucking yourself. He grunted you name against your lips. You sucked on his tongue.

"I'm going to cum if you keep that up, honig."

"I want you to. I need you to. Cum inside me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You wanted me to beg for it so I am- oh fuck yeah. That's it."

"You fuck…"

You hurried your wrist, looking up at König, with his eyes trained on yours, thrusting into your hand to finish together.

….

König collapsed on top of you, panting and out of breathe and hot. Both in appearance and body heat. That black thermal of his came off at the lightning speed after he came. He hugged you tightly, resting his face in the crook of your neck as you stroke his back. Full, sated and complete.

"I did not hurt you, right? I was a little--"

"You were perfect," you breathed and kissed the top of his forehead, tracing the scars on his shoulder. "Can I ask you one thing, though?"

"Anything, honig." König said and looked at you with curious eyes.

"Can we do that again?" Tagging: @goblinmodetweeker @poohkie90 @satakingslime @wrenwrites @mochimycat @bowsforsienna