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bi-writes · 27 days

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the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost mwii #ghost x reader #cod #call of duty #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #dark!simon #dark!soap

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bunicate · 2 months

Text

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ warnings ꒱ྀི minor pregnancy and daddy kink. breeding. sasuke being kinda mean :p / wc ꒱ 1.1k / 18+

“noisy woman .”

he’s grumbling and muttering under his breath in annoyance. other than the meeting of sweat-slicken skin, there’s your pitiful cries that make his cock twitch regrettably. you’re pretty — far too cute of a shinobi even at your sloppiest.

a sibilant sound gets wrangled from his mouth at the subtle squeeze of your wet cunt, disrupting the steady momentum of his hips.

“shit.”

sasuke breathes out huffs of hot air, goosebumps rising on your heated skin. your mind is hazy, full of the thought of his thighs pressing stickily against your ass.

his strong hands plant themselves behind your knees, pushing them on either sides of your head.

“hnn— sasukeeeeeee.”

your eyes cross and your vision blurs. the sight sends blood straight to his throbbing sac, throwing the shinobi off. he staggers, causing his to cock slip out of your wet cunt and you cry at the emptiness.

“n-nooo.”

your sharp pink nails dig into his skin, desperate to feel more of him.

he sucks his teeth. “would you calm down ?”

he pulls your hand away, and you let it fall against your forehead. your chest raises in anticipation, sweat dripping down the slopes of your breasts. he lines his fat head with your pussy, but god, your folds . . . they’re thick and fat, covering the very hole that he needs to bury himself in.

a trail of spit splats against your center. he couldn’t help it. your pussy is already doused in his cream and your sparkly arousal, but watching the spit drip down your opening ignited a fire in him.

sasuke’s left thumb pulls your lips apart, and his other hand firmly grips his cock. he rubs his heated member against your center before promptly sheathing himself inside.

“ s-sasukeee, y’r gnna hnnh—break me !”

he groans, doubling over from the intrusion.

“shut it.”

it feels like hours has passed the way he’s been mounting you. his cock is digging out your insides, his body caging you against the bed when his spend shoots out, but he’s not done — far from it.

“m’sorry . . . but you’re so big.”

and you’re fucking cute.

you were carefully done up so prettily. ribbons woven in your pigtails, konoha headband around the cinch of your waist, but those were long gone. one pigtail loosened, your makeup smeared, and clothes exposing your tits and cunt.

sasuke isn’t one to fawn over things like looks, he’s much more practical than that, but your beauty itself is a weapon. if he wasn’t careful, you’d puncture him.

you admire his lithe build, and it amazes you that despite being so slender, his cock was able to stretch your cunt until it burned. he re-adjusts the hand behind your knee. the other grabs the side of your ass, lifting you up and down his fat cock.

his strength still takes you aback. the thrusts were too much. your pussy was thoroughly ruined. you slowly begin to use your elbows to clamor away from the uchiha, but he grabs you tighter.

“don’t run from it.”

he’s never particularly talkative. only when he gets competitive and even then, he’d rather let his actions speak for themselves. but now, he can’t stop himself from provoking you. you were easy to rile up.

his hands on your hips slide down to grip the softness of your ass again to tug you back on his cock. your pussy makes an audible squelch when it collides against the base of his pelvis.

“what happened to all that talk earlier, hm ?” he eyes your lewd body, and god , maybe he can understand why jiraiya started waxing poetics about pretty girls.

pretty girls with pretty mouths and pretty holes to breed. he tugs at a puffy nipple, eager to put it in his mouth.

“‘I'm a big girl I can take it.’ that’s what you said, right? so show me. show me how big girls take it.”

you sniffle at the snark in his tone and condescension, but the trail of his warm tongue tracing the lines of your neck softens you.

“y’r mean sasuke.”

“and you’re a brat.”

he kisses you square on the lips, stuffing his tongue in your mouth. his thumb twirls around your clit, drawing precise patterns.

“am I still mean?”

you mewl from the redundant stroke on your achy bud .

“ a buh-big fat meanie.”

he gives one of his charming smirks that borders on a sly smile.

“but you like it. . . and you love me, which is why you said you help me, right ?”

he grabs his cock by the thickest part to pull out. he wipes his meaty tip on your sloppy mound before forcing himself back in. your walls squeeze around his girth, desperate to be full once more.

“'said you’d help me restore my clan.”

his palms pressed down on your belly, right where his cock reached. he’s stimulating all your sensitive spots, and you can barely put words together.

“god — you-you’re so . .”

he spanks your cunt and a pathetic stream of arousal escapes audibly.

he chuckles. “noisy mouth and an even noisier pussy . how cute.”

your knees want to close and push him away from you, but he doesn’t move . like an animal, he keeps you pinned down, and like prey, you can't break free from his grasp. only instead of sinking his claws into you, he sinks his cock deeper, pressing up against your womb.

“squeezing me so tightly. you must want it so bad.” he’s flushed against you, resting all his weight to keep you in place.

“want me to make you a uchiha ? my little wife ?"

“hiccup—p-please.”

“please what ?”

you whine, “make me yours.”

your legs connect at hips, pushing him further into you. he grunts, “so shameless . . . a filthy woman.”

you’re embarrassed. tears wells up in your eyes, and you look at him with adoration, even as he talks so recklessly.

“keep staring at me like that. m’ gonna breed this fat cunt all night.”

he gives you another messy kiss and there’s a surge of happiness when he matches your eagerness. he poured everything into it, tongue lapping at your lips and swallowing your precious moans.

“wan’ to make you a daddy , sasuke,” you whisper.

and he nearly bottoms out. “f-fuck.”

you reach down to grab your breast that jumps with every thrust, pulling on a pert nipple.

“gonna fuck you until my seed takes. until your tits get fat with milk.”

sasuke's on the brink of a rush . though he pursued a life of darkness and revenge, he buried that angst long ago. still, he never thought he’d live to think about things like women and starting families of his own, and now he was here making it a reality.

his mind is plagued with the images of children, a fruitful clan and the swell of your stomach.

he delivers more plunges, fat balls slapping against your seam until they throb. he expels with a sudden start, releasing inside you for the umpteenth that night.

he presses you flushed against him, determined to have nothing escape, not even a drop. he wanted to be sure that you’d be true to your word. you’d be his little wife, free to use and knock up.

sasuke rubs your belly, eyes gleaming red from the numbing intensity. he takes greedy gulps of air watching as you’re stricken with complete lust.

his name falls from your lips like a spell and there’s the familiar burn of desire swirling in his abdomen.

“one more time.”

#૮꒰ ๑´ତ `๑ ꒱ྀིა #not my best wrk butttttt I’m jus happi 2 write abt my first anime crush evr !!!#sasuke x reader #sasuke x reader smut #sasuke uchiha x reader #sasuke uchiha x reader smut #sasuke x you #sasuke x y/n #sasuke smut #naruto shippuden smut #naruto smut

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steddietogo · 1 year

Text

So. This is my own take on Steddie meet cute at the Grammys (gets a little thirsty in the middle for a second so warning I guess??)

———

The buzzing in his veins feel too much to contain in Eddie’s body, his cheeks ache from grinning too hard. He grabs Jeff by the shoulders to shake him and Jeff takes it without complain, too busy floating in his own cloud nine to do anything about it. All four of them are.

They’re being carted off from one interview to another, it’s all hazy in his mind, all he can think of is that they won a fucking Grammy.

“We’re here backstage with Corroded Coffin with their first ever Grammy from the best rock performance category,” the interviewer is saying, then he turns to face the band, and shit. Eddie has to sling an arm over Gareth to keep himself upright. “So how are you guys feeling right now?”

“It feels very validating to get the recognition for all our hard work—” and everything else Jeff says barely registers. Eddie is staring, he’s distantly aware of it. But he should hardly be blamed. The man before him is dressed in a deep caramel suit, jacket cinching around a trim waist and bubble gum pink lips stretched in a smile as he diligently listens to what his band has to say.

“— and Eddie, he’s really put his heart and soul in this song in particular,” the mention of his name unceremoniously drags him back to the land of the living where his bandmates know him too well and are actively trying to sabotage him before the sexy interviewer. Gareth is innocently blinking up at Eddie with his I’ve-never-done-anything-wrong-in-my-life eyes, urging him to speak.

“Um,” Um? Seriously? “Mob Mentality is an especially significant song to me personally—” Eddie’s given this spiel a hundred times, not that any word of it is untrue, but the practiced response lets him zone out just the right amount to fully drown himself in the shade of hazel of the interviewer’s eyes, imagine them looking up at Eddie from between his thighs, full of tears— goddamnfuckstopit.

The man must notice, because there’s a gorgeous smattering of pink dusting his cheeks Eddie could swear wasn’t there before.

After, Eddie is pretty much bodily dragged away from there, legs refusing to carry him away. He twists even as he’s walking, desperate to keep the man within his sights for even just a second longer. To keep him looking at Eddie, which by some miracle, he still is. And like an idiot Eddie waves, wiggling his fingers at him.

The man raises his own hand in return, and then he’s turning away, leaving Eddie to mourn the loss of his attention. But then he hears it— Steve. The camera guy calls him Steve. Sexy interviewer’s name is Steve. That in itself would be enough to sustain Eddie’s daydreams for some time.

———

Predictably, its all over social media the very next day. Or more accurately there’s one particular clip circling the net like there’s no tomorrow.

Eddie Munson simping for hot guy at the Grammys.

The comments were the worst (best) part. Eddie hasn’t dated since coming out to the public. And the fact that most of the comments people have about him openly showing interest in another man is just nonchalance or excitement makes him feel much better about it.

Eddie’s heart skips as he sees the face from last night in the clip, looking even more gorgeous than in his dreams if it were even possible. And then there is also Eddie in those clips, practically undressing him with his eyes, right there in public. He looks like he wants to open him up and lick him like melted chocolate in a wrapper.

Eddie was so screwed.

———

Top comments:

user 80085: that man is stronger than me because I don’t think I’d survive Eddie Munson looking at me like that

CorrodedFC: Eddie Munson Rendered momentarily speechless? by an interviewer?? More likely that you think

you_call_me_munson: they need to date. Right this second or I’m stealing one of the hotties for myself

———

Part II

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #famous eddie munson #steddie Grammys edition

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sparklingchim · 10 months

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Can you do a drabble of Y/N and Jungkook having a quickie in the kitchen before nabi wakes up 🌚

word count: 1.2k

warnings: spitting, creampie, fingering, handjob, spanking, a teeny bit boobie worshipping cause it is lwh jk🫢, strength kink, a dash of dirty talk

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

"Jungkook," you mutter in a pout, sauntering after him with half-closed eyes.

"Just go back to bed, sleepy head. I'll just need two minutes for our coffees."

A petulant frown spreads across your face while your eyes fixate on his cinched waist, clad only in briefs, as he leads you to the kitchen.

"Bed is cold now." You rest your forehead against his back as Jungkook opens the cupboard door to retrieve your favourite mugs. Arms circling his waist, you reluctantly follow his steps around the kitchen.

You hear Jungkook pressing buttons on the coffee machine and liquid pouring out of it.

"You're so evil for getting out of bed before 7," you mutter against his skin.

Jungkook coaxes your fingers from his body and pulls you in front of him. You immediately squint, burying your face into his chest with a grumpy grumble.

"Come here," he says softly.

"Where?"

"Up." He places his hands underneath your butt and instinctively, you leap up and wrap your legs around him. With a firm hand on your lower back, he resumes the coffee making with one hand.

Something pokes your thigh. "Oh," you utter.

"Just give it ten minutes," Jungkook says absent-mindedly as he lets the machine fill another mug with coffee.

You nuzzle your face in his neck. Cunningly you slip your hand between your bodies.

"Baby." He nudges your shoulder with his. A gentle, disapproving tone resonates in his voice.

"I'm just checking," you mumble into his neck.

"Checking what?" he asks amused.

"If it has missed me as much as I have." You lean back, eyelashes batting up at him. You know he can't say no to your pouty face, but you also want him to know that you've been missing him.

Jungkook cups your cheek with his free hand. "Of course I missed you, silly," he says as he thumbs your bottom lip. "But Nabi will wake up soon."

"But soon is so far away."

He stares at your big eyes longingly. A sigh flies past his lips as he caves in, kissing the pout from your lips.

You smile against his mouth, fingers weaving through his messy hair. Your other hand sneaks into his briefs. He presses his forehead against yours, a breathless moan escaping him when you wrap your hand around his cock.

"So needy, huh?" Jungkook sets you on the counter behind you. "Arms up," he instructs, leaning away to pull his t-shirt from your body. Just as he gets to see your bare tits, his head dips down to his happy place in a twinkling of an eye.

You giggle, fingers roaming over his broad shoulders while you have trouble keeping your eyes open because you don't have Jungkook's big body shielding you from the brightness of the room.

"We're running on a tight schedule," you remind him in a strained voice, watching his needy mouth envelop your nipple. His hand is playing with the other one.

"Lemme have this," he demands huffily. His hand wanders down between your legs, tugging your panties aside and softly rubs the pads of his fingers against your aching pussy.

"Oh-okay," you sigh, involuntarily leaning back as pleasure courses through you.

He's good with his fingers, circling your clit the way you like it before dipping one finger inside. Eyes rolling back, a quiet mutter of his name rolls off your tongue. He adds another, pumping his fingers into your pussy as his tongue flicks over your pebbled nipple.

Your feet draw him even closer to you, heels digging into his butt when he crooks his fingers, grazing your sweet spot.

Impatiently, you pull his briefs down far enough to free his cock and pump it with your fist. This has him releasing your tit, hissing against the valley between your boobs. He perks up at the sound of you spitting, watching through dazzled eyes as you use the spit in your palm for more lubrication on his cock.

"Baby," he whispers, head hanging low and fingers slowing inside you.

A little smile tugs on your lips, thumb brushing over the sensitive part of his cock. "Need you," you murmur.

"Yeah?"

You nod helplessly, pointing his tip towards your pussy. He pulls out his fingers, spreading your wetness on his cock before aligning himself at your entrance.

"So warm," Jungkook sighs, pretty lashes kissing his skin as his eyes flutter shut, feeling your snug walls enclose him. "Fuck, I love your tiny pussy."

Your nails graze over his shoulder when he's completely buried inside you, teeth sinking into your lower lip. Having Jungkook fill you up always sends a sizzling heat across your skin, coaxing the softest noises from you.

His hand is on your boob because it always is, and he fucks you rough - toes curling before you've even cum kinda rough.

He actually manages to almost knock the hot mug off the counter and a splash of coffee spills over. You glare a little because, your coffee! How dare he? But Jungkook shrugs it off, mindlessly ignoring it. He just grips you by your hips and lifts you up, earning him a tiny squeal against his chest. Your legs are wrapped tightly around him, arms draped over his shoulder as he pounds his cock into you.

"This what you wanted?" he asks, his brows pinched together, pretty face contorted with pleasure, and he looks so so gorgeous, it nearly tips you off the edge.

"God, yes - all I needed."

His palm smacks your butt and the sound of it echoes through the room.

"Quiet," you tell him, nose nudging his neck and planting a tiny kiss there.

"Can't help it," he answers, smacking your butt again and you giggle into his neck.

Jungkook has you trying to contain loud, desperate moans the second after, his cock so deep inside, your tummy feels all fuzzy and tingly.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," you pant, hands gripping him harder.

Once the wave finally hits you, your body buzzes with bliss, every inch of you is flooded by that feeling. You feel your body grow heavy in Jungkook's arms. You're a pliable, languid tangle of limbs, but he is solid and strong and keeps you with him.

Jungkook exhales a loud breath before he cums inside you, his face in your hair as he moans and thrusts into you sloppily.

You squeeze your walls around him and he pinches your butt in response.

"Don't wanna pull out," he grumbles, big hand brushing over your back.

"Wanna drink coffee." You lean back just in time to catch him rolling his eyes. "What?" you ask, frowning. "You woke us up this early." You poke his chest.

"I didn't wake anyone up!" Jungkooks says. His mouth forms a little pout. "You-" He stills when he hears the faint sounds of Nabi whining.

"See what you did?" you ask, a small, cheeky grin on your face.

Jungkook shakes his head, huffing, and you squish his face to give him a little kiss on his pouty lips. You can see him fighting the smile that wants to spread across his face.

"Daaa," Nabi whines in the background and Jungkook starts walking.

"I'm coming, baby," he yells. "Your mum's just being annoying." Jungkook carries you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

"I'm not!"

He spanks your butt to shut you up.

#she's back in her writing era ✍️#darly asks #anon #fic: long way home #jungkook smut #jungkook dilf #jungkook drabble

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hellotailor · 1 year

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In IWTV, Lestat wears several pairs of trousers where the belt loops are below the waistband. I've never seen/noticed that in anything else before. Is that a historical style? What is it called? Google is giving me nothing and I'm dying over this detail.

these are known as "drop-loop" trousers! i love this detail - it's very distinctive, although i'd associate it a bit more with the 1940s/50s than the earlier decades of IWTV season 1.

IWTV's costumes really embrace the high-waisted silhouettes of menswear in early/mid-20th century america, something that some historical dramas tone down to fit in with modern tastes. (21st century suit pants tend to be tighter and sit lower on the hips, aiming for a "swimmers build" aesthetic.)

sam reid has the perfect figure for 1930s/40s fashion: a narrow waist and wide shoulders. pleated suit trousers have extra fabric around the hips/ass and are cinched in at the natural waist, which a) is comfortable and b) makes the waist look narrower, creating an almost hourglass shape depending on the cut. to modern eyes it can look more feminine than contemporary men's suits, which plays into lestat's Whole Deal.

one pair of lestat's drop-loop trousers (i wish i could find a better pic!) create even MORE emphasis on the waist by leaving a cummerbund-like waistband of fabric above the belt. it's the kind of finicky tailoring detail that makes it obvious that lestat is a real clotheshorse. he and louis clearly spend a ton of money on tailoring.

i also suspect that lestat's american wardrobe was influenced by the fact that he socialized with and lived alongside black people in the new orleans jazz scene. the most exaggerated styles of drop-loop trousers are something i'd associate with Zoot Suits, which were not a white/anglo style and would presumably have been worn by young black men in early 1940s new orleans. (in ep 1, louis is extremely fashionable and accessorized to the hilt, whereas lestat looks like he's wearing a historical costume.)

on a final note, i love that louis continues to wear high-waisted trousers in the present day. his modern outfits are quite soft, vulnerable and minimalist - close to the kind of simple-but-expensive clothes we'd expect to see on one of the cooler young tech billionaires, but with a silhouette that calls back to his youth.

#nervous-breakdown-hat #lestat #costume design #iwtv #interview with the vampire #asks

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haitiangirl4life · 4 months

Note

Kylian Mbappé imagine where Kylian suspects you are pregnant and you deny it but somehow he’s right fluff

Suspicions

Masterlist

A/N: Wrote this on the bus so it's probably shit but I hope you like it.

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Kylian knows you better than anyone.

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Kylian Mbappé x you

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 — 1.4k

Warnings! Fluff, slight angst, unexpected pregnancy,

Kylian knows you.

Perhaps even better than you know yourself, he would say.

From how you prefer hot chocolate over coffee to how you always choose the window seat on airplanes, even though you're terrified of heights.

He knows you.

Lately, though, something's changed.

It all started with a hunch, a whispered in his mind, and he's been racking his brain trying to figure out what's wrong. Even going so far as to call his mom and ask her for advice. And he thinks he's got it.

Call it intuition or whatever, but Kylian knows you, and he thinks, No, he knows you're pregnant.

You're not as energetic as you usually are, seeming more fatigued than usual, with dark circles under your eyes, often taking naps during the day and struggling to stay awake in the evenings. You've been eating a lot more than usual, often craving weird food combinations, something you usually hate when he does. You've also been having trouble concentrating and remembering things, which is unusual for you.

Not to mention that your mood seems to be fluctuating, going from being extremely happy to feeling down and irritable within a short span of time. Like your emotions were on a rollercoaster ride.

All your symptoms point to pregnancy, and the likelihood catches him off guard. After all, you both have been careful, using protection. Still, he can feel it.

You're in the kitchen when he decides to approach you.

Preparing a simple dinner. Spagetti Carbonara, his favorite. You look beautiful—the way the apron cinches around your waist, accentuating your curves—curves he's sure weren't there a few weeks ago. And you have a certain glow about you.

As you glide across the kitchen to grab ingredients, Kylian watches you closely, noticing the slight scrunch of your nose as you stir the sauce. As if the smell is suddenly overwhelming. You move more slowly than usual, and every now and then, you take a break to give your lower back a little rub.

Yeah, he's sure now.

He takes a deep breath and approaches you.

His steps are slow and calculated as he tries to find the right words to say, heart pounding in his chest as he tries to predict your reaction.

"Mon amour," he whispers softly in your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Hey. Did you get bored with your game?" You ask, temporarily pausing your chopping as you lean back against him, his warm skin sending shivers down your spine.

"Yes…So I have something to ask you."He asks softly, nuzzling your neck and breathing in your scent. Curiosity piqued, you turn around to face him, looking into his eyes expectantly. His gaze is soft, intense. It makes your heart race.

"What is it?"

He takes a deep breath. "I've been thinking…" He pauses, swallows and releases a shaky breath. You frown slightly, sensing that this conversation is about to take a serious turn.

"Go on, you can tell me anything," you encourage him gently, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. He hesitates for a moment before finally speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. "Are you pregnant?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for any hint of confirmation.

The question catches you off guard, and you stiffen for a moment, trying to process his words. "Um, no, I'm not pregnant," you respond, letting out a confused laugh. "Where did that come from?"

Kylian pauses, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I...I don't know," he stammers, shoulders slumping slightly as he mutters. "It's just that...I noticed you've been acting different lately. You're more tired than usual, and your appetite has changed. Not to mention..." He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished as he searches for the right words. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel bad about your slight weight gain, knowing how much you've struggled with it in the past.

You roll your eyes, snorting at the simple notion he's hinting at. There's no way. "Kylian, I'm on the pill. There's no way."

He nods, still convinced he's not wrong. "Yeah, I know, but...remember that time you forgot? I just want to make sure."

You shake your head, dismissing him. "That was weeks ago, Kylian. I've had my period since then. I'm sure it's just stress or something." You reassure, turning back to resume stirring the sauce, hand gripping tight on the wooden spoon.

Usually, Kylian would drop the subject at this point, but he's sure about this. Deep in his gut, he knows. And he's never wrong about his instincts.

He takes a step closer, placing a hand on your shoulder, hating the way you tense up under his touch. "Baby, I love you. And I know you, and I know when somethings wrong, trust me." He can tell you're getting irritated by the way your eyebrows furrow and your jaw clenches. But he can't let it go. "Let's just take the test, yeah. Just to be sure."

You pause for a moment, feeling torn. But you trust him. Plus, his intuition has proven right in the past. Reluctantly, you nod, realizing that it wouldn't hurt to get checked out.

"Alright," you concede, giving him a small smile. "If it'll make you feel better."

Your hands shake as you sit on the toilet, nerves fluttering in your stomach. Kylian is standing next to you, gently rubbing your back for support, as you wait for the results.

"Hey, it's going to be okay," he murmurs, squeezing you gently. You steal a glance up at him, chocolate-brown eyes soft as he gazes down at you with concern.

"I'm scared," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. Kylian's grip tightens. "Hey, I got you. I'm not going anywhere." He reassures you, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss on your lips.

The minutes feel like hours as you wait for the result. And your hands are shaking as your knee bounces in nervousness. The timer beeps, and your world stops.

You hold your breath as you pick up the test and hand it to Kylian, the small lump in your throat now feeling like a boulder. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch him flip it over with trembling hands.

He stares at the test, jaw dropping at whatever he's reading, before a wide smile spreads across his face. Then he's running toward you.

He scoops you up in his arms, spinning you around as he exclaims, "Je le savais!" before gently setting you down and dropping the test into your hands. You stare at it in disbelief, jaw dropping as your eyes well up. (I knew it!")

Two pink lines—two lines that changes everything.

You sob when it finally hits and it catches Kylian off guard. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly as tears stream down your face. He doesn't say anything. Just holds you. Knowing that you don't need words right now. Just him.

He strokes your hair soothingly, whispering soothingly into your ear, his warm breath against your skin. And you cling to him. Cling to him like he's your lifeline- because right now he is.

The only thing grounding you to earth as you process this newfound information. You stand there for what feels like hours, just holding each other before you finally manage to whisper, "We're going to be parents."

Kylian gently wipes away a stray tear, voice filled with awe as he murmurs, "Yeah, you happy." not knowing how you felt based off of your reaction. His heart did backflips as he awaited your response. There's nothing he wanted more than a family with you. You're it for him. But he knows he'll stand beside you no matter what you decide.

So he schools his features, in case you choose a different path, and waits for you to speak, ready to support you in whatever decision you make.

"Yes!" You blumber, barely getting your words out as you choke on your own tears. "Y-Yes." Hiccups and sobs escape from your trembling lips.

His body sags with relief at your words before he's pulling you close once again and laying a hundred kisses all over your face."Thank you, thank you!" Tears fall from his eyes now. And he's bending down to get on his knees to lay kisses on your belly. "I love you so much. Thank you."

He stays like that for a long time, his tears soaking your shirt as he showers your belly with love.

And you know everything will be alright.

-Bianca🌻

#kylian mbappe x reader #kylian x reader #kylian x you #kylian imagines #kylian fanfic #kylianmbappé #kylian mbappe #footballer x reader #football #premier league

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rebelfell · 5 months

Text

Surrender

Eddie Munson x fem!Reader x lesbian!Chrissy Cunningham

When your boyfriend Eddie wants to introduce you to his old friend, you can't help being worried he’s secretly interested in her. As it turns out, he’s not the one you had to worry about.

Part One. Part Two. Part Three.

cw: established relationship, platonic!hc (eddie and chrissy are college besties), jealous/insecure reader, alcohol - nothing too explicit yet because this is mostly establishing and setting up. Time period is modern-ish.

Everyone is aged early 30s. 5k 18+, MDNI

“Are we sure tonight is the best night?”

You hate the whininess of your own voice as you call out to Eddie from the bathroom. Hearing your petulant question, he promptly appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his head tilted at you and a sweet smile on his lips.

“What’s up, princess? You don’t wanna go?”

He’s already dressed for your night out and, of course, looks perfect. Dark jeans and a black dress shirt, untucked and unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the guitar pick hanging around his neck. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his forearms and tattoos, chunky silver rings catching the light as he drums his fingers on the door jamb. His hair is down and loose around his shoulders, looking hydrated and bouncy from the cream you bought for him after he went through a whole tube of your own. It never made your hair look as good as it did his, anyway.

You, on the other hand, are a mess. Hair falling flat despite being freshly styled. Wearing a flippy-skirted sundress you normally liked for the way it cinched your waist and accentuated your shape, but tonight feels more like a vice you’ll be prone to spill out of. Sweating through your light make-up and struggling to get your winged eyeliner to match—a losing game if there ever was one.

The past ten minutes you’ve done nothing but huff and grunt and sigh at your fruitless efforts, hands only getting more unsteady the more flustered you became.

For weeks, you’ve had these plans to meet up with Eddie’s old friend who was back in Hawkins for a visit. But now, less than half an hour from when you were due to meet them at The Hideout, all your resolve is crumbling. And it’s not so much the thought of going out that has you fledgling, but rather who you’re going to meet.

You’ve heard a lot of stories over the years about Chrissy Cunningham.

You knew she and Eddie had attended the same high-school, along with most of his other closest friends. But unlike the rest, Chrissy and Eddie’s knowledge of each other was mostly peripheral until they wound up at the same small liberal arts college after graduation.

There were tales of them pulling all-nighters in the library, dominating beer pong and flip-cup tournaments at frat houses, leading epic tee-peeing sprees across campus on Halloween. Somewhere in there was an ex-boyfriend of hers Eddie would refer to as the human incarnate of spoiled milk—evidently this was the same guy who had labeled Eddie as the local demon summoner of their hometown.

“I stole his yearbook and drew a pentagram on the last page. Pretty sure he burned it,” Eddie told you once, lips spread in a devious smile.

In none of these stories had there been mention of anything romantic; nothing even hinted at other than a platonic with a capital “P” friendship. But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. Surely being that close there had to be something more. They were both attractive, clearly got along well. They’d kept in touch all this time, and if she didn’t live so far away you’re sure you would have met her long before now. She sent him postcards from all the varied places she traveled for work, and always signed them with three little x’s.

Sensing your frustration in the way only he can, Eddie quickly closes the distance separating you. He comes to stand behind you with his chest pressed against your back and winds his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder to meet your gaze in the mirror.

“Come on, baby,” he coaxes you gently. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter. “I’m tired and stressed out. Not in good first impression mode.”

You use these meaningless descriptors because you can’t quite articulate the way Chrissy makes you feel without sounding like a big baby. Eddie’s Hawkins High yearbook is basically a shrine to her, plastered with seemingly endless pictures of her cheering and being crowned as queen of something no less than three times. And even in those grainy black and white photos, she’s completely radiant. Meanwhile, all you could find of Eddie was his standard portrait and one shot of him in the club photos with his D&D group, making his favorite devil face.

“Hey,” he coos, low and soft in your ear. “You’re gonna be great. She’s gonna love you as much as I do. Well, almost.”

You huff, unable to fully enjoy the warmth of his breath on your skin, because you’re not exactly worried whether or not Chrissy will like you.

You’re trying not to be needy; trying not to feel so insecure at the prospect of meeting Eddie’s old friend; trying not to compare yourself to someone you’ve never even laid eyes on in person. But it’s so unbelievably difficult. Because as far as you can tell…she’s basically his dream girl.

You’d already quizzed him about it relentlessly, but the urge to rehash it one last time is too strong. Some part of you knows it’s pointless—that there’s nothing he can say to assuage this relentless doubt gnawing at your insides. If there was, he would have said it. And yet…

“So you guys were just friends? You never dated?”

“Nope. Never.”

You frown, despite his answer, chewing on the inside of your lip and staring at the sink to avoid his gaze. He places his fingers beneath your chin and tilts your face back up.

“What?” he asks with a smirk. “You don’t believe me?”

��Of course I do,” you groan. “It just doesn’t make sense—you say she was like your best friend, and you guys were doing everything together, and yet somehow you never ever considered, even once, asking out the prettiest, most popular girl from your high-school?”

The slight whine in your voice finally cracks into something resembling a cry. You feel it in your throat the moment it starts to break through and instantly feel the sting of tears welling behind your eyes. Perfect, you think. That’s just what your eyeliner needs.

You hated feeling like you were about to step into one of those horrible rom-com scenarios where two best friends, after years of denying their feelings for one another (or being completely oblivious to them), realize they’ve been madly in love all along. More than likely at the most inopportune moment possible—like right before one of them is about to get married.

Because it had to really suck being the partner of one of those dumbasses.

And, yeah, maybe you and Eddie weren’t getting married. Although, he had been bringing it up more often and you were almost certain one of your rings had gone missing for a good day and a half before reappearing in your jewelry tray on the dresser. Still, this was probably as bad a time as any for him to discover he was secretly in love with his best friend.

“Did you ever think about dating her?” you ask. “Like were you ever out at a bar or stayed up late after a party talking and just thought to yourself maybe, someday…”

Maybe, someday was the clarion cry of these horrid arrangements. If you had a someday person, you were basically earmarking them in your mind for later and it was only a matter of time before the two of you got together. Someday was this magical time that could be years and years from now or it could be fucking tomorrow. And if it was tomorrow, that made you the one the someday person trounces over on their way to true love. It was going to be your heart that wound up shattered and no one watching in the movie theater would even care.

Eddie starts to sway gently, rocking you with him as he mulls over his answer.

“Honestly? I had, like, a glimmer of a crush on her in high-school, but I barely knew her then. And the more we hung out…it just wasn’t something to pursue.”

“Why not? What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” he says. “We were better as friends.”

Your face sinks into a pout and you make no attempt whatsoever to disguise it. You can’t put your finger on exactly why, but you feel like there has to be more to this story. She’s pretty and thin, funny and exciting, glamorous and worldly, and Eddie just magically never had feelings for her? Never considered her romantically in the slightest? It doesn’t add up.

“It’s not like that, I swear,” Eddie says when he sees you sulking, arms wrapping tighter around you, trying to reassure you with his touch.

Normally, it helps. But not tonight.

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me,” you admit with another sigh.

His eyes are waiting for yours in the mirror. A pair of deep brown pools as warm and comforting as a freshly poured cup of coffee stare back at you, but fail to have their typically calming effect.

Against your back, you feel Eddie’s chest rise and fall as he takes a steadying breath.

“Well, there kind of is,” he says. “But I swear it’s got nothing to do with that. It’s just not mine to tell. I don’t know if Chrissy wants you to know or if she wants to tell you herself.”

It’s not the worst thing he could have said, but it’s also not, not the worst thing. You groan and bury your face in your hands.

“Maybe I shouldn't go,” you grumble into your palms.

Staying home suddenly feels like the only solution. Leaving them alone might only hasten the inevitable. But if they were gonna fall in love, you shouldn’t have to sit around to watch.

“No,” Eddie whines, tugging insistently on your wrists to pull your hands from your face. “Don’t say that. Please come? I’m really excited for you two to meet.”

“I’m only gonna be in the way,” you sniffle, unable to look at him. “You guys will be reminiscing all night and I’ll just sit there like a mute idiot.”

Third wheel to your own boyfriend.

His jaw ticks and he clenches it in that way he always does when you talk down about yourself. He doesn’t have time right now to go into just how wrong you are. And he can tell you won’t be receptive to it in your current state. He’ll take care of it later, when he has you pinned beneath him, driving his body into yours, making you gasp and pant and plead until you’ll say whatever he asks—including admitting how fucking perfect you are.

“I want you to meet her because I think you’ll get along.” His breath ghosts across the nape of your neck as he presses his lips to your skin. “Because she’s great…and you’re really great…and I think you’d be great together.”

At last, you swallow the tears rising in your throat and nod. You lift your head and find his pretty doe eyes in the mirror again. Eyes that love you. Eyes that would never compare you to someone else.

Eyes that are only for you.

You and Eddie walk into The Hideout, your hand held firmly in his. The bouncer and bartender nod at you both in acknowledgment, too inundated with customers for a longer interaction. They knew Eddie well from the many years his band had spent here playing to nearly empty rooms, as well as when he started working as a barback on the weekends to earn some extra cash. And they know you from the number of “dates” you’d spent visiting him during a shift.

Chrissy spots you immediately and throws her hand up in the air, wiggling her fingers excitedly. Her strawberry blonde hair was swept up in a ponytail, soft curls bouncing with her every move. She’s in cream-colored trousers cuffed at the ankles with a wide black belt holding them up so they sit high on her tiny waist. Her top is a sleeveless black turtleneck, cropped to reveal a little sliver of her abdomen. It’s one of those cool-girl outfits that’s so effortlessly trendy and chic it instantly makes you feel overly plain and unassuming in your sundress.

Jesus. Did she have to be that pretty?

She was cute as a goddamn button with big, round eyes and full, cherubic cheeks that only grew as she flashed a smile with enough wattage to power the whole bar. Maybe the entire town. Like in her picture in Eddie’s yearbook, one of her front teeth was a little crooked. Yet somehow it only made her smile, and her by extension, all the more charming.

Every pair of eyes in the room is watching as she scoots out of her seat in the corner booth. With a wide grin, she stretches up on her tiptoes to throw her arms around Eddie’s neck as you and he approach the table she’s secured. He slides his free arm around her waist, wrapping her up in a tight squeeze, but keeps your hand in his the entire time. You can’t say it’s not a relief, having already loosened your grip in anticipation of him dropping it as he went to hug Chrissy.

Only when he steps back from between you does he let it go, placing his palm on your shoulder as he gives Chrissy your name. She beams at you, eyes sparkling even in the dim light of the dive bar. You feel your cheeks pinch and your teeth clench as you force a smile.

“Hi! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” She reaches out to take your hands in hers and gives them a gentle squeeze. Of course her skin is as soft as velvet. “Gosh, you’re even prettier in person.”

A waft of her perfume hits you, fresh citrus swirling in your nose, and you falter slightly at her words. In person? In person as opposed to what? Your social media was private, as was hers, and neither of you had yet to extend a friend request or so much as a DM. You only knew her face from Eddie’s yearbook. How did she know yours?

“You need a drink, yeah?” she asks. “I’ll get the first round, my tab is already open.”

Eddie’s hand rubs across the small of your back in a soothing circle. “I’ll get you something,” he says to you softly. “You guys sit.”

Chrissy grins and ushers you into the booth as Eddie heads for the bar. You slide into the center and nod at the pink cocktail garnished with an orange curl that sits in front of her.

“What are you having?”

“A cosmopolitan,” she says. “Not normally my first choice, but Benny makes them so well I always order one when I’m here. He loves to bitch about it, but I know they’re only as good as they are because he drinks them himself.”

She smirks at the bar where the massive, burly bartender is talking animatedly with Eddie as he pours drinks. You can’t help but giggle imagining him sipping Chrissy’s bright pink cocktail.

“I’ve never tried one,” you say. “Is it good?”

“Have some,” she chirps. “Just know it’ll ruin you for all other cosmos.”

Dainty fingers adorned with thin gold rings push the glass towards you and you bring it to your lips for a taste. There’s a little smear of her lip gloss on the rim and the peachy flavor of it mixes with the taste of the drink in your mouth. You let out a little hum of approval as it splashes on your tongue, a perfect balance of sweet and sour.

“Wow, that is good,” you say. “I never would have pegged that as Benny’s drink.”

Chrissy smiles knowingly. Most of the Hideout’s bartenders looked like they shower in scotch and use bourbon as body wash. She leans in close and lowers her voice to a conspiring whisper.

“He’ll never admit this…but he’s a huge Sex and the City fan. I came in once to pick up a jacket I'd left, and he had it playing on the TV.”

Your eyes go wide at the revelation and you shoot an appraising glance towards the bar. “I feel like he’s a Samantha,” you say with an impish smile.

“Oh, definitely!” Chrissy laughs and then nods in the direction of the bouncer. He’s smaller than Benny, but still woefully intimidating, especially as he’s frowning and turning away a couple of kids with fake IDs at the door. “And Luke acts like a Miranda, but he’s a total Charlotte.”

You both giggle at that and your shoulders brush as you lean together. The warmth of her skin on yours surprises you, but not nearly as much as when she reaches out her hand and lays it gently on your wrist. Her eyes land on your face and you feel your breathing stall as you stare back into them. Deep blue-green like the ocean, framed by her long lashes and accentuated by the pale wash of shadow she’s swept across her lids.

“Your eyes are so pretty,” she says softly. “I can never get wings to match that well.”

“Thanks,” you breathe out, heat rising in your cheeks. “I really like your eyeshadow.”

“Aww, you’re adorable.” Chrissy smiles and her lashes flutter, showing off more of the shimmery powder blue there. “Eddie was right, you’re such a sweetheart.”

Her words ignite a little flicker of excitement that trickles down the back of your neck. You shift slightly in your seat and look down at your lap, hoping she can’t see how it affects you. You tell yourself it’s not her, just her use of your favorite pet name Eddie uses for you. Very different.

The more you talk with Chrissy, the harder it becomes to keep up the animosity you’d been stewing in the past few weeks. She’s just so…nice. In the time it takes for Eddie to get drinks from the crowded bar, you two have already brought out your phones and started cooing over pictures of the other’s cats. She’s in the middle of a story about her fat gray tabby Templeton when Eddie returns carrying his pint of amber colored beer and a rum and ginger for you.

He places your drink down on the table first, but passes his own glass into your waiting hand. You sip his beer and he chuckles at the sour face you make before sliding into the booth next to you and tucking you securely under his arm.

“Not poisoned,” you tell him, still grimacing. “Just disgusting.”

It’s an old bit, one that goes back almost to your first date. You weren’t a big beer person, but you still liked taking little tastes of the ones ordered by friends on the off chance of finding one you did like. Eddie had then offered you a sip of his and basically beamed at the adorable way your face scrunched at the taste you considered vile. He suggested in a past life you were probably one of those servants who had to sample a king’s wine before he drank.

You had laughed and rolled your eyes, but leaned hard into the joke from then on.

“My liege, no!” you’d exclaim anywhere—at dinner, a bar, one of Steve’s keggers that was masquerading as a barbeque—hand dramatically outstretched, eyes bulging with fear as he paused raising his glass to his lips before descending into a throaty chuckle. It didn’t take long before he got in the habit of handing over his drink without even thinking about it.

Eddie slots easily into the conversation with you and Chrissy. All three of you chatter back and forth about Chrissy’s work, Eddie’s music, your impending thesis. You feel all that apprehension you’d been building up finally retreating and let yourself relax a little.

And if Chrissy is harboring some ulterior feelings for your boyfriend, she’s either terrible at showing them or incredible at hiding them. She listens raptly to boring stories about all your upgrades to Eddie’s house since moving in, and earnestly asks about your relationship.

“Okay, so you have to tell me everything. How did you guys meet?”

Chrissy sits forward in her seat and sets her elbows on the table, folding her delicate fingers together and resting her chin on them as she looks back and forth between you and Eddie with those sparkling eyes. They’re bright with interest like she literally can’t wait to hear what you’re about to say. If she’s only acting, she’s incredibly gifted. Truly Oscar-winning caliber.

“Oh, jeez,” Eddie groans and covers his face with his hand as he starts to tinge pink. He peeks out at you from between his ringed fingers and a bashful smile curls up the corners of his lips, showing his teeth. “Do we have to?” he asks. “It’s not exactly Romeo & Juliet.”

You nod back at him, flashing a mischievous smile of your own as you sip your drink. Eddie’s hand drops to the table and he sighs, playing up the dramatics you assume for Chrissy’s benefit. She’s eating it up, practically wriggling in her seat like a little puppy waiting for a treat.

“We were…at a strip club,” he says.

“Oh, of course you were!” Chrissy snickers and her eyes dart to you. “Here I was thinking you’re such a good girl and you're secretly a little vixen.”

You shiver instantly and look down at your lap again trying to hide your reaction. Her eyes flit across your body and that familiar little thrill runs up your spine, stirring something inside of you that makes you tingle all over. You let yourself imagine, if only for a moment, maybe you are the little vixen she’s imagining. Ridiculous a thought as that may be, it makes you feel extra bold.

“Hardly,” you laugh. “I was in town for my sister’s wedding. I’d been here like a week already and I was staying with her through to the ceremony to help coordinate and stuff. We went to the club for her bachelorette party, but I was essentially their chaperone. Or maybe more like a wrangler for all her friends? It was like herding cats. Except the cats were drunk. Drunk and in heels.”

The most boring possible reason to be at a strip club? Check. Chrissy doesn’t seem to judge, though. If anything, she tilts her head a bit and smiles like she’s endeared by you even though you completely failed to live up to that visage of a bad girl she thought you might be.

Still, it was fun to pretend it might be true for a second.

“And what were you doing there, Mr. Munson?” she asks, arching her brow at him. “Gathering material for your spank bank?”

“It was for Steve’s bachelor party,” Eddie says pointedly. “It was basically mandatory according to all his finance bros. I wanted to play laser tag, but I had to appease the dark side.”

“Right, because you would never deign to set foot in the Lusty Leopard otherwise,” you say with a teasing smile. Chrissy’s eyes glint as they meet yours and she jumps in seamlessly.

“Yeah, Eddie, we know how much you despise looking at butts and boobs on pretty girls,” she says, giving you a little nudge with her elbow.

“I had to look into getting mine replaced! He can hardly stand the sight of them!”

You feel a bit giddy as you and Chrissy toy with your boyfriend, exchanging your wry smiles and sharing in bubbly laughter. It’s almost like being drunk, even though you’ve only had half of your drink. It sits neglected in front of you and most of the ice has melted, watering down what was left.

Eddie lets you have your fun, but his hand finds your knee under the table and he gives it a firm squeeze. Not mad, just a signal to look at him. His eyes flash when you meet his gaze and his mouth curls into a cool, confident smile that tells you in no uncertain terms he’ll remind you of this later. Another little thrill runs through you and makes you quiver with excitement.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I thought we won the lottery or something. Not only were there gonna be strippers, but there was a whole party full of girls too? We were stoked.”

His eyes flick to yours again. This is where you come in.

“Except someone failed to check their website and see that it was Ladies Night…and an all-male revue. Which is what we were there for.”

“Oh no!” Chrissy exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand, unable to hold back her laughter.

“I have a photo of Steve getting a face full of banana hammock that is pristine.” Eddie cackles and does a little chef’s kiss as you go on.

“So our two parties kind of merge and Eddie pretty much throws himself at me—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, that is slander, sweetheart,” Eddie interjects. “I was valiantly keeping you occupied to spare you Steve’s antics.”

“Uh-oh, what was Steve doing?” Chrissy asks.

“He was wasted, trying to convince the girls at the party to strip once the guys were done.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “In the name of justice and equality.”

“Oh, Steve,” Chrissy let out a gentle sigh, shaking her head at their mutual friend’s foolishness.

“Exactly,” you say. “Anyway, we wound up playing Truth or Dare and Eddie dared me to do an Irish Car Bomb with him. And whoever finished last, their group had to perform on stage.”

“So, who won?”

Chrissy’s eyes flit between you and Eddie as the two of you share a coy glance. After letting suspense build for a few seconds, Eddie sighs and tips an imaginary hat to you as you smile proudly. Chrissy beams back at you, her hand shooting up for a high-five..

“I knew it!” she says. “Nice one!”

You grin as your palms meet, heart fluttering in your chest. You think back to that night and how your adrenaline had spiked and coursed through you, making your fingers tremble as you held the shot of Bailey’s and Jameson over the pint of Guinness while Eddie stared you down across the rims of the glasses. It was the first time his gaze had completely stilled your breathing and it was strikingly similar to the feeling you got when Chrissy’s eyes had roved over you tonight.

“So, wait, did they actually strip?” she asks. “Please tell me you have a video!”

“I wish!” you laugh and shake your head. “They wouldn’t let anyone on stage. But Eddie did a very tasteful lap dance to I Want it That Way and I was powerless. He asked for my number after and I just had to give it to him.”

“That’s adorable,” Chrissy says, looking at you both all wistful and moony like she was reading some harlequin romance novel.

Eddie looks down, a happy and bashful smile tugging up the corners of his mouth and making his deep dimples appear in his cheeks. His hand rested on the leather booth between you and he slowly slides it over, linking his pinky with yours. You can practically hear what he’s dying to whisper in your ear right now.

Best night ever.

“Gosh, Truth or Dare really takes me back,” Chrissy sighs as she starts to sit back and then jolts forward. “Oh, my god! Is that what we were playing that first time we…you know? Or, wait, it was Never Have I Ever?”

In an instant, your spine went stiff. You withdrew your hand from Eddie’s, the loss of the heat from his pinky leaving a cold ring around your own, and stared cautiously at Chrissy.

“Um…the first time you, what?”

“You know,” Chrissy says, bouncing her brows suggestively. “Our thing.”

“Wh-what thing? What does that mean?”

All the airiness you’d felt just seconds ago has been vacuumed straight out of your chest. You look over at Eddie with wide eyes and find his face is panged with regret.

Chrissy glances at him warily.

“You didn’t tell her?” she asks. Oh no…

“No, not exactly,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted her to know about…you know…”

Jesus fucking Christ if someone doesn’t finish an actual sentence I’m gonna scream.

“Oh my god, Eddie! Look how panicked she is!”

Chrissy scoots closer to you, placing a gentle hand on your back and rubbing it in small circles. It’s almost calming right up until the moment you imagine her fucking your boyfriend, or blowing him, or jerking him off, or a million other things that apparently didn’t qualify as “dating.”

“I’m so sorry we upset you, babe,” she says. “I swear, I figured you knew. It’s not a secret, it just might sound a little scandalous.”

You swallow hard, throat clenching, trying to bring some relief to your mouth that has gone impossibly dry. Reaching for your drink, hoping neither of them can see how your hand trembles as you do, you take a long gulp and place the glass back down a touch too hard.

“Can one of you please just tell me what you’re talking about?”

“Of course, of course,” Chrissy says. “We had a, um…” Her eyes sweep to Eddie. “What would you call it? An arrangement?”

Eddie shrugs as he takes a nervous swig of his beer. “An alliance?”

Chrissy’s head bobs, ponytail swinging back and forth, not entirely satisfied with that either.

“Well, whatever you call it…we were sharing girls.”

Of all the things you expected to come out of Chrissy’s mouth, that didn’t even make the list. You can feel your mouth parting in confusion, brows marrying together as your face furrows.

“Wh…what does that mean, exactly?”

“We would hook up with girls together,” Chrissy explains. “He and I never did anything, but if we found a girl we both liked, we’d take her home.”

Your brain scrambles, trying to make sense of what you’re hearing.

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t get it. How…how, um, did that work exactly? Why would you…”

“Did you tell her anything about me?” Chrissy demands, her gaze whirling onto Eddie.

“I didn’t know if you wanted it broadcasted,” he says, voice hushed as he glances around.

Chrissy shakes her head, a long-suffering kind of motion like he was her little brother who had left the toilet seat up. Her attention turns back to you and she lowers her voice seriously.

“In that case, I’ve been holding this in long enough and it’s high time you knew the truth.” She reaches out to take your hands in hers and arranges her face in the most solemn expression possible. “My name is Chrissy Cunningham…and I fucking love pussy.”

Part Two

#eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff

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daenysthedreamersblog · 4 months

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STRANGERS II - HIS DARLING BLUEBELL

I tried to be good. Am I no good? Am I no good? Am I no good?

If I'm turning in your stomach and I'm making you feel sick

part one here

summary: your victory tour has ended, and snow throws a party for you to let the bidding war over you begin. but as the time for the final deal draws closer, can president snow truly part with his favorite little victor?

pairings: president!snow x district6! reader

warnings: MDNI! swearing, heavy drinking, non/dub-con touching / kissing, choking, dub-con, fingering, oral sex, power imbalance, slapping, spitting, me trying to describe hair styles, let me know if i forgot anything!

notes: hope you enjoy part two! tysm for reading 🤍

You couldn't sleep without two bottles of wine at least while also baring the train car door with a chair to keep him out. He never came or else you would have heard the banging. He would have tried and most likely succeeded breaking down the door and once again violating your space. You knew it would only enrage him more, locking him out, but it gave you some sense of peace. Allowed you to find sleep underneath piles of blankets surrounded by empty cups.

You also knew if he asked you nicely you would open the door in an instant, and you hated that part of yourself the most.

The train had stopped a long while ago and you waited for someone to retrieve you. You had removed the chair and sat there peacefully until the Avox came within the room beckoning to follow. You did, you followed them off the train and onto the concrete platform. Taking a deep breath, the smoke from the train blowing off into the winds; you found strength in the scent, found yourself wishing that puff of smoke was blowing you away with it.

President Snow was gone leaving you in worried silence wondering what corner he would be lurking around.

The tribute center hadn't changed in the months you had been gone and the ride up the elevator was actually nostalgic. How different life had been back then, how afraid you were for different things. It dinged on the sixth floor allowing you off and your feet gravitated to your old room. You peered to the right, to the door that would never open again revealing the freckle faced boy you had come here with. He had died in the first five minutes of the games and you never knew his name too caught up in your own woes about dying.

"Good afternoon miss." A bright smile greeted you. "President Snow sent me." She was flanked by two others opening kits of instruments and fabric and colored makeup. She had her hand around your back ushering you to the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up for him hmm?”

The chill went through you; for him. It might be a figure of speech since he was the President and everything was always inherently his. You lived in his districts, you won his games, you would always be his property, and maybe that’s why he felt a right to your body too. You let them strip you, let them wax and pluck and shave down every part of you until your skin was raw.

They sat you down and styled your hair into elegant waves down your back slicking your bangs against your head and behind your ears to let your hair hang permanently over your shoulders and down your back. They airbrushed makeup onto your face covering your lids in gentle colors, putting a soft pink gloss on your lips. And finally when that was done, when they had rubbed your body down with sweet smelling lotions and perfumes, did they slip on the dress.

It was white, a slight sparkle to it when the light hit it, off the shoulder sleeves hanging against your biceps a slight cowl neckline and bodice that hugged your waist, cinching it in tight. The skirt stopped at your feet the two stylist sliding you into white heels.

"You look absolutely ethereal." The stylist mused running fingers along your hair to get it perfect, smoothing down any stray pieces. "An image of innocence." Your eyes flashed to her, pride gleaming in her face, but the others. They seemed sad, almost ashamed as they turned away from you. "Final touches." She slipped the red rose corsage along your wrist the disgusting smell wafting up to your face. "Perfect. Now wait here until he comes to fetch you."

They left like they came, quickly and without many words leaving you in a heart drumming silence. The room felt like it was caving in and suddenly your breaths were hard to find as panic choked you, the bodice of the dress squeezing your lungs. You spun, gripping the back of the chair to walk, soon grappling for the armchair wanting to rip this dress off so you could breath. You forced an exhale out wrapping your arms around the back trying to rip it off. You couldn't do this, couldn't go out there and let him sell you, let him sell your body. You could hear your heart beat throbbing in your throat as you stumbled over to the small cart holding liquor white knuckles holding onto it to stay standing. You snatched the cap off, throwing it across the room and chugged the burning white liquid down until your insides felt on fire, until most of it was gone.

You threw it at the window, watching it shatter to pieces, but the window never broke trapping you in with light reflected shards of glass. You grabbed a bottle of wine off the cart, fell to the floor with a sob, dizzy and heavy with grief. Maybe you deserved all of this after everything, after killing that boy, after surviving, after some elder family member had rebelled. You ripped the top off the wine and drank deep wallowing in self-pity until your doom came for you.

The door open and closed without protest, no chair would keep him out anyways. You listened to the short clips of his shoes as he came around and stood behind you like a shadow, like a guardian angel. He tsked, squatting down, turning your face towards him. He looked immaculate in a white suit, a single red rose pinned to his chest; a perfect opposite to your ensemble.

A single tear rolled down your cheek as you stared up at him with scared eyes, "Please." You whimpered. “Don’t make me go out there.”

He raised his eyebrow, an amused look on his face, "Oh my darling bluebell." His hold on your face tightened as he yanked you forward forcing you to throw your hands out to brace the floor, "My good little bluebell." His eyes flickered around your face, a cold rage settling in and then his hand was around your neck stealing the breath out of you. You gaped at him, mouth opening and closing trying to force the words out, trying to claw up his arm to pull him off, but he only yanked you closer, bodies flush as your vision split and blurred. "As it is given...it can be taken away." He hissed pressing a bruising kiss to your lips, his hand loosing, the gasp opening up your mouth for him to slip inside.

His tongue was dominating, shoving down your throat as he attempted to devour you whole. It was a mesh of teeth and tongue; his kiss starving, hungry, like the Capitol never gave him enough food and he was planning to eat you. Fingers were digging in, carving out a place for him to control, breath by breath he took out of your chest until finally he pulled back, a string of spit trailing between the two of you.

You opened your mouth to speak, to ask him why he was doing all of this, but the words failed as your wide eyes flickered around his face.

He stood up and went to the door leaving you waiting in a pile of tears and broken glass. He opened the door, "Call Tigris." He instructed to someone outside of the door. Then it closed again, and he took a deep breath, your eyes flashed up to him as he readjusted his pants, the hard bulge in them prominent. He clicked his tongue hands resting on his hips as he stared at the ground, and then down at you still shaking on the floor.

Then he threw off his suit jacket. "Fuck it."

He came striding forward once more with purpose, lust blowing his pupils wide. "No!" You cried out falling back on your butt, crawling backwards until your leg snagged on the dress and you went tumbling to the ground. You rolled trying to scramble to your feet, but his hand had wrapped around your calf where the old scar still sometimes hurt. You clawed and kicked at him, "Please!" The sob broke out, feeling him pushing the pretty white dress up, the unbuckling sound ringing in your ears too loudly. "I've been good! I've been so good." You shook your head as he pinned your legs down with his hips. "Please Mr. President sir," Tears rolls down your cheeks. "Haven't I been good? Your good girl, please don't do this." You tried to fake tenderness by running your fingers down his arm, but nothing stopped him. It all fell on deaf ears as his hands found the hem of your underwear and he began to pull down. You thrashed more, cried and clawed at him, but he seemed content to ravage you.

"Coriolanus." A woman's voice shot through the room and he stilled atop of you hands slowly leaving from under the dress.

He sighed, his forehead pressing into yours as if it had been such a ruined intimate moment. He began to climb off, straightening himself up again. "Tigris." He said smoothing down his hair. "Get her cleaned up I'll be back in a half-hour."

You laid there in silence listening to him leave, listening to the door close with his exit the sound throbbing in your head. She finally came around staring at you disheveled on the floor. "Come on." She grabbed your hand helping you up, and back into the chair in front of the vanity. It wasn't horrible considering all that had happened. Your lipstick was smudged with small marks of mascara tracks down your face, which she solved in a matter of minutes. Your hair had only needed a quick brush and more spray to fix. Then you were perfect again; like he had never touched you. The feeling remained; his hungry lips on yours, his devouring hands. Your lip began to wobble as water welled, "Don't cry." You blinked up at her, "Please." She whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of your eye to prevent the liquid from spilling over. "Are you alright?"

You only stared at her with furrowed brows at the dumbest question she could have asked. You pushed her away gathering shaking breaths as you turned from her.

"He..." She sighed still looking at you. "He is...he just..." You glared at her over your shoulder and she dropped her voice, "I'm sorry he is doing this you."

"If you were sorry," You seethed letting your anger show. It was rare. "You wouldn't fix me up so he can sell me like a prized mare!"

Tigris frowned truly saddened by the words taking a step back like you had slapped her. "I'm sorry." She said again grabbing her things and beginning to retreat. "I'm sorry." She went to the door opening it, "Coriolanus." She said staring up at him. "Can I speak w-!"

"Go." He gritted out as she stumbled out of the door and into the hall. He slammed the door behind her. He stared at the closed door for a second, took a deep breath, then turned to take you in once again, "Perfection." He smiled as you slowly turned to fully look at him. He came forward and your foot slid back, "Oh my little bluebell." He mused continually moving for you. "I didn't mean to mess up your makeup." He took your hands in his not really offering anymore of an explanation. "Can you forgive me?" He kissed your knuckles staring at you expectingly from under his lashes.

What were you to say to the president of Panem? No?

"I forgive you, Mr. President, sir."

He beamed, hands coming around your face, "That's my good girl." His thumb caressed your cheek, "Now give me a kiss." You sucked in a breath and let him guide you to his mouth pressing your lips to his own. He hummed gently against you, tongue sweeping along your bottom lip, but he pulled back your gloss shining on his plush mouth. "Don't want to make us late." He pushed stray pieces of hair off your neck and tucked your arm in his elbow to lead you out of the room. "I have a few people I want you to meet..." He kept talking but you drowned him out as he walked you down the hallway his grip borderline painful.

He ushered you out into the hall with ohs-awes echoing around everyone straining to get a look at the Capitol's pet until the next games rolled around. Snow was speaking motioning to you and once everyone had toasted to him, the Capitol, the games did he begin to pull you around the room; a pretty accessory on his arm.

"Isn't she lovely." He said introducing you to a herd of men staring greedily. You stared ahead, far away as you heard him whisper about you, something about being well behaved, a few chuckles followed and pocket books opened, "Come," He opened his arm wide for you to walk forward. "Introduce yourself."

Your name sounded foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore as you shook their hands. "Nice to meet you sir," With each pleasantry and curtsy. It went around and around until you felt dizzy with each turn you made to meet someone new, someone who wanted to buy a body because 23 others had died. For some reason it made you curl against your fearsome President more as if he would stop these vultures from descending upon you; how ironic. You tugged on his hand to make him look. How dark his blue eyes seemed to get seeing you clinging to him like a savior.

"What is it?" He dropped his voice his hand patting yours.

You gazed up with pleading eyes, "I need a drink."

"Yes, of course." He leaned lower stroking your chin, "Not too much remember?" You nodded as he straightened up and smiled.

"Will you excuse me gentlemen?" You peered at the circle of buyers.

One had his arm wrapped around your bicep and your eyes flared up as he yanked you, "I can walk you over there."

No, no, no. You wildly searched for Snow behind his tall frame, and didn't have to look for long as a hand appeared on the man's chest, "Get your hands off her before I have them removed from your body." His voice was low. The man scoffed. This is what they were there for; me, and their president was stopping their grubby, money stained hands. Snow stepped closer, "Did I not make myself clear."

The hand fell off you and you rubbed the redness, "You promised that we-!"

"I didn't promise anything." Snow stood tall staring down his nose at the man. "Especially not to you." He waved a hand and you heard peacekeepers moving in, his eyes met yours, "Go."

"Mr. President, sir." You hid the shake in your voice as you slipped away hearing the whispers of praise about the view walking away was giving them. You didn't look back as you charged to the refreshments table grabbing the expecting flute from the servant's hand. You chugged it swiftly before anyone could notice and then forced them to refill. This time you drank it slower, body still lagging from the liquor you had drowned in earlier. If you kept in a constant daze everything felt a little more distant, like your drunk mind had made it up, fabricated the story.

"He sure does seem to like playing with you." Your head snapped to the young woman, the victor from District 4. "Mags," She smiled. She slid up besides you, nursing her own flute of champagne, "It gets easier."

"When?"

She chuckled, "When they get bored, when other victors emerge. You got bad luck, you're the first female victor since my games." Which was four games ago, "They're salivating simply to smell you." She took a sip from her flute, "You should have never told him you were a virgin."

Your eyes were wild. "H-How?" Don't stutter darling, your mother's voice, It isn't proper.

"You think he wouldn't 'leak' that to the posse he sells us all to?" Mags shook her head, "It's made mutts of them all."

"It was an accident." You took a shaky breath remembering that day on the train. "I thought something was going to happen and I wanted him to st-!"

Her hand grabbed your arm, "He's touching you?" Her grip grew firm, "Isn't he?"

You drained the flute to avoid her seeing your horridly confused face, "Did he not..."

"No, never." Her face held genuine concern. "Some minor comments, but no he never. Didn't parade me around on his arm, didn't coordinate outfits," Mags scoffed, "He made me wear this ugly teal thing as homage to my district." You couldn't speak, couldn't seem to settle yourself. "Maybe because of the whole new victory tour he felt he could get away with more. He does like his power-trips, and you're such a obedient little thing. His cock probably is straining in his pants just looking at you all pouty." You set the flute down holding your hand to your head to stop the thoughts from pouring out, dizzy with her words. They felt so brutal like the blows were hitting you in the heart. "Oh dear. I'm sorry I really never know when to shut-up." She turned you to face her, "It's alright. Here." She grabbed a fresh flute of champagne and forced it into your hands, "The first time is the hardest, after that it gets easier and once they get bored it will stop. You need to be strong okay?" Her hands ran down the skin of your arms as if trying to warm your soul. "It will be over soon. I'm here. I understand, all the victors do."

You drained your flute like it was the air you needed. "Why is he doing this to me?"

Mags only frowned sadly, "I don't know. I used to hear stories about him, before he was President. Rumors says during the 10th Hunger Games he was a mentor, but theres no proof, everything got wiped. Afterwards, he got shipped to District 12 for some rules he broke during school. When he came back he was different; he came back that man." Your eyes landed on him across the room, and he was watching you over the rim of his glass. "Something changed in him out there, and ever since he's been working his way to the top, keeping the Games, making them more brutal and publicized each year."

"What do I do?" You pleaded with her.

She tried to smile taking your hand, but it never reached her eyes, "Be careful. He's dangerous, and let's just say, I'm surprised anyone is going to bid for you seeing the way he keeps you so close." She had this look indicating she wasn't sure what was worse; the leeching men or Snow's protection. It wasn't sound advice, but you tucked it close because what else were you supposed to do; burn the Capitol down.

No one person couldn't do that.

You glanced back at him, anger laced in his stare as men talked at him.

You knew which was worse.

It was midnight by the time you stumbled into your room kicking your shoes off towards the far end of the wall and grabbing the brown liquor you had left from earlier. Your stomach garbled with hunger, but you just tossed the glass decanter cap away hearing it shatter behind you and pushed the bathroom door open. You turned the faucet on setting the glass container down to attempt to undo the bodice of the dress. You got half way down before you gave up unable to reach, too tired, too drunk, too ogled at to care. You climbed into the tub, decanter in hand, the water soaking into the fabric weighing you down as you slid into it. How pathetic. How was this the epitome of desire, a drunken, wet, sad little girl.

Maybe that was how they liked them.

You turned the water off with your foot as it sat just under your chin, wet hair floating around you. You took another long drink eyes heavy, brain swirling with everything Mags had told you tonight. You couldn't make sense of it all, not now, a part of you didn’t ever want to figure it out, it was simply too much to dissect and what good would it do. He was still going to sell you off to whoever he wanted until your name was a joke they spoke over whiskey.

Ugly red rose petals floated around you from the ruined corsage around your wrist. Your ears were underwater, the idea of drowning yourself more appealing the more sleep pulled you under. The water dulled the sound of the bathroom door closing, but there he was staring down at you in the bath. He was dressed down, his suit jacket gone, dress shirt unbuttoned at the top, his perfect hair slightly curled in some parts. He almost looked normal, handsome even if you allowed yourself to admire it. You picked your head up as he knelt beside the tub, "You could have called for help to take the dress off."

"I was impatient." You took a swig from the bottle a glare in your eyes.

"I can tell." He chuckled, his fingers dancing on the edge of the water, playing with soaked rose petals, urging you to disagree with the movement. "I saw you speaking to Ms. Flanagan.”

You glanced over at him. He was expecting an answer and you couldn't tell him the true meaning of the conversation or else Mags could get in trouble. "That it must be nice to be President Snow's favorite victor." You took another drink, "I told her that isn't true, it would be wrong of you to pick favorites."

He smiled to himself, "It isn't wrong; I do have a favorite."

“Did he not…"

“No, never.”

You knew he wasn't lying, knew in the way his eyes drank you in he wasn't lying. He took a deep breath, folding up his sleeves, coming around the back of the tub, "I did a lot of thinking." His hand came up to your neck, running down the wet flesh, fanning your hair out of the way. "And you were right." His lips were pressing against your jugular kissing down and across your shoulders his hands following the same trail.

"About what?" Your chest was rising and falling too fast vision blurring, brain clouded.

His mouth was against your ear, "You have been so good to me." He bit down on your ear. His hand was dipping further into the water until it was fighting your heavy skirt to get underneath, "And I've been so selfish."

You froze as you watched in horror as his hand disappeared underneath the skirts of the dress. He shifted his other hand coming around to float down your chest. He was under the hem of your underwear as your lips parted in a gasp feeling the slide of his fingers against your folds. Your hands were coming up to stop him, "Mr. President plea-!"

Two fingers sunk into you. You cried out, hips bucking at the contact, but his other arm slammed you back into the tub, "Shh, shh, it's okay." He whispered into your ear. "It will feel good." He kissed your neck, his other hands slipping under the neckline to grip your breast. You had your claws in his arm as he slowly moved his fingers inside of you.

Conflicting feelings began to arise within you, you felt fear at the intrusion, but your face burned as pleasure shot through your body. It shouldn't feel good, but he said it would, and so it did. Him touching you this way shouldn't bring a blush to your cheeks, an aching throb to your core. He was curling his fingers inside of you stroking a deep sweet spot you could never reach on the nights you had tried to explore your own body. At the same time his thumb brushed over your nipple kneading your breast into his hand.

You felt your hands slipping off of him.

"Let me make you feel good. I know you want to, can feel your pussy sucking me in." You chewed on your lip turning your face from him as your knees involuntarily curled up, spreading you open more for him, "There you go," his husky voice said in your ear as he once again shifted to push his hand inside further, the other squeezing your breast. You bit back the noise gurgling in your throat; no your body had betrayed you enough, you would not let him hear it too. "I saw you," He panted nearly engulfing you with his chest. "I saw you looking at me, clinging to me, begging me to save you from those men who want to take you from me." His thumb swirled around the sensitive bud between your legs and your hand shot up twisting into his shirt, toes curling, "I wanted to fuck you in front of them all, watch them drool as I take what is mine and not theirs." His thrust were vicious, his thumb pressing down, the other hand pinching and rolling your nipple. "Mine." He hissed against your hot skin.

You threw your head back against his chest the moan breaking from the confines of your throat. His eyes were there to greet you, his hand pulling off your breast to wrap into your hair forcing you to stay put, to keep staring at him. Because he wanted to see your face as he made you come undone, as he burned through you like wildfire. Yours eyes screwed up, fast pants leaving your agape mouth, and all you could do was keep his gaze as he brought you to the peak of ecstasy.

"Cum for me," He growled, "Be my good girl and cum right now." Maybe it was the trained etiquette built in, maybe it was him, but your body clamped down on his hand stars spilling into your vision as you came. It felt like betrayal; it felt wrong to let the pleasure leak out of your body as his hand stayed rooted within you. His mouth was on yours stealing breath from your lungs as he shoved his tongue between your teeth. It was possession and ownership and it was all his to command. His bit down on your bottom lip tugging until his teeth broke skin, and then he was kissing you again the taste of rust filling your mouth, brain unsure what to feel but the pain oozing from the open wound and the delicious pulsing between your legs.

You couldn't kiss him back. Couldn't do anything but lay limp in the water for him. You came down from the high he had given you confused as the bliss danced down your spine. Until finally his hand slipped out of you, the emptiness tugging in a weird place and you stared at him blankly. He kissed your lips again, gently like it would break you. Your bottom lip was trembling as he pushed you forwards undoing the rest of the dress. It felt so wrong, everything, he had violated you in a such a way and you had let him because your body couldn't avoid the pleasure he had made you feel

He pulled you out of the soaking dress, and picked you up from the bath, head lolling against his chest. You were naked and dripping when he placed you on the bed not caring enough to even dry you off as stray red petals clung to your skin. He was still pawing at you as you stared up at the ceiling, hands on your naked flesh, nails digging in where he wanted to grab. "So soft," You heard him mutter his mouth tasting along your body, drinking in your moisture.

Your head was somewhere else, the alcohol, the orgasm, the exhaustion was dragging you under. You couldn't quite see him anymore, "Please," You mumbled his tongue circling your nipple, fingers inside your sopping cunt once more. "I'm so tired." Tears were rolling down your cheeks, or was that simply water from the bath? Why were you crying if it felt good? He hadn't forced himself inside your mouth, inside you, he was rewarding you for your good behavior.

"Shh." He only hushed you. "Close your eyes." You did close your eyes unable to keep them open, a soft whine leaving your throat as he pushed your legs apart, "Look at you," His voice sounded underwater he was still speaking, but you couldn't hear him anymore his hand viciously thrusting inside of you. "Do you like that?"

You were whispering something, but couldn't feel the words your head being pulled into the pillow fingers clawing at him, for him.

"You do." You felt warmth between your legs and soon his head was there, his tongue licking up the center of you a smile beneath it all.

You orgasmed one more time before blackness pulled you under.

You awoke to an empty bed. You groaned barely able to open your eyes the air hitting your bare chest. He had left you here, alone and drenched in your own arousal. Your thighs were soaked and sticky his own pleasure splattered across your breast. You wanted to sob, each shaky breath hurt your ribs, but the tears never came. Because as you stroked your fingers through everything he had pulled out of you, you knew you had let this happen, you had let him do this to you. Your body had given itself over willingly to him as you rubbed the proof between your fingers. You wanted to feel shame; you wanted to feel broken, but all you felt was left over euphoria from what he had given you.

He had never fucked you; you would have known. You would feel the pain of something like that, see the blood as he broke through your maidenhead. No, he had just feasted on your flesh, drained every drop he could and abandoned you here. You rolled over, body sore from what he had done and slowly rose from the bed.

Then you padded to the bathroom, reran the bath, and soaked his touch off.

The stylist team came again, Tigris came again. Curling your hair, pinning it half up-half down, smearing on more makeup, and sliding you into a chiffon lavender dress. Another image of innocence; a sweet girl pliant for men.

"How are you?" She asked placing more foundation in a mark he had pressed into the flesh on your neck. He had tried to be careful, biting and bruising what no one could see loosing control most of the time, but you saw it. Saw the outline of every half moon cut he had made, the teeth indents of his mouth, the deep blues and purples littering your skin. He fashioned himself an artist; your naked body was his masterpiece signing his name is white pleasure.

You blinked up at her, "Why me?" You didn't think you could trust her with the knowledge Mags had told you; that he had never touched her, and instead singled you out.

Her brush slowed, "I don't know."

"I'm no one, just a girl from District 6." You glanced down as she pulled her hand back. "I'm nobody."

"You're not." She whispered. "You're a-you won." Her back was to you as she set down her things, "He..."

You waited until she turned back around to look into her eyes, "He's a monster." She saw some goodness in him that wasn't there and you had no idea why.

Tigris was abhorred. "I don't know why he's doing this. He's possessive and his obsession drives him mad sometimes. I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She packed her things quickly leaving the room in a panicked rush as you sat in silence.

An Avox came by an hour later leading you down the elevator and out where a sleek black car waited on the curb. Your heart stuttered as the door was held open for you a hand outstretched to help you inside. He was sitting within, red leather seats sinking you in. "How did you sleep?" He brushed a knuckle over his lips to hide the smirk as the door closed behind you.

"Good." You lied. It was deep, but waking up was jarring. You still felt the ache of his touch inside of you, the feel of his mouth wrapped around your clit. "Thank you Mr. President, sir."

His hand fell on your thigh. "I'm having you moved to the mansion." He told you, "I don't like you being so far away where I can't protect you." You swallowed the look in your eyes asking him, from what? "These men are desperate for you," He stroked your leg an attempt at a reassuring look in his eyes. "I'm afraid at what they might do before a deal is set. I want you close, where I know where you are all the time."

He wanted you in his cage, but he did have a point. "Thank you Mr. President, sir." Your heart thudded heavily in your chest. You didn't want a deal set, you didn't want other men hunting you down and taking more pieces of you. "Are we..." You gazed out the window. Are we going to one of them now, you wanted to ask.

"Yes and no; he'll come by the house later. I think you'll like him." He turned towards the window. "I want to show you something first." The drive was quiet. You were too afraid to ask anymore question in fear it would break your resolve further. He kept his hand on your leg and when the car stopped he held onto you tightly leading you away from the road towards his home. "You showed me yours; I think it only fitting I show you mine." He whispered close to your ear gripping around your waist as he led you down a side path towards what seemed to be a large greenhouse.

"Oh." You said staring up at it. It was a formidable beast defiantly more kept than your lousy garden at home. Was it even home anymore? You weren't quite sure of anything anymore. He had given you no inclination on when he would let you return. Perhaps when the 'deal' was set you would be allowed to leave until a new victor emerged. He opened the door for you leading you inside letting it click close. The room was covered in roses, just roses. "It's beautiful," You lied taking it all in. He had every color, but white roses took up most of the space, like they were beginning to dominate every root in the soil. It was too pristine, too clean to be anything but frighteningly horrid.

The greenhouse door locked into place, and your breath halted with it. You focused on a blooming white rose running your fingers along the soft petals. You don't know why the idea of being alone with him still scared you when he had seen you at your most vulnerable. "Did you enjoy last night?"

"The party was wonderful." You absentmindedly said; it wasn't what he was inquiring about.

He chuckled his footsteps slow coming closer, "Yes it was a nice party for you," He was standing behind you now. "Everyone was enchanted by you," He trailed his fingers down your skin. "They wouldn't stop talking about all the different ways they wanted to fuck you," His chest was pressing into your back as his hand slithered around your body coming up to your neck to grip your jaw, "But I got to taste your pleasure first, got to feel the softness of your tongue around my cock, got to hear all the pretty noises you make." Your throat bobbed feeling the hardness press into your backside as his thumb pressed into your bruised lip. "I know you enjoyed last night, my darling bluebell, by how drenched my face was buried in your sweet cunt for hours."

Hours. He had been there for hours between your legs, touching you, stealing from you, feasting on you while you were blacked out. You couldn't speak, couldn't move as the vision choked the air from you, his mouth dragging along the tense muscle in your neck.

"Do you still feel me down there?" He was bunching up the skirts of your dress. And maybe deep inside your brain it remembered him drawing orgasm after orgasm out of you because your body heated, your core grew slick. Treachery coursed through you at your body, at the fact it was less weary of him than you were. "You're fucking wet." He laughed as if he too was astounded by the moistness gathering in your panties as he rubbed his hands along the front of them. He became ravenous after then shoving his hand inside of you with such a force you fell forward. Potted plants clattered to the ground in a pile of dirt and glass, but he didn't care. He only shoved his hand deeper his body curling around you, enveloping you, "You're so fucking soft; like fucking rose petals." He pressed a third finger inside of you and you bit down on the scream, a small whine floating through the quiet air as he stretched you open. "You want my cock inside of you don't you?" He bit down on your neck, "You want me to fill you so badly, you want me to be the one to do it."

"No!" You cried out as he slammed your chest to the table the plants once sat on. The room was filled with the squelching sounds his hand made every brutal thrust into you, your arousal dripping down your legs. You gripped the table feeling him pulling your skirts up around your back, ripping off your underwear leaving you bare for him. You knew deep down your body would take him, suck him in greedily, allowing him to live there while you writhed in agony and embarrassment. Maybe it had something to do with the small power you felt that he was unable to control his desire for you, or maybe it was simple need. Wicked, cruel thing human nature seemed to be, she laughed at you while allowing him to take more, more, more.

You kicked your leg out trying to buck him off, but he slammed your head back down slapping your backside harshly, "Behave." He growled. You yelped as he slapped you once more his hand pulling out of you. He held you down by a large hand on your head as you squirmed, listening to him unsheathe himself.

"Please," You whimpered. "Please you don't want to do this. You-you said...you'll ruin me for your deal and-and-!”

He spit in your face the warmth of it landing along the corner of your lips and cheek. It trickled into your mouth and your tongue darted out for more. "Don't stutter." He yanked your hips back, "And be my good girl and fucking take it." You were crying now, crying as more wetness slipped out of you, crying as he ran his cock along your folds, crying as the tip of him lined up with your entrance, crying as you wanted him inside you so badly it burned.

A knock on the glass door stilled him before he could push inside of you and you nearly passed out from relief. "Sir?" Someone called inside, "Your guest has arrived."

You were taking large gulps of air every shake of your body rocking against the tip of him. "I'll be right there." He shouted back angrily. He was motionless behind you a deep frustrated sigh the only reminder he was there, a few moments from taking what he so desperately wanted it seemed. "Get on your knees." He pulled your body up and forced you to the ground, bare knees scraping in the broken glass. "Open your mouth." Your body relaxed as you took him; you knew this, you had been through this, you could take it, mouth moist from his spit. He wasn't as kind as before, if you could even call that kind. Forcing his cock to the back of your mouth, snapping his hips against your face as he yanked your hair around to move your head, "So good. So," Snap. "Fucking," Snap. "Good." He had your face buried within his skin as your tongue involuntarily swiped around him feeling his movements stutter at the unwarranted sensation. "You fucking like my cock inside your mouth." You weren't sure, but it was becoming familiar and the safer option, and you didn’t mind the taste of him. He reached down grabbing your hand pulling it to the shaft swirling around it with your palm, "Do it yourself sweet girl, do what I tell you."

So you did. You did what he wanted you to do, swirling your hand around the shaft, took his cock deeper until you gagged letting the spit spill out of the corners of your mouth. Your tongue ran along the head until his movements grew erratic and his thigh became taut hot ropes of cum spilling down your throat.

"Swallow it." He commanded snapping your jaw shut after he pulled out. "All of it." His breaths were heavy. You gazed up at him feeling the remnants trickle down your throat. His eyes were dark, demanding, obsessive. "I want you to kiss his cheek with my cum still on your breath." He left you on the ground as he went to the door. "Clean her up, get her ready for lunch." He called to some servant.

You glanced down at the dirt staining your chest from where he slammed you, the blood blooming on the dress from your scraped knees, your smeared makeup no doubt. You let them help you up and cart you back to the house.

An hour later, and now a pink dress covering your skin, you sat down at the table. It was a small thing, set to fit only six people in a small room cascaded in sunlight. The windows were open letting in warm air and a breeze that ruffled the curtains. He sat to the chair next to you cutting into his food while he spoke to you...buyer. The highest bidder.

The man was handsome, maybe a tad older than the darling President, but not by much. He had dark hair and darker eyes a slight shadow of a beard gracing his features. He wore a light blue suit that was almost tacky compared to Snow's deep green. You shook your head at the ridiculousness of comparing the two, comparing the buyer to the seller.

And yet, President Snow's presence comforted you, which in turn disgusted you. It gave you a headache and you drank dainty sips from your cup of sparkling wine hoping to avoid the feelings this afternoon was invoking from you. A mere hour ago he was shoving his cock down your throat, and you had savored the flavor of him. Now he was wanting money for your virtue. You glanced across the table once more.

You had won the games, and this was your peace they had promised.

There was no winning. Only surviving.

He left after an hour long lunch barely speaking to you at all, but when he left he grabbed you. He pulled you in close hand blatantly spread across your back side as he forced you to kiss his cheek. Could he smell it? Could he smell his President's cum stuck between your teeth?

When he left Snow had an anger to him which surprised you given the fact he was the one pawning you off, he should be happy.

Your eyes met, sunlight heating your back from the window as you watch his teeth grind together never looking away from you. Then your face began to fall, knees wobbling, at the realization of the reason behind his anger.

He forced you away without another word.

PART THREE HERE!

( its disgustingly smutty so bring holy water )

notes: this had WAY too much plot sorry lmao

tags: @astarborntowrite , @genderfluid-anime-goth , @merlieve , @darktrashsoulbear

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus smut #coriolanus x you #coryo x reader #coryo smut #dark fanfic #fanfic #dark fanfiction #hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coryo snow #president coriolanus snow #dark coriolanus snow #dark coriolanus

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