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babyleostuff · 10 months ago

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── OLYMPICS MASTERLIST

[🛹] DISCIPLINE: SKATEBOARDING

GENRE: fluff, strangers to lovers(ish), introverted reader, vernon being the greenest flag of them all PAIRING: skateboarder!vernon x athlete!fem reader WARNINGS: explicit language and a couple of sexist comments WORD COUNT: 3.1 k

“not the anti-sex beds again,” katie groaned, like it was the end of the world.

rolling your eyes, you threw your duffle bags on the bed next to the window. though, as dramatic as she could get sometimes, and as much as you couldn’t wait for the games to begin - you were not looking towards sleeping on the cardboard monstrosities. the amount of massages you had to get four years ago because of them was not something you’d like to go through again.

“it’s not like you’re going to have sex anyway,” sam nudged katie with her shoulder and threw her own stuff on the bed next to yours.

“i’m not talking about myself, stupid,” katie said. “our friend over here,” she put her arms around you and squeezed your shoulders, “needs to get laid. she almost managed to bang that rugby dude the last time, and i can feel it in my bones,” she took a deep breath, ”she’s going to succeed this year.”

you tried shoving her away, as sam erupted in a loud laugh.

“hah hah, very funny,” you mumbled, and flicked katie’s forehead. “i’m here to win medals, not to find a hookup.”

“mhm, sure,” sam said. “we’ll see about that.”

the next morning you stood up with the first rays of sunshine, a lot earlier than most people in the village, with a plan to make the most of your only day off before the eliminations. it’d get crowded quickly, so you figured it’d be nice to soak in the surroundings without hundreds of people bumping into each other. you didn’t bother to wake the girls up - you were eternally grateful you could share this amazing adventure with them, but you needed some time alone.

besides, there was a 99% probability that sam would skin you alive if you tried cutting her beauty sleep short.

before leaving the building, you managed, to your delight, to find the gym and the swimming pool, which surely would become really handy in a couple of days. then, you found a small farmacy a couple of blocks away, and a post office where you took a couple of pictures in a photobooth and wrote short letters to your friends at home, before throwing them into the mailbox.

though the streets were starting to get busier and busier, because well - the athletes, their trainers, the volunteers, staff - everyone wanted to see what this year’s host had to offer, it was still pleasantly peaceful, and you could enjoy your time alone to the fullest. and apart from the cardboard beds, the village was so nice. the purple colours especially.

just as you turned around the corner of south korea’s apartment complex, you felt and heard your tummy rumble, and thatwas your cue to find the dining hall. fortunately, it didn’t take you long. apart from the big ass signs with “dining hall”written all over them, most people that you passed were walking in one direction, which could only mean one thing.

after a short while, you entered the big room, all purple and pretty, already filled with hundreds of athletes and staff.

scanning around the huge hall, you tried looking for someone, anyone you knew, but to no avail. most of the tables were already taken, but somehow, to your misfortune, none of them were taken by anyone from your country. you sighed and twisted the pendant hanging around your neck, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you’d be forced to sit at a table with people you did not know.

there went your peaceful morning.

without wasting more time, and before you’d completely spiral over the lack of familiar faces, you picked up a plate and cutlery and made your way to the queue for food, standing behind two chinese athletes.

the line moved slowly, but you didn’t mind. as much as you weren’t particularly overjoyed with the loud noise and chaos, it was nice to do some people-watching. the different races, heights and widths, cultures, languages - all within one building - that had to be one of your favourite things about olympics.

“isn’t that the chick kyle fucked last time?” suddenly a male voice pulled you out of your thoughts, as if your brain knew that the comment was direct to you. drowning out the noise around you, you tried your best to focus on the people behind you.

“he didn’t fuck her, she ran away the second he touched her tits,” another guy said. “fucking prude,” he snickered.

you felt your cheeks heat up - in embarrassment because you were right there, and they knew you could hear them, but also in anger because what they were saying was just not true.

“i told him to go for the track runner, she had a better ass anyways,” the first guy said, as the other laughed.

comments like these were nothing new. men like these were nothing new, but it didn’t make the ache in your chest any less painful. worst part was that you’d let them, you wouldn’t stop them - you couldn’t. anytime you tried standing up for yourself you felt at loss for words, your throat closed up, and your mind went blank.

“excuse me, guys,” a new voice joined in. “the last time i checked this was the olympics, not who has a better ass competition.”

you didn’t have the nerve to turn around to see who that new voice belonged to. you just clenched and unclenched your fists, trying to control your breathing.

“also if i may suggest one thing-,”

“you may not-,”

“you may want to check out your own ass… or the lack of it,” you could hear the smile in his voice.

the two guys grumbled something and left the line, but not before one of them bumped into you with too much force for it to be just an accident. muttering a curse under your breath, you massaged your slightly sore arm and prayed to whatever force for the two fuckers not to pass their eliminations.

“are you okay?” you could feel the guy's breath on your neck.

fuck, now you had no other choice but to acknowledge what had just happened. if it was up to you, you’d happily skip breakfast and run back to your room. who would’ve thought that the cardboard bed would be the equivalent of a safe haven.

“uh,” you took a shaky inhale, “i’m okay.”

“just turn around, smile politely, thank for the help, and move on,” you thought. but as you did that, your eyes went wide, and your breath hitched in your throat.

you found a set of hazel brown eyes looking at you with curiosity and a tad of softness as if asking a silent question if you were really okay, a kind smile that managed to calm your pounding heart on its own, and cheeks dusted in a light shade of pink as if he had just finished his morning run. the guy couldn’t be much older than you and was the perfect height. you didn’t have to tilt your head in an uncomfortable way to look him in the eye, and he didn’t have to look down at you as if you were a dwarf.

his dark brown hair was hidden under a beanie, and despite the oversized shirt and shorts, you could make out his lean build, which made him stand out from the other bulky men around. you quickly figured he was part of the us team by his outfit, but you couldn’t rack your brains around what type of sport he could be doing.

he looked so… laid back compared to everyone around.

“are you sure?” he asked, his gaze still attentive to you and you only.

you nodded your head. “sorry you had to listen to that,” you said.

“i’m sorry you had to listen to that,” the guy muttered. “you know those dudes are total douchebags, right?” annoyance flashed across his face for a second, “people like them shouldn’t even be here and-,”

“it’s okay, really,” you said with a stern voice, cutting him short. grateful - that’s what you were - and it was really nice of him to stand up for you, but you couldn’t shake off the feeling that he saw you as nothing more than a weakling that couldn’t even stand up for herself. and that had to be more embarrassing than the comments.

he must’ve noticed your sour expression, because he quickly said, “i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“you didn’t, i… i’m sorry for snapping at you,” god, you really messed this up. this gorgeous boy just saved your ass from getting harassed, and you were acting like an ungrateful bitch. “i’m just not the best at dealing with… whatever that was,” you cleared your throat. “but thank you, it was really kind of you, and you didn’t really have to say anything, but-,”

“but i would’ve been the biggest asshole if i hadn’t said anything,” he chuckled, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “i couldn’t just let those two fuckers say those things about you. about anyone for that matter. what kind of person would that make me?”

you nodded, though if you had to be real - you were too distracted by his eyes to focus on what he was saying.

“okay, that sounded so pretentious,” he said, frowning, as if cringing at his own words. you couldn’t help but giggle at his expression. he looked really adorable despite his disgusted look.

and that didn’t mean anything good. you knew yourself, and you knew how easily it was for you to fall for a person that showed you an ounce of kindness, even if they did it just because they were a good person. and that was probably what was happening now - he saw you getting harassed, he stepped in, said a couple of words, and that would be it.

but you. you’d think about this for the rest of the olympics. about his teasing voice, the slightly curly hair coming out of his beanie, the fact that you’d never know what kind of athlete he was. the freaking hazel eyes.

“i’m vernon, by the way,” he, or vernon, extended his hand.

you cringed at the thought of your sweaty palms, still closed in fists. and it wasn’t like you could wipe them right in front of him. now that would just send you straight into a coma. but you took it anyway, it couldn’t get worse than the comments about your flat ass, you figured. and if he noticed he didn’t say anything, just smiled and nodded when you told him your name.

“so, do you have any plans for today?” he asked, letting go of your hand way too soon for your liking.

“i was planning on eating breakfast, but…,” you shrugged.

“well, i might have an idea then,” he said, a proud smile on his face. “have you ever tried skateboarding?”

…

you did not think this through.

trying to skate on a wooden board with four wheels sounded kind of appealing at the moment, but now - now that you were about to actually stand on it? huh yeah, you’d rather stick to keeping your own two feet on the ground.

“it’s not going to kill you, you know?” vernon laughed, as you looked at the board in front of you with pure horror. there was no way anyone could survive skating on that thing, let alone doing tricks and flips or whatever they did with that torture device.

“just,” he pulled the board closer to you with his foot, “lean your weight on me first and i’m going to hold you, just so you can get comfortable standing on it,” he said, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

would he think you were a complete loser if you ran away? maybe you could blame it on a sudden stomach bug or something.

“mhm, yeah,” you breathed, grabbing his extended hand. “easy peasy.”

luckly for you, the skatepark was still relatively empty since most of the village was trying to fight others in the queue for food, so the chance of you skating into someone by accident was almost non existent. but that did not change the fact that you were on the verge of a panic attack. why did you say yes to this? why did you step out of your comfort zone so easily? comfort zone was good - you loved your comfort zone. that was what kept you safe from agreeing to skateboarding on a whim.

but it was so easy to say yes when vernon looked at you with so much kindness. you just weren’t able to decline - there was something about him that put you at ease, whether it was his voice or mannerisms - he oozed with so much calmness that even your erratic heart was screaming “say yes!”

“put your right foot in front of the left one,” he said, still grasping your hand tightly. “and keep your knees bent, it’ll help with keeping your balance.”

you watched him as he showed you how you were supposed to stand correctly, and tried to mirror his stance the best you could.

“that’s perfect,” vernon said with a bright smile, as if you just won the gold medal for not falling off the board on the first occasion. “told you you’d do a great job.”

“this is ridiculous,” you muttered, as your legs wobbled. “i’m looking worse than a baby trying to walk.”

he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, making you giggle. “i love your form of self motivation. now,” still holding onto you, vernon walked around the board, “uh, is it okay if i put my hand on your waist?” he asked, and your heart skipped a beat.

usually, you’d immediately say no, but… there was nothing usual about vernon as it turned out. if this was your day of breaking your walls then so be it. you nodded in agreement. “try to put your left foot on the ground and push yourself forward,” he said.

your thin t-shirt did nothing to conceal the warmth coming from vernon’s hand, but somehow, instead of making you more nervous, it only calmed your wobbling feet and shaking hands, grounding you on the board, making it less scary by the second. you’d never met anyone before who had been so gentle with you, so patient and understanding so quickly.

“like this?” you took your left foot off the skateboard, but before it could reach the ground you wobbled backwards. “vernon!” you shrieked, ready to fall ass first on the asphalt, but that never happened. your back met his solid chest before you could move more than an inch.

“‘s okay,” he said, gripping your waist tighter. “i’m right here.”

you breathed a sigh of relief. “i don’t think this is a good idea,” you looked over your shoulder at him. “what if i break your board?”

“i have ten others,” he stated as a matter of fact, not bothered at all even if you actually broke his board. “try again, i’ve got you.”

the next try went a little bit better, at least you managed to put your foot down without bumping into him again.

“okay, now push yourself forward.”

“just… don’t let go, okay?”

“i won’t,” vernon said. you could feel him so close to you, his breath creeping down your neck. “i won’t.”

you never thought you’d feel so accomplished by such a simple thing, you were a gold winning athlete for god’s sake, but when you finally moved, when the board skated forward and you were still standing on it - you felt a flicker of pride settle in your chest.

“that’s it,” vernon said, giving your hand a squeeze. “you’re doing great. try doing that again.”

and so you did just that. you pushed yourself forward, again and again, until your feet weren’t wobbling at all, and your moves were getting more confident.

“i’m doing it, i’m…,” you laughed, “vernon, i’m skateboarding,” you said, pushing once more.

“yes, you are!”

wait. why was his voice so distant?

that’s when you realised you couldn’t feel his hand on your waist anymore, nor were your fingers intertwined with his.

“vernon?” you asked, alarmed.

“just don’t turn around-,”

but it was too late. you took a look behind you to see vernon standing a couple of metres behind you, and that was enough to lose all of the balance, all of the control.

“shit,” you heard him scream, right before you closed your eyes shut, readying yourself for the impact.

the board flew forward as you slipped backwards, your hands flying to your slides trying to hold onto something. but there was nothing, just air.

but then - the strong grip, the warm embrace, the hands that you trusted so much - you could feel him all around you. no pain, no broken bones - just vernon.

“shit, i’m so sorry,” he said, still holding onto you. “i shouldn’t have let you go.”

gently, he helped you sit on the ground, his eyes scanning all over your body, looking for any injuries.

“it’s fine, i just panicked,” you said, and put your hand on his shoulder, pulling his gaze back to your eyes. “seriously, it was actually quite fun.”

at that, vernon’s expression softened a bit, and after a second he even flashed you a smile.

“that’s good, that’s…,” he exhaled. “that’s a lot for one morning i think.”

you laughed, and shook your head. “yeah, i think you’re right. but you know,” you looked over at the board that was still rolling on its own. “i think i’ll stick to watching you skate. i don’t think i’m built for this.”

his body shook with a silent giggle. “i’m still proud of you.”

“thank you,” you said quietly. and you truly meant it - not only for catching you, or trying to teach you how to skate - but for standing up for you when he could just ignore it and move on with his day, for pulling you out of your little safe bubble. that thank you meant a lot of things and you hoped that vernon knew that.

“were you serious, though?”

you frowned, not really sure what he ment.

“that you want to watch me skate?”.

any other day you’d say no, but…

“yes. i’d really love to.”

a beautiful smile bloomed on vernon’s face, and you knew right there and then that the feeling of gratitude was forming into something more than just that.

“my eliminations are in two days, uh and maybe, only if you want, you could come?”

you nodded eagerly. at this point you weren’t sure you were able to tell this man no at all.

and you couldn’t wait to see where that would get you.

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scatter-snz · 2 months ago

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Best Laid Plans - Part 4

Details: 11k, M sneezes, M/M/F🔥

Summary: A secret agent is going undercover for a few days, and his target has a sneeze fetish. He’s in for a long night.

PART 3 - PART 4 - EPILOGUE

Me, an aroace individual: (holding the porn I’ve written) is this… sexy?

Haha guysssss I struggled with this one 😭 I’ve never written a threesome before, but all the kind thoughts people have shared about this story encouraged me, seriously 🥹 I love hearing about what you guys enjoyed, so THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!! 💖 If I haven’t told you personally how much I appreciate it, please know that I do and I revisit your words to give me soul power ✨ I really hope I did this part justice for those inclined to read it!

These are original characters, all in their mid twenties to early thirties!

Warnings: Mess [not graphically described but present], fake contagion [nobody can catch this cold], pleasure from sneezing, humiliation [character is embarrassed about illness/sneezing], exhibition [characters get horny/touch intimately in public], sneezing on someone [accidentally and purposefully], threesome, bdsm vibes, cunnilingus, anal sex, overstimulation, orgasm denial, sneeze denial, lol the sex might be intense guys BUT there’s aftercare!!!

EXPLICIT ALERT:

The sex is safe, sane, and consensual from all parties while still respecting the world of deception the characters exist in. Omicron gets worked over pretty good LOL, but everyone has fun and he gets aftercare. If you think the circumstances might bother you, or explicit material isn’t your vibe, please feel empowered to skip the sex!! You won’t miss anything plot relevant. I’ll mark the sex scene clearly with 🔥 emojis so you can skip if desired. This might be overkill, I’m just anxious and want everyone reading to stay comfy and safe ❤️‍🩹

---

Omicron was a punctual man, but he arrived a few minutes late to the venue on purpose.

The Wooden Lantern sat at the top of the tallest structure on the resort campus, situated in what could only be called an observation tower. Every wall was a window showcasing views of the island’s coastline. With the sun slinging low over the water paired with the romantic glow of the restaurant’s interior, it was obvious why reservations spanned over calendar years. Couples leaned close to smile and share plates, knocking knees beneath long tablecloths to the sounds of smooth jazz.

Isn’t it tacky to discuss the parameters of a threesome here?, Omicron thought with an arched brow. He lifted a handkerchief (lended to him by Delta) to dab beneath his nostrils. They’d tried to apply vaseline, then concealer, to ease some of its obnoxious color; of course he’d rubbed it all away minutes after application, teased to distraction by the smell and sensation. Even if Josaline and her husband would appreciate the abysmal state of his nose, he didn’t want to look like a sick, snivelling mess over dinner. He sighed to himself, resigned. Even an ounce of discretion is too much to hope for.

A stop by the host’s podium led to a winding walk through the venue that ended at a spot at the back. The table, he noticed, was a little larger than the rest to accommodate an extra person. It sat against a window for privacy, lit dramatically by the sunset sky and sparkling lamps. A man and a woman sat there — one of them was familiar.

“Nick!” greeted Josaline, in that dark velvet voice of hers.

She rose from her seat with flowing grace, hugged by a glittering black gown, and even Omicron wasn’t immune to the way her hair spilled over her bare shoulders. Her lips were brighter tonight, a classic red, and they brought out the brilliance of her smile. She met him before he reached the table to take his cheeks in her hands and kiss them one after the other. Her smile fell to a pout.

“Ohh, sweetheart, you feel a little warm,” she said. Anita got his temperature down with reducers, but it had yet to break entirely. Josaline’s thumbs rubbed the apples of his cheeks, and just as he predicted, drank in the burgundy hue of his nose. He was uncertain how she’d feel about a fever, so he funneled the anxiety into his performance.

“Yeah, I’b-.. hkkrm!” He turned away to clear his throat when his voice cracked, then slanted a sheepish smile. “I’mb, uh.. ndot at my best. But I didn’d have your ndumber and wasn’t sure if you’d wandt to cancel, and I did really wandt to see you and mbeet your husband- uh-.. so-”

She silenced him with a peck on the lips; her eyes glittered in the lamplight. “It’s alright. We don’t mind as long as you’re feeling well enough to be here. Thank you for coming.”

For someone who was apparently suspicious of Nicolas Foster, Josaline seemed calm and pleased to see him. It set Omicron on edge. Did she have an alternative plan up her sleeve that gave her confidence? Did she simply not care about the risks of spending an evening with someone who might be trying to apprehend her? He didn’t let anything show on his face as she led him to the table, but nearly faltered when he saw who he was about to meet.

“Nicolas, let me introduce you to my husband,” said Josaline, gesturing. “This is Cristoph.”

Cristoph Meyer. Josaline’s nonconcern over his cover made much more sense.

Like her, Cristoph was powerful, well-connected, and capable of squashing any slapdash probing from law enforcement. Unlike her, he was suspected of operating one of the most prolific dark web identity rackets in the world. Josaline had the business and brains, but Cristoph had the means. The fact they were together at all was incriminating, but with their combined clout across facets of society and criminal underworld, it practically guaranteed them immunity from investigation.

It was now imperative that their hack tonight was a success, or else the agency wouldn’t have enough evidence to touch these two with a one-hundred foot pole.

Cristoph stood from his chair, hand extended, with a perfectly polite greeting, “Nicolas. I have heard so much about you.”

He matched his wife in height, her platform heels notwithstanding. Fair hair parted to the side, tidy salt and peppered beard, browline glasses with a tweed suit that evoked a professorial style at odds with the criminal Omicron knew him to be. A little bulky in the torso, thinner in the legs, silhouetted like a martini compared to Josaline’s hurricane glass curves. Together, they defined elegance. Omicron couldn’t help but feel embarrassingly outmatched in his slightly wrinkled suit, clutching a rapidly dampening handkerchief, with a nose glowing brighter than any light in this restaurant.

“Probably mbore thand I’ve heard about you,” he jested. There was an awkward beat where Cristoph’s offer for a handshake remained unmet. “I, uh.. sorry, I don’d kndow if I should shake hands while I’b still sdiffling all over the place..”

Considering what they were going to do tonight, Nicolas’ abundance of caution was silly, if a little charming. The crinkles around Cristoph’s eyes told him so.

“Nonsense,” he said, and when Nicolas finally took his hand, Cristoph cradled it with both of his own. “If it’s not too forward of me to say, I wouldn’t mind catching a cold from a man as lovely as you.”

Nicolas flushed, gaping for words, before finally settling on, “Uh! Well- uh, that’s.. thagnks, that’s a relief!”

Josaline smiled at the two of them, the cat who got the canary, before shepherding Nicolas toward the empty seat. He caught a glimpse of her loaded glance at Cristoph, a smoldering exchange, before she swept to her own chair. And naturally, as soon as they all got settled and ready to chat, Omicron’s needy nose demanded attention. Now you want to sneeze? he griped, tucking the edge of his hanky beneath his nostrils as they indulged in an indolent flare.

It baited him all afternoon, bringing him to the breathless verge of release and then dancing away just before he could finish. In spite of this, he stayed civil. He didn’t meddle, didn’t try to force relief. He heeded his nose meticulously, minding it’s every demand, no matter how much it wanted to mock him. He did all this with the hope it would behave during dinner.

I’m an idiot, he thought ruefully as the tickle struck its baton on a music stand, commanding a collective ripple of sensation through his nose. It snagged his breath, beat by beat, hitch by hitch, as he pressed the handkerchief more securely over his nose and mouth. Of course it’s going to do whatever the hell it wants.

“..h-h-H..-ih’MFZSSh’u!” One was never enough anymore. And thus, an encore. “..hd’MMPHZzsh!” Before he could be grateful for their manageable size, a ticklish crescendo ripped through him and he gasped helplessly, deeply, to bowl over his lap with a much louder, “-eEH’MBFZSSH!”

At a nearby table, a startled fork clinked against a plate. Ambient conversation paused and cautiously continued. Somehow it didn’t occur to Omicron until this moment how clamorous his sneezing would be in a muted space. When he finally opened his eyes, he found two hungry pairs staring back at him from over the table.

Josaline spoke first, the words dripping from her lips. “Bless, Nicolas.”

“Mbbgh,” he replied eloquently, before leaning away from the table to blow his nose as quietly as he possibly could. Unfortunately this did next to nothing and he was left no choice but to sniffle most of it back into his sinuses.

Wrong move. Moisture shifted against alert membranes, and he felt the ramifications all through his nose. The tickle snagged his breath, tugging in, in, in — “.. h-.. hh.. hHT-!” and then it vanished as quickly as it came. In its wake was that awful, unrelieved prickling sensation, lingering like an afterimage.

He sat back up with dewy eyes and half a smile. “Ugh, sorry about thad.” He waved irritably at his face, the red rosy center of it, and tried to make it a joke. “Tricked mbe.”

Josaline laced her hands and rested her chin there, elbows on the table, shadows on her face from flickering candlelight. “Speaking of tricks, before this goes any further there’s something we’d like to get out into the open..”

“We’re aware you are not who you say you are,” Cristoph continued. Despite his directness, he spoke like he might speak of the weather. “Is it safe to assume you came to this resort because of us?”

Omicron wondered if they might take this route. It was certainly the simplest. He’d been prepared to play mind games all night, adding layer upon layer to his cover as the two of them tried to outwit him into revealing something. Assignments like those got complicated fast. Quiet jazz filled the seconds of silence as Omicron analyzed his options and the likelihoods of their best outcomes. In the span of one congested breath, he made his decision.

“Ahh, you got mbe,” he said, with a wincing smile and meek rub beneath his nose. “I kdnew Ms. Jewel would be here, but ndot you.” He looked toward Cristoph. “I’mb shocked you let mbe mbeet you, under the circumstances.”

The man chuckled as he picked up a slice of bread from the table’s communal basket, scooting a plate of olive oil closer to swab it in. “I knew the risks, but Josaline insisted. She claims you’re quite special.”

“And you’re a smart man, Nicolas,” she added, and then bent over the table to give him a playful tap on the nose. “I’m sure you can see that between us, you have your work cut out for you.”

He didn’t have to exaggerate the effect of her touch. With his nose on a hair trigger, just the reminder it was there was enough to stir the tickle. Omicron blinked against it, bewitched, as it fluffed up like a startled animal. Knuckling his septum didn’t quite dispel the feeling.

“Youhh’ve g-..” Here he paused, nostrils trembling wide, before they reluctantly relaxed again. He sniffed hard, and the sound was hopelessly stunted. “... ndgh, got mbe there too.”

Cristoph watched them as he took a bite of his bread, savoring it before he swallowed. “I will be candid, so please take me at my word.” He fetched the napkin from his lap to wipe the crumbs and oil off his fingers.

“We do not care who you work for, or why you came to this resort. What we do care about is having an enchanting evening with you. Would you be open to setting all other motives aside for the sake of a wonderful time?”

Interesting, Omicron mused. He digested the honesty in their expressions. It would be a relief to avoid juggling advanced psychological warfare with a fuzzy head and nose. Under his new directive he wasn’t expected to extract an ounce of information — he only had to keep them occupied and ensure they didn’t catch on. Easy enough, but agreeing too quickly would attract suspicion.

Nicolas lowered his eyes with a stuffy chuckle, fidgeting with the edge of his bundled silverware. “I, uh.. I don’d thigk that’ll go over well ond mby end.”

“You’ll be returning to your employers empty-handed either way,” Josaline said. He jumped when he felt her foot slide up the side of his leg. “Why not go with a good memory?”

He pretended to give it some thought, but the furrow in his brow deepened when his sinuses twinged. They’d once again grown intolerant of his galvanizing cold. Omicron wrinkled his nose and got his hand halfway to his face when his lungs seized. The sneeze snapped his head down, aimed uncovered at the table and entirely unmuffled.

“-iihPZSSHuu-!..oh, HH-!” He couldn’t even convey his surprise, it came over him so fast. It felt like the inside of his nose was squirming, desperate to get away from the unyielding sensation of something tickling it. “-ht’TZSsh!.. huh.. HD’IZZSshoo!”

He caught the next two against his wrist, uncertain of where his handkerchief was and too sneeze-brained to open his eyes and find it. The usual size wasn’t cutting it, so it was ‘go big or go home’ time. Soft sounds snuck out of him, feeble with desire, each a little higher pitched than the last.

“..uh.. huh... iihh-!”

He could feel it mounting, feel his nose throbbing with want of it, feel the way his body waited for the tickle to overwhelm him completely before he finally jolted into the cup of his hands.

“HIDJZZSSHOO!!-ohhh..”

That got it. Omicron snuffled muzzily in the tingling aftermath. A few wet blinks cleared his vision, and there was Cristoph holding out not Delta’s weatherbeaten handkerchief, but his own. It was covered with fleur-de-lis, monogrammed with his initials. Omicron took it with a hushed thanks and wasted no time treating himself to a long, gurgling blow. The reproachful stares of other patrons, including some waitstaff, seared into him. Even if this was all for the mission, it was still fucking embarrassing. Omicron funneled his mortification back into Nicolas.

“Jeez, sorry about that,” he huffed under his breath, clutching the patterned hanky in both hands. His cheeks burned. “They snuck up on me.”

A soft touch beneath his chin coaxed his gaze to Josaline. Her voice was liquid silk, pouring over him just like the tresses of her hair when they’d kissed behind her sunhat. “Baby, there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

He lurked a glance toward a pair of middle-aged women a few tables over that were whispering and glaring in his direction. “... but this is such a classy place, and the other people who-”

“Fuck them,” Cristoph said bluntly, and moved his chair to block the ladies from view. Then he gave Nicolas a disarming smile. “You’re here for us.”

So he was, and dinner proceeded to that end.

Josaline and Cristoph were in no hurry. The group split appetizers, sampling one of every dish, before ordering a family-style main course with the intent to share plates. His cold and mild fever wore him down over time; at their encouragement, he surrendered to his symptoms and let himself be as noisy as he needed to. The fact he wasn’t actually contagious eased his guilt, but not his self-consciousness. His only solace was that in dining with two very powerful people, no one dared approach the table to complain about him.

Conversation revolved around boundaries, expectations, safe words, and preferences. It was obvious by the way they talked that the couple enjoyed this sort of thing — planning an erotic evening together to take a third person apart. It also convinced Omicron that despite their rampant cybercrimes against the public, they were exemplary and experienced practitioners. That dispelled any lingering doubt he had about tonight, and by the time they got to dessert, the three of them had cultivated a rapport.

Omicron was blinking sleepily at the elegant menu lettering, mulling over the merits of ordering gelato on the criminals’ dime, when Cristoph brushed elbows with him. He glanced up to find the man closer than he expected, wearing a wolfish smirk.

“So, Josaline tells me you have a unique talent, but I do not believe her,” he said, drinking in Nicolas’ delicate features before his gaze stopped squarely on his nose. It stood out in crimson contrast to the rest of his face and twitched under the scrutiny. “I would like to try it for myself.”

It took a few seconds for the implications of that to break through Omicron’s fever haze, but once it did, his gut swooped. He wants to make me sneeze in front of this entire restaurant.

“Here..?” he asked, eyes darting to other tables. “Now?”

Josaline clucked her tongue at her husband with a smack to his arm. “Cris, you’re incorrigible.”

Recollections of yesterday’s poolside humiliation flashed through his mind. No doubt this ensuing fit would be as bad or worse. Omicron had carefully avoided any ‘suggestive’ mental images leading up to the date to stay clear-headed; walking into this restaurant with half a boner would have been foolish.

“Not if you’re uncomfortable, of course,” Cristoph assured him, looking between his wife and their shared paramour. Omicron could tell he was genuine when he added, “I won’t pressure you.”

Omicron was unprepared yesterday when he stumbled nose-first into a lucky outcome at the pool, but tonight was different. He knew what he was here to do, what the situation required of him, and he knew he wasn’t alone; Delta and Dr. Voster were working hard behind the scenes to support him. They all had their part to play.

It’s showtime, he thought, and sniffled with a shy little smile. His nostrils flared, just once. He’s going to regret asking for this before we get to the room.

“Actually..” Nicolas lifted a finger to his nose and gave it a priming rub, back and forth beneath his chapped septum. His nostrils pulsed with an unsteady warning. “I wouldn’d mbind. Mbight give mbe someb relief.”

That wasn’t a lie in the slightest. Both of them saw first hand how tireless the torture really was. Even right this second Omicron could feel faint, idle irritation like a channel stuck on permanent static. It would make him sneeze eventually, whether he had help or not. Cristoph gave the room a cursory scan, probably assessing the likelihood of a waiter walking up on them.

“You will let me know if you’d like me to stop?”

“Of course,” Nicolas replied. A hand grazed his knee and he found Josaline, doe-eyed, close on his other side. Her eyes asked the same question, to which he nodded in reply.

The two shared a look, and their smiles darkened. Nicolas swallowed.

“From the way she described it, you can be influenced by psychosomatic suggestions, yes?” Cristoph murmured, his voice accompanied by the underlay of soft jazz. “Let me see now..”

He glanced around for inspiration and found it on the table with a sound of delight. Omicron followed his gaze: a small, lit candle.

“I suppose it might feel like this tiny flame,” he began. “Glowing deep in your nose. An urge in its infancy. Too weak to give you relief, but too strong to snuff out. So subtle you aren’t even sure it’s there.”

The image filled his mind and the tickle took form — a painless speck of light hovering in his sinuses. It was a less tangible feeling than usual, ghostly and almost as if he’d imagined it. Omicron wrinkled his nose with a stunted sniff, blinking repeatedly.

“Ah, yes. It tickles a little doesn’t it?” Cristoph continued. “Negligible at first, just an annoyance on your periphery. But given time, even something this small takes its toll.”

Omicron sniffled again and again, then tried to lift his hand to rub the edge off his itch. Josaline caught him smoothly, twining her fingers with his as her other hand glided over his thigh. Without relief, his expression pinched. Cristoph tsked at him.

“Ohh, poor boy. When you sniffle it only goads the flame. Makes it flicker. Makes it bigger.”

His words sunk into Omicron, luring him down into a trance until it’s all he could hear, think, or feel. With each breath the light grew, guttering against nerves worn raw by ceaseless, maddening stimulation. They seemed to recoil from the tickle when it flared, futile as it was — soon there would be no avoiding it. Each time he blinked, his eyes were slower to open again.

“Mm, it looks like that adorable nose of yours is getting upset. Your nostrils are twitching. They’re so red and sore that I can only imagine what the inside looks like.”

The observations would have flustered Omicron if he’d been in a mind to process it. As it was, all he could focus on was the swelling flame of this tickle. It lulled his eyes shut, parted his lips, tilted his brows in hope as it spread like molasses wildfire. Ponderous. Intensifying. Each time the tickle wavered, licking against an ever increasing surface area, he felt a similar, encroaching ache of pleasure ooze through his gut.

Josaline’s hand crept over the tent in his pants. He flinched, and a breathy moan tumbled out of him.

“You like this,” purred Crisoph, barely a whisper as his words melted through Omicron like softening butter. “And it will feel so good to let go, won’t it? You are in luck because that tickle isn’t going anywhere. It just grows and grows.”

Cristoph had no idea how true that was. Ever since Anita sprayed this cold up his nose, he’d lived on the edge of a sneeze. When he finally recovered, he wouldn’t miss the permanent little niggle that stirred his sinuses to anarchy. He would, however, miss the way the tingle in his nose echoed in his groin. Omicron hitched in a knife’s-edge breath, and let it go on a soft, stuffy sigh.

“Tell me how it feels,” the voice commanded. Omicron bit his lip as pressure increased against his hardening erection in one long, continuous line down the shaft. He strived to comply.

“..feels..h-hhh-..” A shivering inhale preceded a shuddering exhale, punctuated with a sniffle. “..huhh.. like mby dose iihss..h-hH!..hoo, whed I breathe, every t.. t-hhime it’s ti.. it’s t…HHH!” A pause, then the rest delivered on a defeated breath as he slumped against his chair. “-huhhhhit’s ticklig mbe..”

Josaline’s hand inched down his cock. Omicron, eyes cinched closed, nostrils flaring so hard he could feel them stretch, tried to arch into the touch. An iron grip pressed his thighs firmly to the chair.

“That tickle is written into every line on your face.” Fingers found the bridge of his nose and traced down to the twitching tip. “Agony.” The lightest touch circled the diameter of each spasming nare. “And ecstasy.”

A twinge raced down Omicron’s nasal cavity. A tear squeezed through his lashes. Oh, it was close. He could feel the urge becoming critical, nerves stimulated to a burning frenzy.

“.. Nicolas, I can see that it’s making you want to..”

Omicron heaved in a preparatory hitch and lost it in a frustrated groan. “-hUH-!..ngghh..”

“.. that you need to..”

Another surge of tickling coated his membranes like a hot, prickling blanket. He filled - “h-hhHH!” - and emptied - “..HUHhhh..” - his chest with another heaving breath.

“.. that undoubtedly you’re going to..”

The depth of his gasp came as a surprise, rolling through him as an entire body sensation that began in his nose and ended in his dick. When his lungs bottomed out and didn’t empty, the corners of his mouth tugged with the hint of a smile.

“-hhHHHHH..”

“Sneeze.”

“-EEHHDZZSSSCHYOOO-!!”

It crashed out of him like a calamity, uncovered and inexcusably loud. Omicron didn’t care. Felt so fucking good to sneeze that he couldn’t spare a thought for anything but the exquisite ache at his core. It would have taken his breath away, if the next sneeze hadn’t already.

“-HIH’YIIZSSSHHOOO-!!”

There was a small percentage of his brain power devoted to public decency, and it was this shred of awareness that kept him from moaning aloud as a powerful burst of arousal shot through him. Like a boomerang, what little relief the sneeze granted him came winging right back in a rush of furious, nose scrunching tickles.

“HEH-.. HEHSSSHUHhh-!!”

Omicron jerked his head down, sneezing clumsily over his lap, and clenched his thighs together when his dick twitched in reply. He gritted his teeth against any noises trying to escape, fastening his hands to the bottom of his chair to ride it out because it.. it-

“-H’JZZSSSCHhh!uhh..” Fuck it just kept coming. He sniffled wildly, his nose streaming, and flinched with an itch that billowed up from his nostrils to his sinuses. Omicron threw himself forward. “-BZZSSSHOO!.. hhP’BZSSHYOO!!..”

Each one caused him to crunch in his seat, hunching lower and lower toward the table, until someone pressed a hand to his sternum to push him upright. Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes to see who it was. His chest pressed into their touch with staggering hitches that slammed into a herculean sneeze.

“..iih-hhH-HHH-HD’DIHZZSSSCH!-hahh!”

He couldn’t quite muscle down the moaning punch of pleasure. While not very loud, it sent ice down Omicron’s spine and he whisked a fist beneath wet, widespread nostrils. His other hand scrabbled blindly on the tablecloth for any shred of fabric he could utilize. In vain, he tried to speak.

“-hhah..” He pressed the edge of his hand harder to his septum as the pressure swelled. “..hhhangk.. KIZSSCH!... hH’KZZSSCH’UH!”

The dismay at drenching his hand was outweighed by the savory zap through his veins. His erection ached for friction, and Omicron couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that Josaline had stopped stroking him. He snorted, or rather tried to, but was met with a cemented clog. The strain made him cough, and then in a haze of dread, start to sneeze. It filled the spaces the congestion couldn’t, throbbing with a tickle so urgent he couldn’t have fought it off at gunpoint.

“-oh shihH-.. hH-H’PPZSSSCHH’IYA!”

It was a disaster of a sneeze, with consequences that left him in dire need of a tissue. Someone gently pried his fist from his face and cupped something crisp and fresh over his nose — a promise of relief. He didn’t think about it; he blew his nose immediately and as thoroughly as possible.

It took four big breaths before he ran dry, and a singular, jolting “-ihg’KSSHU!” that added insult to injury. Only then, in the panting aftermath, did it register to Omicron what he’d done. He froze.

Oh god, he thought, mortified. The fire was gone from his nose, now dwelling in his cheeks, neck, and ears. I just blew my nose into somebody else’s hand.

He forced himself into a teary squint to assess the damage. Cristoph was gone, his seat vacant. The restaurant was dead silent. Omicron did himself a favor and kept his head down, absurdly grateful his back was to the room. A rustle of cloth against his nostrils caught him off guard.

“Bless you, Nick,” sighed Josaline. The sultry tilt to her tone reassured Omicron a tiny bit.

She was still beside him, gently tending to his nose with an unused edge of what he realized was yet another new handkerchief. The idea the couple brought extras for him was almost as embarrassing as his sneezing fit. He let her do it, still numb, before managing a croaky whisper.

“I-.. jeez, Josaline, I’m-”

“I hope what you are about to say is not ‘sorry,’ darling,” she whispered back, giving his nostrils a careful upsweep with the hanky. He scrunched his expression when it stung and she tutted in sympathy. “I enjoy this, just as I have enjoyed every moment of this evening thus far.”

“But..” Omicron couldn’t bring himself to look behind him, even as the ambience of the restaurant gradually resumed. “Is Cristoph… did I upset him?”

“Not at all,” she assured. Her warm smile verged toward wicked. “He’s just very eager to pay the check.”

Omicron sat there mulling it over, staring sightlessly at the open dessert menu laying forgotten on his plate. His mind was sluggish with fever, his heart still hammering from the humiliation of causing such a ruckus. Ludicrously resilient, his dick remained erect. And somehow, after all that, his nose still had the audacity to tickle. It came over him swiftly — a couple blinks, a flare of his nostrils, a quiet huffing inhale. Then-

“..ih-TSSHuh!” In spite of its size, he still shook in place. Josaline pressed close to breathe a blessing against his temple. Her teeth found his earlobe after that, a sharp enough sensation that it banished the nebulous itch of another waiting sneeze.

She looped her arm around his, tugging him up from his seat onto unsteady feet. “Come along.”

He felt like he was three steps behind her when he asked, “What about dessert?”

“Oh, darling,” she chuckled, and ducked in to nuzzle her nose to his. “We’re getting it to go.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

As I suspected, Omicron mused as he felt a warm, slick digit tease his rim. I’m the dessert.

The trip back to the couple’s top-floor suite was a steamy blur smeared with wet lips, wandering hands, and an unsuspecting tourist who had the misfortune of waiting for the elevator when the doors opened. After stumbling into the suite, Josaline unzipped her dress to unveil stark lines of lingerie filigreed over her skin, and while still wearing her T-strap peep-toe platforms, disrobed Nicolas like she was unwrapping a gift.

Cristoph wasn’t far behind, striding into the room with an air of impatience that dissipated once he joined them on the bed. It didn’t take long for the evening’s plan to unfold. He allowed them to arrange him as they wanted, pliant in their arms, amenable to their requests, a little shivery when his bare skin touched silken sheets.

The finger breached him, and Omicron knew for certain now that his symptom relievers were wearing off. Fevers made him sensitive; even that small intrusion was seismic, yanking a whimper from him before he could stop it.

Cristoph paused. “Is this okay?”

They checked on him often, and while the vigilance was reassuring, Omicron had to repress his reflexive annoyance. He wasn’t a particularly amorous person, but he was very competent in bed. He approached it with the same gravity as he would with any other aspect of his job, and it irked him that he wasn’t capable of his best performance tonight. As a result, they were treating him with the delicacy of spun sugar glass.

This is what I get for roleplaying a persona with virgin energy, Omicron sourly deduced. Not to mention I look like a stiff breeze could knock me over. Stupid, debilitating, super virus from hell.

Nicolas nodded where he lay belly down with his head resting on Josaline’s pillowy chest, snuffling as quietly as he could. “Y-Yeah, just surprised mbe. Didn’t hurt.”

It took a moment for the man to continue, long enough that Omicron nearly reached back there to help him along. His erection from dinner had yet to fade, as constant as the itch in his nose. Between Cristoph’s glacial-pace prepping, Josaline’s occasional arching pressure against his crotch, and his intermittent, uncontrollable sneezing, it was no wonder. Speaking of which..

He dragged in a gurgling sniffle, one that vibrated enticingly against pleading nerves, and his eyelids fluttered closed. As best he could, he used his elbows for leverage and whipped his head to one side. “..H!heh..h’DZSSHuh!”

By Josaline’s mandate, Nicolas wasn’t allowed anything for his nose — no tissues, no handkerchiefs, no hands. When he’d stammered out the question of what he was supposed to do if he needed one of those things, she’d bestowed on him a smile worthy of an heiress and said she was confident he’d ‘figure it out.’ What he figured out was that she was goading him into sneezing on her and that he was far too embarrassed to do so. He kept his head turned away as his breath jagged again.

“..iyeh-.. iih’KIHSSH’u!”

Rather than punish him with a single, prodigious sneeze, the tickle strung him along with several smaller ones. It reminded him of a disgruntled customer ringing a reception desk bell deep in his nose; they waited just long enough to give the illusion that they’d given up before.. DING!

He felt its call keenly, a request for service that he was helpless to deny. Omicron aimed for the blankets - “het’TEHZSHiew!!-mmgg..” - and trembled in the tingling aftermath.

In lieu of a blessing, Josaline caressed Omicron’s flushed cheek. Each time he sneezed his muscles clenched, and it wasn’t doing Cristoph any favors as he worked on loosening Nicolas up for a second finger. It was an absolute miracle the two of them found this arousing because Omicron felt like a limp rag for all that he was contributing to the process. He should probably make an effort here.

Snuffling up the aftermath of his last sneeze, he shifted his knees to push against Cristoph’s intrusion. The man’s hands were thick, wide-knuckled, and long. Perfect for fingering, even if he was being incredibly slow about it. At the risk of slipping his cover, Omicron cast aside the shrinking violet act to insist, “I can take adother.”

“Oh, can you?” mused Crisoph. He pumped his finger in and out, inch by agonizing inch. “Care to ask nicely?”

So, he was being slow on purpose. And now he wanted the magic word? It was a testament to Omicron’s exemplary professionalism that Nicolas was able to muster a polite reply. “.. Mbay I have adother? Please?”

After a hum of approval, another slippery finger entered him — a split-second icy burn that heated into gut-clenching delight. A stuffy sigh fell from his lips, gusting across Josaline’s chest as she stroked her thumb up the bridge of his nose. Her voice was liquid gold when she purred in his ear.

“What a good boy.”

Pressed prone against her thighs, his dick twitched. Hard. Fuck.

She grinned and dipped to kiss him, soft and sweet, teasing out congested sighs that she muffled with her tongue. He lost himself to her, and soon two fingers became three. He snuffled clumsily when he felt the stretch, panting against her lips as he rolled his pelvis for friction. Then Cristoph crooked them to graze the spot that struck sparks behind Omicron’s eyelids. He moaned into Josaline’s mouth. “MMBgghh-!”

“There we go,” Cristoph growled behind him. He arranged his fingers and presssssssed. “How does that feel, beautiful?”

Hopefully the fact Omicron couldn’t formulate a reply spoke for itself. All he could do was whimper and squirm against Josaline, kiss her senseless, and chase his pleasure with every rock of his hips. Momentum mounted, heat accumulated, his thoughts quieted to nothing but more, more, more.

And deep in his nose, the bell rang.

Omicron snapped his eyes open just in time to close them again. It overwhelmed him instantly — a singular, ticklish sweep down the length of his nasal cavity. Nostrils widening, jaw dropping, he only had time to rip away from her lips and jerk his chin down.

“-eh’GZISSSHoo!”

It was just the one, but that was plenty.

Warm aerosol misted her bare chest. Cristoph’s fingers pulled away. Josaline gasped. Any pleasure he felt from the act shriveled when panic seized him. Before he could gather himself for a profuse apology, she had him by the hair. Kissed the shame from his lips. Fetched a tissue from a box waiting on the nightstand. She wiped his nose for him, then commanded him to blow. He didn’t dare defy her.

After that he found himself face first in the valley of her long, smooth legs. Josaline snaked a hand down her waist to unhook the side of her thong and peel it away. Her vulva, like the rest of her, was groomed with exacting precision. The dark curls were trimmed to frame her glistening lips, swollen and open to him like a flower. She didn’t need to explain what she wanted.

Obediently he lowered his head, guided by her hand, and glanced up at her through his lashes when he nibbled the inside of her thigh. Parting his lips helped with his lingering congestion, and he knew from experience the delectable sensation of hot breath gusting across wet skin. Josaline may not have minded (enjoyed..) him sneezing carelessly on her boobs, but he’d rather give her some top quality oral. He had it on good authority that his technique was solid, coveted even, among those he’d pleasured. Thus it was with confidence that Omicron resolved to blow her mind, his cold be damned.

Until he nuzzled into her curls and was slapped across the face with a familiar scent. Josaline saw him hesitate, and he watched in real time as her vulva undulated with anticipation.

“I’m surprised you can smell it,” she murmured, setting her heels against the mattress and arching just enough to skim the tip of his nose with her burning seam. Her words were a wanton sigh. “My gift for you.”

It surprised him too. This was a testament to the power of her perfume that it could penetrate days’ worth of swelling and congestion. Even at this proximity, his eyes began to water. The tickle stretched like a lazy cat twitching its tail, on the verge of getting restless. His nostrils pulsed in unhappy reply. There was absolutely no way he’d manage this with any degree of finesse.

Josaline had to know that, and she confirmed it when she told him, “Sneeze as much as your nose desires. As many times as you want, as hard as you want, but do not forget what you’re down there to do.”

The way she tightened her fingers in his hair told him he wouldn’t be lifting his head until she finished. Her vulva flexed again, inviting him in. Omicron allowed himself two steadying breaths before sealing his fate. He ducked down to her swollen folds and skimmed the tip of his tongue up her seam. The way she moaned, low and guttural as her head fell back against the pillows, was promising. He got to work.

Oral was a delicate process, but Omicron let experience lead him. Lick with the flat of his tongue; delve into the core of her for a taste; circle her clit with the tip before tracing the lines of her lips. When her folds fluttered around him, expectant and needy, he doubled down on the techniques she liked. He breathed only through his mouth, kept his nose away from her short hair, and did his best to ignore the way his nostrils flared with increasing frequency. Occasionally the tickle fidgeted, disturbed in slumber, and he sipped in a little gasp. Willpower alone helped him sigh down from the tempting high, each time letting his breath pass over her wet folds to hear her mewl.

She was gripping him hard now, fingers kneading, thighs shaking, breathing heavy. Omicron smirked against her, tongue in her hole, the bridge of his nose barely grazing the edge of her clit, licking against her soft, pulsating walls with the intention of dragging this out until she made him pay for it. That is, until he felt something hot and slick press up against his ass.

In his concentration, he’d missed a couple telling sounds: the rip of a wrapper, followed by the elastic squeak of a lubed condom. Cristoph apparently wouldn’t be sitting idly by while Josaline had all the fun. Omicron had no issue with this, but what he did mind was the ramifications of the surprise.

At the feeling of a cock against his crack, Omicron gasped. With his tongue deep in Josaline, he did this instinctively through his nose and dragged a billowing cloud of perfume into his sinuses. The tickle woke from its fitful sleep and, as expected, flew into an irrational rage. It was a brutal itch, assaulting his tortured membranes with a storm of demanding, sparking sensation.

Omicron couldn’t get a breath in, let alone jerk away from Josaline, before the first sneeze tripped out of him. “-PBBTHHhsht!!”

It was the least sexy noise he’d ever made, delivered messily into Josaline’s gleaming folds, but nevertheless she arched into his face with a high, breathy whine. Omicron sniffled reflexively and got a noseful of curls and that infernal, floral scent. His eyes rolled back as he hitched, his head ratcheting by increments and nostrils spasming with distress. The tickle hadn’t diminished at all; it remained an unrelenting, dominating force in his nose down to the deepest reaches.

“-MMBSSshh!” He muffled it into her vulva, feeling the way it contracted in reply, hearing how she cried out, and it was fortunate she liked this because he couldn’t do much more than hold onto her thighs and, “-MPHzssh!.. hk-MPHSshh!!”

Josaline’s hips left the bed, her hands forcing his face more secure to her. She was thrusting in earnest now, so Omicron did his best to slip his tongue inside her and meet her rhythm. Each time they pressed together, he angled himself so that his nose would rub against her engorged clit. Each time he eased back, his ass nudged more firmly against Crisoph’s firm cock. Pleasure skittered through him from both ends, sensations warring for control.

On top of all that, the tickle reigned terror. It led an army of irritation through his nasal passages, running roughshod over his worn membranes while they quaked with stimulation. His nose didn’t know what to do with this other than sneeze. The cloying perfume was all he could smell, overpowering even the scent of Josaline’s pleasure.

“-nggshh!.. hh-HGZssh!!huh-hhGXSssh!”

There was a stuttering anguish to them in the wake of his body’s confusion. Why isn’t this working? his nose cried out. Please, it tickles so much. Makes us have to-

“-ihgGXZSSHT!!”

It was the closest to a stifle he’d ever come, and it scraped out of him with such misery that he decided he couldn’t do that again. Nor could he muscle through another second of this fragrance. Omicron leaned back with a weak huHH! and tried to aim where Josaline needed him most-

“-hH’EHDSSH!.. h-HA’JZSSHEE!” Oh that was better- “hhHHH’CHZZSSSHHOOO! Fhhuck-!”

The physical recoil of that last sneeze popped Cristoph past his rim. Jeeeeeezus, he was thick. Omicron hadn’t caught sight of his penis, but he could feel the girth as it pushed into him, slick with lube. His toes curled with the stretch.

“Mmmmm, god you’re tight,” Cristoph groaned, holding onto Omicron’s hips and shaking with the strain of staying still as the smaller man adjusted. “And so damn hot..”

It was difficult to know if he meant aesthetically, or physiologically. Omicron could feel his fever thrumming through every molecule, heightening sensations, fogging his head, beading sweat along his hairline even as he shivered from intermittent chills. Lost in the feeling of being filled, he almost forgot about Josaline. She was kind enough to remind him by yanking him back down flush with her quivering hole. Given the rough handling, they’d probably realized he was more experienced than he let on. He grinned as he shoved his tongue in, lapping up her juices and moving up to lavish her abandoned clitoris with long, flat licks.

His nose, not to be outdone by either of his partners, reminded him of the scent he’d spent the last few minutes sucking into his sinuses. Breathing through his mouth did him no favors now that the damage was done. He got a second’s notice of buildup before the tickle waged war.

“-eh’KSSH!.. hK’IISShh!” They toppled over one another in their hurry to escape his convulsing nostrils, his trembling lips, his shuddering chest. “-eHTSSH!-h’IKSH-.. kshh!- h..HIHkshh-! HEH.. KZZSHHOO!”

He’d never sneezed like this in his life. His nose was frantic with them, and not a single one relieved an iota of irritation. Tears broke their water-lines and painted his cheeks. His nose dripped freely. Each sneeze made him clench around Cristoph, who groaned in reply, and he showered Josaline’s spasming, wet core with a regularity she audibly appreciated. She wouldn’t let go of his hair, keeping him where she wanted him.

“-H’KSsh!-eh’SH!-.. hohhbygoh’DZZSH!-hahh..” This wasn’t going to stop until she came, so- “CHZsh- ehCSH!..h-HH’GZsh!!” -he needed to hurry up and- “TZSsshoo!- fugk-” -do something about it.

Omicron buried himself into her, tongue flicking like mad against her clit, swirling and wiggling and licking as fast as he could manage as her moans hitched to higher and higher pitches. Sneezing with his tongue occupied seemed hazardous, but when the first “eHPTTHHeh!” burst from him with no issue, he let the rest come as they pleased. One, two, four, eight, compounding on themselves so that when the ninth lagged behind with a shivery gasp, Omicron dove to suck her clit between his lips.

Josaline bent over him with a shout, nails scratching his scalp as she was struck with powerful, rhythmic contractions. Omicron polished her off with one last lick, loathe that he couldn’t tongue her through the aftershocks, but-

“-HAHZZSSHHOOO!!”

His nose was pretty angry with him. He panted into the aftermath before roaring another huge, ab-clenching sneeze between her legs. “HEEHHSSSHHOO!.. ugh, huhh..ht!DZZSHHHYOO!”

They exploded from him with such force that he squeezed Cristoph mercilessly. The man leaned over, his huffing chest to Omicron’s heaving back, and reached a hand around to Omicron’s neglected cock. It was so hard it ached, beading precum every time he sneezed. He gasped to the brink of one, and then lost it to a whine when Cristoph’s thumb circled over the tip. Fuck fuck fuck-

“I’b godda-” he choked out, hoarse and out of breath. Cristoph seated himself to the hilt, deep. The tickle writhed in him, deeper. Omicron gasped out a hitchy, “Ghhodda c.. cumb-! uhh-h-HHT-”

“Not yet,” Cristoph grunted, and looped his finger and thumb just beneath Omicron’s cockhead. Then squeezed.

Omicron knew about this type of edging, but had never been on the receiving end. The towering wave of his orgasm hung over him.. and then receded. As did the hovering threat of his sneeze. Both sensations spiraled into nothing, the most unsatisfying thing he’d ever felt, and Omicron shocked himself when he pounded a fist against the bed.

To be fair, they talked about this technique at dinner and declared it fair game for the evening. Foolishly, Omicron didn’t think he’d mind it in bed. It was an unexpected discovery for him to realize he did.

He whipped a glare over his shoulder, and his face — the freshly falling tears, the fever flush, the uninhibited mess leaking from his nose, his furious scowl — did something to Cristoph. He tensed and fell unexpectedly into his orgasm, so unprepared he yelped. Omicron could feel the man’s dick twitching in his hole, but because he was pissed off, he did absolutely nothing to help it along. Just wiped his face on the blankets until Cristoph went boneless on top of him.

On a better day Omicron would have shouldered the weight no problem, but pleasure and fever made him weak. He floundered, his dick still hard and trapped uncomfortably beneath him, before mustering a stuffy sound of protest.

Cristoph pulled out with a shudder and moments later there were hands on him, scooping him up, cradling him, and Omicron refused to look at anything other than the bedspread. He was angry about the denial, embarrassed by his anger, exhausted and feeling frustratingly fragile as new tears bubbled at the corner of his eyes.

“God, you’re cute when you pout,” Cristoph groaned, burying his face into Omicron’s neck to suck apologetic kisses into his skin. “I’m sorry, love. Had to be done. Wanna see your face when you cum.”

“Let us spoil you rotten,” Josaline crooned, recovered from her orgasm and swooping down to smooth sweaty hair away from his forehead. “After all, you’ve been such a good boy.”

His dick twitched and Omicron bit his lip on a whine. He wanted relief, he needed it, but when he tried to grab himself he was stopped by Josaline’s wrangling hands. The words burst out of him, “Fuck, please, I- I- ndeed to-”

“Shhhhh,” she soothed, kissing the pleas into silence as Cristoph’s big, firm hand came around to grip Omicron at the base. He arched, whimpering, and she ran her tongue along his lips before leaning back. “Listen to me, Nick.”

He laid against Cristoph’s chest, dazed, blinking through sticky eyelashes as the man warmed a handful of lube and applied it to Omicron’s straining erection. Omicron hissed, bucking into the slide, trying in vain to get himself off when he had so little energy. He shook with the effort until he was hushed by his bed partners. They rearranged themselves to settle a shivering Omicron against the soft mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, the other two by his side. Josaline drenched her hands in lube as well, speaking as she warmed it up.

“Relax,” she told him. “Close your eyes.” He complied. “Focus on what you feel.”

First it was just Cristoph’s hand lazily stroking his dick, too slow and light to get him anywhere. Then it was Josaline spreading his legs to sit between them, gliding her touch along his knee, his thigh, until she moved to his empty hole. One finger slipped in, joined by another, and she beckoned his prostate with gentle rubs. He gasped through his nose and mouth, dragging just enough air through his congestion that it kindled the tickle.

After that aborted sneeze, it had sulked in his sinuses for a while. Always present, but for a time immaterial. Just a reminder of something stuck and waiting. His breath emboldened it.

Omicron’s nostrils twitched, alert to the urges that dwelled within, and Josaline must have seen it because her next words were, “Oh? Got a tickle?”

Always, he thought, but nodded nonetheless. Another tremor from the tickle, and a reflexive twinge of his nose. Someone would probably stop him if he used his hands to rub it, so he turned his head to chafe the ailing appendage against Cristoph’s shoulder. The man denied his orgasm so he deserved it; judging from his hum, however, he didn’t mind.

“I know it’s itchy, sweetheart, but let it come,” Josaline tutted. When he lifted his head he felt the pad of her thumb brush the raw skin of his septum. Her other hand never paused, petting a steady rhythm that she matched to Cristoph’s measured strokes. “Deep breath now..”

Omicron tried to obey, but the effort just made him cough. His membranes were so swollen they throbbed, and the tickle twisted against them with intensifying tenacity. He hiccuped a gasp, sighed it out on a moan, and fidgeted when his other urges escalated as well. Josaline and Cristoph picked up the pace and pressure in harmony.

“What a cold you’ve caught, you poor thing,” whispered Josaline in a honey-soaked voice, “You’re so congested. I bet that sneeze would like some help. It’s gotten stuck so deep in your nose, and there’s not much it can do, is there?”

No, and there wasn’t much Omicron could do either — except ride the electrifying waves of sensation circuiting through his penis, prostate, and sinuses. He was at the mercy of all three of them.

“Do you feel it inside you? Locked away somewhere and struggling. Probably searching for an escape.”

Her suggestions entered him, crawling and prickling as they went. He could see it, this imaginary force that fanned out into feathery tendrils to search the depths of his nose. First it was heedless of the way it lit up his neurons with need. It wasn’t long before it realized its power however, and the irritation was no longer incidental. It was intentional.

“Yes, that’s right. It will do what it does best and stimulate those susceptible nerves of yours. They must be terribly sensitive. To have something squirming against them at this juncture, I’m sure it’s torture.”

Oh, it was. Hellbent on whipping his nose into hysteria, the tickle was relentless and targeted. The sinuous threads continued to spool, probing his membranes, brushing down his nerve pathways, slowly invading him. Nothing was safe, not his sinuses, not the shores of his nostrils, not anything in between. Omicron turned his head one way and then the other as if he could evade the tickle’s probing touch. The hands around him and inside him responded by shifting up another gear.

“Soon it won’t matter how stuffy you are. This tickle will taunt and tease you, caress those sensitive places only it can reach, entice you and remind you that it will feel oh so wonderful to sneeze until you’re desperate for it.”

Please, he pleaded with himself as he snorted and coughed. Please please sneeze. He could feel each individual tendril dragging against his walls, the stirrings of them deep inside him as they coalesced into an urge looming over him alongside his impending orgasm. He gasped, sighed, gasped again-!, groaned. Arched against the cool, sweat-sheened chest behind him. Dug his heels into the mattress. His head was spinning, nose twitching, on the edge of something enormous.

“Once it starts, you cannot resist. The way you hitch and moan. The way your nostrils pulse with uncertainty and your expression pinches with desire. You ache for it. Crave it. This elusive release.”

Again, the pulsating trio of stimuli doubled speed. The hand on his dick jerked him fast and sloppy. The fingers inside him bore down and swirled. The ticklish threads writhed in his nose, creating waves of irresistible feeling. Soft, yearning hitches became heaving gasps he couldn’t let go of. He felt the scales tip, the first toppling domino, a pleasurable chain reaction with an unavoidable end.

“Your body can only take so much, and I can see you’re at your limit.”

Omicron could only assume he looked wrecked, fucked out, fever-flushed, and splotched with fluids. He strained into their touches and into the unstoppable tickle as they sent him hurtling headfirst into release. It couldn’t come fast enough. Lungs inflated to the brim, throat blocked by waiting air, he couldn’t even beg. Couldn’t think of the words to do so. Could only tremble on the brink with a tiny, broken whimper.

It’s coming, it’s coming I’m-

And then - “Go ahead, my darling. Let it all out.”

His orgasm struck like lightning, followed by thunderous ecstasy. In a singular moment, tension snapped and broke over him in a deluge of powerful, convulsing delight. Omicron couldn’t make a noise, lungs still locked up with an impending sneeze that his body, even in the flood of endorphins, hadn’t forgotten. He was barely through the first spasm of his orgasm when-

“BZZSSHHh-hHUH, ahHH!!”

It wasn’t the strongest sneeze of the night by far, but it sent a mind-blowing ricochet of pleasure through the core of him. With momentary control of his throat, he managed a short shout before his breath was whisked away on another gasp. His orgasm hovered on pause, building tension and expectation as his body struggled with executive commands. Stymied, it decided to do everything at once.

“H’BBZZSSSHHhuUHHHohgod!!”

Omicron folded over himself as he ejaculated a second time, and shuddered with another devastating orgasmic rush. His abs clenched, his thighs trembled, he kept one hand on the bedspread to prop himself up as he groaned through seismic waves of sensation. Usually the pleasure centralized to his groin but now it was his entire body, every single inch of him tingling with residual energy.

When he felt his lungs stutter, his nostrils flutter, the come-hither squirm of something in his nose, his eyes widened before rolling closed. His dick twitched, weak but willing. He was helpless against the tickle, didn’t want to fight it, wanted it to tease his nose to insanity so he could sneeze and sneeze and sneeze and sneeze, but the rational side of him knew his head was spinning and his skin was prickling and-

A fittish hitch for every eager moan. “-hh!uh.. hHH!uhh..”

Omicron’s mind spun, a touch of panic even as he fidgeted with anticipation. I’m so wrung out, I might-

Pressure building. Exhausted, but unsatisfied. “-HHH!uhh!..hHHH!-UH-”

I might actually black out.

Regardless of the risks, when he felt the surge of sensation finally reach his nostrils flung wide and ready, Omicron smiled into the release. “HH!!- HP’BBBZZSSSHH-!!”

The sneeze reverberated through him like a gong, down to his very atoms. Pleasure overloaded his veins, too much for his body, and he sank down dizzily while he shook through the clenching aftershocks. He had nothing left, but his dick spasmed anyway, leaking what was left of his load onto the sheets. Faintly, he realized he’d never had an orgasm so intense. Probably would never have one quite like it again. It was this thought that made him savor the trembling bolts of brightness that coursed through him as he drifted.

His vision fuzzed at the edges. His heartbeat pounded in his head. I was right, he thought as he watched dark spots overtake his blurry view of the room. Gonna pass out.

As he faded, he felt soft hands cradle his cheeks and heard a satin voice tell him, “Good boy.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

Awareness came back in pieces.

First, tactile sensation — a damp cloth wiping sweat, mucus, and cum off his skin; gentle fingers massaging sore muscles, raking through his hair; clean, dry blankets wrapping him up.

Next, sound — quiet banter; hushed bustling around the room; a door opening and closing, the comforting drone of a television set to low volume.

Finally, Omicron cracked open his eyes. Turned out to be a terrible idea, as the rest of his body came online to remind him of what he’d just done. His head pounded, there was an awful taste in his mouth, and his rear end stung when he shifted his weight the wrong way. Not the worst he’d ever felt, but coupled with the immovable sinus pressure and overall fever-malaise, Omicron would have preferred more sleep to being conscious.

You shouldn’t have been asleep in the first place, came the conditioned response that he ignored. While it wasn’t exactly advisable to fall unconscious in enemy territory at the hands of international cyber criminals, after the intimacy they’d shared Omicron doubted they tried any funny business while he was out. He didn’t have the strength to berate himself for it.

With much effort, he sat up to an empty room bathed in low lamplight. All the traces of guests were gone, save for a few items on the bedside table: two unopened bottles of water, a fresh-bought bottle of NyQuil, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a note written in a looping scrawl. He picked it up and squinted at it.

To our dear Nicolas-

Very sorry we couldn’t stay. Thought it was safest for us to dash.

The room is yours for the week, paid in advance. Get rest and feel better soon.

It’s best if we don’t meet again, but we will miss you terribly.

Hopefully Cris and I will catch your cold to remember you by 😘

Kisses-

J & C

Omicron slumped there for a second, zoning out on the lettering with static on the brain. It was over. He completed the mission. Relief didn’t come because he had no idea how successful he was, wouldn’t know until he hiked back to his hotel room. Aside from feeling like shit, he couldn’t come up with an excuse to delay it.

And so after guzzling down an entire bottle of water, off he went.

If the scramble to Josaline and Cristoph’s room was a blur, the hobble back to his own was a blackout. Omicron couldn’t remember much from the trip, aside from glaring at a graveyard shift housekeeper who clocked his walk of shame. Yes, he was barefoot in a bathrobe, smelling of sex, carrying his wrinkled belongings under one arm. He’d also just been vigorously railed up the ass and had lost half his weight in cum, snot, and tears. Excuse him if he wasn’t in the mood to make pretenses.

When he reached the door, Omicron realized he didn’t have his key card. With a sigh, he let his sweaty forehead thunk against the door — after which he almost became painfully acquainted with the carpet when it swung open a second later. A firm body spared him that fate.

“Omicron!” Strong hands steadied him by the shoulders. He raised his head to find Delta, very awake despite the hour and scanning his subordinate like he expected an injury. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s been hours.”

Omicron squinted, partially because he was so exhausted his eyes were blurring but mostly because he was confused. Of course it had been hours. Then a terrible thought struck him. “W-Was thad ndot edough time?”

His voice was a raspy, gunked facsimile of itself. Delta started shaking his head before Omicron even finished speaking. “No, no, it was more than enough! Don't worry, the hack was a complete success. The crypto team is very pleased, as am I, you knocked it out of the park. I suspect you'll receive a commendation from headq- oop!”

For the second time on this mission, Delta caught Omicron before he could swoon to the ground. The knowledge of a job well done thrummed through his veins. He felt like Atlas letting the world roll off his shoulders; his knees were weak from the strain of carrying it. With one arm anchored around his waist, Delta lifted the other to test Omicron's forehead against his palm. He hissed at the heat he found there.

“Oh, Omicron,” he muttered, exasperated, and glanced over his shoulder. “He's burning up.”

“Probably overexerted himself,” came Anita's voice, clearer as she got closer. Another hand, colder than the first, cupped the nape of his neck. Omicron couldn’t fight off his reflexive shiver. “Mm. Well, we still have some acetaminophen he can take.“

I'm standing right here, he thought, miffed but unable to marshal an objection. He let them bicker about what to do with him, limp in Delta’s arms, until his stuffy breaths grew shaky. For fuck’s sake, after everything, still?? Omicron groaned against Delta’s chest, eyes pinching and nostrils bucking in preparation for what was assuredly coming.

Conversation abruptly stopped, and Delta stiffened. “Omicron? What's wrong?”

“heh-..eh’TZSSsh!” His head bobbed and Delta tightened his hold while Omicron blinked in the limbo of another. It came gently, a feathery wind through his tired nose, and he took his gasp in sips. “h-h-hH’TDZSsh!”

‘I'm in charge here,’ he told his cold mere days ago. To imagine he began this journey with such hubris. He was defenseless, drained, devoid of the will to fight the way it twisted his expression. Lassoed his breath. Made his nostrils flutter, his balance suffer, and yet-

“DZZSSh’uu-!”

-they delivered him a visceral satisfaction he couldn’t begrudge. Someone pressed a bushel of tissues into his hands. Logically he knew he should use them, but the tickle kept him immobile. All he could do was lean against Delta, helpless to the thrall, breathing into it greedily with a feeble hope it would give him something strong enough to feel satisfied.

“..idzh.. h-HH!” It stalled out in his sinuses, and his expression froze in wait. Then-.. it rocked him forward. “..ZZSSH’uu!.. h’EH-” Stuck again. Omicron wavered there as the tickle smoldered, jogging his head back by tiny degrees. Oh, it felt big, then bigger and bigger as his nose wrestled with it. The back of his head bumped Delta’s shoulder before the tickle finally pushed him over the edge. He doubled over, anchored by the arm around his waist. “EEHCHZZSSSHHhhhhaa..”

A momentous sneeze petered out on a fulfilled sigh that dissolved into a muffled cough. He sagged, and Delta’s grip tightened again. As the world came back to him, he realized he’d sneezed freely, possibly catching somebody in the crossfire, but he just didn’t care. He belatedly lifted the tissues to his nose and cringed when they grated like sandpaper. The skin was so tender he dare not do more than blot it.

“Are you injured?” demanded Delta. Omicron shook his head against the man’s chest. No, no injuries. Nothing beyond what’s expected from vigorous sex. Delta asked next, “Do you want a shower?”

That was the politest possible way of saying, You look and smell like an utter wreck and it sucker-punched the tattered remains of his ego. Omicron shook his head again, partly because doing anything aside from laying down might make him cry, but mostly because he couldn’t stomach the idea of needing help from either of them in the bathroom.

Delta hitched Omicron more securely to his side, a decision made. “Alright. Bed, then.”

No, wheedled his sense of duty. I haven’t given my report yet. Omicron could barely keep his eyes open. He mumbled, “But, the debrief..”

“Can wait,” his superior finished. There was a rare sternness to his voice and it brokered no argument. “You need rest. That’s an order.”

Well, the boss meant business if he was throwing around orders. They washed over Omicron with a comforting finality — he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Delta would handle it. Responsibility evaporated and it was sweeter than anything he’d felt that evening. Heat welled up behind his eyes, a lump in his throat, and Omicron turned his face into his superior’s shirt.

It was so rare he could drop all his walls and lay himself bare, not on a bed but in life. Trust wasn’t a word in his dictionary, but tonight he wanted to know it. He sought solace in the steady thump of Delta’s heartbeat under his ear. Emotion loosened his congestion, forcing him to repeatedly sniffle as he tucked the sleeve of his bathrobe under his sore nostrils.

“Okay,” he whispered, and surrendered.

The walk to the bed was slow, shivery, and stumbling, but Delta threw back the covers and lowered him to the mattress. Once Omicron was supine he brought the blankets back up and took care to tuck them in. He’d make a good dad, his fever mused as he watched Delta fetch a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues for him. He ripped out a dozen to hand over and Omicron gathered them to his nose for a strengthless blow. It didn’t do much for his congestion, but got his nose dry enough that he wasn’t constantly sniffling.

The vibration of his sinuses chased out a sneeze, one that came over him like a misty cloud — foggy, permeating, gentle. His eyes weighted gradually as the tickle filled him up, and he huffed little hitches as it mounted. Someone (Delta) exchanged his used tissues for clean ones. He brought them up to his nose just in time to catch it.

“-heh..TSSsh!”

He blinked as the cool, tingling conclusion hazed into another declaration. As if it knew how tired he was, the tickle barely tried. It reminded him of the way someone might pet a small animal, with just one finger and very little pressure. Delicately, carefully, like you were scared of hurting it. The tickle was a repetitive, soothing stroke against his frayed nerves. What once wouldn’t have been enough was now plenty, and Omicron relaxed back against the pillows while he let it come.

“hh!ih.. h.. h…mmbb..” A soft sniffle, a softer sigh, and oh- “.. ih’TZSssh!..” His eyes fluttered open, eyes tilted skyward under heavy lids. His nostrils flared methodically, hypnotized, and his lungs gathered breath with an unhurried hhhhhhh.. before he jolted into his pile of tissues. “TZSSshoo!.. huh..”

His nose tingled pleasantly, and while it would be temporary, Omicron let himself float.

“.. Bless you.”

Delta stood there with a hand on his hip, scrubbing the other back and forth through his cropped hair. There was a look on his face that Omicron couldn’t parse — knitted brows, lips pressed in a line, thoughts racing behind his eyes too quick for Omicron to guess at them. Anita walked up behind Delta’s shoulder, studied him for a moment, and then pinched her nose with a long, silent sigh. Omicron caught her smiling, a tiny, amused slant to her lips, before she stepped up alongside their team leader to give him a hearty slap to the back.

“I’ve got him, sir,” she said with a grin. He turned to look at her, then back at Omicron, then Anita again. His feet stayed rooted to the spot until she arched a brow. Then scratched his head one last time.

“Alright,” he conceded, though he sounded unhappy. He bent down to Omicron, cupping his subordinate’s shoulder through the blankets, and gave him a genuine smile. “You did a stupendous job, Agent Omicron. Leave the rest to me. All you need to do now is sleep. Do you understand?”

Omicron nodded. The praise of a job well done, so sincerely and deliberately conveyed, sprung instant tears to his eyes. They gathered faster than he could wipe them away. Thankfully Delta didn’t see, already moving for the door with an authority he seldom exuded.

“I’ll radio ops to update them. Call me immediately if anything changes.”

It shut behind him, and Anita plopped herself down on Omicron’s bedside. Her smile was warm, not a trace of good-natured mockery, as she reached out to thumb a tear away from the corner of his eye. This wasn’t the first time she’d watched him come apart after a mission, or found him docile because he didn’t feel good. This also wasn’t the first time she’d seen him cry. Because of this, she knew how to handle him when he got this way.

Quiet voice. Yes or no questions. No unnecessary attention drawn to his demeanor. Simple instructions when she wanted something from him, and positive feedback when he accomplished it. She gave him medication, water, and ignored his weak complaints when she insisted on a quick physical examination to ensure the night went as safely as he insisted it did.

And when there was nothing left to do, as Anita stood to give him space, Omicron reached around to hook a hand at the hem of her shirt. She paused. He heard the huff of fondness and felt the bed dip when she sat down again. He closed his eyes when her hand smoothed up the plane of his back through the sheets.

“Until you fall asleep?” she asked. He nodded into the pillows, and sighed when she moved her hand back down his spine. Up again. And down. Steady and reassuring, a sedative that reached for him and escorted him toward slumber.

But because this was Anita, and because she was the way she was, she couldn’t help but mutter around a smirk, “Why can’t you be this cute all the time, O?”

He grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at her. This time, it didn’t miss.

/tbc!

Omicron: (has mind blowing sex while sneezing his brains out) Omicron: Omicron: this better not awaken anything in me.

There will be a short epilogue to wrap up the story! Thank you for sticking with me this far! 🧡

EPILOGUE IS HERE

#snzblr #snz #snz kink #snzfic #scatterfic #snzfucker #omicron verse #original characters

162 notes · View notes

allurearia · 1 year ago

Text

Forever yours.

Mattheo riddle x f! Reader

3 times where Mattheo Riddle was a amazing boyfriend

Honestly, I loved pansy with a camera so I'm starting this one out a little similar, but I tried to change it up as much as I could!!

Pansy Parkinson grew up with a love for muggle culture which was usually met with disapproval from her family and society. She despised it ministers and distant relatives always belittling her for her fascination for muggle cameras they thought it was utterly useless, pansy begged to differ. On the night of her 17 birthday some had finally understood her.

Pansy with a book in her hand was kept company by her owl and the faint days of moonlight through the murky windows under the black lake, Millicent, Daphne and Tracey were out doing Merlin knows what when she suddenly looks up to a knock at her door expecting it to be either of the girls.

"Doors open."

"Hello there." A faint voice perks up and pansy spots faint blond hair peeking through the door now revealing blue and bronze robes.

Luna lovegood.

"I was hoping id give this to you at a better moment but i couldn't just wait!" She spoke up in a cheerful voice despite it being almost 12am, she carefully sat down at the edge of the bed with a small box in her hands.

"Alright thanks a bunch loons trust me it means a lot" pansy spoke still a bit sleepy as she put a Bobby pin in the book to mark where she left it off.

As pansy slowly tried to fight off the sleep her eyes widened as she saw the box being unboxed and a muggle camera was revealed

"LOONS WHAT DID YOU SERIOUSL-"

𖦹. °‧. ★. ✮. ‧₊˚

1st time.

Even before you and mattheo had officially gotten together pansy had always taken a liking to you and had always invited you to every girls night she had hosted, you had taken quite a liking to the rest of the slytherin girls, the nights were filled with gossip, laughter and overall just fun you were grateful for each of the girls.

Now that you had started dating Mattheo, things had taken an amusing turn. Mattheo was notoriously clingy, always wanting to be near you. You had adored it but not so much when it led to pansy and him arguing over his constant interruptions.

Pansy had planned another girls' night in her cozy dorm room. The room was scattered with pillows, blankets and everyone's favorite snacks. You, Pansy, Daphne, and Millicent were all seated in a circle, discussing the latest gossip from school. Daphne was in the middle of sharing a particularly juicy incident that had happened yesterday when the door suddenly flew open revealing your boyfriend

Mattheo stood in the doorway, a sheepish grin on his face. "Hey, ladies," he greeted, trying to sound casual.

Pansy rolled her eyes dramatically. "Mattheo, this is girls' night. You know the rules."

Mattheo walked in anyway, plopping down next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "I know, I know. But I missed my girl," he said, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics. "Mattheo, you saw me like two hours ago."

"Two hours too long" he replied, nuzzling into your neck.

Daphne giggled, and Millicent sighed, clearly used to Mattheo’s behavior by now. Pansy just shook her head, though there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

"Alright, if you're going to stay, you have to participate," Pansy said, crossing her arms. "No sulking in the corner."

Mattheo raised an eyebrow. "Participate in what?"

“We were just about to start doing each other's makeup!” you chimed in eyes sparkling with mischief.

Mattheos' eyes widened a bit but he quickly composed himself. “makeup huh? Alright then anything to spend more time with my girl”

“Alright then loverboy you're up first!” millicent quickly pulls out the makeup pouch you had set aside. As you get out of mattheo’s arms and start to pick out all the different items you wanted to put on his face he suddenly just lays down on his back.

“What are you doing?” ask’s pansy with daphne and millicent giggling at the sight of your boyfriend being sprawled across pansy’s floor.

“Just getting myself comfortable” replies mattheo you look back already having your tools ready

“Seriously, Mattheo?” you laugh, looking down at him sprawled out on the floor. “You’re not making this easy.” he grins up at you, his hands behind his head.

“I’m just making myself comfortable. You’re the artist, I’m the canvas, do your worst.”

Rolling your eyes, you kneel beside him and begin to set out the makeup. Millicent hovers nearby, eager to see the transformation. You start with the foundation, applying it evenly across Mattheo’s face, trying to ignore the way he keeps making faces at you.

“Hold still, will you?” you scold lightly, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice.

“Can’t help it. Your touch tickles,” he replies, his voice teasing.

As you move on to his eyes, you ask him to close them. He obeys, though not without a dramatic sigh

“He's so dramatic” daphne comments

“I'm right here you know?” he opens his eyes to stare daphne down

“Shut your eyes mattheo” you warn, he obliges

You carefully apply eyeshadow, choosing shades that highlight his striking features. The whole time, he remains surprisingly patient, only making the occasional quip to keep the mood light.

What you hadn't realized was that pansy had gotten up and snuck a photo of you two from the camera her girlfriend had gifted.

(readers physical appearance is not based off the girl in the picture)

𖦹. °‧. ★. ✮. ‧₊˚

2nd time

In the dimly lit dungeons confines of the Slytherin common room, the crackling fire can be heard by the four wizards all whose faces showing boredom, Draco sitting on the large green sofa opposite to the fireplace Blaise at the very end of the same sofa Mattheo on a single emerald armchair and Theodore sitting on the ground with his potions homework in his lap which had been assigned earlier that day.

Draco running his hand through his platinum blonde hair looks down at his friend sitting on the ground by the fireplace "I tell you, Nott, if Professor Slughorn assigns one more essay on the properties of moonseed poison, I might just hex him into next week."

Theodore, his dark eyes glinting with amusement, smirked. "Careful, Malfoy, you wouldn't want to anger the Potion’s Master. You might end up with ears larger than house elfs."

Blaise, lounging lazily with one arm draped over the back of the sofa, chuckled. "Speaking of potions, did you hear about the disaster in Slughorn's class today? Riddle nearly turned his cauldron into a bubbling mess of purple and pink goo."

Mattheo, his curly hair tousled from a day of classes, rolled his eyes. "It was hardly my fault. That blasted potion recipe was more complicated than trying to decipher Parseltongue."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least you didn't end up with a detention like Crabbe and Goyle. They managed to set fire to their desk during Transfiguration."

They all turn their heads as they hear the doors of the common room open, yours, enzo’s and pansy’s voice getting louder and you arrive closer to the common room. Mattheos face immediately lightning up as he spots you.

“I trust we haven't missed too much gentlemen?” Enzo says as he plops down a bag on the table in front of the couch which they assume is from the hogsmeade trip you enzo and pansy has just arrived from. Without waiting for anyone's answer pansy interrupts

Guess what we found at Honeydukes!" she exclaims, pulling out an assortment of colorful sweets. "Fizzing Whizbees, Chocolate Frogs, and Sugar Quills. Plus," she adds with a mischievous grin, "a few bottles of Butterbeer."

Draco's eyes light up at the sight of the treats. "Well, well, well. Looks like this night just got a whole lot better."

Enzo grins as he starts unpacking the goodies. "Figured we could all use a little cheering up after today's classes. And maybe a distraction from that potions essay."

Theodore, looking up from his homework with relief. "You're a lifesaver, Enzo. I was about ready to drown myself in moonseed poison just to avoid finishing this."

You can't help but laugh as you settle more comfortably in Mattheo's lap, his arms wrapping around you a bit tighter. "Butterbeer and Candy sounds like a perfect evening to me."

Mattheo nuzzles your neck playfully. "Anything's perfect as long as you're here," he murmurs, earning a mock gagging noise from Draco.

"Spare us the mushy stuff, Riddle," Draco quips, though his smile betrays his amusement.

“Now, who’s fancying a game of uno?” Blaise questions.

Once again what you had failed to see what pansy taking out her camera which now was adorned with a little cherry sticker no doubt luna sticking it on from one of their late night meetings and clicking a photo.

(readers physical appearance is not based off the girl in the picture)

𖦹. °‧. ★. ✮. ‧₊˚

3rd time.

You were hit with the smell of salty water as you approached the black lake pansy right on your trail. You were hit with the smell of salty water as you approached the Black Lake, Pansy right on your trail. The evening sun cast a golden hue over the grounds, making the lake appear shinier than ever. Ahead, you could see the familiar figures of your friends and your boyfriend. Draco who was sitting on the wide wooden dock with his feet dipped in the lake while Theo and Enzo played in the water, their laughter echoing across the grounds. Your boyfriend mattheo leaning against the nearby tree watching his friends with a smile on his face.

Draco noticed your approach first, his smirk widening as he saw you. "Well, look who decided to join the party," he called out, turning his head towards the two of you approaching. His platinum blonde hair was tousled, his usual scowl now replaced with a face of ease, his feet dangling in the cool water.

Mattheo glanced up at Draco’s remarks, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Took you long enough," he teased, pushing off from the tree he was leaning against. His curly hair falling into his eyes as he walked over to you, hands casually in his pockets.

Pansy rolled her eyes but smiled, giving Draco a playful shove as she sat down next to him. "We had to deal with Filch near the library. You know how he gets."

Draco chuckled. "Good thing you made it out alive."

Out in the water, Theo and Enzo were still splashing around. Enzo dived beneath the surface and re-emerging with a grin. "You guys are missing out!" he shouted, his voice echoing across the lake. "The water’s perfect!"

"Just watch out for the giant squid,” Pansy called back. A small smile present on her face.

Theo perked up suddenly “look at those lovebirds having their alone time” he said nodding towards a spot farther down the lake, Pansy and Draco both looked in the direction of where Theo had his head turned. The sight had all of them cooing.

Mattheo had taken advantage and had sneaked you away with his hand on your lower back when the rest were busy conversing and had taken you a bit farther down the lake away from your friend group. You two now sat beside each other looking over the black lake occasionally laughing.

You glanced at mattheo quickly taking a seat to the now far away spot that he took you to

Enzo and theo seem to be having fun”

Mattheo sat down beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. "They're like kids in a candy store," he said with a chuckle. "But that's what makes it entertaining."

You hummed looking out at the lake. "It's good to let loose every now and then," he continued his tone, surprisingly caring "We've got enough to worry about with classes and… everything else."

Now glancing at him, you understood what he meant, the slytherins werent liked much before the war and now after? The hatred towards them had only grown worse, the boys and pansy had continuously been getting spat remarks at and getting side eyes thrown at them. Mattheo, Theodore always resorting to making sure the commenter ended up in the hospital wing, Draco resorting to insulting them back. But pansy, Enzo and Blaise had just ended up ignoring the insults thrown their way,

You had hated seeing Mattheo with random bruises along his face and hands, you knew the other end would always end up worse but it stung to see him all hurt. Each bruise was a reminder of all the prejudice he had faced.

You quickly took his hand, your thumb gently tracing over a fresh bruise on his knuckles from the other day. "I wish you all didn't have to go through this," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. "It's not fair."

“It's not, but it's just how it is I guess” he said quietly.

You squeezed his hand gently, feeling a mixture of frustration and affection. "Just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt."

He smiled, a touch of mischief returning to his expression. "I promise. But you know me—I can’t just let them walk all over us."

You nodded, understanding his need to stand up for himself and his friends. "I know. Just… don’t take unnecessary risks, okay?"

He leaned closer, his forehead touching yours. “For you, I'll try," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

“What are you doing?” asked Draco when Pansy took out her camera.

She shrugged “They look cute together so im capturing the moment”

“Now, now Pansy dont go all soft on us all alright?”

“Oh please i'm not going soft you twat”

(readers physical appearance is not based off the girl in the picture)

𖦹. °‧. ★. ✮. ‧₊˚

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x y/n #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #slytherin boys #slytherin #mattheo x y/n #mattheo x you #mattheoxreader

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reaper2187 · 6 months ago

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Caitlyn kiramman x female reader

The escape plan

Ghosts of the Past

The safe house Caitlyn had arranged was a modest hideout on the outskirts of Piltover. It was quiet, secluded, and far enough from prying eyes to allow them time to regroup.

Y/N stood at the window, gazing out at the city lights in the distance. Her posture was relaxed, but her mind was far from still. Vi sat at the small table, drumming her fingers anxiously, while Caitlyn was in the corner, tinkering with her rifle.

The silence stretched until Vi finally spoke. “You’re gonna tell me what’s going on, right? About Jhin?”

Y/N’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though her gaze remained fixed on the window. “You really want to open that box, Vi?”

“Yes,” Vi said firmly, leaning forward. “You disappeared for years, and now I find out you have a brother—a brother who’s infamous, by the way. How does that even work?”

Caitlyn looked up, intrigued. “You’re Jhin’s sister?”

Y/N sighed, turning to face them. “Jhin and I...we’re complicated. He’s my brother, yes, but we’re not close in the traditional sense. We share a bond, but it’s one built on understanding, not affection.”

“What kind of understanding?” Caitlyn asked, her tone cautious.

Y/N stepped closer to the table, her expression unreadable. “We both see death as more than an end. For Jhin, it’s art—a masterpiece to be created with precision and care. For me...it’s a host. Something inevitable, something I’ve embraced. Death isn’t cruel or kind. It simply is.”

Vi frowned, her frustration evident. “That doesn’t explain why you never told me about him.”

Y/N’s gaze softened, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through. “Because it wasn’t your burden to carry, Vi. Jhin and I have our own paths, our own ways of dealing with the world. Bringing you into that would’ve only made things harder.”

As the conversation settled, Caitlyn found herself drawn to Y/N’s perspective. “You speak about death as if it’s a friend.”

“In a way, it is,” Y/N replied, leaning against the wall. “You’d be surprised how much clarity it brings. Most people fear it, run from it, but it’s the one constant we all share.”

Caitlyn studied her, her curiosity growing. “And Jhin? Does he share that clarity?”

Y/N’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Jhin sees the beauty in it, the symmetry. For him, every kill is a performance, a statement. I respect that, even if I don’t always agree with his methods.”

“You respect him?” Vi asked, disbelief lacing her voice. “The guy’s a psycho.”

“Maybe,” Y/N admitted, shrugging. “But he’s also a genius. You can’t deny that.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of Y/N’s words settling over them. Caitlyn found herself wondering what it would be like to see the world through Y/N’s eyes—a world where death wasn’t something to fear but something to understand.

Later that night, while Caitlyn and Vi were sleeping, Y/N sat alone by the window. The faint hum of the city outside was a stark contrast to the stillness of the room. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, intricately folded piece of paper.

Unfolding it, she found a single line written in Jhin’s precise, elegant handwriting: “Every stage needs its performer, sister. When will you embrace yours?”

Y/N smirked, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes. Jhin always had a flair for the dramatic. She folded the paper carefully and tucked it back into her pocket, her thoughts drifting to their shared past.

Jhin had always been the artist, the perfectionist. Even as children, he had a fascination with detail, with creating something beautiful out of chaos. Y/N, on the other hand, had been the realist, the pragmatist. Where Jhin sought beauty, she found purpose. Their views aligned just enough to coexist but diverged enough to keep them apart.

The next morning, Caitlyn found Y/N sitting on the steps outside the safe house, her expression distant. She hesitated for a moment before joining her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Caitlyn asked.

Y/N shook her head. “Too much on my mind.”

Caitlyn sat beside her, her rifle resting across her lap. “I’ve been trying to figure you out.”

Y/N chuckled softly. “Good luck with that.”

“You’re not what I expected,” Caitlyn admitted. “When Vi mentioned you, I thought you’d be...different.”

“Different how?”

“Angrier. Bitter. But you’re...calm. Like you’ve made peace with everything.”

Y/N turned to her, her gaze piercing. “Making peace doesn’t mean forgetting. I’ve done things I can’t undo, Caitlyn. But I’ve also accepted that those things are part of who I am.”

Caitlyn nodded slowly, her respect for Y/N growing. “You and Jhin...do you think you’ll ever see him again?”

“Probably,” Y/N said with a faint smile. “Our paths tend to cross when we least expect it.”

Caitlyn hesitated before asking, “And when they do, what happens?”

Y/N’s expression softened, a rare glimpse of vulnerability breaking through. “That depends on him.”

As the days passed, the group worked on building a plan to stay ahead of the enforcers who were undoubtedly hunting them. Y/N proved invaluable, her experience and resourcefulness keeping them one step ahead.

Despite her initial reservations, Caitlyn found herself drawn to Y/N—not just her skills but the quiet strength beneath her stoic exterior. There was a complexity to her, a depth that Caitlyn couldn’t help but admire.

Vi, too, seemed to be healing. Though she and Y/N still had their differences, the bond they shared was undeniable. They often sparred in the mornings, their playful banter a reminder of the sibling-like relationship they had once shared.

But the shadow of Jhin lingered over them all, an unspoken reminder of the danger that still lay ahead.

Hope you enjoy part 4 someday now, if you have any requests send them my way, and ye hope you like it

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smthino-odiffrnt · 6 months ago

Text

Marcus Acacius's daughter gets caught up in his attempt to dispose the twin Emperors.

9k words.

All smut, no plot. Threesome. OC (fem)

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*** Preamble***

Marcia was Marcus Acacius's daughter from his first marriage. She has been kept safe by her father and his second wife, Lucilla. Always at their estate or under the watchful eye of supervision. She could count the amount of parties she had been to on one hand, all hosted in her own home.

She learned not to mind, realizing how much effort her father made to keep her safe. What did it matter that she was a woman grown without knowing any man besides her father and their private guards.

Marcus Acacius's life has grown into being the top general of the Roman army.

Under the rule of the twin Emperors; Geta and Caracalla, Marcus Acacius's life has become hell. Sent off to fight war after war with little reprieve from the bloodshed. What had mattered to him became all the more precious.

When his wife suggests an end to his and the Empires suffering, Acacius takes the chance to rid the world of the twin Emperors not realizing how much it would cost him.

The plotting would not only cause his and his wife's life to be in danger and expose Lucilla's long lost son to those she meant to protect him most from, but throw his daughter into the hands of the greedy Emperors.

***The Night of Acacuis's Coup***

There was rustling and she knew something was wrong.

This wasn’t the usual rustle from servants beginning their day. No. There was a tension in the air. The same static charge one would feel before a lightning storm. Marcia’s hand crept under her pillow, feeling for the smooth ivory handle that she knew would be there.

There it was, the confirmation she needed, shuffled feet and mumble speech.

She gripped the handle tight, until she could feel her knuckles straining. She swung the pugio out as soon as she heard the leather sandals rub against the stone floor beside her bed. It landed square in the praetorian guard's neck. His hands reached up to his throat on instinct enabling Marcia to pull his sword from the sheath at his side. As he crumpled down she rolled across the bed landing opposite of the remaining guard.

To say she didn’t expect this would be a lie. Marcia had heard the hushed conversation between her father, his wife Lucilla, and the senators that shared their mindset. She knew what he had planned. Of his army making its way towards Rome’s gates. That the Emperors knew of it was a small surprise. She had expected one of the senators to betray them. Probably Thraex, he seemed the type. Killing his men would have been less of a problem, but now that she had the blood of a praetorian guard on her hands, there would be no good end to this.

Marcia took a defensive stance watching the remaining guard carefully. He started to shout so she ran for him using all her weight to shove her shoulder square into his belly. He grunted and staggered to the ground, but not before he managed to get out, “I need help!" in a loud baritone.

Shit, this was worse. She shoved the stolen blade into his throat watching him choke on his own blood before she had to withdraw and watch the door.

Maybe she could run. Jump out the window. No, she was on the second floor of a building with very high ceilings. That would be an equally painful death. Lucilla’s son. Yes, that gladiator that they kept talking about in hushed tones. Her father was supposed to be rescuing him tonight. Perhaps they didn’t know about that. Maybe she could find a way to them.

With a plan in mind, though a weak one, she ran out her chamber doors. Her bare feet slammed hard against the marble tiles as her eyes took in the chaos of her home. Slaves and servants herded together to be taken away and Lucilla being dragged off by two guards.

“Another one!”

She hears it, but doesn’t see who said it, still running, to focused on finding a way out. The servants' passages, that was the smartest.

She turned the corner only to have her chest run into what felt like a tree branch. Marcia landed against the stone floors. Her head slammed so hard that she saw stars for a moment. Her breath had left her, the gladius she stole clanging to the floor. She crumbled to the side as she clutched her chest, wheezing. Before she had even managed to take in air large hands grabbed her forearms and dragged her up.

They shoved her in with Lucilla, threatening to kill both of them if one of them tried to escape.

“I’m so sorry my dear,” Lucilla’s voice sounded as if she was on the verge of tears.

“Don’t be. You were only doing what you believed to be right, mother,” Marcia said as she leaned her head against the older woman, taking what comfort she could. Lucilla wasn’t technically her mother, but with Marcia’s own mother dying in childbirth, her father’s second wife was the only one she had ever known.

The pair of them traveled in silence. Both knowing there had been too much said already. Anything more would just be used against them.

The troop stops in front of the palace, dragging both women roughly into the massive structure. It was opulent to be sure. Part of Marcia wished she had gotten to see it in its full splendor. That she had been allowed to go to any of the elaborate parties or festivals that the Emperors frequently hosted. Instead her father kept her nestled away at his and Lucilla’s estate. Marcia had understood why. Powerful men were always a problem. No, was a foreign word to them, one that they rarely responded well to. Marcia was content with being kept away from such men, learning the art of war from her father and philosophy from Lucilla.

All Marcus’s efforts of protection were for not as they were dragged before the twin Emperors. The night was still far from over.

The praetorians let go of Lucilla allowing her to stand, with her chin held high as she made her way towards the others in the room. Their grip on Marcia however did not loosen. All she could do was watch the scene play out while they kept her a safe distance from the Emperors. The last thing the guards wanted was her finding another blade. General Acacius was behaving himself at least.

Emperor Caracalla, only dressed in a makeshift toga, hollered and swung his sword at them. He seemed erratic, near mad. If it wasn’t for his brother, Emperor Geta, Marcia was certain that they would have all been killed that night. But Geta’s white hot rage was no better. Devising the plan to have her father enduring the arena till his blood was spilled on the sand. At this Marcia could stand it no longer. The shriek from her came deep from within, at the horror of being left behind by her father, her only flesh and blood left in the whole world. She shifted her weight to her right leg, shoving that shoulder in the guard and pulling her left away from the other as he took in what was happening.

She ran for him, desperate with the need to touch her father again. She could hear the guards at her heels as she crashed into her father. His arms wrapped around her as he spoke to her. “Don’t cry my love. I have lived a long life. I would gladly give up my life for Rome,” he says in his calm stoic voice, managing to place a kiss in her head before she’s dragged back by the guards. They changed their hold so that they now had her with their outer arm holding her forearm and their arm closest to her grabbing her bicep, preventing her from repeating the move again.

Her sorrow now turned sour as she glared at the men responsible. They looked ridiculous. Caracalla, with his bedsheet draped around him while he swung a gladius around like a child playing soldier and Geta, with his open red robe and reminisce of makeup on his skin, he looked so feminine compared to how her father always presented himself. They were both so pale, Marcia wondered if the sun had ever even touched their skin. Her father taught her to have a distaste for men with too soft of hands, and theirs were the softest in the empire.

“Is this your daughter, dear Acacius?” Geta asked, though his eyes didn’t leave hers. At the lack of response for Acacius Geta knew it must be the case. He made his way towards her, taking advantage of how tightly his guards were holding her. “What a pretty little thing. No wonder you kept her hidden. Tell me, were you shipped off with your brother? Or did they send you somewhere else?” he questions with a sickly soft voice. The back of his hand stroked down her cheek as she shuddered under his touch, unable to keep eye contact with his cold black eyes.

“If you mean Lucius, he is not my brother,” Marcia manages to get out through gritted teeth as she stares at the floor. She wanted him to move away, to bring his focus back to her father. She couldn’t breathe with him this close, his musky perfumed scent filling her lungs.

“One less person to miss then,” he says. His black eyes stare at her before he finds himself again, pulling back.

“Your Imperial Majesty, what would you have us do with her?” one of the Praetorian’s asked.

“Just throw her in with Lucilla,” Geta sighs, flipping his wrist as if it was obvious.

“Emperor, she must pay,” the guard’s gruff voice shuddered through her.

Geta turns, sitting down on his throne to look at his Pretorian. “Why must she pay exactly?” he asks, the irritation clear in his tone. He had decided their fates already and wanted to head to bed, to get what rest was left of the night.

“She killed two of your men.”

This had him looking up, his eyes wider than before looking at the guard who had just spoken of the girl in their arms. She couldn’t be more than twenty, between her size and the fact that she was still unwed.

“Two of them?” he asked, his eyes narrowing on her.

“Yes, your majesty. An attack on your guard is an attack on you.”

“I know what it means!” Geta snaps, his voice becoming shrill.

His outburst drew the attention of his brother who pointed the sword he was playing with down so its tip rested on the ground, resting his chin on the hilt a little. “She killed two grown men?” his voice was surprisingly soft as he asked the question, tilting his head in query.

“Yes, Emperor Caracalla.” With each word out of the guards mouth Marcia felt her fate sealed more and more.

“And you would admit this publicly?” Caracalla asks him. He watches the guard shuffle around, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find the words. The Emperor couldn’t help but burst out into laughter. “Maybe we should throw her into the games too brother,” he jests with more laughter.

Fuck, this was getting worse by the moment.

Geta’s dark eyes looked to her again, his brows slightly pinched, taking her in. They did have to do something with her. It felt like a pity to kill off someone so beautiful, with her olive skin, warm brown eyes and dark hair. She looked enough like her father to make it funny to him. A small breathy laugh escaped as a vision crossed his mind. “No, I have a better idea.”

Marcus could see the wicked look in Geta’s eye. He had been through too many campaigns, seeing that exact same look on many a soldier’s face when sacking a city. “NO!” he shouts, stepping forward before he remembers himself. All the guards in the room had their hand on the hilt of their sword in a second, save for the two holding Marcia. His eyes flicked up to the twin Emperors, a vindictive look was added to Geta's previous lustful gaze. “Please, anything but that,” Marcus begs, his voice getting caught in his throat. He had faced death countless times, but this moment brought tears to his eyes.

“Oh definitely that,” Geta confirmed his worst fears. A maniacal grin spread across his face as walked towards her, keeping his eyes peeled on his once triumphant General. As he made his way towards her, his robe billowing in the wind, Marcia began to tug against the guard's tight hold, desperate to flee from him. She would pull her arms out their sockets if that’s what it took, but she couldn’t even make them budge as he stalked ever closer. She might be untouched, but she knew exactly what he was implying. Every warning her father ever gave her ringing through her head. The tall Emperor looked down on her with a face of indifference before his right hand reached around, gripping the hair at the base of her neck. Her hands, the moment the guards released them, flung up to where Geta held her. She tried to pull his hand away, to loosen his grip even just a little, but his hand felt as if it was made of iron. He dragged her over towards her father, ignoring the feeling of her nails digging into his wrist. Caracalla’s giggle echoes through the hall. Finally some entertainment. “I think becoming the Emperors’ whore is the perfect fate for her,” Geta says, tilting her head back, forcing her to look up at him. “She is beautiful,” his breath fans across her face causing her to shudder, in his grip.

“Why you-” Marcus begins, lunging towards them before Geta cuts him off.

“Praetorians!” he shouts. The guards quickly grabbed Acacius. “Take him away. Booth of them,” he says, shooing them away with his spare hand. He pushes her head up, moving it so it follows her family’s departure. “Look look look,” he whispers into her ear. “There they go. Any chance of saving is being forced out the room. They can not save you. No one can. Not for what we have in store for you.”

She hears Caracalla’s laugh echo through the room. She wants to cry but the feeling of Geta’s tongue licking up the side of her neck sends shivers down her spine. “Look at her quake,” Caracalla laughs at her. When she hears Geta snickering join his brother’s a fire is lit within her again.

She twists down and in, punching Geta in the gut. Marcia feels his hand release before hearing him grunt. She takes the opportunity and bolts as fast as she can. She can hear Caracalla’s maniacal laughter as she flees from the room. The halls are nearly empty with most of the praetorians leading General Acacius away.

“What are you doing? Go after her!” Geta groans at his brother as he begins to stand, the punch had more force than he expected from a woman.

Cara needed no more encouragement. He dropped the sword and took off in a sprint after her. Though he had little experience in running, the thrill of the chase coursed through him. A deranged laugh made its way out as he caught sight of her running down the halls. She was blind to where she went, desperate to find some kind of safe haven. Caracalla had to signal the guards to deter them from helping. No, this fun was for him and his brother alone.

When she skittered at a dead end he took his chance to pounce on her, tackling her to the hard ground. He made sure she took the brunt of the fall. Using her disorientation from the fall he pins her hands to the floor beside her head and uses the weight of his lower body to keep her down. He giggled while she writhed under him, kicking and screaming. It only made him laugh more.

It was this sight that Geta walked in on. Seeing his brother’s poorly done toga beginning to fall apart. It was a little funny to watch his younger brother try to fondle such an angry victim. “Brother,” his voice interrupted them. Cara looked up, making sure to hold her still. There was a glint to his eyes, the shine of his gold tooth. The same that he had when they watched the games together. “Grab a leg,” Geta sad as he leaned down and proceeded to grab one of her ankles waiting till Caracalla grabbed the other. Before she had the chance to fight back the brothers began dragging her on her back towards where their guards waited. They dropped her at their feet. Geta uttered, “bring her to my chambers,” before they walked off.

One of the guards roughly picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder, making sure to keep her legs pinned so that she couldn't kick him. He follows after the Emperors, dropping her when Geta prompts him upon entering his chambers. Once again she lands hard on the cold stone floor.

But this time she’s ready for it. She rolls with the fall, lessening the pain. Using the time she knew that she had, she sprung up reaching her hand out and clasping it around the praetorian’s hilt. She pulled it out, swinging it up in a fluid motion, the tip caught at his chin and scraped across his face. He clutched at it, rearing back in pain. Caracalla laughed at the sight, not wanting the entertainment to end, but Geta grabbed one of his gladius's, bringing it to Marcia’s throat. “Tsk tsk tsk. Drop it,” his voice was deadly calm.

“Kill me,” she utters, pressing her neck into the blade. The small sting felt like a life line distracting her from the dread she felt.

“You think dying would grant you peace?” Geta said with a smirk. “Know that if you die now your father will meet a worse death than in the colosseum. Crucifixion. Or maybe thrown off Tarpeian Rock?” With her eyes focused on the gladius pointed at her neck, Marcia failed to notice Geta’s hand tick in a quick gesture to his brother. Cara easily slipped out of her peripheral, making his way towards her back. Before she has a chance to answer Caracalla makes his move. Wrapping his arms over hers, getting her to drop the sword as he pulled them back. “If kill yourself, get killed or otherwise become too difficult…”

“Your father dies a most gruesome death,” Caracalla’s light crackling voice whispers in her ear.

“I’m just to lie back and let you have your way with me?” Marcia grits out.

Geta sks at her while Caracalla laughs. “Where’s the fun in that?” Caracalla questions her, tightening his grip.

“We have real whores for that. Ones who are no doubt better at it than you,” Geta teases. The sting hurt somehow, as if being pure was now a failing of hers. He comes forward, taking the opportunity to gently stroke her face again. He loved how she shivered under his touch. “It doesn’t matter if you resist or lie back like a good little girl. My brother and I will do exactly as we wish,” he said. His hand snaked through her hair making a fist at the back of her skull. The power of being emperor coursing through his veins. He tugged her down as Caracalla knocked out the back of her legs, Marcia’s knees thudding to the floor. Caracalla let go of her arms as she fell, enabling her to grab at Geta’s iron fist. “Now, open your mouth.”

Geta pulled open his robe revealing his engorged cock, suddenly feeling very awake despite it being the middle of the night. Marcia hesitates for a moment looking at the pale veiny thing in front of her face, glistening with precum. It was larger than statues depicted, but somehow looked more like stone than flesh. No doubt the hardest thing on the soft handed emperor. The idea of having something that large in her mouth had Marcia swallowing hard.

Geta tightened his grip and shaking her head roughly till her mouth opened ever so slightly. Cara laughs, only stopping to watch his brother push his cock against her mouth. The salty musk of him filled her senses as he pressed against her top lip. He hooked his thumb around her bottom teeth, pulling her mouth open enough to push his head against her velvet tongue.

Geta has had better. Much better. She kept her mouth around him, using her tongue to try and keep him back to prevent her from gagging. But the sight of her more than made up for it. Truly the female visage of her father. It felt as if he was mouth fucking General Acacius himself. It felt like power. The defiance in her eyes made it feel that much sweeter.

He pulled out for a moment, his spare hand slapping her jaw roughly. Her scowl drops as her eyes open wide in shock, she was under the impression that cooperation would be the less painful root. “Suck on it,” he says breathlessly. He shoves it back in groaning as he feels her hollow out her cheeks. It felt embarrassing and shameful and Marcia felt like she could hardly breath, but some part of her body started to betray her. A small thrum began in-between her thighs. Like a drum beat from the gods.

The pull of the suction causes a shiver to travel up his spine. His head lulled back as he fucked her mouth. It was the whimper of his brother that brought him back. Caracalla’s would-be toga discarded to the floor as he pawed at his own cock. Stroking himself at the sight of them. Geta pulled her off his member. “Now, my brother,” he says as he manhandles her head to face Caracalla’s erect cock. He has to pull harder on her hair before he can shove her opening mouth upon his brother’s throbbing cock.

The shorter length was easier to manage, though Caracalla thrust at a much faster rate. He hit the back of her throat several times causing Marcia to gag on him, nearly losing whatever was left in her stomach. Geta kept a firm grip on her, enjoying how he was making sure she took care of his brother. Caracalla’s hands joined his, holding her by the top of her head as he continued his brutal pace.

Geta looked up and saw his brother’s jaw begin to twitch and flex. He yanked her off his brother’s cock so hard that she fell backwards onto the floor. He didn’t want the fun to end too soon. Caracalla panted and caught his breath after being so close to cumming, though didn’t do his usual complaining at being forced to stop.

Marcia was getting too used to ending up on the floor. She scrambled up again. Maybe she could become just annoying enough that they would grow tired of her. Make them work a little too hard. Marcia plants her feet in a defensive position looking at the pair of them. Caracalla was completely naked now. A happy smile on his face as he looked at her. Geta’s red robe hung open, showing off his pale stomach and thighs. A devilish smirk spread on his face as he locked eyes with her.

“That’s it,” he coos.

“Play the game with us,” his brother taunts.

“What game you sick fucks!?” she yells at them. They looked far too pleased with themselves, having already taken her mouth.

“Cat and mouse. Run and chase,” Caracalla pauses, “predator and prey. Whatever you want to call it.”

“The one where you try to get away,” Geta adds.

“And what if I just give myself up?” she asks. Marcia could feel her fear trickling up her arms.

The joint Emperors laugh. Geta answers, “there’s too much fight in you.” He grins at her slowly walking to her right as Caracalla moves to her left. “So, much like your father,” he teased.

Not wanting to get pinned in, Marcia runs straight towards the large table at the far end of the chamber. She slides across it, knocking things as she made it to the other side, making it a barrier between her and them.

Glancing to one another, each brother grabs the edge closest to him. Pushing up together, flipping the table and scattering its contents towards her. Their twin laughs mix with Marcia’s shocked scream. Platters clattering and goblets smashing all around her. Marcia had to back up to avoid cutting her bare feet on the broken glass.

She spotted Geta first, rounding the right side of the massive table that now laid on its side. Marcia split left taking a wide turn, hoping to avoid Caracalla who was making his way to the corner closest to him.

“That’s it. Come on!” Geta’s voice echoes through the chamber. Caracalla’s laugh follows behind.

They liked this game too much. It wasn’t going to work. Clearly it only spurred them on. ‘If this is a game then there has to be a way for me to win,’ Marcia thought to herself. ‘So, how? How do I win?’

“How does the game end then?” she asks, trying to ignore her heart rate.

“We catch you and fuck you,” Caracalla says with a laugh.

“That’s if you win,” Marcia adds. She keeps slowly stepping backwards. Her eyes darted from one of the emperors to the other.

“We always win,” Caracalla’s cheery voice answers her.

“You can’t win,” Geta says. His eyes followed her carefully. She was backing herself into a corner. Excitement was bubbling inside of him. Picturing how she’ll look when she realises there is nowhere for her to run to. How her eyes will widen, her mouth will open and she’ll start pleading and begging, his cock twitched at the image.

“So, you both just use me and then I’m free to go?” She knew there was a table over here, but where was it? Why hadn’t she run into it yet?

“You go to the Praetorians next.” There was the shock he loved to see. “Your body as payment for the lives you took,” Geta explains. There it was the moment he was waiting for, her ass had hit the edge of the table.

But the wide eyes didn’t come. Instead her eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Marcia’s hand reached back grabbing any object from behind. She flung the small metal cup she had managed to find, throwing it at Geta. He turned his shoulder letting the cup hit him in the side, laughing. Her next projectile was a fig wielded towards Caracalla. Who screamed as it hit in the shoulder, a little more surprised by the attack than his brother was.

He let out a small whimper as he rubbed his barely bruised shoulder. She threw another, taking advantage of the full bowl of fruit. Geta hit the next one targeted at him away, becoming agitated. The second one that hit Caracalla wacked him in the head. He whimpered again, rubbing the spot on his head as tears pricked at his eyes.

Geta couldn’t stand it. No one made his brother cry. Not any more. Least of all a traitorous bitch. “Enough,” Geta barked. His long strides brought him to her within seconds, ignoring the objects that hit him in the chest. Marcia hadn’t realised how fast he could be when he wanted. Geta’s hand gripped her throat before she could blink. “Say sorry,” he growled at her, squeezing tightly.

Marcia tried to breath in a ragged breath, turning her eyes towards the snivelling Caracalla. “I’m sorry,” she wheezed. Geta’s grip tightened. Her eyes felt as if they might pop out of her head.

Caracalla sniffled a few times before looking up at her, he wiped his eye with the back of his hand. His slightly teary eyes met hers. “You don’t really mean it,” he says, his chin having a small tremble.

Geta leans in close, his breath fanning along her cheek. His nose nudges the shell of her ear as he says, “go show my brother you mean it.”

He gives a quick threatening squeeze before releasing her. Geta watched her carefully as Marcia took slow tentative steps towards his brother. Caracalla looked so much like a boy when he acted this way. It reminded Geta of their youth and what they had to endure. Never again would they suffer by the hands of another.

“I’m sorry,” her voice cracks a little. It was hard to talk with her throat still tender from Geta’s harsh grip.

When Caracalla’s mood doesn’t shift she looks back to Geta. His face is unflinching. It was clear to her that he expected her to try harder. Marcia sucked in a deep breath a foot away from Caracalla now. Her hands tentatively touched his shoulders, settling in when he didn't flinch away. She bites hard on her bottom lip, letting the pain drown out her thoughts as she leans in. Being close in height she only has to press her heels up maybe an inch off the floor before their lips met.

Marcia didn’t realize how soft they would be. Somehow thinking they would be like stone. Caracalla returned the kiss with soft gentle movements, allowing her to drag him out of the fog he was in. As the world came back into focus he wrapped his hands around her back and neck drawing her in to deepen the kiss. Their mouths parted and Marcia could taste the slight metallic from his gold tooth.

She got lost. It felt like drowning as their mouths collided again. The first time she had kissed anyone and she never wanted to stop with the warm fuzzy feeling it gave her. There was a new tug in her hair, pulling her mouth from Caracalla’s. The two of them panting slightly, with reddening lips.

Geta looked down at her, scowling. “Brothers share,” he mutters, leaning down and open mouth kissing her already parted mouth.

His kiss was harsh and demanding. Nothing like how soft and sweet Cara’s were. His mouth worked against her, keeping her mouth wide open as his tongue explored her. It was overpowering. Consuming. When Caracalla’s mouth met her neck, licking and nibbling, her knees gave out, lust flooding her for the first real time.

The brothers, having her front pinned by Caracalla and her back by Geta, easily held her up as their hands began exploring her still covered body. Cara’s hands pawed her breasts over the thin silk of her night dress. Geta’s hand, that wasn;t holding her hair, traced down the side of her body and hip, curving in towards the tenderness of her inner thigh. It was as if she was under a spell. Perhaps Cupid had flown in and shot her with one of his arrows.

The moment Caracalla yanks the straps of her dress off her shoulders, leaving her breast to the chill of the night air, the spell breaks. Marcia once again becomes deathly aware of her predicament. The twins laugh, both drinking in the sight of her shocked face. Her hands fumbling to gather the fabric, trying to cover her breasts from their hungry eyes. Nearly all of her weight was being held by Geta, who had his leg between hers, propping her ass up with his thigh.

She needed to get away. Needed to clear her head. It currently felt like she had over imbibed in wine. That her consciousness was swimming and her body was a long lost idea. She needed to get away. Create some distance between her and the feelings bubbling up inside of her.

The second she goes to make her move, Geta feels it. The subtle shift of her ass against him. He grabs her wrists before she gets the chance to leave them, pulling her hands out from her body so that she has to struggle for balance, strung out for his brother. Marcia becomes erratic with the fear of becoming a caged animal racing through her mind. She wrenches against his hold desperate to get away. The ease of which it takes to restrain her makes Geta let out a cruel mocking laugh.

What she had managed to pull back up around herself had fallen back down leaving her breasts exposed. Caracalla gazed at them as they bounced with every pull, twist and tug she made. Unable to help himself, he latches his mouth to her breast, suckling at it as if he were a babe starved. A moan ripples through her before she can suppress it. He licks around the areola before switching to the other breast, beginning the feast anew. Marcia’s head landed against Geta’s shoulder. Her ass pressing against him as her chest arched uncontrollably, moaning from his brother's work. She looked perfect.

Geta’s laugh pulls her back to reality. An embarrassed blush bloomed on her face. No. She couldn’t give into them. Not now. Not ever. She looked down to see Caracalla devouring her left breast as his hand fondled her right. She needed to catch her breath. Marcia forces herself to focus on the cold marble floor seeping into her toes, at the burning pain happening at her wrists from Geta’s steel grip. Breathing in and out trying to bring her mind back. To focus on the other senses. The smell of incense in the room. The scratch of Geta’s robe against her back.

How could she get out though? She could see the door over Caracalla’s shoulder, but with his hands wrapped around her waist and Geta’s hands holding her in a vice like grip, how could she get to it? Stomping on one of their feet? Or maybe kicking one of them? Maybe she could head butt Cara and step on Geta’s foot. If she could tug her hands free she could shove Caracalla away and… And then what? Try to flee from all of the Pratoreans who are no doubt stationed throughout the whole palace now. They knew about Lucius. They knew which Senators were in on it. Even if she could escape the Emperors-

“You’ve just realized it, haven't you?” Geta coos into her ear. He feels Marcia’s body tense up against him, bringing a smile to his lips as he rubs them against her neck. “You’ve just realized there’s no getting out of this. You’re ours Marcia.”

She flexes against him, straining to get away, desperate for escape. Geta drops her wrists, quickly wrapping his arms around her ribs as she thrashes out, screaming, “no! Let me go! Let me go, you overgrown ape!”

A surprised Caracalla takes a step back. It takes him a moment to understand what his brother was doing. He watches Geta drag her thrashing body towards the raised platform that held his canopied bed. Caracalla happily follows going to the other side of the bed to help pin her in. Geta throws her onto the bed. He reached for the jambiya he had received as a gift, pressing it to her throat, before she has a chance to get up. Marcia stilled instantly, trying to keep the curved blade from cutting her throat.

“Come brother, you should be the first to try her since she hurt you so cruelly,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as his black eyes never left hers.

“Glady,” Caracalla says in answer before crawling onto the bed. He rubbed his face across her smooth skin as he brought his face to hers. “Turn around,” Caracalla whispered into her ear. Her eyes widened in confusion as she at last looks at him. He let out a chuckle before his hands started directing her body into the position he wanted.

Caracalla made her prop herself up on her hands and knees, her ass to him and face to Geta. Who was patently watching from the side lines. Only sliding the ceremonial dagger under her chin, tilting it up till she looked at him. Caracalla spat on her cunt, sending a jolt through her body. She desperately wanted to turn her face back to look at what was happening, but Geta’s blade was a constant reminder not to look away from his black cruel eyes.

She could feel Cara press the head of his cock against her entrance, circling it slightly, gathering what slick was there. The teasing sent a shiver through her. This was easily caught but Geta, who only smirked wider. With one swift thrust Cara buried his cock inside of her. Marcia’s head fell at the invasion, biting hard on her lip, like Orcus was she going to cry out in pain from his assault. She refused to grant them the satisfaction. A matching sting to what she felt from her womanhood simmered at her neck as the foreign blade cut into her.

The blade guided her face back up, but Geta’s eyes were on his brother. Watching him drink in the sensation of a tight virgin cunt. A small satisfactory smile crept across his lips as he watched his brother experiencing pleasure. Caracalla’s mouth had fallen open as he began slow pleasure driven thrusts, wanting to take in every inch of sensation he felt. Her warm damp walls sucking him in as she clenched at the intrusion inside of her.

Marcia felt breathless as Caracalla gradually started picking up speed. His hands grabbed either side of her hips, helping him bounce against her. She scrunched her eyes shut, trying to catch her breath as the sharp pain began to ease. That was worse. To be taken in pain was one thing, but to get pleasure from it was something Marcia didn’t want to face.

“Has a man ever taken you before?” Geta asks. She clenched her jaw tighter, refusing to answer him. When she doesn't even open her eyes Geta kneels down, switching the position of the jambiya so its point is pressing into the soft spot on the underside of her jaw. “Open your eyes,” he says with a calm sweet tone. Marcia clenched them tighter. Still too focused on finding her breathe. “Look at me,” he said through gritted teeth, pressing the blade ever so slightly in. It pricked into the soft tissue. Marcia’s eyes flashing open and she loses the control she had on herself. A soft moan escaping her lips, her mouth falling open, as she locks eyes with Geta. He looks like a mad god with the smile that he gives in response. “Why don’t you play with her?” Geta asks his brother while his black eyes bore into Marcia’s.

Her bottom lip quivers and she shakes her head, trying to stifle her building moans again. Her bottom lip was back between her teeth, chewing on it. Caracalla reaches a hand under her. His fingers delicately stroked her clit with feather light touches. She couldn’t take it. All the noises she was trying to suppress ripple out of her. Satisfied Geta pulls his blade away, allowing her to drop her head as she continues to moan. A pleasure she had never known coursing through her.

Marcia finally catches her breath, starting to hold moans back again, as Geta’s hand grabs her jaw. He forces her to look up at him again, squeesing her cheeks into her teeth so she opens her mouth once more. He shoves his cock into her agape mouth and then pinches her nose shut. She tries to draw in breath through her mouth causing her to suck hard on his cock. Geta pulls out for a moment, Still pinching her nose, allowing her to take a breath before shoving back in. He repeats this motion a few more times before pressing in deep and holding there. With no release in sight Marcia’s body starts reeling at the invasion, trying to get breath somewhere. Caracalla has to stop his thrust to focus on holding her down, a manic laugh coming out as she bucked against them.

Marcia starts to still with her chest growing tight, screaming for air. Her mouth starts to clench prompting Geta to pull out and release her nose. Marcia’s chest falls to the mattress as she coughs, gasping at the welcome fresh air. Caracalla’s laugh is joined by Geta’s as they watch her so desperate for something as basic as air. Caracalla pulls out and lets her hips fall to the bed. She lays there panting on Geta’s bed for a moment. Geta drops his red robe to the floor moving to join Caracalla on his bed. He grabs the jambiya, passing it over to his brother who eagerly begins to cut Marcia’s rumpled nightdress. The un-dyed silk falls to the side, leaving her completely bare to them.

WIth air returned to her brain panics at the knife so closer to her flesh and kicks her leg out, hitting Caracalla and knocking him off the bed a little. The noise of the knife clattering to the ground eases her a little. Retaliation is what she had to prepare for though. Marcia raises herself up onto her knees, eyes locking on Geta. The look on his face implied something closer to “really?” rather than any form of worry. Then he launched himself at her. His hands quickly grabbed her wrists, handing them to his brother to hold above her head. While she looked up to Caracalla, his gold tooth glinting in the lamplight as he grinned down at her, Geta lined himself up with her, burying himself into her the moment his cock meet her damp folds. A sick smile spread across his face as she cried out and clenched around him, furious at the new intrusion.

“She feels good, doesn’t she, brother?” Cara asks, easily keeping Marcia’s hands in place as she tugged on them.

A quiet groan of pleasure escapes Geta’s lips before he answers, “I can’t decide what feels better. The father’s victories or the daughter’s cunt.” He looks down at her, a mockery of a lover’s smile on his face.

“Let’s keep her. Dundus could use a new friend,” Caracalla says, sounding like a boy asking his parents for a puppy.

“Whatever you want brother,” Geta answers a little breathless, lost in his own sensations as he felt every shift she made trying to get away from him. His eyes start to look like black voids as they hood with lust, taking her body that was spread out under him. His mouth dived into her throat as his hands went to her breast massaging them with his long smooth fingers. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers into her ear, his thrust beginning a gruelling pace. “So, so beautiful,” he continues to whisper into her skin as he scatters kisses across her upper chest. He had wanted her the moment he laid eyes on her and finally he was inside her warm cunt. Her body shivering perfectly for him. She was his. “So soft and warm for me. Such a pretty little thing,” he coos.

A moan escapes her. She couldn’t help herself falling apart under his languid administrations. His smooth deep thrust shoving his cock in till it kissed her cervix. The sweet little confessions to her. His gentle touches all over her body. Acting as if he was her lover. Marcia didn’t even realise she had wrapped one of her legs around his hips as he at last captured her lips in a sensual kiss. She got lost to it. Caracalla released her hands, happy to watch how she became clay, molding to his brother. Her hands quickly weaved themselves into Geta’s ginger hair pulling his face closer in deepening the kiss.

She was fucked, completely and utterly fucked. She couldn’t help losing herself to it all. Geta sat up, pulling her up with him to have her on his lap as he thrusted up into her. His hand gripped the back of her head again, pulling it back gently so that he could feast on her neck once more.

His slow movements went unnoticed by Marcia, to0 lost to his touches and gradual thrusts. Geta had positioned them so that his legs dangled off the edge of the bed. Her back towards Caracalla who had been patiently waiting for his brother to finish his turn.

Geta moved his mouth back to her lips as Cara began to suck at the crook of her neck, a deep violet mark starting to bloom under his lips. When Marcia felt Calacalla’s hands pawing at her ass she froze. They had trapped her again and she was too caught up to have noticed. How had she become this dumb. Why had her mind abandoned her and left her only with a weak traitorous body?

“Brothers share,” Caracalla provided as explanation. Their hands tightened around her and Geta began his thrusts again, distracting her from his brother’s actions. Her mind became lost again as their mouths continued to work her over. Cara took the provided opportunity to gather and pour oil on his cock before pressing the weeping head against her puckered asshole. Geta’s hands spread her wide for him access. He thrust in. His whole cock sheathing itself into her virgin asshole.

A moan caught in Marcia’s throat twisting into a strangled cry as her body burned once again from such a fast invasion. Becoming devastatingly full with both of the brothers' cocks. Geta covered her mouth with his drinking in her cries of pain. Sick pleasure rushes through him as she whimpers into mouth. Tears trailing down the side of her face. From the pain, from the pleasure, from being overwhelmed by them.

She looked absolutely perfect in their eyes. A whimpering moaning weeping mess as they stuffed her full. Geta laid back, his hands still holding her hips to help keep an even pace. Caracalla’s hands around her, kept her up, happy to have her so close to him. Geta closes his eyes, enabling him to better focus on every little noise she makes. Her hands rested on his lower stomach, trying to keep herself upright. Cara’s hands reached up and grabbed at her breasts, pinching her nipples. Marcia let out another cry before it quickly turned into nonsensical moans. Lost in the twisted game of pain and pleasure that they were inflicting on her.

As Cara’s end crept up on him he pushed her down against his brother’s chest. One hand planted on the center of her back keeping her there as he fucked into her at a brutal pace desperate to come in her.

Geta let out a groan as she landed on him. Though he didn’t object, feeling his brother’s frantic thrust through her. His hands gathered the dark hair that had fanned out across his face blocking his sight. He held it tightly to pull her head up off his chest, getting her warm brown eyes to look at him. They looked like Acacius but not. His were tired and bitter where hers were excitable and hopeful. And now they looked pleading and lustful as his brother fucked into her.

“You’re ours,” Geta cooed to her.

“Completely ours,” Caracalla added as he spilt his seed deep inside her.

Geta wrapped his other arm across her shoulder blades before saying his next words, “you’re ruined.”

“Nooo!” rips from her throat as fresh tears spill out as she feels Cara’s hot cum inside of her. She tried desperately to wriggle free of them, both had too good of a grip on her to make that possible. Caracalla laughs and Geta grunts from her clenching him so tightly

“Shhh. Shhh,” Geta tries to calm her, “be still unless you want to bear my son.”

His warning had Marcia become as still as a statue. Caracalla pulled out of her, pausing for a moment to watch her stretched hole pucker a little and leak his white cum out of it. He grabbed her by her hair, dragging her up against his sweaty chest.

“Do you not want to grant my brother the honour of an heir?” Cara questions her. With one hand still fisted in her hair and the other wrapped around her waist he started to raise Marcia up and down on his brother’s cock. Geta’s hands dug into her thighs desperate for her to stop moving. Everything felt so tightly wound inside of himself that he could hardly think. Even his breath became tight as he tried to hold himself back from coming.

“Brother!” Geta says through gritted teeth, glaring at him. Caracalla threw his head back laughing at his brother as Geta laid trapped, struggling not to come. Caracalla drew her up and down once more at an agonizingly slow pace watching as Geta clenched his jaw tight enough it looked as if he might shatter teeth. The brothers were locked in a death stair with each other while Marcia struggled to feel her legs, twitching slightly on top of Geta, unintentionally flexing around him. Cara used her one more time to stroke his brother before pulling her up enough that Geta could pull his cock out. He strokes it a few times and comes hard, splashing on his own chest and her belly as relief washes over him.

Caracalla’s laugh pulled Geta back to the land of the living. “Give her to me,” Geta says, opening his arms to receive her. Cara gives an affectionate, almost childish kiss to the side of Marcia’s head before pushing her towards his twin. She crashes into him, her body slack from being used.

“Aren’t you done?” she whimpers out as Geta manhandles her, twisting her around so she lays with her back against his chest.

“We are, but you're not,” he explains. Caracalla joins them back on the bed, walking on his knees towards them. Marcia can only manage whimpers of refusal as Geta’s arms hold her down against him and Cara’s hands spread her legs open wide. Their twin laughs echoing through the chamber.

Cara’s tongue licks her cunt in long strokes. “She tastes like us,” he says with a grin. “Here,” he thrusts two fingers inside of her, before stroking it against her abused puckered asshole and then her cum smeared stomach. Marcia wiggles at the sensation wishing this humiliation would end. “Taste us,” he says to her, raising his white covered fingers up to her face.

“Open your mouth, beautiful,” Geta directs her, sweetly nudging his nose against her cheek.

Marcia’s jaw falls open, too little fight left in her. Caracalla happily rubbed his sticky fingers in her velvety mouth. A smile spread on his face as she responded to the tangy pungent semen coating her tongue, gauging slightly.

“Suck them.”

She closed her lips around Caracalla’s fingers sucking on them slightly till he pulled them out, leaving what he had gathered in her mouth. The thick substance sitting like a puddle on her tongue.

“Swallow it,” Geta commands. He watches her throat bob. His hand came up to caress her face. “Good girl,” he coos at Marcia, feeling her collapse into him in sweet submission. He couldn’t help the satisfaction that washed over him as his brother began working his mouth on her, causing her to fall apart in Geta’s hands.

Caracalla added his fingers back in crooking them to stroke her insides. Electricity sparked through her body. Tension formed in her gut. A sense of foreboding began to take over. “No, no, no, no, no,” she started to beg, not wanting to completely give in to them. For the Emperors to have all of her firsts.

“Yes,” Geta says in a hushed whisper, his breath tickling her ear and neck.

“Please. No,” Marcia begged, tears spilling from her eyes as her body betrayed her. Hardly even able to wiggle anymore.

“You’re going to come for us, and only us,” Geta’s whispers turn harsh, demanding.

Caracalla twisted his hand so that he could add his thumb to her cunt and slip his pinky into her cum slick hole. His pinky ring pressing against the outside of it. “No, no, no,” Marcia whimpered, barely able to contain herself.

“Come for us,” he coos. One of his hands strokes some of her hair off her face.

Her breath becomes erratic as she desperately tries to keep from falling off the edge. Geta’s hand slips down her body to her clit, flicking his brother’s face off it. Marcia catches her breath at the pause thinking they were done. That she survived.

“Yes, please come for us,” Caracalla politely begs before his mouth moves to suck one of her nipples while his spare hand squeezes Marcia’s other breast.

Her resistance crumples up into uncontrollable moans as her mind becomes overrun with pleasure. Her body overrun, full once again.

“That’s it,” Geta's lips tickle against her neck. He feels her tighten up against him. All of her muscles pulling taunt. “Let go of yourself. Let go for us.” She sucks in a tight breath. “Come for us Marcia,” Geta murmurs against the soft skin under her ear.

“Please.”

She shatters in their arms. Letting out a guttural moan as she comes on both of their hands. Her pussy pulsing around Caracalla’s fingers. Waves of unimaginable pleasure washing over her. Their hands stroking her through it till she twitched against them

Marcia’s body becomes limp against Geta. Caracalla pulls his hand out, sucking on his fingers. He pushes them back in roughly, causing Marcia’s whole body to shudder and a whimper to leave her throat. He pulls them back out and offers her juices to his brother. Geta opened his mouth for him, moaning at the taste of her on his twin’s fingers.

“Let’s keep her,” Caracalla says as he happily moves things around on the bed to make it easier for him to sleep.

“Fine,” Geta says in answer.

His hands never leave her as the twins manoeuvre Marcia to lay between them. Her nearly unconscious body was positioned so that her head was propped up by Geta’s shoulder, snugging her against his chest while Caracalla pawed at her ass before spooning her. Both the Emperors’ arms wrapped around her as the three of them, their bodies sweaty and exhausted from their activities, drifted off to sleep.

#emperor geta #emperor caracalla #gladiator 2 #smut #i don't know how to tag this

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crowttore · 24 days ago

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I confess I was going to send in a nsfw spring event request (short) but started writing an essay (long) so instead of that whole thing could I please ask for Zandik with hickeys? Getting them or covering them up all embarrassed, or giving if you think it fits better? Can be nsfw or sfw, I just miss embarrassed Zandik a little! Write this one only if it’s not too much tho. Thank you! - Singed

Cannot believe you're not even sharing the nsfw idea :< Also shaking your hand, how could someone not miss embarrassed Zandik?

Tags: Akademiya!Zandik x reader, implied prior nsft activities, hickeys, fluff, established relationship, silly-

Having a relationship - or whatever it was you had - with Zandik came with certain perks. It also came with the aggravating experience of waking up with a sheen of sweat, a pounding headache, and a dry throat. All of it because of the wrong reasons.

Said reason being the poor placement of his bed in direct line of the east-facing window and its glaring lack of curtains. He hadn't gotten around to putting any up yet. You were certain he'd become a Dastur long before 'getting around to it'.

"Zandik.. water…" You whined, swatting at the space beside you with increasing frustration as your hand found nothing but his bed.

Mildly perplexed, and severely dehydrated, you shuffled into a sitting position, temporarily satisfied as your hands found the shirt he'd slept in and slipped it on.

Right. He was presenting a research proposal today.

A raspy chuckle caught your attention just in time to see Zandik wobble as he failed to properly put on a sock.

"So dignified." You merely grinned as he shot you a half-hearted glare, the subtle heat that rose to his cheeks not lost on you.

"You're hardly one to speak of dignity, waking up and acting like some spoiled housepet." There was no real bite to his words, nothing compared to how he snapped like a rabid animal whenever others would push his countless open books aside to make room for themselves in the House of Daena.

A small yawn escaped you, with Zandik swiftly following suit.

"And you're a terrible host," you retorted, beckoning him closer to fix the mess of tousled hair that he always insisted looked 'fine'.

"That so?" Zandik huffed, quick to grasp your chin and force your gaze to the nightstand where a full glass of water glittered tantalisingly in the sun. "Use your eyes next time, it's what they're there for."

Sheepishly, you brought the glass to your puckered lips, squirming until Zandik released his hold. An unfamiliar hint of blue caught your eye in the distorted view through the glass, the odd discoloration around his lips making him look almost anemic.

"Zandik," you tugged on his uniform to prevent his hasty retreat (no doubt anxious to go through all his plans and sketches one last time), "you've got some jam- let me.."

Most graciously, your efforts of licking your thumb and rubbing at his skin were afforded exactly five seconds before Zandik grew restless and swatted your hands away. Odd. It was still there.

"Had your fun?" He huffed, capturing both your wrists in one hand and squeezing them in warning. You couldn't help but parrot the question, clearly much to his dismay based on the tone he continued in, "at least pay attention if you want to rattle me, haven't even had any breakfast yet."

Although he would never admit to it, Zandik sounded nervous. And with good reason, a single mistake could easily cost anyone the support of the Akademiya, so for someone with his reputation? They would expect nothing short of perfection and full compliance with all regulations if they were to even consider backing his project.

Haven't had breakfast yet.

Heat rushed to your cheeks as a dreadful hypothesis formed in your mind. In all honesty, it was less of a hypothesis and closer to fact, there were at least few other options available that would explain the observed phenomena quite as precisely.

Zandik's startled squeak mere seconds after confirmed your suspicion, body already half hidden beneath the blanket as you desperately attempted to disappear. If he hadn't known exactly where you were, the rapid beating of your heart would've surely alerted him.

"Get. Out. Here-" you wrestled him for control of the blanket, catching glimpses of how the color of his eyes had spread to his cheeks, hot puffs of air hitting your face with every word he huffed.

The air was knocked from your lungs as you both hit the floor, laughter bubbling in your chest as the wrestling turned to Zandik merely laying splayed out atop you, his unruly hair tickling your skin. Once he'd settled against you, sharp teeth nipping almost painfully at your neck, it was too tempting to thread your fingers through his hair and pull his head back so you could admire the accidental masterpiece.

"How didn't you notice when I did that?" The question was free of accusation but filled with wonder, your free hand coming up to brush a thumb across his delightfully swollen bottom lip.

You tutted softly at his attempt to sneer, eyes locked on the blooming hickey, fascinated by how dark it appeared. "In case you don't remember, I was preoccupied.." Zandik muttered the words before diving back to bite and suck at your neck, most likely keen on taking revenge.

He ignored the first two calls of his name, one broad hand swatting at your face as you continued to writhe and giggle, "-Zandik! We're not gonna have time to cover it if you keep going-"

A/N: Yeah. It's easier than you think to make a hickey on someone's lip. No, they probably won't feel it. Yes, it's difficult as hell to cover up.

Dottore Masterlist

#crow with a pen #screaming at the murder #singed anon #il dottore x reader #il dottore x you #dottore x reader #dottore x you #zandik x reader #zandik x you #il dottore #dottore #zandik #fatui harbingers x reader #fatui x reader #genshin impact fanfic #genshin fanfic

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kabr0ztrousers · 3 months ago

Note

Timid incubus dude who was raised by humans is in for a rude awakening when an experienced incubus abducts him from his college campus and shows him the very monster he is inside! The incubus that grew up thinking he was entirely human refuses the truth, but the experienced one won't take no for an answer. He ties his new protege to his bed and has his fun with him >:) he'll learn to love it.

Its extra fun when the timid guy discovers that their kind can change their dick size and cum amount at will.

Kabr0z Writes episode 64: Inheritance

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: giving fellatio; death mention; drugs mention; alcohol use; transformation;

A/N: I'm gonna localise this a little to the UK, because that's just a little better for my head 😁 So when you see references to uni, just know it's the same phase of higher education.

At least freshers are still freshers

##########################################

Sunday evening. So ends Freshers week. What for most students is the deadline-free week of house parties, heavy drinking and mild debauchery, you spent mostly indoors. You'd made a couple of friends, and did go to one party even if you left early, but overall it was quiet and almost solitary.

It sucks.

You'd planned on maybe hitting one of the local student bars, or even seeing if you could pick someone up at a party one of your societies hosted. Hell, you'd even installed a dating app to find an anonymous cock to suck. The problem is any time you started trying to make progress, your nerve abandoned you and you gave up. You sighed, sitting on your bed and opening your laptop, another evening spent with your dick in your hand. Who knows, when lectures start tomorrow you might find something, or at least someone who could be a bad enough influence on you that you follow through on your fantasies...

Another sigh. You've depressed yourself now. You can't even muster the will to fuck yourself, let alone try and convince anyone else to fuck you. You opened your Steam account and shared at your library, searching for that perfect game that would take your mind off things.

You had a friend request.

Not unusual, you'd given your Steam name to a lot of people over the last 7 days, but you thought they'd all added you already. You shrugged and accepted.

A message.

"Come to the SU"

Normally you'd ignore that, but...

You were already dressed, and you were just bemoaning how you didn't do anything this last week, and there is normally something going on there... Fuck it. You tucked your semi-hard cock back into your jeans, zipped yourself up and slipped on some trainers. Before you could say "be right there" you were halfway across campus, bound for adventure.

The Students Union was possibly the newest building on campus, glass-fronted, chic exposed steel members, with the cheapest bar in town clinging onto the side of it. You joined the line of students waiting to get in, mostly first years, but with some second and third years in the mix, chatting amongst established groups. You stood alone, the balmy duck air on your bare forearms. You weren't the only one in jeans and a band tee, but '80s heavy metal sure isn't the zeitgeist here.

Your phone buzzed, a message from an unknown number "come to the back door"

You raised an eyebrow. You hadn't given your number away, but someone has it. You stepped out of line and started walking around the building. The back door was ajar, a shaft of light in the settling gloom. A look left, right, you stepped in.

Heat hit you. You screwed your eyes against the gust. Dry enough to make your hair frizz and... Sulphurous? You opened your eyes carefully. They were acclimatising to the wind easily. You weren't even sweating.

You were in an office. Not the back of a bar. You could see out of windows overlooking a cityscape in varying tones of Martian dust, rusty and dull.

"Got my messages then? Good."

You looked to your right, against one of the two walls not completely glazed was a drinks cabinet, and a tall thin man in a tailored pinstripe suit with slick back hair pouring amber liquid into two glasses. "Brandy?"

You nodded. The hand that preferred the glass was long-fingered, each one sporting an inch-long razor-sharp nail. You looked at the besuited man, his too-angular face, his black-on-black eyes, his small chrome horns.

"You're a demon" you said, almost to yourself

The demon smiled, "As are you. Though your father didn't want you to know until you were ready. Your twentieth birthday."

You took the glass, setting it carefully down on a coaster as the demon continued "He was discorporated to a permanent end recently, just before your creation actually. I am Ezekiel Harkens of Harkens, Harkness, Darkness and Sphinx. For the past few millennia we've been your family's solicitors, and now it is my bittersweet duty to advise you that you are in fact Baron Agrastax of the black runes. Not technically a laughing mourner, but close enough seeing as you never met your birth parents."

Your mouth gaped as the demon in front of you babbled legalese at you "There's a mistake, my parents are Bill and Martha, they're alive and well, up in Southampton! I'm not a demon, not even a little bit"

Ezekiel handed you a letter and a black iron letter opener. You looked at him as he regarded you, opening the letter. The envelope was empty. "What?"

"That's your proof there, were you a human, a cambion, or even just not the true heir that dagger would be buried in your heart right now."

You still didn't believe it. Demons lie, that's what they do. You're not religious, but you know that.

"You're early anyway. I'm eighteen."

He looked at you "No, you'd been around for two years before we placed you into a stillbirth. Martha lost the baby at eight months, and begged anyone who would listen for a miracle. We obliged. Here's your body now." He passed you a mirror. A young man who looked just like you was lay on the floor behind a bar, a paramedic doing half-hearted CPR as his partner tried to comfort a sobbing girl wrapped in a mylar blanket "She sold her soul to have her baby boy, she didn't say for how long."

The mirror blackened, turning to ash in your hands, swept away by the draft. You should be sad, shouldn't you? You swept your hand through your hair. You felt a pair of horns. "I'm a demon?"

"Yes," he was sat behind his desk now, sipping his brandy "technically an incubus like your father, though that's just taxonomy, the noble title is what matters here."

So you're not just a demon, you're a sex demon? That wasn't on your bingo card.

"Now, there's just one stipulation on the will that I really do need to handle with you" The demon finished his drink, motioning for you to do the same "I need to make sure you're capable of adequately discharging your duties as a minor Baron of Hell"

You swallowed your drink in a single swig. You wished you hadn't, it was good brandy "And what kind of duties would I have?"

"That's the beauty of it" the demon purred, a foxlike grin splitting his features, wider than a human could grin, revealing far too many teeth "Demons of your station have very few duties. You need to remain fighting fit just in case the Blessed come down to try and murder us all, but beyond that it's mostly just about throwing fantastic parties. Of course, when I say parties..."

He was behind you now

"I mean orgies"

He grabbed the hem of your shirt and threw it over your head. You stood, and your jeans stayed where they were, disrobing you in moments as the lawyer in front of you opened his trousers with a gesture.

You paused. As much as it's kinda fucked up to get railed by a demonic lawyer you've literally just met, this felt right. Like a virtuoso approaching a piano, a prodigy picking up a violin. Either that, or the roofies they have in Hell are off the charts.

You took Ezekiel's hands, taking them off his crotch as you knelt in front of him

"I've wanted to do this for years, now fuck my face" you smiled up at him "your Baron commands you"

Ezekiel grinned, grabbing your hair in both hands, "Gladly, my Lord" he tugged your hair a little, taking advantage of your gasp of surprise to stuff his semi-hard cock in your mouth.

You licked and sucked that cock like there was no tomorrow. It tasted like cinnamon and allspice in your mouth, warming and sweet. Ezekiel kept pulling on your hair as you bobbed on the rapidly hardening phallus, varying angle and how hard you sucked on it, hearing what made him groan the loudest, what made the fists clench your hair harder. It hurt a little, but that was part of the fun.

Your mind flickered, thinking a moment about how some people would get their tongues bifurcated to better do this kind of thing. You found yourself wishing you had that. Something felt strange in your mouth, a pressure inside your tongue. Ezekiel pulled his cock out of your mouth long enough for you to touch it. Two tips met your fingers, soft and semi-rough, human, but better.

You stuck it out, wrapping the twin tips of your tongue around the head of Ezekiel's cock and drawing it back in. Two was better than one, you used your new tongue to its fullest, rubbing it over the sensitive parts of his cock as he moaned and buried himself balls-deep into your throat. His cum tasted sweet, and salty, and very alcoholic. You could feel it burning down your throat like vodka, warming you when it hit your stomach in a sticky glob.

You pulled away, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand. Wetness coated your thigh where thin precum had leaked out of your cock. Your smiled up at Ezekiel "How'd I do?"

He smiled back, one cruel-clawed hand squeezed your face "We're not done yet, let's try that tight asshole next"

He lifted you up, bending you over his desk and pressing his cock between your asscheeks, the tip poised at the hole. You imagined yourself lubing up your ass, and felt as a warm wetness spread around your hole, letting him slide into you.

His claws dug into your hips, not drawing blood, but enough you could feel each and every point as they dug into your soft skin. He fucked like a jackhammer, fast and deep, never breaking rhythm. Your cock was leaking more and more, a steady stream of pre flowing from your tip as you went knock-kneed from the cock rubbing mercilessly against your prostate. He squeezed you, those claws digging in a little more. You threw your head back as your soft cock leaked out cum, thick and flowing in a long rope from the tip of your cock. Ezekiel held his hand under the flowing cum-tap and caught some, bringing it up to your mouth. You licked it off him, tasting your own seed

"You don't ever have to stop leaking if you don't want. It's a little gauche, but you're nobility, it'll catch on"

That sounds like a fashion statement you can pioneer. You focused on the feeling of the cum flowing from you, willing it to intensify, to keep going. It felt good. Your balls stopped aching and descended to their normal resting position, but still a thin stream of white fluid flowed down from you. It wasn't as intense as cumming from being fucked up the ass, but it's a nice buzz

Ezekiel pulled you into him, burying himself in you as he grabbed your cock, jerking it off as he fucked you in small intensely deep movements. Your cum stream thickened and sprayed as he brought you off a third time. Your hole clenched around him as he moaned and you felt hot cum filling you from behind.

"Can I change anything else?" You gasped, you should be spent but you felt like you could keep going forever

"You're made of belief and willpower, to you, physics is a suggestion. Right now, long nails and metal bones are in vogue, but you can be anything you can envision"

You focused on your cock, willing it to grow large and flared, the cum thickening as your plumbing got wider, as your balls swelled up with ever more virile seed

"Bend over. It's my turn"

Being Baron was going to be great.

#####################################

Well, I dozed off before publishing this one so it's going up in the morning. Regular scheduled programming resumes this evening

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luxurychristmaspudding · 10 months ago

Text

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home.

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt.

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling.

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool.

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming.

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet.

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again.

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams.

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen.

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll.

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight.

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side.

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you.

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you.

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant.

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it.

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man.

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky.

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint.

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool.

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt -

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water.

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips.

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac.

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are.

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them.

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response.

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you.

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in.

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink.

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him.

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?”

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions.

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them.

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers.

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off.

There’s someone he has to meet.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

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Comfort

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict comforts his new wife when her courses arrive…

Warnings: mentions of menstruation, non graphic references to period blood. Otherwise, just the fluffiest of fluff.

Word Count: 2k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Thanks to @colettebronte for help with the title. Request fill for anon HERE, where Benedict comforts his new wife when her period arrives overnight. This might be the most saccharine-sweet fluff I have ever written. For my usual smut peeps… err, apologies? Normal filth will resume shortly, I'm sure lol. <3

You stir from your slumber to a dreaded dampness you know far too well.

Oh dear heavens, no!

Overnight, your courses have arrived without warning. Or perhaps, with hindsight, there were some signs, but you had assigned blame for the symptoms elsewhere. You had put your tiredness down to the exhaustive social whirlwind of your first ball as a Bridgerton. The dull lower back pain you had felt merely due to traipsing around the extensive grounds the host was keen to show off to all and sundry.

For a few moments, you lay staring frettingly at the ceiling, unsure what to do. You can tell that your nightgown and, likely, the bedsheets will carry evidence of this unwanted early arrival. You had plans to inform your lady's maids to prepare the following night. Trust your body to be at least a day early when you least need it.

Next to you, your new husband of just fourteen days, Benedict Bridgerton, is sleeping soundly. You roll your head to look briefly at his handsome face in repose on the adjacent pillow, then bite your lip in anxiety.

Oh god, he cannot see this!! He simply cannot! What am I to do?!?

____

You had been taught a few things in the run-up to marriage by your Mama. One of them was never to mention or address the “monthly visitor” to your husband—it was a matter for you and your maids to deal with. On the nights you were “visited”, you were strongly counselled to sleep in your room rather than with your husband so he would not have to deal with “such unpleasantness”. This may have been logical advice for a regular wife of the Ton, but your mother probably never considered how non-traditional your husband would turn out to be.

Hours after your nuptials, upon arrival at your new marital home - a wonderful brick townhouse just a few streets from Bridgerton House - you had politely inquired where your bedchamber was. At first, he laughed, then frowned when he realised you were serious. It turned out he had not made plans for, or indeed, set up a room for you separate from his.

“We are husband and wife now. We shall sleep together,” he explained, drawing you into his arms and planting a tender kiss on your forehead.

“But… every night?” you stuttered, still grappling with what exactly was expected of you as a wife.

“Yes darling,” he confirmed, still sounding vaguely bemused.

____

Since that day, you have shared a bed every night, which has been delightful for so many reasons. Indeed, you have never slept better in your life than in the two weeks since your wedding, falling asleep securely in his arms and awakening to his handsome, smiling face…

…Well, that is until now.

Now, you have no earthly idea what to do.

You surmise it must be early, dawn breaking, a grey, feeble light peeking around the top of the heavy velvet drape curtains over the windows. Barely enough to see shapes and rough outlines as your eyes adjust. Not wanting to awaken Benedict by igniting a candle, you gingerly push back the bedspread and slide out as quietly as possible. In the mirror across the room, you catch sight of a scarlet bloom, visible even in this low light, so stark against your white cotton nightgown. Turning back around, your fears are fully realised when you see a mirror imprint left upon the sheet where you slept.

Horrified, you fly into a flurry of movements. Wanting to hide both your nightgown and the sheets you have sullied, albeit unintentionally. You slip as silently as you are able to the linen supplies cupboard and gather terrycloths designed for bathing. One, you wrap around yourself; another two, you decide to place upon the bed, hoping it will conceal the stain until your husband leaves the bedroom.

You cannot wait to bathe but know that running a bath would surely awaken Benedict, the noise of water being poured into the echoey copper, even if across the hallway, being bound to rouse him.

Once back next to your side of the bed, you push the covers towards the middle and start to pull at the edge of the undersheet, hoping to slide a cloth under the stain and one atop, to stop the evidence from spreading. You glance furtively at your husband as you work, who unfortunately is turned onto his side facing towards you, as he often is when you awaken.

In all heavens, could you not turn the other way just for once, my love?

You move as stealthily as you can, so very keen to be unnoticed. The most challenging part is trying to wedge a cloth underneath, the sheet pulled taut by your husband's weight pinning down the other side. Just as you are fighting with both hands shoved far under the sullied sheet, you hear a sudden sharp intake of breath.

Oh no! He is awake.

His eyes fly open, and he squints as he takes in the sight before him. Then, a frown passes over his features.

“What on earth are you doing, my love?” his voice is deep and rough with sleep.

You whip your hands out from under the sheet, belatedly realising you are also muttering a repeated “no no, no no” under your breath as you attempt to reach for the upper cover and hide what has happened, but it is just out of reach, kneeling as you are beside the bed.

“Darling,” he sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes, obviously thrown off by your agitated state. “Please, whatever is the matter??” his tone rising in volume and concern.

Your eyeline falls reflexively upon what you are trying to conceal on the bedsheets, and his tracks yours. Unable to handle your embarrassment, you bury your head in your hands and slump backwards onto your heels, certain this will be repulsive to him.

“I am so sorry, husband; I was not expecting this to happen today; please forgive me,” you mutter defeatedly behind your hands, ashamed.

You are expecting a noise of derision or disgust. What you do not expect is a chuckle and then a large, warm hand brushing your shoulder.

“Darling, please get up off the floor,” his ask caring, no rebuke to be heard.

Your head slowly tilts up, and to your shock, he is leaning over onto your side of the bed, not far above the stain, and is observing you mildly befuddled benevolence.

“But, I…” you trail off, even as he reaches for your hand.

“It is fine,” he cuts in, squeezing reassuringly with his fingers. “You are a woman. Such things happen. There is no need for shame,” his eyes are soft with understanding. “I do have sisters, you know,” he adds with a sanguine laugh, a shorthand to explain his knowledge of your situation.

Your mouth falls open a fraction, completely taken aback by his affable, almost nonchalant reaction; it is very different from what your Mama taught you to expect. While you flounder in surprise, he rolls away and gets out of bed, padding around to your side, crouching next to you and drawing you into his arms.

“You… you are not repulsed?” you stutter as you recover, your brow creasing.

“Of course not, my love. It is perfectly natural, and there is nothing about you or your body that repulses me,” he assures, kissing your cheek. “In fact, it is very much the opposite,” his tone sincere and soothing.

You get lost in his hazy eyes and gentle smile, accepting his doting kisses that make you feel warm from head to toe. It is then he looks down and spies the bathing cloth you have swaddled yourself in from the waist down.

“I assume your nightgown is in a similar state? And that you would like to get clean?” he guesses empathetically as you nod demurely. “Then I shall summon the staff to run you a bath,” he hums, delicately brushing the stray strands of hair that had fallen askew in your scrambling efforts.

“Thank you, Benedict, so very much” you exhale, relieved and still slightly unmoored by his reaction.

His face breaks into that crooked smile that makes butterflies flutter under your ribs.

“Please, my love, it is literally nothing. We have promised ourselves to each other for life. I expect to see this many more times,” he explains calmly as he rings a bell to summon his butler and presently provides instructions for a warm bath to be drawn and the bedding to be changed by the maids.

“You do not wish for me to sleep elsewhere when I am so afflicted?” you check as soon as you are alone again.

He chuckles as he did before. “Whatever for? You are my wife. I want you beside me all the time. It matters not to me if you have your courses. I still wish to fall asleep with you in my arms.” His sweet sincerity makes your heart skip a beat as he nuzzles your temple. “Although it has been a few short days since our wedding, I have rather gotten used to you being beside me. I cannot sleep soundly without you, my love. Nor would I want to try. We shall share our bed every night,” he adds solemnly.

“But, what if one of us is sick?” you inquire as he helps you to stand up from the floor, pulling you into his arms.

“‘Tis no bother. We shall surely both contract the same, seeing as we reside under the same roof; at least we can suffer in company,” he jests warmly into your ear as his hands rub your lumbar spine with a pattern that soothes the ache you feel there.

“What if you must travel for your art?” you challenge.

“I would be heartbroken if you did not come with me,” he volleys back with a playful pout that you can't help but giggle at.

“What if one day we have a child, and they will not rest without their mother?” your question is almost timid, knowing there is a bloom on your cheeks at the very thought.

He cups your jaw gently and tilts your face to look up into his. His mien is so devoted that the air is stolen from your lungs.

“Then they shall simply sleep between us, my love. It will be my child, too. You will not be alone. Not when you have your monthly courses and not in the raising of our children. Of that, I promise,” his cadence is lilting and ardent.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe shakily, scarcely able to believe that the man you married is nothing like how your mother had warned. It makes you feel so grateful you cannot stop your emotions, heightened at this time of the month, from bubbling over.

A large, warm thumb blots the tears that gather at the corner of your eyes without comment; he just accepts your state, bussing a kiss onto your forehead.

“I love you, y/n,” he breathes, warm air gusting over your skin.

“I love you too, Benedict,” your reply muffled into his neck as you mould into his strong embrace, remaining there until a lady’s maid taps on the door to convey that your bath is ready.

And true to his word, over the years, you are never a night without your husband. Through many monthly courses, through sickness and health, through children and even grandchildren. It is always his face you see just before your eyes droop closed and the moment they flutter open again. Your safe space. Your comfort.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #1k notes

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maevebabyy · 7 months ago

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TRICK OR TREAT

daniela avanzini x fem reader

summary - you end up going to the halloween party that your best friend, daniela, has been bugging you about for ages.

tags - fluff, wlw, kissing

disclaimers - mentions of alcohol

a/n - happy halloween! (not proofread but tbh when do i ever 😭🙏)

wc - 2.2k

the halloween hype starts weeks in advance. everywhere you turn, decorations are popping up– ghosts and skeletons in front yards, spider webs in store windows, and the scent of pumpkin spice lurking around every corner.

it’s almost impossible to ignore, and you try your best to, shrugging off invitations and announcements about costumes and parties with a smile and polite “maybe.”

of course, it’s your best friend daniela leading the charge. halloween is her favourite night of the year, and the one time she can pull out all the stops and go unapologetically overboard. she brings it up over and over, dropping hints about “the party of the year” and how it won’t be the same without you. you figure she’s just being daniela– relentlessly enthusiastic, her eyes practically glittering as she launches into details about the great halloween party her friend, lara, is hosting.

in her world, halloween is a sacred night for letting loose and transforming into someone else for a while. she has that bright energy about her that’s infectious, making you feel guilty for not feeling the same way. but every time she gives you that look– the hopeful one, with her head tilted just a little and her bottom lip pushed out in a pout– you have to remind yourself why it’s a “no.”

crowded spaces, loud music, and costumes just don’t have the same thrill for you. and the idea of navigating all that noise and chaos while everyone’s hyped up on alcohol and adrenaline? you’ve decided it’s just not for you.

but daniela doesn’t give up. every day, she’s back with new reasons to convince you. the costumes she’s planning, the outfits she’s narrowed down (several, of course– she still hasn’t decided between being a devil, a vampire, or a fairy). she even shares plans for her makeup, using you as a sounding board as she describes her ideas with absolute passion. you feel a little bad, knowing you’re not going, but she’s daniela, and she can get excited enough for the both of you.

finally, halloween night rolls around. the sky has that deep october shade of midnight blue, and the air is crisp and cool, with the faint scent of burning wood drifting in through your apartment window from somewhere down the street. it’s a perfect night for spooky activities, and you’re in the thick of it– on your couch, buried under a pile of blankets with a popcorn bowl by your side, ready to dive into a horror movie marathon.

the illuminated led clock read 8:08 pm as you start the first movie of the scary movie series. just then, your phone lights up, a familiar name popping up on the screen.

dani 👯‍♀️: “you’re really not coming?? 😭”

of course, daniela would do this. you can practically hear her voice as you read it. she’s done this every halloween night for as long as you’ve known her, trying to drag you to whatever halloween party she’s been convincing you to go to. she can never quite understand why you’d want to spend halloween as a homebody.

you sigh, a little amused, but mostly unmoved, typing back a response.

“dani, i love u, but we been over this 😭🙏 parties just aren’t for me

there’s no response, and you assume she's finally given up when a moment later, the door to your apartment swings open, and in comes daniela herself, horns and all, leaning dramatically against the frame.

“you’re really not going to make this easy, huh?” she whines, hands on her hips, glaring playfully.

she’s committed to her devil look– crimson lipstick, black eyeliner sharp enough to slice, and a skin tight red dress that somehow blends daring and classy in a way only the cuban girl can pull off. a pair of red horns peek through her golden curly hair, and a long black cape drapes over her shoulder, trailing behind her like a second skin, her red wings underneath.

you linger on her appearance for a moment longer than you’d like to admit, taking in the costume. you knew she was going as a devil, solidifying her choice a few days prior, but somehow you hadn’t pictured her like this– even more bold and confident, her usual energy amplified to a whole new level.

you’re snapped out of your thoughts however as daniela threw your keys onto your lap.

why did you ever give this girl your spare keys to your apartment?

you laugh, setting the remote aside and picking up your spare keys. “didn’t you get the hint, by, like, the third time i said no?

the latina sighs theatrically, throwing herself dramatically onto the couch next to you. “come onnnn. everyone’s going to be there. plus, it’s halloween, and it only happens once a year! this is basically, like, a holiday for people like me.”

“people who love noise and chaos?”

“yes,” she says, crossing her arms with a pout. “but also people who like to let loose a little. try new things! and… okay, people who are maybe also a little dramatic.” she shoots you look. “it’s fun! besides, i already know you’re going to get bored. i’m trying to save you from missing out on another great halloweekend!”

“highly unlikely,” you retort. “halloweekend is just an excuse for people to get drunk three nights in a row. besides, i’ve got movies, popcorn, and peace and quiet. sounds pretty great to me already.”

she huffs, pretending to be offended. “fine, fine,” she says, standing up in defeat, though she throws a little pout over her shoulder. “but just you wait. you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

with that, she finally lets herself out, leaving the apartment feeling weirdly quiet in her wake. you settle back on the couch, restarting the first scary movie, convinced that you made the right choice. the lights are dim, the popcorn’s still warm, and the apartment is all yours once more.

but half an hour later, you find yourself scrolling through your phone. your instagram feed flooded with new stories and posts– photos of everyone in costume, videos of the party, and endless photos of the function.

what stood out to you the most though was the photos with daniela in them, her smile bright, her devil horns glinting under the flashing flights. even from a distance, she looks like she’s having the time of her life, and you can practically hear her voice in every photo that captures her laugh.

you’re about to put your phone down when daniela sends another text,

dani 👯‍♀️ : “wish yiu w ere here rn”

daniela was obviously already feeling a little tipsy judging from the way she texted. there’s a pang of something– maybe a little fomo, maybe even the slightest twinge of protectiveness. and then, against all common sense, you find yourself standing up and heading to your closet.

you dig though old clothes, trying to piece together something that could pass as a costume. after looking through a few options, you find it— a white dress, simple but just daring enough to feel like a costume. a quick search through your jewellery box turns up some silver accents, enough to give you a glimmering, almost ethereal look. by the time you’re finished, you’re not exactly sure what you’re going as… maybe an angel? or some kind of celestial spirit? either way, it feels good— different. you barely recognize yourself in the mirror.

taking a deep breath, you grab your phone and text daniela back.

“i guess i could come out for a bit”

her response is instant,

dani 👯‍♀️ : “YESSS abiut time!!!”

when you arrive, the party’s already in full swing. music pulses through the air, mingling with laughter and shouts, and lights flash from every corner of the crowded house. the smell of alcohol weighed heavily in the air as you weave your way though the costumes, searching for daniela. you finally spot her in the kitchen, laughing with a group of friends. but the moment she sees you, her laughter halts mid-sentence, and her eyes widen.

she makes her way over to you— stumbling a little bit along the way—, her gaze traveling over your outfit with something between surprise and… something else, something you can’t quite place. she raises an eyebrow, giving you a slow once-over.

“weeellll, look who-” she hiccups, giggling a little, “look who finally got in the spirit of halloween.”

you shake your head softly, “how much have you had to drink, dani?”

the cuban girl giggles at the question, “don’t worry, just enough is all!” she clears her throat, focusing her eyes, “but seriously! you’re actually here! am i that drunk?”

you give a little shrug, accompanied with an easy-going smile, trying to hide how nervous you feel under her intense gaze. “nope, i’m very much here. and, it was a last minute decision.”

her lips curve into a smirk, but there’s a softness in her expression, almost like she’s seeing you again for the first time. “last minute, huh?” she shakes her head with a chuckle, then sways lightly on her feet. “and here i thought angels were supposed to be innocent. you look… incredible.”

you feel your cheeks heat up. “i didn’t think anyone would actually notice that i’m an angel.”

“oh, trust me,” she says, glancing around the room, “people noticed.” her eyes flick back to you, a glint of mischief in them. “which is exactly why i’m going to cover you up before anyone else gets any ideas.”

before you can protest, she slips off her cape and drapes it over your shoulders, adjusting it to fit snugly around you. her fingers linger on your shoulders as she pulls you closer, her touch warm and steady. “can’t have people thinking they can mess with my angel,” she murmurs, her voice low and almost possessive.

you glance up at her, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, her face inches from yours. the party fades into the background, the music and noise replaced by the steady sound of her breath, the faintest hint of her perfume— mixed with the alcohol she’d been drinking— lingering in the air. her eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a spark between you, something unspoken, but undeniably there.

“should we find somewhere less crowded?” she suggests, her hand still resting on your arm, her words slightly slurred. you nod, letting her lead you to a quieter corner outside, where the night air feels cool against your skin.

out here, the stars shine bright, and the noise of the party fades into a distant hum. daniela leans against the wall, her devil horns tilted playfully, and crosses her arms, watching you with a mixture of amusement and something softer.

“you know,” she says, her voice quieter now and a bit more playful, “i wasn’t just trying to get you here for the party. it’s more fun with you around.” she stumbles slightly as she shifts her weight, catching herself with a laugh.

you meet her gaze, feeling your heart race a little faster. “really?”

she laughs, nodding, her cheeks slightly flushed. “yeah. this might sound cheesy, but i just…like having you here.”

for a moment, neither of you speaks. she steps closer, her hand lifting to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheek. “i don’t usually get all sentimental on halloween,” she whispers, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “but maybe i’ve always wanted an angel by my side.”

you swallow, the words settling between you, heavy and sweet. her hand lingers by your cheek, her gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again, as if waiting, hesitating, right on the edge of something. the tension is thick, and you can’t shake the feeling that she’s waiting for you to make the first move.

in a moment of courage, you lean in slightly, your heart pounding as you search her gaze for any sign of what she wants. the air between you is electric, charged with unspoken words. daniela's breath hitches, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper, and in a heartbeat, she closes the distance.

her lips meet yours, soft and warm, igniting a fire that spreads through you. it’s a kiss that feels like everything you’ve been waiting for, a mix of sweetness and urgency. you can taste the faint remnants of her drink, and it only makes you want her more.

as her hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, you sink into the kiss, feeling her smile against your lips, as if she’s just as surprised by this sudden spark as you are. the kiss deepens, and you lose yourself in the warmth of the moment, the chaos of the party fading into the background.

finally, you pull away, breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you both smile. “maybe next year, i’ll help you pick out something a little less… dangerous,” she says softly, her breath warm against your skin.

you arch an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on your lips. “dangerous?”

her laughter dances in the air between you, playful and light. “oh, absolutely. you’re hiding something under those angel wings.”

you chuckle, feeling the warmth spread through you. “well, i guess you’re not the only one who can surprise people.”

her smirk returns, full of mischief and charm. “i make no promises,” she whispers, her voice low, “but i’ll take my angel back inside.”

and as she leads you back to the party, her hand in yours, you can’t help but feel grateful you ended up going to this halloween party after all.

#daniela avanzini x reader #daniela avanzini #katseye x reader #katseye #maevebabyy

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modern-gremlin · 1 year ago

Text

Morning Errands | Sebastian SDV — Married Life 🔞

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Pairing: Sebastian (SDV) x afab!reader

Summary: You need Sebastian's help with beginning-of-season errands. If only there was a way you could "wake him up".

Tags: Husband!Sebastian, Smut, established relationship, detailed descriptions of sex, a dash of fluff. NSFW Tags below the cut.

Word Count: 2,900 (I did it, a fic under 5,000 words lol) A/N: Fun Fact — this idea started as a non-SDV related adult animation concept I was in early development of. I unfortunately do not have a lot of time for animating things anymore, so it's definitely more feasible to write it down. PLUS, I just love quickly shooting these stories out — better spat out here than rotting in my brain!!

It was really fun to rewrite it to fit the Stardew Valley world; I think it just gives me so much more to work with. Especially when it comes to writing about the world in detail. (and I get to feed my Sebastian brainworms <33) Hope you enjoy the read xoxo

NSFW Tags: morning sex, foreplay (dry humping), some dirty talk (mostly teasing), oral (male receiving), overstimulation, creampie

"Seb? Seeeeebb, it's 6:40," you say softly with a gentle shake of his arm, "we gotta get going." Still unwilling to move from his comfortable spot on the bed, Sebastian stifles a sleepy groan in response. It's always been hard to wake him up — that's something you knew even before you married him. Working freelance comes with the blessing and curse of setting your own work schedule, which means late night cramming sessions are a normal occurrence. You don't really blame him for wanting to sleep in, but today, he promised to help you with your ever-growing list of morning chores.

You run your fingers through his hair, lightly brushing the dark strands off his cheek with the back of your fingers. He just looks so peaceful when he's asleep; it's really such a shame to wake him up like this. Especially when he wraps his arm around you to cuddle against your thigh. It's almost tempting to sink yourself back into his arms and shut the whole world away under the protection of your shared bed covers. Almost — but you know better than to underestimate your beginning-of-season errands. It doesn't help that you also agreed to host a family dinner with Robin and Demetrius this evening. So much to do, so little time. In hindsight, you wish you planned this all a little better.

With a little more force this time, you try to shake him awake. "Mmph… just a few more minutes…" he mumbles while releasing his arms from your thigh, now lying on his back. At least he's able to get a few words out. That's a good sign, you think to yourself. You head toward your bathroom, hoping that by the time you're done brushing your teeth he'll be sitting upright. Maybe.

A soft, cool breeze enters the small opening of your window as you pass through the hallway. It's remarkable how quickly the seasons change in the valley. From your view in the bathroom, you can catch a glimpse of your summer crops, now reduced to wilted clumps in the soil. You'll definitely need Seb's help with this today. You take a little extra time to brush your teeth and wash your face, trying to buy him time to get up. He's gotta be awake by now, right?

You're not surprised to see him still splayed on the bed, eyes just barely fluttering at the sound of your footsteps entering the room. "Seb, it's almost 7 now. I really need your help," you plead sweetly, hoping the cute tone you've adopted would prompt him to move with more haste. He just smiles and offers a curt, "Mhm," in response, eyes still shut. Wow, he's really out of it, huh? You might need to switch strategies.

If you married Sebastian knowing that he's not exactly a morning person, he should also count on the fact that you're always up for a little bit of mischief — because now, you've got a plan that's basically foolproof. Creeping up to the bed, you slowly plant a knee on each side of his body to gently straddle his lap. With your chest pressed against his, you place kisses on his face. "Sebby, come on" you whisper tenderly into his ear, "you can get up for me, can't you?" He lets out an amused huff out of his nose and wraps an arm around the small of your back. He's definitely more awake now, but perhaps a little more provocation will do the trick.

You kiss along his jaw down to the side of his neck, playing with the collar of his t-shirt with your fingers. His eyes lazily open when you stop, now meeting his gaze from where your cheek rests on his chest. "Morning, sleepyhead. Remember those errands I need help with?" you tease. He lovingly smirks at your remark, placing a hand on your head to gently stroke your hair.

"Mm… what time is it?" he asks in a raspy voice. You answer his question with a light pinch of his cheek,

"Probably seven, by now. We're running a little late, y'know?"

The fact that 7AM is considered late to you is something he's still getting used to. If left to his own devices, he'd absolutely sleep the day away and have his breakfast at 3PM. Yet, he tries his best to slip into your daily schedule because that'd mean he'd get more time to see your face throughout the day, wouldn't it? But you know what they say, old habits die hard, and right now his old habits have him basically glued to the bed.

"What are the chances I can convince you to push these errands to tomorrow?" he asks cheekily.

"Hm… slim to none," you reply. "With the dinner party today and the fair coming up in a few weeks, it's gonna be really tough to–" You notice his eyes droop as you speak. "Seb?" He startles awake at the sudden call of his name.

"M' sorry, babe. Promise I'm not doing it on purpose," Sebastian rubs his eyes and yawns. "It's just... hard to stay awake."

With a smile, you shake your head and sigh, "what am I gonna do with you?"

"Hm…I don't know. What are you going to do with me?" He places his hands onto your back again, looking down at you with a suggestive smirk.

Leaning in closer to his face, just barely grazing your mouth over his, you whisper, "I might have a few ideas."

Placing your hands around his neck, thumbs resting against his jaw, you pull him closer into a deep kiss. He tightens the grip around your waist in response, pulling you closer toward him. God, if he wasn't awake a few minutes ago, he definitely is waking up now. He takes your mouth into his, enveloping your lips entirely and gently brushing them with his tongue. You can feel your pulse quickening as your breasts press firmly against him; an urge slowly building and itching at you from below. Unable to contain yourself, you lower your hips to grind against the thick bulge beneath you. You can't help but smile at how hard he already is; grinning against his tongue.

You pull away to shift your weight onto his clothed cock, gasping at how it rubs against you. "At least one part of you is up," you jeer, rocking slow movements against his length. He muses at your words and brushes his hair away from his face, granting him a better view of your body on top of his.

"Can you blame me?" he smiles, his sleepy eyes scanning your form. Running thumbs underneath the hem of your shirt, he gingerly lifts up the fabric to reveal your bare chest steadily bouncing at the rhythm your clothed pussy rubs against him. "Fuck me," he gasps breathily, "what a way to wake up."

His exasperation makes you laugh, motivating you to grind your hips with more fervour. "I'm glad this is working," you admit, "because we have just– so much– to do…" Your words are broken up with every sway of your hips. He pulls your shirt off your arms as you continuously pleasure yourself with his dick, moaning and creating a wet spot on his boxers. He just watches as you use him, in absolute awe by how your body reacts to his. His head slowly falls backward onto the pillow, closing his eyes to take in the stimulation. Then suddenly, you stop.

His eyes dart open again at your weight being lifted off his lap, ready to pull you back onto him. You move his hands away and lower your face to his lap. "Nuh uh. You gotta wake up," you chastise before pulling down his boxers. He groans breathily when his thick cock springs free, smacking his toned stomach from the speed of your movements. Without warning, you spit on his tip and run your palm against his shaft, causing him to tense at the sudden sensation. For a while, he can only stare at you with furrowed brows and complete admiration.

"I should sleep in more often," he teases while grinning at his own remark. But soon his sly grin is replaced by a strained grit because you wrap your fingers around his fat length, stroking him at an unfair pace. He perches himself up by the elbows, watching you fist his cock from base to tip. "Fuck, baby. You gotta slow down or ill–" You lower yourself to lick his balls, dragging your way up the shaft.

"Can't, Sebby," you say, stopping at the tip. "Can't have you falling asleep on me." Taking his length in your hand, you guide his cock into the warmth of your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head.

He instinctually places his hands on the top of your head as he throws back his own. The bed gently shakes at the bobbing of your head, catching and swallowing his length into your throat. It's all so sudden; so frustratingly sexy that he can hardly take it. With the hand that grips at your hair, he tries to pry you off him — hoping to gain some reprieve. But this only invites you to suck on him with more excitement. It's just too hard to resist when he praises you in his gravelly, morning voice. "Holy fuck, babe. You're too good at tha–" You can feel his cock twitch in your mouth as he pushes you away from him; he must be close.

With a gentle tug of your hair, you give in and pull away. You and Sebastian heave heavily, the latter trying to regain his composure. He's usually the one to make you melt underneath him, so you can't help but marvel at his flustered expression. "You awake now?" you triumph with a mischievous smile. He picks himself up to stare into you; the look in his eyes tell you that you're in for it now.

Releasing his grip, he sits himself upright and leans toward you. "Hm, yeah. I think I am," he says while returning your expression, "turn around."

Without a question, you turn yourself around, resting your chest on the bed while lifting your ass toward him. You wiggle your hips tauntingly in his direction until you're greeted by a firm smack — a small yelp escapes your lips from the impact. "So impatient," he chides while soothing the sting with his palm, "well, you got what you wanted. I'm up." He slaps your ass again before leaning behind you, pressing his chest to your back to whisper into your ear, "unless…there's something else you wanted."

Just the sound of his condescending tone sends shivers down your spine, and he knows it. He hooks a finger by your dripping slit and tugs at your underwear, causing the fabric to bundle tightly against your clit. All semblances of your mischief has disappeared, vanished with his scolding and now you're moaning his name into the covers. You can tell he's enjoying every lewd noise you make, because now he's tugging at your panties harder, trying to elicit a bigger reaction.

"Well, now that I'm awake, let's go over our to-do list, hm?" He releases your underwear, only to slip his cock beneath the fabric and vigorously rub your clit.

"Seb… I can't–" you plead, eager to feel him plunge inside you. He places his hands on your waist, stroking soothing circles with his thumbs against your back.

"Don't worry, baby. You'll get it, after we go through the list. Okay?" he coos.

Stumbling your words in between moans, you begin listing the day's tasks. "W-we… need to clear off the crops…and prepare the fields."

"Mhm," he hums while wetting his tip along your slit. "What's next?"

"Clear off the weeds in front of the b-baaaarn–" You words shake as he teases your entrance with his tip, gliding it to catch your slick. "Then go to Pierre's… to pick up ingredients for tonight." Your legs quiver as he prods your wet cunt, not fully entering.

"Is there…anything else?" Sebastian meaninglessly asks, his own voice getting shaky in anticipation. He doesn't really care what's on the to-do list, not at the moment at least. No doubt he'll have to ask about it later, because all he cares about now is making you beg to be railed.

"We might also need to–" This time, he slowly pushes his cock through your wet folds, slipping himself inch by inch into your cunt until his thighs are flush against you. His size fills you entirely, stopping any words from escaping your mouth.

He lets out a breathy moan as he feels your pussy clench around him, still gritting his teeth to continue, "We might need to what? I didn't… catch the last part." He nearly pulls himself out entirely while waiting for your response.

"We…might need to–" You breathe in heavily while his dick pulses inside you. "Seb, please," you beg in a petulant tone. Your cries are so needy and desperate, but you don't care. There's no pride between you two, only true love and the aching desire to be fucked. Lucky for you, the feeling is mutual. Deciding he's equally impatient, he fucks his full length back into you.

"I think I get the gist," he says with a satisfied smile before plunging himself in and out of your cunt. He so badly wants to praise how well you took his teasing, but he's almost completely breathless. Lost for words at how tight you are, how well your pretty pussy takes him, and utterly smitten by the way you moan his name between thrusts. He wants to pound more of them out of you — a reminder to everyone in town that you've chosen him and he's the one fucking you the way you deserve.

Really, this is just one of the many moments he's reminded just how lucky he is. He feels so lucky that you decided to move to this boring town. So lucky that you stuck around despite his icy exterior, and miraculously lucky that you fell in love with him. Now he gets to wake up beside you everyday, fuck you like no one else can, and navigate life's mundanities with the person he loves. Morning errands be damned; nothing ever feels like a chore now that you're his.

He pounds you harder now — as if he's trying to bury his intentions deep inside you so you can feel his gratitude. Because even all his sly remarks and bullied thrusts are just another way of praising you; another way to tell you he loves you without saying it out loud. Your pussy clenches down on him so tightly, grasping onto his praises like your life depended on it. Ready to cum all over his cock to confirm that you feel the same. But even if your cunt wasn't being obvious, your words certainly were.

"Seb– it feels so. Fucking. Good," you whine in between thrusts. You try to warn him of your impending burst, but the arch of your back signals your orgasm much faster than you can speak. Backing your ass further into him, you accept his length against your cervix until you feel your release. You convulse around him, whispering thank you's under your breath. The only sound reaching his ears are your muffled cries of pleasure and the squeaking of the bed. He fucks you through your orgasm, but even after you come down from the high, he's still not done.

He rails your stimulated pussy over and over again, causing you to reach out your hand behind you to slow him down. "S-sebastian, I just came. Slower, it's so f-fast"

Grabbing your arm by the wrist, he plows deeper into you. "Sorry, baby. Can't," he says breathily, "We got too much to do today, remember?" You turn your head back to look over your shoulder and flash him a blissed-out smile, silently laughing at his twist of your words.

Reaching around to your front, he rubs circles around your puffy clit while he fucks his last few, sloppy blows inside you. "So close, babe. M'so fucking…close" he says with gritted teeth. His movements on your bud stokes the fire within you, threatening to shatter you once again. With one last buck of his hips against yours, he shoots his load deep inside your pussy, filling you to the brim with in white. He groans profanities as he sputters small thrusts into you. The warmth of his semen hitting against you is the last straw, sending you into your second orgasm of the day.

Dropping your wrist from his grip, he leans forward onto your back, pulling out slightly causing his cum to spill out of you. You breathe in unison, heavily and laboured as you try to regain your bearings. Maybe it's been ten minutes or maybe it was an hour, but you both lay beside each other, unbothered by the time that's passing you by.

When you both come down to your senses, your eyes lock onto his and suddenly you're both chuckling at the morning's happenings. With a bright-eyed smile, he takes your palm to rest on his cheek. Placing a kiss on your knuckles, he greets you to start the day.

"Good morning, honey."

#sdv sebastian x reader #stardew valley #stardew valley x reader #stardew valley sebastian #sdv sebastian #stardew valley smut #sdv smut #smut #stardew valley fanfic #stardew smut #also I finished this super late in the morning #I couldn't sleep #I hope it makes sense #grem-writes

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charmercharm3r · 1 year ago

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Masterlist

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☆ﾟ

It was a good idea in theory. In reality, it was a shit show. Literally. Trips to Jeju are always fun, even if you’re supposed to be filming. However this time around you were informed that the group would be filming a parody of a popular dating show. Whose genius idea was that?

It would’ve been perfectly fine if your members were normal. To your pleasure or misfortune— it’s still unclear— they’re far from it.

There were no hitches the entire trip, traveling and the initial filming was as planned. You were assigned the role of a host while the boys were to be “dating” amongst one another. They followed direction as best as you could ask for with their limited attention spans, jumping from conversation to conversation and even getting in some teasing as the cameras continued to roll. You could already tell a lot of film was going to get cut seeing as they tended to get sidetracked into talking about incredibly personal details.

The “first dates” were going as you expected, you were instructed to go around and give them interviews to provoke more conversations when they started to fall quiet. Seungmin was indifferent the entire time while Felix tried to keep it as lively as possible, no doubt the former doing it on purpose. Jeongin and Jisung didn’t really even need you there as they practically forgot you even were— in their own little world. You got lost in the orchard when looking for Hyunjin and Minho, breaking the fourth wall a few times to ask the crew member on where to go, eventually giving up and wandering on your own for a little too long. Only to find Chan and Changbin sitting and have what looked like a normal conversation— they didn’t need much help either.

The looks of surprise and betrayal was fun to witness as they regrouped to pick who was riding with who to go to dinner. You got to pick whose car you rode in once they finished, and decided on Minho and Felix’s car.

Minho drives fast, which is even more fun when he takes off the child locks in the backseat and rolls down the window for you. You and Felix stick your heads out the window as he surpasses the other three cars, the both of you hollering at them with joy and barely catching a faint smile on Minho’s lips when you sit back again.

Everyone, including you, forgets that you’re supposed to be filming during dinner and goes silent as you eat. Until Hyunjin speaks from across the table, “Y/N’ie, I thought you were supposed to interview us earlier. Did you think we were so hopeless as a couple that you decided not to?”

His question threw you off, totally unexpected as your mouth was full. Half chewed and half hearted, “I got lost.”

“What did you say?” Jisung called at the other end.

“You got lost?” Chan chuckled at your right, the confession sending him and Hyunjin into a fit of giggles. The information eventually made it to the other side of the table and the rest of them erupted into giggles as well.

“It wasn’t my fault! Why were you two so far away?” You turned the attention onto Minho and Hyunjin, who shared an amused look.

When both of them simply shrugged, Changbin stepped in, “that’s okay. I would’ve stayed up all night looking for you if you got lost.” He beat his palm onto his chest and jutted his chin out with a nodding smirk.

“That’s nice, but you’re supposed to be interested in each other. It wouldn’t be a good look for the show—“ you gestured to the surrounding cameras— “if you showed more interest in the host than in the contestants.”

“But the host is always the most attractive one!” He exclaimed, throwing his spoon down. Your eyes widened in confusion of where this sudden infatuation came from.

You looked at your manager standing by one of the center cameras, he was laughing just as hard as the members, “I don’t remember this being part of the script.”

“It’s not a script!” Changbin’s chair scraped against the floor as he abruptly stood. “These are my true feelings! Do my feelings look like a joke to you?!”

None of the others were going to help you now, they all avoided eye contact and kept their mouths shut as you sought out a scapegoat for Changbin’s bombardment of affection. “If I say no, will you sit down?”

“No!”

Then it hit you, play along.

Your chair almost toppled back when you took to your feet, Chan stuck his hands out to catch you just in case. “Then yes!”

Jeongin let out a small, “what is happening?”

“You’re a joke!” You replied back to Changbin with feigned anger. “You broke my heart! Then you come on my show to rub it in my face!”

Everyone at the table was suddenly invested in where this was going. You glanced over at your manager and he waved his hands as though throwing up a white flag. Green light.

“Do you want to humiliate me? Is my pain funny to you, Seo Changbin?”

“I didn’t want our relationship to end but you pushed me to it! You forced my hand!” He shouted at you for two seats down.

“Everyone,” you dramatically looked the other members directly in the eye, “he cheated on me.”

Gasps erupted throughout the restaurant, including the staff playing into the story. They spoke over each other, everyone trying to get their words in as Changbin’s mouth dropped to the floor in shock. You forced yourself to repress a smile seeing the disbelief on his face, his reaction much funnier when he broke the fourth wall to look at your manager as well.

How could you’s and shame on you’s echoed throughout the restaurant, Hyunjin’s words particularly catching your ear.

“Cheating is unforgivable, how disrespectful. I could never be friends with anyone who cheats on their significant other,” his serious tone drawing in the rest of the table above all the jokes spewing about, all eyes on him now.

“Care to explain more, Hyunjinnie?” You and Changbin sat back down and gave him the floor to speak.

Hyunjin cleared his throat, “I can’t stand it. Just break up with them. If you truly cared about someone, you’d never, never treat them with that level of disrespect, even if you’re on bad terms.”

He was clearly upset now, arms crossed across his chest and looking down at his bowl. No one really knew what to say as his emotions were much more intense than the previous vibes of the dinner. As the host and since it was your fault the topic was brought up, you comforted him, “I agree with you—“

But Jisung adds fuel to the fire before you could continue, “I have something to confess.” Everyone turns to him. “I saw who Changbin cheated with. I caught them together.”

More gasps, fists slamming on the table, angry exclamations demanding to know more. “It was…” he paused and looked around the table, then stuck his finger in the direction across from you, “Hyunjinnie!”

Faking a faint, you fell back into Chan with a hand over your forehead. The oldest wrapped his arms around your neck and shielded you from the subject of the incoming yelling match. There wasn’t much you could really understand as everyone spoke over one another for the billionth time that night. When he released you, you faked wiping tears as Hyunjin went mute with his mouth agape.

“Any last words before we,” a fake sniffle, “move on?”

“I DIDN’T KNOW! I PROMISE!” He came over to your side of the table and fell dramatically to his knees, taking your hand and placing your palm onto his cheek.

“What are you doing, get up.” You tried to take your hand back but he only held on tighter.

“Say you forgive me.”

“You need to be on a drama with how dramatic you are,” you joke, trying to divert your attention from how tightly he held your hand made your tummy warm.

“I won’t let you go until you say it!” His eyes were beaming up at you with sparkles so bright, even the stage lighting wasn’t nearly as blinding. Part of you felt like he was apologizing for something he truly did to wrong you, you almost fell for it.

“Fine, fine! Forgiven. Get up and finish your food.” Hyunjin quickly kissed the inside of your palm, unsure if the cameras actually caught it, and went back to his seat.

Conversation shifting to something you weren’t paying attention to, lo and behold, your mind wasn’t nearly as focused as it should be. There was more screaming and yelling, mostly Changbin and Jisung, and you couldn’t even laugh with them because you were internally battling with yourself about his fucking eyes. Hyunjin’s eyes and how sincere they were, how soft and patient and agonized they seemed to be about a situation that was purely for show. It caught you so far off guard that when the members continued with the skit, you let them take the reins to do whatever they wanted.

By the time it was time to choose cars to head home, you were just going with the flow, not caring about the show anymore. What you needed was an ice cold bath. A freezing shower to get rid of the heat in your cheeks whenever Hyunjin’s gaze would linger on you for half a second longer.

That was exactly what you did as soon as the cameras were off and you were back at your hotel room. You rushed off to be alone and get rid of all the stupid thoughts that made your head dizzy because what the fuck?

It wasn’t like you were touch deprived, your members were practically an extension of your physical self. It was just the way he looked at you. Why were you so upset over a look? He looks at you every day, nothing new. You were looking back at him. Straight into his eyes. He was on his knees. Your hand was on his cheek. He was nuzzling his face into your skin. You almost leaned in. His lips looked so kissable. He did kiss you— your hand, at least.

Oh, it’s fucking over for you.

Knock, knock, knock.

The consistent rapping on your hotel door shocked you enough to pull you from the butterfly inducing realization. Just a robe on and hair still dripping, you rushed to check the peep hole to find the one person you didn’t want to see standing outside.

“Why’re you here?” You said a little colder than intended.

Hyunjin scoffed and held up the bag of chips and soda, “what a rude way to greet someone bearing gifts.” He pushed past you and threw the snacks on the bed along with himself. “Go get dressed, they have Netflix on the TV.”

You didn’t even have the will to say no, doing what he asked and changing into comfy clothes. Big sweats and a baggy hoodie seemed decent enough, and so did standing at the foot of the bed while he was sprawled out, clicking through the different movies. “What are you doing here?” You finally asked.

“Hanging out?”

“Obviously. Why?”

“Am I not allowed to hang out with you?” He had a point. “You were also really quiet at dinner.” Frowning a little, you sat at the foot of the bed and took the bag of chips. Admittedly, they hit the spot, he knew they would and smiled to himself when you visibly relaxed.

“That one,” you spoke again as he hovered over the movie you’d been telling yourself you’d watch when you had the time. Well, now you had nothing but time.

Cross legged and still on the edge of the bed, munching away while fully invested in this terrible movie, Hyunjin admired the way you’d copy the actress’s slight body movements when she was around the love interest, as if you were taking notes. Tilting your head, sitting up a little straighter, leaning your head on your palm, or tucking your hair behind your ear. It was utterly adorable and he loved being able to see you like this. Somehow, you forgot he was even there until the bed shifted behind you.

Suddenly there was heat, too much of it. You were suffocating with the obvious fact that you were not alone and haven’t been for the past hour. Hyunjin’s arm was bumping against the back of yours, seemingly innocent.

“Are you gonna share?” He said, chin brushing your shoulder as he gestured at the mostly empty bag of chips. You didn’t say anything, only holding it in his direction. His hand encased yours to bring it even closer to him, making your fingers almost shake with anxiety. It was nothing. Literally nothing. But it felt like everything.

“Open,” he commanded for the second time tonight. When did he get so close to you? You could practically smell his shampoo and body lotion. Dumbly, you faced him slightly and opened your mouth enough for him to slip a chip into it. Then unexpectedly, his fingers tipped the bottom of your chin up to close. “Chew before you swallow.” Your eyes followed his hand as it retreated, leading up to his own gaze that was already staring back.

The sound of your swallowing was comically loud, you wished the ground would open up and eat you whole. “I don’t want to kiss you,” you rushed to say.

Hyunjin smirked, amused. “I don’t want to kiss you, either.” His actions contradicted his words as his face unnoticeably inched forward. Warmth was swirling around you now, his shampoo, his lotion, his skin, his clean clothes, his left over toothpaste— “your breath smells like chips.”

There it was. Butterflies gone. You shoved him and his stupidly smug smirk harshly back by his chest and he thumped back into the bed. Immediately, you ran into the bathroom to rinse your mouth with mouthwash before coming back and attacking him. You were slamming the soft pillow into his body without so much as a complaint. More so, he was laughing, not even a wince because it didn’t phase him at all. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t get it.

Moving into a stronger position, you went from standing at his side to trying to hop over him onto the available bed space, failing miserably and flopping onto him instead. Chest to chest, practically straddling him, Hyunjin gripped your waist to keep you from falling off the edge. That also meant there was no where to run. “Now I really don’t want to kiss you.”

“But I really want you to.” His hands keeping you in place, the proximity, minty fresh breath— from you, at least. Your hand drifted to his face, ghosting fingertips up along his cheek to push his hair from his face. Another thing for the second time that night, he leaned into the touch, enjoying it much more than he should.

This felt like the right moment, right? This was how that girl did it in the movie. She did all those steps, the lean in, touch the cheek, brush the hair, what came next?

It was the actual kiss, the one part you couldn’t get yourself to initiate. It’s been too much teasing him, perhaps if you only just gave in a little— a slight graze of your lips against his, that’d be the ultimate power move. Payback for the emotions he made you feel earlier this evening. Just close enough to make his eyes flutter closed, make his breath hitch, make him pucker and wait for you to close the distance and feel one another for the first time.

That’s exactly what you did, and fuck, was it hard not to cave. His soft breath and pillowy lips, you almost did.

Knock, knock, knock. “Y/N’ie, can I use your hair drier? The outlet in my bathroom doesn’t work.”

Saved by the fucking bell. Hyunjin audibly groaned, annoyed that his perfect moment was once again stolen from him.

You quickly pushed off of his body by his chest and rushed to open the door, stroking your hair flat and revealing Jisung on the other side. He immediately went into your bathroom, not noticing Hyunjin on the bed lobbing his head back with frustration.

“Han Jisung, you’re the worst. I was so close! Couldn’t you have waited two more minutes?!”

Jisung, frightened by the unknown voice, peaked around the doorframe and saw the other boy. “Oh, was I interrupting something?”

“No—“

“Yes!” You shook your head with emphasis, holding up your hands like waving a white flag.

Everything else happened so fast. One second you were standing next to Jisung and the next, Hyunjin was rushing over to the both of you saying something along the lines of, “give me my kiss!” You had pulled Jisung in front of you without really thinking about it and put him into Hyunjin’s line of fire. The two smashes foreheads at the fast pace the older moved, both crumbling to the floor in pain.

With the way the night started, this was a solid way to end it— watching your two friends rolling around the floor in pain as you laughed your ass off at their idiotic tendencies. Then them proving said idiotic tendencies as one tried to— hopefully playfully— strangle the other, in which you don’t know who started all the rough housing, you’re just there to patch them up when they’re done.

☆ﾟ

A/N: don’t ask me where i’ve been idek LMAO. this is so bad im really trying to start writing again pls bear with me

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