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sandmoonbunny · 4 days

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prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 6; ghoap x reader) parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Johnny cleans up the lamp in the morning.

He might as well, being on second watch and all. Ghost wakes him up at the ass crack of dawn with a gentle kick to the ribs (gentle for him) before rolling over on the couch and going right to sleep. It’s routine for them to fall into sleep like rocks sinking in water, but the waking up is never quite as graceful. Johnny snorts awake and whips his head around sharply from side to side before confirming that he’s just in his girlfriend’s apartment and the asshole that woke him up is just his ornery lieutenant.

“I better not hear any fuckin’ jabber,” is all Ghost says before closing his eyes. Johnny chews his lip to keep the grin off of his face.

He tries to keep it down after that. For the first couple of hours, he sits up against the wall and scrolls on his phone. That keeps him occupied until any lingering exhaustion is flushed from his veins.

There’s a broom and dustpan in a small closet in the kitchen where his girl also keeps the garbage bags and compost bin that he uses to sweep up the mess, and he tries to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up. The glass makes a tinkling sound as it’s swept up though, just loud enough that it inevitably wakes his girl up.

She comes creeping out of her room late into the morning, the shop not due to open for another hour or two. The late weekend opening hours mean she usually gets to sleep in.

Weeks back, it used to be something that Johnny got to do with her as well, cuddled until she’d suddenly pull away, then waking up to her swallowing his cock, peeking under the bedsheets to find her pretty head bobbing up and down his length. Groaning and palming her head to press her lips down to the base, eyes rolling back at the sound of her gagging around his length, the base of his dick a mess of come and drool.

In the present day though, she clears her throat. Johnny blinks and refocuses on her.

Her eyes flit to Ghost’s still form on the couch and when they dart back to Johnny, he raises a finger to his lips. Let the man rest. It’s the least Johnny can do for him after he dragged him back to his girl’s place to make amends. She hazards another cautious glance at Ghost—his lieutenant lies still as a statue on the couch, motionless like he isn’t even breathing—before pursing her lips, displeased.

In the light of day, his previous anger feels cleansed. He understands now. They’ve gone about this all wrong, topsy-turvy. He’s been chasing his own tail and making a mess of things for far too long now, but Ghost’s voice is clear in his head now. It settles him.

So when his girl goes to open her mouth, maybe thinking that she can whisper softly enough so as not to wake Ghost up, he steps forward quickly and covers her mouth.

She squawks behind his hand. Again, he shakes his head. Any sound would be too loud for the man slumbering on her couch.

Johnny can feel her swallow behind his palm and it almost makes him salivate. His fingers twitch on her cheeks like he might press them into the soft skin and make her lips pout.

“Not here,” he murmurs, almost mouthing the words.

He waits until she nods before removing his hand. Then he leaves to go dump the dustpan filled with glass into the trash.

She corners him in the bathroom after that and it’s all he can do not to come in his pants. It’s not his fault he’s been trigger happy since Ghost tugged them off on the sparring mats and came on his stomach; he’s been pent up since the last time he saw her. There’s still flakes of dried come on his belly. He only half resists lifting his shirt to look. If his girl knew, she’d be mortified.

He wonders if she’d be more upset that he let Ghost beat off on him or that he didn’t clean up his mess.

Johnny lets the bird guide him to the toilet, letting her shove him down onto the lid.

“Ah, hen, ye really wanna do this now?” he teases, spreading his legs and wrapping his hands around her waist to reel her in, slipping up her shirt at the same time.

He almost moans when she slaps him across the face, biting his lip when she gasps right after, surprised at her own actions. “Oh—fuck—I’m so sorry—”

He clicks his tongue, lips curling up into an impish grin. “Dinnae worry, baby. ‘M tougher than I look.”

It’s a small mercy that she’s too agitated to really look him over because if she were to direct her gaze even slightly south, she’d find Johnny’s shaft straining against his fly, hard enough to pound nails the second her hand touched his face. He swallows a groan and his fingers tighten, sinking deeper into her flesh.

“I didn’t mean to—Jesus, it doesn’t matter.” He loves that when she gets frustrated, her bottom lip juts out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into it. “When your…boss or whatever…wakes up, can you please take him and leave?”

“Leave?” Johnny repeats, blinking up at her innocently.

“Yes. Leave,” she says, stressing the word. He hums and strokes his thumb over the soft skin of her stomach, pleased that she hasn’t yet told him to take his hands off her. Sweet little bird. “We kissed and made up. That’s what you came for, right? So the two of you can get going once he wakes up.”

“No breakfast?”

She looks distinctly unimpressed. “There’s a coffee shop down the block.”

“Aye, I ken, baby,” Johnny croons, pulling her in closer, smiling when she squeaks and braces her hands on his shoulders, his face almost cradled between her breasts. He turns his head to kiss one, mouth lingering over the cotton of her shirt, tempted almost to bite and rip it. “It’s jus’ that…seems an awful like the second Simon and I take off, you’re jus’ gonna go right back to cold shouldering me. Sure you’re nae jus’ putting on a little show for me now?”

Her fingers grip him by the fabric of his shirt. “Johnny—” She yelps when he bites the inside of her breast, snarling when she tries to pull away. “Okay, okay, okay, I got it—”

“That’s right,” he says with a content sigh, pulling back just the slightest bit. “You’re nae going anywhere. Not until we’ve talked this out, nice and civil.”

When she stares down at him, wide-eyed, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing, it’s a rush like he’s never experienced. He feels right in the flow of things now, his head on straight for once.

“What’s there to talk about?” she mumbles, and he almost melts. “I’m not mad anymore.”

“Nae mad? Then why’re ye trying to kick us out?”

“Because I’m busy, Johnny,” she snaps. “The shop’s opening in an hour and I don’t have time to babysit the two of you.”

“Ye willnae even notice we’re here, hen, I promise. Fuck, I’ll even help ye out—make some deliveries, go shake anyone down that still owes ye—”

“I don’t shake down my customers, Johnny—”

“Whatever ye need, baby.” He drags his palms up her sides, pulling up her shirt with his hands. Her tits pop out like ripe fruit dangling in front of his mouth, puffy nipples begging to be sucked on. “Simon and I will be right here. Ye can use us however ye want.”

He stares at her nipple while saying that, unconsciously leaning forward until his lips graze her skin and his tongue pokes out. She doesn’t budge, just curses under her breath and lets him rub his tongue over her beaded nipple, shaking in his hold. Johnny bets if he pulled down those little sleep shorts of hers, he’d find a wet little cunt begging for a fat cock to fill her up.

It’d take nothing for him to pull them down and give her what she’s asking for. The love of his life is tucked away beneath a layer of flimsy cotton and begging for him to give her some love and affection. Johnny hasn’t kissed her in God knows how long—a week? Two? He’d probably find her swollen and aching beneath her shorts; could get her to come just by dragging two fingers up the seam of her.

He knows what Ghost would say though, so he drags his teeth over her nipple just for the pleasure of feeling her flinch and then pulls back. The bird blinks down at him with hazy eyes when he helps readjust her shirt, pulling it back down to cover her gorgeous tits, a damp spot on her shirt over the nipple he just had in his mouth.

“We’re not going to…?” she asks, letting the question dangle in midair. She says it without thinking—clearly, because the second it dawns on her that she just asked if they were going to fuck in the bathroom with Johnny sitting on the toilet, she looks horrified with herself. It’s beyond endearing.

“No’ with Simon in the other room, baby. Wouldnae be fair for him to have to listen in.”

He doesn’t tell her that fairness in this case doesn’t mean cruel. It means that it wouldn’t be possible.

Still, he needs to shoo her out of the bathroom to tug one out into the toilet bowl. Johnny would be half tempted to jerk off onto her mirror just to leave his mark where she could see, but he has some manners.

He gives himself a nice, leisurely tug with the help of his girl’s expensive hand lotion. It’s not as viscous as the lube in the gallon tub on his nightstand back at the barracks, but it’s a good substitute; makes his hand glide nicely over his shaft. If he closes his eyes, it even smells like her, like it’s his girl giving him a morning reach around, and part of Johnny wonders whether he was too quick to kick her out of the bathroom. Ghost wouldn’t begrudge him a quick and dirty jerk.

The thought dissolves the longer his hand flies over his dick though. Hard to think about anything outside the present moment when his hand is braced against the wall and his orgasm barrelling towards him. When he comes, it’s with a deep, shuddering grunt, not even bothering to muffle the sound. He hopes his girl hears him from the other room. He hopes it makes her squirm and ache.

When he comes out of the bathroom, another voice takes him by surprise.

“Johnny. You’re on breakfast.”

Ghost’s voice is gruff in the early morning hours, abrupt. Rarely could it be classified as gentle, but it’s like chert rattling in a leather bag after hours of disuse. Especially since it comes out of nowhere, the man asleep one moment and awake the next. Johnny’s worked with him long enough to not flinch at the sudden sound of his voice, but his girl hasn’t; she yelps when his voice comes unbidden from the couch, big body suddenly upright like he’s been awake the whole time.

He’s no cook, but Johnny can rustle up eggs and bacon like any other self-respecting serviceman. On deployment, they used to rotate cooking duty every night, no one skilled enough to take over the post permanently. Still, Johnny eyes Ghost worriedly when he takes a seat across from the bird at her little kitchen table. It’s not a table meant for two grown men, just a small wooden thing with four chairs, only enough for one on each side. It means that Ghost’s knees knock against hers when he takes the chair across from her, forcing her to curl up into herself, tucking her legs under the chair.

He stares her down. Menacing eyes. Not the kind of man you want sitting across from you, no matter the circumstances. It makes Johnny anxious to turn his back on them when he has to crack the eggs into the pan, checking over his shoulder religiously. The whites go crispy at the edges before he remembers to flip them over.

“You work downstairs in the flower shop,” Ghost says bluntly, breaking the silence. His first words to Bird all morning. Not a question.

“…Yes,” Bird answers gingerly. Her palms are clamped over her knees, sweating likely. “I own it.”

“Since when?” He doesn’t blink before firing off another question.

“Um…two years.”

“Where’d you work before?”

“In…in London. I was a shopgirl there though—”

“Where’s your family from then?”

It goes on that way for a time, an interrogation with no rhyme or reason. Even Johnny has to wonder at Ghost’s intentions—knows that there’s no shot that Ghost hasn’t already done a background check on her. Why interrogate the bird then? Why rattle off question after question in such quick succession? Why make her tremble and look down at the tabletop and stutter out her answers and fidget under his stare—

He notices Ghost’s hand slip beneath the table to grip his length, spreading his legs to help readjust.

Ah. Mean bastard. Of course he’d get off on making her squirm.

The bacon burns. Johnny can’t help it. He listens attentively to her clear voice—softer in the morning hours, still sleep-laden and flowery—whispering out her life’s story, dick getting hard behind the kitchen island. He bites his lip to hold back a moan when she trips over her words. Thrusts forward to rub his bulge against the underside of the island when she chews on her lip, relieving some of the pressure. It drives him mad that there’s a wet cunt going unsatisfied just a few feet away.

Ghost shoots him a sharp look as if he can hear his thoughts. “Johnny.”

He turns around to flip the burner off.

#going to read this later!

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sandmoonbunny · 5 days

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old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what’s an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it’s not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

it’s agony. it’s want. primal, instinctual. you need him. ache with it. the urge, the desperation, to be filled. claimed. conquered. owned.

(but you swear you brought enough suppressants with you. had Gaz pack them into your bag before you left—

oh, well. Price will take good care of you.)

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

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sandmoonbunny · 5 days

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here we go, the fluffy ghost x reader abortion fic that nobody asked for but i decided to make anyways!

to be clear- all of this is based on the laws in the region i live in, loads of places have longer wait times or require different things from people seeking abortions. i'm very lucky to live somewhere that it's very straightforward with minimal hoops to jump through. i wish it was this easy for everyone to access the care they need.

cw: abortion, and an extremely tasteless yet entirely on-brand joke by ghost about it

after weeks of feeling like death, you decide to face the music. you can't deal with the constant nausea, how painfully raw your nipples feel, how irritable you've become. your period is a few weeks late, it's not hard to put two and two together to figure out you need a pregnancy test.

when the second blue line appears on the cheap plastic test that's balanced at the edge of your bathroom sink, you feel nothing but dread. this might be someone else's dream, but it's your damn nightmare. you don't want any of that shit- you've had the barest taste of pregnancy and it fucking sucks, there's no way you're doing this for another 8 months. and then childbirth on top of that? and then putting your entire life on hold to raise the fucking thing? fuck no, absolutely not. even if you did want kids, ain't no way you're pushing 'em out yourself. you've seen footage, heard the stories. in your opinion, the only 'miracle' there is that somehow people do that shit more than once.

ugh, fuck, you're going to have to tell simon, aren't you? he's the father, he should probably know, right? you've only talked about it once, briefly, in the year you've been dating, and you've got the impression that he's somehow even less keen on parenthood than you are. all you can hope is that in the months since that conversation that he hasn't somehow changed his mind. his schedule is unpredictable, so you'll have to tell him quick before he gets deployed again. no matter what he says, though, you're not keeping it. that much you're sure about.

the call to make the appointment is a little more emotional than you'd expected. you feel like a failure, getting knocked up when you'd never intended to be. you also can't think of a single person you can confide in about this. your friends are all cool, you're pretty sure they won't judge you, but... it's hard to be certain. people have strong feelings about this sort of thing, people get hurt and killed over it. you don't want this spread around, and you certainly don't want your mum to hear that you destroyed her opportunity to be a grandmother. best to keep it between you, simon, and the clinic staff.

you surprise yourself when you burst into tears while you tell the woman on the phone that you're pregnant, but that you desperately don't want to be. she's a real pro, assuring you in a calm, soothing voice that everything will be all right, that they'll help you through this, that things will be back to normal soon. you can't help but believe her, letting her guide your breathing so you stop hyperventilating long enough to give her your information. the appointment is set- a week from tomorrow. just 8 more days of nausea and too-sensitive tits, and it'll be over. when the call ends, you feel a little bit better. just one step closer to diffusing a bomb that takes nine months to detonate.

simon comes home that night, and even though you know he's on your side here, nerves and anxiety get the better of you. he's not around much, what if he's changed his mind? what if all his talks with captain price about john's desire for a family to come home to planted a seed in simon, what if he's secretly started to also want those things for himself? you made his favorite meal just to potentially soften the blow, and your thoughts race as you both eat in silence, your leg nervously bouncing under the table as you try to gather your thoughts. it'll be fine, right? surely it'll be fine. surely he's still on the same page as you, he'dve told you if something changed, right? you're so focused on finding the right words and the right timing, staring down at your plate of shepherd's pie while your brain supplies you with a hundred different ways of breaking the news, that you don't notice the way simon is staring at you from across the table.

"olright, love?" he asks, clearly suspicious, dark eyes boring through your soul.

"i'm pregnant." you blurt out, and you hate the way he continues to stare at you, frozen and completely expressionless. "i- i already made an appointment. i'm not keeping it. you don't have to do anyth-"

"stop." he says, not unkindly, and you snap your mouth shut so fast you feel your teeth click together. oh, god, this is it, isn't it? he's changed his mind, and now he's going to leave. "when did you find out?"

"i- i've been feeling sick in the mornings for a while, but i only took the test today." you stammer out, trying to will yourself not to cry.

"when's your appointment?" simon asks, setting his silverware down on the table, food forgotten as he focuses on you like a lazerbeam.

"week after tomorrow." you've never felt smaller, more foolish in all your life. simon's face is expressionless as he picks up his silverware and tucks back in to his dinner.

"olright. i'll take ya." he rumbles, and relief washes over you like a cool breeze on a very hot day. you don't know why you were worried, why your brain convinced you of the worst, but it's a relief to know he's not upset or anything.

"simon, you don't have to do that."

"got ya into this mess, didn't i? least i can do is give ya a ride to get ya out of it." he says casually, hooking his foot behind your ankle under the table. his way of holding your hand when both of your hands are occupied.

"ok. thanks." is all you can say as you pick up your fork again, smiling softly around a bite. it's all going to be okay, simon's going to help you make it all be okay again. later on that night he fucks you on your back, your legs bouncing in the air as he pants into your ear what a good girl you are for him, how reliable you are, thanking you for fixing his mistakes and telling you he loves you over and over again, as if he's afraid you'll forget.

eight days later, you find that the clinic's waiting room is empty first thing in the morning, and you're grateful. its just you and simon, his usual balaclava swapped out for a kn95, stuffed into chairs that barely contain your big wide hips. neither of your speak, just holding hands in silence as you stare at the carpet and listen to the mumford and sons song playing softly on the radio. the wait isn't very long, and soon a woman in a pink blouse with a clipboard calls your name, and simon leans over to you.

"want me to come with?" he asks in a low voice. you hadn't planned on it, but, god, that sounds nice. you're not nervous or anything, but you always feel better having simon at your side.

"please?" you ask, and he's on his feet before you can say anything else, he's on his feet and slinging an arm over your shoulders, walking with you through the door that leads to the patient rooms. she picks up a neatly folded bundle of fabric and hands it to you.

"i'm pooja, i'll be your nurse today. miss i'll have you come with me, i need you to empty your bladder and change into this hospital gown before we do the ultrasound, and we'll also have to do a wellness test. sir, you can wait right there." she says, pointing to a chair in the hall as she leads you back to the restroom.

"is that the dad, out there?" pooja asks, tone light and conversational as the door clicks closed behind her.

"yeah." you confirm.

"now, i don't mean any offense, but i have to check- do you feel safe? are you being pressured to be here today?" the way she asks feels less like deeply worried concern and more like a friendly check-in. you can't help but huff a laugh.

"you're so sweet, thank you for asking. yes, i feel safe, and i am here of my own free will. this was my call, he just didn't want me to come alone." you tell her. her dark eyes look deep into yours, like a jeweler inspecting a precious stone for faults, and she nods when she apparently finds what she's looking for.

"alright. go ahead and pee and change into that and i'll meet you back in the hall." she says, making notes on her clipboard.

"what about the wellness test?" you ask, confused, and she smiles at you warmly.

"we just did it."

when you finish in the bathroom you and simon are shown to the room where the ultrasound machine is. the wand they gently slide inside of you isn't comfortable, and both you and simon decline their offer to look at the screen or hear about the fetus. you don't need to know, soon enough it won't be your problem anymore. simon holds your hand and gazes at your face while pooja gives you clear instructions about what happens next- you'll take a pill before you leave today, and they'll have you take the other tomorrow when you're at home. the brochures in your hands are full of smiling, thin, white women with clear skin and good teeth and calm faces that are supposed to reassure you about the safety of the procedure. they do, a bit, even when the text next to them describes how your body will experience heavy bleeding and intense cramping, suggesting you get a heating pad, two weeks worth of menstrual pads, and some over the counter painkillers ready before you undertake this.

you take the first pill with some water under pooja's guidance as she explains how it all works. the pill in your system now will stop the fetus from growing, the one you take tomorrow will induce cramping and bleeding to get your body to push it all out of you. 'diet labor' she calls it. sounds simple enough, although you're sure it's much easier said than done.

"any questions before i send you on your way?" pooja asks. you're about to tell her no, thanks, you were really clear on what to expect, but simon cuts you off.

"what can i do to help? you said tomorrow's gonna be painful for her, right? how can i help with that?" he asks, addressing her for the first time since you came in. the smile on her face is genuine, and the quick glance at you conveys and unspoken but undeniable "oh, you caught a good one. well done, you."

"all you can really do is make sure she's as comfortable as possible and keep an eye on the bleeding. it should end in four to five hours, but it might be a little longer. don't give her aspirin, it'll make her bleed even more. i've heard that hot tea and soup helps a lot, as well as hot baths, but that can be a little messy." pooja shrugs, still smiling. "honestly, just be there for her. get her a bucket if she feels nauseous, bring her a hot water bottle or microwaved sock full of rice if she asks for it. that's pretty much all you can do."

simon nods. "rog'."

he starts chuckling to himself on the ride home. he nods to the white paper bag on the seat between you, the one holding pill number two.

"oh, that's a fun little pill, eh?" he says in that tone of voice that lets you know he's about to drop the worst joke you've ever heard in your life.

"oh no." you laugh as you complain, "oh god, just do it. say it. get it over with."

"hear it'll really bring out the kid in ya."

the laugh that erupts from you is so big, loud, and bright, you nearly choke on it. simon just chuckles from the driver's seat and pats your wide thigh, and in this exact moment as the two of you laugh together, watching the world pass by your truck windows as you both head home to terminate your pregnancy, you know in your heart that everything's going to be okay.

the first pill was easy, it's the second pill that sucks. it's not a normal pill, you're supposed to keep it lodged between your cheek and your gums for half an hour, and it tastes bad. not bad enough to make you want to spit it out or anything, but the flavor that sits in your mouths is chemically and unpleasant. it takes all your strength not to poke at it with your tongue, to just leave it alone and not fuck with it at all. you want this to work, after all. in an hour, you can feel it working. that familiar pressure low under your belly that lets you know cramps are coming. you've felt this a thousand times before, but this time it's a little bit different. it's hard to say specifically what it is, but you can tell this isn't going to be like your normal cramps that you get every month. oh, no. you're absolutely about to get your shit rocked.

you pop an extra tylenol and settle in, turning the kettle on to make tea and partially fill your hot water bottle. simon wanders into the kitchen, wearing his usual head to toe black. he looks you up and down, assessing.

"you take your pill?" you nod. "how you feelin'?"

"weird. like my body is bracing itself." all you can think of is the time you were on a boat in rocky water, how you were so tired afterwards because of how hard you'd braced yourself for every crash of the waves. this feels like that, but without the boat.

"go to bed, i've got it all set up for ya. i'll get your tea." simon says as he shoos you out of the kitchen. you can't help but giggle a little as he swats at your ass playfully as he chases you out.

"ok, but i was going to get my hot water bottle, t-"

"BED." he orders with a laugh, and you can swear you hear him say 'impossible thing' to himself with a chuckle as you head down the hall to your bedroom.

a laugh bubbles up from deep inside of you when you open the door. man's brought every pillow and blanket in the house to your bed, and made what can only be described as a 'nest of coziness' for you, with scented candles lined up on your dresser, a laptop perched at the end of the bed with an episode of psych queued up and ready to play. oh shit, this is season 4, your favorite.

a wave of pain suddenly hits you, and oh, fuck. you've got an extra thick sanitary pad on, but you get the feeling towels are also going to be necessary. you want to go get them, but all you can do is hunch over in pain, still not even on the bed yet, you hand braced on the mattress so you don't fall over. shit, fuck, it feels like invisible hands reached up inside of you, grabbed your uterus, and are wringing it out like a wet washcloth. goddamn, this is way worse than period cramps.

you can hear the bedroom door open, and a muttered 'oh, shit' before the soft clatter of a mug on your nightstand.

"can you get towels?" you ask, and without a pause or a spare word, simon's out the door again. no wonder he picked a career as a soldier, man's good at taking orders.

"on the bed?" he asks when he comes back with all the worst towels you own, thank god. you're glad you don't have to explain to a grown man why you don't want your newer, better towels used for abortion clean up.

"yeah, please." you grunt as you just curl yourself over like a young fern frond. the pressure in your pelvis is excruciating, it's a miracle you're still upright. crawling onto the bed seems like a good idea, but that would require un-hunching yourself, and you don't know that you can do that yet. after a few minutes the pain eases enough that you can stand a little straighter, just enough to crawl onto the bed. simon's instantly handing you a hot water bottle and throwing blankets over you before he crawls onto the bed next to you, arms wrapped around you.

"tell me how to help ya, love. what can i do?" he doesn't sound worried, that's not his style, but it's as close as he gets. it's touching, really. not that you thought he wouldn't care, but simon's not a very emotional guy. it feels like being able to peek through the cracks in the wall he's got up constantly, the one that he seemingly lowers only for you and a select few people he works with.

"can you- will you just stay with me? please?" a big hand pushes the hair back off of your damp forehead. god, you hadn't even realized how sweaty this shit's got you. you're gonna need extra towels just to wipe down the river of sweat you can feel trickling down your back.

"o' course. least i can do. you want me to put psych on? that show always make you feel better." he rumbles into your ear.

"yeah, please." simon sits up to tap the space bar on the laptop, starting the show as he leans back and fetches your tea from the night stand for you. the smoky, earthy smell of lapsang souchong reaches your nose as you cradle the hot mug, and a realization hits you- you ran out of this kind of tea a few weeks ago. simon must've gotten it for you when he ran out for what he referred to as 'un-babying supplies'. something about it makes you heart light up like a christmas tree.

the tea helps, shawn and gus goofing around on your laptop are distracting enough, and the painkillers kick in, but it only takes the edge off of the acute, throbbing pain that ebbs and flows inside of you. mother of fuck, if this is diet labor, the real thing would've killed you, probably. you curl in on yourself again and again with each wave of it, like an indecisive potato bug. you can't help but think of all those anti-choice folks and the lies you've heard them tell over the years. you remember one girl insisting that when she worked at a clinic (which you sincerely doubt she ever did) that one woman used abortion in lieu of birth control. fat fucking chance, there's no way anyone would choose this over taking a goddamn pill or getting an iud. you'd been skeptical when you'd heard her say it, but now you want to hunt her down, shake her by the neck, and scream BULLSHIT.

"sweet girl. too fuckin' good f'me, cleanin' up my messes like this. i'm sorry it hurts, i'll make it up t'ya, yeah? when this is all behind us, i'll take ya out someplace nice. anywhere ya like." simon squeezes his arm around your shoulder, kissing the top of your head. "can't tell ya how relieved i am, love. not fit t'be a dad, and the world don't need more rileys. this is best f'us both. no matter what anybody else says, i want ya to know that this was the right call."

"i know. i know. i- is it weird i don't feel anything about it? the way people talk about it on the news and stuff, i just- i thought i might feel sad or bad or something. but aside from the cramps i just don't feel anything." you admit, and simon hums and taps his finger under your chin.

"you tell me if that changes, yeah?" he asks softly, and you nod.

"i promise."

"that's my good girl. i- i love you, sweetheart. dunno that i say it enough." his voice cracks a little. "didn't think i'd find anybody that fits me as well as you. everybody wants a weddin', wants kids, wants the white picket fence. but you've never asked f'none of that. thought maybe you were just hopin' t'change my mind, to be the exception, just like the others before."

he pauses, clearly thinking about those exes he'd briefly told you about. the ones who pretended to be on the same page as him so they could keep him, but lost patience when they realized he wasn't going to change his mind about weddings and babies for them.

"but you're different. told me ya didn't want those things, and ya meant it. wasn't a game t'ya. i- i have to apologize, love. when ya told me i'd knocked ya up, i really thought- i mean," he stalls, trying to find a nice way to say the words that you already know are coming- he thought you were going to baby trap him. you'd be angrier if not for the stories about his exes, who were dumped as soon as he realized they'd gone off birth control without telling him. you're not thrilled he'd thought that about you, but you get why he'd be worried, considering the lunacy of his exes. you spare him having to say the words by cutting him off.

"i know. i was worried you'd changed your mind, too, what with how much john talks about wanting a family. glad you didn't. glad you're here, too, this would've sucked to do alone." another wave of cramps practically folds you in half, the pain radiating from your pelvis to your skull. still, it's less severe than the waves before, you must be on the downhill side of this now, thank god. "i'm getting an iud next week, fuck this noise. i'm never doing this again."

"oh no? i'm having fun. love a good lie-in and cuddle, and i'd forgotten how good this show is." simon deadpans, and you smack him with a pillow as he laughs at your grouchy face, kissing at your temple and cheek when another wave of pain makes you curl in on yourself. god, you love him so much, and being loved by him has always felt like a privilege, one that very few people get. it's wild, but there's something inside of you that really, genuinely believes that the two of you are going to come out the other side of this stronger, better together. the thought of it makes you smile briefly, right before another wave of cramps punches it out of you again. oh, god, you're definitely making that iud appointment when you have your follow-up at the clinic.

a few weeks later, the two of you are loading groceries into the car when you hear the earsplitting shriek of a crying child. some toe-headed little boy going red in the face because his mom said "no" outside the grocery store. you and simon share a look, a silent 'thank fuck that's not us' between the two of you as you go on your way. it's not til you're both in the truck, well on your way home with his hand on your knee between gear shifts that you finally say anything.

"you told me to tell you if i ever start having feelings about the abortion." you say, and you can feel his hand flex against your leg minutely before he speaks.

"yeah?" he sounds wary, and almost a little nervous.

"i am so fucking relieved, simon. oh my god." you burst out into giggles, thinking about how frazzled that mother in the parking lot looked. no fucking thanks, not for you. simon's laughter fills the cab as well, a low, heartfelt, rumbling chuckle playing melody to your own laughter's harmony as the two of you head home together, smiling the entire way. the sky seems bluer, the sun seems brighter, and the clouds seem fluffier now that you know you're not trapped by circumstance, that you had the ability to choose your fate, and that simon stuck with you through all of it. the future is yours to do what you like, you're not tethered to any responsibilities that you aren't ready for. you're free.

who ever thought that an abortion of all things would make you so giddy about the future?

#let’s go!!!!

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sandmoonbunny · 5 days

Text

i know i've probably written about this before but goddamn if i can't stop thinking about what it's like to be price's wife around the time he kills whatshisface

cw: worries about cheating (but no actual cheating, to be clear), minor offscreen character deaths, angst/comfort, alcohol, dubcon sex, rough sex, possessive sex, manipulation, abrupt ending, and the stupidest simile for bouncing tits i have ever come up with

john's been weird lately. you can't put your finger on it, but in the past few weeks he's been more subdued. muted. distant. his smile doesn't reach his eyes anymore, and there's a gnawing, horrible feeling in your chest that says something's desperately not right. for example, instead of going out fishing like he normally does, he's been staying around the house, locked in his office most of the day. sex has stopped completely for the past few weeks, and any attempts to initiate it are met with a 'just not feeling it tonight, sweetheart'. he's usually all over you, all the time, and to have him suddenly keeping his hands to himself is beyond worrisome. you're downright terrified that it means your marriage is ending.

something must have happened out in the field, something he can't talk about. not even to you, his wife. government secrets and all that. or at least, that's what you rationalize to yourself. the thought that maybe he actually have just found someone else is too painful to bear. even considering it makes you mentally flinch from the train of thought like fingers on a hot stovetop. you're been through so much together, stood by his side even when he disappeared for months at a time. the thought that he'd take the sacrifices you've made for him for granted and toss you aside for someone else- no. it can't be that. it can't be, or you'll break apart like an egg on a kitchen floor.

the sound of the closet door closing wakes you up in the early gray of dawn, when the sun outside is only just considering coming out. john's fully dressed in the dark, pulling his travel bag closed and tugging his knit cap over his ears.

"john?" you mumble quietly, still half-conscious, the corners of your eyes glued shut with sleep. he doesn't say anything, just continues tugging on his jacket as he prepares to leave again. must be another emergency deployment. poor man works too hard, in your opinion, and you consider broaching the idea of retirement to him when he gats back.

"are you even going to say goodbye?" you ask as he reaches for the doorknob, making him pause and slowly turn around.

"was going to leave a note. work emergency. sorry love, can't be helped." he lies, and that wakes you up faster and an espresso iv drip. you know john, you've been his wife for two years and his partner even longer. you know his tells intimately, he can't get away with lying to you. and yet, at 4:45am on this tuesday morning, he tried anyways.

"what's happening?" this doesn't feel the same as all those other emergency work trips. there's no fire in his eye, just grim resignation. something's up, something else. something entirely new.

"work trip, i told you." he says gruffly, clearly annoyed at having to repeat himself, and the dark outline of him gets blurry as your eyes water. he must see the look on your face, even in the dark, because you can hear him sigh before he drops his bag and walks up to the edge of the bed, dropping a kiss on your forehead, but not your lips. "go back to sleep, sweetheart. i'll see you when i get back."

before you can lean up to kiss him properly, he's already pulled away and walking towards his bag, which he picks up and slings over his shoulder before he slips out the door without so much as a 'goodbye' or 'i love you'. your chest aches with grief and unease. haven't you been a good wife? a good partner? what could you have possibly done to deserve being treated like this? he was lying about this being a deployment, so he's not distracted by work. you file through your mental rolodex of memories, trying to recall anything you might have said or done to earn this cold shoulder from your very best friend in the world, the love of your life, the one person who knows you better than anyone else and still loved you anyways. if you could just figure out what you'd done you'd make amends in a heartbeat. you can hear the front door slam shut, as well as the rattle of the blinds against the windows from the impact, and tears fall from your eyes and soak your pillow as you sob yourself back to sleep

in a few hours when you wake back up and go downstairs to the kitchen, you're genuinely surprised there isn't a 'dear john' letter waiting for you on the table, ending your marriage and proclaiming... something you'd rather not dwell on. on one hand, the absence of a letter is a relief, but on the other, it makes you check your texts and emails every few minutes, both anticipating and dreading a message hailing the doom of your relationship. you feel paranoid, you're not sure why you're so sure that his cold behavior towards you is personal, but you can't help it. every other time he'd had a rough mission he's been quick to rush into your arms, to fall into bed and work out his frustrations that way, but this time is different and not knowing why is starting to kill you a little bit.

on your second evening without hearing anything from john, you decide to drink about your problems. nothing fancy, just a few bottles of cheap red wine straight from the bottle as you flip through the channels on tv, trying to find something to settle in with.

"an austrian man was killed today when a t-shirt cannon at an nhl game misfired, launching it at lethal spee-" click!

"WHOOOOOOO LIVES IN A PINEAPPLE UNDER THE S-" click!

"-and weather conditions permitting, the wolf can smell it's prey up to one and a half miles awa-" click!

"-merican four star general found dead in his office in washington d.c. late l-" click!

"-when he was saying 'as you wish', what he meant was 'i love you'."

oh, there you go, nothing cures a bad headspace like the princess bride. you tuck your feet up onto the couch and take a swig of your wine, sucking your teeth and scrunching your nose a little at how dry it is. ah well, it was cheap and it'll make you feel better, that's what's important. you manage to get through one bottle and you're halfway through another by the time humperdinck is being tied to a chair, the heroes making their plans for their respective happily ever afters. you definitely drank too much, sure, but you're feeling a lot better, albeit a little wobblier. you just focus on the pleasant warmth you're feeling, pushing any and all distressing thoughts aside as you lie back on your couch and watch the story come to a close.

the credits roll, and when you check your phone, it's suddenly hard to read the numbers. they just won't stay still for the life of you, which is as good a sign as any to go to bed. you giggle as you stumble around the house to take care of the essentials- teeth brushing, water drinking, locking up the house- and then strip to go to bed. sleeping naked always feels a little scandalous, and hell, why not be a little scandalous tonight? nobody's home, you're feeling relaxed and loose, not to mention a little silly, so why shouldn't you? it's easy to relish in the feeling of your fresh bedsheets against your skin as you snuggle in, burying your face into the pillow, idly considering getting yourself off before the wine drags you to a near-instant sleep, deep and dark and warm.

you're still drunk when you're awoken by the sheets being thrown off of you, a gust of cool air breezing over your bare ass with the force of it. it takes a few moments of shocked blinks in the dark to make out the outline of a person in your room, standing by the edge of the bed with your sheets in their hand. you scramble on hands and knees wildly across the mattress, limbs flailing as you do your damndest to cross the bed get to the en-suite bathroom and put a locked door between you and this stranger.

a large hand grabs your ankle and yanks back, which makes you drop to your stomach with a heavy 'oof!'. you roll to your side and kick your free leg out, only to have the stranger grab that ankle as well. the dark figure shoves your legs apart as he gets closer, crawling onto the bed with his knees.

"just me, sweetheart. c'mere, stop fightin'. need you." john's voice rasps lowly, and you can't help but gasp in surprise.

"what- you're home already?" you ask blearily before he cuts you off with a kiss. you can't help but feel a little like buttercup, her westley come home and kissing her like he has years worth of unsaid i love you's he needs to express without words. he groans into your mouth as he settles between your legs, his hands fumbling on his belt as he sucks at your lip. the metallic clinking of his buckle lets you know he's finally succeeded, and it's followed by the purr of his zipper being pulled down.

you're still drunk enough that you lose yourself in the kiss enough to jolt in surprise from the slide of his cock against your folds, the wet sound of it drowned out by the sucking sounds of your kiss and the groan of pleasure that rumbles out of john and into your mouth. he hasn't wanted to touch you in weeks, where the fuck is this all coming from?

maybe she dumped him, an nasty voice from the back of your head suggests, maybe he's back to you now that he doesn't have another option.

you break the kiss by turning your head, cheek against the mattress as you start crying at the thought of it. you've been repressing it, holding back your jealous thoughts as best you could, but the leftover alcohol in your bloodstream has broken the dam. your emotions are too high, you're not able to stop the tears and sobs as he shoves inside of you, not giving you any time to adjust to the stretch inside of you before he bottoms out and plants his fists into the mattress, bracketing your head as he looks down at you in the dark.

"what's wrong, sweetheart? you miss me that much? that why you're naked in bed?" you almost laugh in his face, loud and bitter. yeah, you've missed him. you've missed him for the weeks he's been home, too, technically present but still out of arm's reach. you can't say any of that, though, too busy choking on hyperventilating breaths, so you just nod instead.

"oh, poor thing. i've been neglecting you, i know, i'm sorry. had a lot on my mind, love, but it's all right now. it's done, there's nothing more left to do f'now." he starts to move his hips, which makes you hiccup a gasp. fuck, it feels good to be with him again. you've missed this, not just the sex but the closeness, having his undivided attention again. "i need you, sweetheart. need you to be good, to take everything i have to give."

"is there someone else?" you blurt out with a shaky voice, unable to hold back any longer, and john goes very, very still, blinking at you in shock. you feel your stomach drop and your heart go still. oh, god, is this an admission? john drops to his forearms on the bed, his soft belly pressed against yours, pinning you down with his weight as he holds your head still in his hands, forcing you to look at him. he stares down at you, his expression difficult to see in the dark, but he looks upset. his hips snap, making you gasp as he gets right up in your face, his nose nearly touching yours.

"no." he growls, eyes locked on yours. "never. i would never. i swear it."

he picks up the pace a bit, making your legs bounce uselessly in the air as he holds your jaw.

"who do you belong to?" he bites out, and you can't help the shiver that runs down your spine, coursing through you like liquid lightning and melting you ever so slightly into the mattress.

"you!" you blurt out in a wet sob, tears streaking down your face as you're overcome with emotion. it'll always be true, no matter what. you're his, even when he's so distant and acting like you aren't.

"good girl, thassright. and whose am i?" he grits out between clenched teeth. your mind is blank, wiped clean by alcohol, sleepiness, and strong emotions.

"i- i don't-"

"yours." he hisses, shaking your jaw and sounding angry that you got the question wrong. "i am every bit as much yours as you are mine. and you're all. fucking. mine."

john releases your chin and buries his face against your neck, sucking and licking at your skin, pulling an involuntary moan out of you as he continues fucking you at a desperate, animalistic pace. it's overwhelming after having been denied his attention for so long, having him right on top of you, holding you close as he stretches you out. fuck, all you can do is lie your head back and take when he's giving you, relishing in the way his dense chest hair rubs against your tits with every thrust, how his beard prickles at your skin as he slowly moves his wet, sucking kisses to your collarbone.

"nobody else f'me, nobody else, you understand?" he pants against your chest, sweat dripping off the end of his nose and onto your skin. "say it- say you're my only."

he leans back, wiping the back of his arm against his sweaty forehead, pace never wavering as he continues to make you jiggle with every thrust, tits and stomach bouncing like jello in an earthquake. you can feel a jolt of pleasure as he reaches down, digging his fingers into one soft hip while he free hand plays with your clit in just the way you like, making your eyes roll back and flutter.

"i- ah!- oh, fuck, john, please-" coherency evades you as every nerve in your body lights up, taking in the scratch of his body hair against your soft stomach, the softness of the sheets beneath you, the tackiness of the tears drying on your cheeks, and the way your cunt is drooling onto the mattress.

"say. it." he growls, punctuating both words with hard thrusts.

"i- i'm your only, john! please!" you don't even know what you're begging for, you can feel yourself getting wound up more and more, all rational thought erased from your brain as you become the physical embodiment of needy desire. you need to cum, but you need him to cum just as much, to prove to the basest part of your brain that your husband still desires you.

"good girl, now say it back. tell me i'm it f'you." he growls above you, smacking your tits when you take too long to answer. fuck, you can't help but whimper a little at his authoritative tone. you love when he takes charge in bed, tells you what to do and say. as someone who gets off on pleasing him, it makes it so much easier on you when you're given clear instructions.

"of course! john, please, of course there's no one else!" you say desperately, clawing at the sheets as you feel yourself getting closer and closer, almost at the edge. it's so loud, between the pounding of your pulse in your eardrums, the loud slap of skin on skin, the wet squelch of his cock pumping into your sopping wet cunt, and the heavy breathing interspersed with moaning and john's barked commands.

"good girl, i know there isn't. loyal thing, aren't you? you'd never betray me, would you?" there's something else behind that statement, a deeper meaning your wine and dick-addled brain can't comprehend, but you can sense it.

"never, never!" you shake your head, which makes you a little dizzy. john just chuckles above you, low and rumbling.

"i know, sweetheart, and i'm gonna reward you for it. take you to some beach somewhere, no phones or anythin', just you and me. we'll leave tomorrow, first thing. fuck, you feel so fuckin' good under me." he pulls his hand off of your clit to spit down onto his fingers before he starts rubbing at you again, his speed increased. you can't help the way your back arches and your eyes roll back, the whiniest, neediest whimper crawling out of your throat. "my big, soft, obedient wife. so fuckin' loyal, can't cum unless i say, eh? go on, then. cum f'me, cum right on my bloody cock."

it's like a switch has flipped, there's a roar in your ears as you feel yourself let go, clenching down around his cock as you shake apart underneath him. you're sure the faces and sounds you're making aren't cute, but that hardly matters. all that matters is the way his hands are gripping your hips, fingers dug into the plush expanse of them as he chases his own pleasure using your body, hips slamming into you with a frenzied, desperate pace until he barks out a grunt and collapses on top of you, knocking what little breath you have right out of your lungs. you're so sticky, between your comingled sweat and cum, but it doesn't even matter. you wrap your arms around john's shoulders and hold him close, petting at the back of his head as you press your temples together and try to catch your breath.

"meant what i said about us leavin' at daybreak, sweetheart. a few weeks of just you, me, and a beach someplace." he rumbles, rubbing the ridge of his nose against your ear, his beard tickling your cheek. "now lets get a shower and start packin' yeah? hup to, let's go."

john pats your cheek gently as he gets off of you and pulls out with a little grunt, helping you to your feet and swatting you on the ass playfully as you wobble to the shower. you can't help but giggle to yourself as you relish under the spray of hot water- it was silly to think that his attention was focused anywhere but work, that he'd run off with someone else. he's not that kind of man, you don't even know what you were so worried. sure, it was an extremely weird few weeks, but the important thing is that whatever it is he was dealing with has been handled now, and that he's back with you and taking you on a vacation to make up for some lost time together. he's really stepping his game up, normally when he apologizes he goes with roses and very good 'i'm sorry sex'.

it's not until hours later when you're in the air, riding in a military looking helicopter piloted by one of john's work friends, that you realize something's terribly, horribly wrong. he'd been so attentive before you left, packing your bags for you, opening the car doors for you, and handling all the travel arrangements. his hand never left your waist, and you'd caught him staring at you more than just a few times. it had made you a little giddy to think about how much cabana sex you'd probably be having soon. but up here in the air at however many thousands of feet off the ground you are, there's a shift.

john unbuckles his harness, gently kissing you on the lips as he pulls your cell phone out of your pocket. it's too loud to talk, the engines roaring as wind whips by the windows, so all you can do is furrow your brows in confusion as he moves to open the door. john pulls his own phone out, plus another one you haven't seen before, and chucks them out of the helicopter over the forest below.

you stare, wide-eyed, trying to process what you just witnessed when it finally clicks- something happened at john's work, and now the two of you are traveling far away on a moment's notice with no trackable devices.

"what did you do?! john, please, tell me, what did you do?!" the sounds of your horrified screaming is completely drowned out by the loud engine of the helicopter, but john apologetically rubs your back anyways as he smiles at you sadly.

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sandmoonbunny · 6 days

Text

+18, eventual smut, fae choso x afab!reader, fantasy au

“There’s stew on the stove, add more wood to keep it warm.”

Choso says while shoving jerky into his pack and finally tying it together.

“Don’t open the door for anyone, don’t forget to wrap your arms before leaving, don’t-“

“Big bro, I know what to do by now. Just go, I'll be okay.” Yuji focused on his shoes. Applying an adhesive to the worn soles, without realizing he was silently reminding Choso to buy him a new pair. Choso walked to the door, stopped in front of yuji and placed a hand on his head “i just worry about leaving you here. i don’t want anyone to find out who we are, what we are.” Yujis shoulders fell slack before grabbing chosos wrist and looking up to his eldest brother “I know you are. Don’t worry about me, I know you look forward to these days.”

Choso’s lip curled. He leaned down to give his youngest brother a kiss on his head before heading out the door.

The lower city was always bustling. Buildings constructed from brick and mud held merchants calling their best deals, the sick leaning against the walls praying to gods Choso didn’t know, and daughters of sin fanning themselves from the summer sun. Their hair sticky on their faces accompanying the beads of sweat rolling down their neck. He recognized a few of them, avoiding their cat-like eyes and constricting dresses. He tried to erase the memories of them following him down the street during the late hours on his way home. Luring him into the den of pleasures that he only visited on his toughest nights. Even though their songs of pleasure seemed to be the only attention he could receive from a woman. As lonely as he felt, he was never that lonely.

He politely nodded and waved his way out of the city. Walking down the dirt and muddied path, avoiding as much conversation as possible in his goal to pass through the towering gate of the city.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*

The familiar grass and dirt path outside of the city gate is indented with past and present traffic of hoof and feet. He avoided the eyes of passing backpack heavy travelers, starving families begging for refuge from the burly scarred men stationed along the gate. Placed there to intimidate and search for anyone who may not belong in the precious city of high fae. Though he should be used to it, He’s always surprised to see anyone beg them for entry. Their long swords and leather pants are as intimidating as the hounds beside them. A special type of breed that’s been bred and enchanted throughout history for terror and war. Larger than your household beast, their paws are as large as their companions' feet. Their buff build made it look as if they survived on a diet of protein alone. They sat straight up past their giant counterparts waistline, their thick wire coats and pointed ears matched their unusually sharp fangs jutting from their lips. Their glowing bloodshot eyes brings back memories of them. In his homeland, the dogs weren’t used for torture and war but instead for farming, hunting, household companions. Only when he arrived here did he learn of what they had become and it always left a bitter taste in his throat to know no one knew how kind the monsters could really be.

The path twisted and wound for miles, passing woods and streams until he came to a willow tree. Standing taller than ever her branches sang in the cool afternoon breeze, housing birds and insects that sang along with her. Walking off the path and right behind her. The tune of birds and bugs followed him into the thick wood. He heard the rustling of a creature, and after several leagues his shoulders slackened and he reached up to untie his hair. He let out a pleasurable sigh when his sore scalp felt relief and after he mumbled a spell, a crown of smoke appeared around his onyx locks. Disappearing with his pace to reveal two dark horns. They’re thick at the base and a shade lighter than his hair they spiral in on themselves to sharp plum tips.

After walking all evening, he finally came to a small clearing in the thick wood. Surrounded by lush grass crawling with wildlife, and glowing with the afternoon sun. He made his way to a creek nearby to refill his canteen before pushing back a curtain of vines and entering a small dark cave.

With a practiced movement of his hand, candles came to life and cast shadows on the jars, books, and trinkets lining the shelves of the den. After setting down his bag on an old wood table covered with books, he grabbed his bedroll and went outside to shake it free of dirt and debris. When he rose from the grass with his bedroll he looked to the trees, noticing the birds stopped chirping and cicadas stopped singing. Thinking nothing of it he made way to the cave but stopped in an attempt to not startle the small herd of deer by the cave who all seemed to face him in unison, ears perked with studying eyes. He knew the smallest of movement would surprise them and he knew best not to threaten the wildlife in these ancient woods.

There have been rumors for centuries of forest fae, nymphs and woodland elves, though none had been seen since the war of two major kingdoms. Not since a new ruling king had torn down a part of the ancient woods, pillaging and slaughtering villages of fae to build a kingdom that Choso now regretfully calls home. He’s spent hours in his sanctuary here, reading old texts that had long been banned and burned of the race that once resided in the woods he now hides in.

He’s never been the suspicious type but he knew the consequences of angering ancient magic so he stood there. Watching the deer move in unison to take a drink from the creek. He noticed a deer unlike the others; larger, darker and moving differently. He noticed the deer was different when he rose and wasn’t accompanied by the others. His fur chocolate and splattered with white like a fawn. His antlers are tall, sharp, splitting into branches with birds perched and bleeding with moss. His unnaturally colored eyes focused on Choso and it gave him goosebumps. He knew this creature held powerful magic and it gave him all the more reason to stay put. But with the sun now set and the blanket of stars in the sky he knew a better way to retreat without disturbing the herd.

Slowly, he set down his bedroll, not breaking away from the stag's potent stare to take off his tunic and allow the moonlight to wash his skin. Canting an internal spell, the fog appeared behind him and with the wind revealed large bat-like wings, tucked neatly by his shoulder blades but cowering above his head. He resisted the urge to sigh in relief, from the feel of the air on him, from being freed of the constricting cloak he keeps wrapped tight. The stag took several steps toward Choso, but in fear of an angered god he stretched his wings to reveal his impressive wingspan before one strong gesture had him off the ground, leaving dust in his wake and into the star coated sky.

He forgot about the stag, his bedroll, his poverty, his order from the king, and he even forgot about Yuji. The wind washing over him took all of his worries, responsibility , fears and discarded them to the forest floor. It felt good to fly, to feel the breeze on his skin, and especially to stretch his wings that usually lay dormant beneath a magical cloak. He loved it out here, where he could be free and away from the prejudice of the city. He always found himself missing home; His brothers and the freedom he once had. His bed, his lover, and just life as it once was before it was all stolen from him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

He stretched his arms and with it his wings. The moonlight clouded through the membrane between his joints, casting veins and scars of his past before tucking them neatly behind his back and grabbing the bedroll he dropped earlier.

Inside the cave he made sure to arrange the vines so that no light shone through, he had never come across hunters in these woods but it never hurt to be cautious. He heard rustling and peeked out to investigate. He saw a fox scurrying away, the source of the noise but also saw an amazing cluster of fireflies. Dancing in the night and signaling to one another He had never seen so many during his visit, no matter what the phase of the moon was. He smiled, thinking of Yuji when he was a boy. Before they found sanctuary in the city they lived in the ancient woods. Collecting fireflies every night and putting them into a jar, only to sit on the ground with Yuji in his lap so he could tent his wings around them and open the jar.

Lost in thought he didn’t notice the fireflies moving in unison towards the opposite end of the clearing. He watched them as they dodged the wildlife gathering close together. A fox with several kits, a few skunks and several birds perched atop the antlers of two stags.

He cautiously moved toward the group but they all barked and scurried away, revealing an antlered woman in their wake.

divider by @/strangergraphics

a/n: i don’t write fantasy aus or really get into any fae lore(?) but i wanted to try as this story has been rotting in my brain for a long time now. I’m always open to feedback <3 also if there’s misspelling or errors i dont proofread!! sorry i like my sanity too much :)

#going to read this later!

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sandmoonbunny · 7 days

Note

OOOO BABES RIDING JOHN PRICE WHILE HE SMOKES HIS CIGARS AND YOU DRINKING HIS FAVE WHISKEY AND ALSO HE HAS A MASSIVE BREEDING KINK DUH

seeing ‘breeding’ in an ask has my writing brain reacting in a fucking pavlov response

18+ fem!reader, breeding an all tha

his office is dimly lit, with only the old green banker’s lamp switched on, perched atop his desk surrounded by a sea of paper.

the leather chair behind it had been pushed back to make room for you.

you sat in price’s lap, thighs parted over his. one of your hands cups the back of his neck, fingers drawing circles through the small wisps of hair that dip down from the base of his head. your other hand has fingers wrapping about a crystal tumbler, the amber shine of expensive liquor appearing almost bottomless in the low light.

you took careful sips, your head spinning, both from the ebbing softness of inebriation, and the warm pleasure unfurling in the base of your stomach.

your captain rocked you against him with one large hand on the plush of your hip, his cock nestled inside you, your soaked cunt having taken him right to the root. like a good girl. the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbed against your engorged clit, puffy and slick, with each gentle rock against him.

he thumbed at the cigar in his other hand, flicking ash into the tray nearby. when he took a drag, a deep and languid inhale with his eyes boring into yours, he’d exhale it away from you. he didn’t like blowing it directly into your face. but the smell permeating the air was thick enough, and mixing with his musk, had the dizzying pleasure in your head amplifying.

“that feels good, doesn’t it, sweetheart?” price cooed, words muffled around the thick wrap of his cigar.

your eyes transfixed on the way his lips wrapped around the waxy paper, and for a moment, you recalled just that morning when he had those lips wrapped around your clit. warm and wet and so fucking good.

you nodded, whiskey strong on your tongue. you took another shaky sip, your hips rolling. the head of his cock brushed up deep inside you, stretching you out and moulding you to him.

“you can give me more than that,” john remarked, words uttered around an exhale of smoke. the hand he had on your hip squeezed gently. “come on. speak up.”

“yeah, feels good,” you answered, then downed the last of the bitter liquor. you blindly reached behind you, placing the glass onto the desk, before then placing your now-free hand onto price’s shoulder. “feels so good, john. y’always make me feel good.”

price hummed, pleased, placing his cigar in his mouth. he then used both hands to grapple your hips and lift you slightly. he then slammed you back down onto his cock, bucking his hips simultaneously, before setting his pace. his thick cock was now somehow driving deeper than before. you could feel him probing around in your gut, your chest, breathing him in. maybe he was looking for your heart. if so, he’d found it a long time ago.

you moaned, and john responded with a grunt of his own, removing one of his hands to pluck the cigar from his mouth and then place it in an adjacent ashtray. he angled his face downwards and blew the smoke across your lap— which you felt against you, tickling the bare skin of your tummy and thighs.

he then ducked forward, locking his lips against yours and licking inwards. his tongue, much like his cock, was warm and thick, heavy inside you. he licked against your teeth, your own tongue, consuming your moans before they even reached the back of your throat.

he tasted of tobacco smoke and spearmint. you tasted of expensive whiskey and a hint of chardonnay.

smooth, rich. tasting each other.

“john,” you moaned against his lips, and he pulled back, looking at you with glazed eyes and a slight rouge to his cheeks, visible beneath the hairs of his beard. “john, please.”

price looked down, taking one of his hands and smoothing his palm across your hip before sliding it across your tummy. he rubbed over your navel, pressing down as he rocked himself into you— and he imagined that his cock was sliding parallel to his hand, squeezed by your gummy walls and leaking pre-cum against the plug of your cervix.

the thought made him moan.

he pressed his hand firmly against your tummy, forcing a bubbled whine from the depths of your throat. price’s eyes darted upwards to watch the look of pleasure sweep across your face. angelic and beautiful and all his.

“my pretty girl an’ this pretty tummy,” he whispered, rubbing firm circles on the pudge of your stomach, still bouncing you up and down the length of his thick cock. “s’about time i fill it up, yeah?”

you moaned, head rolling backwards as the ball of pleasure in your stomach tightened, pulling your nerves taut with it. your body thrummed against his, heart beating wildly beneath the sanctum of your sternum. mind cloudy, all you wanted to do was nod. please.

john chuckled lowly. “aw, s’that right, sweetheart? want me to come inside you?”

“johnnn,” you whined, clawing at his shoulders now. your clit was throbbing as his cock slammed into that good spot inside you. you huffed out whines and mewls, pleasure building inside your lower stomach, right below where his hand pressed. your skin there was heating up fast. “pleaseee.”

“shh, s’alright my darling girl,” price chided, rutting the leaking head of his cock against your g-spot, grinding and bucking deep, rolling his hips. “i’ve got you, yeah? i’ve got you. an’ i’m gonna come deep inside this tight cunt.”

you mewled, louder this time, pleasure burning your lungs. you could feel him, clawing at the insides of your very being. he always stitched himself to you during intimate moments like these. it’s like he was apart of you the second he stuffed his thick cock into your hole.

“come riiiiight here,” john continued, rubbing your tummy and then moaning at the thought of it growing with his child. his hips stuttered momentarily, before he redoubled his efforts. “fill this pretty tummy up— get ‘er nice and fat for me.”

you gasped out, orgasm stretching thin across the precipice of pleasure tightening in your lower belly. “john!”

“come for me, sweetheart,” he said, pressing a chaste kiss to your parted lips. “squeeze my cock, go on.”

you came loudly, body spasming against his. the hands you had on his shoulders tightened, anchoring yourself to him so that you didn’t drift off and drown within your own pleasure.

“john, john, fuck—!” you babbled as your orgasm washed over you, and you practically missed the way john grunted with each chant of his name, cock slamming into you with heavy rolls of his strong hips.

his pace was slowing, lacing symmetry as his release dug its claws into him. it almost caught him by surprise, but he managed to ramble out, “‘m comin’, sweetheart, ‘m comin’— fuck, ‘m gonna come deep in this tight fuckin’ cunt, fill you up with my kids. ‘m gonna get you pregnant, baby.”

he came after that, head slotting into the dewy space between your neck and shoulder, mouth sucking at the scented pulse of your throat. he bucked and rolled his hips as his cock twitched, coming thick, viscous ropes of seed right up against the plug of your womb. it was warm, especially with his large hand still on your tummy, and you fought the urge to giggle amidst your blissful, post-orgasmic haze.

“price,” you whispered, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your throat and jaw. his cock was slowly softening inside you, plugging his cum inside you. “price, we’ve got to move.”

he grunted, wrapping his arms around you, still sucking at the skin of your neck. the warmth of his arms and chest put you at ease, and you relaxed into his hold, melting into the comfortable aura that your husband provides you with.

#jesus fucking christ

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sandmoonbunny · 7 days

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32 / 1.4k / soap soulmate au, part 9

...

Soap goes still and quiet, his grip loosening. "People?"

"Human trafficking."

"How do you know?"

"Because security is quadrupled in the basement lounge. The client and his inner circle are scheduled to move downstairs after midnight. They're calling it an afterparty."

"You're sure it's not drugs?"

"I'm sure. I saw the dossier given to security downstairs."

Soap's mouth twists. The target sure as hell isn't leaving this place alive if he can help it. “Could’ve mentioned that earlier."

“I tried. Who do you think tipped Laswell off?"

That gives Soap pause. "Laswell? You’ve been in touch with her?"

"Once." You curl your fingers tighter into his vest and grab his chin to make him look at you. "Johnny, listen. If you kill him now, everything locks down. You won't be able to get into the basement. You need to get down there quietly with the element of surprise."

"What have you got in mind? Covert extraction, no prep, no briefing?" He raises one hand as if to cover yours, to trace along your knuckles. After so long, he can’t help it. He just wants to touch you. "That's a lot to ask. What was your plan if we didn’t show? Go it alone?"

"Figure it out as I go along, I guess."

"Christ, you're a headache." Soap's hand tightens around yours, gently pulling it off his collar to bring your hand up to his cheek. He turns up your palm and presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. You're on his side this time. He can't put into words how light it makes him feel.

He makes a low sound in his throat before he pulls back again. He clicks on his radio. "Captain, LT, you'll want to hear this."

While Soap explains the situation on his team's comms, you put yourself back together, checking your rifle and your gear. He watches you the whole time. You’re not what he remembers—not the cornered animal he met in that interrogation room before. You're in your element. If he could, he’d drag you away, take you back to some safehouse somewhere, and focus on getting to know you in every way and every position he knows. Patience, he tells himself. After this mission, he'll have all the time in the world.

After the brief conference--and Laswell confirming she’d received an anonymous, cryptic tip about stolen goods in the target’s favorite Swiss Alps resort--he turns back to you. "Price wants the target no matter what. We're pullin' back to regroup and plan our strategy."

Your stomach drops. "What? There's no time."

"You said it yourself: we have no intel, no time to prep, and no good way in. Civilians everywhere. If it goes tits up, people die." He grabs your hand and pulls you into the hall, heading for the stairwell. "We're fallin’ back and regrouping while we still can."

You jerk your hand out of his, stumbling back. "We have intel. I was briefed on this mission. I can get downstairs,” you argue.

You mean alone. Soap doesn't like that. "Not happening,” he snaps, his voice rough with frustration. He glares down at you, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenches his teeth. “I know you can more than handle yourself, but not against a hundred of these bastards."

"Those bastards are my coworkers," you retort. "They won't look twice at me."

That's the worst part. Your familiarity with this place makes you an undeniable asset for this mission—that’s why he sought you out. The reason that’ll be in the official report, anyway. Damn it. He's torn between the knowledge that he should be happy you’re willing to help his team out and his desire to throw you over his shoulder and carry you out of the building.

"You said yourself security's quadrupled down there. If it goes loud, you're done. I'm not lettin’ you play hero. No. Ain't happenin'."

“Then we find a different plan,” you argue. You've never met someone so hard-headed.

"She might have a point," Gaz's voice says in Soap’s earpiece. "If we find a way to bring security up to the ground floor instead, you and Ghost can get down there and find the hostages. Security's already jumpy with the power out--give them a reason to come upstairs and they will. It’s just a matter of finding a distraction. And we've got snipers posted. Distractions are easy."

Hearing Gaz, you nod. “I'll take the target and lead him into view for your snipers.”

Soap curses under his breath, running a hand over his mohawk. He wishes he’d turned his radio off. He doesn't like putting you at risk.

You huff and sling your rifle over your back. Time is slipping away. "I need to find the target. I'll wait for your signal and--"

Soap grabs your arm before you can walk past him. "Jesus, stop. Give me a minute to think."

"We don't have--"

"Time, I ken." Soap's grip tightens. He tugs you against him again, one hand going to the back of your neck to hold you in place. "You're not goin'. Not without me."

"That's ridiculous!" Your voice climbs despite the way he forces you closer--folds his arm around your lower back and pulls you chest-to-chest. "They’ll see you. And they’re not just going to arrest you, okay—they’ll kill you."

Soap’s expression tightens. "How do I know you won't abscond with the target? Wouldn’t be the first time you left us high and dry."

You close your mouth and stare at him. He’s worried you’ll betray him. Your gaze falls to his chest, silent, because it wouldn't be the first time.

At the look on your face, Soap’s chest feels like it’s caving in. But he keeps going before he loses his nerve. He doesn't care if it's selfish. "You disappeared. No word. No message. Not even a thank you. I'm not lettin' that happen a second time. One wrong move and I'm pullin' you out."

He lets go of you, unhooks the collar radio from around his neck, and puts it around yours instead. "Tell my team when and where you have the target in place. They'll take care of the rest."

You put the earpiece in place and adjust the bit around your neck. "Fine."

He stands still, arms crossed, as you adjust your gear one more time. Your nerves are shot.

You glance at him, an apology stuck in your throat. "I was going to contact you, I just..."

"Just what? Had more important things going on? Assholes to protect?" he snaps. He stalks closer, towering over you again. The frustration flashing through his eyes eclipses the sudden, haunted look of a man who hasn't slept well in weeks.

You press your hand to the armor on his chest and lower your voice. "I get it if you don't trust me. Just... trust that I want your target dead as much as you do."

"Promise me you won't disappear on me again."

You bite the inside of your lip and put your hand on his cheek. Something in your chest twinges when he leans into it. "I promise," you lie.

"Good." He closes his eyes and lowers his forehead to yours. He breathes deeply, committing your touch to memory.

Then he opens his eyes and angles your jaw up toward his, his mouth slanting over yours in a hard, possessive kiss that empties your brain completely. When he pulls away, his eyes glimmer.

"You’d better stand by that promise, darlin’,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “I let you go in Las Almas because you didn’t want my protection yet. Could’ve taken you with me whether you liked it or not, but I couldn’t stand the thought of you hatin’ me. Even if it meant keepin’ you safe.” The cool leather on his knuckles brushes tenderly against your neck. "But those reservations aren’t holdin’ me back anymore. I will do what needs to be done if you play games with me. You understand?"

You stare at him, heart thumping strangely. "I don't think that's... necessary."

“I hope it’s not.” He cups your jaw in his hands and brings your lips to his again. The kiss this time is gentler, softer—just a slow, intimate press that melts you completely. You’re breathless by the time he lifts his head. "When this is over, you're mine."

You nod weakly, not trusting yourself to speak.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / [part 9] / part 10

more Soap / masterlist tag

#´'i promise' you lie' ARGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!#putting this fic in a jar and shaking it

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sandmoonbunny · 7 days

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Thinking about being someone the taskforce boys because very close to, but you don’t work directly with them. Perhaps a medic that they gravitate towards after missions and training incidents. After a a few months you find that the dating pool dries up, anyone you think would be a good candidate for a date starts to flake on you with no notice. Even just trying to get a one night stand becomes harder and harder. Prospective partners just seem to… run scared, even when you seem to be getting on so well.

Sometimes, when a date is agreed, you’ll end up having to cancel because work gets in the way, such as Gaz needs your attention after Soap landed a punch during sparring practice. Once Ghost was having a flare up of his shoulder injury and no one else in the med bay wanted to cover for you because that big bastard was in a bad mood and intimidating everyone. Funnily enough he was perfectly sweet once you appeared and you spent a few hours strapping the injury and chatting.

This goes on the months, the longest dry spell of your life, and the frustration is painted on your face everyday. If you don’t get laid soon you feel you are going to lose your mind. The constant let down was enough to make you weep in your lowest moments. Coupled with the increasing amount of time you were spending around the Taskforce, huge slabs of muscle and menace, you were on a hair trigger.

You’d promised yourself not to turn to them though, they didn’t need some groupie chasing them around, not another one anyway. There were plenty of people on base throwing themselves at Soap and Gaz, and watching them get turned away was painful. Even Price and Ghost had their own fan clubs, but no one was bold enough to be as open about trying to get into their bunks. What chance would you stand with them when they turned away men and women you couldn’t begin to compare yourself to? Enter to stay friends with them.

In the end, you found out about a private club in town that promised anonymous sex in a safe and controlled location. You made your mind up and filled out the application. A few weeks later you find yourself in one of their cubicles, naked, and staring at the padded bench that joins the wall. At the end of it, a large hole with a curtain stares back at you. All you had to do was lie down on the bench and put your lower half through the hole. On the other side, someone would… join you. Or several someones. You’d signed up for multiple partners, maybe doing the form drunk wasn’t wise.

Swallowing your nerves, you take a deep breath and get onto the bench, shuffling down so your feet and hips slotted through the gap. Almost immediately warm, large hands grip your ankles and guide them into stirrups gently. You barely hide the jolt of shock and the accompanying squeak of shock, and the pair of hands run over your knees and shins slowly, comfortingly. It’s an oddly tender gesture for someone who doesn’t know who is the other side of the wall.

Then your eyes roll back into your skull as hot breath fans across your pussy. Finally, you sigh in relief as a tongue licks a light strip along the seam of your pussy. Once the mystery man begin to lick and suck expertly at your clit, making your toes curl and you breath coming in urgent gasps, you barely register the scratch of beard against your delicate skin or notice there’s more than one set of rough hands on your legs.

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

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❝ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 !! ❞

❝ WHEN YOUR HOT COWORKER WANTS TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD, OF COURSE YOU'LL SAY YES !! ❞

✧ pairing: vampire! choso kamo x f!reader

✧ summary: choso kamo is your coworker who seems to hate your guts - even though you're both always stuck working together, but the only reason he does is because he wants nothing more than to eat you up -- blood and all.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, modern au, coworkers to lovers, vampire!choso, vampire bites are an aphrodisiac for both the vampire and the victim, no real dub/con b/c these two are already down bad for the other, mutual pining, scent kink, blood kink, blood sucking from neck / wrist, implied masturbation (m!), oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing, fanart by @ / yume041624

✧ wc: 7,193

It wasn’t as if you weren’t sure your coworker hates you—

You were sure of it.

He avoided you like the plague whenever the two of you were working on the same project. He always did his best to reply over email, avoid in person meetings, and he always seemed to get sick whenever the two of you had to greet the client together. But you didn’t know why — you hadn’t done anything to offend him, unless he had mistaken your hello for spitting in his face. And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that he was exactly your type — fucking hot.

Dark locks tied into a bun with a few strands escaped its binding by the end of the day, his neat nails painted a dark purple that rifled through paperwork, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and lovely, deep eyes that barely had stolen a glance at you but you could spend a millennia exploring—

In summary, you had it bad.

And he didn’t seem to know — or worse, he knew and he hated it. Or you.

But maybe something could change today, you flicked a pen up and down between two fingers as you stole a glance at him across the now empty office, the two of you were stuck working overtime on this project for two days now. But he still had managed to avoid you — but not today when you were stuck in the same conference room sorting through boxes of files that your client insisted must be done today.

You were getting some sleep at a hotel across the street, taking a quick nap and shower before returning, but Choso looked like he hadn’t slept in days. And you didn’t know why.

You glanced up at him between sorting through boxes, and you saw him adjust his collar, loosening his tie, fabric gripped tightly under white knuckles. His head was hunched over, his expression hidden behind the box in front of him, but you saw a hint of red in his eyes. You bit your lip, now you were worried.

Maybe for the wrong reasons.

“Choso, are you okay?”

No, no, he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay after working overtime for two days straight. He wasn’t okay being stuck in this tiny, dimly fluorescent lit conference room reviewing files that would only prove fruitless and a waste of time for all parties, and what made it worse was you—

No, not you, his canines grew, sharp fangs digging into the soft flesh of his bottom lips,

Blood.

Your blood.

The very thing running through your veins and arteries, pumping through every crevice of your body through your heart — crimson stained your insides as it would your skin if pierced or cut — and it was the very thing that Choso wanted more than anything else.

But no, it couldn’t be anyone else’s — he bit his bottom lip as you stretched, your blouse and hair moving ever so slightly and exposing your neck — it had to be yours.

He pressed his hand against his face, palm covering the bottom half of his face as he forced himself to avert his gaze from you, all too unaware of his thirst — the very same that pulled his muscles taut and made his mouth water at the thought of you. His face was flushed — that much was for sure, as he felt the heat radiate from his face.

And he knew one thing for sure — that you were the one who’s blood would taste like the divine personified. But that’s why he had worked so hard to avoid you, to make sure he didn’t spend any time alone with you, lest his logic and sense fail him at once and he ends up with his fangs pressed to the nape of your neck at once.

No, he had decided he couldn’t do that. There were far too many times he had seen other vampires find partners this way — succumb to the urge — the draw of bloodlust — only for their partner to grow addicted to the pleasure that comes from the bite, and the relationship only fell apart when it was the only thing holding the relationship together. The bite could only do so much, it was an aphrodisiac for both parties, but not a miracle worker — chemistry burns bright and fast, but it could not make love exist if it wasn’t there to begin with.

And his avoidance of you had made any relationship between the two of you hard to happen — especially when every word you spoke sounded sweet and honeyed from those pretty lips. It didn’t help that he was reserved to begin with, but you made all words fall from his mind with only a glance — so what would a conversation do to him — much less a kiss?

“Choso, have you reviewed this one yet?” You ask, grabbing a box from his side, “I finished my half so I thought I’d help you finish yours,”

He shakes his head, “Go ahead. Thank you,” he barely manages through nearly gritted teeth, with barely a glance up — fuck, it didn’t help that you were always so kind, good at your job, and so pretty—

Fuck, the document he held crumpled under his tight grip, he shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Why had he let it get this bad? A few overtime shifts weren’t usually a problem for him — but being stuck with you? It was torture in the highest order — especially since he hadn’t been able to get home to his reserves at home and he had just run dry of the bottles he kept on himself this morning.

He sees you stretch again, this time your neck, and a heat began to creep on as he watched right over the top of the document he read.

Oh, he was so fucked.

You were going to ask him.

You were going to confront him about why he avoids you. You had made up your mind — you were tired of walking on eggshells without a reason. If you were going to be stuck working with him on future projects, especially with this client, he needed to tell you if this was how it was going to be.

And yet, you still sat, rereading the same document over and over, as the two of you were almost done wrapping up your work for the night. Choso was placing the last box he finished up away, a sigh stuck in his throat as he got to his feet.

“I’m going to head home,” he gets to his feet, a sigh on his lips, as he rakes his fingers through his black locks, “do you need help cleaning up?”

“No, I’m fine,” and he’s grabbing his things, as you bite your lip and stare at the shiny laminate of the conference table in front of you — fuck it, “I did have a question,” as he’s walking by in the doorway of the conference room, as your scramble to your feet, reaching for him, your fingers brushing his shoulder by mistake, and he’s tensing, “sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“It’s fine, what’s your question?” His reply is curt but he won’t even turn to face you, his fingers fiddling with the watch on his wrist. You furrow your brow, was it you or was his body shaking?

“I just wanted to ask you if you had some sort of problem—“ and then his bag clattered against the floor, contents spilling out, as he supported himself against the door frame, slumped against it, as his fingers gripped it.

You gasped, a quick brush of your fingers to his shoulder again, “Are you ok? Choso?”

Choso’s head swam — he could barely hear anything — every sound drawn out and garbled, as if he had plunged his head underwater and words were echoing in his ears. He felt his knees buckle under his weight — and he can’t think straight — and for a moment of clarity he realizes why—

Your touch — it was a spark amongst a field of wheat in a dry heat — and it was enough to set his entire body alight. And now—as he barely held himself together, muscles tensed and eyes fluttering — a haze of heat blazing ribbons up his body, and down — right to his cock.

Fuck. He’s swallowing, his muscles taut, as he tugs at his collar, even the brush of his clothes against his skin enough to drive him to the point of insanity. And it doesn’t help that your scent fills his nose, honeyed and cloying and he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing the scarlet gaze would do nothing but elicit a scream.

“Please leave,” he says through gritted teeth, he can imagine the concern written across your expression, “go—“

“I’m not leaving you like this alone,” fuck, you only draw closer, the brush of your fingers against his shoulder enough to have him nearly keening for your touch — he’d nearly do anything you want for one touch, one drop of your blood, but he can’t — he can’t, “do you need water? What do you need?” And you’re helping him sit down on the floor of the conference room, as he clutches his bag to his front, desperate for something put between the two of you.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I needed, just go,” he’s pleading, head falling back against the wall — his mind is hazy, he can barely think about anything else but you — the way your soft lips are pursed in worry, the way your hands are so gentle against his skin and would feel so good gliding across his body, the way when he saw the multitudes contained within your eyes, but he only wanted to live in the warmth of your loving gaze, “I don’t want to hurt you,”

The words come as a confession, a last plea for you to leave, but you seemingly only chuckle, furrowing your brow, “how could you hurt me when you’re more terrified than I am?”

And oh you were so ignorant that you were inches away from a monster — a rabbit in a lion’s den, while you thought of him as a sheep — and his words weren’t enough to convince you, but maybe something else would.

His eyes flutter open to find your own, and he finds his own reflection in your irises — a blood red reflected back in your lovely gaze, as your mouth falls open, brow wrinkled, and breath caught.

“I-I-what?” and he sees your confusion written across your face, your fingers shaking as they brush against his cheek. Your touch sets his senses alight, a soft groan as he leans into your hand, his nose brushes against your wrist, and the thrum of your pulse ringing in his ears. His gaze finds yours — half moonshine with how it’s glazed over, “how?”

And his lips part, when your thumb drags down his cheek, hypnotized and entranced under a spell he didn’t mean to cast. He turns his head so your fingers catch on his lips, parting almost obediently, flashing fangs that has a flicker of confusion swallowed by horror and then consumed by fascination completely.

“Choso, what is—“

“You should go,” he murmurs again, “you can’t give me what you need,”

And you’re speechless, as if you wonder if you’re seeing what you are — but the longer you stare, the quicker it seems to sink in. You swallow.

“So you need my—“ and the sentence is cut off seemingly by the absurdity of the situation, as you mutter to yourself, “this can’t be fucking real,”

“It doesn’t have to be, you can leave right now,” he pants, sweat slipping down his forehead, and you’re still frowning.

“What will happen to you if I leave?” And he can’t think straight enough to lie, your fingers find his neck, to check his temperature but all it does is drive it higher.

“Nothing you need to worry about—“

“Well, I am worried,” you cut him off, squirming in place, “if you just take some of my blood, will that—“

“It’s not just that,” he’s shaking his head, fangs nearly grazing his bottom lip as he sighs, “do you know what your blood will do to me?” His eyes seem to flash, a chill down your spine, “but more importantly worry what it will do to you,”

And you stiffen, the spell waxing and waning as fickle as the moon never was, and that the thing about humans — you could never count on them to be consistent as all other things were. A beast can be predicted — their moves largely the same, caution put before hurt, but man gained consciousness and lost all reliability.

And you were no beast, not like him.

“What would…it do?” Your words are hesitant, carefully chosen, small jumps across stones rather than a leap across a rushing river.

And he lets the raging white water brush against your skin when his hand cups your chin, leaning closer and letting his breath warm your skin, “To reduce the pain, my bite is like an aphrodisiac,” his thumb rubs back and forth across your cheek, “you won’t be able to stop yourself, and since your blood would do the same to me — I wouldn’t be able to help myself either,” his nose brushes against your cheek, as he leans in to whisper in your ear, “you should go.”

But you don’t, silence settles over the two of you, until you choose to break it, “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

That’s what you had said — but how did that land you here?

You both walked to your hotel room in silence, his flushed face hidden behind a mask, dead on his feet as he trailed behind you to the room. It was lucky you had a room right across the street from your workplace. You didn’t know what you would have done if you had to stay in the office — the blood would have been hell to scrub off the wood.

And now here you sat after your shower, hair still damp as you toyed with the edge of your fluffy bathrobe, as you chewed on your lip. What had you gotten yourself into? You listened to his shower run, a sigh on your lips — it was fine. It would be fine. You just stick to the plan. You’d let him drink your blood, and he would lock himself in the bathroom — and you both would ride out your…symptoms alone.

Fuck, you bury your face in your hands, what the hell are you doing? And that’s when the water stops — the quiet rustle and shuffling of himself in the bathroom makes your heart leap into your throat, as you sit looking down at the floor.

“Are you okay?” his voice makes you jump even as you expect it, as your head snaps back to look at him. His black hair still wet from his shoulder, long locks clinging to his hair, droplets ran down his bare abs, your eyes following one down right to his happy trail only hidden away by his boxers—

Fuck.

He only continues to towel himself off, before grabbing his undershirt to pull it over his torso, as you choose to avert your eyes then — as if him getting dressed was any more scandalous than his shirtless state, “I am, I’m just a little—“

“You don’t have to,” and your eyes slide back to him, his face was still significantly ragged, dark bags and fatigue clung to body worse than the water did — looking more like a corpse than a bloodsucker, “it’s not too late for you to leave—“

“No I decided I was going to help, so I’m going to,” you say, and his brow forms the same peaks and valleys he had all day — and you were sure his skin would remember the carvings at this rate, “what?”

“Why do you want to help me?” he mumbles, arms crossed, a distinct flush in his cheeks settling that surely wasn’t just from his shower, “I don’t get it, we barely have spoken—“

“We have spoken, our first week,” and his eyes snap to yours, “you may not remember, but you helped me,” and your cheeks burned, squirming in place as you couldn’t quite meet his gaze, “I had messed up on a project, I made a huge mistake on a document, one that could have costed the company a lot of money, and my job,” you murmur, “but you also took responsibility, even though it wasn’t your fault,”

“I didn’t catch the mistake either, so it was my fault too—“ and you shake your head.

“It was mostly mine still,” you offer a small smile, “and so if I can help you like this, I want to,” you shift, swallowing as an awkward silence falls over you both that you break, “why did you want to shower first anyway? You were ready to pass out earlier,”

“I still am,” he admits, and you notice the subtle shake of his hands, “but I figured the shower would make us both feel a little more comfortable, and it helped to…calm me down,” he cleared his throat, and it slowly dawned on you, cheeks burning, “again, are you sure—“

“I’m going to close you off in the bathroom, and we should be able to ride it out — you said you don’t lose control of yourself or become violent,” and he shakes his head, “then it should be fine,” you have him draw closer, his soft steps against the plush carpet fell silent as he sat beside you on the bed. The creak of the bed as he sat on the other side a little awkwardly, “you should be closer,” and he’s nodding, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

“I know, I’m just trying to…prepare,” he gives a shaky sigh, “your scent is—“ he scrubs a hand down his face, “it’s hard for me to be around, especially when we’re so close,”

“My scent?” And his hand covers the bottom half of his face, turned away, as he murmurs.

“Your scent is particularly strong — it’s…enticing enough for me to be distracted all day if I don't keep my distance,” and the pieces sink into place.

“You avoided me at work because of that?” And he nods, as you bite your lip, a small chuckle on your lips, “I thought you hated me,”

And his head snaps to you, blinking, “I don’t hate you far from it—“ he cuts himself off, his fingers grip the edge of the bed, “I’ve seen you in the office — you’re always so considerate, kind, and you always try to help, even people who don’t deserve it—“ he cuts off, “I don’t want to take advantage of your—“

You move closer, his breath hitching as you shrug your robe off your shoulders, leaving only your bra covering your chest, “You do deserve it,” Fuck, he was so close — you could feel the need come off of him in waves, the soft pants of his breath as his eyes fluttered. And you offer your neck to him, brushing your hair away — a silent offer.

You see him bite his lip out of your periphery, but he’s leaning down, warm breath fans across your skin, as he ran a finger down your neck, “Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice a raspy whisper, “you smell so good,” and you nearly shiver as his lips brush your skin — soft lips against your skin, the barest brush, as if he’s trying to acclimate you to his touch. But it only stoked a fire — the same flame burning even before today, the one that wanted more than a bite at the apple — you wanted him down to his core.

His lips press another kiss to your neck, lingering longer, as he noses the skin there, and you’re biting your lip, the want bubbling into boiling need, “Please—“ you gasp as his fangs graze your neck now, the sharp points lightly dragging across the muscle, right before his fangs sink into your neck.

Your lips part, head nearly lolling back into his warm palm cupping the nape of your neck. Any pain only registers for a split second before disappearing under whitehot pleasure. Your blood turns to heady wine straight from his bite, his muffled moan vibrates against you, sending a wave of heat right between your thighs. Your head spins, all logic melts with as the wildfire only consumes — leaving only want behind.

Coherent thoughts don’t form — instead fractured thoughts spiral into a chant. You want more. You want more of his touch, his body, his words. You want him.

You want him.

And when he’s pulling his fangs from your neck, the sound of his teeth pulled from your skin only rings in your ears for a moment, before blood roaring in your ears replaces it. Burning — it felt as if every part of your body was aching, a deep throbbing with no end in sight. You glance at Choso — and only one cure.

Fuck, his skin looks so lovely when flushed a pretty pink — nearly a scarlet that lit a trail up his neck and across his cheekbones all the way to his ears. The heavy pants that left his lips did little to assuage the desire for him — his defined chest rising and falling with each breath he took, his long jet black locks hanging like a curtain around his gaze.

Your fingers are reaching for him, “Cho—“ and he’s shaking his head, as his muscles tense, as he leans away from you.

“Give me a moment,” so you do — you pull back, and he’s rising to his feet, shaky still, but seemingly for a different reason as he turns and flashes the rising tent in his boxers.

And you press your thighs together, wondering just how big he was — eyes fixed on the growing damp spot on his boxers — how he would shiver when you squee3/ him at the base in your hand, what sounds he would make when you’d flick your tongue against his weeping tip, and how he would moan your name when he sunk into you—

You were so fucked — if your drenched panties were anything to judge by.

“Choso, please—“ and he already knows what you’re asking for between the lines of your plea, and his eyes find yours, his dark gaze catches yours, ensnared in the blackhole that only pulls you under and apart, pinned underneath him.

“It’s just the bite, we can’t,” he’s covering his lips, as he takes steps away from you, towards the bathroom, “we just have to wait until it passes. It won’t take too long—”

“What if it’s not just your bite? Not for me,” you murmur, and the words are being spilled from your lips like honeyed truth with no bitter aftertaste, “it hasn’t been for me,” his brow is furrowing as if he can’t imagine a single person liking him, “I’ve spent the last year working with you and all i know is I wanted nothing more than to be the one you smile at — the same soft way you do when you your little brother visits you at work,”

And he’s swallowing, a deeper blush on his cheeks, “you noticed?”

“I also noticed how you always bring the person you work with their favorite coffee order, the way you try to make others feel valued when the company doesn’t even do it, and how you always do your best — even when it comes at your own expense,” it’s so easy to say these things, but it only makes you long for him more, “let me do more — let me take care of you—“

And he’s covering his mouth with his forearm, “do you know what you’re saying?” you slowly get up from the bed, taking careful steps towards him, “our heads are clouded, we aren’t—“ and he swears under his breath but he doesn’t resist your approach, the bathroom door right behind him, “I don’t want to hurt you—“

“Do you feel the same for me?” and his gaze softens as he meets yours, “because I get the feeling you do — at least you like my scent,” a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, “hopefully not just my scent?”

And you didn’t know it was possible for a vampire to be this pink in the face, but Choso was — and you weren’t sure if it was your words or your closeness, “It’s not just your scent,” he’s mumbling against his arm until he’s pulling it away, to reveal his lips colored a faint scarlet from your blood, “I have feelings for you — I have for a while,”

God, he was fun to tease, “What’s a while?” you’re murmuring, his lips part, flashing his fangs while he does. His eyes avert from your face, only to land on your neck, grazing over the bite mark he left, and you decide to spare him, “but if it’s been a while for you and for me, then—” he’s shivering again, a sigh caught in his throat, muscles tensed as if he was a tiger ready to pounce.

“It’ll be hard to stop once we start — we should think—“ your fingertips brush his cheek, his eyes falling shut at your touch, the want inside you only grew, as you felt him lean into you.

“Who said we’re going to stop?” and he breaks, his hand is sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his words nearly muttered against it.

“Are you sure?”

“I am—” and that’s all he needed.

In a flash you’re pinned on the bed, blinking as you glance at the spinning ceiling fan for a moment before he’s leaning over you.

His eyes are tinted with red and laced with desperation, fangs flashing as his fingers cup your chin and he leans down, “I’ll show you how much I like you, pretty girl.”

“Oh, Cho-so,” your arms are wrapped around his torso, pulling him impossibly closer, his hot tongue dragging up the side of your neck, licking at the rivers of blood dripping down, “fuck, please—“

“Can’t waste a single drop, not when you taste so good,” he’s murmuring, nearly hypnotized by your taste — his sticky saliva and your blood mixed together, “fuck, I could kiss every inch of you and it wouldn’t be enough,”

“Please, I need more,” and he’s chuckling, nibbling at the base of your neck, a whine parting your lips that made him nearly bust a nut then and there, “please—“

And his lips find yours in a searing kiss, fangs lightly biting your bottom lip, swallowing your gasps with a smirk, and how is it possible your lips are even sweeter? It was as if you were made of molasses, and he was more than happy to indulge. He parts your lips, dragging a thumb down your kiss bitten lips, your saliva clinging to his skin.

“You know how long I wanted this? Had to touch myself in the shower to stop myself from pinning you the moment we entered the room,” he murmurs, recalling how his fingers had reached for his cock, already nearly covered in pre, his thumb running across his slit was nearly enough to make him burst. But it paled in comparison to the sight of you, disheveled under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, chest rising and falling fast, and your lips nearly begging him to kiss you again and again, “and now I want to take my time, love,” but he doesn’t, instead he bends down again, to nip and suck marks all over your skin, savoring the drops of blood he steals from each one — a constellation dotting your neck and collarbone to remind anyone that you were his. And his fingers find yours, just as he was yours.

And you whimper, as he kisses his way down your arm, sweet pecks dotting down, until he reaches your wrist. He noses it, feeling the rush of your pulse underneath your skin, the sweet scent of your blood clouded his mind, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin, as he flashes a gaze upward for your silent permission. You nod.

Your nod was all he needed, before his fangs sinks into your wrist. It was potent — you were potent rather — he had grown used to his normal supply of blood, blood that he had acquired through the proper channels, and though it quenched his thirst, it never satisfied it.

You were more than satisfaction itself — you were ecstasy incarnate, and he was utterly addicted from the moment he had his lips pressed against your lovely skin. Scarlet dripped from the bite and the corners of his mouth — the blood flooded his mouth, an unending pool of need that only grew with each second.

And as he pulled away, blood dripping from his lips, he watched your eyes flutter open, legs spread for him, as he licked his lips clean.

“Such a waste to let even a single drop go,” he drags his tongue up the rivulets of blood that ran down your wrist, and a whimper escapes your lips, and his lips curl, “what do you want, love? Tell me,”

And you’re biting your lip, averting your gaze, but he’s guiding it back to his, “Choso, please, I need you to touch me,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks burning, “please—“

He pulls your hand away, and kisses your lips again in a bruising kiss, before he’s pressing sweet kisses down your body, easing the straps of your bra down. He kisses the swell of your breasts, one after the other, making you squirm in place.

“Pretty girl,” he’s murmuring, his lips kissing each one of your erect nipples, caught in a thick haze of lust, “so good for me,” and he’s lighting a trail of kisses down your body, and he’s resisting the urge to mark up every inch of you — no, there would be time for that later, his eyes flicking up to meet your half lidded gaze, “gonna be good for me?” His skillful fingers slide under the elastic of your panties, snapping the fabric against you, making you gasp, “either way, I might just eat you up,”

A shaky chuckle escapes your lips, “Promise?” And he chuckles, as he’s spreading your lips, leaning down to press a hot kiss to your inner thigh.

“Be careful what you wish for,” his teeth graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, before running over the mark with his tongue, before his fingers are running over your drenched panties, and it takes everything in him not to sink his fangs into your plush thigh, but no — he’s carefully tugging down your underwear down your legs — he had to stay focused.

His breath catches at the sight of your dripping cunt and swollen clit, glistening with your juices that told him just how much you wanted this — and it was enough to nearly have him cumming in his boxers. And then the sweet scent of your precum becomes too much for him—

And he can’t wait.

His tongue flicks against your clit, making a squeal escape your lips, fingers finding purchase in the long strands. It’s too good — judging by the way your hips nearly rut into his lips, while your own moans his name. But it was even better for him, as he groans against your pussy, licking the pre sticking to his lips.

“How do you taste so good? Sweetest thing I’ve tasted, as good as every part of you,”

You gasp when his fingers spread your folds, “Cho—“ and he’s circling a tip of one of his lithe fingers around your entrance teasingly.

He hums lightly, “Can’t decide whether I want to use my fingers or my mouth, love,” he murmurs in contemplation, whilst his tongue teases your needy clit, “what do you think, baby?”

“I need you—anything—“ and he’s licking a stripe up your sweet pussy, before he’s sinking a finger into your fluttering walls, “Choso—fuck—“ and the wet squelch of your cunt and the feel of your fluttering walls around his digit makes his dick twitch in his boxers, “s’good,”

And you’re melting into his touch, your juices soaking his fingers and wrist as he fucks you with his finger, knuckle deep in your warm walls, rubbing at your clit with his thumb.

And you’re so sensitive, every move of his finger has your walls squeezing him tight, his other hand sneaking into his boxers to palm at his erection, “Cho, I need more—“ and he’s adding a second finger to the first, fucking you deep until he finds that spot — and that’s enough for you to fall apart.

You cum, back arching as you do, stars bursting behind closed eyes, as you moan his name. He’s fucking you through your orgasm, walls fluttering around his fingers, thighs tensing around his hand. You come down from your high, chest nearly heaving from your pants, as he eases his fingers from your pussy. A soft sigh leaving your throat as your cunt flutters around nothing.

Your eyes flutter open to see Choso licking his fingers clean — still sticky with your release — fangs flashing with the part of his lips, and you shiver at the sight. He’s leaning back down, pressing kisses to your thighs, before his tongue drags up your leaking pussy, making you gasp.

“Please, Choso—fuck—“ and he’s smirking, glancing up with lips glossy with your release, placing a chaste kiss to your puffy clit, your eyes falling to his hand palming his boxers, “let me touch you—“

“Not yet, baby,” his tongue circles your slit, circles growing faster before sinking into your insides, nose bumping against your swollen clit, as he laps at your messy slit, “not until I’ve swallows every drop of you,” his fangs pinch at your clit.

It’s already too much for you — your second orgasm sneaks up on you — a coil wound tight as he slurps and sucks at your cunt, all too eager to taste every last drop. And oh, he does — until he uses his thumb to rub at your clit, and it’s too much—

You squirt all over his face, soaking his face and fingers with your release, his lips more than eager to lap up every drop of it. Even as he pulls away, your cum is dripping down his chin, his dark eyes lidded as he looks up at you.

And he can’t wait anymore—he needs to sink his dick into you. He’s licking his chin clean, pussydrunk on your cum, as he smashes lips to yours. Your moan is stifled as you taste yourself on his lips, tongue sneaking into your mouth as you part them for him. You hear the shift of the sheets as he tugs his boxers down, pulling his lips away only to finish kicking them off.

But that’s not what you were looking at.

Fuck, he was huge — his engorged tip was a deep red, large pearly beads of precum dripping down, while the rest of him was flushed a lovely pink. The veins that went along his length made gou tempted to trace them, mapping out his cock until you remembered every inch. You were hypnotized as your fingers reached for him, thumb flicking against his slit, before grasping at his base.

He gasps, head lolling back, as you spread the pre along his length, beginning to pump him, “Fuck, so good for me, baby,” he’s covering his lips, cheeks flushed to match his cock, “please, I won’t last—“ and he nearly blows his load when your mouth sucks at the tip, before sliding his dick past your lips. your tongue tracing along the veins.

And a whine leaves his throat, as you start to bob along his length, spit and precum dripping down the corners of your mouth as you messily sucked at him. His hips jerk, as his fingers thread into your hair, tip brushing against his throat, it’s almost too much.

He’s easing you off his cock with a tug of your hair, your lips parting with a pop, strings of saliva and precum connecting your mouth to his dick. And god, he wants nothing more then to pump his cock and let him spill all over your face.

But no, no, he rather spill inside you.

In an instant he’s gotten you onto your back, the head of his cock brushing against your dripping cunt. He’s dragging the head of his dick against your dripping folds teasingly, making you squirm.

“Please,” you’re whining, drawing a soft chuckle from him, as he’s lining himself up, groaning in unison as his tip bumps against your slit, “fuck, Choso, I need you—“

And he obliges, sinking into you inch by inch, a grunt from his mouth, “Already trying to swallow me whole, love? No need for that — I’m already giving it to you,” the delicious stretch of your warm walls pull him in deeper, stretching as he works himself inside your cunt, “so tight, baby,” and he’s finally bottoming out — cock twitching against your sweet cunt.

He’s reaching places you didn’t think were possible, his

You were far too tempting, “Please, Cho, please move—“ your words cut off with a gasp as his lips against your neck again, fangs piercing your skin as he bites you, right as he starts to slowly fuck into you.

White hot pleasure rips up your spine — the bite and the way his cock fucks you enough for you to already cum around him, your mouth parted in moans, as your walls clamp down on him. He’s sucking greedily at your blood, and he wasn’t sure what was better, the way your sweet blood tasted against his tongue, or the way your release squelched around his dick, as he fucked it. And he barely registers that his cock is growing larger against your spasming pussy, but you sure do, as you moan his name.

“S’big, Choso, too big,” you’re whining, as his hand presses against your lower half only to feel a slight bulge, and he only makes him want to thrust harder, too far gone to think — only one thought circling the drain of his pin sized perspective — that he wanted to fill you up,

“Cho-so, please—“ and he doesn’t know what you’re asking him, to slow down or to go faster, as he pulls his fangs from you. And he could cum just looking at you — your forehead slick with sweat, while scarlet rivulets of your blood ran down the side of your neck, eyes blown out in such lust — and everything about your body begging him to fuck you more.

“S’pretty for me, baby,” as he fucks you through your orgasm, another building in its place, as he watches his cock piston in and out of your fluttering cunt. And it feels too fucking good. And he’s leaning back down to lick up the blood staining your neck, as he gives a particular hard thrust that has you seeing stars, and he knows you’re close—and he knows he won’t last much longer — not with the way your vice grip cunt is squeezing around him.

But you’re confirming it with your moans, filling his ears along with the lewd noises of skin slapping together, “I’m close—I’m—“ and he’s grunting in agreement, as his lips find yours in a bruising kiss, only to pull a breath away to ask:

“Where?” And the flutter of your walls that pulls him impossibly deeper tells him the answer, but you reply with words as well.

“Inside, please, need to feel you fill me—“ you cum then and there, words cut off with a moan of his name, and he’s fucking you through your orgasm. His thrusts stutter as he grows close, before groaning and pressing another kiss to your lips, biting your bottom lip to draw blood, as he spills inside you, painting your insides with his hot release, fucking it inside you as his hips slow.

He’s pulling away from your lips, pulling himself from inside you, a soft gasp leaving your lips, as he moans himself when he watches his seed mixed with your cum slip from your pussy.

He’s caressing you, pressing sweet kisses to your face and neck, your quiet pants filling his ears like a metronome.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, and your eyes flutter open, lips curling slightly as you nod, a sigh on your lips.

“I’m more than okay,” you press your lips to his again, a sweet kiss that grows more insistent as your tongue drags against the seam of his lips, before you hear a wet squelch, and your eyes open darting down to only find him stroking his cock, “Choso, are you—“

“Mm, the effect of your blood hasn’t quite subsided for me,” he murmurs, “but I think I can take care of it with—“ and he’s flipped onto his back, eyes blinking up as you, sitting on top of him.

And he sees the blatant want in your gaze, as you begin to lower yourself onto his dick, a smile pulling at your lips, as your lust pulled him under and his cock inside you.

“I told you I’d take care of you, Choso,” and you offer your neck to him again, dragging your wrist across his face, “so let me.”

“You’ll be working with Choso again on this project,” you have to bite back your smile, when you nod, “the two of you did a good job on the last one. Thank you for the overtime you put in. It did not go unnoticed,”

“No problem, sir, anything for the job,” and your supervisor smiles, as you turn to leave, “I’m sure Choso would say the same,”

“The two of you make a good team. I may pair you two together more often. Is that okay? I’ll have to run it by Choso, of course,” and you nod, hand already on the door knob.

“I’m sure he would be more than okay with that, sir.”

“Ah, baby, please just one bite?” Choso’s got you pressed up against the conference room door, “spending all day at work with you makes me so needy,” he mumbles against your skin, as he’s already unbuttoning your button up, the shirt already creased with he’s tugging it free from your slacks, “please,”

“Cho, you had one this morning, it’s barely lunchtime, and you’re this desperate—” and he’s grinding his tenting erection against your clothed cunt, and your hand barely is able to make it in time to stifle your moan with your fingers, “fuck, fine, one bite, but don’t make a mess, this is a white blouse, babe—”

He’s already tugging down your shirt, wrapping his arms around his middle, as his red tinted gaze meets yours in the shaded drawn window of the conference door. And now you were sure — your coworker loved you, even when you thought he didn’t.

“Don’t worry, love, I won’t spill a drop.”

✧ a/n: this fic was weirdly hard to write. i was very stuck for a while. i couldn't figure out how to write it even though the idea struck me. but i hope you all enjoy <3 thank you for @laneysmusings and @gaylatteart for betaing and being the best moral support <3

✧ taglist: @yourwaifuhatesyou, @cira273, @kakashineedstotouchgrass, @whereismysane, @kaedeolgy, @keirangoldenwatch, @indieotterxoxo, @mua-for-now, @b3llair3, @evieslook, @shervinss, @saltymeow77, @svt-backup, @dazailover1900, @kentocalls, @yamaguccitadashi, @simply-a-s1mp, @rita-ritarita, @gorepain, @jupisloveletterz, @ice-echo26, @lemonpoppy-seed, @turtletaubwrites, @complexivelovely, @tiramatsumu, @strangehuman101, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @adrenova, @chosoitos, @stonecoldsensitive, @flyingtranscatofeffed, @sunamatic, @maetziniscool, @muichirosbestie, @monstrousbuu, @spider-fan72, @nakariabnrb, @petalshxwer, @talkativetranscendant, @fairyxgothic, @jupisloveletterz, @crystalkat6747, @unorthodoxfaithxx, @hotcocokiss, @angstigone, @sunnykento, @dantaku

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

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31 / 1.7k / soap soulmate au, part 8

...

Peering down into the building from the adjacent rooftop, Soap sees you--his soulmate--through his sniper's scope. You. Here. On the wrong goddamn team again.

He mutters a curse into his radio.

You’re standing guard at your client’s back—a man who coasts under the radar as far as his criminal reputation is concerned, but a smuggler effective and dangerous enough to put him on the CIA’s hitlist. He’s hidden from view. Probably been told to stay away from windows for the night. You're obviously working security, outfitted to the nines as you would be on any job, rifle in hands, scanning the foyer for threats. You're unaware of 141’s snipers setting up on the rooftops outside.

Soap’s eyes darken. He doesn’t deal with internal conflict when he’s working. When things get complicated, he uncomplicates them. Right now, there are three thoughts in his head:

One--he misses you.

Two--you blew him off to work for this scum.

And three--he needs to get his feet on the ground right now. You'll be lucky if all you get is an earful once he gets his hands on you.

He switches on his radio. "Got eyes on the target. LT, you in position yet?"

"Affirmative. In position," Ghost says, his voice gravelly and cold over the radio from his position on a neighboring rooftop. "Waiting on the signal."

Soap stares you down through his scope. His leather gloves creak and tighten around the handle of his rifle. It pisses him off how easy it would be to take the shot. If he were anyone else, you would be dead in moments.

On the other hand, he could kill your client--your protectee--here and now. To hell with the mission parameters. It would be easy.

He sighs, flipping on his radio again. "Permission to infiltrate, Captain? Spotted a friendly inside."

Gaz's voice crackles over the radio instead. "Friendly this time, is she?" His tone makes it clear he’s spotted you too.

"Don't be jealous, Garrick."

"Positively green with envy, mate," Gaz replies, dry and sarcastic. "Too bad she’s not friendlier. Be helpful if you could actually get her to talk this time. Not to mention the other stunt you pulled."

Soap smirks and adjusts his scope to keep you in his sights. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

Gaz scoffs. "Plausible deniability is for paperwork."

"Aye. Maybe I’ll mention in my next report who tipped me off about her bein' our hostage, too."

There's a beat of static. "Got nothing to say about that."

Then Laswell's voice cuts in. "Kyle has a point. The building is locked down tight and it’s gonna be hard to get a clean shot. If she's with our target's security detail, that’s our ticket inside."

"And if she's not willing to help us out?" Price asks.

"Depends on how persuasive Soap is willing to be."

"I might've picked up a technique or two last time,” Soap says.

The radio crackles as Price takes in a deep breath and sighs it out through his nose. Somehow, he makes it sound stern.

"Intel is intel," Ghost says.

“Failing that, bribery’s always a solid bet for a merc,” Gaz adds. “If they don’t shoot you on sight.”

"Right, then," Price says. "Soap, regroup with Ghost. Prepare to infiltrate. Gaz and I will take overwatch. Ghost, keep on comms. We'll find you the main breaker switch. Soap, I need you to keep things quiet, you hear me? Mission objective is priority. Do not, under any circumstances, be seen."

Soap's blood is already pumping hot. He’s never loved overwatch. He’d rather be close to the action--get his feet on the ground. Get his hands on you. "Copy, Captain. Ghost, I'm aimin' for the north corner. Meet me in five."

…

You mill about at your post, feeling twitchy and unsatisfied. This job is, on first glance, the same as any. Your PMC hired you and a few other mercs out to act as bodyguards for a man with more money than morals, if the size and clientele of this gathering is anything to go by.

You shift your weight, scanning the overdressed crowd for threats. You wouldn’t hate it if this party were cancelled early.

"Stand up straight," your teammate snaps. "You're working. Act like it."

You scowl, but say nothing.

"Don't make that face at me," he says, bite in his tone. Horangi. Like he’s so patient. He's on just as short a leash as you, and it's pissing him off just as much. The difference is he has the seniority to take it out on you.

"I don't know how you do this without feeling like a caged animal," you mutter.

His eyes follow a woman in a tight red dress as she passes by. Obviously, he knows what he'd rather be doing.

"A cage with a paycheck," he replies. "Some things you learn to tolerate."

You scan the room again. Your protectee is still here. That's good. You're hoping he takes his sweet time before he goes downstairs to start the so-called afterparty.

You glance at Horangi again. "You know where the cargo is? Downstairs?"

"Last I heard. I got the east wing of this floor," he says. If the idea of that cargo is bothering him, he hides it well. He’s a good merc and he does what he’s told, like it or not.

You were a good merc, too, up until three weeks ago. Worrying about what rich idiots get up to isn't what you should be doing. You're supposed to keep the client happy. It's not your fault he can’t party without doing illegal shit.

You heave a sigh. "I'm going to check on it."

Horangi’s eyes narrow, flicking to you. "No, you’re not. Stay put."

"Fine. I'm going to the bathroom, then."

"Fine," Horangi snaps. "Go to the bathroom, and make sure you come right back. And don’t talk to anybody."

You walk away, rifle in hand, making your way into the back hall. You pass into the dim sconce light and swear you see something through the enormous glass windows as you walk by them. But there’s nothing there.

The lights flicker once. A beat. Just long enough for you to notice before they even out again.

You pause at a flicker of movement near the side door up ahead. You have a split second to wonder why there’d be nobody securing the side door before the lights go out.

When you turn and head back for the foyer, you stop short. Down the hall, where you just came from, looms a familiar shape. The white skull on his mask pops out of the shadows.

You don't make it back to the foyer.

Before you have a chance to react, your body armor is yanked hard from the back. You're pulled backward into an adjacent room and shoved hard against the wall. You expect the bite of steel against your neck or your temple, but it never comes.

“Quiet, now."

You register Soap's familiar accent before your eyes adjust to the dark. "Johnny?"

"That’s right," he says. He's still got that way of speaking that's almost a purr when he's being quiet.

It suddenly feels like a long time since you’ve felt the heat of his body, pinned tight between him and the wall the way you are. He’s coiled tight, all lithe muscle and restrained strength. His eyes glitter with that wild, predatory look. It’s decidedly dangerous and tantalizing.

"I missed you, darlin'. You're gonna make this simple, aye? I know you can," he says.

You swallow the immediate urge to comply. Holy hell, you forgot what that feels like. "You need to stop greeting me like this," you hiss.

"I'd love nothin' more than to greet you in a different way, but you've got to start makin' smarter decisions first." He leans all the way in and presses his nose into the crook between your neck and shoulder, nuzzling you in his full tactical gear.

You muffle a sigh. He makes a quiet, content sound.

"Besides, I kinda like this way of greetin’ ya. You make this little noise."

The radio on his neck echoes to life. You hear a tinny voice come through, saying something about an objective.

His eyes shut tight as he listens, one hand pressed firmly against the wall beside you. He doesn't back away yet. He's been dreaming of this for too long--laying his head on you and letting the sound of your heartbeat drown out everything else. It just can't fucking happen yet.

You feel, rather than hear, his low, annoyed grumble as he replies. "No, I copy. Just keep your bloody heads on."

You concentrate, trying to make out the voices of his teammates. It sounds like Ghost's voice.

Soap groans, his fingers flexing and gloves squeaking against the wallpaper. “I’ll be there in a minute, LT.”

You shift slightly. "Why are you here?"

A muscle twitches in Soap's jaw, and he pulls back so he can look you in the eye. "Should be askin' you the same thing. You’re on guard detail for a bloody criminal."

"It's a complicated situation."

"Then uncomplicate it."

You open your mouth to reply, but Soap's radio crackles back to life. This time, you can make out the words.

"Target located." Ghost's voice.

"Attaboy." Price. "Get him isolated. Third floor, east windows."

“Won’t be that easy,” Ghost replies. “He’s surrounded by civilians. Security’s thick.”

You tense even as Soap begins to relax. You fist your hand in the collar of his tactical vest, trying not to sound frantic. "Do not kill him. Johnny, listen to me."

Soap's expression turns grim, and he looks down at your fingers. Then he reaches up to cover your hand with his. "I know he's your client, but there's a reason we're here. He smuggles weapons. Big weapons, and not to anyone friendly. Just take it easy and let us clean up."

"No, listen," you snap, pulling him a millimeter closer. "He has the cargo here. It's not weapons. It's people."

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / [part 8] / part 9 / part 10

more Soap / masterlist tag

#screaming!!!!

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

Text

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 13)

first chapter >> last chapter

You could just tell him.

You consider it at least once a day, particularly in the mornings when John sits up on his side of the bed and hesitates briefly before rising to his feet and going downstairs to start breakfast. You can feel the way he wants to lean over and touch you, and the way he holds himself back. The way he pulls his hand back at the last second from where it hovers over your prone body.

He leaves you in bed with an ache in your stomach so deep that you swear it’ll swallow you whole. But you have no choice but to sigh and sit up as he shuffles around downstairs, the morning well on its way in. There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The atmosphere in the house is tense. You walk on eggshells around each other, unsure of how to bridge the divide. The eggs jump in the pan and brown at the edges, and outside the feather reed sways in the breeze. You’re weary of each other and yet hardly capable of being apart.

Maybe that’s just on your end.

You’ve taken to watching him from afar in recent days. In the absence of his physical touch, which comes sparingly now, his hands always curled into fists like he’s holding himself back from reaching out and touching you, you’ve resorted to the only thing left to you: the visual realm. That’s what you glut yourself on now, and while it doesn’t fill the hole in you, it soothes the ache.

You watch him with the horses in the paddock, always confident and sure-footed with them. Suspenders straining against the muscle of his back and his shoulders, sweat running in rivulets down his back, the sun golden on his face. At dinner, he collapses into his chair, exhaustion written into every corner of his being, and you drag your eyes over the jut of his stomach, the layer of fat over his muscled core. Hairy forearms braced against the table while he eats (no manners, that one).

Any thought of bolting in the night now seems unwise. Your previous aspirations of freedom seem foolhardy in the light of day. You give it some consideration. Say you had succeeded in escaping—now where would you be? Alone wandering the mountains, parched and starving? Drinking from the ravine? Eating poisonous berries and hawthorn leaves in desperation to have something in your belly? Or hogtied in some bandit’s tent, enduring a fate worse than starvation or death?

You shudder to think of it.

In the days since John brought you home, you haven’t seen hide nor hair of Graves, nor anyone else in pursuit of a woman from back east. No bounty hunters, no officers of the law, no rogue agents. It’s as if they came, found nothing, and simply wandered on through.

You should’ve just waited them out. It’s clear now, what you should’ve done, but who can argue with the past? You’re sick of telling yourself that there might’ve been another way. It doesn’t change the way things are now.

There’s nothing to do now but move forward.

The routine is the same. You head into town every morning and try to say as few words to each other as possible. You glance at each other when the other isn’t looking. The glances grow longer with the days, the stubborn sun refusing to set until well into the evening hours, and your own eyes refusing to part from his form. When you catch him watching you in turn, his eyes are always heady, filled with something like longing.

Outside, the sky is cornflower blue; clouds bulge and drift away.

Life returns to some degree of normalcy, despite the sense of something unresolved hovering in the air. John’s deputies come over again for supper, and with them they bring better table manners this time. At least Soap doesn’t belch at the dinner table and Kyle leaves his hat at the door. Simon is taciturn as always, but that comes now as a comfort.

The men play cards in the living room until even the fireflies go to sleep, until the night is a thin paste spread over the world, the sharp edge of the knife scraping over the craggy limestone peaks and ridges and spreading it evenly. You go to bed alone, the bedroom door cracked open enough to see the flicker of lamplight against the wall, their shadows weaving in and out of it.

He must come to bed at some point because his side of the bed is warm when you wake up the next morning. You put your hand there to soak up his warmth until you can’t excuse lying in bed any longer. Breakfast is, again, quiet, but you feel the compulsion to break the silence bubbling up in your chest. You think if he stares at you even a moment longer, you’ll have no choice but to belt it out.

The brittle morning is interrupted by the arrival of one of John’s deputies. When Simon rips open the door and barges into the house, you nearly scream, watching with wide eyes as he charges towards the back, looking for John. You flit over to the window to watch him go. He finds John out back mucking the stalls in the stable and there’s a brief moment of intense conversation before you watch as John throws the pitchfork against the wall and hurriedly shuts the stables up, following Simon back towards the house.

It’s a flurry of motion after that, John throwing on his clothes haphazardly, not even bothering to properly button up his shirt. You unconsciously follow him up the stairs to the bedroom.

“John?” you ask, uncertainly.

He doesn’t answer you right away. The tension creeps up the length of your back the longer he goes without responding, his mouth set in a flat line.

“John?” you repeat, more force behind your words this time. “What’s wrong?”

“Passenger train up east is about to be robbed,” John finally grunts out in reply, checking his rifle to see if it’s loaded. “Simon got word.”

“How’d he know before it even happened?” you ask, stuck on conversation because you unconsciously want to delay the inevitable. Your heart pounds hard in your chest, images of gunfire and bloodbaths searing the backs of your eyelids.

“Informant. He’s got ‘em all over the county.”

Not once does he slow down or pause to take a breath. You follow him back downstairs and through the house, watching anxiously as he loads his gun and tightens the belt of bullets around his waist. He plucks his hat from where it sits hung up beside the door and then exits out of the house, you trailing along helplessly behind him. The porch creaks ominously under his feet as he makes his way down the stairs towards the horses, where Simon already has John’s other horse saddled up and ready to go.

“When will you—” You can’t finish it. It hangs uselessly in your mouth. He doesn’t answer you.

You follow him to the horses but stumble to a halt when he reaches them first, taking over from Simon and fixing the straps in place. Simon gives you a curt nod when your eyes meet before turning to his horse and heaving himself up onto it briskly, obviously in a rush to get going.

John turns to you when the straps are fixed in place and he has one foot in the stirrups, brows furrowed deep enough to accentuate all the lines in his forehead. He gestures warningly at you with a finger. “You stay here, you hear me?”

Your brows furrow, affronted at the command. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t fancy havin’ to chase after you for a second time, but I will if you try anything funny while I’m gone.”

“Well, you just see here now—”

“You heard me, darlin’—”

“Price,” Simon growls, cutting him off, and it takes you by surprise to see his usual phlegmatic disposition traded in for something choleric. He’s never been one to talk back or act insubordinately, more of a guard dog than a deputy sometimes. His mouth is set in a hard line though, betraying the tension coiled in his bones.

John nods and hauls himself up onto his horse.

“You be good while I’m gone,” John says, casting you one last parting glance.

You screw your lips into a scowl. “Don’t you dare die out there.”

That somehow gets a laugh out of him, as jagged as it is. It makes your stomach twist, the goodbye stagnant on your lips. You refuse to say it.

John’s horse whinnies when he pulls on the reins. He gives a sharp whistle, jolting it into motion, and you watch as he circles around and follows Simon down the path, their horses kicking up dust behind them.

You stand there until their horses disappear over the horizon. Then you linger a little longer.

It dawns on you that John hadn’t said goodbye either. That has to count for something.

Still, you dwell on it over the next hour, hardly able to keep your breakfast down. Any lingering frustration melts away into dread the longer you think about John confronting a train full of armed robbers, his deputies accompanying him or not. The shotguns loaded and strapped to their backs told you enough about what they expected to encounter. The thought makes you shudder.

You try to distract yourself with chores, but that hardly helps. All you can think about when scrubbing the floors is whether someone will have to do the same on the train. You know how hard it is to clean up blood.

Kate comes over later that morning while you’re still pinning the bed sheets and linens to the clothesline. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt elicits your attention first, and when you look down the dirt path leading into town, you see her riding towards you on horseback. A dapple grey gelding, bigger than Buttercup but leaner than the horse that John had chased you down on.

“Morning!” she shouts, still far enough away for it to be necessary. Your hand goes up slowly in a wave, half-shielding your eyes from the sun.

She comes up the path quickly, dismounting before her horse has even come to a standstill. It speaks to an element of comfort on a horse that you haven't acquired yet. Jealousy licks a hot tongue up your innards.

“Morning,” you greet tentatively. “Not that I don’t appreciate spending time with you, but don’t you have a store to run?”

Kate shrugs her shoulders, sauntering up the walkway. “Folks chip in when they have to—I’ve got plenty of people in town willing to watch the shop for me. Besides, what’s the point of owning a business if you can’t take a day off every now and then?”

You frown, looking at Kate a bit suspiciously. “Did he tell you to come babysit me?”

You don’t specify who, but it’s obvious enough.

Her lips flatten. “I offered.”

All that does is stoke the flames of your ire. “They seemed in a hurry to leave. Didn’t think John would have time to stop by and ask you to watch his wayward wife.”

“John didn’t do anything. Simon mentioned that he was coming here to get your man.”

“My man,” you mumble a bit sardonically. Still, her words make you let go of some of your anger. “So he didn’t ask you to come?”

Kate shakes her head, lips finally curling up into a half-grin. “No, ma’am. Thought I’d just get Miles to mind the shop and come give you some company.”

Your frown keeps getting deeper. “Don’t ma’am me, Kate. And I don’t need your company if you’ve just come to make fun of me.”

“Hand to heart—I came only to make sure you were alright.” Her smile grows directly inverse to your frown. “Give me a minute to put the horses in the paddock and I’ll be right back.”

You could almost kiss her for that though. You’d been dreading the thought of having to bring Buttercup out into the paddock on your own, but the thought of leaving her in the stables all day had also felt immeasurably cruel. Since getting lost with her in the mountains, you haven’t felt confident enough to be around her on your own. At least Kate’s presence takes some of that stress away.

Not all of it though. Stress eats away at you as the day goes on. You can’t seem to go long without returning to the thought of John being shot or stabbed by one of the bandits on the train. Your mind keeps turning to the image of him lying lifeless on the floor, blood seeping out of a wound in his chest, eyes glazed over and far away.

You chew on your nails until they tear. Kate smacks your hands when she notices.

It’s well past dark by the time John comes home. You notice his arrival first as a flicker of light when you happen to glance out the window. You’d long ago pulled up a chair to settle down beside the window and wait, Kate in a chair on the other side of the room near the oil lamp, flicking through her book, and with the waiting had come a knot in your chest tighter than a fist. A cancerous lump metastasising in your belly, spreading out into every corner of you.

And then someone riding up the path towards the house holds up a lamp that swings with the rhythm of their approach. Your heart all but stops in your chest, fingers halting in the middle of knitting. It beats a furious frenzy now, alert again, alive in your chest. The needles clatter to the floor when you rise to your feet, dashing over to the door to swing it wide open.

“I suppose he’s—” Kate says, but you don’t hear the rest, already gathering up your skirt to hustle down the porch steps and meet him halfway, heart lodged in your throat.

When he notices you hurrying out the door and down the path towards him, John brings his horse to a standstill.

Shadows engulf his form until you get close enough for the lamplight to slash across John’s face, illuminating the deep, sunken troughs under his eyes. He looks exhausted. The top button of his shirt is missing, perhaps ripped out in whatever altercation he’d gone to stop. Your eyes flit over him, looking for any sign of blood or injury, and you find it along the grooves of his knuckles, the skin there torn and bloodied. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his hands in gauze before coming home.

John smiles down at you. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

That’s almost enough to make you sway on your feet, lightheaded. You hadn’t realized the toll his sudden absence had taken on you, or the worry that’d been festering in your belly, but as it drains out of you, it almost brings you to your knees.

“Are you well?” you ask, throat tight.

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he shifts his weight and swings his leg over his horse to dismount, eyes on you the whole time. You can hardly pull your eyes off him, not even for a second. His horse, well-trained enough to not wander off without its rider astride it, huffs out a breath but otherwise remains in place while John walks towards you.

Your heart jumps in your chest when he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and drops a firm kiss to the center of your forehead, the heat of his kiss suffusing through you. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck lift. Your arms erupt in gooseflesh.

“Never better,” he says when he pulls back. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your forehead when he speaks. It makes everything from your collarbone up go hot.

You hear the door open again. “Hi John,” Kate calls from the door.

“Hi Laswell,” John calls back to her, but his eyes never leave yours.

A heavy silence pregnant with meaning passes. You’re not sure what to read into it, but reading’s never been your strong suit.

“I’ll see myself out then,” Kate says. “Leave you two lovebirds to it.” Her words make you bristle, but even that isn’t enough to pull your eyes off your husband.

“Don’t look so put out—Soap’s just down the path waiting to take you home,” John scoffs. Sure enough, when you peek around him, you notice the slight flicker of light that burns at about the height of a man sitting astride a horse.

Kate rolls her eyes. “So chivalry’s not dead. Thank the Lord for small mercies.”

You don’t hear her go around the side of the house, but she must because she comes back a few minutes later with her horse, lead in hand. Her goodbye goes unnoticed by you or John, barely audible over the sound of the crickets in the bushes. You come back to yourself only when her horse takes off down the path towards Soap, and by then your voice is too faint, the words evaporating off your tongue.

The moment finally bursts when John shifts his weight and winces. You frown. “You’re hurt.”

He huffs. “Just a sore rib. Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Your eyes flick down to his bloodied knuckles. “Your hands need tending to anyway. We should get inside.”

John nods. “I’ll put Chiron away and then come in.”

“Chiron?”

“This boy here.” His horse chuffs when John pats his neck lightly, smoothing a hand down the length. It slots into your mind—another piece of this place assimilated into your being. Another name you’ll never be able to shake.

You hurry back inside while he takes Chiron around the side of the house towards the stables, the lamp still swinging from his hand. It’s how you track him from the window. It’s too late now for them, but you remember staring off into the distance earlier, watching the fireflies flicker in and out of view, gold will-o-wisps hovering over the fields. Now it’s quiet, and nothing outside moves. Even the moon hides behind dark clouds.

You wait by the window until you see John come out of the stables, headed back towards the house. Only then do you exhale.

He sits at a chair in the living room and spreads his legs, forcing you to step between them to get close enough to treat him. You bandage his torn knuckles under the light of the oil lamp in the corner of the room. John doesn’t so much as flinch when you clean them, gently inspecting the wounds to remove any debris that might’ve gotten in. He’s a good patient; hardly makes a sound as you wrap the gauze around his knuckles.

“Do you want me to call the doctor in the morning?” you ask, then start a bit at the sound of your own voice, inexplicably loud in the relative silence of the room.

John shakes his head. “Don’t bother. Wasn’t anything too serious.”

You frown. “Are you sure? I don’t want to risk it getting infected—”

He turns his hands over in your loose hold, curling his fingers around yours. You blink at the stark contrast between his and your hands. His fingers are thicker than yours, swollen at the joints, and the skin of his palms is calloused, rough to the touch. You’ve felt them over every part of you—loose at your waist, gripping the nape of your neck, prying your thighs apart. Holding your hand. Sunk deep into your quim.

You can recall the feel of his touch from memory now.

“It’s not that bad, darlin’,” he rasps, dragging his thumb back and forth over your fingers. “Y’did a good job fixin’ me up. You’re a good little nurse.”

“I’m no substitute for proper medical care,” you snip, still frowning.

“Ah, if I die, I die.”

“That’s not funny,” you snap, abruptly incensed, and the joking twist of his lips unfurls at that, the creases around his eyes smoothing out. He looks at you like there’s something new writ large on your face.

There’s a tremble in your lower lip and a tremor in your hands that you hadn’t noticed until now. Once you notice it, it’s impossible to shake; your lip wobbles when you have to pinch back your tears. A stubborn one nearly leaks out until you sniff and blink it away.

“Now where’s this all coming from?” John asks, voice pitched low and intimate, just for the two of you.

His voice laps over your bones like bourbon on the rocks, glistening amber in the setting sun. Except it’s dark now and there’s not a drink in the world that could dilute the emotions welling up in you. You’d be a blubbery drunk anyway; you’ve always been something of a sad sack.

“I thought you might come back hurt,” you whisper. “And you did.”

His thumb strokes over your unblemished knuckles and he lifts your hands to his mouth to kiss the very same spot he just brushed. “I’m sorry to make you worry, darlin’. I meant nothing by my words. We’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.”

The bur of his beard tickles the back of your hand. His acquiescence brings some of your candor back. “Well, only if you want to.”

“Don’t get smart with me, wife—”

He stops short when you giggle, his eyes widening infinitesimally. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. It’s not something you can help though. The joy spills up from you unbidden.

John sighs. “We’ve been making a right mess of things, haven’t we?”

You go to say something, but all that comes out is a soft hum of agreement.

It’s in front of you again. An opportunity to tell him everything, to make things right. To land in the soft sediment of truth and come out unscathed and better for it. All you need do is open your mouth and say it; say that there was a man back east that tried something untoward and you did what you had to in order to protect yourself. You think on some level John would understand that.

Again you open your mouth. Again nothing comes out.

There’s love and then there’s thinness, words preserved in amber. He takes your whole world in his hands and you want to say, is it safe here? Can I call this a home?

There's love and then there's a heaving mass of recollection. It is an ancient thought: to love and be loved in verity, in one's own sphere of understanding. You don’t yet know if that’s possible for you, but you’re starting to think that maybe here is something close to that. Something gentle like wildflowers springing up from beside train tracks, the sprawling emptiness of the plains on either side.

Still, it is not enough to make you tell the truth. Maybe now the consequences are different. You think less of a jail cell and more of being deprived of this man that holds your hands tenderly and looks up at you with such clear affection.

If love has a way of speaking, it is marbles in the mouth; it masticates its own words. It chokes them back out of fear, out of longing to keep things right.

So instead, you ask, “Can we just put it behind us and move on?”

John lifts a hand and slides it around the back of your neck, drawing you in for a kiss that makes your heart melt in your chest, caramel-rich. You moan into his mouth when his tongue traces over your lips, hands dropping to sink into the lapels of his shirt, pulling him closer to you.

When he pulls back, the folds around his eyes are crinkled, lips pulled up into a fond smile. “Already forgotten.”

You exhale. This is reconciliation. It comes home limping and bruised, but it comes home to you.

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

Text

Mirror, Mirror

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.2k

Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3

It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind.

Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.

With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?

You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.

Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.

Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers.

You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy.

You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.

“Wife, what are you doing?”

You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.

“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre.

“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.

“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.

A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.

“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight.

Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch.

“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”

“That would be a scandal!”

There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.

“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.

He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom.

“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?”

“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”

Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away.

“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.

You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.

Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.

“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.

You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.

“Here?”

You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.

“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.

“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”

“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure.

Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.

His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.

He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.

As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.

You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.

Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.

His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.

“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.

You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.

Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.

Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.

Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion.

There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.

If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.

And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

Text

Precious Truths: Part 3

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you've been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month's time.

Series Masterlist

Once at their door, you're insistently knocking on their door until someone opens it. Mrs. Wilson looks at you with confusion. Your chest is heaving, your eyes are wide, your hair in disarray, "Miss Y/N? Are you alright?"

"I need to see the Viscount and Viscountess immediately," you say urgently as you enter the Bridgerton home, gripping the older woman's arms to stabilize you.

"They're still freshening up for di-"

"Please! I need to see them! It's urgent!"

"Alright," the older woman nods at you, removing your hands from her, and rushes up the stairs to retrieve Anthony and Kate.

You're pacing in the foyer, fingers twiddling together as you're trying your best not to break down right then and there. You begin to mentally scold yourself for being so careless. You had done so well in the beginning, hiding your writings under your floorboards. You became careless. Your aunt was never one to snoop and your father was always in a drunken state. You figured neither of them would begin to look around your room, so you left your writings there.

Oh how wrong you were.

You look up to hear footsteps and see that Kate is the first one rushing down the stairs, "Y/N? What's wrong? Are you alright?"

You grab her arms to keep you steady as you shake your head, "My father found out and he's going to marry me off to my awful cousin. I need to find a husband quickly!"

"Found out? Found out what?" she asks you in confusion.

You don't answer her question as you continue on with your hysteric ramble, "Please, Kate, do you or Anthony know anyone who's looking for a wife?"

"Y/N, slow down. Wha-"

"What is wrong, Y/N?" Anthony asks as he finally approaches you in concern.

You look at him with wide eyes, "You need to help me find a husband."

You jolts in surprise, "What?"

"Darling, is everything alright?" Violet looks at the three of you with worry. She notes your distress, "I'll have Mrs. Wilson get ready some tea," she immediately goes to find her housekeeper.

Kate takes hold of your hand and guides you to the sitting room where you immediately plop yourself into the couch, throwing your head into your hands.

The Viscountess sits beside and puts a reassuring hand on your back, rubbing it soothingly. She looks up at her husband and mouths, 'Get Benedict.'

The Viscount immediately scurries off to find his brother.

"Deep breaths, Y/N. When you are ready, you must start from the beginning."

You sit up and wipe your now teary eyes. You take a deep breath and ready to speak, but your words get caught in your throat when Benedict enters the room.

Kate stands from your side and Benedict immediately takes her place, "Are you alright? Anthony said you were in distress."

You let out a shaky breath and give him a sad smile, "It's all gone wrong, Ben."

"What happened?"

You gulp and look up at Anthony and Kate who watch you with patient eyes, "What I'm about to tell you must not leave this room. It's imperative that no one, especially Whistledown, doesn't know."

"Know what?" Benedict asks.

You take another deep breath, "I'm Arthur Talbot."

Anthony looks at you in surprise. Kate looks at you like she's realized something. Benedict...you're not sure what the expression he's giving, but at least he doesn't look angry.

Kate can't help but chuckle, "It makes so much sense now. When you'd recite his words, it felt like they were your own. They were."

You nod and turn to Benedict, "You know how my papa forbade me from reading and writing poetry. I couldn't let it go, not when it was the one thing I had left of my mama. So I decided to write under a man's name, so my papa wouldn't know.

"But when I arrived home after our promenade, he was in my room. He found everything. He was so angry. He-" you look away in shame, "He struck me-"

"He struck you?" he asked you in disbelief. He feels a burning anger start to bubble within him. He never understood how one can be such a kind man and loving father, to a cold hearted man like your papa.

You sadly nod, "He said if I didn't find a husband within a month's time, he'll marry me off to my cousin Albert."

Benedict immediately winces, "He's atrocious," recalling back to the one summer that part of your family visited and your cousin was exuberant in trying to prove that he was much better at everything than Anthony. To put it plainly, the man was a twat.

"I know! So need your help," you place your gloved hands over Benedict's, and look to Kate and Anthony, "I need you three to help me find a husband. One with good social standing and is, at the very least, a decent man."

Kate and Anthony glance at each other and then Benedict, waiting for him to confess his feelings and propose to you, to save you from your horrid cousin.

Benedict watches his brother and sister-in-law, but then looks away. With a gulp, he says with a small, reassuring smile, "I'm sure my brother will be able to look into the available men of the ton and find you a good match."

Kate casts her head down in disappointment as Anthony steps forward, "You're practically family. I will do my best to help you."

"And you'll help too, right, Ben?" You look at him with hopeful eyes and Ben could feel him on the verge of breaking, so close to finally letting you know how he feels, that he doesn't want to help because no man deserves to see you the way he sees you.

He gives you a soft smile, "Yes. Of course, I'll help you."

__________________________

You've calmed down since abruptly showing up on the Bridgertons' door step. Kate and Anthony sit with you in the sitting room while Anthony starts gathering a list of eligible men for you. You're sitting tea staring blankly at the floor when your aunt is rushing into the room.

"Oh thank Heavens, you're alright!"

You place the tea cup down and stand, meeting your aunt, "I apologize for my abrupt leave, Aunt Eliza. I was...distraught."

"Yes, well, your father told me of your-" she eyes Kate and Benedict, "-situation."

You gesture to them, "They know. I told them, but they promise to not speak of my situation to anyone else."

"And does the Viscount know?"

You nod, "He does. Anthony, Kate, and Benedict are going to help me find a husband, so I don't have to marry Cousin Albert."

Aunt Eliza grimaces, "Absolutely not. The words to describe him are...they're not appropriate to express aloud." Benedict snorts in agreement.

"Lady L/N, I can assure you that the Viscount and I will do our very best to find a man deserving of L/N."

Your aunt nods to her, "Thank you, my lady," she sighs and gestures for you, "Come, Y/N. Your father is now asleep. You may come home, but tomorrow we will go to the modiste and request some new dresses."

"Yes, Aunt Eliza," you turn and hug Kate and give Benedict a nod, "Thank you for your help."

Benedict reaches out and grabs your wrist, "Let me know if you need anything or even just someone to talk to."

"Of course," you curtsey, "Good night."

You follow your aunt out of the Bridgerton estate and back to your home.

Kate pinches the bridge of her nose, "Why didn't you propose to her?"

"Why would I? She deserves someone of a better social standing."

"You are a Bridgerton."

"I am a second son and an artist. Not even a good since Anthony bought my way into the academy." Benedict leans back in the couch in despondence, "She deserves someone better."

"But you love her, do you not?"

"It is why I love her that I am helping her, because I cannot give her what she deserves." the second Bridgerton stands from his spot and excuses himself from the room, presumably to drink his heartache away.

#oh no Benedict :((

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sandmoonbunny · 8 days

Text

Precious Truths: Part 2

Fandom: Bridgerton

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!Reader

Summary: After your father finds out you’ve been writing under a male pseudonym, he threatens to marry you off to an atrocious man unless you find yourself a husband within a month’s time.

Warning: physical assault - reader gets slaped on the face

Series Masterlist

Your gaze reveals the precious truths

The beauty that you see within

The bravery that I once never possessed

Your love is strength

Your love is pure

Your love is everything

-Arthur Talbot

You set your quill back into the ink jar and lean back in your chair, letting the ink dry. It's well into the night. Your father and aunt now sound asleep in their respective bedrooms. You find that late nights like these are the best times to write. It's when the world is quiet and you can indulge in your guilty pleasure of writing poetry. You're sure that if your father were to ever find out about this, he'd cast you out.

So your secret remains. Some parts of you felt like you should at least tell Benedict, for he's your closest, and dearest friend. However, you thought best not to. If the ton were to find out, it would be the end of you and you could never be one to drag Benedict down with you.

You can never do that to the man you love.

____________________________

You're in the sitting room watching as stands at Benedict at his easel, Colin and Greggory play chess, and Daphne coos over Auggie. Benedict works on his still life as you sit close by.

He frowns, taking a step back from his painting, "This is wrong. It's-Something's missing."

You lean closer to get a glance at his work, "Benedict, it looks beautiful."

"Are you sure?" he asks with an unsure look on his face.

You stand up and take a better look at the canvas, "Don't you artists always say beauty is in the eye of the beholder?" you look at Benedict with a smirk and then back at the canvas, "What you may find as unattractive, Benedict, someone else might find alluring and lovely."

You pat his arm and then plop yourself back into the chair you previously occupied. You go back to your reading completely unaware that Benedict is looking at you with absolute love in his eyes.

He hears someone clear their throat and he looks away to see Anthony staring at him expectantly, "I'm sorry, brother. Did you say something?"

"We're all going for a promenade. I believe we've all been inside for long enough."

You stand up, "I shall take my leave then, Bridgertons."

"Or you can join us?" Benedict immediately asks with hopeful grin.

You softly shake your head, "I don't want to intrude."

"Nonsense," Kate says as she enters the room, "We're always happy to have you, Y/N," she joins her husband's side.

"Well, I can't reject you, Viscountess Bridgerton," you give Kate a smile and Benedict is confused, "So you have no problem rejecting me?"

You laugh, "I'm only jesting, Benedict. I'd love to accompany you and your family for a promenade."

"Wonderful, let's get to it then," Anthony says, trying to gather his siblings together.

_________________________

You're following Benedict's younger siblings whilst said man was walking beside you. You're walking in silence, but it isn't awkward. Silence in Benedict's presence is never awkward, but rather comforting.

"I've realized something, Y/N."

"Yes?"

Benedict keeps his eyes on you as you two continue to follow his younger siblings, "You've always been very supportive of my artistic prospects, but I don't believe I've given the same curtesy to you and your poetic writings. I recall you enjoyed writing them when we were younger."

It warms your heart knowing that Benedict remembers of the times you'd write whilst he'd paint or draw. You let out long and deep sigh. Looking ahead, you reply, "Yes, well, I've given up those dreams, I'm afraid. You know how my father is about my indulgence with poetry. I have to be very careful. Even reading it and reciting it to the ton is risky. Luckily, my father is inebriated a majority of the time he's out and about."

"Well if you ever decide to return to writing poetry, you have my full support."

You nod, "Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate it."

"Y/N," you turn to your right to see Daphne now walking beside you, pushing Auggie in his pram.

"Yes, Your Grace?" you stop and answer her with a teasing smirk. You're older than Daphne by a few years, but just two years younger than Benedict. You've always seen Daphne as a younger sister, being that you are an only child. Occasionally the teasing will produce itself between you two.

"Would you like to join us for dinner?"

You can't help but laugh, "Of course, but I've been spending my entire day with you already. Won't you all get tired of me?"

"We'd never tire of you, Y/N," Benedict replies with earnest and it brings a warm smile to your place.

"Be that as it may, I believe the Viscount should have the final word?"

Anthony, Kate, and Violet catch up to you as you're all looking at Anthony. He looks at you all in confusion, "Something the matter?"

Daphne speaks up, "I invited Y/N to stay for dinner if that's alright, brother?"

He shoots you a grin, "Of course. Miss L/N is always welcome. You're practically family, yes?" he shoots Benedict a wink and you're not sure why.

"Well thank you for the invitation," you look down at your dress, "But perhaps, I should at least change. This dress isn't particularly dinner attire."

"What do you mean? You look beautiful as always," Benedict states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

The Bridgertons all give each other knowing looks. That's when the Dowager Viscountess speaks up, "Benedict, darling, Y/N is right. After the promenade, we should allow her to freshen up before dinner."

Kate removes herself from Anthony and loops arms with you, "Let us continue our promenade, Y/N."

"Of course!" you giggle with your friend as you continue on the trail.

Benedict moves to follow, but Anthony pats his brother on the shoulder, "You've spent hours with her, brother. Let her take a break from you clinging to her all the time."

Benedict looks at his older brother in offense, "I don't cling to her...do I?"

"A bit, darling," Violet says and Daphne nods in agreement.

He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, "I'm too obvious, aren't I?"

Daphne shakes her head, "No, I don't think so. If you were, she'd have said something, yes? Or maybe would have run for the hills?" she asks with a smirk to her elder brothers, before continuing to push Augie down the path.

_________________

When you arrive back home to change, you ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Burnett, if your aunt is home.

"No, Miss, she's gone to meet with Lady Danbury," the older woman replies.

You nod, "Thank you, Mrs. Burnett," you gather your dress and make your way to your room upstairs.

You freeze when you see the door ajar and you know for a fact you closed it before leaving earlier.

You slowly push the door open and your heart drops when you see your father surrounded by pages and pages of poems. Poems that are supposed to be written by a man.

You gulp and slowly approach him as he sits at your writing desk, "Papa?"

His eyes meet yours in a cold and intimidating stare, "Not only have you still been indulging in poetry, but you're writing it? Under a man's name?"

"What were you doing in my room?"

"THIS IS MY HOUSE! I CAN BE ANYWHERE I PLEASE!"

You take some cautionary steps towards him, "Papa, you've had too much to drink."

"No!" he abruptly stands at your desk, causing you to jump ack in surprise. His chest is heaving as he tightly grips pages of your work, "If anyone finds out about this-"

"They won't! I've hid this from everyone for months!"

"You need to marry," he says with definitive authority.

You look at him with a confused expression, "What do you mean?"

"I can't take your defiance any longer!"

"Defiance?"

Your father walks around your desk so it's no longer a wall between you and he. He points a warning finger at you, "If you don't find a husband within a month's time, I'm marrying you off to your cousin, Albert."

Your jaw drops, "Cousin Albert?! He's absolutely horrendous! He's a rake and a gambler-"

"And looking for a wife!" he exclaims as he cuts you off, "When you were younger, your Uncle Wallace tried to convince me to have you two promised to each other once you came out to society. I regret not taking the opportunity now seeing how you've grown up."

You clench your fists in anger, "Mama wouldn't stand for this! She-

THWACK!

Your words are stuck in your throat, your cheek stinging after your father slaps you. His eyes are red and wild as he spits out, "Mama is dead! She is not here anymore! This is my house! You are to find a husband in a month or you are to marry Albert. Be grateful I'm not sending you away right this moment."

You're holding your cheek now, trying to soothe the pain. Your heart hurts for yourself and your mama. You know she'd hate the man your papa has become.

Without another word, you're rushing out of your room and bounding down the stairs.

Your aunt had just arrived back and you rush past her without a glance. She follows you in concern, "Y/N? What happened?! What's wrong? Y/N!" she yells after you as you run down the street back towards the Bridgerton household.

#oh my godd

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sandmoonbunny · 9 days

Text

bodyguard.

[bodyguard!john price x rookie actress!reader]

extension of this blurb. || minors, do not interact.

read on ao3

this was supposed to be a one-off thing but uh. my hand slipped? had to cut down the "price wouldn't do that" monster with my "i can do what i want" sword, and we got 3k of an unedited brain dump that i typed on my phone at six in the morning. also my first time writing something for price! woo!

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?"

Yelling secures you your first big project.

You can’t pay those bills until I land a job. A real job.

You’re almost certain your agent thinks you’re throwing a tantrum, and it leaves a coarse grit in your molars. You don’t like to pick fights. Hate it, really. But pushes are usually succeeded by shoves, and you can’t afford to get knocked out of the ring this time around.

The worst they can do is say no, right?

Thankfully, one yes is all you need to beg for. Your chariot arrives in the shape of a surprisingly low-budget rom-com, in simple terms. You and your C-list costar (flanked by a squeaky clean track record, thank god) are swept up in a soundless spiral of table reads and filming and wrapping before you can really, truly process.

But a warden stands guard at the eye of your perfect storm. John Price, assigned to you through your agency without so much as a proper word.

(“Squeaky clean,” apparently, didn’t take a history of overzealous stalkers into account.)

The peephole to your dilapidated apartment can barely contain him. blocks him—or attempts to do so—like a child might shield their sandcastle from the pulsing tide. Only, you think the tide might be more forgiving. He’s rooted in place, made harsher under the cracked fluorescent bulbs out in the hallway. They hum along with him. Faint, unless your breathing stills.

You’d feel a little more at ease if he were actually ex-military; the scraps of information you’ve been fed tell you that he’s been discharged, but you don’t believe it. Not for a second. You hadn’t been given much else apart from that and a face, but you could put together that he was disgustingly overqualified—not that you were complaining, though. Not yet.

You watch as John Price—Price?—gazes with a deceiving sort of apathy toward the end of the hall, then to the other, and back to the other end in three smooth seconds.

You think he’s seeing things till the apartment two doors down produces a tenant from its depths and price is turning, warding the disturbance off with an easy mornin’ and a wave of a large hand. He says nothing when they shuffle off awkwardly without a response, and the slow crawl of his opposite hand away from a flash of metal at his hip draws your pupil like a magnet.

It’s then that you note the suspiciously white shirt—rolled up to his elbows, tucked neatly into dark denim. hands tucked into pockets. Beard trimmed. Everything not protected by the skin on his body squared away just so, with just enough of his bulk on display to prompt that second spike of wariness.

A meticulous problem, then.

You peel yourself away from the door after an inhale and swing it open regardless.

The smell of tobacco and cologne hits your nose like a hammer the moment the door hits the bolt behind you, but you recover the feeling in your knees quickly. The fisheye lens doesn’t quite do him justice—you have to look up a bit to take another quick scan, cheeks cramping with the sudden momentum of your smile.

“I don’t see a bible or a pamphlet, so I’m assuming you’re not here to preach?”

The joke doesn’t fall flat, but it does sail into one of the weaker bulbs before it shuts off with a buzz.

“…Captain Price, right?”

His eyes crinkle with a hint of what might be a grin. Under different circumstances, maybe. “Right on the mark. A pleasure to finally meet you, Ma’am.” But that thrum of irritation is there, as is the narrowing of his eyes when you extend your hand in greeting. “Just Price’ll do though.”

Hm.

He reaches up to fix his beanie just above his brow before giving your hand a firm shake. Definitely military. And hot as a furnace. You’re more than a little dizzy when he pulls back to check his watch, the inside of your wrist now raw from the grazing of a fingernail.

You can feel the skin he’s taken with him when he looks you in the eyes. Assessing. You don’t know why, but think you’ve won until he’s looking back down at his wrist.

He pulls out the crown on his watch, begins to twist and twist so that the dials can begin their inevitable rotation. “You know what time it is?”

Nine in the morning.

Or, at least it was thirty minutes ago.

“I—yeah. Lost track of time, sorry.” You scratch just under the collar of your shirt, straighten it out when the itch turns into a tingle you’re willing to overlook. You realize after an embarrassing beat that he’s probably asking for the actual time. “I sleep like a rock,” you add anyway. Your agency had actually given you three things, not two: a poorly put together profile, a face, and a meeting time.

It dawns on you now that a thirty minute “test of patience” with your back pressed to the door may not have been the way to go.

Price looks up, finally. Rolls his shoulders back as if to shed the pileup of gravity that’s compressed his spine in the half hour you’ve kept him waiting—and somehow, someway, seems to double the amount of space he takes up.

“That so,” he questions. Low in his throat, and a tad exasperated, because you’ve studied exasperation. Went into debt to have that understanding feel like a second skin. Which is why you observe, perplexed, as he gestures to the entryway. You think you feel your head nod, and he brushes past you to push through the door. “‘Nother habit we’ll have to kick.”

Any objections you might’ve had are killed in your throat the moment his prowl begins, and your socks catch on the scuffed linoleum as you flounder in after him.

The door slams back against the bolt while Price’s boots press the air out of your hardwood floors, squeals escaping with each heavy step. You squeak out a feeble excuse me alongside them once or twice, but to no avail. He can’t hear you, too intent on following some internal rhythm that takes him to the open window, the dusty cabinets, slipping fingers into the creases of a space you’re barely acquainted with yourself.

Something like nausea begins to bubble. You planned this. You’d planned out your introduction. Picked out your clothes, your shoes, where you’d grab coffee so you could build up your integrity and explain to him that you’re not looking to be coddled, he’d just get in the way. And now you’re wringing your hands, abject unease burning in a dense knot between your eyes while you figure out how to melt into the poorly hidden pile of dirty laundry.

There’s a delay in your processing, and you don’t start to catch up until Price finally slows down enough for you to realize he’s been talking.

He’s stooping over your dining room table, swiping a finger over his tongue before using it to card through old mail. “Real sorry ‘bout this, Ma’am. Not the most ideal introduction, I know, but we’re on a bit of a time crunch. Standard protocol—’m sure you know how it is, yeah?”

Price moves to turn over a stack of magazines on your dining table, and you wonder: were you supposed to know? You’re sure his question is rhetorical, and you’re certainly not inclined to answer. But something about the way it hits the water stains on your ceiling justifies the way he turns to look at you over his shoulder.

Concern. An uncut gem, plucked from some cavernous fissure that might be closer in proximity to hell than your own flesh and blood.

The crease between his brows deepens. “You have had security before, haven’t you?”

“Don’t get out much. I do my work, come right home.” You shrug, but your shoulders can’t seem to come back down. Perhaps this was why they’d put him on leave—he couldn’t do math.

You shuffle a bit in place, kick aside a ratty tennis ball left behind from one of your pet sitting stints. It hits your refrigerator and he’s still looking down at your feet, so you look with him.

—at the last two toes sticking out of your sock.

You rush to cover it with your other foot while Price sucks his teeth. He doesn’t move, hands still planted on the table, but each time he blinks his eyes are trained on something different.

Price lets out a sigh before he finally stands upright, perching his hands on his hips. “I'm surprised your people waited this long to call someone in. Right idiots they are, I’ll tell you that.”

Your people. You wrap your arms around your middle, pinch the fabric of your shirt between your fingers.

“I can't really blame them,” you say after a moment. Tip your chin up, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what little of your farce is left to cover yourself with.

Price tuts, strangely unconvinced for someone you’d only known for around ten minutes. “You’d be smart to blame them.”

“Don’t think I can do that when I'm working for them, Price.”

“Can’t you? S’clear they’ve done fuck all to look out for you.”

And you could. Should. Want to. So, so desperately need to. But you’re already saddled with enough things to hate. Hope of catharsis is an outbound ship, a blip on the horizon that you don’t have the funds to board.

“…I don't follow.”

Price doesn’t flinch when the table rocks without the weight of the magazines to keep it steady, and neither do you.

“You don’t follow,” he repeats. Like a crucial detail has been lost in translation.

You shake your head.

“Well, that’s no good.”

Cigar smoke snakes its way into your headspace again when he strides past you to put his hand up against the door, muscles in his forearms flexing when he pulls at the doorknob. He beckons you closer, and you’re pulled out of orbit when you skirt close enough for him to reach, guiding your hand to the cool metal while he stands just behind you.

“Here,” he mutters. Your chest is a cushion, and the rumble in his chest is a bright red pin.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if the crackle of a walkie-talkie might bury how frighteningly human he sounds.)

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

He takes his hand off once you’ve stopped throwing glances at him, and your knuckles sizzle in his absence. What was he looking for? Nothing…looks different.

You can’t focus. His eyes are on your neck, and you can’t focus.

And suddenly, you don’t like how close he is. You’re reminded of how he’d shoved his way into your apartment. Barely spoken to you before driving a stake through the bubble put together with your blood sweat and tears. Made you feel ashamed in your own home.

Righteous indignation flares up, and you’re spewing words you’re certain you believe in until they tumble out.

“If you’re just here to poke fun, I’m not—”

Pop.

You look down. The keyhole pokes just out of the doorknob and you look to Price, his face remarkably passive.

“Lock’s been tampered with.” He runs a thumb over the offending protrusion, watches as it slots back into place. “You should see some scratches on the other side of it. Thought I noticed something when the door first slammed, but I didn't want to startle you in case my eyes were playing tricks. Can’t quite see like I used to.”

Why not get glasses?

“I would’ve put up less of a fuss if you’d told me up front.”

He looks at you, eyes a perfect congruence of something just beyond what your fingertips can touch. But he smiles, and you think you can understand. Maybe mash the pieces together. A distending warmth. Nepenthe sinking into every orifice until you’re expelling your woes through your nostrils.

Your axis tilts when Price puts a solid hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not good to lie, mm? Not to me.”

Not good to lie.

When you slide out from under his palm, his callouses snag on the exposed seam of your shirt. You toss him a grin, a bone. “Noted.”

Insecure seconds pass, but not without movement.

It begins like this: Price walks away from the door, and you’re almost grateful for the squealing underneath his feet to fill the silence. He takes your stack of mail and magazines, sets them exactly as they had been before he’d entered. The table is righted, and he works in reverse from that point on.

Closing cabinet doors. Angling that picture frame you’ve been meaning to adjust for weeks. He’s putting things into their proper place, like setting bones before they’re enclosed in a stiff cast.

You, though, are still standing awkwardly by the door.

“You really don’t need to—”

He holds out a hand. “Relax. ‘M just having a second go around.”

You bristle, but your decision to pad over to the couch is of your own volition. It caves in when you sit, and you wiggle to get the cushions to realign with your hips. Your hands feel around blindly for the remote to your TV before remembering you’d dropped it out of the window in a fit of anger some weeks ago, so you sit back, spine hitting the hard frame of the couch. Price’s noises pair well, somehow, with the wind sliding over the glass and the neighbors downstairs.

Until you feel his presence at the back of the couch, and a thought smacks you right across your forehead.

You shoot up, heart rate suddenly inflamed by panic. “Price?”

The movement stops, and you turn around, peer over to find Price prepped to duck his head under the couch. “Hm?”

“Uh.” You hesitate. Shit, think—

“H-how much are they paying you, anyways?” Good save. Maybe a little less than good.

You feel a little bad that you’d stopped Price mid-crouch; you can’t quite remember how old he is, but you know he’s old enough for knee pain to be a concern. He looks up as if crunching the numbers in his head. Hums. “Enough.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“Saw the picked lock, didn’t you?”

“Were you really discharged?”

“Depends. There something under this couch you don’t want me seeing?”

Looks like you can knock “interrogation skills” off of your list of special skills on your resume.

Your jaw snapping shut is enough to send his arm sliding under, and you can only watch in horror as his clutched hand emerges holding a scrap of thin blue fabric. He pushes himself up off of his knees. Takes his sweet time wringing out his back while your eyes track his hand like he’s got a thumb over the button of a detonator.

If he had any shred of decency—

“Another thing I caught on my way in,” he huffs. He holds out his hand and allows the blue fabric to uncurl. A flag, hung full mast right between your eyes. Another one of his tests.

“Price.”

“C’mon, now. Take it from me.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice; your arm shoots out and you win it back in one go. Stuff your lacy underwear into the pocket of your pants and wait for your ceiling to collapse in on you.

“Can’t leave pretty things like that layin’ around.” And Price stops, watches as you curl in on yourself. Voice like the push of velvet shifting underneath your palms. “Likely to rip if you’re not careful.”

You pull your head into your shirt and curl your knees into your chest. It’s a shock when you find yourself face to face with your heartbeat, the skin over your left breast jumping underneath your nose. “I think we’re done here.”

Price makes that sucking noise again with his teeth—agitation, you think it’s agitation—and you trace the hazy shadow of him through your shirt as he steps around the couch to walk to the window. He snaps twice, and you’re beginning to entertain the thought of what might happen if you had enough strength to push him out.

“What now,” you croak.

“Eyes up.”

Slowly, you muster up enough spite to bring your head just above the collar of your shirt. Military men and their incessant need for…whatever the hell this was.

“You’ve gotten better at this. Quick study,” Price remarks.

“Better at what.”

“Listening. That’s good, real good. That’ll make this a whole lot easier,” he says, a note of appreciation that you haven’t heard yet stirring that tiny pool of filth just underneath your navel. You hum.

Price crosses his arms. Flicks his stupid eyes toward the fluttering curtains. “How often d’you leave this open?”

Your face pinches. “I mean—pretty often? It’s hot, Price. And in case you haven’t noticed,” you wave your hand to the general state of disrepair, “I don’t exactly have good circulation in here.”

This gives him pause. Whatever plan he’s recalibrating, you want no part of it. You do notice that he hasn’t put his hands in his pockets since he showed up on your doorstep, instead favoring the use of his left hand to rub his chin.

“Come over here and close the window.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. “...Close the window? Price, you can’t be serious.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Can’t…can’t you close it?”

“It’s not my window. Can’t do everythin’ for you.”

He stares at you expectantly. Your tailbone is beginning to throb, and for some damning reason, that note still ringing bright in the back of your skull. That’s good. Good, good, good.

Price catches that eager glint the moment it surfaces.

“Go on then, love.” He tips his head. “Close it.”

The rest of you surfaces slowly. You look back for a moment at the indent left on the couch, think about how long that imprint will be there until you feel inclined to fluff out those cushions again.

(Later. You’ll get to it later.)

Shutting the window doesn’t take much effort, but the swampy temperature is noticeable. You turn around a little too quickly, so you hold an arm out to the now sealed vault in an exaggerated show of bravado. I did it, see?

Price slides past you to look outside. He purses his lips when he finds what he’s looking for, and you can almost see the note being stashed into some faraway file.

He turns to you. “Keep this window closed till further notice,” and a hand reaches out to tug the curtains shut, and yellow from the lamp you’d left on last night washes over the room instantly.

“Price.”

“I take my work seriously. You take yours seriously, you’ll need me.”

It feels like a slap in the face. “I do, but that doesn’t mean—”

“My job,” and he points to himself, then to you, “is to keep you out of harm's way. Can’t do this if you don’t trust me.”

“You’re asking a lot for someone who hasn’t—”

You go silent as he reaches a hand into a back pocket, pulls out his hand and you count one, two, three square devices around the size of a nail.

“Busted lock, three faulty cameras, all outside. You’re lucky these people are idiots.” He shoves the. back into his pocket before returning his focus to you. “You need me.”

You blink.

Price smiles, raises his eyebrows as if the conversation is already over. “Hungry?”

You stumble back. “But what about—what about the apartment?”

“S’fine,” he says. He checks his watch. “I know a couple guys, you’re in good hands.”

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