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#Little Mix Trousers
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Jade On Instagram | 25th February 2023
SIEDRES Dégradé printed stretch-jersey trousers: £175 £43
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shotmrmiller · 2 months
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this is for you, @ttsbaby01
here's the piece that inspired this
1.5k words because who knew i needed to write something like this today. i kinda edited it, just a quick skim, though.
simon x f!reader,
tw: explicit smut, p in v, the usual, MDNI
Simon teaches Johnny some new tricks
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The moment Simon saw you wince when Johnny pushed himself inside of you, that was all he needed to see. Incredible. For someone that brilliant, Johnny is obtuse when it comes to sex.
Maybe he's blinded by lust, who knows, but Simon almost grimaces at the pace he starts off with, and when he sees you flatten your feet on the bed to meet Johnny's thrusts, Johnny simply pins you down with his weight, forcing you still.
Poor you. All you wanted was to come, and Johnny couldn't even tell, too focused on pistoning his hips into you to meet his own end.
How greedy.
And when Johnny does come, Simon chuckles when he sees your face. It’s mildly disappointed but unsurprised— like you’re used to it.
He watches Johnny kiss you before he pulls out and immediately gets up to shower. That's his cue— the sorry excuse of a show is over. Simon's about to shut his laptop when he sees your hand slowly travel down to your aching pussy and circle your neglected clit with your fingers. Oh?
When he hears your pleasured moan again, he sits up on his chair, pupils expanding as he takes you in. Now this is what he wants to see.
Every delicious whimper and mewl that slithers out of your throat makes his cock twitch in his trousers. He can't help himself. Simon takes himself out and starts to pump according to the rhythm you've set.
Oh, you take it slow, sensual, for a bit, and then pick up the pace. Your moans start to get a little louder as you circle faster and press much smaller fingers into your abused cunt. He knows that his one finger could stuff you better than two of yours.
He knows that he could pull those sweet sounds out of you with his tongue flicking your clit, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw, his fingers curling inside to find the rough patch of skin on your slick walls.
His eyes are shut as he squeezes himself, precum dribbling onto his knuckles, and when he hears you climax— airy, high-pitched moans that's a bloody symphony to his ears— he also comes. Simon spills all over his hand and stomach, seed sticking to his happy trail, and he couldn't give a fuck less. You're the best thing he's heard in a very long time, and he's debating replacing the classical music he usually listens to at work with your voice.
Simon languidly opens his eyes to look at you on his screen, and the fucked-out, blissful look on your face is something that'll be engrained in his head forever.
He watches Johnny step out of the bathroom with a towel around his trim waist and lowers himself onto the bed to kiss you.
Simon shakes his head, and with his clean hand shuts the laptop. It seems he's gotta teach Johnny how to treat his girl right.
--
"How was it, LT?" Johnny gloats.
Sighing, Simon pulls him into his office and takes out his personal laptop. "You tell me, Sergeant."
Johnny looks gutted when the video gets to Simon's favorite part.
"Yer jokin'." He sounds miserable, and Simon would feel bad if Johnny hadn't been a braggart about how he fucked you in the beginning.
"'Fraid not' Johnny. I gotta admit, I didn't take ya to be tha' selfish."
Johnny opens his mouth to defend himself when Simon silences him with a swipe of his gloved hand. "I can help ya, though. Let me teach ya how t'please her so tha' this embarrassment doesn't happen again, yeah?"
Johnny's eyes, colour a mix of sea and sky, shine brightly as he looks up at Simon. "Are ye serious?"
"Wouldn't offer if I wasn't."
Simon clenches his jaw painfully tight when Johnny agrees.
Only once Simon stands alone in his office does he let his emotions show. The sound of his fist hitting the desk fills the room, first with one resounding thump, then with another, leaving his knuckles throbbing. He's going to bloody ruin you.
Maybe Johnny will be willing to share you after all of this is said and done.
--
Johnny came to him later that day, letting him know that you had also agreed, but no mask at home. You won't sleep with someone whose face you can't see.
Simon almost took his mask off in exhilaration on the spot.
--
Simon has your legs propped on the edge of the bed as he lapped at your sopping cunt.
"Johnny, ya gotta focus here," he pointed his tongue and circled it around your swollen clit, making your back arch, and Johnny has to tighten his hold on you. He sat behind you, your back to his chest, his arms around you as he looked over your sweaty shoulder to watch Simon eat like a man starved.
"And gently curl your fingers inside, you're looking for..." he paused, the tendons in the middle of his wrist fluttering as he prodded until you were squealing, dripping slick down his hand. "That. You're looking for her sweet spot," he instructed.
Simon keeps rubbing your walls, and every movement has the obscene squelching of your drenched cunt getting noisier. "She's about t'come, I can feel her startin' to squeeze my fingers. Look at her, Johnny. That's the face ya wanna see," and then he turns his attention to you. "Come f'me, pet, let me hear ya."
He encircles your clit with his lips and sucks, and you shatter in Johnny's arms— head thrown back onto his shoulder, trembling violently, loudly dry sobbing at the toe-curling ecstasy that's searing through your veins, stealing the very oxygen in your lungs. Simon doesn't stop thrusting his fingers, prolonging your pleasure, taking every bit of it for himself. It's the only time he'll be selfish.
Your head is clouded with arousal, numb from pleasure, and you can vaguely feel yourself being laid flat on the bed, limp legs hooked over shoulders, feet resting on a strong back— muscles rippling with each movement.
There's a buzzing sound in your ears, and you can see Johnny's lips moving, talking to you, and then he's stepping away. You lazily turn your head to the side, and watch Johnny kneel by the side of the bed, gaze intense as he looks towards where Simon is. Then there's something hot, heavy, and thick pressing into your entrance, splitting you open, sensitive walls stinging at the stretch, and it goes deep, and even deeper still— it seems never-ending until there's a pinch in your lower stomach.
"Atta girl, love." Simon grips your jaw with one hand, and commands, "Eyes on Johnny, sweetheart. Let him see ya and let me hear ya."
And starts to pump his hips. The depths that he's in are devastating, it feels like he's rearranging your insides, which is strange because Johnny's got a monster in his pants as well, but this.
This is different.
You're so sensitive from your prior orgasm that it feels so much more intense, and you can't even try to hold back the keens that are being wrenched from you. Your vision is blurry with tears from overstimulation, but you keep your gaze on Johnny, and he looks painfully aroused. His cheeks are bright pink, his mouth slightly open as he pants, eyes molten as he looks at your cunt swallowing up someone else's cock.
God, he's so pretty.
You're brought out of your musings when Simon places a pillow underneath you, lifting your hips and changing the angle.
The way Simon fills you to the brim with his cock, pushing you to, if not past, your limit is just plain disrespectful.
And then he grabs your legs by the ankles, your thighs touching your chest, folding you in half like a napkin to start thrusting shallowly— the tip of his head gently jabbing into your g-spot.
Your head goes blank, vision white, and your mouth opens into a silent scream, or maybe not so silent, who knows who cares.
Simon thrusts 4 times before that coil in your stomach snaps like a pencil. Your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, unwilling to let him move, but he only grunts and starts to slam his hips into your soft arse— spine rattling from the strength of him. He unrelentingly fucks you through your climax, hips never losing their rhythm.
He's bottoming out now, and you swear you can feel him in your throat, and he starts to pound into your used cunt. When you hiss from how tender you feel, Johnny cups your cheek and leans in to give you a soul-stealing kiss. It's sloppy, you can hear the slick sounds your mouths make, and when you moan into him, Simon's thrusts turn sloppy, choppy. Then he pulls out with a loud snarl to spurt thick, viscous cum directly over your puffy slit, coating your mons with it too— only to push himself back inside, head dripping with his seed, and slowly thrusts until he's overstimulated.
Simon gently lowers your legs back onto the bed, and you groan at the ache when you feel your blood rushing back to them.
"Fuck me," you mumble tiredly, and Johnny chuckles in response.
"Simon already did tha', bonnie." Johnny presses a kiss to your sweaty forehead and looks at Simon.
"I now ken what ye mean, LT. This was a different beast altogether."
You huff out a laugh because beast indeed.
Jesus.
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syrma-sensei · 6 months
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→ Hot Under The Helmet.
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pairing: soldier boy/ben x wife!reader.
rating: explicit.
warning: ben's pov, horny and angry ben, dom/sub undertones, aggressive sex, piv, fingering, oral (female receiving), breeding kink, glove kink, eventual fluff, antiquated mentality...
word count: 2.2k
summary: fucking his wife is the best way to ease his mind.
taglist: @zepskies, @deansbbyx, @kaleldobrev, @k-slla, @deanbrainrotwritings, @deans-spinster-witch, @homosexualferret...
→ masterlist | ao3
Soldier Boy didn't head back to his quarters in Vought's tower when the damned mission was over. He didn't want to spend another minute with his pathetic excuse of a fucking team nor did he want to be in the tower. He scoffed. A bunch of fucking clowns in a fucking circus. Sometimes he wondered if Vought picked them on purpose for the sake of insulting him and his legacy.
Instead, Soldier Boy made his way straight back home. He'd been on duty for a couple of weeks, accompanied with his teammates and other government soldiers as a backup to their mission — not that he needed either but protocols and marketing and Vought's bullshit.
Long story short, and as expected, The Twins fucked up, Noir tried to be the hero of the day, Swatto a fucking idiot, Mind Storm and Gunpowder fucking useless, Countess a fucking bitch. He had to handle it all by himself and fix everything his teammates dicked with. And he was pissed. Fuming. Raging. All he was seeing was red. And he could do nothing about it.
When Vought promised him a team to lead, he expected to have seasoned soldiers who knew how shit was done. Warriors who respected the missions and honoured their duty and privileged their country. Instead, he got fucking spoiled children to babysit. He wasn't in charge. The irony. His fucking helmet of forty years of dedication and service for this country granted him no say at the matter. It was fine, he'd tried to convince himself. He took it upon himself to train them and mould them into formidable soldiers like he was but to no avail. The fucking idiots thought the job was only to wave their hands and pose for fucking cameras at movie premieres!
Soldier Boy grumbled when he stepped inside one of his many properties. The one he shared with his wife. Their penthouse; their home. His pretty, little wife. He let a small smile slip into his lips when a mix of aromatic whiffs permeated his nostrils, his superhuman sense of smell enhanced the savoury scent. His stomach grumbled. Fuck did he really miss his wife's delicious cooking. Suddenly, his fury began to cease. Soldier Boy clicked his helmet off of his head absent-mindedly and set his shield aside before his lips quirked into a wicked grin.
It'd been a fucking fortnight since he saw her. Touched her. Fucked her. He was surrounded by dicks for far too long, and he craved pussy. Her pussy. He was consumed by the urge of destroying her cunt. And she'd love it. She'd always had. She liked it rough. She liked him ruining her, and leaving her unable to sit right for days. And she even dared to chide him when he went easy on her at the beginning of their relationship.
“I'm not fucking fragile, Ben. Don't you hold back.” She'd told him.
He smirked. She had no idea what he had in store for her tonight.
With many many years of experience under his belt, Soldier Boy stealthed his way to the kitchen where his wife was swaying her hips and humming a song as she bent over to check on the ribs she was roasting in the oven. Ben smiled proudly. He never let her do that job. The grilling. It was a man's job, the husband's job. So, to accommodate his wishes, she came up with this idea. To cook that kinda food in other ways. And being the expert cook she was, she did it extraordinarily.
His dulled eyes came to life with a lick of lust swirling within the green of his eyes when he traced the curve of her perfect ass. Fuck, his trousers began to feel too tight to his liking. Little did she know that she had a stirred brute standing behind her, waiting for the right moment to pounce on his prey.
Turning on her heels gracefully, a surprised gasp escaped her throat when her dilated eyes landed on her beloved husband. He was still in his supe gear except for his helmet and shield.
“Ben!” She trilled with a big smile, trying to balance herself from the surprise; he was hours early, “Welcome back, honey! Didn't think you'd be early—”
He cut her off with a burning kiss. Hungry and possessive. How he could cross the kitchen to her in such agility was still behind her. He smelled like earth and dust, blood and sweat. He smelled like a man should. Like a soldier should. Her core throbbed at his virile odour. His stubble grew bigger, and she liked how it brushed coarsely against her palms when she cupped his cheeks to kiss him back. She giggled against his mouth when his strong hands grasped her waist and lifted her up effortlessly and sat her at the countertop.
She clung to his neck, their kiss nourishing with vigour. His lips left hers temporarily to loosen her apron and toss it aside, then he removed her blouse and unclasped her bra. Ben crushed her lips again, his rough-padded hands kneading her tits, thumbs aggressively flicking her hardening nipples. His thumbnails grazing crescents on her darkening areolas. Ben's lips split mischievously when she let a wanton moan. His grin widened when the smell of her arousal reached his nose. Fuck. He loved it. He could already taste that on his tongue.
“Fuck, Ben!” She groaned when one of his hands trailed down to her shorts and slipped beneath her panties. He smirked when she instantly smeared his fingertips wet with her arousal. He let his gloves on; he knew she loved it when his gloved fingers fucked her relentlessly. She liked it when they were knuckles-deep inside of her, with the rims of his fingerless gloves grazing her clit. The little slut. She also liked when he fucked her in his supe suit. She took pleasure in submitting to his power. To him. He was a man worth submitting to after all, and he'd earned hers.
“Hmh, those fourteen days were rough on you, weren't they, baby girl?” He mocked, thick fingers spreading her folds open roughly. He loved to tease her and turn her into a mess. He relished in it.
She nodded hastily. It took a measured press of his thumb on her clit to turn her into putty in his hand. “Use your words, baby.”
“Y-Yes, Sir,” She whined, legs parting wider for him, “They were brutal.” She sobbed, burying her face in his powerful neck when he twisted his finger just right, her ankle snapped. He added another finger and she mewled.
“Ben, Ben! Sir, please!” She shrieked in delight, hands clutching at his gear. She gushed on his fingers and he fucked her through her high. He felt the tremble of legs. He was going to force another one from her. She should have asked for permission. She wasn't in control. He was.
She gasped when he didn't stop, “Ben, please don't—!” She squeezed her thighs shut, an attempt to cease the searing pleasure between her legs. His fingers were raw against her flesh. It brought tears to her eyes.
“Now you want me to stop?” He sneered with a drawl, curling a finger inside, her walls tightened in response. “Your pretty pussy doesn't.”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip, before she gazed up at him through half-hooded eyes, moaning, “Don't stop!”
Fuck, that shouldn't have surprised him. But it did. Fuck. She was really a slut. His pretty slut. She was practically inviting him to break her. Oh, he would. Deliciously so.
She squealed when he coaxed another orgasm from her. Begging him to fuck her more like a bitch in a heat.
“Holy fuck, baby, your pussy is squeezing my fingers tight!” He chuckled maliciously as he curled his knuckles again then pulled out.
With pearlescent tears adorning her eyes, she took his thumb into her mouth when he pressed it to her lips. Fuck, the way she twirled her tongue around his digit made him half-tempted to fuck her throat. He could do that later. Now, all he wanted was to fuck that needy, slutty pussy raw.
Ben shifted her up and flipped her on her stomach, her hot breasts squeezing against the cold marble. Shoving her shorts and panties down, he took in the sight of her ruined pussy. She was soaking, her arousal oozed from her opening down to her thighs in small rivulets. Unabashedly inviting him to feast on it. And how could he reject such an invitation? In a moment, he was on his knees, mouth wrapped around her slit, sipping from the sweet honey she had to offer. Seemed the act surprised her as she jerked in stupor with a squawk.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Her knuckles went white when she grabbed on the edges of the countertop as he ate her out like a man starved.
The new gruff hairs on his face burned deliciously against her skin as his tongue flicked assiduously against her swollen clit. He lapped her heat with a flattened tongue before invading her sensitive drawers, slurping her through the mess of her dew and his spit.
“Ben…I'm cumming again!” She tried to utter, but all that came out of her mouth was a broken whisper.
Smirking again, he unbridled the wonders his tongue could do, and she was undone again; his soddend beard was a proof of what he could do to her.
He licked her clean, and her overstimulated cunt shivered every time his tongue made contact with her flesh. She was trying to catch her breath up there, but he couldn't let her. He wasn't done with her yet. He had yet to be satisfied.
He heard her hum as she turned her face to make eye contact with him. A satiated look in her eyes as she smiled weakly at him.
“Ain't fair tho,” She croaked playfully.
He raised an eyebrow, “Hmm?”
Supporting herself with her arms, she managed to turn her body to face him, eyes immediately perching on the conspicuous bulge between his legs before her teeth dragged her lower lip inside her mouth.
“I'm naked, you're not.” Her hands trailed from his chest down to his zipper.
“Thought you liked me fucking you in this shit.” He drawled thickly as her nimble fingers undid his pants and freed his cock.
“God, you're so hard,” She giggled gleefully, “I do,” Her eyes flitted up to his face, “I like what kinda authority this suit holds. It's like fucking a god.”
His dick twitched painfully at her words. She was so good at this. He liked that about her. How she could tickle and caress his massive ego so easily. How good she made him feel so damn good about himself though he'd never admit that out loud. A god she wanted to fuck, then a god she would fuck.
His large hand roughly seized her jaws, her yelp was swallowed by his mouth. His dick was too eager to feel the warmth and wetness of her cunt as he plunged it inside of her.
“Oh, God!” She sang, her arms encircling his neck as he snapped his hips into her. Her hands fisted his short hair.
“No god, only me.” He groaned.
She cried his name as he bottomed out, he was fucking every ounce of anger out of his system on her. And she liked it. Her walls sucked him deeply, wanting more, and more he gave her.
He grumbled, “Gonna put a baby in you.” He wasn't asking. He was telling.
“Yes, Yes! Please make me a mommy!” Pride sprouted in his chest, and the immense feeling bolted down his spine and made his cock spring his load into her.
He didn't pull out right away, he waited for a few minutes. He didn't want his seed to spill out of her as much as appealing that would be to watch.
“You okay?” He asked her with concern.
“A bit thirsty, but I'm aces,” She blinked, sighing dreamily, “That was fucking sexy by the way.
He chuckled amusedly, reaching for the pot of water next to them and pouring her a glass, “The part you called me a god?”
She rolled her eyes as she gobbled down the water.
He arched his brow before whispering into her ear, “Roll your eyes at me like that again and I won't be letting you cum for a month.”
She choked on the water and he laughed deeply at her reddened face.
Suddenly, he became aware of the burning smell coming from the oven. She picked up on him sniffing and they looked at each other and say in unison, “The ribs!”
Her quiver didn't go unnoticed when he pulled out of her to let her check on the food cooking in the oven while he adjusted his clothes. He appreciated her nakedness in the kitchen, maybe he should ask her to wear nothing but an apron when she cooked. She'd look fucking sexy. His cock twitched at the idea.
His wife groaned in disappointment when she saw the ribs.
“Is it bad?” He asked, crouching next to her.
“It's way crispier than I intended.” A hand pressed to her forehead.
“I can handle crispier.”
“But, Ben, I wanted it to be perfect for you,” She whimpered and he smiled, “I know how much you like it.”
“Well, in your defence, happened when you were pretty busy serving me desserts before the main dish,” He winked.
She shook her head with a smile, “Y'know, you're surprisingly cheeky sometimes.”
“With you, I am.”
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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months
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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)
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AU MASTERLIST || PART II
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PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)
WORDCOUNT: 7.7k
WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers. 
The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.
You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment. 
“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.
Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse. 
Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter. 
You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.
“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle. 
“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.” 
“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.” 
“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.” 
Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.
“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”
You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.
“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”
Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him. 
You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection. 
Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense. 
You liked how he spoke to you.
“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”
You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”
Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had. 
You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering. 
“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long. 
Knows what can hunt you. 
You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.” 
With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.
“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!” 
A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.
It is the year 1897, and beasts live here. 
They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves. 
Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt. 
As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money. 
Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.
But the forest…the forest was unpredictable. 
You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat. 
Turn back. 
The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin. 
“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”
The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs. 
With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other. 
“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat. 
Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.
But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time. 
The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place. 
The Ghost.
Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.
As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard. 
“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”
Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath. 
Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it. 
A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.
Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head. 
Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.
“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper. 
“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Your eyes are half-narrowed. 
That wasn’t a twig.
Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had. 
The Ghost. 
Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal. 
The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it. 
A ghost.
The Ghost.
You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.
“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”
Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air. 
With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.
Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips. 
There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat. 
Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up. 
Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts. 
Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.
“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”
Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale. 
You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.
“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh. 
You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”
In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you. 
“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”
“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”
“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”
“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes. 
The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley. 
“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.
The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop. 
Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor. 
Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes. 
Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances. 
But you’d never imagined him to be dead.
You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog. 
Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.
Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.
You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help. 
Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold. 
“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here. 
A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward. 
Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey. 
You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches. 
Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time. 
Eyes like a burial mound. 
You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads. 
A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense. 
The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage. 
Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages. 
But the Ghost isn’t even there. 
“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.” 
The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.
You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward. 
Where did it go? 
Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear. 
Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.
Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it. 
Those eyes. 
Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?
Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state. 
The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears. 
You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do. 
“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”
The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close. 
“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”
The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh. 
A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage. 
You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough. 
 “H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!” 
You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…
“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him. 
You shutter.
“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering. 
Why were you still alive?
The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.
This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back. 
Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.
But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction. 
Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.
A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise. 
Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity. 
On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival. 
So run you did. 
Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson. 
Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.
You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage. 
Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape. 
You never should have come through here.
Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar! 
But the house was different. 
No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.
You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade. 
Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches. 
What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?
Had…had he been behind you the entire time?
You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly. 
“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.” 
Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this. 
You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves. 
But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…
…and nothing happened. 
Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.
Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering. 
“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”
Surely it wouldn’t let you live? 
Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.
One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently. 
This would be your sanctuary for the night. 
“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”
If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not. 
Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers. 
Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink. 
Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly. 
Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings. 
“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?” 
Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt. 
"Simon Riley."
Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.
Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.
“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.” 
Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.
In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.
“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!” 
Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.
That only serves to make you even more angry.
Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.
The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.
“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop. 
Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive. 
The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view. 
Your confidence wavers.
“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?” 
A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.
“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen. 
A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.
“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?” 
It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.
Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.
Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door. 
There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force. 
“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.” 
The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back. 
You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.
“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring. 
Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.
Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees. 
You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul. 
“...So why didn’t he kill me?”
You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches. 
Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do. 
The beast patrolled the glade. 
You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away. 
Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront. 
“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork. 
A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.
He smells you in here. 
“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really. 
You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action. 
If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart. 
If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?
You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.
Simon Riley, your neighbor. 
Your neighbor the Werewolf. 
You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.
Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him. 
There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented. 
He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined. 
As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.
“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside. 
“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.” 
“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate. 
You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling. 
“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors. 
You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider. 
“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.” 
“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”
You shrug. 
“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”
Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting. 
“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.” 
You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” 
Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums. 
“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others. 
“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.” 
“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion. 
It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.
“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.” 
“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.” 
Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath. 
An embarrassing giggle meets air. 
The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder. 
Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room. 
You wake up to the sound of the door opening. 
Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality. 
You should be afraid.
Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches. 
All sound ceases. 
So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”
It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting. 
A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers. 
His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently. 
A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up. 
That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form. 
The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.
“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.” 
You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes. 
Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways. 
As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den. 
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daddyricsdoll · 16 days
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@d3kstar @fakehappy27
Thank you so much 💗1k ✭ Celebration!!
🤎⋆。°✩
“Oh carino…” Carlos whispers in my ear, nose dragging along my hot skin. “You make me so insane.” His big hands grabbed my hips and pushed me further against the wall, taking away all my power and leaving me vulnerable to him.
Carlos’s mood already on a high since achieving a podium on the first race. Which left me with a need to give him a more intimate celebration. Going beyond the heated make outs and fingering. And venturing toward the only thing we haven’t achieved. 
I hadn’t even told Carlos what I hoped he’d do, but yet he showed a hunger for me that couldn’t be healed with a touch of fingers, but instead, his little virgins tight hole. 
A moan escaping my swollen lips and encouraging a groan to leave the Spaniards mouth. 
“Let me take your innocence hermosa.” Carlos grabs a hold of the end of my short dress, waiting for me to nod before he starts pulling the flimsy fabric up. Lifting my arms up and hearing the groan that flees between his plump lips. The cool air of the room brushes against my nearly bare body. Now only wearing light pink lace. 
Carlos does an easy job of ripping my lingerie, now revealing my pebbled nipples and core that gradually gets wetter and wetter by the second. “I don’t know how I held back so long.”
He takes a deep breath, holding my face and indulging both of us in such a love and lust inducing kiss. Only breaking the kiss to spread my legs and start rushing to undo his belt. Sliding it between each hole and throwing it to the floor before unbuttoning his trousers and leaving them to lay beside his belt. Leaving me with the outline of his dick through his boxers. My mouth opened and pussy throbbed at the thought of his size. Watching his hands pull the waistband down and expose his cock. Bobbing up and hitting his toned stomach. 
I didn’t know if he could fit, his fingers already being a stretch I’m not fully accustomed to. 
Carlos clearly ignores the worry on my face as he lifts one of my legs and pulls my body closer to his.
Holding his dick by my entrance and mixing his precum with my arousal to make it an easier job. My fingers make bruises into his shoulders as I grip him tightly, waiting for his inevitable push. “Fuck, don’t worry carino, I’ll make it fit.” Pushing himself in, inch by inch. Both of our breathing, uneasy and heavy. Pain sears through me, and just as a broken scream tries to leave my mouth, Carlos forces two of his fingers between my lips. Allowing my teeth to bite into them as he tries to distract the pain with pleasure. Other hand, rubbing my clit. 
I try to moan out his name, but it comes out muffled as Carlos gags me with his digits. Cock nearly bottoming out and already hitting my g-spot. 
“Te voy a abrir con mi verga.” (Gonna open you with my cock) Carlos starts moving again. Making small thrusts that eventually get bigger, and bring tears to my eyes. Finally managing to hold himself back as I endlessly clench around his dick. Carlos’s thrusts become rams and he treats me with only petite sprinkles of care. Just the way I would’ve begged him for. Satisfaction sparking through me at each rough snap of his hips. Hair perfectly falling and sitting in front of his mesmerising eyes. His stare not the usual one I’d disintegrate into, but grow more flammable. Turning the heat inside of me enough to make us both burn. 
The feeling of his cock, such a sensual ache. And as Carlos moves in and out I can only imagine how my slick covers his shaft. How tight I must be and how close he is to exploding. 
Bringing me back to the tight feeling in my stomach. A knot that just needs to be solved. And just as Carlos hits my g-spot with precision I ultimately let go. 
Digging my nails into his tan skin and creating crescent like shapes. My climax topping every other one that he’s brought me to. But my body doesn’t relax yet, still clenching and throbbing just waiting for Carlos to release. Hearing the way his grunts sound closer to moans and his dick starts spasming. 
Exploding and covering my walls with his cum. Marking me from the inside and out.
“Fuck Carino… I need more.”
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Text
Crawl Home To Her
Ship: Astarion x fem!Tav/reader
Summary: As awful the feeling of blood on the skin is, sometimes it can be helpful, you have to admit. At least, when it comes to Astarion, blood is always helpful. You'll have to take his word for it—and that's oh so easy bathing with him.
Word Count: 5,461 words
Warnings: sexual content (18+) blood, gore, nudity, sexual & non-sexual touching, bathing each other, soft Astarion, established relationship, brief mention of past sexual encounter, dealing with past trauma, teasing from Karlach, mention of dismemberment, fluff & smut mix
18+ Warnings: brief fingering (f receiving), tiny bit of a hair kink, sensual touching, semi-public sex/nudity
Note: Part 2 of Burns Like Rum is coming soon! But here's a little something to tithe you over until the sequel (Sweet Like Rum) is ready!
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☟ Continue below the fold ☟
Shafts of pale sunlight fell on your face as you walked through the forest, your arms swinging at your sides, small critters running amok in the bushes around you. Birdsong filled your ears, pleasantly light and summery, reminding you distantly of a childhood memory you couldn't quite reach. The weather was warm enough that you were thinking you might have to change into something lighter. The few weapons you had on you were already starting to make you break out into a sweat.
For a day that had started with murder, the weather was surprisingly nice.
You hummed as you walked—the song pulled from your childhood, the words long forgotten but pieces of the melody clunking around in your head. You strung them together the best you could, tapping out a rhythm against your leg.
You were on your way to the waterfall you'd spotted several days ago while hunting. It was small and nothing too violent. The pool it fell into wasn't deep enough to drown you, nor was the flow of water all that fast. You trusted it—and the rock ledge behind it—would suit your purposes quite nicely.
Coming upon the pool was like stepping into one of the fairytales you had heard in your youth, sitting upon your father's knee in a tavern, listening to a traveller tell a story you weren't sure was entirely true.
It was guarded by willow trees with branches that swayed in a breeze you hadn't felt until you came upon them. Pushing the curtain of branches away revealed an almost perfectly circular clearing, the ground covered in vibrant green moss that squished delightfully beneath your feet and sprung back up when you stepped off of it. Patches of flowers sprouted all around, pink and yellow and purple blooms that grew up to the sun. The pool was as blue as the sky above, clear and shallow, surrounded by a few feet of soft white sand. The water shimmered in the sunlight, rippling over the pebbles that covered its floor. From the pool, the water flowed into a thin river that could hardly be called a river and out into the woods.
You sat by the pool's edge and pulled off your boots. They were just as bloody as the rest of you, the sticky and quickly drying substance staining the black leather. You splashed water over them and scrubbed with a cloth you had designated for this purpose that had once been grey.
Only after your boots were clean did you stand back up and step into the soft sand. You wiggled your toes, smiling at the feeling. You breathed in the crisp, sweet air. It smelled faintly of flowers and citrus, a scent that was familiar, though you couldn't place it.
You stripped slowly, hissing and wincing as you tugged at the places where blood had stuck the fabric to your skin. It acted like glue when dry, staining your skin and leaving a mottled pattern across your flesh. The fabric of your shirt had grown stiff with semi-dried blood.
One by one, you pulled off belts and straps holding weapons, the gloves you protected your hands with, your shirt, your trousers—until you were standing naked at the pool's edge. You gave yourself a cursory inspection, searching for any wounds you had acquired in the fighting this morning that you hadn't noticed; it wouldn't be the first time you'd walked away from a fight and realized you were injured only hours later. But, this time, there was nothing.
Usually it was Astarion who noticed you were injured, catching your smell in the air when it shouldn't have been. But you were drenched in so much blood already that you imagined it would have been very hard to pick out your distinct scent.
You waded into the pool, taking your clothes with you, and sat at it's deepest point. Standing, it reached your knees; sitting, it almost came to your shoulders. You scrubbed the blood from your clothes, using the soap you had brought with you.
You watched the blood and soap swirl together in the water and flow toward the river, a thin stream of red and bubbles slipping away from the crimson cloud surrounding you. You almost felt bad to ruin the clarity of the water, but the others—back at camp—were taking far too long to wash the blood from themselves with your limited store of water. This was better, in the long run.
Astarion would have a field day with this if this wasn't goblin blood, you thought to yourself, staring at the blood drifting just below the surface. He would drink it, from time to time, but never happily.
You scrubbed at your clothes until your fingers were stiff and sore and the blood was no longer coming out of the fabric. You inspected them and deemed them clean enough to put back on the moss, spread out so they would dry faster.
To clean yourself, you headed toward the waterfall. You climbed up onto the stone ledge behind it, reveling in the surprisingly gentle spray of water that reached you and the stillness of the water that it fell into, high enough to reach your knees.
You stepped under the water. It cascaded over you, dousing you in its coolness that reminded you of the first time Astarion had ever touched you—
—gentle hands, cascading down your sides—fingers lifting your chin so you would meet his gaze—a kiss to your forehead—a hand on the small of your back—his lips on your own, warmer than you had anticipated—his fingers in your hair, keeping your head off the ground—his hand slipping between your legs—his little giggle when you shuddered beneath him—the pleasured sigh from his lips as he slid inside of you—
Stepping out from underneath the water, you shook your head, banishing the memory. You had spoken recently about all of this. He'd told you, "I don't think I want you to think of me in terms of sex." He'd said, "I don't want to be just a body for you, darling." And though he'd teased you that you were more than welcome to "sustain yourself" (his words) with your memories of him while he took time away from intimacy, some part of you still felt like you violating his wishes any time it was his body that you thought of, rather than of, well, just him.
You wiped the water from your eyes and knew your tears had mixed in with it; Astarion had been very vulnerable with you, so you knew his reasons for it all. You had two responses: either unbearable sorrow that he had been forced to endure it all (which the current cause of the crushing weight in your chest), or blinding rage that birthed the desire to see Cazador's head on a spear.
You carded your hands through your wet hair, trying to work out the tangles. Your fingers came away covered in watery blood.
"Mind if I join you?"
You jumped, eyes flying open, and looked up. Leaning against the stone wall was the vampire himself, a gentle smile on his face. Gods, how you loved that smile. In this light, you couldn't tell his eyes were red and his fangs were hidden. If you didn't pay attention to how pale he was, you could imagine he was just an elf again—the life he deserved.
Astarion still wore his clothes, which were slowly darkening as they soaked up the spray of water and splattered with as much blood as his handsome face, but his boots were placed neatly next to yours on the moss. He'd cleaned them already; how had you not heard him before?
While he waited for your answer, aware of your admiring gaze on him, he pulled his shirt off over his head, mussing the curls you loved so much. He stripped quickly, nearly falling over when his trouser leg caught on his foot, and left his clothes in a pile on the rock ledge. Perhaps you were imagining things, but his skin looked paler than it had this morning, when you'd been rudely awoken by a horde of goblins invading your camp.
You held your arms open to him. "I'd like that very much."
He stepped into your arms, wrapped his own around your waist, and buried his head in your neck, breathing in deeply. "My love," he whispered, his lips against your skin. He kissed your neck softly and pulled away, cupping your face in his hand, to look into your eyes. "Are you alright?"
You nodded. "I'm okay."
"No injuries this time?" Astarion's eyes slid down your naked body, examining, his gaze concerned when it had once been sensual. You felt yourself relax in his arms, at ease with his concern. It felt real, honest in a way you hadn't had a chance to be yet. It was natural, somehow, to be checking each other for injuries in the time you finally caught together, away from the others.
"Not this time," you said, leaning into him. More watery blood dripped from your hair and across his chest, leaving streaks that made it look like he'd just returned from a rather messy feeding.
He kissed the top of your wet head. "Good." He leaned away to smile at you. "I was worried you'd run off to take care of your injuries by yourself, if only to keep me from smelling the blood."
You shook your head. "If only we'd been attacked by something you could drink from, satisfy your hunger for a few days." He smiled weakly and you knew the thought had been on his mind, too. "What about you? Are you okay?"
He spread his arms and did a little twirl for you. You giggled at his antics, glancing over his skin, pleased he was comfortable enough to even be naked with you. "Yes, darling. Not a scratch on me."
The two of you looked at each other, your hair already damp and clinging to your head, and his curls slowly being matted down by the thick mist of the waterfall. His ears poked out, more noticeable than normal.
Astarion bent and picked up your bar of soap. "May I help you wash off all this grime?"
"Please," you said, your voice soft but as loving as you could make it, your eyes fixed firmly on his.
He lathered his hands with soap and scrubbed gently at your skin. His nails, kept trimmed and neat, were hardly more than a light sensation as he worked at the dried blood until it crumbled away from your skin and ran down your body in red rivulets. His touch was soft, caring where it had once been lustful and groping. You leaned into his touch, enjoying the sensation of his fingers digging into your tired muscles, and held him. You adjusted your hold on him as he moved across your body—an arm draped across his shoulders, a hand on his bicep, your fingers against his chest, your head on his shoulder.
You looked up at Astarion, blinking quickly to keep the water out of your eyes. His gaze remained fixated on your hips as he gently washed off the blood, but he smiled, aware of your stare.
"See something you like?" he asked, tone playful.
"Someone I love," you corrected. He looked up at you, a tender smile growing on his lips. "Someone I love dearly." You leaned close, cupped one side of his face, and kissed the other. "I love you, Astarion."
He kissed your cheek, too. "And I love you." His lips found yours. He kissed you with a sweetness that simultaneously broke your heart and mended it. You wrapped your arms around his waist. He hummed happily into your mouth and cradled the back of your neck.
The pair of you fell into a tight embrace. You felt the adrenaline drain from you and leave you limp in his arms, your hot skin going cold under the water. Despite how suddenly you must have slumped against him, Astarion held you with ease. He gave the crown of your head a quick kiss, then made an unpleasant sound of surprise from the back of his throat.
"Darling, do you mind if I wash your hair? There's an awful lot of goblin blood in it."
You forced yourself to stand up straight on your own, still holding his sides for support. "Oh, yes—that would be from Karlach throwing one she'd just chopped into over my head." Even as you said the words, you felt the blood splattering into your hair again and shuddered.
Astarion grimaced. "Let me help you with it, then." He lathered his hands and put them in your hair. As he fell into a rhythm, you closed your eyes and let him doing the work, your thoughts drifting...
At first, you weren't sure why you had even woken in the first place. The light coming in through a crack in the tent's opening was still the watery and grey color of pre-dawn, much earlier than you usually woke. You frowned and pushed back into Astarion, his arm squeezing you tighter, sleep once again tugging at your eyelids.
And then you heard a shout, vicious and loud. It was close to camp, maybe even in camp. The shout came again and you realized it was Lae'zel's war cry.
All at once, the sounds of a battle filled your ears. You jerked awake in an instant, clambering onto your knees and shaking Astarion awake next to you. Of course the one day Astarion decided to indulge in the very human activity of sleep was the day you and your friends were attacked.
"What's going on?" he mumbled as his eyes flickered open, his words slurred together.
"Come on, grab your knives," you said, pulling your lightest set of armor on over your clothes. You were suddenly very relieved Astarion had decided skin to skin contact was a bit too much for him last night. "I think we're under attack."
He woke just as quickly as you had. He swore, dragged a quick hand through his hair, and grabbed his knives. He waited until you had your own weapon in hand before he opened the curtain flap of his tent.
The camp was a sight to behold. Already it was trashed and overflowing with goblins. Some were already on the ground, their blood oozing everywhere in the dirt and grass. Gashes from Lae'zel's sword seeped blood and gristle, if she hadn't horribly disfigured the corpses and turned them into little more than lumps of flesh. Many of them bore scorch marks that ranged from minor burns to melting flesh. It smelled horrendous and nearly acidic; you bit back the bile in your throat.
A dismembered arm fell at your foot. You kicked it away on instinct, looking up to see Karlach ripping a second goblin limb from limb.
"Now that's just vile," Astarion said, still looking at the arm, a fang poking out over his curled lip.
"Complain about it later," you said, grabbing his chin and giving him a quick and customary 'good morning' kiss. "We've got to help the others."
"If you insist."
Astarion ran to Karlach's side; you headed for Shadowheart and Gale. Wyll was approaching, too, cutting a path through the goblins.
"Morning, you two!" you said cheerily. "How'd this happen?"
"We're not sure," Shadowheart said, kicking a goblin in the face as it ran at her with a scream. "Lae'zel said they came from the north, just over those hills."
"Odd. I wonder if we camped too close to them for their liking, and now they're trying to do something about it. Are goblins territorial creatures?"
Gale grunted, casting another fireball. "Enough chatting. Let's just kill these things and figure out where they came from and why later. Got it?"
"Fair enough," you decided. "Whoever kills the most chooses dinner for a week."
"I'll take you up on that," Wyll said from behind you. "I'm dreaming of a good meal for once."
Astarion's hands sliding out of your hair abruptly brought you back to reality, to his body pressed against yours and the waterfall at your back, shielding the two of you from the world.
"Where'd you go?" he asked, voice soft. You could feel his fingers toying with the ends of your hair, curling it on his fingers.
"Back to the fight," you admitted. "I just keep wondering how they snuck up on us."
"No matter now," he said. "We'll let Lae'zel criticize us all for not anticipating every possible disaster when we get back, but not yet. Not here."
He went back to massaging your scalp, despite the blood being long gone, and your sighed happily. He smiled and kissed your forehead, adding pressure. A content whimper slipped from your lips and you blushed instantly as his eyes lit up; he'd heard far more obscene from you, yet still the slightest sounds you made embarrassed you and delighted him.
"My, my, the noises you make for me, lover," he teased, giggling. He wrapped his hand in your hair and tugged, hard enough to draw a loud moan out of your chest.
Astarion covered your mouth with his hand, his eyes playfully wide. "Shhh, unless you want the others to come looking. We're not that far away from camp."
Heat rushed through your body. "Oh, gods, Astarion, I'm— I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to— And I certainly didn't expect it to be that...that loud—! I..."
He swallowed your frantic apologies with a kiss. Against your lips, he whispered, "If you can keep quiet, though...I can grant you all the pleasure you want. You need only ask, darling."
Your heart skipped several beats in your chest. You put your hand up to his face. "Oh, I don't... Star, I don't need you to, I wouldn't want you to...feel obligated." He pulled his forehead away from yours to see your face. "We agreed not to do anything until you're ready. And that wasn't that long ago, so... I don't want you to be uncomfortable—"
Astarion cupped your chin with his hand, dragging his thumb across your lower lip. The words died in your throat. He met your gaze, his crimson eyes open and honest, and said, "Your pleasure is a gift. Even if I don't want to be touched yet, that's not stopping me from touching you. Only you can stop me from touching you."
"Star..."
He pulled you into a tight hug. You wrapped your arms around him, suddenly too aware of the raised scar you felt against your arms. "I trust you. Wholeheartedly. I trust you to...to respect my boundaries. To check in with me. To see when I'm uncomfortable. You've already done it, again and again, and proved that you're worthy of that trust. And do I look uncomfortable now?"
You studied him. His pupils were blown. His eyes told a story of contentment. The tenseness you had once noticed laying deep and dormant in his muscles was gone. He looked at you with a fondness you realized now was a profound trust and he stood utterly relaxed in your arms.
So you answered him honestly. "No."
"Exactly, darling. I'm not uncomfortable. I want to do this for you, if that's what you also want. I feel...safe with you. I've never felt like this around anyone before," he admitted, a bit of sadness creeping onto his face, "and I don't want to ruin it. I don't know... I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm going to try to do right by you. So if you want me..." He placed his hand low on your abdomen. Your stomach did flips. He put his lips against the shell of your ear. "Tell me, darling, because I certainly want you. All I ask is that you not touch me, not just yet."
You whimpered. "Please, Star. I promise not to touch you, I promise. But please touch me."
"That's my girl," he whispered. "Spread your legs for me, no need to be so nervous."
You readjusted your stance, widening the space between your previously clenched thighs. His hand filled the gap, cupping you gently. You sighed, leaning your head against his chest again, looking down to watch his ministrations.
Astarion pressed his palm to your clit. You watched his wrist move as he slid his fingers along your slit, teasing you and never quite touching you where you needed him. You whimpered as his fingertip lightly ghosted your entrance, just barely dipping inside before he moved his hand back up, his fingers toying with your clit.
"That's it," he whispered in your ear. "Make those quiet, pretty sounds for me. Show me how you feel."
You rocked your hips against his hand. "Astarion, please..."
He kissed your temple. "Feeling good?"
Your broken moan was your answer. He chuckled, sliding his hand up your side, taking your breast in the palm of his hand. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, making you gasp and buck your hips against him. He closed his lips around it and sucked gently.
"More," you whispered. "Please. I need...I need you."
"Alright, darling, alright," he said against your skin. He rubbed your entrance for another moment, then slid his finger inside you. You clenched down on him as you sighed your pleasure. He curled his finger inside you, rubbing away at your walls, and you gasped loudly.
Astarion grinned. "Make those noises. Moan for me. I want you to show me how good this feels, show me you want me." You gripped tightly onto him, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his hip. Your breaths grew heavy and your whimpers louder. "Yes, that's it! Be loud for me, my sweet, the loudest you've ever—"
A branch cracked in the forest. A voice called out your name, then Astarion's. You jumped a mile and Astarion's finger slipped out of you. You stared at each other with wide eyes.
"D...did you hear that?" you asked. "Or am I hearing things?"
As if an answer, the voice—Gale's—shouted again, "I know you're over here, I can see your boots!"
"Shit," Astarion sighed. He craned his head to peer around the curtain of water. "What the hells do you want?"
"Is she with you?" Gale asked. "Shadowheart sent me to find you both, the rest of us have all finished washing up! There's water left for you."
"That's what we're trying to do, Gale!" you called, reaching an arm through the waterfall and waving at him. "Use the water for something else, we'll make do here."
He harrumphed. "If I had known this was just a few minutes away from camp, I would have come to wash up here ages ago."
You and Astarion exchanged a look. So much for a secret getaway spot.
"Be back soon, or Karlach will start worrying," Gale said, in the tone of a chiding parent. "And no funny business!"
"Oh, shut up!" Astarion shouted, the tips of his ears turning a deep pink. He ducked behind the water again and holding you close. You barely held back your giggles while the two of you listened for Gale to walk away. One slipped out and Astarion hurriedly covered your mouth with his hand. You licked his palm and he pulled it away quickly. "You weirdo!"
You wrapped your arms around him and leaned into his chest. "Yes, but I'm your weirdo. You love me anyway."
Astarion pushed a strand of your wet hair behind your ear. "I love you anyway," he admitted, with a fondness that turned you into mush in his arms. He held you close for several moments, then asked, "Do you want me to continue?"
You thought about it, then shook your head. "Not just now. I suspect Karlach will be on her way to investigate the waterfall I didn't have the decency tell anyone about very soon."
"Very well," he said. "I'll finish you off later in my tent, then. As long as you can keep quiet for me, darling." He gave you that charming smile that made your stomach do flips.
"I thought you liked me loud," you teased.
Astarion rolled his eyes, playful and flirtation in such a comfortable way that it warmed your heart more than any of his touches ever could, delightful as they were. "Only when I have you all to myself, lover." He nipped at your neck, his fangs scratching but not breaking your skin. "Your moans are mine."
You stood together like that for several more moments, his hands on your hips and your arms looped around his neck, your foreheads pressed together. You exchanged dainty kisses, basking in each other in the few minutes left you had alone.
At last, you planted one firm, lingering kiss to his lips. "Let me clean you off," you said. "Though you're going to have to crouch for me to get your hair." Most of the blood and grime had been washed away by the waterfall's spray, but his silver hair was still speckled with it all, and you could taste it on his lips—sour and gritty. No wonder he only drank from goblins as a last resort.
Astarion bent his head down, pressing his forehead into your shoulder and holding you by the waist. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and smiling (but saying nothing) every time your touch managed to pull a soft whimper or moan from him without him realizing it.
You washed his body anyway, wiping away the remaining grime and massaging his muscles. You enjoyed the way he relaxed in your arms, quietly asking for more or less pressure.
"My back," he said, voice quiet and almost timid. "Can you...?"
"Are you sure?" you asked, frowning.
He nodded and turned in your arms, exposing his back to you. You started slowly, massaging his upper back and shoulders before working your way down, giving him plenty of time to tell you to stop if he needed to. But he leaned into your touch and responded with more of those gentle and timid—but happy—sounds.
You kissed the nape of his neck when you were finished, rested your head against his back, and wrapped your arms around his waist. His hands found yours and laced your fingers together.
"Thank you, my love," he said. "I've never... No one has ever done that for me before."
You hugged him tighter. "Any time you need me—I'm here. I will always be here." You stepped away and guided him out of the water with a hand. "Come on, we should head back."
The pair of you helped each other dress, though neither of you were wearing anything that required the help. You suspected Astarion just wanted to keep you close; when he got into his cuddly moods, it lasted for hours at a time. You would sleep wrapped up in your vampire's arms, safe and comfortable, tonight.
You were both pulling on your boots when Karlach found you.
"There you are!" she said. "Why didn't you tell us where you'd run off to?"
You shrugged. "I wanted the peace and quiet," you said honestly. "Besides, you all take forever to clean off."
Astarion snickered. "She's right about that."
Karlach sat on the moss, staring at the waterfall. "Well, you're right about one thing, soldier—this place is peaceful."
You hummed your agreement. "Yes. I'm glad we camped near it, or I never would have found it."
"How did you find this place?" she asked.
"Hunting," you said.
"Really? I assumed it must have been when you and Astarion sneak out so the rest of us can't hear you having sex." You choked on air and she laughed. "What? He found it easily!"
Astarion spluttered. "Because I could smell her!"
You sighed. "Karlach, we stopped sneaking off ages ago. We don't need to, we sleep in the same tent now. Rest assured, if anything is happening, it's happening silently and the rest of you are none the wiser to it."
"That doesn't make me rest assured."
You laughed. Astarion smiled at you, the kind of smile that made his eyes seem a little less dark and made you really remember that he was an elf.
"Well, I don't know about you two, but I'm going back to camp," he said. "I'm sure there's much to discuss about these...impertinent creatures who keep attacking us." He kissed your cheek and whispered into your ear, "I'll see you tonight, darling. What we do is up to you."
Before he could leave, you reached over and held his cheek, kissing him firmly on the lips. He smiled into it.
"Lovebirds," Karlach groaned, rolling her eyes, "will you please get a room?"
"The next time we stop at an inn—yes," Astarion said, winked at you, then disappeared into the woods.
You gulped. "I pity whoever is in the room next to us."
Karlach snorted. "I pity you and your poor cervix!"
"Karlach!" You splashed her with water and she roared with laughter.
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! Only slightly."
You huffed, scooped up your weapons, and started back to camp. Karlach followed.
"I mean, in all honesty, you two were so loud that first time we all heard you at camp, even though you snuck away. Kept us all awake, but you sounded like you were having a good time. So clearly he's doing something right, but can you take all of that every time? You were walking with a limp the next morning—"
"Okay, let's change the subject," you said loudly, heat racing through your body. Remembrance pulsed through you again, ghostly touches and reminders of just how easily Astarion made you scream.
She giggled. Gods, she was spending too much time with you and Astarion; he was rubbing off on her. "Oh, yes, because what would poor Gale say if he heard?"
You rolled your eyes. "It's not Gale I'm worried about, it's Astarion. If he hears you, he's going to become insufferable."
"Isn't he already?"
You whacked her with the flat end of your sheathed dagger. She laughed, putting her hands up in surrender.
The others were cleaning up camp when you arrived, scrubbing blood from tents and carpets and hauling away corpses and severed limbs.
Gale waved when he saw you, then jerked his thumb toward Astarion. "Didn't he just wash?"
You looked over at your vampire, only to find him feeding on a goblin. He looked up at you and grinned sheepishly, a trickle of blood sliding out of his mouth and down his neck.
"I just washed him, actually," you said dryly. "Astarion, you aren't that messy of an eater. What on earth are you doing?"
"Oh, so now you deign to eat the goblins," Karlach scoffed.
He shrugged. "What? I'm hungry!"
You spluttered. "You could have just asked me!"
Astarion wiped his mouth with a feral grin. "Well, I'll keep that in mind later, darling." He winked at you and then blew you a quick kiss. He shoved the carcass into the woods and went into his tent, closing the flap behind him.
Gale sighed heavily before looking back at you. "That one. Are you sure you want to choose that one?"
"Yes, Gale, I want that one."
He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
~❊~
Night fell. One by one, the others retired to their tents. Only Karlach and Gale remained awake when you left the fire and slipped into Astarion's tent.
He was laying on his side, reading and drinking blood, the picture of leisure. He closed his book immediately when you laid beside him and pulled you flush against his body.
"There you are," he said, snuggling into your shoulder. "I was beginning to wonder if you were coming."
You reached up and dragged your fingers through his perfect curls. "You don't have to wonder about that ever, Star. As long as I live, I'll be coming home to you. Even if I have to crawl."
"Gods, I love you," he said, wrapping himself around you. You kissed the top of his head.
"I love you, too," you whispered. He sighed happily and cuddled into you, sliding one of his legs between your own and settling there. A few minutes later, you felt the pressure of his knee against your clothed crotch. "What are you doing, mister?"
He grinned at you, showing both fangs. "Finishing what I started," he said cheekily. He began undoing the lacing at the front of your pants. "Now, just lay still for me, dear. And please do your best to keep quiet—I'd hate to have to cover that pretty mouth with my hand. Again."
☞ ❊ ☜
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Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Acunin
Taglist: {comment and let me know if you'd like to be added to the Astarion taglist!} @wayward-hel @cheeslyy @ofmyth-andmagicart @neetheslayer @whispering-depths @freesidexjunkie @lightsinmycity @the0ldmann @gobbodoggo @oooof-ifellforyou @beeblisss @fangboner @aquaarietes @fiercest-eigengrau-skies @niqhtfell @call-me-nyxx @lueji-m @ceres-xiv @tricksy-trinity @graynstairs @rosa-rubus @ynisthatyou
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norrisleclercf1 · 7 months
Text
King Takes Knight
Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader x Lando Norris
Rating: R
Words: 4.2K
Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Smut!!! P in V, oral (m receiving), fingering, slight public sex, handjob, small M x M, Mafia, etc.
Requested: Yes/No
Request: My formal request for mafia charlando ahahha. I can deffff see Charles being mafia leader in Monaco, inherited through family, goes generations back and then lando just recently got into it after moving to Monaco. And that’s why Charles let’s him take reader cause he knows he’s more powerful and he’ll get her back and lando with reader too. Ooo or maybe reader is in on it too. Not me cooking this up at 4am it’s time for me to go to bed
Synopsis: Lando hated that Charles had you, so when he takes you, he finds out he's nothing but a game piece.
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"He's staring." The ghost of his words has you shivering, pushing back into your husband's body. His hand splashes perfectly on your stomach, pulling you back even more. "I know. He can't take his eyes off." You mummer, craning your neck and kissing the bottom of his jaw. 
Your husband's hand squeezes slightly from your stomach to hold your neck. "Teasing him, my little mégère?" You whimper, the pressure of his fingers digging into your neck. "Giving him a show." You whisper, smashing your lips together. Your husband rolls his hips into your own. Tongues mixing, he curls his, laying his claim to you. 
Mewling, you pull away, eyes drifting over to your husband's newest member. Lando Norris. An adorable Brit who joined not too long ago, his skin was kissed by the sun, eyes a gorgeous ocean green, and curls that make you want to pull on them. Lando kept to himself, but he was by your side whenever he was in the room with you. 
"Maybe we should play a game with him, hm?" You rock back, watching Lando's eyes harden, ripping away from you and your husband. Oh, your husband, Charles Leclerc. Charles was the current head of his family, a mafia dynasty he has now inherited. No one could touch him, or you, for that matter. Charles was a force, an unmoveable object that was to not be messed with. 
"I heard a rumor." Charles smiles, licking a strip from your ear to your shoulder before placing a slight bite on the bundle of nerves at the bottom of your neck. "And what was that rumor, my Queen?" Spinning around, you face Charles. Hair messy, the way you liked it. Wearing a tailored all-black suit with a red pocket square. "Lando wants to kidnap me." His eyes go black hearing those words, but the wolfish smile on his face tells a different story. 
"Hmmm, should we play a little game?" You smile, pulling the front of your dress down. Grabbing Charles's hand, you place them on the curve of your tit. "Fuck, my little vixen. Am I going to have to fuck you here in front of everyone?" Shaking your head, you slide your hand down to the front of his trousers. Cupping his cock, you feel it harden, licking your painted dark wine lips. "I suggest I walk off to the garden," Undoing his buckle, you move closer so no one can see what you're doing. 
"Lando will follow me, and," Charles takes a deep breath, watching as his men and others dance, drink, and get rowdy. "I can cry about how you aren't good to me, but you are excellent," Watching as your husband's eyes drop. Your hand is now in his pants, slowly pumping him from base to tip. "He'll kidnap me, most likely take me to that new summer house you bought for him," Charles groans, hands squeezing your tits, and he places hickies on them, laying his claim. 
"Thought I didn't know about that?" Charles whimpers when your hand tightens at his base, watching his cock turn a gorgeous soft red. "Couldn't, fuck, help myself. The way his eyes light up, don't stop, when I gave him the keys, fucking hell," Charles gasps, hips shaking as you move your hand up and down faster. Only you could render the great Charles Leclerc to a whimpering, begging mess. 
"Mhm, but he'll take me. Let me make him ours. Please, my King?" You make your eyes big, Charles groaning as you squeeze his tip. "Fuck, je te maudis, ma renarde . Je te donnerais le putain de monde. Tu as ma permission, je le veux aussi." Charles moans, kissing you as he spills into your hand. Pulling away his own lips, wear your dark wine color. (Curse you my fox. I'd give you the fucking world. You have my permission, I want him too.)
"I love you. I'll see you at the summer house." Charles smiles, kissing you with such softness you almost cry. Pulling your hand out of his pants, you lick it clean. Charles seriously thinks of keeping you. "Go before I never let you leave." Nodding, you rush off, slipping into the crowd. 
------------------------
You knew he was behind you. He was a walking shadow. Where you went, he was there as well. He was never by your side but close enough to step in when you needed him. And right now, you're about to play with his feelings for you. 
"Lando?" His body goes rigid, hearing the soft, broken tone of yours. "Mrs. Leclerc?" rushing to your side, you hide your face in his chest. His skin was warm. His shirt was opened slightly, resting your face on the skin, letting him feel those fake tears touch him. "What happened? What did he do?" Pulling you away, he wipes your tears away, smearing your makeup. 
"He's horrible. Always makes me lie in his bed, and he's always with other women. Treats me like a personal maid than his wife. Made me watch what he does to his enemies. I'm trapped." You cry, curling yourself back into Lando. Lando growls, pulling you closer as he looks around. No one is around. This was perfect. 
"Hey, it's okay. Let me take you back to the main estate." Smirking, you quickly wipe it away when Lando looks down at you. "I just want to be free, and I can't. He'll never let me leave." You whimper, and Lando's hands tighten on your waist. "Bastard, I can get you out of here." You pull back, sniffling. "Lando, I can't. He's my husband. I'm his property. I can't leave." Fingers tugging on his necklace, Lando's jaw tightens. "You can leave. You're leaving with me." His grip tightens on your arm as he starts to drag you. 
"Lando, no. Let me go." You start to fight, but he refuses to listen. "Stop fighting me! I'm trying to save you." He roars, shaking you as you whimper. Playing the weak little wife of a scary Mafia King was so easy. You two stare at each other, a raging hurricane in his eyes and yours a mere rainstorm. "Save me." You whisper. Lando throws the door open, shoving you inside. 
"Should we follow?" Charles swirls his drink, watching Lando move around the car and get in. Sitting up, he smiles, sipping it. "No, don't follow. I know where they are heading. Give it a week or two, and then I'll follow." Charles watches as Lando's car pulls out, driving into the night. 
"King takes Pawn." 
---------------------------------------
Two Weeks Later 
The sea air brushes your nose, waking you from your peaceful slumber. Stretching, you smile, looking at the clear blue water. Maldives. Charles had bought Lando the home. It was odd that Lando would bring you somewhere like this. The poor boy was young, probably thinking Charles would check everywhere for you. Not considering one of his men would take his wife. 
Shivering, you turn, seeing Lando's fingers run up and down your exposed back. You've slowly been reeling Lando in. Late last night, you woke to Lando asleep on your chest, hand cupping one of your breasts. In the night, you decided to disregard your shirt, Lando moving closer. A drowsy smile is on his face, watching you wake; the open-air bungalow was gorgeous. 
With white sand beaches and water surrounding you, no one was around for miles upon miles. The place had no walls, just sheer white curtains covering you. "You should sleep some more." He whispers, nose bumping into your temple, ghosting it with a kiss. "I'm not tired," Lando hums, kissing your shoulder and reaching your cheek, stopping. "Water lily, please sleep. I'm sure this is your first time to sleep without fear." His eyes pleading, almost like a child. 
You almost laugh but clamp it down so Lando doesn't grow suspicious. "Lando, I slept fine. Charles always left me alone when we slept. It was," You swallow, looking at your ring. You missed your husband. This was the first time in 8 years you've slept without him by your side. "He was kind to me at night." Lando drops his head on your shoulder. "Can we stop talking about it?" He asks, hating to hear that fondness in your voice. 
He didn't know if it was because he was in love with you or jealous of how Charles paid attention to you. "I'm going to cook breakfast." Climbing out of bed, you throw on Lando's black button-down shirt, heading to the mini kitchen. Slamming his face into the pillow, he groans loudly. "Fucking dumbass." Lifting his face, he stares out at the rising sun. "She clearly loves him, even though he's a horrible bastard. A beautiful, smart, arrogant bastard." Lando can't control the heat in his face and the tingle he feels in his stomach. 
"Lando, can we go out today?" He sits up, the cover showing off his chest and arms, which has you locking those naughty thoughts. "Water lily, that wouldn't be smart. We might be at the world's end, but your husband is very powerful." Face falling, you nod, going back to the kitchen. The ache in Lando's chest blooms, seeing the look that crossed your face. "Dammit." Fingers tug at his hair, feeling the frustration. Throwing the covers off, he pads into the kitchen, back to him. 
"Mrs," Lando clears his throat, stopping himself. "Y/n, we...we can go out on the boat." Whipping around, your face glows with that smile he fell in love with. "Really? It won't," You pause. Moving, he wraps his arms around you, head resting on his shoulder. "No, it'll be fine. I'm just being overprotective. Mr. Leclerc is powerful, and while I'm from a family with money, he is on a different level." You can't control the coy smile. Glad that Lando can't see the gloating look on your face. 
"We're in the middle of nowhere, and I doubt Charles knows you're the one who took me. He trusts you. He wouldn't even think to look here." Pulling away, you smile, pecking Lando's cheek, which has him blush. "Get dressed. We can leave in a few." Giggling, you rush off to get dressed. 
------------------------------------------
You smirk as Lando tries hard to focus on driving the boat and not you. It was the bikini. Did the same thing to Charles when you were on your honeymoon. A trick you were taught a while ago was to take the top of the bikini and flip the top around so you tied the bottom around your neck and your underboob. It makes your tits look glorious, which has Lando's mouth watering at the sight. 
"What's that?" Sitting up, you notice a large opening in the mountain. "Looks like a cave!" Lando yells over the rushing wind. Perfect, standing, you wobble back to Lando and push into his arm. His neck and jaw tighten at the feeling of you pressed into his skin. "Let's go explore it!" Pressing yourself closer, Lando turns the boat, slowing it down. "We have to be careful. No idea what could be there or how deep the water is." You clap, heading to the front. 
"A sand bar." Lando slows the boat farther. "Come here, water lily." You run to the back, Lando instructing you to drive the boat as he pulls it in to tie it off. Watching Lando move in the sun, you lick your lips. He was stunning in a boyish way, but also, when he was serious, he was sharp like a diamond. "Alright, we're all good. Come on." Holding his hand, you take it as Lando helps you into the sand bar. "It's gorgeous." Gasping as you both walk to the cave. It was opened air, going far deeper than the eye could see, but you kept close to the open. The sand grew about 2 feet, the water ghosting it each time it waved. 
"I don't regret marrying him." Lando freezes before you, he was searching for rocks, but hearing those words, he stops. "Why?" "Why what?" Lando turns to you, looking you up and down. "Why do you not regret marrying him?" Thinking it over, you smile, "He wasn't always like that. We, he, was my first, and seeing what he's become has been hard." Reaching up, Lando presses his palm to your cheek, watching you lean into it. "I'll never do that to you, never." Stepping into him, you move his hand to your waist. 
"I know you won't." Lando and you stare at each other, unsure what to do next. "I want to kiss you, really kiss you, but I'm scared you don't feel the same way." Vulnerability shines in his eyes, fingers dancing with anxiety on your skin. "Trust me, if you kissed me, I'd never stop you." Hearing that, restraint breaks as he devours you. Lips move as hands land on your ass, squeezing as he pulls you in. "Easy, baby boy," Lando whines, hearing that he pulls away. "You forget, Lando. I don't do fast and needy. Let me show you the proper way to love someone like me." Lando nods his head, eager to learn. 
"Show me, please." He whispers. You knew you could get him to be a needy mess right where you wanted him. He was the type of man to let you be in charge. Charles, you'd just need to suck his cock, but with Lando, just a couple of words and he was putty in your hands. "Good boy." Lando shivers as you move his hands to your waist. "Went straight for the ass, you have to work me up. Make me crave you there." Lando nods his head, watching. 
"Now," Stepping from his hold, you untie your top, letting it fall. "When a woman wants you, it's subtle or straight to the point. For me, I'm subtle. Make you work for it, like a chess game. I'm the Queen. Do you know what the makes you?" Shaking his head, no, his hand moves, palming your tit. Biting your lip, you groan when he tweaks your nipple. "Don't worry, you'll figure out which piece you are." Stepping closer, you grab his other hand, placing it on your stomach. 
"You're gorgeous, Water Lily." His fingers move slowly across your skin, watching your breathing stutter and grow. His eyes take in each time you make a noise or movement. He was learning, but in the back of his mind, he wondered if you had to teach Mr. Leclerc this. "Stop, I know what you're thinking." Looking into your eyes, you smirk. "Thinking about my husband when I'm here, rude." Chuckling, Lando pecks your lips. 
"Shit." He was able to take you off guard, fingers brushing your clit making you arch into him. "Cheeky." He sticks out his tongue, but you lean in, sucking it in your mouth as you turn it into a slow needy kiss. The pads of his fingers rub small circles with slight pressure. He was learning, building it up slowly, making your body scream for more. "Right there, yes, that's, mhm," Lando adds more pressure using small circles as he curls his two middle fingers into you. 
"Can I?" Eyes like a puppy, you almost feel bad for playing this game with him. "Of course." Mouth opening, you whine before moaning as his thick fingers enter you. "Damn," A look of concentration passes Lando's face as he watches his fingers work. "Water Lily, you feel so damn good around my fingers, can't imagine what you'd feel around my cock." He whispers, delicate kisses being placed on your chest. 
Looking down, you lick your lips; Charles was longer, but Lando would definitely have some girth to him. If last night was any testament, he was very.....impressive. "Pull out," Lando does as you remove your bottoms, nodding towards his own. "Oh, um." Even in the dimly lit cave, you could see the bright red on your cheeks. "What? Never been naked in front of a woman before?" He looks away, fidgeting with the ties on his swim trunks. 
"Lando? Have you? Are you?" You're at a loss for words. He was kind, funny, shy, and protective of the people he cares for. "Yes, I'm a virgin. That a problem?" A slight bit to his words, you could tell that he was nervous. "That's adorable. So you really are all mine." Fingers weave into his waist, tugging at the trunks. "Are you comfortable with this? To have your first time in a cave?" Pressing his forehead against yours, he smiles. "If it's with you, I don't care where it is." Tugging the trunks down, you watch as his cock slaps his hip, and a little moan passes your lips. 
"What are you doing?" You couldn't resist but fall to your knees, wrapping a hesitant hand around his base. "Oh," He's at a loss for words, whimpering when you wrap your lips around his tip. Swirling your tongue, you start to move up and down, learning what he likes. "Water, god your, fuck," Whining, he fiddles with his hands, not knowing where to put them. Seeing this, you stop, moving them to hold your head, fingers resting on your jaw. "There, don't be afraid to touch me." "Mhm," Breathing heavily, he shivers when you return to pleasuring him. 
"Y/n, fuck, I'm," You pull off, placing a kiss along his shaft and looking up at him. "Shhh, it's okay." Trying to compose himself, he nods, "Why'd you stop?" Getting off your knees, Lando is quick to wipe your knees off, making sure you're not hurt. "Because I want you to come in me." Like a fish, he gaps at you, at a loss for words. "Now, lay on your back." Scurrying, he moves as you straddle his lap, rocking your hips and slowly rubbing your lips over him. 
"Please, enough, Y/n," He gasps, moving his hips up, giggling. You push them back down. "Shhhh," Pushing his sweaty hair back, you lean down, soft kisses on his cheek before nipping his ear. "It'll be okay, baby. I'll take care of you." Reaching down, you line him up, and rocking your hips back, you slide him in. Screwing his eyes shut, Lando takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He doesn't want to finish so soon. 
Looking down at Lando, you place your hand on his chest and start to move. Eyes flying open, Lando stares at you with awe hands landing on your ass. "There you go, baby." Lando nods, hands squeezing as you drag it out forward and backward. "How pretty you look." Lando was pretty, sand covering his body, hair messy and so curly, eyes sparkling, looking like the sea. "Me, you're, fucking christ, a ugmh, goddess." Lando whimpers out. 
Smiling, you move faster, adding a small swirl in your hips. "Shit, if you do that again. I will," You make a complete circle with your hips. Arching your back, you place your hands on his thighs as you bounce. "That's okay, baby boy. Don't hold back." You gasp, feeling that tingle grows in your stomach. "Here, with your thumb. Rub a circle." Removing one of his hands from your ass, you place it on your clit. Lando, taking instruction well, starts to do as you say. "Jesus, yes." You cry, throwing your head back. 
"I'm, oh god." Lando scrunches his face as he stops his movements. You ride him out, feeling him in you. "There you go, such a good boy." You praise; Lando's thumb puts more pressure, making you gasp, rocking forward as you clamp down on him as you finish. "Shit," Collapsing on his chest, arms like jelly Lando wraps them around you. "I love you." Your eyes fly open, and every molecule in your body stops. Shit, fuck, damn, this was bad. 
"You don't have to say it back. I know you still love Mr. Leclerc, but I wanted you to know." His fingers rub into your body, working out the tension. "We have to go before high tide comes in." Climbing off Lando, you're quick to get dressed, tossing him his trunks. "Okay," Fuck, you hated hearing that disjection in his voice. 
------------------------------------------------
The boat ride was quiet, but you kept yourself curled into Lando, eyes closed. "We're back." Nodding, you jump off, wading to shore, and quickly clock the curtains moving. You swear you tide them down before leaving. Shrugging your pad into the area, stopping when you see a man sitting at the table. A chess board out. 
"Char," He holds a finger up to his lips, silencing you. He looks you over, eyes narrowing when he sees the handprints and love bites over your body. "I can cook tonight. We can fix something unhealthy. Maybe pasta or," Lando goes to stone as he stares at Charles. "I wouldn't." Looking over, you see Lando's hand in the air, clearly going to reach for you. "Tell me, how was it running off with my wife? Playing house with her? Kissing her? Fucking her?" Charles growls out the last part, standing up. 
Your body craves to be next to Charles, wanting nothing more than to be wrapped in his arms. You've missed your husband. The way he would wake you up with food or between your legs. He'd have your favorite drink ready and kiss you on the forehead. You missed his smell, a hint of vanilla and coffee. 
"Stay the fuck away from her," Lando snarls, stepping closer to you, but you don't move to stare at your husband. His eyes move from Lando's to yours, melting when he sees the yearning in your eyes. "Come here." Charles opens his arms, steps forward, and is pulled back by Lando. "What are you doing? He was horrible to you." Lando whispers, fear and anger evident in his voice. "No, he isn't." Pulling away, you move, collapsing into Charles's arms. 
"I've missed you." Charles smiles, kissing you on the head as he stares at Lando. "It's okay, my Queen, I'm here." Pulling away, you wipe your eyes, finally feeling home. "What, how," Charles moves you to the side, stepping closer to Lando. "What should I do with you? Taking my Queen, my equal. I should have you killed." "Charles," Lando looks at you, hurt, but then stares at Charles. "If you think that is fair, for this betrayal." He grits out. Cocking his head to the side, your husband looks Lando up and down. 
"He is adorable, like an obedient puppy. Wanting to please its master." Reaching his hand out, he cups Lando's cheek, thumb pulling down his bottom lip. "Mhm, very good. He has that look of wanting to kill me or maybe fuck me." Lando rips his face out of Charles's hold, glaring. "Easy, little cub, you don't have those claws or teeth yet." "Stop teasing him, Charles." You ground out, growing defensive as you step in front of Lando. 
"I don't need you to protect me." Lando moves, but Charles rips him back, holding him by the jaw. "Watch it, I don't care if you fucked my wife and took her from me. But, she seems to adore you. And I find you amusing." Charles looks him up and down, grip growing tighter. "A very nice Knight, you are the perfect piece. You almost took the Queen but can't take the King." Lando hates his internal battle between fighting and dropping to his knees. 
"Charles, please let him go. You let us go, please. You want him as well. Stop this. You're scaring me." His hand drops from Lando immediately, pulling you into him. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Lando watches the terrifying man before he turns into this marshmallow of a husband. He can't watch this anymore, the woman he loves being consoled by her husband. Moving past, he stops seeing the chessboard. 
All the other players except the King, Queen, and Knight were gone. "I'm the Knight." Pulling away from Charles, you wipe your eyes. "What?" Confused by his words. "You asked me in the cave," Cheeks blooming red, Charles raises an eyebrow, now very curious. "What piece I was, you're the Queen. Mr. Leclerc is clearly the King that makes me the Knight." Holding the piece up, you two smirking while Lando glares. "I'm not a fucking chess piece." Whipping it past Charles's head. "Go pack, love." Nodding, you walk past to the bedroom. 
"Sit down." Lando doesn't move, the two men staring each other down. "Sit. Down." Wavering, Lando sits down as Charles steps into his space. "You are adorable. Those eyes must've gotten her to do anything." He mummers fingers, pushing back his curls. "I'm not a game," Lando whispers, trying to calm himself down. "No, but this whole you kidnapping her and making you hers was. Just you and me standing now." Plucking up another Knight piece, placing it on the board, and snatching the Queen. 
"What do you want from me?" Charles looks down, smirking, feeling his pants tighten. "Right now? Nothing, but later. So much." Thumb tracing those plump lips. "Go pack, we're going back home." Swallowing a golf ball, Lando stands going to pack as well. Looking at the board, Charles smirks. "King takes Knight." Flicking the piece over, watching it roll onto the ground. 
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theemporium · 2 months
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i love how you write oscar so had to send an idea in! oscar blurb where they're all dressed up and he can't keep his hands off her even though he usually very reserved in regard to PDA, maybe they're at an awards ceremony or clubbing with other boys from the grid?
thank you for requesting!🫶🏽
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Lando had practically begged Oscar to join the rest of the grid to come out with them after the season ended.
He was a rookie. He just completed his first full year in Formula one. And, fuck, they did a pretty damn good job compared to where they started. They ended the season on a high. They deserved to go out and get shit-faced drunk now that there were no race weekends or dietary requirements holding them back.
It took a solid twenty minutes of pestering before Oscar eventually agreed. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to celebrate with Lando. It was just that clubbing was never really his scene. And truthfully, he was fucking exhausted and just wanted to pass out in his bed with no concerns to wake up unforgivably early in the morning.
But you had been right there with Lando, persuading him that it was the right way to sign off his rookie year in Formula One.
Except to everyone’s shock (maybe not as much yours), Oscar mixed with alcohol and exhaustion seemed to throw every aspect of personal space and PDA right out the window.
“Ease off, mate, she isn’t going anywhere!” Lando barked out in laughter as he watched Oscar reach out for you.
You had disappeared for a few seconds just to help Logan carry some drinks back to the table. You were barely at arm’s length from the booth before Oscar was reaching out, his arms hooking around your waist as he pulled you down onto his lap.
“Oscar, the drinks!” You laughed, but the boy didn’t care about the tequila splashing against his trousers and shoes. He just nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck as he muttered something about missing you under his breath.
“Fucking hell, he’s like—one of those grabby things!” Lando commented, snorting a little at the sight in front of him.
Logan blinked. “You mean a leech?”
Lando nodded furiously. “Yes, he’s one of those!”
“Just wanna hug my pretty girlfriend,” Oscar huffed, his hands splayed on your thighs where your dress had ridden up a little. “Shoot me.”
“I think you’re pretty too,” you whispered back to him, ignoring the exaggerated gag the other boys at the table let out as you turned your head to look at him.
Oscar lifted his head, a massive grin spread across his face and his cheeks flushed from the drinks he had. “Really? You think I’m pretty?”
“The prettiest,” you confirmed as you leaned down to peck his lips.
“Thank you, baby,” he hummed, clearly delighted with your words as his fingers continued to stroke up and down your thighs.
“Ugh, they are basically fucking!”
Oscar rolled his eyes at his teammate and huffed once again. “I’m allowed to fuck my pretty girlfriend!”
“Not in front of me, mate!”
“You wish you could see,” Oscar grumbled, arms tightening around your waist as he pressed his face against your shoulder. You could feel him yawning against your skin, his lips brushing over the straps of your dress despite his attempt to hide it.
“I think we can raincheck on that offer,” you snorted, watching as Lando dramatically shuddered in response. “I want one more dance with my pretty boy before we go, hm?”
Oscar looked up, blinking a few times before smiling. “One more dance.”
You left the booth, hand in hand with Oscar as you made your way to the dance floor with the boy pressed up behind you like he refused to keep any distance between you.
“If they shag in this club, I’ll never sleep peacefully again.”
“Might wanna look away then, dude.”
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pirateprincessblog · 9 months
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ateez nsfw links 🫧
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Park Seonghwa
Park Seonghwa loves to go live and entertain his fans. All those legos, food, talk and more have you sighing of boredom in his hotel room. You are sitting on Hongjoong’s bed, behind Seonghwa’s screen, in a not so innocent position. You make him stutter in front of the camera, and you laugh every time he has to stop talking for a moment. When you stretch your body and crack your back in a doggy position, he is in a hurry to end his live and join you on that bed.
“I could turn that live back on just like that, with the camera facing you.”
Kim Hongjoong
Kim Hongjoong doesn’t necessarily require much attention. He is very much satisfied with you squirming under him. You are tipsy in the passenger seat, teasing Hongjoong about the couple you saw fucking in the club toilet and how it turned you on. He listens to you rant about how fast he fingered her and how loud she was moaning over the music. At some point, you even say you wish you could cum so many times in a row. And so while you beg him to stop, but don’t shout the safe word yet, he is completely focused in the way his knuckles disappear inside of you, his knees holding your legs apart and tongue on your clit.
“How many more until I prove my point?”
Jeong Yunho
Jeong Yunho looked absolutely dashing at today’s stage, and you’re sick and tired of scrolling through all the husband Yunho tweets from fans. You are jealous that they got to see him in that shirt and that hair before you. You’ve gotten all dolled up, waiting for him to arrive, but in the meantime, you’ve seen quite a few edits from today that made you pissed off again. So when he comes back home and realises why you’re running from his affection, he has to take the matter in his own hands and show you that only you get to feel the shirt on him.
“Jealous of your husband’s fans, when you’re such a pretty wife?”
Kang Yeosang
Kang Yeosang wants to make your first time absolutely perfect. He takes his time making out with you, feeling your body up, gently rubbing your most sensitive spots, until you are dripping through your panties and staining his trousers. But when he sees that you are not quite ready, he takes a different approach, one that is pleasurable for both of you.
“You’re so good for me.”
Choi San
Choi San is a gamer, and sometimes it pisses you off that he spends so much time sitting at the computer. You confront him, not realising that he hasn’t disconnected from Discord yet. He bites the inside of his cheek, containing his amusement mixed with anger as you go off and his friends laugh through the headphones. Once you’re finished, he mutes himself, throwing the headphones aside and pushing you over the desk. At some point, he unmutes himself, just to show his friends that you’re good at yelling about other things too.
“Yell at me some more, I didn’t quite get it the first time.”
Song Mingi
Song Mingi enjoys all the freebies you get as an influencer. From free snacks, free movie tickets, to perfumes, and lingerie he gets to see on you and rip off you. However, todays package was different. They were temporary long lasting tattoos, and he remembers you telling him how attractive you think they are. He witnessed you complimenting Wooyoung and Hongjoong, but he wasn’t quite yet willing to get one himself. So when he got permission from you to open the package while you aren’t home, he prepared a little surprise that had you gasping when you arrived home. Needless to say, he was enjoying the attention you were giving him.
“All the way down, like a good girl.”
Jung Wooyoung
Jung Wooyoung is happy his partner has finally debuted. He is also aware of the mature concept the company has decided to give you. You didn’t show him any songs or outfits until the album and MV came out. But before that, you performed it in front of fans on the show he’s been on countless times. He wasn’t quite prepared for that mature. Stockings, a leather dress, platform boots, and dark smeared lipstick, along with the upbeat song and dance moves, almost gave him a heart attack while standing aside and watching live. And yet you wonder how you ended up with the fishnet gloves in your mouth back in his hotel room, his hands firm on your waist.
“Fuck noona, giving me a VIP show? Think I deserve it? That I’m your biggest most loyal fan?”
Choi Jongho
Choi Jongho gives his all when he performs. How funny that a video of just him sitting during Cyberpunk went viral. Now, whenever he sits, you get horny. Especially with that focused, half angry look on his face. You haven’t said anything yet, but when he comes home from practice and plops down on the couch, throwing his head over the backrest of it, you lose it. You get on his lap, unable to control yourself. He is confused, but doesn’t complain. Neither do you when he plunges his cock into you, looking into your eyes with the same stare as in the video.
“I’ll take good care of you.”
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inkykeiji · 2 months
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anonymous said: i just wanna sit down on sukuna’s massive thigh. is that so much to ask?? character: ryomen sukuna notes: anon, i want to ride sukuna’s massive thigh so so so badly!!!!! and so of course i had to write something!!! warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, size difference, thigh riding, implied cureless!au, fem!reader, humiliation and degradation, toxic relationship, bit of noncon overstim right at the end words: 1.8k
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It’s custom practice, at this point, that Sukuna places you on his lap whenever he’s engaging in an activity that requires sitting; when he’s working in his office, when he’s in a meeting (because his precious little baby is always with him, no matter what time or place or occasion), when he’s reading, when he’s lounging, when he’s eating. 
It isn’t always in the same position; sometimes you’ll rest against him, your back pressed flush to his chest, one thick arm wound around your waist for stability; sometimes you’ll straddle his massive thigh, your face buried in his neck, lips painting strokes of saliva across his collarbone in messy little pecks, lashes leaving gentle butterfly kisses against his shoulder.
But irregardless of the situation and your posture throughout, if he’s sitting, you are there with him.
It is also customary that you behave while you’re in Daddy’s lap—no fidgeting or squirming, no whining or whispering, no complaints of boredom at all, and no getting down until he releases you. 
So it’s not a shock, exactly, that a low, dark chuckle rumbles beneath his ribs the moment your hips begin to rock—barely anything more than shallow ruts, something that might’ve been mistaken for an innocent restlessness, had he not known better.
But he knows you much too well.
“I thought Daddy had a rule against wiggling, sweetheart.” 
“Can’t help it, Daddy, swear I can’t.”
“Is that so?” he hums, flexing the muscles of his hard, defined thigh between your legs, snorting a little when you gasp. “And why is that?”
“M’horny, Daddy,” you whimper, nuzzling your cheek against the column of his throat. “Don’t wanna bother you, Daddy.” 
“Oh? And what makes you think this isn’t bothersome?” 
It’s not—you know it’s not.
Because as well as your Daddy knows you, you know him, too. 
His four simple rules don’t exist because he can’t concentrate when you’re on his lap—he most definitely can. If there’s one thing you’ve come to learn about Sukuna in the short but intense time you’ve been his, it’s that he retains an exceptional amount of control over himself—body, mind, and soul—and it’s a fact he takes immense pride in. 
Because, sure, Sukuna may live for the pursuit of pleasure, a hedonist in the purest sense, but that doesn’t mean he can’t control himself, his self-discipline and restraint sharper and stronger than a tungsten needle when he wants it to be. 
His four simple rules are all about power. 
Doesn’t mean they’re going to stop you, though.
Your hips are still shifting, cunt pressed flush to his thigh with only a thin layer of lace separating it from his pants, slit sliding along his firm, strong muscles in slow, hard strokes.
“Are you sure one pitiful little orgasm from pathetically humping my thigh is worth it?” 
No, you’re not. One measly clitoral orgasm probably isn’t worth the hefty punishment that’s going to follow, but you’re too sleepy, too needy, to care. 
An indistinct little noise vibrates at the back of your throat, head moving in ambiguous motions, rubbing thick cords of drool across his shoulder, leaving tiny webs shimmering on cashmere.
Your hips roll with more purpose, falling into a steady rhythm of rocking—back and forth, back and forth, smearing your cunt along the sleek muscle between your legs.
It already feels so good, using his thigh to stroke your clit in repetitive motions, the cotton twill of his trousers providing just enough resistance to make the friction delicious, a dull, dense heat flooding the pit of your stomach.
“God, look at you,” he scoffs, a peculiar mix of disgust and devotion saturating his voice. “Trying to fuck my thigh like you’re some sort of animal.”
Exhaling a snort, he jiggles his thigh in accentuation, sneering a little at the choked moan you try so hard to snuff out, pleasure clawing at your tongue.
“I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference to a desperate little slut, does it? My sick little girl will take whatever she can get, won’t she?” 
Your head nods lethargically, smearing your own saliva over your chin.
“Aren’t you embarrassed to be acting like this? So eager, so ardent.”
“Jus’wan’ you, Daddy,” you slur out. 
Because it’s true; you just want him, in any way you can have him. 
Maybe you really are just a dirty, desperate little slut. Maybe it doesn’t matter either way.
“You know, I can feel your slick soaking through my pants,” Sukuna says, lips against the curve of your ear, dark, low voice reverberating against the cartilage—little tremors that snuggle into your flesh, skittering down your spine in a shiver. “It’s fucking disgusting, how wet you are from this.”
It is, he’s right, an obscene amount of arousal already staining his leg—far too much to be decent, to be normal, don’t you think, baby?—the copious amounts of slick making the grind along his strong muscles effortless, lace molded to your drenched folds and soiled all the way through, leaving a large gleaming patch on the material of his trousers, fabrics gliding together easily, aiding in your motions as your humping gains speed.
“Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how fucking lewd your cunt is?” 
You do, of course you do, vulgar squelching echoing out among the home office with every buck of your hips, sopping clothes sloshing together, procuring a sick sort of gurgling.
It’s so humiliating, salacious sounds complemented perfectly by his silky laughter, but you can’t stop, movements accelerating to hard, quick gyrations of your hips as you lose the friction of his pants, now too slippery to be anything other than teasing.
His derisive remarks, coated in icing sugar, do nothing to tame the blaze in the pit of your tummy, his voice like kerosene, flames flaring with every word that drips from his mouth.
“You’re so easy, aren’t you? Easy to please, easy to pleasure, all you need is something nice and firm to rub your cunt on, huh?” 
“Feels good, Daddy,” you mumble against his neck with another clumsy nod, words weighted with spit. “Feels s’good.”
“Yeah, I can tell, baby,” he snorts. “Look at how fucking sloppy you are!” 
Leaning back a little in his office chair, he looks down at where you’re conjoined, a soft whine slipping from your lips at the loss of his chest. A thick layer of sheen coats his thigh, turning the charcoal shimmery in the beams of sunset streaming through the windows. His tongue clicks against his teeth in a disapproving tut, as if it’s such a shame that you’ve ruined his trousers so terribly. 
It really is, though, sticky substance having accumulated on his pant leg so much that it’s merely collecting atop the material now, unable to soak any further. You whine again, yearning to bury your scorching face, pricks of humiliation stinging your cheeks.
“I should make you lick it up, honestly,” he muses to himself, humming a little at the prospect. “Such naughty little girls should be made to clean up the messes they make, don’t you agree?” 
Aside from the light notes of beguile infusing his voice, he sounds normal—calm and unaffected—and you’d think him to be, too, if you couldn’t feel his massive cock, hard and straining against expensive slacks, brushing against your thigh with each of circle of your hips. 
It twitches a little with every gentle graze of your body, but Sukuna does nothing to pursue it, nothing to satisfy it or solve the problem, too focused on you to care.
Your arms wind around his neck, bringing him back to you with a discontented little mewl, and he laughs again, going willingly. 
Always so needy. 
You’re really riding his thigh now, vigorous enough that the wheels of his office chair shift against the hardwood, Sukuna planting his feet more resolutely, keeping you both in place, muscles pulled taut with the motion.
Damp little moans seep into the skin of his neck as your hips work, each one pushed from your throat on an airy little gasp, and he can tell that you’re close.
Because that’s so easy, too—you’re so fucking obvious with it, with the way your thighs keep tensing around him, almost as if they’re trying to readjust their grip; squeeze him tighter, hump him harder, siphon his thigh up further, urgently chasing that building high.
That heavy heat is amassing in the pit of your stomach, sinking into your gut as it grows with every swivel of your hips, hotter and hotter, higher and higher until it feels smothering, sweltering, engulfing you from the inside out and weeping through your pores, ragged little pants of his title exhaled from parted lips. 
“You’re such a perverted little girl,” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep and decadent, tinged with just a hint of amusement. “What would everyone think if they knew how sordid that pretty little mind of yours really is? All of your university professors who praised you so much, all of your esteemed colleagues at work, how would they feel to know of your true nature?” 
“They’d be disgusted,” you sigh out, almost dreamily. 
A chuckle rumbles behind his ribs, rubbing his jaw line along your temple in a possessive caress. 
“Yeah, they would. And you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’re so sick.” 
“Only for you, Daddy, always for you, Daddy.”
“That’s right,” he purrs, hands finally finding their rightful place on your hips, so massive the tips of his thumbs overlay your ribs. “Now be a good dirty girl for Daddy and make a mess all over his thigh, sweetheart.” 
And that’s all the permission you need, really. 
Oh, it’s so cute, the way your cunt clenches against his sculpted muscles, the way he feels your hole flutter eagerly around nothing as wet, sticky warmth floods his thigh, the way your clit throbs in time with it, pressed tightly to his leg.
You’re whimpering out his name, skin clammy and glittering with sweat, tiny dewdrops beaded along your temples catching in the waning sun rays as you snuggle into his jaw, pliant and languid.
But Daddy isn’t done with you just yet.
The hands on your waist flex, blunt nails carving deep crescents into the flesh—latched onto you, firm and stable, using his grip as leverage to force your hips to keep moving, even as they start to jerk.
A hiss is spit through the gaps of your teeth, sharp and sudden, whole body recoiling from the involuntary overstimulation. Shudders ripple through your flesh in vicious bouts as Sukuna aggressively rubs your sensitive cunt along his leg, pressing his thigh upward and grinding strong, defined muscle into your aching clit. 
“Daddy!” you wail, clinging to him despite the agony, fingers twisting knots in his immaculately pressed dress shirt. “St—ah!—S’too much, it hurts!” 
“Oh, poor baby,” Sukuna pouts, oozing condescension. “You didn’t really think Daddy would just allow you misbehave in such a manner and get off without some sort of punishment, did you?” 
No, you didn’t; of course you didn’t, but—
“Quite stupid, my pretty girl is,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, spikes of ice prickling your spine. “You wanted to ride Daddy’s thigh, so you are going to ride Daddy’s thigh, over and over and over again until your cute lil cunt has been rubbed raw, until Daddy decides it’s enough.” 
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suugarbabe · 2 months
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Halloween party, mattheo with little demon horns and reader wearing an Angel costume that just drives him crazy (yes that man has a huge corruption kink and ruining his little Angel is 10/10 for him)
literally so sorry my requests are so so backed up because of the series i was working on and life in general. hope you don't hate me or think i forgot about you :( 18+ under the cut
Mattheo adjusted himself in his seat again, tugging at the crotch of his trousers to try to hide the increasingly growing boner he was sporting as you danced around with Pansy just a few feet in front of him. It was fitting that he chose to dress up as the devil for the Slytherin's Halloween party, horns charmed to look like they were growing directly from his head, because the thoughts he was having about you were sinful.
Dressing as an angel and devil seemed a little cliché to some, but to him it couldn't be more fitting. You were truly heavenly, ethereal even without the dangerously short white silk slip you were wearing and the charmed little wings sprouting from your shoulder blades. If he didn't know any better he'd assume this was your true form. You falling for him was definitely a miracle.
Downing the rest of his firewhiskey he hands the glass to Theo next to him before standing up, making a b-line straight for you. His touch is something you'd recognize in a crowd of thousands, so you weren't at all startled when his arm slinked itself round your waist. He leaned in closer to whisper in your ear, the feathers of your wings tickling the bare parts of his chest his chose to display that night.
"You're looking exceptionally pure tonight, Princess," his nose pressed into the nape of your neck, inhaling deeply, getting drunk on the mix of your scent with sweat and alcohol, "m'gonna have to fix that." You turned in his embrace, a small smirk playing coy on your lips. Your arms draped over his shoulders coming at a cross behind his neck, "Is that so, Mr. Devil? And how exactly would you take this angel's purity?"
You looked up at him through your lashes, batting your eyes as innocently as you could muster with the slightest little pout on your plush lips. Mattheo's grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into the flesh through your slip dress. He closed his eyes momentarily, letting out a low huff of air that you swore has the sentient of a growl attached to it.
Pulling your chest flush to his, he started swaying your bodies slightly to the music, his mouth next to your ear giving you a direct play by play of what was running through he devious mind. "First, I'm going to take you back to my dorm, seemingly innocent to anyone that watches. As soon as the door closes," he dragged a finger under the strap of your dress slowly, goosebumps eliciting on your skin, "I'm going to rip this tiny fucking thing off of you."
"Then you're going to get on your knees, wings and all, and you're gonna take my cock down that pretty little throat of yours until there's tears running down this angelic face." He ran his forefinger gently across the apply of your cheek before gripping your throat lightly, leaning back down to your ear. "After, I'm gonna sit on the bed and your gonna sink that tight little cunt all the way down until you can feel me right here," his hand moved from your hip to put pressure right at your belly button, "I'll even let you use my horns for leverage as your ride me, how's that sound, Princess?"
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Jade On Instagram Stories | 8th March 2023
The Attico Green Camouflage Cargo Pants: Sold Out
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blingblong55 · 6 months
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Good girl behaviour -Simon 'Ghost' Riley NSFW
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Based on a request:
God I need Ghost to fuck the reader out of jealousy, but denying every fucking orgasm, and when the reader apologies for flirting with someone to have his attention, he says "Apologizing now won't give you an orgasm little bitch"
F!Reader, smut, MDNI, 18+, jealous!Ghost, denied!orgasm, rough!sex, fingering, dom!Ghost, degrading, oral!sex, establish!relationship
You have been needy all day, you wore the pretty little skirt he likes but still, he didn't pay attention to you. You wore the shirt that shows your cleavage best and still, he didn't pay any sort of attention to you. That was until you two went to the market, he wandered whilst you talked to the man in the aisle, moving certain ways which made him notice your body more. Your voice so soft and innocent, "can you reach for that, im not as tall as you~" you get on your tiptoes to demonstare and thats when Simon comes in, grabbing the item and walking away with you, his arm snaked around your hip.
At home, he fingered you too much and each time he knew you were close, he would slap your tits and stop. Three orgasms were denied and by some point, he had you on your knees. A collar around your neck, leash on his hand as he watched you whimper. "Don't act innocent, R/N." he tightened his grip on the leash, choking you more. You give him a pouty lip, and you knew best, no brats were allowed in his bed. "You're nothing but a useless cum slut, R/N." he spits out. You whimper once more and he slaps you lightly and chokes you with his hand.
"You know I won't let you cum for what you did back in the market, sluts like you are worthless and don't deserve to cum, especially when they know getting fucked by me is a privilege." Your eyes pleading for any form of release, your pussy against his boot, the aching clit of yours screaming for him to fuck you. But that is how he is, training you to be the ideal cum slut for him. "Do you think I'm going to give you want you to want when you whimper?" he chuckles and cups your face, "My love, this is not how it works, not one bit, my darling," his voice smooth as silk.
"If you want to apologise, use that mouth for good," he says and you pout more. He grabs one of your tits and licks the already hard and sensitive nipple. Your piercing occasionally gets moved around in his tongue. You moan and squirm only for him to stop and get up. "Simon-"
"No, I'm not entertaining an orgasm for you and you better stay there like the good girl you are."
Minutes later, he comes back, cuffs in one hand whilst the other holds his drink. He sits down, "Make me cum first and I'll maybe think about fucking you." he unzips his trousers and you knew the drill by now. So, you reach for his cock, taking it out and before even daring to let your lips touch it, you look up at him. "Do it, darling." he nods and your tongue licks his tip.
Soon enough, he fists your hair, pushing you deep, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat. You gag and drool all over his shaft, your throat a guaranteed soreness for tomorrow. The stickiness of his body mixing with yours. He pulls his cock out, letting you breathe, "You're doing so well my darling, but take me like the cum slut you are, don't want to disappoint me now, do you?" You shake your head and he smiles, a soft kiss on your forehead and he goes back to that fucking you.
You mascara running down your cheeks, he wipes them off, "you're being so obedient, my love." he whispers as you continue to get throat fucked by his massive cock. You gag more, the wet noises filling the bedrom, your red tits getting abused by his constant slaps. He then chokes you, adoring how you gagged more on his cock and the feeling it gave him bringing him more pleasure. Once he begins to cum inside of you, he slows the thrusts and pulls his cock out of your mouth.
The white and stickiness of his seed falling down your face like drool. And before you can react, he grabs your hips, and with a desperate move, he slams you on the bed. Your back on the soft blanket, your thighs on his sides as he removes your panties, two fingers inside of you before he begins to eat you out. His tongue already savouring your juices, your clit swollen and ready to be fucked and pleased. "Beg me to suck on this precious clit, darling." he looks at you, you are already a mess and can only nod. He slaps your pussy, "I said beg, bitch," voice low with a growl. "Suck my clit, please, I need it, please~" your eyes shut.
His tongue and mouth bring you waves of pleasure, "cum for me, sweet girl." once more being soft to you. Your clit is beautifully pleased by him, and your body reacts towards the need that you have to finally cum. "Cum, please, I need my little doll to cum." he coos. A knot in your stomach, your fingers gripping the bedsheet underneath, your moans loud, too loud it makes them sound very pornographic. "Say you belong to me," he demands. You look at him, eyes almost unfocused from the incoming orgasm, "i belong to you!" you say between moans and whimpers.
"Fuck!" you cry, your legs feeling weak, his mouth not stopping. And then you let out a gasp, your eyes shut and you finally have your much-needed orgasm.
Your slick coating his lips and tongue. He licks his lips, and looks at you, eyes soft but still with that grin like the devil. "My my," he lays next to you, arms wrapping around you, "You did such a good job, my sweetness," he whispers as he kisses your forehead, a blanket covering your delicate body. "You are my life," he kisses your forehead again. "You belong to me, don't you, R/N?" his calloused hands caressing your soft skin. "Yes," you kiss his hand and he smiles. "Good, that's good my girl."
@liyanahelena @urmajestyzel @karurururu @hope-3429 @ghostslillady @alxexhearts @muffinsncoffee
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carooosa · 2 months
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Pleasurable Feelings
Word count: 900 Rating: Explicit Pairing: Astarion x Tav/Reader Warnings: 18+, mutual masturbation, soft dom Astarion AO3 link: Pleasurable Feelings
Summary: After the tiefling party, you're pent up and decide to please yourself, not aware of the vampire that lurks nearby.
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It had been a few days after the tiefling party – a few days after your night with Astarion. He had always made flirtatious remarks here and there, but after that night those remarks seemed to multiply tenfold. He would find ways to subtly touch your back or whisper sweet nothings into your ear. 
His new attention to you had spurred mixed feelings to develop. You convinced yourself that you were merely still aroused by that night and needed to let off some steam. After that, you would surely get over this little crush you had. You waited until nightfall and the rest of your companions had fallen asleep. Astarion had fed on some bandits earlier today, so surely he wouldn’t need to feed on you tonight. 
As you settle on your bedroll, you think back to that night with Astarion. How he had pleased your body. He had treated you like royalty, catering to your every need. Whenever you would try to please him, he had brushed you off. He said that the night was all about you and that you could take care of him at another time. 
You weren’t sure when exactly there would be free time for another midnight rendezvous, and quite frankly you weren’t sure having another would bode well with your complicated feelings. So, you resolve to take care of yourself. You begin masturbating, thinking of his hands on your body, his voice in your ear. And his scent, his lovely scent. You feel as if you can smell it clearly now, enveloping your senses as you moan your lover's name.
“Yes, love?” Astarion says with a smirk on his face as he stands at the entrance to your tent. 
Your eyes jolt open. You can’t even begin to imagine how utterly debauched you look to him, your clothes flung off to the side and your underwear at your ankles. Your bra is pushed off to the side as you grasp your breast in one hand, the other hand stimulating your clit while curling two of your fingers inside you. Sweat is dripping down your body and your tent is suffocating with the scent of your arousal.
“No need to stop for me,” Astarion says as he saunters over to you. There’s a mischievous look in his eyes that causes a rush of heat to pool in your core. You stay still, unsure of his intentions. He tuts, “You need to finish what you’ve started.” He kneels beside you as one of his hands works its way over to your hand that’s still inside you, before gently placing his hand over yours. He pushes your fingers deeper inside and you let out a moan.
He begins to pump both your fingers and his inside of you. He leans down toward your chest to place soft kisses over your body, nipping at your skin in between each kiss. He slowly moves his way up to your bare breast and begins to lick the nipple. You buck your hips forward, and he growls, pushing you back down onto your bedroll. He sucks on your nipple, staring directly into your eyes.
“Keep touching yourself, my love,” he projects into your mind with the tadpole. 
You shakily start to grope your other breast again, breathy moans escaping you. He lightly bites down on the tit in his mouth, his tongue flicking your nipple at the same time. You feel yourself on the precipice right as he quickly moves away from you. 
“Keep going,” he commands. You continue to touch your body as you watch him hastily strip off his trousers and boxers, his length fully erect from helping you please yourself. He kneels back down beside you, grasping his cock in his hands. 
He begins to pump. “Look me in the eyes, Tav.” You stare at his cock, transfixed at the way he’s furiously tugging, watching as precum beads at the tip. 
“I said, look me in the eyes,” he growls, his voice slightly strained. You quickly glance up at him, panting heavily as you begin to reach your peak again. As your legs shake, your eyes automatically close. You feel and hear Astarion move on top of you, straddling your stomach. He presses his forehead into yours as he commands, yet again. 
“Look me in the eyes when you cum. Think only of me as your ecstasy overwhelms you.” 
With what little concentration you can muster, you open your eyes right as your body releases. You’re gasping for air, and Astarion takes that as a chance to shove his tongue into your mouth, kissing you passionately as he tightens his grip on his cock, pumping faster than before. His free hand finds your breast and he pinches your sensitive nipple. You moan into his mouth and buck your hips up, pushing him over the edge. His kissing slows as he cums over your body. When he’s done, he releases your mouth with a sigh. 
“Good Tav,” he whispers as he kisses your ear lobe. You can’t help but whimper, knowing full well that this exchange has only complicated your feelings towards the vampire even more.
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misshoneyimhome · 3 months
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Can i please ask a small scenario of luke hughes finishing first and he is so embarrassed and cute and hides his face in readers face and neck. Reader is so calm and sweet to him. Thanks love 🥰
Okay okay, so this was very brief! And also my first time writing about Luke Hughes... and I know I said no players born after 2001, but what can I say, I do like a challenge 🙈 Though I do feel like I violated him...
Hope it's alright love 😉🤍
Warnings; 18+ smut; protected sex (p in v);
Word count; 1.5K
・✶ 。゚
Practice makes perfect | Luke Hughes 🖋️⚡️
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"What a game, huh?" you exclaimed with excitement as you greeted Luke, who was coming out of the locker room after the New Jersey game against the Blackhawks.
"It was alright," the young defensemen simply smiled in response.
"Alright? Luke, you played amazingly tonight," you embraced him in a hug, smiling up at your tall boyfriend, feeling he deserved more praise.
"Thanks," he flashed you a sweet, humble smile, wrapping his long arms around your body. Tucking you into him before letting you go and admiring your beautiful face. "So, what's the plan now?"
You could sense a slight hint of nervousness in his question, considering that you and Luke had only recently started seeing each other.
You had gotten to know him platonically during the summer, and as the regular season progressed, you slowly grew closer. However, your relationship was still fairly new.
"Coming over to your place?" you timidly suggested in a sweet voice, and Luke couldn’t help but return your joy. You always had a way of making him weak in the knees, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, where he mentally had to kick himself multiple times for taking so long to ask you out.
"Definitely!"
And there you were, entwined on his sofa, celebrating the night's victory, with his 6'2" frame leaning over you. Your fingers intertwined in his brown curls as his lips caressed yours, his tongue gently seeking entrance, meeting yours with hunger.
The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm ambiance. The celebration continued with the faint sound of the TV playing highlights of the game in the background. The scent of victory lingered in the air, mixed with the comforting aroma of the takeout you both had enjoyed earlier.
"Easy, Luke," you chuckled lightly into the kiss, feeling his desire growing, along with impatience and almost neediness. "Slow down, we've got time."
"Sorry, babe," he breathed out with a light smile. "I'm just so..."
"Turned on?" you asked, your eyes glancing downwards to his very hard member, concealed in his sweats.
"Yeah," he softly admitted before once again pressing his mouth onto yours. Although he did try to slow down a little, it was rather difficult for him.
You were one of the most gorgeous and sweet girls he'd ever met. His hockey career always making it difficult to date like a regular teenager, and as a young adult having to take life seriously now, it hadn't gotten any easier.
But then you came around. And though he wasn't exactly a virgin when the two of you met, he might still have been on the less experienced side. Again, his hard work to reach the same level of career as his brothers had limited his social life. Which also meant his intimate time with girls.
And as you felt his rather sizeable length, firm against your inner thigh, you knew he was too worked up to slow down any further.
"Bedroom, Luke..." you breathed in between his sloppy kisses, and before long, he guided you to his room, where he swiftly pulled his shirt over his head, exposing his toned hockey torso, while you discarded your own blouse. Trousers went next, and not many seconds passed before you were back in the same position, your legs on each side of Luke as he hovered over you, lips connected, bodies growing warmer with every touch, creating friction, and sweat.
Yet, despite his deep need to feel himself reaching the much-anticipated climax, Luke was still trying his best to focus on you.
So, as you shared the passionate kiss, his fingers found the edge of your knickers, gently sneaking a finger inside as he located your entrance, poking and teasing before sliding it in.
Soft moans escaped your lips as you felt the pleasure he was causing, and you slowly developed an impatient need for more, which was given to you with a second finger.
And as Luke skilfully fingered you, something he'd, of course, learned from his older brothers, he too felt the impending surge of pleasure within him. The room filled with the heady mix of desire and intimacy, creating a space where time seemed to stand still, solely dedicated to the symphony of your shared sensations.
His cock was already dripping with pre-cum, creating a small damp patch in his boxers as he felt it throbbing, almost pulsating, craving to be touched.
"Yes, Luke," you moaned softly as you felt his fingers massaging your walls.
But with every pump, he felt himself in more need to feel those walls around his length instead. So, as impatience took over, he withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling a void as he shifted his position, pulled off his boxers, and then returned to tuck down your underwear.
His facial expression was so serious, much like when he was playing hockey - focused and determined. Yet, this time, he also seemed desperate to be touched and in need to reach his peak.
Reaching over to the nightstand where Jack had been kind enough to place a few condoms as a joke, he took out the little packaging. However, as he seemed to fumble with it, you offered him a helping hand.
"Here, let me," you smiled up at him as you took out the latex and gently wrapped his length, causing little squirms from the boy above you, as your touch made him feel the sense of pleasure he was craving.
And then swiftly, he returned to missionary once more and let the tip of his member gently touch and tease your tight entrance.
"Slowly, love," you tried with a soft whisper. However, as Luke eased himself into your depth, your whisper quickly turned into a moan instead, feeling his long shaft filling your warmth.
"Shit..." he breathed out, slowly beginning to rock his hips, letting his cock glide in and out of you as he stimulated your walls. The room echoed with the sounds of your shared passion, a harmony of gasps, moans, and the rhythmic dance of bodies entwined in the heat of the moment. The intensity grew, the connection deepening with every thrust, creating a heated atmosphere. 
"That's it, Luke..." you moaned in between breaths as he found a solid pace, thrusting and hitting the very end of your depth. Your hands finding his locks that you could pull on as you felt the building of an orgasm once again within.
However, the more Luke felt stimulated, the more he increased his speed. His thrusts slowly grew eager and more forceful as he got closer to his climax, still feeling the rush of a win from the match as he pounded into you.
And you felt him getting sloppier. His eyes shutting close as he desperately fought not to reach the peak, trying his best to have you come with him. Carefully he listened to your moans as you were about to let yourself give in to an orgasm as well.
"Yes, baby... I'm close... please come with me..." Luke almost cried out.
And you were almost there with him.
But as you were about to announce your climax, the tightening of your core around Luke's shaft had him involuntarily come a little too close to his peak. And with a deep, uncontrollable grunt, he let himself go, spilling his release into the latex as he felt the rush take over.
"Fuck..." Luke shouted, letting go of the last drops, his body trembling as he almost collapsed and fell with his face into the crook of your neck. The room was filled with the aftermath of passion, both of you catching your breath in the shared intimacy of the moment. The echoes of pleasure lingered in the air, creating a sense of vulnerability.
You let the silence fill the room as Luke slowly gained control of his heavy breaths, his body lying on top of you as he let out a deep sigh.
"I'm so sorry, babe..." he timidly mumbled into your skin, and you couldn't help but form a soft smile on your lips.
"It's okay, Luke," you tried to comfort him with a soft tone of voice, gently stroking your fingers through his hair before he lifted his head to look at you.
"No, it's not okay... you didn't get to come first, baby... you know I always want that," he whispered softly, his eyes darting from side to side as he kept apologising.
But you merely offered him another light chuckle and caressed his cheek. "Hey, it was your night tonight... after the thrill from the game, and how eager we both were, it makes sense it didn't take long."
“Still… I feel bad about not making you come…”
Once more, you just flashed him a soft smile.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to do it again – you know what they say: practice makes perfect.”
And your words seemed to slowly reassure him as you both remained in the relaxed position, comforting each other while keeping your eyes locked onto his. Eventually, he accepted your words and withdrew himself from your embrace.
Though you had to admit feeling a little disappointed, having been so close to your peak, you were also okay with how Luke came to his release. He had made you feel good after all, and it truly brought you joy to please him.
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murdrdocs · 3 months
Text
hm coriolanus making you piss yourself just because he can MDNI
he's back in his rightful position as a snow, on top and above everyone else. like this, with you, he's occupying that spot both literally and metaphorically. you're nothing but a meek, pathetic little thing beneath him, subjected to the vibrator he has pushed against your clothed cunt. you're not allowed him. not his mouth, nor his cock. not even his fingers. and you haven't even done anything wrong. coriolanus just wanted to remind both of you where you belonged.
still, he's not completely cruel and heartless. he kisses the frustrated tears off your cheeks, pressing another kiss to your forehead. "you can let go, my star. no one's stopping you."
but coriolanus can't help the smile that spreads across his lips, one that is cruel. because while there's nothing stopping you from cumming, you're holding back due to the insistent pressure on your bladder. the small organ is filled to the brim and begging to be emptied. all because of coriolanus.
instead of letting you go beforehand, coriolanus had sweetly distracted you with kisses, pressing a vibrator to your cunt and letting you get lost in the feeling. and when it proved to be too late, when you were submitted to the feeling yet also begging to be freed, he kept going, turning it up a notch.
"coryo, please. let me go, please, baby." your begging is cute, especially when paired with your pleading eyes. it would make coriolanus cave, if he wasn't so firm in his beliefs.
he sucks in air through gritted teeth, blinking down at you and shaking his head disappointedly. "i told you to go, baby. why're you holding back?" having the nickname that you only use for him, and never the other way around, thrown back in your face clearly makes you feel worse.
you whine, kicking your feet with pitiful thuds that bounce off the mattress. you try to push coriolanus' hand away, and he lets up only to meanly slap your cunt with his free palm. he doesn't have to verbally reprimand you before you're correcting your behavior, body going pliant whenever coriolanus brings the vibrator back.
he leans down, pressing his cheek, soft and clean, against yours, covered in salty tears and running mascara. he speaks in your ear. "just let go. and it'll be all over."
and when you do, coriolanus finally gets what he wants. your body floods with shame and embrassment, your legs curling into your body as your orgasm mixes with your urine leaking out, soaking the thin cotton material of your panties before it spills out and covers the bed. coriolanus doesn't even attempt to move away, instead letting your mess get all over his expensive trousers.
he gasps mockingly, staring at the pool created, and when he looks back up at you, your eyes are as wet as your inner thighs.
"look at the mess you made." he pretends to care, and maybe he does care a little bit. but this is what he wanted afterall.
"i'm sorry, coryo," you tell him, sounding so sincere that when coriolanus coos, he means it.
"that's okay, my star. you'll make it up to me, right?"
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