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halfrican-heat · 9 months

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ALL MINE (Ony)

"You come here, I'll knock your pussy out the damn frame. Remember the last time I made you miss your damn plane? Remember the last time I wet you down with champagne?"

A/N: Hey! I'm down bad for this man rn, lol. I've got lots of ideas for him though, so yay! Happy reading :) Inspired by @lingeriae and this post! Requests are open, too! Get at your girl.

Warning(s): Explicit Sexual Content; Penetrative Sex (p in v), Oral Sex (F receiving), Cursing, Public Sex (Outdoors), Cervix kissing, Wedding details, N Word Used, Black reader in mind, AAVE/Dialogue with Dialect, Dominant!Ony (when tf is he not in my mind), Depiction of marijuana usage, Depictions of alcohol consumption, Mild Dubious Consent; Beta'd by my besties <3

Pairing: Ony x Wedding Planner!Reader

Song Inspo: All Mine - Brent Faiyaz

His eyes drilled into the side of your head, trailing the curves of your body.

As maid of honor, your dress was a little different from the other bridesmaids. Make no mistake, your girls looked good with a t on the end. You made sure of that, but you all agreed upon something more…tailored for the lady making the most moves. So, your dress was designed to your tastes and fit you like a glove. It accentuated all your assets and Onyankopon was taking stock.

The two of you had only fucked once but there was this heightened tension ever since.

During the entire wedding process, Ony had been a pain in your ass. Because he was the best man, the two of you had to collaborate on many of the joint events-- like the Engagement Party and Bridal Party mixers. He was a terrible flirt and spent most of his time trying to get in your pants. Then, if it wasn’t you, he was flirting with any lady he could. And they would swoon just as soon as Ony flashed that handsome, megawatt smile of his.

But for some reason, Ony liked the challenge you posed. The way you were resistant to his charms. Unfortunately for you, Ony was interested in you. He liked you.

You dealt with his bullshit for a good while, putting in a valiant effort because you were doing your best friend and fellow soror, Kendra, a favor. Y’all went back to diapers and stuck together through everything. You were a celebrity event coordinator, specializing in weddings, so you were doing double duty by being her maid of honor and planning the entire wedding. But shit hit the fan between you and Ony the night of the final Bridal Party mixer. The two of you got into a huge blowout fight that ended with your cute little cocktail dress torn and strewn about the floor of Ony’s hotel room, his tongue licking champagne from places it shouldn’t have been.

“You doing so good, ma.” He had whispered, fucking you into his sheets.

You ended up missing your damn plane the next morning. Needless to say, he moved up on your list of people you wouldn’t mind spending time with. But he quickly moved back down the list after he ghosted you the next day. During the rehearsal dinner, you found him talking up some girl in the hotel lounge. He made eye contact with you as he flirted with her, looking away to give her his full attention.

So, you kept it cordial and cute after that. You acted like it didn’t bother you. Did he have amazing, life-changing dick that made you want to murder him and the bitch from the hotel lounge? Yes, yes he did. But were you a classy, sophisticated bitch who successfully planned a destination wedding while being the maid of honor and dealing with Ony’s shiesty ass? Yes, yes the fuck you were.

And no nigga was gonna make you second guess that shit.

The “Lounge Incident”, as your friends lovingly dubbed it, had happened a week ago. Fast forward to the present and there you were, watching your best friend dance and act a fool with the love of her life. You were happy for her, of course, but it did make you feel a little wistful.

The wedding ceremony wrapped up two hours prior and you found yourself nursing a glass of champagne at the reception. You were pretending to be unfazed by the looks Ony was sending you from across the room. You stole a glance at him when you felt like he wasn’t watching you and…dear Lord.

His white dress shirt was tucked into his green slacks, suit jacket long forgotten, with a few of the top buttons opened. His gold chain shined at you, almost winking, as it matched the gold Rollie on his wrist. He flashed a smile to one of his homeboys and you felt your knees wobble a little. You looked away quickly and crossed the room to find your girls. They were standing around one of the reception tables talking.

“Aht, don’t bring that energy over here, ma’am!” Your friend, Chelsea, said. “That man look like he ‘bout to jump your ass.”

“Please tell me y’all not about to fuck at this wedding,” Liyah groaned.

Your girls laughed loudly and you hid a smile behind your champagne glass as you took a sip. You risked a glance back at Ony, finding his gaze already on you. He didn’t care to hide the fact he was staring at you, not even giving the young lady in front of him a glance as she spoke to him. You whipped around, clearing your throat.

“Bye, girl. It ain’t even like that.”

The table went quiet, all the girls looking over your shoulder. A shit-eating grin spread across Chelsea’s face as she raised her hand, waving playfully.

“Hey, Ony.”

Your eyes widened as his chest pressed against your back, his warmth surrounding you. You tried to pretend to be unbothered as your friends gawked with wide eyes and smirks.

“Hey, ladies.”

The smile was evident in his voice, sending chills down your spine. But you took a sip of your champagne with a neutral face, not acknowledging him. In truth, you didn’t need to. He leaned down so that his mouth was close to your ear, hands braced on the table as he trapped you against his chest. His chain brushed your neck, not helping the goosebumps erupting all over your skin. His words, low so only you could hear them, didn’t help either.

“Say bye to your lil friends so I can eat your pussy.”

He paused as you turned your head slightly, your faces close to touching.

“And stop playing with me.”

His eyebrow arched at you as he pulled back, taking a sip from his whiskey glass. He addressed your friends again, setting the glass down.

“Ladies,” He said with a charming smile.

With that, he left you standing there as you slowly looked back to your friends who gaped back at you.

“Bye.” You said finally, scurrying from the reception hall as fast as your legs would carry you.

You found Ony outside the building, perched against the wall. A blunt hung from his lips as he gazed at you sidelong. You approached slowly, hips swaying with each step. His eyes never left yours as he sparked up and inhaled, exhaling the smoke slowly. You felt dizzy with need but you weren’t down that bad. Not yet.

You took the blunt as he passed it to you. You let the smoke soothe you before you exhaled. You took a few more pulls before passing it back to him.

“Take your panties off,” He said finally, after a long draw.

You tutted, crossing your arms.

“You just gon’ act like you ain’t ghost me, Ony?”

“I was wrong for that. But I'm here now, ain't it?” He said casually.

You rolled your eyes, turning to go back inside. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him, his lips pressing firmly against yours. His mouth teased yours, opening it as smoke billowed between the two of you. His arm slid down to your waist as you exhaled the smoke he gave you.

He took another pull, exhaling, before he looked back down at you.

“I told you stop playing with me.”

“Maybe I'm done with you," You bluffed. "Maybe I got me another nigga to fuck on now.”

Ony scoffed, tucking the rest of his blunt away for later.

“Aight, that’s enough of that shit,” He mumbled, grabbing your hand as he pulled you to the side of the building.

It was a more hidden spot, behind large bushes that wrapped around the front of the building and off to the side. From there, you could see guests entering and exiting but they couldn’t see you unless they were looking hard enough. Your eyes widened as he kneeled in front of you and shoved your dress up your legs. You swatted at his hands, panicking as your eyes darted around. Ony stilled, his gaze hard as he grabbed your hands and looked up at you.

“Don’t piss me off.”

Now, you were down bad.

You took a shaky breath as he released your hands, going back to bunching up your dress.

“Hold that,” He said, tossing your leg over his shoulder.

You did as he asked, taking the garment in your hands. Your body flushed with heat as he shamelessly nuzzled his nose against your soaked core, smelling your needy scent. He kissed your clothed core and pushed your panties aside, holding them in one hand as he slipped a finger into your dripping cunt. He moved the digit in and out, brushing against that soft spot inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” You whined, your head falling against the wall.

“Yeah, say that shit you was sayin’ now,” Ony taunted, sliding another digit inside. “This pussy all mine.”

You panted, bracing yourself with a hand on his shoulder, as you forced out your next question.

“What about that bitch from the lounge, Ony?”

“I was gonna try what she was offering, but she wasn’t you,” He said easily, his eyes glued to his fingers moving in and out of you. “Damn, ma. You sucking that shit in.”

“Ony,” You whimpered. “I don’t want to play no games with you--”

“I’m not. That shit not an offer to me when you’re around,” He said firmly. “Now, you gon’ keep complainin’ or you gonna let daddy eat his pussy?”

“Ony--”

Any rebuttal you had became a wanton moan as he didn’t wait for a response, his mouth descending on your clit as his fingers continued to move inside you. You covered your mouth with your hand, trying in vain to stifle the sounds of pleasure he was snatching from you. He pulled his fingers from you gently, spreading your sopping pussy wider as he fucked his tongue in and out of you.

He ate you out messily, drinking up your juices like sweet nectar. The slurping noises were lewd as he sucked on your clit, teasing it with his tongue before dipping it back into your weeping hole. His performance was drawing pathetic whines from your throat as you tried to keep the two of you from getting caught. Heat pooled in your belly as his mouth on your core drove you toward a heated finish.

Then, he stopped completely. You let out a confused moan as the pleasure waned, your orgasm evading you. The confusion didn’t last long, however, as you heard his belt coming undone. He pulled himself from his pants as he tore your panties. He hiked your leg around his waist and slid home without warning.

“Hold on to me,” He grunted, his other hand supporting your back.

You wrapped your arms around him, your head resting on his shoulder as he thrust into you. His pace was rough and deep, fucking you like he owned you. Maybe he did. Maybe you wanted him to. You muffled a scream into his shoulder as his length kissed your cervix, unrelenting as the drag of his cock against your tight walls sent you into oblivion.

“Fuck, baby,” He groaned. “You so tight f’me. Takin’ me so good.”

You choked back a sob as his tip brushed that soft spongy spot, bringing back the pool of pleasure from before. Ony noticed your reaction, angling his hips to hit it over and over again. Your whimpers and moans were his own private mixtape as you keened and cried in his ear. He stretched you so good, the feeling of being this full something new and foreign to you. Ony was a bad habit, and he was making sure you wouldn’t be able to kick him any time soon.

That pool of pleasure warmed further with each snap of his hips into yours. Your quiet, open-mouthed cries built in intensity as the temperature inside you began to rise, swirling like a tsunami. You felt yourself teetering on that delicate edge and so could Ony. He picked up the pace.

“You gonna cum on your dick?” He taunted, egging you on. “You gon’ show me who this dick belong to?”

Your climax crashed over you as you slapped a hand to your mouth, muffling the sob that broke free. He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it as your body seized around him. He could barely pull out, opting for shallow thrusts as you came down from your high.

You sagged against the wall, trying to catch your breath as Ony pulled out. He fixed your dress and smoothed it down around the hips. He tucked himself back into his pants and dug his wallet from his pocket, fishing out his room key.

He flashed it in front of your dazed face before placing it in your hand. He pulled you off the wall, making sure you looked good before nudging you in the direction of the front doors.

“Go to my room. Third floor, 303. I’ll be there in a minute.”

You looked down at the key card in your hand then back to him. He sparked up his blunt again, blowing out smoke as he smacked your ass.

“Go ‘head, ma. I’m coming.”

You jumped slightly from the impact and found your feet moving you out of the bushes. You stumbled back into the hotel lobby, walking on wobbly legs to the elevators with his room key clutched in your hand. Your girl, Chelsea, was coming from the restrooms as the two of you made eye-contact. She smirked, her eyes trailing over you. She subtly adjusted the top of her dress, nodding at you.

You took the hint, fixing yours.

She went back into the reception hall without a word as you fumbled to press the elevator button.

Your night was not over yet.

#onyankopon x reader #onyankopon x black y/n #ony x reader #onyankopon smut #onyankopon x black reader #onyankopon #aot onyankopon #black writer #black reader #my writing #Lyv's Library #Ony's Observatory #Fanfiction for black women #Black women #smut #Onyankopon x black!reader #Potential Series ;)#Wedding Planner!Reader

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moondirti · 9 months

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warnings: smut, afab!anatomy, unprotected p-in-v, eye contact, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), biting, hickeys, drooling, literally a good for nothing thirst, pwp

Miguel O'Hara likes to watch your face as he fucks you.

Doggy style and cowgirl are good 'n' all, don't get him wrong. There's a particular way to them that allows him to hit parts of you inaccessible in any other position. But Miguel O'Hara likes to watch your face as he fucks you – sandwiched between your spread legs, rutting in missionary – because nothing gets him going like the subtle unravelling of your expressions. The manner in which your brows screw up, or the tears that droop your lashes. How glossy your lips get with the spittle you've no energy to swallow, drooling, fucked silly on his cock.

Yeah, if he had it his way every time, he'd choose to be real up close and personal, his full weight on top of you. Nothing gets him going like when your noses touch one another, your jaw captured in his hand. He holds your head in place because he knows how flustered you get with constant eye contact, all demure in spite of the wanton moans he thrusts out of your chest. So, you're either a shy thing or his attention is too intense, severe reverence pouring from carmine irises onto every tenuous reaction. The room, your shared space, heady and sweltering hot with sex.

And he never misses a thing. He sees the way your teeth clench when he pinches your clit, ignited by the strict pleasure. He sees how your cheeks cringe, pull, drop, when he plugs you with his cock, siphoned into stillness by your spasming slit. And when he whispers filthy promises onto your chin, mouth pressed there in a perpetual kiss – gonna fuck you full, corazón. my pretty girl, clever girl. gonna cum into you and lick it clean. you'd like that, hm? uhuh. yeah, i see you. i know you would – he revels in the hot bursts of breath that fan across his cheeks. He's always close enough that he can feel, not just hear, your moans.

That's the thing. Miguel likes panting in tandem with you – warm, dry palm smoothing the matted hair off your cheek. He's always infinitely more composed, though. A thin sheen of sweat glazes his bronzed skin, and his cock is slick with both your juices, but he still manages to keep his wits about while you hardly remember yours. They're always honed in on you; how you respond, what you like, what he does that draws the loudest scream. He peppers your face in kisses and nips the fleshier bits. He nuzzles the plane under your jaw. He keeps his efforts almost exclusively focused on your head and cunt, equally divided amongst the two, and it's only on the rare occasion that he ventures away from either.

To take a nipple into his mouth, maybe, tongue lapping at the pebbled peaks. To lay hickeys over your chest – a personal favourite past time when the rise and fall of it is another indication to your enjoyment. To drag his fangs softly on the soft expanse of your tummy. He always makes good on his word, so he eats you out like your pouring into him will quench him for weeks, stuffing his face on puffy folds and refusing to come up for air.

All the while, though, his eyes will remain trained on you. They never left. He props your neck up by a pillow so your expressions are still accessible to him, and when he moves gradually down your body, they're focused upward through dark lashes. If you squint through the foggy pleasure that obscures your vision, you in turn can recognise the subtle smirks he makes at every ministration. The sniffs when you cum on his lips for the umpteenth time. The lewd wet of his fingers when he sucks them in preparation for your needy hole. He scissors them into you, stretches you enough, then dives back up to squash a bruising kiss to your lips as his cock finds its way back in again.

Because he can't forget the other component of his promise, of course – to pump you full of his seed. It's so much, an hours worth of build up, straining his heavy balls from the moment you started. He humps you until every last drop is adequately milked from them, groaning into your mouth as his tongue wrestles yours. It's hard to breath with his body pinning you down, all broad shoulders and defined muscles, and the unrelenting attention battering you into something stupid – yet the hypoxia only adds another intoxicating angle to the mix. You have to make the decision between stopping for air or taking him in in all his vigour.

And, more often than not, it's the latter. It's the least you can do after all he's given you, after all.

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mellowswriting · 3 months

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How about slow, sweaty, make up sex with Din Djarin! Thank you!

a real apology

pairing || Din Djarin x f!Reader

word count || ~ 900

summary || sweet, slow makeup sex

content || SMUT, unprotected p in v sex, din is whipped, fluff, no use of Y/N, unbeta'd (all mistakes are my own, and probably thanks to the tequila tbh)

a/n || I got progressively more drunk as I wrote this, so... enjoy!

Din Masterlist | Main Masterlist

You have no idea how long Din has had you like this - pinned beneath the heft of his body, your thighs shaking as his fingers and tongue coax yet another orgasm from you. He moans against you as he feels it hit. Your back arches, your nails dig into his scalp, and you cry his name so sweetly he damn near finishes right then and there. It feels like you’re floating, your body and soul detached under his talented touch. He doesn’t stop until you push his head away. Even then, he just occupies his mouth by trailing wet, sloppy kisses along your thigh. Goosebumps follow the brush of his stubble.

Those dark eyes stare up at you, his pupils dilated as he takes in the vision you make beneath him. He can’t get enough of you. It’s been too long - damn near a week without those soft words and sweet touches he has grown so addicted to. It was stupid, a silly argument about a bounty of all things. Din knew almost immediately that he was in the wrong. Pride caught the apology he owed you between his teeth.

None of that matters, now. Not when he’s searing his repentance into your body with every touch.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He asks before he presses a kiss to your navel. You hum a contemplative sound as he works his way up your body. The air is thick with the scent of sex, something he’s missed more than he realized. Your skin shimmers with sweat and Din just can’t stop himself. The flat of his tongue drags up your sternum. He just can’t get enough of your taste, even as you squirm beneath him.

“I think you’re getting there.” You finally sigh, wrapping your arms around his shoulder and pulling his body flush against yours. The closeness settles that restless, agitated animal that has paced in his chest all week. Din leans closer, his arms bracketing your head, and he kisses you. It’s soft and sweet despite the way his cock throbs against your thigh. Your warmth soaks into him, bare skin against bare skin. As your hands cup his face, only one thought runs through his head.

The only place in the universe he truly belongs to is in your arms.

“Mmm…” You hum against his lips. “Definitely getting there.”

Din can’t help but chuckle at that cheeky stubbornness he’s come to love. He drags his lips across your throat, reveling in the way your sass melts into a heady sigh. Your hands skirt down the planes of his back and settle on his ass with a playful squeeze.

“C’mon, Djarin.” There’s an edge of demand in your tone, a little desperation. “Show me how sorry you really are.”

That’s all it takes for him to sink into you with one devastating roll of his hips. All words slip away at the feeling of your cunt pulsing around him. Din presses you into the soft mattress, pinned beneath his full weight as if to keep you there forever. As if you would ever dream of going anywhere. The pace he sets is slow, a steady rock of his hips that leaves you wrecked beneath him. Your nails dig into his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

“I’ve got you,” The whisper is soaked in affection and longing, a promise he always intends to keep. Din presses his forehead against yours, his dark eyes wide as he greedily consumes the sight of you. So pliant and vulnerable, consumed by the feeling only he can pull from you.

Your eyes flutter and roll as he arches his hips just so, dragging against that sensitive spot until you shake. The angle lets him grind against your clit. He doesn’t let up, far too insatiable for the feeling of you falling apart under his touch. You’re so sensitive, so responsive to everything he gives you. Every sweet sound he pulls from you only makes him want more. It drives him fucking wild.

“Don’t stop,” Your whispered plea slithers down his spine and pools in his belly, pure warmth and need searing into his very DNA. He has to bury his face in your neck. The way you look, all strung out and cockdrunk, threatens to end this far too soon. Your fingers dig into his hair as he works you closer to another devastating orgasm. “Oh, fuck -”

A broken growl rips from his chest as you fall apart for him. He swears this is the closest he’ll ever get to nirvana in this damned life - the sound of you crying out his name, the wet gush of your cunt wetting his thighs, the feeling of your cunt fluttering around him. He follows after you only a beat after. His teeth dig into your shoulder as he buries himself to the hilt, stuffing you full of his cock as he spills inside you.

The air fills with the sound of heavy breathing as you both come down, your bodies still entwined with one another. An atmosphere of peace settles around you like a thick, warm blanket. The way he melts into you only adds to that feeling. It’s impossible to tell just how long the two of you stay like this - so wrapped up in each other that you can’t tell who begins where. Neither of you wants to break that peace. His lips find that sweet spot over your pulse.

“I am sorry, cyare.” Din murmurs between short, sweet kisses. “Truly.”

“I know.” You whisper. Your fingers drag through his messy mop of curls, scratching his scalp until he turns into a purring beast above you. “I forgive you.”

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x reader smut

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scaranation · 1 year

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Hiii saw you had requests open and I wanted to offer some of my Scaramouche brain rot cuz man this guy makes me soft.

Scara being a touch-starved bean that when their s/o first held his face gently he legitimately just sobbed and couldn't stop himself from letting some tears out.

Scara then just not being able to function without their s/o giving him soft kisses on their forehead and being patient and loving towards him and looking like an angry wet cat whenever they are missing or off doing something where he can't follow like he'd like for too long.

Scara grumpily just kinda adopting a pillow of choice as their cuddle buddy for the time apart or if their s/o simply just doesn't live with him (yet). Maybe even stealing a sweatshirt to keep close or wear it if it fits. Just something to be comforted for the time being.

Just Scara getting pampered and loved and him just getting so overwhelmed with happy feels that he doesn't know what to do with himself.

(sorry for the long ask I just really like soft Scara he deserves to be cuddled :') do what you will with the brain rot I just wanted to share, love your work! Please don't overwork yourself! ^^)

THIS IS SO ADORABLE OMG I LITERALLY HAVE NOTHING TO ADD ITS PERFECT 😭 how do u think like this touch-starved scara is the cutest thing im actually squealing rnnn (sorry for the v late response i got busy ahahah)

༊*·˚ 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄?

Pairing: Scaramouche x GN!reader

Content: fluff, head cannons, slightly ooc but it’s clingy scara 🥺

The first time you held Scaramouche's face, you thought he hated it. His face contorted beneath your touch, and you retracted your hands - but his face followed them, his cheeks firmly pressing back into your palms.

You'd stare at him curiously as his eyes crinkled shut, mouth falling agape when tears began to slide down his cheeks. Cautiously, you’d thumb them away, feeling the smooth planes of his face crinkle as he squinted at you through his blurred vision. He was definitely embarrassed, but he couldn’t refuse your touch - it was a form of affection he’d never gotten to experience, and his sobs were almost ones of relief at finally finding someone who’d give him the love he craved.

Once he discovered the idea of physical affection, he couldn’t go without it. He liked to be touching you at all times, and would not-so-subtly sulk whenever you were too busy to give him those fluttering pecks on his face. Scaramouche would shyly put up a display of nonchalance as he pretended not to care, only finding himself somehow in your lap again. It was endearing, how touch starved he was - always craving your attention.

If you dared to go somewhere without him, he’d practically be pacing around during your absence, worrying and fuming at you for leaving him behind. Once you got back, you could’ve sworn he had his tail between his legs, invisible ears drooping as he reluctantly eased back into your embrace. Don’t get him wrong - he’s still mad, but he’s willing to forgive you for a kiss. He wouldn’t let you go for the next day at least, so don’t think about leaving him alone like that anytime soon!

When you were - much to Scaramouche’s ire - busy, he sought comfort through ways that didn’t involve clinging to you and hence risking you avoiding him for the rest of the day out of irritation. You were so tender and patient towards him, but all people had a limit. Scaramouche would sulk as he wallowed in self pity, holding himself close to one of your pillows. Sometimes, he’d take a nap on it, imagining that you were dreaming together - something about him resting his head where you’d rested yours was inherently comforting to him. If you caught him during those naps, he’d angrily leap up in embarrassment and scurry away. His heart would stutter as he fumbled on the spot when you went to search for him, holding him close again as you whispered reassurances into his ear.

“Don’t worry about it, Scara.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are!”

That was your cue to peck his lips as he froze up, overwhelmed. The poor thing’s barely come to terms with you being his, and reciprocation of that touch he needed made his whole brain judder to a stop. He was so adorable like this, utterly at a loss for what to do. Slowly, he’d kiss you back, wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you close.

Scaramouche would steal any sweaters you made the mistake of leaving unattended - that woolly jumper you left on the couch? It’s gone the next day, added to your lover’s private collection. He’d return them after a while if your scent had faded, acting as though he wasn’t the culprit behind all your missing items of clothing.

At night, Scaramouche wouldn’t be able to sleep without you at his side. Even in the almost unbearable heat of summer, he’d have you entangled in his arms in an unrelenting grip. If you tried to wriggle away, he’d only whine in annoyance and clutch you closer, wriggling to position his face in your neck. Getting up to fetch a glass of water wasn’t an option, either - the vice grip he had on your wrist was enough of a warning. Even if you managed to escape that, you’d find him beside you at the kitchen in an instant. He’d groggily tug at your wrist to lead you back to bed, irritated at the interruption. Why did you need anything else, when you had him? He’d let out a sleepy huff, settling back down on the mattress with you (rightfully) returned to where you should be - next to him.

Although he might act shrewd, Scaramouche loses all rationality when it comes to you. If you’re not in his arms, you’re on his mind, and he wasn’t intending to let you go. Despite this, he’s still so easily flustered - although thankfully, he no longer defaults to crying whenever he’s overwhelmed with happiness. He’d be willing to begrudgingly share all his vulnerabilities with you, slowly opening up. Don’t tease him about it, though - he’s still prone to hissing at you, but he can’t really get mad at you.

After all, you’re the only one who can make him feel this loved.

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dreamywriter143 · 1 year

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Lingering Sensations

Title: Lingering Sensations (Pt.2 of ‘Scorching Heat’)

Paring: Neteyam x Y/n (Reader)

Status/Type: Oneshot/Completed

Summary: The promises that Neteyam made earlier seem to falter as he worries over Y/n’s well-being. He refuses to go feral on her, he wouldn’t dare hurt his mate. Y/n, on the other hand can’t wait to test him beyond his limits. She will do anything to extinguish the heat within her.

Word Count: 5.1k (Yikes…)

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI (Minors STAY AWAY!!), P in V (Penetration), Dirty talk, Breeding, Oral (M-receiving), Deep-Throating, Nicknames, SoftDom Neteyam, Dumbification, Possessiveness, Squirting, Marking, Tiny bit of Angst (Neteyam questioning himself as a mate) All characters are AGED-UP (19-20’s years). (Neteyam worrying over Y/n’s well-being. Amazing with aftercare and Fluff ending. Our sweet bby!!)

__________________________________________

“P-Plea-” Y/N mewls quietly, her body twitching from the last orgasm that overcame her body.

She lost count of how many times Neteyam had made her cum, from only his finger nonetheless. Her beaded top long discarded, landing down on the floor, forgotten. Her nipples stood up, feeling the occasional cool air breathe into the humid marui.

“Lookin' so pretty yawne, my pretty little girl. So wet for me…”

Neteyam mumbles, as if in a trance like state. He couldn't remove his gaze away from her face. The ways she would react to every orgasm he pulled out of her was simply memorizing. Neteyam quickens his pace, feeling her pussy twitch against his digits. An indication she was near once again. The squelching sounds of her sopping pussy like music to his years, his tail twitching excitedly.

Neteyam hums happily, He loved how she came apart on his fingers. Something only he could do. His other free hand latched on her right nipple, pinching the erected bud deliciously between his fingers.

Feeling another orgasm approach Y/n tries to stop her mates movements, his fingers deep within the heat of her pussy. Her attempts are futile as Neteyam simply brushes her hand away as if it were nothing.

Neteyam grunts uncomfortably at her sudden movement, which caused some friction against his most heated part at that moment. His hard cock strained against his loincloth, that was already soaked with his precum. He chooses to painfully ignore his own lust, all just so he can reap the pleasures of his mate that lay before him.

He pumps his three fingers in and out of her cunt, landing on a tiny bud deep inside. Smirking to himself he curls his digits against it, causing her back to arch and her toes to curl at the sensation.

“Sss, mu-ch…t-o mu-”

Y/n desperately tries to remove Neteyam’s hand, her overstimulated clit twitching wildly as his thumb rubs tight circles against it.

“Hm? What was that?” Neteyam whispers, amusement lacing his tone as he hungrily takes in her sweating form underneath him. He has been fingering her relentlessly, in hopes to relieve some of the pain that was causing so much pain for his mate.

His eyes trail down from her face, scrunched up in ecstasy , down to her breasts. He watches admiringly as he was the only one able to make her feel this way. It warmed his heart and egged on his ego. Only he could please his mate like this. No one else.

Neteyam leans down to nuzzle his nose against her neck, inhaling her heightened scent. He took deep breathes in through his nose, memorizing the way her scent screamed for him. Her need for him, and it drove him crazy.

“N-Neteya-m?” Y/n murmurers causing Neteyam to hum happily against her neck, his chest vibrating. He was a man with a plan, he planed on making her come once more before devouring her pussy. He craved the taste of her. How could he not? She was so wet the mat underneath them held an embarrassingly large splotch of her essence. Hopefully after which, her heat would have calmed down. But as things would have it, that did not go as planned.

“Yes, my yaw-“

His breathing stutters momentarily when he feels Y/n reach for his cock instead of his hand. He desperately tries to move away from her touch but fails. Y/n catches his throbbing member causing a moan to slip through his lips unintentionally.

“Shit-t, Y-Y/n. Yawne, this isn't about me. please S-” he whimpers, feeling her hand sluggishly but firmly give his cock the attention he had been silently begging for.

Y/n hums a reply, squinting her eyes open. She loved the way his ears flattened against his head at the mere touch. She knew Neteyam had been holding back, and the ache in her pussy wouldn’t be extinguished by his fingers alone. Oh no, she needed his cock, buried deep within her. But first, she had to convince her thoughtful mate to do so himself. To give into his desires he held back in fear of her safety.

“W-What happened to fucking me till I-I can’t stand?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with hunger.

Neteyam bites his lips, his ear twitching against his head as he tries to stop himself from thrusting into her small, warm hand.

‘She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s in her heat. Be calm’

“I-I know, but not today baby. I want to ease your pain” he murmurs trying to regain control over the situation once again. The voice in his head tried to be firm, but the longer he relished the feeling of her hand against his cock. The quieter the voice became. He felt his resolve slowly crumble feeling her pump her hand against his lengthy shaft languidly. It was pleasurable but left him wanting more. Desperate for more.

Y/n’s lips twitch slightly, turning her head to the side to whisper in his ears that twitch, anticipating her next move. His tail swished behind him excitedly.

“I want to taste you, please? Fuck my throat Neteyam” she whispers suggestively, tugging herself free from his grasp. She manages to shimmy her way out of his hold, as his soaked fingers froze the moment the words left her mouth.

Y/n knew the dangerous game she was playing. She new how sensitive Neteyam was to about her mouth. How much he loved it. She knew this could lure him in. Right where she wanted him.

“W-what?” he questions, a flustered mess. Y/n successfully removes the loincloth soaked with his precum. She tosses it on the floor causing Neteyam to sit up, on his knees. He goes to argue again, with little to no resolve but is unable to utter word as he feels his stomach flutter. He was drawing blanks, just the advantage Y/n needed.

Smirking slightly Y/n crouches down, making herself look smaller, crawling towards him. The scent of his manhood wafted her senses as her face stood mere inches away from his hardened cock. It stood proud, leaking precum and twitching at the cool air. Y/n always marveled at the sheer size and girth of her mates cock. It was more then enough to make a girl scream in pain and pleasure. Y/n licks her lips, feeling herself drool at the sight.

“Y/n...” Neteyam calls as a warning, but his tone held no edge. In fact, it sounded like a whine of defeat.

Y/n peers up towards Neteyam towering above her, his eyes clouded with lust, gasps leaving his swollen lips. Not wanting to wait for Neteyam to argue again, Y/n leans her head forward. Placing a careful kiss on the tip of his bulbous cock, causing Neteyam to hiss in pleasure. His hands snap to grab her locks, trying to push her back, but with little force.

Deep down, he knew he had wanted this, no logical part of him stood a chance anymore. He lost the moment she uttered those words out of her mouth.

Humming at the taste of his pre, Y/n stroked the cock gently, dipping her head to lick a strip from the base all the way to the tip. When she reached the mushroom like tip she gently sucks on it, coating her tongue with his essence.

The simple taste of his cum, and the heat from his coke make her rub her thighs together in a feeble attempt to feel some sort of relief. Her other hand reaches up to gently trace patterns on his heavy balls, cupping them in her hands. Neteyam gasps at the sensation.

“F-fuckkkk”

Y/n swirls her tongue over the top teasingly before engulfing him , what she could fit, of his cock into her mouth. Her thighs squeeze painfully at the feeling of the tip already hitting the back of her throat. No matter how hard she tried, Y/n couldn't seem to fit his entire length down her tight throat. Her eyes stung at the stretch, making sure to hallow out her mouth and focus on breathing through her nose. Y/n's hands reach in between their bodies to stroke what she couldn't fit into her mouth.

“Oh m-my., Y-/n.” Neteyam chokes out.

Looking down he’s met with Y/n’s doe-like eyes staring back at him through her thick lashes. Her eyes water at the sheer size of his cock, and the way her mouth stretched to accommodate to his size caused him to gulp nervously. The entire cock couldn’t even fit down her throat. He felt the deep urge to force her down on his cock, a thought that sent a shiver down his spine as well as strike fear within him. He couldn't hurt her like that. It didn't matter how much Y/n begged for that through her intense eye-contact. He bites his lips holding himself back.

But every burning essence in Y/n's body was determined to take him in, all of him in. Y/n slowly begins to bob her head against his shaft, making sure to constrict her throat against his length.

“Hmmm! Just like th-at” Neteyam groans throwing his head back.

He hated how much he enjoyed this. Enjoyed watching the tears slip down her puffy cheeks as she desperately tried to fit all of him in. The felling of the back of her throat against the tip of his cock almost causing him to cum right then and there. He cursed himself, he should be attending to her needs, help her through her heat. But Eywa, he needed this.

After the rough hunt with his father and brother he needed to clear his head. Receiving the call from and panicked-stricken Tsireya only aided to his stress. And lastly, seeing Ao’nung drool over his mates intoxicating state, the way his eyes fucked her. He needed to feel superior. He need to see her gag pathetically against his cock. He needed Y/n to understand who she belonged to.

“Oh yes, baby, take my cock. Suck it up real nice baby. I know you want to”

His chest heaved at the sensation of feeling her gag slightly, trying to push him further inside. He felt himself lose composure, something he was in fear of because he didn’t want to hurt her.

But all that flew out the moment he felt her moan against him. The vibrations sent an electric current throughout his body, causing him to let out a guttural growl.

Gripping her locks with more force Neteyam pushes her head down on his cock, Y/n mewls feeling his fingers dig into her scalp. He pushed harder causing her eyes to widen, her throat constricts to the feeling of him digging deeper down into her throat.

Her nose comes in contact with his pelvic bone, she feels her eyes roll back, finding it harder to breathe. Her entire mouth was stuffed to the brim. Her tail stood stiffly as electric shocks raked her body at the feeling. She attempts to breathe through her nose, not wanting to let go of his hot cock or pass out.

Neteyam quickly pulls her head back, his eyes peering down at her swollen lips, and how she began sucking the tip of his cock in a teasing manner. Precum mixed with saliva dripped down her chin, causing him to lose his mind.

Neteyam clenches his teeth grasping her locks again. Firmly. He pushes her down his shaft once again, loving how her body twitched uncontrollably at the movement.

“That right, take it. Take my fucking cock” he growls, watching the tears pool around her eyes.

Pulling her head back chuckling darkly, he is quick to snap his hips against her lips once again. Y/n braces herself, placing her hands on his thighs as he starts up with a brutal pace, insuring that his cock is sucked deep into her throat each time.

“Such a slut for my cock, aren’t you princess?”

He says watching the way Y/n looked up at him. Refusing to break eye contact. He watched the way her breasts bounced at his ministrations. How her cheeks hallowed out when he pulled out, only to be filled when he would snap his hips back roughly.

Y/n moans against his cock, loving the nicknames he called her. The burning in her lower abdomen screaming for attention, her hand slowly reaching down to find her clit. Swollen and perked, really to be abused.

“Shit baby, you c-couldn’t wait?” Neteyam mocks, watching her fingers desperately circle her throbbing clit.

Tears cloud her vision threatening to close, but Y/n forces them open. She wanted to see Neteyam come undone. And by the throbbing of his cock and the stutter in his thrusts she new he was near.

Her fingers pick up speed against her pussy as a familiar knot in her flares up.

“Fucking beautiful, your doing so good baby. Your gonna swallow my cum right? Like a good little cumslut. Hmm?” Y/n moans a response, causing his thrusts to stutter at the feeling.

Neteyam fucks Y/n’s throat faster, picking up the speed. His balls slapping against her chin, the sound echoing throughput their hut. He felt his orgasm draw near, his eyes watching feverishly as she fingered her clit. How her eyes were blown wide, her gaze holding nothing but lust.

“F-fuck, I-m, I’m cumming!”

Neteyam growls, holding her head flush against his pelvis. Steams of his cum spurt down her throat, his hips twitching as he lets go. Y/n’s eyes roll back momentarily, her own climax washing over her like a wave as she felt her mates cock throb in her mouth while emptying his seed. Her gags only egged him to empty fully inside her.

“That’s it, take it. Take it like a good girl” he mumbles. His face dipping with sweat, he pushes the strands that cover her face aside. His jaw hangs low at the sight of her face. Her expression blissful, her body still trembling under her own orgasm as she slowly pulls away from his cock.

“Let me see” Neteyam orders, his hand moving from her hair, to under her chin. Lifting it up as she sticks out her tongue, coated with his thick seed. Neteyam feels his cock twitch again at the sight. Y/n closes her mouth swallowing his cum, humming at the taste.

Feeling whatever adrenaline that held her up disappear, Y/n crumbles back into the mat. Laying on her back, her legs spread out revealing her sopping pussy. Neteyam quickly follows after her, his hands rest on the mat beside her head watching her eyes bounce around the roof of the marui and along his face with a dazed like expression.

Neteyam swallows thickly , wanting to voice his concern only to be cut off.

“Please-“ Y/n begs.

“Please fuck me, it burns inside Neteyam” she whines. She looked exhausted, her face sweating more then before. But the hunger in her eyes were far from gone. Neteyam’s hand trails down to her heat, cursing at how wet she was. Scooping up her essence he brings his fingers to his lips, lapping it up greedily.

“So wet, you taste so good. So fucking good sweetheart.”

Neteyam trails his face against her, his mission to reach her pussy is stopped by a sharp tug. Y/n frowns, her eyes furrowed. "Please, I'm stretched o-out. N-need you.." she whimpers out, her eyes scruching sightly in pain. Neteyam nod's, mentally noting that he would devour her later. Right now she needed a deep fucking. And he would deliver, like a good mate.

Neteyam lifts her leg, holding it in place. He lines his hard cock against her folds. Angling his hips just right to brush himself between her wet pussy lips, lubricating his cock in the process. Y/n bucks her hips upon feeling his heat against hers. Neteyam smirks down at his desperate mate.

Steading himself he lines the tip of his cock, prodding the entrance. He pushes in slightly only for both of them to hiss at the tightness of her pussy.

“So tight, you sure you can take my cock baby?” Neteyam asks, a hint of concern mixed with his overgrowing lust. Y/n nods, not trusting her voice anymore.

Neteyam knew Y/n was stretched out, the size of his cock shouldn't have hurt her. But behind all that lust, he felt a sting of concern. Exhaling through his nose he glances down at her wet pussy, glistening with her nectar. He felt his body shiver at the sight, she wanted him. she needed him, and he wouldn't deny his urges anymore.

Neteyam leans in and captures her lips into his. Their lips mold together, their tongues dancing along one another. He tasted himself through her tongue causing a groan to escape. Y/n's shaky hands grab onto his bicep as her lips get devoured by her hungry mate.

Taking this distraction to its full advantage, Neteyam thrusts the entirety of his cock into her tight heat causing her to squeal in surprise.

Her mouth pulls away from him letting out a moan at the feeling of his cock, balls deep within her. Finally feeling the relief of getting filled. The ache in her pussy dulling a bit, causing her to smile at the feeling of ecstasy.

Neteyam props himself on his elbows, slowly beginning to thrust into her pussy. He desperately tried to give her some time to adjust to his size, but the moment he felt her heat grip his cock in such a delicious way, his reasonings dissipated. Her heat engulfed him, tightly coiling and twitching against his length. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to.

Y/n breasts bounce as he gains more momentum, his thrusts pushing past her g-spot all the way into her cervix causing her to yell out in pleasure.

“Neteyam!!” Y/n cries out clenching her pussy. Neteyam whimpers at the sudden tightness but doesn't stop his fast pace. Feeling his fingers trail down to her stomach, he locates her clit applying pressure.

“Shit!!!”

Y/n wraps her arms around Neteyam’s shoulder, griping onto him for her dear life as he began to rut into her mercilessly. The squelching sounds of skin slapping skin fill the Marui, the humidity raising as they panted out in desperation. His thick balls slapping against her ass as he pounded into her, all the while not going easy on her puffy clit.

The familiar feeling of her orgasm approaches, as Y/n feels her jaw go slack, opening her mouth as a silent scream racks her body. Neteyam nuzzles her neck, peppering her with kisses that trail down to her throat. All while leaving his marks all over. His grip on her hips tighten, his nails digging deep into her skin. Gripping her so tightly it left crescent-like marks. Y/n shakes her head feeling the coil within her snap upon feeling the sting of the tiny cuts along her hips.

“Cu-m!! Cumming!” Y/n screams out, her body convulsing violently as her orgasm washes over her, her eyes roll back to a close.

Feeling the sensation of her orgasm rack through her form. White splotches evade her visions as she twitches under Neteyam, who slowed down a bit , only to help her ride out her orgasm. Y/n feels herself slip out of consciousness, the feeling overwhelming her greatly.

Noticing how limp she felt under his touch Neteyam pulls her up, pulling out his hard cock in the process.

“No passing out of me baby, open your eyes” he orders, flipping her over. He lays her down, her back arched and her ass out on display.

Neteyam freezes for a bit, recalling how this was the exact position she was in when Ao’nung had seen her. Bare and all.

Feeling a sudden rage surge through him, Neteyam roughly thrusts into her, startling the poor girl. She yelps, her eyes snapping open at the feeling of her pussy being filled once again.

She was already so sensitive from her previous orgasm, her hand reaches back in a attempt to slow down the snap of his hips, but this only angers him further. Taking her arm he uses it as leverage to thrust into her deeper.

“Nete- ‘s much!!” She cries, unable to lift her head from the position she was in. Face first into her mat. Neteyam grunts behind her, his hips snapping with vigor, with anger.

“Your mine. Your all mine Y/n. No one else’s! I’ll make sure everyone knows who this pussy belongs to” Neteyam growls threateningly.

Unable to understand what was being said Y/n hiccups, her tears running freely as that familiar knot appears again. Only more intense then all the other orgasms she’s had before.

“How dare you show Ao’nung what rightfully belongs to me-“ Neteyam sends a particularly hard thrust causing Y/n to lurch forward. She is still unable to figure out what Ao’nung had to do with all this. Opting to keep her mouth shut, letting moans slip out between her lips.

“-Bet Ao’nung is jerking his cock wishing he could fill this pussy” Neteyam hisses, feeling her pussy clench at the thought of being seen. Neteyam smirks, grabbing her tail and wrapping it around his forearm before tugging on it harshly.

“Do you want him to see? Hm? Want him to know who this pussy belongs too” Neteyam taunts which only causes Y/n’s orgasm to come closer. Y/n mumbles incoherently in response causing Neteyam to chuckle. He literally fucked her dumb.

“What was that babygirl?” He asks reaching down to find her clit. Y/n screams at the sensation, trying to pull herself away causing him to pull her back by her tail.

“D-do it” she mumbles.

"Hmm?" Neteyam couldn't help but sound smug, he relished how he could fuck her till she couldn't think clearly anymore.

“Fill me with your cum” Y/n manages out before pressing her forehead against the mat. Neteyam growls at her request.

“Yea, gonna fuck you till your full of my cum. Gonna watch you get swollen with baby. Fuck, everyone will know I fucked them into you.”

Y/n clenches at the thought of Neteyam getting her pregnant. The thought of being swollen with his babies. And the thought of being filled to the brim with his cum. Y/n let’s out one final scream feeling her orgasm shutter through her body. It was so intense, unlike anything she had ever felt before. She feels the unfamiliar feeling of her essence squirting out of her, covering her legs as well as her mate. Her eyes roll back as all she could see was white.

Neteyam hisses at the sight, she had never squirted before. The sight alone sent him into a frenzy as he snapped his hips harshly against her. Her body taking the impact, causing her to lurch forward each time. Neteyam uses his heavier weight to ensure he drilled deep within her each time. The scent of her arousal seemed to be heighted by her squirting, which in turn fogged up Neteyam's thoughts.

The feeling of her walls desperately clenching around him causes a snarl to leave his lips, his hips stuttering.

“You want to become a mother? Fuck yes baby, I’ll make you a mama” Neteyam promises drilling into her, chasing his own high. Y/n mewls underneath him, unable to do anything after being severely overstimulated.

Neteyam’s thrust lose their rhythm, feeling his own orgasm draw near.

“Oh fuck yes, take it. Take all that cum babygirl” he growls, leaning down his fangs latch onto Y/n's neck biting down. Y/n cries at the feeling, clenching her pussy just right.

“F-fuckkkk” Neteyam curses, as he releases his thick load within her heat. His sluggishly thrust his hips, milking out his high, while insuring all his cum is stayed nestled in her cunt. Making sure none leaked out.

His tongue laps the spot where his fangs had pierced her delicate skin, feeling her labored breathing calm him down. While still inside the warmth of her cunt, Neteyam lays beside her. Pulling her into his arms, feeling exhaustion wash over.

~~~~~~~~~

Neteyam’s eyes snap open, his eyes taking in his surroundings only to land on his mate. All bruised up with a huge mark on her neck, his doing. Feeling his stomach drop at the sight he scoots closer to her.

“Y-y/n” Neteyam hums, pulling Y/n close to him.

He ignores how sweaty their bodies were, covered in each others cum. He gently moves the hair away from her face, causing her to whimper, her body going into overdrive at a mere touch. She felt her body clench at the feeling of Neteyam’s softening cock still deep within. Insuring none of his essence leaked out.

The position they’re currently in was awkward, with Neteyam hunched over to cradle her, but still comfortable. Y/n snuggles her face into Neteyam’s neck, taking in his scent. A small whine escapes her causing Neteyam to frown slightly at the sound.

“Shhh, I know. I’m so sorry yawne. Are you ok?” He asks caressing her hair lovingly.

“D-don’t” she croaks causing Neteyam to go stiff. Her voice sounded hoarse, the result of him losing control while fucking her mouth. He gulps nervously, his hands shake out of guilt.

“Don’t w-worry about me. I asked for it. I’m fine, just a little sore my love” she says still taking large whiffs of his comforting scent. She felt serene, like the cloud that had been weighing her down since the early morning had finally been lifted.

She can finally hear clearly, see clearly. At least for now, until that itch would came back.

Neteyam visibly relaxes. Peppering her face with tiny kisses, reaching for the quilt to cover her shivering form. Her wraps it around her as he carefully pulls his shaft from within her cunt. Y/n whimpers at the loss, feeling empty. She opens her mouth to protest only to yelp in surprise as Neteyam picks her up bridal style.

“Neteyam!”

“I need to clean you up, yawne” he explains as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Y/n notices how he covers her up, as well as himself. With a cloth to cover his lower regions. Carefully he steps out the Marui, noticing how it was an already eclipse .

“Where are we going?” Y/n asks watching curiously, as Neteyam calls for his Ikran. A few moments later his Ikran arrives. The beautiful green creature lands silently, as if it were on standby. Neteyam smirks, carefully getting on and securing himself as well as Y/n in the seat. He calls loudly causing his Ikran to begin the flight.

“A place Lo’ak and I found a couple of weeks ago. I wanted to surprise you, but I think it’ll come in handy right now” Neteyam explains, landing a delicate kiss against her jaw, holding her tightly against him securely.

The flight didn’t last long as they landed on the lush greenery of the forest. Granted Y/n hasn’t been this far out before, but it was still kind of close to home. Neteyam walks towards a tiny body of water, hidden by rocks. Y/n’s eyes widen seeing steam from water.

Before she could voice her concern, Neteyam quickly discard the quilt covering her. The cool air hitting her body immediately, causing her to shiver.

Neteyam quickly walks into the water. Submerging himself up to his waist, having the warm water engulf Y/n’s body. It felt like a warm hug, as all the knots, aches and pain disappear at the feeling of the warm water. Y/n sighs in content as Neteyam scoops up the warm water, gently washing her body.

“It’s beautiful Neteyam” Y/n mumbles, finally standing on her own feet. She leans against Neteyam, their bodies pressed together. Neteyam hums, continuing to wash her back soothingly.

Y/n peers up at Neteyam, her brows furrowed at the sight of his clenched jaw.

“Everything alright?” She asks quietly. Neteyam breathes through his nose, his ears twitching in irritation. He shakes his head offering a tiny apologetic smile. A smile that didn’t reach his eyes, much to Y/n’s dismay.

“I always wondered why you would disappear for your heat cycles. I felt incompetent as a mate for not helping you through them-”

Y/n feels her body go stiff, she had not intended for her mate to feel like that.

“-but after today I realized….that it’s good you continue on with that. Your heat effects me, effects my body and effects my thinking….I hurt you..” Neteyam glances down at her bruised neck, and scratches he littered her hips with. Y/n grumbles in anger.

“Neteyam I’m fi-“

“No your not, yawne! I hurt you….I lost control....I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I caused a single scratch on your body.” Neteyam admits, his voice growing thick with emotion.

Y/n cups his face, looking up into his eyes. Her eyes fierce and determined as he looks down at her, defeated.

“Neteyam. I only left for those excursions because I didn’t want to come off as needy. Always asking for your help during my cycles. When, in truth. I want you. I want you during my cycles. Not only sexually, but emotionally. It’s scary to go through them alone-“ Neteyam’s places his hands over hers. Feeling his heart crumble at her words. His tense shoulders slightly relax at her comforting tone.

“-If today has taught me anything, it’s that I shouldn’t control these urges. You are my mate. I want you with me. I need you with me. We should be there for each other. I want to be there for you during your ruts. We can help each other” she explains.

She smiles watching the light glimmer back into Neteyam’s eyes. A genuine smile twitching at his lips.

“That’s…debatable” he teases leaning his forehead against hers. He was happy to hear he able to pleasure his mate. It caused him great happiness. But her helping with his rut? That was something he was truly afraid of, because he knew how feral he got. But that topic would have to be for a later date, right now he wanted to bask in her presence.

Neteyam's nose brushes against hers, sending a fury of butterflies down to her stomach at the intimate gesture. Y/n hums at the feeling, the feeling of genuine love radiating off of him.

“I love you, more then anything yawne….. Oel ngati kameie Y/n”

“Oel ngati kameie Ma’Neteyam” Y/n replies instantly.

Her hands reach up, wrapping against his neck. She pulls him in for a passionate kiss, their fangs clash at the force of the kiss, molding together. Y/n pushes her tongue past Neteyam’s lips, moaning slightly at the taste of him.

Neteyam is first to pull back, a knowing smirk adorning his face. He chuckles softly, placing a lost strand of hair behind her ear. His tails twitches as he watches her body shiver under his touches.

“Feeling the heat again?” He teases, watching Y/n’s eyes slowly cloud with lust yet again. Her breathes come out in tiny gasps as she feels Neteyam's member against her, hardening as their naked bodies lean against one another.

“Yes” she breathes out, her eyes solely on his lips. Thinking of ways to latch onto them again.

Neteyam laughs, pulling her tightly against his toned chest.

“I best get to work then, huh?”

__________________________________________

A/N: Hello again! Thank you so much for your likes. I honestly didn’t think 'Scorching Heat', was good, but I’m glad you guys enjoyed! Also, thank you for 100 followers! I had to rush this in time for my milestone. I’m not that confident in this smut either, so please be kind and ignore any mistakes you may find. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed Pt.2! Let me know what you think!

TagList:

@downbadforneteyam @crazy4books1 @dayedreamm @loaksmuntxa @roxytheimmortal @netemoonoon @korraofthereef @vanillacoffeeaddict

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gutsby · 6 months

Text

Honey Trap

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Summary: You’ve been tasked with two simple jobs: infiltrate Alexandria’s community and bring intel back to your boss by any means necessary. When your entry point into the group takes the form of a familiar blue-eyed archer, you expect this to be your easiest gig yet—that is, until your prey decides to hunt you back.

Warnings: NSFW. Unprotected p-in-v, breeding kink, some wildly unethical investigative techniques, graphic descriptions of violence and gore. Feral Daryl gone wild (and primal), courtesy of this lovely request.

“In espionage terminology, honeypot and honey trap are terms for an operational practice involving the use of a covert agent, to create a sexual or romantic relationship to compromise a target.”

In your mind, the sex was incidental to the mission.

You didn’t have to feel guilty about fucking the man’s brains out if you never meant to do it in the first place.

That was what you kept telling yourself as he shoved your face into the mattress and continued to pound you senseless. When he yanked your head back and nearly dislodged the hair at the roots with the force of each thrust, leaned in close to your ear and smirked.

“Keep grippin’ like tha’ and I’ll put a fuckin’ baby in ya.”

An honest mistake.

He flipped you onto your back and all but devoured your lips, rutting his hips so hard you thought he might displace your cervix as well. Every inch of your taut, aching walls drew him in and clenched him like a vice. You kissed him back, goaded him on, bounced an obscene cadence over his cock, and almost felt the first inklings of fatigue strain your muscles when he dropped his hand to your clit and started rubbing circles.

“Ah, fuck!” you cried, “Just like that, Daryl.”

An innocent slip of the tongue, really.

The longer these gut-wrenching blows and digital strokes continued, the closer you got to the cusp of your release. Were Daryl possessed of even a modicum of civility, you suspected he might have treated your cunt a little kinder, but frankly, the man was all animal in bed. He was a primal being, so cruelly in tune with his baser nature that every time he fucked you raw it was all tongues, teeth, and trembling lips whispering the filthiest, most repugnant things you’d heard in your life. He’d said it had something to do with him being a hunter by trade; you were never quite convinced of it, but you let him breed you like a rabbit all the same.

Presently, Daryl peered down at you with the haziest, most fucked-out look you’d ever seen grace a man’s features. He’d pushed one of your legs straight up to your chest. Two or three thrusts was all either of you had in you from that point on; with the introduction of this new angle, and that added pressure, you both went spiraling toward climax in a matter of seconds.

You threw your head back on the pillow while Daryl tore out of you, wringing his cock over your stomach until every last drop of him had painted that plane of skin.

You melted into the bed. Daryl sopped up the remains of his arousal with a washcloth, brushed a couple fingertips across your belly, and kissed your navel with affection. Then he collapsed to your left for a spell of silence.

A couple minutes later, as if on cue, you both rose from the bed and started dressing yourselves.

You felt no shame in being the first to light up this time. Tugging the pack of Pall Malls from your back pocket, you stepped outside and went fishing for your lighter.

Your eyes captured the dawn of the fresh day rising low on the outskirts of the field, and you smiled. Stuck one muddied cigarette between your teeth and lowered it to the flame you’d brought to life in the other hand. Then you took a seat on the front stoop, stretched your legs out as far as they would go, and watched the morning take shape before you. You took a contented drag.

Operator would have your head if he could see you now.

This was, without a shadow of a doubt, not part of the plan. The fraternizing, frolicking, even semi-regular fucking of your test subject strayed so far beyond the bounds of this mission, and your own ethical norms, that you’d almost forgotten what you were meant to be doing on that brisk November day.

Operator hadn’t forgotten; his aides had assembled the decoy last night. Half a mile from the comfort and calm of your little log cabin, there lay a steel-jaw bear trap nestled under a pile of bright red leaves—‘Real, real red, remember that, honey’—and above it, a target. A leaf a little larger than the rest would be arranged at the top of the mound with a circle drawn on its front, signaling for someone to step there and ensnare their foot.

That was the crux of his plan. Easy as pie.

The rest of this project, by contrast, had taken months of dedicated reconnaissance on your part—tracking and trailing behind this guy, your target, Daryl Dixon. You’d been charged with monitoring the man’s every move with painstaking attention and studying his habits, too. Was he a creature of the night or awake first thing in the morning? Was he rash, wise, or flighty, demonstrably equipped to handle life’s ugliest challenges or liable to run at the first sign of trouble? Most importantly, was he a threat to your community back home or a viable asset? That was what Operator wanted to know.

That was what you had set out to find.

The sex was just an unintended byproduct of that pursuit. Hazard of the job, you kept reminding yourself. You hadn’t lost sight of Operator’s goal at all; you’d simply been obliged to take a different route to get there.

As it turned out, Daryl had caught you in the woods just a few short weeks into your covert surveillance scheme, so you’d been forced to improvise.

Stripped of your anonymity and afraid of raising suspicion in the target, you’d tried striking up a friendship with him. It was Daryl that had been the one to tamper with the platonic seal of that liaison. On one particular occasion that found you tracking the same animal, he’d taken you by surprise and knocked you flat on your ass at the riverbank. He dicked you down, marked you up—even sank his teeth into the flesh of your neck while pinning you down—and made it patently clear that you two were a thing from that point forward.

You weren’t keen on monogamy, especially in this cheap and tawdry context, but damn if it wasn’t nice to have a warm, sturdy body next to yours every once in a while. The last month had passed in an amalgam of quiet, comfort, and peace, before eventually giving way to the foreboding sobriety of this morning, as you always knew it would. You found yourself growing sick with fear.

This was the day you made good on your promise to dear old Operator and brought his plan into action.

Shortly, Daryl joined you on the stoop.

“That’ll kill ya someday,” he snorted, watching you take another toke.

Above your head, he beckoned you with two fingers to pass the cigarette his way. You pretended not to hear.

Daryl scoffed.

“I give ya all eight inches of me, and y’can’t spare me a single one’a yers?” he said, tipping his chin to the tobacco product lodged between your lips. Pleading with you now.

“Seven,” you corrected him. You exhaled.

Without another word, you straightened up and started off toward the woods. Daryl stood, seemingly stunned a moment before bounding after you.

“Eight!” he repeated.

You watched the man emerge in your periphery as he started to trot alongside you. A direct line of sight wasn’t required to spy the indignation on his face.

“Six and a half,” you scrunched your nose, passing a quick but deliberate look over his lower half.

Daryl glanced down at his crotch and, for a second, came to wonder if the appendage hanging between his legs had possibly shrunk in the dozen-odd years since he’d measured it last. His gaze strayed to the ground, then his boots, then his groin once more before turning to you. The smirk at your lips was evident from a single look.

“Fuck you.” He bit back a laugh of his own as he gave you a shove.

Musings on Daryl’s penis length turned gradually to other, more routine topics like hunting, fishing, and the four new love bites you’d found scattered down your body that morning—‘Will you please try to control that rabid fuckin’ mouth of yours next time, Dixon?’—and before long, the two of you were deep in a discussion of what the weather would be looking like in the next few weeks.

Daryl was convinced you’d see snow, you insisted it was still too early to tell, and together, you trudged side-by-side over a stretch of land that was just then starting to make your stomach turn. Gleaming red leaves littered the ground.

Daryl lifted his arms above his head to gesticulate something big and broad, telling you storm clouds were sure to start rolling in, when suddenly, you stopped.

“Why don’t we check the traps?” you asked.

Daryl stalled his steps too, turning to you with a puzzled look.

“Which ones?”

You pointed to a patch of crimson-colored foliage down the way. Daryl followed your gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“I dun’ remember settin’ any traps there,” he said. He eyed a cluster of brambles enveloping the spot and sincerely couldn’t recall ever setting foot on the terrain.

“Just check it. Please.” Your voice was starting to strain.

Up ahead, you saw an unusually tall stack of red sassafras leaves pooled at the base of a tree. Crowning that mound was a circle in black.

You nudged Daryl’s shoulder.

“Go on,” you urged.

Begrudgingly, he set off. The sounds of his footsteps reached your ears a little louder as he stalked his way through the clearing, evidently less than thrilled to make the trek amongst a swarm of thorns.

You watched him walk, at length, to the locale you’d directed him, and you knew there’d be no animal caught in a snare when he checked it. There’d be no body, no trace, no thing to be discovered beneath that brush, and by the time he’d jerked his head up to sneer that he was right, it would be too late.

You padded over to the pile of sassafras leaves and stared down at that ring of dark ink.

‘Like a burst of little ant bites,’ Operator had told you as he’d fluttered his fingers over your ankle. That was all it was and all it was ever meant to be: a nip at your leg and a couple superficial cuts to your skin. Operator’s right-hand man, a guy by the name of Dwight, had set the trap up himself and had rigged it to where the steel jaws of the thing would clamp your ankle with a lot less force than it normally would, all while giving the appearance of having your calf bit in half.

‘Dixon’s gonna be trippin’ over his nutsack to set you free,’ Operator had predicted, grinning wide as he said it, ‘but Dwight’s got the trap outfitted a little differently—ain’t no pryin’ this thing off your foot without the help of a bona fide professional, see?’

‘It won’t hurt you any— just...tough to take off is all.’ Dwight had added, casting a nervous glance at Operator.

‘Right. Painless.’

Those parting words rang a vicious course in your skull as you stood above the contraption now. Legs shaking something awful and feet refusing to move, you tried to swallow your fears and damn near hurled them all back up when Daryl’s voice broke out a moment later,

“Ain’t nothin’ here!”

Your cue. You lifted your foot.

“Honey?”

No time. He’d spot you any second now.

With all the glamor and ceremony of a person approaching the scaffold, you brought your foot down.

The moment your heel struck the plate—the one you knew was buried deep within those leaves—a pair of springs roused the jaws of the trap in less than an instant and snapped your calf within its teeth even quicker, it seemed. You hardly had the time to react, much less retreat, but when the thing came down and caught you in its grip, you sure as hell knew it had you.

This wasn’t an ant bite, a hornet sting, or a flesh wound from a swarm of horseflies. The trap sailed straight through flesh and bone and made a jarring crunch once its teeth had reconvened across your lower leg. A fragment of your shin splintered out through the skin.

You were screaming bloody murder before your body ever hit the ground.

It was quite possibly the dumbest endeavor you’d ever attempted, but your fingers clawed frantically at the jaws of the trap, trying to pry them apart.

“FUCKING FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

You watched blood jet from rows of jagged puncture wounds.

You heard footsteps thunder ahead, then halt, then give way to the sight of a set of hands thrusting in, joining your efforts to extract the steel from your flesh.

The metal fangs didn’t move.

“Down, down, down, push down— oh God, no, move it there—” Daryl was scrambling, frenziedly trying to tell you to press your foot on the springs to constrict them.

You couldn’t feel your foot, much less move it. You tried jerking your knee upward instead.

Another shriek tore through your chest when every one of your lesions took a hit—unyielding steel shredding more of you than you were of it.

Daryl seized your thigh and eyed your widening gashes.

“Don’t!” he bellowed, far too late but shouting it anyway, “Honey, no, no, please—”

He scarcely knew what he was saying, and you barely heard him. You were draining blood like a stuck pig and losing color in your face even faster. Your head started swimming with the loss of every drop.

Just as you swayed and tried to steady yourself in place, Daryl’s eyes darted to the space right behind you, where a cluster of walkers were shuffling out between the trees.

He clambered for his cross-bow and got back on his feet, moving fast against the pack to start picking them off one-by-one. As he lodged bolts in their brains and took knives to their eyes, you sat there and grabbed your knee, savagely wrestling the steel while red began to flood your vision.

This time, it wasn’t blood but a violent, blinding rage.

“You fucker!” you screeched, raking your fingers over the immotile trap, “Goddamn cocksucking fucker!”

You gripped the thing even tighter in your hands and wrung the metal like it was somebody’s neck—that of Dwight, or Operator, or anyone else to blame for this grotesque horror before you.

They’d set you up. Dwight hadn’t rigged it any safer; he’d boobytrapped the fucking bear snare to make it snap your leg in two. And Operator had given the order. Their goal wasn’t to feign an injury so much as it was to maim you, indelibly, so Daryl would have no choice but to bring you back to his home in Alexandria, and keep you there. You couldn’t believe you’d been so naïve. Every fiber of your being, it seemed, pulsated its wrath beneath your skin.

So wholly immersed in this fit of rage and all but dead below the knee, you shook that rough, bloody stump like it was somehow to blame for your predicament. Heedless of the fluids that came leaking out, of the damage sure to follow, of the sound of Daryl returning beside you in a hurry and begging you to stop.

“Those bastards,” you wept through wet, baring teeth.

Your words barely registered in Daryl’s brain. All he knew was that he needed to prop you up, keep you conscious, and find some materials for a makeshift tourniquet in the next couple minutes. Just as he started to map out that critical move, though, a memory flashed before his mind. Suddenly he was sprinting back across the way he’d came to the bag he’d dropped in the clearing. Almost tripped over his own two feet fumbling to get it open.

You closed your eyes and started to rock back and forth.

“Channel four, do you copy?”

“Dixon to channel four. I have a— a woman in need of emergency help. She’s hurt real bad.”

“Dozen miles out, ‘round Culpeper and Stevensburg.”

You moved your hands from your calf up to the crown of your skull, kneading the skin like it just might banish the waves of nausea and delirium that were starting to take root. Your vision was spinning and dimming each time you chanced to look around you. Colors all bled together.

Your companion kept rattling off names and places and ‘do you copy’s ‘til it seemed he’d turn blue in the face talking into that radio. At length, another voice crackled across the line, and Daryl stopped dead in his tracks,

“Jesus?”

You froze in place too.

In the throes of this blunt trauma-induced hysteria, you sincerely thought Daryl might be talking to a higher power just then. You opened your eyes and tried to wave him over as your body seized with fear. Unfortunately for you, the man was busy barking into the receiver.

“Tell him I ain’—” you whimpered, clawing the air out in front of you, “I ain’t ready.”

Upon seeing your gestures and the poor, frightened look on your face, Daryl stopped once more and dropped to his knees down in front of you.

“’S’wrong?” His eyes already surveying your body for any further signs of harm.

You sniffled, “I ain’t ready to see Jesus just yet.”

“Wh— how come?” Daryl knit his eyebrows together.

“Too many sins on the soul, Saint Peter’ll beat my ass.”

Your mind had worked itself up to a fever pitch at this point, your words coming slurred and near-incoherent. Daryl blinked for a second until it all clicked in his head. Then he said softly, almost wanting to smile,

“We’re not goin’ to meet our Maker, hon, he’s just a friend’a mine.”

“Where’d you find her, Daryl?”

You jumped at the sound of the radio and started to scoot back—dragging the bear trap in tow. Your leg had already gone numb to all sensation, but Daryl saw a thin strip of flesh go peeling off as you moved. He caught your arm and held you firm in place.

“Don’t move, baby,” he pleaded, “Yer just makin’ it worse on yerself.”

Then, to Jesus: “Found her on a— a supply run this morning. Please hurry.”

The man on the other end of the line gave his assent, asked a couple more garbled questions, and shortly ended the conversation. Daryl discarded the radio just as fast and crawled over to take your head in his hands as soon as he did. He shook it fiercely back and forth as your eyelids were just then threatening to close.

“Hey, hey, stay with me, Y/N,” Daryl spoke over and over, patting a desperate measure on your cheeks.

Your complexion was bloodless. Sweat, dirt, saliva, and streaks of garnet red all stained your person in a gory sort of mosaic, too gruesome for Daryl to tear his gaze from.

He pinched your face and pleaded hard, voice breaking, “Honey, stay here— I-I need you awake.”

You swallowed and nodded to nothing at all, eyes scanning the skyline and seeing great globs of gray invade your vision. You were bleeding, seeping, oozing that awful red stuff and feeling it pool about your feet, but there, on the horizon, there was little more than tiny spirals of gray. The sight brought Daryl’s prior weather prediction to mind, and presently, you managed a smile.

“Storm’s comin’,” you mumbled.

You weren’t sure when it started or how it arrived, but a rainfall did reach you at length. Daryl had gathered you up in his arms and squeezed you tight to his chest, rocking you side to side and begging you not to die—‘Die? I feel fine’ you’d grumbled as sparks and flames and fairies danced quietly before your eyes—when droplets of moisture came trickling down from the sky.

That rain went from a drizzle to a downpour in a matter of minutes, and all Daryl could do was drag your two bodies under the shade of a tree and hold you to him. You weren’t sure how long you waited there.

Despite your best efforts, you suspected you might have dozed for a minute or two, because when your eyes had snapped back open from what felt like an extra long blink, you heard footsteps shake the earth beneath you. You glanced down with bloodshot, bleary eyes and saw some fabric fastened tight around your leg and a medley of blue, black, and red painted all down your calf.

“Ew,” you said aloud, your consciousness hovering somewhere far above your head. It was like this body wasn’t yours at all—a mere wax-made effigy, and a shitty one at that—so you felt a bit more at liberty to speak your mind.

Frankly, you didn’t know what the fuck was going on.

Before you knew it, you were being seized by your arms and legs, and you hardly even questioned it.

“Get the door, Rick, dammit.”

“Watch her foot, watch her foot!”

“Fuck’s sake, I got it.”

From what you could make out, you were being hammock-carried by three burly men who were blinking hard against the sheets of rain coming down and shouting extra loud to be heard over the downpour. At your side was a long-haired, handsome sort of guy with eyes the color of the Mediterranean; at your head, another blue-eyed, bearded stud that could’ve easily been a cop in a past life; at your feet, a terror-stricken, and very shirtless, Daryl, holding a healthy foot in one hand and a mangled, steel-shredded lump in the other.

If you weren’t currently bleeding to death, you almost would’ve reckoned this a lovely time to visit Paris.

The trio eased you into the bed of their battered S-10 Chevy. Your head lolled into the lap of the cop, and Daryl squeezed your hand. Then he stepped back over to help his Fabio dupe of a friend at the foot of the bed, and they slowly brought your leg to rest at an elevated level. The two exchanged a few hushed words.

Your eyelids were feeling especially heavy at this point and nearly primed to close, when all of a sudden, the cop tensed below you.

A rough, calloused hand pushed the strap of your tank top a little to the left—and not at all in the way you were hoping—and sharply, the man’s voice broke out:

“Daryl, she’s been bit.”

#daryl dixon #daryl x reader #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon imagine #smut #twd daryl #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #daryl dixon one shot #twd imagine #fanfic

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endlessthxxghts · 6 months

Text

Forget

Joel Miller x afab!reader || W/C: 618 (lil baby one today xx)

Summary: You're stressed, sad, and every painful emotion you can think of. Joel comes home, and you give him only one option in how he can comfort you.

Content/Warnings: No physical description of reader. Reader is so sad and full of emotion, she just wants Joel to help her forget. Literal porn from the get-go, so SMUT 18+ MDNI. Joel has a dirty, never-ending mouth. He talks sooo much and he talks ya through it... Daddy kink (only used twice and both at the beginning). Thigh riding. Allusion to P in V sex. Did I mention Joel is really vocal?🥴😵‍💫 Pictures are for aesthetic purposes only (credit to pinterest).

A/N: It has been a really stressful few weeks, and an even more stressful few days. Because I'm stressed, I kept thinking of Joel helping me de-stress, and this was born at 1am. I completely left Joel open to interpretation, so you can imagine him however you want! Whatever fits your sexiest fantasies hehe. This is not proof-read either... sorry about any mistakes! Much love. Enjoy.

MASTERLIST

“Just needa forget, don’tcha, sweet girl?”

“F-fuck, y-yes, daddy,” you whimper, your pussy soaked and pulsing as you grind back and forth on his thigh.

“That’s it. Just like that, darlin’. Daddy’s got ya,” Joel says, his hands on your hips, guiding the pressure and speed of your movement.

Joel just got home half an hour ago. His first sight was you, a sobbing mess on his couch. Baby, what’s wrong? He said as he rushed and crouched down to your side. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug first then grabbing his face and smashing your lips against his. Talk later you mumbled, need you you said as your lips lingered to his jaw, nipping little bites on your journey down. He pulled you off of him roughly, muttering an up as he scrambled to get himself on the couch, situating you into a straddle onto him. You were already wearing solely your underwear, so the moment your pussy made contact, you knew you were done for.

Now, here you are, on your way to your second climax on his thick muscle as he utters sweet praises in his thick, honeyed drawl that you could drink up for eternity.

“Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, baby, such a good fuckin’ girl.”

“Almost there, baby, soak me one more time.”

“Get yourself nice and wet for me, mama, so I can fuck you real good.”

“Fuck all those fuckin’ thoughts right out that pretty little head of yours.”

My God, the mouth on this fucking man. With the help of his words, you’re so wound up, your hips are moving impossibly faster, chasing that second, much needed high.

“Please-” you let out, head falling back between your shoulder blades, your neck that he loves to mark beautifully on display for him.

His one hand leaves your hips and situates it to your jaw, gripping you tightly and forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Give it to me, baby. Give it to me, and I’ll give you what you’re so fuckin’ desperate for.”

“Fuck,” you’re louder now, your wails reverberating throughout the walls of his home. “Joel-” you gasp out.

“I’ve got ya, just let go, sweet girl.”

Your hips stutter, and within moments you’re flooding his thigh — warm, sticky, and drenched — fireworks exploding beneath your eyelids as your entire body is overtaken with a buzz only he has the ability to give you.

Both his hands are cradling your face now, caressing the apples of your cheeks as you recover.

“Always such a good girl f’me,” he says as he pulls your face into his for a soft kiss, your hands finding solace in the planes of his chest.

Out of breath, you rest your entire body on his, not caring about the mess underneath you right now. He wraps an arm around your waist, his other hand cradling the back of your head as he scratches his fingers through the base of your scalp. You hum in content.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his chest.

He uses his hand in your hair to gently ease you into looking up at him. He kisses your lips, then your forehead. “Not done with you yet, darlin’. Just givin’ ya a breather,” he smirks.

“Oh, I know, baby,” you reply, a lopsided, mischievous grin spread across your face.

He glances at your lips, then back to your eyes. “I love you,” he says. The warmth of it satiating and comforting you more than anything ever could.

“I love you,” you tell him, hoping you can translate everything you feel for him in those three, powerful little words.

He taps your rear. “Bedroom?”

“Please.”

Hi, all <3 I'm really sorry if I don't post as much this month - I really need to get my mental health back up first. I'm not completely disappearing though, I promise you that. I could never go more than a few weeks without writing something. Some of these next couple of posts may be self-indulgent and for purposes of my own comfort, but I still would like to share them with you all. Writing is an art form, a way to express ourselves, and if anyone can find comfort in anything I create, then that is why even in my own hard times, I continue to spread the beautiful intricacies of written word. I love you all. 💚

Tags: @javierpena-inatacvest @katiexpunk @janaispunk @farmerlarrry @mellymbee @jobee403 @soavenuepenguin @rainbowcosmicchaos @untamedheart81 @lilynotdilly @babygal-babygal @pedritoferg @pedrostories @akah565 @getitoutofmymind @joels-shitty-puns @its-nebuleuse @la-vie-est-une-fleur29

Please let me know if you'd like to stopped being tagged! Even if you're my moot, let me know. No hard feelings, I promise. Xx

EDIT: As of the new year 2024, I no longer do taglists!! Follow @endlessthxxghtsnotifs and turn on the notifications to be updated when new stories come out!!

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fayeriess · 5 months

Text

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺ THE MOTHER ROAD ༻♱༉‧₊˚.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: the night of your bedding ceremony leaves you destroyed in more ways than one.

warnings: 18+ ( minors please do not interact ), a bit of angst, slight dub!con, a little smut if you squint, loss of virginity, p in v, bedding ceremony ( witnesses ), not proof-read

a/n: first installment of 'birth of violence' as well as first ever work for hotd. i’ve been lingering in the background and slowly dipping my toes in the fandom again so bear with me if anything seems incorrect here. house baratheon is mentioned a couple of times. not sure if this was really going in the dub!con direction but the warning is there nonetheless :)

You were used to the cold; the iciness that frosted the ground in thick layers during the colder seasons, seeping through furs and weaving itself between the joints. It numbs, comforts, and soothes — leaving frostbitten fingers, and an empty stomach coiled tightly in knots.

The sensation was no stranger; on the contrary, it was someone you knew all too well in all the forms it had come to you.

Goddess flesh in the shape of cracking bones, and skin peeling from slain muscle, an aura of deceitfulness to follow. She haunted when lashes fluttered shut, skin between brows creasing in concentration in an attempt to rid of the horrors constantly plaguing states of unconsciousness – creeping in the dark corners, hidden by glistening torchlight.

But, when she revealed herself, instead of waning, she grew; bubbling beneath the surface, tingling your spine so that it raised gooseflesh. At times, a dim glimmer of hope shone in the cavity of your chest, protected from the harsh realities this plane of existence had to offer.

The world burns at your feet, yet you remain unignited.

Even now, as you lay unclothed atop white linens, tears pricking your eyes, jaw tight, and body shaking with utmost humiliation, she loomed. You had wished she shielded you instead; from the unity of this marriage for allegiance, from the high lords and ladies that had crowded behind the curtains of your bedding chamber.

But hadn’t she helped you? Hadn’t she made you senseless to this . . . robbery to come out victorious once your duty had been fulfilled? Once the stain of your snatched virtue decorated the sheets?

It was a thought that flitted across the crevices of your mind, eyes clouded with fear, hazed from Dornish crimson wine consumed during the wedding ceremony — your wedding ceremony. Oh, how you wished so desperately then that you were back near the southeastern shores — embroidering with your septa — the woman who had taught you how to be a lady ever since your bones ached from growing.

Once a child, now a woman. Once a child, now a woman. Your lips parted to utter those words to yourself silently, hands grasping at the crinkled sheets beneath you.

“Will them away.”

Snapping your head between your clenched legs, you swallow, taking in the figure before you. “I’m sorry?”

Blinking rapidly, you sunk lower into the mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole before you could get on with this act with the man whom you were forced to call husband. Such a strange title for someone you had come to know only through whispers across Storm’s End alone; hushed whispers seeping through hands that hadn’t been cupped around ears tight enough.

He moves slowly, long limbs splayed out on either side of you, violet eye locked to your face as his head dips. “No one else is here.” He whispers, lips a breath away from yours. “Just me and you, ābrazȳrys.”

You can’t help the small, shaky sigh that escapes your once-closed mouth as slivers of bright tendrils tickle your face, raising the hairs on your arms. Not trusting the constant thump that sounded throughout your ears, you nodded stiffly, the bile of earlier devoured supper threatening to surface in your esophagus.

With a rigid spine, you inched backward, head cushioned by the mass of pillows piling the expanse of the bed. A sudden pressure made itself known behind your eyes, a rush of tears awaiting to embarrass you further than what you had already endured tonight.

His reassuring words caressed your skin, albeit doing little to quell the sickness, sloshing the digesting wine inside you. Aemond Targaryen was a man who was capable of many things, but you did not believe that genuine kindness was one of them. Nor would you ever.

As a young girl, you had read stories that would’ve gotten you clapped upside the head if they were ever discovered in the confines of your chambers—inked writings of erotic experiences littering parchment front to back.

You had always been a greedy reader, opting to take in as much as you could learn between pages rather than by the hands of those around you. When you turned into a woman-grown — gone was your stubbornness — your fight dissipated the more you learned to clamp down on your loose tongue, drawing a copper taste onto your tastebuds despite yourself.

It was one of the reasons why you had found yourself in King's Landing, why the hands of a kinslayer were skimming the curvature of your waist, fingertips dancing on the bare flesh below your ribcage soon after.

He was dousing you with his shared sin. This was not the way you wished to be loved.

The muscles in your stomach involuntarily clench at his touch, hands stiff and straight at your sides now, fingers wriggling together as a means to distract yourself; shaking when he flicks his thumb over your nipple.

You’re forced to snap your eyes in his direction, lashes clustered, wet with tears that left trails in their wake.

It didn’t matter one bit if you looked as pathetic as you felt. You had come to that conclusion long ago; the minute he had showed up to the Stormlands asking your father for your hand in marriage.

Borros Baratheon had always thought of you as a spare — with your older sister — Cassandra being the most favored out of the six of his kin. So it was astonishing when a dragon took a sudden interest in the likes of a stag.

How delicate. How . . . fiendish.

His voice was a whisper among many in the fluid of your skull, lips pressed against the shell of your heated ear. “Are you well?”

The question had the one-eyed prince pursing his lips, he reprimanded himself for his slick tongue. It was obvious you were naught but petrified.

He was going to defile you, and it would be something he would find no pleasure in; of that he was certain.

The sniffle you gave along with a curt nod of your head was enough, as his slender fingers had suddenly appeared at your cheek, wiping away at stray saltwater littering the apples of your warm cheeks.

Your chest expanded, wide enough that you were now chest-to-chest with him. Aemond wasn’t as stocky as the men you were usually surrounded by; naught more than tall, arms not packed with muscles of hard labor, but moreover bone with subtle definition you could easily learn to appreciate if the circumstances were different.

The sensation of his heart pounding against your sternum only intensified when said hand disappeared between your bodies to palm at his throbbing cock, guiding it against your slick folds.

If you weren’t choking on your self-pity, you’d find a way to resist with your words rather than slap your clammy palm against his bicep, the uneven ridges of your nails digging into the flesh. Aemond winced slightly at your tell, eyebrows furrowing at your wide eyes.

“‘M scared.” Words lower than the quietest of whispers reached his ears, something he’d will himself to etch between the tissue of his brain with thick twine.

Aemond Targaryen found immense joy when he’d spot trepidation contorting the features of those he deemed beneath him — which was most — if truths were being brought under the scorching sun. But, this time his stomach could only roll over in knots at your helplessness; something all too familiar to him.

He had experienced it on the Street of Silk back when he was ten-and-three with Aegon hot on heels. His first time had been with a whore, a woman far much older than he. Desperately struggling to place his mind elsewhere, Aemond ultimately failed the task and found himself hunched over in a nearby alley soon after.

He could still feel the crack of the outer foundation of the brothel as he dug his fingers into its dirt-ridden cracks — heaving, inhaling — a cycle of panic forcing itself down his throat. When Aegon had found him, he had clapped a hand on his back and laughed madly, lips smacking together as they clipped away at the rest of innocence within the younger.

Perhaps that was why the small fragment in his heart that cradled a place for his dear older brother was black with rot.

In his hesitation, it seemed you had already succumbed to your fate as your nose crinkled, a rapid nod of the head to follow. “Please.”

Your approval was broken and utterly defeated as you looked. It made his blood run cold; the dragon fire that had given him his birthright cooling.

“I-“ With the sentence long forgotten in his throat, Aemond’s lips had curled in a deep frown, as you stared at him.

Your eyes were blurry with another onslaught of tears, hands raising to frantically wipe at them with your palms, digging the heels of them as far as they could go to remove any trace of your weeping.

He was sure that if you had dug them any deeper, they would have disappeared into the depths of your sockets

Although you were certain that those standing behind the thin linen sheet had held no sense of sorrow for your fate, a part of you wished at least one person had. That before you had grabbed his length and eased it inside of you, someone had yanked back the only means of privacy you had and gotten you out of there.

Alas, you had no savior. Not your four other sisters, nor your cunt lord of a father whose last words to you were to be a good wife. Not even Alicent, who had seemed to have the lowest of tolerances for a frail girl like you bringing forth heirs. New grandsons, and granddaughters for her to dote over.

“They will be as delicate as their mother.” She complimented, a small bite to her spoken words. You were smart enough to know it was backhanded, as she thought you weak, feeble the minute her warm, motherly hands had grasped your shaking ones.

A gasp had left you at the sudden intrusion, the slight pinch of your body being practically split in half causing your lids to screw shut.

Aemond gently pushed at your hand still circling his cock, leaving you with no option other than to ball it tightly at your side. With a slow buck of his hips, he inches forward, hoping to make a home in your cunt, and you clench around him involuntarily: breathe warm and hot as he lets his eye flutter shut.

The sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt in all your years on this plane of existence, and it causes a shudder to wrack your entire being so violently, that you can’t help the sob that escapes you. It mixes in the thick air, heating the flesh of your cheeks even further, bringing the blood in your veins to boil over.

Something is stirring deep within the pits of your belly, twisting – shaping itself as tightly as it can before it can be unwound, foreign but not as uninviting as you had expected it to be.

It was much more pleasant. So much so, that as Aemond continued his steady, agonizingly slow thrusts, you found that your toes would curl slightly, ridges of teeth indenting the plump flesh of your bottom lip, and content sighs leaving your lungs in quiet intervals.

The pad of a thumb brushes against your tear-stricken face, slowly easing its way down to your jaw before coming to a stop at the fullness of your mouth.

A skip of silence simmering in slight hesitancy does nothing to stop the rapidness of your heart; the way it palpated when a ‘May I kiss you?’ came out of his parted lips.

Was he asking your consent to ease his conscience due to snatching you away from your home? Or was he asking because it was the last thing you’d be able to give your opinion upon?

It was a fickle thought. One that you quickly realized you were overanalyzing when his knuckle curved to lift your head.

“Yes.”

And so his lips pressed against yours with fervor, as if he’d been deprived of touch his entire life. There was warmth swirling around your tongue when he had delved into the warmth wetness that made up your mouth, all the while jutting his hips forward.

Aemond’s breath is caught by your mouth as he sighs, peppering kisses down your chin, and over your throat soon after.

There’s no trace of confidence within you the second your hands weave through his long tresses, tugging slightly as his tongue follows the trail his mouth had made.

He stills near your collarbone and hums, sending a shiver pinching down the expanse of your back, legs rubbing against his hips.

“Is this what you want?”

The frost is back, starting at the tips of your fingers this time as they stop near the base of his neck, shaking from the suddenness of his question.

Is this what you wanted? To submit yourself to a role within Kings Landing in the Red Keep as a princess? A woman to hang over her husband's arm, the stronghold of this alliance between House Baratheon and House Targaryen.

You were supposed to be the epitome of strength.

So strong is what you would be.

Even if it shaped you into something you could no longer recognize.

“I’m sure.”

And for a second your words rang true.

Just for now.

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x female reader #aemond targaryen angst #house of the dragon aemond

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itsmealaiah · 1 month

Text

"make it quick"

Summary: tom needs his quickies, and so do you

TW: p in v sex, fingering, quickie, public sex, sex in an airplane bathroom, explicit content, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns

Request: omfg imagine ur going on tour w th and ur on an airplane and have a quickie w tom/bill in the toilet :0 it can include lots of teasing and trying to keep quiet bc of the others obvi

Rating: mdni, mature content ahead, intended for mature audiences

WC: 1.2k

As the plane hurtles through the sky, you find yourself nestled between Georg and Bill, trying your best not to laugh at the way they both twitch in their sleep. You know it's only a matter of time before they both wake up, but for now, it's kind of endearing. You look over at Tom, who's sprawled out across three seats, his long legs dangling over the armrest. He's still asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath.

You feel your heart racing as you inch closer to him, the excitement of being this close to him, this intimate, making your skin tingle. You can't help but wonder what he'd taste like, what it would be like to kiss him right now. You nudge him gently with your elbow, trying to wake him up. He stirs, mumbling something in german before sitting up and opening his eyes, looking at you with a sleepy grin.

"Hey liebe," he whispers, his voice low and husky. "What's up?" You can feel the warmth of his body as he lies next to you, and it's all you can do not to just reach over and pull him close. You want to feel his lips on yours, taste him again.

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head. "I wish we had more room to… be comfortable," he says with a wink, making you blush. You nod in agreement, glancing around at the other members of the band who are still sound asleep. The plane is dimly lit, and the only sound is the soft hum of the engines. It feels like you're in a little bubble, the rest of the world falling away as you're caught up in this moment with Tom.

"What do you say we find a more… private spot?" Tom whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. Your heart skips a beat as you nod eagerly, already imagining what it would be like to be alone with him. He slides out of his seat, taking your hand in his as he leads you down the aisle. The rest of the band is still out cold, and the flight attendants must be used to this kind of thing by now, because they don't even bat an eye as you slip past them.

You and Tom duck into the small bathroom, the dim lighting casting a warm glow over his features. He closes the curtain behind you, sealing you in together. The air between you crackles with anticipation as you stand face to face, inches away from each other. Tom's lips curve into a slow, teasing smile, and he leans forward, his breath warm against your ear. "What do you want to do, liebe?" he whispers, his voice husky with desire.

Your heart races as you look into his eyes, feeling the heat building inside you. You reach up, tangling your fingers in his hair, and pull him closer, pressing your lips against his. The kiss is slow and tender at first, but quickly grows more urgent as you both become lost in the moment. Tom's hands slide down your back, cupping your bottom, and he lifts you up, pressing you against the hard surface of the bathroom door.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel the desire rising between you like a tidal wave. Tom groans into the kiss, his tongue dancing with yours, and you arch your back, gasping for air as the need grows too strong. He pulls away, just slightly, and looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks, his voice low and rough.

You nod frantically, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes," you manage to choke out between ragged breaths. "I want you, Tom." His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and he groans, the sound vibrating against your skin as he presses closer, his hips grinding against yours. His hand slides up your thigh, and he grips your hip firmly, pulling you against him even harder. The feel of his hardness pressed against your center only serves to heighten the need inside you, and you arch your back, moaning into his kiss.

He reaches around, unfastening your bra with practiced ease, freeing your breasts from their confinement. His hands are rough as they slide over your skin, teasing and pinching your nipples. You cry out, arching into his touch, and he growls, taking possession of you completely. He pushes you down against the door, pinning you there with his weight as he kisses and nips at your neck, your shoulders, anywhere his lips can reach.

You feel a burst of pleasure as he slips a finger inside you, teasing your sensitive flesh. He groans against your skin, his hips bucking as he finds your clit with his thumb. You're so close, you can feel it building inside you, and with every stroke of his finger and every press of his lips, it gets closer, more intense. You grip his hair, pulling him down harder, needing him to feel how much you want this.

With a rough grunt, he pushes his pants down, freeing his erection. You watch in awe as he lines himself up with you, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. He looks down at you with eyes so dark they're almost black, and you see the hunger there, the need. He presses forward, slowly at first, and then with a groan that vibrates through you, he thrusts deep, filling you completely.

Your body tenses uncontrollably as he takes you, the sensation so intense it's almost painful. But it's a good pain, and you welcome it, welcoming him inside you as you wrap your legs around his waist, holding him tight. He begins to move, his hips undulating in a steady rhythm that matches the wild beat of your heart. His skin is hot against yours, and the sound of his breathing fills the tiny space around you, making it seem like it's just the two of you in the world.

You can feel the tension building inside you, the pleasure growing with every thrust. Your muscles tighten, and your breath comes in ragged gasps as the climax washes over you, crashing through you in a wave of pure ecstasy. Your body goes rigid, and your cries mingle with his as you come together, your release echoing through the tiny bathroom.

Tom follows you over the edge, his thrusts growing frantic as he empties himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the door, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. He kisses you tenderly, his lips soft against yours. "I've wanted this for so long," he whispers, and you know he means it. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close, feeling the beat of his heart against your cheek.

After what feels like an eternity, he pulls away, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers, "Are you okay?" You nod, still giddy with pleasure, and he smiles, kissing you softly. "I'm glad," he whispers, and then he's gone, returning to his seat to join the others in the main cabin. You watch him go, feeling the warmth of his body lingering on your skin even as he leaves you alone. But for now, you're content. Content in the knowledge that you just shared something truly special with Tom.

Taglist: @madzandmore @20doozers @tomscumdump @charliesgoodboy @babyisa1

Requests are open! keep sending them in 🤍

#tokio hotel #tokio hotel x reader #tokio hotel x you #tom kaulitz #tom kaulitz imagines #tom kaulitz x reader #tom kaulitz x you #tom kaulitz angst #tom kaulitz smut #tom kaulitz x y/n #itsmealaiah #tokio hotel fanfic #tokio hotel smut #tokio hotel x y/n

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the-froschamethyst4 · 3 months

Text

Please, Father

𖤐Pairing: Priest! Ghost x Nun! F! Reader

𖤐Pronouns: She/Her

𖤐Warnings: smut, NSFW, priest kink, language, mention of smoking and drinking, more use of Simon than Ghost, P in V, age gap, praise kink, fingering, eating out, masturbation, blowjob,

𖤐Summary: When Ghost gets wind of a 'disrespectful' nun, he puts her in her place

————

Ghost walks through the big church, humming a soft tune that he just randomly came up with. He makes it to the alter seeing two nuns 'praying' but really they were gossiping.

"I caught her smoking," one says.

"Smoking! Father Simon, will hate that, she better get her act together!" they were whispering back and forth with each other but Simon could hear them plane as day.

"I know, Mother Faith caught her with alcohol once in the bathroom after church the other day."

"What a skank-"

"That's a bit disrespectful, Sister Grace and Sister Amber," Simon interrupts their conversation.

"We are so sorry, Father," they bow their heads to him.

"All is forgiven, but please no gossiping within the church."

"Yes, Father," they say as they prayed again.

"And could I ask...who this Sister is you two are talking about?" He asked.

"The new Sister, Father." Sister Grace says.

"Sister Y/n." Sister Amber says.

Y/n was a new Nun in the Church. She was brought to the church to learn about her families 'history' but newsflash there was no history, her family just sought her to be disrespectful and needs to be taught a lesson.

She was the middle child out of her siblings and her parents thought she was running with the wrong crowd and sent her overseas to this church to become a nun.

But that was far from the truth. Y/n wasn't disrespectful at all, she was innocent and people just painted her to be a bad child, being a Nun was easy work for her, but being here made her start smoking and drinking.

Speaking of Y/n. She sits in the courtyard leaning on the stone wall looking over the people walking passed the church.

"You will get us in trouble if they see you smoking, Sister Y/n," Y/n had the cigarette between her lips as she turns to Mother Lucia. She took Y/n under her wing and understood Y/n's struggles.

"So, what...people already think I'm a bad Nun...it doesn't matter," she says, putting her cigarette out.

"Why not go to the confession booth?" Mother Lucia asked.

"It doesn't work...I feel like no one listens to me...not even Father Simon," she says as she walks with Lucia.

"Father Simon always listens." Lucia says.

"If so why has nothing I've confessed about change?"

"You have to change them yourself, Y/n."

"What a waste of time," she rolls her eyes.

"I understand you feel like no one is listening to you, but trust me, Father Simon will help you."

"If I give it another try, will you leave me alone about it?"

"I will," Mother Lucia smiles at her.

"Fine, I'll do it later today."

"Good. Come on, let's go pray." Y/n hates praying, she doesn't know what she is praying for.

----------

Father Simon fixed his suit and heads to the confession booth. Sitting on the other side, he hears the door on the other side open and then hears a voice.

"Father, I must confess," he listens and pays attention to the voice, it's one he's heard before. "I don't think I've sinned, but I am...confused..."

"How so?" He finally speaks.

"People don't understand me, they don't understand what I've been through in my life and I'm called a 'disrespectful' nun...I'm not disrespectful at all."

Simon knew who he was talking to now. He slight turns his head and sees the side of Y/n's face, she looked sad, she looks down at her fingers, playing with them unaware that Father Simon was looking at her.

He gets up and closes the door. Y/n hears the door shut and she turns not seeing his outline in the booth next to her.

"What a waste of time," she says, then her door opens, she is face-to-face with Father Simon.

"Come with me, Sister Y/n," he says, putting his hand out but then realizing what he was doing took his hand back. "Please, come with me," he says.

Father Simon and Sister Y/n walk through the church the other Nuns see Y/n with him. They started to gossip about how she might get kicked out.

Simon opens his office door letting Y/n in, he shuts the door and locks it without Y/n knowing.

"Please have a seat," he says, letting her sit on his black leather chair in front of his desk. Simon leans on his desk looking at Y/n.

"Father Simon, am I in trouble for my confession?" She asked, looking up at him.

"No, never, it's a confession booth for a reason, Sister Y/n...a little birdie told me...you were smoking?"

"I-I'm sorry, Father Simon...I'm...I started it 3 weeks after I've arrived here, I also have been drinking."

"And you confessed about being confused...not that you are smoking and drinking on church grounds."

"I'm sorry, Father," she bows her head and hot tears filled her eyes, Simon wasn't trying to intimidate her and wasn't going to bash her or was going to kick her out. "Please, Father...forgive me," tears landed on her hands.

Simon places his finger under her chin making her look up at him, he sees her red eyes from crying.

"Sister Y/n, please don't cry, you did nothing wrong, Mother Lucia had told me some of your hardships and what you've been through," Simon tells her.

"Please, don't kick me out, Father," she pleads.

"I would never kick out a lovely lady like you," he says. "Please...tell me what you want, Sister Y/n?" He asks.

"I...I don't know what I want..."

"I think you do...Y/n when's the last time you've touched yourself?"

"F-Father Simon, I don't think that's appropriate to ask-"

"Let's not start that, tell me."

"Since I've arrived here..." she says, looking down.

"So 8 months ago?" Simon questions.

"Yes, Father."

"Aww~ so sad," he let's go of her chin and leans on his desk. "Lift your skirt and start touching yourself," he says.

"W-What?"

"You heard me, Y/n...lift your skirt and start touching yourself," he repeats.

"U-Umm~"

"Do you need help?" He asks. He walks back to her dropping to his knees, he picks her legs up placing them on his shoulders. She let's out a soft gasp and he lifts her skirt up exposing a light pink lacy panties.

"Do you always wear little underwear?"

"I-It's all I have, Father," she says.

"They're pretty," he says, licking his lips. Simon moves his hand up her thighs and then gently drag down her clothed clit.

"Mmm," She moans.

"You're already wet?"

"I-I can't help it," she moans.

"I understand," he helps her just a bit by rubbing her wet folds, he takes a hold of her hand and brings it down to her clit making her stick her fingers inside of her.

"Keep going," he demands watching her finger herself, getting a close view of her touching herself, soft moans left her mouth, she covers her mouth muffling her moans but Simon moves her hand wanting to hear her soft moans.

As she starts picking up the pace with her fingers inside of her, she starts arching her back and cum leak from her lower half, Simon looks up at her and then leaned forward using his tongue licking up her cum.

She pulls her fingers out from her lower half his tongue touched her fingers, he moves back and spits on her clit and shoved his middle and ring finger inside of her.

He starts moving his fingers quickly in and out of her, she head goes back, her hands on his shoulders. She let's out a few soft moans and then he attached his lips to her clit, licking her bud and then shoving his tongue inside of her.

"AH-AH!"

"Shh~ lovely, don't be too loud now."

"I-I'm sorry," she says.

Simon moves his tongue and pulled his fingers out, he licks his fingers. He picks Y/n up setting her on his desk, he pushes her skirt up and then pulls her panties off her lower half.

She moans feeling the cold hit her clit, she sees him unbuckling his pants, and he pulls his dick out.

"Father Simon, is this...okay?" She asked.

"It'll be just fine, it is my church anyways."

"Have you done this with...others?"

"Never...only you, lovely," he says. He placed his hand on his desk trapping Y/n between them. He aligns himself up at her entrance and slowly pushes himself in.

She tossed her head back, moaning out his name.

"You are such a good girl...taking me so well..." he smirks.

"S-Simon," she moans.

"What do you want, lovely?" He asks her.

"Faster...pl-please," she moans. He does what she wants, he picks up the pace watching her bounce, listening to her moans, and watching her hands rest on his hips.

"You look so fucking gorgeous," he groans.

"Simon!" She moans.

"Who cares," he says, thrusting faster. She let's out a moan as his tip hit her spot.

He starts to become sloppy with his thrusts, he ends up coming along with Y/n. She collapse on his desk as he watches her catch her breath.

"You did so well," he says, cupping her face and kissing her.

----------

A Few Days Later

Simon sits in the confession booth listening to a new Nun confess, she was telling him about how she 'accidently' smoked and was caught by Mother Lucia.

As he 'listened' he was more focused on his sweet Nun giving him head in the other room. Simon was talking as Y/n's tongue swirled around his tip.

She moves her mouth off his dick and starts licking up his base, her tongue laid flat against his tip as cum leaked from him. She smiles taking in his cum and swallowing his cum.

As Simon was done with the confession, he grabs Y/n's jaw.

"Your turn, what is your confession?"

"I confess for falling for a Priest," she smirks before taking his dick back into her mouth.

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cherubispunk · 4 months

Text

NEPHILIM - Jackson-era!Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

summary: the disturbing comforts the disturbed.

a note from Lucy: I swear there is fluff! I swear, I swear, I swear! You just have to squint *reeeeaaaalllly* hard. Yes, I read the book of genesis and the book numbers along with some extensive Wikipedia deep diving for like…a paragraph of lore. But is it really ever enough?

playlist | moodboard

wc: 2498

Warnings: 18+ MDNI DARK CONTENT! no use of y/n, I tried to keep her body type as generic as possible but he might be slightly skinny coded so please let me know and I’ll change it in edits, reader is referred to as ‘Bambi’, verbally constipated Joel Miller, brief gore descriptions, heavy religious imagery and references to the bible, biblical lore, bombastic age gap!!! yahhhhh! (reader is in her 20’s/ Joel is in his late 50’s), smut, p in v sex, creampie, fingering, rough sex, possessive!joel, dom!joel/sub!reader dynamic, you know the drill with my writing, there’s probably some form of cannibalism as a metaphor, or brutal violence as a metaphor, religious imagery as a metaphor, etc. (aka, fancy word vomit)

series masterlist | m.list

Genesis 6:4 The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bore children to them; the same were the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown.

The reality of it was, you and Joel were two people who lived in the same small town. Who’s paths crossed once to save your life, and the others when coincidence would grant you that small pleasure. He carried you to the care of an old man with blue eyes now milky in cataracts. Jude. Who nursed you to health in a metal framed bed of an old family home— now the town clinic. The knife that sliced open your side had been dirty, and sepsis soon spread in the bloody gash. Only with Joel finding you in the snow, and Jude delivering you antibiotics, did you recover back to health.

He wouldn’t visit you directly. He would visit Jude and glance at you through the doorway as he passed the hall to the elderly Man’s office. To distract from the man you read stories when bedridden. Parts of biblical scripture; Read the book of Genesis; Read the book of Numbers. Jude being a religious man who had the fortune of holding God in his heart, kept them among his medical journals and books. And the former was far more interesting than the later in your opinion. For in them were mentions of anthropomorphic creatures born of flesh, blood and divinity. Towering tall over common trees and temples built in the name of Lord God. You were no religious woman, but you found comfort in the fables of the Old Testament. And likened Joel to the Nephilim in all ways.

Joel Miller was something of a biblical figure to you. A small glimpse into the past of something archaic, untold, and harbouring on the dangerous. You liked to imagine him as one of the Nephilim. A son of god, offspring borne of a fallen angel and man. A giant of misunderstood nature. Who’s soul had been cast down on earth in punishment. His large hands had bloodshed on them, or so people had said. They whispered it quietly in the spaces between. The places he didn’t occupy often. But he was always on your mind…so there was no place for those whispers there. If he was all that bad…why did he save you? You saw his need to care, protect, understand. Not be understood. But just understand. You would let yourself dream of taking his rough edges to the smooth plane of a whetstone. People claimed you cannot buff brass into gold. That it will only be as such in your head. That it was a fools game, but the fool is rich in content, and poor in sorrow. For the fool has little to worry about while they live in ignorant bliss.

What wasn’t written in any of the books of the holy scripture was this; ‘The disturbing comforts the disturbed.’ But it might as well have been. It was practically the way god intended life to be. You are shaken, and you are weaned on being shaken, until stillness is a discomfort and your body begs to be rattled again. But harder.

—

You took a while to find your feet. Joel took it upon himself to wordlessly help you with any medial or manual task. You were given a house on the edge of town, up a hill in some remote street that was always quiet. It seemed the less social souls resided there. Not that you minded. It was jarring to say the least. Being cast out into the hostile wild. And then brought back into the warmth. Here you had clothes, food, a roof over your head, and community. It stung in the same way it does to run your hands under a scalding tap after labouring out in the cold. It made your fingers numb before they regained feeling. Stiff. And a trouble to flex them back and forth, closed fist, open palm; Closed fist, open palm.

It’s how you earned ‘Bambi’. A name only Joel would ever call you. Dear doe on her wobbly, spindly legs. He’d keep you upright. Despite being a good thirty year sicker than you. Dirty old man. Ditsy little girl.

Your time together was silent. And while he never said he cared, he showed it. By waiting for you each time you were in the stables. And he would walk through town with you a safe distance from his side, up to the top of the hill your house was on. The snow would crunch under his heavy boots and he wished he was lighter on his feet like you. Not a large bulk of a man with heavy feet and even heavier hand. Maybe Joel wasn't large by the world's standards, but he was still a giant to you- muscular, and broad shoulders. With hands that could engulf yours, or cradle the entire crown of your head with a single palm. His arms were strong, and large from manual labour, and tightly knotted with tendons and grizzly muscle like thick twisted ropes that held up sails. What you liked most, however, was his softer belly. Perhaps the only soft thing about him from what little you had seen, or heard, or assumed. You felt an intrinsic satisfaction in knowing he was well fed. And Joel didn't mind it either. It was a reminder to himself what he was in fact as safe as he could be. Anything to not go hungry again. He still kept his brawns either way. Kept his hands and mind busy with patrols and the odd job around town. Fixing roofs, garden sheds, building tables with spare lumber from the woodhouse, and chopping firewood for the colder months. At the beginning of winter he would spend most of his free time ensuring you had enough. He spent hours out in his backyard, swinging that axe down on log, after log of wood. Then carry it up the hill in a wheelbarrow to your front door. He did it for nothing. Nothing but the peace of mind that grew from the seed of knowing you were warm. But he was greeted with something you had baked, or sewn, or knitted, or grown in your empty hours alone. Apple and rhubarb pie, thick woollen gloves, sourdough bread with crunchy, thick crusts that crunched when he broke his bread.

“It’s nothin’.” He would say, and shrug, hands on his hips while he looked back at the finished product of whatever work he’d slaved over that entire afternoon. Be it a pile of firewood, raised garden beds, or a fixed gutter. “Just…do me a favour?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“Keep that smile on y’face, Bambi. Don’t let anyone take it away from ya.” His face was stern. As if he was telling you, not asking you. But if you were to ever stop smiling he thought he’d keel over and die a little bit inside. Or part of him would anyway. The part of him you now had in your chest unwittingly.

You watched the mountain of a man, Big Bad Joel Miller, warm up. Day by slow day. He was on the threshold of it. Right there. But the toe of his thick winter boots never ventured onto floorboards. He stayed out in the cold. After a while you dared Joel to touch you. Tired of him only meeting halfway. He was a man of few words, but a man of so much action. And when you challenged him with your tongue, he countered with his touch. That night was hell under the guise of heaven for his restraint.

“Y’so bad for me, Bambi.” Joel grunted, his entire weight smothering you against the mattress of his bed. His cock dragging in and out of you slowly. “Old sinner like me ain’t made for you.” So slowly the anticipation ached in the joints of your toes that curled. His grip on your hips casting his handprint in a watercolour bloom. “That’s it, fuck– takin’ me so well.”

You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, back arching in a deep curve off the bed while his hips altered their pace. Just a tad quicker as you bucked up into him. The two of you climbing in tandem to the high. “That's it,” He repeated in a hiss, followed by a growl into your neck, “Keep archin’ that back for me.” You did just that, holding onto his forearms for leverage as you curled your spine a little deeper. A word came to mind. One you’d heard once before. Only once. But I held such a comfort to be able to label it. Hiraeth. He was that. And what you felt was that. A longing for a home. He treated you like you wouldn't break. But spoke as if words would lacerate you. One punctuated thrust, aided by your own slick was all it took, a moan for him deeper. A tear slipped from your eye and you let gravity do its work, pulling it from you. It slipped from the corner of your eye, and down your temple. “Good girl, Bambi.” He crooned, splaying both of his palms over your hairline and sweeping the hair that stuck to your forehead in the sheen of sweat atop your skin. His large hands dragged over the top of your skull to the crown of your head, down the back of your neck, and gripped. That soft fleshy part at the base of your skull and the top of your still curved spine.

It hurt. It deeply hurt. His calloused fingers, textured by the trigger of a gun, or the handle of an axe, pressing into your malleable skin. But you’d let Joel drag you to hell if it meant he would hold your hand. You didn't care how he touched you– how he was inside you. He could be buried to hilt in your cunt, or knuckle deep in an open wound. As long as he was there. You'd give the heavens, and the earth, and rot in hell if it meant he stayed. Joel swore you had the space for his heart next to yours. But you didn't have the stomach.

You gripped the skin of Joel’s back. Searching for a part of him to hold that would turn off the cynic in him. Or at least try. You gave up on that idea. Because the man that fucked you— the man that loved you in action and not words— was not kind. He was not gentle. He was bold, and sharp as broken glass, and blunt all in the same being. You knew the crease of his brow. You had it memorised.

He hooked a leg over his shoulder, opened you up to his greedy eyes. They misted into dark hickory at the sight of you taking him so well inside of you. Messy little cunt for him to play with whenever he pleased. His nostrils flared as he pressed deeper. And your reaction was as he planned. A cry of his name. Your sex drenched and accommodating every inch. “A cunt made for me.” He gritted through his teeth, leaning forward to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick into the wet cavern of your mouth; Take the taste of you back with him when he retreated again; Righting his hips and the angle he fucked you in.

“Made for you.” You agreed in a garble and a slur. As if drunk off the last dregs of his kindness that lay at the bottom of the bottle. Licking it dry for all it was still worth.

“Say it again.” Joel grunted, demanded.

“Made for you.” You repeated.

“Good little Bambi.”

From there it was the crescendo. And it came broken in two halves of two separate waves. The first wave was one of numbing pleasure. The one that fizzled through your legs until you were nothing but a mere speck for a second. And the second was the one that broke you. Had you shattering. It tightened in your womb, behind the mouth of your cervix, and then released in slow flutter; Your walls relaxing and then contracting. And he came after with a groan and spilled inside of you.

He was no gentle lover. In fact, he wasn’t a lover at all. When he fucked you that night…it felt like he was trying to love you— but couldn’t. He was too conditioned to violence. It showed the ache he left behind. Nevertheless, you would take more than he was willing to offer. But what he dropped in your palm you stored away and hoarded like a greedy magpie with shiny little trinkets. He was warm. But not warm like a campfire. He was warm like hellflame. And you were okay with that. You would take your time with him, and slowly pry open a gap in his ribs to slip past. To love him to the marrow. Even the mangled parts. Find him at his very worst — The part humanity suffocated in. And love him there. Silently.

Joel ran a hand over the flank of your ribs and then curled around your navel to pull your back to his chest. Then kissed the crook of your neck in a silent apology to your skin for each mark or tender bruise he may have left. One that wasn't really needed, but you accepted it by reaching behind you and running your fingers through his thick greying curls. In times like these after it all, in the clot and space in between, you came to realise loving him was like loving being hungry. It felt good to want things. To feed yourself you swallowed your fear instead. You lay there, exhaustion heavy in your bones, a hand of his slipping between your legs to feel the evidence of him being there inside you. His spend sticky and thick and warm between your legs. You couldn't fight the impulsive twitch that jolted your spine when he pressed on your swollen, slick clit and drew lazy circles. “Mine now, Bambi.” He murmured into the skin of your shoulder. He didn't kiss the skin there, but rather trailed his chapped lips over your flesh in such a light touch it felt like it was hardly there. More a trick of the sex hazed, lust crazed mind. “Understand that?” And you nodded in silence with a small smile, watching out the frosted up window pane as the dawn stained the sky a burnt orange and angry red. It refracted and smeared in the crystallised ice. A thin sheet that obscured the image of the sycamore tree outside his bedroom window. The bare branches looked far more like the bones of skeletal fingers than a tree bare of leaves. Its bleach white bark only emphasised your image of it. Your vision. Nevertheless; The blackbird would sing, once again on its branch, a morning song you knew by heart.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x you #joel tlou #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller tlou #joel miller imagine #nephilim

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yeyinde · 4 months

Text

LEASH CALLED YOU

PUPPY (RUINER) x F!Reader | 18+ Good dogs get rewards, and Puppy thinks you are the best prize to be found in this hovel. So, he takes you.

WARNINGS: smut | P-in-V, rough sex; D/s undertones; VERY HEAVY DUBCON!!; slight breathplay. female gendered anatomy. implied/referenced human trafficking, sex work. canon typical violence. implied threat of violence. loss of agency. obsessive behaviour. this is basically playing house with a psychopath who decides you're his. and he pretty much killed half the city and the guy who was kinda a god. or a king. or something. so like, what are you gonna do? say no? Pff. WORD COUNT: 7,4k imagine writing like, 7k for Some Guy after seeing one (1) gifset of him.

He finds you in South Rengkok.

Nestled amongst a conglomerate of seedy, black market shops in the red light district, you gaze out at the sea of people from a vaulted window in a seamy bordello. A voyeuristic view into the coquettish bedroom they placed you in—red satin sheets and pink, heart-shaped pillows. All dolled up and pretty.

The harsh light cuts shadows under your eyes and frames you in a heavy, oversaturated glow. You look like you're bathing in red. In blood.

The sight makes something curdle in his stomach. He isn't sure why. There's not much of a difference between you and the other workers—all locked up tight; enticing passersby to join in on the garish body auction set to take place soon—but where they see the dollar signs in this, dancing and swaying their hips, pressing their palms flat against the window plane and fluttering their lashes, all lovely and coy, at the men who press back, you sit. Motionless. A little doll.

You don't belong here, he thinks. You're something much too soft and fine, like silk in his hands, and much too delicate to be in this part of town that stinks like wet, oxidising metal and saltpetre.

The slip of your black, lacy kimono barely covers your skin. He tracks it. The shadows, the dips. The curves. His eyes fix on the protrusion of your collarbones beneath the moody fabric, pushed to the side, and hanging off your shoulder in what, he guesses, is meant to be enticing. Kittenish.

They dolled you up to skirt this line between sultry vixen and twee innocence. The sight of it does something to his guts. Has them rolling over each other in tandem with each heavy thud of his heart. It's the way you look that catches his attention, sure, but more than that, it's the look in your eyes.

They glow under the neon smear, hazy and drifting far away, turned inward. Lost.

And then you look up. Catch his gaze through the glass.

There's a moment when everything inside of him dims, quiets. Thoughts, missions. Reason, purpose. It falls under a thick blanket of whisper-soft snow. It's just him—something, nothing—and you. This little cosm of his own making.

You make a motion, then, as if to entice him inside but you hesitate, staring back at him instead. He knows the LED screen on his mask is doing something funny, voicing the thoughts he can't say, because your lips quirk slightly at the corners—bemusement, maybe; he's never been good at reading people—but then HER is husking out orders in his head, all biting witticism, and acerbic humour.

Later, Puppy, comes the clandestine whisper—hot oil down his nape—and he catches the warbled curiosity as it trickles through. Good Puppy’s get rewards. But there's work to do.

Work. Yes, work.

His helmet flashes. He catches the red flicker on the smeared reflection of the window. Garish red. Kill, kill, kill.

You see it, and you flinch.

Good, is the sudden thought. Good.

Puppy isn't sure about much—not anymore, and maybe not ever—but he knows this: he likes the way your eyes widen. Fear, undoubtedly. Round and doe-eyed as you take in the horrible words scribbled in neon.

Fright, dread. It looks good on you.

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

His hands shake. He thinks about how you'd feel under him. How he'd feel inside of you. And—

Purpose, he thinks. Purpose.

There's an emptiness inside of his heart. A hole left over from the remains of LITTLE BROTHER. The dream, the reason, turned into a ghost. Shrapnel in his chest.

He doesn't blame HER for his absence. For the machinations, the schemes. It all led somewhere in the end, even if that place was here. Alone. Stuck, now, with a gaping wound in his chest.

But—

Not for long, maybe.

It'll be an awkward fit—BROTHER was this unknowable, untouchable shadow that lingered in his peripheral vision; a driving force keeping him moving. The space carved inside Puppy for him feels like a cavernous chasm. You're so slight, so small, in comparison to that gaping void, that he wonders if you'll be enough to quench the hunger that brims up from those depths. Rapacious. Wanting.

It's different, of course. You are real. BROTHER was—

Not.

He satiated himself on artificial dreams and empty memories. Those spectral, hallucinatory feelings of desperation to save his younger brother carried him to the very end.

But BROTHER was always chimerical.

You are something he can touch. Have. Keep.

He sees the flash of uncertainty etched into the painted lines of your face as you look around the cesspit you've fallen into, and he knows that you, too, could be that for him. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose.

(His, his, HIS.)

The people wandering around, perusing the shops, stop and stare at you. At this little wisp, all shaken and terrified, and in need of saving. Needing him—

His hand clenches around the pipe.

You're too good for their eyes. For this place.

He'll kill them all, and come for you.

The room that houses his new target is in a penthouse on the better side of the city. Vaulted ceilings. Golden chandeliers. Crystalline glass in a mosaic of iridescent pastel. It looks blemishless, clean, in comparison to the hovel that is South Rengkok. It scrapes against the chalky insides of his skull as he slinks forward, and emerges from the shadows.

He makes his way through the levels, one by one, until all that remains behind him is a river of blood and a breadcrumb trail of dead bodies. Boss’ finest. It's all mostly just—

Cleanup.

A necessary evil, HER calls it, and so, he sees it through.

When he gets to the top, he hears noises. High-pitched, elongated. A sharp grunt.

He finds his target sitting down on a sprawling chaise, knees notched apart. A woman sits in his lap, hands pressed against his chest.

Both of them are naked. Their clothes are in a messy pile by the door.

Puppy watches for a moment. Enthralled, almost, by the sharp juxtaposition their bodies make, and then—

Confusion.

She looks just like you.

His meaty hands are tight around her waist, jerking her down with each sloppy cant of his wide hips. Dwarfing her frame in his bearish paws. She mewls into the room, the reecho of her synthetic moans daggers into his temple.

The pipe in his hand jerks with the rough spasm of his fingers.

Puppy doesn't care much for killing. Doesn't care much for anything at all, really, except for HER, BROTHER. The mission. His objectives.

Cold, they call him. Unfeeling.

He thinks, suddenly, of Wizard. About something he'd said back when Puppy didn't have a name.

You're—heh, you're a killing machine! It must feel so good, you know? To kill.

It doesn't. He feels nothing at all. Neither pity, nor guilt. Regret is an abstract concept in his mind; intangible. Unreachable.

He's—

Ambivalent, HER once supplied. You feel nothing, Puppy, because you are nothing.

Yes. Yes, he thinks. And yet—

There's a strange heat in his veins. A caustic feeling welling deep inside of his guts at the sight of them coupling. His hands on her body is an affront. An insult.

It makes him angry. Furious.

He'll kill him, he'll—

(Go, Puppy!)

In the man's hands, she looks soft. Delicate. Breakable.

Yes, so breakable. So—

She moans, then, and he jerks his chin up, catching her reflection in the marble pillar.

Ah, he thinks. Ah.

She isn't you.

He gets to work.

The success of his mission has HER offering a bleak congratulations in the back of his head. Job well done. He takes it all in, feeling a distinct thrum in his bones that is usually absent following his massacres. Its place, in the hollow gaps of his ribs, is strange. Foreign.

Excitement, he finds. How peculiar.

It offsets the adrenaline rush, the lingering anger coursing through his veins. Killing the Target, his companion who was entirely too similar to you, leaves him feeling satiated and starved at the same time. A paradoxical sensation that shouldn't exist together, but somehow found a way, a home, within the slurry of his chest.

He wants to find you. Has this pulsing need in the back of his head to make sure that the woman he killed wasn't really you. But you are contralateral to his current mission. His objective.

Almost pityingly, the route HER generates takes him right past you: a tantalising tease.

Puppy isn't sure what to call this. Madness, perhaps. Don't be stupid, Puppy, comes the choppy, mechanical whir in the back of his head. You are—human, after all.

The way it's said by HER has his hackles rising, but he doesn't have enough insight on the topic to pursue the strange cadence any further.

Indulge. You earned it.

Your face flashes before him—different, this time. Gone is the thick gold on the crease of your eyelids, the heavy red on your lips. You're barefaced. Gaunt. Your complexion reminds him of the bruised blue of the sky above. Midnight. Iridescent rainbows in an oil spill.

He wants to touch you. His hands shake.

A series of numbers flicker at the bottom. The price, he surmises, for you.

An auction. Right.

Tonight, HER supplies. He feels the clinical amusement in the back of his head. Oh, but Puppy—

To offset the generosity, HER pulls up the amount he carries on him. Cruel. Mocking. It's compared and contrasted. The difference is staggering. He can't afford you. Doesn't even come close to the asking price.

(Couldn't even afford the entrance fee.)

Sorry, Puppy—

The mechanised warble is pushed down before it can start.

That's fine, he reasons, dismissing it all. Dismissing HER.

He has no intention of paying for what's rightfully his, anyway.

The bordello—boasting some strange mix between classic geisha-sensualism and modern sex appeal (and somehow missing the mark for both)—appears closed for the night.

A fallacy, of course, as everyone is just inside. Squirrelled away with cheap vodka, cigars. Waiting their turn to cash in their victory tokens.

He looks at your window, shutters closed with a looping scrawl on neon pink that says be back soon~!, and makes his approach.

There's no plan for this. Not that he's ever really had any to begin with—most of what he does is driven by an endless need to fulfil someone else's objective through the brutal physicality he wields—but he makes an effort to go stealthier than usual.

He doesn't want to risk triggering a failsafe that will keep him away from you any longer than he needs to be.

Not that it matters—

These lowlives—some assemblage of Creeps, local gangsters, and general nobodies—are mere nuisances in the face of his ice-cold ire. His rage. Tearing through them is nothing. The fight they put up is flimsy. Tissue paper defences. He supposes they never really anticipated him showing up to reap his dues at an event that has been advertised for several weeks now (how he missed your face on those gaudy billboards hanging above the taverns in the red light district, he'll never know). A high-class event, they snicker from behind the thin doorways.

Politicians gambling away public funds to buy pretty prizes. Gangsters, pimps, all looking to pocket more flesh for their own abattoirs.

Killing them is insubstantial to this cleanup mission, he knows, but there's a thrum of vindictiveness that roars through his chest when they squeal, begging for forgiveness that they must know won't come.

(He's barely merciful on a good day.)

HER is a cheerleader in his ear, egging him on. Go, Puppy! Get your prize, Puppy! and he lets it fuel himself forward until he's covered in viscera and gore—a jaw bone breaks off, tacks on to the lip of his boot; blood drenches the sleeves of his leather jacket, stains his collar—and surrounded by pulpy, broken bodies. Alone.

It's quiet, now. The only sound is his heavy, ragged breath muffled by the mask covering his head. The harsh thud of his pulse cottons his ears, blotting out everything except the heady rush of blood raging in his veins.

HER watches with an alien sense of amusement that prickles in the back of his head. Wrongness permeates from their mirth as they take in the carnage spread out amongst the halls.

It all means nothing to him. A means to an end.

Nothing to them, either. To HER. This is a game.

The wet end of the pipe drags against the herringbone floor in a metallic squeal done to announce his presence from anyone unlucky enough to survive the brutal apathy of his initial assault. He hears nothing. Just the grind of rusting metal on wood. Porous. Hollow.

It all ends in a muted bloodbath. A bloodied trail of bodies leads right to your door.

Untouched, despite the garish horror painting the walls in rotting red. Congealed blood blackened under the thin oxygen in the room.

There's no movement from within, but he knows you're here. Can feel you through the wood. Catch the rabbiting of your heart. Your gasping breath.

With the hand not clutching the pipe, he reaches for the handle, turns. Locked. He expected it. You must have propped something up against the knob during the first onslaught of his fury. Smart.

But it's not enough to keep him out.

He pries open the door to your room with one hand, shattering the flimsy back of the vanity stool you jimmied beneath the handle. Cute. Resourceful. His heart pounds in his chest. He can't wait to have you.

Go, Puppy!

He takes a moment to shut the door behind him—no escape—before he slowly swivels his head toward you. Taking you in.

(Finally.)

You stare at him with that same look on your face as before. Terror, he reasons, and tries to piece it together on the men who looked at him as he cracked skulls open with the blunt end of his pipe, tore jugulars out with his bare hand. Fear, he thinks. They look at him with fear. Loathing.

But you're missing that one. There's no hatred on your face, no curses spat out even when he stalks forward with the same steady gait as always, the bloody end of his pipe leaving a macabre breadcrumb trail for anyone to follow.

There's a sea of dead bodies behind him. Businessmen. Lowlives. Commonfolk. The other girls. It didn't matter.

They were in the way.

All of them.

(The man, too, who came to collect you like a prize winner at a seedy casino. His head, in particular, is rendered into nothing but a pulpy mess of grey matter, tissue, blood, and bone.)

He thinks you might cry, but you don't. You stare. Owlish. Wary. Between the thick, brick wall—your cage—and him, there's nowhere for you to run. He slows at that, coming to a stop several paces away. Watching you back. Assessing. Calculating.

You're nervous. Shaken. He's under no disillusionment that you hadn’t heard the screams just outside of your door. Heard the thuds. The cracking of skulls. The breaking of bones. A bloodbath only several paces away. A massacre. Scary enough to you that it made you try to save yourself, to lock whatever it was that stalked the halls from getting to you.

How terrified you must have been.

Puppy doesn't feel much for anyone. Maybe the odd moment of sympathy for the inhabitants of his city, the ones who beg and plead for his help with the things they can't control, can't fight back against. He extends small mercies where he sees fit.

But for some odd, unfathomable reason, he has the sudden inkling to reach out. Pity. You're so pitiful to him. Poor thing. You poor, poor—

In a moment of pure absurdity, the words: are you good? flash across the curved plain of his mask, and you make a noise somewhere between a yelp and snort. Mangled in the back of your throat.

“Does it matter?”

And, oh—

Your voice does something to him. Turns his insides liquid. He's melting, he thinks. Burning up and turning to a heap of molten ore by your feet.

He tries to reign himself back in, forcing himself to focus. Focus. Puppy ponders your question for a moment before ultimately deciding that it doesn't.

(Or, rather, it does; but maybe not in the way you'd want it to.)

In the end, he gives you a shrug. Banal. Dismissive. It makes your brows furrow. A valley forms between them. Irritation bleeds through the flat apathy you forged.

There's a scoff. He thinks you look prettier like this—a feral, hissing cat. He wants you beneath him, clawing at his chest. Spitting curses in his name.

(Wants to try to tame you. Wants to fail.)

“Of course,” you hiss, hands fisting in the sheer fabric of your kimono. “You're no different from anyone else, are you?”

Puppy shakes his head in response. He isn't a good man. He's made of spare parts stitched together to create an amalgamation of likeness to some king he barely even knows. A megalomaniac. A madman.

In all honesty, there probably isn't much that separates him and the men who vied for your affection, paid for your attention. Threw coins toward an auction just for the possibility of taking you home.

But there is a difference.

Puppy will have you. This he is certain of.

There's nowhere for you to go. This city doesn't want you. Doesn't deserve you. He'll take you with him, chained at the wrist if he has to. Shackled. Caged.

You are so funny, Puppy, HER intones, amused. A puppy with a puppy.

Yes, he decides. His puppy. All his.

He found you first.

Puppy lets the pipe—drenched in blood, bone; in viscera that makes you recoil sharply with a flinch—fall to the floor with a metallic clang. With his hands free, soaked, he lifts them up, offering his palms to you.

It's not a peace offering, but he's seen what untamed cats can do when cornered. And while you're no match for his unfathomable physicality, he'd rather you didn't hurt yourself trying to maim him.

Still—

Mine, mine, mine flashes, lightspeed, across his visor. He gives you a moment to let the words, the meaning sink in.

—you’re his. With that ironclad notion comes the freedom to do whatever he wants.

Whenever he wants.

And then he moves.

The difference in your size is almost hideous. Grotesque. He towers above you—a looming mountain—and knows that it would take at least three of you side by side to even hope to match the width of him.

His hands, too, dwarf you.

It curls something noxious inside of his guts. A poison-soaked miasma that subsumes in his bloodstream, pulses in the base of his spine. A hunger. A heat. You're so small in comparison to him. So delicate. He could break you in two, shatter every bone in your body.

And there's not much you could ever hope to do to stop it.

He shudders at the thought, and knows he likes it more than he should.

Later, though. Soon. He wants your hands on his skin. Wants to see you come to terms with the vastitude of him, and watch as the realisation that you are well and truly his sinks in.

He reaches out, palms upward, and waits.

It doesn't take long.

(Well-trained, is the hiss. He ignores it, lest he claw his own skin off.)

You flick a scathing glare in his direction first, caustic and hateful, but you bend to his whims without a word. You touch him hesitantly, running the soft pads of your fingers over the metal of his hand, feeling the bumps. The groves in his circuitry.

Everyone so far has tried to chisel in his head. Galvanise him down into a mindless toy (HER makes a noise, he ignores it), but you seem to avoid his head. Touching the places on his arms not smeared with blood or gun oil, running down the thick wires in his artificial arm. The veins on his real one. The hair dusting his knuckles.

Then you spot the blood caked, dried and blackened, under his nails, and you recoil slightly. Pulling back. Dropping to his chest.

His breath whirs out in a deep tremble when you shiver at the muscles—hard iron, brass—that hums under your palms. It's tentative. Soft, almost. Exploratory as you navigate the newness of his body and this strange situation you've found yourself in.

There's a fractured look on your face that he can't quite place when you slide the cup of your hand over his beating heart.

(Surprise, maybe. You must have thought him a machine.)

You stay there for a moment, quiet. Pensive. Gaze inward as you mull something over, something he can't fathom, can't ascertain.

“You…” your voice comes out on a stilted breath after a brief silence. “You killed them all.”

It's not really a question. He grunts his affirmative, anyway, and reaches out to settle his hands on your hips. You jump when he touches you. Tense and angry in his arms, but you let him pull you in close. Are almost docile when he tucks his chin against your crown, lets his hands slide to the small of your back.

You make no move to pull away. He lets that notion marinate in the back of his head, bending reality to suit his whims when he decides that you must not want to. He hugs you tighter, nuzzling the top of your head when you shudder.

He's not sure where you're going with this particular line of thought. Doesn't, entirely, see why it matters much. Everyone is dead except him, you. The only two breathing in this disgusting bordello that reeks of thick, spicy incense and myrrh to hide the scent of sweat, stale cigarettes, and sex. Something plastic. Synthetic. Lubricant, he imagines. Latex.

Knowing that you spent an insurmountable time in this cesspool has anger spiking inside of him once more, but it's quelled, immediately, when remembers what the other men who lurked in these dilapidated corners look like now. Viscera, tissue, and bones are now all painting the cheap panelled walls in a deep maroon splatter.

(He'll burn it all down before he leaves tomorrow.)

He keeps you close, shackled. A parody of a lover's embrace.

Your hand drifts up, a slow crawl to the base of his neck. Puppy lifts his chin. The bright red question mark shading the room in an ethereal neon glow.

“You killed them,” you repeat, knuckles grazing the over-sensitive skin where his mask melds to flesh. “But you didn't kill me. Why?”

He feels the press against his jugular. A soft ache in his throat. It doesn't hurt, but he knows you want it to.

Puppy's puppy has fangs.

Puppy reaches up, snatching your wrist in his mechanical hand. Feels, instantly, the grind of delicate bone under harsh, unyielding metal.

You don't flinch.

“Why?”

Under the harsh edges of your anger, your feigned indifference, he catches sight of the look that drew him to you in the first place. Absolute despondency. A vacancy in the hollow of your eyes. Misery, maybe.

If he were someone else, he might have felt pity for you. Ripped from the arms of whatever birthed you into existence, thrown into this disgusting hovel, and now—

A pet for a pet.

Kept. Chained.

Puppy will keep you forever. He knows this just as sure as he knows his heart pulses in his chest. The sun rises. Falls. He'll take you with him, wherever he goes.

You're his.

A fine consolation prize you've found for yourself, HER quips, and he's content to ignore it for now. Their amusement is clinical, a kittenish scratch in the back of his head.

But he does agree. You're a fine prize, aren't you? His little treasure found in a trash heap.

His, his, his

all his, all his, all his—

(You look at the promises, the answers, flickering across the surface of his visor, and shudder—)

Puppy doesn't say anything when you lead him by the wrist to sit on your bed, simply opting to follow along with your demands for now. It's cute, he finds, the way you try to bully him around even when your hands shake, knees tremble.

He rests his forearms on his thighs, letting his hands dangle in the space between his spread knees—the picture of ease; the manufactured torpor of predator—and he waits. Watching, rapturously, as you flit in front of him. All soft and pensive as you look him over. Taking stock of the blood on his leather jacket. The stains on his pants. The flat surface of his mask, broken only by the protrusion of his nose.

Boss was a megalomaniac. A narcissist. Knowing that he's made in his image, his likeness (spare parts; a fractured failsafe), he can only assume you like what you see when you look at these scraps that make him whole.

Whatever you find, it shades the appraising glance in a hue of calculative decision—suddenly firm, now: wily.

“Okay,” you say, and bring your hands to the sash holding the sheer kimono in place. “I'll be yours—” his hands twitch; reaching for you already. You dance out of the way from his grasping knuckles with a scoff. “Only if you're mine, too.”

If he had a mouth, he might have grinned.

You seem content to take the lead after a noncommittal response to your demand of shared ownership (the idea alone of which has him thickening in his slacks), placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself before swinging your thigh over his lap, taking (what he hopes becomes) your rightful seat.

It places your barely covered centre right against his prominent bulge, sending an electric buzz down the base of his spine. The look when you feel him throb against you is equally as scathing as it is feverish, and nearly comes undone at your glare alone, panting harshly against your collarbones.

“Down boy,” you murmur silkily before dropping your cunt right over him.

Whiteout. Static. He sees nothing but blurry slashes of red, red, red—

His hands are bruising on your waist, and he's not sure if he's pulling you closer to him or pushing him away. Maybe both. Tugging, tugging, until he can feel the red-hot heat of you burning through the fabric of his trousers.

You can't kiss him so you pepper sweet, soft kisses against the column of his throat, teeth nipping the seam where metal meets flesh. Marking the column of his pale throat up with the brand of your claim. Your ownership.

A collar in red, black, yellow, and blue—

He doesn't have a mouth to claim you back, but his hands punch your flesh until it's pressed harshly against bone. Bursting blood vessels under your skin. It puddles there. He runs his fingers against the pool of blood that softens your skin, and understands, then, why the sting in his neck feels so fucking good.

He feels consumed. In a tailspin. You grind against him, and he sees stars.

Puppy can't think when you do that, and you seem to know this because you don't stop rolling your hips over his straining cock, pinched tight in his slacks. It's too much.

He wants you. Wants you. Wants you.

You pull back, and huff at the projection on his face.

“You're impatient,” you say, but you're slipping your hand inside the waistband of his pants in spite of your exasperation, fingers dancing over the soft skin of his groin.

It feels molten when you touch the base of his cock with your knuckle. Just a nudge. Just a press. He thinks he could come undone like this. Just like this. With your hands on him. Soft, dewy skin.

But he wants you pinned under him, taking him. Has thought about nothing except your knees spread, thighs open. Pussy bare to him. Full of him. Nothing but him. Him, him. It made him ache. Burn. A low grade fever in his guts at the enticing image of you beneath him. Pretty lips open, moaning. Eyes wide, doeish.

“You’re too—”

You start to say something, but he can't take this anymore. It's too soft. Too gentle. He wants you bent over. Wants to be inside of you already.

And so, he follows through.

You make a noise in the back of your throat when he gets his hands on the underside of your knees, and unceremoniously tips you back onto the velveteen sheets. The flimsy silk of your kimono spreads, unveiling the softness of your body. Your bare breasts, nipples pebbling under his stare.

With it haloed around you in an inky black spill over your arms, leaking from beneath your body, he thinks you look ethereal. Unreal. Otherworldly.

The slip covering your pussy is barely in the way. He can see dewy lips peeking out from the sliver of black nestled across your slit, wet and red. Red. Red—

“P–Puppy—!” You yelp when he tugs his trousers down with one hand, the other keeping your leg up, pinched tight on the underside of your knee. Spread open. Nearly bare.

He presses the heel of your foot where his neck meets shoulder, keeping it in place with a soft pat to your calf, before dropping his hand down to join the other in ripping the thin scrap of fabric keeping you from him. He's graced with another yelp, but it isn't in pain or distress, and he ignores it outright.

Mindless, it seems, in this pursuit to be inside of you as quickly as possible.

Your panties—if they could even be considered such a thing—are pushed deep into his back pocket. Saved for later.

And then he turns back to you. Spread open. Waiting and willing under him. The sight of you like this steals his breath from his lungs. Sparks embers in his guts that smoulder, billowing smoke through the hollow of his chest.

He tastes ash in the back of his throat. Wishes, suddenly, that he could quench it on the slick, hot taste of you—

Gripping himself in one hand, he presses the blunt head of his cock against your slit, glistening from your wetness in the jaundiced glow of the moody light above your head. He's glad he didn't cut the power to this shithole because the way you quiver beneath him as he rubs between your folds is nothing short of mesmerising.

You're wet. Soaked. All for him, even if you keep hissing out that this is just a bodily reaction to stimulus, don't be so full of yourself, you psychopath—

His hand drops. The flat side of his thumb pressed against your clit. You arch so prettily when he touches you like this, knees shaking, eyes fluttering. He presses harder, makes small circles against your sensitive flesh that have you whimpering. Whining.

“No more, no more, no more—”

He can feel the molten centre of you flutter around his weeping tip. Silken, inviting. He wants more. Knows that you want it just as bad, too.

Impatient now, he lifts his fingers from your clit, and wraps it tight around your thigh, gaining leverage before he slowly, agonizingly, begins to presses inside—just the tip, the first inch—but the way you wrap around him (all tight, wet silk) makes his mind grow fuzzy around the edges. Electricity rockets down his spine.

He thinks he blacks out for a second, short-circuiting at the white-hot pleasure of being inside of you, because when his eyes focus, he's pushed all the way inside, trembling above you.

You're whining his name with tears dripping down your temples, legs quivering around him, and he wonders if this is that version of heaven, the real one, he'd read about once.

It's too much. Not enough. He rolls back on his hunches to see the way you swallow him down to the base. Pulled taut, and far too pretty for what he's doing to you. Poor, pitiful thing. He'll ruin you, he's sure. Mess you up so badly, no one else would ever be able to touch you without thinking of him. Only him.

It's a thought that sends a thrill down his spine, and he rolls his hips just to watch you squirm. Builds up a sickeningly sweet momentum as he forces your body to acclimate to his girth, to the unyielding stretch of his cock. You're too tight around him, and he worries that the taut stretch might be too much for you, but it's passing. Temporal. He knows he doesn't really care. You'll take it all. All of him.

Nothing will tear him away from this pretty cunt of yours.

It flicks against a long dormant part inside of his hindbrain, and he pants for it. Chasing this feeling, this high.

The slow crawl within you isn't enough to satiate himself. His belly rumbles. His throat burns.

Puppy gives you no warning before he snaps his hips into you as hard as he can.

Your wet cries start the beginning notes of his new ascension, and he pounds into you harder. Faster. He fucks you like he's starved for it. Aching. Desperate. Belatedly, he thinks about your pleasure, about bringing you to the same highs the tight clutch of your pussy is bringing him, but he can't focus. Can't think. It's mindless, this lust. Turns him inside out and makes him greedy. Selfish.

He wants, wants—

Never, in all of his insignificant life, has he ever wanted something as much as this. As you. Pressed beneath him, mewling out his name as he forces himself inside of you, as deep as he can reach—

(and then deeper still because Puppy wants to crawl inside of you; want to nestle against your heart, tucked under the bracket of your ribs and with the way he fucks into you like this, bed whining in protest with each furious, sloppy snap of his hips, he just might make that dream a reality—)

—and fuck. Fuck.

Somewhere in the tangled web of his thoughts, all white-noise, static pleasure, he can hear HER utter things in secret under the heavy pants of his ragged breath (things like, you deserve this, Puppy; good boy, Puppy; treat your toy—kindly—Puppy), and it spurns him on. Makes him ache to drive those mechanised whispers out of his head, filling the space they leave behind with the sweet echo of your voice in ear.

Scream. For. Me flashes across the visor in bloody red, and he sees when it registers in your glossy, wet-eyed stare. Cuts through the haze of sex, the lashings of fear that still curl in the shaded valleys when you look at him, and digs its talons into tissue, bisecting the chemical slurry turning your thoughts to mush. There's a moment of clarity. Brief, ephemeral, because he's pressing in as deep as he can once more, grinding against some spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll, and your head drop.

Name

It flashes again, and finally—

Your pretty mouth drops open, spittle running down the corners as you struggle to keep up with his frantic, feverish pace, but nothing comes out—nothing he wants to hear, at least. Please, you beg, and he feels the plea like a punch to his gut.

You're so pretty when you beg.

But that's not what he wants.

Bad girl

It comes as a warbling flicker. Distorted in his anger.

You shudder under him, eyes widening when he drops his hands down to your throat, palm swallowing you whole from chin to sternum. For him, it's as gentle as he could be, but you gasp for breath, tears pebbling in the corner of your eyes. Hazy, murky, with fear and pleasure; the warring sensations separated only a hairline fracture, a thin sliver.

He shifts forward and has you take on more of his weight, stifling more air from your lungs, and making you feel the power flex of his massive body cocooning you entirely. No escape.

Your hands unfurl from the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, slamming against his shoulders as you try, futilely, to push him away. You're frenzied. Desperate.

Puppy finds it endlessly charming.

His hand lifts, offering a slight respite that you seize eagerly, greedily, gulping down wet, feverish lungfuls of air.

“Y–you bastard—”

He likes it when you cuss at him. A feral, hissing cat. He falls over you once more, shadowing you under his bulk, and pistons his hips into the apex of your thighs, feeling the slickness of your cunt drench his groin.

Angry, spitting thing. And yet—

You're so fucking wet for him.

You like this. The way he bends you mercilessly to his whims. Folds you in half.

His hand stays around your throat, feeling each breath and moan that reverberates up his arm. The other drops from your knee, falling to the black, iron headboard that grinds into the wall with each thrust. Centering himself. Gaining more leverage.

Puppy fucks you like this. Trapped beneath him—a tumulus over you—and unable to do much except take his cock however he decides to give it to you. And give it to you, he does—

(Mercilessly. Pounding you so hard, your breasts jerk, and your eyes flash vividly as you struggle to stay afloat in that equinox of pleasure-pain that rages over you.)

HER says he doesn't have a face, and maybe that's true. It might just be a flat mess of wires sutured to flesh. But

Puppy wants to devour you. Swallow you whole. Wants to taste the sweetness of your cunt on his tongue. Feel your lips on his. He wants to pry apart your chest and suckle from the marrow in your ribs.

He wants you.

Wants you. Wants you—

He's not entirely sure if he's human, but he breathes like you. Heaves. Gasps. Can feel the wet, molten clench of your pussy around the thickness of his cock as he spears you open. Pleasure blooms at the base of his spine. Punches through his groin. Bludgeons him. It makes his head feel heavy, fuzzy. Somnolent with the mindless drive ticking in the back that pushes him forward. Makes him want to imbue himself in whatever it was that made you. A pithy god of old. Stardust.

He wants to remake himself in your image. Spare parts just for you—

How romantic, Puppy.

“Fuck—!”

Your voice is saccharine in his ear. A velvet gust of smoke curls in the back of his head.

With his hand around your throat, he feels the words before he hears them. It sends a thrill down his spine—dancing fingers pressing tight to each vertebra as it splits open the ventricles housing his spinal fluid, letting it all leak out into his bloodstream.

It's ecstasy, maybe. Or the closest thing to it he could ever reach.

“What are you doing to me?” You slur the words out against his metal cheek, hushed and fractured. Raw. “It feels so—good—oh, Puppy—!”

He shifts his pelvis into the bracket of your thighs. The head of his cock rubbing over that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back, and your cunt squeeze him tight. A pretty box wrapped, velveteen, around him.

There's friction in the pit of his stomach. Tension in his groin. It pulls taut, feels heavy.

He's close. So, so close—

You seem to realise this, too, your eyes growing wide once more as he twitches inside of you, pressed deep. Cockhead nudging into your seal.

“No, no—”

Despite your protests, your body is tightening up, quivering under him.

He takes it as an invitation.

Puppy's hips stutter to a slow grind as he hits the apex of his pleasure, cock throbbing, spitting his release, deep inside of you.

Around him, beneath him, you tremble. Shake. He can feel the tremors of your own hastily reached climax when you squeeze his cock tight in a vice, undulating pulses that seem to rocket from the sensitive nerve endings around him all the way to his brainstem.

It's good. Too good.

He doesn't have any other ambition right now outside of burying himself inside of you over and over again.

He wonders how deep his spare parts go for a belated second, how much of himself was forged in Boss’ likeness, but dismisses it immediately. It's unimportant to him.

“You're awful,” you gasp sweetly in his ear. “Terrible. A terrible man—” And fuck. He wants to ruin you again.

Puppy pulls you close, pawing at you until you're situated in his arms. Manoeuvred around like a little doll. He finds you precious, really. So malleable. So soft. He presses you flat to the lumpy mattress and folds himself over you. Thick thigh strewn over your hip, pinning you down. An arm tucked under your nape, bent at the elbow to curl over your shoulder, fingers brushing your collarbones. Shackled.

This is new. Foreign. He's never felt this before—all soft edges; sickeningly sweet. Unable to help himself, he bears his weight down, arching above you. Staring, openly and unabashedly. Drinking you in.

He wants to crawl inside of you. Worm his way to the place where you burn.

You're stiff in his arms. Silent.

But that's fine. That's okay. He'll melt you eventually. Make you understand that Puppy is yours now, silly. All yours. And you're—

All his.

Just like you wanted.

He owns you. And in turn, is owned by you.

It's fitting, he finds, considering all his miserable existence was spent handing his leash off to whoever grabbed it quick enough. Their hands were rough. Indelicate. He takes your hand in his, knuckles bleached white from the quivering fist you've rolled them into, and pries your fingers loose. Threads his between the gaps before you can swat him away.

He can feel your pulse like this, pressed palm to palm. A precious little thing. So fleeting. A hummingbird in an ivory cage.

Poor thing.

“What—what are you going to do?” You rasp, voice hoarse from the grip he had on your neck. The sound of it—gritty sand, smoke—makes him shiver. He likes it, he finds. Wonders if you'll sound the same if he scraped your throat raw with the tips of his fingers.

His cock.

You huff when you feel him twitch against your hipbone—cock tacky from his cum, your wet cunt—but make no move to pull away.

He purrs.

Keep you, is projected and you suck in a sharp breath like you'd expected that. Then, he adds a heart. A red one. Mine.

“I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's—” he doesn't bother correcting you. You'll learn soon enough. “And you don't even know me. Why do you even want this? I could be a liability. I could kill you in your sleep—”

Could, not should, he notes, fondly.

Hahahaha passes by and you let out an aggrieved snarl at the sight. “You're so fucking horrible—!”

He nods in response, and presses the jut of his nose to your sweat-slicked hairline. Breathes you in. Amber. Humus. Loam. You smell like ozone. The streets after a heavy rainstorm.

You smell good. Like home.

“Do you even like me? Or am I just something to fuck?” is whispered so softly into the air that he might have missed it if he hadn't been trying to suffuse atoms.

He hears the fragility in your voice. The paper-thin foundation holding you aloft.

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he feels for you. It's all—

Abstract, perhaps. Grainy smears of feelings, sensation, all roiled around inside of him. Intangible.

He just knows he wants you. Has wanted you since he first saw you, sitting all pretty in a glass cage. Untouchable to anyone except the highest bidder in your upcoming auction.

(Spare parts. A pretty bird in a cage.)

What a pair you make.

He likes that, though. The way you fill this barren hole in his chest. Pilliating the listlessness that rolls like a marble inside of him. In turn, he wants to do the same. To stuff you full of him. So full, there's room for nothing else. No one else.

There are flickers of life buried deep within you that he longs to dredge up. He thinks you'd be beautiful with your hands wrapped around his pipe (disgusting, Puppy), and that, for him, is enough.

He's sure one day you'll feel the same.

Until then—

His fingers tighten around yours and you wince at the pressure before gasping when the metal gears in his joints begin locking in place. Stiffening. Shackled to him, now, until he decides to release you.

Goodnight flashes. He sees the words reflected in the glossy canyons of your eyes. Smeared red bleeding into the dawning realisation that you are his.

And no one else's.

There's no escape.

#Puppy (Ruiner) x Reader #Puppy x Reader #ruiner #huuuuu #imagine staying up all night writing unhinged smut for puppy from ruiner after seeing one gifset lmao #and doing it while the wips i've promised to finish weep from neglect in the background #am so tired and this is so so niche but i need to flex my smut skills for some upcoming fics and this was the best time to do it me thinks

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deanbrainrotwritings · 5 months

Text

— LOVE FROM THE OTHER SIDE

SUMMARY : dean’s got an embarrassing fear of flying. at least there’s something to keep him mind of turbulence and the possibility of the plane crashing and everyone dying.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : sam winchester

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), p in v, spanking, unprotected sex, rough sex, public sex, quickie, degradation, cream pie, oral sex (f. receiving), exhibition kink, sir kink

WORD COUNT : 1.5k

A/N : fall out boy song title. @spnkinkevents : #12daysofspnkinkmas2023 — mile high club. this is funny bc I’m scared of flying as well Xxxx

“Sir,” a woman’s voice made Dean turn around quickly, “is everything okay?” He smiled nervously down at the stewardess, subtly checking her out from head to toe—even in the middle of a panic attack.

“Yeah, uh,” he looked around and anxiously cleaned sweat off his palms with his jeans. “I’m just a, uh, nervous flyer,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. She gave him a sympathetic one in return.

“Is there anything I can do to help make your flight a little more comfortable?” She asked, looking at him earnestly.

“Uh, c’mere,” he told her, waving her towards him.

“Sure,” she smiled, stepping close to him. She let him lean down to her ear, trying to hold back the shiver his breath against her neck caused to run over her body, her nipples tightening against the white button up she wore beneath the blue blazer.

“Can you let me fuck you?” He whispered boldly, letting her pull back in surprise. “I’ve been watchin’ you stare at me since I boarded with my brother with fuck-me eyes,” he explained quietly, toying with the red scarf around her neck. She blushed, looking down at her black heels, then glanced up at him again. “You’ve got one hell of an ass. I’m pretty sure that cute little sway of your hips is ‘cause you wanna be pounded into.”

She gasped and gaped up at him, wetness pooling between her legs, heat blooming in her stomach.

“Only if you say yes,” he reminded her softly, fiddling with her white name tag. She looked around the dark cabin and took his wrist when no one was looking, to drag him towards the vacant restroom. Dean laughed quietly behind her, dismissing her glare and the tightening of her grip on his wrist.

Once she was inside with Dean, she flipped the light on with her wrist, and Dean closed the door behind him, squeezing inside. She took a few paper towels to place them on the counter, watching Dean through the mirror as he watched her.

“Name’s Dean, by the way,” he smirked, moving her hair to the side to kiss her neck slowly. She hummed softly and gave him her name in return, unbuttoning her blazer and the white dress shirt while Dean stood behind, following her every move.

“You’ve got some perfect tits, sweetheart,” he murmured, staring at her reflection as he unbuckled his belt, popped the metal button, and unzipped his jeans. She bit her lip seductively and bent herself over the counter to lift her skirt over her ass. “Fuck,” he moaned quietly, staring down at her panty-less ass, a garter holding her sheer thigh-highs.

“You’re such a sexy little slut,” he chuckled, slapping her ass hard. She yelped and shushed him, pushing her ass back into his covered cock. He kneaded the reddened flesh of her cheek, using his freehand to lower his boxers, taking his cock at the base.

She looked back over her shoulder and bit her lip at the size of him, her pussy dripping down her thighs, walls clenching around nothing.

“I’m so lucky,” she grinned up at him, licking her lips.

“So am I.” He pulled her hips out more, lewdly eyeing her wet hole before dragging his leaking cock through her folds. He released his cock, moving his hips forward and back, coating his cock in her slick. “Wet… so fucking wet... Needy little whore,” he moaned, his hands drifting up to the front of her body to cup her breasts.

“Fuck,” she whispered, arching her back. She reached back with one hand to bury her fingers in his short hair, and reached down with the other hand to press his cock closer to her cunt, staring right into his eyes as he panted in her ear. “Can you cum inside me, Dean?” She asked, rolling her hips with him, whining quietly as he growled in her ear, pinching her nipples harshly.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he grunted, moving faster, “I’ll fill that needy little hole of yours and fuck you as hard as you want…” he breathed, then pulled back slightly, his soft cockhead nudging at her fluttering entrance.

“Please, Dean, I need your cock so bad,” she moaned, swivelling her hip before biting down hard on her lip. He thrusted into her swiftly, a strangled moan getting muffled by the press of her cherry lips.

“Perfect tits… and a sweet little cunt…” Dean groaned while thrusting into her roughly, grabbing her shirts, he pulled them back down her shoulders, forcing her hands together behind her back.

“You haven’t tasted me,” she panted, squeezing his cock tightly inside her at the thought of having his gorgeous face buried between her thighs.

“Well, if you find me again, tell me,” he offered, before licking two of his fingers. He brought them over to her nipple, staring at her reaction the entire time, her pussy fluttering once more before he brought his fingers to her clit. “You know, if I could, I’d make you ride my cock in front of all those people,” he said quietly, massaging her swollen clit.

“Shit,” she hissed, letting him use her for his pleasure. He found her breast again with his unbusy hand, squeezing the flesh harshly as it bounced with every merciless thrust of his hips. “You should…” she gasped, pressing her legs tightly together. “You should eat my pussy in the seats while everyone’s asleep,” she smirked, licking her lips.

Dean groaned into her hair, pushing her roughly into the counter to fuck her with abandon until they both climaxed.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned loudly, cumming hard on his cock when he came inside her. He fucked her hard and deep, filling her loud, soppy pussy with his cum before slowly stopping. He dropped kisses along her shoulders and lifted both of his hands to her breasts to tease her nipples.

“That was awesome,” he murmured, meeting her lips for a sweet kiss. She wiggled in his arms, panting against his mouth, silently asking for him to let her go, which he did.

He pulled his cock out of her, lifting her shirts back over her shoulders before leaning against the far end of the small space to stare at her pussy as it leaked their release.

“So… still nervous?” She asked, lowering her skirt much to his disappointment. He started to lift his pants and he snorted at her question as they both attempted to make themselves presentable again.

“‘Course I am.”

She stared at him through the mirror as she scandalously suggested: “then eat me out in the seat. Sammy’s asleep, he’s listening to Celine Dion, everyone else was asleep before we came in here, and even if they aren’t asleep, I bet they’d love the show.”

Dean inhaled sharply at her words and closed the space between them once more, circling his arm around her waist. He kissed her senseless and undid the scarf around her neck.

“You really are… so slutty,” he grinned against her mouth, using the scarf to clean up the mess between her legs. He pecked her lips and they cleaned everything else up quickly before heading out. She looked like a hot teacher now, with her hair a mess, the white dress shirt—a size smaller than her usual size—fitting tightly against her breasts. He feared the buttons might snap, so he gave her his flannel.

He let her out first and then he took a deep breath, washing his hands with soap. He used the wet paper towel to open the door and kept it open with his boot to throw it inside the bin before releasing the door, and meeting his girlfriend back in their seats.

He looked around the cabin. Everyone was most definitely asleep near their area, a couple were watching a movie in the front, a man typed away doing work in the back, and some lady was relaxing as she scrolled through animal videos.

When Dean got to his seat, Sam was pressed into the shut window of the aeroplane with a pillow around his neck—asleep, earphones on, phone in his pocket. Y/n was on her phone, too, getting a playlist ready, but Dean stiffly sat down next to her.

“Babe,” she murmured, cackling quietly when she saw Dean looking panicked once more. “Let’s watch something?” She offered, setting her phone over her lap to give her lover her full attention. Dean shook his head and placed his hand between her legs, pushing her legs open.

She’d placed his flannel around her waist and she stared at him in disbelief, looking over at the sleeping people down the aisle. His wide, green eyes implored for her compliance, and she sighed, untying his flannel from her body.

“The things I do for love,” she muttered playfully, careful not to disturb Sam as she unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt, allowing her breasts to spill out again. Dean watched her bunch the skirt up, one leg on the seat, the other on the floor, whimpering quietly at the sight of her glistening folds. “Go ahead,” she encouraged, bringing him down by the collar of his shirt, he stared up at her, “show me what your pretty mouth does, sir.”

taglist

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