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gremlingottoosilly · 4 months

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The Horror and The Wild (emperor!Konig x fem!Reader)

A day after you and Konig's wedding. Who knew that evil emperors could be so romantic. Tags and TWs: Dub-con, aphrodisiacs, power imbalance, breeding kink, size difference, loss of virginity, age difference(Konig in his forties, Reader in her twenties), medieval/fantasy AU, Konig is a pervert AND an evil dictator Word count: 3256 AO3

— Lift your hips up, princess. You don’t want to waste my seed.

You whimper, trying to get your legs down, so he can’t force you to spread them anymore – but you feel the hot seed getting back in the swell of your well-used maidenhood, and it makes you whimper only more. What a woeful sight indeed – a fake princess crying over having to take the seed of the strongest person in the whole continent. You know a thousand of women who would beg for an opportunity to have the Emperor’s hands on their hips, guiding them down to admire the look. You know that the real princess – your princess – would never agree to this ordeal, no matter the begging and the bribery. So, you don’t agree too. — In m…my culture, a bride should wait at least a month after the marriage before the…conception, Your Majesty.

You lie through gritted teeth like it could change anything. Like it could magically force all the seed from your womb to the ground again, to the silk of the sheets under you. Like the mere tradition that you gave birth to the idea of a minute ago would stop you from being König’s breeding mare. Still, you refuse to lift your hips, a small resistance that puts a small chuckle to his lips. He is amused by you – or your stupidity. Princesses are supposed to be spoiled and bratty, right? Yours certainly was.

— Does your culture also make the bride lie to her husband?

You lick your lips, forcing them closed. No another quick witty word from you – your lies already got you on the edge of…something. After König announced he knew who you were this entire time, he got you on your back, on your belly, with your hips up and down, your head silly from lack of air as he choked you until you begged for your life – only for him to kiss you over and over. Feeding your womb with his seed until there was a bump, not giving any chance that the baby wasn’t there yet. If anything, he conquered your body the same way he did your country – and left your bruised hips as a reminder. The handprinted bruises covering your skin like the finest fabrics of the gown he got you.

— If you wish to order me dead, your majesty.

— Death doesn’t mean anything here, meine Liebe.

— Then banish me. For the lies and the betrayal of a royal…

He laughs – it’s a nice sound, still, something in your deprived mind likes the way you make him laugh and chuckle. Something in your head makes you feel as dizzy as you did when he cut off the air in your throat, every time that cold eyes of his look at you with warmth. heated obsession, whatever that is – you refuse to believe it was genuine, as you were borrowing your princess’s identity, but now, when he laughed and spoke about his true intentions, you weren’t sure if a pathetic and lowly lady-in-waiting is as safe in you as you thought.

— If being as stupid as you are is a punishable crime, then I’d finalyl have a good reason to kill off most of my harem. He laughs again, a hand in your hair – getting out all of the fancy pins and bows and dead flowers that were forced to be held in your crown and on your head. You groan in pleasure as the pins scraping your scalp are finally removed – and try to get back at his hand immediately when he comes to squeeze your breasts again. Not for any reason – simply because you happened to have the aspects of your body that he could touch.

— Would be much safer to get a woman from a harem, sir. Not…not me.

— And if I wanted just you?

König looks at you – trembling, loved out completely. Covered in his marks, as many bites as a princess could take. Even being a servant, you’re almost as gentle and reserved as a real deal – but gods, if you weren’t the cutest thing he ever saw in that damned ugly country of yours. Hating nobility as much as he hated speaking to his troops not as their commander, König never particularly enjoyed the idea of having to marry some bitchy royal daughter…you, however, were the loophole in the god’s contract. A gift, just for him.

— Your council would make me disappear for deceiving you in the first place.

— No one would dare to leave the empire without heirs.

— You could have another one. There are plenty of princesses out there, Your Highness.

— And I don’t have enough patience to entertain you trying to sell me the idea of your freedom. Do you know what relief I felt when you were the one to meet me?

You don’t answer, instead prompting to just listen. You have good ears for listening – for allowing others to talk, so you wouldn’t be made to fill in awkward silences. König loves that and appreciates that. Finally, someone who can just be silent – even if he also has nothing to say, at least you’re scared and angry enough to dismiss him anyway. At least your unwillingness is making him less awkward at participating in the conversation.

— You knew who I was all along?

— Princesses are pampered. Even the poorest kingdom would never have a princess with hands as hard-working as yours, Schatz.

He takes his hands in yours – no matter the healing creams you rubbed in them, no matter the lack of actual physical labor, even the smallest tasks you performed for the princess, the tiniest exposure to cleaning supplies that would make the toughest skin crack, left a small traces in the skin of your palm. Fingers with clean nails – short, practical, indicating the need to have your hands in working order all of the time. Indicating your lack of a servant who would do everything – opening buttons on clothes, embroidery, and washing oneself’s body. indicating that you were said servant.

You look embarrassed that he pointed that out. Scared, almost.

— Are my hands too ugly for you, sir?

He can see the tremble in your fingers. He traces them with his – large, calloused hands keeping you in place. Rough skin and multiple ridges of scars over the darkened skin made you shiver from the contrast of the sensation – those are the hands of a ruler who isn’t afraid of taking a sword in his hands. Who almost got his arms chopped off for this altogether.

Then – he kisses them.

One finger at a time, every ridge and bump in your skin deserves a graze of emperor’s teeth as he tugs on rough skin around your knuckles. Your hands are soft, softer than a normal maid would have – but changed from the work you had to put. Every kiss and lick doesn’t make them gentle, doesn’t remove the experience you had – in braiding hair, in washing clothes, in cleaning up after a royal mess. It doesn’t change who you were, but with every little praise he whispers – crude language, really, but the affection in his words scares you more than any foreign insult could – with every toss of his lips over your palms, he is changing who you are. Who will you become in just a week or two.

He calls your hands beautiful – in North tongue, with a smile on his face. König loves to explore, and your body is a beautiful place for him to be. Your hands are the best place he could have been in the morning.

Some historians are already saying he has done more to this country than any other ruler ever could. But oh, the emperor knows that the most important thing he did here was kiss your fingers. Over and over.

You snap your arms back when he finally breaks down, starting to bite – the softer skin of your palms falling victim to his sharp teeth. Emperors aren’t supposed to have sharp teeth but for all he knows, he was born from a dog and raised by one. A wolf in wolf’s clothing.

— Your hands belong to an empress.

— Thought I was a regent.

— You are, mein Schatz. Can’t trust you with a country, ja?

You laugh, but there are tears in your eyes. Loss of whatever authority you could have as the princess's personal maid – her friend if he knew anything about royals and their habits. Scheisse, he was the emperor for 10 long years and still didn’t get a hang of it. Might be something he had to be born with – such a shame, really. Should have told his mother to never give birth to a rat that would usurp the throne once out of the crib.

He loves to see you weak, trembling like this – like a proper bride should. Like a real princess, the one whose manners should be enough to fool the people and the dumbest of his court. The smartest ones could always agree to put their tongues up their behinds – if they don’t want to get their heads chopped off by his blade, without even bothering an executioner to do it.

— But you can trust me with your children?

— This empire needs an heir. As much as I can rule forever.

— No one is immortal.

— Ach. Did Sebastian forget to visit you before the wedding, little princess?

He is mocking you, again and again – he laughs with death and you hate it, you hate yourself, you loathe him and his laughs and his crooked smile and the scars covering his skin and…he kisses your hands again, then – dips your hands up in that mask of his. Lets you feel the skin, involuntarily trace your fingertips all over everything hidden – you touch his teeth, his fangs, and you gasp in shock. So, the monster has lips. So, the monster has thin lips and wet mouth, and he dips his tongue all over the traces of knuckles and…

König knows you’d never agree to be his in a way that he wants you too – but this is fine. He can work you around. He can break you. He can please you. What a wonderful job would this be.

— Your court would soon find out I’m not the one.

— They know how to keep their mouths shut. You would, however, have to deal with my harem personally.

— Did you intended to add my princess to your harem too?

— If I knew that you wouldn’t take her place? Of course. I never visited the place for the exact reason I didn’t bother to find your patron.

— Are you really satisfied with the scraps?

Oh, his poor, dumb girl – he was feeding off scraps since he was ripped away from his mom’s tit. You were the only fancy meal he ever liked in his life – and gods, if he wouldn’t give up anything to taste you again.

On the other side, however, he can do just that.

König dips his head down, the traces of his hood laying on your labia. You whimper.

— I never ate anything as exquisite as you, little princess.

— I’m n…why do you keep calling me this?

— You will be my princess. Forever trapped on my lap, on the floor, chained to my throne like a…

With each word, his tongue laps on the glossiness of your lower lips. He gives your maiden a little kiss all over, he digs down like it’s a fancy meal indeed – the scrawny hairs of his stubble make you whimper every time they graze your clit. König has a fleeting thought of eating his cum out of your poor, sore body – that it wouldn’t be wise, that it would make the process of impregnating you slower. Then, he thinks – he can just fill you up with his seed later. And in the evening. And tomorrow.

He pushes his tongue down, deep – you gasp, you get your hands on his hood, not trying to tear it apart, but laying there like a scared maiden. You were one – you are one, after all. Gods, he could just keep you here forever if it weren’t for the country needing its empress.

König kisses you all over – you’re still smelling like rose water, like fragrances that were forcefully rubbed on your skin right before the wedding. A proper lady, you were bathed in salts and oils like a kitchen in poor man’s soup – but weren’t you looking beautiful in that dress of yours. Too bad he had to rip it eventually, stepping on it accidentally quite a few times as he was getting you water. Your little trick with the herb did make you thirsty in all possible ways.

You don’t know a lot about royal weddings, but you’re pretty sure that the emperor shouldn’t be sprawled on his giant bed like this, eating you out like you were the roasted lamb served at yesterday’s feast. You moan when the material of his mask is getting tricky with your gentle parts when the rough fabric is scrapping your thighs in a way that is far from arousal – and then he leans in, a head laying on your tummy. Your princess parts are swollen from his actions – and lack thereof. You almost think you could buck your hips up like a… König takes off his hood.

— Wh…what are y… You don’t master enough words before he is forcing his face against yours before his lips finally lay down on yours properly – and gods isn’t this a beautiful sight. The emperor, the vile conqueror, your biggest enemy, and your husband – smiling like a boy when he got free candy, like a cat who got the cream – like a man so in love, it makes him unable to stop smiling while looking at his wife.

He isn’t pretty in the sense that some of the rulers can be pretty – he isn’t hideous either. A rough face doesn’t look like something that belongs to a royal family – big nose, small lips, chiseled chin and not a sight of inbreeding. You try to see if his ears are wrong, at least, but they are fine – not caring about a bit of chopped-off bits, probably from old battles. He is rugged and handsome and rough and you hate that red stubble on his chin and his gorgeous ginger hair – if you were forced to see this face every day, you might give up and like him. It’s a good thing he wears the mask most of the time, isn’t it?

— You don’t like how your emperor looks, little princess? He laughs again, then – cups your face in his hands and kisses you all over. Again and again, his lips fell on yours making you feel dumb, making you feel dizzy and just a bit charmed – like the potion you drank yesterday hadn’t fully worn off. You can taste your own pleasure on his lips and it makes you embarrassed – a proper lady should never enjoy a process as dirty as making love – your lower parts should only exist for him to take pleasure in ruining it, and for you – to birth little princes.

But König bows down before your lower lips, but König presses his tongue against your special spot again and again, and it makes you wonder if he recites the anthem of the empire on the little swollen bud between your legs – for his actions are filled with devotion that should only be reserved for one’s country, not for just a poor, dumb handmaiden whose only job was to lie and to protect. But…is it really all you want to do now? Just lay here and let him take him, without a chance of enjoying him playing with you if only for just a bit longer? — I…I believe you look fine, Your Majesty.

— Just fine?

He smiles and kisses you down there again – the aftermath of your pleasure makes his lips feel too hard on your swollen parts, the climax had taken everything from you left only feelings, as naked and trembling as you are right now – and, by god, if you aren’t feeling like sold and set in pieces. You are selling your dignity right now, the loyalty to your kingdom is getting grazed by each new stroke of his tongue. You close your eyes and moan – for you can’t hold off your pleasure anymore. For you don’t see a reason in trying to pretend you don’t enjoy being treated like a princess after a life of servitude.

— You are fine for an emperor, my…my husband. You struggle to say it – but you do have to say it eventually, at least in front of the servants. If he isn’t intent on keeping you locked away in a tower, pumping out babies like his little servant – maybe he wouldn’t want to keep you open for the world to take. You were a secluded princess kept in shadows before he discovered you, after all. You served the one, at least.

— Trying to cover the harsh words with honey, ja? I killed for less, mein Schatz.

— I assume you won’t kill me before the first son, at least?

— Wouldn’t kill you even if you’d be barren. I’d rather leave the empire to rot without an heir than choose someone else in your place.

— That is awful news for your empire.

— Our empire can rot without you, Meine Liebe. Never wanted the damned crown in the first place.

— But you’re fine with putting it on the head of a commoner?

— I was a commoner once. Know better than anyone else that a princess would never make a good wife.

You never studied his rise to power – the latest politics were hidden from you and the princess, the king never wanted to taint his daughter with such silly things as rising stars of the political arena – and he failed to mention the empire that was once rotting from its head getting a ruler who would take half of the continent and a daughter of every kingdom in his harem as the spoils of war.

He lays down beside you, taking you in his arms again. his hair flows all around you – he smells like blood, still, even after so many hours spent bathing in your shared musk. You wonder if everything he had done with the forbidden rituals made him like this – face torn and stitched back together again, harsh scars that can only be made from a blade or claws of a giant animal – and he pushes you down to press your face against his chest, taking in the feeling of laying beside your husband.

— Don’t you have something that needs to be done, Your Highness?

— The most important thing I need to do is lay between your legs, little princess. And you’re too swollen to be doing that.

You press your forehead against his chest. Taking it him and the light tan of his skin – you wonder where he could get it, if he almost never took off his armor. His face is as pale as it can be, and it makes him look a little silly when naked – but you refuse to smile and make him angry. — I thought you wanted me to meet your harem.

— They can wait. We need to give them time to prepare the poison for you, right?

He laughs and you don’t find anything better to do than to press your head against his chest and close your eyes. The royal visits really can wait until tomorrow.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #call of duty #yandere cod #cod x you #konig mw2 #konig x you #konig cod #yandere male #male yandere #yandere #yandere imagines

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auspicioustidings · 6 months

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Savage

Summary: Request for some Scottish warrior Soap taking an English maiden as a prize.

Words: 3.7k

CWs: Violent non-con (I am so serious, do not ready this if it's not your thing), hardcore smut

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Authors Note: This is very much a rape fantasy. Traditionally rape fantasies have historical grounding in minorities who felt ashamed of their own desires so had to fantasise a situation in which they were blameless for engaging in a stigmatised action because it was forced. It’s sort of where a lot of the noncon trope in bodice rippers comes from because women in unhappy marriages need a fantasy in which they can get rid of the shame for wanting passionate or rough sex because they imagine they fought against it. A lot more people have rape fantasies than people generally realise and truly a miniscule barely there number of them would ever think it was ok to actually assault someone. All that to say, this is not me condoning anything in real life. If you find fantasies like this don’t do it for you, then do not read it, but don’t then shame people who do. There is psychology behind why people fantasise about these things, it’s pretty normal and you don’t need to be worried that it is some moral failing. Mind your business.

It was a miraculously good match for you, a high ranking soldier of the King’s army. You were technically of noble blood, but just barely. You lived simply, not in a large house but in a small village where you held no sway over anyone else and were treated as common. But the village was close to the border between England and Scotland and every day it became more tense as whispers of raids from villages to the West skittered between houses like rats.

You didn’t know how your uncle had made arrangements for this beneficial marriage for you, but it would get you moving South in a few days time to marry and then you would finally be able to relax with this war much further away from you. You had heard horror stories of what happened to young maidens when savages came pillaging. They said that they didn’t wear anything under those kilts, they said it was to make it easy to bury their cocks in any hot hole they could find. They said they didn’t have any tame qualities, not like the English. Scottish men were feral, the comparison to dogs not holding water because at least dogs could be trained.

When you retreated to bed you got on your knees to say your prayers. As always you had to beg forgiveness for the licentious thoughts that sent thrills straight to your cunt whenever you thought about the images all those rumours put in your head.

–

The noise of chaos woke you in a panic, heart hammering against your ribcage as the smell of smoke drifted on the air and war cries sounded. You recognised your own kinfolk of course, the battalion of soldiers stationed here to keep eyes on the border. But it was the cries of those animals from the country to the North that sent you scrambling out of bed in only your chemise, knowing you had to run and hide before they could see you.

You slipped out of the bedroom, a frightened little rabbit looking for a burrow to hop into. The smell of smoke was stronger in the main room and you could see the orange glow of flames through the window. Going outside would be a risk, but hiding in here may get you burned to a crisp should this building be lit up. You did not have time to make the decision as the door burst off of its hinges, a muscular man in a blood spattered kilt with a warrior's mohawk and wild eyes panting like a dog as he caught sight of you.

You were frozen, unable to even breathe. And then after a beat his mouth stretched into a horrid manic grin as he bounded towards you. That finally shifted you from freeze to flight as you scrambled back through to the bedroom, trying to get to the small window. You threw the top half of your body through the gap but his rough hands grabbed your naked ankles and yanked you back, hard. You felt the chemise catch on the window frame, the fabric bunching up to completely expose you to him before he let go of your ankles letting you crash to the ground.

Your knees throbbed from the hard floor and by the time you were trying to crawl away he had his hand in your hair, brutally pulling your head up and craning it to look at him leaning over and getting into your face.

“Hear I have a wee noble bitch on my hands.”

Of course he would know. There were families here who would tell them anything to save themselves and pointing them in the direction of a noble maiden, one who was betrothed to an English soldier at that, would certainly be information that could spare them. The shouts outside sounded more heavily weighted towards those in his own gruff and growling accent now. The English soldiers were losing.

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about ser” you cried gently, not knowing how else to save yourself.

“Bonnie words” he growled, pulling so sharply at your hair that you thought your scalp might be bleeding and using his other hand to grope meanly at one of your breasts through the rough fabric of your nightwear.

You cried out, feeling the tears immediately spill over and stream down your face. He was so strong, you could barely budge against his hold, and he reeked of blood and fire and sweat and hot arousal. You squeezed your eyes shut and he only growled at you.

“Ye’ll keep those eyes open, yer going tae watch yer wee English cunt take me like a whore or I’ll take yer tight arse instead.”

You choked on a sob and opened your eyes, seeing that his were full of sick glee and heat. The hand groping at your tits moved under the chemise to cup roughly at your sex and he pulled you to your feet by that hand. You screamed at how it felt as he abused you with his hand, grinding the heel against you. You felt a hot flood of bitter shame as he swiped a finger violently through your folds. What he found there made him pause for a moment, his face lighting up in unrestrained glee.

“Fucking English slut. Y’er dripping.”

You had heard women who said it would be better to be wet if they were to be taken against their will. You did not agree. Him knowing that your traitorous body found his rough abuse of it arousing was so humiliating you felt you would rather die. He was so oppressive in his demeanour, so big and aggressive above you that you imagined he may break your bed with what he was about to do to you. How foolish of you to think he would have that level of mercy.

“Going tae show all those bastards how their women take Scottish cock” he laughed, spearing two fingers inside you to their full length with no softness at all and pulling you by them.

You could not breathe. You had never had anything inside you and those two fat fingers felt like they were stretching you so much you would tear. He walked backwards so he could keep them firmly inside you and you stumbled pathetically after him, needing to keep as close to him as possible to stop the painful press against your walls that came from him pulling if you did not move.

The shame was overwhelming as you emerged, full of his fingers and stumbling after him with tears streaming down your face, to find that your country's soldiers had been defeated with the survivors on their knees, hands bound. You were being paraded in front of them you realised, they had been put right here in the town square so they could bear witness, the Scottish soldiers standing behind them feral and full of lust as they took in their leader pulling you in front of them by the cunt.

When he ripped his fingers out of you, your knees buckled and a high whine left you. You had went from feeling too full to feeling far, far too empty. You could barely hear anything but the blood rushing through you as your heart hammered. That and him as he taunted the soldiers on their knees.

“Our women would ne’er let ye touch them, they’d die first. Yer clean wee English princess on the ither hand?” he said, planting a booted foot to your chest and pushing until he had you pinned on your back underfoot, “she’s gagging fir it. Foaming at the gusset tae take strong Scottish cock, put a real warrior in her belly.”

His own men cheered at that and you watched on with horror as he cocked his head at one of them and he began to approach you.

“Naw a monster though am I my wee slut? Ye’d be wet enough fir one of their small English cocks nae doubt, but fir mine? Going tae need something to help me sink in good and deep.”

The other soldier went to his knees between your legs and you watched as he pulled his throbbing cock from under his kilt, jerking it violently. You tried to move away, his cock so close you could feel the heat of it between your legs, but the boot on your chest held you still. When you tried to close your legs the man touching himself used his other hand to wrench one of your knees until it was touching the ground, using his own knees between your thighs to help him keep your glistening cunt fully on display.

When the head of his cock stroked through your folks, slicking you with his pre-cum and bumping at your clit, you were so overwhelmed that you didn’t quite manage to bite back your moan. They laughed meanly at you as the man found his release, spurting hot cum all over your pussy, smacking his cock against your stomach when he was done to shake off the last drops.

It was filthy, you felt sticky and like you were on fire. The next soldier took his place and spat right on your already disgusting cunt as he began to stroke himself. By the time he had painted you with his seed and the third was started, the man above pressed his foot harder to get your attention and all you could do was stare up into his taunting eyes, trying to focus on him so you could not think of what was going on between your legs. You cried up at him, trying to find any level of sympathy in him.

“Keep crying and I’ll gie ye something tae cry about princess.”

Oh you hated him calling you that when you were pinned down in the dirt, defeated soldiers of your country watching as their enemies smeared their cum all over your exposed body. Watching as they made a sloppy mess out of you in preparation for their leader to shove his cock deep inside and pump you full of his savage children.

You did not know how long you stared up at him, not able to look away as you felt the heat of his men on your body, your own body getting hotter and hotter with each slide of velvety throbbing skin against your own. He had started to talk to you, his eyes not budging. It wasn’t the defeated soldiers he was taunting, it was you, ruined and disgraced under his boot.

“See how good I am tae ye little whore? Letting my men make ye flush wi pleasure. Don’t deny it, think I cannae see yer face whenever ye feel a cock on that wee untouched pussy? Like a fucking bitch in heat. I’ll fuck ye like one. Get ye on yer hands and knees so ye can look yer precious King’s soldiers in the eye when ye fall apart on my cock. When ye’r fucking begging for my cum. Wilnae even have tae dae any work, ye’ll be fucking yourself back on me ye needy slut.”

You shook your head in horror at his claims, the true fear being that he would make them true. Already you felt in a daze, felt empty and desperate. But you felt fear as well as he put his arm under his kilt, rucking the fabric up to grab at his cock. It was huge and you found yourself panicked and squirming as the last of his soldiers grunted and slapped the meat of your thigh to get you to stay still. You were rambling incoherently as the man above stroked slowly at himself, causing that thick weapon between his legs to throb and seem even bigger.

“It won’t fit, it’s not going to fit, please I’ll die, you’ll split me open. It’s so big no no I can’t, I can’t!”

You didn’t even feel the last of his soldier’s loads splatter onto you, didn’t notice when his hands left your flesh. You would have rapidly purpling skin in the shape of fingerprints all over your thighs from how you had been held still by all of them, but you could not feel the dull pain of it through your fear of what was to come.

“Ye’ll take whit I gie ye and ye’ll fucking thank me princess.”

He removed his foot and it was only then you realised that he had been pressing down hard enough that your breaths had been shallow. The rush of oxygen from being able to fully expand your lungs again made you horribly dizzy, but it also flooded right down to your clit and made your body jerk violently with the sensation.

He didn’t take his hand from his cock and he bent so he could use the other to grab your ruined hair again, yanking your head up and shoving himself into your mouth. You choked, legs scrambling to get underneath you to give you some stability with which to batter your fists against his thighs, trying to pull away. He laughed meanly at your attempts, moving the hand that was touching himself to join the one tangled in your hair on the back of your head and pulling your head at the same time as he thrust forward, settling himself fully in your throat.

You were gagging around him, tears really streaming down your face now as you begged him with your eyes to let you breathe. He held you there, his own eyes glittering with satisfaction, until your muscles started to give in and you felt your eyes dropping closed as your brain became cottony. Then all at once he pulled you off and you were gulping in oxygen around your coughing and sputtering, the rush much more intense this time.

He held your head tilted up at him so he could watch your face as he shoved his boot between your legs and got you over the edge. Oh weren’t you a delicious little thing for him, getting off so hard on how he used you, moaning shakily and wantonly in the dirt beneath him in front of his triumphant soldiers and your defeated ones.

“Good fucking girl” he growled with a feral grin, letting you ride it out with little aborted thrusts on his boot, unable to control your body.

You looked gone, eyes glazed and body slack. Couldn’t have that, he needed you screaming for him. He needed your blood fighting between being frozen with terror and boiling with need. And he needed you full of him, needed to be able to feel his own cock through your stomach so fucking clearly that he could jerk it.

You were thrown forward, top half of your body collapsing pathetically into the dirt right where it was covered in the sweat and cum of his soldiers. He manhandled your hips up, leaving your face crushed into the dirt and your ass up high for him, cunt presented. You felt his hot breath at your ear and it was a sudden shock when you realised he was growling lowly into your ear, his words for you and you only.

“S’going tae hurt, yer going tae scream yerself hoarse for me and then I’ll get ye tae milk me when I rip pleasure out of all that pain. Will treat ye right after little princess, like one of my good Scottish lassies, but right now ye’r my fucking English whore.”

The confusing mix of sentiments cleared some of the fuzziness from your mind but you had no time to dwell. He was right, it did hurt and you did scream yourself hoarse. He had lined himself up and plunged into you, cock coated and slick from the cum of his soldiers but no less huge inside your tight virgin pussy. He had split you in two, you were sure of it. His cock must have broken through you, was sitting in your ribcage and punching all the air from your lungs.

You blacked out for a moment, coming right back to when he pulled out to fuck brutally back into you again, slapping your ass so hard that you felt the sting all the way up to your fingertips and making you choke on the sob that fought through the screaming. He ripped at your hair, making you look at the defeated soldiers on their knees. Making you watch their own cocks swell at your treatment. Your utter ruination was making them hard. Your head being wrenched back meant you had to go to your hands as he pounded you, and you saw how they looked as one of your breasts was fucked right out of the chemise, bouncing lewdly for them to see with every hard thrust.

The humiliation had you digging into the dirt like you had claws, feeling the bite of the earth pushing under your nails. It sparked something in your brain, almost like you could see them sharpen. Like you could feel your shoulder blades become more pronounced, become something sinewy and sleek and animal. He was fucking you like a predator and you were drooling and howling and panting like his prey, back bowed as he pulled your hair harder and had to staring at the sky babbling prayers into the night air.

“S’too much, can’t, I can’t. Full, too full.”

“Ye fucking can. Yer tight fucking cunts trying tae strangle me, wants my cum so bad naw? Perfect English pussy, so slutty and needy for a real cock” he growled, hand letting go of your hair and smacking your ass right over where he had before, causing you to howl at the pain.

The pain and something else, something that had no place here and yet had been lingering from the moment he had caught you. Something that had been getting closer and brighter and more insistent with every abuse you were subject to. Something that he invited in when your arms collapsed beneath you without him holding your heads weight anymore and he ground your face into the ground before bringing his hand to your clit and pinching.

Your scream was raw and hoarse, throat well past being able to produce a clear sound. The orgasm was blinding and every bone felt like it had liquified. You saw white and then you saw hardly anything, only vague shapes and colours. The only thing now was how his cock filled you. The shame was gone, replaced with the truth that you loved this. You loved how he used you like this, how he violated you in front of these soldiers just because he could.

“That’s it princess, fucking take it” he hissed, stopping his thrusts and letting you do all the work.

You didn’t even realise now how you wildly fucked yourself back on his cock trying to chase the pain of overstimulation, addicted to the way it made you feel some sick hazy pleasure. You were drooling onto the dirt, tasting the earth mixed with cum and finding the disgust of it only felt right now. When his hand came to your stomach and pushed to feel himself bulging there you came again, harder, babbling thank yous to him.

He bit out a string of curses above you as your pussy squeezed so hard it was forcing him out, but he was strong as he forced himself balls deep and held there, finding his release as you milked everything out of him and into your womb. The liquid heat of it was the last thing you felt as you passed out, blissed and fucked out of your mind.

–

John MacTavish allowed himself a moment to lean his body against your back, inhaling the scent of sweat and dirt and cum and fear and lust from your limp body. So good for him, took it perfectly. He hissed when he finally pulled out, resisting the temptation to just keep going beyond what would feel good because fuck, being inside you had been a religious experience.

He was nothing if not a man of his word though, and he scooped your body gently into his arms to get you onto a horse and ready for him to take over the border where he could give you that princess treatment he had promised. The surviving soldiers they would leave beaten and bloodied but not dead. After all, someone had to tell your betrothed all the details.

“Fucking MacTavish” he hissed after excusing the man who had given the report.

He had made him give it in full detail, told him to leave nothing out.

“Kept her alive by the sounds of it, maybe looking to get a bastard out of her” Garrick mused.

“Knowing him he’ll keep her near the border to taunt us instead of moving her further up North” Price added.

Simon Riley would not be letting his betrothed get away with allowing MacTavish of all people to take the maidenhood that rightfully belonged to him. She needed a proper punishing fuck from an English man to learn better.

“Doesn’t matter where he keeps her. I’m going to take her, and she’s going to learn what happens to sluts who spread their legs for those Scottish bastards”.

#mhairiwrites #fanfic #cod au #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #cw: noncon #rest assured this isn't likely to become the kind of thing I write because it is well out of my wheelhouse #I've got a half chapter of Firewatch written and will finish that off #But I'm looking to do a little more of the Teashop AU after and that is going to stay fluffy and wholesome as hell #darkfic #dark content

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lonelystarrs · 7 months

Text

𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟! 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Toji didn’t think he’d ever change for a woman again, turns out he did for a pretty little thing like you, he just wasn’t expecting it in this way —bet you really thought the joke about him being a werewolf was funny now.

Warnings 18+ MDNI seriously. Kinktober + extremely descriptive + monsterfucking + werewolf Toji + knots + breeding + size kinks + dubcon + mirror +

Tbh this was pretty rushed and basic, but let’s be honest only here for the smut when it’s kinktober 😂🫶🏻

It started over a year ago, all over a simple wound that Toji had from what he assumed was a curse at the time.

The claw marks had ran so deep across his back it exposed bone, the blood loss was life threatening but his ignorance took him towards his home, not towards help.

That’s when you came into the picture, pretty little you.

An off duty nurse who’s happened to be walking home to meet a stumbling Toji bleeding out near the building where he lived. Being ever so loyal to her duty as a nurse you helped. He remembered your eyes, your hair, how warm and soft your hands were and he remembered how you smelt. It stood out from the cold air, the smell of fresh rain and it was weirdly comforting, a clean yet sweet smell.

You’d stopped the bleeding, getting him to hospital for treatment and all you were was a memory, some pretty thing leaning over him slumped in a way that wasn’t dignifying what so ever and especially not how he usually met women.

He healed faster than expected, way faster than anything they’d ever seen before. Within two days he was healed with nothing but a large, clawed scar down his back, from his right shoulder to his left side under his ribs.

He took himself home, a bag of take out in hand as he stood in the elevator taking him up to his floor. The other hand shoved into his pocket staring mindlessly at the ceiling panel.

When it dinged and the doors opened he stepped out, colliding with someone much smaller than him and that someone was you.

Falling back into your ass from colliding with sheer force that was Toji Fushiguro, and in true Toji style he didn’t aid your fall he very much let it happen. Looking down at you and tilting his head, green eyes staring at your incredible legs long and toned leading straight up to those pretty black lace panties you had on under the shorter loose leather skirt that had rode up.

The little lace top you had on left little to the imagination, denim jacket a little ruffled from your fall, and nice black strappy heels on with red bottoms —which he didn’t expect.

Your hair framed you, thick and wavy, all done up for your little night out. Tits pushed up and face with light make up.

It was the second time he’d ever seen you and the first time he made contact with you, lazily reaching out a hand but not bending to you —he only done it because you helped him a few days ago.

You took it letting him pull you up with such force it thrusted you into his chest and he smirked, tilting his head giving you another once over because you really were such a pretty little thing.

“Oh! You’re uh- well you’re looking much better, it was only a few days ago and they’ve released you?”

“I left.”

“You’re moving well, what are you a werewolf?”

“A werewolf?”

Toji snorted a laugh at you and you laughed waving your hand around flippantly from your goofy joke. You thought he was one who those shitty dog looking things in classic old horror films?

“I was joking, y’know? It was a big claw mark and you’re out of hospital in days with a wound that went bone deep…”

“Just a real man doll, I ain’t howling at no moon.”

It turns out you lived in the same complex as him having rich parents but still studying as a nurse, once Toji found out the money he started taking an interest because even in his late thirties he wasn’t going to change.

He thought he wasn’t anyway but you made him feel something rare —and that was feeling a lil bad about taking advantage of you. He knew from past experience with his deceased wife that he maybe had a second chance of redemption, because that’s how he started feeling with her.

Your caring nature was a given, you were a nurse, so when Toji suddenly came down with a full blown fever you’d been there again, your hands feeling colder this time on his hot skin, your voice soothing him and that smell of you was lulling him. He’d pulled you in and buried his nose into you, inhaling like an animal as he started to grope every inch of you desperately, it gave him some relief.

Apparently he was changing in more ways than just seeing you as a source of money and sex, because it turned out that in fact, Toji was howling at full moons nearly four weeks later.

It started with restlessness and a mild fever, nothing too out of the ordinary in your line of work, but it wasn’t normal for Toji —he didn’t get sick. But something was crawling under his skin, his cock throbbing under his joggers and no matter how many times he fucked it into his fist he wasn’t cumming. His hand ran through his sweaty hair, pushing it out his face as he looked down at his far above average cock, an angry red and drooling precum with his hand curled around it.

It was throbbing, rock solid, he could feel the pulsing in it and he was burning from over stimulation, the rage in lack of release was only adding to the feral feeling biting across his skin as he felt his patience all but slipping.

Then his nose caught a whiff of something, something that made his cock flex in his hand and drive an instinct he didn’t know he had. Green eyes scanned the room, landing on a top of his you’d been wearing. When he lifted it to his face he moaned, eyes rolling back into his sockets and the pleasurable pulse sent to his cock was euphoric… that sweet smell of you was opening that door he was banging against.

His hips rolled into his fist, cock sliding into it smearing the overload of precum to make a wet hole to fuck into and his pace was feral, heaving in air between inhaling the scent you’d left over it. His mind too clouded to realise what exactly he was doing but chasing only a feeling.

You didn’t last a second when you returned home after your shift in work, he’d jumped on you and fucked you like you were his life line, a feral, blind pleasure that burned under his skin, only feeling it cool when you pressed against him. Burying his face into your neck and breathing you in like oxygen.

And he felt fucking incredible, fucking you felt unworldly.

Day two he’d been running such a high fever that wasn’t going down, reaching a temperature that was almost inhuman. He’d crashed into a sleep and you’d used the opportunity to shower. The towel was ripped from you as soon as your feet entered the bedroom and you were pressed against the wall, legs thrown over his shoulders as he lifted you.

But it wasn’t Toji.

His coat was so black he blended into the darkness of the room, silver teeth bared and green eyes illuminated like the full moon.

With your back pressed to the wall and werewolf! Toji lifting you on his shoulders as your thighs tightened around his head. Your hands gripping and pulling at his black fur as that long tongue worked its magic, so long it was fucking your dripping hole and rubbing against your clit at the same time. It didn’t take long for spit and cum to run down your ass and legs as he was edging you towards cumming on him again and you bucked wildly against him.

It should be wrong —holy shit this should be wrong.

But those glowing green eyes below you were feral, those jaws so large that you literally fit between them as he ate you out. His clawed hands under your thighs to prevent him from piercing you with those almost silver-white teeth.

You couldn’t breath as your body was driven into over stimulation and he wasn’t letting up on his restless attack with his tongue.

He was growling under you, something rumbling in his chest and you could feel it vibrating on his tongue. When you tried to pull away, tried to lift yourself from him his ears flattened, his lips curled and he bared his teeth with a snarl.

The only reason you calmed were his eyes and you knew it was him, even if you wanted to fight you couldn’t but you just needed a break to breathe. He looked silly in the apartment despite how big it was, Toji was a huge man regardless but this added to the huge form that he was.

“T-Toji I ca-fuck- I can’t anymore you gotta s-stop-“

Your body thrashed with each harsh lick of his tongue, drool dripping down his chin into his coat finding the taste of your cum irresistible, the smell of you was addicting. Toji was an asshole so it wasn’t hard to ignore you begging him to stop as you couldn’t handle it anymore, he was selfish and greedy naturally but when it came to eating you out like this?

Fuck-

The tip of his tongue buried in you felt you clenching again in little pulses as you got closer, he slanted your body to one claw keeping under your thigh, the other resting on his shoulder keeping you spread open against the wall. He reached down grabbing his cock, feeling the knot forming at the base —it felt different, besides the size difference.

He fisted himself and his hips started to move in time with it.

“M’gonna cum- fuck, hah, T-Toji s’good -holy shit-“ you were slurring words that meant nothing, weightless as your vision went white and stars appeared and with perfect timing he lifted from your clit and let his entire length of his tongue fill you roughly, he looked up to see your eyes roll back and your head rolled against the wall.

“Fu-Fucking hell,”

He stroked his dick steadily as you came around his tongue, hips stuttering as your body was slack against him and the wall. Withdrawing his tongue and head he pulled back, the taste of you filling his mouth, mouth watering again at the sweetness you gave.

He literally shrugged your thighs off his shoulders, his hands gripping your ass as you slid down the wall catching you with your legs falling over his thick forearms. He angled you so his hard, upright dick pressed against your entrance, your hands gripping his biceps, lacing under the black coat and your eyes widened as you realised he wasn’t letting you catch your breath.

Regretting looking down to see he wasn’t his body that had just change but the size of his already worthy dick had doubled, pre was drooling from the slit and it was flexing angrily.

“W-wait Toji that’s too big you-“

He pressed the tip to you and pushed, panting as his green eyes watched his cock start to stretch you out and it was tight. Toji bullied his way in, his forming knot pressing against your clit, your jaw slacked and no noise left you. The stretch was painful, but with how he was pressing against your spread open clit was just enough to distract you.

Toji growled when he eyed the bulge in your stomach and he flexed inside you watching it move. Clawed hands planted against the wall behind you, either side of your waist with your legs still over his forearms, the position was awkward being wedged between the wall him like this.

“T-Toji p-please g-go easy, it’s too big I’m-“

His hard thrust back into you cut you off as your breath hitched in your throat, nails digging into his chest and your toes curled.

“You’ll take it how it comes,”

your eyes widened as you looked up at him with worry, finally hearing him speak, his own voice mixed with something else thrown in. Your body contradicting your worry, his words made you pulse around him and he chuckled, green eyes meeting yours.

Shifting an arm to snake around your waist to hold you in place as he pulled back his cock, watching the slick glistening on it and he slammed back into you, starting a pace that was cruel. Your arms wrapped around his long nose and jaws clamping them together, pulling him into your chest hugging him and pressing your forehead to his.

“Holy shi-hah, it’s too big, it’s too- I’m gonna cum, I’mgonnacum!”

You sounded panicked but all he focused on was the wet plap, plap, plap of his inhuman dick spreading you open cause it was fucking beautiful to watch. Slick and cum coating his knot as it formed a sticky link everytime it touched your clit.

And he lost it.

You only made whimpering and strangled noises as he fucked you hard, every other thrust trying to push his knot in to plug you, failing drew a pissed off snarl from him that made him pull away along with his cock.

He threw you across the room to your bed and you tried to crawl away, his grip on your ankle slid you back down the bed and in his desperation he pinned you to it, rutting clumsily against the back of your thighs and ass trying to find your pussy.

“Stay, brat-“

He snarled into your ear and you groaned into the bed as he snarled in your ear and arched your hips back, a dull ache in your cunt from being stretched so much but pulsing to have it again.

Unhappy with the position he shifted, green eyes catching himself in the huge floor length arch mirror, he gripped the backs of your thighs and pulled you up. Your back to him you reached back to grab him to balance yourself. His cock slapping against your exposed pussy as he walked to the large mirror, spreading you out. He nuzzled his nose into your neck.

“Put it in before I force it-“

You reached down pressing your fingers to the underside of his head, pressing it against yourself as he lifted you until he felt your swollen hole, impaling you on his cock, watching the bulge appear in your stomach again and he let you watch, let you see what he was seeing.

Green eyes flickering from your face to his knot bouncing against you, begging to plug you, he could feel it resisting less in this position and when he’d just had enough he paused and forced you down to take it.

Your pained whimper only spurred him on, his thrusts switching to short but hard, your body bouncing off each thrust as you went crossed eyed, drooling with only noises leaving you as he made you watch him fucking you dumb.

He gave no warning when he came, only some whine that left his throat. His hips jolting up into you as his knot swelled locking him in you.

“S’too much- m’full, no more -Toji I can’t-“

“Cum it out then,”

You were shaking against him, your whole body struggling to keep up with him like this, but it was so hot watching him plug you, fill you up and seeing that bulge in your stomach.

So you reached down, one finger rolling over your buzzing clit and your hips jolted in reaction to how sensitive it was, your nerves burning with each circle and swipe on your clit, watching your hole clenching and pulsing around him.

You came with tears streaming down your cheeks, pushing so hard his softening cock pulled from you followed by the ridiculous amount of cum he’d fucked into you.

He nuzzled into you, gracing his teeth over your neck as you came back from seeing stars, tranced by the sight of the mess he’d made of you, holding you up like you were nothing as his green eyes glowed.

“We ain’t done, doll.”

©pharix/lonelystarrs 2023 permission is not given to repost, translate or post anywhere else.

Dividers all on my side blog for credits as per 🫶🏻

#toji smut #toji fushiguro smut #jjk toji #toji x you #kinktober jjk #kinktober Toji #toji x reader #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk thirsts #dilf toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #fushiguro toji #toji x y/n

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mrsdarkandyandere7 · 1 month

Text

❤ Yandere Coworker ❤

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

Female reader

WARNINGS: Obsession; Creepiness.

AN: Yep, I'm back. Well see how this goes.

◾ Yandere Coworker who gets all fired-up the moment you’re hired into the company he works for. Your beauty is simplistic, but it still draws him to you like you’re a siren.

You’re so cute and his eyes catch the way those tight pencil skirts compliment your asset so well.

◾ Yandere Coworker who is a bit bummed when discovers that you are going to be working for a different department than his.

But quickly regains his composure because at least you’re still working in the same building, on the same floor. Plus your departments are practically side to side, so a win is a win.

◾ Yandere Coworker who wastes no time enthusiastically introducing himself and becoming all friendly with you.

He volunteers to show you around the building and is always free to help you out, even when that’s not really his area of expertise.

◾ Yandere Coworker definitely gets tunnel-vision when it comes to you. If you’re walking around, be sure that he’ll drop whatever work or abandon whoever he was talking to in order to come say hi to you.

In less than a month, everyone in the company is aware about his crush on you - and you do too, even if you try to remain neutral to his overly friendly nature.

◾ Yandere Coworker who gets a bit touchy with you. A hand around your shoulders. A small pat to your back. Bringing his hand forward to clean some non-existing food crumb out of your lips.

Sometimes, he’s even bold enough to place his hand on your thigh. Definitely ignores your winces of discomfort whenever he touches you.

He just brushes it off with a playful grin, throwing a joke around.

◾ Yandere Coworker who claims you as his work wife, using the title a bit too casually for your taste. Uses it as an opportunity to inquire you about your personal life - whether or not you have a real life husband.

He’ll gladly take that position as well, he says with a smirk.

It’s a bit hard to set boundaries with him because he just brushes them off, saying he’s just teasing you. That he’s just being friendly with you. That there’s no reason for you to get all mad with him.

◾ Yandere Coworker who is a social butterfly and has friends in all departments. Everyone loves him and his super friendly persona, which makes it considerably hard for you to let it off your chest how much he suffocates you.

The women tell you how lucky you are, while the guys steer away from you.

It gets even worse when he starts memorizing your schedule. When you arrive at work, he’s already there, waiting for you at the main entrance with a cup of Starbucks.

And when it’s time to clock out, he stands near your cubicle, patiently scrolling through his phone as he waits for you to be done with work.

And then he starts offering you a ride back home, which you try to avoid as much as possible, coming up with an insane amount of excuses to get him off your back - spoiler alert: it doesn’t work and he still forces you to accept the rides, which means he now knows where you live.

◾ Yandere Coworker who texts you a whole lot. During work hours, on your days off, on weekends. Sends a lot of work wife memes.

You always decline his video-calls, so he relents to sending pictures of himself in his home, with his pets. You pretend not to see the shirtless outline of his toned body in the corner of the photos.

◾ Yandere Coworker who falls even deeper for you at the annual Christmas party with how pretty (and hot) you look with a dress.

Relentlessly tries to dance with you and when that doesn’t work, he grounds himself firmly by your side, not letting you dance with anyone else.

By the end of the night, he tries to kiss you, after sharing his heartfelt feelings, only to receive a slap.

◾ Yandere Coworker who is a bit heartbroken when discovers that you’re resigning.

He really thought you liked him back, so why are you suddenly acting like a mean bitch? That’s not you, at all.

Goes to your place hoping to clear the whole situation and when you refuse to even speak to him, practically banging the door in his face, things get nasty.

He’s just gonna have to make you see his way.

#@mrsdarkandyandere7 #yandere x you #yandere x reader #tw: yandere #yandere concept #female reader #yandere headcanons #yandere oc x reader #yandere x darling #yandere imagines

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writingwithcolor · 4 months

Text

My alternate universe fantasy colonial Hong Kong is more authoritarian and just as racist but less homophobic than in real life, should I change that?

@floatyhands asked:

I’m a Hongkonger working on a magical alternate universe dystopia set in what is basically British colonial Hong Kong in the late 1920s. My main character is a young upper middle-class Eurasian bisexual man. I plan to keep the colony’s historical racial hierarchy in this universe, but I also want the fantasy quirks to mean that unlike in real life history, homosexuality was either recently decriminalized, or that the laws are barely enforced, because my boy deserves a break. Still, the institutions are quite homophobic, and this relative tolerance might not last. Meanwhile, due to other divergences (e.g. eldritch horrors, also the government’s even worse mishandling of the 1922 Seamen's Strike and the 1925 Canton-Hong Kong Strike), the colonial administration is a lot more authoritarian than it was in real history. This growing authoritarianism is not exclusive to the colony, and is part of a larger global trend in this universe. I realize these worldbuilding decisions above may whitewash colonialism, or come off as choosing to ignore one colonial oppression in favor of exaggerating another. Is there any advice as to how I can address this issue? (Maybe I could have my character get away by bribing the cops, though institutional corruption is more associated with the 1960s?) Thank you!

Historical Precedent for Imperialistic Gay Rights

There is a recently-published book about this topic that might actually interest you: Racism And The Making of Gay Rights by Laurie Marhoefer (note: I have yet to read it, it’s on my list). It essentially describes how the modern gay rights movement was built from colonialism and imperialism.

The book covers Magnus Hirschfeld, a German sexologist in the early 1900s, and (one of) his lover(s), Li Shiu Tong, who he met in British Shanghai. Magnus is generally considered to have laid the groundwork for a lot of gay rights, and his research via the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft was a target of Nazi book-burnings, but he was working with imperial governments in an era where the British Empire was still everywhere.

Considering they both ended up speaking to multiple world leaders about natural human sexual variation both in terms of intersex issues and sexual attraction, your time period really isn’t that far off for people beginning to be slightly more open-minded—while also being deeply imperialist in other ways.

The thing about this particular time period is homosexuality as we know it was recently coming into play, starting with the trial of Oscar Wilde and the rise of Nazism. But between those two is a pretty wildly fluctuating gap of attitudes.

Oscar Wilde’s trial is generally considered the period where gay people, specifically men who loved men, started becoming a group to be disliked for disrupting social order. It was very public, very scandalous, and his fall from grace is one of the things that drove so many gay and/or queer men underground. It also helped produce some of the extremely queercoded classical literature of the Victorian and Edwardian eras (ex: Dracula), because so many writers were exploring what it meant to be seen as such negative forces. A lot of people hated Oscar Wilde for bringing the concept to such a public discussion point, when being discreet had been so important.

But come the 1920s, people were beginning to wonder if being gay was that bad, and Mangus Hirschfeld managed to do a world tour of speaking come the 1930s, before all of that was derailed by wwii. He (and/or Li Shiu Tong) were writing papers that were getting published and sent to various health departments about how being gay wasn’t an illness, and more just an “alternative” way of loving others.

This was also the era of Boston Marriages where wealthy single women lived together as partners (I’m sure there’s an mlm-equivalent but I cannot remember or find it). People were a lot less likely to care if you kept things discreet, so there might be less day to day homophobia than one would expect. Romantic friendships were everywhere, and were considered the ideal—the amount of affection you could express to your same-sex best friend was far above what is socially tolerable now.

Kaz Rowe has a lot of videos with cited bibliographies about various queer disasters [affectionate] of the late 1800s/early 1900s, not to mention a lot of other cultural oddities of the Victorian era (and how many of those attitudes have carried into modern day) so you can start to get the proper terms to look it up for yourself.

I know there’s a certain… mistrust of specifically queer media analysts on YouTube in the current. Well. Plagiarism/fact-creation scandal (if you don’t know about the fact-creation, check out Todd in the Shadows). I recommend Kaz because they have citations on screen and in the description that aren’t whole-cloth ripped off from wikipedia’s citation list (they’ve also been published via Getty Publications, a museum press).

For audio-preferring people (hi), a video is more accessible than text, and sometimes the exposure to stuff that’s able to pull exact terms can finally get you the resources you need. If text is more accessible, just jump to the description box/transcript and have fun. Consider them and their work a starting place, not a professor.

There is always a vulnerability in learning things, because we can never outrun our own confirmation bias and we always have limited time to chase down facts and sources—we can only do our best and be open to finding facts that disprove what we researched prior.

Colonialism’s Popularity Problem

Something about colonialism that I’ve rarely discussed is how some colonial empires actually “allow” certain types of “deviance” if that deviance will temporarily serve its ends. Namely, when colonialism needs to expand its territory, either from landing in a new area or having recently messed up and needing to re-charm the population.

By that I mean: if a fascist group is struggling to maintain popularity, it will often conditionally open its doors to all walks of life in order to capture a greater market. It will also pay its spokespeople for the privilege of serving their ends, often very well. Authoritarians know the power of having the token supporter from a marginalized group on payroll: it both opens you up directly to that person’s identity, and sways the moderates towards going “well they allow [person/group] so they can’t be that bad, and I prefer them.”

Like it or not, any marginalized group can have its fascist members, sometimes even masquerading as the progressives. Being marginalized does not automatically equate to not wanting fascism, because people tend to want fascist leaders they agree with instead of democracy and coalition building. People can also think that certain people are exaggerating the horrors of colonialism, because it doesn’t happen to good people, and look, they accept their friends who are good people, so they’re fine.

A dominant fascist group can absolutely use this to their advantage in order to gain more foot soldiers, which then increases their raw numbers, which puts them in enough power they can stop caring about opening their ranks, and only then do they turn on their “deviant” members. By the time they turn, it’s usually too late, and there’s often a lot of feelings of betrayal because the spokesperson (and those who liked them) thought they were accepted, instead of just used.

You said it yourself that this colonial government is even stricter than the historical equivalent—which could mean it needs some sort of leverage to maintain its popularity. “Allowing” gay people to be some variation of themselves would be an ideal solution to this, but it would come with a bunch of conditions. What those conditions are I couldn’t tell you—that’s for your own imagination, based off what this group’s ideal is, but some suggestions are “follow the traditional dating/friendship norms”, “have their own gender identity slightly to the left of the cis ideal”, and/or “pretend to never actually be dating but everyone knows and pretends to not care so long as they don’t out themselves”—that would signal to the reader that this is deeply conditional and about to all come apart.

It would, however, mean your poor boy is less likely to get a break, because he would be policed to be the “acceptable kind of gay” that the colonial government is currently tolerating (not unlike the way the States claims to support white cis same-sex couples in the suburbs but not bipoc queer-trans people in polycules). It also provides a more salient angle for this colonial government to come crashing down, if that’s the way this narrative goes.

Colonial governments are often looking for scapegoats; if gay people aren’t the current one, then they’d be offered a lot more freedom just to improve the public image of those in power. You have the opportunity to have the strikers be the current scapegoats, which would take the heat off many other groups—including those hit by homophobia.

In Conclusion

Personally, I’d take a more “gays for Trump” attitude about the colonialism and their apparent “lack” of homophobia—they’re just trying to regain popularity after mishandling a major scandal, and the gay people will be on the outs soon enough.

You could also take the more nuanced approach and see how imperialism shaped modern gay rights and just fast-track that in your time period, to give it the right flavour of imperialism. A lot of BIPOC lgbtqa+ people will tell you the modern gay rights movement is assimilationalist, colonialist, and other flavours of ick, so that angle is viable.

You can also make something that looks more accepting to the modern eye by leaning heavily on romantic friendships that encouraged people waxing poetic for their “best friends”, keeping the “lovers” part deeply on the down low, but is still restrictive and people just don’t talk about it in public unless it’s in euphemisms or among other same-sex-attracted people because there’s nothing wrong with loving your best friend, you just can’t go off and claim you’re a couple like a heterosexual couple is.

Either way, you’re not sanitizing colonialism inherently by having there be less modern-recognized homophobia in this deeply authoritarian setting. You just need to add some guard rails on it so that, sure, your character might be fine if he behaves, but there are still “deviants” that the government will not accept.

Because that’s, in the end, one of the core tenants that makes a government colonial: its acceptance of groups is frequently based on how closely you follow the rules and police others for not following them, and anyone who isn’t their ideal person will be on the outs eventually. But that doesn’t mean they can’t have a facade of pretending those rules are totally going to include people who are to the left of those ideals, if those people fit in every other ideal, or you’re safe only if you keep it quiet.

~ Leigh

#colonialism #colonization #worldbuilding #alternate history #history #lgbt #china #hong kong #british empire #ask

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teaboot · 6 months

Note

What are "transmasc" and "genderqueer"?

I just woke up so bear with me, but like

Western society has invented this idea of "man" and "woman", right? And we SAY it's actually real, and based on tangible things like sex characteristics- primary, like dicks n' hoo-has- and secondary, like tiddies an facial hair an cellulite.

Well, it turns out that those things ain't divided "correctly" into the man and woman categories all the time.

People with dicks sometimes get tiddies, people without dicks sometimes grow beards and chest hair, beauty standards like "woman thin and hairless and short with small nose and tiny feet" and "man tall and muscular with a beard and broad shoulders" aren't appearing in nature the way we say they should.

(These gendered standards also change over time, but that's a different post.)

What's more, some people have multiple primary characteristics, and it's not even super rare! (Again, worth a different post, and not one I'm really in a position to make.)

So, we say that we didn't just "invent" two exclusive boxes to sort a wide variety and spectrum of characteristics into by pure brute force, but evidence says otherwise. So do we change the rules of our society to fit that evidence?

No, we pick something else to support our beliefs.

Learning about genes and DNA and chromosomes came much later in the game, so most people's grasp of it is this: Men have XY chromosomes, women have XX chromosomes, and no matter what your body is shaped like, that determines which box you go in. Whatever you look like should be padded or amputated or shaved away until you fit in your box.

Except.... we now know that people who outwardly appear to be the perfect ideal poster children of "man" and "woman" are living full, natural, healthy and unbothered lives totally unaware that they have the "wrong" chromosomes. No visibly "mixed" characteristics at all. So there goes that idea out the window.

Unless we say that no, our invention which is fact still holds up- there's just a few mutants and freaks and dysfunctional anomalies that just sort of happen sometimes, like factory flaws that wouldn't exist if things were running as they should.

So what do we do with factory flaws? We "fix" them. Or pressure them to fix themselves. Or, if they can "pass" one way or another, shove them into that box and tell them to shut up about it. Don't fit into either? Then pick one, and make yourself fit.

But... then, if we can pick... if hairy women with flat chests and small hips can shave themselves down and throw on some padding and powder her face to be accepted.... why can't anyone else?

Or, if that same "woman" went, fuck it, cut his hair short and embraced all the "man" characteristics, went by different pronouns and stepped into the "man" box... wouldn't that be okay, too?

And, he'll, what if they changed nothing about themselves and decided to opt out? We've proven that these "universal facts" don't *actually* exist and exceptions are everywhere, so fuck it, right? "Man" and "woman" don't really mean anything tangible anyways, so why not do what makes you happy?

And since, again, evidence shows that "man" and "women" aren't perfect binary boxes with perfect binary traits- why bother living up to those traits at all? Why can't someone assigned to the "woman" box live in the "man" box with long hair and heels on? If I makes him happy, what's the harm?

We don't like this, though, because when you build two boxes that contain the whole world, and people start escaping, or slipping out to live in the one they like more, or switching, or building their own, people begin to wonder why they're living in boxes at all. If we even need boxes.

And the people who maintain the boxes tell us, it's because the boxes are safe, and the boxes are natural, and the boxes have been here exactly as they are since the beginning of time anyways, and NO, they aren't just terrified of life outside the shelter of the box, you're the weird one.

Meanwhile, if we really looked into it, I imagine we'd find more people who don't fit their box criteria, or don't even like their box, at least as often as we find people who do.

Transgender means "someone who isn't in their assigned box".

Genderqueer means, "someone who isn't in their assigned box", but in a the same broad way that "transgender" is- Maybe a him, maybe a her, maybe both, maybe a they, perhaps a xey, and sometimes some of us move around.

I say I'm genderqueer, 'cause that fits me, but "Transmasc" to me personally means, "I know I'm not a woman, and I'm closer to the "man" box, but I'm happier wandering outside the "man" box than I am stepping fully inside. (Dysphoria is part of that, but again, in my opinion it's not vital to the experience.)

And I'm not one for destroying those two boxes entirely- they bring joy to a lot of people.

Just, you know. Maybe making more, different boxes. And maybe little camps out between them. And not treating people who roam the wilderness instead like rabid animals. Is the thing.

Long answer

#Long post #Text post #Gender #Transgender #Transmasc #Genderqueer #Correct me if I'm wrong I'm not fully awake and also wrong sometimes and also a lil dumb on top o that

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sinsmockingbird · 6 months

Text

PTN WOMEN AS PARENTS | Various

PAIRING: Chelsea x Afab!Reader, Cinnabar x Afab!Reader, Deren x Afab!Reader, Rahu x Afab!Reader, Zoya x Afab!Reader

WARNINGS: Fluff, SFW, Children, lmk if there's anything else

AUTHORS NOTE: PTN women as parents.... some may be batshit crazy, but most of them are good parents, I know that for a fact can't change my mind. Also dedicated to @prisoner-of-sin.

✧ CHELSEA

• Chelsea absolutely spoils her children. She will buy them everything, from clothes to toys to pets. If they want it they'll get it, there are no exceptions.

• She's rich, money isn't even the slightest hint of concern for her. She's usually spending every jewel she can make on herself or you, but having her new bundles of joy in the world? Well then, now she's going to spend even more on them too.

• She'll 100% end up being the "Cool Mom," whether that was by accident or not. She doesn't like to be strick and usually allows your kids to get away with things, but she will lay down on them if they go to far.

• Just because Chelsea is pretty relaxed and allows minor things to be swept under the rug if it involves your kids, she isn't gonna hesitate to ground them if they do something bigger than drawing on the walls.

• Be prepared for Sitri to be very overprotective over your kids. Sometimes you'll both wonder if the gem panther considers them hers and not yours.

• It really isn't uncommon to find one of your kids missing, and when you both go into panic, you'll stop and see Sitri holding them by the back of their shirt or cuddled tightly around them.

• It's comical to see how much Sitri and Chelsea are alike when it comes to your kids. Protective and downright aggressive in situations that threaten your kids.

✧ CINNABAR

• Cinnabar is a great balance for a mother. She's fun, protective, loving, and gentle with her kids.

• She's the type of parent that can be found playing on playsets with her kids. Acting like a sea monster when your kids play pirate, or the dragon that kidnaps you, the princess, when they want to play knights.

• Whatever her kids want to do (as long as it isn't dangerous and life threatening) she's all on board to get involved whenever your kids want her to.

• Another thing is that Cinnabar can be quite an awkward parent. When it comes to the talk of "birds and the bees," she's a flustered, stammering mess as she tries her hardest to explain - you'll end up having to be the one that does.

• When your kids are older and start bringing their parents over to meet you both, she's a mix of silent intimidation and social awkwardness.

• Cinnabar almost always has an eye on your kids as well. She worries about them hurting themselves she always wants to have them in her sights. She does this more when their toddlers, because she knows she shouldn't be some kind of "helicopter parent" when they get older.

• It's such a beautiful sight to watch Cinnabar cradling her newborn baby, because she holds them with such delicacy and looks at them like they're her whole world - because you and them are.

✧ DEREN

• Deren - despite what people may think - is anything but lazy when it comes to your kids. She may desperately want to be, but she forces herself to be awake and with them at anytime she can.

• She makes it a real effort to attend every single one of their extracurricular activities. Whether it be seeing their soccer game or attending their piano recital, she'll be there in the crowd cheering them on.

• She doesn't hesitate to leave sights early where she's filming her newest movie - or ending production early that day to get home and be with you and your kids.

• Deren will also take your kids on set quite often, because she wants them to see what she does and also spend time with them as much as possible.

• It's common to have a family movie night, where Deren will play one of her favorite movies (or yours and your kids) because she wants them to have a love and appreciation for movies just like her.

• The cutest thing you can find when you're home is Deren asleep on the couch, or in one of your kids bed with them wrapped up protectively in her arms.

• It's an adorable sight that you've caught sight of many times, and you have enough pictures to show it. Depending on the night you'll tuck them both under a blanket or will crawl into bed with them, a smile usually spreading across her sleeping face when she feels your arms around her.

✧ RAHU

• Rahu is the definition of protective parent. She will go full on fight mode at even the smallest threat. One time she completely destroyed a thorn bush when you child was lightly pricked by it.

• She wants to ensure yours and your child's safety, meaning she is by your guys side almost 24/7. She's not overbearing by any means, she's simply just intent on making sure your safe wherever and wherever.

• On top of being quite protective, Rahu is one of the most awkward parents. It takes her a long long time to get the ropes of parenting.

• It takes her so long not because she doesn't know what to do, but rather because she's afraid. She's afraid of accidentally harming one of your kids because of her strength.

• It's a reason why Rahu is so apprehensive on holding your children when they're first born. She needs personal encouragement and reassurance from you before she'll take your small, newborn baby into her arms.

• It's a beautiful sight to see the usually stoic Rahu just completely melt and become vulnerable as she cradles her child close to her chest, gazing down at them like she would burn the entire world for them, and you know she would.

• There's nothing more important to her than you and her kids, and Rahu would rather die than ever see any one of you get hurt. Your all her world after all.

✧ ZOYA

• Zoya is probably one of the most perfect parents out of everyone. Sure she's violent and dangerous and many become petrified at the mention of her name, but when you give her the gift of her first child, she'll completely melt and become a woman you wouldn't expect to have done violent things.

• She dedicates everything to your kids. She'll push herself away from the Legion (as much as she can while still leading it) and spend her time with you and your children.

• Each kid you have is going to have Zoya wrapped around her finger, and there is almost nothing she wouldn't do for them. She loves each one so immensely that sometimes you wonder if she's going to drown in the love that she holds.

• There are plenty of times that you'll come home to Zoya ropped (willingly) into any shenanigans your kids come up with. From having them to her makeup, to dressing up for tea parties, or playing the role as the valiant hero or dastardly villain.

• If you stumble upon her during these moments and she notices you, be prepared to be pulled into their games and become her dear princess that she saves or the hero who stops her crimes and falls for her.

• When your kids are young and wake up in the middle of night, Zoya will make sure you go back to sleep before tending to them. She'll often be the one to check for monsters in closets and under beds as well.

• But nothing, nothing makes Zoya the most vulnerable than lying in bed with you wrapped up in her arms along with each of your kids. The sight of you all sound asleep and safe besides her will bring tears to her eyes, and she'll thank anyone listening for being gifted with your family.

ENDING NOTES: Probably will make a part 2 of this with other characters, so feel free to send an ask or comment on which characters you'll like to see me write parent headcanons for next.

#*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟsins writings #path to nowhere #ptn fluff #countess chelsea #ptn!chelsea #chelsea x reader #cinnabar #ptn!cinnabar #cinnabar x reader #deren #ptn!deren #deren x reader #rahu #ptn!rahu #rahu x reader #zoya #ptn!zoya #zoya x reader

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uncouth-the-fifth · 27 days

Text

good morning, charlie - Leon Kennedy/Reader

read it on Ao3.

Pairing: Agent!Leon/Detective!Wife!Reader Tags: domestic fluff with the tiniest dustings of background angst, married life, hugging, kissing, and snuggling. Words: 3k (yes, I'm capable of keeping something this short) Notes: read this in a WWE announcer voice: THAT'S RIGHT! UNCOUTH HAS COME CRASHING BACK INTO THE RING AFTER YET ANOTHER MONTHS-LONG HIATUS. i'm magical, truly. here is the first Leon fic I promised last month! There's so much I want to say about this little drabble, but I'll save that for my curious ppl on Ao3. this is going to be a big 180 from my spn content, and I sincerely hope that's okay with the public 😭 for my RE people: enjoy domestic Leon bullshit!

At two in the morning, Washington D.C. is pouring everything it has into crafting the coziest atmosphere of all time. A pleasant window-tapping storm had rolled in right around when you resolved to stay up working. Some late-night radio host is making soft, fizzing chatter in the next room, and coupled with a stellar view of the city from fancy floor-to-ceiling windows, you have a prime opportunity to pass the fuck out.

Unfortunately, you have made some spectacular life choices that don’t mix well with a full night’s rest. Nope, no sleep for you. Despite all of fate’s attempts to stop you from being a cop, (including throwing a city-wide outbreak at you on your first day), you are still here, gripping your job with both hands. At two in the damn morning.

Since scrubbing your eyes hadn’t woken you up the first five times you tried it, you give it another shot as you pace the length of your living room rug—from the coffee table you’ve stacked with files, then back to the whiteboard pasted top-to-bottom with pictures of missing young women. The whiteboard had been Leon’s idea. After the fourth time you’d transformed a flattened cardboard box into a morbid case-board for work, he’d cajoled you into letting him buy one for the apartment.

But I won’t be able to stab the tacks into it, you’d pouted.

Oh, the agony, your husband had drawled. He was a master of delivering a good, dry look.

You’d propped your fists on your hips and tried your best to look serious. The red yarn connecting everything isn’t just a detective-movie thing, y’know! It’s actually really useful. And I need my tacks to stick the yarn in—

Leon had cut cleanly through your building sass with another look, this time one glimmering with humor. Then I’ll get you magnetic ones, detective. Don’t you use whiteboards at the precinct anyway?

You’d grumbled. Because, yes, you did use whiteboards at the station, and they did have the little tacks with the magnets on the bottom. But you’d refused to deal with Leon being all smug (he was unbearable pretty when he was right), and had teased back instead, Whatever, nerd. Why don’t you and the other two angels go call Charlie already?

The reference had gone clean over Leon’s head. Of course, he hated being left out of a joke, so he’d roped you over by your wrist and pinched an explanation out of you until you were squealing with giggles.

Summarizing Charlie’s Angels to Leon had been a lot like offering a paper rocketship to an aerospace engineer. But, hey, picturing him running around in skimpy outfits and escaping action movie explosions on a motorcycle is a whole lot more fun than… than the real deal.

You don’t want to think about what his missions are really like. Not that you’re even allowed to know in the first place. Being Leon’s wife permits you a government-issued phone with his handler’s number, and on antsy days you can push Ingrid for details if you want. But after so long you’ve learned it only hurts both of you—for her, in the inability to answer, and for you, in the excruciating pain of being unable to know. Where is he? That’s classified.

She can’t always tell you when he’s coming home, either. So much of your life is hinged on her check-ins, and even more is forced to live off a simple, He’s okay.

For the seventh time, you scrub at your tired eyes and suck in a deep breath. You’d gotten that fabled text from Hunnigan—he’s okay—earlier today, and like always you crawled through the rest of your shift roiling with anticipation, waiting for Leon to materialize back into your life.

You force your gaze back to the whiteboard, littered with notes and pictures hung up with magnetic tacks. The faces of five missing women bore back. The ten-ton weight of your caseload slams down in full, and again, you scold yourself for floating back into comforting memories of your husband. These girls have lost all comfort in the world since they were taken. Your Captain gave you the responsibility of finding them, and after all you’ve been through, after all the other cases you’ve closed, there can’t be any room for failure. Think.

Your legs ache from being on your feet all day, chasing leads, but dropping into Leon’s armchair for even an instant will just have you nodding off again. More pacing it is, then. This is your pattern for the next half-hour: pace, re-read witness statements, turn, sip your coffee, pace, cross-reference alibis. He’s okay. Two of the girls were taken from Queen’s Chapel, two from Takoma, one from Woodridge. He’s fine. The last victim breaks the profile. What’s different about her? Why take her? Think think think— You know what Leon would do. He was the kind of person you could put in front of a problem, and no matter what he would find a way to shoulder his way through. With physical force, sure, but mental force too. He would sit and just look at the puzzle, and sheer willpower would lead him to some kind of answer. But you’d been pushing and pushing for days now, pursuing every lead, pressing every witness, yet nothing will give. The whole thing feels like a punching bag you’re beating at over and over again, knuckles raw and bloody—

Keys rattle just outside the front door.

First the big deadbolt scrapes open, unlatching with a heavy thud, and that sound alone is enough to shock you awake. More than any coffee could. Then comes the doorknob. Leon hasn’t even turned his key before you’ve twisted the lock open, yanked the door out of your way, and sent it whipping into the jamb with his keyring still swinging from its slot. You give him one full blink to register that it’s you before you’re throwing yourself on him without a single lick of shame, legs and all.

Of course, Leon bears your weight with grace. He grunts out an oof! when you come in for landing, and the living, breathing sound drains into one gruff laugh. You’re scooped up under the thighs and teddy bear squeezed against him. He reeks of cheap motel soap and something faintly coppery—then mint, a whole world of plush, wet spearmint when he nudges your face up with his nose and lays a hello kiss on you. The taste of his gum and the scratch of his stubble on your chin make your skin feel like it’s fizzing, inside-burning-out, every inch of you stood on end by his static charge. Jesus, this guy. He feels like fucking magic, and you’re confident that the laws of physics don’t quite apply around him. Everything in the room, in the too-big apartment that’s painfully empty without him in it, tilts toward Leon.

You shove your face nose-first into his neck and clutch the back of his jacket in both fists. Swallowing hard, you manage, “Hey, angel.”

“Good morning, Charlie,” Leon says.

If you had any resolve for today left in you at all, the wash of his sizzling butter voice would squash the last of it. You’d been trying to be sweet, but your husband has to be funny about fucking everything, of course. Even after weeks spent apart. You love him so fucking much.

“Don’t tell me you found time to watch that stupid movie.” Your voice is muffled by his coat, and you’re grateful for an excuse to hide.

You’re moving. Leon carries you inside, his wedding band pressing into your leg and his other big, warm hand spooned around your back. “Boring plane ride. I wanted to get your jokes.”

Your front door is toed shut, and with all the efficient maneuvering of a proper agent, Leon gets the place locked up behind you. Somewhere in all the commotion he’d dropped his go-bag by the welcome mat, and you hear the dramatic thunk, thunk, of his fancy work loafers being kicked off beside it. Only then does he slip you onto your own feet again.

Your hands slide down his arms as you make contact with the floor. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re aware that he’s damp from the rain, but that fact hangs in the little alternate universe he’s made in your front hall. Standing there and being able to look at him straight-on, Leon doesn’t feel real. It’s like your constant thoughts of him have manifested a ghost in his shape, mimicking the smiley rookie you remember.

He greets you with a quiet, beaten-down smile, and you understand immediately that the world has thrown its fair share of punches at him, too. You’ve both had a shit week. The Kennedy surname just brims with good luck, huh?

Your hands work on autopilot as you take him in, slipping under the fabric of his jacket and lingering over his thudding heart. His warm blue gaze swims over your face, and you can almost hear the clicking mechanisms in his head as he forces himself out of operative mode and into home mode by looking at you.

“It’s a really bad movie,” you say, choked up.

Leon’s jacket hits the floor with his shoes. There’s a swath of ugly, purpling bruises crawling up his bare arm, old enough to be greening at the edges, and your stomach churns when you see it.

He taps your chin up, pulling you away from the damage and back on him. His voice rolls over you like bourbon in a glass. “Absolutely. So-bad-it’s-good, even. We should watch it, make fun of it together. Like, why the hell does…”

Leon flawlessly falls into an analysis of the movie’s poorly-written espionage elements. The movie you made one offhand joke about several weeks ago, mind you. He’s pulling at straws, saying whatever the hell comes to mind to make you laugh, so exhausted he’s literally swaying on his feet. You can’t believe he’s trying to distract you with something so trivial, but this is your husband. One flash of that weary closed-mouth smile, one brush of those callused hands down your wrists, and your whole world resumes its orbit around him.

You laugh at the jokes he’s obviously crafted for your benefit, a weak chuckle your heart isn’t in. With his hands looped around your wrists, he guides your arms around his neck and welcomes you back into the toasty bubble of his touch. Leon’s even warmer from being tucked underneath his coat. Pure goodness and safety glows off him like a fucking nuclear reactor, and it dawns on you that you haven’t felt safe at all since he left. Anyone can be plucked off the streets here.

One more scratchy kiss and then he’s leading you deeper into your apartment. No one on Earth would believe that he’s a chatty guy, but he talks the whole way through. Too often he’s left to sit in his own mind on missions, and you’re treated to two week’s worth of his backlog in the next ten minutes. All the little things he wanted to say to you. The streams of smart-mouth commentary he was famous for at the academy are all inner monologue now, but you’re confident the Leon radio show still runs twenty four hours a day. He chatters so much in his head that it slips out of him like water sometimes—

“…that close to an explosion would disintegrate you, but fuck physics I guess—“ Leon interrupts his own flow of thought to squint at you. “Quit looking at me like that. It’s unfair how pretty you are when you’re tired. What was I—not like the laws of physics apply to that movie anyway, but…”

—and you’re stupidly charmed by it. He talks to comfort himself, and because the two of you are one unit, one person to him, he does the same for you.

With your hand tethered in his, he clicks off the radio in the kitchen. One of Leon’s side-stories replaces the random late-night station that’d been playing, floating over the din of the rain like bass over relaxing drums. He pours out the dregs of your coffee. He closes the files full of gruesome crime scene photos on your coffee table, and you watch, barely able to keep your head up, as he flips your whiteboard over to its blank side. You’ll get his second opinion on the case tomorrow.

Leon sweeps the place with you in tow, and once the security system’s armed and you’re almost sagging against him, the lights come off. Though you’ve had plenty of time to adjust to the Leon that returned home from training, you’ll never get used to the little alien ticks it’s given him. He navigates to your bedroom in complete blackness. He avoids the creaky floorboard just outside your door without seeing, deathly silent. The broad presence of him looms in the dark.

One wall of the bedroom is nothing but paneled glass, throwing a long square of dark blue moonlight over your rumpled comforter. While the view of the Potomac and Capital Hill is stellar from up here, you’ve always felt out of place among the things Leon’s generous salary has earned the two of you: a flat with a private elevator in the nice part of town, fresh-off-the-press sports cars, a getaway cabin up north. So much of it you end up enjoying by yourself. It only ever feels worth it when he’s here, smacking his elbow into the digital wall-panel that controls your A/C.

“—s’ supposed to be a touch screen,” he sidebars himself for the tenth time. Softer, Leon adds, “Brush your teeth. I’ll be right there.”

You rope your arms around his middle and press your face into the heart of his back, careful of the bruises he’s doing his best to hide. “Wanna wait for you.”

Leon doesn’t protest. There’s more little beeps as he screws with the temperature of your mattress or something, deciding, “We live in a damn spaceship. Are we too good for plain old-fashioned buttons now?”

Apparently you are, since old man Leon fails to figure out how to crank the heat up. You let him play with it for a little while longer (it’s not his fault he’s rarely home), and then intervene with a few quick taps when things get dire. The heater hums to life under the floor a beat later, and he turns in your grip to scoff, mystified by your vast and incredible knowledge.

“My smart girl,” he hums.

Just that is enough to chip off a piece of your strength. Had he said that to you over the phone, a million miles away in god-knows-where, your knees would buckle. He is the only one who talks to you like that—with so much simple, uncomplicated love. Too tired to put your thoughts into words, you flatten a hand over his heart and kiss the sun-freckled nape of his neck.

“Clingy,” Leon mutters. You’re pretty sure it’s supposed to sound dry and funny, another one of his jokes. But then he’s smoothing both of his palms down your arms in two long handsy swaths, and the gesture tells you everything about just how clingy he’s feeling, too.

His stories make getting ready for bed an even slower affair. You couldn’t mind if you wanted to. As you help him out of his starchy dress-shirt button by button, he surprises you with a rare explanation of where he’s been for the last weeks. The UK. Truly, your husband is the special secret agent to end all special secret agents: he talks around his job as if it was a bump he’d hit on the way home, entertaining you instead with his Leon-ified vision of London. Touristy as shit. Loud as shit. Smelled like shit.

“Just like DC,” he chuckles, and then a second time when your fluffy head pops through the collar of the sleep shirt he’s dressing you in.

It’s too much rough, cinnamon spice laughter for one woman to stand. You duck away to brush your teeth and groan into your palms like a schoolgirl over him, but sure enough, Leon trails you, fingers chasing the hem of your shirt (his shirt) in a sleepy daze. He always keeps you in view. Nervous, maybe, to have you out of his sight.

This tradition continues when the two of you crawl into bed. Your eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and so has your body, able to sense him on the stupidly expensive mattress beside you. He thinks you can’t tell, but his gaze roves over you again and again—down your back when you flop face-first into the plush bedding, over the slope of your shoulder when you wiggle under the covers. Leon draws you into the glorious halo of his body heat with a gentle hand on your belly. If you could bottle this feeling, the whole world would be sick and stupid for him in hours. Minutes even.

You feel so safe that the word doesn’t even come to mind. Just vague, peaceful shapes of things you know, home, sleep, cologne, cozy. His work-rough palm with his body-warm wedding band slips under your tee to sweep over your ribs. Then comes Leon’s face, just on the right side of stubbly as he shoves it between your shoulder blades without a single lick of shame. The breath he takes of you is so heavy that his whole frame shudders with it, top to bottom.

You remember how you’d burrowed into his jacket the second he got home and think, You are me and I am you. We’re always on the same page.

With that, the stage is set. DC’s faraway glittering cityscape lights up all the raindrops on your window, and you watch them run as the two of you melt into one another. Leon’s warm breaths slow across your neck. Time for you to deliver your line.

You wet your lips and murmur into your pillow, “Do you want to talk about your mission?”

Legally, he can’t say yes. Government secrets, bureaucracy, yadda yadda. Leon isn’t always emotionally ready to crack open a coffin he’s just finished sealing, either, but while it is his job to close your case files for the night, you’re his wife. You’re the only person who can knock on that door. With how little choice he has left in his life, you try to give him options whenever you can. Regardless, you know the man you married—strong-willed on a mythical fucking level, and just as self-sacrificing. He’ll always try to spare you.

Sure enough, Leon says, “Tomorrow. Do you want to talk about your case?”

You shake your head at him, exhausted to the point of dizziness. “Tomorrow.”

A tender kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck, and the whole world goes silent for the perfect, husky whisper you’ve ached to hear. You feel his wry smile against your skin. “We’re always on the same page, baby.”

#leon s kennedy #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy/reader #resident evil #resident evil four #re4 remake #leon kennedy drabble #uncouthre

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chronically-ghosted · 7 months

Text

in another life . . .

rating: explicit, 18+

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader

word count: 7K

summary: Partner. That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself. And then he met you and the definition changed again.

warnings: domestic!frankie, marriage kink (if that’s a thing), oral (f receiving) but i think that’s an expectation from every frankie fic, improper use of a kitchen table, unprotected piv, no use of y/n, brief mentions of PTSD, improper use of Spanish, eating in bed

a/n: requested for my 100 followers event! Anon: hiiii firstly! congrats on the big one hundo you totally deserve it 🥂‼️ secondly wondering if I could rq a Pedro boy drabble with prompt number 12... I wanna do laundry for Frankie Morales :D “did you just wash these sheets?” “I did.” “they smell nice. and they’re still warm.”

🤍Masterlist

. . . I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.

Frankie fills the silence of the house without you in it with music. This house, it had been your choice, even though he never expressly made you choose, or even presented the dichotomy. This house, with its leaky faucet and janky AC unit and finicky pilot light, was what you wanted instead of a diamond ring, and so he gave it to you. First down payment, along with every other red cent you and he had both saved up, went into buying your first home together. This wasn’t forever, you both agreed (with only two bedrooms it wasn’t enough room for a baby, he often thought) but even as the real estate agent glanced around with disdain for the house and your budget, one look from you and it was settled.

“It has good bones,” you said, standing out on the concrete deck overlooking a postage-stamp-sized backyard. There were weeds in the corners and holes from some unknown animal but he could see the wheels in your head turning, imagining how you, like everything else you did, planned to tackle and wrestle control over it with your bare hands. “It needs work, but I think there’s something special here.”

“Yeah?” he asked, threading his fingers through yours, the real estate agent no doubt off somewhere inspecting the drains. “Is there something here?”

You grinned and shoved your nose then a soft press of your lips into his denim-shoulder.

“I’m sure of it.”

All his life, Frankie worked best in a unit. As children, his older brother, his younger brother, and him were practically inseparable, their physical similarities almost presenting as the same person but at different ages, and when that group disbanded because Oscar left for college, he went on to find another one. First, his army unit, then the boys. His boys. Left to his own devices, Frankie was terrible at remembering to eat, sleep regularly – focus on anything other than fixing cars and planes, really – but he’d do it for them. He hated to see that worried crease show up on Will’s brow when Frankie admitted he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He hated that Benny had to show up at his apartment to drag his ass outta bed to get him into the sunlight. And he hated when Pope felt obligated to take him out to bars to try and meet women.

“I’m not dating someone just so they can be my mother,” Frankie muttered into the lip of his beer bottle. “I don’t need anyone thinking I need to rely on them like that.”

“Yeah, but you do better when you have people relying on you.” Pope’s dark eyes flitted from a woman at the bar top to him, with intention and full of force. “And I’m not saying I’m trying to get you to fuck your mother, but you need a partner.”

Partner.

That word had been jammed up inside his brain for as long as he could remember. Gym-class partner, lab partner, work-out partner, partner-in-training, partner in this fucking life or death situation where we’re only going to get out alive if we trust each other more than I trust myself.

And then he met you and the definition changed again.

You are his best friend. You are the woman he wants to fuck every day for the rest of his life. You are the first person he wants to tell good news to and the first person he wants to talk to when he’s had a shitty day. Your voice quiets something inside him that has been far too loud for far too long. You are a relief and a refuge. For all his faults, you love him and sometimes he can’t fathom why.

You are his partner – in life, in marriage (one day), and forever (he hopes).

“I might not always like you, Catfish,” you said to him in Will’s backyard for Benny’s birthday party. You had been drinking and every sip seems to bring you closer and closer to him. With your face tucked up into his neck, arms up under his flannel and hugging his waist, the only way he could be physically closer to you was if he was inside you – which he was about two seconds away from suggestion when you leaned in close. “‘M not always going to like you, but ‘m always going love you.”

And love him you did. You loved him when he decided to go back to school to get some additional certifications so he could maybe teach flight school. The army would pay for most of it, was a fucking relief to your shared thread-bare, cartoon-spider-web empty savings account. But what the army would not pay for was for you to go to nursing school. You worked in hotels for the events services branch, coordinating everything from weddings to conferences, walking (mostly running) from one end of the hotel to the next. Your sister got you a Fitbit for Christmas one year and after the holiday rush, you walked twenty miles in two days.

“After that, this nursing stuff should be a breeze,” you said flippantly as you signed your paperwork for admissions.

Of course you got accepted at one of the better hospitals in the city – he never doubted for a second you would – and as the fresh-faced trainee, you got stuck with most of the night shifts.

Which meant his days looked a lot like this: wake up at 6AM, drive an hour to the helicopter tour building on the coast, fly rich idiots around all day, eat the lunch you had prepped for the both of you on Sunday night, continue flying rich idiots around, drive home in two-hour traffic, change into his work overalls, go work on some cars Benny’s buddy had at the local garage for some extra cash, then go home, heat up dinner you also made Sunday night, and then attend to the most pressing thing you or the house needed.

Which could be:

Fixing the AC unit, resealing the back door so it would close properly, re-caulking the shower, building more attic space, repainting the back fence, or replacing the hand towel holder.

Frankie didn’t mind the hard work. It kept his mind and his hands busy. What he did mind was the house silent and eerily empty without you here.

He didn’t mind the hard work because even for a few hours, he got to hold you while you slept. He got to eat with you at 10:30 at night and it was the highlight of his day.

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

Frankie bobs his head, his earphones carefully tucked up under his shirt to prevent the laundry from tangling up in them. He hauls out the latest load and moves onto the washer, fishing out one more sock when suddenly the lights go off. All of them. Total darkness.

And then light and he’s staring down the bottom of the drum.

Then dark. And light.

You. Your code. One you designed when you read that PTSD victims are often triggered into a fight-or-flight response when startled. You, who knew before he did, how to manage the symptoms, create workarounds, and find a pathway through, instead of not at all.

He takes out one of the earbuds and smiles.

“Hey, you’re home.”

You lean against the doorway, smiling that smile that is reserved for him and him alone. Sometimes he’s selfish and wants everything of yours to be only for him – all your smiles, your laughter, your sighs – but that’s like trying to capture sunlight in a butterfly net: too focused on the impossible and you end up missing the daytime.

“How goes this fucking Sysphian task?” You nod at the baskets of laundry at his feet, referring to how you’d often rant and rave about how laundry, the dishes, and grocery shopping were never tasks that could simply be done. He knows how much you hate being unable to cross things off your to-do lists, so he holds your hand during all of these rantings and kisses your knuckles when you take a breath.

“Good,” he shrugs. “‘Bout to fold your scrubs for tomorrow.”

“Ah, have I told you lately that I love you?” You swing into the room and kiss him on his cheek, on the division where his patchy beard meets his skin – the place that you most often claimed on him. Your fingers squeeze around his bicep as you pull away and your eyes fall to the basket behind him. You gasp with glee.

“Did you just wash these sheets?” You ask like you’d just uncovered buried gold.

He smirks, propping his hip up against the dryer. “I did.”

Without another word, you scoop them up in your arms and inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, they smell nice.” You bury your head in deep. “And they’re still warm.”

In the rare moments when you’re both home and going through laundry together, he never fails to scoop up a load of hot towels and dump them over your head, relishing in the girlish giggle from beneath the clean laundry. “It’s so toasty,” you whimper with glee.

“They’re not gonna be if you get your hospital gunk all over them,” Frankie tuts, going back to add a new load into the washer as you glare at him over the lump of sheets.

“Ha, ha. Move over, Mr. Morales, and watch a master at work.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morales.” It’s stupid but his heart always fumbles when he calls you that. It started as a joke, one that you initiated, but now it’s like berry jam on his tongue, sweet and sugary. He’s thought about calling you that while he’s inside you but figures he should save something for the wedding night.

He sidles back, giving you space near the dryer as you pick up a basket of t-shirts.

“You know there’s dinner waiting for you in the kitchen.” He shakes his head as you begin to fold the shirts with lightning speed and precision – a side effect of being the oldest daughter in a family of five kids.

“Yeah, but you’re in here,” you say and bump his hip. He bumps you back and helps with the load. “Besides, it’ll get done faster with two people.”

He can’t exactly argue with that, so he lets the silence grow. But it’s not silence, not really. In the distance, dogs bark. Outside the room, the temperamental AC grumbles, a sound he never thought he’d come to appreciate. Inside the room, fingers tug at fabric, the soft thump as the shirts grow into a continuous pile. Then there’s you, breathing in the lilac-scented air, the scent of his deodorant and sweat and something entirely unique to him– his Frankie-ness as you’ve called it many times without elaborating. I’d bottle it if I could, you told him, bathe in it. You’re kinda weird, he told you, and you know he likes it.

Every once in a while, his elbow brushes up against yours, yours skirting around his, but never colliding, an awareness of the other always present and attended to, a flow of familiarity and recognition he’s never felt before or known since.

Bit by bit, you’ve taken pieces of him into you, picked them up, held them to the light and found them beautiful, until a second bit of his soul lives outside of his body. He knows every inch of you, how every atom calls out to him, begs to be close to him, and held tight. It’s not sunlight he’s trying to keep safe, it’s your heart. Your precious, wonderful heart that is somehow so full, it was enough to fill him up too. Gold filling in the cracks.

Kintsugi, Benny called it, when he got obsessed with anime for three months that one time two years ago. Frankie never could remember the actual name, and maybe that wasn’t the point and maybe it was a little ridiculous, especially when it was explained by a deliriously drunk and bleary-eyed Ben Miller at one in the morning on his brother’s lawn chair.

Maybe a better way of thinking about it was how separate, disparate, jagged and raw edges came to fit together. How someone like him got a do-over, another chance to be remade in the kiln, and how someone like you was allowed to love unselfishly, to ask for things and never be threatened with reparations of some kind – as if loving you deserved some sort of compensation.

Pieces, broken and scattered – he looked up and saw you carrying yours, and you witnessed the scars and blood dripping from the shards of his own past, his life, his love, and despite how slippery his pieces were, how dried and empty and wanting yours were, something pulled them together and made them stay.

Something stronger than light.

Stronger than gold.

You shook his hand and looked at what you built together, the pieces that came together, and in the end, that was your partnership. A creation of something greater – home, family, love.

So much fucking love.

In the end, Frankie Morales used love to build his life, not death, and you’re the one who gave it to him.

He drops the last shirt on the stack and he turns, his fingers seeking the drawstring of your pants.

You know what he wants. You want it too. A singular desire in two separate bodies.

The inherent closeness of domesticity draws you into him, closing the already limited space as hands find waists and lips find skin. He drags his nose against your jaw, somehow already shaking, his teeth grazing your throat, unwilling and unable to press his lips to you, wanting to drag this out as much as possible. He squeezes your hips, thumbs flipping under your shirt to touch, touch, touch, until his fingers wrap around your ribs and you make your first sound of the night. It snags at his restraint, pulling it threadbare.

“Frankie,” you sigh and he cannot fight the cataclysmic pull towards you – he stumbles, pinning you to the laundry room wall, his tongue cupping your earlobe into his mouth and he sucks. The next noise you make is high and keening and it turns his touch frantic.

Caught between the wall and his broad shoulders, he does with you what he wants. He nips at your cheek, your neck, the dip of your clavicle, as his thumb presses up each knot of your spine, drawing out the tension from your body like draining poisoned blood, and by the time he pinches off your bra, you’re all but hanging onto him.

“Baby–,”

He can hear you say, it’s late, we have work in the morning, you don’t have to do this,

I’m not worth this

With a low growl that is all possession, all anger that someone ever made you feel like your love was too much, he tugs your shirt off, knocking his hat off as he goes. In the drift, he sees your eyes flutter, mouth twisted in pleasure and guilt – you don’t want to be asking for things like this – and so he silences every doubt, every worry that he’s tired or it’s too late or his knees are aching too much to make you feel the way you deserve – he kisses you with enough force to knock out every unpleasant thought you’ve ever had about yourself and flattens you against the wall.

You let him pry you open, his touch fervent and insistent, tasting of iced coffee and gum. He licks into you, telling you things with his tongue, the way he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth, in the soft puff of breath that escapes him when you cup the back of his neck. Closer, he begs, closer.

His wide palm arching your lower back into him, he squeezes your ribs, up under your breast, before finally taking your nipple between his thumb and the meat of his hand and twists, just enough to make you break apart from his demanding mouth, gasping as if tapped by a live wire. But it’s him who is electrocuted, who catches fire, who wants to be chewed down and swallowed up. He shuffles and pulls you into him, the throbbing in his pants bordering on painful. He rubs himself against you once and you sigh like you know he hurts. You nod.

Your fingers peel your shirt up and over your head as he cups one thigh then the other until your hips hug his waist, smearing the hem of his shirt up over his skin. He feels the heat coming from between your legs, the slight dampness, against his lower belly and he groans, low, right near that source of warmth he wants to die in.

You curl above him, tipping his head back, as you dive into his mouth again, fingers twisting into his hair, thumbs brushing his temple right where you know he tends to get headaches. Your tongue brushes against his upper lip, tasting his mustache, and his knees threaten to buckle.

“You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he laments, he praises, into the supple wetness of your tongue. You nod, pleased, and press your chest into him. He cannot fucking wait to get his mouth around your tits.

Mouth sealed to yours, hands cupping the meat of your ass, Frankie works entirely on sense memory to carry you into the kitchen, to a long wooden table beneath a wide window, white curtains closed and blinds shut.

This table had been one of the first purchases for the new house. Tan cedar boards with white knobby legs, it instantly reminded him of the one in his own childhood home, where he and his brothers fought over meals and did homework together. Where he held his mom after his father died and where he dropped his bag after coming home from a life too long spent fighting other people’s wars.

This table mattered to him and he’d be damned if it wouldn’t mean something to his own child one day.

That was something you too wanted to give your child, never having a table like this in your own life. You loved the stories he told about the table in his kitchen. How much it meant to him.

And now he was going to fuck you on it, this symbol of stability.

He just wonders how stable it really is.

His fingers clutching the back of your neck, arm running in tandem with your spine, he lowers you down, shifting your weight onto his arm so you don’t bump your head against the wood. He releases you but you protest, a muffled uh-uh, as he tries retreating. You loop your arms around his neck, tugging him flat against you and he feels your breasts mold against his chest, nipples already tight.

“Baby,” he breathes, sucking up and out of your mouth, “let me make you feel good.”

Behind him, he hears your sneakers clatter to the floor, your heels digging into his back as you toe off your shoes, and you shake your head.

“I am.” Kiss. A thumb under his bottom lip. “You do.” Breathless, reverent, grateful.

Grateful.

Grateful that he is kissing you.

Not good enough. God, he’s going to eat that self-loathing right out of you.

You whine, frustrated and hot, as he pulls back. He wants to go right for your pussy, but stutters at the sight of your unmarked tits. Smooth, flushed, heaving. There is no part of you he does not love, does not feel the need to worship on his knees.

But suddenly sour shame strikes him as he realizes enough time has passed since the last time you’d had sex for the hickeys to heal. He intends to amend that right now.

His thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your hips, to calm himself, he folds himself over you, dribbling kisses along your throat, over the wings of your clavicle, at the barest incline at the top of your breast, and then to the meat of your tit, the heaviness, the sway, and he bites down. Predictably, you yelp, nails scratching roughly into his scalp and that only makes him suck harder. You have very strict rules around where he can mark you, but on the places he can – oh, you beg him for it.

He palms your other tit, just to feel the goosebumps break out across your skin, to roll your nipple with the calluses on his palm. His teeth release, his tongue laving over that already pink and swollen skin, and he glances up, his other thumb coming to massage that fragile patch.

Being a pilot, a soldier, a brother, a son, those are the things he is. But Frankie lives – aches, pines, desires – to watch you come apart.

The purple bruise on your tit shining like a luxurious necklace, your eyes flutter open when you feel him pull up. Your fingers around his ears, your chest wet with his spit, you let him take you in. You give him this, because you know you’re about to get so much more. With your legs still wrapped around his waist, he can feel the soft cant of your hips, the quiet, patient begging, as you thought he needed reminding that you needed this. You rub up him, knees pinned to his ribs, and he lets you pull him into your mouth, grounding him. This kiss is brief, soft, a far cry from the tearing and biting that got you onto the table. Knowing exactly the state you need to be in to ask for what you want, he holds your jaw, thumb against the apple of your cheek and he slips his tongue out of your mouth. Again a protest, an instinctual reaction to the repeated pattern of abandonment, but like all cries for help, he quiets your squirming by sliding his thumb between your lips.

“Suck,” he murmurs gently. Your eyes flutter shut, your nails carving half moons into his forearm, lips creating a vacuum seal around his knuckle and you obey – you suck – and he rewards you with a trail of kisses across your sternum, over your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach. He nuzzles your belly button and you groan, eyes still shut and his thumb still in your mouth. He bites, softer than before, just above the thatch of hair and you whine around his finger, body going supple for him. He slides his thumb out, dragging a shiny string of spit over your plush lips, down your chin, joining his other hand at the waist band of both your panties and your scrubs.

Any fast movement will awaken that anxious, overthinking, beautiful brain of yours, now that he has it fuzzy and unfocused, so he keeps kissing, keeps sucking and biting, that spot just above your curls. He tongues your hip, and then the other side, your bottom half wonderfully bare before you can open your eyes.

His shoulder bumps the back of your thigh as he stands up right, inhaling the sweat behind your knee, the pungent tang of your glistening curls, your almond butter body lotion. It’s hunger, he feels, but not a tangible hunger, one that can be so easily satiated. It’s not painful, or weakening – no, he is made stronger by it. He feels your blood pulse beneath his hand on your inner thigh as he opens you up and he’s made better by it.

He kneels, a holy servant before the divine meal of their goddess, on shitty linoleum beneath harsh lights in a kitchen he can barely afford.

Frankie takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and slides your grip into his hair.

“Recuérdame cómo te gusta, nena.”

He eats. He consumes. He licks. He sucks. He slurps.

He tastes your dripping wetness on the seam of your cunt, before his tongue ever gets the chance to explore, to open, to divulge. He licks until he feels your breath hitch – a curse in the shape of his name, as if he needs scolding for making you feel so good – and then he opens his jaw and tongues your hole.

In a lust-drunk haze you once told him he has something better than DSL – he has a pussy-eating nose. He prods you with that nose you can’t seem to get enough of, licking in as far as he can, coating himself in everything as it leaks out of you, and he moans as he can feel it on his chin. You vibrate with the sound and above him, your fingers clench down into his hair.

“Oh, fuck, holy – fuck, Frankie–,” your trembling shakes the bowl of your hips, spilling his meal, so he sucks your clit in a way that makes your body freeze and then melt. You go limp, pliable, and gushing. He gets a few more moments of twisting and sucking and swallowing, until by the third time he puts his lips around your clit, you open-mouth whine and it’s like his body violently remembers he has a cock. He is seized with such a need to fuck you in this warm, wet place he’s dug out with his tongue, he doubles over and rests his teeth against your thigh.

“Frankie, I’m so close,” you writhe, chest flushed and brow sweaty.

Before you, he never knew sex could feel like this, could do this. Sure, he used sex to keep away those circling, vulture-like thoughts from time to time. But this, this drawing out and unthreading, unspooling, of himself and someone else, tearing at ego-drenched threads until all that was left was a being of pure want and desire – he didn’t know this was possible.

He didn’t know he could feel like this.

One more broad lick, coating everything in what he hope fucking smells like him, and you arch, thighs shaking, his hair in danger of being ripped from his scalp. You gasp as you flatten, the first orgasm of the night rolling through you, sweat making your skin salty, as though you had been breached by the ocean.

He laps you through it, of course, a nascent smirk on his face.

You open your eyes to this self-satisfied Frankie, eyes only visible over the top of your cunt, and you whine.

You reach for him and he goes, smearing your slick over your face, offering it to you in supplication on his tongue. He tastes your rising desperation, the way you sharpen your teeth against his lips, batter his tongue into the corner of his mouth, try to claim what your cunt already has. His hunger is an infection and your fever has reached a boiling point.

Your trembling fingers curl his shirt up his back, passing over the ruddy scar on his shoulder where he got hit with a stray bullet, the jagged white line over his ribs where a knife nearly split him open. He used to only fuck with his shirt on. He doesn’t now.

His shirt crumples to the floor as he sits up, you following, eyes dark, and you bite his pec muscle, your love for him twisting you into an anthropophagist. You want to consume him, like your pussy swallows his cock. Having him impale you is not enough; you want intercourse with him on a subatomic level.

You inch back to give yourself enough space to unbutton his jeans and he sees the wet slick left behind on the table. The heat behind his groin shoots up his spine and he grunts, burying his face into your neck where he tugs on your earlobe with his teeth, hands planted on either side of you.

“Hurry, baby, I gotta fuck this pussy,” he whispers against the curve of your jaw. He wants to leave a giant purple bruise there, this instinct to claim, to mark, stoking the roiling heat at the base of his spine and drawing up his balls.

But his attention snaps back to your hands when he hears a click, the release of his zipper is almost euphoric. He moans in relief, unable to see through his half-lidded eyes the explosion of goosebumps over your skin as his breath tumbles over your back and down your chest.

His urgent hands overwhelm yours, one pushing his jeans down his hips, the other palming your stomach, pushing you back and you go willingly, but seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his aching, flushed cock springing up against his stomach. You lie down, but only barely, still on your elbows, as he tugs you by your ankles to the edge of the table.

Your uneven breathing could mean a lot of things. He thought you were being complementary the first time you told him he was too big, but your eyes always widened at the sight of his cock.

“Do you need to be opened up some more, cariño?”

At his rawest, Spanish came out of him like a spilled bottle of molasses, sweet, slow, rich.

“Hmm? Tell me what you need. Hable mas alto por favor.” He rubs your knees, your thighs, hoping you’ll ask for what he wants.

“F-fingers, Frankie,” you swallow, eyes still latched on to his now weeping cock. You glance up at him, face open and full of trust, and he feels his dick pulse. “Please, Frankie, put your fingers in me.”

“Fucking anything.” He plants one hand and cups your mound, lost for a moment in the soaked curls, before pushing two fingers inside and thrusting. “I’ll fucking give you anything you want.”

His hips jerking slightly in tandem with the pulse of his fingers, his slacked mouth an indication of how unconscious his humping has become, as he watches you dissolve with every stroke of his hand. God, he didn’t know they made things this pretty. His hand pushes your knee up and back, finding room for three fingers and your eyes roll back in your head. You scrabble for anything to hold onto, fingers searching for the ghosts of your bedsheets, but finding none, your arms curl over your head and latch onto the other edge of the table. You present your fucking tits to him like you’re letting him admire artwork.

It almost brings him to his knees.

“Oh, I’m coming, oh, Frankie, I’m gonna –,”

He pulls out his fingers just enough to let you gush down his palm, his wrist, and he licks it up like a glutton. It drips a bit onto the linoleum and he smears it with his bare feet.

Frankie slides two fingers back in, his brain going fuzzy at being away from the clutch of your cunt for too long, when you grab his wrist.

You can barely breathe, your skin a pale pink, your cunt no doubt must be sore, but your eyes are as hard as diamonds in your skull. He swallows the flush of spit in his mouth.

“Now, Frankie,” you plead, fingers tight around his wet wrist, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound of your commanding voice. “Fuck me, now, I need you inside of me.”

It always makes him a bit dumbstruck, the way you beg, the way you let him and only him see this side of you – this side of you that is sick with wanting.

His hand squeezes the base of his cock once, eyes fluttering, to remind himself he cannot blow his fucking load the instant the tip of him is inside you. He taps your clit, once, twice, lubing himself up as if he hadn’t moved around internal organs to make way for himself. He notches, then slides, white-knuckling his impending orgasm in favor of making this good for you. He steps farther between your legs, hands sliding from your thighs, up to your waist. He thumbs your nipple and your pussy twitches around him. He swears his heart flat out stops for a concerning length of time.

“How is a pussy this good all mine? All fucking mine?” He rolls his hips, pushing deeper, movements marionetted by the high-pitched whimpers and moans of your mouth. He could catalog every single one of them, has done so in the deep recesses of his brain, and it takes just a second to know when it switches from pleasure to pain.

He bends over you, you choking on his dick, and kisses you hard, shattering the tense look on your face.

“I love you,” he tells you, a secret that despite being well-known to anyone who sees him look at you, still feels precious and fragile. His hand plasters your hair to your sweaty neck as he kisses you desperately, speaking a language only you understand. “I love you so fucking much.”

You sigh into his open mouth. “I wanna marry you, Fransisco Morales.”

He is covered in gold. Dripping with it.

His nails at your hip dig into your skin and you know exactly what you’ve done.

“Say it. Say it louder, nena,” he snarls, face pressed into your cheek, and he thrusts forward with enough force to rock the table. The table legs squeak as you pin him to you one more time and nip at his ear. The last drop in the well, the rope slipping over the edge, the coil locked into place.

“I wanna fucking marry you.”

With a breathy grunt, he yanks you down onto his cock by your waist and slaps your ass with his balls. It’s been a while since your cunt has taken a beating like this. You clutch at the edge of the table again, mouth torn open.

He knows you like it when he plays with your clit, and he will, but he needs to get this out of him.

“Yeah? You’re gonna marry the guy who’s fucking your pussy so good right now?” It’s amazing that words escape at all through his gritted teeth, jaw taut. He watches as he disappears and reappears in you, your lips puffy and pink already but he needs more. He doesn’t want you to be able to walk out of bed tomorrow.

“Yes, Frankie – oh, god, there, right there – yes, I’m gonna marry you.” He tips your hips up as he pounds down and you arch, crying out at the angle, the depth, how full you feel. He fucks like he’s trying to bruise your ribcage through your pussy.

The thoughts in his head collide with the others, knotting together, blurring, until the only noise he can make, the only thing he can verbalize is the tight grunts, the hm, hm, hm, as he focuses on chasing this fire.

He feels it approach so fast, he’s nearly taken under by the intensity of his orgasm so he slows, grinds instead, and with his eyes on your face, he cups himself around where he’s split you open, feeling your lips suck in and out with every thrust.

He closes his eyes briefly, helpless against the waves of arousal that coat his fingers. He smears your clit with his thumb and his name is a split, jagged thing that burns your tongue. He wants that taste on his tongue again.

You throb once, a sharp climax warming your pussy, and he backs out, drops to his knees, and licks you up again. He can taste his sweat there this time and he groans. His hands slip over your skin from the sweat in the crease of your thigh.

The cries from your mouth are wet now, on the curve of a salty tongue. You tremble like your orgasm is a physical thing, thrumming under your skin, warming your blood and you claw at his forearm.

“B-baby, please–,”

Wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, then licking up the mess he made, Frankie stands. He swats your bottom lightly, tutting. He’s a mad man, he knows it, he can’t tell if it's delirium from the rough ache of his balls or masochistic joy in hearing you beg, but again he rubs himself through your folds. It’s not the same, not nearly enough, but it helps last just a bit longer.

“No crying until after I’ve made you come.”

“I’ve already come twice,” you whine as you buck your hips, trying to take him in deeper. “You said I can have anything I want.”

“And what does princesa want?” Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with him.

Your eyes flash as your nails dig into his shoulders, that fire he so loves to stoke flaring out.

“I want to come on your cock, Mr. Morales.”

And he unravels, divinity calling his name.

His pace is slow, then rough, then deep.

The table is just the right height. He balances on knee on the lip, bending your knees over his shoulders, and fucking down into you. He’s going to snap you in fucking half and maybe he does but he’ll be there to seal you back up again.

Pour himself into you. Fill you. Make you whole once more.

Baby, please.

The first drip of tears starts out the corner of your eyes as you come, open-mouthed, throat exposed, a cry loud and in the shape of his name tearing from your lips, your body locking up, cunt squeezing him until he feels himself burst.

With a shudder and a groan, he spills, hot and flush into you. He comes, and comes, and comes, until his gooey spend is forced out of you and down the crack of your ass. He can’t see anything past the white spark in his eyes, feel anything but you and the tingle of his limbs.

The excess of you and him is everywhere, leaking out onto the kitchen table, soaking the wood. There’s a ringing in his ears he can’t quiet.

Your breath is hot on his neck, sweaty skin stuck tightly against his, he knows he’s crushing you, his arms given out at some point, but he really doesn’t think he can stand up right. He kisses your cheek by way of apology and thanks but you don’t seem to mind, your own gaze unfocused on the ceiling.

“Fuck, Frankie . . .”

He laughs, realizes his legs aren’t working, so trembling and uneasy, he slides out of you and manages to make it to the floor. He blames the sudden dizziness on a lack of food and then blames the dizziness for lying down on the floor.

His eyes flutter and somehow you’re suddenly curled up next to him, your palm resting over his pounding heart. His fingers find their way up into your sweat-damp hair, thumb gently rubbing against the knot at the base of your skull.

“Your back is gonna be killing you in about fifteen minutes, sweetheart,” you grumble sleepily into his chest, a grin on your face.

“I can’t feel anything below my waist right now.” He yawns. “So, we’ve got some time.”

You nod, absentmindedly stroking the dark hair on his chest.

“We need to talk about Pope’s birthday party this weekend. Will put us on drink duty . . . but I can’t really focus on anything right now.”

“Good,” he smirks with his eyes shut. “That was some of my best work.” And then he frowns. “You need to eat.” He pokes your side and you huff.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough to berate me, we can at least go to bed.”

Groaning, you pull him up and he threatens to stumble you both into the wall, but he kisses your cheek and swats your ass, before snagging a tub of ice cream and a spoon. He meets you in the bedroom with the cap off and a smear of chocolate around his lips.

You’ve got one of his shirts, grinning up at him from the center of the bed, and he’s torn about whether he likes you in his boxers, or nothing at all.

You take the ice cream from him before he has a chance to flop down on the bed.

“Not exactly a nutritious meal,” you mutter around the spoon and he turns his face from the pillow to glare at you.

“That’s the other dinner I made for you, so eat.”

Your giggle is all you can give to show your thanks.

He rolls onto his back, groaning theatrically, before tucking his hand behind his head, and his fingers coming to rest on his stomach.

Behind the lids of his eyes, he can feel you watching him.

“What?” He grumbles, feeling around for your foot to pinch your ankle. He hears you move so he knows he’s close. “Not the right flavor, princesa?”

“No,” you laugh and prod his hip with your toe. “It’s just . . .”

His eyes open, finding yours in the half-lit gloom. You’re grinning the spoon in your mouth, eyes bright with something unnameable. You shrug, eying his hand between you both.

“I just never knew Fransisco Morales could be domesticated.”

He wipes the chocolate off your chin with his thumb.

Yeah, who knew?

#frankie morales #fransisco morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #frankie morales x f!reader

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slaybestieslay946 · 2 months

Text

Dream Girl

Summary: Paul has dreamt of a girl all his life, and when he reaches Arrakis, he finally discovers her to be the assistant to Dr Liet Kynes.

Pairing: Paul Atreides x Fremen!OC

Word count: 2500

Warnings: Slight mentions of violence, pretentious writing style.

A/N: just need to get this out because im so obsessed with him its becoming unhealthy. hope anyone reading enjoys and has a nice day! You never know i might add chapters if i feel like it lmao.

Paul had seen her in his dreams many times over the years. She had been with him throughout it all, from the cradle until now, as he began to bloom into adulthood.

He’d never thought he’d really see her in front of his eyes. Over the years he’d dismissed her as a mere fantasy; the leftovers of a child’s overactive imagination. Blue eyes that couldn’t quite be real, and a beauty that only existed in daydreams.

Yet, here she was, standing stoic beside the ‘judge of the change’, surveying the approaching group with those piercing blue eyes. Paul had to remind himself to breathe before he collapsed from lack of oxygen.

“My Lord Duke.” The older woman greeted his father, bowing her head, and so did the dream-girl, except the fire in her eyes never faded.

“Dr Kynes. Thank you for agreeing to take us out.”

“The pleasure is all mine, sire. This is my apprentice and pilot, Nami.”

Duke Leto acknowledged the dream-girl, no, Nami, with a quick nod. She responded in kind.

“Now,” Kynes began, “We must check your stillsuits-” The two women stepped forward in sync to aid the group, but were stopped by Gurney’s blades at their necks.

Paul couldn’t help but admire the way she didn’t flinch as a blade was held to her throat, merely raising her chin in defiance. Few would have the gall to glare at the soldier in such a way.

“Gurney, no need. Let them work.” The Duke asserted, and Gurney lowered his sword, albeit rather begrudgingly.

They then approached the group of outworlders to adjust their suits. Paul had to force himself to breathe normally as Nami approached him and the two locked eyes. He quickly tore his gaze away from hers, as she began to check his suit was on correctly.

All the while, Kynes was going on a long and probably very interesting spiel about stillsuits and their benefits, but he found it very hard to concentrate when he was face to face with the girl he had been dreaming about all his life.

“You’ve worn a stillsuit before?” Nami suddenly asked, inspecting some of the straps on the front.

“No, this is my first time.”

“Hm,” She cocked her head in confusion, “Your boots are fashioned slip-fast at the ankles. Who taught you to do that?”

“Just seemed like the right way.” He said, trying to work out what was going on inside her head.

Their exchange had now caught the attention of the rest of the group, and Nami turned to Kynes, muttering a few words in a different language, shaking her head slightly.

It took Paul a few moments to realise that they were speaking in the language of the fremen.

“You’re fremen.” He said plainly, like it had been obvious the whole time.

“We are accepted in both sietch and village, yes.” Nami said, nodding.

Before he could ask anymore questions, Kynes began to lead them to the aircraft, explaining that they would be travelling to the nearest harvesting field north of Arrakeen.

The group all entered one of the small aircraft, and Paul watched as Nami began to sit in the pilot's chair, but was stopped by his father.

“If you don’t mind, Nami, I’d like to pilot.” He said, with an almost childlike smile upon his face. Paul remembered his fathers admission that he had once wished to be a pilot himself.

“Of course, my lord.” She bowed her head, and shuffled over to the co-pilot’s seat.

The group all strapped themselves into their seats, grabbing a headset and preparing for take off.

Duke Leto soon began to press several buttons, and Paul’s dream-girl followed suit, adjusting switches here and there. The Duke soon pulled up off the ground and turned in a near-perfect manoeuvre that left his co-pilot impressed.

“You’re a pilot?” She asked.

“Yes I was, in my youth. It has been many years though.” He smiled, regarding the desert beneath him in what looked like wonder.

“You are very talented.” Nami complimented simply, and Paul watched as a newfound respect bled into her eyes, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of yearning for her to look at him in the same way. With respect earned by his own deeds, rather than the kind that stemmed from a generations old name.

Kynes then began her narration as they moved over dunes, towards the spice fields. Paul chipped in here and there with a question or two for her.

“Why don’t they just shield the crawlers?” He asked, looking down at the desert below, where one of the crawlers was moving. Was this the desert power his father had been talking about?

“Shields are a death sentence in the desert.” Nami chipped in, turning her head momentarily to look at Paul, who tore his face away in embarrassment when he felt a slight heat rise to his cheeks.

“Yes,” Kynes continued for her apprentice, “It attracts the worms and drives them into a killing frenzy.”

“Is that one of the worms?” His father asked, pointing at a vague cloud of dust on the horizon.

Kynes picked up a pair of binoculars from her lap and peered into them for a moment, before answering, “That’s a worm alright. And a big one. Nami, call it in for me?”

“On it.” She replied, and began speaking into the headset in various codes, asking for any carriers in the area.

It didn’t take long for one to appear, and it began making its way to the crawler below. Paul watched in awe as it made its descent. He knew spice harvesting was dangerous, and of course accommodations had to be made, but the technology used was truly fascinating. How was that tiny carrier going to lift that enormous crawler?

He would, unfortunately, never find out. Because as the carrier attempted to attach itself, one of the arms snapped. Suddenly an influx of frenzied shouts came over the radio in confusion, as Kynes chipped in to explain the situation.

The Duke then snapped into action.

“How many men on that crawler?”

“A crew of 21.” Kynes replied.

“Our ships can only take 6 each. That leaves 3 men.” Paul added.

“We’ll find a way.” His father responded, flicking a switch before dropping into a nosedive, the other two ships following suit behind him.

Soon, they were landing just beside the crawlers, and unbuckling themselves from their seats inside the aircraft. Paul was the first up and moving.

“The shield generators should weigh about the same as a few men.” Paul said, waiting for Gurney to finish undoing his seatbelt.

“Good idea,” Gurney said, “I’ll toss them out, go instruct the men.” He said, patting the younger boy on the shoulder as he moved to get rid of the shields, Paul slipping past him and onto the sand below.

As he dropped onto the sand of the desert for the first time, he couldn’t help but pause. Something about his boots on the ground felt natural, and as he looked down at the swathe of gold, he had never felt more at home.

What snapped him into action again was the thud of a shield generator falling from the aircraft, and then Paul was moving, running towards the groups of men coming out of the crawler.

“7 over there, 7 over there, move!!” He shouted, pointing to the various aircraft waiting for them and waving them over.

And then a cloud of sand engulfed him.

Paul quickly brought his mask to his face and shut his eyes, trying to ignore the stinging pain of millions of grains of sand hitting him. And then suddenly everything around him seemed to still, and he brought his mask down away from his face, opening his eyes.

He was surrounded by a cloud of dust, and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

Paul took a deep breath in, feeling the way his nostrils tingled as he inhaled, and noticing the sparkle of the dust around him.

He wasn’t standing in dust, but spice.

Before his eyes the real world melted away, and he was overtaken by visions. Visions of violence, death, the dunes of Arrakis, a blade, and finally Nami’s face, blue-blue eyes staring into his own.

Then she began to cry, tears streaming down her face. The face that had seemed so stoic in the real world was not so in his vision.

Then his vision began to return, and through the haze of spice he heard something familiar, before realising what it was.

“I recognise your footsteps old man…” Paul whispered, jolting awake as Gurney clapped him on the shoulder, hauling him to his feet.

“C’mon!” He shouted, glancing to the side. Paul followed his gaze, and was immediately spurred into action as he saw the fast approaching sandworm.

Immediately he was sprinting towards the aircraft, locking eyes with his father through the windshield as he began to take off, spinning so the open door was facing them.

And there she was.

Gurney was the first to reach her, and she quickly hauled him up into the aircraft, pushing him in while not taking her eyes off Paul.

“Atreides!” She shouted, holding out her hand for him to take, evident concern in her eyes.

He pumped his legs faster than he thought possible, catching up with the aircraft and grabbing her hand, watching as the sandworm emerged from the very place he had been kneeling, overtaken by visions.

Eventually he pulled himself away from the sight of the desert, clambering up the ramp towards Nami, who quickly shut the door behind him.

“Thank you.” Paul said to her, still slightly breathless.

“No problem.” She replied, dusting a few grains off his shoulder before returning to her seat beside the Duke, slipping on her headset and reporting their re-entry into general airspace.

Paul moved back to his seat just behind her, trying to ignore his fathers angry gaze, as well as quell the aggressive beating of his heart. Their trip had been more eventful than he thought.

Soon the aircraft was landing, and Paul stood to get up, wanting to get away from one of his fathers lectures, but not before saying goodbye to Nami.

“Thank you, again.” He said, quickly.

She smiled this time, her face softening ever so slightly, “Take care, Paul Atreides. I pray we meet again.”

He nodded, unable to form words in response as his tongue had grown heavy in his mouth. And then he ran away, jumping out of the aircraft as quickly as he could before he blurted out anything stupid.

Paul whipped around taking in the sudden appearance of so many Fremen around him and his mother. They must have seen them running from the sandworm.

“Do not run. You will only waste precious water.” A man said from above him. He seemed to be a leader. Upon closer inspection, Paul realised it was Stilgar, the man who his father had received.

“Stilgar? Do you remember me? You came before my fathers council.”

“Ah, yes. The Atreides boy.”

“Stop wasting time, we need their water!” A cry came from above, and as Paul looked up, he saw a man, and beside him, his dream-girl.

“Quiet Jamis. You know we cannot harm him. He is Atreides. Besides,” Nami jumped down from one of the ledges to stand beside Stilgar, “I will vouch for him.”

Objections erupted from the rest of the Fremen, but her eyes remained locked with Paul’s. Stilgar quickly jumped in to quiet them.

“That is fine. The boy is young, he can still learn our ways. However, the woman cannot.” He declared, and Paul looked to Stilgar in horror, moving backwards to stand in front of his mother protectively. Although, it was mostly meaningless, as he knew his mother could protect herself perfectly well.

“She’s too old to learn?” He asked, his voice harsh.

“Atreides…” Nami said softly, almost like a warning not to push further.

But he didn’t have to, as the Fremen were already drawing their knives, and Stilgar was removing the outer layer of cloth he was wearing. And then, his mother was leaping out from behind him, and she and Stilgar became locked in battle.

Paul took the opportunity to gain the upperhand, climbing up to a higher ledge and stealing a maula pistol from one of the Fremen warriors, but not before shooting Nami an apologetic glance.

As he looked back down, he saw that his mother had made quick work of the Fremen leader, holding his own blade to his throat. Nevertheless, he activated the pistol and kept it pointed at one of the nearby Fremen.

“Peace, woman. You did not tell me you were a weirding woman and a fighter.” He sighed.

“Our conversation ran short.” She snapped, not letting go of him.

“Peace. I judged you too hastily.”

Jessica then released Stilgar, handing him back his blade, meanwhile Paul lowered his pistol.

“The woman is under my charge until we reach sietch Tabr. Nami, are you still willing to vouch for the boy?”

“Yes.” She said firmly, and the rest of the Fremen sighed, making a cutting notion on the top of their wrists with their blades, before sheathing them.

Once that was done, Stilgar began climbing up the ledge to approach Paul, holding out a hand for the maula pistol.

“Come now. You will get your own when you have earned it.” He said, and the younger man sighed, returning the weapon to him, albeit begrudgingly.

That was when ‘Jamis’ decided to chip into the proceedings once more.

“I will not have them.”

“Jamis, I have spoken,” Stilgar said, “Be still.”

“You talk like a leader, but the strongest leads. She bested you. I invoke the Amtal.”

Paul’s mother stiffened beside him, and although he did not yet know what that meant, he knew it did not bode well.

“Jamis, you may not challenge her-”

“Then who will fight in her place?”

“Jamis,” Nami piped up, “Do not do this, the night is fading.”

“Then the sun will witness this death, Nami. Where is her champion?”

Paul now understood what was going on, and if anyone was going to fight for his mother it would be him.

He stepped out from behind Stilgar, and walked towards Jamis in the way he had been taught to as a Duke’s son, back straight, head held high.

“I accept her champion.”

Stilgar sighed as Jamis brushed past them, but soon followed suit. As did the rest of the Fremen, his mother included, until it was only him and Nami left.

“So, we meet again, Atreides.” She smiled, her voice slightly teasing.

“Mhm. I see you’ve been praying.” Paul smirked, hoping to get the upper hand over her.

“Have you not?” She asked in faux shock, and it sent Paul spinning, because although he had not been praying, he had dreamt of her every night since he last saw her.

“Besides,” Nami continued, not noticing his sudden flush, “I am beginning to regret my prayers. You are causing trouble already.”

“It’s in my nature.”

“Evidently. Now, come along, you have a duel to prepare for. Jamis is a good fighter, if you try hard you may just die with honour.” She declared, a wry smile on her face as she turned on her heel and led him further into the rocks of the desert.

#x reader #paul atredies x reader #paul atreides x you #dune part two #paul atreides #dune movie #dune #dune part 2 #fanfic #writing

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toomanystoriessolittletime · 9 months

Text

Revenge

Summary: Scared to end up alone you hang on to your marriage of 15 years to your cheating husband, continuing to play the perfect wife. But then you meet Dave York, your husbands boss, on one of his work events and things take a very surprising turn....

Pairing: Dave York x fem. Reader

Wordcount: 5.5k

Rating: E

Warnings: infidelity, angst, forced cucking (cheating husband has to watch his wife have sex with one Dave York), smut (unprotected sex, oral f receiving), Cum play, public fingering, use of the word whore, intense eye contact, flirting like woah

A/N: I worked on this for four weeks and I'm super proud of it. Please let me know what you think. Some people might recognise the scene at the bar from the movie Shame.

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics an turn on notifications to get notified for new fic updates

You would be lying if you said you did not imagine yourself in this situation before.

Sitting with an attractive man at a bar, flirting. Maybe even something more…

Many lonely nights in the bed you should be sharing with your husband left your mind wandering to what life could be like if you had married a man who respected and loved you.

Though you were pretty sure Calvin did love you in the beginning, maybe he even loved you now. In his… own way. It just changed somewhere between moving into your first real home together and you getting a job that paid more than his.

You just weren’t enough to… satisfy all his physical needs anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. It was an open secret that he was cheating on you, you just weren’t brave enough to leave him, even though you could. You had the job, the friends, the money. You just… did not know how to be alone.

Which was a stupid thing to think because you spent the majority of your relationship being alone.

It came to a point where you weren’t even mad or hurt anymore, whenever you found stains of lipstick on his shirts that you for some reason still washed for him.

It was… easier living this lie than separating from the man you had been with for the last fifteen years. You loved the life you had built together. You just wished you weren’t so miserable and lonely living it alone.

You hadn’t slept with Calvin since you found out about the first time he cheated on you, which was almost eight years ago. He said he was sorry, begged for your forgiveness, which you granted him. But you told him that you wouldn’t sleep with him before he would prove that you could trust him to be honest and faithful with you. That, and a clean bill of health.

He never did.

You were more like roommates at this point. And even though you did not know the exact extent of his infidelity, you still played the perfect wife for him whenever he needed you to.

You looked away when he flirted with women much younger than you when you were out. Which wasn’t often. Only when there was something from work or something your friends had invited you both.

It was one of those work events he insisted you accompany him, leaving you sitting alone as soon as you entered the place at the bar.

You were about to call it a day when a man sat down next to you.

Calvin was off somewhere while you were sitting in a darker corner at the bar, enjoying your martini as he, his boss Dave York, introduced himself to you, inviting you for another drink

There was something in his eyes when you told him your name. A glint of interest when he learned that you were the wife of Calvin Miller.

You learned that Dave was recently divorced and had moved into an overpriced penthouse that felt too empty and sterile. His wife had fallen in love with another woman and because he did not want to stay in the way of her happiness, he had let her and his two daughters move all the way to Europe while he stayed back.

Dave York was… charming, hot and had something dangerous about him that made you only more interested in him. It was the first time in a long time that you felt like someone was really interested in you and what you had to say.

You saw Calvin across the room, talking to one of the serving girls who was blushing furiously as she looked at him while he tried to charm his way into her pants.

Sighing you closed your eyes, taking a sip from your drink, breathing in deeply, finding Dave looking at you.

“You know he’s fucking himself through the whole city right?” he asked.

You nodded.

“I know he’s cheating frequently, I just.. Chose to ignore how many women exactly he fucks as long as it doesn’t happen in our home.”

Dave sucked his bottom lip in, intrigued.

“You don’t mind?”

You shrugged.

“Part of me does. Sometimes I feel like a coward for not leaving him. I know I deserve more. I deserve someone who loves me and respects me. Who asks me how my day was, who notices when I got a new hair colour, who…. Fuck I just feel so lonely sometimes.”

“So why don’t you leave him?”

“Honestly?” you whispered, sucking your bottom lip in. Dave nodded, turning in his seat to lean a little closer towards you. You smelled his aftershave, allowing yourself to take a deep breath before you answered him.

“I don’t think I know how to live on my own, and staying where I am even if it sucks is… easier? We met in highschool, got married before we got out of college. I have spent my whole adult life with him. Fuck… I never even had sex with anyone other than him,” you chuckled humorlessly.

“Do you want to?” Dave asked and you looked up.

“Do I want what?”

“Have sex with someone else?”

His hand came to rest on your knee and you shivered, your eyes on his hand. His fingers were softly squeezing just above your knee. You felt each of his fingers on you, only separated by the thin material of the silk dress you were wearing. You looked up, your lips parting.

“Dave…”

“He doesn’t deserve you, you know? If I had you in my house, in my home, in my bed?” he leaned in closer, his lips brushing over your ear and your eyes slipped close. Unintentionally you parted your legs, your dress revealing a glimpse of your inner thigh and you shuddered as he took this as an invitation, his fingers slowly running up your inner thigh.

“I’d make sure your pussy is the only one I’m fucking. I might be an asshole, but I’m a loyal asshole,” his nose brushed over your neck as he seemed to inhale your scent, his fingers slipping deeper between your legs which seemed to part even wider for him with ease.

“Did he ever go down on you?” he hummed, his fingers brushing over the soaked fabric of your lace panties. You released a shuddering breath, closing your eyes.

“I bet he hasn’t treated this pussy properly. I’d make sure you’d soak my face every single day when I had you in my bed, my kitchen counter, my desk…” his fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them to the side.

“Look at me,” he whispered and while your eyes opened he slowly pushed two of his fingers inside of you. A part of you knew that you were in a public space, yet looking into Dave’s dark eyes made you feel like you were the only two people on the planet.

He slowly moved his fingers, your body screaming in pleasure from the way his fingers seemed to know just how to touch you, while you tried to keep a straight face as he kept looking at you with dark eyes.

“I like to slip my tongue deep inside of you,” he hummed and you couldn’t help but gasp as his fingers pulled out of your pussy, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. You looked down at his fingers, your eyes following them as he brought them up to his lips. You could see them glistening with your juices, while he brought them up to his mouth sucking them clean.

“Just when you’re about to cum, licking you clean before I finally give you my big cock,” he tilted his head to the side, looking at you as he licked his lips with a filthy smirk.

You jumped in your seat when an arm sneaked around your middle from behind, your eyes leaving Dave’s to find Calvin standing next to you, glaring at you before he looked at Dave.

“I see you met my wife, Dave,” he said.

“I did and It’s Mr. York to you, Miller,” Dave said bored, picking up his drink to take a sip, keeping his eyes on you.

You were still flushed, your brain trying to get back to speed.

“How come you are here with your wife and not in the bathroom getting your dick sucked by one of the college waitresses, Miller?” Dave asked.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Dave,” Calvin said, letting go of you to grab your drink, chugging it down himself. Dave looked amused at you and then at him, his face hardening.

“Come on, we’re all friends here, don’t lie in front of your wife,” he said. You risked a glance at Calvin who looked at his boss with his lips parted in shock.

Dave looked at you then, a silent challenge in his eyes.

“I love my wife,” Calvin said and you snorted. His head snapped to look at you.

“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” you rolled your eyes and Dave laughed.

“Tell you what, why don’t you go back to whatever cunt you were after and I keep your wife company,” Dave said.

“With all due respect, Dave…” Calvin began to talk but Dave shot him a dark look.

“Call me Dave one more time and see what happens, Mister Miller,” he threatened and you felt Calvin stiffen beside you. Interesting.

He took a deep breath before he looked at you.

“I was gonna head home,” Calvin said, looking at you with a question in his eyes. You turned your head to look at Dave. You didn’t want to leave. And you knew Calvin only lied about going home because he either didn’t find someone else to fuck or… because he had a weird spurge of jealousy now that someone was giving you attention and felt like he had a claim on you. Which a silly part of your brain made you feel powerful.

“I’m sure Dave can give me a ride later?” you asked, with an eyebrow raised. Dave chuckled, one of his hands coming back to rest on your knee.

“Of course I can, Sweetheart.”

When Dave drove you home a couple hours later, Calvin wasn’t home. Not that you were surprised.

Dave and you had spent the whole evening talking. And flirting. Call it needy and years of neglect, but fuck you wanted him.

You invited Dave in for a drink and he followed you into your home.

Sitting beside him in your living room you sighed.

“I feel so… Fuck I don’t know. Weak? Silly? Worthless? Like a fucking victim, even though I have everything I need to just…. Live my own life and don’t let him humiliate me like that.”

Dave sighed.

“Ending a marriage is not easy. Feelings aren’t something you can’t just turn off. You’re not worthless. You are… fucking perfect,” Dave said and you turned your head to look at him.

“I want him to feel how humiliated he makes me feel,” you said.

“What are you thinking?”

You sucked your bottom lip in, blaming the idea forming in your head on your slightly tipsy brain.

“Are you free on friday?” you asked, a plan forming in your mind. He narrowed his eyes.

“I can be.”

You nodded, sucking your bottom lip in. You took both of your glasses, setting them down on the coffee table. Dave watched your every move as you got up, coming to stand between his legs.

You didn’t know if it was the drinks you had or the way Dave York had given you his whole attention for the last hours, but you just wanted to feel something. Or someone.

“It’s our anniversary,” you said quietly as you slowly settled down into Dave’s lap, straddling him. His hands came to rest on your upper thighs immediately, his hands pushing the skirt of your dress up, as your hands rested on his shoulders. You closed your eyes, your skin heating under his intense gaze.

“I haven’t been fucked in eight years,” you whispered, moaning when you felt Dave’s hands wander over your body, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer towards him. You gasped as your clit rubbed just right over his growing bulge.

“And… And I think I want you to fuck me while he has to watch,” unintentionally you began to move your hips against him. He smirked.

“Eight years?” he asked and you nodded. He hummed.

“Can I touch you?”

“Please,” you whispered and he suddenly pulled at the belt of your wrap dress, the fabric falling open.

“Fuck me,” he uttered under his breath, the green lace lingerie you were wearing driving him wild. One of his hands came back to squeeze your ass, while his other hand palmed one of your breasts.

“Can you cum like that? Just with your needy little clit rubbing against me?” he asked and you moaned, your head nodding.

“Then make yourself cum,” he said, before he leaned in and sucked on your nipple through your bra.

“Fuck,” you cried out, rubbing yourself against him.

“That’s it, you want me to fuck you in front of your cheating husband? Then cum for me,” he snarled, slapping your ass.

“I’m gonna… Fuck I’m gonna cum,” you whimpered, throwing your head back as your orgasm rolled through your body, making you shake against Dave. He helped you ride it out before you felt his hand in your neck as he pulled you towards him, crashing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.

“When should I be here on friday?“ He asked and you smiled.

Like every year, Calvin invited you for dinner for your anniversary in your favourite restaurant.

Or more like, in the restaurant he thought was your favourite restaurant.

He had given you the silent treatment since you decided to spend the evening with Dave instead of him, and you weren’t complaining.

Something had changed since that night. You changed.

He bought you a gift (a new vacuum cleaner, my god were you lucky), kissed you on the cheek and then ordered your dinner for you as soon as you sat down in the restaurant.

You were quiet all evening, letting him vent about work and about how lucky he was to have you as his wife, smiling like the obedient little wife you were for him.

Whenever he got up for a smoke, or to the bathroom or to order new drinks from the blonde bartender you reached for your phone, texting with Dave.

It had been six days since you met him and the lust you were feeling for him was almost overwhelming. Maybe it had to do with you being sexually frustrated, but the way he talked to you made you want to be his good girl, eager to please him however you wanted to.

He was very attentive, sending you gifts every single day while Calvin was in the office. You were working from home, surprised when Monday rolled around and a bouquet of red roses were delivered around lunch time.

The next day it was a bracelet.

The day after that lingerie.

Part of you was overwhelmed with the attention you were receiving, while another part just wanted to let you enjoy it.

You were rational, you knew whatever would happen with Dave York would not have a future. He wanted to fuck you, and you wanted to be fucked. Badly.

And who were you to argue about your husbands boss being the one to fuck you brains out as a little… revenge?

You rolled your eyes as you saw the waitress slip Calvin his number after he went to pay.

You had an AirBNB booked and most of your clothes and stuff already moved there yesterday. Earlier today you met with an divorce attorney.

This was happening.

You would be leaving him. Tonight.

After he watched you being fucked by his boss.

The only concern you had about the plan you set in motion was how you would make Calvin stay. But Dave had only told you that he’d make sure he would, not telling you how exactly he would achieve it. But you trusted him anyway.

You had done a lot of thinking this last week. Maybe you had just needed someone to confide in, to tell you that you were worth more than being just a silly little wife.

Healing from these last years would take a while, but you were ready to take your life back.

Starting today.

You had told Dave that you would leave the backdoor unlocked, so you weren’t surprised when you found him sitting in the armchair next to your bed in the bedroom when you made your way upstairs after coming back home.

Calvin was downstairs, picking a bottle of wine most likely in the hopes to get you drunk so he could try to get into your pants later.

He tried this every year, some weird sense of martial duty coming over him. Not that he ever succeeded.

And you had to give it to him, at least he did not spend your wedding anniversary fucking another pussy.

“Hey,” Dave hummed, getting up as he walked over to you.

“Hey,” you smiled, nerves kicking in as your head tilted down, watching your feet nervously.

“You look beautiful,” he said and you couldn’t help but sigh. You had decided on a new dress, black, with a zipper in the front that ran down the whole length. You wanted do look pretty.

For Dave.

You felt his fingers tilt your chin up, his eyes finding yours.

“Are you still sure about this?” he asked. You took a deep breath before you nodded slowly.

“Just… Just nervous. It’s been a while…. And…. I don’t know about him… here”

“We can get out of here. Just say the word and I’ll leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” you brought a hand up, resting it on his chest. He covered your hand with his.

“I want you to….” you pursed your lips, unable to say those words.

“You want me to fuck you?” he whispered with a small grin. You nodded.

“I want to fuck you too. Been thinking about your pussy since last week. Tasted so fucking good. You just need to decide if you want me to fuck you here, with your soon to be ex husband watching, or if I should take you to my place and make this pussy, my pussy, weep for me,” you felt his breath on your face as he whispered those words, your knees getting weak.

“How… How about… both?” you finally asked with a shy little smile.

He kissed you then, his lips pressing against yours for a quick but powerful moment. You whimpered.

“Greedy,” he hummed with a smirk.

“Where is he?” Dave asked as he slowly led you to your bed.

“Getting wine to make me drunk enough to fuck him,” you snorted and Dave rolled his eyes.

You yelped when he pushed you against the mattress, hovering over you immediately, his eyes darkening. You parted your legs and he settled between them. Your eyes fluttering shut as you felt his weight on top of you.

“Pathetic little fucker,” Dave hissed before he kissed you again.

You melted against him.

His tongue invaded your mouth, playing with yours, one of his hands running up your thigh.

“Dave,” you gasped, clutching the sheets as he kissed down your jaw.

“You smell so fucking good,” he hummed, softly sucking on your neck. his fingers playing with the front zipper of your dress, pulling it slowly until the pink lace he had gifted to you was revealed beneath.

“What the fuck is going on in here?” you heard a yell, following from a bottle shattering on the floor. Dave did not stop pulling at the zipper, his eyes on yours, until your bra was fully visible, the delicate lace hiding next to nothing.

“I’m about to eat your wife’s pussy,” Dave said and you could not help but moan as he lowered his head, his lips kissing the soft skin above your tits.

“You can’t… What the fuck…” Calvin cursed and you caught his eyes when he rounded the bed, now standing so he could look at you.

“Sucks to be on the other side, huh?” you asked him, hearing Dave chuckle, before he pulled at the lace, his lips closing around your left nipple, making you arch your back against his chest.

“You’re… you’re my wife,” Calvin argued and you moaned as Dave sucked.

“Happy fucking anniversary,” you moaned, your hands unclenching from the sheets to bring them into Dave’s hair, pushing him against your tits.

“I’m… I’m not gonna watch this,” Calvin said in disbelief, intending to turn around and leave.

“You sit right there on that chair and watch me fuck your wife, Miller,” Dave hissed, voice dangerously low, turning his head to look at Calvin who stopped in his tracks.

You pussy clenched at his tone.

“Or what?” Calvin asked, not looking back. Dave found your eyes, kissing you quickly before he got up from the bed, walking over to Calvin.

He leaned into him, whispering something against his ear. You saw Calvin clench his fists as he took a deep breath before he slowly turned around and walked over to the chair Dave had apparently put there just for him.

Calvin’s eyes found yours and he clenched his jaw as he sat down.

“Now, where were we?” Dave asked and you turned your head to look at him. Slowly he unbuttoned his dress shirt, pushing it off his shoulder, revealing his broad chest. Your eyes lingered all over his body, the prominent outline of his cock confided in his pants making your mouth water.

Funny that just a week ago you had not missed sex at all, when now you could not wait for the man in front of you to ruin you.

You sucked your bottom lip in as you looked up at him.

“Calvin, what was I about to do before you interrupted us?” he asked, his eyes not leaving your body.

There was no answer, until a dark look came over Dave’s face, breaking eye contact to you only briefly to look at you husband.

“You wanted to… eat my wife’s pussy,” he said quietly and Dave’s eyes lit up as he looked at you.

“That’s right,” he said, before his hands wrapped around your ankles, pulling you down towards the end of bed. He leaned down, his hand pulling at the front zipper of your dress, parting the fabric. His lips following the zipper with every inch of your skin it revealed to him.

“Like unwrapping a gift,” he said, kissing your stomach. He helped you get out of the dress, throwing it aside, before he got down on his knees, pulling each of your legs over his shoulders.

Dark eyes found yours as he leaned closer towards your pussy, taking a deep breath.

“When was the last time someone ate this pussy?” he asked, his fingertips coming to gently trace the pattern of the by now see through lace hiding your cunt from him. You were obscenely wet for the man kneeling between your legs.

“Years,” you sighed.

“Shame,” Dave tsked, kissing your inner thigh. You closed your eyes as his lips wandered up your thigh, almost to where you wanted him most when he kissed back down, starting the same pattern on your other thigh.

“Dave,” you moaned.

“Yes, sweetheart?” he asked, raising his eyebrow in a silent challenge as he looked up at you.

“Make me cum,” you said and he grinned.

“With pleasure.”

The moment Dave’s tongue slipped through your folds felt like the world shifted. He did not tease you, his tongue dipping inside of you while his nose moved over your clit had you moaning out wantonly. You fought the urge to throw your head back and close your eyes, keeping your eyes trained on the man who had you on the edge of an orgasm without even really having started.

The moan coming from his mouth as he tasted you for the first time was downright pornographic and a memory you’d replay often in the future.

He moved his tongue between your folds before he went higher, his tongue flicking over your throbbing clit.

“Fuck,” you moaned out, your hands hesitantly reaching for him, one of his hands grabbing your wrists, pulling them closer towards him, your fingers disappearing in his soft hair. You scratched your fingernails over his scalp and he sucked your clit between his lips with a groan.

You were sure you were dripping on the sheets, your legs crossed behind his shoulders as you moved your hips against his mouth.

“I’m close….” you whimpered, your lips parted as you panted for air, your eyes closing for a moment before they snapped open when Dave slapped your thigh.

“Look at me when I make you cum,” he grunted.

With your eyes trained on him, your hand in his hair and his mouth on you it wasn’t long before he made you cum, your thighs shaking around his head as he continued to lick you up, giving you by far the best orgasm of your life while you moaned out his name.

He gave your pussy one last kiss, before he got to his feet.

“Ready for my cock?” he asked.

Slowly you sat yourself up, getting on your knees on the bed in front of him, pulling him down towards you, so you could kiss him. Your hands found his belt, unbuckling it.

“How do you want me?” you mumbled against his lips, eager to have him inside of you. You felt his lips twitch into a smile against yours, his hands unclasping your bra behind you, pulling it off your shoulders.

One of your hands finally slipped into his pants, pulling his cock out.

You tried to play off your surprise, but Dave saw your eyes widening. He pecked your lips.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, we gonna make it fit,” he winked.

You risked a glance down to his hard cock. He was not much bigger than your husbands, but much thicker. Precum pooled on the angry red tip, and you bent down before you could stop yourself, your tongue licking it off, moaning as you tasted him.

“Fuck,” Dave moaned and you looked up at him, seeing his eyes fixed on you.

You had his whole attention and you were loving it.

“Some other time sweetheart,” he said warmly, one of his hands cupping your cheek.

“Now I want you on your back so I can watch those perfect tits shake when I fuck my pussy,” he said. You shivered before you slipped back towards the center of the bed. Dave took his pants, boxers and socks off before he joined you on the bed. You parted your legs for him as he came to kneel between them, his hand lazily pumping his cock.

You had discussed protection in the week leading up to today, coming to know that Dave had a vasectomy years ago. With him getting tested regularly and you not having had sex with anyone in a long time you had given him the freedom to decide if he wanted to use condoms or not.

A big part of you was happy he didn’t because you wanted to feel him. All of him.

He nudged his tip against your folds, moving it over your clit repeatedly. He reached for a pillow, your husband's pillow, propping it under your hips.

“You’re dripping for me sweetheart,” he grinned. You sighed, your hands coming to play with your nipples.

Slowly his tip slipped inside of you and you stopped breathing for a second, enjoying the delicious stretch of his length parting your folds.

“Shit Baby…” you moaned, sucking your bottom lip in.

Ever so slowly, giving you time to adjust his cock filled you.

“You’re so fucking wet. Perfect just… fuck just perfect,” he praised you, groaning when his hips met yours, his cock completely inside of you.

You felt so fucking full.

“Move,” you whined.

“You’re such a whore,” you heard another voice, your eyes blinking as you registered your husband's voice, having completely forgotten about him.

You found Dave’s eyes on you before you turned your head to find Calvin obediently sitting in the chair Dave had pulled for him.

You took a deep breath before you turned your head to look at Dave again.

“At least I’m your whore then,” you said to Dave and he grinned before he bottomed out and thrusted back into you. You cried out.

He snapped his hips against yours, his hands grabbing your hips as he pumped into you. You threw your arms back, grabbing the headboard.

Sex had never felt like this. Yes, you did not have much to compare it to, but fuck that was what you missed? He ruined you, slowly, with every thrust inside of you, with every brush of his fingers on your body. He watched mesmerized as your tits shook with every thrust, before his arms pulled you up against him, into his lap, your chest against his. You crossed your arms behind him, your hands on his neck as he fucked up into you. His hands helping you move on top of him.

“Whose pussy is this from now on?” he asked, his voice dark.

“Yours Dave, fucking yours,” you moaned.

“Fuck yes,” he grunted, slapping your ass. Your pussy clenched around him and you watched him cock his eyebrow.

“You like that huh?” he smirked, doing it again and you moaned.

“Maybe you are my little whore after all,” he hummed against your ear, thrusting into you. He continued to slap your ass until you exploded around him, crying out as he fucked your through your orgasm.

It wasn’t long before he twitched inside of you, warmth filling you as he moaned against your lips.

Both panting against each other's lips you smiled, letting your hand fall against his, before he leaned down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, making you clench around his cock.

“That… That never happened before…” you said and he frowned, looking up at you.

“I never came when he fucked me,” you clarified and Dave’s jaw twitched before he kissed your lips.

“I should kill that fucker for how he treated you,” he mumbled against your lips and for reasons you had to unpack at another time, the thought made you clench around him.

“Interesting,” he mumbled, giving you a wink.

“You came inside of her? What the fuck?” you rolled your eyes back as you heard Calvin exclaim.

“And he made me cum. Twice. Guess it was not my fault you couldn’t after all,” you said without looking at him.

Dave chuckled, before he helped you off, his cum dripping into the sheets. He slipped his fingers between your legs, pushing his cum back into you, before he brought his fingers up, holding them out for you. You sucked them clean for him, moaning at your combined taste.

But as much as you wanted just to lay back and enjoy the afterglow, you did not want to spend any more time than necessary in this house.

Dave helped you out of bed, helping you into your dress before he got back into his clothes, pocketing your ruined panties and bra.

He gave you a small smile, taking your hand.

You walked towards the bedroom door when you stopped and turned around.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Calvin screamed behind you and Dave turned around faster than you could notice, his hand stopping Calvin’s wrist before he could reach you. He yelped in pain and Dave let go, stepping between you and your soon to be ex husband.

You took a deep breath, putting a hand on Dave’s shoulder who looked at you over his shoulder. You gave him a small nod, before you stepped to the side, still close enough, so he could intervene. Calvin was still looking at Dave with what you think was terror in his eyes.

“Did you think I would stay by your side while you fucked your way through the country forever? Humiliate me like that? I loved you. I wanted to spend my life with you, but you threw that away. And he helped me to see that. It’s embarrassing how long it took me. So we’re getting divorced, Calvin. You can keep the house and I keep my dignity. And my money,” you said.

Calvin looked at you now, his eyes filling with tears.

“Don’t you love me?” he asked, his voice small.

You took a deep breath, looking at the man you once loved so much. Feeling nothing.

“Not anymore,” you said, giving him a small sad smile before you took Dave’s hand.

Dave gave Calvin one last look before he grabbed your purse and led you out of the house.

#my fic #Dave york #dave york x female reader #Pedro pascal #fanficion #fanfic #fan fiction #dave york fanfiction #Dave york x fem. reader

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megamindsecretlair · 3 months

Text

What You Deserve, Part 1

Pairing: Big Stunna x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Toxic filth. Infidelity. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female receiving) teasing/mocking, cum play, dirty talk, praise kink, Daddy kink, all consensual.

Summary: While out running errands for your family, sweet and handsome Stunna helps put the groceries in your car. A naughty, run-away thought leads you to invite him back to your house to thank him properly.

Word Count: 6,984k

Part 2 | Part 3

A/N: The brainrot is REAL. This is a hot ask from @planetblaque Everybody say thank you for this toxic hot fic! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!

Taglist: @blackerthings @browngirldominion @we-outsiiiide @thecookiebratz @iv0rysoap @notapradagurl7 @sevikasblackgf @miyuhpapayuh @xo-goldengirl @kindofaintrovert @flydotty @judymfmoody @slippinninque @soufcakmistress @henneseyhoe @westside-rot @melaninpov @twocentuar @blackpinup22 @babybratzmaraj @theyscreamsannii @kiabialia

You walked down the grocery store aisle and the squeaky wheel on the cart was driving you nuts. You managed to get a lot on the list but you were still looking around for rice. You sighed. You hated when the store rearranged shit for no reason. How hard was it to keep things in the same place?

You turned down the rice aisle and noticed a tall man wearing a black and white flannel shirt, dark jeans, and boots. Damn, he looked really good standing there picking out taco packets. You looked down at your wedding ring and curled your lip in disgust.

Your husband would never be caught dead in the grocery store. And if he did, he’d only call you every two seconds because he didn’t pay attention to shit. He was a big picture man, staring ahead years into the future and what he needed to do to provide for the family.

Provide. That’s all he knew how to do. Your husband wasn’t a bad man…he was oblivious in a way that should have been a warning bell before you got married. As such, you were five years into the marriage with perfect five year old twins. When they weren’t being little demons.

You looked back towards the man and he was looking between two items, looking at the ingredients. You got a nice look at the length of his neck, his beard, and a cute little mumble he did while he debated.

You shouldn’t be checking out another man but well, you weren’t dead. You saw something pretty, you were going to look at it. And in this case, the man was too pretty for words. Or maybe it was your libido talking. After the kids, your husband paid less attention to that aspect of the marriage, forcing you into a life of celibacy.

Every blue moon, he’d look at you with something that could be called interest and then he’d get you just wet enough to get inside you. He’d get off, ask if you did, and then pass out in front of the TV. You started lying that you did just to get him out of the room. Who the hell wanted to be with someone that made sex feel like a chore?

You picked up a small packet of rice and then thought about it. The bigger packet was more expensive but it’d last longer. And with the way your son, Noah, ate he’d eat you out of house and home by the time he’s a teenager. You picked up the bigger packet and scooted off down the aisle.

You passed by the man. He looked up and gave you a double take, smiling as you passed showing off grills. You may have swayed your hips a little too hard as you turned the corner. Though, who were you fooling?

While the kids were at school and your husband was at work, you barely put any effort into how you looked. You were a married stay at home mom and that meant lounge pants and a T-shirt were your best friend. Sometimes you even matched. You had joined the invisible legion of women whose world stopped as you took care of your family. You were happy to do so, but it was times like these that made you feel like you lost that spark. That sense of identity outside of your family.

As you went down other aisles, somehow you managed to end up in the same ones with Mr. Sexy. It got to the point where’d notice first and smile at you. You smiled shyly back but avoided getting too close. He didn’t need any encouragement from you. If you were single though…

You sighed and made your way to the checkout lane. It was still early and there weren't a lot of people in the store. You checked out and pushed the cart to your truck, popping the trunk and starting to lift the bags inside.

“Excuse me! Miss!” A deep voice made you turn to the sound and there was Mr. Sexy waving over to you.

“Yes?” You asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to help with your bags,” he said when he got closer to your truck.

“Oh, that’s sweet but not necessary,” you said.

“Please. My mama would turn in her grave if she knew I didn’t help a beautiful woman like you,” he said.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

The small act of help touched you in ways that you weren’t expecting. As he lifted bags out of the cart, your eyes grew a little teary. When was the last time your own husband helped with groceries?

“You look like you feeding an army here,” the man said.

You giggled. Well, he was bound to find out. “Ah, yeah. My husband and kids can eat a lot,” you said.

You watched his face to see what the news would do to him. Whether he was sad or disappointed that you were off the market. He only nodded. “Must be some slammin’ food if they eatin’ it like that,” he said.

“I can throw down in the kitchen,” you bragged, preening a bit that you could do so.

“Oh yeah? What you be makin’? And just know I’m already judging,” he said. He heaved bag after bag into your trunk and it made you a little sad thinking of bringing all that shit in the house by yourself.

“Meatloaf, roast beef stew, enchiladas. In fact, I’m making that tonight,” you said.

“Oh word? I be cookin’ sometimes too,” he said and then grinned like he was remembering a funny joke. “Enchiladas sound good as hell right now, too.”

A naughty thought entered your mind. It was too brief and quick and you instantly kicked it to the back, hiding it in a tiny box and stepping on it. “You making anything special for your girl?” You asked.

He finished with the bags and then closed the trunk for you. “Naw, ain’t got a girl,” he said. He grinned at you. That smile could melt ice. You felt your pussy throb and your eyes widened. You about thought the damn thing was broken.

“It’s just you?” You asked.

“Just me, unfortunately. But that’s alright. For now, I get to make whatever the hell I want and enjoy it,” he said.

“Must be nice. My family loves my shit, but it’s not like they have an alternative,” you said and giggled.

“Shame. I bet it’s delicious,” he said. Was he…flirting with you? Even knowing you had a family?

“Thanks. I should probably get this home and start cooking. Thank you for helping me,” you said.

He reached out his hand and you looked at it. Somehow, even shaking his hand felt naughty. Like he was going to see all the nasty things running through your mind. Thoughts of riding his thigh until you got off. Soaking his dick while he slammed inside of you. The thoughts were so vivid to you, you were worried that he’d read it all over your face.

Another advantage to getting the house to yourself in the daytime was that you had plenty of toys to get the job done in peace. One thought about his face and you were sure you’d beat your personal record.

You shook his hand so you weren’t rude and he held on. “I’m Stunna,” he said. He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss there. The back of your hand tingled and it moved all throughout your body until you were throbbing once more. Twice in a short amount of time? Calm down, girl. It wasn’t like you could do something with this man.

You told him your name. “Would you mind if I gave you my number? If you’re out shopping, I can help you again,” he said.

You giggled. “You would come all the way to the store just to help me load groceries into my car?”

“I’d unload them too if you let me,” he said. He was serious, not an ounce of humor on his face.

“You know I’m married, right? Like I didn’t bury that anywhere,” you said.

He laughed. “I heard that part, but I also don’t see the mu’fucka. Anyone letting you out of his sight must be ten kinds of stupid,” he said. He looked you over, making a show of turning his head one way and then another.

You laughed but didn’t let go of his hand. Found that you didn’t want to. Found that you were touch starved as hell and it was damn nice touching someone that looked as good as he did. “What, my husband supposed to have me on a leash?” You asked.

“Sheit, I would,” he said. “Yo sexy ass wouldn’t be able to breathe without me.”

“You better stop!” You said. Oh god, your cheeks were burning like hell and the whole thing was cute and weird and embarrassing. You did not get giggly because one man paid you a compliment.

He wasn’t the first one to do so. Even though your husband was buried with work, he still called you beautiful. Raggedy men still tried to holler at you while you pumped gas and ran errands. None were so bold as Stunna though. There was something about that level of confidence that had you squeezing your thighs together.

“Do you really want me to stop?” Stunna asked.

No. Not even a little bit. But you couldn’t say that. “You probably should. Gonna get us both in trouble,” you said.

“I don’t mind a little trouble. You never answered me about giving you my number. I was serious,” he said. “I don’t want anything in return, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’d just like to see you again. Your husband don’t let you have friends?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes playfully and finally dropped his hand. You were holding onto it entirely too long. “I can have friends,” you said. But you knew that he’d be anything but friendly. And why did that turn you on?

“See, that’s that nigga’s first mistake. I wouldn’t let you have no friends neither,” he said.

You laughed loudly and shook your head. “Life with you sounds restrictive as hell! What if I want alone time?” You asked.

“You could have all the alone time you want. At home,” he said.

You couldn’t help laughing again, leaning against your truck as you pictured life with him. Life where he was clingy and wrapped entirely with you and never chose you over his work. The type of life you always dreamed about when you were younger and thought love meant candy hearts, roses, and bubbly champagne.

“You have issues, sir,” you said.

“That’s aight. You just look too damn good to go to the store by yourself or run errands. These belong on a honey-do list,” he said.

You smiled. Your husband would break out in hives if you gave him a honey-do list that involved the grocery store or runs to the clothing store for your twins. Your kids were active in every sense of the word. You made it a point that they stay off screens as much as possible and get out into the big backyard your husband paid for.

They found every mud patch, mudslide, and dusty hill to play on. When they came back in, they looked like swamp monsters. Your husband in the store trying to find good, cute outfits? Yeah right.

“You are crazy. But I want to thank you. How does enchiladas sound?” You asked.

“Word? I get to try some?” He asked.

“If you’re serious about helping me unpack these groceries, then yeah. I think that’s worth a meal being cooked for you for once,” you said. Intrusive thoughts won for the day. You liked talking to him and you were worried that if you gave him your number, you’d chicken out. You’d reason and logic this away until you were even more depressed about the state of your marriage.

It’d be nice to cook for someone who’d genuinely appreciate it. Rather than eating to live. Stunna seemed like the type that lived to eat and it was nice to find a kindred spirit.

He grinned wider, showing up a neat row of white teeth and those grills. “I’d love to try your food,” he said.

“Alright, follow me,” you said.

He walked you to the driver side of your car and held the door open for you while you climbed in. “See you soon,” he said and closed the door when you were safely inside. You put on your seatbelt and watched him return the cart to the proper place.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he made it to his own car. You started yours up and pulled out of the parking spot. A moment later, he was pulling up behind you. You drove home, heart in your throat. What the hell were you doing?

Stunna was a stranger and you were just letting this man follow you home. You watched his car in your rear view mirror and wondered what he was like. So far, he had been nothing but cordial but a tad forward. You knew he valued his mom and was a gentleman, even though he had silly ideas about how he’d treat his woman.

You remembered your single days. Grabbing enough food for yourself and eating lonely meal after lonely meal. Stunna didn’t seem like he was hurting for female company. It seemed like he was interested in yours and well, what the hell? You were grown, you could protect yourself.

Besides, you just really, really wanted to keep talking to him.

You pulled into your driveway and Stunna parked on the street. You were in the quiet suburbs where Black folks were just trying to get by. They had nice houses and decent jobs, but people were more interested in faking the funk than admitting that they were struggling.

Your husband was smart with money so you weren’t hurting. But buying two of everything was expensive. It seemed like Noah was always playing right out of the shoes you bought him and Naomi just had to have the latest baby doll.

Stunna joined you at your car and you unlocked it for him. He grabbed a handful in each hand and you were sorry he was wearing long-sleeves. You wanted to see his muscles work. You wanted to see his shirt off.

For now, you would settle with just watching him be considerate. You let him into your home and he whistled. “Nice ass house,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said. You had it decorated to your specifications so it wasn’t stuffy and stiff. As if you lifted it from a magazine. Naw. Your house was lived in and full of love.

You walked to the kitchen and showed him where to drop off the bags. “Naw, I wanna earn my meal. Point to where they go and I’ll do it,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said.

“I know. Let me help. Sit yo pretty ass down and get some water,” he said.

“Fine,” you said with a grin. He grabbed the rest of the groceries from the car and closed your front door. You asked him to lock it. You may live in a nice neighborhood but that didn’t mean shit. Thieves would use any advantage to steal. Stunna could be a thief but he didn’t have to wait till he got here. Sure, he could steal the shit in your house but it was all insured. He’d have been better off stealing your wallet at the store.

You told him which ingredients to leave out for the enchiladas while you grabbed two water bottles from the fridge. You downed at least half of it. Stunna made you feel like you were standing on top of a hot vent.

He accepted his bottle and sat down at the bar stool, looking at you while you dug out pots and pans, cooking utensils, and your cutting board.

You talked about light subjects like your family, friends, and what he does for a living. He was a bit cagey about that part, so you assumed it was something bad. You weren’t trying to be judgemental but you could not see his sexy ass saying, “Yes, Sir. No, Sir”, at an office job like your husband.

You put the chicken on to boil and started prepping the veggies for the salad on the cutting board. Yes, he judged the hell out of how you sliced them.

“I’m trying to make you a nice lunch,” you said.

“I know! I’m just saying, you could slice them faster and more evenly,” he said.

“You’re not supposed to help me with the meal too!”

He chuckled. “I don’t mind. Can I show you?” He asked.

You gave him a playful look to know that you were mad at him but with no real heat. “Fine, since you know everything,” you said.

He got up from the stool and came around the kitchen island. He washed his hands in the sink and then took the knife from you. “Aight, so if you hold it like this and the tomato like this, boom,” he said. He focused on the task, blowing through the tomato like butter.

“Wait, how’d you do that?” You asked. He chuckled and grabbed another one, going slower and showing you how to do what he did. He grabbed the last one and let you do it. You made one slice and he made a noise like a game buzzer.

“May I?” He asked.

You really shouldn’t. But your head was nodding anyway. He stood behind you and you closed your eyes briefly. He was so strong and solid behind you. He leaned down so he could bring his hands on top of yours. He showed you how to hold the knife and tomato and how to make the same cuts he did.

He helped you with the first few slices and then left you to make the next ones by yourself. He didn’t move from behind you as you moved through cutting it, chopping it up like a professional chef.

“I did it!” You said. You giggled and danced, shaking your ass on his crotch until you realized what you did and stopped.

“I am so sorry!” You said. You flipped around in his arms and he titled his head at you.

“I’m not,” he said with a slow grin.

“Stunna, now you know…”

“I know that you seem a little lonely. Forgive my bluntness, but shit, this whole house to yourself every day and all you do is cook and clean?”

“I take care of my family,” you said defensively.

“I know. But who take care of you? Shit on the outside, it look like yo husband forgot what a baddie he got for a wife,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever forget.”

He used his fingers to lift your chin up and forced you to look at him. “Stunna, I’m married,” you said. You said it like it was a piece of armor you drew around yourself. Those two words would stop even the most persistent of men.

“Mhm, yet you here with me,” he said.

“I got kids,” you said.

“They little asses still in school, ain’t they? I’m great with kids,” he said.

You giggled. “You are so bad.”

He grinned, flashing you the grills. He was dangerous. Likely some type of criminal. A veritable hood rat that chased skirts and smoked all day. The complete opposite of your straight-laced husband who got pissy if his tie didn't match his shirt.

“I can be worse,” he said. He put his hands on the countertop on either side of you. He placed a kiss against your neck, breathing in your scent. You wore your favorite lotion and were glad you did.

“Let me be bad and take care of you for once,” he whispered against your skin. “Don’t you deserve it? Don’t you deserve to feel good?” He moved his lips to the other side of your neck. You leaned your head back, letting out a soft moan.

If he kissed you, you’d cum on the spot. That’s how needy you were. How desperate and starved for affection.

“Stunna, are you serious?” You asked.

“Hell yeah. See, the why I see it? This ain’t you, mama. You need some relief. I can be that,” he said.

“Even though…”

“Hear me when I say that I don’t give a flying fuck about your husband. I don’t give a shit that you’re a mom. I see a fine ass woman with a banging body that I wanna put on this table and taste her. Eat her for lunch,” he whispered in your ear. The force of his words were like tiny arrows shooting you with desire.

You leaned back so that you could look him in the eyes. “Do it. I want that,” you said.

Stunna turned and lowered the heat on the chicken. Then, he grabbed your hand and led you to the dining table. He intuitively moved to the head of the table. You went to loosen the tie at your waist, but he slapped your hand away.

He brought his lips to yours and you let him. You let him kiss you and opened your mouth to run your tongue against his. He moaned and kissed you deeper, rougher. He knew without you having to say what you needed.

He pulled the tie at your waist, letting your lounge pants slip off of your hips and down to the floor. Shit!

You pulled away from him and tried to hide your hideous granny panties. He pulled your hands away. “Think this scare me away?” He asked.

You nodded but you couldn’t look him in the eye. How the hell were you supposed to be sexy while wearing these atrocities? To be fair, you weren’t expecting sex today. Your husband was on a project that sucked up all of his time and attention.

“Naw. Just makes you sexier to me. Move them hands,” he said.

You bit your lip and shook your head. There was no way you could continue after looking so gross.

Stunna leaned down and kissed your ear. “If I gotta move ‘em, you ain’t gon’ like it,” he said.

Shit, that only turned you on. You lowered your hands and finally looked at him. “That’s right. Be a damn good girl for me and take them sexy panties off,” he said.

Your fingers shook as you lowered your panties. Cool air brushed along your skin but did little to cool you off. There was a roaring fire of desire burning through your veins and you hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t done more than kiss and take off your clothes.

“Shirt too,” he said. He grabbed you by the waist and picked you up, sitting you down on the table. You yelped from the cold surface, making him grin.

You plucked off the T-shirt. Your bra was just as plain and ratty. All the cute bra and panty sets in your drawer and this was what you wore when you finally got some. The situation would be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing. Stunna truly didn’t seem to mind as you took off your bra.

His eyes lit up as he looked at your titties. He sat down in your husband’s seat and palmed your breasts, running his fingers over your sensitive nipples. You moaned, arching your back so that he could get a better angle.

He leaned forward and brought his lips to your left nipple, flicking his tongue over it. He latched on, suckling it into his mouth and you cried out from the pressure and bite of pain. Endorphins rushed through your system, making you squirm on the table. You were so wet.

He massaged your titties as he suckled. He moved on to your right nipple, suckling on it and moaning as if he were getting pleasure from this too. It wasn’t a chore. He wanted to touch you, taste you.

“Shit,” you moaned.

As he switched sides once more, he brought his hand down to cup your pussy. You jerked off of the table and he cooed. “Hmm, nice and creamy already. Love me a creamy girl. You got some more for me?”

He slowly worked his fingers past your pussy lips. He gathered up your essence at your entrance and used it to circle and tease your clit. You brought one of your hands up to his shoulder to push at him.

“What I tell you about them hands, gorgeous?” He asked.

“But…”

He bit your nipple and you cried out from the sting. “Uh-uh, do what Daddy tell you to.”

Fuck. You came on his fingers already, thighs twitching and brain tingling. You moaned throughout it, that sweet relief everything you needed. Relief that didn’t come from your own two fingers or a sex toy was somehow more intense. More visceral.

You bit your lip and looked at him. He watched you with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Needed that shit, didn’t you?” He asked.

You didn’t trust your voice. You nodded shyly. Ugh! You hated this! You did not land your husband being this timid woman who was too afraid to even moan during sex. You enjoyed the hell out of it. You enjoyed the hell out of it with your husband. But once you got pregnant, he knew he needed to step up. Grinding for you became more important than grinding in you.

A pang of shame hit you. You allowed another man to touch you. You swiftly kicked that bit of shame to the back of your mind. This wasn’t about emotions or starting anything. This was something nasty to get out of your system. The last hurrah you never got because you were pregnant when your husband proposed. You never got a wild bachelorette party with strippers and dick straws.

“Spread them legs,” he commanded.

You grinned slowly. You opened your legs and gave him a sultry look. The look of surprise on his face was priceless. You were just a little rusty. You knew how to throw down.

“You so fuckin’ sexy. Spread open for me,” he said. He licked his fingers, licking away your arousal. He moaned and closed his eyes, savoring your taste. “Sweet, just like you.”

He grabbed your thighs and opened them wider. He rubbed his big nose in between your folds. His tongue lapped at your entrance. His moans got higher as he tasted you in earnest.

“Oh shit! Oh fuck! Shit!” You moaned. His tongue felt like exactly how you pictured heaven. Eternal spring, warm sun, soft grass to sink your toes into. Your thighs pushed in ready to trap his face but his warm hands pushed them out. Pushed them away. Kept your legs open for him to lick and suck and tease your clit.

He made out with your pussy. Licking you and then following behind by his lips to lap up whatever you leaked out. Your thighs quivered at the attention and care. At the total devotion to getting you off. You cried and whined until you were plunging head first into another orgasm. One that rocked you down to your core.

“Oue, shit,” you moaned. You looked down and he was still lapping at your juices. You glitched every time his tongue swiped your sensitive clit. He stopped and retreated from your pussy, a long spit chain still connecting you both. His beard was glistening with your arousal and you moaned, loving the picture before you.

He licked his lips, breaking the chain. “Damn girl. Creamy as fuckin’ hell,” he said.

You licked your own lips. Needing a double dose of him. You leaned forward and reached for his pants. He stopped you. “Use your words,” he said.

“I need you. I wanna taste you, too,” you said.

He gripped your chin and brought you closer. And he wanted to kiss you after eating you out?!

His lips were puckered and wet. His beard tickled your chin as he kissed you. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was like he wanted to share your essence with you. Like he wanted you to taste yourself on his tongue and get a glimpse of what he did when he was between your thighs.

You did taste yourself and it was so damn hot. You smelled yourself all over him. His tongue explored your mouth. Your kisses were loud and sloppy. Lazy and slow, so at odds with how intense this man had been so far.

Your hands pulled at his shirt, trying to unbutton his shirt or slip it over his head. You needed him naked too. You needed to see all of him. “There’s that little nasty freak. I knew she was in there,” he said against your lips.

“Pants. Off. Now,” you said.

He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. He made quick work of his pants dropping them down just enough to expose his long, thick dick. Veins stood out against the shaft and drool threatened to spill out of your mouth.

You wanted to see more. You pulled at his shirt and he laughed again. “Do I need to tie those hands up? ‘Cause you don’t know how to listen,” he said.

“I wanna see all of you,” you said.

“Naw, today’s about you,” he said. He tilted his head and grabbed his dick, stroking a few times as he looked at your dripping pussy.

“‘Bout you getting what you so obviously deserve.” He slapped his dick against your pussy. Your eyes rolled back. You lost track of how many orgasms he handed out. You should be tired. You should be too wrung out to do anything more.

But you were hungry for him. Desperate for that long dick to deliver the strokes you sorely miss. Need.

“Today’s about getting you back to normal. To remind you that you’re fuckin’ gorgeous. That you shouldn’t go a day without getting filled up and fucked,” he said.

“Oh god. Fuck,” you moaned.

He slowly worked his way into your pussy. You moaned, crying out at just how big he was. How deep he was already and he hadn’t bottomed out yet.

“Ouue, shit. Hear this pussy talkin’?” He asked.

“Unf, yesss,” you moaned.

“You hear it? You should be hearing that every night,” he said. He wet his dick with your arousal and your toes curled as he finally settled himself in your wet heat.

“Fuck. Flip over ‘cause you don’t know how to behave,” he said.

“I can behave,” you said and poked your bottom lip out.

He grinned, those golds transforming him from hot to smoldering. He kissed you with a loud smack. “You can’t even listen when Daddy tell you do something. Flip that ass over,” he said.

You whined playfully as he slipped out. You let your wobbly legs down onto the floor and then turned around. He moved your hips until he lined you up where he wanted you. He lifted your left leg to hug the table and pressed down on your back until you were flush against the surface.

He smacked your ass. The loud sound and pain made you cry out. “Show me how you got them kids,” he said.

“Fuuuck,” you moaned.

He rammed his dick back inside you and you gasped. He stayed there, buried inside you while you adjusted to his girth and length. “Oue, shit. Fuuuck, you’re so big Daddy,” you moaned. You shook your ass on his dick.

He placed his hands on your hips but made no further movements. You began to move, rocking back on his dick, showing him exactly how you got your kids. You slammed down on him how you liked. Rough. Hard. It wasn’t difficult to do since his dick was so big. You had so much to work with.

“Ohhh, you like this dick,” he said.

“Yes, Daddy, I like it,” you said. Hell, you had no room to lie. Even working yourself desperately on his dick like this, you were having the time of your fucking life.

He chuckled and then started stroking. “Oh shit,” you said, a hint of panic creeping into your voice. You thought you were doing a little something. Arching your back and bouncing your ass on his dick.

But Stunna? Stunna was a different breed. He gave it to you exactly how you needed. He rutted inside of you, slamming you back on his dick with enough force to rob you of air. Rob you of thought. You were able to turn your brain off and enjoy getting filled up.

“You still like that shit?” He asked.

“Ahm,” you moaned. You couldn’t answer him. Couldn’t do anything but accept this deep, rough fucking. He moved his hands to your lower back and switched up his strokes. He moved deeper, his strokes longer. His thighs slapped against your ass loud enough to be mistaken for fireworks or a gunshot.

You laid your cheek against the table and let your body take over for you. Your body knew exactly what to do. Your pussy gripped him and he moaned low in his throat.

“I need that last one, mama. Gimme that last one,” he said.

“I…can’t…” You said.

“Sure you can. Gripping me so pretty. You almost there. You almost there, I can feel it. I can feel how much you need it. Let it go, mama. Let it go,” he said. His voice grew quieter as he talked.

The pressure in your lower belly was unbearable. You whined, knowing you were on the edge. You didn’t know what you needed but you were too far gone to name it. Claim it. To let him know.

Stunna’s hands roamed up your back until one of his hands was gripping the back of your neck. He squeezed and you gasped at the new angle. He got deeper, the tip of him kissing the very heart of you.

You exploded with a loud shriek, squeezing him and cumming with the power of a thousand suns. You shook and twitched on the table, flopping around. You were too lost to consider how crazy you looked.

“Gahh damn,” he moaned. He moved his hips rougher and faster until he slammed into you and shouted, unloaded a huge load into you.

“Sheeeeit,” you moaned. His cum painted your insides. Some of him slipped out around his dick and dropped down to your clit and likely landed on the table.

“Fuck, mama. That was fuckin’ sexy,” he said. He slowly pulled out and you felt the rush of his cum leak out. Good fucking thing you were still on birth control. The last thing, the absolute last thing you needed was to turn up pregnant with another man’s baby. Good luck explaining that to your husband.

You were still glitching on the table. So thoroughly fucked out that you couldn’t move yet. Didn’t want to move.

Stunna rubbed your back and then your booty. He gave you a booty massage while he watched his cum spill out of you.

The smell of chicken finally invaded your senses. “Food,” you said.

“Don’t worry, mama. You focus on getting your strength back,” he said. He zipped himself back up and then washed his hands. He turned off the stove and then heated up the pan. You listened and saw his back as he moved around your kitchen, cooking food for your family.

He fried up the shells, dipped it in the sauce and then rolled it on the pan with chicken and cheese. Done, he put some seasoning on top followed by more cheese. He put it in the oven and set a timer.

This. This was what you thought married life would be like. Getting your guts rearranged and cooking food together. Laughing together. Playing together.

Stunna came back around to check on you. He grinned and leaned on the table to kiss you. You were still in the same position he left you in. Fucked out and blissed out.

“Why don’t you go shower and I’ll watch the food. Should be done by the time you get out,” he said.

“How are you…”

“I see somethin’ I want, I want it. Let a real nigga show you how to appreciate the mother to his kids,” he said. He kissed you again and rubbed on your booty. “Now get your sexy ass upstairs before you’re late picking up your kids,” he said.

He helped you to your feet, proud of himself. Bastard. You picked up your clothes but Stunna stopped you from putting them on.

“I wanna see that ass jiggle up the stairs,” he said.

“I can’t stand you!” You said and giggled, wiggling your ass for him. You swayed your hips. A new energy suffusing you as you did so. You walked up to your room and showered, feeling nasty and like a woman again. Like you were more than a glorified maid and cook.

Done with your shower, you came downstairs. Stunna was on his phone, sitting at the table like he didn’t fuck you senseless thirty minutes ago. When you came back in with cuter panties this time, black leggings, and a red T-shirt, Stunna whistled like you were walking around in lingerie.

“Sexy ass. Getting fucked look good on you,” he said.

“Shut up!” You giggled. The enchiladas were cooling on the counter top. It smelled divine. You grabbed a plate and handed it to him, sitting down next to him. “Not really mines since you ended up finishing it,” you said.

“You not gon’ have none?” He asked.

You shook your head. “I’ll have some later. My schedule kinda lines up with the twins. I eat when they do,” you said.

Stunna pushed the plate towards you, holding out the fork. “Eat,” he said.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“Do I need to feed you?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes and took the fork from him. Nasty ass. If he fed you, you’d be late to pick up your kids. You ate a bite and moaned at the taste. His style was similar to yours but food made by other people tasted so much better.

You ate half and pushed the other half to him. He chuckled. “Aight, but next time you’re eating all of it. Gotta take care of yourself too,” he said.

“Oh, next time? That’s bold,” you said.

He ate and shrugged his shoulders. “You ain’t telling me no,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again. You laughed and giggled your way during his meal. He finished and you washed the plate. Dishes were your least favorite chore so you made sure to do it as soon as possible. To avoid it getting gross. And yes, a little bit of you wanted no reminder of him here.

Stunna came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. He dropped his head to your shoulder. “Give me your number. I won’t cause a scene. I just wanna be in your life,” he said.

“Stunna, we can’t. This was fun,” you said.

“More than fun.” He lifted your chin with his fingers and looked in your eyes. “You feel something here. We work well together. However you’ll have me,” he said.

You bit your lip. You wrestled with the decision. He already knew where you lived. What was your number on top of that?

Your alarm went off. Your first reminder that you needed to get going to arrive at pick up early. You jerked away from Stunna, grabbing your phone off of the counter and silencing it. Stunna watched you as you thought through your options.

“Giving you my number is like…agreeing to keep doing this,” you said.

“I ain’t gon’ pressure you for nothin’ you don’t wanna give. This can be whatever you want. But I saw your face when I was in that pussy. And it’s obvious your husband been neglecting you. Use me,” he said.

He slowly walked over to you. He took the phone from your hands and started tapping away. “Use me whenever your hands don’t do nearly as good a job as me,” he said.

You sighed and grinned. “Nasty ass,” you said.

“I’ma dip. But use that number.” He gave you a last, scorching kiss and then let himself out of your house.

You stared at the door, long after he was gone until your second alarm went off. You silenced it and made sure the stove was off. You left the house to pick up Noah and Naomi, listened to their excited chatter about school and what they learned.

You descended into “mom mode” as you fell into your normal routine. Get them home, homework done, washed up, and ready for dinner. Your husband made a rare appearance for once kissing you on the cheek and the kids on the head.

“Did you try something different?”

“Huh?” You asked, looking up from your dinner.

“Did you try something different with the enchiladas? It tastes different, but delicious like always, babe,” he said.

You stared at the table, picturing all the nasty shit you did there. How Stunna not only handled you, he also handled dinner. You sipped your water since your mouth went dry. The flashbacks were vicious.

“Saw something online that I wanted to try. You like it?” You asked.

“Mhm,” your husband said.

You hid your smile by eating more of the food and wondered when you could get Stunna back over.

The Secret Big Stunna Files...in case you needed a little more in your life.

Part 2 | Part 3

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