BY YOUR HANDS ALONE
neteyam sully x gn!reader
notes: this is silly & overtly fluffy & all over the place if i am completely honest rn. neteyam is a little flustered & probably ooc. sorry :’)
"there you are."
"here i am," you mirror back instantly, hardly sparing a glance up at the far too familiar voice as your fingers continue to work at chopping up some vegetables. it's a busy day—a momentous day. there is no time to waste.
"let me help," neteyam offers, already making moves to steal your knife from you as he steps to your side.
but you weave it away from his grasp, nudge him back with your shoulder and point the knife at him as you address him. "aht, don't think so," you differ, then continue your slicing. "besides, don't you have your own tasks to get to, mr. mighty warrior?"
days like this require a lot of preparation; everyone chipping in and doing their part so that it all gets done and runs smoothly. if even one person slacks off, it could cause a rift in sanctified plans. and that simply wouldn’t do. no, it would not.
"i have completed all of them, actually," he retorts, but he shrivels when you narrow your eyes up at him. "okay, almost all of them."
you scoff, let your pupils meet your sockets with a roll as you pry the truth out of him. of course, one of the most important days of the year and it is now that neteyam chooses to have an irresponsible whim. you aren’t sure what you’re gonna do with him.
"your mother will have your tail if she finds one thing out of place for tonight, you know this." it isn't necessarily a warning, but there is some tip-off in your tone. "you must get everything done."
neteyam hums, leans his hip against the raised wood that you are using as a makeshift counter. he says nothing, simply watches you. takes into account how you dice up the vegetables in front of you diligently before sliding them to the side with your knife and moving onto the next ones. his stare is driving you crazy—no one works well under pressure, after all.
it causes you to have a slight blunder; a misstep. you cut a pattern a tad too fast and send a slice of root tumbling towards the ground. neteyam's instincts are superb, quick, and he catches it before it hits the dirt. mumbling a thank you under your breath as he places it back on the tray, you find the heir before you still not making a move to speak.
you aren't sure why it unnerves you so.
"what do you have left to complete?" it's not the question you want to ask, but 'what the hell do you keep staring at?' doesn't sound quite as nice. so you settle on it.
you take a pause, a breath, to turn to him. throughout the years you have seen the eldest sully child wear many expressions. ones tainted by smiles, irritation, pride, devotion—but this one has you tipping your head in the most peculiar way.
because timidness is not something you think you've ever seen don the strong features of neteyam sully.
he carries himself with such an air of confidence; shoulders pressed back and chin held high—not arrogant, but undaunted. he does not shift gaze unless he is avoiding scoldings and he does not suck in his cheek unless he is fighting frustration. so, you wonder, what could possibly have his face contorted in such a reticent manner. if you did not know any better, you’d almost call his demeanor a rendition of shy. but that seems rather uncharacteristic of him, doesn’t it?
"ah—are you sure you don't need help with that?" he's deflecting, brushing off your inquiry like he hasn't heard it. and you can't decide whether you find that amusing or concerning.
he's making way for your knife again and you twist your arm to hold it out of his reach behind you. you eye him carefully, flit your gaze all around him to pick up on anything that you can that would explain his behavior.
"tell me." it's not an order, you aren't demanding, but neteyam nods his head like he's respondent of such.
"my father told me i needed a, uhm," he stutters, licks his lips, like he's tripping over his own tongue. and it's undeniable the way you see his ears twitch. "for the celebration tonight. i need a.."
"a what, neteyam?" you press, cock your brow up at him. you don't think you've ever seen him like this. never witnessed him so.. "you need a what?"
"a.. date."
so fidgety.
"a date?" you repeat with widening eyes.
"no, no not a—not a date really but i need someone for the—“
"the staining ceremony.” you finish for him, continue his sentence because with all his blubbering you aren’t sure he’ll ever spit it out.
he nods curtly.
the celebration tonight is for all the young warriors who have proved themselves throughout the calendar year as being strong willed and great protectors of the clan. neteyam, of course, is one of them. has been since he earned the right to be titled as such. so perhaps it should have clicked in your head that he’d be searching for a partner for the staining ceremony portion of the night.
but a part of you—if you’re being completely honest with yourself—just figured he had one already. events like this take weeks of planning; most warriors find their artisan a fortnight in advance. because it cannot just be anyone.
the partner one chooses for the staining ceremony must be someone with whom they feel a connection. some of the older warriors choose their mates. some of the youngest choose their mother or father. some settle for siblings. others, in brazen acts of outstretched hands, choose a mate unbonded; one who they harbor feelings for but have yet to seal such in the eyes of Eywa.
you cannot lie and say you had not pondered over who neteyam’s choice would be. a part of you thought he would pick kiri—they have always been so close and she has been his partner for such ceremony before. but, you are not deaf to the murmurs of your village, you are not ignorant of what has been passed from mouth to ear of all that will listen. there have been other… prospects who have been suggested to neteyam for this special commemoration.
your name has not been among them.
“well,” you continue, tear your eyes away from him and get back to the task at hand. there is no need to dwell on such things and fall behind. you have just one more batch of greens after this to prepare then you will be done and can walk away from all this. “if you’re here to ask my opinion on who your choice should be, i’m not sure i will prove to be much help.”
a shut down; a cut off. you’d like this conversation to be over as soon as possible because it’s making your fingers itch. you’re offering him a gateway to close the topic off.
but he doesn’t seem to get the memo.
“no,” he chuckles, now, and you can tell he’s shaking his head out of the corner of your eye. it’s breathy; like he’s punched it out of his chest and finally broken past the barrier of whatever flusteredness had him trapped before. “that’s not why i came to find you.”
“if it’s to convince kiri to sacrifice herself to do it for you again this year, i’m not game for that either.” you don’t understand why his laughter leaves you agitated, why this whole situation has caused an odd twisting in your gut.
“that won’t be necessary,” he disputes, “i do not need kiri to be my partner this year.”
your fingers fumble, your slicing stutters. “oh?” and you want to kick yourself for how your voice hitches. you clear your throat, bite the corner of your lip that neteyam can’t see. “convince some other poor soul to do it for you? is it zuy’nik? i know she presented you a kill from her hunt recently.”
neteyam hums. “no. i have not chosen zuy’nik.”
you grip your knife harder, focus carefully on the blade as you chop down on a bundle of leaves. your throat is dry, your heart is thundering. you feel silly.
“sënuul, then?” you question, do your best to sound as disinterested as possible even though your chest is burning to know who could be lucky enough to have been picked by the heir himself. “i hear many young warriors wish for her. they say she has delicate hands.”
your hands—in contrast—have grown tense; your chops near erratic. being this worked up over a man who is not your mate seems so futile, so nonsensical. if your mother were here to see you now she’d call you childish.
but is it so childish to want things your heart yearns for?
“while that may be true,” neteyam agrees with the sentiment, and that makes your stomach lurch, “it is not sënuul either.”
“then who is it? who could you possibly—“
a hand covering yours has you cutting yourself off. neteyam’s palm melds over your knuckles; stops your unsafe cutting and stills your wrist’s movements. before you can even bring yourself to look at him, calloused fingers are hooking around your chin. swiveling your head around, you have no choice but to meet his gaze. and it is not averting, not twinkling with tepidness like it was before. you think, for a moment, that’s because he’s passed the feeling onto you.
“i do not wish for any other partner in this clan.” and his voice does not waver, does not stumble, now. you swallow as you listen. “i came here to ask if you would do me the honors, for tonight.”
your tongue feels like cotton; the fuzz of it floating to your brain to make everything go static. this is.. not what you had expected.
you had expected to follow neytiri’s orders for preparing the food for the meals that would be shared. you had expected to dress yourself in the ceremonial clothing and jewelry you keep for these special occasions. you had expected to stand around the edges of the circle during the opening dance, serve food to the elders, and sit with a content tight smile as you watched kiri declare neteyam’s war paint for the third year in a row before the true celebration began.
you had not expected yourself to be standing face to face with neteyam, ears twitching embarrassingly sporadic, as he asks you to join him in one of the most intimate and important events of a warrior’s life.
and you suppose you can use that element of surprise as the reason why you find yourself a tad bit speechless while you nod dumbly. a wide grin cracks across his face, curves up his cheeks as he lets out another breathy laugh.
“thank you,” he murmurs, and he still hasn’t let go of your chin. “i was worried i would not get the chance to ask you in time. i was pushing it, but i tried to get all my other duties done as fast as i could.”
now that, the mention of time, finally knocks you out of your little lovesick trance.
“hey, wait,” you huff, shove at his chest lightly with your free hand. “you should have asked me sooner! i should have already had your stain pattern planned out, and—and now i have to go get all of your paints and i didn’t factor in the time for that. you’re terrible!”
“ah, i’m not terrible. i am sure you can just wing it,” he waves off, simpers like this is funny.
“wing it?” you gape at him. because he genuinely cannot be serious. “this will be your war paint pattern for the rest of the year. if it’s bad then you will be stuck with it. you want me just to wing that?!”
“why not? i have faith in you, i’ve put myself into your hands.” and it’s meant to playful, you know this, but the way he’s looking at you proves his words hold their full weight regardless. “don’t be mad at me.”
“oh, i’m mad,” you retort, brush him away as you get back to slicing because now you really do not have the time for distractions. “i cannot believe you have waited until last minute.”
“would you like me to ask someone else?” he queries, and you whip your head over to level him with a glare. “i mean, i am sure sënuul would be honored to be the partner of the future olo’eyktan.”
“you know, i liked you better when you were sputtering and nervous,” you spit back, retract your attention once again. “terrible. truly terrible.”
“ah, do not be mad at me,” he levels again, “what can i do to have you forgive me?”
“nothing. you will never be forgiven.” with no hesitation, but also no malice. your bite holds no venom, and your cheeks are still warm. such hypocrisy you spew.
“nothing?” he questions, and you don’t even have to see his face to know he is smiling. there he is again; the neteyam who holds his chin up high and taunts his brother into mindless games to prove his worth. you admire this neteyam; love this neteyam.
this neteyam grabs your face and tugs you forward before you can think of another mindless rebuttal to spout.
the kiss is light but fervent, and if you were a poetic person you might just say that his lips taste like future promises you already intend to keep. the fight drains from your body and you find no urge to bring it back. this neteyam seems to know how to quell you, how to dispel your frustration and wipe away your grievances like fogged up glass. so easy, so effortlessly.
he pulls away languidly, breath puffing against your lips. "forgive me?" he asks again, and you find yourself nodding before he even finishes the question.
he turns your head to peck your cheek then drops his hands to finally successfully steal the knife still held in yours. you tip your head, blinking through the daze to inquire what he's doing.
"i can finish that, you know."
"i know," he answers, then flashes you a crooked grin that has your stomach twisting in a way far different than before. "but don't you think you should start planning how you want to trail your hands over me?"
and, oh. part of you wants to hit him for that. but part of you wants to tug him in by the neckpiece he dons and get him to shut up by an alternative method.
as you reach forward to run your hand ever so heedlessly up his chest, a faux illusion of planning your mapping, you think you might just settle on the latter.
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The Object of My Desire
SUMMARY: You're a hardworking scholar and the spoiled daughter of a corrupt nobleman.
The mercenary hired for your protection is more than willing to take your father's money, just not your bratty attitude. Luckily, he's got a few ways to deal with spoiled little girls like you.
PAIRING: fighter!price x wizard!reader
WORD COUNT: 5.1k
TAGS: DND!au, porn with some plot, f masturbation, dirty talk, cunnilingus, he bends you over a desk, PIV, rough sex, unprotected sex, slight breath play, creampie, slight jealously, reader gets called a bitch (not by Price but he does call you a brat whoops)
A/N: this is just a silly little idea that popped into my head while I tried learning more about DND! I actually rolled some dice to make some decisions/outcomes and it made the writing experience way more fun 10/10 recommend
Winter’s gray sky cast a torrent of rain against the cobblestone roads and blew frigid winds through the streets of Moongarde. Despite the relentless weather, citizens continued to migrate towards the town's center in attendance for the annual Heroes Feast.
You clutched your cloak tighter against your chest as you weaved through the crowds of people heading in the opposite direction. There were more important things to deal with than a stupid celebration—like the supposed danger you were in.
Having a father who enjoyed making enemies in high places certainly made your life interesting. Though, the threats on your life were, frankly, a nuisance. You had much better things to do than worry about silly threats from cowardly, old men. But, your father worried; he worried enough to hire a mercenary to guard you.
You hoped he wasn't old and boring like the last one you chased away. Any guard who succumbed to simple illustory spells like fear weren't worth the gold your father spent.
Ahead, a hanging sign swung forward in the wind. Carved into the wood was a crow perched on a branch, staring off beyond the borders of its design. The Ivory Crow—a dingy, little establishment you loathed to enter.
With a grimace, you made your way up the creaking wooden stairs. Already, you could hear rowdy, clamorous songs and bellowing voices seeping through the cracks of its shabby, wooden walls.
Before you could reach out to push open the swinging doors, they burst open and a man stumbled out, his weight nearly toppling onto you.
“S’rry ‘bout tha’, m’ss,” he slurred, hiccuping as he ended his sentence. He grabbed onto one of the doors to steady himself, though he still swayed.
“Move,” you demanded. His body blocked half the entrance and you weren’t interested in squeezing past him. He was covered in stains, presumably sweat and booze from the acrid smell of him.
He lifted his head towards you, eyes half-lidded. “Hey, don’ tell me wha’ ta do,” he hissed.
You rolled your eyes and raised a finger towards the man. The familiar warmth of magic pooled at your fingertip and was dispelled when you tapped his forehead.
He crumpled to the ground, eyes closed with his chest still rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
You wiped your finger against your velvet cloak and stepped over the unconscious body into the tavern.
The inside was warmly lit by a large candle chandelier hanging from the tall rafters and more candles decorating tables. No one in the tavern seemed to have noticed your exchange. They were all absorbed in their own ideas of fun.
A dwarven bard strummed her lute on top of a table, singing an unfamiliar tune and absorbing the adoring applause of drunken patrons who chimed in off-key. Couples, locked in heated embraces, cozied themselves to dimly lit corners of the tavern.
If it wasn’t singing or lovers, there was plenty of conversation floating through the air to distract from anything outside.
Your eyes scanned the tavern’s edge, looking for a lone figure at one of the tables.
The mercenary gave your father instructions for you to find him at the Ivory Crow. Look for a bear on the pommel of his sword, your father had said.
In the far corner of the room, you finally spoted a vaguely familiar figure matching your idea of him, sitting on a stool with his back facing the wall and nursing a pint of ale between his hands. His eyes were downcast as he stared at the overflowing foam sliding down the metal pint.
He seemed to be the only lone figure in the tavern, everyone else was joined by at least one other companion.
His attire was shades of muted green and brown, darkened by grime and dirt. A sword tucked in its scabard leaned against the table. The pommel bore the crest of a roaring bear head.
You approached swiftly, maneuvering your way past the overflowing tables filled with patrons and stumbling drunks trying to get to the bar.
When you reached the mercenary, you stood at the edge of his table. His gaze lifted from his drink to you. Blue eyes met yours.
He wasn't as old as your last guard, and he certainly wasn't as boring to look at.
There was no surprise on his face as he looked at you, no glimmer of recognition; his stern countenance gave away nothing of his thoughts. His gaze was almost intense, discerning, and calculating.
You broke eye contact first to look down at the round stool opposite him. It had a spot of liquid on the edge that made you grimace.
All the other surrounding chairs looked occupied. So, you dug through your leather bag and pulled a purple cloth from it.
You wordlessly conjured up a spectral blue hand and offered up the cloth for it to wipe away the liquid. The hand dried up the liquid and deposited the cloth on the table before vanishing.
The mercenary had crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall to watch you, legs spread wide. Inquisitive eyes followed as you took a seat, back stiff with hands tucked into your cloak, clutching it tighter to your body as if it were shielding you.
“Ser Jonathan Price, correct?”
He nodded once and said nothing.
You fished a hefty pouch from your leather bag and tossed it towards him. The platinum pieces inside rattled as they hit the table.
His eyes fell to the bag for a moment, then slid back up to you, not attempting to reach for the pouch.
Maybe he was unimpressed.
“There's your payment for today—one hundred platinum pieces,” you stated and cleared your throat. “Now, the rules for this arrangement are simple: protect me and stay out of my way.”
You think he understood. He didn't say anything otherwise. There was a slight twitch in your eye when he tilted his head like he was looking at an amusing, little oddity.
After another moment his arms unfurled and a hand reached out for the pouch. He cradled it in his palm, hefting it for its weight. The coins rattled. When he pushed two fingers into the closed seam and spread it open, you scoffed.
“If you think I'm lying, don't. Your coin is there.” You crossed your arms, in an attempt to be as nonplussed as he was—it was a poor attempt. You couldn't help the frown that stuck to your lips.
He removed his fingers from the pouch and rapped his knuckles down hard against the wooden table twice, making you flinch and catching the attention of a passing barmaid.
Their exchange was quick. She turned her head toward him with a bright smile, flirty even as her eyes roamed down his figure. He pointed a finger down at his pint and flicked his wrist up to call for one more. She nodded and flitted back to the bar.
“Easy enough,” he said when he turned back to you. His voice was smoky, low. Probably caused by too many cigarettes and shouting. He rested his forearms on the table, one hand still gripped around the pouch. “But drop the ser, m’ not a knight.”
Your brows furrowed. You recalled the description your father gave you of him. A knight who served under the King’s banner for twenty years. “But you’re-”
“I was,” he interrupted firmly, leaving you with no room to argue.
Your mouth remained open, wanting to bite back, but when his brow raised slightly at the hint of a challenge, you clenched your jaw. Any attempt to delve further into the topic would only prove futile and a waste of time.
You took in a deep breath through your nose and exhaled through your mouth. “Fine,” you acquiesced. “How do I address you then?”
“John’s good enough for me."
“Okay, John,” you ground out and stood from your seat. “I want to leave before nightfall.”
He held his hand up, stopping you in your place. “We're not going anywhere yet, love.”
You bristled at both the nickname and his order. The arrangement was supposed to be the other way around. You give him orders and he follows.
“Sit, drink—I already bought you a mug.”
On cue, the barmaid returned to the table with another overflowing pint in her hand and set it down on your side. She wiped her hand down on her apron and looked at John, her charming smile returning. “Anythin’ else I can getcha?”
“No, thank you.” He returned her smile with a grin of his own. He dug into the pouch and pulled out a platinum piece, setting it in her outstretched hand.
Her eyes widened as she shook her head. “This is too much! The drinks are only ten silver!”
You crossed your arms and interjected, “I agree. That's far too much.”
“Keep it,” he assured, waving her off.
The barmaid scurried away with an even wider smile than you thought possible. Her hair and skirt bounced as she went.
With her gone, he turned his attention back to you and gestured back to your stool. “Drink with me.”
The foam dribbling down the sides of the metal pint made you grimace. You didn't drink ale; it wasn't to your taste. You preferred the rich, sweet taste of Evermead.
But, another part of you was tempted, not by cheap ale. It was the mercenary, the ex-knight, Jonathan Price. Stern to you, yet kind to the barmaid. Silent but still expressive. You felt the tug of curiosity, the desire to learn everything about this stranger and unfold his secrets.
You sat, watching as he took his ale and the bob of his throat as he drank.
He set down his drink, now half full, and nodded his head toward your mug. “Don't be shy, love. Go on.”
Your hand snuck out from your cloak and grasped the handle, cold and slightly sticky. Slowly, to not spill, you lifted the mug and took a sip. Cold liquid slid down your throat. The ale was bitter, watered down, and made your mouth twist with disgust.
“That bad, eh?” He chuckled. You were alarmed to find his low, raspy chuckle disarming. Surely, the ale hadn't got to your head already.
You set the mug down, pushing it further away with your fingers, and wiped your lips clean of any foam left behind with the back of your hand. “I can't believe you like this.”
“Oh, I don't like this garbage.” He laughed, grabbing his mug once more. His thumb idly ran down the handle, throwing a glance out to the crowded tavern. “Just drinking to pass the time.”
“Surely there are better taverns to drink in.” You glanced around at the rowdy patrons once more. Two men were standing toe to toe at the table across from you, exchanging heated words.
When he failed to respond, you tried following his eye. It led you to the opposite side of the room toward the barmaid who served you earlier tending to a group of adventurers. She pressed her hip against the table and chatted with them, laughing.
“So, it’s not the drinks that bring you back,” you muttered to yourself, moving your gaze back to him.
The small smile that tugged the corner of his lips as he watched her caused a strange feeling to stir in your chest. You clenched your hands together, forcing away the uncomfortable squeeze.
You stood abruptly from your seat, ignoring your chair tipping backwards and hitting the floor. His attention was on you again. The smile was gone.
“We’re going.”
“Haven't finished your drink,” he called as you stormed off.
You ignored him, pushing straight between the two quarreling men. Your hands pressed hard against both their chests to pry them out of your way.
The two men stumbled back, caught off guard.
“Hey!”
“Don't touch me, you little bitch,” the other snarled. His hand shot out to grab your wrist, narrowly latching on.
His movements were sloppy, most likely from all the ale he'd been drinking. You were quick enough to snatch your hand away before he could restrain you.
You were beginning to really hate this tavern.
More patrons were beginning to watch the exchange, sitting back like it was some spectacle.
But, you saw John rise from his stool. His hand grasping his sword as he approached the men from behind.
“Let's settle down, gentleman,” he said with a tired sigh.
The man who tried grabbing you turned his attention to John. “Stay outta this,” he hissed, clenching his fists and setting his shoulders back. He was much larger than John, towering at least a head taller.
You didn't want to find out how well a brawl between the two would end.
“Obtempero."
The spell sliped from your lips and the man stiffend. In that instance, your mind was linked with his as you forcibly erased any free will he had.
Shut up and sit down, you commanded.
The room went silent as the man lowered onto his seat. You clenched your jaw when your head began to throb, a sign of him fighting against your control.
“Quickly,” you beckoned to the mercenary. Your control over the man’s mind wouldn't last long and you didn't want to stick around to face his wrath.
You turned and dashed out the tavern doors, followed closely by John who was laughing to himself.
“Clearly you can handle yourself. Don't know what you need me for,” he said.
A light rainfall had started, coating you and the streets in water. You raised your hood over your head to shield yourself.
The street was still bustling with citizens with their umbrellas. A good cover in case the man tried following the two of you.
“I only agreed to a guard to appease father’s worries,” you muttered, sidestepping a pair of children running past you, chasing each other with wooden swords. “But, dealing with pea-brained oafs is easy compared to defending myself from someone with a dagger.”
He only hummed in reply, walking in stride with you up the cobblestone street. The rain was beginning to dampen his hair and clothes, but he didn't seem to mind.
You could feel your concentration on the spell waning the further you got until it snapped. You tensed and reached to grab John’s hand. His fingers wrapped around yours without question.
“We have to-”
“You bitch! I'm gonna tear you apart!”
Your head snapped around to find the man burst from the tavern door with a roar. Your heart jumped. The man almost seemed to burn with fury as he barreled up the street in search of you.
“This way.”
John tugged your hand and you allowed him to pull you through the street, weaving your way through throngs of people. He pulled you through unfamiliar streets that passed by in a blur before taking a sharp right into an alleyway, tugging you into the shadows.
Your back was against the stone walls and you heaved a sigh. Your heart raced with adrenaline. This certainly wasn't anything you'd experienced while nose-deep in a book. “Gods, I-”
“Shh,” he hushed, placing a hand over your mouth.
Your eyes widened. He was looking out towards the street and you realized how close he was standing, nearly pressed against your front. Your hand gripped his wrist; to pry it off or hold him close, you didn't know.
When he deemed the coast clear, his hand fell away.
“Don't do that again,” you said weakly.
He looked down at you, an amused smile forming. “Understood. Mind giving me my hand back then?”
You didn't realize your grip on his wrist remained. You released him and slipped away.
“I'll lead us home.”
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
The sun was just setting by the time you returned to the manor. John had followed you silently the whole way.
“Welcome back, ma'am,” Ann greeted once you entered the foyer. She was a maid you'd known since you were a child. Her warm smile was akin to that of a mother’s, though you'd never call her such.
“Ann will run you a bath and get you some new clothes.”
She was already moving up the left side of the split staircase to fulfill your request.
“What's wrong with my clothes?” John glanced down at his attire, smoothing his hand down the front of his doublet, now soaked with rain.
“They're filthy and soaked. Now go.” You used your hand to shoo him off and he followed Ann with a sigh, ascending the stairs.
You went off to another area of the manor where you could take your own bath and wash away the grime of that tavern.
When the bath was filled and ready, you shed your robes and stepped into the warmth, sighing as the warm water enveloped your body. You ran your hand up your arm, over your neck, and down your collarbone.
While you washed, your thoughts wandered back to John. A hand slipped down the valley of your breasts and between your thighs.
There was no question that he was attractive. The mercenary was new and surprisingly exciting—an experiment to toy with. You wanted to win him, have him in the palm of your hand and study what made him tick.
Your index finger brushed against your clit. The first hum of pleasure bolted through your body. Slow teasing circles were drawn over your clit until you ached for more. Two fingers parted your folds to allow your middle finger to dip in.
You sunk lower into the water, chin rippling the surface, and let your eyes fall shut to embrace your own touch while imagining it was someone else's.
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
When you slipped out of the bath, satisfied, you redressed into a new robe. The loose low neck reached your abdomen, teasing the inner valley of your breasts.
As you made your way to your room, you noticed the door was left slightly ajar. When you pushed open the door, you found John standing at your bookshelf, his fingers running down the spine of a tome.
He was in a fresh set of clothes, loaned from a butler by the looks of it. The untucked, white dress shirt clung to the curves of his muscles, growing taut when he folded his arms. The black pants fit his form enough to show off the thickness of his thighs.
You shut the door and leaned against it, eyeing his form. The ache between your legs was growing again, wanting more than just your fingers this time.
John turned around at the noise and you could see the buttons of his shirt were halfway done, revealing his toned chest with a smattering of hair.
“Impressive collection,” he remarked. “I’d expect no less from a wizard.”
“I spent my entire life building this collection,” you replied absently. Your mind was wandering to other things—the veins on his arms, the bulge of his pectorals in the shirt. You were unashamedly staring through lowered eyelids, greedily taking in the sight.
He was just as interested in your low cut robes. It was obvious in the way his eyes roamed your chest.
You chose to close the gap until you were beside the bookcase, just a foot away from his side.
He leaned his shoulder against the shelves and looked at you with a sly smirk. “Trying to charm me?”
Magic would make your game too easy.
Your hand moved to caress his jaw, smoothing over the soft hairs of his beard. He didn't move away, choosing to lean further into your touch.
“I don't need to,” you hummed. Your fingers clawed up the slope of his neck and into the short strands of damp hair, drawing his face closer. “You're already mine.”
“That so?” His words fluttered along your lips in warm breaths. Strong hands fell to the curves of your waist, smoothing down to your ass and pulling you against his front.
You felt the growing stiffness of his cock, trapped in his pants, press against your abdomen which only made the throbbing of your cunt worse. Instead of responding, you leaned forward and sealed your lips tightly against his, tasting smoke and bitter ale on his tongue.
John was quick to respond, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip to get you to open up for him. His grip slid down your ass, roughly squeezing the soft flesh in his large palms.
You rubbed yourself against his bulge, trying to satisfy the need growing inside of you. There was a needy, animalistic frenzy in his low groan, vibrating in his chest.
He backed you up towards your desk. It was cluttered with more tomes you amassed over the years, threatening to spill at the slightest touch. Your prized spell book, a gift from your father, was also sitting open, flipped to the enchantment spell you used earlier at the tavern.
John didn't seem to care much for your precious collection as he swiped the books off your desk to make room to set you down. They scattered to the floor.
You pulled away, intent on telling him off. That spell book was one of a kind—
He didn't give you room to argue, much less breathe. His lips were already diving forward to capture yours again, dizzying you, driving any thought out of your head. Your legs spread around his to accommodate his body as he forced your attention back on him.
John’s hands pushed aside the fabric of your robe which easily fell around your waist, exposing your bare breasts to the cool room air. Your hardening nipples rubbed against the coarse fabric of his shirt.
Your hands roamed his chest in turn, running over the coarse hairs and clawing down his exposed sternum. You worked quickly to unbutton the rest of his shirt and pushed it off his broad shoulders.
Once revealed, you trailed your eyes over his chest and down to a nasty scar sliced from his upper torso across his stomach. It was old by the scaring. You briefly wondered if it was the reason he was no longer a knight as your hand reached out to brush over it.
John caught your wrist in an iron grip. When you looked back at his face, his stern expression told you enough to stay silent about it. With your short nod, the tension in the air lifted and he was back to work on you.
Another night then, you thought. You'd unravel his secrets eventually.
When he released your wrist and pulled away, he moved down to his knees, untying the knot at your waist and pushing aside the rest of the fabric to reveal the rest of your body. With your thighs spread, he could fit his hand between your thighs, feeling the arousal leaking from your cunt.
“So wet already?”
His middle finger parted your folds, dipping in ever so slightly, causing your hips to shift forward, but he pulled away before you could feel him any deeper. He got to his knees, grunting as his settled.
Your legs hooked over his shoulders, leaving him face to face with your cunt. His heavy breath fanned over your exposed cunt.
“What a sight,” he muttered to himself before leaning in to flick his tongue over your clit again and again.
Your body trembled with static after every stroke of his tongue. Your fingers locked through his brown hair, tugging sharply at the roots. He hissed through his teeth at the sting, but even that didn't stop him.
His hands gripped your thighs around his shoulders, digging into the soft flesh and then smoothing up until his hands cupped your ass to push you further into his mouth.
One of your hands rested on the table to give yourself leverage as you rode his face. The hair of his beard burned against your inner thigh.
The pleasure thruming through your veins forced your legs to lock around his head as your orgasm came to its peak.
“That's it,” he coaxed. “Come in my fuckin’ mouth, love.”
John kept his mouth on your fluttering cunt, refusing to pull away until he had taken every last drop of your cum. Your hands weakly pulled on his hair, but his fingers dug deeper into your thighs as he forced his head back in.
“Gods,” you panted, looking down at him between your thighs, devouring you like a starved man. “Fuck me already.”
“Patience,” he huffed, flicking his tongue languidly over your clit once again. Your body stiffened again. “You think you can take me after one little orgasm?”
As you clenched around nothing and his tongue continued to take long strokes over your cunt, you rolled your eyes and snapped back, “Don’t be so cocky.”
He rose quickly after your remark, yanking your body off the desk as he went and forcing you around. One of his palms met the back of your neck and pushed you flat against the desk. His cock pressed against your ass. The fabric of his pants were rough against your bare skin.
“Let-"
His other hand clamped over your mouth and he growled into your ear, “No—no more orders. I'll give you what you want, but don't start cryin’ when it doesn't fit.”
You ached, wanting to rub your thighs together but his legs were in the way. His hand moved from your mouth to the button of his pants to pull himself free.
You could feel his thick cock press against your ass. Even without looking, you could tell he was nothing like the other wizards you'd have meaningless flings with in school.
His cock notched at your entrance and he asked lowly, “Ready, love?”
The hand over your mouth moved to caress the valley of your knuckles as your hand clasped the edge of the desk. Such an intimate gesture you almost wanted to embrace by turning over your hand and intertwining fingers.
But, you didn't have time for much thought before he buried himself into you as deep as he could go without resistance. Which was only the tip of his cock.
Your walls clamped around him, refusing to let him bully his way deeper. You whimpered, white-knuckling the desk, and shut your eyes. Gods, he was too thick.
“Shh,” he cooed in your ear. His fingers slid across your temple and into your hair, keeping your head against the desk. “You wanted this, right? You can take more.”
And he did give you more—and more, and more. Your clawed at the desk, welled up tears spilling down the side of your face, as he stretched you around his cock. You didn't breathe, not until his hips met your ass and you were completely filled to the brim.
You gasped, filling your lungs with air. The edge of the desk pressing against your abdomen allowed you to feel him deeper.
He grunted as you clenched around his length. “So fuckin’ tight,” he muttered to himself as he slowly rocked into your fluttering heat.
The friction wasn't enough for you. As always, you wanted more. You wanted to be fucked, ravished, devoured completely and thrown into a sickening rapture.
“More,” you moaned as his cocked dragged against your walls. You were needy and hungry for him to take you harder.
“Does a brat like you even know how to say please?” He slipped out of you completely instead.
You whined in protest, moving your hips back to fill the empty ache he left behind. His hands moved to grip your waist, holding you in place. “No, don't.”
“Too good to beg for it?” His fingers prodded at your entrance before he slipped two inside. They weren't comparable to his cock though—not as thick, not as full. “Come on my fingers then.”
His fingers curled against the sensitive spongey spot inside of you.
“F-Fuck you,” you ground out between your teeth, biting back a moan.
“That’s not what I asked for.” His voice was stern; there was no room for arguments, no room for demands other than his own.
You bit your lip. You weren't the one who was supposed to be begging—he was. Having John wrapped around your finger, desperate to please you like everyone else, was the end goal. But this?
Strong, commanding, taking what he wants—that was who John was. And even you couldn't help but relent to that dominance.
“Please.”
“Speak up, love.” You could hear the smirk in his voice.
Bastard.
“Please,” you repeated with a little more desperation than intended.
“Good girl,” he praised. His fingers slipped from you, pulling a string of your arousal with them, and he licked them clean. With his hands back on your hips, he lined up his cock and thrust back into you.
Your mouth hung open as your back arched into the desk. The pace he set was relentless. It rocked your desk, sending any books and papers left on it to the floor. But you didn't care anymore, not when he found that perfect spot inside you again and again. Your toes curled as warmth pooled in your stomach and your core tightened.
A hand wrapped around your neck once again, wrenching your back against his chest and forcing your head to the side. The sweat of your bodies melded you together. John’s fingers pressed on your throat with enough pressure to make you see stars. His gruff pants burst along the shell of your ear. His lips grazed the back of your neck as another hand moved to toy with your clit.
You cursed as your body seized up and you came around him. You held onto the arm pressed against your chest as you rode out your orgasm.
With a few more sharp thrusts, he spilled inside of you, flooding you with warmth. As you caught your breaths, he cupped your jaw and turned your head towards his to pull you into a searing kiss, still full of passion just like the first.
You were almost boneless, sinking into the kiss and his arms. “Bed,” you murmured, resting your head against his shoulder when he released your jaw. “Now.”
John clicked his tongue as he slid out of you. A mix of your arousal begin to leak down your leg. You flinched when his hand cupped your sex to stop anymore from escaping.
The action felt more possessive than anything else—something you weren't used to. Interest stirred in you once again.
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