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bucketsofmonsters · 4 months

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A Diplomatic Error

cw: enemies to lovers, kidnapping, being tied up, manhandling, size difference, non-human genitalia, oral sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex

male orc x fem reader

Word count: 9k

You were headed to another counsel meeting. You never really stopped attending them, despite the fact that they never listened to a word you had to say.

Your father said it was good for morale. You didn’t understand how watching someone sit around and not help was good for anyone’s morale, but you knew better than to question him.

The halls of the palace were quieter than you were used to. Almost everyone had been called to the front lines, even your closest guards had gone. You weren’t used to walking alone, nor were you accustomed to the typically lively castle looking like a ghost town.

So now you walked through the castle halls, more alone than you’d ever been before, no one there to wait on you, to protect you, to watch over you. Something in you said it should have felt freeing.

It didn’t. It just felt lonely.

As you walked, moving slowly as you wallowed in self-indulgent pity between war meetings, a pair of hands reached out of nowhere, one snaking around your waist to pull you back into the shadows while the other clamped firmly over your mouth.

When the guards had been sent away, you’d been assured that you’d be safe. It wouldn’t exactly be easy for a hulking orc to sneak in undetected. At least that's what you'd been told. With a massive hand that dwarfed your face locked over your mouth, suddenly the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous.

You thrashed under the figure's unwavering grip to no avail. He easily held you in place, barely needing to put any effort in to stop your desperate bid for an escape.

You weren’t one for swooning but suddenly a faintness came over you. You reached up to grab at the only stable thing in reach, hands wrapping around the figure’s arm, trying to keep yourself upright.

Your knees began to buckle and only then, mind slowed by whatever he’d dosed you with, did you begin to suspect foul play. Maybe something on his skin that humans were weak to, maybe something in the air. Was he holding a cloth? You didn’t think so. But then again, he seemed so far away not, even pressed up against you as he was.

You blinked your heavy eyes and when you opened them, you were thrown over a large shoulder. You watched the road behind you as the creature holding you strode along, still blind to what was ahead. His hand was wrapped around your waist, keeping you firmly in place, jostling you only slightly with each step.

It took you a second to gather your bearings enough to start struggling. Once you did, you started pounding on his back. It was a futile gesture but you were nothing if not persistent. At the very least, he knew you were awake now.

His shoulder shook under you as he chuckled. “Good morning, princess,” he said, his gravelly voice carrying across the road.

“Put me down, you brute!” you shouted, trying your best to kick your feet under heavy skirts. If you'd known you'd be getting kidnapped today, you'd have worn something lighter.

He paused and for a moment you thought maybe he'd listen to you. But you knew better than that, knew you'd have no say in any of this.

“As you wish.”

Your feet were planted on the ground, although he still had a heavy arm on your shoulder, holding you in place. A silent promise: you weren't going anywhere.

You whipped around, eager to see what was in front of you instead of the increasingly distant road you'd been traveling on.

You got your first look at the front of your captor, no longer flung over his shoulder.

Despite it being part of the little information you already knew about him, the first thing you noticed was that he was massive. He towered over you, with a broad frame to match. Tusks stuck out of his mouth as he sneered down at you, marring an almost handsome face.

You’d never actually seen an orc in person and despite years of being at war with them, it struck you suddenly that they were real. They were real and in front of you, no longer threatening figures discussed in crowded rooms you weren’t supposed to speak in but instead a real man in front of you with his hand on your arm. It radiated warmth, applying a firm pressure that told you if he wanted to he could crush you underhand.

In front of you, next to your very real captor, was a camp. The sort of camp you imagined soldiers slept in. You had no idea which side of the border you were on, disputed or otherwise. You hoped you were still in your own kingdom, but you had no way to know. It all looked the same from here.

Amidst the massive canvas tents milled a dozen or so orcs. At your sudden appearance, they’d stopped what they were doing, all peering at their new guest.

As they all stared at you, you panicked. Your feet started moving before your brain did. You managed to slip out from under your captor's grasp just in time to feel his hand dart forward, pushing you into the mud before you had a chance to get anywhere.

As you lay in the dirt, you heard something that sounded like orders being barked in a foreign tongue.

And then you were being hauled to your feet. You didn’t have the presence of mind to be upset at the manhandling as you looked down at your body, the front of you almost completely covered in mud.

You didn’t even have time to protest that before he cut you off. “Come on, m’lady. We have much to discuss.”

You crossed your arms, about to demand more respect from him before you were being lifted again and all you could manage was a surprised little squeak.

You watched helplessly as you were hauled into a nearby tent, all of the towering soldiers staring at you as you went.

You were deposited less than graciously on the floor of the tent, left to flounder and find your bearing on your own as your captor moved to look at you.

The tents were incredibly spacious, at least for someone of your size, the roof towering above you.

He leaned down in front of you, tone condescending as he spoke. “Here’s what's going to happen. You’re a bargaining chip for us. We’ll get you home as soon as your father allows it, princess.” He said your title like an insult, spat it at you in a way that made you flinch.

“And in the meantime?” you asked, trying your best not to look afraid. You'd make your way out of this with your pride intact. Well, as much of your pride as you could still manage to salvage as you stood there, covered in mud.

You could barely see the deep red of your dress under the grime. You didn’t even know how much of it was from your fall and how much you’d picked up on the road.

“In the meantime,” he said, “you will sit around until we need you.”

“Perfect.” You stood, futilely attempting to brush off your skirts as you did and taking a step towards the entrance of the tent. “Well, I should go find a place to rest until I am needed.” It was a long shot but you at least had to try.

Your captor followed you as you backed slowly out of the tent. “I don’t think you understand what’s going on here.”

“What’s the harm in it? Where do you think I’m going to go?” you shouted, gesturing around you at the thick woods. “If I had a death wish, there are far better ways to satisfy it than getting lost in the forest. Attempting to kill you, perhaps.”

He nodded. “It would be more honorable, to die in combat against me.”

You groaned. “Yeah, sure, that’s what I meant. It’d be so honorable of me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find somewhere to rest, maybe even clean myself.”

You managed to make it about two steps before his arm wrapped around your waist, lifting you as if you were a ragdoll.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

The words were hissed into your ear as he walked. You thrashed in his grip but it didn’t matter, he hauled you along just as easily.

You were thrown into a new tent next to a massive wooden pole, staked into the ground in the center.

He leaned down next to you, grabbing your arm, easily resisting your attempt to pull it away from him. As he easily held your wrists in one hand, the other reached back to pull out a length of rope. His hands were surprisingly nimble, threading rope around your wrists and securing you to the pole at the center of the tent with little difficulty.

When he let his hands get a little too close to your face, you bit them as hard as you could, locking your jaw down on him. There wasn’t any strategy behind it, you couldn’t escape or go anywhere, but the way he hissed and yanked his arm back filled you with a little bit of self-satisfaction. That had to be worth something.

He didn’t stick around long after. It seemed you had managed to piss him off at some stage in the kidnapping process. You couldn’t imagine when.

Your first night in the orc camp was spent restlessly, pulling futilely at your bindings as you sat there on the floor. You tried not to wallow in your misery. This wouldn’t be forever. Your father would get you out of here, one way or another. Until then, you could put on a brave face.

As the sun began to rise, the orcs’ curiosity in you seemed to reawaken.

Occasionally a soldier would peek in the entrance of the tent, never for more than a few seconds, or you would see them silhouetted against the canvas, hovering nearby. When you got particularly frustrated you’d shout at them, the snorts of laughter your yelling drew from them only making you angrier.

But anger was good. At least anger felt productive.

You’d become accustomed enough to the curiosity of the soldiers that at first, when your captor returned, you didn’t notice it was him. It was only when he strode towards you and began to undo your bindings that you realized who he was.

The second your bindings were undone, you made a break for it. You didn’t make it far. Your captor held you by your ankle, dangling you upside down, your various muddied skirt layers falling to cover your face as you struggled.

“This will be easier for you if you behave,” he said, and you could hear a layer of irritation in his voice.

You would've spat in his face if there weren't layers of fabric hanging in front of you.

His attempts to right you were thwarted by your thrashing until you figured out what he was trying to do and attempted to still yourself as much as you could, if only to get your feet on the ground again.

“We’re moving,” he said as you steadied yourself when returned back to solid ground. “I can carry you or you can walk.”

You opted to walk, both to preserve your dignity and to attempt to plan an escape.

The soldiers were shockingly efficient, completely packing up the camp faster than you’d imagined possible.

And then you were on the move.

You had to move swiftly to keep up with them, none of the soldiers willing to slow for you.

Your captor stayed diligently by your side, occasionally shooting you looks that seemed intended to tell you you had no chance of escape. You ignored him.

After about an hour of moving quietly, out of breath from all the walking, he was the one to break the silence.

“You’re slow.”

“Your legs are longer than mine. Besides, it's hard to walk when you’re covered in filth” you said, struggling under stiff, heavy skirts.

“And who is to blame for that?”

You gave him a pointed look. “In fact, I think you’ll find that you are.”

“You shouldn’t have run,” he said with a grunt.

“You shouldn’t have pushed me!”

He rolled his eyes and then you were being hauled off the ground again. You yelped in protest but were quietly a little grateful as he sat you on his shoulder. If you had to keep moving at their pace all day, dressed as you were, you might’ve passed out.

It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t keep up with a well-trained group of soliders. If anything, they should be impressed you managed to keep pace as long as you did.

Your hand rested on his other shoulder as he moved, trying to keep yourself steady, but realistically, you knew he wouldn’t let you fall, his arm holding you easily in place. You were just glad you were being allowed to sit this time instead of being thrown around like a sack of potatoes.

You spent the rest of the day like that, sitting on his shoulder as they traveled. As the sun began to set and the others began to set up camp, you expected to be set down.

It seemed you were wrong.

Instead of placing you on the ground or even tying you up again, he began to pace off in the opposite direction of the rest of the camp.

Nerves began to take over you. He may have said nothing would happen to you, but you did not relish in the thought of being alone with him, let alone him intentionally dragging you away from the rest of his compatriots.

You began to squirm again and his arm tightened, holding you in place. “Settle,” he said, his voice low and calm.

You did not listen.

Eventually, he did set you down, although you did not think your thrashing encouraged him to do so.

As he did, you noticed the sound of a swift-moving river just behind you.

He nudged you towards the river. “Clean. You’re too slow.”

“What?”

“You wanted to be clean,” he said, nudging you again. "You should clean”

“It’s a river.”

He looked at you like he was worried you’d hit your head. “It is.”

“And you expect me to wash in there? It’s full of dirt!”

He chuckled and you considered biting him again. “You’ll survive, princess.”

You groaned but decided that anything was better than the mud you were caked in. It was running water, at the very least. You weren’t certain why, but it did feel a little cleaner that way.

You considered bathing fully clothed but you’d heard too many stories of women drowning, weighed down by layers of dresses.

You began to pull at your dress, stripping off some of the upper layers, glaring at your captor as you did. It was too much to ask to be left alone, you knew that much, but it was still humiliating to get undressed in front of him like this.

You only took off as many layers as you needed to ensure you wouldn’t drown. You were almost fully covered but still, you felt exposed.

At the very least, he seemed largely disinterested in what you were doing, only sparing you the occasional glance.

You covered your chest as you moved towards the water. He looked down at you as you did, head cocked to the side. “What are you doing?”

“The skirts are heavy, I can’t wear them in the water or I could drown.”

He scoffed. “Little weakling. That’s not what I asked though, why do you hide? You’re covered.”

“I��m being forced to strip to my underwear, of course I’m covering myself.”

He stared back, clearly still confused, and you realized as you looked at him that the idea of being properly dressed was probably not the same for him. He was covered, but largely in leathers and furs, with far more skin exposed than you would ever have, even now in your underskirts.

“Listen,” you said, trying not to be too antagonistic, as it seemed he was truly trying to understand. “It’s different for us. Especially for me, I’m supposed to be covered perfectly at all times. Maybe you should give me new clothes.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked dismissively.

Any patience you’d been trying to put on for him snapped. “Sorry, I forgot you’re a heartless brute, I don’t know why I asked.”

And with that, you stormed off into freezing cold water.

The mud caking your skin began to wash off as soon as you touched the water and you let out a sigh of relief. The river looked to be snow runoff from a nearby mountain, it certainly felt cold enough for it, but for now all you wanted was to be clean.

You looked down as you scrubbed at your skin and your skirts and as you did, you realized the whites of your underthings had become translucent in the freezing water.

You turned and caught him staring, both looking away as soon as your eyes met. You turned your back to him immediately, feeling tears pricking at your eyes, trying to cover it up with the water that was rushing over you. It felt like you had nothing left, like this was the ultimate humiliation.

When you turned back to look at him once more, he was gone, not making so much as a sound as he left.

You weren’t foolish enough to think he’d truly left you alone, but you appreciated having at least the pretense of privacy. It was shockingly… kind?

No. You pushed the thought out of your mind as quickly as it occurred to you. You would not start thinking like that, not about the man who had kidnapped you.

You finished bathing quickly, the chill starting to set into your bones.

As you waded out of the river, he was still missing. It was evident where he’d been, massive orcs weren’t exactly built for stealth, but still he was nowhere to be found.

In his stead, you found a pile of clothes lying on the bank of the river. As you lifted them, the first thing you noticed was while they were far too big for you, they were too big by human standards. It was an old shirt, well worn, and a pair of pants you’d have to find some way to tie to keep up properly. They were slightly torn and upon closer inspection, you found speckles of a dark rusty substance splattered across the shirt.

Someone’s blood. From who’s side, you’d never know.

You tried not to dwell on what had happened to the owner of these clothes to leave them in the orc’s possession. They were yours now.

They were far more practical than your fine skirts had been, even if they didn’t quite fit properly.

As you pulled them on, you hesitated, holding your skirts. You didn’t need them any longer, but it felt like a waste to just leave them here.

But you had no time for sentimentality right now. You cast them aside, opting to forgo your shoes, despite the lack of new ones. Your shoes from the palace were not exactly built for forests and rough terrain. They’d only slow you down.

As you finished dressing, situating yourself in the unfamiliar clothes as best you could, you looked around nervously. You could find no sign of your captor amidst the unfamiliar foliage, but you had more than enough reason to doubt yourself. You felt lost amidst the thick trees surrounding you, it was hard to tell where you stood. You didn’t know what to look for or how to orient yourself, trapped in a foreign landscape.

You did what you could, checking for any onlookers, peeking through the trees, and once you’d made your decision, taking off.

You had no idea where you were, or where you were running to, but anywhere was better than here. There were surely search parties looking for you and even if you were on the other side of the border, orc civilians or soldiers who were unfamiliar with your status were a better bet than your current captors.

As your bare feet pounded down on a floor of sticks and rocks, you tried to ignore how cut up they were getting.

You were faster this way. That was what counted.

You focused on moving as fast as you could, the determination drowning out the pain until suddenly, the sharp rocks and twigs were underfoot no longer. Your brain took a second to catch up, feet still moving down to try and push off of a ground that was being pulled further and further away.

“Predictable little thing,” said a familiar voice beside you. “What happened to attempting to best me in combat? I didn’t take you for a coward, princess.”

A frustrated scream escaped you, cutting through the peaceful quiet of the forest.

Despite your protests, he continued to haul you back towards the camp, tying you up as soon as you reached your tent, a practiced routine for the two of you by now.

You had the night to sleep off your anger before morning came and you were on the move again.

Your captor did not wait before lifting you onto his shoulder and this time, you did not fight him. It was preferable to running to keep up with them, especially on newly damaged feet.

It felt strange to sit there, without struggling or screaming, just moving in silence. So instead, you spoke.

“Do you have a name?”

“Drakar,” he said. His voice was low but with your position atop his shoulder, it was easy to hear him, even over the bustle of moving soldiers.

“Thank you for the clothes,” you tried again, wanting to start up any sort of conversation to break the silence.

He didn’t even grace you with words this time, giving you a simple acknowledging grunt in return.

His answers remained brief, with no apparent interest in engaging in conversation. Eventually, you stopped trying.

When you came to a stop and the soldiers began to set up camp around you, you waited for your chance.

The second Drakar turned his back to you, you were off.

Another orc caught you in a heartbeat, hoisting you off the ground until Drakar could come fetch you.

He dragged you off with a huff, scowling at you as he set you down. “Why do you continue to fight and run? I’ve told you of our plans to trade you, you’ll fare better with us than on your own in the wilds.”

“I have no desire to be a bargaining chip against my own people. Besides, I’m no fool. I know good things don’t often happen to soldier’s prisoners.”

He scoffed. “Your soldiers, maybe. We have honor, unlike them. And you call us the monsters.”

“Monsters? Maybe. Uncivilized at the very least.”

“I assure you, your soldiers in my country are living in no more luxury than we are here.”

So you were still in your country, not yet over the border. If you could just get away, your chances were good. “Well, then they’re uncivilized dogs just like you,” you spat.

He never seemed to find your outbursts anything other than vaguely annoying or passively amusing. Right now, he seemed inclined towards amusement, despite your latest escape attempt. It was for the best, that tended to work out better for you. It was irritating nonetheless. “Perhaps.”

Your enlightening conversation was cut short as a horn sounded, a familiar announcing horn. The sound of one of your people. Drakar’s head perked up and before you understood what was happening, your legs were being bound together, untethered but severely limiting your movement. You might be able to move like this, but you couldn’t get far.

He did not feel the need to explain this to you or threaten you with hunting you down, trusting you to come to your own conclusions as he strode off in the direction of the horn.

You might not be able to run, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t do anything. The least you could do was try to gather information, so you could be useful when you were saved.

If you were saved.

You managed to scoot your way towards the back of the tent Drakar had retreated to, out of sight of any of the soldiers, just close enough that you could peek under the thick fabric of the walls.

Drakar’s back was to you. You could barely see the messenger from your spot on the floor, his body blocking your vision. You could just see the tip of a feather, presumably stuck in a hat, bobbing as the messenger spoke.

As you got close enough to listen in, you caught Drakar mid-sentence. “- does your king think about our terms for his precious daughter?”

You held your breath, trying not to get your hopes up. This was a war. They couldn’t just be giving in to the first demands given. This could be a long, arduous process. You understood that, would never blame him for it. The country came first.

“The king rejects your terms.” You tried not to let it get to you. You knew this would probably happen, could understand exactly where your father was coming from. The messenger continued on, unaware of your quiet heartbreak. “Furthermore, he would like to close negotiations on this matter.”

You could not hold in the gasp that came at his words. You saw Drakar stiffen and knew he’d heard you, knew he’d figured out exactly what you’d been doing. A moment passed and he untensed his shoulders and continued on. You silently thanked him. You were in no state to face anyone right now.

“What do you mean close negotiations?” he asked, and you choked back tears.

You cursed yourself for putting yourself in such a tight spot. You didn’t think you could manage a quiet escape, at least not without being noticed, not in your current state, so instead you sat, a captive audience to a discussion of why your family had given up on you.

The messenger cleared his throat. “We do not negotiate with beasts.”

“So he chooses instead to abandon his daughter with them?”

The messenger disregarded his words entirely, his voice squeaking as he cried out, “You creatures will pay for the loss of his daughter.”

“She is not lost yet. He is choosing that fate for her, not I,” he hissed out.

“I have said all I was bidden to say. Do you have a message for the king?”

“Tell him if I see him or any of his scrawny little messengers again, I’ll rip them in two.”

With a little yelp, the messenger retreated. Drakar stood for a moment, the sound of his heavy breathing filling the tent.

After a moment, the canvas of the tent was lifted and your hiding place was revealed. You sat, crumpled, on the ground, bile rising in your throat.

That was it. There was no one coming.

He hauled you to your feet, undoing your bindings.

“What did you ask for me?” you asked as he undid the ropes, keeping you propped up on him as he worked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” you snapped. You needed to know what was so much more important than you, what you’d been given up for. “You will tell me. I’ve earned that much.”

“A full retreat. It never would have been taken, it was just supposed to be a start to the negotiations.”

“Hmm.” It was a ridiculous ask, obviously so. But to dismiss you completely? To not even try?

Drakar pulled you out of your thoughts with a question. “Would you even want to go back now? If I let you go?”

Your brows furrowed. “You can’t let me go. It would show weakness, show you’ll roll over if your terms aren’t met.”

“I know, it was just a question. So what do I do with you now?”

You shrugged. “You could kill me.”

“No. We won’t be doing that. I should have killed him, though. The audacity of them sending a little snot-nosed fool to tell me negotiations were over. I should’ve gutted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He spared you a look that said more than you were sure he wanted it to, rage and concern both written across his face. “I had other things on my mind.”

He tried to speak to you again but you’d begun to shut down. It was all too much, you could do no more.

It didn’t seem too unreasonable a reaction. Your life had just ended, severed by your father without even a real rescue attempt.

But even if you’d shut down, the world had not.

And so it continued. Drakar seemed to have decided you were still useful somehow because every day you were hauled along with his troops, and every day you were given your own little tent.

He didn’t keep you tied up anymore. It wasn’t because you’d become docile, you’d attempted many escapes and he’d found you and brought you back every time. You weren’t entirely sure why you were no longer being tied up. Maybe it was because you weren’t valuable anymore.

You didn’t fully understand why you hadn’t been killed yet. What more could you do for them?

As days passed, the grief lessened to more practical thoughts, thoughts about your future. What was there for you now? Why were you still here? What else could they want from you?

You wanted answers.

You stood and stormed off. Several of the soldiers around you went to grab you until they realized that you were not headed out, but instead towards Drakar’s tent, letting you continue on your warpath.

You started to shout as soon as you entered the tent and he whipped around to face you. “You should kill me. Why won’t you kill me? What do you want from me? Whatever it is, I won’t give it. I have nothing to give. I don’t understand what’s wrong with you.”

He watched your outburst with a level of amusement on his face that made you want to attack him. “Are you done?”

You ran at him, trying to claw at him, bite him, anything. He restrained you easily, pinning you against him, but still, it fed something in you, trying to do something.

You felt him chuckle behind you and if you weren’t pinned down, you would have attacked him again.

��See,” he asked, and you felt the rumble of his voice through his chest. “You’ll be fine. You’re a fighter.”

“I will not fight for you,” you spat.

“I don’t expect you to. But you will fight for you. Nothing is over.”

He released you from his grip and before you could decide what to do with your newfound freedom, someone came crashing into the tent, armor shining a bright silver. He stood, ready to attack, sword in hand, but the second he saw you he froze. “You’re dead,” he choked out, words muffled through the metal of the armor.

You didn’t have a chance to respond before Drakar had thrown him halfway across the camp, orc soldiers rushing over to finish him off. He didn't stand a chance.

You stared at the spot he had just been in, processing his words, before slowly turning to Drakar.

“What was that?”

“An attacker. A foolish little man.”

You shook your head. “No not… why did he think I was dead?’

“Princess, the whole world thinks you’re dead.”

You head snapped up to look at him. “Why?”

“Because I told them.”

You reeled back. “Why would you do that? I didn’t ask you to say that.”

“Your people didn’t seem to care.”

“Oh, thank you so much then. As long as they didn’t care, then it’s fine. You speak of honor and then do this. Why? To torture me? Make sure I have nowhere to go and ensure that I know I am not loved?”

You’d had enough of this conversation, turning heel and storming off without another word, set on putting as much distance as possible between you and them.

You vaguely heard orders being barked to follow you, but that didn't stop you from running.

It didn’t change anything. No matter how far you ran, you had nowhere to go.

Drakar didn’t follow you himself, instead sending someone else to do his dirty work. A few orcs stood behind you, easily able to keep track of you and match your pace.

You weren’t even given a full hour of feigned freedom before one of them had picked you up and started pulling you back towards camp. You fought them the whole way.

You were set down in front of him, the whole process embarrassing. You straightened your ill-fitted pants as you desperately tried to regain any ounce of dignity.

Despite your appearance, he didn’t seem amused. “You shouldn’t run.”

“So you saw fit to have me kidnapped? Again?”

“I had to tell them you were dead,” he said, pushing past your outburst.

You scoffed. “You didn’t have to do anything.”

“I have orders to kill you. The negotiations failed, my people wanted you dead. It was the only way out of this for you.”

Oh. There was no reprieve for you on either side. You’d known your father had signed your death warrant with his refusal to negotiate but now the orders had been given.

“Then why am I still here?” you asked, your voice smaller than you would’ve liked.

“It is not just. I will not kill you.”

“So what now?”

“No one knows what you look like,” he said, his voice soft and low. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

It didn’t matter. Both sides had condemned you. You had your life, but nowhere you could live it. “I have nowhere to go,” you said, sounding braver than you felt.

“You’ll find somewhere. Until then, there’s always room for you in my camp. I displaced you, the burden of this wrong falls to me.”

You rolled your eyes. “And none of your men will send word that you’ve kept me here?”

“As long as they get to keep staring at you, I can’t imagine they’d mind.”

Your nose wrinkled at his words. “These are your honorable men? Letting me stay for the right to keep ogling me?”

“It’s not so odd. They’re fascinated by you, such a strange little thing.”

You supposed you were strange and foreign to them, as they were to you. But surely you weren’t the first, not with the combat they must’ve seen. “You’ve seen humans before.”

“Some of them haven’t. At least, not living ones that aren’t trying to kill us.”

“Who said I’m not trying to kill you.”

He snorted. “Well, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

“And if I stay? I won’t fight my own people, even if I was trained in combat. You’ll just carry around dead weight?”

“You’re hardly dead weight. I don’t even notice you up on my shoulder half the time.”

“You know that’d not what I mean.”

“I do. There are towns over the border where you could stay.”

You looked up, curiosity gleaming in your eyes. “They’ll take me? A random human?”

He nodded solemnly. “They will, if you wish to depart. If not… I am the reason your people forsook you. I do not regret it, I did what needed to be done, but I regret what has come to pass to you because of it. You’ve faced this better than I ever thought a human would. They’re cowards to have cast you out, I will not follow in their steps. It may not be what you’re used to, I am no prince and we are no humans, but you’re welcome to stay at my home. You will never be a princess again, that was taken from you. I took that from you. It is only fair to give what I can in return. It is not much, but it is what I have.”

You smiled, swallowing down the lump in your throat and willing away the misty feeling in your eyes. “Thank you. I’d love to stay, if you’ll have me.”

It was no great concession from you, you weren’t exactly drowning in options, but it felt like choosing it all the same. It was no less of a choice than your last home had been, born into it and forbidden to ever really leave.

This was being offered to you. You were being given the opportunity to say no. To run.

As much as Drakar had angered and frustrated you in the past week or so, you weren’t sure you’d ever been given this much respect. Real respect, not the fake respect of being placed in war rooms and told to be silent.

You gave him a final nod and a smile, adding a curtsy that you pulled yourself out of halfway through when you thought better of it, tripping over your feet a little as you did.

His eyes crinkled as he smiled at you and you wondered how you’d never noticed it before.

You went to bed that night feeling lighter, freer than you were used to.

As you left your tent the next morning, you almost tripped over a deer carcass left in your doorway.

You backed away slowly, rushing over to Drakar’s tent.

He was barely dressed for the day, the sun having only half risen past the horizon, and gave you a smile and a nod as he saw you rush into his tent. “Good morning, princess.”

You barely let him finish his sentence before you blurted out, “Someone left a dead animal outside my tent.”

He froze, his shoulders tensing.

You watched, waiting for a response and getting none, before adding, “Should I be concerned? It felt like a threat. Maybe they don’t like that you lied for me, that you're protecting me. Maybe they don’t like me like you think they do.”

“It’s not a threat,” he said with a swift shake of his head.

“How could you know?”

He explained it through barred teeth. “It’s an orchish courting gift. You’ve caught someone’s interest.”

Your breath caught in your chest. “Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” None of the tension had left him and he made no attempt to hide his irritation. “It’s odd, an orc taking an interest in such a frail little thing.”

You rolled your eyes. He was clearly upset that one of his soldiers had become distracted with you, maybe even disgusted at the prospect of one of them taking interest in a human of all things. Clearly your bonding the day before hadn’t taken you that far.

“I don’t know, I’ve heard I can be quite charming.”

He ignored your statement completely, shifting closer to you as he spoke. “You should stay close to me until I can find out who left it and tell them off.” He was being strangely protective almost, the disgust you’d assumed would be there instead entirely absent.

“Why would you tell off my suitor? Surely I should do that myself. Besides, why do you even ca-”

Oh.

The reality of why someone courting you would make him protective set in and you looked up at him with wide eyes

You couldn’t help the shit-eating grin that plastered itself across your face. “Well, maybe I’ll accept it. I’ve got no future now, it couldn’t hurt to have a big, strong orc husband.”

He stood a little straighter as he understood the implication. “You seek protection?”

“Hm, I do, thank goodness I’ve finally found a suitable option, I was really starting to worry.”

Frustration flashed through his eyes as he realized what you were doing. “Fine, we should go find this suitor so we can tell him how graciously you’re accepting this courtship. I, for one, will be glad to be rid of you. Now you’ll be someone else’s problem.”

“We should. Unless there’s something you’d like to say?”

His nostrils flared as he glared down at you. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure? Nothing on your mind? Nothing like, I don’t know, having feelings for the, what is it you keep calling me? The weakling you kidnapped?”

He avoided meeting your eyes as he spoke. “Your force of will is admirable. The odds were against you but still you fought.”

You fought the urge to coo at him, at how flustered he looked and how it seemed like he was forcing out every word. You had no doubt he would rather have left you an animal carcass. You preferred it this way.

“I’m going to need you to be more direct than that.” Your voice was patient and kind and you could tell it was making things a hundred times worse for him.

“I had intentions to look into human courting, to find something familiar for you amidst so many new things you’ve been forced into. But given the situation, I suppose I can just tell you.”

“Tell me what?” you asked. You were going to make him say it, you didn’t care how long it took.

“About my intention to court you.”

You giggled at his pained face and he relaxed a little, looking down at you with fondness in his eyes. You wondered when that had begun. You wished you’d been paying attention enough to notice.

“What now?” he asked. “How do your human courtships go? I will do what I must.”

You thought about it, amusement flickering through you at the thought of Drakar trying to uphold the proper etiquette required while courting a princess. But the courting process was long and strained and if you were being honest, you preferred the brutal honesty you’d been given here at camp. “Frankly, I’ve had just about enough of how humans do it. What about you? We can skip the dead animal bit, but what comes next?”

He looked you up and down, some gears turning in his head that you were not privy to.

“I will have to be gentle,” he said, before hauling you over his shoulder and bringing you over to his bed of furs on the floor.

Your eyes widened as the implication set in. You’d been far from the perfect princess, having your fair share of trysts with guards and servants over the years, but this was a different beast.

And then he kissed you and you stopped thinking altogether.

It was desperate and urgent, his lips figuring out how to move against your smaller ones and you reached up, pulling his face closer as he set you below him on his makeshift bed.

He ground down on you, clothed hips moving to meet yours. Your disparate sizes meant to do so while kissing you he was contorted at a strange angle but he certainly wasn’t complaining.

He stopped kissing you, rushing to pull off his off pants, and his cock slapped against your stomach, thick and hard and hot and you wanted him inside you now.

But when it fell against you, it hit just above your belly button and you thought that perhaps your eyes were a bit bigger than your stomach.

He seemed to realize the impracticality of it at the same time you did, a hearty laugh escaping him. “Don't worry, princess, I'll get you nice and stretched out.”

You chuckled nervously. “I don’t know if stretching will be enough.”

He slid down, hitching your shirt up and pressing a gentle kiss on your stomach. “I won’t hurt you. If you’re not ready, that’s fine. There are other things we can do.”

He shifted both of you with ease, pulling you to sit on his chest as he laid back on his bed. You looked down at him, brows furrowed. “What about your traditional orc courtship.”

That pulled another laugh from him. “What part of this do you think has been traditional? The closest we got to traditional was when you bit me.”

You flushed red, recontextualizing the memory and wondering how many of the things you’d been doing to anger him had also been part of traditional orc courtship.

While you were busy blushing, he’d set to work on your pants, wrestling them off of you as he easily manhandled you. You barely helped, halfheartedly kicking them off. You remembered how much you hated being picked up by him when this had begun and how much that had changed. You were loathe to admit it but every time he lifted and moved you so easily, something stirred inside you.

As soon as he got your pants off you were pulled roughly forward, his hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulled you onto his mouth.

He ate you out with just as much urgency as he kissed you with, wasting no time before sliding his tongue through your folds.

His grip was unforgiving, pulling you down so all of your weight was on him.

His tusks dug into your inner thighs and he seemed to pull you impossibly closer as his tongue thrusted up inside of you.

Even his tongue was almost too thick, you walls stretching to accommodate it. You hands grasped at his hair, needing something to hold onto.

His mouth locked over your clit, sucking hard before moving back to thrust inside of you again, hands rising to play with your sensitive bud of nerves as he did.

As you began to fall apart above him, writhing against the onslaught of sensation, he only doubled his efforts.

You arched your back, your thighs clamping down on either side of his head, hips shifting with the waves of your orgasm that suddenly overcame you. He was content to let you ride it out, grip loosening to let you have your control as you moans filled the tent.

You came down slowly and it took a few moments to realize you were still sitting on his face.

You moved to sit beside him on the furs as soon as you did, your face warming.

You shifted your head to rest against him, staring down at his cock as you did. It was impossibly hard and practically pulsing with need, and you made a decision you hoped you wouldn’t regret.

“You know, it can’t hurt to try.”

He sat up immediately, eagerness evident in his face. “You’ll stop me if it’s too much.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

You gave him a knowing look. “Of course I will.”

He shifted you, lifting you over him and you were happy to give over control. You trusted him.

It felt even bigger pressed up against your entrance than it had on your stomach and you took a deep breath. You waited but as nothing happened, you realized that Drakar was waiting for your signal.

No nodded and he began to lower you, incredibly slowly. As it pushed inside, you knew the girth was more than anything you’d taken before, but it was manageable. The stretch bordered on painful but it was slow and careful enough that you had time to adjust.

And then, as it went further and further, it became too much,

You winced long before he’d bottomed out, about half of it inside you. It was bordering on too painful and you pressed your hands against his chest, shaking your head. “No more,” you said quietly, already weak from your last orgasm.

He didn’t seem to mind, holding you steady as he pressed you close to him, muttering quiet praises to you.

You slowly adjusted, not ready to take more but more than happy with what was already inside of you.

You shifted your hips a little, pushing it against a perfect spot inside of you, letting out a quiet moan as you did.

He put a stop to it fairly quickly, holding you still. “I think I’ll just keep you there. You’re perfect, taking me so well.”

You writhed, trying to get the stimulation you were becoming desperate for but he held you steady easily.

So you tried a new tactic. “Want more,” you said, voice soft and sweet. If that didn’t work you’d try yelling at him, see how that fared.

“Careful, I promised I wouldn’t hurt you. You damn humans, so fragile.”

“I’m not fragile, you’re just too big.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Despite his words, he began to slowly move, shifting out of you before pushing in again, careful to not push past the point where you’d stopped him.

He moved you up and down like it was nothing, careful even as he began to speed up, hips shifting a little to meet you, chasing after your warm cunt as he pulled you back up.

His breathing grew shaky as he did and despite feeling overwhelmed with sensation, you fought to keep your eyes open, to watch him come undone.

As his grunts became more and more unruly, your walls clenched around him at the sight.

He immediately pulled you up, leaving just the head of his cock inside of you as he filled you with thick ropes of come.

His breathing was ragged and his grip on you tightened slightly, pulling you even closer to him.

He looked down at you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, before pulling you off of him and settling back with you resting on his chest.

You made an absolute mess of him as he did, with no chance of keeping the frankly absurd amount of come inside of you.

He didn’t seem to care at all.

“We’re making a mess,” you said, despite suspecting the objection would fall on uncaring ears.

“You said you wanted an orcish courting, the mess is traditional.”

You weren’t sure if you were cut out for a traditional orc courting, already squirming as your thighs were coated in his spend.

But his chest was warm and his breathing steady and you couldn’t help but settle into the comfort of it.

“I'm gonna fit all of it someday,” you said, meaning it fully.

He laughed. “Brave little thing, aren’t you? Dreaming big.”

You snorted.

“What happens now?” you asked as you snuggled further into him.

“You reject that fool's advances.”

You hummed happily. “I will. I guess I’m lucky I caught your eye, don’t know if I would've survived this if I hadn’t”

“I meant what I said. I wouldn’t have let them kill you. It wouldn't be right. And you would’ve managed even without me. You wouldn't be the first human to sneak away to our side.”

That surprised you. “I wouldn't?”

He chucked, hands running through your hair. “You wouldn't. We're a more accepting group, I've found. Although you are a weak little species, we don’t have much use for you. You’re lucky you're pretty or I don't know if we'd put up with you.”

You scrunched up your nose. “You didn’t decide to court me because you thought I was pretty though.”

“No,” he said, like you both already knew the answer. “I decided to court you because no matter how many times we stopped you, you never stopped trying to run, to fight.”

You sat up with a sudden urgency. “If I said I wanted to go home, to my father, would you let me?”

You watched the panic flash across his face and some selfish part of you hoped it was panic over losing you and not panic over the consequences that could come if you showed up alive after his order to kill you.

He sat with it for a while and you let him, in no rush to pull an answer from him.

Finally, he seemed to find whatever he'd been searching for. “I would.”

“Good,” you said, a smug feeling welling up in your chest, right beside the warmth that had begun to fill you at his answer. “Then I'll stay.”

He tried and failed to hide his smile. “Good. Does that mean you’re done running from me?”

You grinned, knowing full well it didn’t. What would be the fun in that? “We’ll see.”

“I’m sure,” he said as he shifted the two of you, wrapping you up in furs to protect your modesty before picking you up once more, with one arm under your knees and the other below your back, keeping you close to his chest. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, princess.”

#orc x reader #orc #terato #monster bf #monster x human #monster boyfriend #monster x reader #orc boyfriend #orc romance #Bridal carries are also called princess carries and I think it’s so cute that that’s how he picks her up at the end #This wasn’t even the prompt that won the orc poll lol #This is not a democracy apparently

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dante-mightdie · 14 days

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viking harem but it’s this pretty little princess with her FourBigGuys™️ soap who stole her from her home, price who insists they share (but is the worst at it) and ghost who’s her loyal Dog he literally follows her everywhere especially when she goes to see gaz who always has flowers for her (and then soap shows up out of nowhere to insist no flower is prettier than his their lady

please god this is all I want PLEASE

c/w: poly!141 x fem!reader, smut, cockwarming, public sex, marking

you would be treated like an absolute goddess and the best part about these 4 brutes is they’re customisable! you have one for every occasion!

simon is there for when you need a big scary man to keep you safe from any perverts who may watch you whilst you bathe in the lake :( this menacing warrior standing so he blocks anyone’s view of his pretty lovie in such a vulnerable state

just make sure you repay the favour by letting him put you on your knees and fucking you behind a tree, his cloak thrown on the ground so your skin doesn’t get all muddied and scratched by the elements :(

gaz is your loverboy. he’s there when you need someone to play with your hair and read you poetry. takes you for strolls in the local markets and prepares picnics in the forest

big fan of making love under the moonlight, his hips slowly grinding in to yours as he intertwines your fingers with his. soft gasps escaping your lips every time he hits that one spot inside you and makes you clamp around his cock

johnny is your wildcard. you never quite know what you’re gonna get with him. if you come to him, bored out of your mind, you could either end up absolutely hammered at a local tavern or going for a horse ride through a shallow stream

he’s a very tender lover. he can be very rowdy, grabby even. leaving dark bruises on your hips and waist as he manhandles you into the position he wants but once he’s got all that energy out of his system, he’ll trail soft kisses over each mark. resting his head on your tummy as you gently untangle his braid and play with his hair

and price. john’s lap holds a very special place in your heart as a safe space. a quiet sanctuary where you can unwind. he knows what you need when you pad over to him and climb onto his lap. a pleased grunt leaving his throat as you settle into a comfortable position

will spend hours with you, rubbing his warm hand up and down your back in front of the fireplace until you decide that’s not enough. your hand would trail down his hairy chest, slipping under his trousers to pull out his cock and slip him inside you

everyone knows not to disturb you both during this time, even the boys wait until your both settled before worming their way into the room for some together before bed <3

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yandere-writer-momo · 1 month

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Yandere Short Stories:

Limerence (Prequel)

Yandere Rebellion Leader x Princess Reader

TW: Yandere behaviors, mentions of past SA (on yandere’s part), murder, death, blood, a man slaughtering your entire family to be with you, etc

(Your name) quietly sobbed into her knees, her body curled tightly into a ball on the floor of her closet. The loud screams of the servants ring out through the hallways. Not a single doubt in her mind that the castle staff were being slain like cattle by the rebel troops.

When did everything go wrong? Would she soon join the rest of the castle’s inhabitants when the troops inevitably found her? Would they be merciful or would they gut her like a fish?

(Your name) didn’t want to think about it too much… she just hoped her death would be quick and painless.

Crack! Slam! Her door was splintered apart with brute force that made the closet doors shake. (Your name) quickly covered her mouth before she screamed out in fear. She didn’t want to alert the intruder of her whereabouts…

(Your name)’s breath hitched when she spotted a pair of leather shoes that stood outside the closet door through the crack of the door. Oh god… this was it.

(Your name)’s arms flew up to shield her face but strong hands quickly moved her arms out of the way so soft lips could be lovingly pressed against her soft cheeks.

“It’s okay… it’s me.” A smooth voice hummed softly while he continued to pepper (your name)’s face in kisses. “It’s Adonis.”

(Your name) reluctantly peeked her eyes open to see if his words rang true. Adonis’s chocolate curls were wild and his sea foam green eyes were filled with admiration. This was indeed her handsome childhood friend who stood before her.

“A-Adonis?” (Your name)’s brow furrowed in confusion. Why on earth was her stepmother’s personal servant here and why did he press kisses all over her like she was his lover? Didn’t he belong to her stepmother?

Adonis hummed in reply, his actions failed to cease while his hands now cupped her cheeks. “Yes, darling. It’s me… I’m here to get you out of here.”

(Your name) was shocked to be pulled into a warm embrace. Adonis’s muscular body did little to soothe her nerves, quite contrary. Adonis’s hug felt like a cage.

“Where’s my stepmother-“ (your name) nearly squealed when Adonis nipped at her neck. An angry red mark now visible on her smooth skin. “Adonis, what was that for-“

“She’s not in the picture anymore.” Adonis inhaled deeply to try to calm himself before he lashed out any further from the mention of his despicable mistress. “She interfered in our relationship for far too long.”

Relationship? What was Adonis talking about?

“Adonis?” (Your name) then noticed the speckles of blood that covered his tan face in shock. Blood?! Adonis wasn’t bleeding so whose blood could that be… no. Did this mean Adonis betrayed the royal family?

No… Adonis had been with her family for over a decade. They grew up together! Adonis and her were always such good friends! So why would he slaughter her family in the name of love?

“I love when you say my name, darling.” Adonis bent down and pressed his full lips against yours in a tender peck. “We no longer have to worry about what others think. I abolished this unfair system.”

(Your name) felt tears run down her face as Adonis continued to ramble. His sea foam green eyes lit up with madness. “We don’t have to sneak around anymore! You and I can finally be together, the way we were always meant to be.”

Realization sunk into (your name) at Adonis’s words. Did he mean the moments the two of them would run into each other in the rose garden at night? The nights where she’d have nightmares of fire and death while he would be slipping out of her stepmother’s chambers? The times she’d sit beside him on the bench and listen to each other’s woes? Adonis and (your name) always had a friendship since they were children… to think he interpreted her kindness for love was astounding. What on earth made him think she loved him?

“I’m so happy to finally be free. I no longer have to touch that vile woman ever again.” Adonis gave you a bright smile. “You were my shining light through this entire ordeal of my servitude. Without you, I’d be so lost.”

Adonis pulled her towards the window of her tower to gesture to the various fires set ablaze on the castle she once called home. The same scenery she often saw in her nightmares have become a reality.

“I destroyed it all. You’ll no longer have nightmares and I’ll no longer have to be intimate with our enemy!” Adonis gave you a bright smile when he took your smaller hands in his large ones. “This is the biggest gesture I can give you to express my utmost feelings to you. I’d set the whole world ablaze if they opposed us. It doesn’t matter the extreme, because I’m willing to go to any length to be with you.”

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ultravioletrayz · 2 months

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𖤓1K FOLLOWERS SPECIAL𖤓

💜(N)SFW HEADCANONS💜

Pairing: miguel o’hara x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, body descriptions (miguel is all buff and reader is curvy), size kink, manhandling, floor sex, oral (f. receiving), rough-ish sex, choking w/ bicep, 69, just the tip

Summary: miguel being a big, beefy man

A/N: tysm for 1000 followers!!

SFW

This man breaks EVERYTHING. Both in fits of rage, and just when using everyday items, Miguel's pure, superhuman strength just leads to him accidentally breaking shit all of the time. He has most definitely hurled the remote at the TV screen while watching soccer, also has probably broken things like glasses or mugs in his unintentionally firm grip before. He's always laughing embarrassedly and apologising for it, although deep down he's genuinely shamed of his brute strength and always having to go out and buy replacements for the things he breaks.

It's funny to watch him use utensils, brush his teeth, talk on the phone etc., because his hands are so big that everything looks comically tiny in his grasp. Also, Miguel purposefully puts things on high shelves to show off how tall he is. If you're struggling to reach something, he's definitely the type to reach for it from behind you and make you beg him to hand it to you. He's an asshole a tease who can't resist bragging about how much bigger and stronger he is compared to you.

He uses you as weights when he works out. It doesn't matter how heavy you are, since Miguel can canonically lift up to 10 tons, so he only works out for definition/tone rather than strength. He loves hearing your shocked gasps and giggles when he pushes you up suddenly while benching you, or when he curls your cute body and you blush every time he pecks your face when he lifts you towards him.

Miguel is always open to carrying you. He isn't into PDA, but his exception is the way you pout and complain about your feet hurting, and he's always quick to effortlessly scoop you up bridal style and carry you around the street, keeping you nestled against his warm tits chest. He also insists on carrying groceries and laundry, and he absolutely loves it when you ask for help/give him a task that requires him to show off his strength. Miguel is the king of princess treatment and will happily wait on your hand and foot if you ask, solely because he's physically capable of doing so.

Sometimes Miguel can be insecure about his strength because of the trauma associated with his mutant powers and his self-destructive tendencies, but the way that you give him a space to drop the tough, intimidating act makes him want to cry. You know he's a strong guy, but you never take advantage of his superhuman abilities. He just wants to be loved, he doesn't want to be seen as the scary animal he's made out to be.

NSFW

Following on from the "breaks everything" headcanon, Miguel has most definitely broken things while you guys have sex. In fear of hurting you, Miguel has a tendency to grip the headboard, the sheer strength in his hold causing the wood to snap in his hands. Obviously, the force of his thrusts has caused the bed itself to collapse underneath the two of you, but whenever it's happened Miguel has just dragged you onto the floor, kissed you on the cheek, and continued. He's a man on a mission when he's inside you.

Miguel treats you like a rag doll, he manhandles you completely. He makes sure not to hurt you too badly, but he likes to throw you around, lift you up, and pin you in place. He can easily contort your body into any position he pleases, and support you no matter what. When he eats you out, you can barely muster the energy to squirm, because he’s got your thighs wedged open with his broad shoulders, his rough hands keeping you spread. Sometimes, he’ll lift you up over his shoulders and eat your pussy while standing, leaving you dangling in the air and grabbing his hair helplessly as he keeps his hands hooked underneath your knees.

This headcanon is dedicated to Miguel’s arms. More specifically, Miguel putting you in a chokehold while he’s hitting it from the back. Heavy balls slapping against your clit as his bulging bicep engulfs your throat, restricting your breathing so deliciously that you’re panting and drooling all over the mass of beautiful tan skin and hard muscle underneath your chin, his pulsing veins caressing your throat with an almost sinful delicacy. His free hand gropes the fat of your waist and your ass, each slap that lands on your big butt making you squeal in pure ecstasy, to which his beefy arm squeezes around you tighter to stop you from escaping his deep strokes into your sopping cunt. Definitely talks to you half-degrading, half-praising just to make your mind spin and your pussy clench around him. “Keep taking it, sweetheart. Doing so good for me. You still breathing? Or am I fucking you so good you’ve forgotten how to do it, niña tonta?”

(This one is HEAVILY inspired by @mybvalentine’s 69ing with Miguel blurb because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I read it 🤭) But 69ing would definitely be a competition between you and Miguel, in the sense that you'd both be competing to taste each other. Miguel is so tall, and by comparison, you're so much smaller than him, so unless the two of you are willing to strain your necks and bodies by leaning in to suck and nibble at each other's essence, 69ing is a test of your patience. While Miguel has you pulled back, sitting on his face as he feverishly eats you out, you're stuck watching the way his pretty cock weeps at the taste of your slick coating his tongue, making you insatiably hungry for him. When you finally escape his grasp and lay forward with Miguel's dick prodding at the depths of your warm throat, Miguel groans at the way a combination of his spit and your juices dribbles onto his pecs, causing him to compromise and helplessly finger your weeping hole, scooping up your slick and bringing it to his mouth so that he can taste you again as you swallow and choke around his big cock.

Miguel is too big. Like, I’ve said in other posts, his dick can be unbearable at times, the dull aching off his cock stretching you out and filling every crevice occasionally becoming a relentless throbbing sensation. So, when you’re just too tight and he’s too thick to handle, Miguel will do just the tip to give your thoroughly bruised cervix a break. Even his flared, leaky tip is a tight squeeze in your little cunt, the wet *pop* sound the head of his dick makes each time Miguel pulls his hips back to the point where his slit is brushing against the rim of your entrance making you mewl. The sight of you unravelling on just his tip goes straight to Miguel’s head (you can decide which one).

sooo this was actually meant to be for 500 followers but I delayed it so much that it became my 1K special... 👀

oops!

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alavestineneas · 27 days

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i can feel the soil falling over my head; no people are here, just the void in my chest

pairing: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!reader summary: Harkonnen men rarely wed; they just take what they capture—men and women—and turn them into slaves. Some, if particularly sweet, are reserved for fucking. There are no special songs for that; there isn't a specific word in their native tongue for wife, either. warnings: mentions of death, violence, implied/referenced child abuse, religious symbolism, daddy and sister issues, bald men chapter 1 - chapter 2 word count: 6,5K

author's note: hi beautiful people! this chapter may be classified as a prologue (yes, I am aware of its size, sorry, lol), but it is still integral to the story. we love evil people, especially evil bald people, in this house, so have fun and don't forget to wash your hands before reading! also, if you see things that are not canon, just know that me and the books are two parallel lines and we do not cross. feel free to point out grammar mistakes, though - english is not my first. love you!

Kaitain, 10176 AG

The violent streaks of light fight with the heavy cloth of drapes to find their way into the small, stifling chambers. The time was slowly crawling towards noon in the heavy summer heat, and the woman lying on the heavily decorated sheets was battling to get a breath in. Whether because of the annoying star, or the poisoning waiting, the patterns of sweat stained her tired face with esculent ornaments. Her lips, formed into a thin line, gleamed with small spots of dried crimson.

''Where is the messenger?'' The woman's voice was barely above a whisper, her eyes glued to the dancing light filtering through the window. ''The girl is strong; I can't hold her for much longer.''

The black figure on the chair in the corner slightly shifted at words. She was veiled, despite the heat—like a black hole, she seemed to suck the little air left. ''Forbearance,'' her raspy voice cuts through the room. ''The child makes you impatient. Control yourself.''

''I've waited, and waited long enough,'' the woman snapped, her frustration evident in her trembling hands. ''A few more minutes and all that is left of her will be a corpse.''

''Be quiet, Echidna. The child will live. If not, she was never meant to be part of our world in the first place.''

The woman clenched her jaw in a wave of pain and nodded. The girl ought to see the light of this planet today. Deep in her thoughts, she almost missed the rushed steps behind the door.

One of the Emperor's guards burst into the room, his eyes almost frantic. ''Lady Anirul has graced the Imperium with a daughter.''

Echidna smiled in relief, but her expression quickly changed as a beast-like cry pierced the air. The child was coming, with little care for the damage it caused to her aching womb. She tore the tissue down to the individual cells, gnawing her way with fists and elbows, moving the bones aside with brute force. Soon, her own cries were answered by much louder ones, as the head of the girl showed itself, covered in a thick layer of almost black blood. Just for a moment, the woman wished it would not steal another breath from the room, but she sharply composed herself. With a final push, the child left her body forever, leaving it a raw wound.

The small creature shrieked when the black figure approached, and slender, wrinkled arms took it from the warmth of rufous-red liquid. Echidna watched as the figure carried the girl away, resting her hurting body against the soaked pillows. She fulfilled her duty; she granted Bene Gesserit the daughter they wanted. She is bleeding under a beautiful sun; she is holding the ghost of her child in her arms—the real one was never hers anyway. Echidna knows the Emperor will not come. From now on, it is just her and her never-passing pain. Thus, Kaitain, home to the Corrino dynasty, was warmed by the light of a new sun—Princess Irulan, an heiress to the Imperium—and chilled by the shadow of her sister, born a few minutes later.

The calmness of the gardens was disturbed only by the soft strokes of brushes against a thick canvas. YN sighed, her eyes still fixed on the tree nearby, its young branches swaying with the wind. Her body ached from stillness, the tension in her neck from holding her head slightly bowed spreading down to her small back. They posed for a portrait of what seemed like an eternity to a child, and was almost it to an adult who dared to inquire; the painter, while satisfied with the draft, looked at the group of young girls almost in fear—no normal child of that age would be unmoving for three hours. And yet, they were.

YN felt one of her sisters shift even through the thick fabric of her silver dress. Small Chalice turned, her cheeks red from the heat or tiredness, her lips forming a pout—the child was tired, sleepingly rubbing her eyes. YN thought for a moment, debating if the punishment would be worth it, or if her sisters could wait just a little bit more until the man with colours would end the session for today. She noticed how Irulan's face was starting to droop, her eyes fluttering closed and opening just a second later. Their youngest, Wensicia, was already asleep in Irulan's arms; her golden hair spread across her and YN's laps as a beautiful cover, shining under the faint sun.

''I am tired, Master Chen. We should end the painting for today,'' YN finally spoke; her voice was almost a whisper. She did not know whether it was not to awaken her sister or out of fear of the Emperor's anger; it did not matter. The man nodded and left, taking his canvases with him, leaving only a few drafts behind. Then, the sisters were left alone in the garden.

''Thank you,'' Irulan said softly, placing her head on YN's shoulder.

YN only nodded. Her eyes found the paper not so far away, her gaze studying the strokes of the pencil with interest. Wensicia, a beautiful girl of two, was smiling brightly, holding an olive branch in her chubby hands, her small feet peeking under the hem of her white dress. Small Chalice was at the opposite end of her, her curly hair surrounding her head like a halo as she leaned forward, holding a small dove inside her palms. Then, sitting at the bench, surrounded by lush greenery and bushes, they. Irulan and the Other.

YN was placed just a step away from her older sister, her head turned away from the gaze of the viewer. The delicate folds of her silver dress carefully cascaded down, creating an air of mist around them. Her hands were empty; she did not know if the artist hadn't decided with each object to grace her with, or left them hollow intently. She looked like a shadow—a ghost, maybe; her eyes were escaping the viewer as if hiding a secret.

Irulan was different. She was a sun-kissed creature, her head facing straight ahead. Her eyes, as if inviting for a challenge, were made from duty, steel. With a burning star on her regal forehead, crowning the streaks of golden hair, Irulan was water and air, dulcet and ever-bending; her figure held the place and her pose was distinct and commanding.

YN looked at the girl beside her, who was now quiet nearby. Irualn was wise, the wisest of the sisters; her eyes were all-seeing, her heart all-knowing. She was created in the shape of a mother since they could walk, and the small ones bathed in her light, drinking her till the last drop —like flowers following the warm embrace of the sun. The only one who could not enjoy the love was her, the Other. The other sister, the other half. For they have been too close in age, too similar to let each other pretend the burden was not a heavy one to bear.

When Irulan was natural in her all-caring shape, YN had to claw her way to the only role left—the father. An unbent tree, a silent soldier—she was not born to fit as one, but wishing for a different order of things was almost blasphemy. That's how it always was with them—out of two, one was the protector, the other - the protected. "Husband," Irulan humorously called her often. She smiled, and, for a moment, the wave of resentment in YN's soul calmed. She never called her wife in return: Irulan was too whole to be one, too proud to be moulded into. She stood alone, on a higher pedestal than all of them, closest to the Emperor, whom the Other was to call father, and closest to the Truth. No, Irulan was God.

God does not know how to love someone who is not his servant, because there is no one who would refuse to serve him; it is the only way. God guides, despite all one's protests. God gives, and God takes. God demands; Irulan demands—silent obedience without a need to explain or answer. That, she takes from their father. So, the Other takes a blade into her hand without compassion for her dead wishes and learns to wield it in God's name. She is the one little ones turn to when the world is too wicked for their fragile souls when the creatures under their beds lose all of their human form and turn violent. She takes their sins and bears the punishments, for they are not deserving of such cruelty. YN thinks not of her own guilt—what difference would one scourage make to one who counts in centuries? And when the sun shone, and God smiled, the Other almost forgot of the bruises she carried.

The first time he saw her, it was not supposed to happen at all. Feyd-Rautha just closed the door to Maester's chambers with such force that it shook against lean walls; the grumble echoed in the long corridors of Giedi Prime's fortness. The ache in his body was muted, but still present; the torn flesh inside his heart howled and clawed, slicing the ribcage in half. He would've screamed, or perhaps beat his hands bloody against the concrete until the dull pain turned into something as sharp as his knife's blade. Maybe he would've drowned himself in a small water bowl by his nightstand and done anything to escape the shame and humiliation that consumed him from within. But instead, Feyd-Rautha stood still, his jaw clenched tight and his breathing shallow. One day, it will pass. One day, he will see the world choke on its own spit.

That's when he noticed a small, shadow-like figure at the end of the hallway staring at him. A girl, not older than him, was in a dress so foreign to him that it hurt his eyes. The daughter of the Emperor, he guessed. One of many—only then would the golden stitching on her sleeve would make sense.

''What are you doing here?'' he barked, caring little for the common courtesy. Of course, she was a guest almost as prized as her father, but she was in his territory and dared to look at him for long enough without averting her eyes. Long enough to notice the bruising on his pale skin and a swelness surrounding his lips. Long enough to hear him cry.

''I was walking with my mother, but then I turned into the wrong hall,'' she shrugged. ''Will you be kind enough to show me the way out? Or should I find it myself?"

Feyd-Rautha ignored her question. What a weird creature she was—with cascades of hair and eyes that seemed to see too much. ''It is dangerous to walk these halls without guard, Princess.'' It is dangerous to be here, alone with him and the weapon strapped to his hip, but he did not add it.

''There is no use of guards if the one who wishes to kill you is their master.'' The girl took a step forward, pointing to the weapon at his side. "I am not afraid."

Feyd-Rautha laughed. It came out more as howling than human sounds, the abrupt nature of it ringing with high notes, tip-toeing down to hysterical; it sounded creaky, like his throat was not made for such sounds; yet here he was, laughing. ''Come,'' he gestured to her, his hand moving quickly, like ordering a slave around. ''I will show you why you should be.''

So, they walked. Inside the grandiose chambers and small rooms, filled with ancient artefacts or the newest technology Harkonnens came up with; inside the green lavish garden inside the dim castle and the training grounds, Feyd-Rautha showed every place that was built to display the greatness of his house and bestone fear inside both guests and people inhibiting it. He wanted to see the horror in the girl's eyes, to make her eyes water and her frame flee. Instead, he listened to her steady breathing just a step behind him, her curious questioning satisfying another need he did not know his heart possessed: reverence.

He was the youngest member of the ruling line, the smallest stone in the castle of power his uncle had built. His title meant nothing within these walls; he was too small in comparison to the Baron and his authority. Feyd-Rautha was feared, despite only being nine; he was the shadow in the corner that grew longer as the sun set, the whispered name that sent shivers down spines. But here, in the hallway he led the girl into, he turned out to be something else.

''Stunning,'' the girl whispered beside him.

Weapons. The walls, from the floor to the high ceilings, were covered in ritual and fighting blades. The pride of house Harkonnen, the tree of their dynasty, black, silver, golden, and steel knives, swords, and daggers gleamed in the dim light. Feyd-Rautha smiled, revealing a row of sharp teeth. "Welcome to our burial ground."

They stopped near every one, his voice briefly covering the story of each blade and his owner; barons that came before him; fighters and rules that defined their legacy. Some still have blood on them—the highest honour; some look almost virgin. The small signs underneath them tell the names of people who wielded these weapons, their stories forever immortalised in the cold metal. ''Each Harkonnen ruler is crafted a blade of his own, the one he is to honour in battle.''

The girl nodded, her fingers tracing the shape of the last blade carefully. Her palms danced around the sharp edge, taking in the ancient symbols she had no chance of knowing. ''Will you have to kill Baron Vladimir in order to have one, like he did with his father before?''

Feyd-Rautha paused. Of course, he has thought about it before. The idea he repeated like a mantra in his head for all of his short life, the belief that spread burning flames down his spine. The words left his mouth for the first time but felt almost natural against his cracked lips. ''I dream of the day I have the chance to.''

The pair of foreign eyes that stared back at him held a glint of intrigue that quickly changed with a flash of acknowledgement. Feyd-Rautha held the gaze; not a single thing about it was hard. Still, he was the first to turn away; the burning sensation of being seen made him want to tear his flesh apart. ''Let me escort you to your rooms, Princess. The walls grow colder as the evening approaches.''

The weather on the planet leaves too few guards out of their breath, Irulan notes. The striking sun burns through the rounded windows of man-built walls, the frankly depressing landscape of huge boxes constructed with little intent for anything else but utilitarianism. She must not fear, while those lands will also be under her power with time, but the dreadful atmosphere of the lonely planet makes her skin break out in hives.

She believes the people here are more terrifying. White, hairless creatures with eyes as dark as the sun above them speak with just nods and courseys, paying little to no attention to the world around them, save for the concrete floors. ''Tell them to set themselves on fire, and they will,'' Irulan recalls Baron Vladimir telling her father over the banquet. She believed it to be a simple boast at first, but now, after a few days in the strange world, the words make greater sense.

Perhaps, the harsh weather made people here hardened. Perhaps, such cruelty is necessary for survival. What terrorised her more was her sister—the one who now silently reads nearby, her long dress carelessly spread on the floor. Irulan would never allow her dress to wrinkle before the concluding dinner, but she is not Irulan. Despite them being demisisters, they shared fewer similarities than one could guess. Two lambs, as many in court would call them—the white and black ones. They knew one another better than anything else; where one went, the other followed. Where Irulan failed, her sister succeeded. What was allowed for her sister, was fobility towards Irulan. No one was embedded in their small circle; no one could get close enough to understand the bond they shared—together, they were whole.

Yet as they grew older, the bond seemed to thin. The path to the mind of her sister was more often closed to her now, her thoughts veiled by the silence rooted deep into her veins. Irulan knows they are just growing up, trying to find their path in the unknown. But she is scared; what would be of her without her sister? What use would the river have without fish to fill it?

''I shall go,'' her sister says, closing the book. ''The dinner starts soon, and I wanted to return the book before it.''

''Is it the one Na-Baron recommended?'' Irulan voices. Truth be told, she would never touch anything that Baron or his family possessed, even more recommended, but her sister seemed to enjoy the ancient text.

''It is. Rather interesting are the traditions of these people. Did you know their slaves have no tongues?''

Irulan feels sick to her stomach; the thought of having slaves brings the small bits of her recent meal to her very present tongue. ''Can I come with you?'' she asks, instead of answering. Irulan does not want to leave the faint safety of her rooms, but even more, she does not want to be left alone. She feels vulnerable—she is not of power here, despite being the embodiment of it in all of the other corners of the Imperium.

''You know I walk without guards.''

Irulan knows. While she is not able as much as bathe without the presence of someone with fighting knowledge, the rules do not seem to apply to her younger sister; she can move freely, as she wishes. Was it because she carried a thin blade with her and knew how to use it, or because of the lack of care from their father? Irulan was not sure. What she was sure of, was that no woman of twelve should leave her sister alone in the halls of Harkonnens' fort.

''It is just to the reading room and back, is it not?''

''Yes,'' her sister nods. ''I'll take you,'' it means.

So, they walk. Fortunately, the guards usually waiting outside are nowhere to be found, and they manage to slip away unnoticed. Irulan holds the hand of her sister tightly, with each noise from the outside digging her nails deeper into her soft palm. Her sister says nothing; she steps calmly into the labyrinth of corridors, navigating them without much evident trouble. Soon, they find themselves in front of a huge black door, incarnated with words Irulan hold no knowledge of.

Inside, the chamber is massive; it forms a beautiful, round circle with ceilings so high that the air in it is always chilly. Rows of books and manuscripts fill the shelves out of oxidant, contrasting starkly with the white wall. The black circle table of cold stone is filled with replicas and ancient artefacts, each emitting a soft glow.

Who knew the small, desert planet held such treasures inside? Irulan forgets about her sister entirely—the texts call to her, golden lettering shining under the light. Irulan follows the names on the covers: legends, myths, histories, and art overviews. Some even contained gardening and soil research; Baron likely held those for a good laugh.

Irulan travels deeper and deeper until the voice of her sister addressing the only library keeper almost disappears, consumed by tall bookcases. The section she finds herself in is solely dedicated to martial arts; where, if not here, would the hundreds of books on such a topic be stored? Some of them are used; the spines are slightly older; others look brand new.

Irulan is brought to her senses only when she notices a black figure moving in the corner of her vision. She puts the book back and Listens. Just like the Sisters taught her, her inner ear picks up the faint voice of her sister, and the moving of two sandaled feet—the slave handling the books. She feels something else, too. A presence familiar enough to recognise but not enough to name.

''We have to go,'' she says, grabbing her sister by the shoulder and pressing. ''We will be late,'' she explains to the slave. Not that it would question the whims of the princess.

''Why?'' her sister turns to her, confused. ''I was looking at some other books. Weren't you also?''

''Please,'' Irulan whispers. ''We spent enough time here as it is.''

Just as her sister was about to answer, the atmosphere shifted. The air, sitting in its calmness, heavied. The silent before slave turned on its feet, its eyes burning holes in Irulan's body. It lurches towards them, opening its obsidian mouth to show the blackened void inside—indeed, it possesses no tongue.

Irulan freezes. The void seems to suck her in, the sharp mouth growing wider as its owner approaches her body. The fear paralyses her, planting her otherwise quick feet deep into the ground. Now, her training as Bene Gesserit should awaken—she should oppose, or at the very least dodge, the attack. But the black mouth continues to draw her in, clouding her thoughts with terror.

The body beside her shifts; her sister is quick. With one strong thrust, she pushes Irulan aside. '' Hide ,'' the voice within her head commands, and Irulan has no force to object to the technique. She crawls under the heavy stone, frantically looking for something—anything—to protect herself with.

Despite the long skirts, her sister moves like Adam's wine; she bends and turns, and strikes the man far taller than her, but he seems determined on the idea of killing her. Her sister grunts under the heavy hits; one sits in her abdomen, and another lands on her knees. The slave's nails leave a trace on her skin, rough enough to pierce the young dermis.

Eventually, her sister grows tired; the slave pushes her to the ground, pressing his slender body on top and closing its white, almost translucent hands on her throat. Irulan clasps the found sharp cutting instrument to her chest, desperately trying to calm the wave of fear forming there. ''I must not fear. Fear is a mind killer,'' she whispers again and again.

She watches as her sister's hand slips under her clothes and emerges an illicit, slender blade—it shines under the light just as lettering did on the books a minute ago. To Irulan, it feels like a year's hundred. ''No!'' she wants to shout as her sister raises the steel and preys it into the eye of the slave, but the words are unable to leave her throat. Like a waterfall, crimson covers her sister's face, staining her light grey dress in hot circles.

The slave falls on his back, his hands leaving their place on her sister's neck.

''Enough, please! Sister, stop!'' Irulan cries, crawling out of her hiding spot but daring not to get closer.

Her sister doesn't hear; she lurches towards the man in a slick puddle and takes his life quickly, cutting his throat in one swift motion. The blood from his arteria leaves the body in pulsations; they spatter everywhere, some drops going as far as touching the shelves.

The silence settles in the chamber once again; only the sound of weakly flowing blood disturbs the stillness. Her sister does not shed a tear; she meticulously cleans the blade with the slave's white cloth and slips it back into the folds of her gown.

''What have you done?'' Irulan whispers. Her hands tremble; the sight before her crawls into the deepest corners of her mind and tears everything there down. How can one kill so easily? How can one be so cold and calculating, as if it were nothing more than a daily chore? How could that one be her sister, the one she shared a life with?

''I protected.'' Her sister's voice is hoarse, but firm. There is no remorse in her tone, only weariness. ''What have you done?'' She turns to face her. Her hair, carefully braided by servants for dinner, is undone; the wet strands of it grip her face like a vice, framing the unseeing eyes.

Like that, she looks like a woman mad. Irulan backs into the safety of the doors, feeling her fear turn into something much greater. ''Do not come near me,'' she commands. Just as the heavy doors close behind her, she sets off running.

YN waits until the footsteps of her sister are no longer heard, and only then does she come out of the reading room. She pays the body on the ground little attention; no one would bet an eye on the death of a useless creature like that. It did not intend to kill; rather, someone made it do it. Who, in their right mind, would try to harm the heir of the Emperor? How would they know that Irulan would follow her there?

Irulan. The one who watched as the Other almost gave her life for hers, the one who had the nerve to be repulsed by the blood on her hands—the blood she spilt protecting her. What do you do when you are not allowed to be angry at God? Why does God shame one for the will she herself inflicted on one to bestone? YN would ask the sun, but it hid behind the walls of the fort. She would ask, but no one would answer.

So, she does what she is meant to do—finds her way into the large dining hall, where everyone, of course, is starting to gather. The Emperor would be dissatisfied to find her not there on time; she has no time to fix her appearance. In light of the slight possibility of shaming their House with her muddled hairstyle or suffering yet another punishment for being even late, she chooses the first option.

The guards let her in without saying a word. YNr watches as the shield slides open, revealing a full hall. Rows and rows of tables, filled with foods one would imagine never would have made their way to the Giedi Prime, and laughter not so usual for a harsh realm.

''Princess...'' the servant starts, announcing her arrival, but she shushes him with a slight wave of her palm. She does not notice the crimson liquid staining it.

The Other makes her way to her seat calmly, careless of the way people around her stumble and twist their faces in shock. The only eyes that watch her without fear at the Emperor's table are those of Lady Echidna. Her face betrays no emotion at all—hidden by her veiled black cloth, it only slightly moves when the YN passes her seat.

She holds the angry gaze of the Emperor calmly. He will demand an answer, of course if Irulan has not whispered the truth into his aged ears already. Her sister probably would do no such thing; in that, she would admit to disobeying the orders bestowed upon her. YN is puzzled at the attention directed towards her humble figure—the first thing a Bene Gessarite in training learns is not to be repulsed by the anatomy of her body. Why be grossed out by the liquid coursing through her veins—the liquid she carries all her life? Why be scared of death, when it is always at your doorstep? In the sway of her thoughts, the Other also seems not to perceive the pair of icy blue eyes glued to her figure as she finds her seat and takes her place.

"The boy follows you around like a dog." The mother's tone stands not in judgment but rather simply states the truth.

Lady Echidna is not veiled now; her heavy hair is still tightly braided out of her face. Just a small black ribbon highlights her status as one of the Emperor's senior concubines, a position most would bear with honour. To her, it was yet another stain on her earthly body—the body she could not call her to possess. The black sun of Giedi Prime is finally long behind them; nothing but a few light orbs floating around illuminate the chamber, yet her intense gaze seems to pierce right through the girl that sits across her.

"I know, mother. His steps are heavy; his thoughts are even heavier; they follow me much more often."

The woman's fingers stop working on an intricate needlework for a moment, before continuing as it was. "You are to call me Sister, girl," she speaks, her voice low.

YN drags her teeth across her tongue, feeling the anger flow through the veins in her body. She wishes to be far away from this small chamber, to run and never face the woman's eyes again. "The girl has a name, Sister. Or do you fear to voice it?"

Lady Echidna places the cloth on the table beside her gracefully, as if paying no attention to the words spoken. But YN can sense can feel the resentment that burns inside her mother's stomach, spreading its molecules to her throat. "A name holds meaning; for a person to have a name, one must first be of character and substance. You are none."

YN bit the soft flesh inside her mouth; it tasted bitter. It was better if her mother shouted, if she hit her if she did anything to prove YN is still here in her eyes, that she was not just a void the woman spoke her riddles into. Maybe then the pain inside her would have a meaning, would have a reason better than just childish hurt. "Did I not have a beating heart when I left your womb, Sister? Did you not hear it loud and clear? What kind of proof is needed more of me?"

"My daughter died that day, screaming. You took her place. So do not bother me with your foolish talks anymore, for we both know they just waste the air we breathe. Am I heard?"

She was. The tears dried on YN's face before having the chance to spill, and she turned to her studies. Once more, a feeling of ever-lasting cold surrounded her shoulders. The never-leaving vision in her mind appeared once again—her mother's quick steps as she walked away in another corridor of Giedi Prime's fort, her head straight ahead as YN pleaded not to leave her alone, her legs glued to the command spoken. It was a blessing that the boy found her earlier than his uncle.

Time has passed since the first time YN's eyes saw the black sun of the foreign planet so far from hers. The Other trained, restlessly, in the tongues of ancient warriors and the most prominent whisperers, slowly earning the right to bear Knowledge in her crown-empty head. She had much yet to learn, but the prospect did not frighten her; with every passing day, she felt power building in her hands and soul. Patience, the greatest virtue of all. She was alone now, without her half of a sister; alone, in her solitude, the heavy bearings seemed not as heavy—she had no one to enlighten about her battles. Still, God was on her mind; YN felt her presence near, her watchful eyes guiding her. Like the tight, dampened cloth on her bruised knuckles, her sister was stuck to her open wound of a soul.

Irulan has grown. Her complexion changed; she no longer looked like a bright-faced girl who left her sister alone in Harkonnen's library; the plump cheeks were gone, and so was fear. At the Other stared a sole statue of power she bloomed into. Silver collars, light blue waves of fabric—the cut is, as always, straight. The Other eyed her up and down, taking in each detail of the painting-like sight. Irulan did the same—a slight disgust at the Other's simple tunic and pants, creased from the sparring. Irulan did not need to be broken in order to be a Sister in the Bene Gesserit; they wanted her Corrino first, and a servant second. The Other, however, held no such value—a child carried not by the lawful wife, a second, a spare. So, there would be no bone in her body left untouched by the lessons, no string in her soul unharmed by the knowledge. They crushed her cartilage in grey sand and forced her to swallow the bitter truths of their ways. Yet, God remains undisturbed—stoic. Eternal.

''Will you not eat again?'' Irulan musses, putting another piece of dish in her mouth.

The Other would take it as a cruel joke from anyone else, but not from God. She shakes her head instead. ''I am forbidden.''

Irulan hums. It was not the first time YN would be disciplined this way; the cycle of punishment and forgiveness was all too familiar to her. The room is silent; there is no one but the two of them. She could offer to eat, and no one would know she did, but Irulan won't offer. The Other does not expect her to; pity is not something a sister can possess.

''How are your lessons going? A fresh knowledge, perhaps?''

YN nods. If she opens her mouth now, her voice will betray her. She could cry all she wanted in the presence of a sister, but it is not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to behave this way in front of God. The Other is reminded of that with an absence of bruises on Irulan's skin; her hands were never cut by the sharp blades, and her mouth was never starved. ''Why was I summoned from training?'' She asked, directing her eyes to the figure in front of her.

''I am here as a messenger from the Emperor.''

YN's eyes narrowed. ''And what does our dear Emperor desire to tell me now?'' She wishes not to hear anything he has to say; the Other is perfectly content here, amongst her Sisters. Here, she is of cost.

''Recently, Baron Vladimir turned to our House for guidance. He and na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen felt misled by the House Artreidis, and their promise of a bride that did not come. Our father has graciously offered to negotiate the conflict and pay the needed price for the Baron's cooperation.''

''Of course, he did. With all of our might, we are still afraid of the savages that made Arrakis their home. With what advice, may I ask, did the Emperor provide the Baron?''

Irulan's lips turn into a straight line, with the small wrinkle on her forehead appearing. Something that she carried with her through childhood. Something that still reminded of home. ''With the proposal of a woman of our House to na-Baron Feyd-Rautha.''

''A gift? Irulan, I am so sorry.''

Sure, the bridge between them was long forgotten, growing with tall grass and wildflowers, but the weight of their shared history still lingered in the air. Irulan was still her sister, no matter how many times the Other tried to tell herself otherwise. And no woman sane would consider giving her sister to the inhumane brutes that were Harkonnens—the people even Bene Gessarit wished to observe from afar; the people so ruthless mothers told stories about them to their small offspring in an attempt to instil fear and obedience.

Irulan does not answer. She hides her gaze, her eyes following the wooden panels of the quarters.

''What is it, sister? Speak .''

''The offer Emperor found the most fitting would be of your hand, not mine.''

The Other exhales. As if a heavy stone were put on her chest, she fights to bring much-needed oxygen to her bloodstream. She almost feels the erythrocytes scatter from her face into her neck, hidden by the cloth, and gather there in an attempt to regrow their might. Her throat twists and closes, its muscles compressing until not even an ounce of air can get in. All of her organs, from heart to stomach, made their presence known; one by one, they tensed and burned, forcing the otherwise relaxed hands to grip them.

It was supposed to be Irulan. The first one to marry is the oldest sister; the title high enough to satisfy the ambitious Harkonnes would be hers, no less. Yet, here she stands, not even looking at the one taking her place as she sentences her to an ultimate death. No matter how much power the Corrino name held, on Giedi Prime, she would consider herself fortunate enough if she were to meet her end quickly.

''Why, Irulan? Have I not been a loyal servant to you all those years? Have I not followed every order without question? ''

Irulan is unmoved in her position. ''We can not risk the Harkonnen blood getting on the throne, you know it.''

''You mean we can not risk you? We are not eight anymore, dear Irulan; you can speak truthfully now. Do you really think the Emperor will treasure you more if you say nothing now? We are no sons, Irulan; we are sisters, you and I. Please, spare me this fate.''

''Yes,'' the girl lifts her eyes, taking a step closer. ''We are no sons; you knew that one day we would marry for the peace of the Imperium. Why do you shout now?''

''Married, yes, but not murdered for the sake of the fucking old man who could not hold his promise. They are monsters, Irulan, spilling innocent blood for the fun of it. I beg of you, sister, show me the mercy I know you are capable of.''

''You are worried about blood? What could one more splash of blood mean to you? You have been no sister for a long time; I order you, as an heir of the Emperor and as the messenger of his will here, to comply. Do not make it harder than it has to be.''

The Other smiled—she would not grant the pleasure of tears. ''Very well, then. Someone needs to go first. I'll go; I'll be first, at least here. Tell the Emperor that I will comply with any of his wishes, whether it be to throw me to the sharks or to feed me to the sandworms. As a confirmation of my undying loyalty, you may show him this:''

She slaps her. She slaps her not like a warrior, not like the trained assassin she was raised to be; she slaps her like a sister, bitterly, harshly. For the first time in her short life, YN raises a hand on something she deems holy—the God's shocked face brings a sense of satisfaction to the Other's veins, even if the same blood courses through them. She turns on her heels and walks away, leaving the forsaken room behind. Leaving God behind.

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lieutenantsluvr · 4 months

Text

༉‧₊˚✧

❝ cough medicine & kisses ❞

pairing : sick!simon riley x fem!reader

tags : NSFW, Undefined relationship. (Unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation.)

Synop : sub!simon who isn't actually a sub, but just so overworked he wants to fuck himself dumb.

w/c 3.8k

Sick. It’s a word you never thought you’d hear from your Captain’s mouth. “Sick?” You repeat, like a broken record. It only earns a small nod from Price, followed by a short breath of annoyance. Yeah, Okay. You can practically read the older man's mind, “Go check on him yourself if you’re so worried.” Is what he would say if he had any less humanity in him. But, he saves you the hit to your already fragile ego. Did you even want to see Simon? The feeling of seeing him in a state any less of… cold? makes your stomach churn in an uncomfortable turmoil.

Softly knocking on the door to his barrack, peeling your knuckles away from the cold wood frame. Noise within his barrack ceases, only for a few seconds before you hear a groan. Followed by a cough. Maybe two, or three more. Simon opens the door. He's still sporting his usual balaclava - But, his eyes are deep, darker and glossy. Dark circles line the bottom of his lids, similar to that of a raccoon. Blonde hair slightly tufted up, messily sprawled over his head. Sure enough, he looks sick as a dog.

"What do you want?" He asks, his voice an octave lower than it usually is. Still dark, gravelly, but it has more ache to it. The way his voice strains almost sends you to your knees. Vulnerable. It’s the only word that comes to mind as you look at him right now. Would he tear the limbs from your body if he knew you thought of him this way? Absolutely. But, as much as the big brute tries… you care for him nonetheless. “I’m here to check up on you.” You state, voice coming out a little bit more weakly than anticipated. Nice one. You try to recover, eyes briefly flicking somewhere else in the dimly lit hallway to escape his unrelenting gaze down. “You haven’t come out of your room in two days,” You add with a small tut of your lips, breaking the silence that seems to only make you uncomfortable. “Have you been eating?”

“I don’t need a nurse.” He states, flatly. His eyes languidly trail against your body, as if sucking up every detail, and then spitting it back out. Simon has taken a comfortable position in his doorway, his arm hiked up above himself to lean against the frame of the door. He has a fever. In fact, you know he has a fever. Tiny sweat beads forming above his brow, barley in sight from the way his balaclava is messily dragged across his face. He heaves for a second, as if trying to conceal a cough. Then, he spits it out - Coughing again, throat dry and raw. It takes him a moment to regain his composure, blinking away the blur that choked itself into his vision. “And, I eat when I feel like it.” Despite the sickness, he doesn't step down from his authoritative role. Big fuckin’ baby.

“I can practically feel your fever from here.” You huff, a quick folding of your arms to defend yourself from his princess attitude. “Have you taken medicine?” You continue, feeling the urge to take care of him swirl in your gut. No, you weren’t a mommy to the men of the taskforce, but more often than not, you found yourself stirring up a pot of soup to soothe their aching throats. Or placing a cold cloth on their foreheads when they ignored the chill in their bones. As much as you loved to tease them about their uselessness when it came to taking care of their bodies, part of you actually enjoyed the play. Okay, maybe you were mommy.

“I can take care of myself, thank you.” He chuffs, a small wheeze from his constricting lungs. You can feel the heat radiate from his body. The smell radiating from the inside of his barrack is deep, and musky. A mixture of his sweat and natural scent. Something about it makes your skin rise, and your heart scutter. You remind yourself that he’s sick, and probably wouldn’t take too kindly to the thought of getting you sick either. The sound of him clearing the phlegm from his throat quickly pulls you from your thoughts - now, no longer turned on. . . just a little more empathetic, you sigh. It’s like the man can feel your persistence from where you stand in the doorway. You just won’t back down. His head slightly lowers, eyes shutting for a second before they reopen and stare back at you. “No.” He says, flatly. All you do is quirk an eyebrow in wake of his question, and he’s shifting in front of you. Clearly his sickness is wearing down his resolve, and he’s almost submitting to your obvious request to take care of him. It's like a cowboy stand-off. Two idiots staring each other down, too stubborn to admit they just want to cuddle.

The stare is only broken as he wheezes out a choked out cough, eyes fluttering shut against the tears that build against his lid. “Fine,” Another cough, “You win.” He slides his arm down from the frame of the doorway, fingers flexing for a moment before resting at his sides, now unmoving. A single stare, until he crosses the room to his bed, sitting on the edge - almost robotically. Clearly he’s uncomfortable with your presence. Clearly he’s uncomfortable even having someone in his room.

You step into the room, eyes taking in the unfamiliar sight. A sight you’ve honestly been dreaming of. It’s a larger room, one that comes from the privilege of being Lieutenant. There aren’t really any decorations, perhaps a plant or two. Mixtures of grays and blacks littering the color scheme of his room. From there, your eyes drift to his bedside table - a tiny bite of what seems to be four crackers on a paper plate, an empty glass of water, and a multitude of used tissues. Not the… good kind of used. Nonetheless, your brain wracks with the sudden realization. He’s sick. Not just, sniffly, but genuinely sick.

“Go on,” You prompt, a soft wave of your hand, “Lay down.” He’s quick to obey you, though, not without protest. He grumbles to himself, incoherent sick whining. Eyebrows furrowed, and an ached whine as he slides himself into bed. “I’m not tired.” He chuffs, but even he knows that’s bullshit. His eyes are barely opened, glassy, and the dark circles that line them almost look painful. “You’re tired.” You reply, knowingly. It’s a quick walk across the room, opening his bathroom door and searching for a washcloth. Once found, you wet the rag, wringing it from excess water and then trotting back over to the side of his bed. Eyes falling down on his sicken frame, you see the way his muscles contract with every labored breath. Simon seems in pain. His scowl visibly softens, his eyes flicking between the soft hold you have on the rag, and your face. A quick quirk of your eyebrow, as if saying, are you going to let me do this? His eyes lower, and a pained chuff emits itself from his scratchy throat. You’re already at the side of his bed, there’s no stopping you now. “I’m not a child.” He reminds you, though, it’s clear he could use the coddling. “Yes,” You begin, leaning over and lowering the cloth to his forehead, “Such a big boy.” Tone lacking malice, and only harboring love for the sick man. He's stubborn - even as sick as he is, Simon doesn't want to be babied, even if he knows he desperately needs it. He keeps his lips clamped tight, trying to stay stoic. Stilling even when he feels the cool washcloth press to his forehead, when his skin is flushed and on fire. It takes a great deal of willpower to stay quiet when the cool cloth soothes his aching body. He's breathing deep, and slow now. It doesn't matter how he feels about you, his body needs the rest.

He’s out like a light. Unmoving, and slow breathing. Broad shoulders, and firm chest rising with every sickly breath he inhales and exhales. A quick glance around the room, and you plan your next attack. Simply cleaning up his barrack, and preparing him a small meal. Though, the tasks do take awhile, having thoroughly cleaned the place. It’s the least you could do. Right?

It wasn't until he stirred in bed that you finally approached him again, a small groaning emitting from his lips as he stretched the sleep from his aching muscles. “Hey..” You cooed, fingers haunting the area of his forehead to check his temperature. He was still quite warm, definitely entering the cusp of breaking the fever, but still quite sick. His eyes take a moment to register your presence, glossed honeyed gaze rising up and taking in your concerned gaze.

“You stayed?” The words were like a knife to your gut, twisting, sinking, and ripping it out. Stayed? Why the hell wouldn’t you stay? The realization hits you even harder, a freight train dragging your body the whole span of the track. “Of course,” You sigh, your hand softly trailing down his face, thumb grazing in wake of his jawline, “Why would I leave?” The touch brings him peace. A wake of molten arising on his very skin, eyes clamping shut. Your touch - It's a gentle, comforting gesture, one you seldom see in your line of work. “I don’t know.” He croaks out after a moment, eyes only opening enough to watch as your thumb ghosts the fabric of his balaclava. He wants to respond, he can feel the words forming at the tip of his tongue. But, they're caught when she drags her thumb down his chin again. He swallows hard, looking around for a way to avoid a response, but finds none. “Shut up,” You interrupt before he can grasp on to the feeling in his chest, “Take this.”

You’re quick to reach over to the bedside table, handing him one or two pills from the bottle, and holding the glass of ice water in your other hand. He looks at it, awkwardly before taking the medication from your palm. His hand raises to his balaclava, hooking a thumb underneath and raising it up just enough to place the pills on his tongue. You try not to look. Keyword, try. Soft stubble from days of not shaving, sharp jawline, and lips full enough to lay claim against. He notices, of course. He notices everything. Eyes flicking down your face, then down to the glass of water. Simon takes hold of it, his fingers grazing against your own as he slips the glass into his own hand. The contact sends shivers down your body, now aching from the servitude you’ve dove into. It’s like fucking shell-shock, the way his touch rattles up and down your nervous system, until the only thing you can think about is pushing him against the bed, and stuffing down on his cock so- “Are ya gonna give me the glass?” He mutters, a slight pressure as he tries to take the glass. You sputter, only for a moment, before letting him take it. Simon makes quick work to the glass, putting it to his now, unclothed lips, and taking a few swigs - soft drops of water forming against lips. Lips so soft you can almost feel the sensation. Lips so soft you can hear the demons in your head screaming to roll it between your teeth.

You avert your gaze, hushing the demons that claw themselves from the pit of your stomach. It was like something in your body shifted - a sense of you shouldn’t be here eating up your consciousness. Quickly, you stand up, eyes flicking over only to catch the clink of Simon setting down the glass. “Where are you off too?” His words are thin, and hoarse, as if he can barely speak against the sickness building inside of him. You actually had no clue where you were going, only crossing over to the kitchen to make yourself look busy. Being away from him was helping, though, the butterflies in your stomach pitter pattering against gummy insides. “Just gonna do some of your dishes, no big deal.” You chide, the heat you once felt on your back from his stare very quickly becomes real heat. “Why are you acting weird?” Simon asks, placing a hand down on the countertop beside you, his body loosely caging your presence. You could walk away, simply move from the spot you’re in, and he’s giving you that option. But you don’t. “You’re sick, go lay down.” You usher, trying to get him to back up. Hand slipping to push on his waist, only a little, fingers barely grazing the fabric of his tight gray t-shirt. He’s quick with his movement, a single hand snapping up to grab hold of your wrist - the same wrist linked to a hand pressed a little higher than his hip. “I thought you were nursing me back to health, yeah?” He chuffs, the reverberating ache in his throat causing his usual tone to deepen by an entire octave. So, there he is, caging you to the kitchen countertop. A hand on your wrist, and the other placed against the granite, fingers visibly curling. I might just take him on this countertop, you think to yourself, the demons practically chewing on the bars of your brain. Deep in thought, he takes a small movement in your daze, his hand cascading up from your wrist to your shoulder - a soft grip, but one that still drips of possession. “I asked you a question.” He asks, head dipping down to meet your height. Dilated pupils, a small form of sweat against his brow, and the remaining flush of his fever. His jaw is clenched so tight you swear it’ll stay locked like that forever. It’s really the only tell that he’s affected by the sight of you. The warmth dripping from his body is scorching. Tickling down your entire body, as he inches and inches closer it’s like molten lava clawing at your very flesh. But, there isn’t a single syllable you’re able to utter in response. You don’t know why you react this way when he’s close. You don’t know why you feel your heart slam against your ribcage when you make eye contact. You don’t know why you wish to map out the entirety of his back and use your hands as the ink that cascades down on paper. “I don’t know.” A simple, and blunt answer falling from your still parted lips.

“Well, figure it out, yeah?” Simon chuffs, before leaning back. The sudden loss of heat is what gets you, knees practically buckling from the cool air kissing at your skin. His eyes drift down, still glassy, and far - but, looking at you, nonetheless. “Si,” You utter, softly. It’s like the gods got tired of looking at the way you pathetically stare at him - deciding, hey, give this one a little push. He tenses, an almost growl as he glances down at you. Fuck, that nickname. “You’re right,” You murmured, feeding into his words, hand sinking back down against his hip, “Let me take care of you.”

It was like an apparition entered his fucking body. In seconds, hands your wrist, backing you up into the countertop. He falters for a moment, head dipping down to your shoulder - an almost soft inhale of the shampoo you use. The smell alone is practically creating a tent against his sweatpants. Finger curling against your wrists. You glance up at him, only seconds as you catch those dangerous honey-like irises inspecting you. Dilation. Quick to hike up his mask, he kisses you. It’s messy, desperate, and almost clumsy. Giving in, you part your lips - an immediate attack of his teeth drawing in your bottom lip, biting down with a force. Groaning into the kiss, he pushes his hips against yours - the cold granite of the countertop pressing into your lower back. A desperate, “Fuck..” as he flattens his tongue against your teeth. Being sick has obviously caused something in his brain to rewire, something to calm the constant ache in his head - or the warmth your body projects feels like healing.

His hands cascade up to your hips, a tight grip as he lifts you - almost effortlessly even in contrast to his sicken state. Almost delirious, setting you down on the bed - hands attacking the hem of your own sweatpants. “Lovie,” Simon exhales through a tight groan, fingers shimmying down the fabric to your ankles, “need this… ‘so fuckin bad.” Maybe it’s the cough medicine rewiring his brain, but he’s practically whimpering for your touch. You feed into his head, hand lazily dragging down the fabric of both his sweatpants, and boxers. Obviously, he’s not going to go for any sort of foreplay. He’s too fucked dumb, eyes desperately searching your gaze as you realize just how drunk he wants to get off of your pussy. His hand slides up to the valley between your breasts, pushing down until your back hits the soft plush of the mattress. “so ‘fuckin pretty.” A tightening of his hands against your hips. His eyes flick down, simply just staring at the state of that pretty fucking pussy. A bite to his bottom lip, before placing himself against you. Still watching you closely, he drags the crown of his cock up and down in slow lines - shuddering against the slickness that oats your entrance.

The sight continues to make him whine. He’s practically teasing himself at this point, only using your body as a means to soothe the sick ache in his head and push his cum so deep into your cunt that he’s the only thing you’ll think of for weeks. You stare up at him, hips circling slowly to further the teasing he plants upon himself. The hand not placed against his cock is quick to snap against your stomach, pushing down until you reside still on the bed. Oh. The crown of his cock latches against your entrance, a shudder from his flesh as he pushes his hips against yours. The motion is slow, sensual and you can practically feel the air leaving your body against the fit. Tight. “fuck, lovie.. ‘so good.. ‘so fuckin good..” Simon whines, his head tipping back from where he stands. The build up is astronomical, in and in, and.. In, until you almost can’t believe he’s not even halfway fucked into you. The tight fit sends electricity to every nerve in your body, gummy walls barely able to clamp together as they get filled. “Fuck, Si-” You choke out in hesitance, only for it to be met with another whine from his throat. Somewhere between a cry, and a whine, he lowers his torso down to meet yours - within seconds he’s buried fully inside of you.

He’s plunging into you like a man starved. Back, and forth - creating his own whimpers. He likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip - stirring there for a moment until his own body constricts, and then slamming in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy. “fuck, such a good girl.. Oh my god..” Simon whines, his face burying itself deep into your locks, inhaling deeply to consume every last fiber of your scent. Lazily gasping between every fluid motion of his hips, clumsiness peeking around the corners as he fucks into you. “oh, lovie.. jus’ what I need.. ‘so fuckin good.” He whines again, his hand curling into a fistful of your hair just to stop himself from jerking about. Simon constricts for a moment, pulling out, and then circling his tip at your entrance - his body twitches, and convulses as if overstimulating himself on purpose. Pussy sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you. “sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..” He sputters out again, another whine into the crook of your neck as he clumsily slams his hips down against yours. What the fuck was in this cough medicine. Lifting himself up, a hand placed at the side of your head, fingers curling into the sheets. His eyes trail down to your connection, and now you’re painfully aware of just how pussydrunk he’s become. Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyes staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. “Up.” He shudders out, his other hand slipping from the sheets and placing itself behind your lower back, holding you up against the edge of the bed. His knee sinks up onto the comforter, and now he’s plunging into you even deeper. Fucking the same spot, over and over again - abusing the gummy wall he seems to be intent on murdering. “sweet girl,” He practically wheezes, the reminiscent of his sore throat, “just like that ‘yeah.. milk my ‘fuckin cock.” You’re too busy blissfully indulging in the art piece in front of you. A man, who is usually cold and stoic, so pussy drunk he’s whining.

The feeling is quick, sweeping, and hits like a freight train. Your insides curl into a tight coil, and release like the snap of a rubber band. A simple, “S-Si!” Sputters from your mouth, earning a jagged groan from his throat. Simon’s fucking into you like an animal, rutting in and out to ride out the way you clamp down on him. Practically whining, and crying - every time he pulls out, it earns a quick, “Hnng-” from his tickled throat. “fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, lovie..” He practically cries out, hips clumsily and weakly slipping against your wet meeting point. A continuation of the rutting, followed by a small cry of relief. He cums, and a lot. So hot and filling it practically burns. Simon continues his sloppy pushes in, and out - using the cum to push deeper, and deeper. He’s a writhing mess on top of you, his muscles twitching and contorting as he grinds out the sensitivity. “Ha- Ha.. fuck, lovie.” A quick sputtering, until his face is once again buried into your shoulder. Simon doesn’t bother pulling out, instead basking in the heat. Soft, and absentminded twitching of his tight muscles - whimpers still slipping from his mouth as he rests against you. Vulnerable.

“Ya’ tired?” You ask softly, eyes flicking down to see his head still buried in the depths of your hair. A few seconds of silence, before you’re met with a small hum of acknowledgement.

“Alright, big guy, let’s get you a nice shower, yeah?” You chide, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his jawline, fingers making their way down his spine - slight tickling of your nails against the aching muscles.

#↳ simon ༉‧₊˚✧#cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #smut #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader

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johnpriceslamb · 3 months

Note

I will always love the idea of being rescued by a cowboy (Arthur Morgan).

Just the image of running away from someone in Saint Denis. Maybe it’s due to a misunderstanding, robbery or simply a creep. Making the dumb mistake of not hiding in a shop and finding yourself in an alleyway trapped. Except the real person in trouble is the stalker because Arthur Morgan is about to serve a knuckle sandwich. Or gun. Doesn’t matter, dead either way.

𝓜𝓨 𝓗𝓔𝓡𝓞 ,

ʚɞ ⁺˖ ˚₊‧꒰ Things take a really wrong turn once visiting Saint Denis to stock up on food for camp. Luckily, Arthur insisted on accompanying you. ꒱

BEFORE YOU PROCEED ! ┊ Hyper-fem(?) ! reader • female ! reader • reader is mentioned 2 be physically shorter than characters mentioned below • gun-slinging mention • brute cowboy bf x shy princess gf • arthur morgan being a complete nut over u • harassment • attempted assault • not proof-read :P • very rushed ‘m sorriiii!!! • 1.6k wrds

“But Arthur—”

“No.”

The small stuffed toy in your hands looks hurt from his rejection, as do your expression on your face. You hug the little guy to your chest, and you put on your best puppy eyes to try and make him change his mind. This usually works, but unfortunately- it did not, this time.

“We ain’t gettin’ that.” He grumbles, lazy eyes looking around the fancy store. He’s uncomfortable, you could tell. From the way he glances at all the bright coloured items sitting preciously on such elegant shelves, you’d think it would’ve costed at least a finger or too to even manage one, the golden floral designs embarked in the corners of the interior, to the fancy looking tiles beneath your feet.

It’s too.. fancy. He stands out like a larger thorn amongst a stem of a rose.

You puff out your cheeks at his slow-growing irritation. Before reluctantly putting it back on the shelf you found it on.

Then, he continues on with a low sigh. Your hand was in his, and he leads you around very similar to a grumpy dad leading his daughter from all the chaos happening which surrounds them. There was too many people, and he feels like he’s about to become crabbier each second will pass being in this awful store.

“We’re here to buy food, not toys.” He grunts, before gently giving you back your empty woven basket.

You begrudgingly force yourself to not reply, sticking close to him.

Suddenly, your eyes perk up at the small sign embedded with ‘Spices’ in bold which hung up from the ceiling. You tug on his sleeve, “Arthur?”

“Hmm?” He looks back. His heart almost aches from the way your beady eyes stare up at him like a small puppy.

“Can we get some spices? Y’know, for the stews Pearson makes. Only a bottle or two!” You pleaded sweetly, gesturing to the sign afar. “It’ll make his food taste more.. appetising.”

He ponders, before nodding slowly. “Hm.. Alright. Get two though, make sure it ain’t so spicy.” He pats your lower back to encourage you to get it quicker. You beam and nod, but before you go, you hand him the basket so he could continue shopping, scampering away to get the said items.

The array of little wooden jars sealed tightly with spices made you in awe. You can practically smell each and one of them from a literal mile away despite the thin layer of sticky-tape which goes around the rim of the jar multiple times.

You unconsciously place a finger on your cheek, pondering on which one to get. Not long, your hands reach up to a jar embedded with the words ‘pepper’ and another reaching up to ‘nut-meg.’ Each selling for only a dollar. Not too bad.

And you feel a towering presence behind you. Believing it was your beloved, you eagerly turn around with a squeak— “I’ve got the!— uh..”

A few blinks and an abrupt pause. It was not Arthur.

Rather, a man with leering eyes, and a predatory-like gaze.

You shift around uncomfortably, “..Um. Can I help you, mister?” Posing to be polite, perhaps the man just wanted help with something.

He stares at you for a bit too long, and you can see his eyes lowering and lowering, before travelling up your figure once again.

He coughs, “Ain’t you a pretty lil’ thang..” Before scratching at his long unkept beard.

Your steps are quick, almost backing into the shelves of spices.

“..Please leave me alone,” You meekly stutter.

He flashes you a crooked teeth grin. “Now why in the hell would I do that?” He takes another step towards you. All instincts inside you rise up quickly, and not long after you pocket the spices inside your light-pink dress before immediately turning to the side to leave.

You don’t notice the fact that he follows you. Only until you reach the same spot Arthur beckoned you to go and get the items you wanted, he wasn’t there. You feel insanely insecure due to the fact that you could not find Arthur amongst the crowd of people inside the large general store. Only then do you stop, and feel..

hot breath hitting your neck.

You squeal, turning around immediately and backing away.

“Get— get the hell away from me!” Your frilly cries cause a few people to turn their heads towards your direction, only to ignore you as soon as they assessed the situation.

He has the same crooked teeth smile on his face as he slowly creeps up to you again. And with that, you hitch up your long floral skirt and run. Run to the exit of the general store with a squeal- only for some crazy man to quickly follow after you.

You want to hit yourself on the head. You didn’t have any guns, nor did you remember to pack the pocket knife Charles gifted you to protect yourself from anyone. You were never one to raise your hands to anyone, nor try to cause conflict.

You bump into a few people, earning scowls and empty threats. You didn’t care, not with a lunatic right on your feet.

“When I catch you—” You hear him heavily breathing, “‘M gon’ do real bad things t’ you, real bad.”

You want to tear up. Badly. But you don’t. Your mind is in shambles as you turn a corner, only to almost run face-to-face to a brick wall which stands tall and high.

You were cornered.

You sob loudly, scratching at the brick walls- you’re well aware that this alone will do absolutely nothing, and your painted nails will probably have cracks on the tips of them. But with panic crumpling your brain, you tend to do things a bit.. weird.

The walls between the two of you are so close it feels like you’re about to faint. An echo of laughter is what catches your attention as you slowly turn around.

“Please, mister!” You plead with a loud sniffle, “I— I— we don’t even know each other!” You let out a loud enough wail when he approached rapidly.

“Ohoh, dumb and pretty. What a package.” He rubs his hands eagerly, almost drooling at your pathetic sight, “You really thought you could outrun me?”

“Don’t make this harder, sweetheart. Just take them frilly lil’ clothes off.. In-fact, why don’t I help ya..”

You clumsily slap him once he’s just a centimetre away from you. Hardly. A low growl escapes his lips, his head turned sideways from that harsh slap.

“You little bit—”

A bullet whizzes past you. It hits the bricks behind you, just a hair-length away. It causes you to yelp loudly, as does the man who was about to slap you back. You peek your head over his shoulder, only to let out a loud cry of relief.

“You better let her go, friend.” The same cowboy who’s uttered the sweetest praise to you and only you, talks in a tone too cold for your liking. Something you’ve never heard nor experience.

“Who the hell is that?” He snarls to you.

“I said, let her go.” Arthur is not afraid to put a bullet through his head. His shoulder is gripped tightly and yanked away from you, leaving you to allow your knees to buckle from shock as you leaned on the wall to help you balance yourself from the shock.

With a harsh bonk to the head with the butt of his revolver, the man slumps on the dirty ground. An obvious purple dent on his head.

Arthur rushes over to your shaking form, immediately scooping you into his arms and squishing you into a tight bear-hug. You’re probably gonna regret the fact that some of your powder will get onto his chest, but you hiccup and hug him tighter for comfort.

You stammer out, “I— he.. I thought I was gonna die..”

He brushes your hair with his burly fingers, “You’re okay, sweetheart. Don’t think about it no more. No one’s gon’ kill ya if I’m here.”

Suddenly, he looks you up and down quickly to assess you. “You ain’t hurt anywhere are you..?”

“No,” You shake your head meekly, “‘M okay. I.. I think I need a bit of time to myself at camp, though.”

“I understand.” He nods and gently puts an arm around your waist to guide you back to the wagon parked a long way away.

His hands brush past against your pockets and notices two hard cylinder shaped objects in them.

Suddenly, your eyes widen, “Oh darn- I-I forgot to pay for the spices!” He’s amused at your lack of profanity used.

He interrupts you with a soft chuckle, before squishing you a bit tighter, “Guess that makes the two of us. Rushed out with the groceries in the basket to find ya and didn’t pay. Reckon we gotta go another route to get to the wagon, passing by the general store will surely just get us into more trouble.”

You could envision that scene playing out. Arthur realising that you weren’t there, and immediately rushing out of the general store with a bunch of items inside the basket to find you.

“Don’t think we’ll be visiting Saint Denis anytime soon.” You feel a tug on your hand as you see a shopkeeper loudly calling out for the two of you.

You squeak and giggle as he easily grabs onto your waist and ran for dear life to the wagon with your shop-lifted grocery items. If you were to give a quick glance to the insides of the basket again, you can see a faint blur of a stuffed toy.

#fem! reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #afab! reader #arthur morgan x fem! you #arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan fic #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fanfic #hyperfem! reader

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holdmytesseract · 5 months

Note

Hello sweetie!!!

Good to know that you've opened requests because do I have A WONDERFUL request for YOU!

Okay okay, of course for me I'm going to request Loki so here goes...

Loki and Reader are arranged to marry and have never met before (either Reader is a princess or just a lady). The day of the wedding, reader suggests a first touch with her fiance - how could Frigga deny that? So they do it. Then, when they see each other at the altar, it's as if the world stops for them both.

I left it a bit vague so you can expand but I am so excited to see what you make of it! I love you so much and please do DM me if you need something 🫂🥰❤️

~LRM

Marrying a Stranger

Loki Odinson x fem!Princess!Reader

Summary: You are arranged to marry Prince Loki of Asgard. Fear and pre-wedding nerves get the better of you and you can't help but ask Frigga for help. Of course is the good-hearted Queen more than willing to help out...

Warnings: arranged marriage? angst, fluff, sweet Loki

Word Count: 2,5k

a/n: I actually wanted to post a new chapter of 'Through the Years' today, BUT the birthday of my wonderful friend @lady-rose-moon is definitely more important. 🥰 Therefore, I'd like to post this lil' oneshot as a gift. 😊 Again, happy (belated) birthday, friend!

Ps. I'm also incredibly sorry that his took me so long to write... I hope you like it nevertheless! I love you, too! 💚

Tags: @lady-rose-moon @huntress-artemiss @muddyorbsblr @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @chennqingg @smolvenger @alexakeyloveloki @theaudacitytowrite @jennyggggrrr @asgards-princess-of-mischief @eleniblue @vanilla-daydreaming @loz-3 @valencia-rou @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @fictive-sl0th @bunny24sstuff @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @lovingchoices14 @linaax @mochie85 @goblingirlsarah @glitchquake @lokidbadguy @icytrickster17 @gruftiela @lulubelle814 @mandywholock1980 @november-rayne @chantsdemarins @simping-for-marvel @lou12346789 @aagn360 @lokiforever @anukulee @multifandom-worlds (Continuing in the comments!)

Masterlist °☆• Loki Masterlist

The day had arrived. The day you looked forward to in excitement and anticipation, but also with fear and nervousness. Your wedding. Your arranged wedding, to be precisely.

You were a princess. Only daughter of the king and queen of Vanaheim. And due to the royal blood pumping through your veins, you were not allowed to choose the man you'd marry. The man would be chosen for you. At first, you didn't approve of this and were literally appalled by the mere imagination of marrying a strange man you had never seen before, but your mother and all your tutors had quickly put you in your place.

There was no way out of this - and you had to accept that. It was your fate. Your destiny. The destined path for a princess.

This is not of importance, sweetheart. You don't have to meet your future husband, in order to marry him.

A few centuries ago, when you had reached womanhood, your marriage was arranged and announced within the kingdom. You were bespoken to king Odin's and queen Frigga's youngest son... Prince Loki of Asgard.

Throughout all the years you had never met your betrothed.

That is the man I shall marry?

That was what your mother had answered to your question if you could meet the prince you were going to marry.

So, the topic was off the table. You had been taught to obey your mother, so why would you dare to ever ask her again? The decision was made. No meant no. You only ever heard stories of your future husband... That he was quite special - and not in the good way. Most people spoke of his mischievous and cunning nature. Some even said villainous, brute and rebellious. To hear those words scared you.

You had dreamed of true love and romance. Of being courted and wooed. You dreamed of a sweet, kind man who would treat you like you deserved - and not of a brute who would treat you like his maid. You spent endless sleepless nights within your chambers, thinking about your future with Loki. What if he truly was just a harsh, mischievous scamp? What if your dreams were about to shatter?

And now, suddenly the moment had come...

But then you started to hear other stories of Loki Odinson as well. About how charming and witty he is. How gentlemanly and eloquent. And how utterly handsome he shall look.

You were torn. Torn by every story they told you - and the worst part was that you never got to find out what the truth was and which talk was cheap. At least not until the day you would marry him. It left you a mess.

You were standing in a huge chamber in the royal palace of Asgard. The room bustled with maids, who were preparing everything to get you ready for the wedding ceremony. You nervously fumbled your fingers; constantly tugging at the soft fabric of your wine red dress. Your mother had just left the room along with your father; leaving you and your troubled mind alone.

From the first encounter with Frigga, you could tell that she had a heart of gold. She was so kind and lovely. Perhaps the most good-hearted person you ever met. You got along with your future mother-in-law instantly. She had welcomed you with open arms. And right in that moment, you couldn't picture another way out.

You couldn't deny the anxiety any longer. It hit you full force; realisation dawning on you like the sun... I can't marry a man I never saw in my life.

So, you decided to order a maid to fetch the only person you hoped would be kind enough to help you. Queen Frigga. The Allmother. You and your family had arrived about a week ago and even in that week you never got to see Loki. Only the king and queen. Not the princes.

Frigga gently took your hands in hers and led you over to the bed; sitting down with you. "What is the matter, dear? The fear within you is stronger than your nervousity. I can feel it." You swallowed hard, "I- It's... It's just..." and had to take a deep breath. "I'm afraid of marrying a man I never saw in my life. I-I know that this is not of importance and probably even forbidden, but-" A radiant smile forming on the queen's lips interrupted you. You furrowed your brows; were confused. Even more when she started to chuckle.

Only a few moments passed, before the young maid returned to your chambers; following the queen.

"Y/N, my dear..." She immediately walked up to you. "You called for me?" You just nodded; anxious eyes meeting Frigga's beautiful blue ones. "I-I did. Could we... Could we talk in private?" "Of course!" She reassured you, then clapped her hands twice. "Would you all please leave and give us some privacy?" All the maids stopped in their tasks and immediately rushed to leave your chambers.

"My son requested the exact same. Barely before you called me to your chambers, I sat with Loki and spoke about this with him as well. I guess you are quite similar in that case." She chuckled again and reached for your hand again. You just stared at her; not quite believing what she just said. "I understand you, dear. I couldn't do such a thing either. Back when I had to wed my husband, I demanded to at least see him and share a few sentences with him beforehand as well. It helped me to adapt to the situation I was in. Therefore, I can't deny yours, neither my son's wish." Frigga stood up and offered you her arm. "Come on."

You swallowed hard; feeling your heart beat rapidly against your chest, as you approached the little pavilion.

You blinked; were utterly speechless. You knew Frigga would understand you, but that... That wasn't something you anticipated to happen. Still a bit stunned, you stood up and took her offer. She led you out of your chambers, down several hallways you had never seen before, until you were outside the palace and had reached a beautiful garden. She stopped, nodding towards a small pavilion quite a few meters away, which was surrounded by rose bushes and cherry trees.

"My son is waiting for you in the pavilion." Frigga let go of your arm and gave you a smile. "You have about an hour before the maids will return to get you both ready for the ceremony. Make sure to be back at your chambers by that time." With a wink and a soft pad on your arm, she turned around and left.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Carefully - almost shyly, you peeked around the corner.

A man was standing in the middle of the small pavilion, with his back towards you; hands clasped behind his lower back. You could see that he was wearing a green tunic and black leather boots. Gold accents highlighted his whole outfit.

He had long hair - as black as the feathers of a raven. It fell in soft curls over his shoulders. Your gaze climbed up and down his body. He was tall. Norns, he was so tall - and his hands were big. You could tell. They would swallow yours whole.

"H-Hello?" A dark, smooth and slightly high-pitched voice spoke. "A-Are... Are you Princess Y/N?" You could tell by his voice that he was nervous, too. Probably even afraid - just like you.

You didn't even notice how your mouth fell agape. Or how you made another small step forwards; totally enhanced by the God you saw standing in front of you.

Barely after you set one foot in front of the other, a small twig snapped underneath the weight of your body. You flinched - and the man quickly turned to face you; flinching the slightest bit as well. The gust which was created by Loki's quick spin was sent directly into your direction and no second later, his scent hit you; invaded your nostrils... Leather, something dark and musky, charred wood and a slight hint of mint and something fruity. It smelled so rich, so divine, but also so addictive and cosy. You almost fainted.

You needed a moment to get yourself together. "Y-Yes, I-" Your words faded into a gasp as your eyes met his for the first time ever. He had the most beautiful eyes you had ever seen. Blue like water and as deep as the oceans. They held so many emotions. Nervousity and fear, but also curiosity and excitement. But above all kindness - the same kindness which sparkled within his mother's eyes.

Loki smiled and took a few cautious steps towards you. "It is my utmost pleasure to meet you, my princess." He gathered a bit of his bravery and hesitatingly reached for your hand, taking it gently in his. With a soft bow, he bestowed a small kiss upon your knuckles; soft, smooth lips brushing against your cold skin. A shudder rippled through you.

"The- The pleasure is a-all mine, my prince." You more or less stammered out, now utterly distracted by his chiselled facial features. High cheekbones, sharp jawline and a perfectly shaped nose. Norns, you thought. He looks like carved out of marble.

Loki gave you a smile. "Thank you for agreeing to this little... secret meeting. I-I just had to see you before the ceremony, I-" You gave his hand - which still enveloped yours a soft squeeze. "I know. I felt the same way." A nervous chuckle left his lips, followed by an even bigger smile. "That makes this situation so much easier..." You reciprocated his smile. "Indeed, my prince."

You took a seat on the small, cosy bench and decided to use the time you had left to talk and get to know each other at least a little bit, before you'd become husband and wife. It was exactly what you - and Loki needed. But especially, it calmed your fears of marrying a brute, despiteful man. They had been wrong... Oh so wrong. Loki was not like that. He was like you hoped he'd be. Kind, gentlemanly, sweet - and utterly romantic. His heart may be battered and bruised, but you could feel that this man would do everything to be a good, loving husband for you.

The hour flew by way too fast; within the blink of an eye and soon it was time to part ways - for now.

"Thank you, my pri-" "Loki. Please... It's Loki for you." That made you blush even more - if that was even possible. "Thank you, Loki." You smiled. "I can't believe I'm going to be wed to such a handsome, polite and sweet man either."

"Again... Thank you for agreeing to this." Loki said; voice soft. You shook your head. "No need to thank me. I wanted this, too, you know..."

Silence settled over the both of you, until he let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "I can't believe I'm marrying such a beautiful, kind-hearted woman in barely a few hours." You blushed in the darkest shades of crimson at his words; suppressing a girlish giggle to slip past your lips.

That caused Loki to blush.

A nervous chuckle bubbled from deep within his chest. "Thank you-" "Y/N." You interrupted him. "Y/N." The way he rolled his name off your tongue almost send you into another dimension - you were sure of it.

His words hit you straight into your heart. You could swear it was aflame by now, burning for this man you knew so little, but were going to wed in a few hours.

"Are you still nervous?" Loki asked then; eyes soft. You nodded. "Y-Yes, I- I'm afraid it's going to get worse..." You giggled nervously; desperately trying to play it cool, but failing.

He took your hand in his again; gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. "I know this is normal. I-I am nervous, too, but... Please don't worry. You are not alone in this. I'll be there - and I won't ever let go of you."

You took deep breaths; smiling brightly. Now you could say that you were really looking forward towards your wedding. For the first time in centuries.

"T-Thank you. That is really reassuring to know. I-I won't let go either." Loki smiled, "That's good to know, my darling." and leaned in for a delicate, small peck on your lips. It was gentle and barely lasting - but it felt so right. So good.

Before you were able to answer something, his hand slipped from yours as he was passing you by; stepping out of the pavilion and out of your sight.

"You look beautiful, sweetheart." Your mother said with tears in her eyes. She placed her pointer finger underneath your chin. "It's time for you to enter the next chapter of your life. A lot is going to change, I know - but your whole life was spent preparing you for exactly that moment. You're a strong woman, Y/N. Never doubt that. And Loki is going to be a wonderful husband. He's the perfect match."

By now, you had to fight off the tears as well.

Your mother leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on your forehead. "I'm so proud of you, just like your father. I love you." You smiled; swallowing hard to get rid of the lump in your throat. "Thank you, mama. I love you, too." She gave you a loving, motherly smile and left to sit with the other wedding attendants.

You took a deep breath and with the sounds of the fanfare, you stepped through the golden doors and slowly walked down the red carpet towards Loki - who stood at the altar; dressed in his ceremonial armour, waiting for your arrival.

All eyes were on you, but you only had eyes for your prince.

When his eyes landed on you, they widened immediately; his mouth falling agape. He watched how your wedding dress swayed softly with each step you took.

She looks absolutely beautiful, he thought; feeling his heart beating rapidly against his chest.

It was all you needed in that moment.

You walked slowly, gracefully - like you've been taught. It felt like an eternity, until you finally reached him.

Loki immediately stretched out his hands for you to lay yours in his - and you did. The moment you touched, it felt like you could finally breathe normal again. His skin was so soft and warm; giving you the feeling of warmth and comfort. For you, his touch was a safe haven. He was anchoring you; preventing you to get lost in the sea of no-man's-land.

You looked up. His endless blue eyes met yours for the second time - and time seems to stand still around you. In that moment, it was only you and him.

You smiled and finally weren’t afraid anymore of the future. Not if it involved the man right in front of you.

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki x female reader #loki #loki x you #loki fanfiction #tom hiddleston x reader #loki fluff #loki x y/n #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson

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cordeliawhohung · 8 days

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pet!au part 4 | ghoap x fem!reader

simon goes shopping

cw: non-con, dark content, groping, oral (m!), non-con videoing, voyeurism, thoughts of violence

Department stores always had such a synthetic scent to them it made Simon sick.

It was the last place he wanted to visit after a long day of butchering animals and cutting them into palatable pieces. Yet there was something he needed, which proved difficult to find. Plastic was incorporated into everything those days — weaved into food bags and molded into anything one could think of. Cheap trash. Something that broke too easily, unlike flesh and metal.

Needless to say, the brute looked at the rack of dog collars with disappointment as nothing but plastic and nylon stared back at him. Fluorescent reflective yellow, glittery princess pink — disgusting. They were poorly crafted, items that would fray and break within no time. Putting either of his pets in something so gaudy seemed inhumane, and his nose twitched underneath his mask at the very thought. No, he needed something more dignified. Something real.

Thick-soled work boots hit the concrete floor with a dull thud as Simon rounded the other side of the rack. It took everything in him not to scoff at the plump purple faux leather collar that greeted him on the second row, but as his eyes meandered downwards, he finally caught sight of the good stuff. Dark cow skin tanned and conditioned into lovely leather. His knees creaked as he bent down and reached a hand towards one of the collars. Smooth, and it smelled leagues better than the synthetic shit a few rows above.

Once he made his choice of a dark brown leather collar chosen just for you, there was only one more thing Simon needed to retrieve before returning home to you and Johnny.

Your name.

Simon wasn’t interested in the shaped cut tags the engraving machine offered. Dog bones, stars — all of it. Cliche. Annoying. Though he was certain Johnny would have rather you had the heart shaped tag, he went with a simple circle to engrave the name Bonnie onto it. Of course he knew your other name, your old name. The one on your lease and your driver's license. It didn’t suit you. And you were under his care, now. A new life demanded a new name, after all.

As the machine whirred and whined in front of him, Simon snuck his phone out of his pocket. Several customers milled around the aisles behind him as he opened an app that sported a house-shaped icon and was instantly brought to a live feed of the rooms in the house. The videos illuminated in a grid on his phone, though the images were too small to clearly see the contents, he knew exactly where he could find you and Johnny.

Clicking on the live feed from the bedroom, Simon nearly smirked when the video popped up on his screen. Johnny had you bare naked on the bed, head leaning over the side of the mattress as you laid on your back, legs flailing. Unlike earlier that morning, your shirt had finally been torn off and discarded next to the rest of your unnecessary garments, and Johnny pawed at your tits like the dog he was as he pumped his cock into your mouth.

Had the audio been on, Simon knew exactly what he would have heard. Johnny’s pathetic grunts, and your gagging and panting as you struggled with the harsh angle your neck bent at. He scolded the man in his mind. The pace he set was too fast and brutish for you to get any air in, yet he didn’t listen to your pitiful attempts at non-verbal communication as you pushed back on his hips.

That wasn’t his first round with you that day, and he figured it wouldn’t be his last. Simon had watched the cameras like a hawk that morning when he left for work and witnessed every second of Johnny fucking your thighs. Pathetic. Almost cute. So close to your cunt yet not quite the real deal. Had to make sure his pup listened to the rules, and while he was very close to breaking them, Simon was rather impressed with the man’s self restraint.

He would have hated to get rid of you had his silly pup fucked you properly.

The machine in front of him beeped, signaling the completion of your freshly engraved tag, yet Simon’s eyes refused to look anywhere else but his phone. Johnny’s hips began to stutter, yet he pressed his cock so far down your throat he could nearly see the bulge of it. Your body thrashed as you tried to squirm from his grasp, but Johnny’s grip on your torso kept you pinned to the bed as his fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples.

With one final thrust, Johnny sunk himself into you and threw his head back, and Simon could nearly hear the groan in his mind. His fucked out, mouth opened gaze trained on the ceiling as his spend trickled down your throat. Silly pup nearly forgot to let you breathe until he all but collapsed off the side of the bed, pulling his cock out of your mouth in the process.

You sat up much too fast and collapsed onto your side as coughs rattled your body. Even through the graininess of the camera, Simon could see the spit and cum dribble down your chin and onto the mattress. A real fucking mess. One he wasn’t excited to clean up when he got home.

Simon turned his phone off with a sigh before he retrieved your tag out of the machine. A large thumb grazed over your new name, and he pocketed that along with his phone before going to pay for your collar.

The bold cashier that was unfortunate enough to serve Simon looked at him with his towering height, intimidating mask, and concerning choice of merchandise with what could only be described as faint disgust accompanied by caution. Simon doubled down on his cold expression, eyes screaming to the man about the ten different ways he knew how to butcher a human. Neither man spoke a word to one another as the item was scanned, yet Simon wished he had grabbed his knife instead of cash when he was asked to pay for it. Animals shouldn’t look at owners like that. As if he was a monster. If an animal wasn’t a pet, then the only look he should have received was fear.

Instead, he grabbed the collar the moment the man took his cash, and he didn’t look back as he exited the store, even as the clerk called after him asking about his change.

#ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader smut #pet!au #dead dove #f!reader

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cherubfae · 2 months

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Alastor's Lament || Jack Skellington!Alastor x Sally!AFAB!Reader

What if all this power as an Overlord has grown tiring for Alastor? Sure, he likes it. But can he even hope to yearn for something different? Could helping the hotel be his missing piece? Could you?

tags: gn!afab!reader, half-ragdoll!sinner!reader, Jack Skellington!Alastor, hurt/comfort, loneliness, implied abuse, blood/gore, protective!Alastor, friends to lovers

a/n: Tim Burton still has some of my favorite films and I'm also going to be working on a Victoria/Victor Al x afab!reader, so please look forward to that! ^~^ Sally's Song belongs to Disney!

From his little corner of Hell, Alastor could see the pale white moon embedded in the red sea sky from his radio tower. On a rare night where the moon could be seen so clearly, it left a deep sense of melancholy within his chest; even his dead heart ached.

All of his years as an Overlord seemed to drain him. Bartering souls had been his greatest pleasure, and sure, he was rather powerful but now that he had all this power; what was it worth to keep gaining? He was already one of the most feared. He sought out a new career path, to become Hazbin's hotelier to rehabilitate demons! It gave him a spark of interest that had been lost in him for centuries. Everything came easy to Alastor. Everything except you.

What a simply fascinating creature you were! Able to unstitch your limbs and sew them back together good as new! He considered you one of his dearest friends, a lovely thought always lingering in the back of his mind. Yet time and time again you seemed to slip away into the night before he could say anything, or even thank you for the lovely vintage wine you'd gifted him. Like a whisper in the dark, you had disappeared.

Not even Rosie had seen you. Which was growing more and more worrisome with the more the hours ticked on by. Where could you have gone? Were you alright? It was an uncommonly chilly night in Hell, thanks to an ice demon casting a spell over the lands as of recent. It was certainly no weather to be out and about in if one could help it.

The Radio Demon was aware of the unsavory living conditions you kept living with your adopted father and self-appointed 'creator' (which was wholly untrue), Dr. Twisttike, having invited you to live at the Hazbin Hotel. Even Charlie, Princess of Hell, had cordially invited you but the two were unaware of just how tightly you were bound to an over- controlling demon. One who claimed that he made you, therefore you were his.

Shaking his head, Alastor fretted over his blueprints for a new radio tower design, yet that inescapable feeling of dread continued to gnaw at his bones like a starved dog. He runs his hand over his face, down the red pinstriped suit, stopping to adjust his black buck shaped bowtie. Its glimmering red eyes blinked. This will simply not do. He needed to find you.

Hidden away, locked inside of your 'room' once more by the demon who held your chain so tightly, you weep silently to yourself. "And will he see how much he means to me?"

"Will you stop that dreadful singing?" Dr. Twisttike hissed, grasping your glowing pale blue chain and yanking you harshly. You fall to your knees, scraping your hands against the dirty concrete. Red abrasions collected on your palms, threatening to break the surface of your skin. "Your lover boy, Alastor, won't be coming for you, dear. You think you can keep up with a demon such as him? Look at yourself. You can't even keep your stitches together. Next time I make a ragdoll, I'll make one out of proper cloth and not flesh like you. All you do is cry and bleed." Clicking his tongue, he leaves you crying on the cold ground.

With your knees tucked to your chest, you sigh. That brute of a man--demon, oftentimes left you more undone than anything else did. Constantly pulling apart your stitches and not letting you put yourself back together. He almost let you catch fire a few weeks ago. Sure, none of this could kill you. But that didn't mean that it doesn't hurt when it happens.

Standing to look out your window, you hum to yourself. You could see the peak of Alastor's radio tower from here, the full moon rising behind like a great beacon. An immense sense of longing filled your body, you hoped he was looking at the same moon and feeling the same way as you. With a gasp, you slip through the partially opened gap and allow yourself to fall to the cobblestone. More abrasions and bruises from, your blood coagulating from your missing limbs.

Plucking out a needle from behind your ear, you begin to sew yourself back together, hissing softly around a particular tender area. Standing on rather wobbly feet at first until you break out into a sprint before your Overlord can know you've left. Your other arm was left behind, but you couldn't be bothered with that now. You needed to get away, heading towards the highest hill of town, near Alastor's tower.

Alastor frantically searches around town. There's still no sign of you anywhere. Dread continues to eat away at him, until he finds himself standing outside the gates of your home. The dread boils away into anger. Your sweet scent lingers in the air mixed with the scent of blood and fear. You were hurt. Bleeding. He wills himself to calm down, his claws bending through metal gates as he pushes them open with brute force.

"Ah, Alastor! Welcome, welcome, come in my dear boy!" Dr. Twisttike's serpentine tail swishes behind him, allowing the tall redhead into the cramped and dingey house.

Even for Hell's standards, the old and decrepit house was absolutely deplorable. A sulfuric musty smell hung in the air, damp with black mold and cobwebs clinging to every viable rafter.

Tension wafted through the air, Alastor's scarlet eyes turning into radio dials. In an instant, he's turned into his full demon form, mouth sewn by green stitches. A glowing green chain wraps taught around Dr. Twisttike, sending him to the ground with a harsh thud.

"Where are they?" Alastor's neck cracks at an ungodly angle, the echo of screams surrounding him. When Twisttike fails to speak, Alastor yanks the chain harshly, his heeled shoe slamming down onto the demon's claw, snapping it clean off. Black inky blood oozes from the putrid wound. "I won't ask again, good man. Where are they?"

Dr. Twisttike rasps, "Upstairs! Their bedroom! Please, stop!" Alastor snaps his fingers, the demon's limbs and extremities are bound by glowing green rope.

Alastor thunders up the spiral staircase. "My dearest! Are you here?" His eyes are frantic, wild. His ears stand alert, waiting for any sign of your lovely voice calling out to him. The only answer he receives is a perplexing silence. He rounds the corner to enter your door lies and snarls. "A cell? You keep my darling in a goddamned cell?"

Blowing the door off the hinges, Alastor surveys the small, cramped room. There's a bare bed with a single flimsy blanket and ragged old pillow. Small splatters of bloodstains stain those sheets. A tiny dresser to the right of the bed holding a single analog clock that seems to have stopped working long ago. The walls are bare of any color and character, with peeling paint and black mold scuttled around the corners of the ceiling like soot sprites. Everything he knows that you love and adore does not reflect in your room. There was no personalization, there was no you. It's uncomfortably damp. It was nothing short of a miracle that you weren't sick.

"You pitiful creature, keeping my beloved in such conditions. Why I should--," Alastor's sentence does in the back of his throat, noticing something half-hanging out the window. A dismembered arm, the thread of your stitches caught on a rusty nail. Carefully expecting it, he gently traces the stitch marks. "Hmm, it appears I have no more use for you, Dr. Twisttike."

A sickening squelch echoes throughout the house as Dr. Twisttike's body splatters all across the walls. Alastor's slithering tentacle removes itself from the corpse, shaking off the blood before retreating into his back. There isn't much left of the poor fool other than the remains of his guts and brain matter. Alastor carefully dabs his cheek free of blood, holding your severed arm close to his chest. He exits, form swallowed by darkness and shadow. Behind him, the home ignites into hellish green flames.

It did not take long for Alastor to find you. You nearly took his breath away. Your gaze is so beautiful and forlorn, sitting on a hill with the clearest view of the large full moon. The silver light casts delicate shadows against your skin as you hum a soft song to yourself. What a true, ethereal beauty you are.

"My dearest friend," rumbles Alastor, his tone a delicate purr. You stand in surprise, which quickly melts into a delicate smile. "If you don't mind, I'd like to join you by your side. Where we can gaze into the stars," Alastor gently reattached your arm, green magic carefully sewing it back on you.

"And sit together."

"Now and forever."

|| I DON'T GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORKS TO BE REPOSTED, RESHARED, OR EDITED. TUMBLR IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT AND THE ONLY PLACE WHERE I POST MY WRITING. ALL CHARACTERS BELONG TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THE STORY BELONGS TO ME. || CHERUBFAE © 2024

"For it as plain as anyone could see, we're simply meant to be." With a gentle embrace, Alastor presses his lips to yours, tugging you into his arms and off the chilly ground.

#hazbin hotel imagines #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin imagines #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor imagine #cherubfae 2024

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sinkovia · 2 months

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The Coliseum

Gladiator Simon Riley x Fem!Reader

Violence, blood, mention of death.

Masterlist

In the splendor of the royal box, you, the princess, watched with bated breath as the gladiatorial games unfolded below. Among the fierce warriors, one figure stood out to you. The way his eyes looked up at you with a mixture of admiration and longing made your heart yearn for him.

As Simon emerged victorious, you approached him with reverence, a crown of delicate flowers clasped gently in your hands. With adoration shining in your eyes, you lifted the floral adornment and placed it upon his head, a gesture of respect and admiration for his remarkable fight.

Your voice reached his ears like a soothing melody. "What is your name?" your words carrying a softness that made Simon's heart flutter within his chest.

"Simon," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper as he bowed his head in deference, feeling unworthy to be in the presence of such grace and beauty.

"You fought with honor, Simon, something I rarely see" your praise washed over him like a soothing balm to his weary soul. With gentle hands, you took a fragrant cloth and wiped away the traces of blood from his face, your touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

As a final act of gratitude and affection, one that filled his heart with warmth, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving him feeling as though he had been touched by an angel.

Simon was hesitant to entertain any feelings for you, knowing the risks involved in falling for the daughter of the king. He was a gladiator, a man bound by duty and honor, and the idea of getting involved with royalty seemed both reckless and forbidden.

However, you were always there to see him fight, sitting at the edge of your seat praying to the gods above to keep him safe. And every time he came out victorious you would be there placing a crown of flowers you had woven together on his head, smiling up at him, and placing a kiss upon his cheek.

Simon found himself drawn to you, the princess whose grace and kindness shone like a beacon in the darkness of the coliseum. Despite his initial reluctance to entangle himself with royalty, Simon couldn't deny the growing affection he felt for you, a love that bloomed quietly in the shadows, hidden from prying eyes.

Your meetings in secret became the highlight of his days, each stolen moment filled with whispered confessions and tender caresses. In your arms, he found solace from the brutality of the arena, his heart beating in rhythm with yours, bound by a love that defied all odds.

The shadows of secrecy could only conceal your love for so long. When your father discovered the truth of your forbidden romance, he devised a cruel plan to teach you a lesson.

Your father, driven by rage, forced Simon into a duel against the most formidable warrior in the land. Towering over Simon, the opponent loomed like a mountain, casting a shadow over the arena with his imposing stature.

With every ounce of strength and determination, Simon fought valiantly, his every move a testament to his unwavering love for you. But the odds were stacked against him, and despite his best efforts, he was ultimately overpowered by the brute force of his adversary.

You watched in agony as Simon fell to the ground, his body battered and broken, while the deafening cheers of the crowd echoed in your ears like a cruel mockery of your grief. You cried out, your anguished scream piercing through the crowd. Ignoring your father's desperate attempts to restrain you, you broke free from his grasp and raced down to the arena, your heart breaking with each step.

In your grief-fueled rage, you lashed out, pushing aside anyone who dared stand in your way. With a single motion, you sent a soldier trying to restrain you tumbling down the steps, his neck snapping with a sickening crunch as his body rolled to the bottom.

When you reached the arena you grasped Simon's sword with trembling hands and as the warrior who had robbed you of your beloved raised his hands in triumph, basking in the cheers of the crowd, you plunged the sword deep into his back. The crowd erupted into shocked gasps as they witnessed the princess, their beloved royalty, committing a brazen act of violence before their eyes.

With tears streaming down your cheeks, you collapsed beside Simon's lifeless form, the weight of grief and despair pressing heavily upon your heart. Tenderly, you cradled his face in your trembling hands, your fingertips tracing the contours of his features. Leaning forward, you pressed your lips softly against his, a final gesture of love and longing.

But as your lips met his the shocked gasps of the crowd echoed around you, their disapproval thick in the air. In that moment, you were acutely aware of the gaping divide between your station as royalty and Simon's humble existence as a gladiator. Yet, despite the scornful glares and muttering voices, you refused to let go of the man who had captured your heart so completely.

Among the spectators, your father let out a cry of anguish, his voice reverberating with fury and disbelief at the display unfolding before him.

As the king's guards advanced towards you, their expressions a mix of apprehension and determination, you knew that your fate was sealed. With resolve burning brightly within you, you reached for the small dagger strapped to your thigh, a gift from Simon for your protection.

With a steady hand and a resolve born of unwavering love, you drew the blade across your throat, the searing pain nothing to the agony within your heart.

As the crimson blood stained the pristine fabric of your gown, the collective gasps and cries of the onlookers reached a fever pitch, mingling with the anguished wails of your father.

As your blood mixed with Simon's on the bloodstained earth of the arena, you knew that in death, you would find solace in the arms of your beloved, united for eternity in a love that transcended even the boundaries of mortality and the barriers of royalty and status.

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konigsblog · 6 months

Text

virginity loss

rodolfo x afab!f!reader ...

warnings: virginity loss, female anatomy, praising, self degrading, slight teasing.

note: i seriously need to start writing day 31... 😵‍💫

kinktober masterlist. (day 30)

Rodolfo's breath hitched in his throat at the sight of your bare and vulnerable body. Beauty, his eyes wandered, lingering on your chest as he swirls his tongue around your nipples, dragging his pink tongue along the hardened nubs.

“Tan perfecto, no puedo creer que esto sea lo que me has estado ocultando, niña...” He clicked his tongue, rubbing your clit while toying with your nipples and sloppily making out with you.

Your cunt drooled for affection, for the sensual touch. Your eyes rolled back when his soft lips trailed down your chest to your nipples again, sucking on them while pumping him cock messily. He chuckled at the sounds of your euphoria and ecsasty.

“Do you think you're ready for me, babe?” Rodolfo breathed out. “Please, hurry.” you whimpered, clinging to his hand and watching him ease down onto the bed, chuckling at your eagerness. “Paciencia, conejito...” Rudy smirked and dragged the tip between your slit and hole. Slowly easing inside and rolling his eyes back when your walls tightened around him.

Rudy sloppily pushed each inch inside. Slow and steady, he breathed out at the pulsing sensation against his shaft. Veins lugging against your walls. He smirked, sucking a hickey onto your neck and groaning out when he bottomed inside. “Oh-fuck!” he cursed, his eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunched up as he allowed you to become familiar with his cock size.

You whined quietly, eyes watering at his girth. You clutched around him, signalling for him to move. Broad hips met your own and heavy balls smacked against your ass with each thrust. He knocked into your hole, his dick stretching out your inexperienced and unused hole. His moans only getting louder. “Oh, God... That's it, taking it so well,”

“I'm so dirty for taking your virginity, yes?” Rodolfo teased, kissing your cheek as he picked up the pace, degrading himself for enjoying the tightness of a virgin cunt. “So fucking gross, I'm sorry, princess...” he panted after expressing how hard he was at your virgin tight pussy around him.

Your back arched as he began thrusting into your cunny erratically, your cheek rising and falling as he filled your slick pussy with his cock. He groaned loudly, euphoria rushing through his body when you creamed around him unexpectedly. Panting and slick, gasping as he continued fucking your hole.

Hot ropes of seed drooled into your pussy, filling you with a potent amount of cum. You gasped, eyes rolled back and shut tightly, his brute arms beside your head and your hand grasping at his hair. Rodolfo buried his head in the crook of your neck, pressing tender kisses as he apologized for taking you so roughly towards the end.

“Lo siento mucho, conejito. No pude evitarlo, ¿eh?”

#orla speaks #rudy x reader #rodolfo x reader #rodolfo rudy parra #rodolfo parra #rodolfo cod #rodolfo #rodolfo mw2 #rudy mw2 #rudy call of duty #rudy cod #rudy x you #x reader #cod

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queenpiranhadon · 26 days

Note

Hello! You commented on my post about my dream request so here it goes...

Pro Hero! Dynamite is dating Underground Pro Hero! Y/N. He doesn't know she's a hero, doesn’t even know she has a quirk. She has a "job" where she can travel a lot; a model for Mitsuki & Masura (they know, because parent instincts). Anyway, YN gets sent on a lot of missions with Pro Hero! Deku since he's one of the few who likes working with everybody. Dynamite sees how close they are and is seething, and end ups turning it into a huge fight.

(i woke up at this point but pls make it comfort if you can)

thank you in advance!!🫶🏾🫶🏾

𖥔 ⎸⎸ 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ⎸⎸ 𖥔

A/N: Idk if this is what you wanted but I loved this prompt so much!! Big thanks to @zanarkandskylines for beta reading and editing this I owe you so much 😭 Here's my masterlist! Divider made by @cafekitsune

Warning(s): f!reader, Katsuki and reader are dating. and they live together, reader is an underground pro hero with a pre-established quirk, mentions of blood, Katsuki thinks reader is cheating on him with Deku, angst to fluff, characters might be a little ooc, mentions of passing out, reader cries a lot, Katsuki does too, Katsuki almost kicks reader out, cursing, Katsuki calls reader princess.

Pairing: Pro Hero! Bakugou Katsuki x Underground Pro Hero! Reader

Shit.

Pain flares up in your abdomen as you try not to think about the blood gushing out of your side, as the taste of iron lines your taste buds, making you want to vomit.

You were on a mission with your close friend and pro hero, Deku, who you consider a friend till the end after endless mission assignments together. Your quirk, Rays, allowed you to control the lighting of any setting you were in- even if it were bright outside, you could plunge anything within a 100-mile radius into complete darkness if you chose to do. Along with that, you could illuminate anything within the same distance in the middle of the night. Your eyes would change colors while your quirk was active, growing lighter and darker with the lighting around you- a feature that allowed you to be hired as a model for Jiyū, a clothing company owned by renowned clothing designers, Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugou. They joked that that lighting always favored you during photoshoots, capturing your eyes in such an alluring way that it was almost like you were the one who made the clothing look exceptional. They’d often drop hints that you would, in fact, be a perfect fit for their hotheaded son. You’d laugh at their insistence, waving off their jokes. They never would guess the reason behind your choice of career path, especially as a secret pro hero.

You were an underground Pro Hero by the name of Sola – specializing in espionage and stealth, a major asset to Pro Hero Deku as you balanced his brute force with elegance and mobility. You loved your job, not ever having to need to be prominent on the Hero charts and found your reward through the knowledge that you were helping others. It was silly, you thought, to sneak around with a secret identity like all the books you read, unlike the Pro Heroes you knew that basked in attention. And even though you didn’t need people fawning over you 24/7, you still had one issue with all the secrecy.

That being your boyfriend, Katsuki Bakugou.

You loved him with your entire heart, and more, as he did you. The both of you got together a few months after the explosive blonde had graduated from UA, your relationship blowing up the tabloids with a bang as he climbed the hero rankings.

You trusted him with your life, and he trusted you with his heart, and yet you couldn’t tell him about your job as an underground pro hero.

This was one of the reasons why.

You hid behind a pillar in the abandoned warehouse you had caught a drug network alongside Pro Hero Deku. The both of you were tracking the pricks for months, coming home late every night with a new excuse to tell Katsuki. You knew it would burden him with worry, choosing to keep your secret hero identity just that - a secret, even from Katsuki. He couldn't worry about you when he had his own job as a Pro Hero to worry about.

Not to mention he wasn’t exactly on the best terms with the greenette you worked with constantly.

The fight ensued, you heard Deku’s grunts and the cracks of bones, no doubt his One for All in usage. You manipulated the light around him, effectively blinding your opponents while giving your partner the advantage of sight.

You were losing blood at a rapid pace, head becoming fuzzy as your body slumps to the floor, giving into the exhaustion from overuse of your quirk.

The last thing you heard before the world turned black was Deku’s triumphant call for you, reporting that all the villains were restrained.

When you woke up, you were in Izuku’s apartment, head hazy and your temples throbbed like they were being stabbed repeatedly by blunt needles.

You got up without a word, thanking Izuku for his hospitality before leaving to go home, brushing off his concerns and walking out his front door.

Anxiety gnawed at you on the taxi ride home, subconsciously fiddling with your shirt to make sure your bandages weren’t visible, and praying to whatever deity was watching over you that Katsuki wouldn’t notice.

You reached your apartment complex, taking a deep breath and settling for a somewhat content look, before inserting your keys into the lock and opening the door, basking in the familiar warmth of your shared home.

Spotting Katsuki at the kitchen stove, you creep up to him and wrap your arms around his waist, to which he stiffens, but you don’t think much of it as you tighten your arms around him.

“I’m home!” You sing, smushing your cheek against him but he says nothing.

Worry works its way through your mind, wondering why he wasn’t responding, until his gruff voice snaps you back into focus.

“Where were you.” he says, phrasing it like a statement, not a question.

Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach- does he know? Did Izuku tell him?

Wh-what?” A nervous laugh escapes you. Had you been caught? “I told you, I was in the US -”

“Cut the bullshit.” he snaps, and you let go of him – you can physically feel your heart snap in two. “Where. were. You."

“I...” you trail off, the words caught in your throat, willing the tears that threatened to spill not to fall.

You both stand there, wordless, staring at his eyes, full of pain.

“You never even loved me, did you?” he says, voice cracking full of emotion, your eyes widening.

“Katsuki no- I" You try to explain, but he cuts you off, the pounding in your head returning with the new rush of emotions.

“Just stop. Please. Leave and never come back.” He spits out, tears finally dripping down his face. “Go fucking be happy with shitty Deku because obviously he’s a better fucking boyfriend than me.”

He thought you were cheating on him. Those late nights coming home, prolonged trips without explanation- god you were so stupid.

You rush towards him, mind racing as you try to explain, try to fix things. You couldn’t lose him, you couldn’t- it would destroy you in ways unimaginable.

And yet, he pushed you away forcefully, making you cry out in pain as he contacts your wound in your side.

He almost stops breathing when he sees the blood, your blood, on his hands.

You panic, and he grabs you by the shoulders, lifting your shirt up to reveal the bandage wrapped around your torso that the blood managed to seep through.

“Kats-”

“Who fucking hurt you.” he growls, low and feral- all resentment from the previous conversation melting away with the realization that you weren’t with Deku – or at least in the way he thought.

“I’m an Underground Pro Hero.” You whisper, a desperate attempt to mask your feelings as you curl into yourself. You can’t risk looking up at Katsuki and seeing his reaction.

“You what- fuck, you have a quirk?!” He looks at you, eyes wide.

You nod hesitantly, his vermilion stare meeting your own, attempting to assess what else you could be hiding from him.

“I wasn’t allowed to tell you- the Commision wouldn’t let me, I wanted to tell you so bad Katsuki, but I knew you had so much on your plate, and I didn’t want to bother you, and-” you break down, Katsuki cutting you off as he encircles you in his arms, consoling you silently, letting your distraught form melt into his embrace.

Heaving sobs turned into choking cries, which dwindled into sniffles that lead to silence. You’d drifted off, cried yourself into a sleepy daze while he carefully cradled you in the kitchen. His own guilt ate away at him- he understood your situation, the Commission was as unsympathetic to a hero’s situation as the League was to anything. But it still hurt, that stupid Deku knew about your status as a Pro Hero before he did. He shook his head, dispersing his feelings. He hated himself for his words, for assuming the worst and thinking you were capable of doing something so low. Running his fingertips over your bandages gingerly, a pang of worry struck through him. He wiped the tears off his face, and then yours, lifting your sleeping form and headed for your bedroom.

Right now, he needed to take care of you.

Changing you out of your clothes, he settles you into one of your favorite worn out shirts of his, tucking you into bed before getting ready to sleep himself.

He joins you in bed, heaving a shaky breath after everything, wrapping his arms around you, one hand placed on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back, holding you against his chest like you were made of porcelain - too scared to let you go, but scared of breaking you, too.

“Goodnight, princess.”

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allbark-no-bite · 1 year

Text

This is Real Life || Rafe Cameron x reader

summary: the kook princess comes home from college with a new boyfriend and Rafe isn’t happy about it. unfortunately, he isn’t in the position to tell her what to do

warnings: 18+ smut, foul language, unprotected sex, slight mention of underage sex

word count: 3.8k

author’s note: this contains NO SPOILERS for season 3! y’all i have had this in the drafts for a year and couldn’t finish it. i was quickly motivated by the release of season three. i actually have some more OBX stuff on wattpad that i hope to transfer over if this gets some attention :)

It was feral really, their relationship. What else was to be expected of Ward Cameron's only son and the kook princess? But for the record, she preferred the term bastard. Born the illegitimate child of the second wealthiest man in the Outer Banks, she could go by whatever she wanted and people would still be besotted—albeit wary—by the name.

She was exactly the type of drug Rafe Cameron couldn't resist time and time again. Better than anything Barry could ever try to sell him. One taste and now he gets an itch for her worse than cocaine. Midsummers made this temptation all the more unbearable. Liable to her father's heavy name, she'd be inclined for the occasion to put on some kind of obscenely form fitting dress that left little to the imagination and Rafe intoxicated by the sight all night.

It's a toxic green color, and by toxic he means the dark teal accents her sun kissed skin and dark hair perfectly. She'd dyed it black two summers ago before leaving for college, and it had yet to return to its natural fair brown. He's sure she did it just to spite him. Rafe had always preferred blondes. But damn did it look good on her. Shamelessly, his eyes drink her in as she flashes a pearly smile at the bartender taking her order.

Unfortunately, he also then catches sight of the guy standing next to her. He's a tall, brute of a man with large shoulders, a perfect nose, and sickening puppy dog like eyes. From the looks of him, he's undoubtedly one too many years her senior. Despite that, it's obvious that he's not the one in charge. Rafe watches as the older man hovers around her. He's confident in the way he carries himself, but Rafe can see how he moves around her with an air of caution, like he knows she's going to bite him if he gets too close. This observation leads him to his next point; the guy is not her type and Rafe knows it.

She met Armand nearly a year ago through a friend of a friend. He had returned to university from Europe to continue his studies with the leisure that his comfortable home life in a wealthy, two parent household provided him. While the six year age gap certainly raised eyebrows —specifically those of friends of her father's— it's not the reason she was uninterested in him.

Armand was the product of fine European breeding and the maturity that came with age. He spoke astutely and with confidence. He also had an unlimited amount of patience. And while it was nice to be indulged by his attentiveness every so often, it became quite boring if she was being honest. Armand was the type of guy one would bring home to meet their family, a quality that she had very little interest in.

Her eyes catch Rafe's from across the country club bar, and she immediately looks away. Instead she sweetly asks Armie, as she calls him, to get her another glass of champagne — her current one had gone warm. She pretends that she doesn't see him sidling up to her until he's standing right behind her.

Rafe has to hide his smile, licking his lips to wet them. After all these years, he's quite used to the games she plays. She makes him wait a few more seconds before she turns around, her exposed back pressing against the bar as she faces him. Her eyes first travel slowly down his body, coming about as close as one can to undressing a person without actually touching them, and only then returning to his face.

"What are you doing here, Cameron?"

They both know what she means is 'what are you doing in my face' and not 'what are you doing at Midsummers'.

Catching the message that she's not in the mood for any sort of shit answer he could give her about his required attendance at Midsummers, Rafe shrugs casually, rolling his expensive suit clad shoulders. His thumb drags across the smooth plane of his jawline, moving downwards and catching along his bottom lip.

"Heard you looked good in a sundress," he suggests, still trying to maintain an air of nonchalant indifference. He wants to know if her golden skin still tastes how he remembers it.

She rolls her eyes as a lazy, taunting smirk appears on his face. Before she can reply, Rafe saunters closer, practically eliminating the distance between them and blocking her against the bar. His face is close enough to her cheek that she can feel his hot breath as he wets his lips.

"Heard you looked good undressed."

Her expression remains unchanged, not bothered by his forwardness. "Would you let my brother hear those words come out your mouth?" She eyes him knowingly, feigning concern. "Wouldn't want to mess up your pretty face again."

The word 'brother' is synonymous to a warning to Rafe and immediately he glances sideways. Around them, residents of Figure Eight chatter and happily sip champagne. No one is paying the pair at the bar any mind. It is likely that no one has noticed them yet. Usually just the sight of the pair together is enough to draw a couple of stares.

When Malcolm Coors doesn't materialize from the crowd, Rafe's sharp blue eyes settle back on her. “Real funny," he sneers.

She has no shame in admitting she gets a little kick out of Rafe's fear of her brother. The two boys had graduated together a year before her, and she still remembers the pair of them being intentionally separated despite alphabetical order as they walked across the stage to receive their diplomas. Malcolm had been sporting a broken nose at the time and Rafe his own nasty looking black eye.

She smiles, enjoying his irritation. While she would like to bask in the fact that it looks like he's still licking his wounds after the past couple years, they need to get to the point before Malcolm does find them.

Rafe nods his chin over towards the unsuspecting back of her European rendezvous as he chatters amiably with the bartender. Rafe wants to swing a golf club through his perfect teeth. "How do you know this guy?"

She shrugs, playing at indifference. "Your inconsistency introduced us."

They haven't talked since before she blocked his number, which was over a year ago. The interaction wasn't exactly civil either. He specifically remembers screaming through the phone at some ungodly hour of the night and ending the call when she finally hung up on him by hurling his phone against the wall. Thankfully his parents had overheard the conversation and already assumed what all the noise was.

Biting back the urge to argue that he's not the one playing the hot and cold game, he persists "A bit old for you, don't you think?"

Her eyes don't follow Rafe's, which she knows are staring daggers at Armand. "You missed me," she points out.

Rafe sucks his tongue across the front of his teeth as an act of stalling, his expression becoming fed up and annoyed. Getting answers out of her has always been like pulling teeth. She doesn't want to play nice? Fine.

"Daddy doesn't have some billionaire's trust fund baby lined up for you?"

Her black lined eyes narrow. He levels his cool gaze with her. Oh he went there.

"Unlike you, my father has no say in my personal life." She's never referred to the man who sired her as anything other than her 'father'. It's the socially acceptable way of saying 'he's a bastard and I hate him'. "Besides, old money doesn't entice me, Cameron."

"Yeah?" he scoffs. Rafe leans in, murmuring softly into her ear. "That's not what you said what I was inside of you."

Her face flashes hot, and it's the first chip in her armor he has seen all night.

"I was seventeen. A minor, Rafe. You could go to jail for that," she snaps.

He smiles, cocking his head in a manner that says he isn't all that worried about his chances of going to jail. "You always act like I took advantage of you. Sweetheart, even if you hadn't begged me to screw you, we both know there's nothing you could have done to stop me."

It's her turn to scoff. "Am I suppose to thank you? You don't get an award for not being a fucking predator." She spits out the last part, and it causes a few heads to turn in their direction.

Among those heads, Rafe notices the blonde one of Malcolm; aka his sign that he needs to excuse himself. "Bitch," he mutters as he shoves past her.

She catches his arm before he can get too far. "Bathroom. Ten minutes.”

It is actually a grand total of twenty minutes before she finds Rafe in the small guest bathroom. Armie had remained glue to her side for another fifteen minutes and even after she managed to escape him, she was stopped by multiple friends of her father’s, asking how college was going and whatnot.

Nevertheless, Rafe waits for her. Each minute after ten, he promised himself he wouldn’t wait another, but the truth is he would have waited all night.

“Fuck. I’ve been thinking about this dress all damn night,” Rafe groans, grabbing a handful of her green velvet covered ass. His other hand is around her chin, guiding her mouth so that he can kiss her against the wall. Their mouths collide so bruisingly that for a moment he considers if he’s just broken his nose. Rafe doesn’t dwell on the possibility for too long because he’s been achingly hard for over twenty minute now and he won’t make it one more without coming in his pants. There’s only one place he’s coming tonight and it’s inside of her.

“I knew you were always a perv, Cameron,” she huffs out as he pulls away from the kiss to unbuckle his slacks and pull down his boxers. The length of him springs out against his stomach. Just looking at the size of him makes her legs shake. Much to her disappointment, he’s forcing her around, hips pressed against the counter before she can ogle at the sight of him for long.

Rafe slips into her as though it were a well practiced move and not something he hasn’t done in over a year. He still knows his way around her body.

She nearly yelps in surprise at the sudden intrusion. “Jesus—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, breathing hard. Just the feeling of her around him is enough to make him spill right now and he’s trying to hold on a while longer. Stomach burning with the effort of not coming, he bucks, just once to satiate himself, into her. The feeling is overwhelming.

Not pleased with his sudden lack of performance, she consciously clenches around him. “Are you going to fuck me or what because I’m sure Armie—”

Rafe cuts her off by drilling his hips back into her once more, this time much more forcefully, and her pelvis hits the counter. That is going to bruise. Rafe grabs a fist full of her dark hair. “I’m going to fuck you so good you forget his goddamn name. I don’t want to hear it again. You hear me?”

Eyes locked with his in the mirror, she nods quickly, desperate to let him have his way with her. “Fuck. Yeah, Rafe. Please just fuck me.”

Without wasting anymore time adjusting to the feel of her, Rafe begins thrusting his hips rhythmically at a ridiculous pace. The hot heat of her seems to suck him back in each time and he wonders if she’s like this for him. Armand. By the way she’s panting, moaning against the counter, he would say no.

As weird of a thing that it is to say, there are people who are good at sex, and then there are people who are great at sex. Rafe is one of those people. She’s never been with another guy who fucks her like Rafe does. It’s raw and filthy and animalistic.

Just when she think he’s as deep as he can be, he shuffles a bit, readjusting himself to get a better angle and hit a spot inside of her that tears a cry from her throat.

“Oh fuck— Please, Rafe. That’s it. That’s enough. I can’t—” When she starts begging for him to stop is when he knows she’s close. She’s always been too prideful to tell him when she’s close and it pisses him off to no end. He slows his pounding to get in a few more drawn out thrusts. The head of him catches inside of her and she cries at the sensation.

“There you go, there you go,” he groans, finding the breath to encourage her to finish as he struggles to control himself. “Feel me? Atta girl, you’re right there. Right there, baby.”

Crying out a moan, her head falls back as she orgasms, her walls fluttering in protest around him. The shock last for several long seconds throughout her entire body, and she contemplates if she’s ever going to be satisfied by another orgasm ever again. Even after, the electric buzzing sensation remains, and she remembers that Rafe is still throbbing inside of her.

Without warning, he thrusts into her a couple more times before finding his own orgasm. With his nose pressed into her hair, mouth right next to her ear, Rafe moans as he releases inside of her, and he hears her breath hitch at the sound. As if he needed proof of the fiery ball that had been pent up in his stomach all evening, he spills and spills and spill inside of her. It leaves him trembling by the time he’s done.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Fuck,” she repeats, humoring him. He almost laughs but he doesn’t think he had the energy left for it.

Slowly moving again, the noise that his dick makes fucking into her, his cum dripping out is obscene, but he wants to savor the hot mess of her around him for as long as he can.

Smugly, he catches her gaze in the mirror, watching himself move in and out of her. The mascara under her eyes is smudged, making her searing gaze all that much darker. Rafe thinks she always looks perfect no matter what. He does have a bias towards ‘freshly fucked’ though.

As much as he would like to remain pressed against her —and in her— he knows she’ll only tolerate him for so long. So with a final sigh, he presses a prolonged and affectionate kiss to her hair and pulls out of her. As she fixes her dress, he tucks his still-leaking dick back into his boxers, pulls up his pants and watches her walk out the bathroom without a word. Rafe waits a respectful few minutes after her to make his exit.

Feeling truly fucked out, no pun intended, he heads over to the bar, where he spots her with her boyfriend, his arm wrapped low around her waist as he kisses her cheek. He needs a fucking drink, he thinks. And then, probably something stronger.

—

There are very few things that can rouse her from the dead sleep that she gets in her childhood bedroom. Coming home to the plush baby blue comforter that covers her perfectly made bed is like downing a handful of melatonin gummies after sleeping on a crummy twin mattress for nine months. Despite this usually holding true, Armie is the only one dead asleep beside her.

'I’m going to fuck you so good you forget his goddamn name.' The memory keeps replaying in her head. The perfect infliction of his voice down to the scent of him as he leaned in is marred into her memory. He still wears the same cologne.

Without warning, her phone on the bedside table blares to life, ringing loudly, and the bright screen illuminates the mostly dark bedroom. Scrambling to shut it off before the commotion wakes Armie up, her immediate response is to swipe the answer button.

"Hello?" she asks, her voice hushed, into the phone.

"I need you, (y/n)."

Rafe's voice transfers crystal clear through the receiver, like he's not even trying to be quiet.

"Rafe?" Cupping her hand over the speaker and pressing the device closer to her ear, her eyebrows furrow as she hurriedly swings her legs over the side of the bed and quickly tiptoes out into the hall."Rafe?" she asks, this time louder now that Armie can't hear her. "Are you fucking cra—"

"I—I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. I— fuck, (y/n). I just—" He's rambling, his smooth as honey voice much thicker than usual and notably less precise. He sniffs, loudly.

She sighs as he tries to collect himself over the line, mumbling and stuttering. "Why do you only call me when you're high, Cameron? I mean, seriously?" This is not the first time he's phoned her in the middle of the night, high out of his mind.

Rubbing her hand over her eyes, she checks the clock on the wall. It's well past 3 am. There's a slim chance she will even get any sleep at this point.

"Listen, (y/n). I–I just—"

"No, you listen," she snaps, cutting him off. "You'd better be at your house when I get there or else. Got it?"

She can hear him swallow over the phone and something crashes to the floor. "Yeah— I— yeah, I will. I will."

"Okay, bye."

"Bye."

It helps that the Cameron's live only a few houses down. In reality, no one lives very far from anyone in the Outer Banks. Figure Eight is only a bike ride away from the Cut.

With the majority of the Cameron household likely asleep, and not caring to wake up Ward, she walks in without knocking. She'd never knocked before and wasn't about to make a habit of it now. Creeping slowly through the entryway, her sneakers echo loudly on the pristine tile floor. She knows this house like the back of her hand and therefore has no difficulty in navigating it in the dark. Around her, the house is still.

"Ra—" A hand clamps around her mouth from behind, effectively cutting of her startled shriek. Shoving his heavy body off of her, she whirls around to face him. "What are you doing?" she whispers loudly, shoving his hands away.

"I didn't want to scare you," Rafe defends, his blue eyes shining even in the darkness.

Shoving him once more in the chest, hard for good measure, she moves past him into the kitchen and flips the light on. Now that she can actually see, she steps back to take him in.

His pupils are blown, leaving very little of the blue of his eyes distinguishable. The suit jacket from earlier in the evening is gone, but everything else, from his dress shoes to the the white button up shirt underneath remain. Half of the top buttons of his shirt are open, revealing the golden skin of his chest. Nervously, he rubs at the back of his neck, where the short crop of his buzz cut fades.

"(y/n), I—," Rafe begins, stepping towards her.

"Shut up, Rafe."

His head fogged with the determination to get her to just listen to him, he ignores her instruction. "C'mon, baby. I just—"

"Shut up, Rafe," she repeats, sterner this time. She knows his head is not in the right place at the moment, and he needs to get it together if they're going to have this conversation.

"I need—"

"I said shut up!"

Finally something must reach the inside of that thick skull of his and Rafe immediately clamps his jaw shut. Now silent other than his heavy breathing, his big doe eyes watch her attentively.

She stares at him for a moment, using the quiet to gather her thoughts. Seeing him like this tears her up a little inside and it’s hard to find the right words to say to him. Sure, she treats him like shit most of the time, but that’s because it’s like second nature to the two of them. Fucking is the only thing they’re both good at.

She knows somewhere behind his drug induced haze, he’s really just a scared little kid. Most people take one look at Rafe and assume he’s just another screw up, destined to end up mooching off the Cameron family inheritance for the rest of his life. But she knows deep down that he has it in him to be better.

“You gotta stop, Rafe.” That’s the most honest and genuine sentence she’s spoken to him in a year. “This is not some prodigal son fairytale where you just get to walk away from it all when you decide to get your shit together. This is real life.” Her voice has risen towards the end and his already glossy eyes look wet.

Rafe can count on one hand the number of times he’s cried in his life, especially in front of someone else. His emotions tend to teeter from slightly cocksure to overwhelming rage without much of a grey area. But right now his throat feels tight and his eyes burn and he’s coming pretty damn close. And maybe it’s from the coke he snorted earlier but even that’s starting to wear off. He knows because his head isn’t swimming anymore and his eyeballs don’t feel like they’re rolling around in their sockets.

Fighting the swell of emotion that is threatening to erupt out of his chest, he looks up, tongue pressed into the inside of his cheek, suddenly not wanting to look in her eyes. Rafe finally nods, sniffing hard while he gathers himself. “I know,” he whispers, the noise barley even audible.

Still nodding to himself, he settles his gaze back on her. “And I know you think that this is the cocaine talking, but I promise you it’s not. I mean it when I say I need you.” Timidly, he paces towards her from across the kitchen. “I—I need your help. I need you. I—”

While he continues to ramble, she hushes him as he rests his chin in the crook of her neck. One hand cups the back of his head while the other rubs his shoulder through the soft cotton of his shirt. “Okay. You’re okay,” she murmurs into his ear, still holding onto him as he sinks to his knees on the kitchen floor. He’s tall enough that his head meets the middle of her stomach even on the floor.

Rafe can’t recall the last time anyone has held him so carefully before. But he does know that it feels wildly more intimate than any sort of sex they’ve ever had. Drowsy with relief and crashing from his high, he almost asks her if she loves him. It would be so easy to breathe the words, but instead he closes his eyes and lets her hold him a while longer.

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