#<- me steel chairing these fucking tags | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bitterrfruit · 10 months ago

Text

you re-enlist

And Captain John Price absolutely doesn't want you to. He begrudgingly takes you to his office to sign the paperwork - and shows you what your decision has brought you.

18+ MDNI - 5k words

tags: John Price x f!Reader, power play, oral and vaginal sex

a/n: To get some content on here I've pulled this from my longfic Licking Wounds on Ao3. Trimmed/tweaked it a little to make them tumblr friendly :)

“Just... let me sign what I need to.” You breathed, exasperated.

Captain Price sat behind his desk, leaning back insouciantly in his chair, bouncing his knee in irritation. His cautious and tired eyes flitted between yours, considering his words before he spoke.

“This is your last chance to change your mind.” He grunted.

You sucked your teeth frustration. “I’m not changing my mind.”

“You should.”

“Why? Will my presence really be that fucking draining for you?”

He quickly absorbed your sudden anger, mirroring it as he stood from his chair, leaning against the surface of his desk on white knuckles.

“You know that’s not what this is about.”

His tone was by turn seething and pleading, glowering at you with gruelling severity.

You scoffed. “Oh, so it would be.”

“For fuck’s sake, don’t be childish.”

“Childish?”

Evidently fed up with your petulant bickering, his head dropped from his shoulders as he grunted in frustration. “I just... I can’t understand why you’d come back to this.”

“You can’t?”

“You had the chance to get away from it. You got out.”

“Got out. You think I got out, do you? That once I got shipped back to London I was done with it all?” You groaned, impatient. “Just let me sign the goddamn paper."

There was visible dispute burgeoning behind his lips, but he stayed silent – leaning forward to tug open one of the drawers of his desk. He pulled out a pad of blank paper forms, hesitantly but methodically tearing one sheet free along the perforated line. He flipped it, placing it down on the wooden surface and twisting it so it faced you, pushing it towards the edge in your direction with his fingertips.

He plucked a ballpoint pen from the steel mesh cup on the edge of the desk, before dropping it on top of the paper form with a quiet clack.

Crossing his arms, he stood upright with a huff and watched you scrutinisingly; glare challenging yet reluctant.

You quietly swallowed, stepping abashedly towards the desk and leaning over it, holding the pen between your fingers and pensively clicking the end of it with your thumb.

Jaded eyes scanned each word, the tip of the pen trailing each line as you read. You checked box after box, writing down the answers to probing questions as though you were completing an exam under the shrewdly watchful eye of your professor. Existing health conditions, current medication, family lineage, previous rank, promotable status. It would almost be nostalgic, answering questions such as these again, for the first time since you were promoted to sergeant four years ago – if it didn’t carry such painful weight, and weren’t so rife with sordid history.

The nib of your pen met that dotted line, finally, at the bottom of the form. Your eyes looked at the conditions and implications of your signature, that thick paragraph above the box, though not a single word was absorbed by your busy mind. It didn’t matter – you knew the consequences of that pen meeting the paper. Even if the Captain wished it, signing your life back into the hands of the SAS was not something that could be easily revoked.

He seemed to relish hopefully in your hesitation, his breath slowing as he watched you consider, pen hovering cautiously over the paper.

You briefly glanced up at him, from under your challenging eyebrows, meeting his eye. His stiff gaze wordlessly pleaded with you, his mouth in an austere line.

Steadfast, you ignored his silent dispute.

You signed the dotted line.

There.

Done.

No backing out now.

A soldier again.

You were astonished at the adrenaline a mere signature could pump from your heart, quivering with it, as you dropped the pen to the desk and stood upright.

His steely eyes did not leave you, face replete with a medley of discernible emotions; ire, anxiety, remorse, solemnity. Arms still crossed firmly over his chest, you listened as his heaving lungs drew in a deep, exasperated breath.

He licked his teeth before he spoke.

“That’ll be all then, Sergeant.”

He dismissed you bluntly, coarse voice dripping with derision. A crease formed in your forehead, taken aback by his sudden dismissal, breath hitching at his use of your rank instead of your name; sergeant, a title he hadn’t referred to you by in two years.

It was as though he was satisfied, doing his best to show you what your decision had brought you, to make you regret it. You were his subordinate again. Just his sergeant.

“I knew you’d enjoy it in the end, Captain.” You seethed, tone draped in sardonicism, an immediate retaliation.

His brow furrowed as he looked down his nose at you. “Enjoy what, eh?”

“You finally get to order me around again, don’t you?”

“You-”

“Am I dismissed? Or are you going to command me to drop and give you fifty?” You growled pettishly, scowling up at him. “It must’ve been hard, not being able to command me to do your bidding while I was a civilian. But that didn’t stop you from trying, did it?”

He grunted, an increasingly enraged sigh escaping his chest. “I didn’t want to be giving you orders again.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, I didn’t. Just because you don’t know what to do with yourself when you’re not being commanded to do it, doesn’t mean I’ve been waiting for the chance to.”

A kick to the stomach, you worried you’d lose your balance with the blow.

Grimacing at him, you stepped your weight onto your back foot in reaction to his venomous accusation.

“Fuck you.”

You hissed it through your teeth, unable to conjure up any intelligent rebuttal, only lashing out with the reprisal that your frenetic emotions scrambled together.

He sniffed irately, adjusting his arms over his chest.

“Can’t talk to your captain that way, Sergeant.”

Your jaw hung loose in disbelief, overcome with a cold rage that made your body quake as it flooded your arteries.

“Fuck you,” you repeated wryly, daring. “Are you going to order me not to talk back to you, sir? You prick?”

He glared at you with challenging contempt.

“You want me to give you an order, do you?”

“I want you to get off your fucking high horse.”

“Yeah? Am I too honourable?”

“Honourable? You’re a sanctimonious p–”

He put his hands on his hips, brashly sucking his teeth before he interrupted you.

“Take off your shirt.”

His hoarse command pierced the thick air like a bullet.

The wind was viciously sucked from your lungs, then, your racing heart jolted under your ribs with such voltage it felt as though you had been shocked by a defibrillator. You could only stare at him, stupid, waiting for him to relent, to take it back, to say that he was kidding.

His expression, now, was unreadable. You weren’t certain whether he was purposefully keeping his countenance devoid of emotion – or, if, you had abruptly lost any and all ability to understand him or his intentions.

He was a stranger, but a familiar one. A captivating one.

Before you could stammer out a semblance of a response, he continued.

“That’s the sort of order you’ve been wanting from me, isn’t it?” He goaded darkly, seemingly smug at his ability to render you flustered and wordless with one short sentence.

Dumbstruck, still, you could only swallow a pointed breath as you desperately tried to read any clear objective in his shrouded blue eyes.

“Go on.”

He’s not kidding.

“You wanted an order, I gave you one.”

Fuck.

You were completely staggered by the whiplash. Your distended heart thumped so vigorously in your chest you thought it might crack a rib.

There was a conviction within you, somewhere, to question him. To question if he was being serious, to ask him if this was some kind of sick joke to make you regret your decision.

And while you believed that was the case, that it was a derisive retribution, a game to get back at you – there was a stronger urge to play along. To meet his challenge, to execute his dare.

Meeting his indignant gaze with yours, you tucked your fingers under the hem that sat between your waist and hips, peeling it up your torso and stretching it over your shoulders, then past your head. Sweeping your loosened hair out of your face, you held the thin black fabric in the other hand before dropping it to the linoleum floor. You shivered a little in the cool air of the room, your stiffening nipples concealed by the cups of your rarely-worn grey marl brassiere – practical and unsexy.

But the look on his face was telling; he hadn’t truly expected you to comply.

That surprise waned quickly. His dark eyes tried their best to hold your stare, but they failed him – raking over your torso, jaw clenching as his gaze stuck brazenly to your exposed cleavage.

Trembling with adrenaline, you waited for him to say something. Anything.

You expected dispute; you anticipated he’d say, I wasn’t serious. And that would be a satisfying reaction – your effort to make him uncomfortable would prove a success, a victory, you’d have the last figurative word.

He wiped down his face with an open hand, rubbing his beard anxiously as he wrestled with what to say, how to react – maybe some attempt to restrain himself. He leaned against the surface of the desk, resting his weight on his knuckles.

Through gritted teeth, he uttered his next command.

“Bra.”

You swallowed timorously.

It was surreal, really, you worried you were hallucinating – you imagined that in reality he was shouting at you to stop, but you were unable to hear him over your carnal psychosis.

But it was too late now, to stop yourself. You were driven to finish what you started. Changing your mind now, pulling your shirt back over your head and running out the door – would leave you questioning whether any of it was real. You wouldn’t survive in that oblivion, between reality and dream, fact and fantasy.

You needed proof.

You reached behind your back, contorting your shoulders to allow your fingers to grip the clasp against your spine. Your breasts pillowed out of the top of the soft cups as you stretched the band to unhook it, before slipping the straps down your shoulders. It slid from your chest, down your arms, gently – it, too, fell to the floor; you dropped it on top of your abandoned t-shirt.

You drew in a quivering breath, the skin of your breasts tingling as the goosebumps elicited by their exposure trickled across their soft flesh.

He sucked in a heavy breath, deep and slow, rugged and rasping. He took a step, and you retracted slightly; but you watched like cautious prey, as he walked around from the far side of his desk, to the front of it. He leaned on the very edge of the surface, not quite sitting on it, as he insouciantly crossed one boot over the other. His lascivious eyes did not leave you, absorbing every feature, every curve, like he was admiring an artwork.

Despite the metre and a bit of distance from him, you felt the dense heat that hung in the air between the two of you, radiating from him like he was a fucking oven.

“Trousers.”

A brief conflict almost escaped you, but he quickly smothered it.

“Off.”

Whatever reluctance that lingered melted away, then, dripping off of you like a layer of sticky ice cream – by virtue of the unwavering sternness of his command. And that, you realised, was where your comfort lay; where there was no ambiguity, no remorse for a poorly made decision, no culpability for your actions. If you were following an order, the onus was on him.

So you followed it.

Your kittenish fingers went to the button of your grey cargo trousers, popping it undone, slyly pulling down the zip of your fly. You flayed back the open waistband, pushing them down your hips, struggling briefly to pull them past your ass; its recent plumpness made your pants a touch too small. The polyester fabric loudly shuffled in the distended silence as the trousers fell down your legs, into a puddle at your feet; you stepped out of them as though out of a pond.

By the time you looked up to meet his gaze once again, though, he had already charged at you; quickly taking the base of your head with large hands and pulling you towards him. He forced his eager lips against yours with a ferocity that left you breathless, such an aggression that your first primal instinct was to resist him with claws against his chest.

But you were quick to surrender to him, relishing in the taste of him, his tongue, his breath hot in your mouth, you sucked it deep into your chest. Your starving hands coiled up and around his neck, scratching at the tense muscles in his heaving back through the fabric of his uniform jersey; hooking into him in some feline effort to make sure he was real, to prevent his escape, to keep him from being stolen away.

His mouth wasn’t on yours for long, though, dragging wetly across your jaw to your neck, the crook of your shoulder; he chewed at your soft, fervid skin, teeth skimming and barely digging into the tendonous flesh. His vicious hands gave you no reprieve, clutching at any part of you that could force you closer, tighter against him – ensnaring the meat of your hips, your waist, kneading at your sensitive breast with the other.

He separated from you only briefly, though his possessive hands didn’t leave you. Crouching slightly, he hooked his arms behind your thighs, under your ass – deftly hoisting you upwards with no visible effort. You clutched the back of his neck, wrapping your legs around his hips to maintain your balance as he lifted you, turning on his heel and carting you towards the desk. He quickly used a free hand to sweep aside the papers, flinging them to the floor in a confetti; he put you down hastily, keeping you close, the cold surface of the varnished wood biting at your bare skin.

He gave you a transitory respite, carefully checking your face before he went any further; likely ensuring you weren’t crying this time, that he hadn’t crossed an unspoken boundary. Whatever look you gave him in return was outside of your control or perception – but it was an invitation, evidently.

He dove down to kiss you again, but fleetingly – his savage lips trailed down from yours, biting their way along your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone. You leaned back slightly on the desk to allow his avid venture, his ravenous mouth biting and suckling wherever it landed; drowning momentarily in the softness of your breast, cupping it with his wide hand to push the pillowy flesh against his face.

That wasn’t his final destination, though. His mouth only brushed over your nipple, sloppily kissing down your tensing stomach as he lowered himself to one knee, clutching your waist with both hands on his journey downward to hold you still. You felt your heart in your throat, in utter disbelief; you could only suck down jagged breaths as his lips grazed against your lower belly, just above your hip, teasing the elastic hem of your underwear. He gingerly kissed your mound through the thin cotton, controlling hands holding your hips by the bone.

Too rapacious to taunt you for long, he tugged sharply at the hips of your panties, leaning back so he could pull them down your thighs, over your knees, off your ankles. Your foot rested gently on his collarbone as he paused in apparent admiration, your exposed, spread pussy mere inches from his face; his breath despite its heat was cold against your wet, feverish skin. You felt embarrassed at his close inspection, his unashamed reverence – but his murky gaze broke away from your intimacy, instead meeting your eye. He wore an expression of unassailable pride, though cloaked in an avaricious hunger; he stared at you cruelly from under his brow, daring you to deny him.

Hitching your legs over his arms so that they rested on his shoulders, he clutched the side of your thigh with his mammoth hand while he pushed his lips into the inside of your leg, high enough, close enough, to make you quiver in desperate anticipation.

Piercing eyes still locked on yours, peering up from your eager flesh, his husky voice murmured deeply into your skin.

“Is this what you wanted?”

He jibed, almost a growl, as though teasing you for your recent behaviour – scolding you for acting out instead of asking for it, causing a scene instead of using your words like a grown-up.

Another kiss, higher, closer, teeth grazing the supple meat of your inner thigh, coarse beard prickling against the burning skin of the edge of your cunt.

You couldn’t think of the right answer, if there were such a thing, to his question – your head was by turn empty and running a million miles a minute. Really, you didn’t even know the answer.

Was it what you wanted? This entire time? Has it been what you wanted since the last time, in his barrack in Urzikstan? Since the gala? Or, even, since you met him?

Your answer left your wet throat before you had the sense to question it, or rationalise it.

“Yes.”

You breathed, a whisper, barely, almost a squeak. You weren’t certain that it was the truth, either – but it was what you wanted now, so it was honest in some sense.

With firm hands he adeptly tugged your hips so you perched precariously on the very edge of the desk, allowing him ease of access to you.

He cruelly denied you still, placing maliciously soft kisses against the slit of your pussy, torturing you with only a light pressure while you willed him to dive deeper. An ardent whimper fled your chest, quiet and pleading.

Whatever carnivore he was doing his level best to restrain escaped its prison at your sheepish sound; his monstrous hands dug deep into the flesh of your hips, maw lunging forward and pointed tongue parting your slick folds like he was searching for water. It dipped into you only briefly, a momentary taste of the dripping syrup he seemed to take pride in inducing from you – before he used it to glide up to your clit where it was nestled. With ravenous lips he suctioned it into his mouth, devouring you; dextrously chafing your sensitive bud with a flat tongue, maintaining a vacuum that made a dangerously loud and needy moan escape your throat.

He only hastened his torment in response, drinking you like he might die of thirst, breathing heavily through his nose so as not to allow you even a second of relief from the unbearable suction. Feverish claws clasped at the top of his head, running through his short hair and scratching at his scalp, holding his head where you wanted it. Your head hung back off your shoulders, briefly staring at the panelled ceiling before your eyes unwittingly fluttered shut, doing your best to swallow the choked cries that threatened to make the whole army base aware of your depravity.

Your constricting legs inadvertently tried to push him away, your body overwhelmed and desperate for a break from his ruthless consumption, almost too oversensitive to be pleasurable – but not quite. He restrained you tightly, though, not allowing you to flee from him for even a second; his firm hands controlled your hips with an alarming strength, head moving with you as though predicting the direction of your attempts at escape, mouth not separating from you once.

One hand retreated from your side, but to quickly prevent your bucking his constraining arm slithered over your lower stomach, clutching the far hip and using his elbow to hold you down to the desk. His free thumb, then, crept to your cunt under his chin. Despite how slick your skin was, drenched in both your clear sap and his saliva; the clenching muscles of your vagina were squeezed so tightly he had to push his thumb into you with effort, almost popping as it broke past your resistant entrance.

That seemed to weaken his resolve, the tightness of your muscles clamping around him rhythmically, in tune with the burgeoning, forcible orgasm that threatened to crash over you like a tidal wave; he released a ragged, resigned exhalation into your skin. You felt yourself beginning to drown in it, that swirling ocean. The floor, the desk, the room sunk in it, slipping away from you as your eyes rolled into the back of your head, only him keeping you afloat.

But he stopped, then, thumb begrudgingly slipping out from inside you, suddenly releasing his merciless suction and separating his wet mouth from your yearning pussy. You groaned in dispute, cut short, a sharp rush of air escaping your overwrought lungs.

“Not yet.” He grunted hoarsely, barely audible.

Brows twisted in pleading frustration, you looked down at him, meeting his frightening glare as he pushed himself to stand; beard glistening with the wetness of you, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” You whined breathily, panting as you watched him tower upright, looming over you in licentious authority.

“I’m not having you come yet.”

His injunction was authoritarian, uttered darkly, his rumbling voice so hoarse it sounded animalistic; a growl, a threat. He stood between your legs, still, you watched in quiet, anticipating obedience as his livid hands tore at his belt. Ferociously unbuckling it, as though it would fight against him – he tugged open the button of his trousers, ripping down the fly and unsheathing his rigid cock from his straining boxers; menacing, it dropped heavy out of the elastic waistband, the solid shaft landing against your ravening cunt with a hard, wet slap.

You winced slightly at the sore impact, and his humanity seemed to return to him momentarily; softening face inches from yours, his attentive blue eyes scanned your features for reluctance.

“Tell me no.” He urged throatily, “tell me no, and I’ll stop.”

A shaky breath seeped through your lips, your delirious gaze flitting between his eyes, lashes fluttering as you processed his promise.

“I don’t want you to stop, Captain.” You uttered weakly, entreating.

His careful eyes darkened quickly at your bashful plea, watching your lips form the syllables of his rank like you were stroking him with it. His dominant hands returned to your hips, then, clutching at the bone and lifting your pelvis so it was angled right, just where he wanted it.

His clouded glare didn’t leave yours, his fingers dipping into your saturated pussy as though scooping the viscous fluid that dribbled from you; you watched, beguiled, as he rubbed your juices up the thick shaft of his cock, coating the head in it, briefly unable to stop himself from fucking his fist, huffing carnally, while he was lubricated by your watery come.

With a tug of your legs that were coiled around his hips, you grounded him, impatient; his sinister gaze met yours again, watching your wanton expression as he obliged you and dragged the soft head of his cock down your slit, the cruel pressure against your agitated clit making your body twitch. He restrained your spasm with his free hand your waist, keeping your pelvis still, as the tip of his length nestled between your lips, pressing against your clenching entrance.

Gripping himself by the stiff base, he pushed past your tight opening with his full weight; stretching it tautly around the girth of his cock as he stuffed you with it. You let out a pained squeak as it abruptly filled you, ramming against your cervix with a pressure that made you flinch.

The sharp soreness briefly frightened you – you had been deprived of the sensation of that angry thickness inside of you, ever since…

You didn’t let your mind go back there, not for a second; your eyelids shot open, desperate gaze sticking hurriedly to your Captain, his riled and yet gentle expression bringing you back to him, rugged but soft hands holding your hips as he impaled you on the length of him. You clutched the fabric of his jersey tight over his chest, gripping his arms, his shoulders; keeping him real, corporeal, there with you. He let out a strained grunt as he pulled you down onto him, as deep as your insides would allow him to go, to the hilt; he held you there, forcing you to squirm.

Your delicate hands held his warm neck, leaning forward as you pulled his head down to kiss him; mouth open and tongue desperate to taste him again, to feel his hot breath against your face, the soft scratch of his beard on your chin. He returned your kiss, tender, compassionate – a stark juxtaposition to his ruthless incursion; rutting into you powerfully but methodically, slow but hard, deep enough to be painful.

But the hurt was translated by your aroused nerves into a bestial pleasure, using your goading legs to pull him further into you, you felt his cock push against your aching organs. It raked against your sodden walls on its way out, a slight sting as it dragged along your taut opening – before filled you again, abrupt, sharp; it forced a sweet cry from your fevered chest into his mouth. He grinned arrogantly against your lips, a ragged, breathy chuckle taunted you in response.

You separated from him, then, lying back over the surface of the desk; you arched your back, angling your hips so that his length beat your walls more viciously, wrapping your legs around his waist and clutching at the edge of the desk above your head with straining claws. Exposed to him now, on display, his thrusting only increased in vehemence, speed, depth; carnivorous hands digging into the meat of your hips as if you might slip away from him, forcing you down on him with each rut.

Eager for release, your fingers glided down your stomach, navigating diffidently to your clit; you drew wet circles over it, letting out a soft whine as you pleasured yourself with the rhythm of his accelerating thrusts.

“Shit.”

He groaned huskily at the sight of you fucking yourself on his cock, his face twisted into an exasperated rapture, forcing himself to slow down slightly so as not to push himself over the edge too quickly.

He stopped you, hastily; a stern hand tightly ensnaring your wrist and tearing your fingers from you. He pulled your arm upward, pinning it firmly to the wooden surface underneath you, holding your hand by your head. He leaned over you, then, making you watch as he held his free hand to his lips, spitting lecherously into his fingertips; they found your clit without needing to look, stroking the oversensitive spot inexorably, the pressure cruel and unrelenting. His head hung from his shoulders, mouth landing against the hot skin of your shoulder, placing gentle kisses along your collarbone as he ruined you.

The union of the two sensations – his cock, hard as stone, fucking into your stomach, and merciless fingertips tormenting your swollen clit; it surged within you, frayed nerves electrocuting you as your inevitable orgasm loomed, its delay rendering it incensed and sorely overpowering.

He must have felt the muscles of your walls clamping down on the length of him as it dawned on you, the change in the music of your sounds; aching whines growing louder, crawling from your labouring throat.

“You gonna come on me, are ya? Beautiful thing?”

He growled into your skin, only increasing the severity of his torture, relentless in his goal to finish you.

Your delirious tongue was unable to form a word in response, only releasing a high-pitched and arduous cry as your unforgiving orgasm collided with you, waves of carnal heat pulsing from the base of you, the muscles of your bullied pussy clenching tightly around his avid cock.

“That’s it.”

He grinned against your neck as he kissed you there, moving with you, allowing no escape.

“Good girl.”

With no apparent intention of slowing down to offer you a reprieve, he instead began speeding up, forcing you to squirm and shriek in dispute at the overstimulation. Your desperate, animal fingers clawed at his wrist, struggling to tear his stiff hand away from your cunt – but he relented, eventually, falling victim to his own pleasure as he shifted his focus to fucking you harder, deeper.

He scooped an arm under your back, lifting you just slightly from the surface of the desk as he hovered over you; the other hand holding the bone of your hip tightly, keeping it steady while he rammed you. You listened in rapture to his grunts of ecstasy, gentle hands clutching the back of his neck, nails grazing his hot skin as you coaxed him to chase his own release.

You pressed soft lips into his bearded cheek, comforting, reassuring him; and that seemed to do the trick, bringing him too close.

“Fuck.”

He groaned hoarsely in begrudging pleasure as he paused, for just a hesitant second, before reluctantly tugging his cock out of you and slamming the wet shaft of it it against your mound.

You panted heavily, holding your forehead against his, relishing in the sensation of his hot come shooting over your stomach, painting you; it dribbled down your sides, down the creases of your hips, dangerously close to your cunt. He winced against you, twitching involuntarily as he pushed the last of his semen out of the head, drooling onto your febrile skin.

You kissed him, again; he tenderly pressed his lips against yours in return as he took the moment to catch his breath. His mouth left yours after a moment and landed in the crook of your neck, his heaving body hung over you, propped up by his elbows on the desk under you. You felt him kiss under your ear, his warm breath and prickling beard sending a shiver down the nape of your neck.

You wanted to say something, anything – but there were no words you could think of to offer him. Gratitude? An apology? Your brain was fried, fucked into pliable mush.

Instead you lay in silence, embracing him for as long as it would last, doing your best not to consider the consequences that lay ahead of you as a result of such an unbelievably foolish lapse in judgement.

He’d been your captain for only a few minutes, and you had fucked him already.

And yet you wished the moment could last infinitely; savouring his gentle lips as they planted drowsy kisses on your neck, tired hands caressing your waist in what felt like wordless praise, a silent gratitude.

Despite the reservations, the guilt, the doubts that stormed around you, deafening; your thoughts encircled only one thing, one source of comfort.

He was your Captain again.

#john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain john price smut #john price eats pussy like he'd die of thirst fight me on that

1K notes · View notes

daydreams-after-dark · 6 months ago

Text

Free Use Jail Cell, Part 2

Police Officer Skz ot8 x female reader

Premise: you're arrested and held for 24 hours by 8 police officers at the local police station / reader has her fantasy play out.

Word Count: 3k (part 2)

Chapter Summary: You're interrogated by 2min.

a/n: This fic will be in multiple parts because I get too impatient not to share what I’ve written so far. There will be two, possibly three installments (tag list is open).

I refer to the officers as “Officer Hyunjin”, “Officer Minho” etc just to make it quick to identify the characters.

The whole premise is planned and explained in the fic. The story is purely fantasy, but please be mindful of content warnings, as it has potentially triggering content. I want you to be safe here on my blog.

CW: dom 2min, sex toys (various: anal and vaginal), stretch kink, harness restraints, paddles, spanking, nipple clamps, double pen same hole (toy and penis) double pen two holes (oral and vaginal), anal penetration, everything is unprotected, degradation, face slap, hair tugging, shoe on face (really quick), collar and leash, cum eating, creampie, safeguards are in place to stop everything if reader wants/needs to. Aftercare.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

Chief Chan leads you to the interrogation room himself. "Now I don't want to find out you've been insolent, you hear me? Although I know Officer's Seungmin and Detective Minho are more than capable of handling you. Go." he pushes you into the empty room, closing the door behind you and locking it.

You gulp and slowly take in the space around you. It's not a modern interrogation room. It looks like a morgue. The brick walls are cold and gray, the concrete under your bare feet is filthy. You're not sure what the dark stains that are splattered around the place are either, and you try not to think the worst. This isn't real. You remind yourself.

In the center of the room is a stainless steel table. Beside it a stainless steel trolley, with what appears to be dildos, straps, and various other paraphernalia, and - oh fuck - a paddle hanging from a hook on the side. The entire room is illuminated, barely, by a single naked globe hanging from the concrete ceiling above.

There are no chairs, nowhere for questioning to occur, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you'll be on that cold, hard slab of a table very soon.

You hear the door unlock and your heart pounds loudly. Fuck. This is it. You take a deep, grounding breath as you watch Officer Seungmin and Detective Minho enter the room.

"On your knees, pup." Seungmin spits, immediately shoving you to the ground and pushing the sole of his combat boot into your cheek. Your face presses against the disgusting concrete. He doesn't push harder than he needs to, but just the act itself makes you feel so small, helpless and filthy.

You sense the Detective walk over to the trolley, then back towards you, leaning over you and placing a leather collar and leash around your neck. Suengmin removes his boot, and Minho tugs you up until you're on your knees.

"Look at this pathetic little bitch." Minho leans over you and pushes your hair out of your face. "Someone has been a very bad little girl." He scolds. "And we're going to find out exactly what you're keeping from us." He smirks evilly.

"Up." Suengmin barks, from behind you, taking the leash from Minho and yanking on it until you're standing in front of him. He presses his body against your back, breathing in your ear menacingly, making you shudder. He snakes a hand up underneath the hem of your oversized shirt, the only thing you're wearing, and slides his fingers through your folds. "This is gonna be so much fun." he chuckles low. "Up on the table." he slaps you hard on the ass.

The table is barely big enough to fit you, and you realize it's designed so two people can access you easily from either end. You're instructed to kneel on all fours, with your feet almost hanging off one end, and your head extending precariously over the other end, so you get another view of the filthy floor.

Minho picks up a pair of metal scissors and your eyes widen as he cuts your clothing and rips it off you so you are naked and bare for them. Then you’re adorned with a ball gag with attached nipple clamps.

"We can't have you being a brat. We don't need you to say a word for us to get what we want from you." Seungmin says, as he secures the clamps tightly to your nipples. The sensation of your nipples being pinched sends a spark of arousal to your cunt and you immediately feel yourself becoming moist.

"Here. Keep this in your hand." Minho places a small device in your palm. "Press this button and everything stops immediately. You understand?" he says quietly looking into your eyes. You nod. Once he's certain you understand, he’s back in character.

The two men take their time circling you, taking you in, deciding how they are going to proceed. They look dominating, cold, mean. They start to touch you, stroke your body, your back, the backs of your thighs. All with villainous smirks plastered on their beautiful faces.

“Let’s start with a punishment.” Minho decides, grabbing the paddle.

Your eyes widen and you try to swallow, but it’s so hard with the ball gag in your mouth, and you brace yourself as he settles behind you. The impact of the paddle takes you by surprise, making you cry out a muffled sob. Again, Minho brings the paddle to your fleshy ass cheek with a loud slap. You drop your head and squeeze your eyes closed. It fucking stings, but at the same time your cunt throbs. How can this hurt so much yet feel so arousing?

Minho soothes the skin with the palm of his hand before delivering another hit. You grip onto the edge of the steel table with your free hand, while trying to stabilize yourself with the hand that’s holding your safety device.

Another round of paddling ensues, and you’ve lost count of how many you’ve taken. Your ass feels red raw, and the tears are running freely down your face. You feel pathetic, useless, helpless. No one’s ever been able to make you feel this way before. You’ve finally found what you’ve been looking for.

“Enough.” Seungmin raises his hand signaling for Minho to stop. “Let me inspect.” he moves behind you to marvel at his partner’s work. “Fuck. Look how red she is.” He runs his palm over your red cheek and you wince. “Shh… Now now.” Suengmin purrs, but there is absolutely no hint of concern in his tone. “We haven’t even gotten started. That was just punishment for making our cocks so hard.”

You drop onto your elbows, already exhausted from “just the punishment”, and sob. Seungmin crouches in front of you and lifts your head so you’re looking directly into his cold eyes. “Hey, Pup.” He slaps your cheek, hard. The sting makes you feel more alert. “Minho’s going to do his probing now.” He raises an eyebrow. “And you’re going to be an obedient little pup and take. Every. Single. Inch.”

Your stomach drops, and you feel your juices leak from your cunt. The anticipation, the fear, the excitement of what is unfolding has your heart racing.

Suengmin stands back up and leans against the wall to watch Minho, whom you can hear rustling around at the trolley. You hear the sound of a bottle opening and closing. Then with one hand holding your hip steady, he presses a solid, cold, lubed object against your vaginal entrance.

“It’s just a dildo. Nothing to be scared of. Deep breath through your nose.” he commands and pushes the dildo into your cunt. The stretch feels good and you wonder why on earth you were fearful. It feels regular sized. He fucks you with it for a few minutes, until your hips are rocking back and you’re arching your back in a such away it makes their cocks throb.

“Seungmin, come help hold her steady.” He instructs his partner, and he is at your side helping hold your hips still. You whine in protest around the gag, and then you feel Minho press the dildo in further. Your eyes almost pop out of your head and your whole body tenses, when you're abruptly spread twice as wide. You feel like you’re being ripped in two as you realize the dildo has a bulbous base. The tip now presses hard into your cervix as your opening is being stretched obscenely wide. You’re so full. You feel so full.

“Suengmin, fuck look at how much she stretches. She’s gonna look good when two cocks are inside that slutty little cunt.” Minho declares.

“Fucking slut.” Seungmin says in a disgusted tone.

“She has to take more.” Minho says flatly, reaching for something from the trolley, and then another lubed object presses against your ass. You try to squirm to no avail, and cry out when a hand slaps you on your sore, red cheek. “Sluts have to behave themselves or they will regret it.” Suengmin warns.

You pause and try to relax as Minho pushes the device past the tight ring of muscle. “I don’t know why you’re squirming? This is just to prep you. You’re gonna have to take a much bigger one shortly.” he advises.

He’s right. After torturing your ass with increasingly bigger devices, he is ready to insert the “big” one. It’s thick and it feels endless, reaching places no one, or thing, has ever reached before. You can hardly hold yourself up, and you’re on the verge of what you can tell will be an earth shattering orgasm. You are scared. You’re not allowed to come without permission, and part of you thinks that maybe you won’t be given permission at all. Although, you are sure that they will rip at least one from you before this interrogation is over. All so they’ll have a reason to punish you further.

Minho, silently works on fucking your ass and cunt with the two oversized devices until you are a fucking mess. You can’t keep it contained any longer and a brutally intense orgasm hits you so hard you shake uncontrollably and almost slip entirely off the table.

“Fucking whore!” Growled Seungmin. “Who told you you could come?” he came around to the front and tugged your head up by your hair. “You just want us to punish you more, don’t you? Well. That’s exactly what you’re gonna get." He lets go of your head abruptly, and removes your ball gag, resecuring it around your neck with your collar. You can finally breathe properly and you start to cry.

“No. No one said you can cry. We haven’t given you anything to cry about yet.” Snarls Seungmin.

The dildos are removed and you’re repositioned onto your back, your knees thankful for the relief. But this new position isn’t any more comfortable. The table, being so short in length, means your head hangs over the edge, whilst you have no option to fold your legs up because your ass comes to the other edge. Perfect for what is about to happen.

Your legs are strapped with leather restraints to keep legs bent and folded towards your chest and your wrists are cuffed and attached to ankle restraints. You’re essentially folded in half and spread open, with no way of moving, and for them to do whatever they please. The little alarm buzzer is placed in your hand for safekeeping.

You see Minho in your upside down vision, unbuckling his belt and releasing his cock. Your mouth waters at the memory of taking him down your throat just a few hours before, and you are more than pleased when he approaches you. “Open up, time to be fed again.” he holds your face steady as he slides his cock all the way into your throat. You can take him a lot easier in this position, and he uses it to his advantage, fucking your face rough and deep. He doesn’t care that you’re gagging, or that you can’t breathe when he pushes his entire cock in and stills. He pulls out, letting you fill your lungs, and then he’s back inside cutting the air off.

You squeak when you feel something cold, slimy and flexible being squeezed into your pussy. Minho pulls out. “Wanna see what Seungmin’s doing?” He taunts. He supports your head as you lift yourself and look down at your pussy. Seungmin is holding what looks to be a silicone or rubber snake-like device. It’s about an inch and half in diameter and so fucking long. Maybe three feet long? Your eyes widen. “Don’t be so alarmed. He’s not gonna stuff the entire thing inside you.” sneers Minho. “Now, back to being a cockslut.” he drops your head back down and resumes fucking your face.

All you’re imagining though, is Seungmin pushing more and more of that - was it a snake? A hose? Fuck, is it even a sex toy or is it some random thing from the hardware store? - into your cunt.

“Yup, that’s as far as it's gonna go.” Sighs Seungmin. It’s deep, but not filling you out too much, not like that monstrous dildo from earlier. Until you feel the tip of his cock pushing in alongside it. Minho, as if pre-empting your protests, holds you by your neck keeping you steady and deliberately fucks you hard and fast. “You’re gonna take it, kitten. Everything.” he hisses.

You can’t cry. You can’t scream. You can only take what they are giving you. Your throat hurts, but Minho doesn’t seem like he’s going to tire anytime soon.

Once Seungmin is fully inside you, he starts to thrust, building up the pace quickly. You’re so wet and stretched already that it doesn’t take long for your walls to adjust to him. The men fuck both ends of your body, using you like a fleshlight. Growling, grunting, making sounds of approval as you simply lay there and take it.

“I wanna fucking come in her mouth.” states Seungmin.

They pull out of you simultaneously, leaving you gasping and gaping. You’re so empty, even with that fucking snake situation still in your cunt.

Your mouth is filled first, with Seungmin sinking into you. You can taste your juices coating his cock, mixed with lube. Like earlier in the cell, Seungmin is rougher, more erratic with his thrusts than Minho, and you gag much more as he fucks you. He runs his hands along your body then squeezes both your breasts hard. You arch off the table as he tugs on the nipple clamps. You moan around Seungmin, who must not have been expecting it, and he cums down your throat with a “how dare you, you fucking slut.”

You’re secretly satisfied as you swallow him down. “You still need your mouth stuffed. I don’t want to hear you and your pathetic little whines.” he finds the other end of his ‘snake-friend’, and starts to shove it into your mouth. He pulls some sort of extension out from the table, a headrest, so you don’t have to keep dangling your neck. How thoughtful.

Minho lubes himself up and presses himself to your anus, pushing in the entire way. He fills you so good. He pulls out halfway and thrusts back in, and it’s too much. You come again. You know they see you quivering, and they’re not happy.

“Just keep fucking her, Minho. Might as well just force her to come over and over at this point. Until she begs us to stop. Oh wait. Her mouth’s full, she won’t be able to. Shame.” The Officer laughs.

Minho doubles down, on a mission to rip as many orgasms out of you as he can, overstimulating you in the process. How much can you take before you need to hit your safety alarm? You’re determined not to. You want to take everything. Minho grasps the snake dildo and tries to jam more of it into you, but it won’t fit, and you cry out.

“Fuck, I’m hard again. Haven’t you even blown yet?” Seungmin looks to Minho in disbelief.

“Course I fucking have, but I’m not done, bitch feels too fucking good. Gotta fuck my cum deep into her, y’know.” he grunts. He reaches out to grab yet another device, this time a small vibrator and presses it onto your clit. “Fucking come, kitten.” He growls.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you convulse as you come again. Minho doesn’t stop, he continues to fuck into your ass, still hard as stone, turning you into a sobbing, overstimulated wreck.

“Again.” he pushes the vibrator harder against you with one hand and attempts to fuck you with the snake dildo, all whilst not missing a beat with his thrusts.

Where the fuck Seungmin gone you had no idea. Until you feel him tightening your nipple clamps and then pulling out the snake and replacing it with his cock.

“The detective said ‘come again’, pup.” He thrusts into your mouth and fills you with his cum again. He pulls out and wipes some on your cheek.

One final time, you come, trembling on the table, the straps and restraints dig into your skin as you fight against your restraints. You can’t possibly take any more. They seem to know too.

Minho pulls out, and you wonder if he even came a second time. You manage a glance at his cock and it looks painfully hard, and you’re not sure why he just didn’t use you until he came again.

He pushes your cheeks wide, spreading your holes and sighs when you feel cum dribble out. He slips an anal plug in to keep the rest inside you.

The straps, restraints, chains, clamps are all removed from you carefully and you’re cleaned with warm, wet towels from a cabinet under the table.

Seungmin applies cream to soothe where you were spanked, and helps you put on a fresh oversized button down shirt, and Minho carries you bridal-style back to your cell. You nuzzle your head against him and close your eyes. You’re absolutely exhausted. He enters your cell and places you down on the mattress, pulling a blanket over you. Such a contrast to the treatment just before.

“Detective?” You whisper, looking up at him. “You didn’t get to finish.” you say in a small voice.

He shrugs. “That back there wasn’t about me.” He half smiles. “It was about satisfying you.”

“But what if finishing you off would satisfy me even more?” You ask.

“You need your rest.” He grunts, ignoring your advances, tucking the blanket around your chin.

“It’ll help me sleep.” You plead.

“Fuck!” He sighs and looks up to the ceiling. “Where do you want my cock then, kitten?”

“In my cunt.” You purr.

He swallows hard. “Fine.” he concedes. “But - I come inside, and you gotta keep it safe in your tight little pussy. Got it?”

You nod fervently, lifting the blanket that he’d just tucked you snugly in, and let him slide on top of you. He removes his shirt and undoes his pants with nimble fingers and frees his cock, then grips your thigh, pushing it wide and grinding against your sore core.

“Will you kiss me, detective?” You gaze up at him.

“I don’t do kissing on the mouth.” He says flatly.

He sees you pout around that.

“I can kiss your neck. If that’s what you want.”

“Please.” you wrap your hands about his neck as he hovers over you, peppering kisses to your neck, and sucking the skin while he fucks you slow, but extra hard. You feel so full with the anal plug still in your ass. “You’re so tight, bet you’re tender? Am I hurting you?” He whispers.

“Feels good.” you mewl.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum real soon. Can I fuck you evenharder?” He chokes.

“Yes.” you sigh, letting him take what he needs from you.

“I’m coming…ngh…fuck.” he thrusts his hips three more times then you feel him empty himself inside you. “Keep it in there for me.” He plants a peck on your forehead and pulls out carefully.

You’re asleep before he even leaves the cell.

🚨🚨🚨🚨

↣↣ Next up: you’re taken in your sleep by Hyunjin and Han

@channieandhisgoonsquad @noellllslut @itsseohannbin @weareapackofstrays @3rachasdomesticbanana @palindrome969 @xxkissesforchanniexx @chuuchuu1224 @fun-fanfics @wolfennracha @rhonnie23 @jisunglyricist @strayywayy @armystay89 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @kyunchoni @justforreaders @melochacco @scenuniverse @oddracha @txa-r

@jeonginsleftcheek @meilix @itgirlalisaa @linocz @bubblebisk @boi-bi-ahaha @frozenpeasworld @grandma143 @milkypinkmimi @bangchansbbgirl @leefelixsslut @privhace @justforreaders @galaxycatdrawz @melochacco @jiwoos-baby-girl @lunearta @kavifornia @chuuyaobsessed @iadorethemskz @hyun-hwanj @favieeerrrr @courtnort455

#skz smut #skz ot8 x reader #2min smut #seungmin x reader #lee know x reader

702 notes · View notes

aquaticmercy · 8 days ago

Text

Waste a Moment / Part 13

Summary : Bucky had always kept his distance, but seeing you get hurt on a mission changed everything. For the first time, he has a chance to start over with you.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Mentions of food. Cursing. Memory loss. Head injury. Reader used to work in a museum.

Requested by : @remoony

Word count : 2.7k

Note : uhhhh I might extend this to 18 parts instead of the 17 planned. Please let me know if I miss anyone on the tags! Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

“Beast to the Wild”

Sunday afternoon.

Yelena arrived as quickly as she could.

She found Sam standing outside the control room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked like he wanted to punch a hole in the wall but was holding himself back, his usual calm composure cracking under the concern furrowed in his eyebrows.

“He’s in there,” Sam said, nodding toward the closed door. His voice was subdued in a way that sent a chill through her spine. “Hasn’t moved since it happened.”

Yelena frowned, glancing at the door. “How bad is it?” she asked, though the answer was already clawing at her stomach.

“Bad,” Sam sighed, his eyes drifting down to his shoes. “You know he gets when it’s her.”

Yelena did know. Too well. She nodded, swallowing hard and squaring her shoulders.

She paused at the door, steeling herself. She already knew what was coming—the anger, the accusations. She could already hear his voice in her mind: “Are you happy now? Are you happy that she knows? Are you happy now that she’s gone?”

But when she stepped inside, the words she braced for didn’t come.

Bucky was hunched over the console, his shoulders bowed as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. His hands were in his hair, fingers raking into his scalp like he could pull himself out of whatever hell he had occupied. The screens in front of him flickered with useless data: satellite feeds, news updates, and endless blank logs that told him nothing.

Yelena’s heart twisted at the sight of the grieving supersoldier. She almost hesitated.

But she couldn’t stop— not now. Not when it was you. Not when it was her best friend.

She stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

“Barnes,” she said, her voice fragile but steady.

He didn’t look at her. His teeth clenched, and for a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to respond. He had an emptiness in his eyes— no rage. No anger. Just all-consuming guilt.

Then he exhaled, ragged and uneven. It was like it hurt him just to breathe.

“I fucked up,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “She’s gone, and it’s my fault.”

Yelena froze. She had expected yelling, had braced for misplaced blame. But this—this quiet, devastating admission—was worse. She took a slow step closer, her fist clenched at her sides.

“What exactly happened?” she asked carefully, her stomach knotting.

He laughed, but it was a bitter, hollow sound. “What didn’t happen?” He finally looked up at her, and the disbelief in his eyes hit her like a punch to the gut. “She broke in. She ran. She disabled tracking, cloaked the jet. I can’t—” His voice broke, and he dropped his head into his hands again. “I can’t find her.”

Yelena’s chest tightened.

You were out there somewhere, unreachable, and Bucky was destroying himself for it, piece by piece.

“She’s strong,” Yelena said, her voice firm even as fear clawed at her insides. “Rhodey said she’s doing great on her flight training. She’ll be okay.”

“Will she?” Bucky snapped, looking up sharply. His voice faltered, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had flared. He slumped back in his chair, his hands trembling as they rested on the desk. He tapped a frantic rhythm on the wood. “I should have been honest with her from the start, I should’ve listened to you, I should—fuck, what if she’s in danger? What if she—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Yelena could see it in his eyes— the fear that was eating him alive, torturing him from the inside out.

She knew how capable you were, but she also knew the risks of going rogue like this, cutting yourself off from your lifeline.

“She’ll come back,” Yelena said firmly, though not entirely convinced.

Bucky shook his head. His blue eyes were distant, staring at the horizon as if he was imagining you coming back to him. “What if she doesn’t?”

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with unspoken fears neither of them were eager to vocalise. Yelena bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm, to keep a level head. But inside, her thoughts were racing. If something had happened to you—if you didn't return—she didn’t know how Bucky would survive it.

In all honesty, She didn’t know how she would survive it.

"That's not an option," Yelena said again, her voice quieter. "And when she comes back, you're going to fix this. We’re going to fix this."

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tightening around the air he needed so desperately to breathe. "That’s what we got wrong," he said, his voice trembling. "She didn’t need fixing. She never did." His muscles tensed as the realisation sank in. He’d been so consumed with trying to shield you, rearranging your life to protect you from the truth, that he couldn’t see the damage his silence was doing. And Yelena—she lacked the courage to tell you when he failed. She’d built a friendship with you, but always held herself at arm’s length, unwilling to face the thought of you shattered, bruised, or hollowed out. In their misguided attempts to fix you, Bucky had kept you blind to the truth, while Yelena had refused to acknowledge away from the parts of you that were still lost, too afraid to confront what lay beneath. "She just needed a push,” Bucky continued.

"Then we’ll give her that," Yelena said softly, her own voice crackling.

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the screens in front of him, scanning for something, anything, that might tell him where you were.

But there was nothing.

Just static and silence.

Yelena pulled up a chair and sat down beside him. They were both terrified for you, for what might have happened, for what still could. But she wasn’t going to leave him alone in this. And maybe, she needed someone who understood.

Monday.

The days that followed were nothing but an endless stretch of anxiety, a string of minutes that dragged into hours, into days. Bucky paced the compound like a caged animal that had been wounded, unable to rest, unable to let himself sleep, not while you were out there—wherever there was.

You could be anywhere.

The first night, he’d convinced himself that you’d return before sunrise. You had to. He had barely let himself leave the command room, his eyes glued to the screen as if he could will a blip to appear on the radar. But hour after hour passed, and there was only silence.

Tuesday.

The second day, Sam had finally pulled him aside, brow furrowed with a look of worry he had only seen on his friend’s face a few times before. “You need to sleep,” Sam had said, trying to talk some sense into him. But Bucky waved him off, his chest tight, his pulse thundering with a primal fear he didn’t know how to control.

Wednesday.

By the third day, his hands trembled.

He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t even thought about it. His world was confined to the four walls of the control room, where every incoming call, every email, and every intel update had no real consequence, and every dead end became a reminder that you were still missing. Yelena kept coming in, putting her hand hesitantly on his shoulder from time to time.

Yelena was exhausted too, every ounce of her strength spent holding herself together. It took everything she had not to retreat to the solitude of an empty apartment and break down, the way she had the first time.

She didn’t offer empty reassurances anymore— she knew Bucky wouldn’t believe them. She gave him the updates as they were: no news, no sightings, no leads.

Every minute chipped away at his mind. You could be hurt, or worse—

He didn’t let himself finish that thought.

Outside the window, the sky cycled through night and day. The compound, usually bustling with heroes and friends alike, felt quiet. Everyone helped in any way they could— Rhodey going on daily flights to scan surrounding areas, Scott scouring the cyber security networks for any sign of you. They even got Bruce and Clint to search for leads.

Bucky would glance up from the monitors, hoping to catch a glimpse of you walking through the door, half-dazed, explaining how it was all a misunderstanding. But the doorway remained empty.

He remained alone.

Somewhere between the updates, Sam tried to get him to rest again, even pulled a chair over, but Bucky barely listened to him. His mind was too noisy, a nonstop assault of what-ifs and maybes.

When Yelena reported back for the fifth time that day, her voice a desperate apology, Bucky had wanted to scream. He was so damn tired of nothing, of waiting, of feeling useless.

“Bucky,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re going to burn yourself out. You need—”

He shook his head, the words too hard to find, too tangled in the mess of vines growing like weeds in his chest. “She’s out there, and it’s my fault,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “I can’t just… stop.”

Yelena didn’t argue.

She knew that until you were safe, Bucky would not rest. Could not rest.

Another hour. Another dead end.

And then another.

Thursday.

The fourth day was cold and grey, as if the sky itself was scolding him of his failures as a partner— as a friend. The weather disturbances had rendered the radar useless, and there was nothing he could do but wait it out.

Bucky hadn’t left the command centre in over seventy-two hours, his bloodshot eyes glued to the monitors that had long stopped giving any useful information. He was exhausted to the bone, but the thought of you out there kept him wired, kept his muscles tense, his fists clenched. But even his supersoldier physiology was working overtime, and he knew that at some point, it would catch up with him.

Yelena was beside him, uncharacteristically still. Even Sam, who usually had a quip ready for any situation, had fallen silent, his hands folded tightly as they all waited for something they didn’t know would even come.

Then, without warning, the heavy security doors of the compound opened with a metallic creak that shattered the silence.

Bucky’s eyes shot up, and his heart stopped for a beat. He’d imagined this moment so many times in the past few days that he couldn’t believe it at first.

But there you were, standing in the doorway.

Except you were barely standing.

Blood smeared your arms, your knuckles so bruised and raw that he could see the whites of your bones underneath, your clothes torn in places he didn’t want to look too closely at. Your face was marked with cuts, some shallow, others deep enough to have left trails of dried blood down your cheek.

And in your hand, glinting dully, was a golden blade encrusted in cryptic symbols, the artefact he’d decided you weren’t ready for. The one he’d postponed for your own safety, to keep you from facing too much, too soon.

Bucky felt his chest seize as he looked at you, relief and horror washing over him in equal measure.

Relief that you were here, you were alive— but gut wrenching horror at the state you were in.

No one dared to speak as you strode forward. There was no remaining a softness in your gaze, no relief in your expression. Just in unwavering, simmering anger as you approached the table in the middle of the room. Without a word, you threw the artefact down, the metal hitting the surface with a loud, echoing clink. The dagger gleamed in the dim light, almost mocking them all with its careless beauty.

Bucky’s chest tightened as he fought to breathe, to form the words that could somehow repair the chasm between you, but nothing came. Nothing except the sharpness of your stare, carving into him with the precision of a blade.

Bucky moved toward you instinctively, his hand reaching out. Before he could speak, you took a shaky step backward. He could see it then, the way your body was barely holding itself together, the exhaustion painted in every line of your face, the pain you were trying to hide.

Sam was the first to break the silence. "Y-you alright?" he asked softly, his voice filled with worry, his brow creased as he took in your injuries.

You didn’t answer; it was a stupid question. Sam Wilson had eyes, did he not? You pressed your lips into a thin line, and your gaze shifted from Sam to Bucky.

“You didn’t think I could do it,” you said finally, your voice rough and broken from what had to have been hours of screaming or fighting. “So I went alone. I got it alone.”

Bucky’s heart pounded. Every part of him wanted to reach out, to say something—anything—that would make you understand.

You swayed slightly, a tremor running through your legs, but you stubbornly held yourself up, refusing to let the pain break you. “You think I’m not ready for this,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger. “You think I can’t handle it. But I got the job done, didn’t I?”

Bucky flinched at the accusation. He’d spent days trapped in the fear that he’d lost, that his choices, his need to protect you, had driven you away for good.

“Didn’t I?!” you repeated. And now, here you were, throwing it all back in his face, reminding him of every time he had second-guessed you, every time he’d tried to make decisions for you.

He couldn’t bring himself to respond. All he could do was stare at you as he took in the damage you’d suffered. It was my fault, he thought.

“I don’t need you,” you snapped at him.

He wanted to argue, to beg, to crumble before you and tell you how wrong he’d been. But all he could do was stand there, drowning in the horror of his own failure and the unbearable truth that you might mean it.

Yelena’s breath caught in her lungs, her composure cracking for just a moment as her eyes swept over the bruises, the cuts, the blood staining your skin. She winced, the sight hitting her harder than she’d expected, but she forced herself to keep looking. You deserved that—deserved to be seen, not turned away from like some broken thing. You deserved respect, even in your battered state, even when her gut twisted at the thought of what you’d endured, your mere presence demanded that she hold your gaze and acknowledge your strength. She was no longer going to threaten people behind your back to try and save you. If she had something to say, she would have to say it to your face. “I—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, your voice barely above a whisper, but it was enough to silence the room. You didn’t need her apologies, didn’t want her pity.

But your strength had limits. And as you stood there— the adrenaline finally crashing, your body sagging in the aftermath of the exhaustion— the toll of what you’d gone through catching up with you.

Your knees buckled, and before anyone could react, you collapsed, your body crumpling to the floor.

Bucky was at your side in an instant, his arms slipping around you, supporting you as gently as he could despite his own shaking hands. He pressed his hand against the back of your head, his fingers in your hair as he whispered your name, his voice breaking.

You were unconscious, breathing shallow, your face finally softening in the grip of sleep.

For a moment, no one spoke. Bucky’s gaze remained on you, his thumb gently tracing the line of a bruise on your cheek, his heart breaking as he truly saw the cost of what you’d done to prove yourself.

Sam stepped forward, his hand settling on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn't say anything, didn’t need to. Yelena hovered nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes swimming in sadness that matched the guilt in her eyes.

As he held you, he vowed he would make it right. He didn’t know how, he knew that when you woke up—when you opened those furious eyes— he would be there.

He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t try to hide anything from you.

Because he’d learned, far too late, that you didn’t need protecting. You needed trust.

And he would have to earn it back one step at a time.

-to be continued…

Taglist: @hzdhrtss @irisk12 @tayyyystan @seventeen-x

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @avatarofthetimelords @bckynatt @winchestert101 @zemosprincesa

@nngkay @hiireadstuff @sapphirebarnes @thatesqcrush @bethexo07

@florie1 @nyutasgirl @coraliix @harrysgothicbitch @jules-and-gemss

@infqnitysblog @isnow-0r-never @roofwitty779 @baw1066 @wasalreadyhere

@cjand10 @greatmistakes @winterslove1917 @calwitch @sebastians-love

@gyllord @brckenmemories��@ethereal-witch24 @diffidentphantom

@avatarofthetimelords @lumidotexe @oscarissac2099 @currentfacination @pono-pura-vida

@blackbirdwitch22 @royalwriteroftheuniverse @ayayaeyato @btssaysstudy @unaxv

@otterlycanadian @lifeisbutadream444 @mostlymarvelgirl @ozwriterchick @m1cky-y-y

@ordelixx @jadeofspadesxp @generousmiraclebread @jeremyrennermakesmesmile@titasweetandsour

@one-lengthiness36 @chimchoom @waitingformysandman @eanthedeadqueen13 @hi172826

@starsmoonn @notsostrangerthing @wintercrows

@lomlbuckybarnes gets a special shout out for figuring it out🫡

#bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan

274 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 25 days ago

Text

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 7: Sapphire] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Thank you for reading (and tolerating all my nautical puns)! 💎

How can love be a curse? How can it be something to fear, to condemn, to break?

She has dreamed of him all her life. First he was a protector, almost fatherlike, and then a remote, bewitching phantom as she crept into adolescence, and then when Harwin Strong died Daemon sailed over Saint George’s Channel to offer her solace in England, and at last the fantasies she never would have confessed to anyone were fulfilled, two marriages and four children later. Rhaenyra remembers what he told her in the mist-draped lakeside cottage where they met in secret, crossing paths like an asteroid striking a planet: My wife means nothing to me. She’s not like us. She is young, and weak, and afraid, and I could never respect that kind of person. Her father owns the last Connemara marble quarry in the world, and I needed a son. But the only woman I want is you.

Aegon fires the pistol as he chases her through the corridors of A-Deck, and when she shrieks nobody hears, or if they do they don’t appear to rescue her; the ship is full of people screaming, sobbing, clawing for their lives against wet walls and locked doors. He shoots and misses again. There’s something wrong with his hands. He keeps fumbling with the gun and almost dropping it, hissing in pain as he squeezes the trigger, and there’s blood staining his fingers.

Good, Rhaenyra thinks. I’m glad he’s hurt. I hope he’s dying.

She sees an open room and ducks inside, slamming the door behind her and barring it with the weight of her body as Aegon rams it with his shoulder. Rhaenyra is surrounded by the trappings of another family who purchased first-class tickets: chairs with velvet upholstery, a faux fireplace, paintings by Rousseau and Boccioni and Homer. The lights flicker and the steel beams of Titanic groan, low and disastrous. There isn’t much time left.

“Daemon!” she yells as loudly as she can. If he hears her, he’ll come running. I have to get to a lifeboat. I have to live for my father, for Jace and Luke and Joffrey, for the children I will one day give Daemon.

Rhaenyra struggles with the lock as Aegon batters the door and it quakes on its hinges. Just as she latches it, he fires the pistol through the door. Wood cracks and splinters; a bullet pierces Rhaenyra’s ribcage like a blade. There is unbearable pressure, and then a sharpness, a pain she believes she cannot stand until it keeps getting bigger, deeper, ripping her open and filling her with dark wet weight like the ocean surging into Titanic. She crumples to the floor. When she coughs, blood spurts out onto her lips. Rhaenyra wipes it away and then stares at the red on her palm.

I can’t die now. My life just became what it was supposed to be.

Aegon punches a hole through the mangled door large enough for him to reach in and unlock it. Then he stands in the threshold looking down at her, his hands shaking but his eyes hard, fierce, unflinching. Rhaenyra has never seen him like this before. She didn’t know he could be good at anything.

“How the fuck did you get on the ship?” Rhaenyra snarls as she scrambles away, hacking up more blood. The black opal ring Daemon gave her gleams like onyx or obsidian, something born of heat and earth and insurmountable, ancient gravity.

Daemon and I were made for each other. The same blood, the same bones, the same will to carve treasures from the bleakest places.

Aegon follows her across the floor, slow stalking steps. He doesn’t answer; instead, he shakes his right hand a few times—steadying himself, casting out tremors like demons—and then grips the pistol with it. He raises the gun, the barrel aimed at Rhaenyra’s face.

“Daemon?!” she screams, but he isn’t here. Then she asks, sudden desperate confusion, her blue eyes wide: “Why are you doing this?”

Aegon’s voice is calm. “Because she can’t be free unless you and Daemon are gone.”

That girl? Daemon’s sad, stupid wife? I’m dying because of HER?

“Father never loved you,” Rhaenyra seethes, red on her teeth, blooddrops spilling from her lips like rubies. Her eyes are cold, glinting sapphires, pools of freezing water that only needs minutes to stop the heart. “Just like Daemon never loved her.”

“I know. And I used to care. It almost killed me, it almost ate me alive. But now I’m better. And I finally know exactly who I’m supposed to be.”

Aegon pulls the trigger.

~~~~~~~~~~

As Daemon descends the Grand Staircase, you crawl down towards the next landing, your head spinning, your hands empty, writhing on your belly like a snake.

The dagger???

But you can’t find it, and you don’t have time to stop and search. Daemon is only a few steps behind you. When your palms hit B-Deck, you try to drag yourself upright, grappling for the banister; but before you can get your feet under you, Daemon kicks you and sends you hurtling down the next flight of stairs. You tumble towards C-Deck, clawing in vain for something to break your fall. Your head strikes the English oak wood and you hear your father’s bewildered voice as he sat at the dining room table in Lough Cutra Castle: Where are you going? When will you be back?

Never, never, never; and now from somewhere below you recognize the roar of rushing water.

“You were going to kill me?!” Daemon taunts as he bears down on you like a storm. Blood soaks his throat and the white shirt beneath his black suit jacket. His eyes are bright, feral, monstrous. “After all those times I spared you when I could have drowned you in a river or a hot bath or the sea? You’re so fucking useless. You really can’t do anything right. All you had to do was shut up and endure, and you could have lived to be an old, old woman with all the comforts my empire afforded you. Now, my dear, you will never see another sunrise. And when Titanic sinks, you’ll be buried with her.”

Down, down, always down towards the ocean floor, you crawl faster away from him as his footsteps grow louder.

“Help,” you moan weakly. Aegon? Anyone? But the only reply is the echoing of your own voice and the sounds of the dying ship: breaking metal, distant screams, gushing torrents of seawater.

You crash into C-Deck and again try to stagger to your feet, but Daemon is here, shoving you as if from a cliffside or off a balcony. And as you plummet down the Grand Staircase towards D-Deck—where the First-Class Dining Saloon is, where Thomas Andrews once assured you that Titanic was unsinkable—it is not hard wooden steps you collide with but swirling ice-cold seawater. You plunge beneath the currents and then come sputtering up to the surface, your white wool coat drenched and threatening to pull you below again like an anchor. You struggle to shed it with arms that are rapidly going numb.

I’m so cold, I’m so cold, if I don’t get out of the water I’ll be dead in minutes—

Daemon’s fingers close around your throat and he forces you under the waist-deep water. You thrash and try to push him away, to pry him off of you, but your muscles seem to have disappeared, they have been scraped off your bones and now you can only wait to die, your breathless lungs burning as your body freezes. You have a sudden vision of Daemon in his firelit study at Lough Cutra Castle, marveling at a shard of Larimar dredged up from the Caribbean Sea and quoting the first known treatise on gemstones, written by Theophrastus in the time of Alexander the Great: Of things formed in the earth, some have their origin from water.

“No!” you scream through the depths, bubbles rising up to air you cannot taste. You claw at Daemon’s hands, but you cannot wound him, cannot get a grip on him, and hasn’t that been true since you married him five years ago?

The dark, freezing water makes you want to give up. It makes death feel easy, painless, inevitable. You imagine faces you’ll never see again: Draco, Aegon, your parents, Fern. You hope Carpathia will be here soon to rescue the survivors. You wonder what will happen to Aegon’s paintings.

Through the water come the muffled booms of explosions, four of them, surely something catastrophic, the ship splitting in half or a distress flare misfired or boilers bursting and shearing through what’s left of the hull. Then Daemon’s hands vanish from your throat and someone is hauling you up out of the icy currents, they are freeing you, they are disinterring you from an oceanic grave.

“I’m here!” Aegon is shouting as you burst into open air, gasping and flailing. He drags you towards the Grand Staircase where you can climb out of the flood, but you’re looking for Daemon. He is a few yards away and floating face-up, one hand clasping his chest and a gurgling sound leaking from his throat. The water around him is turning red. He’s fading, but he’s not dead yet.

“Aegon, he’s still—”

“I know. I’ll take care of him once you’re out of the water. I don’t have any more bullets left.”

“I want to do it.”

“We need to get you dry and warmed up—”

“I want to do it,” you say again, and Aegon lets you go.

You twist off your black opal engagement ring and throw it into the water beside Daemon. Then you place both of you hands on his chest and push him beneath the surface, Aegon standing just behind you with the barrel of the pistol in his grasp in case he has to use it as a club. The glacial seawater froths and whirls as it rises over Daemon’s hemorrhaging chest. He startles—a death rattle, a late rite—and resists feebly, gazing up at you with glassy, disbelieving eyes. They ask: How did this happen? I was supposed to kill you, remember? I own you. I own jewels trapped in subterranean darkness all over the world, and you are the very least of them.

“Draco isn’t yours,” you tell Daemon as you force him under. “Rhaenyra isn’t yours. And I’m not yours either. Now sink and die and make me free.”

He twitches, he bares his crimson teeth at you, but after all this time finally Daemon is the weak one. The rising water flushes maroon around him, his skin goes a frail and translucent bluish-white, his heart is drained until the chambers are cold and grey and empty. You hold him beneath the water until the bubbles roiling up from his nose and mouth disappear. He will never touch you again, he will never hurt anyone, he will never bruise or break or ensnare or captivate. And who will inherit his mines scattered across the planet?

Draco. His only son. And my family and I will act as trustees until he’s eighteen.

“We have to go,” Aegon is saying. He must have taken off his coat before he went into the water after you. He stands shivering in only his white shirt and green corduroy pants, the ocean now lapping at his chest.

“Rhaenyra?” you ask.

“She’s gone. I’m sure.”

“It’s over,” you say softly, feeling weight like stones roll off of you, feeling warmth like sunlight on your face.

As if in reply, the listing ship groans and the lights flicker again. “Not yet,” Aegon says, grabbing your hand. “Let’s hope there’s a lifeboat left.”

You wade to the steps and climb out of the water. Aegon helps you wring out your soaked hair and the skirt of your gown, then snatches his black wool coat off the steps where he left it and puts it on you. You race up the Grand Staircase to C-Deck, and then B-Deck, and then the A-Deck landing where you find your green handbag with Aegon’s tiny aluminum lighter still inside.

“I think you dropped this,” Aegon says when he spots the dagger on a nearby step, still covered with Daemon’s blood. He wipes it clean on his corduroy pants and then passes it to you. When you hesitate to take it, he grins. “Who knows. You might need to stab someone else tonight.”

“I never want to draw blood again.” But you accept the dagger and place it in your handbag, the captive gemstones glimmering there: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire like the North Atlantic Ocean that is swallowing Titanic down into her cold, crushing belly. Then you ascend one last flight of steps to the Boat Deck, passing the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock, stealing a glimpse up at the dome of glass and wrought iron that will soon shatter when the sea punctures through it like a bullet or a blade.

Outside the night air is so frigid that ice crystals begin forming in your hair, and the hem of your blue gown begins to stiffen as it freezes. You are barefoot, you only now realize, and if splinters from the pine planks of the deck needle their way into your flesh you won’t be able to feel them. There are only two lifeboats left on this side of the ship, one of which is already being lowered down to the sea. Officers are still directing women and children into the other. Benjamin Guggenheim and his companions are very drunk, clumsily herding frantic first-class passengers towards the boats. The string quartet is now playing The Merry Widow by Franz Lehár.

“Come, come quickly, Lady Targaryen!” the officers shout when they see you, knowing by your gown that you belong here, perhaps recognizing you from strolls on the Promenade Deck or when you and Daemon boarded Titanic in Cork with much fanfare. Aegon helps you into the lifeboat, his wounded hands cradling yours. Another distress flare is shot into the sky, metallic rain, doomsday portents.

We’re going to be alright, you think. We’re going to survive this.

“Darling, you’re sopping wet!” one of the women in the lifeboat exclaims, and they all begin to fret over you. There are dogs here, a Pomeranian in one lap, a Yorkshire terrier in another.

“Get her under a blanket,” Aegon is saying. “Keep her warm or she’ll get pneumonia. Give her a lifebelt.”

“We will, we will,” another lady shimmering in jewels—a mother of two boys in heavy coats and blue-striped pajamas—promises him. “We’ll take good care of her.”

You turn back to Aegon. “What?”

He tells you, his voice quiet: “Petra, they’re not going to let me in.”

“No, no, you can’t stay here—”

“Women and children only!” an officer booms, then begins waving several shrieking maids towards the vessel, just moments from launching.

“Aegon,” you say, horrified. He’ll die if he stays. He’ll drown or he’ll freeze and he’ll be entombed at the bottom of the Atlantic. “No.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“No you won’t,” you sob, then look desperately at the officers. How can I change their minds? “He’s a Targaryen, he’s a first-class passenger, he must be allowed aboard!”

“A Targaryen?!” one of the officers says distractedly as he battles with the rigging. “I know all the Targaryens on Titanic, and he’s not one of them!”

“Just look at him,” the other officer mutters, meaning: He isn’t dressed like someone with castles or mansions or titles or mines. He can’t be someone who matters.

“He is,” you plead, tears stinging on your cheeks as they freeze. “He’s Aegon, he’s a Targaryen, please, he can’t be left behind—”

“Women and children only!” the first officer barks at you as the other pushes away a group of panicked young men in black suits trying to bribe their way into the vessel. “And if you want to stay here with him, that’s your business, but get to it so the rest of us can try to make it off this ship alive!”

“There’s more than enough room for him, for Christ’s sake, there are dogs in here!”

“There will be other lifeboats, love,” one of the women tells you as she drapes a scratchy wool blanket across your shoulders, but you don’t believe that’s true. The maids are climbing into the lifeboat; the officers are beginning to lower it with sharp lurches that make the occupants gasp.

You reach for Aegon, your hands catching on his drenched shirt, the thin layer of ice cracking beneath your fingers. “No, no, Aegon, I can’t go like this.”

“You have to,” he says calmly, and he holds you face still and touches his lips to your forehead, a kiss goodbye, gentle and lingering.

“No—”

“You have a kid. You have to go. Draco will be looking for you on Carpathia.”

“You deserve to be free too.”

“I’ll stay out of the water for as long as I can,” Aegon says like a vow. “I’ll try to find something to float on. And once Titanic goes down…maybe the lifeboats will come back to pick up any survivors.”

The water is too cold. I’ve felt it, I’ve been paralyzed by it, once you go under you only have minutes. “You can’t…you won’t…”

“Petra,” Aegon says, and his eyes turn desperate. He knows it’s his only chance. “Make them come back for me.”

“I will,” you swear to him.

And he pries your fingers off his shirt and rips away from you before your resolve can weaken. High above and through tears that blur your vision, constellations of stars gleam like diamonds.

~~~~~~~~~~

He runs to the other side of the Boat Deck, searching for lifeboats that haven’t launched yet. He can’t find any. There are swarms of passengers weeping, shouting, jostling, and officers trying to restore order. Pistols and flares are fired, chairs are tossed overboard for passengers to cling to as they float. But Aegon knows that won’t be enough; if they stay submerged, they will die.

I need something bigger. I need something I can lie on. A door or a dresser or…

He shoves through the crowd to get to the ship’s railing. Below, the ocean has gotten so much closer. He sees a lifeboat bobbing in the waves, just far enough away that someone brave enough to leap could not get to it. Inside, along with perhaps twenty first-class women and maids, Aegon recognizes Laenor Velaryon and his ever-present Parisian friends. They are puffing on cigars and toasting glasses of brandy, celebrating their good fortune. They must have successfully bribed their way aboard.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs, his breath fog in the frigid air.

How am I going to stay out of the water long enough to survive until I’m rescued?

Then he replays the evening in his mind—his first night with Petra, perhaps his last night on earth, red silk and candles and oil paint and the warmth of her beneath his hands—and Aegon gets an idea. He sprints back to the Grand Staircase and soars down to B-Deck, seawater ankle-deep on the floor. He splashes through the corridors to the staterooms once occupied by Daemon Targaryen’s wife and child, now rid of him, now waiting for what will come next. Aegon hurries through the sitting room, passing the taxidermied tiger head above the fireplace and the large, heavy chest where Daemon made Petra lock up the art she bought in Paris.

She didn’t remember to put the real Picasso’s paintings in a lifeboat, but she saved mine, Aegon thinks. If I make it out of this alive somehow, I’m marrying her the second we dock in New York.

He goes to the bedroom, finds what he needs, carries it with him as he returns to the maze of hallways. Now the icy water is nipping at his knees.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ocean is calm, the lifeboat rocking placidly on inky surf. The women comfort their children and their dogs. You take Aegon’s aluminum lighter out of your handbag and light yourself a cigarette, then pass it around so the other passengers can thaw their lungs with hot plumes of nicotine, here in the early hours of the morning when it feels like you’ll never be warm again. The officer who took command of the vessel—the same one who shouted at you and refused to admit Aegon—is rowing vigorously as you and several other women help him, staring horror-struck at Titanic as she goes down by the bow.

“We have to get away from the ship,” the officer keeps saying, and he sounds genuinely petrified. A woman in a glittering gold gown steers with the tiller. “Or she’ll suck us into the water with her.”

There are shadows of other lifeboats nearby, also fleeing from the condemned Titanic, that miraculously colossal and opulent triumph that everyone had told you was unsinkable. You wonder which one Draco and Fern are in, undoubtedly cold and frightened but safe.

Aegon deserves to live too. I have to find him, I have to save him.

Now there is seawater flooding over Titanic’s deck at the bow, where you and Aegon saw third-class passengers—now dead, or very soon to be—kicking around pieces of the iceberg that they didn’t know had doomed them. The ocean surges higher, covering B-Deck, and A-Deck, and finally the Boat Deck, where the towering funnels collapse and you can hear shrieks and guns firing. You know you won’t be able to see Aegon from here—you won’t be able to tell if he made it into a lifeboat somehow, or if he is one of the figures that falls from a lethal height into the waves, or if he is crushed or shot or trapped below deck and drowned—but still, you cannot stop looking for him, peering through the night to where Titanic glows in her spotlight of white-gold electric luminescence.

As the bow sinks, the stern begins to rise, higher and higher until the tension cracks the ship in two, and the passengers you share the lifeboat with wail and sob as the ship’s lights blink out for the last time and the gravesite goes dark. Women call out the names of their husbands, fathers, brothers, adult sons, knowing they must be dying. You can only watch with tears streaming down your face, thinking: How could he survive that? How could I have left him?

The stern bobs for a while in the nightscape sea, a shade, a phantom, and then it plunges into the ocean. The water—indifferent, dispassionate, not a mortal but a titan, here long before humans and destined to outlast them, not unlike the treasures of the earth—gulps down metal beams and pine planks and split bones and shredded flesh. There are screams, so many, so pitiful, so loud they fill the sky, and the howling women in the lifeboat cover their ears and those of their children so they will not have to try to exorcise the sound from their memories later.

As soon as the stern has been consumed by the depths, you say to the officer: “We have to go back to look for survivors.”

“Are you mad, Lady Targaryen?” he snaps at you; but there are tears in his bloodshot eyes. “We’ll be mobbed if we sail into that. They’ll pour into the boat until we go under too. Do you want to freeze to death with them?”

“People will die quickly. They are dying already, the water is cold enough to kill in minutes. If we start rowing towards them now, most of the passengers will be dead by the time we get there. And then we can rescue anyone who’s left.” Please still be alive, Aegon.

“Not a chance in hell,” the officer says.

You turn to the other women. They blink back at you in dazed, timid terror. “It’s murder to leave your men behind,” you implore, you beg them to agree. “Help me row to them.”

But the women only weep softly to themselves and look to the officer to tell them what to do. He smirks at you victoriously, an expression of no humor but rather grim, fearful misery that could drive someone insane. In the lap of one woman, the Pomeranian whimpers.

I can’t leave Aegon, you think. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

You open your green handbag and pull out the dagger, the blade pointed at the officer. He shouts and bolts away from you, incredulous, furious.

“You’re threatening to kill me?!”

You shake your head. “I’m offering you a gift.” You turn the dagger around so the officer can grasp the handle. His gaze catches, transfixed and wondrous, on the gemstone spheres like perfectly aligned planets. “This dagger is worth more than you would make in a decade of work. Go back for survivors, and it’s yours. Refuse, and when we are rescued and my son inherits my husband’s fortune, I will make it my life’s work to destroy you. I will follow you anywhere on earth. I will ruin you. So take the dagger as payment and break my curse, and let us save the people who are left.”

The lifeboat sways in the small, serene waves, and the stars revolve high above in a moonless sky, and you and the other women wait for the officer to reply. After a minute or more—we have to go back now, right now, we don’t have much time—he finally lifts the dagger from your open palm and tucks it into his belt.

“Fine,” he says, picking up his oar again. “Let’s go. I cannot abide your damnation. I’ll be haunted by enough ghosts already.”

He and several of the other women row into the throng while you find the flashlights stored in the bottom of the lifeboat, then perch at the bow searching for Aegon. Instead you see hundreds of bluish corpses floating in their lifebelts, dead men and women and children, some of them first-class or crewmembers of the ship but most of them third-class passengers: Italian, Polish, Greek, Syrian, Russian, Chinese, Irish, discarded people, good for dying in the operations of mines or factories or railroads and little else.

“Aegon!” you shout over the water, but he does not answer. There is only the mist of your own words and the sound of cold currents rippling as the lifeboat cuts through them.

Your group saves two people from the sea, both nearly frozen to death and unable to speak: one man floating on a table washed out of a dining room, one little girl clutching her dead mother. Then a long time passes with no living souls to salvage.

“Have we done enough now, Lady Targaryen?” the officer asks you gravely. “Have you seen a sufficient number of the dead to assuage your wrath?”

“Not yet,” you say, steely, your eyes fixed on the water as the flashlight illuminates lifeless faces, scraps of wreckage, nothing, nothing, nothing. And then the light settles on him.

When the stern of Titanic went under, so did Aegon: there are ice crystals in his hair, and his clothes are freezing to his skin, and his lips are blue, and he’s shivering violently. But unlike over 1,000 other passengers, he didn’t stay in the depths long enough to perish as the cold stopped their hearts and lungs. He had something with him, a life raft, a second chance, a treasure mined not from some far-flung crevice of the earth but from the bedroom where he uncovered you, where you found each other and never wanted to go back to the way life felt before.

Aegon is sprawled across the oval-shaped mirror that once stood beside your bed, the fractured glass reflecting the stars that glimmer in the night sky. His ravaged hands cling to the wooden frame. And when the beam of the flashlight skates across his face like moonshine, Aegon knows you’ve come back for him, and he reaches for you until your hands link with his and help pull him aboard.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carpathia arrives an hour later, just before four in the morning on April 15th, and as the sun rises over the North Atlantic Ocean you and Aegon find Draco and Fern on the bow deck, where stewards are distributing blankets and tea to the survivors. Women wander the ship pleading for help finding their lost loved ones, weeping endlessly for their brothers, their fathers, their husbands. Your tears have stopped entirely.

Carpathia’s passengers are generous. They offer in charity their food, their clothing, even their rooms. Children share their books and toys with Draco. Fern teaches him how to play marbles; you read him The Story of Saint Patrick. A doctor onboard disinfects and bandages Aegon’s hands, and assures him that he will be able to play viola again, not now, perhaps not even soon, but one day.

That first afternoon, as you and Aegon are taking a stroll on the Boat Deck, you spot a man painting a scene of the sunset: gold, tiger’s eye, ruby, red beryl. Aegon shows him some of the portraits from his scuffed leather portfolio…though, of course, one in particular is not suitable for mixed company. The man is so impressed that he insists Aegon must not be deprived of the ability to create such beauty for lack of supplies, and gifts him an easel and some paper, brushes, and oil paints.

It’s difficult with his sore, bandaged hands, but Aegon still wants to try, and when his brush begins to shake he asks you to help him. Aegon explains things to you as you steady his hands: chiaroscuro, scumbling, alla prima, glazing, impasto, a foreign language that will soon become familiar. Already, you are learning. And as Carpathia sails into New York Harbor on the evening of April 18th, Aegon takes a paintbrush and draws a circle around your ring finger in vivid, sapphire blue, a worthless gift of no gleaming gems or metal, a vow that means everything.

It’s been years, but Aegon remembers the way to his mother’s house. He leads you, Draco, and Fern to the doorstep of the Hightower mansion on Fifth Avenue. He knocks and a butler answers, a middle-aged man who gapes at Aegon in shellshocked disbelief.

“One…one moment, sir, if you’d be so kind to…to…to just wait here, please,” the butler stammers, then disappears inside. A few minutes later, a different man appears in the threshold. He must be Aemond, tall and white-blonde and precise in every movement, his left eye concealed by a black leather eyepatch. His remaining eye, a clear alert blue, darts to where Fern is holding Draco on her hip and then to you and Aegon, his bandaged hands resting so lightly on you they could never leave a mark.

Then Aemond’s face softens, and there is a kind sort of relief that seeps in, and you imagine your parents will look the same way when you return to Lough Cutra Castle. “You’re home,” he says quietly.

And Aegon smiles and replies: “We all are.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader

183 notes · View notes

missaengg · 1 month ago

Text

Tantalizing the Great Sylus

Day 17 of Kinktober: Visions of Temptation hosted by @xxsycamore found here

Featuring: Love and Deepspace | Sylus x f!reader Tags: mdni, smut, pwp, gun kink, teasing, manhandling Prompts: Gun Play ao3 link here.

“Is the gun loaded?”

Sylus looks up from where he’s sitting polishing the steel surface of a pistol with a soft cloth. A faint expression of surprise crosses his face when he notices your skimpy attire, though he won’t ever object to your wearing of lingerie. “Of course not, kitten. Who do you take me for?”

You grin, a mischievous twinkle glinting in your eye. “Good,” you purr, and before Sylus can react, you kneel between his knees, guiding the gun in his hand slowly into your pouting mouth.

Sylus freezes, his eyes widening at the way your tongue swirls around the barrel while your eyes stay locked onto his.

“Kitten…”

You coquettishly lower the gun to his lap until it rests above the outline of his impressive cock. Holding it there, you bob your head down the barrel until your nose is tickling the growing bulge underneath.

“Kitten, that’s not safe.”

You pop off the gun, a string of saliva stretching from your lip to the metal tip, which Sylus notes, shuddering when it disconnects with a snap. “You’re certain it’s unloaded?”

“Yes, but–”

“--and you finished cleaning off the gunpowder?”

“Yes, but–”

You hum. “Then I don’t see the problem.” You lower yourself between his legs again with a smirk, and still maintaining eye contact, you agonizingly slowly sink your lips down the barrel.

Sylus can’t help, but shiver at the sultry look you’re giving him, feeling aroused at the way your lush pursed lips envelop the cold steel.

“Or… should I just fuck this instead?” You stand, positioning yourself so that you’re straddling his lap and the weapon is pointed between your legs.

A strangled groan from the reluctant crime boss answers you. Pleased, you lift up your semi-sheer nightie revealing that you’re bare from the waist down, and batting your round, innocent eyes, you lower yourself onto the metal tip. The normally self-assured Onychinus leader’s eyes bulge at the sight of your cunt greedily enveloping the weapon into your folds.

“Should I continue?

Sylus tears his eyes away from your cunt, a tense, heat evident in his eyes. You smile, delighted at how he faltered, his strict policy on weapons safety wrestling with his carnal desire.

“Kitten,” he warns, but his affectionate name for you comes out in a breathless choke.

He’s wavering, and you shiver, basking in the thrill that you’re the one bringing the great Sylus to his metaphorical knees. You place your arms around his neck and sink down until the gun barrel has all, but disappeared into your weeping cunt.

Sylus sharply inhales, his intake of air catching in his throat. You moan, a sultry, filthy sound intended to fluster the informidable crime lord to all, but you, his only weakness. Gasping into his ear, you gyrate your hips, the handle of the gun pressing into his now prominent erection.

“Sy, that feels so… ngh… good.”

Sylus lets out a long, pained groan. “Kitten, don’t tempt me.”

You deliberately moan even louder, relishing the way Sylus is unraveling at your taunting. You move your hips even faster, the combination of his futile attempt at holding onto his composure, his suppressed groans, and the way the metal drags inside sending electric tingles up and down your spine.

“Would you like for me to cum on this gun for you?”

Sylus loses it when you ask. He agitatedly palms the back of your head, dragging you down to capture your lips. His lips are rough and demanding, pressing against yours with a burning ferocity as if he wants to devour you whole.

With a growl, he finally pulls away. “Kitten, I warned you.” He rises from the chair in one swift motion, lifting you up along with him easily, ignoring the gun that clatters to the ground.

You yelp as he hauls you over his shoulder, a velvety delectation fluttering in your belly at how easily he can handle your body.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that when I’m done with you.”

Grinning wickedly, you feel a shiver of anticipation, knowing you still had the upper hand.

You weren’t going to regret a single thing.

#missaengg writes #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #visions of temptation 2024 #sylus smut #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #lnds smut #sylus x you #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #love and deepspace #lads #lnds

228 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago

Note

omg stop a cap mactavish drabble where they're caught 'n he's gotta keep the reader calm would feed my soul

—Listen To My Voice

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [He orders you to focus on him as the sounds outside the cell get closer. He promises nothing will happen to you. You know he's lying.] ❞

“Jus’ keep your eyes open and listen to my voice, eh?” The heavy Scottish drawl snaps you back into focus, your head pounding awfully and pain ricocheting up and down your limbs. It’s a stiff and unyielding order. “C’mon now, Sergeant.”

Coughing, you hack up splatters of blood onto your cargos—hands and arms tied down with rough rope that skins you every time you shift.

“Fuck,” you mutter, blinking rapidly as the footsteps walk away from your holding cell and disappear with the slam of a far-off door.

The Captain ahead of you grunts, his hard blue eyes sliding down the wreckage of your uniform; the open wounds and torn fingernails. He doesn’t look much better, truth be told. Your captors had taken pleasure in making you watch the other get brutalized—the vile rage in your eyes yet the inability to do anything.

It was mental torture as well as physical.

“Oversight ought to know we’re gone,” Soap slides out smoothly, tilting his mohawked head to the side to study the room in casual sweeps, as if not bloodied and broken. “—they’ll be sendin’ out recon teams to scout the area in little under a day. Standard protocol.”

His voice trails, seeing your gaze locked onto the door of the cell, pupils nothing but tiny dots in your burst veins of the once white sclera. Blue finds the way your body shakes, and the man’s large fingers twitch along the arm of his chair.

In the back of his throat, he lets off a rumble and resets his stubbed jaw; the scar along his left eye shifting with his expression.

“Sergeant,” your face twitches, but you don’t look at him. Inside your chest, your rattling lungs can nearly be heard aloud.

Captain MacTavish’s lips tighten. “Didn’t I tell you to listen? Pipe up! This is important.”

Your mind dances between hysterics and the numb oblivion of shock. While Soap had years to adhere to the idea of bare torture—even going through it before—you had no such luck. Experienced with weaponry, yes, but One-Four-One had only taken you on with the idea that you could become better than you already were.

You’d never gone through an actual interrogation beyond training.

Fast flinching eyes dart to your superior, chest heaving and adrenaline coating your expression. Blood drips to the floor.

Soap grinds his teeth and sighs through his nose.

She won’t last like this, he tells himself—blunt and honest. He’d told Price it was a bad idea to let you tag along, and without the reassurance from his fellow, he would have straight-out denied you coming. Too inexperienced.

This was exactly what he had been worried about.

But, hell, if that fear in your eyes didn’t make his stomach knot; a heavy rage at the image of your broken skin as all he could do was watch. But it was a silent kind of fury. Weighted with the knowledge of revenge.

While the man hated dogs, he sure acted like a loyal one.

“One day,” the Captain tells you—hardened; inflexible. His orbs are like hard steel and his stiff body like rock. “You can take one more day. Just need to focus on me…Copy? I don’t want your eyes to leave me. Not through any of it.”

You push through your haze, staring into his eyes with the vile stench of fear in the air. It was human nature to not want to be harmed. To dread pain and suffering in all senses.

This man seemed apart from that.

The Captain grunts, harsher now, “Copy?”

“I-I,” you stutter, lashes fluttering. “I copy, Sir.”

“Relay.” He barks, watching you closely.

“One day.” Answering immediately, you clear your throat and stifle your whimper of agony—a few of your ribs are broken. “I can make it one more day.”

“Good.” Soap’s accent makes the words clipped and true. Taken as law. “Nothin’ll happen that won’t be repaid. Keep that close, it’ll help.”

“How many times have you been through this?” Talking helped with the nerves, your focus leaving the sounds in the distant hallways and the loud voices wafting in the vents. The room was cold; you shiver and grimace as your body moved.

“Too many.” Soap huffs, pulling at his restraints with a heavy hand and growling under his breath when nothing happens. “Comes with the territory, you’ll get used to it.”

You lick your bloodied lips and feel the cuts in them. “...Is that a good or a bad thing, Sir?”

His lips twitch into a low smirk, shooting you a sly narrowing of his lids. “Well, I’d say that’s up to you now, isn’t it?”

In the grimness and the barbarity, you huff what can be described as a dead woman’s laugh.

The Captain, still trying to find a loose area of the rope, grits his teeth and utters, “There’ll be no deaths here ‘cept the ones outside this cell, eh? Like I said—focus. When I tell you something, I don’t care how hard it is, you’ll be listenin’ to me. Got that?”

Footsteps sound up again from beyond, and you tense, eyes flinching wider. Soap grunts out an order and you keep your feral gaze locked on his. Blue eyes bore into you, flaying their meaning deep into your body like you’re made of clay. The uptick in your pulse makes you shake wildly.

“Keep those eyes right on me. Nothing’s goin' on that’ll kill you, aye?” The door turns and the unlocking of the barrier snaps like electricity up your spine. You want to run, but you know you can’t.

And through it all, you stare straight into Captain MacTavish’s frozen eyes—his strong brow pulled in with authority. He nods his approval with a quick jerk of his head. When the door opens, you can’t help but fear he’s lying.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

927 notes · View notes

belovedmusings · 1 year ago

Text

Lay me down tonight.

Explicit Smut 18+ 🚫Minors DNI🚫

You were loyal to your boyfriend, Megumi, before you met his estranged father at the yearly family get-together. The second you met Toji, however, the righteous and innocent person you were died, and in their place, an insatiable monster was born. Toji ruined you, and even now, you keep allowing him to ruin you, all behind Megumi’s back.

Relevant tags: shameless smut, infidelity, cheating, Toji is rough and dominant, Megumi is clueless, reader are a good liar, reader is a little depraved, everyone addresses you without the usage of “y/n” for better immersion, Megumi is aged up so that you’re both of age, ‘cause we are not gonna have Toji catchin’ a case up in here, that said, age gap between reader & Toji, minimal gendered language though reader is AFAB, Toji is a horrible father

Recommended songs while reading: older (Isabel LaRosa), Unholy (Hey Violet), Fucked My Way Up To The Top (Lana Del Rey)

A/N: infidelity is NOT the answer but this is a lil smut just for funsies so enjoy!

Read below the cut:

You remember exactly how it had first happened. It was a year ago.

You were meeting tons of Megumi’s family members at once, flying through greetings to cousins and aunts and uncles and distant cousins and great-grandparents—no one stood out to you until he showed up.

The large hotel banquet room the Zenin family had rented out sort of got quiet as he walked in. Your eyes caught on him, and after he scanned the room, unbothered by the staring, his eyes zeroed in on you and Megumi.

He’d tilted his head to the side in interest and then made his way towards the two of you. You heard mumbles and whispers about him.

“He wasn’t invited,” Megumi muttered under his breath in annoyance.

“Who is that?” You whispered back.

“He’s…well, I wouldn’t call him—”

“What are we whispering about?” The burly man said loudly, now in front of you. He looked amused and completely shameless. Now that you had seen him up close, he looked sort of familiar.

“I was just wondering who you were,” you told him, looking around. The family was watching with various degrees of surprise and disdain. The man laughed haughtily.

“Oh, I see. Megumi didn’t tell you who I was?” He asked with a salacious grin. “He didn’t tell me who you are, either. You’re holding out on us both, Megumi.”

Your boyfriend huffed beside you. “That man is technically my father.”

Your lips parted in recognition. That made sense. You’d heard a little bit about him, enough to know he’s a dead-beat and that Megumi never speaks to him nor gets along with him. The family doesn’t like him as a whole.

“What are you doing here?” Asked Megumi with narrowed eyes.

“Relax,” the man chuckled, leaning against a chair. “I just came to see my dear family.”

“You weren’t invited.”

The man just held his wolfish grin on his face. “I don’t care.”

His steel gray eyes found yours, and he raised a brow. “Now, I still don’t know who you are.”

You introduced yourself, along with your relationship to Megumi, and the man hummed. “Well, it looks like Megumi has good taste. The name’s Toji. It’s very nice to meet you.”

He gave you an unconcealed appraisal and it made you feel hot. Megumi scowled.

“Don’t overstep a boundary,” he spit at his father, arm winding around your waist in attempt to intimidate.

The longer you looked at Toji, the more you realized how hot he was. He seemed so buff his muscles were practically bursting through the black t-shirt he had on. He was tall too. So tall. And his dark hair fell in layered strands around his ears and chin—his face was handsome as hell, too. You could tell where Megumi got his looks from. He smirked at you with all of the confidence in the world. He was like a more mature, more experienced version of your boyfriend.

He was really attractive.

“‘Course not,” Toji grinned, rolling his eyes. He’s amused. “I just wanted to greet my son. I’ll get out of your hair now.”

“Please do.”

Please don’t, you thought, but he turned on his heel and walked towards some other family members, already starting to talk at them instead.

Megumi sighed heavily. “Damn bastard. I had hoped you never had the displeasure of meeting him.”

The pleasure is all mine, you truthfully thought to yourself.

You felt a bad desire growing inside of you, and it wasn’t long before what you wanted came to fruition.

You and Megumi had had to travel to get to the family reunion. As such, you were staying in the hotel they booked the venue in for one night before you went back home.

You were restless, and Megumi was sound asleep in bed. You’d never been to this area, so you figured you’d walk around the hotel, maybe get some melatonin from the convenience shop on the first level to help you sleep. Truthfully, you hadn’t stopped thinking about Toji and how hot he was. You wondered where he went. You and Megumi had left the reunion a little early because he was tired, and you hadn’t seen him again after your brief meeting.

You slipped on some sweatpants and a crewneck before putting your slides on and leaving a note for Megumi in case he woke up.

‘Went to get melatonin and maybe a snack. Be back soon.’

With that, you slipped out of the hotel room and walked down the hallway. It was the middle of the night, so you kept quiet, padding towards the elevator. You pressed the button to go down, and after a few moments, the doors slid open.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

Toji.

A grin instantly spread across his face. “Hey. Goin' somewhere?”

Your blood pounded through your veins as you entered the elevator. “Uh…I can’t sleep.”

“You can't?” He asked, putting a hand on his hip. Bluntly, he replied, “I can fix that.”

Your mouth went dry.

You couldn’t remember exactly what happened next, but soon the two of you were stumbling into his hotel room a floor below yours, the door slamming and locking behind you as Toji took you into a bruising kiss. Your arms were wrapped around his neck the second he lifted you into his arms like a weightless pillow, tossing you down onto the hotel bed in the center of the room.

He kissed you again and it was like he was trying to eat you whole. The things he would murmur to you in between lip locks had your head spinning with guilty pleasure.

“Megumi don’t know how to treat you right.”

“I’ll bet he ain’t fuckin’ you properly.”

“I’ll show you how a real man does it.”

Each kiss, each word, each touch drew you closer to insanity. You both had your clothes off faster than you could comprehend, and Toji was spitting dirtily onto your mound, starting to rub circles into the pearl at the apex with flattened fingers.

You writhed beneath him as he scraped his teeth over your neck and chest, only stopping to lick the hand that was rubbing at you to coat it with more saliva before dipping it back down and slipping two fingers inside of you at once.

He finger-fucked you fast and hard.

Megumi never did that to you. Sex with him was always very vanilla and straightforward. Kissing counted as foreplay and then he was inside of you, always in missionary or sometimes spooning you from behind. That was it.

God, you had no idea sex could be this wild and mind-blowing.

You had cum on Toji’s fingers with a cry, not caring if the people next to you heard, and then he kept fucking you through it, adding a third finger and spitting over it again to get you loose and sloppy.

He had a giant cock. That was why he opened you up manually, because it would have done damage had he just fucked into you from the get-go.

When he did enter you, it still stretched you out past your limits, both impossibly thick and long, and you wondered how the hell anyone took a dick that big.

You quickly found out how.

He simply made you take it.

He held you up by your hips, suspending your lower half with the strength of his arms while he pounded into you. You could hardly even recognize your own voice. It was reaching pitches you’d never heard from yourself before, sounding so debauched and wanton you’d think he found some hooker off the street and paid her to moan like a porn star.

You swore you could feel his cock in your womb. With how big he is, you wouldn’t doubt it.

“Megumi doesn’t have a damn clue,” he had grinned to himself, looking at you as he split you open repeatedly. “Sleepin’ like a little bitch while his daddy takes care of you for him.”

You moaned loudly. “Toji��”

“That’s right,” he praised, “Whose cock is inside you right now?”

“Yours, oh—yours…”

“Say my name,” he growled, slapping your mound. You jolted, shivering at the harsh pleasure it gave you.

“Toji,” you mewled, scratching at the bed comforter. He was fucking you hard enough you knew you were going to cum from brute force alone.

“You belong to me now,” he told you. “You’re mine.”

That had sent you over.

“Oh my god!” It was a shout as you orgasmed, creaming all over his cock and onto the bed. He groaned deeply, shoving himself in harshly as he emptied his load inside of you, squeezing your hips so tightly they bruised.

When he’d pulled out, he watched his own seed drip from inside of you, sucking in a breath.

“You should do something about that,” he said. “Unless you wanna give your boyfriend a sibling.”

You shivered. Toji really didn’t give a shit about his son.

At that point, you knew you couldn’t pretend like you had any moral high ground either. You slept with your boyfriend’s dad. You cheated willingly. There was no sugar-coating it.

You had limped your way back to your room and cleaned up in the bathroom, falling asleep next to a still-sleeping, oblivious Megumi.

What’s worse is that a year later you’re still going back for more.

You and Megumi are still together.

He has no clue about Toji, and you want to keep it that way. The two of you barely mention him. He only talked about him the day after you met him once to say that he left when he was seven and never bothered to return.

You hide your affair like it’s your job. So much so that now you’re on birth control. Beforehand Megumi had just been fine with condoms, never making a fuss about them. Toji, as you had quickly found out, doesn’t like them. The largest available size is too small, he had told you, and besides that fact he likes feeling you bare. He doesn’t bother to pull out either, so not wanting to risk pregnancy as well as not wanting to spend fortunes on emergency contraceptives like you had the first time, you just get on birth control instead. You also only ever meet Toji at his place, since you know Megumi doesn’t know where he lives and you currently live with your boyfriend. Having Toji over could easily end awfully. You don’t take chances.

Tonight, you’re seated in Toji’s lap at his apartment. Megumi is away on a business trip, and you’ve been staying at Toji’s place for the past few nights. You’ve had so much sex you can barely think straight, at this point. Since you walked in he was on you, and you’ve christened every surface in his small apartment. The doorway, the living room, the wall of the hallway, the bedroom, the bathroom shower, bent over the sink, the kitchen counter, the table, too…everywhere is free reign.

Right now, you’re facing away from Toji, back to his chest while he bounces you on his cock, burly hands clamped down on your wrists to keep you upright and prevent you from falling forward.

The lewd wet slap of your bodies connecting, his heavy breathing and groans as well as the desperate gasps you keep giving him are all you hear. You two hadn’t even managed to turn the television on before he pulled you in and slipped inside, only his t-shirt and nothing else on you giving him easy access to what he wanted.

Every time your body collides with his, his tip kisses your cervix and it gives you a jolt of pleasure. He’s so deep inside it feels like he’s rearranging your guts.

Then, from his slow and hard pace he suddenly switches up and starts ramming into you harshly, punching mewls from your throat.

“Toji!” You gasp, “Oh god, Toji!”

Your knees are bent and your legs are tucked under them, split apart by his own, and if he wasn’t holding you up right now you’d face-plant right into the floor. The danger and the trust it involves has your head spinning. How did you get here? This isn’t who you used to be—but you wouldn’t go back and stop yourself if you could. It’s too good.

He’s too good.

His right hand is clamping down on your neck from behind abruptly, other hand switching to your waist, wrapping around the front to forcibly arch your back, and you gasp as your air gets restricted, cock getting deeper inside with the new angle.

“Toji,” you rasp, hands covering both of his wrists just to hold onto something as the force of his thrusts start forcing an orgasm through your system. You sputter, body spasming as it begins to take over, building from the spot his tip keeps hammering and undulating through every one of your nerves, yanking a high-pitched whine from your compressed vocal chords. “Toji!”

You tighten around him as you finish, mouth falling open, eyelids fluttering as your vision unfocuses, covering his cock on your essence. He groans deeply, letting your neck go and instead pulling you flush against his chest, pressing your hips down as far as they can go so he can pump his load into you.

With a few sloppy thrusts, he’s cumming, coating your walls in what must be the millionth round this week. He groans deeply into your ear, keeping you pushed down on him, sensitive length throbbing inside of you with the aftershocks.

You then feel his rough lips dragging over your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to any skin he can touch, his heavy breaths fanning over your flesh hotly.

“So good for me,” his voice is hoarse and fucked out, and it makes your stomach flutter. Sex with your boyfriend is never this intimate—you’re never pushed to your limits. Toji does it every time and then praises you when you’ve pleased him. It’s so addictive.

You turn your face towards him and he covers your lips with his own, initiating a messy make out session that only ends when you need air. If you didn’t require oxygen, you’d have loved to keep Toji’s tongue in your mouth forever—you think that it could be your only form of sustenance if you had your way.

“When’s he comin’ back again?” Asks Toji. You draw in a breath to steady yourself. It takes you a moment to think.

“Two days from now.”

“Good,” his grin is beastlike. “I get to keep you longer.”

You grin, nodding, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips. The position is a little uncomfortable though, so you end it quickly, pulling off of him.

He grabs your hips and turns you around, staring at you with dark eyes.

“Who said you could get off?” He asks, and you take a look at him, noticing that he’s half-hard again already. His stamina is seriously unmatched.

Before you can reply, he pulls you back towards him, this time your chest to his.

“I’m nowhere near done with you,” he says, and it’s done in such a way that you sort of feel like Little Red Riding Hood about to be devoured by the Big Bad Wolf—it thrills you.

And you’ll continue to go back for more.

—-

A/N: MAPPA better whore Toji out like they’ve done for Satoru, Kento, and Choso next week or istg

Please don’t repost or translate but feel free to reblog & share!

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji smut #toji x you #toji zenin #fushiguro toji #toji fushiguro x you #jjk x y/n

795 notes · View notes

silverskye13 · 6 months ago

Note

I vaguely remember something about Helsknight going to confessions? I’m interested as to why and what he confesses to :3

Hi, this has been in my inbox for a hot minute, but it got me thinking, and I kept thinking so. Have a snippet.

_____________________

Please read the tags for the TW list!

_____________________

The Confession room for the followers of the Saint of Blood and Steel was exactly the same room they trained and dueled in. The only difference was, at a certain time of day, on two specific days of the week, there was a little white sign on the doors that said "Confession Open." There was almost always a line. Only one person was allowed in the confessional at a time. There was no law or order or rule that dictated everyone wait in silence, but there was something particularly embarrassing humbling about standing in a line of armed and armored knights, all waiting patiently for god to slap them on the wrist.

The door opened. A knight exited with her head held high, though Helsknight noticed she clutched her arm a little too close to her body. She walked past the line down the hall, to the little room on the left where the pleasant and somewhat dissonant smell of baked goods warmed the air. The line shuffled forward a step.

The wait was long, and awkward, occasionally broken by stilted small talk, and the lethal sounds of mail and blade, and the scuffing of boots. Helsknight had gotten into the habit of bringing something to read while he waited. It gave him a good excuse not to make prolonged eye-contact with anyone, and he had grown bored of making shapes out of the mosaic tiles ages ago. He could only look at the same repeating pattern so many times before he realized they all looked vaguely like a dog lifting a leg to pee, and thinking about bodily functions while waiting in a long line was a great way to convince himself to leave the line. Then the chances of him getting home in a timely manner after his confession [or really going to confession at all] dropped exponentially.

The door opened. A young knight limped two steps down the hall before a priest, waiting at a nearby bench for expressly this purpose, dashed over and put the knight's arm around his shoulders. The knight muttered a wincing thanks, and together they limped down the hall to that same, sweet-smelling room. As soon as they turned the corner out of the main hall, the knight let out a loud curse, and there was the heavy sound of someone collapsing into a convenient chair. The line shuffled forward a step.

A twitchy squire standing in line in front of Helsknight stared at the door wide-eyed, and then forward to the confessional sign, which they regarded with the same blatant fear as someone confronting their own noose. Helsknight looked down at the little book he was holding, sighed, and decided to show a little mercy. He was at confession, after all.

"The Saint isn't cruel," Helsknight told them softly, and just the sound of his voice startled them nearly out of their boots. "Whatever your penance is, it will never be beyond your means."

The squire flashed him what was probably supposed to be a nervous smile, but which looked a lot more like a grimace. "What if I've fucked up really badly?"

Someone in the line coughed inconspicuously. Someone else cleared their throat. Helsknight fixed the young squire with a measuring gaze, and came to the conclusion this nervy kid had probably never "fucked up really badly" a day in their life. Though he supposed he'd been wrong before.

"You could start your penance early," Helsknight said, reigning in his sarcasm as much as physically possible, "by maybe not swearing in church."

The inconspicuous cougher down the line let out a much more conspicuous snort. The squire clapped their hands over their mouth and stared up at him in horror. Helsknight sighed and pinched the space between his eyes.

"Swearing isn't against our tenets."

The hallway murmured into a soft chorus of "Amens" and "Praise the gods" and one particularly ambitious "thank fuck." A few of the knights signed various salutes and benedictions to the Saint. The squire visibly relaxed.

"It's respectful not to," Helsknight continued after the murmured din died down. "Show the Saint your contrition by respecting Their home. Is your sword sharp?"

The squire seemed a bit taken aback by this sudden change in conversation topic. They unsheathed their sword a bit, showing a dull iron blade. "Uhm... it could stand to be sharper."

"You bring your kit with you?"

The squire sighed and rolled their eyes, more from disappointment at a new chore than any real defiance. They unsheathed their sword, dropped a large messenger bag off their shoulder, and started rifling through their things. The air was soon filled with the sound of whetstone on blade. Someone behind Helsknight tapped him on the shoulder. She pointed to the squire, then to Helsknight, and offered an approving thumbs-up. Good job on distracting the scared kid. Helsknight shrugged and held out his book, flashing the title in her direction. Everyone needs a distraction in this stupid line. She rolled her eyes, tell me about it, and moved her cloak to the side, showing off a little satchel with what looked to be art supplies. Helsknight smirked.

The door opened. A knight came striding out, running a stressed hand through his hair. He started to walk past the little door at the end of the hall, but a priest came dashing out to stop him before he could make it too far. They whispered amongst each other for a moment, heads bowed close together to keep their conversation private. The priest looped a consoling arm around the knight's shoulder, and together they walked slowly into the little room. The line shuffled forward a step.

No one ever stayed inside the confessional for long. Fifteen minutes, twenty. Once or twice someone dipped closer to a half hour. Then the door would open, and the line would shuffle. Helsknight had made it through about a chapter and a half of his book [an epic poem about the deeds of one of the Saint's paladins. He brought it to keep himself in a "contrite mood", whatever the hels that was] when finally it was the squire's turn to step inside. They bundled up their gear, offered Helsknight their bravest grimace-that-was-probably-a-smile, and walked inside.

The knight behind him asked politely, "Is that your squire?"

"No."

"Ah. Just being nice then?"

Helsknight offered an indifferent shrug. "It's everyone's first confession once."

She turned this somewhat nonsensical statement over for a moment, shrugged her agreement, and went back to sketching.

Time passed. The squire exited the doors with a relieved look on their face, though they clutched their right hand beneath their arm as though afraid to look at it. Helsknight sighed, closed his book, and stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a heavy click.

The room wasn't so much dark as it was simply not as bright as the hallway outside. Beside the door was a small table, and Helsknight turned and made use of it, setting down his book, then unbuttoning his tabard. He knew whoever was taking his confession today would be nearby, ready to help him doff any armor, but he wore mail today specifically so he could slip it on and off, without having to worry about all the buckles and clips that came with chest plates and grieves. When he'd relieved himself of everything he wore or carried, besides his leggings and his unsheathed sword, he walked towards the center of the fighting ring.

A knight in full plate stood in the ring's center, a great sword planted tip-down into the dirt between their feet. The sword was simple steel, as was the armor. No enchantment or ornamentation decorated the surface. There was no plume on the closed helm. They were the image of the Saint, an unremarkable warrior, all silent strength.

Helsknight knelt at their feet, laying his sword gently between them. He sighed out a long breath.

"I come to the Saint to be shriven," Helsknight said as deferentially as he could, in the face of an often repeated task. "By Their steel, and by my blood."

The confessor nodded. "Speak your confession, brother."

Helsknight winced, and barely stifled a groan. "It's always you, isn't it, Blade?"

The confessor let out a heavy sigh. "Come on man, this is supposed to be anonymous."

"Not my fault you talk like that."

"Heh? Talk like what?"

"Exactly."

The two fell into awkward silence, Helsknight probably much more awkward than Blade. He took a bracing breath.

"I... Come to confess the sin of Wrath."

There was a long pause.

"Again."

"This is normally where I ask what you did, and why," Blade said witheringly, "but it was plastered all over the broadsheets this morning."

Helsknight pinched the space between his eyes.

"If it makes you feel any better, I gotta agree with the West Side Tabloid. He had it coming." Blade said, leaning a little too nonchalantly on his greatsword. "You don't just call someone a coward like that. It's violence theater. If you bring real honor into it, you're begging for trouble."

"I... Agree."

"So, you lashed out in anger and got blood all over the nice Colosseum sand." Blade continued. "You lost your temper, but you were defending your honor. And I wouldn't even call it all that cruel. It's not like you tortured him or anything."

"Am I being pardoned?"

"Depends," Blade said, in a casual tone that suddenly didn't seem wholly his own. "Where else have you vented your Wrath, brother?"

Helsknight licked his teeth, as though he expected them to taste like blood. "I... attacked a thief today. He stole from me, and I was in my right to defend that."

"But you harmed him past self defense," Blade prompted, when the silence stretched long.

"If he hadn't escaped me, I would have." Helsknight paused, and added. "I had wanted to."

"Wanting isn't the same as doing," Blade offered charitably.

"I would not have stopped myself."

"Has Wrath consumed your life in any other ways, brother?"

"My hermit."

Blade nodded solemnly.

"We fought recently. I won. It was unprovoked. I was having a bad morning, and I needed -- I wanted to take it out on him. So I did."

"Have you asked forgiveness from the people you've harmed, in your sin of Wrath, brother?"

"No."

"Have you attempted any restitution?"

"No."

Very suddenly, the greatsword in Blade's hand was sheathed in red. It was light, bright and scouring, and it filled the air with the taste of blood. Even knowing it would happen, Helsknight flinched at the sight of it. His hair stood on end, and the air seemed charged, like the breath before a lightning strike. The Saint, alive and present, glimpsed for a moment through Blade. The confessor-turned-paladin tilted his head back slightly, and Helsknight knew if his face weren't covered in the helm, his eyes would be red, brimming with bloody tears.

In a voice that was Blade's, and something past him, empowered by faith, brutal and scouring, the Saint said, "Stand, and pick up your sword."

Helsknight did as he was bidden. His heart fluttered a little too fast in his chest, and while his hands did not shake, they felt near to it, unsteady. Helsknight was one of the best fighters to have ever crossed the Saint of Blood and Steel's threshold. If he were simply fighting Blade, there was a decent chance he'd win, though Blade had been his match many times before.

He was not only fighting Blade, though.

"As a knight of the Saint's order," Blade and the glimpse of the Saint beneath said, "you swore to uphold Their tenets, even in the face of great adversity. By raising your sword, not in Their wrath, but your own, you break that tenet."

Blade let out a breath, like someone barely keeping their head above water. Helsknight wondered if that was what being a paladin in the service of a Saint felt like: held under water, drowning under divine will.

"Yet Their order teaches that even the Saint is fallible, and once, Their will was driven, not by divine purpose, but by reckless bloodshed. As They were once challenged, now They challenge you. Do you accept?"

Helsknight didn't have to accept. This part had been emphasized a lot when he joined and took his first confession. Anyone was allowed to deny the Saint's trial and simply accept their penance. The penance wouldn't change. There was no incentive for, or against, besides maybe his own personal need to prove he really was in the wrong. Maybe it was pride made him accept every time. Maybe it was spite. Or, maybe, it was simply the need to punish himself for the lack of control he felt.

Solemnly, Helsknight nodded.

"Then Pick Up Your Sword, and Smite Me."

That was all the warning Helsknight was given. Blade, or the Saint, or the Saint's Will, or all three together, lunged.

It did not take long. By the third swing, Helsknight's blade was sent crashing from his hand, though he met the Saint's blade with all the strength and mastery he could muster. Losing to the Saint was an indescribable thing. It wasn't like losing a match in the Colosseum, or like losing a duel against Blade when they sparred. It was like an ant scratching at the heels of a giant, a kitten swatted aside by the massive claws of a dragon. If he swung his sword at a wall, at least there was the smallest chance the stone would chip. There was no chance in this. There was only the token effort of the attempt, one clash, then two, then three, and then his sword was gone from his hand. Blade slammed a palm into his chest, and Helsknight was on his back, gasping for breath, having crumpled so quickly he hardly had time to register he was watching the ceiling.

"By the divine right of contest, brother, Their will is done," Blade, The Saint, both and neither, said. Helsknight laid on his back and waited, catching his breath. "Hold out your sword hand."

A jolt of fear lanced through Helsknight then. He hated, he feared, hand wounds. It was an odd folly of his that he'd never been able to shake. Blade knew it. The Saint probably knew it. It felt unfair to punish him with it, or cruel.

Helsknight closed his eyes, and he stared down the scared little squire in his head.

[The Saint isn't cruel. Whatever your penance is, it won't be beyond your means.]

And then, for good measure, as he offered his right hand forward, [you deserve this.]

The cut was quick and clean. The blade was supernaturally sharp. The wound took time to hurt. Still, Helsknight's head spun. His breath came too quickly in his chest. Blade had to repeat himself twice when he asked for Helsknight's other hand. Then his vision tilted more, stars blooming in burst around his peripherals, edged in black.

When he found himself again, Blade had carried him to the table and rested him there, and stood bandaging his hands. His own hands were shaking, every shudder sending a jolt through Helsknight's arm. Helsknight turned this observation over distantly, curious in the way of the desperate, clinging to small details to better make sense of the world. Blade didn't normally shake when they did these sessions. Maybe he, too, had objected to wounding Helsknight's hands.

"Sorry... About that," Blade stammered hoarsely. "It's... You haven't made restitution. And it's a problem you keep having."

Helsknight didn't trust himself to speak, so he nodded.

"It's not bad," Blade said, trying to reassure both of them. "No muscles or tendons or anything. It was just a lot of blood."

"Yes," Helsknight said airily, still a little too unrecovered to explain the blood hadn't been the problem. Not really. Not that it needed explaining.

"Go see the priests down the hall," Blade informed him needlessly. "You need stitches, especially near the veins on your wrists. They need to heal naturally. Over time, as penance for your Wrath. You may lessen your time through acts of service to the church, if you so choose."

Helsknight nodded.

"Do you need help walking?"

Helsknight blinked slowly, his sluggish, shocked mind slowly crawling to life.

"Helsknight," Blade said, putting a still-gauntleted hand against his face. The cold metal felt good against his feverish skin. "Are you hearing me?"

"I hear you," Helsknight said, ashamed of how weak and small his voice sounded. "I need help with my mail.'

"Maybe we should make sure you can walk first?"

"Every other knight walks into this room and back out again fine," Helsknight said, his pride slowly crawling to life in his chest. "I just... I just need some help."

Blade, as much as a man obscured by a full suit of armor could, looked relieved. He nodded, and after a few moments of coddling, they managed to get Helsknight on his feet and dressed again. He squared his shoulders and walked with purposeness down the hall, his vision only swimming a little. The spiteful little animal in him wanted to keep walking until he was home, and he almost did. But a priest ducked her head out the door of the room at the end of the hall, and fixed him up in a concerned stare, and Helsknight, tired in body and soul, followed her inside.

The little room held tables and chairs, and a counter brimming with freshly made breads and rolls. Sweet things, prepared in advance of confession for those who might've lost too much blood, or for those who needed something soft and warm to take the edge off their penance. Helsknight allowed himself to be guided to a seat. The priest who had pulled him in checked over the hasty bandages, let out a disapproving tsk! and began organizing some supplies. She was joined by two other priests who began quietly discussing the best way to go about his stitches. Someone put a slice of some freshly baked something-or-other in front of him, and Helsknight ate it with the mechanical necessity of someone who recognizes a chore that needs doing.

Months later, Helsknight and Tanguish sat at a fountain outside the First Church of Hels, their breakfasts in their laps. Helsknight ran a thumb self-consciously along the odd, thin, centipede-like scar that danced from the center of his palm down his forearm. Tanguish must have noticed, because he asked, "How did you get that one?"

Helsknight turned his wrist so Tanguish could get a better look. "Lost my temper at something."

Tanguish ran a gentle finger across the misshapen skin, his touch cool and soothing. "It looks like it hurt."

Helsknight shrugged. "Not as bad as you'd think. It hurt more when they took the stitches out. S'why it looks like that."

Tanguish yanked his hand away like the scar had come alive and bitten him. "Why didn't you just drink a health potion?"

Helsknight chose his words carefully. "I needed to remember it."

Tanguish grimaced and allowed, "You... are very scary when you lose your temper." He reached out a hand to run his fingers tentatively along the scar again, as though he could somehow heal the long-passed harm. "You've gotten a lot better though."

Helsknight shrugged.

They returned to their prospective breakfasts, Helsknight eating with much less enthusiasm than his companion. He wished Tanguish didn't have such a preference for baked goods and sweet foods. They reminded him too much of that long hallway, and that door at the end of it -- and how long it'd been since he last stood there and waited to meet his Saint. Helsknight resolved to visit again when he got the chance. Just as soon as he ordered his list of sins. He remembered when he fought the Demon, sighed, and quietly put Wrath in its place at the top of the list.

#rns ficlet #rns ficlets #helsknight #saint of blood and steel #redstone and skulk #tw religious trauma #tw blood #tw religious harm #tw religious themes #ask to tag #my brain it is melting #this is kinda sorta a cut chapter from RnS #from Helsknight's POV #when they had their fight originally Tanguish was going to leave and come home to Helsknight in post confessional bloodloss fugue #but i thought that detracted from their argument too much #and also i didnt want our first Deep Dive into Helsknight's religion in-story to be about religious self harm

110 notes · View notes

tacitoru · 11 months ago

Text

"caution! this could get ugly" - eren yeager

Pairing: eren x reader

Summary: It's hard to get into the Christmas spirit when you work through winter break. But when you attend your coworker's annual ugly sweater party in an attempt to get into the holiday spirit, a certain green-eyed line cook is determined to make that a challenge.

Or;

The Chili's!AU Christmas party one-shot no one asked for

wc: 6.6k

Tags: enemies to lovers, coworkers!au

Content warnings: smut, oral ( f receiving), spit play, drug references, eren has big ass hands, minors dni

my first fic in an anime fandom, pls be gentle! you can't tell me eren doesn't give off headass-but-secretly-softie line cook vibes... you can't tell me he doesn't look like that one guy you wanted to smash that one time at work!

um...happy holidays, y'all!

read on ao3 | masterlist | twt

The lady at table six doesn’t deserve about half of the attitude that she’s getting from you tonight. Besides, it’s not her fault all of the sides to each meal she ordered were wrong. It’s not her fault her appetizer had to be recalled two times because there were onions in the guacamole on both instances when her chips and dip platter arrived at the table. She’s not the one who cooked her husband’s steak well-done instead of medium-rare. Of course not, because as she oh-so considerably informs you over the distressed screams of her high-chair-bound toddler, she would never cook a New York strip steak like that.

But between the chaos of the dinner rush and the mishaps of a particular line cook who seems hell-bent on making your night as difficult as possible, table six and her husband are lucky that you are even able to flash them a drawn smile before stalking off.

The double doors to the kitchen – so lovingly called the heart of the house - are a thin veil between utter mayhem and the generally calm atmosphere of the dining area, never staying for longer than a second as waiters rush to tend to their tables. Stepping into the chaos, several obstacles stand between you and the culprit of your terrible night. Fellow employees swarm the narrow walking space, and you slip by with practiced ease and the occasional apology. You’re almost a little envious as you take note of them – no one else looks as half as pressed as you do tonight. As they should be, it’s only a Tuesday night. Not even the weekend yet. And yet, as you shimmy your way through the back of the house, you can’t help but feel a similar fatigue and exasperation that typically follows a Friday night shift. This only serves to further solidify your resolve as you duck past a team of waiters off to serve a business party. A long, stainless-steel counter runs the length of the kitchen space, with shelves that reach the ceiling, effectively separating the servers from the cooking staff. Waiters and line cooks take turns sliding completed and returned orders beneath the shelving, and heat lamps attached to the bottom of the last shelf to preserve the food. It is within this space that you all but shove your head beneath the heat lamps to give Eren Jaeger a piece of your mind.

“Do you have a problem?”

“Yeah, actually.” Eren, standing idly over the stove top adjacent to you whips around at the sound of your voice. He makes a wry face at the sight of you, hunched over the countertop and under the warm hutch, forced to cram your neck in a certain direction to give Eren the full force of your scowl. For all his nonchalance, there’s a glint in his eyes. “You haven’t come to talk to me since you started your shift.”

You blink once, twice, before all but slamming your head into the shelf above you in an attempt to swipe at Eren across the counter. “Are you – are you fucking joking right now? Are you actually fucking messing with my table’s orders because I didn’t say ‘hi’ when I walked in?” Eren sucks his teeth, pretending to rearrange some condiments in front of him. “You’ve been here for two hours already. It’s polite to greet your seniors. Seems you’ve lost all your manners while you were away at college.”

Right eye twitching at the condescending note in his tone, you rear back, ready to straight up drag him into the walk-in and show him just how polite your fists could be. That thought is quickly sidetracked as a broom handle to the back of the knees sends you stumbling back from the countertop. Your manager stands behind you, arms akimbo, broom in one hand. He pointedly offers you a serving tray.

“Your steak is getting cold.” Stern, curt, and orderly, your night manager is infamous for running a tight ship. But even he, for all his methodology and patience, gets run ragged by the customer service industry. If you thought you were over tonight, Levi looks just about ready to turn in his two weeks.

“What about-,”

“I’ll handle him. Now get back to your other tables before I make you clean the bathrooms.” The night shift manager threatens to strike you with the broom handle again before passing off the tray and pushing you in the right direction.

You spare an accusatory glare at Eren, who watches on in bemusement. Rude bitch, he mouths, wiggling his fingers in a girlish wave.

The rest of the night goes on fairly smoothly. The dinner rush subsides just as quickly as it came. No one asks you to sing the Happy Birthday song. The incident at table six lands you a meager tip, but you grin and bear it. Better than nothing at all. Or worse, change. This seems to be the case for Sasha, a regular dinner shift waitress. She marches through the double doors with a fist full of nickels and dimes courteous of her last table of the night – a group of college students. Cursing under her breath, it’s obvious your coworker is ready to call it a night hide in the back with a basket of rolls until close.

There’s an obvious shift in mood as your team transitions to its closing routine. As Levi thanks the last customers for the night and locks the door behind them, the tension from the day seems to almost melt away instantaneously. Connie, a back-of-the-house member who ends up stuck by the dishwasher most nights, takes the opportunity to hijack the restaurant’s stereo system to blast trap music you only know the chorus to.

Closing, believe it or not, is your favorite part of the job. You take pride in how dutifully you restock, fold cutlery, wipe tables, and somehow always manage to avoid being assigned the task of sweeping the dining areas. You’d rather be caught dead before you struggle with that insolent, brittle plastic broom against an entire night’s worth of grime and dropped food. Instead, when Levi wordlessly hands it off to you this time, you make your way to the back of the house, prepared to bestow this lovely gift to the main antagonist of your shift.

You discover Eren lounging outside the storage shed behind the restaurant, the tell-tale sign of the flicker of a lighter giving him away. And the smell. The heady burn of a Backwood climbs its way up your nostrils as you approach him, languidly smoking half a blunt on the clock.

“Y’know the longer you sit out here, the longer it’s gonna take for us to get the fuck out, right?” Eren greets your matter-of-fact tone with a cloud of smoke, thick and distinct in the crisp winter night air. You shoot Eren a disapproving look as you approach plastic broom in hand, fully prepared to guilt trip your coworker into taking on your least favorite closing duty. “You’re really pushing your luck tonight, aren’t you? You’re so lucky it’s too cold for Levi to come out here and bust your ass himself.”

This isn’t the first time the heart-of-the-house worker had snuck off to light up before joining the clean-up routine. Connie and Eren regularly covered for each other’s smoke breaks, so often that even Levi began to turn a blind eye as long as everyone clocked out on time. The line cooks' routine typically didn’t affect much on your end unless it was a night like this – a night when everyone had plans afterward.

Tonight, there was a holiday party at stake.

“Levi’s got a soft spot for me, you know,” Eren scoffs, taking another drag from the half-smoked blunt. He still has yet to fully face you, perched on a stack of discarded crates and angled away from the kitchen’s back entrance. Tucked away in the shadow of the storage shed, Eren ashes off the corner of the small building. “Besides, even he can’t resist my charm.”

Rolling your eyes, you wave the plastic broom in front of him, threatening to poke him in the ribs when he begins to protest. “Charm won’t save you from sweeping duty tonight. After what your petty ass put me through tonight – here, take it.”

Eren raises an eyebrow, throwing his hands up in protest when you move to toss the broom handle at him carelessly. He gripes, “I’ve got better things to do than clean up after you.” The blunt in his hand smolders near his fingertips. You pluck it from his hands with little resistance and take a hit, brow crinkling at the taste. Your lungs ache and warm at the sensation.

“Yeah? Yeah, like this?” You wheeze and hope he attributes the water gathering at the corners of your eyes to the cold. “Just get it done, and let’s finish this so we can all get to the party on time.” Eren watches in dismay as you stomp out the remains of his roach.

“Someone’s in a hurry…A Grinch like you, it can’t possibly be the Christmas spirit?” Eren narrowly avoids being jabbed in the ribs again, jumping from his hiding spot when you lunge. He eyes your tense shoulders, nearly hiked up to your ears, and the impatience in your stance. In the years you’ve worked together, your general disdainful demeanor towards him is nothing new, but there’s something else. Something else that leads Eren to believe that the dark flush of your cheeks has little to do with the winter air. He swipes the broom from your grasp, approaching you with a wolfish grin. You instinctively take a step back, a little less confident now with the broom no longer as your barrier. Confronting Eren over kitchen counters, between restaurant booths, and across busy back-of-the-house spaces in the presence of your other coworkers was one thing. But as the young man towers over you, gaze shadowed in the dim glow of the moon and the weak holiday lights haphazardly strewn about the awning around the restaurant, you can’t help but shrink a little under his direct attention.

After a tense moment of silence, Eren relents. “Alright, alright. I’ll get it done. But you owe me a dance later at the party.”

Your stupor was broken, you sputter and gawk up at him, at his audacity. “I- Me? Dance for you? Dream on, slacker. Now, move it. I’ve got tables to wipe down, and I’m not waiting for you to finish sweeping.”

Working at Pepper’s had only meant to be a summertime gig, at first. Looking for a quick way to make some cash before the start of your first year in college, the local Tex-Mex chain restaurant was your least enthusiastic option. A popular location in your small town, it was one of a few dining options that didn’t require you to drive out into the city to enjoy. The idea of running into one of your former high school classmates while donning the company apron and signature red visor, toting a serving tray - or worse, working with one of them - mortified you. But chain restaurants were always hiring, and you needed money fast. Eventually, working the evening shift as a waitress during breaks from school became the norm - until now. Now, as the start of the final spring semester of your undergraduate program approaches, you're left to consider what the next summer will really look like for you once you graduate. Besides, it wasn’t like this was going to be your career, right?

Right?

In your years on staff, Sasha’s ugly sweater party had become an unofficial team bonding event of sorts. No matter how new someone was to the staff or how frequently they were on shift, everyone came to Sasha’s. And everyone came dressed accordingly, or you were turned away at the door. A night of ugly sweaters, spiked eggnog, and best of all, Secret Santa. Since your freshman year of college, Sasha’s holiday party was always something you could look forward to.

You anxiously eye a little red gift bag from across your coworker’s living room, trying to hide your grimace behind your second glass of wine.

“You look like you’re waiting for a bomb to go off.” The hostess of the night is pretty quick to clock your demeanor. Sasha slides onto the couch next to you, her sweater an egregious display of flashing multicolored lights, silver tinsel, and a giant patch of Rudolph the red nose reindeer sledding down a mountain in sunglasses stitched to her chest.

You force a smile, attempting to play off your nerves. “No bomb, just…Secret Santa jitters, you know?”

“Ah, the classic Secret Santa anxiety.” Your companion watches as your nervous gaze flickers from the gift table to a certain couple in matching argyle sweaters with tiny Christmas trees sewn in between the jacquard diamonds, huddled in the doorway into the kitchen. Sasha’s eyes widen in understanding. “Can I take a wild guess at who you got?”

You realize you’re not-so-subtly glaring at Jean, who’s laughing with his uninvited guest across the room. Jean, your coworker, and former daytime shift waiter. Jean, your friend whom you’ve admired from afar for his kindness and tenacity. Jean, who got promoted to manager at some point while you were away finishing your last fall semester at college and didn’t tell you. Jean, whom you have the worst, most horrendous crush on. You take another sip from your drink to avoid the pitiful look you know is on Sasha’s face. “I just hope he likes what I got him. I mean, we’re not exactly best buddies or anything...”

If Sasha catches the sour note in your voice, she says nothing to acknowledge it. “I’m sure you know him better than you think.”

You can’t help but huff in exasperation. “That’s the problem though, isn’t it? Ever since I switched from dayshift in the fall, ever since I went back to campus, he’s been so distant. I could’ve sworn we were getting somewhere over the summer, but now…” You tip your glass listlessly in the direction of the object of your ire, whose arm is wrapped around none other than Mikasa, a waitress who quit last year but still hangs around some of your coworkers. Apparently.

Everyone comes to Sasha’s Christmas party.

It goes without saying that Jean is with Mikasa now, but your eyes can’t help but linger in his direction anyway. After all, the last time you saw him…

The pool party. That pool house. The surprise that colored his eyes and flushed his cheeks when you kissed him.

You shake off the memory, scowl deepening. The hostess herself leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on, spill. What’d you get him?”

You glance around for any eavesdroppers before revealing, “A leather-bound journal. He’s always jotting things down, and I thought it might come in handy.”

Sasha squeezes the hand on your lap not balancing a drink and offers you an encouraging smile. “Not bad! Thoughtful and practical. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

You nod, a bit more reassured. “I hope so. It’s just…I really wanted to get him something he’d like, you know?” You watch as Jean presses a doting kiss to Mikasa’s forehead, smiling into her hairline. He has yet to look your way once, except for at your arrival.

Sasha pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry too much. It’s the thought that counts.”

The thought. You scoff. You think you might need a third glass of wine.

As Sasha wanders off to mingle with the other guests, a mix of cashiers and kitchen staff amused with seeing one another outside of shift schedules, your attention is drawn to Eren, who seats himself in the spot that Sasha once occupied with all the languor of someone who didn’t show up to the party sober. It doesn’t take much for him to reveal that he heard most of your previous exchange.

“Secret Santa jitters, huh?” he teases, propping himself up against one arm of the sofa. The line cook wears a dark blue cable knit sweater, with what you think is some horrific reimagining of Bob Ross knitted across his chest. Tiny, tinkling silver bells adorn the hem, glittering as he shifts in his seat. His hair, typically tied up and away from his face during shifts, spills loosely over his shoulders and shags over his eyes. You recall the way he looked at you earlier in the night behind the storage shed and remember his insistence that you dance with him at this party. In the warm lighting from the barrage of Christmas lights that line Sasha’s living room ceiling, he almost looks pretty like this.

You shoot him a look. “What’s it to you, Eren?”

“Just wondering if I made the nice list,” he quips, winking playfully. You make note of the lack of red rimming his eyes. Maybe he is sober then?

“Cute,” you scoff, trying to dismiss the way heat rises to your cheeks at the comment. Maybe you’re the one that needs to sober up. “Now go sweep something or whatever is it you do when you’re not getting high and crashing parties.”

Eren smirks but doesn’t leave. Instead, he nods in the direction of the gift table, of the little red disaster bag that haunts the corner of your eye. “So, who’s the lucky recipient of your generosity?”

You sigh, giving in to the conversation. “Well, the point of Secret Santa is that it’s a secret-,”

“Jean, huh? That’s interesting.” While you sputter at his presumptuousness, Eren’s expression tightens for a moment, and you can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Before you can question his tone – or how the hell he had even overheard you and Sasha, for that matter – Sasha calls for attention announcing the start of the gift exchange.

You leave Eren on the couch to grab your present, eager to get away from whatever that was. You have enough to be anxious about tonight without Eren Jeager getting into the mix. Unsure how Jean will react to your carefully chosen present, you grip the little red bag a little tighter.

In the end, you don’t even get to witness Jean’s reaction to your gift. All of that tension, all of your worries on the drive here, all of your anxiety leading up to this moment is all for naught. Eren Jeager makes sure of that.

He doesn’t even try to sound remorseful once he spills his wine down the front of your sweater just as you’re about to hand off your gift to your should-be-former crush. You had mustered up the courage to approach Jean, who had finally wrenched himself from Mikasa’s grasp for a brief moment to collect a wrapped parcel of his own. But as soon as you reach out to catch the day shift manager’s attention, your entire body is shifted off-center. Eren collides into your right side, tipping his glass into your chest with little more than a half-assed, “Whoops, my bad.”

You gasp, the force of Eren’s weight and a mix of shock and horror sending you reeling back from Jean. The surrounding partygoers come to a halt, Jean included as he turns to finally take in the sight of you for the first time tonight, mortified and doused in red wine that bleeds through the front of your white cashmere sweater like an open wound. The little red gift bag hangs limply in your hands.

Jean calls your name, voice colored with surprise and concern, but you’re already marching towards the bathroom, eyes stinging, hands shaking, dropping the gift bag somewhere on the way between pushing through little clusters of your coworkers all squeezed into Sasha’s homey apartment.

Much to your relief, the bathroom to the guest bedroom is already unlocked and unoccupied, a temporary haven for you to gather your bearings.

Or so you thought.

It’s not long before Eren finds you, gently knocking on the door with a soft call of your name. You’ve spent the past few minutes fruitlessly dabbing at the stain blossoming on your chest with paper towels and cold water, only succeeding in smearing it into a much larger mess. The snowflakes carefully stitched into the pattern of your sweater begin to take on a faint salmon color, the sight in the mirror only serving to fuel your frustration. Tears well up in your eyes as mortification over the night’s events threaten to overwhelm you, but Eren’s voice startles you into a sense of annoyance. In your panic and haste, you had forgotten to lock the door behind you.

The bathroom door swings open, and you glance up in time to see Eren duck inside, his expression softened with a hint of something you’re too bewildered to decipher. Your heart sinks when you realize Jean doesn’t file in behind him.

“Need some help?” Eren offers, an uncharacteristically sincere tone to his voice.

You shoot him a skeptical look, “Are you being serious right now?”

Rather than back off when met with your icy demeanor, Eren closes the door behind him. And rather than tell him off when he turns you to face him, nearly bumping heads in the cramped guest bathroom, you both set to work with damp paper towels.

You work in silence, under the harsh fluorescent lighting, the sounds of the party raging on outside. Eren’s touch is gentle, and purposeful as he braces your shoulder with one hand and dabs just under your neckline with the other. A pensive look falls over his face. You wait for an apology that doesn’t come.

Distantly, you hear the Christmas music switch to something with a little more bass and know that Connie has hijacked the speaker. As you dab at the hem of your sweater, convinced that the stain would be a permanent fixture in your sweater at this point, you glance up to notice a smile playing on your intruder’s lips.

You shoot him a withering look, “You think this is funny?”

Eren breaks out into a full-on smirk, impish even, looking a bit more like the line cook you’ve known to antagonize you. He tosses his paper towel in the trash and leans against the bathroom counter, his green eyes fixed on you. For a brief moment, they simmer with spitefulness. “I think it’s a hell of a lot less depressing than watching you openly moon over horse face.”

“Horse face?” You blanch. “You mean Jean-,”

“-Besides, I did you a favor. Now you don’t have to go and be disappointed him.”

Your frustration grows, but beneath it, there’s a spark of defiance. You snap at him, “What does it even matter to you, Eren? All night you’ve been on my case; at work, at this party! Whatever I give to Jean – whatever I have or don't have going with Jean is none of your business.”

You feel the tension between you, thick and charged, but the satisfied look on Eren’s face never wavers. He’s lax, head tilted back as he observes you over the bridge of his nose with a gaze that meets yours that could almost be described as bored if not for the hungry something lurking in them. That same look from your closing shift, passing him the broom. He’s not high anymore, you determine, hasn’t been for a while if the intense look expression, and the clarity of his gaze is anything to go by, so you can’t chalk it up to insobriety. You distantly wonder how much more often he’s looked at you like that. For how long? How have you never noticed? It seems so much more apparent like this, outside of work. So much harder to ignore with no metal counters to divide you, and no uniforms to keep up to code.

In your anger, you’ve stepped closer, balling the used towel in one fist and bracing against the counter with the other, half caging in the much taller man against the sink. You don’t realize how close you are, face to face like this, drawn in by the intensity of his eyes. The bathroom feels smaller, the air heavier, and you’re acutely aware of every beat of your heart.

You mutter, “What the hell is with you?” and he huffs a laugh through his nose, a real smile on his lips as you draw near.

“If only you fucking knew.”

Eren leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a bold move that leaves you momentarily stunned. For a moment, you forget about the chaos of the party outside. When he finally presses his lips to yours, it’s a slow kiss laced with arrogance, a statement of intent. And despite your annoyance, you can’t help the feeling of warmth that floods you. Hands seek each other out in a flurry of movement. The paper towels and spilled wine are forgotten as Eren’s hand slips around your waist, pulling you closer. Eren lets you cage him fully against the bathroom sink, if only to fit one leg between yours and slot his fingers from around your waist to the back of your neck, into your hair with the free hand not holding himself up against the counter.

The kiss is a collision of emotions – frustration, surprise, and an underlying current of something you hadn’t quite acknowledged before and aren’t entirely sure if you’re ready to either. Unhurried and messy, you can feel the groan that reverberates through Eren’s chest against your own as you tug his bottom lip between your teeth. He tastes like smoke and red wine and metal. There’s no urgency behind his moments, languid with the way explores your mouth, as if a crowd of people you’ve worked with throughout some of the more formative years of your life aren’t separated from you by a singular door. As if the man you’d sworn you’d come back to try to commit to wasn’t a brisk walking distance away. He kisses you like a lover, and not like a man who has made it his mission to spend every waking moment you’ve had together grating your nerves.

Surprise shocks you at the swipe of his tongue ring against your lower lip. His thumb at your neck strokes along your chin, and your jaw with a touch that’s borderline reverent. A balmy, pleasant feeling unfurls in your chest, thrums in your veins as you allow him to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss. Eren’s lips are warm and insistent, and despite the bizarre circumstances, you feel right at home in his grasp.

The sounds of the party outside fade into the background, replaced by the rhythmic thud of your heart in your ears.

You’re surprised at how gentle he is. Firm, unrelenting in his touch, sure, but with none of the simmering aggression you’d come to associate him with. Strong, sure hands, slide encircle your hips under your sweater, thumbs dragging across your hip bones at the hem of your jeans. Stoking that smoldering feeling in your chest, a simmering in your low belly. The sensation earns him a gasp, interrupted by his lips. It takes little convincing for you to remove the sweater altogether, discarding the article of clothing along with it.

You’re rewarded with a pained groan as Eren breaks the kiss long enough to admire you like this, all flush and disheveled from the neck up. His doing. Not Jean’s. He can’t help but feel smug satisfaction, finally having quelled that ugly, nagging feeling that had built up in his chest once he had realized just why you had been so anxious to get to the party tonight. None of that matters now. Eren is too focused on chasing the press of your hips against his. Too focused on the feeling of your lips and the little gasps you make each time he moves to tuck into the crook of your neck instead, teeth finding their way to the pliable skin at the juncture of your bare neck. Too enamored by the way the lust and wine make your eyes hazy and soft on him in a way he wishes you’d look at him during the daytime.

Breaking your gaze, Eren rearranges your legs so that you’re nearly seated on his lap with the way you lean over him against the counter. Eren’s fingertips find their way beneath the hem of your bra, sliding over the seams of your ribcage to trace and then squeeze at the expanse of bare skin there. You sigh into his mouth at the feeling, content to rock in his lap and suck on his tongue until the rough pads of his thumbs swipe over your nipples, rendering you just a little more desperate.

“Oh – oh. Eren, please-,” The little silver bells sewn into the collar of his sweater jingle with every rock of your hips, and you can’t help but snicker against his lips once you notice the sound.

“Let me – here, let me take this shit off.” Eren gives you just enough room to swipe the festive sweater over his head, just enough time to toss it somewhere on the floor before he’s on you again. One large hand palms your rear, the other resting against your collarbones, fingers encircling your throat to guide you back into one more heated kiss, prying your mouth open with his teeth and tongue, rolling yours over his.

Your own wandering hands tangle in his hair as it curtains your face, trace the sinewy lines of his back as you silently wonder if he’s always been this strong.

Eren doesn’t let you wonder for long, managing to scoop up you inside the broom closet-sized confines of the spare bathroom and place you on the closed lid of the toilet, skirt fluttering up to the tops of your thighs with a swift motion.

“Wait, woah-,” You’re so caught off guard by the sudden motion, that you nearly miss Eren stooping down to kneel in front of your place on the toilet, large hands bracketing each of your knees. He leans in, a secret smile gracing his features, green eyes bright with mischief under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“I figured, this is the least I can do after ruining your night, right?” As he speaks, his hands hook around the backs of your knees, helping him make room for a space between them. He takes a second to gauge your reaction, and you belatedly put the pieces together of what he’s asking with a slight shiver. His smile ie earnest, eyes unexpectedly sincere.

You think of putting back on your sweater and going back out there to face Jean. You think of fishing your gift out of whatever unfortunate corner of the room it fell into. Of returning home having achieved little other than embarrassing yourself in front of coworkers and friends.

Your thumb traces Eren’s lower lip, and you realize you’re taking too long to answer. Eren. Line cook Eren. Eren the bane-of-every-night-shift-ever Jeager. After all you’ve said and done, after years of working together, can you come back from something like this?

Eren sits back on his heels and presses a kiss to the soft skin of the inside of your knee. Well, you sigh, stroking a hand through his dark tresses, almost lovingly. The hungry, impish grin you receive when you can only respond with a half-choked “please,” is enough to make your heart stutter in your chest. A win is a win.

Unfortunately for you, there reaches a point where you’re not even sure who’s really winning. Eren eats pussy like he was made for it.

He starts slow, tracing his nose up and down the gusset of your panties like you’re not cramped together in the guest bathroom at your mutual friend’s party. Like he’s got all the time in the world. Gentle touches across the backs of your thighs, the plane of your stomach.

When you start to wiggle with impatience, he bites into the crease between your sex and upper thigh, deep and indulgent enough to make you cry out. He doesn’t care much for your choice in panties – they’re quick to join the rest of the discarded clothes on the floor anyway.

Eren switches your position again, turning you face forward and bent over the toilet so that your hands brace the lid. You fold your arms, pressing your cheek into the bends of your elbows when he encourages you to arch your back further, palm large and warm and sliding down your spine. From where he kneels, he locks one arm around your hips, the other hand bracketing the crease at your asscheek, just at the top of your thigh. You are rendered immobile, vulnerable as he spreads you open to his gaze and laves once between your folds.

“Fuck-!” The exclamation comes out warbled, almost tearful into the crook of your arms. You wiggle your hips in search of more contact, but the touch never comes. Eren’s mouth remains frustratingly out of reach, instead tracing your folds with his thumb. Of course, he doesn’t start right away. Indulges in the way you squirm, half out of impatience, half apprehension.

Complaints earn you a sharp smack! where you’re left wet and wanting. Your knees bow, legs trembling from the shock of the sudden assault on such sensitive nerves.

“Eren,” you bite back a moan. Your antagonist shushes and coos at your anguish, only pausing in his condescension to sink his teeth into the cheek not held in his grasp. The whine that works its way out of you in response is loud enough for him to relent after a moment, playfully admonishing you.

“Who would’ve thought you’d be this fuckin’ noisy?” He mutters, lips ghosting over where you need him most. “So damn uptight and quiet at work until it’s time to chew me out, right? Now look at you.” Embarrassment colors your cheeks at his words, feeling the slick wetness between your thighs you know he must have a plain view of, and you distantly wonder how you allowed this to escalate so quickly.

From your bent position, you think you hear him swallow, mouth working over something that’s decidedly not you until you feel something liquid and warm spatter over your mound. Biting back another moan, you silence the small, nagging part of your brain that seethes at the possibility of him holding this moment over your head in the future. Taking note of the litter of bruises that mark the backs of your thighs, you know the decision you both are making will literally come back to bite you in the ass tomorrow. Tomorrow, when you have to inevitably face him at work again, along with the rest of your coworkers who are no doubt wondering where you’ve been at this point. Eren uses the pads of his thumbs to spread your lips again, brushing a gentle, teasing kiss across your clit and you decide you’ll reconcile with yourself on the matter in the morning.

“Oh fuck, oh god,” you mumble, unable to work up the energy to be irritated when you feel the way he smiles against you.

When Eren finally decides to give in, it comes with a price. His lips seal over the span of your sex, sucking on one fold, then the other before gracing you with a broad stroke across your slit, and you’re a goner.

“Mm-oh! Oh.”

That price is your sanity and your resolve to stay as quiet as possible.

He devours you, seemingly unable to decide between one pace and another as he eagerly works his tongue into your molten core. He’s mean. Deliberate. Worst of all, he seems to be enjoying himself. Starting slow, savoring all of your heat and taste on his tongue. Then fast and relentless, flicking devastating strokes across your clit in a motion that leaves you gripping the lid beneath you. Chest heaving in exertion as you attempt to hold back your cries.

Your legs ache and tremble, knees biting into the cool lip of the toilet lid each time Eren presses you forward in his insistence. Eren dips the tip of his tongue into your slit, nose pressed between your folds with a self-satisfied moan, causing you to jerk and keen in his grasp. Your arms squeak across the porcelain when you jostle a little too far out of grasp. The angle he has you bent at presses you up onto your toes. Eren tightens his grasp around your waist. He presses one long digit into your core and you cry out into your elbows.

“Fuck, just-just a little longer, okay? Just gimme a little more, yeah,” he mumbles, deep, raspy, fucked out, and sounding more like an assurance for himself than you.

The finger inside you and the hand at your thigh disappear momentarily, and you wonder if he’s touching himself. The position he has you in means you’d have to crane your neck backward just to catch a glimpse of his lower half. The thought fuels the searing heat in your veins, as does the slick sound of wet skin and the resounding whimper breathed against your core, confirming your suspicions.

“Eren,” you gasp, whimper, locking up at the sight of his free hand palming at the profuse bulge in his jeans, veins popping in his arms at the effort. “Fuck, wait, fuck-!”

You come hard and fast, blood roaring in your ears, fingers gripping the lid with a white-knuckle grip as you squirm in Eren’s grasp. Coming together and falling apart in an overwhelming wave of pleasure that catches you off guard. Eren is quick to catch on, both hands returning to your hips to lock you in an embrace, face pressed into your sex in earnest. You twitch and writhe in his grasp, unable to escape from his relentless assault on your senses. He talks you through it when he can bear to detach his mouth from you, murmuring praises into the heated skin of your thighs. Bliss crackles up your spine and warms you inside out from head to toe.

“Eren, god, please,” you simper, dizzy with your fading arousal, not even sure what you’re pleading for at this point. To stop? To keep going?

Eren decides for you, pressing one last parting kiss to your mound before getting to his feet. The moments following go about in relative silence. Despite him having been between your legs just seconds ago, you’re quick to feel awkward and aren’t exactly sure what to say. Surprisingly ever the gentleman, Eren helps you rise off the lid and redress and clean on shaky legs. You are slow to stand upright. Unable to meet his eyes as you try to reconstruct your thoughts from mush. He slides your panties back over your hips and trades your ruined sweater for his own.

Eren stops you before you can protest the offer, vehemently against him commuting home at night, in the cold shirtless. “I’ll just take Armin’s jacket,” he reassures you, adjusting the collar of the horrendous Bob Ross fabrication at your neck. The tiny silver bells jingle at his touch, sounding akin to tinkling laughter

Over his shoulder, you take in your appearance in the mirror. You had done your best to right your disheveled makeup and hair, but the bruises on your neck and the obvious wardrobe change were a lost cause. Even if you dipped out of the party now, there was no avoiding being seen. You were going to have some questions to answer in the morning.

Eren catches your contemplative expression and matches one with his own, a little guarded now. Before now, neither of you had been on the best of terms. A history of annoyance and resentment that lasted years brewed between the two of you. But now…

Now as you consider how terrible the night had gone and the embarrassment you’ll face when Jean inevitably picks up that little red bag with his name on it, now as watch Eren wipe leftover slick off the corner of his lip before sucking the offending finger clean, you figure that’s something you can sort out another day.

5 New Messages

hey! I saw what happened w Eren, u alr??

hello??

I got ur present! Txt me when you get home!

hey!!

can we talk?

#eren x reader #eren smut #eren jaeger #eren yeager #eren aot #aot smut #aot fluff #jean kirstein #jean x reader #pepper's!au #eren jaeger x reader smut #eren yeager x reader smut #eren yeager smut #eren jaeger smut #jean kirschtein x reader #ctcgu

288 notes · View notes

wen-kexing-apologist · 11 months ago

Text

Random BL Superlatives: 2023

Well @lurkingshan did it, so I must do it. So here are some random, WKA themed superlatives for the 2023 BL selection.

Best Hands: Mhok and Day, Last Twilight

gif by @singularities

Listen. I know. I KNOW. There are so many incredible options, and I have written at length about a number of them. I mean come on, La Pluie is right there, I Feel You Linger in the Air is right there, Sing My Crush, Moonlight Chicken etc. etc. etc. But

But, Last Twilight came in with the steel chair right at the end of the year here with that FUCKING HANDSING SCENE. Can you blame me? The handsing scene is shrimply too powerful.

Best Lighting: Playboyy

You know, it's funny cause I don't usually end up writing about lighting in shows, despite the fact that lighting design is absolutely one of my favorite things in film, stage, and television. Chains of Heart has really interesting lighting too, but Playboyy is an objectively better show, and it is doing some absolutely gorgeous lighting design.

Best Sex Scene: Olive Oil, I Feel You Linger in the Air

gif by @pharawee

THE OLIVE OIL SCENE, WHY ARE THERE NO GIFSETS OF THE OLIVE OIL SCENE? WHY IS TUMBLR SUCH A FUCKING HATER???? They didn't even fuck in that scene, but holy mother of GOD it was the best thing I've seen all year. I Feel You Linger in the Air has some of the most inventive and beautiful intimate moments, and spreading the olive oil as a stand in for arousal and masturbation was absolutely goddamn brilliant.

Best Faen (Non)Fatale: Porjai, Last Twilight

gif from @khaopybara

I know Last Twilight hasn't finished yet and will take us in to 2024, but Porjai and Mohk's relationship is absolutely my favorite lovers to friends dynamic I have seen this year. I was showering praise upon them all for this in the tags of a reblog today, so I have to give it to them. Massive shout out and extremely close call to Nara from La Pluie.

Best Emotional Roller Coaster: What Did You Eat Yesterday? Season 2

Ok there were quite a lot of shows that I think would have applied here, but man oh man this entire season has just run me through the wringer with how much Shiro has grown over the course of the last two seasons. Episode 11 had me laughing my ass off, and then absolutely sobbing by the end. So it's going to Kinou Nani Tabeta?

The Shirt I Want to Steal Most from Wardrobe: Blue and White Button Up, The Sign

gif from @ohshinytrinketsmine

I know this will be contentious when the Fart Proudly shirt is right there, but I really loved the blue and white button up shirt that Phaya wore I do not know what is in the water at IdolFactory, but they have hands down some of the best shirts I have ever seen. When I watched Secret Crush on You I wanted the entirety of Sky's wardrobe, now I am having shirt envy for this sexy little blue-with-white-lines-that-are-vaguely-rabbit-shaped (wka do not write a post about rabbits, do not write a post about rabbits-) button up.

The Character Who Most Changed my Opinion of Them: Phupa, OS2 x BBS x ATOTS

gif by @alexshenry (double PhupaPat whammy for @waitmyturtles)

Okay, so to tell you the truth, I made new superlatives cause if I took the superlatives from @lurkingshan's post it would have been at least half the same if not more (because as always, Shan is right about everything). But, I will put an overlap here because I absolutely could not let this year go by without applauding Aof, Earth, and Phupa for really putting in the work to help me understand this man better.

The Show That Most Surprised Me: Wedding Plan by MAME

gif by @wanderlust-in-my-soul

Okay not only was this show that I absolutely was not planning to watch or initially interested in actually one of the best of the year, but it was also a MAME show. And a lot of us have our critiques of MAME's writing, but this was so outside of her typical MO that I am shocked it came from the same writer. Love Sailom, love a Lavender Wedding, love Nuea, love it all.

The Trope This Year That Most Accounted for the Fact These Are Gay MEN: Boxing! Sing My Crush, Wedding Plan, The Sign

Sing My Crush did this the absolute best, but I really genuinely loved that multiple shows this year let men fight in controlled settings to get out some of their frustration and to process their feelings. Han Ba Ram crying in the gym? One of my favorite scenes of the entire year.

And yeah sure, Phaya and Tharn are fighting for the intricate rituals that allow men to touch the skin of men, we get the horny vibes, but fundamentally this fight does occur because Tharn is angsty and ignoring Phaya and that cannot stand. I like seeing Phaya sparring with the punching bag at the end of the most recent episode as well because he's fucking furious about Tharn telling the doctor about his dreams. I love it, I love it so much.

#bl superlatives #last twilight the series #playboyy the series #i feel you linger in the air #what did you eat yesterday?#kinou nani tabeta?#the sign the series #our skyy 2 x bbs x atots #a tale of a thousand stars #sing my crush the series

153 notes · View notes

quintessencewrites · 1 year ago

Text

Emotionally Unavailable

cheating! sub! Riri x cheating! fem! black! switch! reader x dom! Shuri

Your thumbs hooked into the elastic of her waistband, pulling down slowly. Further down, her pants went until the tattoo on her hips was completely visible.

Two little hearts, one on each hip. One black, one red, both nothing but line art because Riri wasn’t drunk enough to handle the pain. The matching pair to the red and black ones etched onto your skin in permanence in the same spot.

A souvenir from your last last time.

Warnings: 18+!!! smut ahead!!!! ANGST, cheating, established relationship (Shuri and Riri), previous relationship (Shuri and reader), they ain't in a relationship, but they fucking (Riri and reader), threesome, this whole damn story is toxic, y'all, exhobitionism, squirting, masturbation, overstimulation, praise kink, slight degradation, fingering, public? sex, oral sex, anal, strap slinging Shuri, explicit language, stalking? sub Riri (she's so cute), Dom Shuri, switch reader, mami kink, so many that I probably missed.

Word Count: 8.3k

Tags: @inmyheadimobsessed @shurislover @6-noir @ihearttish @vampzxi @verachii @phantomof-themcu @taiiunknown @pocketsizedpanther @shuris3leg @bellaallebbella1

Riri’s head was in the clouds, her feet trailing the ground. Each step she took was staggered and unsure, and if her heart were to pound in her chest any harder, it’d be sure to crack the bony cage that contained it. She was so slow to approach you, quite literally digging her toes into the ground so that her feet dragged along the linoleum of the mall floor.

Her pupils retracted, panicked, glancing back at the large doors she’d just walked through. Maybe she could turn around and pretend she had gotten her dates mixed up before you spotted her-

“Riri- motherfuckin’- Williams!”

Too late.

Your voice was embarrassingly loud; even you couldn’t help but cringe when it carried across the ample space, and several pairs of eyes traveled with it.

Her head ducked, and her pace doubled, and she thanked Bast for her mahogany complexion that masked the heat that started in her cheeks and spread through her face.

“You gotta be so loud?” Riri questioned with a hiss.

The light reflecting off the steel table that your elbows rested on caught her eye, and they slowly rose, aligning her line of vision with an entirely different view: you.

Your face rested in your cupped hands, cheeks puffed just slightly. Riri’s eyes stopped on yours, enchanted by the way they danced. Mischief waltzed and amusement tangoed, and together, they pulled Riri in further and further and further until she was swept off her feet-

She tried to shake away her disappointment when the sound of you clearing your throat dragged her back to bleak reality.

“You tryna silence me?”

A smirk played at the corner of your lips, and Riri felt the corners of hers twitch. Damn, you and that contagious smile, the type of smile that started on your glowing face and spread to the face of those around you like a sickly disease.

“Never that.” Your grin had broken the girl with an iron heart, and she allowed her body to relax, lowering it into the seat across from you. “Bast help the woman who tries.”

Riri’s back kissed the frigid metal of her chair, and her arms folded across her chest as she sat back beneath your oh-so-intense stare. A string of explicits floated through her mind, though she didn’t dare utter any aloud. She craved to know your thoughts while mapping out her face with your stare.

And yes, it was childish to admit that she stared back, engaging you in a contest neither of you had partaken in since grade school.

And yes, it was even more childish to admit the joy that she felt when you looked away, declaring her winner.

“Why am I here, Riri?”

Your eyes refused to meet hers, instead studying the march of people who passed by.

“I wanted to see an old friend. That a crime?” Riri’s voice was pitched high, her vocal cords tight. You could hear her throat bob with the lie just produced from it. The sound of your hum, the way she could feel it vibrate through the air- Bast, you weren’t supposed to have this effect on her.

“An old friend?”

“Yes, an old friend.” Her answer was short, quick. You leaned forward just a tad, and Riri was back to silently cursing you.

Fuck you, man, fuck you. How dare you wear that top, that low-cut top, with the lace, the string, and the memories- the memories…

Damn, you and that damn top.

“Does Shuri know we’re old friends?”

She didn’t. You knew she didn’t, and Riri did nothing but confirm that when she finally pulled her eyes away from you and tossed her head to the side. She stared off at nothing, face concealed by the braids that fell past her shoulders. Her jaw was tight, her eyes hung low, and guilt darkened her features. It was an emotion she’d grown used to feeling, one that she quickly swallowed away when your fingertips brushed her cheeks, pushing away her braided curtain.

“I didn’t think so.”

Riri’s inhale was deep, shaky, and unsure, and her eyes welled behind what must’ve been a dozen- no, dozens- of thoughts.

She was sinking in those thoughts, unmoving and unaware of your movements, until you stood before her with an outstretched hand.

Not one word was spoken, but when the warmth of her hand rested in yours, it felt just like it had so many times before- it felt right.

Riri let you lead her away, abandoning the table and taking up space in the family bathroom instead. Her feet moved independently, taking a few precautionary steps back while you turned the lock until it clicked.

The tears dancing along the brim of her lids never fully evaporated, threatening to spill in streaks down her mahogany cheeks. Her eyes shifted, watching your curls bounce with the shake of your head and your back pressed against the wall adjacent to her with the cross of your arms.

“C’mon, Ri, baby. You know I don’t do crying.”

The floor was suddenly more interesting than the expression you were giving her. “My bad,” she mumbled, so low you barely caught it.

Something was looming over you, gluing you both in place. Riri didn’t dare move before you asked the question she knew was coming, and you didn’t dare move until she answered it.

“How is Shuri?”

There it was.

The broken piece that connected you two- the Princess of Wakanda.

Your ex-girlfriend and Riri’s current one.

Shuri was so fucking enticing, so goddamn alluring.

Y’know those picture-perfect relationships? The ones everyone envied that made them go, “They still together?”

Those long, drawn-out relationships where you rarely saw one without the other, and they were so nauseatingly in love whenever you saw the two.

Yeah, that was you and Shuri. Picture perfect for three long years.

Perfectly in love, except for those nights when Shuri never came to bed, existing only in her lab.

You were perfectly in love, but she didn’t know how to interact with you when your mood changed, so she ignored you.

So perfectly in love, but she was emotionally unavailable.

You were still perfectly in love with her when the decision to end it crossed your mind; it took a full three months before you could do it.

Still stupidly in love when she didn’t cry, didn’t blink. She’d kissed your cheek and walked off.

Still so stupidly in love when Riri reached out twelve months ago, two years post you and Shuri. How foolish were you to continue listening to her spill past “Me and Shuri been talking for a minute-”

You were stupidly in love and genuinely foolish to offer the girl some advice, to reveal your secrets on penetrating the impenetrable Shuri Udaku.

And yes, you were pretty stupid and foolish when the advice-seeking changed to the storytelling of shared experiences, sexual and non. It started so innocently; there was no reason it had to be a secret.

But it was. And it worked in your favor when the locations became less and less public, and the experiences became more and more intimate.

Every few weeks, you and Ri promised each other that that would be the last time. That last time had yet to come, and the actual last time the two of you met up as “old friends,” it concluded with her pussy in your mouth like it always did.

This time was proving to end no differently.

“Shuri’s being Shuri,” the girl mumbled, her tiny body shrinking into itself even further.

Hmm, she listened to you hum. “What’s new?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“It is. Your advice isn’t working.”

You’d been taking very timid steps forward, closing the space between you until it no longer existed. Your faces were inches apart, and you caught a whiff of Riri’s scent, a fragrance you’d been missing- warm vanilla and spice. Cinnamon? Cardamom? You couldn’t figure it out, and some part of you didn’t want to; let it stay a mystery.

“Do you want my advice to work?” Truth be told, you didn’t. The advice you were giving her was sound, but on her own accord, Riri was fucking it up. Your advice working meant that this ended.

And she wasn’t ready for it to end.

Her lips didn’t offer the expected answer; you thought they’d part and she’d speak. Instead, they remained sealed and pressed harshly to yours.

The kiss was desperate. You could only imagine that Shuri had only been pecking these lips briefly before disappearing for hours, maybe days on end; Riri needed this.

She needed your mouth moving in tandem with hers. She needed you to taste her, to lick that breathy moan from her lips.

So you did. And it was delicious.

You kissed her with vigor, entangling your tongue with hers and trapping her head between the palms of your hands to hold her in place.

Riri’s hands roamed, unsure of where to rest. They grabbed at your hips, squeezing and caressing until that didn’t feel right, so then they ran along your spine, pressing you further into her, but that wasn’t satiable either.

Her movements were distracting and overwhelming. It was too easy for you to gather both her wrists in one of your hands and stretch them above her head, pinning them there. Your free hand rested on her hip, guiding her body until her back was met with a solid wall, encaging her between that and you.

She had nowhere to move and nowhere to grab, and you were free to take her in as you pleased.

Riri looked so pretty, hands pinned above her head, eyes blown with lust, lips parted with a gasp. Her vision blurred, eyes rolling back into her head with your lips pressed into her neck. You nipped and bit and licked away the sting of your bites.

Beneath your touch, Ri’s hips shifted, her knees buckling. Her thighs pressed together, trying to ignore the growing slick between them.

“Do you want my advice to work, baby?”

She only moaned in response, with a long, drawn-out whine when your mouth left her skin. Your back straightened, forehead resting on hers while your fingers found the hem of her pants, teasing along them.

“Talk to me, Ri; you ain’ never been this quiet. What do you want me to do, baby?”

Riri’s pretty head was swimming with thoughts that made no sense. She wanted you to touch her, to take her, to taste her. She tried to lose herself underneath your grasp; she wanted your name to roll off her tongue over and over and over until she came.

But deep down, a part of her wanted it to be Shuri she came apart for.

Her deception of the Wakandan princess never got any easier, making this time no different than the last. Or the time before that, or the one before that-

Last time, Riri thought to herself. This will be the last time.

Ought to make it worth it.

Your fingers traced the little tuft of landing strip on Riri’s otherwise bare pussy- it was just how you liked it, which meant Shuri, indeed, hadn’t been down here in a while to notice.

Her hips wiggled beneath you, urging you to go lower.

“When was the last time you came, baby?”

Riri stuttered through her response, “I-it’s been a couple days. M-my vibrator died, haven’t recharged it.”

“Oh, poor baby.” Your words muddied, lips returning to the crevice in Ri’s neck and refusing to leave. “When’s the last time she made you come?”

Riri’s chest rose with a deep inhale while the following exhale caught in her throat. Your name fell from her pretty lips, swollen from your kiss, with a long whine.

“Tell me, Ri.” Unfortunately for Riri, you were gonna get your answer one way or another. The electricity that shot through her body when you finally touched her clit felt so good it hurt.

“Shit!” She hissed through clenched teeth. “Weeks, ma. It’s been weeks.” Her declaration was breathy, hard to admit with how your padded fingertips drew tight circles around her swollen bud.

“Ohh, baby-” Goddamn, Riri hated how pity carried in your words. You were intentional with your antagonization, feeling the sorriness you felt for her in the pit of your stomach. “You need this then, huh?”

Riri tucked her lips away between her teeth. Her eyes were slits, and her muscles strained against you, wanting so badly to free herself from your cuffed hands so she could feel you.

The spot beneath her ear lobe was susceptible, and as soon as your tongue grazed it, the poor girl’s knees buckled. Had it not been for your knee between her thighs, Riri would’ve collected in a puddle on the floor.

“Tell me you need this, Riri.” You spoke with her earlobe between your teeth.

Not a decipherable thought was passing through Ri’s pretty head. The ability to speak a comprehensible sentence went as well, as evident by how she attempted to say, “I need this.” It came out slurred and broken, like an alcoholic who didn’t know when to stop.

Her wish to be free was soon granted when you released her wrists, allowing blood flow to return through her arms. They fell to rest on the back of your head, pushing you further into her neck as though to suffocate you.

Her hips met yours, grinding harshly and drawing a coated chuckle from you. “Impatient thing.”

“I-I need this, ma,” she spoke then, explicitly.

“I know, baby,” you whispered for her ears and her ears only. You could feel the sigh of relief she released when your lips moved to her chest and down her sternum. Riri’s hands stayed tangled in your curls while yours ran along her sides.

A shiver started in her tailbone and shot up her spine, curling her back and displaying the parts of her that your lips met. “Ohh,” even her exhales were sweet sounding.

Down her belly, your kisses continued, along her belly button, until you were face to face with her pelvis. Your thumbs hooked into the elastic of her waistband, pulling down slowly. Further down, her pants went until the tattoo on her hips was completely visible.

A souvenir from your last last time.

Riri drew in a shaky breath when your lips pressed against each heart, fitting perfectly into the shape like they were made for you.

They were.

“They healing so pretty, baby.”

The smirk that stretched across Riri’s face was purely seductive. “I know, right?”

“What she say bout them?” Your trail of kisses continued south until Riri’s pants piled around her ankles.

Riri’s eyes shifted to the ceiling, her refusal to answer written all over her face.

Her reaction was answer enough; Shuri probably hadn’t even noticed them.

A heavy sigh expanded your lungs. “Oh, my baby,” your words were as smooth as your tongue, running across Riri’s clit with a quick swipe. Her moans were like music to your ears. They were deep and long; you would surely pull many more from her.

“You don’t deserve that, baby.” Another drawn-out moan floated from her lips while yours attached to her clit, sucking like you’d been deprived. The sound that came from you shook her from the inside out. The moment the taste of her cunt landed on your tongue, your restraint snapped. You dug in, licking and lapping like it was the last taste you’d ever get. “Imma make it up to you.”

“Fuck, ma,” Riri was too loud for you to be in a public place, but for the time being, neither of you cared. Her fingers threaded through your kinks, tugging hard at your scalp. Her hips thrust, and her back arched, offering her pussy in its entirety to your mouth.

Her body had already turned to mush beneath you, being held up only by your hands on her thighs. Your tongue flattened, spreading to lick as much of Riri as you could. Her swollen lips were slick with your spit and her wetness. The dampness continued like a river; the more you licked and lapped, the wetter she grew. Your mouth met every inch of her down there, your lips disappearing between hers before you came back up for air.

“Shit, mami. Fuck-” The only words Riri could call out were the string of obscenities coming from her mouth. This feeling, this overwhelming heat she hadn’t felt in so long, felt so good. The type of warmth started in her cunt where your tongue worked her relentlessly and spread to her thighs, where your nails embedded into her flesh. It dug deep into her stomach, where her abs constricted, holding back the dam that would be her orgasm.

Not even the knocking at the door could pull either of you away from this moment. It barely pulled your mouth away from Riri long enough to yell, “Inna minute!”

She was so close. You couldn’t abandon the girl now; push her to the edge and deal with the consequences later.

And Bast, was she right on the fucking edge. Riri’s legs were shaking, her body trembling in your grasp, while hers was too tight on your head. Her pussy was fucking dripping, coating your nose and chin, and cheeks. Your lips enclosed around her clit while your head violently shook back and forth. Your tongue stroked the swollen bean slowly, a stark contrast with the quickness of the rest of your movements. Cum, you thought, as if Riri could read them. Fucking cum for me, drown me.

Maybe Riri Williams was a telepath because, in the next second, you really were drowning beneath her.

Riri was a mean squirter; the steady stream showed no mercy, barely allowing you time to tilt your head to catch every drop in your mouth instead of through your nostrils.

She shook as if she were possessed, hands wrapped so tightly in your hair, you were sure she’d pulled a few strands out. You had no choice but to stay where you were and take it, repeatedly listening to your name fall from her tongue.

Her legs shook a little less, her grip a little looser, and though you had the strong desire to cough to clear your lungs of the cum that didn’t belong there, you weren’t ready for this to be over. Before Ri could come down fully, two of your fingers slipped into her dripping cunt with ease.

“S-shit, ma, I can’t.”

“Safeword, Ri?” You pumped into her slowly, not wanting to rush this orgasm. You wanted to savor it.

“M-mami, I can’t.” Riri rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, a small string of saliva seeping through the corner of her mouth as she stared down at you.

“Say the safe word then, baby. I know you remember it; it’s the same every time.” Your fingers picked up speed just slightly before slowing back down. You were going to edge her to it this time. She had to earn it.

Riri only whined in response, spreading her shaky legs even further for you.

“Say it, baby. Say the word, and I’ll stop.” Your free hand ran up and down her thigh, easily tracing along the suppleness. Hesitation flashed across her face, but only for a moment.

She wasn’t going to let that safe word leave her lips. You knew she would if she needed to, but just like you, she fucking wanted this.

“I can’t, ma,” she huffed.

“You can,” your lips planted along her inner thighs, coating them in her slick. “I know you can. Give me one more.”

Riri’s eyes locked on yours, giving you a slight nod. “One more?”

“Yeah, baby girl. Just one more.” Your fingers picked up speed, splashing her wet cunt even further, coating your forearm in her essence.

“Shit” seemed to be her favorite word today because it was the only thing she could say from this point on.

You continued plowing her pussy, whispering encouragement along the way. “That’s my girl” and “There you go, baby,” when her walls would tighten around you, making it hard for your thrusts to continue as they were.

You could tell she was right there. Her breathing deepened, her moans picking up speed, all flowing into one another. “Cum for me, Riri.”

Her arms were sprawled against the wall behind her to keep her standing. She could only nod in response, her mouth wide open, eyes rolled back. Riri’s only focus then was doing what you asked, so she shut out the outside world. None of the noises of a busy mall, the distant knocking on the door, or the hand dryer whirring in the restroom next door mattered. Even her thoughts of Shuri were long gone. Only you and she were here in this moment as she came apart beneath your hand.

The minute your fingers found that devilish curve striking her g-spot, Riri saw stars. Her vision went white, and her knees buckled with such force that you could only guide her as she fell so she wouldn’t get hurt.

To her knees she went, your hand on her back, holding her body to yours while your other hand still rested between her thighs, stroking her clit back and forth. “Ohhhh, shitttt-” she drew out between pursed lips.

The sound of her cum splashing into a puddle grew the wet spot in your panties. “Good girl,” you whispered, trailing circles on her back while she came down. Riri’s chest heaved, her limbs feeling heavy, but she felt good for the first time in weeks. You pressed soft kisses into her temple, and she sunk beneath your touch, allowing the feeling to settle for a moment before speaking.

You beat her to it, already knowing what she was going to say and not looking forward to the exact words she uttered each time-

“Last time?”

Riri looked into your eyes like she could see past them and directly into your soul. Some of you wished she could, so she could see how you felt. You wanted her to see that this wasn’t just a quick fuck for you. You wanted so badly to admit that your feelings for Shuri had never dissipated, and over time, feelings for Riri arose as well. How could they not? This girl who fell apart in your arms and let you take care of her, with whom you got matching tattoos.

This girl who didn’t belong to you.

She wasn’t yours.

And if Shuri were to find out?

Maybe it was best Riri couldn’t see into your soul, couldn’t read your mind.

“Last time,” she replied finally, resting her forehead against yours.

You had no idea how Riri was getting away with even texting you. You could only imagine that Shuri had really been checked out lately, too out of it to notice the hickeys that should have begun to heal over by now.

Three weeks ago, she hadn’t even known about the hearts on Riri’s hips. She’d only recently come to discover them, and according to Riri, she’d only said “cute” and nothing else.

Shuri had been emotionally absent when the two of you were together, but never this bad. Bast forbid, you get inked, and she not notice or come home decorated in love bites that weren’t from her.

Poor Riri was being ignored as if she were a bother rather than a partner. She spent many a night FaceTiming you just to see you in the comfort of your own home, in a bed, she never got to share, in clothes that she wanted to rip to shreds.

The days passed with hundreds of texts passed between the two of you like folded-over love notes between school girls and first crushes. They were about nothing, everything, anything just to get a response. When Riri wasn’t face first in her phone, she was dazed out, daydreaming about someone who wasn’t her partner.

And Shuri wasn’t stupid.

She had no clue who was holding Riri’s attention when she wasn’t. And she hadn’t been lately, but she’d been busy. The lab needed work, it always needed work, and Shuri wasn’t going to wait until something needed to be improved to improve it.

Admittedly, Shuri hadn’t given Riri much attention lately. It may have been a couple of weeks since they had a date night—a few nights since Shuri joined Riri in bed instead of falling asleep in her lab.

And while Riri used to be in Shuri’s ear about it, she hadn’t been lately. The thought that maybe Riri had been getting attention elsewhere crossed Shuri’s mind once or twice, but she quickly shook it away.

Because there was no way. Nah, not her Riri. Her girl was loyal, a bit needy, but only for her.

But the thought kept nagging at the princess. It brought forth memories of her previous relationship, and with the memories came a hurt that she hadn’t felt in quite some time.

She hadn’t allowed herself the space to process the end of your relationship. You left. It was that simple. If you wanted to throw away three years, then fine. Who was she to fight you on it?

Did it hurt like hell when you left? Hell, yeah.

Did her throat burn with the tears she wouldn’t let escape? Absolutely.

She watched you pack your bags and heard your voice break when you told her you couldn’t do this anymore.

She remembers that stupid, stupid kiss she planted on your cheek when you walked out and how badly she just wanted to grab you, entrap you in her arms, and beg you to stay.

But she let you go. So she couldn’t be mad at anybody but herself when you didn’t respond to her texts afterward.

Or her calls.

Suddenly, your social media profiles no longer appeared when she searched for you.

She only had your address, which she’d gotten from a young Dora she assigned to keep an eye on you. Yes, it was weird, maybe borderline stalkerish, but she just wanted to know you were okay and would be okay in this big, bad world, all alone.

Every few weeks, the juvenile warrior would return to her, eyes cast down and full of answers.

“She okay?”

“Yes, My Princess.”

A moment of awkward silence passed before Shuri spoke again.

“What has she been up to?”

“She’s taken up reading again-” The Dora paused, a small smile finding her cheeks. Faint memories of you spending hours in the library flashed through her mind, reading to anyone who’d come just to hear you narrate, her included.

“Good,” Shuri’s voice trailed, the same memory playing through her thoughts.

Another moment of silence, this one less awkward.

“Is she- she seeing anyone?” Shuri hesitated to ask, unsure if she wanted to know the answer, but what she wasn’t expecting was her young spy’s hesitation as well.

Shuri gulped, though it was a struggle with how her throat dried. “Well?”

The Dora’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her eyes searching for anything in the room to focus on that wasn’t Shuri.

“She is, isn’t she?”

The adolescent winced, unsure of how to answer.

“Who is it?”

At that moment, Riri’s nearly silent footsteps startled them both. She walked quickly into the room, standing just before Shuri to declare, “I’m going out,” before parting with a kiss and disappearing around the same corner from which she appeared.

Shuri hadn’t even had time to ask questions before Riri was gone, and when she looked back up at the Dora, she saw her eyes stuck to a retreating Riri.

When she noticed the princess staring at her, she threw her gaze to the ground, attempting to hide the width her eyes had grown to.

Shuri looked to the door Riri walked through and back to the Dora, struggling to hide a guilt that wasn’t hers.

One eyebrow drew to the top of her forehead, silently asking the question that wouldn’t pass her lips.

“Lemme get that address, please.”

You approached your front door with a goofy grin plastered across your face. You were so engrossed with the texts from Riri and her promise to be over soon that you didn’t notice your misplaced welcome mat or the plant next to it that somebody dug into.

The phone was still in hand when you walked into a dark apartment and threw your keys to the counter before hitting the light switch.

The scream erupted from your body was loud enough for your neighbors to call the cops had they been home.

Seated on your couch as if she lived there, swirling a cup of whiskey in her hand, sat the Wakandan Princess.

You hadn’t seen her in so long- her hair was still shaved on the sides, but the top was grown enough to be cornrowed straight against her scalp.

Besides that, Shuri still looked like Shuri, with a jawline sharp enough to cut through glass, set tight with clenched teeth.

“Shuri?! What the fuck?”

She swallowed the remnants of her drink before responding. She couldn’t look at you; she needed the alcohol to be her liquid courage.

“You keep the spare in the same place you kept it when we met.”

Her voice ran over you like fucking silk. The accent, the softness with which she spoke, it was your kryptonite. You wouldn’t be able to stand your ground if you listened to her talk; it's why you were partially thankful she remained silent through your breakup.

It was a struggle to keep your voice even or your tone steady. “That don’t mean you can use it.”

Shuri stood, towering over you the way she always had, even from across the room. Standing gave you a good look at her and how her clothes hugged her body. The cream-colored button-up was unbuttoned down to her navel, allowing you a sneak peek at the black bra she wore beneath it and the collection of chains hanging on her neck. Her sleeves were rolled halfway up her arm, displaying her veiny hands that held an exhibition of rings adorning her slender fingers.

The shirt was untucked, paired with a baggy pair of black cargo pants, and her shoes had been discarded next to your front door.

If she were to break into your home, the least she could do was respect it.

Shuri finally willed her eyes up from the floor to take you in. She practically growled at the sight before her- you, a mass of curls tied atop your head in a cropped bandeau top with pierced nipples peeking through. The curve of your ass was barely contained in the bottoms you wore as shorts that could’ve passed as underwear with the way your thighs sucked in the fabric.

“Where are you coming from dressed like that?”

You looked down at your appearance, seeing no problem with it. “I was running errands-”

Your sentence ended with a gasp, feeling the heat from Shuri’s body mix with yours as she walked you backward until your back pressed against your door.

“You leaving the house dressing like this now?” Her face was close to yours, too close. You barely had time to process what was happening, eyes wide and frantic, breathing sporadic.

Comprehendible thoughts were hard to come across, but some didn’t believe this was happening. Shuri, whom you hadn’t spoken to in a year, was standing before you, looking like she wanted to rip to shreds the clothes she criticized.

And she did. Her hands found her pockets before they reached to touch a part of you she feared you didn’t want to be touched.

“I know I taught you better than that,” Shuri whispered, her lips too close to your ear.

“I-” Your gulp was audible, and the princess watched it, wanting to trace the trail it traveled. “Wha-what are you doing here, Shuri?”

A rapid succession of taps sounded at the door behind you, and your heart leaped to your throat. Shuri’s hands found their way to your waist and sunk in, pulling you so your back kissed her front. Her fingers dug into your skin, drawing a pained moan from you that grew in volume when her lips brushed against your ear.

“Better question, y/n. Why my girl bout to walk through your door?”

Arousal pooled in the pit of your stomach, your head whipping to look Shuri in her face with wide eyes. Your heart pounded when a chuckle fell from her lips. “Well? Let her in.”

Your hands wouldn’t move; your brain told them to, yet they stayed glued by your side. Shuri was here, standing behind you, pressed against you. Your body fit against hers perfectly, like the missing piece in an incomplete puzzle, and it was a feeling you’d missed-

And on the other side of the door was Riri, whose body fit to yours like a puzzle piece. Poor Riri was about to walk into all hell breaking loose in your tiny apartment. The first thing she would see when you opened the door would be her Shuri with her arms wrapped around your waist, one hand settling into the flesh on your hip while the other trailed so lightly along your thigh, it was torturous.

Shuri’s fingers played with the lack of fabric covering your thighs, her mouth still close to your ear. “You’ll tell me if you don’t want this? If you don’t want me touching you?” Her voice was much softer, dripping in sincerity.

You nodded in response.

“Do you want me touching you, y/n?”

Her hand abandoned your waist, climbing upward to your neck, where she tapped lightly at your throat. Your words she needed you to use your words. You remembered how she would tap at your throat so many years ago and how it meant the same thing then that it had now. She remembered-

“Touch me, Shuri.”

Mm, she hummed, kissing the space behind your ear. “My girl-” The finger on your throat turned into fingers around it, not choking, but pressing your body further into hers, holding your head to look directly at the door and nowhere else. “Now, open the door.”

Your brain made your hands obey this time, and with a shaky hand, the knob turned, and the door opened, and what a fucking sight it was.

Riri’s eyes widened, taking it all in. Shuri, staring directly into her eyes, holding your practically naked body against her with one hand at your throat and the other on your thigh. You, eyes blown with lust and fear, hands hanging lamely at your sides, and lips caught between your teeth.

And on the opposite end, Riri, eyes grown several sizes, mouth wide open with a gasp. “Wha-”

Shuri released your throat, extending the free hand to a confused Riri. “C’mere, baby.”

Riri hesitated, and Shuri’s already dark eyes darkened even further. “Come here,” she commanded.

The more petite girl of the three obeyed, stepping into your home and closing the door behind her. “What are you doing here-?” She asked Shuri.

“I should be asking you the same thing, shouldn’t I, Ri?”

Riri stood silent, allowing Shuri to pull her in until you were both wrapped in Shuri’s arms. “I didn’t even know you knew Y/n. How you know Y/n, Riri?”

Riri didn’t speak, didn’t even meet Shuri’s gaze.

“Y/n, how you know Riri?”

Riri felt ice flow through her veins when you responded, “She’s an old friend.”

An insincere chuckle left Shuri’s lips as she released the both of you, returning to the couch. “An old friend?”

“Yes,” you responded slowly.

“Mhm,” Shuri’s lips were tucked thin.

“You know, don’t you?” Riri’s small voice fell to the forefront. “You the smartest person in the country, so I know you know.”

“Know what?”

“That I’ve been fucking your girl-” Firey confidence fueled your words, thrown harshly at the princess. She should’ve winced beneath them, but instead, she sat forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes glued to your perfect face.

“Have you?” she taunted.

“Mhm,” You stepped toward her, stopping until you rested between her manspread legs. “Better than you have, too.”

Shuri’s smirk irritated you, and it bothered you even more how sexy it looked-

Her hands quickly reached behind your knees, forcing them to buckle until you straddled her lap. “Have you?”

Her fast movements wavered your cockiness, but only for a moment. Riri stood in the same spot, feeling a warmth build in her belly and an ache spread between her legs at the sight before her. Shuri laid back on the couch, holding your thighs while you sat with one on each side of her hip.

Simply put, it was hot.

“I have. Pussy so good, she trims it how I like-”

Shuri’s eyes dart towards Riri before settling back on you. “I-”

You lean forward, not allowing her a moment to speak. “I fuck her so good, she got my tats.”

Shuri’s brows raise to the top of her face, full of amusement. “Oh, really?”

Shuri’s chin rests on your finger, drawing her gaze upward until your eyes lock on one another. “She calls me mami.”

Riri is a blushing mess in the corner, hands clasped together, eyes on the ground. She refuses to look at Shuri, though she knows Shuri is looking at her.

Only when Shuri speaks does Riri’s gaze rise, surprise scrunching her features together. “Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Show me how good you fuck her.” Shuri taps the back of your thighs, signaling you to stand before crossing the room to an awaiting Riri.

“Can she, baby?” Riri’s mind is a mess, and so are her panties.

She nods, lips still parted, eyes still as wide as saucers, and it takes a glare from Shuri for her to learn her manners and speak. “Y-yeah.”

Shuri kisses her forehead gently before bending at the waist to kiss her lips. “Good girl, Ri.”

She taps Riri’s butt roughly, watching it bounce in her hand. “Go ask her.”

Shuri retreats to the couch once more, arms spreading across the back of the cushions. Riri looks so cute, walking to you like her feet are made of lead, and you’re almost sure she won’t even be able to get the question out.

To your surprise, Riri’s hands fly to your hips, massaging the space where your hearts sit before lowering them to cup your ass. Your cheeks spill over her hands, and she moans at the feel. “Will you fuck me, ma?”

A small smile plays on your lips at the eager girl. “You little exhibitionist. You like that she’s watching?”

Riri turns to look at Shuri with her bottom lip between her teeth as she nods. She turns back to you with wide eyes, and you hold her head in both hands before leaning slightly to kiss her hard.

“Then let’s give her a show.”

She moans into the kiss, and you sink into her mouth, loving the feel of her tongue grazing yours. The kiss is deep, wet, indeed the kiss of two people deprived of this feeling.

Riri’s hands stay on your behind, gathering the fabric of your shorts in her hand and hiking them up until your ass spills from under them. She runs her fingers along the softness, squeezing and gripping so hard, you’re sure she’ll leave marks.

Your hands find the hem of her shirt and pull it over her head, flinging it in Shuri’s direction with discard. The hook and clasp of her bra are easy to release; you’d had weeks to perfect it. The bra gets thrown at Shuri as well, who’s seated enjoying the strip show, trying hard to ignore her wetness.

Riri’s breasts are small and perky and fit perfectly in your mouth. Her nipples stiffen at the pass of your tongue, and her moan sounds so sweet when your teeth graze her. You two are caught in a trance until Shuri speaks, “Take off her pants.”

So you do. Your thumbs hook in Riri’s waistband, tongue never leaving her chest while she uses your shoulders to balance, stepping out of her pants, one leg at a time.

“Turn her around,” Shuri commands once more, and with your hands on Riri’s hips, you rotate her body so her back and ass are all Shuri sees.

“Get up, bend her over.”

Riri’s breast leaves your mouth with a pop, and you stand fully, walking behind the small girl and bending her at the waist. “Eat her.”

“Just getting right into it, huh?” You tease, fingers running up and down Riri’s round ass as you fall to your knees behind her, inhaling her scent. Your mouth waters, and you waste no time licking a stripe from her clit to her ass.

“Oh, fuck-” Riri moans beneath you, pressing her cunt further into your face.

Your tongue meets her with vigor, licking along her slit with a moan. “You taste so fucking good.” Your hands find a cheek in each hand, separating them so Riri’s on full display for you, her delicious cunt glistening for you. Her knees are already shaking.

Shuri watches as you slurp and suck, remembering how your tongue used to feel against her. Her eyes are glued to your mouth on Riri, never abandoning her pussy for long, but sure not to have her ass feel neglected, either. She drools when you spit on Riri’s asshole, prepping it to take the finger you’re about to fuck her with.

And she watches Riri’s back arch, and her moans fall, “Oh, fuck, ma-” when she takes your index finger in her ass so fucking well. Your mouth continues working her cunt, lapping like you’ve been starving. Your cheeks and chin are slick with Riri’s wetness, and your jaw is growing tired.

“Fuck, mami, fuck.”

“Are you gonna cum, Ri, baby?” Shuri’s voice carries from her place in the room.

Riri nods before correcting herself. “Yeah, yeah, I’m gonna cum.”

Shuri stands, watching you momentarily, before pulling you away from Riri’s pussy by your hair. Her hand raises and drops against Riri’s ass harshly, with a spank that could be heard several blocks away. “Don’t,” she commands before turning to you and entangling your tongues.

She’s tasting Riri from your mouth while you swallow her moans, enjoying the taste of her.

Shuri found herself caught up in how your mouth moved, how your lips moved in sync, and your tongues found nothing but each other. It was a feeling you’d both missed, and you could have stayed there for hours just kissing each other had Riri not whimpered at the sight in the background.

“Fuck,” you whispered when Shuri pulled away, her eyes landing on Riri. The tiny girl’s nimble fingers were going to work on her clit, her arm on the table being the only thing holding her up.

“Needy bitch-” Shuri whispered back, and you felt your clit twitch behind your thin panties. “You got a strap, baby?”

You realized she was addressing you, and your body responded once more. You nodded slowly, eyes stuck on Shuri, and she tilted her head at you. “Go grab it.” And you held your breath as she leaned in, kissing you softly.

When you returned with your favorite dildo and the strap to match, Riri was coming apart with Shuri’s fingers buried in her pussy.

She was already squirting, making a massive mess in your living room, but Shuri didn’t let up. “There you go, baby, look at you. Good fucking girl,” she growled, and her words traveled straight to your cunt as if she were speaking to you. And she might have been when she turned to look at you, still pumping Riri when she uttered, “My girl.”

Shuri only removed her hand from between Riri’s legs when you approached, holding the harness out to her. Her fingers moved to unbutton the rest of her shirt, and she leaned forward, pressing her lips against yours again. “Put it on for me.”

She loved it when you strapped her up. It was the sexiest sight to see you on your knees, securing every strap to her muscular thighs with her cunt straight in your face.

It was an intimate moment between you two to shed her pants from her waist and toss them aside while she stepped into the harness. You slid it up her thighs, pulling the straps until it was tight around her hips and waist, and secured the pink toy where it belonged, all without breaking eye contact.

Riri watched with her head tilted to the side, still bent over the table. Her breath caught in her throat, anxious to see where this moment between her two lovers led-

But of course, it was Shuri who pulled away. Once the harness was strapped in place, she pulled her gaze away from you, walking back to where Riri was waiting, her cunt still dripping.

Shuri lined the head of the faux dick up with Riri’s slit, having to use every muscle in her abdomen to resist slipping right in. “Mm,” Riri hummed, eyes closed, lips tucked.

“It’s been a minute, baby.” Shuri bent into the curve of Riri’s body, planting kisses on her shoulders and down her spine. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ohhhh-” Shuri’s thrust cut off Riri’s sentence. The dildo’s entire length was swallowed up by Riri’s tiny cunt, and it was a delicious sight. Shuri bottomed out, allowing her pelvis to kiss Ri’s before pulling out and thrusting again before the poor girl had time to adjust.

“Oh, fuck, mami-” Shuri pulled out and thrust again, this time even harder.

She couldn’t feel Riri like she could with her dildos, but she knew her cunt was tight. The dildo was met with resistance upon each thrust, though she splashed a little more each time.

“Fuck!” Riri cried out, gripping the ends of the table with all her strength. You sat on the couch and watched, amazed at how the lengthy toy disappeared to the hilt within Riri’s walls.

“Yeah, baby. You taking me so well,” Shuri moaned out, digging her nails into Riri’s backside.

Riri wouldn’t last long; you both knew it. She’d barely had time to come all the way down from her first orgasm, and this one would hit her like a train. Each time Shuri pulled out, you heard Riri squirt just a little more, pushing Shuri further and further out, so each thrust back in was hasher.

“Look at you, Riri, goddamn baby,”

Her moan in response was incoherent.

“You gonna make a mess, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Riri whined.

“Good girl,” Shuri’s thrusts had slowed significantly; Riri’s little cunt trapped her. “You right there, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” she drew out once more.

“Go ahead, baby.” Shuri reached over Riri’s body, finding her swollen clit and flicking it with a vengeance. “Let it out.”

Riri didn’t need to be told twice. With a shriek, she was coming all over your floor, covering Shuri’s hand. “There you go, baby, look at you. Good girl.”

Riri was loud, her thighs trembling, her words shaky. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-” Shuri hadn’t let up on her clit yet, and the overstimulation brought her to tears.

“Fucking good girl-”

“Shit!” Riri cried. “Mercy! Mercy-”

And Shuri’s hand was off of Ri like a repellent. She took Riri’s face in her hands, grazing it with concern. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Riri replied. It came out breathless. “Just need a minute-”

Shuri nodded, kissing Riri quickly. “Okay, ma.”

They both turned to glance at you, amused to see you were in your own world, fueled by theirs. Your fingers were pumping furiously into your cunt, legs drawn back so it was on display. Your pretty eyes were squeezed shut, head thrown back.

Shuri’s mouth watered at the way your cream collected around the base of your fingers, needing to get a taste-

“Go take care of her,” Riri whispers with a nod in your direction. Shuri nods, kissing Ri’s head quickly before allowing her feet to bring her to you.

Your eyes shoot open with the feel of hands wrapping around your thighs. You find yourself staring face to face with Shuri lining the glistening pink dildo up with your own wet entrance. Her breathing is heavy, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Can I-?” She trails off, unsure of how to finish the question.

Your arms wrap around her neck, and your legs lift higher, parting further. “Fuck me.”

That’s all the permission Shuri needed, and she watches in lust love when your head falls back against the couch.

You feel every divet of the dildo parting your walls, and you’d felt it before, but this time felt so much better. A gasp falls from your lips when Shuri’s pelvis touches yours, and you lift your head to watch her pull out and thrust back in.

She’s moving slower than she was with Riri. Her eyes never leave your face, watching as ecstasy writes itself across your features. “Y/n,” she stutters with a gasp. Your eyes meet hers again, watching her intensely.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I should’ve never let you go-”

Your hand reaches up to graze her cheek, and she leans into the delicate touch, relishing in the sound of your moans as her thrusts pick up speed. “I’ve missed you so much,” Shuri admits.

The words are hard to get out through moans, but you do. “Then fuck me like you missed me.”

And she does.

#quintessencewrites #shuri x reader #riri x reader #shuriri x reader #riri williams x reader #shuriri #letitia wright shuri #queen shuri #shuri smut #shuri udaku smut #riri smut #black panther smut #smut

373 notes · View notes