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lemoncrushh · 6 months

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Tattooed Heart - Part II

SUMMARY: You are a cocktail waitress at a swanky lounge. Harry comes in one night, and you instantly dislike him. But another encounter eventually changes your opinion.

PAIRING: Waitress Y/N x Artist/Tattoo Artist Harry

TROPES: Enemies to Lovers

MUST BE 18+ TO READ

WORD COUNT: 3799

STORY PAGE

The pavement was wet from the rain as you stepped onto the curb. You cursed yourself for wearing your best shoes, knowing you’d have blisters by the time you got home. Looking up at the sky, you noticed the rain had let up, so you quickly shut your umbrella, eyeing the cafe in front of you. The HELP WANTED sign in the window caught your attention. With a sigh, you pulled open the door. If you couldn’t find a job today, at least you could dry off with a latte and a muffin.

“What can I get you?” asked the woman behind the counter.

“Yes, I saw your sign up front? What’s the job?”

The older man who had his back to you called out, “You got experience?”

“Uh, yes sir, if you mean waiting tables.”

The man turned around, his face expressionless. “What about cash register?”

“Yes, sir, I’ve done that too. All kinds of retail and customer service.”

“Any days you aren’t available? I need weekends.”

“Yes, sir. I mean…no sir, I’m free everyday.”

“Good. Fill this out.” The man reached behind the counter and pulled out an application, then grabbed a pen from a nearby jar, handing them both to you.

“Thank you,” you grinned. “Oh. And can I get a vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin?”

After paying for your order, you sat down at the nearest table to begin filling out the application. You were nearly halfway through it when a shadow fell over your paper and you heard a familiar voice.

“I don’t believe it.”

Looking up, you saw him standing next to the counter. He wore a black hoodie and shorts, his windblown hair pushed back by sunglasses.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, gripping the pen tightly. If it had been a pencil, it would have snapped. “What are you doing here?”

“Um…it’s a cafe. I’m getting coffee.”

Pursing your lips, you shifted your chair so you were facing away from him. You heard him order a flat white before his sneakered feet squeaked past you to a table by the window. You grimaced as you watched him open his backpack and pull out a laptop.

“Here you are ma’am,” said the woman who had been behind the counter.

“Thank you,” you smiled up at her as she set your coffee and muffin on the table. Then she walked over to Harry, serving him his order.

“I can’t believe this,” you mumbled to yourself, knowing he had no plans to leave any time soon.

Trying your best to concentrate, you managed to get to the last page of the application before raising your head to find Harry staring at you.

“Do you mind?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Looking for a job?”

You couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or genuine.

“What do you care?” you grumbled.

“I…” he began before changing his mind with a shrug. Then he took a sip of his coffee and returned his attention to his computer.

Signing your name at the bottom of the application, you rose from your chair to turn it in.

“Why’d you leave your last job?” asked the man after he scanned your paper.

Your stomach went sour, your throat closing up. You’d dreaded that question all day. Seemed no one wanted to give a smart-mouth cocktail waitress a second chance.

“It just…wasn’t the right fit for me,” you replied.

“After two years? Zelda’s huh? That some fancy joint?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you think this coffee shop is a better fit?” the man chuckled.

“I don’t know. But I’d like the chance to try.”

Hesitating, the man shrugged. “I’m gonna need a good reference. Is it alright to call your last employer?”

“Oh. Uh…” You thought you might throw up. “I don’t-”

“I can vouch for her, Stan.”

You swung around, incredulous to what you’d just heard. He was vouching for you?

“You know this young lady, Harry?” asked Stan.

“Yeah.” Harry stood up and walked over to you. “Celebrated my birthday at Zelda’s, and she was my waitress.”

“Oh?”

Harry looked you straight in the eye and said, “She was brilliant. Best waitress I ever had.”

If your knees hadn’t just about buckled then, you might have noticed your jaw dropping. What?!

“Well, that’s good enough for me,” offered Stan. “Tell you what. Come back tomorrow. Ten o’clock. We’ll see if it’s a good fit.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Did Harry just help you get a job?

“Thank you,” you let out a breath and quickly beamed at Stan. “See you then.”

Although he remained standing near your table, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Harry as you gathered your things, gulping down the last of your coffee. Then swinging your purse over your shoulder, you turned for the exit.

“Y/N,” you heard him say, but rather than make the situation more awkward, you merely muttered a quick thanks.

It wasn’t until you were out the door that you heard him call you again, this time louder.

“Y/N!”

With a deep sigh, you stopped walking. Harry caught up to you, something of yours in his hand.

“You forgot your umbrella,” he explained.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

As you took it from him, your hands brushed, sending an unexpected electric current through your skin. You finally looked at him then, his eyes sincere. For the first time, you noticed they were a light green, a darker circle lining the irises. The wind whipped around you, and you caught a whiff of his…cologne? Perhaps it was just soap or some kind of body wash. Either way, he smelled nice. Clean. Like he’d just showered, though he’d skipped the shave. You noted the facial hair on his top lip and along his jaw, and found yourself wondering how many unshaven days it took to grow.

Suddenly, you stepped back, worried that you’d been staring and that he’d noticed. Surely, he’d noticed.

“Um…good luck tomorrow,” you heard him say as you pretended to check for something in your bag.

“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” Why was he being so nice?

“Well…see ya,” he gave a slight gesture of his hand before turning back toward the cafe.

“Harry?” you called after him.

“Yeah?”

You took two steps closer to him, but careful to still keep a distance.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why…did you do that?”

Harry shrugged as though the answer were simple. “I caused you to lose your last job. So I helped you get a new one.”

Unable to respond, you stood still as you watched him reenter the cafe, feeling completely bewildered.

You sat in the small room in the back of the cafe during your break, sipping on a nitro cold brew that your co-worker Jill had taught you how to make. It was only your third day, but so far you liked working there. It definitely wasn’t Zelda’s, but it was better than nothing. The clientele was different to say the least, but you were enjoying the somewhat pleasant and low-key atmosphere.

Stan, the manager, had seemed to take you under his wing. You wondered if it had to do with Harry, and what exactly his relationship was to him. You assumed he was a regular customer at the cafe, though you hadn’t seen him return since you started working there.

As you scrolled through your phone, you suddenly got a text message from Shae.

Look who’s having a special this weekend.

Underneath was a link to Fine Line Ink’s Instagram page. You’d told your roommate about the entire encounter with Harry and how he’d basically helped you get your new job. Shae had wondered why on earth you hadn’t just kissed him right there in the middle of the cafe, but she always was a bit dramatic.

The truth was, you didn’t know how to feel about Harry anymore. Your head told yourself you still hated him, that he was a dick who was feeling guilty and needed to cleanse his aura. But your gut told you that he was something more than that. That he truly was sorry for getting you fired, and wanted to make amends.

You scrolled through the photos on the Instagram page, beautiful and striking images of ink on skin. Everything from delicate bracelet tats to full back tattoos and sleeves, some in basic black ink, and some in a rainbow of colors. They were all exquisite. He truly was a good tattoo artist.

Checking the time on your phone, you realized your break was over. Tossing your phone in your bag, you returned them to your locker. After a quick stop to the restroom, you stepped out into the cafe to find him sitting at the same table as before, beside the window. This time, however, he didn’t have his laptop, but rather an iPad, a stylus pencil in his hand. Jill had just set down his flat white when she gasped.

“Wow, that’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed. Then looking up, she saw you. “Y/N, c’mere, you have to see this!”

You shuffled hesitantly over to Harry’s table where he sat with his back to you. Gazing over his shoulder, you saw that he had drawn a raven. The detail was so intricate, down to the branches, flowers and moon. You almost felt as though if you were to reach out and touch the drawing, you could feel the bird’s feathers.

“Isn’t it amazing?” asked Jill.

“Stunning,” you breathed.

“He’s a tattoo artist. I keep telling him I’m gonna come get a tattoo from him, but I’m too chicken,” Jill laughed as she made her way back to the counter.

A couple at a corner table got up to leave then, so you quickly walked over to clean it. As you moved the sugar container, you heard your name. You looked up at him quizzically, though you didn’t say a word.

“How’s the job going so far?” he asked.

“It’s good,” you nodded sharply.

“I’m glad. I come here at least twice a week. Have been for a long time. Stan and Carol are good people.”

“Yeah…I…I can tell.” Carol, you’d learned the other day, was the woman who had been behind the counter when you’d walked in. She was Stan’s wife.

The door opened then and a young woman entered. You secretly hoped you could go help her as an excuse to stop talking to Harry, but Jill beat you to it.

“Do you…need another coffee?” you asked him as he lifted his cup.

He gave you a smirk. “Just got this one.”

“Oh. Right. Anything else?”

“No, I’m good.” Taking a slow sip, he watched you over his cup.

You gave a curt nod before returning to the counter. It was a fairly slow afternoon, and other than a handful of customers who came and went with their coffees to go, you didn’t have much to do. Jill continued to train you on a few more things, and you were grateful for the distraction. Because even though he wasn’t doing anything other than drawing on his iPad and sipping his coffee, Harry’s presence was getting to you.

Making the rounds, you refilled napkin dispensers and Sweet & Low packets, all while sneaking looks at what Harry was drawing. You didn’t know why it even mattered to you, but something about his art was captivating. You watched as his pencil glided across the screen, how he’d sometimes use his thumb and forefinger to zoom in and out. Once, you caught a view of a scene he was drawing - not just one focal point, but rather a series of buildings along a city street, nightfall in the background. Each building had various windows lit up, as well as street lamps. If you hadn’t known better, you’d have thought it was a photograph.

Sometime in the process, you finally took notice of his fingers, how long and slender they were. You paid attention to the way they moved and flexed as he drew, and most importantly, how nearly each one was adorned with some kind of ring. Lost in thought, you almost missed it when he lifted his head to look at you.

“It’s so easy to watch him, isn’t it?” remarked Jill, saving you from embarrassment as she stood next to you. “Sometimes I forget where I am!”

Clearing your throat, you grabbed the rag you were cleaning with and stuffed it in your apron. Then as you finished with the last napkin dispenser, you caught a small smile curling on Harry’s mouth.

Finally, an hour later - an hour and eleven minutes to be exact - Harry slipped his iPad into his backpack and zipped it shut. Pretending to busy yourself behind the muffins, you watched as he slipped his arms through. Then shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out his wallet, grabbing a couple of bills and leaving them on the table. As he made his way toward the door, he gave a small wave.

“Goodnight, ladies,” he said.

“Bye, Harry,” Jill called. As soon as he was outside, she slumped against the counter. “Oh my God, I hate when he’s here. I can hardly function!”

Holding back a chuckle, you asked, “Does he just come here to draw?”

“Mostly, yeah. Or sometimes he works on his website. He doesn’t just do tattoos. Like, that’s his livelihood and he’s really good at it. But he’s like…a legit artist.”

“Oh,” you sounded. “You mean, like in a gallery?”

“Mmhmm. I think he had some sort of exhibit a few weeks ago. It’s on his website if you wanna check it out. Harry Styles art dot com.”

Huh. So there was more to Harry than just some drunk prick at a bar. You were anxious to get your phone and look up his website.

“Oh my God!” Jill gasped from the table Harry had just left.

“What?”

“Harry usually just leaves a couple bucks for tip. He left two twenties!”

“Seriously?” you asked, rounding the counter. Why would he do that? “He only had one coffee, right?”

“Yep. What a sweetie! Here!”

Jill handed you one of the twenties, but you shook your head. “But I didn’t wait on him.”

“Doesn’t matter. We split tips at the end of the night anyway. This saves us time.”

Taking the bill, you mentally added one more reason to your list of why this Harry Styles was more than he seemed. Mysteriously generous. Was it a good thing? Or did he have an angle?

You didn’t know. But you were determined to find out.

Shae had a date. For the first time in forever, you had a Friday night off. It was weird, being in the apartment alone on a weekend night. After making a quick, easy meal and watching a couple of episodes of SVU, you were bored. You thought about visiting your old pal John at Zelda’s, but you didn’t wanna take the chance of running into your former boss.

Tapping on your phone, you opened the last website you’d visited - Harry Styles art dot com. Over the last twenty-four hours, you’d opened it at least half a dozen times. Displayed on the main page were photos from an art exhibit in January, the one that Jill had mentioned. While the art itself had no doubt been exquisite, your eyes kept veering to the photos of the artist. He stood in a suit, much like the one he’d worn at Zelda’a. In fact, he looked very similar to the way he had that night, the main exception being that he didn’t appear to be drunk, nor was he frowning. On the contrary, he was smiling in nearly every photograph. You noted the dimples in his cheeks, the crinkles beside his eyes when he smiled, the five o’clock shadow. Even you had to admit - albeit secretly - he was a very handsome man.

As you had scrolled through the various pictures from that night, you soon came across a handful of him standing next to a woman in a long, champagne colored dress that fit her curves, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Taking a closer look, you recognized her as the girl at the bar, the one whose ear was attached to Harry’s tongue.

Nicolette.

For some reason you felt a twinge in your stomach. Jealously? Shaking your head free of the notion, you continued to peruse the website. Eventually you came to a link that brought you to the site for Fine Line Ink. There you saw the announcement at the top, advertising thirty percent off all tattoos, and forty percent off body piercing, just like the text Shae had sent you the day before.

Setting down your phone, you thought for a moment. You figured he’d be pretty busy on any Friday, but particularly this Friday with the special. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea, but somehow you found yourself driving to Fine Line Ink anyway.

The familiar fragrance of incense wafted through your nostrils as soon as you opened the door. Classic rock seemed to be the genre of choice for the evening as Aerosmith pumped through the speakers. You were right in assuming the shop would be busy, as three other customers sat in the waiting area, filling out their forms.

“Hi, how can I help you?” asked a guy who emerged from the back.

“Yeah, um…I don’t really know yet,” you replied. “I just need to talk to Harry…for a second.”

“Oh. Well, he’s in the middle of a tattoo right now.”

“That’s okay,” you grinned. “I can wait.”

“You sure? It may be a while, and he’s pretty booked up. We have other artists who can h-”

“It’s fine,” you held up your hand. “Seriously. I just need to talk to him when he has a minute.”

“O-okay.”

When the guy shuffled away, you took a seat in the waiting area. You scanned the walls, various artwork adorning them until you spotted a large drawing of the Beatles. Had that been there before? Had Harry drawn it? It was really good, the artistic detail spot on.

You watched another man say goodbye to a customer and then bring another one to the back before Harry finally made his way to the front. To call the look on his face surprised when he saw you would have been an understatement. As he chatted a bit with the client he’d just finished, you suddenly felt butterflies in your stomach.

“Hey,” he said when the guy left. “Kyle said someone was waiting to talk to me. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you let the words slip from your lips.

Harry shook his head, blinking slowly. “That’s not what I meant.”

You exhaled, hoping your quick response hadn’t offended him. Your reflexes were still on alert. Addressing the other customer who sat next to you, Harry smiled.

“I’ll be right with you, Carlo.”

“Yeah, no problem, man.”

Carlo and Harry both looked at you as Harry gave a tiny grin. “Wanna come back?”

Rising from your chair, you followed Harry through the shop, to the very back where he pushed open a door.

“Come on in,” he gestured.

As he shut the door behind you, you noted the desk in the corner, more artwork on the walls, and bookshelves. Pulling out a chair, Harry asked you to sit.

“Everything going well at the cafe?” he asked you.

“Oh, yeah. It’s fine. Actually, that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” Harry leaned against his desk, his arms crossed. You noticed how tall he seemed standing while you sat.

“Yes,” you cleared your throat. “I realized I never properly thanked you…for helping me get the job.”

His lips twitched as he held back a smile. Or perhaps a smirk. “Alright.”

With a sigh, you looked up at him. “I’m afraid I haven’t acted very grateful. I let my pride and my ego get in the way when you-”

“Y/N,” Harry interrupted. “It’s okay. You have every right to hate me. Still. I said what I did to Stan because I regretted the way I treated you. You didn’t deserve any of it. It was…the only way I knew to make it up to you.”

“Okay…” you swallowed. “Still…thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But…”

“But what?”

Harry shrugged. “I reckon I should have tried to get you your job back at Zelda’s.”

You smiled, looking down at your hands. “It’s fine.”

“Really? ‘Cause…you can’t possibly be making the tips at the cafe.”

Biting your lip, you lifted your head. “Thanks for that, too, by the way.”

“What?”

“The extra tip yesterday.”

“Who said that was for you?” Harry teased with a smirk.

You couldn’t hide your chuckle.

“Listen…” he continued, placing his hand over his chest. “I feel bad. I was honest when I said that wasn’t me that night.”

You nodded, sliding your palms across your thighs. Were you sweating?

“You’re an artist,” you commented.

“I am.”

“I saw your website. You do beautiful work.”

“Thank you,” Harry grinned.

“I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

Shaking his head again, Harry pulled his chair in front of you and sat down. Then leaning towards you, he seemed to study your face.

“I gave you plenty of reasons to jump to conclusions about me. Can we start over?”

“Start over? What do you mean?”

His dimples dipping in his cheeks, Harry held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Harry Styles.”

Mimicking his grin, you gently shook his hand. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m really excited to get to know you better.”

“Really?” you blushed.

“Yes. Do you work tomorrow?”

“I have a morning shift.”

“How about dinner?”

“No, I don’t work the dinner shift,” you shook your head.

Harry threw his head back laughing, startling you. His cackle rang through the office, vibrating every pulse in your body. What was happening? How did this guy suddenly have this effect on you?

“That’s not what I meant, love.”

“Oh,” you blushed again. Damn it.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

“Oh.” Oh! “Um…you don’t work here tomorrow?”

“Nope. My night off.”

Though you tried your best to fight it, you couldn’t hold back the smile that spread across your face. “Yeah. I guess I can do that.”

After settling the plans for the next evening, Harry walked you out to the front where Carlo sat patiently waiting.

“By the way,” said Harry. “What happened with your friend? The one who wanted the tattoo.”

Biting the inside of your lip, you hesitated. “She um…went somewhere else.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Don’t be so disappointed, Harry,” you chuckled. “You forgot one thing.”

“What’s that?” he asked, holding the door open for you.

“I haven’t gotten mine yet.”

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gendersouponao3 · 8 months

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pretty little head

read on ao3!

3799 words, Explicit rating, f/f noncon, fisting, overstim, swordfucking, princess/knight

Princess Astrid knew her kingdom was falling apart. She just didn’t think it would happen this fast.

She’s sleeping, if a little fitfully, when she’s awoken by shouts and the sound of metal clanging against metal. She groans and turns over, folding one of her silken pillows over her ears. As she drifts out of her dream, she hears someone run past her chambers, their armor jingling. At this hour? she thinks, resolving to have the guards told off when the hour is more decent.

Just as she manages to drift off again, a scream echoes from the eastern stairwell. Her heart jumps. Blearily, she wrestles off the layers of heavy blankets and steps onto the furs that line her floors. Her slippers lie ready by her bed, and she slips them on. In the half-dark, she makes her way to the small, closed entry chamber, where her personal guard stands posted at every hour of the day and night. He had been with her family since before she was born, and had been her guard since she was a baby, standing by her crib to see to it that she still breathed. He was aged, yes, but his grip on his great, heavy sword had never faltered. He was…

Gone.

What?

The entryway is empty. Her guard is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly panicked, Astrid throws open her bedroom door.

Torchlight flickers on the stone hallway walls. By the far staircase, one guard raises his sword, prepared for attack. A shadow lurches out of nowhere, and the guard charges. Both figures tumble into the staircase, out of sight. There’s a sickening crunch of silver against stone. Astrid doesn’t know which man fell.

Someone rounds the bend and rushes past her. She jumps back. Turning, she slams the door behind her, rushes back into her bedchamber, and stations herself inside her dressing-room. The draped fabric filling the walls takes her further from the sounds of the fighting outside. Her hands shake. She blinks away the tears that have risen to her eyes. She must do nothing but wait and listen, until her beloved guard comes to fetch her again.

She settles on the dressing-room floor. It’s a comfortable enough place to wait, and made interesting by the enormous variety of dresses, underthings, and jewelry that line the walls.

Astrid sifts through her dresses as the sounds of the battle, muffled by her walls, ring out on the floors below her. She holds a green velvet gown against her body, and admires in her mirror the way it brings out her eyes. Someone yells, and then what sounds like a hundred pounds of glass smashing into a million pieces on the ground. She sets the dress aside and picks up a ruby necklace. It washes out her skin, she thinks. She tosses it on the ground.

Minutes go by. The fighting does not get quieter. It gets closer. And closer, until she thinks it must be right outside her door, only separate from her by a few inches of wood. She puts down the dress she’s holding and walks anxiously closer to the entryway, trying to gauge by the sounds of the men how close they are to defeating the enemy. The more she listens, the more she can’t tell how many are left, or whether they’re the voices she’s heard a million times or those of strangers.

Finally, there’s a lull. Astrid lets go of her breath. She creeps closer to the door, waiting for the three knocks of a guard seeking permission to enter.

And jumps back as the hilt of a sword SLAMS into the lock. Astrid covers her yelp with her hand and runs back into her dressing-room to hide. Two more hard hits and she hears the wood crack around the lock. Then with one almighty crash the lock falls to the floor and the door swings open.

Astrid peeks out from behind the rack of dresses to see the knight standing in the doorway. In the low light, she can only make out the armored silhouette. The knight holds their helmet in one arm, casually. Their other hand wraps around the hilt of a heavy, gleaming sword. Astrid thinks she sees dark, crusted blood along its edge, but she prays that it’s a trick of the light.

The barbarian knight steps further into the room, and Astrid ducks behind the dresses. She hears them wander around, their armored footfalls echoing. They make their way steadily closer. She holds her breath. Probably they want to make off with the most precious of her jewels. Her face burns hot with anger as she imagines losing her most prized possessions.

In the light of the mirror, there really is blood on the knight’s sword. On their armor, too, sprayed across the chest. Their nose looks like it’s been broken before. Their thick, dark hair lies across their armor like oil.

They stop. Astrid tries so hard to stay still that she trembles.

“Stupid princess.” Astrid jumps. It’s a woman’s voice. “I can see your fucking feet.”

She tries to bolt. The barbarian knight grabs her easily, the moment she starts to move. She wrestles her against her chest, and wraps iron-strong arms around her torso, pinning her in place. Astrid struggles and kicks at her, but she’s fighting against solid armor.

“You’re pretty,” the knight tells Astrid. Her hair smells like sweat and leather and blood. “And dumb. Dumb as a rock. Good for you I like pretty girls.”

“I’m not dumb,” Astrid snarls, “I’m the heir to the throne of your kingdom, and I should have you jailed for speaking of me in that manner.”

The knight laughs. Her laugh is unpleasantly loud, like the bark of a hunting dog. “Princess, for daring to speak to me in that manner, I should bash your little brains in with my hilt. As I said, good for you you’re pretty. Or you’d be dead.”

“You would not dare,” says Astrid, much less sure of herself. “My family is —”

“Shut your mouth,” the knight says. “You want to feel this?” Her sword reeks of rust, iron, fresh blood. It’s longer than Astrid’s torso. She wields it like it’s nothing. “Because I want you alive but I’ll take you dead.” Her sword is heavy on Astrid’s stomach. Her voice drops, whispering into Astrid’s ear. “See how much of this shit can fit in your little body.”

Astrid whimpers fearfully. She shuts up. She stops struggling.

The knight laughs at her again. “That’s what I thought, Princess.” She rips Astrid’s nightgown straight down the middle with one leather-gloved hand. The bedroom cool hits her skin. She instinctively moves to cover her chest, and the knight yanks her hand away, taking her other wrist too and trapping them both between their bodies. She forces Astrid’s back into an arch, and Astrid wriggles in protest, but she just takes one of Astrid’s tits in her hand, kneading it hard between her fingers. Astrid’s tits are big like the rest of her. She’s never worked a day in her life, and she’s fed like a proper princess. The knight tugs at her nipple and she whines and squirms. It hurts. She’s been touched before, by low-ranking guardsmen and farm boys that she sometimes orders to eat her out, but no one would dare to hurt her.

“It hurts,” she gasps, when the knight squeezes particularly hard, bruising.

“Yeah, well, you be a good girl and take it,” the knight says. She barely sounds interested, her greedy hand exploring all of Astrid’s chest. Her tits spill out of her fingers, more than a handful, and she tugs them hard and lets them bounce. Astrid’s face is bright red. She feels filthy.

“I don’t - I’m not-” The knight lets go of her tits and plunges her hand down the front of Astrid’s ripped gown. She stumbles over her words. “I have no desire. To lay with women. Ah!” Two fingers forced inside her, no warning, no preparation. She stretches onto her tiptoes, running away from the pain, and the knight’s hand follows her, forcing herself in to the base of her palm. Astrid isn’t wet, isn’t ready, and the leather-gloved fingers burn and ache. Her clit rubs against stiff leather.

The knight lets her fingers slip out and then shoves back in, fast, violently. Keeps fucking her, slow like that, drawing out gently and then pushing back in like a punch. Astrid yelps every time she slams into her. She’s going to cry. She has never, never been treated like this before. The sheer indignity is enough to make tears come to her eyes, forced out by the rhythmic ache of the barbarian’s hand inside her.

Mercifully, she stops to grab Astrid’s hair and push her off balance, forcing her to the ground. She lands hard on her back. She tries to make a crawling run for the door, but the knight shoves a knee into her stomach, settling her weight on top of her. Her armor cuts against Astrid’s stomach. The softness of the rug onto which she fell does nothing to offset the discomfort. Astrid glares through her tears.

The knight grins down at her. One of her teeth is crooked. Strangely, her broken nose suits her face. She’s almost handsome, Astrid thinks. She sheathes her sword and peels off her gloves. Her hands are tan and freckled, thick and broad from hours training with her blade. She looks infuriatingly happy. It scares Astrid how much she likes hurting her.

“See, I’m gonna be nice to you, Princess. I’m gonna make you feel so good. We’re gonna forget what a dumb, spoiled little bitch you are and just let you be a pretty thing.”

“No!” Astrid says. “You’re hurting me.”

“I’m fucking you,” she says. “You want me to make it worse? You want me to really hurt you? Cause I could.”

Astrid shudders. She knows. She knows she would. “No.”

“See, there’s a good bitch.” Calloused hands ruck up Astrid’s skirt. She squirms. She’s never felt skin like that, scarred and hardened, against her own. The knight forces her thighs apart, and she tries uselessly to close her legs, already sore.

She kisses her stomach, and Astrid flinches. She doesn’t want her greedy mouth on her, not anywhere. When she leans down to bite the curve of her thigh, she cries out and swats at her head. The sting is so sharp. She bites again, harder. Astrid twitches and cries. Her soft skin is already turning pink.

Her mouth lands on Astrid’s pussy. Astrid bites back a moan. She likes this. Just if it were not with a woman, not forced, not for anyone’s pleasure but her own. Being eaten out for someone else’s pleasure feels dangerous, like she’s a puppet, forced to writhe and dance and beg against her own will. The knight eats her like she’s starving for it. Licks between her folds, teasing, hungry. She dares to suck Astrid’s labia against her tongue and nip at her. Then presses the tip of her tongue against her clit, just for a second, before she pushes inside. That feels so strange, she tries to squirm away, and then to press herself closer, ask for more without the indignity of using her words. Of course she is denied, and then overwhelmed as the knight switches to suck hard on her clit, using her whole mouth so she feels it everywhere, far too sensitive and with nowhere to escape.

She pulls off, and drags her tongue straight up her cunt, dipping it inside again. Astrid whines before she catches herself. She feels how wet she’s gotten. Spit and come run down between her legs. When the knight slips two fingers inside her, they go easy. She keeps her mouth on her, teasing now, feeling her drip and clench around her when she teases her clit. She curls her fingers, and the wet noise that it makes is humiliating.

“Oh, Princess.” Astrid burns. She doesn’t want to be so easy. “You’re so good at being a slut. So fucking hungry for me. I wonder what this princess pussy is gonna feel like with my fist in it, huh?”

“Ohh.” She chokes on it, as those thick fingers twist inside her. “No-o, please, noo.”

“Yes, baby. You can take it. You’re gonna fucking take it. I’m gonna make you.”

“But–” She can’t, she can’t, there’s no way. “Please. I can’t. I don’t– I’m— I’m crown princess, I don’t want to, please.”

“I know, baby. I know. Never had to do anything you didn't want to before. But you don’t get a choice now. No more power. Just a pretty cocksleeve.”

Astrid cries. Her cunt drips.

When the knight’s fingers come out of her pussy, they’re gleaming with her slick. She rubs her clit, and Astrid tries to stay still but she bucks against her hand. She doesn’t want it, doesn’t want to cum, doesn’t want another reason for the knight to force her fingers inside her like a weapon.

But she doesn’t get what she wants, does she.

She pushes three fingers inside her this time, and she wishes it hurt, but it doesn’t. It just feels good. She could take more. She’s full and hungry at the same time, pushed up against the edge, greedy and mindless and wanting all of it. When the knight’s hard calloused thumb rubs over her clit and her thick fingers curl inside her she bucks up into it and it’s still there it’s not stopping it’s too much and she comes, her pussy weeping and trying to push her hand out.

“Fucking good,” the knight murmurs, but she doesn’t stop. She’s not satisfied, she’s not surprised, she doesn’t care. She just presses harder against the soft tired muscles of Astrid’s cunt, no strength left to resist her.

“No, that’s enough,” Astrid begs. She barely believes it herself. She can, she will, she has no choice.

“Shh, baby, I don’t care.” The knight’s little finger rubs against Astrid’s cunt. Astrid lets out a little sob. She pushes, pushes, pushes, and then her mouth is on Astrid’s clit again and she loses control and it slips inside, four fingers stretching her wide open.

“Oh, god,” she curses. “I, oh, fuck, oh, no.” It doesn’t feel like, oh god, four impossible fingers, almost a whole hand inside her, it just feels mind-numbingly fucking full.

“If that’s too much, my fist is really gonna hurt, huh? When I make you into a good little fuckhole?” She pushes somehow deeper, harder, making Astrid cramp and squeeze down around her. Her mouth barely leaves her.

Astrid grabs at her hair, trying to pull her away, trying to stop the overwhelming sensation all over, but her soft hands tangle and stay there. She can’t stop it, can’t even help her reaction, can’t tell if she’s gonna come again or if the first one never stopped. She’s so sore and stretched and aching that she doesn’t know the difference.

The knight twists her hand inside Astrid, and Astrid feels herself open up, her cunt burning but taking it, soft and wet and full. It hurts in a way that feels right. Her clit is hard and exposed and so fucking sensitive against the knight’s tongue.

She pushes her thumb against Astrid’s cunt. Astrid cries and tries to buck her hips, tries to get away. The knight’s arm wrapped around her thigh holds her still, pulls her soft little cunt down on her fist. She kicks and wriggles and cries, because it hurts, because it scares her. But under the knight’s weight she’s helpless. She can’t escape as she slowly, slowly forces it in, her hole stretching wide around five fingers. It just keeps going. As she pushes into her, Astrid’s cunt clenches around the widest part of her hand, the base of her fingers.

Astrid yells a desperate “Fuck,” as she feels herself let it in. Harsh fingers dig into her thigh, holding her down, keeping her helpless. The knight’s eyes are so dark, her mouth open as she watches her hand disappear inside Astrid. She pushes in further, and Astrid feels the bulb of her fist fully inside her. It’s the fullest, hottest, wettest she’s ever been. She wants to beg but she can’t find any words. Her body flops on the floor, not able to even lift her arms to shove at the knight like she wants to. She’s putty, a mess of pain and pleasure and visceral fucking submission.

The knight’s tongue on her clit lights up her entire body. It feels connected everywhere, to the hardness against her walls, like her nerves are lighting up from the inside and outside at the same time and it’s too much and it’s so good her brain is short-circuited with pleasure. Her stomach clenches and she yells out wordlessly and comes. This time it gushes out of her, soaking the knight’s wrist. The tightness and oversensitivity of her orgasm make everything feel twice as much and she comes again, her body out of control bucking against the arm holding her down. She gasps for breath and then screams. It’s all too fucking much and she feels like an animal, base and soaked and thrashing. Her bucking hips meet the knight’s mouth and she gasps in agony.

“Stop,” she begs, straining to catch the air for the words. “Oh my god, please, please, I can’t.”

The knight hums against her clit and she sobs, hips jerking away from the painful touch. “Yeah, does it hurt, baby?”

“God, yes, I can’t, please, I can’t, stop.” She can’t even form the words to beg properly.

“I like when it hurts you.” She’s glowing, grinning, powerful, on top of and inside Astrid. “You can’t stop me, you can’t fight me, just suffer for me.”

She brings her other hand to Atrid’s clit and Astrid wails. She can feel her clit twitch when it’s touched, too fucking full, too hard too hot too sensitive. Her pussy clamps down around the knight’s hand and she feels each unrelenting inch against her gspot, pressing against her clit from the inside, her tummy cramping with how deep she’s being filled. She rubs her clit and Astrid gasps, twists away, feeling no pleasure just burning hot overstimulation.

The worst pain comes when she brushes a knuckle against the underside of her clit, under the hood, no protection from the searing pain of touch where she’s the most sensitive. Astrid lets out a high keening sound, and she touches there again, on purpose. Tears burn in Astrid’s eyes. The knight smacks her clit, hard, and she bucks against her hand, accidentally fucking herself on the fist inside her, and that brutal, accidental motion is what finally pushes her over the edge, impossibly, again. She cries out, thrashes, feels herself pulse around the knight’s hand, her clit twitching against her thumb. There’s nothing she can do to stop it. She sees white, her fucked-out nerves sparking with pain, cunt so stretched she can’t even tighten around her fist. She comes down gasping for breath. She doesn’t beg for it to stop. She knows that her voice is useless.

“God. Look at me.” A hand lifts Astrid up, into the flushed, red glow of the knight’s victorious face. “Look at me. Did you just cum from getting hit, huh? Fucking slut.”

“I.” Astrid breathes raggedly. “I. Ahh.”

“Yeah, you did, didn’t you. This is what you’re good for, isn’t it? Dumb fucking hole. Look at me, bitch, I wanna see your face while I pull out of you.”

Please be gentle, she wants to whine, but doesn’t. It hurts just to feel her move inside. She’s not gentle, of course she isn’t, the widest part of her knuckles stretching Astrid raw. Astrid bites her lip, tries not to cry. She knows the knight is drinking in the glittery tears in her eyes. When her hand slips out, and feeling comes back to her nerves, all she feels is brutal soreness.

“You’re fucking wrecked. You feel what I did to you, princess? You’re a wet, gaping fucked out little hole. Opened right up around my fucking fist, didn’t you?”

Astrid does feel it. Where she is usually soft and relaxed she’s open, fluttering, sensitive and painful. The knight’s hand is glistening to the wrist and, oh god, a little bloody. She feels lightheaded.

The knight sits up onto her knees, letting go of Astrid’s legs. Astrid doesn’t move. She can’t, and she’s terrified of what would happen if she did. The knight’s bloody, soaked hand reaches for her sheathed sword. Astrid whimpers.

The knight smiles at her fear. “You think I’m gonna hurt you?”

“Yes,” Astrid whimpers. “Pleaseohgodpleasedon’t. Please.”

She laughs. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you,” she says. She unsheathes it, one quick motion, the tendons in her bare forearm flexing. Astrid’s mouth feels dry. She’s right, she can do whatever she wants and Astrid’s not strong enough to stop her. She prays fervently that she’s still pretty enough to be kept alive.

She flips her grip, holding the blade downwards. It’s so close to Astrid. The intimacy of the knight’s body leaning over hers, the hilt coming closer to her body, could be like a lover. She twitches when she feels the cold metal rub up against her hot cunt. The air rushes from her lungs in relief as she realizes that, at least for now, her life’s not in danger. Just the hilt of the sword against her, not the blade.

The knight pushes it in slowly. It’s cold and hard and not as big as her fist but, god, it still hurts, Astrid’s sore, used cunt weakly trying to push it out. The shock of the cold makes her tense up around the unforgiving metal, which just makes it harder to take. She tries to relax into the floor and just breathe, let herself open up for it. The knight watches her face, watches her eyebrows knit together and her teeth grit. She can feel the weight of it holding her open.

“Look at you,” the knight says. “Whole fucking sword inside you. What a talented little princess, huh? Such a good cocksleeve. I like you a lot better like this.”

Astrid doesn’t protest. She’s grateful to be alive. The praise makes her feel sick, but it also makes her tummy flutter. If the knight likes her, she gets to live. She gets to serve.

On the ground, on her back, cunt gaped open around the sword hilt, tits sore and bruised, she knows that she’ll never give an order, never be special, never be anything but a stupid cocksleeve again.

#nsft text #queer nsft #nsft fantasy #gendersoupfic #commissions open #tw noncon #lesbian

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