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yeyinde · 7 months ago

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the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever.

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on.

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach.

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code.

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back.

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine).

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon.

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered.

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows.

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy.

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest.

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course.

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself.

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo.

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning.

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws.

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough.

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access.

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor.

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came.

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you.

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun.

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks.

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey.

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter.

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course.

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect.

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted.

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something.

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani.

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol.

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless.

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence.

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat.

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable.

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet.

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery.

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy.

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones.

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again.

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue.

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian.

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will.

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape.

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar.

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck.

The comparison makes you sick.

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it.

Hate how much you don't hate it.

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast.

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth.

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form.

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus.

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall.

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones.

He's watching you. Always.

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire.

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve.

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed.

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do.

And so, you don't.

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory.

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute.

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets.

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone.

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar.

Dark, like him.

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him.

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much.

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs?

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour.

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you.

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way.

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt.

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you.

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing.

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin.

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart.

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks.

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest.

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions.

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow.

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place.

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin.

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight.

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water.

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it?

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest.

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty.

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest.

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying.

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics.

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger.

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though.

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill.

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy.

But he didn't.

Doesn't.

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat.

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward.

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh.

It's primal, this fear. Animal.

But in the end, he doesn't kill you.

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear.

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to.

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him.

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk.

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died.

Should have, maybe.

(is that a plea? an orison?

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out.

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just.

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark.

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it.

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well.

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over.

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all.

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites.

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape.

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers.

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all.

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary.

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope.

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks.

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning.

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless.

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity.

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing:

he should have been back by now.

And it—

It does something to you.

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective.

Because the reality is this:

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates.

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead.

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about.

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all.

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white.

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him.

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm.

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch.

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern.

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh.

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief.

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands.

The skull of a queen.

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition.

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound.

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess.

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb.

Until—

It does.

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory.

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache.

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall.

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop.

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face.

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse.

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue.

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory.

A queen is no easy feat, after all.

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests.

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep.

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands.

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch.

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur.

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind.

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you.

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air.

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing.

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window.

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach.

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette.

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock.

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign.

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying.

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee.

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire.

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him.

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit.

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual.

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes.

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word.

He wants you. You.

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate.

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate.

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice.

Dark is a beastly thing up close.

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it.

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah.

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles.

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go.

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so.

He spoke.

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt.

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists.

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance.

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh.

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly.

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost.

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute.

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs.

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission.

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away.

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you.

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his.

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured.

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage.

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching.

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you.

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust.

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely.

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on.

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you.

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels.

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth.

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so.

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you.

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock.

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable.

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him.

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you.

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock.

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore.

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else.

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough.

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is.

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out.

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain.

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body.

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb.

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick.

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before.

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before.

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel.

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat.

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk.

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you.

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous.

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit.

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release.

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal.

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes.

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you.

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads.

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip.

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight.

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling.

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have.

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background.

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat.

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship.

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion.

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly.

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma.

You breathe it in. Breathe him in.

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps.

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you.

And yet.

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him.

That alone, you think, is enough.

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all?

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep.

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt.

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue.

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you.

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom.

Ensnared.

#for someone who's entire identity is “i wanna fuck an alien/monster/yautja so bad it makes me look stupid”#i have a surprising lack of smut in my repertoire #yautja x reader #yautja x human #dark (avp) x reader #predator x reader #avp #predator #yautja smut #yautja

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freaksun · 2 months ago

Text

cute, cuter, cutest

you call eddie cute and it leads to more.. allusions to smut under the cut. bestfriend!eddie

you giggle, shoving him lightly “youre cute.”

he visibly jolts, eyes widening slightly. you dont know why hes reacting so harshly, it was a compliment!

he cant stop the fire that engulfs him, the searing red blush that climbs up his neck, covering his cheeks in a beautiful colour that puts his feelings on a platter for you to pick at.

at least he expects you to, to laugh in his face and tell him you were only joking, you dont think hes cute you think hes a loser. a part of him wants to tell you off, to reject you before you can reject him

but you dont. - well,- you giggle a little bit which doesnt help but then you move closer.

“youre even cuter when youre flustered.” you smile at him, a warm inviting thing that makes him wanna lean forward and fall into you. into the pit your unconditional affection and company and sweet sweet laugh, from which he may never return.

pushing through the thorns in his throat, he cant help but make sure youre not making fun of him. even though he trusts you and youre smiling at him like you smile when you watch your romcoms, he still expects you to laugh and run away.

“are you making fun of me?” hes direct. no way around it.

he regrets it immediately when your smile falls, and youre looking at him like he’s a hurt puppy.

“what? of course not, eddie.” something he wouldve never guessed in a million years is when you reach out to touch him. you hold his face so softly and he can just feel the way you care about him in the way your thumb is rubbing his cheek.

you look at the ground, retracting your hand in a whirl of regret and fear of crossing a boundary. suddenly shyer than hes ever known you to be. hes frozen, petrified with tho only thing stronger than fear - hope.

if he wasnt so scared he’d lift your chin with his thumb and maybe even kiss you like hes always dreamed of doing, but hes stuck in fear of ruining things ‘like he always does.’

you look back into his eyes, which both scares him and comforts him at once. he’s been your bestfriend so long that staring into your eyes makes him feel at home in a way no one else can. or maybe thats cause hes in love with you.

“I-“ you start but seem to lose your confidence. this time hes ready. he mirrors you, holding your cheek with his pointer finger above your ear, his others right below it, and his thumb gently stroking the apple for your cheek. his hand fits there so comfortably like he was made to do it.

“im listening.” he nods reassuringly. he always knows how to make you feel ok.

you swallow, eyes flicking between his and the dirty hardwood floor of his room.

“i love you.” you state plainly, eyes burning holes into the wood planks. you say it to each other all the time, but this time its different. this time you cant bare to look at him when you say it, can stand to see him reject you.

“i know, baby..” he tries to hide the disappointment, but you can tell he doesnt get it.

you look back at him, your slight frustration overtaking what was stopping you from looking at him before. hes so beautiful. his brown puppy eyes staring into yours, scared but begging you to tell him what you really mean. it helps you feel more confident that hes not going to reject you, the look on his face makes it clear.

“thats not what i mean.” his eyes widen again, just a smidge. still, its enough to make him look like a cartoon deer.

he can feel the heat emanating from your face.

“what do you mean?” he knows and you know and you know he knows and he knows you know.

still he needs to hear it.

“I mean..” you reach your hand up to your face, holding his wrist and squeezing gently.

“i think you’re beautiful. and cute, and handsome.. and.. hot..” he turns pink quickly, looks like hes hiding away in his mind. its like hes not there, like he just cant hear you being so nice to him.

“you make me laugh every day. i think youre the funniest person i know.” his lashes flutter, and it seems like hes forced himself to be present, to hear you. he turns pinker.

“you’re so fuckin sweet. you care more than anyone ive ever met and i fucking love that.” you make it a point to compliment everything you know he feels bad about everything hes been made to feel bad about

“i think you’re so strong. you hear what people say about you every day and you still prove them wrong. still manage to be kind in the face of hate.” hes red now, tears in his eyes.

“and i love every minute with you. you make time pass so quick.. you make me feel safe and loved and appreciated. i love you, eddie.”

he blinks and his tears fall. you coo and wipe them from his cheeks. he smiles, his hand moving from its dutiful place on your cheek to grab your wrist.

“c-can i kiss you?” ever the gentleman he still asks after you’ve laid out your heart to him. as if you’d say no.

you nod, smiling shyly. he leans in, both your hands on each others faces guiding you both towards each other. you close your eyes and all you feel is his soft pillowy lips brushing yours, gentle as he has always been.

you cant hold back. you’ve dreamed about this forever and you always thought you’d be shy about it, gentle and letting him lead.

instead, in the moment, you pull him closer to you in a sudden desperate haze, shoving his lips into yours. he makes a suprised ‘mmf’ sound you absolutely eat up and it only makes you want him more.

his hand finds your hip, pulling you into him now just as needy. his tongue slides across your bottom lip, begging for permission. you moan softly, hoping he doesnt notice but god knows he does, and he needs more. needs to hear you moaning his name.

the second your mouth opens that centimetre, the kiss deepens tenfold as you pull on his clothes. moaning into each others mouths you suddenly realize where you are and whats happening.

you pull back, smiling and panting heavily.

“im gonna close the door”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #eddie the freak munson #eddie munson x you #stranger things fic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson stranger things #bestfriend!eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #my fics #my writing

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satoruhour · 1 year ago

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YES 2 HEAVEN

a/n: continuation of this. ARRRGHHH also i swear i couldve written this better i kinda hate this lol / tagging @jabamin @shotorus @hyomagiri @crysugu @valberry @lov3rbody ✶

wc: 4.1k (got carried away again ! lord help me)

warnings: dad!gojo, fem!reader, he is enamoured with you, dom!gojo, calls you ‘mama’, also like slight daddy kink, sex while pregnant, lactation kink, pregnancy kink, implied f! masturbation, oral / cunnilingus, fingering, clit stimulation, praise, pet names, spitting, mating press, multiple rounds, overstimulation, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, n*sfw under the cut

✶ dilf!gojo . . .

. . . who, when you were pregnant, could never get enough of your glow. sure, you’d look tired and worn out half the time but gojo thought you never looked better cradling your belly whilst you took your afternoon nap, or when you’d do some light chores around the house (you won over gojo trying to stop you). not to mention, your breasts were fuller and heavier with milk, soaking through your slip dresses often that he’s had to hide his hard-on more and more.

. . . who, on more than one occasion has had your tits caged within his hand: watching television, in naps, sex, he was unbelievably obsessed with the way the fabric around your nipples would leak and darken in colour. all he wanted was to knead them as he eats up your delicious moans, sucking hickies into your throat and holding your baby bump with his other hand. and then when satoru first peels the dress off of you, he whimpers, admiring the way your tits lactate and leak milk from its tip.

“s—satoru—” you’re sat sideways on his lap like the sweet girl you are and the first contact of his tongue around your nipple makes you let out a long moan. the sensitivity is all too much for you together with the heaviness of your belly and your hormones spiking and your husband simply smiles into your skin. he slurps at the liquid that drips from your tits, groaning into your breasts and the vibrations makes you clench your thighs together. it doesn’t go unnoticed by him when he’s got his hand between them, playing lazily with your clit and he presses a little harshly into your bundle of nerves and it draws such a beautiful cry and a spurt of your milk from your nipples right into his mouth. satoru cleans up well, noises similar to when he’d eat you out, “mmh… such perfect tits, mama, leaking so much milk just f’r me.” ✶

. . . whose hands look more rugged than he was young, fingertips a certain roughness to it from the boxes of the furniture of the nursery he’s carried to the training he still partakes in for young sorcerers. but they look especially pretty when he cuts up strawberries and bananas for your pancakes and later on, a teacup that barely makes its appearance in his hand from just how large he was in comparison to your baby girl’s tea set. your eyes also like to trail his hands as they skillfully weave your girl’s hair in a braid, hypnotised in which he uses his teeth to drag the hair tie to his fingers. satoru has a different opinion — he likes to see it on your belly when he wants to feel the baby kick and on your plush thighs when he’s teasing you, so close yet so far to your uncomfortable cunt.

. . . who uses your badly shaven job against you when his lips graze along your still full breasts and down to your torso. you can feel him drag the stubble against your inner thighs and it’s like he’s relishing in the way you squirm and thrash around on the bed, but the gojo below you is the culmination of multiple years of missions and caring for a baby girl. he looks so damn stunning between your legs as he usually does, except his features are more wrinkly and lenient and gentle, white strands turning just a little silver — it may just be the trick of the light.

but the way he eats you out has never changed — he’s already gone past making you beg for it. a hand on your inner thighs, caressing the skin and letting him do his damage, but it’s usually not long that gojo needs to hear you. “i heard you like this?” he laughs as he uses his teeth to pull at your underwear as he lifts your hips like you weigh nothing and his eyes are fixated on the way you’re leaking so much that there’s a string of arousal that connects your panties to your pussy. “’toru . .” you’re whining, grasping at nothing ’cause your belly was just too big. he finds your hand easily and twines your fingers. “yeah, angel?” with your legs propped up, he can appreciate the glory of your soaking pussy, and he thinks your tummy just looks divine, carrying a whole new life within it and still looking beautiful as ever. you preen when his mouth licks a stripe up your cunt and you can practically feel the stubble along your pussy lips. “mmh— was made to eat your pussy out, mama.” it’s no different from before. gojo eats you out with his skillful tongue, lapping at your folds and clit messily. you’re squeezing his hands at the intense sensations and he squeezes right back, other hand slowly drawing circles around your clenching, needy hole.

“look at ‘er,” gojo moans softly in awe as his finger parts your folds and he eases it in, your cunt automatically clamping down. you were right — they did feel rougher, bigger — it’s like you can feel the pads of his fingers and the lines on his digits. “so damn wettt . .” gradually he adds another and starts pumping them, moaning alongside you as your filthy husband nuzzles the bottom of his face into your sex and the prickle of his facial hair is so prominent — you just have to grind your hips onto his face. “careful of the baby, darling.” he lightly warns, fairly muffled, but he lets his little wife continue whatever she’s doing. “’toru, ’toru— needa c-cum . .” you’re whimpering, looking like a greek goddess as you’re dripping, dripping, all over satoru’s chin. “yeah? give it to daddy, baby, c’mon.” he moans into your clit, slurping up your juices mercilessly as his fingers reach so deep in you. “that’s right, that’s my girl— oooh fuckk . . . so much cum for me—” you’re cumming with a loud cry, plump thighs squeezing his head and he only presses his tongue deeper into your core as flood his tongue with your juices. he smacks his lips together and shoots you a smirk, “what a sweet thing my lil wife is — sweetest pussy too.” ✶

. . . who has to fuck you at least once while you’re pregnant, but he hadn’t imagined he would get so addicted to the look of your body rocking back and forth, so limp and pliant for him, especially with how he could easily do anything to you with how strong he was and yet you’re surrending everything up to him. satoru who has you in all sorts of positions where he can look at your supple breasts bounce as you cradle the baby in anxiety with one arm and the other is lining his back in red. and he hadn’t expected you’d be so horny too.

. . . whose dick you just can’t get enough of, pouncing on him once he’s gotten home from missions all sweaty and out of breath and your heart gets caught in your throat. guiding your hand to your little cunt when you wake in the morning to his toned chest and the look of soon-to-be-father looking so good on him. sending him little voice notes as you go on appointments by yourself (gojo hates himself for having a mission clash), but the contrast of your husband’s tear-filled apology before your needy audios is a stark contrast, fingers rubbing at your clit in the hospital toilet, unsatisfied. high-pitched whines whenever his cock would kiss your cervix juuust right and moaning how you want his cum in you, again

your husband throws his head back when he first sinks into you, but not before he slaps his cock along your folds, already soaking the sheets from the four times he’s made you cum. “f—fuck, so warm in here, baby.” gojo presses your hands to his lips and lays multiple kisses along it, even licking at your fingers and keeping his eyes locked on you while plunging them into your mouth. the gesture is sensual, hips rocking into you while his tongue glides over your fingers; he brings it to your clit after, helping you and satoru hopes he wouldn’t cum too early. especially when your hair is all splayed out with that glow along your cheeks. the position accentuate the curves of your body and your swelling stomach, and fuck, if he could paint, the image of your anatomy would be burned into his brain. “s’full, daddy.” he simply caresses your sore belly, “yeah? is it now?” he’s buried all the way to the hilt and the deepness sends a chill up your spine, “takin’ me like the good girl you are.”

“satoru, satoru, mmhhfuck,” your hands are holding into his forearms so tightly as he rocks into you, legs wrapped around his waist to trap him with your pussy and you truly wish your baby bump would be bigger so you didn’t have to look at your husband’s fucked out face and sweaty locks, grunts leaving his mouth as he continues to fuck into you with firm, solid thrusts. “w-what is it, sweeth— s-shit, this pussy’s too fuckin’ good.” you mewl at the words, staring up at him through hooded lids and a lax jaw. “tell me what— fuucck— you want, baby,” your words are beyond comprehensible, so you only can moan louder and babble over and over again, “cum— wan’ your cum, wan’ your cum, ’toru!” and gojo has a full blown aneurysm at the way you beg even when you were already knocked up. gojo’s breath and hips stutter at the way you hold onto his arm and plead, cumming straight into the warmth of your cunt with a loud groan. “don’t know how much i love your cunt, sweets.” ✶

. . . who, once you give birth to your baby girl, has never stopped thirsting over you, but he’s a little more considerate in letting your body rest. most of the time he’s pleasuring you just as you were with your baby bump, always the quickest to stand up and run to the nursery when he’d hear the baby’s cries or pass off him being between your legs as just wrestling as your darling girl gets another terrible nightmare. satoru has put you first, always, but lately the chivalrous acts that he’s been doing is landing you in a position of a dilemma — between decorum of a mother and the filthiness of a wife whose husband is just too hot.

. . . who stands out to you more with his new found love for tight black shirts and low riding sweatpants, always prancing around the penthouse with it glued to his body and accentuates just the best parts of his body. you weren’t sure if it was the post pregnancy hormones doing its job or whatever, but there are many times where you can see yourself staring a little too much: on movie nights when he manspreads and adjust his hips, one hand tucked behind the sofa and you can see the muscles in his arm moving. all gojo asks is “take a picture. it’ll last longer, baby,” and you just roll your eyes, but not before one more glance to his inviting lap. when it’s the morning and you’re already up tending to the baby, bouncing her around and breastfeeding her before your head snaps to the low, raspy greeting and you’re blessed with satoru and his arm up on the doorframe, watching you. he’s yawning and scratching at his torso while the sweatpants ride low, showing a peek of his v-line and happy trail. he’s giving you the sweetest, yet somehow sexiest smile as he saunters up to you, surrounded by his toned body and strong arms.

. . . who knows what he’s doing when he sees your distracted stares to the point your baby girl has to drag your hand full of food to her mouth; or in times of sleepiness in the dawn where all he wears are boxers and he has the gift of hearing your not so quiet gasp when you see him emerge from the bathroom after his morning skincare. what really seals the deal though, is the day you had a reunion with the students of jujutsu high, a nice little picnic out near tokiwa bridge and gojo just had to show his girls off — what was meant to be a wholesome day turned into thoughts of your husband’s physique as he challenges nanami to a “carry-off”, the still stoic sorcerer not even bothering to participate as gojo swoops you both into his arms. your daughter on his right and you on his left, and you’re scrambling to grab his shoulder. it sinks into you like an anchor: just how fit he was, the lines of his tense arm, the cheeky wink he sends to you while you’re up there. you only hope he can’t feel your pussy throb from that.

“you alright, darling?” your baby’s asleep comfortably on your chest, and your eyes can only burn holes into the hand that’s resting on your thigh, swallowing before facing your husband who only seemed to get hotter the more he ages. when you turn to him he’s already looking at you, a lopsided smile on his face before he breaks eye contact and steps on the gas when the traffic light turns green, letting out a loaded exhale when you grab his hand and twine your fingers.

that two person carry has been etched onto your mind long after you’ve reached the penthouse along with everything that’s been going on, but you’re interrupted when satoru squeezes your hand, pulling you into his embrace while keeping your darling girl asleep. he’s skilled at that, as he is with his lips, pressing a deep kiss to your mouth. you can feel your stomach turn with anticipation, tasting his gloss as he whispers “should we order takeout tonight?”

you hum, “i can cook, ’toru.”

his hands feel hot on your waist, “rest today, baby. we did spend a whole day in the hot sun,” they draw circles on your lower back, “plus, we have that event tomorrow, don’t wanna tire you out.”

“the event’s at night you goof,” you laugh, a slow hand stroking your daughter’s hair. stark white and striking as always.

“still.” he grins and winks like there’s some ulterior motive, leaning in to kiss you again before your girl rouses and yawns.

“good morning, my love.” satoru coos as she finds her bearings, looking around in confusion and only being able to focus on her father’s hand on her hair.

“na-na-min?” the awkward plea in her voice would drive gojo to burn the world down, to call nanami right now to meet up again, but he knows all that would only warrant annoyance. he could call yuji, but he did mention something about having dinner with his partner tonight.

gojo feels bad to be breaking her heart like this, “no, darling, ’m sorry.” his heart breaks even more when she breaks into a slight cry and he attempts to quell her sobs by baby-talking her.

“c’mon, why don’t you let papa carry you, and mama can head off to take care of herself, hm?” he suggests with a big grin, mood changing instantly as he plucks her out of your arms, again emphasising his strong arms when they hold her on one side and curl another around you. “go clean up first. i’ll settle dinner for her.”

but the shower seemed to be a bad idea at the time, emerging from the steamy bathroom to see your husband with his shirt off and the baby already all cleaned up and fed. she was swaddled in her most comfortable blanket, the fabric of it peeping out from the side as your eyes focus on the rippling muscles of gojo’s back. he bounces the baby gently as he burps her, muttering little praises and sounds.

“oh, baby—” he catches sight of you in the doorway in a towel and he only smiles, not knowing how you were trying to digest just how broad his shoulders were and how small his waist was. had he always been so fine?

“heard about skin to skin contact with your baby,” he whispers, “says it increases our bond.”

and if you could, you’d drag him back to the chapel all over again to renew your vows, because you didn’t expect him to be such a sap. you also didn’t expect him to read you so well. the baby’s asleep and it’s well past midnight, masking yet another shaky sigh when your body sinks more into his side.

“satoru—”

“yeeess . .?”

you stand up with vigour you didn’t think you have, plopping yourself down onto his lap and all he does is smile slyly. the way his bare body moves as he leans back is enough drive for you to shut him up.

“haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

“oh? you have a crush on me?”

so infuriating as always. you roll your eyes and grind down on him, igniting such a familiar and archaic feeling that you haven’t felt in a long time: his bulge against you, the soft groan he lets out. he’s always been treating you time and time, and yet he puts his own needs on hold. a perfect husband like him waited only for you to initiate things, and yet you wonder why it took you so long. maybe it was the baby taking up most of your time, maybe it was him being on missions and coming home dead-beat tired.

maybe you knew you’d never turn back if you indulged yourself — pushing out a whole baby wasn’t exactly easy. but you’ve missed him. on you, in you.

“we’re married, you dumbass.”

“still in disbelief, my bad.” gojo laughs, “is there anything you wanna tell me?”

you sigh, pulling him to you so your foreheads would touch. you breathe onto his lips — “please take care of me.”

oh, gojo satoru did take care of you and more, burying his face between your legs and making you cum over and over. he made your voice hoarse and your thighs ache, juices soaking the sheets from just how wet you were.

“oh, you needed this, huh?”

“shut up.” gojo moans when you push him back onto your cunt, already having orgasmed thrice just from his tongue. he was skillful and he knew it, just as much as he knew just how tight you’d be when he smeared your cum all over your pussy and pushed past your folds. satoru whines at the tightness, at having missed your cunt wrapped around him for so long that he can tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“f—fuck . . so fuckin’ good, s’tight . .” you’re not that well off, either, thinking the shower was a waste of water as your sweaty stomach heaved in anticipation while he bottomed out. gojo cries out in a choked moan, “you feel so g—good, mama.”

“w-who’s needing it now?” you breathe out, fingers digging into his shoulders so harshly it hurt. you catch a glimpse of satoru’s smile and a shake of his head — you’d need to be carried tomorrow, for sure.

he pulls out and slams back in so accurately you let out a loud moan, insides turning to mush after so long. the feel of him filling you up is like none other, pussy gripping onto him like a vice. you can’t remember the last time you let him take you.

“so p-perfect for me—” gojo rasps out, looking at you drunkenly. the mother of his child, his wife, it weighs on him and he just thinks he needs to fuck you until you know how much joy you bring to his life. your body rocks as your lover fucks into you, hovering over your body and looking so ethereal. his hair falls into his eyes that you just have to pull him down, crashing your lips against his. the moans he lets out against your face is lovely and you can feel his cock twitch as your legs wrap around his waist.

“‘toru— shiiitt . .” your back arches off of the bed, body caving into satoru like second nature. he lets out babbles against your lips, room filled with the sounds of his balls slamming into your ass, coupled with your weeping pussy, coating his length with all that you can give to him. “so deep—”

“that’s ’cause you’re suckin’ me in, baby—” he laughs breathlessly, cutting off your answer with another kiss, feeling the brush of pelvic bone against your clit. it’s all you need to cum hard, still sensitive after so long and your pussy clenches around gojo’s shaft even tighter; it gets gojo whining into the kiss before he reaches his high too, spilling into you with wide eyes and stuttering hips. you moan at the sensation, eyes pleading your husband for more, more, more.

“forgot how much i loved doing that, f-fuck—” gojo hums as he removes your legs from his waist, pushing you into a deep mating press and you squeal when you feel his cock barely hit your g-spot in this new position, “yeah? ya feel that?”

you nod mindlessly, hands now holding onto his forearms before his hips start moving again and you’re left to whining like a slut. your thighs dig into your chest as gojo folds your body in half, rutting into you messily. there’s so much cum, mixed in filthily as your words only descend into incoherence.

“yes, yes, yes!” are all you can manage as gojo grunts from above you: his stubble, his broad shoulders, his matured face, they all look beautiful in the cold night. he’s so focused on the way your cunt sucks him in, hips stammering when your hand comes into view to rub your clit. “give it all t’me, daddy.”

there’s a small growl that leaves his lips at that, pace reaching an animalistic one as he angles his hips. “open y’mouth.”

satoru is driven crazy when you obey silently, and he has to push deeper into you to reach your mouth, making you falter and pull your brows together — you recover fast enough to catch the spit hanging from his mouth, dribbling slowly into your mouth even when gojo’s hips never stop their assault.

“attagirl,” he praises, smiling softly at the way your pussy twitched at that. he knows you’re close by the look in your eyes, grasping aimlessly at his shoulders.

“gonna let me cum in you again? hm?” gojo’s thrusts are sloppy now, fuelled by the squelch of your drooling cunt, “gonna let daddy put another baby in you?”

you mewl at that, “wan’ that— want all of it—” intoxicated on his cock, they hit the deepest parts of you; you know and love the way his tip hits your sweet spot, you know and love the way the shaved pubes of his pelvis brush up against your clit so well.

“take it then—” gojo grunts, holding your legs up and meets your eyes and the simple call of his name has him shivering. he cums deep, shooting his load so white and hot in you that you’re moaning loudly at the feeling, hand on your clit increasing in pace before your fifth for the night, legs trembling in his grip and your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

gojo thinks you’re god. “that’s it— shit, take all of my cum, mama.” you can barely see blue, rather seeing spots of white that fill your vision and you get dizzy and overstimulated, groaning finally when he removes his cock from you. so much cum spills out, pussy pushing it out and satoru bites his lips at the sight.

but you both know you’re far from done when gojo lies on his back, ulterior motive fulfilled when he sees you climb on top of him and drag your pussy along the base of his dick. with you like this, stretch marks and plumpier breasts, you still look as beautiful as you did before the baby, letting you interlock your fingers with his.

your mouth falls open in a soft “satoru” as you sink down onto his still hard, leaking cock and he never wants to look at anyone else ever again, lest he misses even one second of witnessing a goddess like you at work.

gojo cannot resist sitting up to meet you halfway in a soft kiss (“thank you, ’toru. you always take care of me so well.”) and it gives him all the confirmation he needs when your hips first move and the moans and the lewd sounds of your cunt sound more heavenly than all the choirs in the world.

“it’s what you deserve, baby. only the best.”

#I WROTE SM BYE #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk scenarios #jjk gojo #jjk gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader

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bunnys-kisses · 1 month ago

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team principal

max verstappen - team principal au

cw: smut/pwp, driver!reader, team principal!max, age gap (20/45), power dynamic, (slight) bratty behavior, groping, driver's room sex, oral sex (max receives)

as requested by anon: Driver!reader asking team principal max verstappen for a custom line of all pink and feminine merch because the orange just “washes her out” so he does. And he goes ALL out, bright pink Verstappen Racing flare leggings, and baby tee’s with the MV logo plastered on the chest bc what she wants she gets.

like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! <3

being part of verstappen racing meant wearing their logo. it had been the logo that max verstappen himself raced with. the 'm' and the 'v' were known prior to the establishment of the f1 team. every team had their logo from ferrari's stallion to red bull's, well, bulls. even teams like hamilton motorsports had their logo.

the problem with max verstappen's merch wasn't the logo, it was how god awful ugly it was. you had a selection of some of the ugliest merch on the planet. why was it all orange?

you had been convinced that your team principal, your boss, only saw the world through orange hues. that was everything was a shade of orange so awful that it would make mclaren blush!

"this is ugly. this is ugly. this is somehow worse! this looks like a halloween collection rather than actual merch. mister verstappen you make more money than anyone i know, hire someone with design sense!" you shook the shirts in your hand.

you knew that almost every driver on the grid couldn't talk to their boss like that. but it was an poorly kept secret that max verstappen had a soft spot for you. he also fucked you two ways to sunday on a weekly, if not daily basis.

max chuckled and leaned back a little in his office chair, "brand integrity is important, schat. a recognizable brand is important to its value."

you made a face, "well, your brand looks like spirit halloween threw up all over the place." then put the items down forcefully. you put your hands on your hips, "and shouldn't brands take risks? try something new? all of you use the same colours, cuts and styles. it's boring!"

max asked, "then what do you have in mind? since you know so much about a brand. i've been doing this since i was seventeen. almost thirty years, schat. longer than you've known how to walk let alone drive." he raised his eyebrows, "since you know so much, dazzle me with your proposal."

max would let his precious driver bark like a yapping dog. but he knew how to keep you quiet. he watched you cower for a moment, realizing that you took it a step too far. max smiled with his face rested against his fist.

you swallowed, "maybe something a little more... feminine.. pink. something cute." you leaned forward at his desk a little, the shirt you wore was his and was a little big on you. your movements revealed the start of a hickey he left on your shoulder the night prior, "mister verstappen, you have the first female driver in a long time. we... could lean into that a little. make it cute!"

max leaned forward in his chair and rested his arms on his desk, "cute? verstappen racing is supposed to imposing. strength on the track, and you want pink." he chuckled a little, "the alternate logo besides the initials is a lion. lions aren't cute."

you looked at him, "what about that lion stuffed animal you got me? that's cute. i sleep with it every night." you then pouted a little, a look that always made max weak. you shrugged your shoulders a little as you had your hands behind your back. you swayed a little and suggested, "plus, i could model it as well."

max may have known how to shut you up, but you knew how to make the older man weak in the knees. he sighed and kept his gaze on you, his expression a little softer, "fine. we'll see what we can do, schat. maybe you're right about needing to do something a little different. but i hope you know, whatever item we end up with. you have to show off for me."

your pout dropped and was replaced with a smile. you leaned over the desk to be closer to him and kissed him on the mouth. you held his face and smiled against the kiss. when you eventually pulled away, max watched your turn around to skip out of his office. you said to him as you looked over your shoulder, "thank you, mister verstappen."

max verstappen had seen enough in his over forty years on this planet. he had seen many beautiful women over the years, but when he walked into your driver's room and saw you in the newest verstappen merch, he almost fell on his ass. he had seen the line of merch before it got into your hands, but to see you in them was another story.

you were in a pink skirt from home that was almost the exact colour of the baby pink of the baby tee that you were wearing. laid out on the couch of the room was the rest of the merch. the flare leggings, the bucket hat, the baseball cap, a form fitting tank top and even an oversized button up.

all in sickening baby pink.

so much for verstappen being predators on the track. not when you were sickeningly beautiful in the clothing. max held onto the door to the room for a moment to compose himself before he stepped in and shut the door loudly behind him.

"oh!" you perked up as you turned away from the mirror to look at your boss. you smiled at him, "hello, sir." seeing the logo of the team across your tits made his eyes go wide.

"hi." he said as he swallowed, "did they give you the wrong size?" he stepped forward and reached out for you, "and where did you get this skirt?"

you smiled, "oh! this is supposed to be my right size. that's just how the tee are!" he could see your curves and a bit of your stomach. you then added, "and the skirt is from home. i bought it for a matching outfit thing." you swayed your hips from side to side.

this was supposed to be your outfit for media day. something to show off the brand. max scratched the back of his neck and stepped forward. he placed his hands on your hips and gazed at you.

"you're not going out like this. no, no. there has to be something else to wear." he approved all of the items. he saw them from concept to final product. and now you were in the driver's room looking like a whore.

"what about it?" you pouted.

he pulled at the bottom of your shirt and you yelped as it was taken over your head. he made a small disappointed noise as he tossed the shirt to the side. he licked his lips at the sight of your breasts. this was beyond any code violation. if you two got caught. but it was better than you walking around the media section in that shirt.

"you look like you're selling sex rather than the brand! you look like a whore." he said as he held onto your hips. he could feel the leap in his chest at the sight of your breasts on full display for him. only for him.

"doesn't sex sell, mister verstappen?" you said as you pouted a little and you were pulled up against him. your hands on the front of his button up, with his logo on it. you spread your hand across his chest, he noticed that your nails were painted the same pretty pink as the merch. you held onto him as he took you by the ass to press up against him.

"not this kind of sex. this is an invitation for you to cause problems. what if that skirt flips up? what if your nipples poke through the shirt. what is the press got the wrong idea and thought you were a slut." he explained. he spoke like you were a bratty girl who needed to be scolded. to be taught the right way.

you pouted further, "i'm not a slut."

max pushed up your pink tennis skirt over your ass and grabbed handfuls of your ass. it made you yelp and max closed in the space between your lips. before he kissed he said, "i know you're not. but, when you dress like this, you look like one." then kissed you deeply.

his strong hands groped your ass as you felt his cock up against your middle. you shuddered at the feeling of it. you knew that max was quite big. you squirmed a little against him and kissed him deeper.

when he pulled away, he got you down on the couch roughly. you bounced a little and looked up at him. you stuck your chest out a little more and max looked down at you as he rubbed his cock through his slacks. for one of the top racers in the world, you sure looked beautiful below him.

"mister verstappen." you said before you were met with his cock in your face. you didn't say much else but rather wrapped your lips around his cock and let him hold the back of your head. you placed your hands on his strong thighs for support as you took his cock as deep as you could take it.

max shuddered at the feeling of you. you felt like a dream in his grasp. a beauty beyond all others. despite the age gap and the power dynamics, max knew that he could make you top of the grid. you'd be winning championships that would make other drivers jealous.

as you sucked his cock, max saw your future. world champion of formula one. pretty trophies in your apartment in monaco. he already had you in a multi-year contract and no clause to get out of it. first wear the verstappen racing logo then have the verstappen last name. only fitting for a champion after all.

a strong driver needs a strong last name. and as you looked up at him with that soft gaze of yours he panted a little heavier. all dolled up for him, in his merch. you were right about the need for cuter clothes, that orange washed you out. you looked cuter in the soft pinks.

"you look good like this." he said as he tapped your nose and you made a playful noise. too precious, too beautiful for him. he loved the sight of you seated with his cock in your mouth.

you continued to suck him off and max got both hands in your hair. he pressed you up against him a little tighter and let your throat clench around his cock. he remembered the first time you sputtered and coughed when he came in your mouth. but now you took it all like the champion he knew you were.

"you're going to do so well for the press." he said, "answer all their questions. be a good girl. you know you will be. just like you are now, taking me so beautifully." he patted your cheek lovingly before he pulled you further onto his cock once more.

he watched you shudder against him as you tried to take his entire length. you could almost feel his pubic hair against your nose as you whined against him. you whined a little bit from the back of your throat and continued to suck him off. you brought him pleasure that made the team principal see stars.

he cupped your face in those large hands for a moment, "you like that don't you? having me in your throat, you're so beautiful. i don't know if anyone told you about the bidding war to get you on my team." your eyes fluttered shut and he exhaled deeply, "had to play dirty."

you whimpered in response. you didn't know about the bidding war for you a year earlier. you knew that you had a few offers when you ended up in formula one.

those blue eyes looked down at you and max licked his lips. you could feel his gaze on you as he continued to rock up into your throat. he panted a little, he could feel his shirt cling to his toned back from the sweat. "not easy to get under hamilton's skin. but i got him to back off, the same with red bull. i only wanted the best and i got it. now she's sucking my cock and wearing my logo."

you whined a little bit and it was music to max's ears. you were his prize. your teammate was good too, but max didn't hear church bells when he was around. you were max's pet project, that he just simply happened to fuck often.

he'd make you a champion. team principals played favourites all the time, and max in a way was no better than them. at least max got something else out of it. those pretty soft lips around his cock. he held onto you tightly as he continued to thrust into your mouth.

you clung to him as you could feel the ache in your throat. you kept your eyes closed and you were wet between the thighs. max briefly got more aggressive with his thrusts before he finished in your mouth. you whimpered and swallowed it eagerly.

the salty taste in your mouth was familiar and you opened your eyes to look at your boss. when you pulled your mouth off of his cock. you kissed the tip and smiled at him a little.

if max had more time, he'd be making a full mess of you. but the press would want to see the star of the track soon enough. he rubbed his cock up against your lips and nose before he said, "i want you to wear the merch next time i fuck you. you're mine, got it?"

you nodded softly and said, "yes, mister verstappen. always."

when you did the interview, you still wore the outfit. despite protests from your boss. you were all smiles for the camera, but max lingered close by. just in case someone got the wrong idea. as if max's name and logo weren't plastered across your pretty tits. but, it did get the older man thinking as he watched from a short distance.

max's mind wandered to other ways to have you wear his logo. he wondered if collars and chokers were still popular with young women. he wondered if he could get you in something with a tag with his name on it. maybe it wouldn't be sold as merch for the public, but he wouldn't mind if his star driver wore it. <3

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fudgecake-charlie · 10 months ago

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"They think I’m the least dangerous person in this car, do they? Well, they’re about to learn very differently."

Decided to redraw a moment from On the Getaway Mile by Odaigahara on AO3/ @droidofmay !

This may have taken a ridiculous amount of hours condensed into a few days and I went through it drawing cars and car interiors, but this was an absolute blast to do :D I hope I've done the fic sort of justice.

Process shots and long comparison rambles under the cut!

Welcome to my secret lair!!

I spent roughly... 18 hours working on this, the majority during this week and over the past three days, so I need to share my toils with people <3

Character/car references and page thumbnails! Featuring an incorrect scene placement and bad camera position. I reread the scene and placed it properly in the actual page. I hate drawing cars!! I was actually the most worried about panel placement when I started this— I was a guy who only did non narrative/illustrative panel pages and layout-less comics, but it wasn't that bad with a script! I could separate beats into panels, note which panels should be emphasised/larger, and assembled that into a page.

If you compare the fic with this comic, you can see how much dialogue I edited and moments I cut out. I couldn't fit it all on without having to draw even more pages, I wish I could though! Poor Mumbo only gets one line here. I'm so sorry my darling man <3 I also gave him a slight cyborg design because his implants are really important for his character and I needed some way to visually show that, even if it's not canon/mentioned.

The colouring method for this was really fun! It's similar to my aggie rainbow painting method but with less steps, hence narrow value range. It looks pretty and gets the vibe across well though.

Rapid fire points!

I was planning to do 3 different fic comics! Not anymore!!!

This is absolutely for the hotguy comic zine applications. <3 "Can I try rizzing you up // PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE" /ref

I drew page 2 first, then 3, then 1. I think you can tell!

Mumbo is sitting on the wrong side and should have his seatbelt on. He's also not carrying the stolen laptop as described.

It's explicitly noted that Mumbo cannot scan Grian like he can with Scar. Whoops!

Transmissions from the Foundation are via Mumbo and Scar's implants, but I couldn't think of a good way to portray that.

Despite guns and weapons being mentioned, I somehow didn't get the opportunity to draw a single one.

I love hand lettering. I also hate it! I will continue to do it.

Here are the no colour pages as a thank you for scrolling <3

#goodtimeswithscar #grian #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #superhero au #I don't know what the typical cw tags are for no casualty car incidents but let me know and I'll tag it #same with the hostage mentions #cw gun mention #art out the oven #[scheduled]#with all my heart pls reblog if you can bcs i spent so long on this 🥺

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ellecdc · 9 months ago

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Hii, love your work. Can you please do a poly!marauders were slytherin reader feels insecure because she got jealous ran she is not use to it as she is consider slithering royalty and all. Is okay if you don’t. Take care <3<3

thanks for requesting lovie!!

poly!marauders x fem slytherin!reader CW: hurt/comfort, insecurity & slight jealousy, fluff

You felt ridiculous. How could you have been so naïve? How could you have thought this would leave you feeling any other way than you were feeling right now?

You watched as Sirius threw his head back and let out a boisterous laugh, his neck on full display as his hair fell behind his shoulders. He looked beautiful like this – completely serene in his joy. James was laughing too; his eyes scrunched closed as he leaned into Remus’ side, teeth shining so bright against his beautifully tanned skin. Remus had a wonderfully mischievous smirk on his face as he looked on at Sirius, pulling James further into his side before firing off some no doubt witty remark that you couldn’t hear from where you were standing. It was met with another round of laughter.

You don’t know what the joke was, you don’t know what was so funny. You’re not sure you want to know anyway; feeling sick at the sight of the boys surrounded by Gryffindor girls.

It wasn’t the girls that bothered you; you liked them – a lot - and you hated that you liked them. They were sweet and funny and easy going and so not you.

It was the easy familiarity that the boys had with them – the inside jokes, the years of having lived in the same tower, the friendships that fully preceded your relationship with the boys.

You could never manage Lily’s quick-witted comebacks. You could never compare to Marlene’s boisterous and colourful storytelling. You could never be Mary’s easy confidence in the group.

You’d never feel that comfortable, that casual, that at ease.

You felt like nothing.

Perhaps you were nothing...at least up here. You were all but royalty in the dungeons, but your notoriety didn’t follow you up to the Gryffindor tower.

You were such a fool.

You quickly turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You’d only been to Gryffindor tower once before – and it was in the middle of the night after a party in the room of requirement. The boys had said they would leave the portrait open for you to join them after you finished tutoring the first years in Transfiguration. Perhaps you should have known better.

Perhaps you should have known better.

Things were different in the light of day. You were different in the light of day. Certainly, they’d see that – they’d all see it. You were a fraud, getting by on borrowed time.

You should have known better.

You were waiting for the moving staircase when you heard your name being called.

“Hey Princess! Where’re ya headed?” James greeted as he caught up to you.

Your shoulders began to migrate up to your ears, embarrassed at getting caught sneaking off.

“Erm, I was just headed to my dorm, actually.” You admitted shyly. You felt even more guilty when you saw James’ face fall slightly.

“You didn’t want to hang out with us?” He teased, but you couldn’t help but notice the slight anxiety in his voice, looking like he was trying to stop himself from reaching out to you.

“There you are, gorgeous!” Sirius called from down the hall as he approached with Remus – no doubt having chased after you more slowly than James had on Remus’ account.

“Well? Come on then.” Remus said plainly as he held his hand out – for you to take or for you to hand him your book bag, you weren’t sure.

“Uhm, I-”

“She said she was heading back to her dorm.” James interjected.

Sirius scoffed. “Fat chance babe, you promised us a date! Come on, the girls are waiting for you.”

“For me?” You asked incredulously.

Remus seemed tired of holding his hand out for you, so he moved to take your bag from your grasp and pushed you into Sirius’ side who quickly hooked his arm in yours.

“’Course! They love hanging out with you. We told them they could hang with us for five minutes only though – then we get you all to ourselves.” He said shoving his nose into your jaw before finishing his sentence with a kiss to your cheek.

“I didn’t know they cared for me at all.” You admitted, more to yourself than to anyone else.

Remus hummed as he moved to walk on your other side, his hand not currently holding your book bag safely enveloped in James’. “Is that why you were running away before?”

You felt like you were going to melt into the stone floor out of pure shame “I wasn’t running...” You huffed.

Sirius scoffed at you again. “Sure; you never run, and James doesn’t strut. Come on dollface, why were you running from us?”

“I... I wasn’t running from you.”

Remus nudged his shoulder gently against yours, forcing you to sway listlessly further into Sirius’ side. “Did you get a little too caught up in your own head again?”

Honestly, the ground could swallow you up at this point, thank you very much – you both loved and hated that these boys could read you like the back of a potions textbook.

“I guess.”

“Sweetheart.” James cooed at you before he stepped out in front of you, forcing everyone to come to a stop. “We talked about this, yeah? You’re supposed to tell us when you’re feeling like this.” He punctuated his words by rubbing your upper arms and bending down to force you to make eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry.” You admitted, feeling embarrassingly close to tears.

“We don’t want you to be sorry, love. We want you to talk to us, that’s all. We care about you an awful lot – and so do the girls. We want you to feel comfortable with us.” Remus added softly. You groaned in response.

“But I can’t!” You stated perhaps more sharply than the moment called for. “I can’t.” You amended more softly.

“Can’t what, babes?” Sirius encouraged.

“I can’t be like you guys. Or your friends. I can’t be quick and funny, or loud and exciting, or confident and mellow. You are all the same, and I’m just...” you trailed off pathetically at the feeling of a tear fall from your lash line.

“Oh, my love.” James cooed softly as he moved to wipe the offending tear from your face with his thumb.

“We don’t want you to be like us or them, dolly. Did you ever think about that?” Sirius questioned. You moved your dejected gaze to him. “Maybe we like you because you’re not like us; simply because you are the way you are.”

“I love how calm and collected you are all the time. Whenever the room feels too loud – I look for you.” James admitted.

“And I love how you’re always listening, even if you’re not actively participating in the conversation. I know you have smarter things to add to the conversation than the rest of us do, but you’re just as happy to let us flounder before one of us relents and asks you for your opinion.” Sirius said with a smirk.

“And I love how you’ve never once let your anger dictate how you behave. I’d go as far as to say you’ve never been angry, but I know everyone gets angry. So that just tells me that you are incredibly introspective, and face things with a clear mind.” Remus added.

“None of us are like that – none of us could ever be you.” James concluded with a gentle squeeze of your shoulder.

You allowed their words to sink in before taking a shuddering breath and returning your gaze to them. “I’m sorry for running earlier.”

James offered you a lopsided smile. “Don’t be – just tell us next time, yeah?”

You quickly agreed with a nod of your head, and he moved in to press his lips to yours.

“We better hurry.” Sirius said, squeezing your hand twice in his. “Marlene’s dying to hear your stories about the silly little first years from your tutoring group. She couldn’t stop talking about how funny your stories were last time.”

Perhaps you had no reason to feel insecure at all.

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asapeveryday · 5 months ago

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FANTASY - K.TOBIO

Pairing: (time skip)Kageyama Tobio x Reader

Warnings: sexual fantasies :)

Summary: you’d had a crush on tobio through most of high school, he was your friend and he was cute, so it was only natural. When he sends you a ticket to his game on japan’s official team, that crush is reawakened in a far more mature way.

A/n: I’m gonna be spouting out sum haikyu stuff hopefully 🙏

RED IS A COLOUR you’re not quite accustomed to seeing him in.

It was only a year ago when he was adorned in the beloved navy and orange uniform, a bold number nine spread on his back where a new shiny number twenty now occupies.

Everyone changes in that first year after high school, but seeing Tobio again in person only makes it more apparent. His already broad shoulders have broadened, his arms as built as you remember if not more. His hair still short and sleek, a deep black that accentuates the blue abyss that is his eyes.

You can recall all the times you’d lost yourself, drowned in the sight of his face and his unwavering stare. Of course he never though much of it, dismissing your gaze as being zoned out. You were lucky he was so oblivious of his attractive appearance at that time, because you were nothing short of smitten.

You didn’t particularly care for volleyball unless he was playing. He has a way of engulfing everything in the game, you’ve never seen him so in tune with himself and his surroundings as you have on the court. You forgot how demanding his presence is, even on a team of amazing players he still drew attention.

The look on his face, eyes trained on the ball, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, eyebrow’s slightly furrowed, red fabric hugging his athletic body just right. It sends an embarrassing shiver through your body that you haven’t experienced since graduating from Karasuno.

It’s his turn to serve and his expression is focused as ever, posture alert and fingers spinning the ball with ease. You can’t help but lock your eyes onto his hands, toying with the volleyball as his chest expands and deflates with every fleeting breath.

The ball is in the air, and his palm makes contact powerful as a spark of electricity.

BAM.

The noise is terrifying, echoing through the whole stadium. the way the ball hits the other side of the court within bounds as Japan’s side of the stands erupt with screams of triumph is cinematic. You find yourself joining the yells of joy, smiling at the sight of Tobio loosening up, a slight smirk gracing his face as he nods at his teammates.

‘God.’ You think. ‘I feel like I’m a kid again, watching him play.’

When he sends another earthshaking serve across the court you can’t help but press your legs together. ‘No,’ you think again. ‘This is different. I feel different.’

He’s ready to really start playing now, jaw in the air and teeth bared into a dangerous grin that you just barely saw during high school. The way his arms flex with every pass, the way his fingers nimbly send the ball to his teammates or over the net, the way his toned thighs tense with every crouch to receive the ball. It just might send you over the edge, sparking thoughts that almost never graced your mind during your friendship with him.

You can see it; his hands caging you in as he hovers above you, careful not to lean his weight onto your body. You can imagine the sensation of his knee in between your legs as he tenderly kisses your lips. Tobio never cared for girls in high school, but you can imagine that a year of playing pro has widened his experience in various ways. Still, you can’t see the boy being rough with you, not when he’d sneak you notes in class or apologize for even touching you in the slightest.

Unless in one of his bad moods, you can see Kageyama Tobio being sweet. Though his length may touch places you could only dream of reaching, pumping in and out of you with the power and stamina he’s worked so hard for these past years, you know he’d kiss you like you were his first love, like he depends on the air you exhale.

“Missed you s’much.” He’d utter under against your neck, painting your skin pink and purple and his hips buck into your heat fervently. “I’ve wanted you for so long.” He’d say, and you’d mewl in response, wanting to tell him about how you longed for his focus on you since you were a first year in high school but unable to form the words.

Still, you’d like to imagine he’d know, that you wouldn’t have to tell him about how much you looked forward to his games, to staying back late after school and throwing balls for him and Hinata, to sitting with him at lunch and attempting to tutor him before giving up and going for a walk with him instead. You relished your conversations with the blue eyed boy, he was straight forward and honest. He knew exactly what he wanted out of his life at the time, and you secretly hoped you were included in that.

You couldn’t think of him this way back then, it felt wrong seeing as he trusted you so innocently as a friend and nothing more. Everything was different now. You can see it clear as day from your spot on the stands.

This Tobio, the one currently staring down a player on the opposite side of the net. He wouldn’t mind how the sight of his face coats your underwear with arousal, he wouldn’t care if you pressed yourself against him.

The thought of him spreading you open in that intricate nature of his, deep blue eyes staring up at you as his tongue explores between your legs, nipping at the soft flesh of your inner thighs before delving and devoting himself to your core.

When Kageyama committed to something, he did so to the fullest of his ability. Should he decide you’re worthy of climaxing at his hands, you’re sure he’d make sure it’s the best climax of your life.

You can’t help but bite your lip and pinch your thigh at the idea. It’s shameful how you’re staring at him straight on while fantasizing about cumming in his mouth or all over his dick, but it also adds a rush of adrenaline.

You finally shake the thoughts off when the final point is earned, Japan winning their first game of the Olympic Season. The stands erupt in celebration, you scream and laugh with the strangers by you as if you’re old friends. When your eyes part from the people seated beside you and find the court, you almost freeze at the sight that meets you.

He’s found you in the crowd, presumably remembering the exact ticket he bought you. Despite this newer, more adult version of Tobio initially shocking you, with one look at his face you know one thing hasn’t changed.

He’s still your friend, and his still thinks about you.

Tobio smiles almost nervously when your eyes lock on his, and he subtlety nods towards you. It’s enough to make your heart melt, and enough to fuel fantasies for a lifetime.

#fanfiction #fanfic #haikyuu tobio #kageyama tobio #kageyama x reader #x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu smut #haikyu smut #haikyu x reader #hq tobio #hq #hq x reader #hq smut #smut

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fastandcarlos · 4 months ago

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Mini Me : ̗̀➛ Sebastian Vettel

summary: one step at a time, seb plans on changing the world, and his little shadow is desperate to join him

Your smile widened as a familiar voice called through the house, spinning round to watch Seb as he slipped off his jacket, hanging it up by the door.

“Hi darling,” he grinned, walking into the kitchen to where you were.

“Hi,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around Seb’s neck as his grabbed at your waist. “How was your day?”

“It was good, some interesting meetings,” Seb mused, “not as good as being here though.”

“We’ve had a pretty busy day, I think you’d be quite impressed to see.”

“Can I?” Seb excitedly asked, pressing a kiss against your cheek. “Where is Lila anyway?”

“Living room,” you grinned, glancing through the slight gap in the doors to where your daughter was sat on the floor. “She’s been watching documentaries most of the afternoon, seems like she’s going to be a bit of a wildlife warrior like her father when she’s older,” you added, watching as Seb’s smile lit up.

He’d always prided himself on instilling his morals and awareness for the world on his daughter. He taught her a lot about protecting the environment, even though she was only five, Seb still made sure she knew her little things could have a major impact.

“Lila!” You shouted across to her, “there’s someone here who wants to see you.”

Your daughter scrambled to her feet, knowing exactly who you were on about. She couldn’t get to the kitchen quick enough, leaping into the air as Seb caught her and twirled her around.

“Mummy said that you’ve been busy, what have you been up to?” He asked her.

“Let me show you,” your daughter squealed, kicking out for Sebastian to put her down on the ground, running back into the room.

Seb stood impatiently as your daughter ran back in, holding several pieces of paper in her hands, laying them down on the floor for Seb to see. Each one had a different picture on it, with big text that you had drawn for your daughter to colour in.

“Wow,” Seb chuckled as he looked through each one. The posters your daughter had made were covered with endangered animals, many of them ones that her father had told her all about as he taught her about the world.

“I’m going to take them into school next week,” Lila informed him.

“There’s a show and tell at school next week,” you added, filling Seb in, “Lila wants to help educate some of her classmates about the planet.”

Seb almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing, struggling to believe that his little girl would do such a thing. Little did Seb realise quite how much his daughter idolised him though, wanting to stand for everything her dad stood for too.

“These are amazing sweetheart,” Seb complimented, reaching across and pulling Lila across to him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m sure everyone in your class will be blown away by these.”

“Do you really like them?”

“I don’t just like them, I love them,” Seb insisted, bringing a smile to her face again.

“We spent a lot of time making them, didn’t we Lila?”

“Mummy did all the letters, she said if I wrote them no one would know what they say,” she chuckled, poking her tongue out across at you. You shrugged back at her as Seb gave you a knowing look, chuckling to himself at you.

You’d tried your best to be as helpful as possible, but just like her dad, Lila was stubborn when she had a vision in mind. You helped where you could, but when you weren’t needed, she definitely let you know about it.

“Maybe you’ll have to get daddy to tell you some more information, you can teach your class,” you offered, watching their smiles turn up again.

“Would you help me daddy?” Lila quizzed.

“Of course, it would be my honour,” Seb smiled.

“I want to teach everyone about the planet, like how you always teach me to pick up rubbish and re…re…re, what’s the word again daddy?”

Seb couldn’t help but laugh as Lila struggling, ruffling the top of her head. “You want to teach your friends about recycling?”

Everywhere the two of you went Seb made sure to teach your daughter the importance of recycling and keeping things clean. The two of them had been known to go down to your local park with bin bags, picking up anything that they found.

“I bet you’re an expert on it Lila,” Seb chimed.

“No, but I want daddy to help me with it.”

“I’ll help, don’t worry.”

Your daughter climbed into Seb’s lap where he sat on the floor, wrapping her arms around his frame, squeezing him tight as if to silently thank him for his help.

“What about mummy? Can she help us too?” Seb asked, catching a glance of you smiling, watching their interactions closely.

“Mummy doesn’t care about the planet as much as we do, she’s done enough already.”

“Hey!” You laughed, your eyes widening in disbelief, “I care about keeping everything healthy and safe thank you.”

“This is our project now,” she challenged, shaking her head at you. “Daddy and I are going to start planning whilst you cook tea.”

“The boss has spoken,” Seb helplessly grinned, knowing out of the three of you Lila was definitely the one in charge.

“I can’t believe I’m being kicked out the team when I was the one who came up with the idea,” you gasped, pretending to hold your hand over your heart, letting Lila know just how disappointed you were.

“Sorry,” Seb whispered across to you as your daughter ran away again.

“I guess I just can’t compete with you,” you teased, offering your hand to help Seb up off of the floor. “Come on old man, it looks like our bossy madam is already waiting for you in the living room to get started.”

“I suppose you deserve some peace and quiet after having her all day,” Seb reasoned, groaning as he stood up.

“Lila’s much harder work than I bet driving a race car ever was,” you sniggered, nudging him in the direction of the living room. “I’ll give you a shout when tea is ready, if you can leave your little project alone for a minute.”

For the rest of the evening Seb and Lila put together her own presentation to give at school next week. You’d worked together to exhaust her so come bed she was flat out, leaving the two of you stretched out on the sofa just a couple of hours later, hands intertwined in with one another lazily.

You were blissfully unaware of Seb’s eyes on you as you rested into his side, struggling to keep your eyes open after a day of running around after your daughter on your own. It was only when he chuckled that you finally looked up at him, smiling wide as you noticed the big grin that was on his own face.

“How did we raise such a caring, kind-hearted girl?” You smiled, reaching up to cup the side of Seb’s face with your hand.

“Because we’ve taught her all the good in the world, and she’s got the best mum in the world,” Seb joked, kissing against the top of your head.

“You’re the one that teaches her all of these amazing things,” you reminded him.

“We’re both pretty cool then.”

“She definitely takes after you,” you argued, nudging against Seb’s side. “She’s the definition of like father, like daughter.”

“I never imagined myself having my own mini me.”

“You’ve definitely got one now.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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wakeup01 · 9 months ago

Text

Playing It Straight

“Roomieee. I need your help with something.” I hear the telltale high pitched cry from my twinky roommate Yuan’s bedroom. The last thing I need right now is his whiny ass distracting me.

“What it is? I have a date with this hot chick in half an hour. You better have clothes on this time dude.” My hand pushes the door to his room ajar and I see him laying down on the bed facing away from me. There was some upbeat trashy pop song playing on his sound system. Yuan begins to gyrate to the beat. “Don’t dance. No dancing.” I order bluntly, turning off his music.

There was being gay and then there was Yuan, who seemed to make it his whole identity. It was bad enough his room was colour coded in pastel purples to match his dusty lavender hair. But he had now painted the whole door too.

“It’s my big butt, I think there’s something wrong with it.” He announces with fake concern, rolling his hips on the bed sheet - revealing more of his smooth slim body than I ever dared wish to see. I make a internal note to ‘mace own eyes later’.

Yuan was not as innocent as he liked to make out and had on numerous occasions attempted to trick me into indulging in his fantasies. Gifting me a bright crop top and calling it a ‘fashionable tank top’ - it certainly turned heads at the gym the one day I wore it, or inviting me to a progressive club with the promise of scoring ‘lots of ass’. And the less said about ‘locktober’ the better, that was NOT a halloween costume. Only last week he had convinced me to listen to some gay as fuck audio tapes while I slept; obviously that crap didn’t work on a man like me. His justification always being ‘you’ll like it, I swear’. This one was a bit on the nose, even for him.

“Dude we talked about this, I’m flattered, really. I get it, I’m a gay bottoms wet dream. I can’t blame you for eying my superior meat.” I puff out my well built chest, barely contained in my tank top. “But fuck, it ain’t gonna happen.” I attempt to not make eye contact with him as he looks over his shoulder at me.

“No, like seriously. Something feels wrong, can you pleeease juth take a looksee. Pretty please.” He pulls down his shorts and moons me as I shield my eyes. It’s like the sun, you’re safe if you don’t look directly at it, right? Internal note: ‘buy more mace’.

“Serious like when you said we were in a ‘mandatory hand holding zone?” I hear muffled giggling coming from his pillow. “Bro it’s probably from all the things you shove up it.” I shudder, trying not to picture THAT in my head. “I’ll look but only if you promise me that you’ll drop that ‘I know you’re secretly gay bullshit.’ My friends at the gym heard that crap last time.”

“Hehe. Ooo thuch a manly jock. Geez, I pwromise. Meathead.” Yuan winks at me and I hated him for it. Hated the weird way it made me feel in my chest.

I sigh loudly for effect and bend down until the cleft of his…cheek is at eye level. I felt so self conscious, how on earth did he talk me into this? I look at my chiseled body just to remind myself, yes I am a man. A masculine man. God, here we go. My eyes briefly glance across his—ew—his raised butt before I quickly look away.

“Bruh I don’t see a thing. It’s a mans butt. Congratulations.” What the hell am I even looking for? I’m sat on the floor checking out a dude’s…posterior. And for what?

“Come on, look clother.” Yuan insists with a slight lisp, curving his back and pushing his rear higher.” Again, I look at my thick biceps, yes, still a man.

His hands pull at his buttocks and slowly part them, revealing his tight hole to me. Woah. One glimpse was all it took. I should have recoiled but instead I was fascinated. I’d never seen a man’s hole before, it was different…

I hear him say something to me but whatever it was, it didn’t seem too important. I couldn’t stop staring, it was like looking into a black hole, and the more I looked the more enraptured I became. It was distorting my worldview, it made me feel like I had been missing out on something all these years.

“Helloooo! See anything?”

“Uuhhh. Maybe.” I mumble, my head getting closer to his rear.

I pull away his hands and replace them with my own, laying my fingers across his round cheeks and spreading them wider. Wow, it was…dare I say, enticing? The rest of the room faded from my mind as my eyes fall deeper into his needy, winking hole. I lean in and my nose makes contact with his crack. I can’t help myself, I inhale and suck up his scent, it acts like an immediate aphrodisiac. My cock wakes up, poking against the edge of the bed.

“You have been lithening to your programming for me then. Good Meathead. Remember when you were the stuck-up clever one, going to college? That was thuch a bore.”

“Say what bro?” College? Did I…? Nah. That smart shit wasn’t for me bro, my head was like beef central. I haven’t a clue what he’s talking about but I was happy to be a good fucking meathead. Something in my mind told me I was supposed to be. It made me even more pumped about the gym session tomorrow, I gotta bulk up my pecs.

“Make sure to take lots of selfies tomorrow ‘bro’, I need to see your gains.” I continue to breathe in the sweet aroma emanating from his behind. What was I doing again? “So, anything there dummy? How about now?” giggle “Isn’t it likth so big.”

He wiggles his hips and pushes back into my face, my lips making contact with his boy pussy. My eyes go wide. Fuck, this was soo gay. I should be revolted, why am I still down here? I could get up and walk away whenever…whenever I wanted to. Suddenly my mouth felt parched, like I had spent a week in the desert. It became clear where this was going. I’m not sure if I could even stop myself at this point, one tiny thing could tip me over the edge and disintegrate my own self image. It was as If I was having an out of body experience, seeing myself pressed against him. I wouldn’t, I was stronger than this. I was straight. Straight as an arrow… straight as a…

“Eat up jock.”

F—fuck. My lips open and my tongue presses up against his rear, dragging up and down between his cheeks and then swirling around his inviting hole. It was like a dam breaking, once I started I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. He tasted too good. Ready for the main course, my tongue dives deep into him and begins to eat him out in earnest, my mouth sucking at his entrance like I’m slurping on a ice cream filling.

While giving him a very manly rimjob I think of a solution to our problem. I finish up indulging in his sweet cake and pull my face out, slapping his jiggly butt cheeks.

“So what’s the issue?” He asks impatiently.

“It’s empty for one. Huhuhu. But I can fix that bro.” I say confidently, rushing to remove my underwear so I can finally nut inside him.

I push his skinny back down against the bed and line up my monster cock with his lubricated hole. Yuan moans into his pillow like he should. I slide into him with ease and flex my arms, feeling proud at ‘conquering’ my roommates hole.

“Good Meathead.” He praises between loud panting. “Mmm. But I thought you were straight.”

“I am. Unff. Just helping a bro out. No homo. Though I do need to see if there’s anything wrong with your throat after I plant my seed in your hole.”

______________________________

The next day.

“Man that was a fucking lit workout.” I exclaim, marvelling at my bulging muscles. I tense my arms and see my veins pop, sweat dripping to the floor. “Though you losers sure focused a lot on your glutes today. Hey—aren’t you ‘queens’ gonna shower?” I turn as my gym bros stop behind me in the locker room.

“Well… we spoke to your roommate about your progress yesterday.” Xavier states, removing his damp muscle tee - his dark shiny skin reflecting the harsh lights from overhead.

Yesterday…for some reason my memories from the day before were a blur. For the life of me I can’t remember what happened. There was some strange taste lingering in my mouth that had been making my dick hard all day. My roommate was certainly in a suspiciously good mood this morning too and made some strange comments about me ‘being hungry for more’.

“About what bro? That Yuan can kiss my ass. Huhuh. Come on, stop checking out each others dicks and let’s go!”

“Uh see, he thinks you’re now ready to be our…” I’d never seen him so unsure of himself before, I roll my eyes at him and slam my locker closed.

“Y’all acting like a bunch of girls.” I swear if Yuan is back to spewing his gay bullshit again…

“Go on. Say it.” One of the others insists, nudging Xavier’s shoulder.

Xavier hesitates and then looks away from me, his cheeks flushing red. “There’s uh, there’s something wrong with my…butt…so could you?” The others fail to stifle a laugh.

I do a double take as Xavier turns and points his toned ass at me, his jockstrap framing it like a wrapped gift. “What the fuck? Bruh what are you doing? Put that shit away.”

“Be a good Meathead.”

I see a flash of my roommates butt cross my minds eye. Uhhh. My cock throbs at the image. Before I know it my legs are kneeling behind my friend, what am I doing? My body certainly seems to be one step ahead, my hands grab at his muscled legs for support. “What the actual fuck. Guys…” I’ve never felt so embarrassed, how am I ever gonna live this down?

A hand pulls on the strap hugging Xaviers left buttock and lets go, letting it snap back into place, a slight jiggle vibrates over his firm rear. Was it my hand? I couldn’t even tell.

“Holy shit. I can’t believe those tapes actually worked. He’s come a long way since he was that scrawny nerd, thinking he was above everyone. Now he’s dumber than all of us. We just need Yuan to join us next. Damn someone make sure to record this” It was hard to take in what they were saying, my mind was fixated…elsewhere. One of them leans down to my side and points their phone camera at my zoned out face. “Dude, we stink…I’m next after you.” Someone pats my back as another hand holds my shoulder in place. “Nothing more manly than licking the salty sweat off a bro’s butt.”

No….

Xavier bends forward, his pert dark cheeks pulling apart - sweat glistening on their surface. And then I see it. What my body craved. His hole. Everything falls into place, my mouth watering at the sight, my eyes entranced. I could no longer deny what I wanted, deny the inevitability of what I was about to do. The depravity would be immortalised on camera too, my dumb face shoved in a mans ass. Oh fuck.

The perfect black void nestled between his tight buttocks seems to suck away my shame as I lick my lips. “So manly.” I repeat to the crowd that had gathered around me. Mmm. Rimming a man’s ass was almost as good as fucking it. I wanted a taste of all the guys, their shiny sweaty bodies, their musk. It was my place in the group, I was their meathead after all. My cock was already throbbing at the thought. Maybe Yuan was onto something with this whole ‘gay’ thing. Yeah, let’s try going full homo. Huhuhuh. Anything for the bros, bro.

Looking down at me confidently, Xavier grips the back of my head.

“Clean my hole bruh.”

_____________________________

A few days later I check in on Yuan to see his progress after a few nights obliviously listening to his ‘jocking’ tapes. Dude, I’m going to enjoy watching him slowly bulk up and dumb down. He’s sat up in bed casually tugging at his cock, mouth agape. The heavy thumping bass of trap music is blaring from his speakers. His room is a complete mess.

“How’s it hanging lil bro?”

“Just…mm—wanking.”

“Can see, Meathead. Hung and dumb, nice. I think you’re about ready to join us at the gym.”

“Hmm. Roomie, I—I need your help with something. It’s my big dick…”

“Huhuhu, there’s something wrong with it, let me be a bro and give you a hand with that stick.” I climb over him and wrap my lips around his cock.

“Thuck…ahem. Fuck yeah brooo!”

#brainwashing #gay #jock #straight to gay

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whitedarkmoonflower · 6 months ago

Text

Indelicate proposal

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: @thatawkwardlittlefangirl and @itzavahere I told you I'll blame you both for planting this idea into my head. So here it is and I've no idea why this initially short drabble grew into something so monstrous as it is now. I just hope you'll enjoy. And this is the meme that actually triggered it all 😅

Warnings: fluff, SMUT 18+, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, sub/dom undertones, slightly dominant reader, praise kink, hints to past abuse, Sihtric being a bit lost but absolutely the sweetest (don't know whether this is a warning but just in case 😅)

Summary: an unexpected proposal leads to more unexpected actions as you discover the surprisingly soft core of the young warrior seeking your attention. Can't claim there is much plot despite the word count

Word Count: 7,1 K

"Sihtric is with us now," Uhtred declared simply, devoid of any pomp or solemnity. The decision was made, requiring no further confirmation.

From the sidelines, you had observed the scene unfold beside Lady Gisela, your hand poised on the hilt of your sword, ready to spring into action if need be, prepared to protect her if necessary. Your eyes scanned every slight movement of the young prisoner, who held Halig hostage.

His slender yet well-built frame was taut like a drawn bow, every muscle vibrating with tension. His eyes darted nervously around the gathering, briefly meeting your scrutinising gaze before settling on Uhtred.

Wide and expressive, his eyes, framed by thick lashes, gleamed with a blend of despair and determination. Despite the tightness in his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils, there was no hint of malice or cruelty in his gaze, only a fierce resolve to endure, akin to that of a trapped wild animal.

A fresh wound above the Dane's temple left a hint of red in his short-cropped hair on the sides. The purple blue bruise marrying his left eye, the fresh cuts and scrapes on his arms, and his bleeding nose and lip added to his battered appearance. He was young, likely even a few summers younger than yourself, but the way his muscles rippled beneath the skin, told you there was much more hidden beneath his youthful and even soft features.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you observed the young Dane, realising that his greenness might have lulled the vigilance of the guards tasked with watching him. It was a tactic you knew well, one you had used to your advantage countless times before.

Gisela's worried whisper broke through your thoughts. "Do you believe he can be trusted?"

"We'll have to see," you responded with a nonchalant shrug, drawing your dagger from its sheath, prompted by Uhtred's nod in your direction.

Approaching the young man cautiously, your eyes locked onto his, noticing the dilation of his pupils and the tense set of his muscles. It was evident he was unsure of what to expect from you and braced himself instinctively for an attack.

"Hands," you demanded, tilting your head. He tried to maintain composure, but his breath betrayed him, quickening as his chest rose and fell unevenly. With a hesitant glance at Uhtred and the others dispersing from the clearing, leaving just the two of you behind, he extended his bound hands toward you. They trembled slightly, his chest now still as he held his breath in anticipation.

Pressing your dagger against the ropes, you made a swift cut, eliciting a sharp exhale from Sihtric. His eyes followed the falling remnants of the ropes, landing at his feet, his hands remaining outstretched as if in disbelief of his newfound freedom.

Raising his gaze to meet yours, your eyes locked - two deep pools of different colours filled with a mixture of alarm and trepidation, an unspoken question hanging in the air between you.

"You're free," you confirmed, and a faint smile touched the corners of the young warrior’s lips, though it failed to reach his eyes, a subtle sadness lurking within their depths.

Sheathing your dagger, you turned to leave, but halted after a few steps, casting a questioning glance back. Sihtric remained where you had left him, rubbing his wrists, a perplexed and somewhat sheepish expression gracing his handsome features. A smile tugged at your lips as you observed him, a curious warmth blooming within you. It seemed he was at a loss for what to do now that his audacious plan to gain Uhtred’s attention had unexpectedly granted him freedom.

"Sihtric, are you coming?" you called out, surprised when the young Dane visibly flinched at the sound of his name. His eyes flicked towards you, and in the next moment, he hurried into motion, falling into step behind you.

"Can't you sit still?" you whispered with exasperation, your patience wearing thin. Cleaning Sihtric’s head wound had become a challenging endeavour, akin to trying to pin down a spooked animal. He squirmed and shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, his hands restless as they roamed from the collar of his armour to his sides and back again, as if uncertain where to settle.

It was evident that the simple act of being tended to was deeply unsettling for him. As you reached out again with the damp rag, Sihtric, caught off guard by your movement, flinched and nearly leaped from his seat. In his startled reaction, he accidentally overturned the bowl of warm water you held, splashing both you and the ground.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he hastily clasped his hands between his knees. Avoiding your gaze, his eyes darted around the tent, searching for a means of escape.

You furrowed your brow, taking a step back to observe the young Dane before you, who seemed as though he'd prefer to vanish into thin air.

It all felt painfully familiar, an almost long-forgotten image emerging in the back of your mind like a jagged shard of glass. You saw her clearly, that young girl with wild hair and desperate eyes, caught in the act of stealing from a lady with cascading dark curls and a smile that could melt the coldest heart.

You had snarled and recoiled when she reached out to touch your unkempt locks, expecting a whip but met with only kindness. She offered you food, a bath, and clothes to replace the ragged remnants hanging from your frail frame. Yet, despite this generosity, you fled the very same night. Sneaking out of the room offered to you, you ran without looking back, incapable to comprehend why you were treated with such goodness, feeling suffocated by it all, unable to bear the weight of her compassion.

A month later, you encountered her again in the bustling marketplace of Eoferwick, your fingers once more grasping for the purse at her side.

"My name is Gisela," she had said, her smile unwavering as you returned the stolen purse later that evening, cheeks flushed with shame. From that moment on, you never strayed from her side.

Meanwhile Sihtric’s gaze had shifted downward, fixated on his worn boots. Shoulders slumped and slightly hunched over, the young warrior, possessing the strength and skill to disarm two grown men with his hands securely bound, resembled a child caught in mischief, anticipating reprimand.

You softened your expression and extended a reassuring smile towards him. "It's alright, Sihtric," you said gently, your tone soothing as you reached out, resting your hand on his shoulder. "Just try to relax. Can you do that for me? We'll get through this together. You’re safe here."

Retrieving a bowl from the ground, you headed outside to fetch warm water from the kettle over the crackling fire.

"Would you mind if I tended to your wounds?" you asked, your tone tender, pausing to give him space. You sensed how crucial it was for him to feel in control, so you waited patiently, allowing him to make his own decision.

After a moment of uncertainty, Sihtric acquiesced with a slow nod, exhaling deeply. His gaze remained fixed on you as you drew near, this time handing him the bowl to occupy his restless hands. As you resumed your task of cleaning away the blood and applying salve to the bruises, a sense of relief washed over you as Sihtric remained seated, clutching the bowl as if it were a lifeline. Despite his body still being tense and his breaths ragged, he managed to keep himself still long enough for you to complete your work.

"It looks much better now," you remarked with a smile, stepping aside to assess the result of your efforts.

"It seems you've got yourself a new admirer," Gisela teased, nudging you in the side with a playful smile.

"What?" you replied, pretending to be clueless.

"Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed the way that young Dane looks at you. What was his name again?"

"You mean Sihtric?" you confirmed.

"Yes, Sihtric," Gisela chuckled, holding onto your hand despite your attempt to pull away.

"Tell me all about him!"

"There's not much to tell," you dismissed, feeling a bit bashful.

"Come on, he practically can't take his eyes off you. Your horse has never looked better, and your gear is always impeccably cared for. How many times has he leapt to his feet, overthrowing the bench he was sitting on, to fetch you ale before you've even asked?"

Of course, you couldn't overlook any of it. Over the past week, Sihtric had become like your shadow. Your horse received extra care, your weapons gleamed with attention, even the loose ropes of your tent were neatly secured, and the kettle by your fire was constantly refilled with fresh water.

You tried to reason with him, insisting that such efforts weren't necessary. You were perfectly capable of handling your own belongings. Yet, he remained resolute. He didn’t argue with you, offering only a simple, "Yes, lady," with his gaze cast downward and his arms stiff at his sides. The following day, when you approached the horses, your mare was already tended to, her coat gleaming and her feed replenished.

"Sihtric, what are you doing here?" you exclaimed, surprised to find the young warrior curled up near the entrance of your tent, wrapped in the furs and blankets you had provided for him on his first day in camp.

Lost in discussions with Uhtred and Gisela about Guthred's intended negotiations with the Turgilsons brothers, time had slipped away from you. Sihtric had proven invaluable, gathering crucial intelligence on the brothers' forces and camp location, earning praise and rewards from Uhtred. Alongside his prowess with a blade, the young Dane showed remarkable cunning as a spy and scout, excelling at remaining unnoticed.

Regret washed over you as your words escaped, realising the abruptness of your tone. Sihtric practically jumped to his feet, rubbing his eyes and trying to regain composure, his expression a mixture of bewilderment and panic as he surveyed his surroundings.

“Why aren’t you sleeping in your tent?” you asked, lowering your voice and aiming for a soothing tone.

“I... Um... Clapa snores,” he offered uncertainly.

“Are you spying on me?”

“No, lady, why would I? I... I wouldn’t dare. I just wanted to be close in case you needed something.”

“Sihtric, we've had this discussion before. You're not my servant. I can take care of my horse and my weapons just fine,” you said firmly, the frustration evident in your tone.

Sihtric's shoulders dropped, and he cast his gaze downwards. “Are you upset with me, my lady? Did I do something wrong?”

“Wrong? Sihtric, my horse will burst if you keep feeding her like this, and I fear there'll soon be a hole polished into my sword.”

“I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean any harm. I only wanted to help, to be of use. I won't bother you anymore,” Sihtric stammered, hastily gathering his belongings.

A pang of sympathy tugged at your heart. You hadn't intended to hurt his feelings, but you clearly had.

“Wait, don't go. I didn't mean it like that,” you reached out instinctively, gripping his arm in an attempt to stop him from leaving.

Sihtric froze as your fingers grazed his skin, his breath seeming to catch in his throat. Sensing his discomfort, you quickly withdrew your hand.

“I'm sorry,” you apologised, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I truly appreciate your help, Sihtric. It's just that sometimes it feels a bit overwhelming.”

Your gaze softened as you looked at the young man before you. Despite your initial suspicions, you couldn't deny the genuine kindness in his demeanour. His innocence and vulnerability reminded you of yourself in many ways, and the way he often appeared completely lost and overwhelmed by his new surroundings was so familiar to you that against your better judgement, you found yourself growing fond of him. Perhaps even more than you were ready to admit.

“Can I offer you some hot tea?” you suddenly asked, eager to show him a bit of appreciation. Sihtric nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You held the tent flaps open, inviting him inside with a graceful gesture. Sihtric followed, still clutching the bundle of furs and blanket in his arms. Inside, you swiftly illuminated the tent with the warm glow of candles, then located two cups and filled them with herbs and hot water. Turning back to your guest, who stood just a few steps from the entrance, you offered him a welcoming smile.

“Would you like to take a seat?” you asked, extending your arm with the cup towards Sihtric. He set the bundle on the ground and accepted the offered cup, but remained rooted to the spot. You watched as he wrapped his palms around the cup, which seemed almost small in his large hands. The intricate lines tattooed on his fingers caught your eye, and wondered if they held any special meaning, but you decided against asking.

Sihtric shifted nervously from one foot to another, lifting the cup to his lips for a small sip. Several times, he seemed on the verge of speaking, but each time, the words eluded him.

You observed him quietly for a moment, allowing the soothing silence to linger a little longer. It was evident that something weighed heavily on the young warrior's mind, but you didn’t want to press him.

Eventually, your curiosity got the better of you, prompting you to break the silence. “Is there something you want to say, Sihtric?” you inquired, offering him an encouraging smile.

“I… I’m not sure how to put it,” Sihtric muttered, his gaze flitting around as he took a tentative step back towards the entrance, as if contemplating a hasty departure. It wasn't the first time you noticed his tendency to seek an exit strategy.

With deliberate steps, you approached, trying not to appear too imposing, and halted directly in front of him, meeting his gaze with gentle assurance. “Go ahead, I’m all ears,” you prompted, offering him your full attention.

“I mean… I wanted to… I wanted to ask you… if maybe you and I… if I could…” His words stumbled over each other, his breath quickening, cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment. “Would you mind if I… if I humped you?” he finally blurted out in a single breath, his gaze darting nervously to the ground.

“You what?” You choked on the hot liquid you had just brought to your lips, spluttering it onto Sihtric’s leather armour. The surprise and incredulity in your voice were difficult to mask.

"Gods… I… I like you. You are so beautiful and kind. I’ve never met someone like you and… and… please don’t be angry with me. I… I can give you everything I have, all my rings, look, I mean it,” he hastily removed his arm rings, recently gifted by Uhtred, and began pulling rings off his fingers, the cup in his hands hindering him until it finally fell to the ground.

You looked at Sihtric, unsure of how to respond. You should have felt offended, but the earnestness and embarrassment on his face suggested he hadn’t meant to offend you.

Sihtric stretched his arms toward you, presenting all his valuable belongings.

"Do you think I'm a whore?" you finally asked, meeting his gaze with a mix of surprise and concern.

"What? No, why? By the Gods, no…" Sihtric's voice faltered, revealing his nervousness. You noticed him taking a cautious step backward, edging closer to the exit. "I didn’t mean it that way… It’s just… back home, in Dunholm, the girls always asked for something in return to let me hump them. And ... and they said they enjoyed me. I didn’t have much to give, but I always found something, like a piece of cloth or a blanket, or fresh-baked bread. So I thought… I thought… since you're a lady… if I offered you silver…"

Sihtric gulped, clearly sensing your disapproving gaze. “The other warriors and Kjartan used to mock me for giving away all my belongings. I know they were having the girls even against their will, but my mom always told me that real strength isn't about hurting those weaker than you. I mean… back then when she was still around,” he continued, his words tumbling out in a rush like an unstoppable stream.

“Gods, now you are really angry with me. You must think poorly of me. I’m such a fool. Please forgive me, lady. I’m sorry. I better be going before I say something even dumber. It’s all yours, anyway.”

Before you could respond, he hastily deposited all his silver and gold into your hands and turned to leave.

Staring down at the glimmering wealth he had thrust upon you, disbelief washed over you. "Hold on! You can’t just give me all this! Wait!" you protested, but Sihtric was already halfway out of the tent. "Stop, get back here," you commanded firmly, and to your relief, Sihtric froze in his tracks.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said softly, turning back to face you, though he avoided meeting your gaze. "Please don't think badly of me. I'm not like my father, I never wanted to be."

It was just a tiny glimpse into his past life, but even that filled you with sadness and sympathy. Setting the unexpected gifts down on a nearby table, you made your way to the tent entrance, drawing the flaps closed behind you. You turned back to Sihtric, blocking his way out. You couldn’t leave it like this; you needed to have a talk.

"Hey, I'm not angry. I'm just kinda surprised," you said, stepping closer.

"Surprised?" Sihtric let out a relieved sigh, but he still wouldn't look you in the eyes, his embarrassment clear even in the dim candlelight, with his cheeks flushed red.

You shook your head as you continued to observe him. He was undeniably good-looking, his muscular build catching your eye, and you couldn’t deny you felt attracted to him, but there was something about the young warrior that went beyond looks. You had already gathered that his life hadn’t been a smooth ride on a paved road, and you wondered how deep the scars in his heart ran, realising that the few visible ones he carried on his handsome face were merely the surface of a much larger tapestry of pain and suffering.

"I like you too, Sihtric, and I just want to know you better," you said, stepping forward slightly.

"You do?" disbelief and even suspicion were evident in his voice.

You moved with deliberate care, allowing Sihtric to observe every motion as you reached out and tenderly cupped his face. He inhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering shut. Your thumb softly traced his cheek, and with a heartfelt sigh, Sihtric leaned into your touch, snuggling against your palm.

You pulled back your hand quickly, worried that he might misinterpret your gesture as anything more than a reassuring comfort to show you were not angry. The faint whimper that escaped his lips, followed by a sigh, cut through you sharply, echoing in your mind.

"Please... could you... do that once more?" Sihtric said under his breath, opening his eyes to meet yours, his expression filled with earnest pleading.

"Do what?" You paused, momentarily confused.

"That... that thing you just did," he replied.

"That thing? You mean when I caressed your cheek?" A gentle chuckle escaped you as you noticed the blush spreading across Sihtric's cheeks. "Like this?" you asked, reaching out again to cradle his jaw gently, your thumb skimming the corner of his mouth. Sihtric immediately responded, leaning into your touch, his eyes closing and his breathing deepening.

You closed the gap between you, gently tilting his face toward yours, and he instinctively followed, your foreheads lightly touching. "When was the last time someone touched you like this?" you asked, and although you suspected the answer, it still caught you off guard.

"I don't remember," he whispered back, his voice tinged with a faint tremor.

You weren’t really sure what made you do it; it wasn't something you'd planned. You just wanted to smooth over the awkwardness caused by his indelicate proposal and unexpected admissions, to let him know you weren't upset. It was evident the young warrior had no real understanding how inappropriate his offer actually was.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask, so much you wanted to understand. But instead of asking anything, something inside you took over. You found yourself standing on your tiptoes and kissing him, holding his face in your hands and pulling him closer.

Your lips brushed against Sihtric’s, a little rough from the wind, and you could taste the faint hint of ale and the tea you’d made earlier in his quick, shallow breaths. Your heart was racing, pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears, and a fluttery feeling filled your stomach. Sure, you’d kissed before—some who were charming and passionate, and some who definitely weren’t princes—but this somehow felt so different and it was a bit embarrassing, especially since Sihtric didn’t kiss you back.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." you stammered, pulling back abruptly, taken aback by your own spontaneity. So much for just wanting to talk to him. Sihtric stood there, eyes closed and hands at his sides, as still as a statue. The silence thickened around you as you tried to steady your pounding heart. It was perplexing; the young Dane had wanted to hump you, yet he didn’t even respond to a kiss. What the heck?

Just as the wave of embarrassment hit its peak and you considered asking him to leave, Sihtric’s hand reached out, gently cupping your cheek. "Please, can we... Can we try again?" he breathed, leaning in and tentatively pressing his lips against yours..

It was a soft and cautious kiss, his lips barely brushing yours, as tender as a feather's touch against skin—a gentle probe for warmth and connection. Feeling your head spin slightly, you kissed back with more intensity and passion, drawing a low groan from Sihtric.

Reluctantly, he pulled back, breaking the tender embrace of your lips but keeping his forehead pressed against yours. His breath was warm and ticklish against your face, his fingers trembling slightly as he continued to stroke your cheek with his thumb, his breathing shallow and unsteady.

"Do you like it?" you asked, unsure of what to say or do next.

"I... I do. I've never been kissed like that before," Sihtric admitted, his voice carrying a note of surprise mixed with sadness.

His response took you aback once more. "Did the girls in Dunholm require extra payment to let you kiss them?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

With his eyes still closed, Sihtric shook his head. "No, they never allowed me to kiss them. They never touched me the way you just did. Not even the women in the alehouse that Tekil paid for," he added, his voice fading into a whisper.

Without speaking, you reached out and drew him into a firm embrace, feeling his body stiffen briefly as if he might pull away. But you held on, your fingers gently combing through his hair. After a moment, his resistance eased, and Sihtric relaxed into your hold, burying his face in the crook of your neck. Slowly, his arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you closer against his chest.

For a while, you both just stood there, the warmth of your bodies wrapping around you like a soft blanket. His deep longing for attention and warmth, for genuine love and friendship—those simple joys that breathe life into existence tugged at your heart. You had found such treasures in Gisela's unconditional care and friendship years ago, and now you just tried to convey at least a small fraction of that same comfort with your gentle touches and steadfast embrace.

As Sihtric's breath warmed your neck, you felt his large hands pull you closer at the small of your back, his lips seeking yours again with a newfound passion. The kiss unfolded slowly, deeply, and you savoured each moment, losing yourself in the tenderness of his embrace. Your lips moved together in harmony, his hands tenderly stroking your back and hair, fanning the timid spark that had flickered to life at your first touch into a fervent blaze, making you crave for more.

Breaking the kiss elicited a soft whimper from Sihtric. "Come," you said in a low voice, gently taking his hand and leading the way. Sihtric followed, a slight bewilderment crossing his face.

"I don’t want you to hump me," you began, looking up at him as he stood beside your fur-covered bed.

Sihtric’s eyes dropped to the ground once more. “It was so stupid of me to ask, I’m sorry…” he said hastily.

"Shh, listen to me," you interrupted, placing your index finger to Sihtric’s lips to silence him. "I want to show you something. Do you trust me?"

"Lady, I would trust you with my life," he replied, his eyes lifting to meet yours with an intensity that made you smile.

"Good, because I want to share something special with you, and I need you to trust me, to feel safe. I want to make love to you, Sihtric," you spoke softly, placing your hand on his chest and gently urging him backward onto the fur-covered bed. "Trust me," you repeated, and with wide eyes, Sihtric allowed himself to be guided down.

Seated on the cushioned surface, he watched you with anticipation as you settled onto his lap, legs on either side of his thighs, straddling him. You pulled him into another kiss, and this time, you abandoned all restraint. Your fingers wove through his hair as your tongue eagerly explored his lips, seeking entry into his mouth. With a soft gasp, he yielded, allowing you to deepen the kiss, and you revelled in the soft sounds of pleasure that escaped Sihtric as your tongue explored his mouth, clashing against his. His hands tentatively wandered up your hips and along your back, drawing you nearer to him.

You traced a trail of soft kisses along his jaw, playfully nipping at him with your teeth. Each touch of your lips drew a low moan from Sihtric, encouraging you to linger on his sensitive neck and suckle at his skin, leaving behind a few lingering marks. Even through the layers of fabric between you, you could feel his arousal growing, prompting you to grind your hips against his, seeking friction.

Sihtric responded with a deliciously soft moan, his hips rising to meet yours, his breathing growing rapid. Your hands skillfully loosened the laces of his leather armour, but as you began to pull it away, he suddenly tensed, his hands catching yours to stop you. "You may not like what you see," he murmured softly.

Confused by his hesitation, you gently insisted, "Why? Sihtric, let me. I want to see you, to feel you. You told me you trust me," your voice soft but persuasive, and eventually, his resistance crumbled as he released your hands.

You couldn't help but gasp at the sight of his well-defined abdomen, muscles rippling under his skin, but it was the scars crisscrossing his torso that held your attention. Some were thin, precise lines across his chest, likely from a blade, while others, more rugged and widespread across his shoulders and back, were surely traces of a wip. Gently, you traced these marks with your fingertips, emotion rising within you.

"My goodness, Sihtric," you whispered, guiding his chin gently to keep his gaze from averting, and then you brought your lips to his in a tender kiss. "You should never feel ashamed of these. Wear your scars with pride. They're evidence of your strength and resilience. Don't let your past dictate your future," you murmured against his mouth, feeling the tension that had crept into his body begin to melt away.

He looked up at you with a shy smile and released a soft sigh, as he licked his lips before he drew you in closer. His kisses along your neck were soft and filled with gentleness and purpose, sending shivers down your spine, the feeling of his tongue against your skin igniting a growing desire between your legs.

With a chuckle, you asked, "Could you give me a hand?" and guided Sihtric's hands to the laces of your armour. His puzzled expression brought a smile to your lips as you nodded, and together you swiftly worked to remove your armour. You giggled at the sharp exhale that left him as your breasts bounced out from beneath your tunic.

“You can touch them, and you can kiss them, just be gentle,” you encouraged with a smile.

“You are so beautiful,” Sihtric uttered softly, his hands hesitantly cupping your breasts. You arched your back with a soft sigh as his lips wrapped around your hardened nipple and gently suckled on it, hands caressing your bare back.

“Yes, just like that,” you didn’t even try to muffle the moan that tore through you, your fingers tangling in his soft and thick hair, as he turned his attention to your other nipple, while his hands traced down your spine to your buttocks, squeezing them.

Your hands found their way to the hem of his breeches, unlacing them and slipping inside. Sihtric groaned at your touch, his breath picking up rapidly, as you stoked his already fully hard length.

Sihtric effortlessly lifted you, his grip firm as he flipped you onto the furs and settled himself between your thighs.

With eager breaths, you shed the last remnants of clothing, allowing your bodies to meld together. Sihtric's tender kisses and gentle touch on your bare skin setting ablaze a fiery sensation within you.

"Come closer," you mumbled, drawing Sihtric into a tight embrace, cradling him between your legs. Your fingers traced gentle paths over his scars as you savoured the sensation of his warm, muscular form against yours. You listened intently to his heavy breathing, feeling the heat of his body seeping into your bones, while his fingers grazed your skin and his nose nestled against your neck, inhaling your scent.

“I’ve heard the pleasure one can bestow with the tongue could be indescribable, but I’ve never done it before. Will you teach me?” he asked and you almost choked on your breath as Sihtric’s lips started to trail a path of tender kisses down your naked body.

“Oh, Sihtric,” you gasped as his hot breath hit your core. You reached out, grabbing his hair, and he moaned as you guided him, where you craved for him.

“Yes, here, use your tongue, pretty boy. Oh, gods,” the first laps of his tongue against your pulsing bundle made you squirm and whine. “Just keep going. You are so good ... oh, oh please don’t stop … it feels godly … you are made for this,” you mewled, rolling your hips against Sihtric’s face.

You heard his breath stutter with every praise you gave him, as he got more and more eager to please you, his tongue alternating between quick and soft licks and long and teasing wipes, the soft moans leaving him telling you how much he was enjoying this.

Your grip in Sihtric’s hair tightened as you felt your climax quickly building up and you tugged him closer to your perl. “Here, suck on it,” you panted, and your head snapped back as Sihtric’s lips encircled your oversensitive nub, sucking gently at it.

The lewd sounds, that rolled over your lips, spurred him on, each lap of his hot tongue sending waves of increasing pleasure through your body, each swirl around your clit making you whimper and whine.

“Put your finger inside me,” you mewled between heavy breaths and whined out loud as Sihtric did as told, sucking harder on your clit. “Oh by Freya and Freyr, yess, yessss, you are such a good boy,” you tugged harder on his hair, pushing your hips up against his eager mouth and Sihtric groaned in pleasure against your cunt.

You had no idea whether he knew what he was doing or was it pure instinct, as he added another finger and started moving them in and out of you, thumb rubbing your clit. His tongue kept lapping through your folds, and after a few thrusts the pleasure exploded within you as he pushed you over the edge. You moaned his name into the silence of the night, as you came undone, tugging on Sihtric’s hair and gasping for breath.

With a satisfied smile on his lips he kissed his way back to your lips, your eyes glassy and chest heaving heavily as you slowly came down from your high.

“You are so delicious,” he murmured quietly, kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I thought you had never done it before,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck, still floating between this world and the afterglow of the probably most intense orgasm you had ever had.

“You are such a good teacher and I learn quickly,” he murmured between kisses.

You could feel his hard cock pressing against your belly, and you let your hand wander down, your fingers sliding over the sensitive tip, gathering precum and spreading it all over his rigid length with slow sensual strokes.

Sihtric moaned at your touch, pressing his nose against your skin, his breath getting more and more rugged with each movement of your hand.

“How do you want me?” you asked, putting a bit more pressure in your hand and eliciting a breathless groan from Sihtric.

“I … I want to see you,” he whispered and another moan escaped his parted lips, as you continued your ministrations, and he eagerly bucked his hips into your hand.

“I want to look into your eyes and see you falling apart on my cock,” he murmured in your ear, his voice hoarse and breathing uneven, as he struggled to control himself. “Will you let me? Please, say that you want me. Say that you want me to pleasure you.”

“Of course I want you, silly boy. You are almost too good to be true. Come, take me, pleasure me, I’m yours,” you breathed in his ear, guiding him at your entrance.

“I want to be good. I want to be a good boy for you,” Sihtric breathed against your lips.

You eagerly rolled your hips into his. ”I just want your cock inside me, good boy,” you chuckled.

You both moaned in unison as Sithric slowly pushed himself inside you until the very end of his shaft, his thick and long cock filling and stretching you perfectly. You spread your legs wider to welcome him. Buried deep inside you, he stilled, letting his lips run along your neck, leaving a trail of sloppy open mouthed kisses, burning on your skin and leaving you yearning for more, as he waited for you to adjust to him.

His large palm ghosted your skin on your side, trailing down to your thigh, as he pushed your leg up and dragged his cock out of you before making his first thrust. Moaning breathlessly, you arched your back against the soft furs beneath you, digging your nails into Sihtric’s shoulders.

His hips started to move against yours as he fucked you so torturously slowly but thoroughly, pushing himself deep inside you. Holding on to his broad shoulders, you met each thrust moving up against him, tensing your inner muscles and savouring every inch of him brushing against your pulsing walls.

Your fingers found their way back into Sihtric’s hair, and you pulled hard on them, a smile tugging on your lips from the delicious moan it elicited from Sihtric.

“Use me, mark me, I’m yours,” Sihtric groaned, pulling out of you and thrusting back in one smooth go. “Please, I want to be yours,” he begged, and you dug your nails into his shoulders, leaving red marks in his pale flesh.

“More, Sihtric,” a needy whine left your lips. “I need more of you.”

With a low groan, Sihtric fastened his pace, hips pounding against yours. You gazed up at him, a strange feeling curling in your stomach. You felt safe. You felt loved and adored, and so wanted like never before in your whole life.

You were in his power, pinned down beneath his muscular body as he fucked you into the soft furs of your bed, his soft whimpers like a music to your ears, as he begged you to pull harder on his hair, to use him, to mark him, to allow him to please you. You savoured the pretty and desperate sounds he made in your ear, finding them both beautiful and so arousing, your climax approaching with each snap of his hips against yours.

“Do you enjoy me?” Sihtric uttered quietly in your ear, his voice quivering slightly.

“Yes, by the gods, I do,” you muttered, your eyes starting to roll back in your head, feeling the pleasure intensify within you. Sihtric let out a low growl at your words, his breath catching.

“Please, say it again,” he pleaded.

“You’re doing so well,” you praised him. “You feel godly within me. Even Thor itself couldn’t bring me more pleasure.” Sihtric whimpered in response and you felt his cock twitching inside you.

His moans grew louder and more fevered, his thrusts getting harder and deeper, breath panting and hot against your neck. You felt almost like drowning, gasping for breath from the intensity of pleasure building up within you.

“Such a good boy for me,” you murmured, gripping his hair tightly and eliciting another moan from him. Sihtric’s thrusts started to get sloppy, his moans more heavy with each thrust.

“I’m so close,” he whimpered, his body tensing, “I will not last much longer.”

You took his hand and guided it to your perl. “You know what to do,” you breathed and Sihtric’s fingers instantly started to rub and circle it. That was all you needed, the last touch to push you over the edge. You felt your walls starting to clench around him, your head snapped back and you came with Sihtric’s name on your lips, shuddering from the waves of pure bliss washing over you.

A few thrusts later Sihtric pulled out, and you felt his hot seed painting your belly as he groaned in the crook of your neck. He slumped down beside you, his breath heavy and laboured. For a moment you both just lay there, coming down from your highs.

You turned your head toward him, watching his handsome features. You had never had a more gentle and attentive lover, so concentrated on your pleasure instead of chasing his own. You wanted to pull him closer, to let him feel the same. You wanted him to feel loved and accepted, and cared for just as he had made you feel, but before you managed to do anything Sihtric abruptly jumped to his feet, glancing around the tent. Grabbing a cloth and dampening it with warm water from the kettle, he returned to the bed and carefully cleaned you up.

You watched, your eyes widening, as Sihtric scrambled to gather his scattered clothes from the ground and began to hurriedly dress. He fumbled with his breeches, hopping on one leg in an awkward dance.

"Sihtric, what are you doing?" you asked, a lump forming in your throat. The bliss of moments before now replaced by a wave of embarrassment and a sinking feeling in your stomach. You tried to catch his eye, but he kept his gaze firmly on his clothes, avoiding yours.

"You don’t have to say it. I know. I’m leaving," he stammered, clumsily trying to pull on his boots while clutching his wrinkled clothes.

"Sihtric, look at me," you insisted, sitting up on your heels to face him better.

Finally meeting your gaze, confusion was written all over Sihtric's face.

"So, you just wanted to hump me and now you're leaving just like that, without a word? Like a coward?" you asked, your voice tinged with hurt and disbelief. You didn’t even remember the last time you had cried, the wetness suddenly pearling in the corners of your eyes taking you by surprise.

"What? No, it's not like that," he replied, clearly taken aback. "You mean you want me to stay?" His voice was filled with astonishment, leaving you momentarily speechless.

A tense silence hung between you, both of you regarding each other with bewilderment. Sihtric let his clothes fall to the ground as he approached and slowly crawled back onto the bed towards you.

Noticing the tears starting to form in your eyes, his expression softened. "You really want me to stay?" he asked gently, cupping your face in his hands before pulling you into a tight embrace.

"Please don't cry. I'm not worth a single tear of yours," Sihtric whispered, his fingers gently caressing your back and threading through your hair. "I would do anything for you. Just say the word, and I'll move mountains. I… I didn't dare to hope... I mean look at you. And look at me—I'm nobody. Why would you want me to stay?"

"Sihtric, just be quiet," you murmured, allowing yourself to sink deeper into the warmth of his embrace.

The next morning, you awoke still nestled in Sihtric's arms. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the tent, he stirred, slowly opening his eyes. Seeing you next to him, a soft smile spread across his face.

"You're still here, it wasn’t a dream," he murmured, his voice filled with relief and a hint of hope.

"Yes, I'm still here," you replied, your voice gentle yet firm, as you traced a finger tenderly along his jawline, "And there's nowhere else I'd rather be."

You moved closer, trapping him between your thighs and propping yourself up on your elbow. Leaning in, you kissed his lips softly.

A rush of emotion crossed Sihtric's face as he pulled you closer, and you gasped, feeling his hardening cock pressing against your inner thigh.

"I would do anything to hold you in my arms forever," he confessed, his eyes locking with yours, filled with sincerity and a deep longing.

"I think I know how you can convince me," you said softly with a tender smile, and you kissed him again, deeply and passionately, cradling his face in your palm.

Sihtric's smile grew even brighter as he tightened his arms around you, flipping you over and pressing you into the furs with the weight of his body.

“Tell me, my lady,” he hummed, his lips trailing a hot path down your neck. “I'm all ears, how can I please you today?”

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