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bitterrfruit · 9 months ago

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price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

#bet his handprint is the size of a dinner plate #john price #call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #john price x female reader #captain john price #cod fanfic #john price x you #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price smut

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serendippertyy · 6 months ago

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CELEBRATING EP 2 IN MY OWN TWISTED CRINGEFAIL WAY.....

❤️💛💙❤️💛💙

I love doing ponifications that push me out of my comfort zone where I have to find creative ways of doing it, pomni and ragatha being the only ones whose mlp designs didn't require too much brain power LOL

wasn't sure how to go about making caine w/o it looking too strange but bc he is based off those chattering teeth toys I wanted to retain that haha, and I thought bubble being a parasprite was too good to pass up 😅

jax is described as a "rabbitoid" so obvi he is a half rabbit half horse freak man uwu

zooble is a draconequus <3

gangle was so hard to get right but yeah she is a pegasus solely so I could add more ribbons lol

and this kinger is technically a knight chess piece now but hey that is literally a horse I HAD TO! 🤷

ALSO I feel like there would be a lack of cutie marks in this au- I think that works well with the idea of them all feeling like they have no meaning or purpose (even in a pony world they shall suffer,,,)

sooo YEAH some of these looked better in my head but I still had so so much fun! it is my only goal in life to ponify everything I can get my hands on, it is my love language!!

AND I LOOVE TADC the new episode is the only thing getting me through the week ❤️💛💙

#do yall like the logos frankensteined together i think it goes hard #my little pony #mlp #mlp fim #my little pony friendship is magic #the amazing digital circus #tadc #tadc pomni #tadc caine #tadc ragatha #tadc jax #tadc zooble #tadc gangle #tadc kinger #tadc fandom #tadc fanart #ponification #ponified #my art

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heavenbarnes · 4 months ago

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Million Dollar Baby

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: this is essentially a series of vignettes, at this point you’re the duncan-donaldson sugar baby, swearing, effective cheating (tashi approved), mild exhibitionism, face slapping (not with hands), unprotected sex, reader is pretty submissive, thee slightest tashi x reader, patrick mention.

Part one

it’s that part two to “i wanna make it (so badly)” that i kept harping on about! just wanted to prove to you all i could make good on something! enjoy! i still crave this man!

Born under a lucky star.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Art Donaldson plays tennis very well.

When you're around?

He's better.

O2 Arena, London, England. ATP men's singles finals.

Naturally the only way you'd ever get close to something like this was on her invitation.

Tashi had invited you.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We'll cover your flights and accommodation- it's important that you're there."

Yes, because you were sure you could sweet talk your way into a lesson with Lily at Buckingham Palace.

Obviously, obviously it wasn't about your silly little tennis lessons these days. But that was the front.

Rich neighbourhood, nosey neighbourhood.

"Tashi, I couldn't help but notice Art's Jeep drive past me as I left Pilates. Just who was that pretty young thing in his passenger seat?"

"She's Lily's tennis coach, he drops her off when she's had to stay late."

Yeah,

yeah.

Drops you off because your legs aren't their best when they've been over his shoulders for an hour.

It was a pretty good front.

So you found yourself courtside in a Lacoste skirt you'd never imagine owning. That's why you didn't own it, Tashi had left it on your bed among other items of clothing she expected to see you in.

Dress-up doll.

Her plaything.

Pulled out of your thoughts by the chorus of cheer, it was all directed to the movement you could just and only see out the corner of your eye.

Art Donaldson took the court with a kind of swagger that made your thighs tense under expensive material. His eyes took to the stands- sweeping over adoring eyes looking back at him.

And then he came to rest.

You could tell he looked at Tashi first, the way his shoulders straightened and the grip on his racquet became even tighter.

Miracle it didn't snap.

Then you felt him look at you, his eyes softened and the corner of his mouth turned up.

A smug smirk as he ran his tongue along his teeth.

And you began to think back on everything that lead you here.

You had found yourself in many precarious situations with Art.

And you were acutely aware of the fact you hadn't seen it.

You'd felt it- felt it against your thigh, the heat of your cunt,

fuck, you'd even felt it against the sole of your foot.

Ruined numerous pairs of Calvin Klein's in the process.

But you'd never seen it.

And it wasn't a topic of contention, it wasn't a 'you' thing per se.

It was actually the fact that Art about blacks out every time you make him cum, and that's through a good few layers of clothing.

The thought of getting it out and laying it against your bare skin? Putting it in your mouth? Putting it inside-

Even the the idea of it makes his eyes water. Blessing and a curse, really.

On one hand, he's guaranteed a mind-blowing orgasm.

On the other, it might only last a few seconds.

You were just happy to be there.

Art could give you everything or give you nothing and you'd lap it up every time.

Good girl.

Art looked good like this, he always looked good but there was something about this.

Sat on the couch, thighs spread, large hands balled up on his knees. When you were in this position- on your own knees before him, with reverence- he looked good.

He looked all consuming.

If you asked him, it wasn't a sight Art was used to, something something role reversal.

Your hands ran along the coarse hairs of his legs, ever-so-slightly getting closer to the bottom of his shorts.

(Post-tennis, still a little sweaty- heavy musk if you really got your face in there)

"We'll go as slow as you need, Art."

However he wants it, whenever he wants it.

Quarter to midnight on Tuesday, you were meant to be doing an ungodly load of laundry tonight. But then he'd looked at you, then he'd told you he 'needed' you.

Turns out whatever he wants looks a lot like what you want.

Obedience in spades.

He stopped you before your hands could go any further, opting to reach under the waistband himself. You were all the better for it, too focused on not giving up the extent of your excitement.

Was it weird to say you'd spent a lot of time imaging what his cock looked like?

Probably.

You reasoned it with the fact you knew Art spent a lot of time thinking about what happens under your pretty little tennis skirts. That and he'd seen it more times than you could count, these days.

Things always seem to go his way.

Your breath caught in your throat when Art hooked his thumb around the waistband, stretching the elastic so he could get it out.

Of course, of course it was as pretty as the rest of him.

Flushed pink at the tip, pale and creamy down the length of it. Kind of thing you need to get your lips around.

Banked for another day.

One hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around the base- Art slapped his cock once, twice on your outstretched tongue.

"A-ahh, f-uck- okay-"

Nice and slow- can't have him blowing the top off just yet.

He couldn't really say you were helping the point. Sitting there, sitting pretty, primed and ready for whatever he wants next.

The sight along was enough material to tug his cock to for the rest of his life.

Let alone being faced with it.

Which is why he did just that- tugged his cock to it.

Long fingers wrapped around a long cock, twisting along the length of it, rolling the palm over the head. Sticky wetness catching in the centre of his palm as he drags it back along the shaft.

Your tongue stayed permanently outstretched, allowing him to slap the weeping tip right on it. If it wasn't your tongue, it was your cheek- wherever he could gain purchase with your skin without tipping himself over the edge.

Yet.

Eventually, Art came in filthy hot ropes across your face and the most minimal amount actually made it in your mouth.

Majority of it was painted across your cheeks, drawn up and sweet under your shining eyes. Bright smile stretched across your face beneath pearly little drops.

Pretty girl-

perfect girl.

"I'm sorry- I just need- oh, oh god- just need-"

Incoherent.

A bleary-eyed, incoherent Art.

Chest pressed tight to your back, shorts around his thighs- your little skirt bunched up tight in his fist.

"I need this- I need this- y'so good to me- I need this-"

Yeah, seems like it.

You'd only managed 15 minutes on the court before it'd come to this. Art had thrown his racquet to the wind and ushered you around the side of their changing shed- the same one where he first,

You know?

Yeah.

You'd actually headed for the door but he couldn't wait that long, pulled you between the wall and the tall fence that circled the court. You were both nestled in beneath an Arabian Gingerbread Palm of sorts- naturally.

Art had slipped your underwear to the side and mounted you like a fucking dog.

Desperate.

The sound of his taut thighs slapping against yours was fucking ludicrous, the sight would’ve managed something worse.

He had a look across his face that said he knew this was pathetic- that there was no way he should’ve been rutting into you in broad fucking daylight.

But it’s not like you could see that look, not when his face was pressed into your neck.

“Ohh, you just- you just feel so good.”

Was he crying?

You looped an arm around the back of his head, slowly stroking your nails against his scalp as you struggled to keep yourself from buckling under the pressure.

Your other arm stretched out in front of you, palm braced on the wall as Art continued the relentless piston of his hips.

Through tears even.

“Feels so good, Art- making me feel so fucking good- just rub my clit, touch me a little.”

In an instant, his fingers were under the front of your skirt as he rubbed haphazard circles around the apex of your cunt.

“Like this? You like this? Tell me I’m doing a good job, please.”

Jesus Christ.

“Yes- doing a good job, you always do so good- gonna’ make me cum.”

And like you’d said the magic word, Art was going rigid. Hips slamming into you with a couple brutal and unyielding thrusts, less precision than you were used to with him.

Til’ he was dripping out of you.

His fingers kept going.

Until your face was pressed was pressed against the changing shed wall, sure to leave a lovely pattern of stucco on your skin.

Until you were babbling and canting your hips back onto his hand as drool ran down the side of your cheek.

Until you even realised that he’d dropped to his knees and was running his tongue through your cunt from the back, massive hands splitting your cheeks.

You reached a hand back to grip his hair, pulling his face even further into the sodden lips of your pussy as you fucked yourself back onto his tongue.

“That’s it- lick my cunt, Art. See how good you taste?”

Your ears stopped ringing long enough for you to hear it.

He makes that noise when he cums.

Again.

Tashi watched you both drag your feet back into the house- a sheen of sweat over you both that could’ve looked post-tennis.

To anyone else but her.

She let you pass without issue, but a fine hand pressed to Art’s chest as he tried to follow you to the showers.

“If I ever see you cum before her again, there will be trouble. Understood?”

There was no use explaining that you didn’t mind, that you kind of liked when you riled him up- made him lose control.

That he probably deserved to feel good.

Instead, you heard him murmur an apology before he finally got you under the monsoon shower head in the enormous guest bathroom.

Three more good ones on his tongue, just for good measure.

It was a miracle the Donaldson-Duncan mantelpiece didn't crumble under the immense weight of success.

Trophy, after trophy, after photo, after-

"Did Tashi meet Obama?"

Art chuckles over your shoulder as he watches you cradle the photo, eyes wide with admiration. Devotion?

"She did, he invited her to the White House the year before we got engaged."

"Your invite get lost in the mail?"

"It wasn't about me."

Is anything ever about him?

As you continued your impassioned scan of their family treasures, you came to a complete stop at a 5x7 frame.

"Is this a young Art Donaldson?"

You could feel his eyes on you as you lifted the frame with the same gentle touch as you'd lent to Tashi's photo.

This time, your fingers gingerly brushed over the glass- almost as if you could feel the crop of golden curls beneath your fingertips.

"You've never seen any of my earlier games? Junior doubles at the US Open?"

Taking your eyes off a very-pretty-young Art, you threw him a look that said something like 'be so serious.'

"No, I wasn't much for watching tennis as a- what? Six year old?"

Oh.

That's right.

It was impossible for Art to forget the elephant in the room- call him a dirty old man but Art was always thinking about the pretty young thing that he liked best in his lap.

But sometimes he forgot.

"Well, that's me the day Patrick and I won."

"Who's Patrick?"

Oh.

And just like that he's chubbing up in his pants.

Art Donaldson currently exists in a space and time where he has something that Patrick doesn't.

And you're none the fucking wiser.

How could you be? You're still enamoured with the shaggy golden curls and the unspoken pull of a backwards cap.

"Yeah, you would've driven me wild back in the day."

There's a wry smile that catches on the corner of his mouth, right at the same moment he takes the photo from you. You're forced back to reality, present day-

The one where Art's a few years older but still as devastatingly handsome.

"Would've?"

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, feeling a firm chest pressing against your shoulder blades. Feeling crowded.

Feeling caught.

"As if I don't already."

Art spends the evening reminding you of your place.

That, despite the age between you, he's still the one that runs rings.

Contrary to popular belief, Art Donaldson has bad days.

Unfortunately for just about everyone in the O2 Arena, he chose today.

Well, the fates decided on today.

As he thrashed his racquet through the air, you could've sworn you heard the 'woosh' it was sure to have made from all the way up here.

Tense, you were slumped in your seat as you couldn't escape the voice in your head-

the one that was telling you your luck had run out.

The one that still sounds a lot like Tashi Duncan.

"COME ON!"

Tashi's voice actually sounded from beside you, making you jump out of your skin.

Naturally, you began searching for Art- searching for something to do, someway to fix this. What was left for you if you couldn't be lucky.

Rabbits foot. Horse shoe. Triple sevens. Four-leaf clover.

Nowhere to be found- but you found Art, found his eyes.

Looking at you.

Pleading with you.

Come on.

There was that pathetic little gaze you'd come to know. When he wanted something, when he needed something.

Art Donaldson always gets what he wants.

You jumped a little when you felt Tashi's hand rest on your knee where it crossed over the other. Perfect manicure drumming against your kneecap, gripping once.

Gripping twice.

Gently, prying it away from the other till they were side by side.

Thighs being forced apart.

Suddenly acutely aware that Art's eyes weren't on your face anymore.

They were on Tashi's hand.

Acutely aware that, among all the pretty things she'd laid out on your bed this morning, there wasn't a pair of panties among them.

That same perfect manicure between your spread thighs, patting you once, twice- right where her husband had made a home.

Under a lucky star.

Art Donaldson had a penchant for getting what he wants.

With an unmatched performance, the arena was turned on its head. Neon green blitz across the court, landing right where he wanted it to.

The crowd cheered his name to a tune only he knew;

How to be a winner.

All guts, all glory.

The deafening commotion chewed you up but it was Art that spat you out. Amongst the noise, the fury, you found him stood staring right at you.

Expectantly.

The weight of responsibility on your chest. Your luck hadn't run out, it was only just the beginning.

To the victor go the spoils.

Somewhere, a rabbit was missing it's foot.

#did i want this to be more? yes #did i just have to pony up and fucking post it? yes #did i have to stop beating myself up for it not being as good as the first one? oh fuck yeah #anyway have at it!#art donaldson x reader #art donald x fem reader #challengers x reader #art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers smut

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

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The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one. CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| you're here! Word count: 5317 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig This fic on AO3

— You’re really quiet, little princess.

König isn’t ashamed of staring at you the whole horse ride. He isn’t ashamed of touching you, his precious treasure – cupping your breasts through that pathetic excuse of a corset, trying to feel of your legs through the billions of skirts, his touches sprawling across your skin like bruises. He is a soldier in all regards – his touches are far from gentle, far from how he should behave with his bride. You feel like a piece of meat being presented for him to devour. Like an unwilling sacrifice for a benevolent god.

— Should I scream then?

Snarkiness isn't something that the princess should have – but it's the only weapon you have, although you are not sure if you can even use it. Emperor is laughing, and it is supposed to be a good thing – you were trained to receive such reactions, like a little dog standing and doing tricks on command; you were taught to strive for smiles on the faces of others. But König doesn’t allow you to see his smile, but König laughs all the time while describing to his soldiers the things he wants to do to you. It is almost surely, that he doesn’t think you know his language – you wish you didn’t know.

— I can give you a reason to scream. — You shall not threaten a… — I’m not threatening you, kleine Katzen. With a good time, maybe. — What are you referring to? — That I would love nothing more but to rip your skirt off and show your cunt a royal treatment, princess.

Emperor has a foul mouth, wandering eyes, and grabby hands – he behaves like a drunk man in a tavern, even though you have never once been in a tavern, and the only drunk men you barely saw were the castle guards on various celebrations. He doesn’t act like a glorious king from the romance novels – and you don’t think that you ever read a novel about a king or an emperor, not about princes and glorious knights. People with this much power don’t deserve love, they already have everything they have – so why would he kidnap you?

You turn away from him, the obscenity of his mouth makes your whole face burn. You are trying to hide yourself in your hands, you want to grasp something like a little fan or a handkerchief – everything to sustain your dignity. You are wearing the princess’s name and you have to behave like her – even if you don’t think that she would care about how you are behaving yourself. The dread of being exposed lingers in your chest, the only thing that doesn’t allow you to scream and launch on him like a wild cat. Rules and modesty tie you down stronger than any corset could.

Like a rabbit caught in the hunter’s trap – you steal looks at the nature around you, excited and terrified to see it for the first time – not the perfect greenery of the castle garden, but an untamed nature. You saw the city for the first time – your capital, not burned and agonized under the empire’s boot, but eerie quiet. The city doesn’t know your face, the princess was hidden, kept in the tower as a means to escape the burden of marriage proposals and possible wars for the sake of securing her beauty. Nobody here knows you for your face, and for them, it’s just the empire’s knights, a power from a country too foreign to be worried about, and a random kidnapped girl in a dissarranged dress and tears streaming down her face.

A hand on your waist secured you in place. No matter how much you squirm and cry, try to forget all the filthy nonsense he is whispering in your ear, you are forced to listen – and you want to cry every time his face hovers over yours. His hands are touching you, too much for comfort, your are still wrapped in his cape, but it’s a very small mercy for your torn dress and fragile body.

The road is long and short at the same time. Your kingdom was bordering one of Northern Empire territories, but it’s days away – you never once thought that having the Empire right on your border would be such a nuisance, that it would allow them to simply take whatever they want from your tiny country – the rules of politics are never applying to those in power and, unfortunately, you found out the worst way possible. The road is treacherous, with people surrounding you, with soldiers going through the beheaded country like it’s nothing. You were biting your lips the entire first day of the ride, trying not to cry – you do not want to give him the pleasure of seeing your distress, but you can’t help but sob every time he exits the cabin to yell at his soldiers or laugh at something.

You are not tied up, they trust you too much – they all know you would not be able to run, seeing just a helpless princess, a little war trophy of their emperor. The war trophy without the war, just a doll for him to enjoy. You steal a few glances at him – his spread legs that make you wonder how the poor horse even can handle him riding it, his mighty body, and his muscular arms. He could wrestle a dragon, you think – he could lift up the whole carriage and bring you back to the capital like this. He is a cocky bastard, not even having his sword in his hand whenever you move too much – too confident that this weak princess would not be able to resist him. You don’t want to fall from the horse and so you freeze in your tracks, even when they hit a small pause on the journey.

You can’t, of course – your hands are trained to hold clothes, to braid hair and, sometimes, fetch the water buckets – but you are mostly proficient in holding books, turning pages and embroidering. You can make tea, you can support the conversation, you can faint dramatically whenever the right opportunity occurs, but the ride has been happening for a few hours already, and you fainted three times – for specific reasons, of course, but fainting now would surely be a bit too much.

— Is little princess too tired to hold herself straight?

König chuckles in your ear, hands pushing you against his body. You don’t want to say anything, you’d rather continue your ride until you’re completely exhausted – books were never talking about how hard it is to ride a horse, that your rear would feel numb after the first hour, and your head would be bouncing on every little bump on the road. You never thought that the roads of your kingdom were so terribly maintained – and never thought it would be such a problem.

You grit your teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of confirming just how weak you are – but he stops his horse once you are not responding, a hand slides under your hips to help you get out from the damned animal. You swear to god that you will never ride this foul creature again – but the god, as always, stays silent.

— What is it?

— Princess isn’t used to long detours. We’d have to stop before dawn if we want to keep this a secret for now. — Could travel for a few more hours before it’s too bright.

His second-in-command is a weird man, no doubt. Tall, broad, wearing armor with tiger prints all over the metal – although you never saw a tiger in real life, only on various illustrations of the books you were reading for the Princess. He is painfully informal in a way that makes you wonder how he can keep his head on his shoulders – surely, if he’d talk this way to a king, he wouldn’t be such a profound member of the army. König only shakes his head, pointing at you as the reason to stop – as you begged him to get off this bloody thing. — I need my princess with all innards intact. Especially the soft ones.

Emperor laughs, cupping your ass through the skirts. He somehow managed to grope your softness without breaking the corsage, and you’d feel thankful for him, but the dress was ruined anyway – all the hard work of redoing it over and over, every time you had to manage to squish the princess inside of the harsh corset and billion skirts, every little detail you were thinking through together…it feels somehow suitable, to wear a destroyed dress. Fake princess deserves fake luxury, but even the modesty he allows you to have with his coat wrapped around you feels forced.

Stopping right now, when you feel numb and your legs are getting weak and squishy like that weird transparent foreign delicacy, is very considerate of him. So much so you don’t even want to acknowledge it, hoping he’d just continue to go forward until all the traces of your past are gone. You’re too tired to consider anything from escaping to even opening your eyes. Suddenly, being on a horse of this size doesn't sound like something out of a fairytale. Suddenly, you realize that the horses are tall.

— What’s wrong, princess?

— I’m not going down.

You are sitting, frozen on top of his horse. One of your hands is keeping his coat wrapped securely around your body while the other squeezes the reins, hoping not to fall miserably to the ground. You hear soldiers laugh – the embarrassment spreads around your cheeks when you understand that a true princess would have horse riding lessons. You two never did – it would give you too much freedom, and your castle would never accommodate to large grounds of free roaming to keep a princess and her loyal maiden entertained. You can only hope they won’t think that the absence of your riding lessons would be too suspicious – and you also hope that he would just allow you to never jump down to the ground that feels horrifyingly far from you.

— Do you wish to run with my horse?

— Yes, your Highness. — Run, then. I’ll be waiting, little princess.

There is a laugh in his voice – you squeeze the reins and try to holster them, maybe kick the foul creature to the side so it would take the hint and start running in the direction of the nearest forest. Maybe you would get lucky, and the horse would drop you in front of the house of a kind forest witch that would take you as her student – you can cook, and you can read, so, naturally, any witch would be happy to have you as a disciple. Maybe you will get even more lucky, and the horse will kick you in the head after dropping you, finishing your misery in a tragic road accident. Not a honorable death, but a quick and interesting one. The horse remains frozen in place – just like you. König gently caresses its face, giving it something to eat – an apple, perhaps, a nice and tasty fruit, or sugar cubes, the delicacy that the princess would often indulge in but never gave you, or something of a…ah, this is it – you are starting to get jealous of his horse. Mayhaps, death is the only choice for you now.

— I will run.

— Of course you will.

— Sir, should we prepare the archers?

— Don’t know it yet. Maybe the princess escape would be too swift for them.

You feel your whole face burn – they laugh, they all laugh, looking at you like a piece of meat, a funny joke between them. You don’t want to fall from the horse, and you don’t want to stand here either – but every time you look down at the ground that is so, so far away, you can only shake in your seat. You feel like crying once again – and this is what brings you to the edge. With a deep sigh and shaking hands, you jump down swiftly, your eyes closed and your legs getting tangled in the various skirts, dragging you down. ***

The emperor had an understanding of what he was getting into when he kidnapped a princess. Princesses, pretty and young ones especially, are mysterious creatures that should be carefully studied by the imperial scientist in order to determine how in hell they can even exist without killing themselves on something stupid three times per day. This one, however, was a crowned ruler of weird girls – sometimes throughout the journey, he was thinking about returning her to the king and choosing another one. Then he remembered that he beheaded the king – and so, the bloody dot was sealed in the history of relationships between Northern Empire and this tiny shithole in the middle of nowhere.

Besides, the princess was too adorable to really throw her out. She is smart – for someone like her, anyway; her snarkiness combined with the primal fear of him and his men made him feel strong, more significant than before. It’s funny, in a way – König had defeated countless great warriors and spent his life turning the tiny Empire into the most powerful nation on the blonde, and yet, he never once felt this achieved as when he held the princess in his arms. The emperor never thought of marriage as a necessity, his whole magic endeavors securing that he would never have to worry about leaving an heir or having someone else to rule – but the loneliness can hit you like a royal stallion bred for the purpose of battery ramming into castle doors, and you can find yourself yearning for something that you never thought you’d want. Speaking of royal horses…

The princess is cute, the princess is dumb, and the princess is the most weird and perfect creature in the whole wide world. Makes him wonder just what was you doing in your little castle with your little servants, running around like ants under your dainty heel. You are snarky to him when you know that he is too busy to strike you and too tired to care about his opinion – he likes that about you, little yawns and feeble attempts to appear strong in front of him. He doesn’t, however, like the way you are frozen on top of his horse. He needs his wife helpless, yes, dependant on him in everything – and he also needs her to ask for help when needed, not…well, not jumping from the height of a royal horse in that stupid dress of yours.

God, hive him strength.

König, the ruler of the Northern Empire, biggest royal regime on the globe, thought that he overcame his anxiety when he was young, so long ago, he forgot how fast his heart can beat when the situation is going out of his control. He remembers this dreadful feeling now when that stupid brain of yours has decided that jumping from a horse is a good idea. He is fast, swift enough to catch you before you fall to the ground, and he squeezes your hips enough to hear the crack of that stupid dress construction.

He has to stop himself from yelling. From putting you in your place and slapping you across that perfect face of yours – never the one to beat women, König feels like spanking the shit out of you now. His eyes are flashing with anxiety, and he grabs your shoulders, putting you in front of him – you can’t see his face, covered by his mask, and it’s a small grace for someone like you. He is scary when angry, nostrils flashing with rage when he thinks that you’d rather break your neck than ask him for help.

— Made others set the camp for tonight.

Horangi is as perfect as a knight can be – his friend, his partner in crime, one of the only ones who still can survive his temper and not be intimidated by it. He can see the worry in his eyes when König is pushing the little princess down to his hold, draping the various skirts across his hands to rip them away – and he quickly yells at the other soldiers who produced the operation, making them run in various directions to collect wood, stones and set up the tents for tonight. They have to move away from the popular roads, even though nobody in this kingdom would be strong enough to hurt them anyways – but this operation should be a secret, at least relatively, until the princess is secured as his empress, and her body is sprawled across his sheets, withering from pleasure and…

Ah, Scheisse. König cannot stay mad at her when the mere thought of her smile makes his dick twitch in his pants. He survived through horribly throbbing erection against the metal plates of his armor for the whole ride, the small mercy of not having her soft body press against him directly. It didn’t stop him from wanting more, from whispering filthy things, completely undeserving of your virtue. You are bringing him down to his knees – even an emperor is just a man when a pretty girl looks at him, and even at is age, he could feel like a young lover searching for his bride’s hand.

Oh, but König would love something more than just your hand.

He should be thankful to his knights for how quickly they made a tent for him to secure the dignity of the first moment between a man and his sweetheart. He usually does everything himself, not wanting to make a lady in waiting out of his knights, but he enjoys their help now – he surely won’t be able to prepare for sleep with his wild cat of a bride in his hands. You are unusually active for a princess, trying to get out of his hands, kicking him with your adorable legs, still wrapped in a ruined skirt. Perhaps you were so mad at him for destroying your dress – he gets it, knowing how sensitive ladies are about this. He’d buy you a new one right away, but, for your stupidity, you deserve to wear only his coat until they are inside the borders of the Empire.

— Did you hit your head before I got you, princess? What were you thinking? — You told me to run. I did, Your Royal Highness.

He pinches his nose through the mask, not believing just how arrogant you sound – he wants to push you down, to open that dumb skirt of yours and give your precious ass a few spanks before setting you down, making you sit on the ruined muscle until you’d learn your lesson. The king was definitely not punishing you enough if you still think that you can talk to your betters (and elders) like this.

— I dared you to run. Thinking you’d accept the consequences with the dignity of a royal lady.

— Why don’t you kill me then? For belittling your dignity.

You look too snarky for his liking – he can see how terrified you are, little shakes of your hands and tears in your eyes. You are provoking him, picking the dragon with a stick so he’d burn you to a crisp. König knows that the customs of your kingdom value a good death over everything and just how much you’d love to fall into the grasp of a common tragedy. He also knows that he will not bury his bride before they are even married.

It’s only natural that the emperor grasps the front of your dress, the edges of the corset you tried to tie down to save some of your dignity. The fabric rips with ridiculous ease, all the gold spent on making it runs with the speed of a thread being torn. Suddenly, your front is exposed, even the underwear is not enough to conceal your privacy. König indulges in the view of your open skin, glossy from sweat and so, so delicious in dim magical light erupting from an artificial candle. He knows that he is playing a dangerous game, that not touching you now would be his greatest accomplishment and greatest torture at the same time – your body meant to be touched, you look like a doll and like a statue, like the greatest treasure and the most desirable slut he ever laid his eyes on.

The emperor is a man in the end – a war dog, closer to death than to the start of his life, a perfect incarnation of a horrible match to a young princess like you. Too wrathful, too arrogant, with more chips on his shoulders than the hair on your head, and yet, he holds you closely, putting you out of the torture device you are calling a dress.

You breathe for the first time in forever, and your mouth is shaking from unspoken tears and spoken pleas. He holds himself back from cupping your face in his hands and crushing your lips in a kiss, not because he doesn’t think he deserves it, but because you deserve better than to be fucked on the ground of his tent without proper preparation and some relaxing oils for your body. One kiss would never be enough for him, and he hadn’t touched a woman in far too long to handle himself properly now.

You look like you need to be ravaged – the greatest temptation König ever experienced.

— I can do so much to you, little princess. More than you could ever imagine.

— i’m not…n…not little. Your Highness.

— You are, compared to me. Should be scared, not snarky.

— I’m not snarky.

Just for this, he loses control – your voice, shaking with tears but never losing that arrogant edge, that delicious drawl that cannot be described as something that belongs to a princess, makes him lose all of the composure he had. König had prepared himself for a lady who would fall in his arms and cry the whole night long, he prepared himself for a fierce fighter that would try to kill him immediately – but you are soft and vengeful at the same time, too weak to resist him, but not too helpless to not run his mouth. You speak before you think, and it’s an adorable quality for a princess and horrible – for an empress. good thing you would be his regent, a pretty thing like you should never be annoyed with politics and mingling. König pushes you across his lap, his free hand is tearing through various skirts, and what is left from that awful strick construction you tried to pass as a skirt support. He never understood why anyone would live through this torture – you’d look way nicer in his shirt and nothing more. Or, even better, nothing at all, chained to a bed in his bedroom until he’d think that you are tamed enough to be shown in public.

You yelp in surprise, precious dumb thing. Just like a princess, you are not accustomed to the consequences of your own actions – you think that you can just run your mouth or do dumb things without his wrath falling upon you…and, little princess, you’re in for quite a shock. Your emperor doesn’t have enough patience for this, even though he did want you as his wife and knew what chaos it could bring. He just never thought that he’d have so much pleasure in looking at your adorable bottoms, all modest and long. Your underpants are adorably white, not stained from multiple washings, crisp and new – he feels the fabric with his fingers and almost thinks to not rip them away, just to appreciate the fine silks that went into constructing it.

His mercy is cut short by that sweet whimper of yours. You plead with him not to touch you – like you have a saying on this. König defiled the death itself, so why would he even consider such silly things as chastity before marriage? He certainly had enough women in his bed to forbid him from ever going to heaven, and robbing you of your innocence would be a small crime against all the countless sins he already committed.

But, he doesn’t want you to hate him – and you would, certainly, not in the fiery and passionate way he might enjoy, but a quiet, broken anger. He doesn’t want to turn this fragile thing into the broken shell of the betrothed princess, even if you need to be taught a harsh lesson – and you deserve much better than having your cunt destroyed on the harsh floor of his tent.

— You’re lucky, little princess.

He laughs, taking down your underpants – a harsh hand on your bottom, rough fingers that almost burn you without a glove to conceal his touches. You whimper when he lashes on the sensitive skin, stroking sensitive skin. If you knew how hard you make him, you’d run away with his horse already.

— How am I lucky? You…you killed the king, you destroyed my country, you…

— I killed your father, yes, but I left you alive.

— To make a show for your soldiers, I assume..

— If I wanted to leave you to waste, I would allow them to bounce you on their dicks a while ago.

— How d…

— You’re lucky because you’re mine, little princess. Not going to share you with anyone. But…

— But?

Your voice has finally gone down. he can almost taste the dread in your tone. König was burning down villages, destroyed his enemies with nothing more but a rusty sword and hatred in his heart – but he truly feels like a monster when he slaps your ass for the first time and sees your tear-filled eyes staring at him. God, he never was faithful, but hurting you feels like defiling an angel.

And he loves every second of it.

— You need to learn a lesson of respect, little princess.

It’s a small grace that he doesn’t make you count his slaps – he simply pushes you down, makes sure that your face is lying on his cloak, just for something soft to rely on, and gives you enough slapping to make the rest of horseriding as painful as possible. Maybe, it would teach you a lesson that if you need help, you’d have to ask him, to beg him for this – and not try to hurt yourself by doing it on your own. You’re awfully independent and resilient for the princess.

It took him at least five strong, harsh lashes of his hand on your rear to make you cry as loud as he wanted you to. He cups your face in his palm, forcing you up his lap – and smothered your lips with a kiss. König knows he is overstepping; he wouldn’t be able to let go of you after devouring your lips like that, but he doesn’t care, at least for now. He wants to be your everything, to push every thought out of your head and fill it with himself.

He adores the thought of being your first kiss, your first everything – you’re so inexperienced, so fragile in his hold. Never once thinking of himself as an appreciator of all the thighs dainty and artsy, he wants to worship that pout, your closed eyes, and little prayers of mercy you whisper between each kiss. Your body feels too enticing in his hands, a treasure he needs to keep all to himself. It’s a miracle he didn’t push your underwear down and took you all the way – as much as he wanted to touch you.

König smiled when you cried into the kiss, trembling in his hold like a caged animal. Never once he thought he’d have this much fun without taking some plumpy woman on his dick, but you are full of surprises. Another five smacks on your ass left you with a bruised bottom and tear-strained, wet face. The look of misery in your eyes made him cackle – god, you were adorable. Continue like this, and he’d spend the rest of his life with you on his lap.

— We will sleep now. The Empire borders are still days away, and you don’t look like you could handle the road right now.

You pout, pushing yourself off his lap. Even the hard floor of the tent was better, the cold fabric made your butt sting a bit less. You still couldn’t sit straight, still miserable, with a burning feeling in the depths of your tummy – hate, perhaps, that made your hands shake and your thighs feel a bit too wet and warm for your liking. There is a knot in your lower stomach that makes you feel weird, anxious, that makes you squeeze your legs shut as you push through the pain and get your underpants on again. The soft silks of the princess’s undergarments made you feel a bit better.

— I’d love nothing more but to run away while we’re still at my home, Butcher.

He smiles under his hood, pushing his hand on your backside. You freeze as he rolls you over, making you fit perfectly against his broad chest. He is a horrible, disgusting human being, clingy and warm around you – his bear-like hold is too strong on your limbs, making you freeze completely.

— I’m sure you are, Liebling. And I would love to catch you and spank your rear again.

— I will…you won’t catch me.

— Someone will. I’ll pay handsomely to any knight or wandering hunter to bring my wife back to me.

— I’m not y…your wife.

— Yet.

You turn away from him – try to, at least. He squeezes you against his chest makes you calm down in his hold like a wild cat he picked up on the side of the road. You don’t want to admit it, but he is warm, cozy, and even the harsh fabric he threw on the ground to make you a bed feels nice compared to the castle floors where you spend so much time. You still squirm, trying to find a good position to lay next to him without feeling like a toy in the hands of a grabby kid. König feels your wounded, perfect ass grinding against him – out of most of his armor, he can’t contain his erection now. Oh, how the strong emperor wished he’d have

— Stop moving, princess. Unless you want to consummate our marriage early.

— I’m not…I’m not moving.

— You are squirming. Is the ground not to your liking?

— I must prefer sleeping in a grave with my papa. — Can’t promise you this…but isn’t sleeping with the Death himself would be enough? — You’re not death, your highness. A blight, maybe. Or a plague. — You’re making me blush, little princess. There is a smile in his voice. You feel your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t say anything. Too many nights sleeping by the princess’s bedspot, always being the first one to greet her at sunrise and the last one to tell her stories before going to sleep. Like a loyal dog on the wooden floor, with a pillow under your cheek for comfort – all of her other handmaidens, precious ladies from good families, had their own quarters and rooms.

You had a cot by her bed and her endless affection.

Compared to this, sleeping on the floor of a rich tent with an emperor by your side isn’t as bad. You have to remind yourself that you are sleeping with a murdered, pillager, kidnapper and colonialist – you shouldn’t feel warm by his side. But, he hugs you like a lover. But, he buries his masked face in your hair and inhales your scent – sweet fragrances mixed with the blood and sweat of a long journey.

You fall asleep in his arms before you can think of something smart to say.

König doesn’t fall asleep until hour later – too busy looking at your precious form, wrapped so perfectly in his arms.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #konig mw2 #reader insert #yandere cod #male yandere #konig x you #konig x y/n #cod x y/n

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ruershrimo · 6 months ago

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down bad fr | f.megumi x reader

@takumifujiwarastan remember how a while back you said here that it sucked how there weren't enough introverted girls, reserved girls etc. SO I did try writing this please enjoy their (gn reader woooo) emotional constipation even though the reticence of their personality isn't really highlighted eurgh

having a crush on megumi is so fucking stupid. it’s driving you insane.

you can’t even talk to him. everything he does, everything he says— your heart leaps like a rabbit he casts, and your emotions soar into a terrifyingly messy mishmash of confusion and yearning and infatuation, and then everything in between.

you feel helpless, vulnerable like this— rendered out of control of your feelings after years of emotional constipation and a harsh strictness on yourself to rein them in like a rowdy horse being whipped during derby matches. you’re a climber, you’re hanging precariously from a cliff with every interaction, a child standing before a blueprint with nothing but toy blocks and a kiddie hammer, a roomba with its sensors malfunctioning— you get the point. those were enough metaphors to delineate your predicament.

well, he doesn’t even like you anyway, right?

but you want him so badly.

you just want to hammer it into his thick skull. to just go, ‘hey, I like you even if you may not like me! just go out with me anyway!’

yet with each interaction you struggle even more. because how the hell do you confess to fushiguro megumi, much less go out with him and become his partner?

for years romance had remained nothing but a velleity, a nice fantasy you could slip into when your mind demanded respite in the form of escapism and jejune daydreams. but now that your adoration for him has made it all somewhat possible, you don’t know what to do— your control is being tended away from you, and the worst part is that you don’t even mind it that much.

spiky black hair and eyelashes of silk pass you by, his scent as clean as freshly laundered sheets in hotels. at the start you had thought little about him beyond him being your classmate and eventually just your confidante. yet gradually, you surprised yourself. and everything about him is attractive nowadays: his hair, his pearlescent teeth, the viridian hue of his eyes— hell, he made even the way he drank coffee look like a model of a man in an antediluvian monochrome film of the sixties. and it was so normal, so average, that you were about to slap yourself for the fact that an everyday trait of his had become something so lovely to look at just because it was him. megumi would hold the cup securely by his lithe fingers, the same one he spouted cursed energy from when summoning his shikigami, before lifting the cup up and bringing the brim to his mouth, his lips that never chapped.

nobara asks whether he’s drinking black coffee to look cool around and attract people. needless to say, at least you were attracted.

you hoped he didn’t see the way your face must have blanked out, gaze transfixed on his eyes as he took swigs from his mug.

why’d he have to be like that?!

megumi continued looking at ozawa, the girl who had a crush on itadori— she was just like you for real, but with double the courage and half the emotional constipation.

you hoped it would work out for her. that way, perhaps you could muster the strength and bravery to do the same, too.

you take another look at him. he’s really pretty. had you kicking your feet in the air and all and then screaming in horror because of it, had you wrapped around his finger without even knowing.

with the help of kugisaki and megumi, ozawa and itadori, the two of them are cajoled to go around tokyo together. it’s the best ‘date’ that the two of them can help the other two have, especially since itadori is dense as rocks (megumi’s probably worse based on your experiences, then) and ozawa is as shy as a touch-me-not flower.

“oh, and [name],” megumi starts while nobara strolls ahead, all set to begin a new shopping spree.

“ah— uh, yeah?” you stammer.

“do you like me? romantically, I mean…” he scratches the back of his neck.

what the fuck. is this seriously happening? right now?

“huh? what? I—”

“no, it’s just that— seeing ozawa made me think. I guess I never considered it an option, but I suppose I have had… feelings for you for a pretty long time…”

“woah. ah, sorry, I meant— sorry, I’m just very surprised…” you scramble, your hands gesticulating all kinds of things in an exaggerated way of taking it back because yes you like him, you like him a lot— “I mean, I do like you! it’s just, fuck— uh, what do I say— I’m really scared. I thought you didn’t reciprocate at all.”

“I could tell. but I…” he hesitates, “I overthought everything,” then with a frown, he goes, “gojo would have teased me if he was here.”

“well, I– uh. we’re lucky he isn’t, I guess?” you pause, “...so what do we do now? are we a thing? are we dating? wait, am I going too fast? I, oh my goodness, I—”

“would you like to?” he asks. your knees are about to buckle with every second he keeps his eyes on yours.

“I…— well, I would.”

“then it’s settled. can I— can I hold your hand, please?”

“...okay.”

with trepidation in your hands and your heart pounding in your chest, you inch your hands closer, saline sweat on them as if you’d dipped it into the sea. he keeps his gaze on yours— they’re as unsure as you are, his cheeks a slight scarlet, his eyes swirling with nervousness but a sliver of anticipation, of joy and relief. so he feels exactly the same as you do, then.

his fingers find yours after a while, tracing along the lines of your palm like a blind man touching something for the first time. you want to learn to love and to memorise each nook and cranny of him starting with his palm, and for once emotional vulnerability is not that bad.

kugisaki’s in for a shock as soon as she turns around. first it was itadori potentially having a partner before she does, and now megumi?

imagine writing this because of being delulu abt an irl crush (i should be studying for my exams.) haha couldn't be me right (i'm so cooked)

#megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #jjk megumi #megumi imagine #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #ruer writes #megumi fluff

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rwpohl · 6 months ago

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obchod na korze, ján kadár, elmar klos 1965

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groovy-rat-man · 2 years ago

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MOTHER FUCKER I AM NOT DONE YET!?!?!?!?

ONLY THIRTY TAGS??? SINCE WHEN????????

The king of game decided that no one is allowed to eat at the royal diner table anymore

#ribby and croaks: 100%#cagney carnation: doesnt have balls but he would make due out of spite #hilda berg: wouldnt be all that discrete but would make a big deal about it either #captian brineyneard: he is a god damn motherfucking PIRATE what do you THINK #werner werman: spent too long in the rat trenches to give a shit anymore (if he ever did in the first place)#sally stageplay: she is a LADY! she goes to the restroom to scratch her balls.#djimmi the great: probably has his own gold-plated ball-scratching utensil #dr kahl: if ANYONE tells him hes being rude he'll go into a whole spiel about how manners are a social construct and monarchies are dumb #cala maria: says that in mermaid culture its FINE actually to scratch your balls at the royal dinner table (she made that up on the spot)#blind specter: while not physically capable of scratching his balls he'll still do so.... in SPIRIT #tipsy troop: oh absolutely. probably the most polite thing they'll do all evening #esther winchester: she is a got dang mother heucking COWGAL. whadya think?#mr wheezy: would cover for himself by blowing smoke in some poor schmucks face #chips bettigan: again hes a cowboy. ALTHOUGH he would probably apologize if someone pointed it out #hopus pocus: hes a rabbit and also feral. when he scratches his balls he ceases doing anything else. probably uses his teeth too #phear lap: hes a crotchety old man horse he doesnt give a shit about anyone or anything #pirouletta: delicately places a napkin over her lap before scratching her balls #pip and dot: ''ey pip i need ya to scratch my lady balls!'' ... ''oh of COURSE darlin''#mangosteen: he... is a balls?? and apart from that how would he even scratch... his he????#baroness von bon bon: would keep talking and maintain eye contact while using her double barrel candy cane to scratch her balls #psycarrot/chauncey: knows its rude to scratch ones balls at the dinner table (i presume he 'grew up' on a farm?) and simply does not care #glumstone the giant: legitimately does not know table manners. the first time someone points it out he is mortified. he keeps doing it tho #beppi the clown: scratches his balls for comedic effect because he thinks its funny. it makes an exaggerated balloon speaking noise #the devil: i mean... he IS the devil. id imagine he does this more when he realizes it embarrasses people #mortimer freeze: will not continue to scratch his balls after someone points it out but that someones soup will CONSTANTLY be freezing over #spider: hes a regular mafioso. the only person who can tell him not to scratch his balls is da boss an his anteater hubby #sergeant saluki: will scratch her balls but will try not to do so at the dinner table #goopy le grande: well an alpha male like him has GOTTA scratch his balls sometimes!!#lightning bug lady: well... she wont so it while shes TALKING to people!!#anteater: will ask his husbands permission before scratching his balls (although he almost always says yes)

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macarthurpark · 1 month ago

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thinking abt Stanley accidentally getting y/n pregnant teehee

he's at least sixty something and this man has drank enough Pitt cola to kill a horse so he thinks he's finally infertile, so what would you two have to worry about?

unfortunately both of y'all are idiots and are just agreeing with this halfassed science, raw dogging like some rabbits each chance you get till one day you're waking up with a sore chest and you're more emotional than usual, and holy shit when was the last time you had a period?

you're fine with this news. now you've got a little piece of this old fart you've somehow fallen head over heels for, and you're comfortable with your life so far. handling a baby is gonna be hard, duh, but you were getting bored with sitting at the mystery shack register by yourself anyway.

the issue is, how do you bring this up to Stan?

at first, you really do think that Stanley's just gonna escape on boat when you show him the test but all he does is sink to his knees. they do crack audibly, but the look on Stan's face keeps you from laughing or cracking a joke to break this silent tension.

"uhh.. Stan?" He's not even paying attention to you-- he's rubbing your still flat stomach and gazing at it with adoration, almost wonder. then you finally realize he's crying. he'd never thought he was going to be worth anything his entire life, especially after all the loss he'd faced.

but somehow, he's got his brother back, his shack is still paying the bills and then some, and now the one thing he'd never got to have-- a family of his own with a person he'd loved-- it's coming true?

finally he's looking up at you, your face a bit more confused and nervous than anything, because you still haven't heard what you needed to hear.

I want this kid as much as you do.

of course, the stubborn bastard isn't much of a softy to say that. with a good sniffle and a wipe of his eye, he gives a trembling grin.

"Oh, doll.. I'm gonna be so old when this little peanut grows up."

#grunkle stan #y/n is younger like maybe mid 20s?#oh and Mabel is definitely only calling him grunkle dad when she finds out #im sorry not even grunkle Stan can't escape my breeding kink #stanley pines x reader #grunkle stan x reader #yes the baby's name is peanut pines

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queers-gambit · 8 months ago

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Now and at the Hour of His Death

prompt: any who say, "it's better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all," were never loved by him.

pairing: Osferth x female!pregnant!wife!reader

fandom: The Last Kingdom

word count: 6.1k+

note: fuck you, Netflix.

warnings: you already know - author needs therapy, projects hard, pregnant wife, Lord’s name in vain, Christianity (obviously), and a fuck ton of fucking ANGST because fuck your feelings. hurt NO comfort, drama, oneshot, cursing, canon-typical violence, injury, and blood. character death and spoilers - yeah, i'm giving you THAT scene. requires maturity and caution. good luck.

also please note: NO, i do not age Osferth to be 16 - that's just a reference age for when he eventually runs away from the monastery.

again, you are missing nothing if this upsets or triggers you and you choose to skip. value your wellbeing, my angels. author is not responsible for the media YOU choose consume, but still, as usual, MDNI

"You should not be doing this sort of work," Ingrith's voice scolded you, and when you turned, you saw the blonde woman standing with her hip cocked and a stern expression. "It's bad for your health to be in such filth, we've stable boys for this sort of chore."

"I do not mind," you sniffled in the brisk air, shoveling the horse shit of the stable into a muck bucket to be dumped into the fields later. "It keeps me busy," you grunted lightly, sure to bend your knees when lifting the pitchfork, "keeps me humble," you listed, dumping the waste to grin at your friend, "and keeps me young."

"In what way?"

"Reminds me of my childhood," you eased, continuing your work. "I slept in a stable from the ages of 4 to... Oh, shit, I guess I was about 16 before I left The Loft."

"What?" She breathed in confusion. "Never knew that."

"Yeah, yeah, true story," you beamed at her, still shoveling shit. "I slept in the stalls with the horses, sometimes in the grain rooms - basically anywhere I could since my work didn't include official room and board, so, I had to make do with what was available. Then, one day when I was about ten, Old Man Rivers said I could use the hay loft if I cleared it out, fixed the rotten planks. Stayed up there till I was about 16, and after that, I kinda ran away."

"Old Man Rivers?"

You nodded, "My mother lived on his homestead, but she was real sick, you see. So, he kinda took me in without assuming responsibility for me," you cleared your throat, shrugging, "let me stay in his barn if I worked with the horses and livestock for him."

"Why would you want to be reminded of that?"

"Seems simpler when I look back."

Ingrith sighed, "C'mon, put the pitchfork down. Come help me prepare the rabbits. The scouts say the men aren't too far off, they'll want a hot meal."

You chuckled with ease and set your pitchfork aside, giving a hearty pat to one of the horse's necks as you passed by to exit the stable. Ingrith made sure you washed up before you were both mounting rabbits on the rack to start skinning them.

"Could I ask something?" She wondered after a time.

"Anything you'd like."

"Why'd you run away? From Old Man Rivers?"

You laughed, "I was in love."

"Oh, you and Baby Monk go that far back, huh?"

"Try even farther," you teased. "Our mothers were friends, and when I worked in the stable, he was in the monastery, but when he came to me, saying he couldn't do it any longer, I couldn't let him go alone. Life was supposed to offer more than what we were given, so, we set out to find the legendary barbarian, The Dane Slayer," you teased, both giggling, "our Lord, the legendary, Uhtred of Bebbanburg."

"And all this time...?" She smiled, watching you shuck hide like you've done it your whole life. Ingrith inferred you probably did.

"Yeah," you eased, "all this time, he's been by my side. Kept me close, never left me behind. The others weren't too sure about me on account of being a woman, they told us to piss off a few times - but they came around after Osferth refused to send me away."

"He's a good lad, Osferth," she nodded.

"Arguably one of the best ones," you agreed, nudging her arm gently, "but look who I'm telling, right?"

"Oh!" She giggled, swatting at you loosely before going back to your work for a moment. Suddenly, the townspeople of Rumcofa stirred to life, and over the voices, you heard them announcing their Lord's return - which meant all of your men were home. You both grinned and breathlessly left your post, Ingrith pausing a young lad to ask, "How many return to us?"

"Does it matter? Come, c'mon, let us see ourselves!" You all but squealed, overwhelmed with excitment; eager for your own reunion with the man you've loved since you were a young lass.

"Warn the alehouse!" Finan was heard shouting. "Osferth's thirsty!"

"Jesus," you laughed, dodging around the procession of people waiting to greet their warriors on their return home so you could approach the white gelding your husband rode.

His face was absolutely priceless when he caught sight of you. As Osferth eagerly dismounted, your hands smoothed over the small swell of your belly - purposefully wearing a dress that accentuated your ever-changing figure. "Am I dreaming?" He laughed, a stablehand taking hold of his horse so his hands were free to caress your belly. "Oh, my God, I'm not, 's real, oh, God," he beamed, laughing with you. "You're pregnant? Truly? Yes? I-I am not - I am not being deceived?"

"No, my love, I guess our prayers were finally heard."

"OH-HOOOO!" You heard Finan holler as Osferth finally pulled you in for a sweet kiss; both ignoring the Irishman. "Lord! LORD! Uhtred! Hey! Did you hear!? Baby Monk's got some spunk in 'im afta all!"

"Oh, God," you laughed against Osferth's lips, but he was quick to shush you with another breath-stealing kiss.

"A baby Baby Monk! AHA!" Finan was still laughing, your husband's hands caressing both your cheeks when he pulled back just in time for Finan to descend. You grunted lightly when his heavy arms dropped over both yours and Osferth's shoulders, his laugh still booming as he gave a squeeze and cooed, "Oh, congratulations, yah two love birds! Wasn't sure you had it innyah, boy!"

"Don't be so rough with her, Finan, for God's sake," Osferth scolded, nudging his friend to get out from under his arm.

"What?" Finan looked at you gobsmacked. "Sayin' I gotta treat yah different now or somethin'?"

"I didn't say that," you told him prettily with fluttering lashes, fist quickly balling up to jab him in the weak spot of his armor - making him grunt and wheeze. "Aht-aht!" You warned with a pointed finger when he flinched as if to retaliate, "Can't hit a pregnant woman."

"Oh, yeh li'l shite," Finan laughed, Osferth pushing him towards his wife so he could stand in front of you and command all attention.

Osferth took a moment to simply look at you; thumbs gently tracing over your cheeks in sweeping motions, a slow grin breaking across his lips. "This almost doesn't feel real... But how I have to praise God for this blessing. A baby," he breathed.

"A little you and me," you agreed softly. "Sound okay to you?"

"More than okay," he chuckled, pecking your lips, "sounds like a lifetime together."

"Good by me." His nose nuzzled up yours, the sweet moment broken when he sighed sadly; eyes shut and smile dropping. "What is it? What's wrong, love?" You asked, stepping into his embrace so you were nuzzled into his neck and his arms were wrapped around your form in a vice.

"Uhtred means to move us again," he whispered in your ear. "Brida, she... She's got Father Pyrlig, and - "

"What!?" You snapped, rearing back slightly to pin him under your hardened glare. Pregnancy hormones would surely give Osferth whiplash.

"My love, I did not - "

"Brida's got Pyrlig? Fuck are we standin' here for, let's go!" You reached for his hand, ready to march off.

"Uh, no, no, no, no," he pulled you back to him; anchoring his hands on your hips so you could not escape. "You are not going anywhere. Not now - especially now," he glanced at your still-growing bump. "The men will go, you know we will return, but you have this new responsibility, and that's keeping this little one safe. For us," he smiled at you.

You huffed, "I'm not unfit to do what needs done, Osferth."

"I did not say you were unfit, but look at the timing of it," he frowned. "I should've been here when you learned, but I was not, and I am truly so sorry for it. Look, I do not know how long this venture will be, but you know I will return. We've waited for our family for far too long, I will not jeopardize this - so I will return. If you go with us, and something were to happen," he shook his head, "my angel, I would never forgive myself. So I need you to stay here, stay safe, if for nothing else but for me."

"But Pyrlig - "

"Will be saved," he assured.

"And Brida - "

"Will be dealt with," he eased, chuckling lightly. "My angel, you worry too much about everyone and yet never about yourself."

You pouted, "Well, why is it just me meant to stay back? This is your child, too, Osferth, and should have the right to meet them! You can't always control what happens, accidents are real, what if you don't return - "

"Don't think like that - "

"But it's a real threat to us - "

He agreed, "Of course, but - "

"Yeah, I know," you nodded, cutting him off, "we serve Lord Uhtred. This comes first, and I'm not - "

"I've made a vow to him."

"You made one to me, too, you know."

"Angel, please, don't do this. Do not ask me to choose," he begged with a frown, and you caved.

So, with a sigh, you nuzzled into his embrace and relented, "All right, yes, fine, go after Brida and Pyrlig. And when you find them, tell him I am waiting for his safe return, he is dearly missed. Ideally, I'd have him birth our child."

"Of course," he breathed, finding a small reprieve of relief that you did not fight him further about leaving - about choosing which vow to fulfill: the one to his Lord Uhtred or the one to his wife.

Both made to God.

Luckily, Osferth married his best friend and you were never one to pick fights with him. You liked the harmony you had; the peaceful environment you had both cultivated to preserve the trust and love you built through the years. He was genuinely one of a kind; a man who walked many lines between faith, humanity, right, wrong. He was the voice of reason, constantly striving to do better than he did before, learning all he could as if a rag soaking in water. For all he was, Osferth has always been enough for you, and for that reason alone, you never felt the need to argue.

To fight. To voice contempt.

"Question," you perked up, smirking at him as your pregnancy symptoms ran a little wild, "think we've time to, you know, really give our thanks?"

"Angel - "

"What?" You grinned. "You fucked me on the alter all those weeks ago and look - your seed stuck. We might as well go give thanks in the same manner, just to really show God how thankful we are for this blessing he's given us."

"Think the Devil's gotten into you," he laughed.

"Or your child is ruining my hormones," you countered, his lips meeting yours in another passionate display of his excitement.

"C'mon," he whispered, taking your hand, and leading you to the chapel - thinking you were being sneaky, but your matching giggles made Ingrith and Finan beam at each other.

"He does know she can't get more pregnant, right?" Finan teased, flinching when Ingrith smacked his upper arm.

"WHY!?"

"My angel, please - "

"What the fuck is going on, Osferth!?"

"I'm trying to explain - "

"The Queen? The fucking Queen is dead in our village! How can that possibly be explained!?" When Osferth didn't answer, just sat in the wooden chair before the shared hearth of your humble home, you snapped, "Well!?"

"Are you finished? May I speak now?"

With a huff, you nodded and gestured for him to speak; arms crossing around your swollen tits. He explained to you the reason for Haesten's arrival, the wagon his men toted, and why he brought the Queen's dead body to the settlement of Rumcofa. He told you Haesten wanted to keep the peace when King Edward found out, claiming Uhtred's son-in-law, Stiorra's husband, Sigtryggr, had ordered this death - thinking war would surely roll over his lands.

You never knew Haesten to be a generous man, nor much of an honest one, but it seemed the severity of the situation made everyone eerily on-edge. Uhtred dispatched his men; leaving Finan and Osferth in the village with you, developing a plan that would save both Saxon and Danish life. And yet, it was all futile when evil forces worked against good.

You didn't feel safe in Rumcofa anymore, there was a stench in the air; tension that mounted to embrace all residents with discomfort. Something was about to happen, but nobody knew what. You didn't claim or pretend to know what was happening, but Haesten's abrupt appearance spelled danger for everyone involved. So, as a security measure, you kept a long sword buckled around your swelling waist and a dagger strapped under your skirts. With Lord Uhtred gone, there was no invisible fence protecting Rumcofa - leaving it up to you, Osferth, Finan, and Cynleaf to pose as guard.

Yet you'd never be enough.

Like the surf over sand, a group of angered men descended on Rumcofa. "Who's men are yah?" Finan asked, you lingering at Osferth's side to watch the interaction from a short distance.

"We come from the King," a burly Saxon replied, your head cocking in interest - swearing you've seen him before. "Dane murderers are hiding here and you must hand them over."

"You're mistaken, sir," you kindly offered, the man's eyes shifting over you, "because we live in peace. Any murderers have surely moved on from here. We do not host them."

The man growled, "Don't think that's true, love."

Finan held a hand back at you, meeting your eyes and nodding simply. He turned back for the man in fur, diverting, "Of course, my men will attend to it."

Finan turned from the group, his eyes connecting with yours as he passed by. There was urgency, a quickened pace he adopted; having no intention to hand anyone over, wanting to remove these men without bloodshed. However, that was a distant thought because Father Benedict tried to assure the Saxon leader that nobody in Rumcofa would murder Queen Aelflaed.

You wanted to step in when the Saxon evidently didn't know about the Queen's demise - getting in Benedict's face and demanding to see what he spoke of.

"No, no, no," you muttered nervously, "he can't see the body, love, no, no, no, this is bad. Very bad."

"We can't stop Father Benedict without altercation," Osferth whispered back, keeping a tight hold of your hand, just watching the group. "If something happens, you need to get yourself safe."

"How do we truly know they're from Edward? What credentials do they have?" When Osferth shook his head, you worried, "Got a bad feeling 'bout this, angel."

Then the violence began.

The strange men took charge when their leader walked away, starting to physically harass the citizens; making both you and Osferth step in to try and diffuse the tension. You pushed men off unarmed women, got in between them and the children, did what you could without drawing a weapon.

When a man shoved you away from him, Finan wrangled him away, sneering, "Get yer hands off of her!" He kept the violent men at bay for a moment, telling you, "You need to go, darling - "

"Not now, Fin, look around us! We need to contain the situation, you'll need all hands you can get," You snapped, the two of you forced to part way.

Osferth panted nervously and looked left and right, turning to meet the Saxon and demand, "Tell your men to stand down!" But then, his eyes squinted when you joined his side to pull him back a step or two, recognizing him just as you did.

"I don't think they're here for the Queen, love," you heaved for breath in warning, still backing him up. "They've planned this."

"Finan!" Osferth barked, "These men have been here before!"

The Saxon roared over the fray, "Danes of Rumcofa have murdered our Queen!" His men jeered in anger, making Finan brandish both swords and for Osferth to push you back further from the attention. "Do your duty and rid the cockles from the wheat!"

You were left no choice. Osferth and you both armed yourselves, starting to fight off the Saxons as their leader demanded Danes and Christians be separated. You were unable to help, engaged in battle, but Young Uhtred gathered the Danes and begged Father Benedict to declare the church a sanctuary - thinking it would save lives.

It was only leading the Danes to slaughter.

The Saxon, Bresal, punched Father Benedict when he tried to stand in the way; his men holding Young Uhtred in the doorway to let their men enter the church the Danes were gathered in. They forced Young Uhtred to watch the massacre - men, women, and Danish children all slaughtered with no escape. No hope. No answer to a single prayer. Nobody to stop this bloody situation.

You fought on, Osferth, Finan, and Cynleaf doing their best to protect you by keeping you in the middle of their wee group. But you still got plenty of action.

"This is madness!" You cried out, slicing a man's throat open. "We need aid! We need more men!"

"This way!" Finan encouraged, "We must cut a path for Ingrith! Check the docks! Check the docks!"

You and Osferth ran towards the water, Cynleaf not far away. You searched for Ingrith, but you had no time to linger; engaged one-on-one again, forced to protect yourself and unborn baby. Not a minute later, you saw Ingrith on horseback, being stalled by a Saxon and for your husband to rush to her aid. He punched the man away from the horse, you hacking at another enemy, in time to see Osferth engaging with two Saxons - one being the leader, Bresal.

It all happened so fast.

You were already racing towards them when the unexpected. Osferth was battling on two fronts, holding Bresal at bay, fending off the other Saxon, screaming for Ingrith, who only managed a few paces before the Saxon's dogs spooked her horse. The noise was deafening; people screaming, crying, dogs barking, horses whinnying, swords singing as they clashed.

You watched it happen in slow motion.

You sprinted faster than ever before.

"INGRITH!" Osferth bellowed in worry when her horse reared back and dropped her to the dirt. It left an opening for Bresal to stab his dagger into Osferth's lung - freezing time and wrecking your world.

"NO!" You screamed, Bresal smirking at you and yanking his dagger free. Osferth wobbled, eyes wide as he met yours, the Saxon walking away as Osferth dropped to his knees. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Oh, God, no, no, you can't take him - not yet! Please, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," You repeated, sliding on your knees in the dirt to catch him. "No, no, oh, my God, no, Osferth, no, please! Not now, not now, please, no, God, no! Don't do this! Please, please, please," you rambled, readjusting to better hold him, hearing Cynleaf and Finan yell for Baby Monk, too. You raged at God, "You can't take him yet! You can't have him! He's mine!"

But you heard nothing except your husband's labored breathing.

"An-Angel, angel, my angel," Osferth choked, wheezing and crying as he couldn't hold himself up and completely slumped back into your body. He pawed at your arms in an attempt to get closer.

"No, no, no, you're all right, you're okay, you're okay, my sweet love, you're all right," you insisted, hands stained in his blood as it poured from his wound. You knew it was essential to add pressure to a wound, but also, that this was all futile. Yet you needed to try. "Hey, hey, hey, look at me, just look at me, sweetheart, please, only look at me, nothing else matters," you pleaded with him in a rush, the lads sprinting to where you held your husband to your lap.

Nobody interrupted you.

"Where's the wound?" Osferth sobbed, trembling, blood spurting from his mouth; going paler by the minute. "Angel, please, the wound? Where's the wound?"

"No, no, no, don't worry 'bout that, hey? Don't you worry, you just keep looking at me," you sobbed, holding his neck and cradling him to your swollen belly. "Just at me, my love, okay? Just look at me - don't look anywhere else, okay? Nothing else matters."

"H-How bad? How ba-ba-bad-bad is i-it?"

"You're going to be all right," you lied to Osferth for the first time.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God," Osferth repeated through his tears and fears, "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die."

He held onto you desperately, sobbing, you slowly rocking. "No, you're all right, Osferth, it's okay, just look at me." You caressed his cheek, smearing blood, but locking eyes. "My love," you whispered, "listen to me - "

"I don't wanna die, please, please, angel, my love, please," he coughed, holding your arm tightly as if it would give him life. "Don't let me die," he wheezed, "don't let me die, my love, please, please. Don't let me die, I don't wanna die. I-I wanna meet our baby, please, I want to meet our baby, I want to be a father. Don't let me die, love, please, I-I wanna be your husband longer - "

"You'll never not be my husband and you'll never not be a father, hear me?" You sniffled, trying to smile at him. "Don't you worry, you're gonna be okay, you're okay, Osferth. You'll always be my husband, nothing will change that - I swear."

Blood pumped with each beat of his frantic heart, making it gush over your fingers. You didn't even feel it.

"Please," he choked, more blood bubbling from his lips, "don't let me die, I don't wanna die. Don't let me die, please, not now, not when our baby isn't here yet, please, I just wanna meet 'em, be a family, I wanna stay with you, don't let me go. Please, don't let me go, I don't want t'go! Don't let me - "

"Shh, it's okay, you're okay. I'm here with you. I'm right here, Osferth, you're not alone, you're never alone. I'm here. I've got you. I'll always have you, I won't ever let you go. Never."

He sobbed harder. "I don't wanna leave you. Please, I don't wanna go, I don't wanna be without you - " But the words choked him, a splatter spraying across your face when he coughed; you didn't even flinch.

"Listen to me," you begged, "I commend you, my dear, sweet husband, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator."

Finan was heard behind you, retching jarring sobs as you read Osferth his death rite prayer. "Don't let me die," Osferth begged still, as if you held that power.

He had always looked at you as if you hung the sun and stars, and now, as if you were his very reason for living. You hated God in that moment for forcing you two through this.

"May you return to Him who formed you from the dust of the earth. May Holy Mary, the angels," now, you choked on your words, emotion clawing your throat, but still continued, "and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace." You sobbed, "May Christ who died for you admit you into His garden of paradise. May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of His flock. May He forgive all your sins, and set you among those He has chosen. Amen. Please, please, say amen, Osferth, say it, please!"

"A-Amen - Amen!" He coughed, trying to get closer to you, nestling into your warmth as he felt impossibly cold. "Don't leave me, don't leave me, please, please, I don't wanna go, I don't wanna be alone. I can't go without you, please, don't let me go - don't let me die, angel, please, I can't go without you. I-I’ve never been without you my whole life, I don’t wish to start now. I love you. I-I love you, please, don't let me go, I love you. I need you."

"You'll never be without me," you promised, face coated in blood, grime, dirt, and ash; all streaked with your tear tracks. "You will always be my husband, hey? Hear me? You're always gonna be with me, I will never be apart from you. I'll love you forever, Osferth, I won't ever stop." You felt your chest cave in as you sobbed, "Please, don't you leave me - "

But Osferth was wheezing and panting, only staring up at you. "I only need you," he whimpered, "I've only ever needed you, I can't do this without you. Please, I can't - I can't go without you. I don't want to leave you, I can't leave you, please!'

"So don't leave me," you sobbed, him still clawing at you in desperation. "I love you more than life, Osferth, please, don't leave me, okay? Don't go. I love you so much. Being loved by you was my greatest pleasure in this life, I want our child to know your love, too, Osferth, please, don't go."

"I-I wanna meet our baby, I wanna hold 'em, love 'em," he repeated. "Please, this can't be the end, don't let this be the end. W-We have so much more - we were supposed to have eternity together, my love, my angel, please! This isn't the end, I can't - I can't go without you!"

"You're okay," you soothed uselessly, rocking more prominently. "Just stay with me, my love, okay? Stay with me. Don't go. Only look at me, all right? You hear me?" You sniffled, caressing his cheek. "You're the best thing in my life, Osferth, yeah? Understand me? Where you're going, y-you'll be welcomed a hero, with open arms. You'll be my own angel. My real angel. The reason I keep going for our child. An-And you'll stay there just for a little while until I join you, okay? You'll watch over us, me and the baby, right? Our own angel? Hey? 'Cause you'll never be part from us - you'll never be apart from me. You and I are a forever sorta thing, we'll never be apart, we'll always be part of each other no matter what."

Osferth lost his words, eyes widening and pulling you closer.

You just soothed, "I'm here with you, my love. I'm here, I've got you. You're not alone, I'm right here, I have you. I've got you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, Osferth, okay? I love you more than anything, you're my everything. I love you," you sniffled, breaking down in worse sobs, repeating, "I love you, I love you, I love you so much, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry I wasn't faster, I love you, this shouldn't be happening. I'm so sorry, I should've come faster! I love you, I'm so sorry."

With his last breath, Osferth choked, "L-Love y-y-you."

"I love you," you hushed, bending at the waist to rest your forehead on his, "I love you so much. You're gonna be okay, you're gonna be all right, you'll be safe - where you're going, you'll be safe. I'm so sorry, my love... I'm so sorry."

You felt him go still. You felt the last of his breath exhale, his body deflate. You felt his soul detach from his body.

You froze.

"Oh, my God," you breathed, pulling back to look down at his petrified features. "Oh, my God, no, no, no. God, please, please, give him back," you sobbed, "give him back to me! Do not take him! It's not his time, you selfish cunt! Give him back! It wasn't supposed to end like this! Give him back to me, please! Please! This isn't how this was supposed to happen! We promised eternity together, please! Let us have that! Let us be together, give him back to me! I need him!"

Your shrill hysterics were heard all over Rumcofa.

Finan sobbed into his wife's arms behind you, Cynleaf knelt to slowly extend his hand onto your shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he offered, but you pushed him away harshly; knocking him into the dirt.

"No! I don't want your fucking condolences!" You snapped, holding Osferth tighter, "I want my husband! I want my husband back! Can you give him to me? Can you, Cynleaf? Can you give him back to me!?"

"No - "

"Then you have nothing to offer me! I want nothing else, nothing from you! I only want him!" You looked away from the young lad, finding Osferth's wide open eyes staring up at you. You whimpered, "I only need him, so, please. Please, give him back to me. Please. I need him, I need him, I can't do this without him, please, God, don't do this. You take so many lives, why add him to the mix!? Give him back! C'mon," you begged the cooling body, "c'mon, love, get up. Get up for me, please, just wake up. Come back to me, get up... Get up, Osferth, get up! Please! WAKE UP!"

But Osferth never moved. Never blinked. Never drew breath. And God never answered your pleas. Your dress was saturated in your husband's blood; a pooling puddle seeping into your knees, bodice drenched, his baby moving in your belly. You wailed into the still air, holding your husband tight to your chest; mouth agape to release the terrible screams of anguish, tears never ending, rocking on your knees. You didn't know what to feel... But devastation was prominent.

You wept until your throat went raw, jaw tender from your open mouth. "I'm so sorry!" You repeated, "I should've been quicker! I should've been at your side! You shouldn't have been alone! This is my fault! This is all my fault, I shouldn't have been away from you. I should've been with you, you did not deserve this end. Please! Forgive me, wherever you are, forgive me, I did not intend for this, I shouldn't have left you, I should've been at your side, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault, I'm so sorry."

"No," Ingrith whispered, "no, do not say this is your fault, you did nothing - "

"Exactly!" You snapped at her, eyes ablaze, her husband silent. "I did nothing, I wasn't with him! I wasn't where I was supposed to be! And he was stabbed because of you!"

Finan whispered your name in reprimand.

"No! How many times have you rode a fucking horse, Ingrith!? And now, today, the time it truly matters, you fall; you posed distraction," you sobbed, crumpling in on yourself. "He was distracted by your fall... This shouldn't've happened, this is all wrong!"

The trio just watched you, knowing your emotions were raw and unwavering, that your words did not have meaning because your husband had just died in your arms. Hours passed, you did not move. Hours passed, your husband did not return. Hours passed, and your heart shattered with each passing breath you selfishly drew.

Because living felt selfish now without Osferth.

"Sweet one," Finan whispered, the sun setting, "we should move him. Bring him to the church so Benedict can pray."

Your head shook, "No."

"Darlin', we have to - "

"No," you whimpered, "because if you take him to Benedict, it's real. If we move, he's truly gone... He can't be gone, Finan," you sobbed, meeting your friend's eyes. "If you move him, he's gone, I'm not ready to say goodbye, please. Please, don't take him from me."

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "but he should be laid to rest."

"Don't take him from me," you begged, a new wave of tears starting. "I just - we were supposed to be a family. We were supposed to have this baby, and now, it's just me? This cannot be, so please, don't take him from me, I only need him back. Give him back to me, Finan, please, I can't be without him."

"I know," he nodded, gently encouraging you into his embrace. It meant you had to let go of Osferth, something you did slowly and gradually, leaning into the Irishman's chest. "All right, I got yah," he whispered, looking to his wife. "C'mon, stand with Ingrith. I'll carry him."

"Be gentle," you sobbed, feeling Ingrith grip your arms to help heave you to your feet; watching Finan scoop Osferth over his shoulder. The change of position made more blood splatter to the dirt, your heart stalling in your chest when you heard the mess.

You felt your soul shriveled and hidden somewhere deep in your chest, following as if in a trance. You watched Finan and Cynleaf slowly lower Osferth to the ground with the other dead Danes, feeling yourself drop to the ground in shock.

Seeing Osferth amongst the dead made it so much more real.

"It's all my fault," you sobbed, Finan moving to your side, "it's all my fault, I got him killed. I should've been quicker. This is my fault, my fault, I did this, 's my fault."

Finan knelt beside you, bringing your foreheads together to hold you tightly and let you sob into his embrace. "You didn't do this," he promised, "you did nothing wrong. You are not at fault. Do not carry this guilt."

You sobbed without reprieve.

Young Uhtred halted Father Benedict from praying over the Danes, telling the older man they had different customs, but looked back at you. He asked your name softly, wondering, "Do you wish for a prayer for... Him?"

Even Young Uhtred couldn't stomach the truth, avoiding using Osferth's name out of sheer disbelief.

"That'd be nice," Finan agreed, turning to sit beside you and hold you under his arm. You leaned into his embrace, head to his shoulder. "She read him his death rites when... It happened."

Young Uhtred nodded, bowing his head, leading, "Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done, On earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Then, you joined from under Finan's heavy arm, sobbing through your words, "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death."

Benedict finished, "Glory Be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end."

Together, you, Ingrith, Young Uhtred, Benedict, Finan, and even Cynleaf ended, "Amen."

Feeling the most level-headed, Ingrith stepped in and directed the men; informing that Young Uhtred should lead the remaining Danes to Daneland, Finan and Cynleaf would meet Uhtred on the road, and she would accompany you to Wessex - where Osferth could be laid to rest at the place of his birth. Then, the people mourned together for their fallen.

Finan disagreed initially, telling his wife you were his responsibility now that Osferth was passed. But there was no way you could continue with the company, not in your pregnant state. Finan didn't like the idea of you being without him, considering you close to a sister; something of a best mate, someone he couldn't turn his back on - no matter the situation. However, he understood the predicament and finally agreed to part ways, but not before he untied Osferth's crucifix and latched it around your neck. At the gates of Rumcofa, before separating, Finan gifted you his rosary; thinking it might bring comfort in his physical absence.

Years from then, you would bring up a single son named Gabriel (a name your husband favored, a name benefitting an Angel) under Lord Uhtred in his birthplace of Bebbanburg. You never remarried. You never even so much as looked after another man with lust. Gabriel would grow into a handsome warrior and a devoted man of God, satisfied on tales about his father; being painted as a man of honor, integrity, and bravery. Osferth, too, was a man of God, a man of the sword, and a man of his word... Until the very end. And when your time came, you were brought back to Wessex to be laid to rest with your husband; your son having a son, naming him Osferth, and knowing, both his parents shined down on him in pride.

It was a comfort for everyone to know, somewhere in the afterlife, in God's warmth, you and Osferth were reunited; looking just as you did the day you parted from one another.

requesting rules and masterlist

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eggbedthewriter · 2 days ago

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So I don't post here much, and when I do it's not about my personal life. What you could learn about me, through reblogs and posts, is that I like Sally Face. I like FNAF and Red Queen and The Hunger Games and Taylor Swift and writing.

But what else is there? Well, I'm an American. I am a queer American, specifically an asexual lesbian. I am too young to vote and I live in the south. I am scared. The chances of us winning are slim to none in this election. He has 267 electoral votes as I write this. He needs 270 to win.

I am scared shitless. I do not have faith in my country. In my state. I was promised the "American Dream" when I was born, and I have watched that dream die every single day under his, under trump's, influence.

I am scared of being killed. In school, for being queer, for being a woman. I am scared for my friends who aren't white. I am scared in every single cell of my body. I am scared in the way that a rabbit is when it sees the shadow of a hawk. I am scared in a visceral, animalistic way. And I am not dramatizing or catastrophizing. I have watched this man say that he will close borders and deport every single illegal immigrant, even if that means legal immigrants are caught up in it. I have watched him say the most demeaning, psychotic shit to women because he knows he can get away with it. I am scared for my life and the lives of my friends.

My name is Madelyn. I want to be a vet when I grow up. I want to move to Canada. I want to write books. I want a newfoundland dog named Bailey and a ragdoll cat named Mayo. I want two horses. My name is Madelyn. I want to get married to my amazing partner, who is not a cis man. I want to have a daughter named Eliza. I want to live a happy, exciting life. I want to live.

My name is Madelyn. And I am scared.

#us politics #please remember us

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 6 months ago

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The Beast Wants to Tempt the Little Rabbit (Matias vs Clavis)

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies. Not proofread.

Clavis: "Haha, found you. So this is where you work."

Emma: "Prince Clavis!?"

After completing my duty as a belle, I returned to my peaceful life, but then Clavis appeared out of nowhere, causing me to drop the book I was reading on the counter.

Clavis: "That reaction. You missed me that much, huh? Then feel free to leap into my arms."

Emma: "I'll pass. Anyway, who's that gentleman next to you?"

Standing right behind Clavis was a man I didn't recognize. Despite his rugged appearance and equally imposing presence as Clavis, he had an impeccable posture and charisma that naturally drew attention.

Matias: "Pardon me. I'm Matias Asbrink, a friend of Clavis. Nice to meet you."

Emma: "Nice to meet you. I'm Emma."

Matias: "Are you also a friend of Clavis?"

Emma: "Um, no, we're just acquaintances."

Clavis: "How can you say that? You and I have been through so much together."

Matias: "Is that so?"

Emma: "You're right. We experienced all sorts of things together. You convinced me to be your partner in crime for all your mischief-making and even dragged me all over the palace."

Matias: "I see."

Emma: "So, why are you here, Prince Clavis?"

Having endured countless misadventures thanks to Clavis during my time at the palace, I couldn't help but be cautious.

Clavis: "That's because I've appointed you as our tour guide!"

Emma: “Tour guide?”

(What's that supposed to mean?)

Clavis smiled and placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Clavis: “You see, Matias here is the prince of Acroite, the land of snow and law.”

Emma: “Prince!?”

Clavis: “It’s only natural to entertain the honored guest, so I thought of organizing a Rhodolite tour.”

Clavis: “Emma, you’ve been living in this city since you were born.”

Clavis: “That means you know more about this place than I do.”

(Well, I might have a bit of confidence in that.)

Clavis: “Therefore, I’d like you to assist with the tour.”

Clavis: “And having a woman around like Matias would add to the charm, don’t you think?”

Matias: “She seems to be a bookstore clerk. Aren't we bothering her?”

(He seems surprisingly reasonable for someone who’s Clavis’s friend.)

I know firsthand that nothing good comes from being involved with Clavis, but if I refuse now, it might inconvenience Prince Matias.

(Yeah, there’s no way I can just ignore it.)

Emma: “Owner! Did you hear our conversation?”

The owner peeked out from the back of the shop.

Akatsuki: “No problem. Be careful out there.”

Emma: “Thank you very much.”

Clavis: "Haha, I knew you'd definitely help."

Matias: "I'm sorry if it feels like we're forcing you, but thank you, Miss Emma."

Emma: "No, it’s fine. I'll do my best to make you enjoy Rhodolite."

(I need to keep a close eye on Clavis to make sure he doesn't go off the rails.)

Most of the time, the words peace and safety escaped me when I was with Clavis.

Unfortunately, this time, too, it seemed to have already escaped me.

Emma: "Um, Prince Clavis."

Clavis: "What's up? Are you impressed by my thoroughness?"

Emma: "No, I was just wondering why there's a white horse here."

As we exited the bookstore, I saw a quiet and wise-looking white horse tethered nearby.

While it wouldn't be unusual for a means of transportation to be there, the fact that there was only one raised some questions.

(It doesn't look like they rode together.)

Matias: "It's a magnificent horse. Is it a warhorse?"

(Prince Matias seems surprised as well.)

Clavis: "Yes, he's Chevalier's partner. But today, he's your companion, Matias."

Matias: "What do you mean?"

Clavis: "You'll be riding this horse to get around from now on."

Matias: "And what about you and Miss Emma?"

Clavis: "We have important tasks to attend to."

Flashing his brightest smile, he signaled to Cyril, and he reluctantly brought over two baskets.

Upon seeing what was inside, I tilted my head in confusion.

Emma: "Rose petals?"

Clavis: "Yup, you'll be in charge of the rose petals with me."

Emma: "Prince Clavis, what the hell are you planning?"

Clavis: "I'm glad you asked."

With a lively expression, Clavis took out a red sash worn by princes during ceremonies.

Noticing the unusually placed sash before me, I couldn't help but groan.

Emma: "I understand."

Emma: "Prince Matias, let's run away."

Matias: "Are you suggesting that we elope?"

Emma: “Elope?”

(Why are his eyes so serious?)

Clavis: "Haha! Hold on a second, Emma. You seem to be misunderstanding something."

Emma: “I'm not misunderstanding anything. I've seen through all your plans.”

Emma: "You're going to put that sash that says 'today's star of the show' on Prince Matias and have him march through the streets on horseback, aren't you?"

Clavis: "My goodness."

Clavis: "I knew you were brilliant, but I never expected you to be this perceptive!"

Emma: "Let's run, Prince Matias!"

Matias: "And then, we'll find an eternal paradise where no one else can enter."

Emma: "Prince Matias?"

Matias: "Ah, sorry. I was lost in thought."

(Did I hear him say something weird just now, or am I imagining things?)

Clavis: "Matias, here, take this."

Emma: "Ah!"

We were unable to escape in time; Clavis had already handed him the sash.

Matias: “Rhodolite has an unusual way of sightseeing.”

Clavis: “You’re a special guest, so you need to be welcomed not only by me and Emma but by the town citizens as well.”

(Yeah, it’s over.)

Clavis: "People, behold! Make way for our distinguished guest!"

In the end, there was no way a girl like me could stop Clavis, so I reluctantly scattered the petals and followed along as Matias, riding on a white horse, moved forward.

Woman: "What is Prince Clavis up to this time?"

Man: "He's a distinguished guest, apparently. I'm not quite sure what's happening, but maybe we should just go along with it?"

Being used to Clavis' antics, the people of Rhodolite quickly adapted to the situation.

Every time Matias passed by, people applauded and cheered. Before we knew it, we had become the center of attention.

Matias: "This also requires a strong spirit."

Emma: "Prince Matias, if it's uncomfortable for you, I can stop..."

Matias: "No, it's fine. If this is Rhodolite's way of welcoming guests, then so be it."

Matias: "By the 62nd precept of the Asbrink family motto, let us proceed."

(What's with that motto? "Accept the kindness of others," or something like that?)

Making up his mind, Prince Matias waved to the cheering crowd and made the surroundings even livelier.

Woman: "He's quite charming, isn't he?"

Woman: "Yeah. But goodness, his overwhelming charisma is almost suffocating."

(It looks like Prince Matias is especially popular among women.)

(Well, I can understand why. He's so handsome and has tremendous sex appeal.)

Woman: "If only Prince Clavis would stay silent and just be a feast for the eyes."

Woman: "Yeah, he's handsome, but only on the surface."

(Clavis is getting quite the remarks.)

Clavis: "Hm."

Clavis: "This is rather unsatisfactory."

Part 2 ╎ Matias End ╎ Epilogue

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri clavis #ikepri matias #clavis lelouch #ikepri jp #ikepri translations #cybird #matias asbrink

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eiightysixbaby · 3 months ago

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rise and shine

pairing: farmhand!jonathan x farmer’s daughter!fem!reader

jonathan works on your father’s farm, and you’re strictly forbidden to mess around with him. but on a sweltering summer day one thing leads to the next, and i guess what your father doesn’t know won’t hurt him… (5.5k)

cw: 18+ ONLY - SMUT. oral (m + f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, use of petnames, jonathan’s nickname for reader is ‘birdie’, this is filthyyyy so pls let me know if i forgot anything lol

a/n: farmhand!jonathan was born during a conversation with @onegirlmanytales, so this one is for you gia. our beautiful beautiful boy <3 as always, reblogs are so incredibly appreciated! love u guys xoxo

The heat is already unbearable, and the sun is barely even up. The kind of dry, suffocating warmth that steals your breath and makes you feel sluggish.

A golden morning glow is cast across the fields as Jonathan stomps towards the barn, the rubbery soles of his boots crunching against dry grass. He heaves open the heavy metal latch to the thick wooden door, inhaling the stale, overwhelming scent of the animals. He’s mostly used to the smells by now, though they’re amplified on the brutally hot days like this one.

He starts his path from one stall to the next. His favorite horse, Nimbus, presses her hoof into the dusty dirt of the barn floor, chortling at him. A smile graces his features as he reaches a hand out to stroke her long snout, palm flat against the bristly softness of her coat.

“Hey, girl. Good morning,” he speaks softly to her, and she nuzzles into his hand. He gives her a few extra scratches for good measure before he continues to walk through and greet the rest of the bunch.

There's three other horses in this barn, along with the cows. The rabbits have their own coop outside, as do the chickens and ducks. He knows the morning routine like the back of his hand, and he floats through his tasks as if on autopilot. The animals get kisses and pats from him, snacks and fresh water. Even as he sweats through his clothes, he feels at peace caring for them all.

All of the animals seem to like him; even the ones with the wildest tempers turn mild when he's around. He tries to be modest about this, but his mom and brother definitely hear him gush about it when he comes home from a long day. He can’t help it, he’s a little bit proud of himself.

He's collecting eggs from the hens when he spots you. Beautiful, bright, perfect you flouncing down the porch steps in your pretty sundress, the fabric adorned with what he assumes are tiny flowers but can't quite discern from this distance. The yellow metal watering can sways in your hand, clanking against the concrete slab beneath the water spout as you set it down.

He doesn’t realize how hard he’s been staring until you turn to him with a cheery wave.

“Mornin’ Jonathan!” you call, and he feels his cheeks flush with warmth at the realization of being caught.

He waves, a half smile gracing his lips. “Morning, Birdie.”

The nickname is one he’d given you after he caught you awake early one morning, feeding the birds and taking notes about each type that visited your porch. He’d approached as quietly as he could so as not to disturb them, and he let you show him the feathers you’d collected and the sketches you’d done of the creatures. He marveled at it all, really, and unbeknownst to you it only made him more smitten for you.

If he's honest with himself, the best moments of his days working the ranch are when he sees you. He thinks about you constantly, and he has - on more than one occasion - come home smiling giddily about an interaction he'd had with you only to blush profusely when his brother would tease him.

The problem here, is your father. He’s the owner of the ranch and thus is Jonathan's employer, an under-the-table type of situation, and the man is protective as all hell of you. The last thing he needs to do is breach your father’s trust and risk his job. He thinks maybe he'd also be risking his life.

But the way the sunlight makes your complexion shine, bouncing off your skin radiantly makes his knees buckle. Your smile when you look at him makes his palms sweat. The soft sound of your humming floating towards him makes his heart soar.

You make him forget all of his inhibitions. And it's equal parts exciting and terrifying.

The water trickles from the can’s spout, sparkling in the sunlight as it falls over the beautiful flowers surrounding your porch. You’re careful to give each plant more than enough water, and he watches you intently as if this is some incredibly riveting task.

When you go to refill the can a second time, he realizes that he hasn't moved in far too long. He promptly forces himself to turn on his heel, heading back to let the animals out of their pens to graze. His footsteps feel mechanical, like he has a tinier version of himself controlling his body from a panel inside of his brain.

Don't be a moron, he thinks to himself. Be fucking cool.

He busies himself by cleaning out each of the pens within the barn, sweeping the old ruddy broom along the brown dirt floors, watching as its dry bristles occasionally fall off in its trail. He doesn't even flinch as he shovels waste from each stable, his once squeamish demeanor having been tampered with time and experience. He brings the back of his hand up to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his stringy bangs soaked beneath the wide brim of his hat. He can feel the fabric of his soft cotton shirt already clinging to his back, a sensation that’s entirely too much in this kind of heat.

He turns around, peeking out of the barn doors. There’s no sign of you anymore, and he doesn’t see your father or anyone else either. He supposes it’s alright to take his shirt off, given there’s no one near to offend.

Little does he know, as he reaches an arm around to his back and hoists the fabric up and off, you’re watching shyly from your kitchen window. Peering through the patterned curtains, chewing on your lip. Your fingers absentmindedly twirl a straw around your glass of lemonade, lost in a trance.

Jonathan has more muscle on him than you expected, though you aren’t sure why this is a surprise to you given the hard work he does. You can see the distinct lines on his arms where his tan doesn’t reach, the result of too many days working in the sun with t-shirts on. He stretches, his shoulder blades protruding like wings, and you nearly feel yourself start to drool as his muscles flex and pull. He bends down to retrieve his hat, the unmarked surface of his back on display.

You long to feel his skin beneath your palms, to reach out and touch his back, trace a finger from one freckle to the next until you’ve created a constellation only you can see. You want to leave marks, dig your nails in until you’ve left evidence that you’ve been there.

The longer you stare, watching him as he continues tidying up, the warmer you become. You can feel a searing desire forming between your legs, bare thighs squeezing hard together beneath your tiny dress.

You aren’t sure where your father went, but you know you haven’t seen him around the barn at all this morning. How bad could it be to go out there with Jonathan, really?

The skin of your lip grows raw as your teeth wear at it further, debating your next move or rather, hyping yourself up to make it. Your body buzzes with nerves, clenching your hands into fists before opening your palms once more.

Screw it. Screw it, you're going out there.

Before you can convince yourself to stay inside and hide away from the man, you're pouring another glass of lemonade to take out to him. Slipping on your shoes and swinging open the screen door that spits you out onto your porch. Bees buzz at your sides when you pass the flowering bushes, sun searing your skin the second you're exposed to its harsh rays.

It's sweltering, that's for certain, and coming out here under the guise of bringing Jonathan something to drink is innocent enough.

He doesn't hear you approaching, your footsteps barely making a sound as you trod across the grass. He's hunched over slightly, rinsing dirt from his hands with the garden hose and a bar of soap he keeps in the barn.

“Hey,” is all that comes out of your mouth at first. He spins to face you, visibly startled by your presence. Water runs from the hose that's now soaking the parched grass where it lays, before he hastily shuts off the water supply. “Sorry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Just thought you might be thirsty,” you hold the glass out to him, twisting your lips.

“Oh, t-thanks,” he stammers, accepting the offering. The glass is cold in his hand, already sweating from the heat. Droplets of water fall from the bottom of the cup and onto the ground by his boots, unable to cling to the warming surface any longer. His mouth suddenly feels dry, whether from the heat or your proximity he can't decipher, but he suspects it's the latter.

You don't move from your spot in front of him, your pretty eyes nearly sparkling as you watch him take a sip of the drink. You look like you want to pounce on him.

You watch intently as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he takes a few greedy swallows, your cheeks hot and feverish at all of the thoughts that swirl through your head.

“Mm,” he hums, pulling the glass rim from his lips. His eyes can't help but rake over your frame, focusing too hard on the way your dress flatters your body. “It's real sweet,” he says, gaze zoning in on your lips. How the soft layer of shiny gloss makes them look enticing, like ripe fruit ready to be picked.

Your teeth sink into the plump skin of your bottom lip, batting your lashes at him. You're toeing a dangerous line, but both of you want nothing more than to cross it.

A small noise dies in his throat, like he was going to speak but can’t bring himself to. He sets his glass down, his hands trembling slightly. You step closer to him, the heat unbearable, but you’re no longer sure if it’s the sun or your own desire warming the atmosphere. You feel two-hundred degrees, and you can guess Jonathan feels the same.

“Do you want to… take a break? You work so hard, and you must be so hot,” you say, saccharine and faux-innocent, your index finger trailing featherlight down his chest. You know what you’re doing, and he knows it, too.

“Birdie...” he warns. “Your dad—”

“Don't worry about my dad. He's not around, no one has to know,” you gaze at him, watching as he rubs a hand down his face. “I won't let anything bad happen, even if he finds out,” you add, taking his hand in yours.

You flip his palm up, running your thumb along the rough skin. He's quiet, but breathing too heavily for someone who's standing still.

God, he might regret this. But he can't bring himself to care quite enough to do anything to stop it. He knows what your next move is before it happens.

And then, in one swift motion you're pressing your lips to his, closing the gap between your bodies. His bare chest pressed to your clothed one, his breath catching in his throat. He feels himself melt into you just as you pull away.

You blink at him, having stepped just slightly backward. Instantly he's wishing you'd come back. Like now that he’s had one taste of you, he can’t fathom going another second without it. Your gaze stays focused on his lips and it makes him feel like jelly, you look like you could devour him and he wants to let you. His eyes search your face rather frantically before he makes a decision.

His hands reach up to cup your face, pulling your lips back to his. He pushes you back easily until you're pressed against the outer wall of the barn, mouthing hungrily at one another beneath the scorching sun. One hand glides up your thigh, rucking up the fabric of your dress as you expose your neck to him, letting him kiss and bite at the tender skin. Tasting the sweat that beads, lapping it away with his tongue like he'd dreamt of doing for weeks.

Then, as if suddenly remembering where he is, he draws back, looking around behind him to ensure no one's there. That typical skittish demeanor creeping back in. One of his hands remains at your hip, his eyes searching yours. His nervousness makes your heart flutter.

“Should we… could we… take this into the barn?” he asks softly, making your lips twist into a small smile.

Wordlessly, you hook two fingers into his belt loops. You walk backwards, pulling him along with you until you’re sheltered inside the building. Instantly, you’re coaxing his face to yours again, pressing your lips to his in an urgent, pleading kiss.

“No one’s gonna catch us,” you murmur against soft lips. “I promise.”

And there’s no way you can be sure of that, he knows it too, but your voice sounds so soothing that he nods in agreement.

He shuts one of the rickety barn doors just to be even safer, leaving the other open for airflow before he lets his lips attach to yours once more. You kiss each other like you’re starving, affection-deprived, and before you know it he's walking you backwards and coaxing you onto the hay bales that rest in the corner. They're stacked in neat, cut rectangles, and you perch your bottom on the top one, letting Jonathan's frame slip between your legs.

The hay is scratchy against the plush backs of your thighs, but it's only a minor annoyance in your current state. A well worth it trade-off for the way Jonathan's hands caress your knees, sliding up your legs until they're pushing up the fabric of your dress. His fingertips are searing against your skin, branding you. Now that you've felt his touch, you can never go back.

Your head spins when he drops to his knees before you, your brain lagging in its attempt to catch up with what's happening. Palms splayed on your thighs, his soft brown eyes gaze up at you, pupils wide with lust. He continues to hike up your dress until it's bunched up at your hips, your pretty cotton panties staring him in the face. An index finger reaches out to flick the tiny pink bow that rests on the waistband, a soft smirk spreading across his kissable mouth.

He leans his face forward, breath fanning out over your clothed core. You flinch, eagerly anticipating his mouth on you. He sticks his tongue out, tentatively allowing it to lick a flat stripe over your panties. Gasping, your hands haphazardly push his hat off of his head, fingers tangling in his damp mop of hair. A strangled whimper clambers from his throat, his lips mouthing at your clothed cunt. The cotton fabric grows more and more moist by the second, his tongue pressing tantalizingly against it, making your back arch.

“Jonny, please—”

His fingers loop beneath the waistband of your underwear at either hip, beginning to tug them down as if to quiet you.

“Shh, angel. Don't have to beg,” he murmurs softly, shifting to bring your legs together momentarily, pulling the small bit of clothing completely off.

Back between your thighs, he eyes your bare pussy hungrily before shifting his gaze up to meet your eyes. “Gonna take such good care of you, like you deserve.”

His mouth presses a soft kiss to your mound, tongue poking out to test the waters; to get its bearings. He licks and sucks experimentally, repeating actions when you moan or whine in favor of one in particular. Perspiration prickles on every inch of your skin, the heat of the growing afternoon coupled with the fiery blaze he's set across your nerve endings making you swelter.

He grows more confident with every second, letting his tongue lick inside of you, collecting the sweetness that pools just for him. He lets out a satisfied grunt, lapping at you ravenously, your fingers pulling roughly on his hair. He seems emboldened by this, spurred on by each tug to his soft locks. Your head tips back, moaning his name at the vaulted ceiling of the barn while he teases your clit with his greedy mouth.

He pauses to take a good look at you, his cheeks beautifully flushed, his body heaving slightly as he catches his breath. The look in his eyes makes it seem like he's trying to commit your every feature to permanent memory.

“Jonathan...” you mewl, letting your hands fall loose from his hair and cradle his face instead.

Your core throbs for him, a deep incessant ache that commands to be quelled. He reads your mind, his desperation matching yours. He rises just enough for his lips to meet yours, letting his tongue slip into your mouth. The sweet tang of your arousal has you moaning into the kiss, your hand reaching down to paw at his crotch through his jeans. You gasp at the bulge that awaits you, his impatient cock pressing against its confines.

He hisses in a pleased sort of agony, the friction so glorious yet not nearly enough. Your fingers work to undo his belt, the clunky metallic buckle falling to the side. He watches you, lips parted, as you unbutton and unzip the dust-covered jeans, pushing them down his thighs. His thin boxers do very little to conceal the shape of his cock, the size catching you off guard. Your delicate palm squeezes it, reveling in the pleased noise that escapes him in response.

“Shit,” you murmur, letting the pad of your thumb roll over the head, precum leaking through the checked fabric.

His body jerks against his will, hips bucking pitifully into your hand. Your hand slips beneath the boxers, mercifully, fingers wrapping around the base of him once his cock is fully free.

You give it a few slow strokes, watching the way his eyes flutter closed. Encouraged, you pump his length faster, the corner of your mouth kicking up when he groans.

“I've - ah - I've wanted this for so long. You have no idea,” he says. “You’re so beautiful. I swear I think about you every day.” His cheeks are rosy, shy with his confession.

“I bet I’ve wanted this just as long as you have,” you reply softly, letting the pad of your thumb swipe over the leaking head of his cock, pearlescent arousal making the motion slick.

He lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers digging hard into your thighs as you tease. You’re entranced by him, your eyes focused in on the deep blush pink of his erection. You can feel saliva collecting in your mouth, your nerve endings vibrating with a desire to taste him.

“Why don’t we switch spots? Come sit here, so I can take care of you,” you murmur, batting your lashes up at him as your fingers gently squeeze his shaft.

His eyelids flutter, the warm brown of his irises rolling back at the touch and at your words. He rises on shaky legs and you follow suit, guiding him to sit on the stacked bales. The perfect makeshift throne for him to sit upon, the perfect spot for you to kneel before him and worship him the way you so badly need to. Your knees touch the dusty ground, the rough barn floor uncomfortable against them. You pay it little mind, however, simply itching to get your lips on the prize that lay before you.

Jonathan looks down at you with his lip tugged slightly between his teeth. His hand brushes hair out of your face, cupping your head gently as you gaze starry-eyed up at him.

His cock twitches as if in a plea, and it draws you to him. You grip the base in one hand, sticking your tongue out flat to collect the pearly white beads of precum that drip from the slit. You make direct eye contact as you lick at him, his body jolting with pleasure at the first touch of your tongue to his most sensitive part. His hands grip at the earthy yellow straw beneath him before finding their way to your hair, conscious of keeping it out of your face.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales, your soft lips wrapping around him, engulfing him in the warm, wet cavern of your mouth.

You hum, pleased, before beginning to bob your head. Your tongue glides along his shaft, coating him in your saliva. You take him as deep as you can, until there's a pressure at the back of your throat and your eyes water in warning. He groans in spite of himself when you gag, catching himself instantly to ask if you're okay.

You nod wordlessly, cheeks flushing at his sweetness. You want to pull more noises from him, and you continue to take him into your throat so that you gag again. His head is thrown back, cock twitching in your mouth. Your saliva drips down it, pooling at the corners of your mouth and dribbling down your chin. He notices this, wiping at the wetness on your chin with his thumb.

“God damn, Birdie. M-making such a mess,” he stammers, looking down at you with those glorious lust-blown eyes.

You hum around him once more, hollowing your cheeks and sucking. He whines at this, the tendons in his neck straining, putting all of his effort into not spilling down your throat.

“Please,” he pants. “Please let me be inside you.”

Pulling off of his cock, a string of spit connects your bottom lip to his red tip for only a moment before you swipe it away. He's bending down in an instant, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. He grips your face with both hands, a strained noise clawing at his throat when your tongues dance around one another.

He pulls back after a moment, but he does so in a way that makes it seem like it physically pains him to do it. His hands paw at your waist, encouraging you up. You stand, moving between his spread knees. Climbing atop his lap, you can feel yourself throb with anticipation, your body begging to have him fill it.

His rosy cheeks, flushed from both heat and exertion, dimple slightly when he smiles at you. His eyes are flecked with gold from the sunlight that trickles through the slits in the walls, looking at you like you're the most ethereal being he's ever laid eyes on.

His hands hold your hips, bunching up your dress so it pools at the juncture between hip and thigh. You grind yourself on him, your wet heat teasing his cock.

“Oh fuck, you're so perfect,” he murmurs, lips pressed to your hair, his face burying itself at the side of your neck.

A tiny content moan escapes you, your skin ablaze where his lips press to your neck.

“Please, Jonathan,” you whine, rolling your hips again.

“Didn't I say you don't have to beg, sweet girl? I'm right here, do what you want with me,” he says, and this time he's the one who sounds like he might be begging.

Do what you want with me.

Your breaths come out heavy as you raise up just enough to line him up with your entrance, beads of precum dripping down his cock and making your palm slick. He twitches at the contact, his blunt nails digging in to the meat of your ass.

A long, low grumble of a moan slowly leaves his lips the second you guide his tip past your entrance. Your lips part, head thrown back as he slowly pushes deeper inside. The stretch is euphoric, your walls expanding to accommodate him with little resistance.

“Oh, fuck—” Jonathan hisses, tilting his chin to kiss at your jawline.

Outside, you hear the hens clucking contentedly, mourning doves cooing softly from trees. For a fleeting moment you remember the possibility of getting caught, hoping you maintain your privacy at least long enough to finish what you’ve started here.

Your skin is sticky where it touches his, sweat collecting in every crease and crevice. He’s bigger than you had anticipated, and just when you think he can’t possibly have more to give you, he’s pushing in the rest of the way. He grips you tightly as he bottoms out, pressed to the hilt inside of you. You both moan in unison, your hands holding loosely to his shoulders.

He’s still for a moment, eyes pinched shut as his chest heaves with his panting.

“Just— just need a second. Sorry, you feel so fucking good,” he says, willing himself not to finish right here right now. “God dammit, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

“Take your time,” you purr softly, simply enjoying the feeling of being so full. You let your hands travel to his neck, thumbs tracing down the column of his throat before reaching his chest. Perspiration beads on his soft skin, pink flush reaching down his neck to his chest.

Slowly, he starts to encourage the movement of your hips. Gripping them firmly, he aids you in finding a good rhythm. You let yourself rock lightly on top of him, his strong arms helping you along and making your head spin. The soft head of his cock presses so deeply inside of you you practically start drooling, unable to stop yourself from bouncing faster.

He doesn’t discourage your increasing pace; instead his head falls back in ecstasy, curses tumbling from his kiss-bitten lips. The quicker you move the tighter his hands seem to grip your hips, fingers digging into the plush skin, sure to leave a sore spot.

You’re drenching him, easing the movements with your arousal, and each slick glide feels better than you could’ve imagined.

“Jonathan, oh my god—” you cry, hands pawing desperately at his bare chest. Your nails drag marks down the soft skin, and he groans in response.

Your body grows fatigued, thighs burning, and he notices the steady slowing of your bouncing. He takes over with ease, wrapping his arms around you and rising to a standing position. You gasp at the different angle, his cock seemingly pressing deeper still, and then you feel your back hit the wall.

He cages you in tight against the wooden slabs, your legs wrapped firmly around his thin waist. Your stomach flips in a new wave of excitement, taking him at this brand new angle. You surrender any control you had, letting him take the reins. He so desperately needs to, to get out all of that pent up frustration from day after day of watching you from afar. Wondering what you’d feel like, sound like, taste like.

Now that he has you like this, pliant and eager, he wants to give every ounce of himself to you.

He doesn’t start slow, doesn’t need to ease into it in this new position like he did at first. His thrusts come hard and fast, sending you reeling. You watch the way the tendons in his neck flex and pull, straining with exertion. He grunts with his effort, little noises escaping in time with each thrust.

He leans in to bite at the lobe of your ear, his face twisting in a sort of growl; a snarl. He’s primal in the way he fills you, claiming you as his in a surge of power he doesn’t typically possess. It’s like a switch has flipped, his shyness and hesitation disappearing. You wonder where this side of him has been hiding, and you can only hope you’ll get to experience it again.

“You feel,” he grunts, gritting his teeth for a fleeting moment as he delivers a particularly harsh thrust. “So fucking good.”

All you can do is moan in response, a high-pitched little sound that spurs him on further. Your nails sink into his back, clawing down the surface, sure to leave marks in their wake. He bites at your bottom lip, tugging on it until you whine.

The sounds your bodies make together are obscene, slippery wet squelching coupled with the slap of skin on skin. If anyone were to walk by, there’d be no doubt about what’s going on.

Every single thrust has you crying out for him, the way he hits that perfect spot inside of you each time making you tremble in his grasp. The pleasure is white-hot, lapping at every inch of your body. You can feel yourself inching closer and closer to your release, and you’re so desperate to have it.

“Jon, ‘m so close,” you whine, barely clinging on to him while he fucks you senseless.

“Ah fuck, yeah? Y’gonna cum for me?” he asks, near breathless as he continues to pound into you. He looks so fucked out and perfect; bangs stuck to his forehead and his eyes heavy-lidded in bliss, watching you carefully.

And the way he asks the question, it sounds like he’s dying for you to finish. Like he’s begging you to clench around his length, squeeze him so tight, drench him with your arousal. Like he can’t possibly believe you’re about to cum for him.

But you are, and with a few more quick and sloppy thrusts of his hips you’re crying out his name; screaming so loud you can hear the birds in the tree outside flutter away in a frenzy.

“Fuck, oh god, oh god,” Jonathan pants, and you’re certain he’s about to lose it as your walls tighten around him in a rhythmic pulsation. “Where can I cum? Where do you want it?”

“Inside, has to be inside,” you whine. “Please.”

You barely get the final word out before you can feel him hurtling to an abrupt halt, hips stilling as he twitches inside of your warm wet cunt. He paints your insides, giving you every possible drop that he has.

“Shit, Birdie,” he says, nearly gasping for air. “You’re unreal. You know that? You’re absolutely incredible.”

You stay panting like that for a while, joined together, your sticky skin against his. He noses at your cheek, pressing soft kisses to it as you try to regain a normal breathing pattern.

He pulls out slowly then, a slippery mess formed where your bodies met. Your legs fall from around his waist, standing up on wobbly limbs that barely contain the strength to support you. His hands reach up to cradle your cheeks, his eyes wild with delight as they search your face.

Your heartbeat still hasn’t quite settled, fluttering rapidly with the way he’s looking at you. Before you can say anything he’s smashing his lips against yours, a slow and passionate kiss that rivals all the others that came before.

It lasts for a while, but you don’t feel like it’s been nearly long enough when he pulls away.

“I don’t want this to be over. I don’t want to act like this never happened,” he says, an almost frantic look in his eyes.

“Jonathan—”

“I want you. And I don’t care what your dad thinks. I want to take you on nice dates, and watch the birds with you, and kiss you like this every single day.”

You feel like your heart may explode, like it’s swelling larger and larger with each of his words.

“I want that, too. We’ll figure this out, okay? I swear,” you reassure him, kissing him again. Pouring all of your affection into him and hoping he feels it.

“Promise me.”

“I promise you. I couldn’t stay away if I wanted to,” you say, smiling lightly. He laughs, pressing his forehead to yours, slick with sweat.

You know it’s time to let him get back to work, but you’re reluctant to end the moment.

“I should really get back to it,” he says bashfully, as if reading your mind and feeling sorry he had to.

“Yeah, you should,” you agree, kissing the backs of both of his hands before letting him pull away.

He redresses while you watch in silent awe, studying the way his body moves. He catches you staring, his cheeks reddening adorably.

Both of you step out of the barn, back into the unforgiving sunlight. You’re about to head inside when you stop yourself, turning on your heel.

“I know you usually go home around four. Could you be back and freshened up around five-thirty?” you ask him.

“Uh, sure. Why?”

“Because, we have a date to go on.”

“Are you sure you—”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life,” you say earnestly, and the grin that breaks out on his face is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You don’t know what exactly you’re going to say to your dad, but you’ll figure it out.

“Okay. Five-thirty. See you then, Birdie.”

With a little wave, you’re heading back inside. He doesn’t miss the slight wobble in your legs, or the trail of his release that runs down your thigh. And when he hears your dad’s car pull up the drive, he gives him a smug little wave.

What a way to start the day.

#jonathan byers #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers x fem!reader #jonathan byers smut #jonathan byers fanfic #jonathan byers fanfiction #farmhand!jonathan byers #divider by cafekitsune

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