#bluemerakis fics ࿐

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic ❞

⤷ Part 1/3

⤷ Word count: 6.8k

[18+ ONLY!!]

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PAIRING:

S3!Soldier Boy x fem!reader

WARNINGS:

Cussing, angst, masturbation m receiving, let me know if I’ve forgotten any!

SYNOPSIS:

After the love of your life—Soldier Boy—is kidnapped by the Russians, you strike a deal to work under them as a Scientist so that you could keep tabs on your boyfriend.

Over the years, you managed to make modifications to Compound V as per the Russians’ orders, so that Soldier Boy could receive the treatments and be remade in a far greater image than any other living Supe—a biological weapon.

But it all comes to and end when you make contact with a strange group and conspire to get yourself and Soldier Boy out of dodge.

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“He’s ready for you.”

Those very words crept past the nape of your neck to caress your ear as a warm breath, yet you felt the way it instilled chills down the expanse of your spine, whisking your attention away from one of the lab assistants you’d been checking stock with. You placed an apologetic hand on her shoulder, braving a thin-lipped smile as you excused yourself and handed her the clipboard of listed supplies.

“Take care of that for me, will you?” You murmured kindly, to which the assistant relieved you of the board with a meek of course, and you thanked her hastily before sending her on her way.

Turning to face the bearer of bad news, you were confronted by the guard you’d tasked with pulling Soldier Boy from his induced coma. Immediately, your attention snagged onto the faint trail of blood smudged above the curve of his upper-lip. It formed an incomplete line that told you he’d attempted to obliterate the evidence of his known temper with a hasty swipe of his thumb—but more so, it told you that Soldier Boy was in one of his fouler moods today.

The Supe was quite physically capable of inflicting more damage whenever he pleased, but his compulsive urge to do so only surfaced on his worser days—which seemed to be growing more frequent.

All courtesy of the godsent fucking side effects of induced sleep.

The technology was still so new despite being in use for these last couple of years, and hence you hadn’t been able to successfully map out any tangible links between behavioural alterations and manual arousal of the brain—you only knew that it happened. The how was as good a guess as anybody’s.

“Trouble?” you asked the guard pointedly, the hand at your side making a subconscious reach for your lab coat as you throttled the white material in anticipation.

You didn’t know why you still bothered to ask, really, when the answer to that singular question had always been the same. You couldn’t have Soldier Boy without the trouble. They were the sort of two-for-one special that you couldn’t have said no to—but at what cost?

The guard rolled his shoulders with a husk of embarrassment as he spoke, drawing your attention back to him. “You know the prick,” he grumbled, averting his gaze to acquaint every aspect of the hallway other than your own expectant stare. “He’s on some of the crazy shit today. . . jumped me and decided to lay one on me after we put him in the room—but don’t worry, I put him in his place.”

“Uh huh,” you murmured distractedly, your attention slipping past his figure to tune into the door that loomed like a menacing figure at the end of the facility’s pristine hallway.

The reinforced steel frame adorned with high-tech locks all along the perimeter could identify itself as Soldier Boy’s door—because who else could possibly warrant such caution within this secret facility?

Truthfully, you’d allowed the guard’s explanation to slip through your care entirely. You had bigger things on your mind—for one, what sort of greeting you could expect from Soldier Boy this time around. The induced sleep has been rough on his brain. It made him feral at times—made him blindly lash out like a rabid animal of prey. And he wasn’t notorious for restraint, either—god forbid or you’d have never had to expel the name Herogasm from your waking mind.

“If you’ll excuse me.” You brushed past the guard to put an end to the suspense you felt inevitably building at the idea of seeing Soldier Boy again—after all this time. Your fingertips seemed to tremble in solidarity.

“I’ll come with you,” the guard insisted, and the unpleasant screech of his heavy duty boots followed shortly after as he pivoted on his heels to follow.

“No, I’m going in alone,” you called over your shoulder without so much as a glance to spare.

“Well, be careful!” the guard called to the back of your rushing figure. “He’s wilder today—not using a single goddamn braincell!”

Seems to be the common trend around here, you thought, birthing a mental scoff. Men. The last thing you needed was to add another twig to the fire by bringing along the guard Soldier Boy had already popped one on. He’d gone easy on the guard, you knew him well enough to deduce that, but it also meant that the flimsy punch responsible for the bloodstain above that guard’s lip was merely a promise for a truer beating somewhere down the line. That time would not be now—not if you could help it.

You hurled a dismissive hand over your shoulder that told the guard not to worry—a feat to brush aside his concerns, but also to hopefully coerce away yours. If you wanted to feel braver, maybe a good place to start would be to act as though there was no reason to feel scared.

Would Soldier Boy hurt you?

You couldn’t help but lift a hand to ghost across your neck for a few seconds before lowering your hand back to your side.

The door that would give sure way to that nagging question seemed to grow with each passing second as you closed in on it, and when you came face to face with the worn, thick steel, the breath in your chest stilled. Your gaze lowered along the various locks, which had been left unlatched—not a bad finding, surely, if it meant he was tame enough to temporarily forsake the extra security. That thought gave permission to your lungs to breathe as per usual.

But when you really tried to listen, head slightly turning to tune in your hearing, you could make out a cluster of grunting and thudding from beyond the six inches of steel. It wasn’t a finding that eased away the dread your fingertips so insistently clung to—you’d hoped for an entirely different scenario.

Fuck, you cussed internally, taking your lower lip into a frustrated bite, before you decided to push through the anticipative haze by fastening your hand around the door’s handle.

You pushed the door open, your vision bombed by the blaring, overhead lights that beat down on the even whiter room. You’d always thought the room had been purposefully modelled to convey the impression of a void—it was no wonder the test subjects often went insane in here. The room swallowed up your senses for a moment, and you fluttered your eyes in an attempt to adjust to the blinding air before you came to focus on Soldier Boy’s figure in the centre of the stage.

He lay plastered along the length of a reinforced operating table, fist-drawn hands sentenced to his side by thick, steel-linked chains. There were a few sets to match, which secured his torso and legs to the table, intended to immobilise him as best as possible—but Soldier Boy seemed determined to test out the limitations of their purpose as he thrashed vigorously between the fortifying steel, guttural sounds filling the silence of the room.

He only laid the effort to rest when his head lifted from the table with a grunt, and his eyes fell onto your familiar figure. His sudden calmness seemed to ease off the four guards lining the table—their weapons long since drawn as a show of force, and a promise of death, should the subject make a successful escape.

Your airways thinned as you caught Soldier Boy’s stare, the rage that framed his eyes simmering into a semblance of relief as he drank in your presence.

He called your name. Your name.

Your lips parted as a slight breath of disbelief pierced its way through—forced from your lungs by the sudden jolt in your heart.

“Leave us,” you ordered, your attention lingering on the Supe for a few seconds longer before you broke the mental tether to whisk a hard stare across the idling guards. “Now.”

The guards all exchanged a look that seemed to communicate a shared feeling of doubt, but neither of them wore a pair big enough to outwardly criticise your command. So, hesitantly, they holstered their weapons in practiced sequence, then in complete silence, they streamed from the room in an orderly fashion.

The last one to slip past you lingered at your ear only to murmur, “we’ll be outside to intervene if anything goes wrong.”

Don’t bother, is what you wanted to say—you knew just the way to go about handling Soldier Boy. After all, you’d been doing this for years. But you also knew that this was standard protocol set in place to protect any and all employees—especially when said employee was as valuable as you.

So, instead, you turned your chin slightly to offer the guard an acknowledging nod, which allowed him to slink through the doorway and lug the heavy door closed behind him. The mechanism clicked into place, and it echoed brashly between the four walls of this inspired asylum.

You turned your attention back to Solider Boy, who still had his eyes patiently fixed on you. The hands at his sides had stilled completely, and his body had relaxed against the cold steel of the table, but there was still a tension bracketing his jaw that was yet to release, even at the sight of you.

“The hell was it this time, huh?” His sombre voice dampened the hollow air—you’d almost forgotten how profound the rumble in his throat was, and it tickled your senses in all the right ways. “Three, four months? A year?” He seethed, the muscles of his jaw faltering with great restraint.

“Six months,” you told him levelly, chin lifting slightly as you endured the brunt of the guilt that was evoked under his resentful glare.

You didn’t hold any joy for this procedure—pulling him in and out of an induced sleep throughout the years only to inject him full of experimental compounds that burned him from the inside out. You hated it, almost as much as he did. But that was just the way things had to be—for now, at least. It’s what the Russians had brought you here to do—and funnily enough, it was the only way to keep him safe.

There was a scoff from Soldier Boy, followed by a soft thud as he allowed his head to collapse back onto the metal frame. “Yeah, you’d know. . . fuckin’ stewardess on the sidelines, draped in that goddamn lab coat while they pluck your guinea pig from the greatest fuckin’ nap of his life.”

You let loose a light huff at that, the trembling in your fingertips beginning to slip away at last. “Yeah?” You began moving off to the side of the room where various tables lined the walls, coming to a stop at the nearest one. It was adorned with nothing but a black, sealable case with a label signed sample 246. Your own handwriting.

“And what’d you dream about?” You asked, reaching to unclip the case before lifting up the top compartment to reveal what horrors lay inside.

“You.”

Your hands faltered on the case, your chin slightly buckling to take in the view of the table as that singular word bounced about the dark corners of your mind. Suddenly, your breathing sounded a lot louder in your ears, and you managed to catch a slight hitch in your airways.

“What about me?” You pushed on almost timidly—dreading the honest answer to such an open-ended question.

Throughout the years spent in this facility, there were various versions of yourself that you could recall—creatures you’d become in order to endure and survive the brutalities of your work under the Russians. None of those versions had a commendable reputation—not one of them. And that scared you—the thought that Soldier Boy had come to meet so many of those prior versions, and that he might’ve forgotten the one he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. If you were put in front of the mirror, you couldn’t honestly say that you’d recognise yourself, either.

There was a pause from Soldier Boy, and the silence was so loud that your ears began to ring. “Don’t play stupid with me,” he said at last, coupled by the soft clinking of chains against the table.

Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder with an undertone of panic. But when you took in the view of him, he was still cemented in the same position, and his head was already turned toward you—likely to prowl after your every move like a waiting predator.

“Yeah, that’s right, look at me,” he grinned, but the gesture was ingenuine, and it was plucked from his lips quicker than you could blink it away.

“It’s the same dream, every fuckin’ time,” he continued. “Birdsong, all around—god, the fuckers never stick their beaks in the bark. . . Anyways, there’s sun streaming in through the windows. And there you are, in my bed, a mewling mess between the sheets with not an inch of modesty anywhere on that fine body of yours. I’ve got you pinned, and I mean really pinned between the sheets—skin’s fuckin’ bruising—and instead of pleading for some sort of release, you’re telling me you love me. Pretty sure I remember the feeling of my ballsack puckering up at that.”

A smile crept its way back onto Soldier Boy’s lips as his gaze raked over your stunted expression, and this time, it was founded on blatant curiosity.

“You look surprised,” he remarked, and there was a lot of room for him to poke at any aspect of your reaction, but he held onto his tongue with a practiced calmness. You couldn’t help but feel as though he had some unspoken motive.

You drew in a steadying breath, fighting to control the influx of mental pictures that his dream seemed to coerce into your brain. But it was hard to deny something its rightful place, especially when said dream of his was not a dream at all, but a memory.

Slowly, you turned your head back to the case at hand, focus falling onto the singular needle cushioned within a foam imprint. With one hand, you reached to free the needle, and with the other, you clicked the the case closed again.

“I am surprised,” you admitted, bringing the needle up to your eye line as you studied the blue serum behind the glass.

“Do tell.”

You waited and watched as a bubble soared through the compound to cling to the uppermost point of the vile, then you flicked your finger across the glass to dissipate its fragile skeleton. You lowered the needle and turned to face Soldier Boy, who entertained a mildly curious look on his features.

“This sleep you’ve been under, it’s not exactly. . . well-understood. We’ve hit a few bumps in the road. The worst of the effects has to do with the patient’s cognitive function.”

He scoffed. “What, you mean to tell me I’m goin’ dumb?”

“No,” you answered carefully, taking a few steps toward the table. “It’s your memory. There were times after we’ve woken you where you failed the standard procedure questionnaire—things about your life. . . thing’s that you’ve answered a hundred times before. You should know it all by now—it’s really just there as a sanity ritual. But, like I said, there were times you’ve failed it, and it doesn’t always happen, but it’s becoming more frequent.”

You stopped before the table with a few inches of space to spare, noting the way the confusion on Soldier Boy’s face seemed to deepen with each passing second that you spoke.

“There’s some retrograde effect to it, though,” you continued. “Sometimes, you wake up in a fit state. You’re calm, and you’ve got a memory as best as it’s ever been. . .” You trailed into uncertainty, feeling at war with your role in his current memories.

You knew perfectly well where you stood with him, but you wanted to—needed to know what version of you currently stood with him, and that all banked on just how much his drug-addled brain remembered this time around—details of his life before the sleeping tank, about his purpose, and about his relationship with you.

His brows furrowed as he gazed up at you. “And the other times?” He prompted you to continue.

You cleared your throat self-consciously, your eyes wandering down to the hands chained at his side. “Well, the other times, you wake up explosively, blindly dealing fists faster than the guards can reach for their weapons. You even managed to kill a guard, once.”

“Badass,” he chuckled smoothly, deeply—the familiarity of it tugged at the fibres of your heart. “But don’t you get any ideas about what today’s little skirmish was all about.”

Those words caught you off guard. You tore your gaze away from his knuckles, brows kneading together as you acquainted the mischievous glint in his eyes—those goddamn eyes. A dick move from heaven to give him a feature as beautifully persuasive as that. You couldn’t help but drown in their green depths whenever he sentenced you to a hearty stare, and it’s an ocean you’d never need, nor want rescuing from.

“What’re you on about?” You asked.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinkin’ about that guard I fisted back there.” He lifted his first from the table to make a commotion that aided his words. “He tell ya I went berserk on him, hm?”

The hum in his voice sent a barely perceptible shiver down your neck, and it pulled forward a sudden memory of his frame pressed up against your back—broad, bare chest cushioning your exposed shoulder blades as he sank you deeper into the mattress with each, drilling movement of his pelvis into yours. His lips would find your ear, murmuring endearing words of encouragement to spur you on, doing so good for me, sweet girl—my sweet girl, and he’d hum ever so sweetly at the sound of your rapid undoing.

You pushed the memory away, reinforcing the grip on the needle that had begun to slip under your frail focus.

“He said you were a hassle, that’s all,” you told Soldier Boy. “And that he put you in your place.”

He gave a scoff the most scornful you’ve heard thus far. “Please, dickhead’s got the swing of ninny. Didn’t even leave a scratch. I, on the other hand, gave him the slightest taste of my dick with that punch—and I’ll tell ya, I knew damn well what I was doing for every glorious second of it. It wasn’t the goddamn drugs pumped into me.”

A hopeful spark lit up in your chest as you slowly began to confirm the parameters of his mental state, and you felt eager to ask him just how much he remembered this time around, but you fought to compose yourself. Instead, you asked, “did you pass the questionnaire?”

Soldier Boy held your stare with an almost devilish glint to his eye. “Cum laude,” he said.

You couldn’t help but let slip a breath of a relieved chuckle, but Soldier Boy’s charm sobered up pretty quickly as he forged a more serious look. His eyes wandered down to the needle in your hand, which he acknowledged for the first time since you’d pulled it out.

“This the part where you stick it in me?” He caught himself with a sultry chuckle, his eyes fluttering closed as he turned his head to face the ceiling again. “Man. . . never thought I’d hear those words outta my own mouth, that’s usually your line.”

Heat momentarily flushed your cheeks at that comment, but you pushed it away and lowered your gaze to the needle in grasp, a heavy sense of regret coupling your words as you pushed out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, what’s it gonna be this time ‘round? Burnin’ me blind? Cramps that feel like a fuckin’ mole trying to explode from my stomach? A full body burn-up and debilitating seizures seem to be a favourite.”

You listened to him with a guilt in your heart that had long since hollowed out much of your chest—there was not much else to feel in all the time between his ritualistic awakenings. “I’m sorry, Ben,” you told him again, only because you were unsure of what else you could be saying.

You let slip a heavy sigh of defeat at the circumstances, before you seized up on the name you’d accidentally let slip. You tore your gaze away from the needle to glance at Soldier Boy with slight anticipation, but he only turned to stare at you with a quieted expression. The use of his real name didn’t seem to come as any unfamiliar shock, and that gave you some solace on the mental debate of how much he remembered about your relationship.

He gave a small jerk of his chin. “Come on, then, do your thing and get it over with. Don’t care for all the fuckin’ edging.”

You closed in on the last of the space separating your bodies, and you took the time to observe the clean pair of scrubs he wore this time around, as well as the gentle whiff of scentless soap radiating from his skin. They made a habit of washing him shortly after pulling him from sleep, usually once the questionnaire was completed. As much as they considered his bodily hygiene, you only wished they’d taken it a step further to address the growing beanstalk of a beard plastered to his chin—not his best look by far, but it was something you could work with.

You reached out your free hand to hover over his arm, eyes trailing up to his. He watched you closely, intensely, with an emotion not quite decodable by your means. “I’m going to inject it into your arm,” you warned him.

“And take your damn time with it, apparently,” he said, lifting his arm to cover what little distance he could manage before the chains reinforced their hold.

You turned your eyes onto his presented arm, and hesitantly, you reached to snake your hand under his elbow. His skin felt so warm against you—it was comforting.

“In these six months you’ve been asleep, I tried my best to modify the compound to have as little side effects as possible. I’ve tested it on the animal subjects, and at most, they showed an elevated body temperature.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just see how much my primal DNA counts in my favour,” he scoffed as he watched you at work, but never once did that look in his eyes waver.

Your lips tackled silence as you focused on the task of inserting the needle. You didn’t have to do much searching to choose the vein to victimise—the vessels were quite open to appreciation along the length of his arm. You lifted the needle toward your vein of choice and slowly inserted it through the skin. Carefully, you began to press down on the plunger, watching as the contents drained from the vile and into the vessel streaming beneath the skin.

Ben sucked air through his teeth, which snapped your attention to his face. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth displayed in a clench as his head burrowed back slightly further into the table.

“Are you okay?” You asked him.

“Feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic,” he pushed out sarcastically, the squeeze of his eyes yet to let up.

“Good to know,” you muttered with a brief, dismissive flick of your eyes before you focused on the needle once more.

With the last of the contents emptied, you carefully released the hold on his elbow to draw a swab of cotton from your coat. You pressed the material over the insertion point of the needle and applied a light pressure before you began withdrawing the steel length from his skin.

You set the needle onto the table beside his arm and retrieved a plaster from your pocket, and after removing the paper film, you secured the cotton against his skin. You reclaimed the needle and briefly left Ben’s side to place it back into the case before you returned to monitor his vitals.

“Do you feel any different?” You asked, coming to stand beside his arm.

“I’m hot as fuck and more sober than I’d like to be,” he answered wryly.

You were tempted to be snarky, but then you realised that compared to his usual state—the one you’d often come to find him in back in his prime days—this very well could be considered a difference of note.

There was a silence that carried out for a few minutes as you stood waiting to observe any worrisome changes, and it was never uncomfortable—not with him, but Ben eventually put an end to it.

“You know,” he began, a singular brow slightly cocked with curiosity. “You didn’t ask why I punched that dickhead asshole back there. I mean, we’ve established that my brain’s pretty much like that . . . what’s his name? The dude was born somewhere after me, smart as fuck—Stephenson fuckin’ somethin’—anyway, who gives a fuck? I got all my shit in one place, I’m not a goddamn freak show of flying fists, so ain’t ya the least bit curious about it?”

You glanced at him with a hint of surprise. “It’s not exactly off-brand for you to go around punching people, even on your good days,” you pointed out with a hint of amusement.

He rocked his head side to side in a gesture of acceptance. “Eh, fair enough. But I’ll tell ya,” he said.

You watched him closely, a soft smile on your lips. It felt good to talk to him normally. You’d missed this dearly. “I’m listening.”

“The fucker made a jab at me about you, said he’s been keeping one hand in your panties since they put me under—takin’ sweet care of you all the while. So I gave him a light face fuck, the only action he’s ever gotten, and I’d have done a whole lot more had the four assholes out there not strapped me down like some kinky bondage plaything.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d gotten so protective over you. But you barely had time to process the emotion before he continued.

“He ever touch you?” Ben’s stare was hard, but despite the soldier act, you caught the way his eyes briefly flickered down to your lips.

“No,” you answered instantly, bristling slightly at his nerve to ask. “Never. He’s all talk, no show, and even if he had something to show for it, I can handle my own.”

Am impressed smirk stretched Ben’s lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “And I always did love that about you.”

Those words paved way for the question you’d been itching to ask since the beginning. You dropped your gaze to your hands, planted against the table beside his.

“Ben,” you began softly. He gave a deep hum of acknowledgment. “Just how much do you remember about me?”

There were a few uncaptioned moments of silence, and you almost wished you could see his face to decipher his thoughts, but some other emotion kept your eyes glued to veins of his arm.

“Everything,” he answered at last. “Every damn thing.”

You glanced at him, feeling a mixture of surprise and relief at that confession, and released a long sigh. “You have no idea how relieved that makes me feel.”

Ben held your stare intently, his eyes softening a fraction. “Those times you said my memory got fucked. . . did I forget you?”

You nodded hesitantly and saw the slight ghost of disbelief whisk across his eyes, which caused your heart to ache with the less fond memories between the two of you.

The first time it’d happened was twelve years ago. You’d been right beside the pod they’d pulled him from, and in the midst of his confusion and blind rage, he’d grabbed ahold of you at the neck—another strange face, nobody of any significance to him. Just another damned Russian. You’d been strangled in his grasp for quite a while; the guards coming to your aid were unable to pry his hands from your windpipes in time to escape a blackout.

You’d woken up a day later with severe bruising to your neck and collar bone, and the only news that could’ve been considered good was the fact that you were lucky enough to escape his rage alive. The force with which you were choked should have killed you, you knew that. The only reason you’d survived is because you, yourself, were a Supe.

You’d met Ben back in his prime, before the team had staged the coup that had landed him here. When he was taken by the Russians and betrayed by everybody around him, you’d struck a deal with the higher-ups to get a foot on the inside of the entire operation. Under them, you worked as a scientist to formulate compounds that would enhance Ben to the level that the Russians needed him at.

The first time Ben saw you walk into the medical room, he’d nearly imploded with relief, panic and betrayal all at once, but you’d never let on your relationship with him to anybody within the operation. So to any outside onlooker, you two were strangers to one another, only connected by the duty of the experimenter and her experiment.

It was crucial to keep things that way, especially when you’d been in the company of some of the Russian generals who wanted to witness the first experimental injection on Ben firsthand. Upon his recognition of you, you had to convince everybody that he was undergoing an episode of psychosis—formulating a romantic relationship between the two of you that had never existed in the first place. You had blamed it on the effects of the induced coma, and it had easily passed as an excuse due to the little knowledge possessed on its side effects at the time. Granted, not much progress was made in that field even in this current day and age.

Eventually, when you’d managed to gain enough reputation to demand treatment sessions alone with Ben, you’d gotten the opportunity to explain everything. He had little to be happy about, given that everybody he once trusted had betrayed him in a blink, and the one person he had left to cherish and love was currently pumping him with unreliable modifications of Compound V.

But with time, he’d come to accept it.

You weren’t proud of it. And in the moments that Ben would awaken only to forget you, he’d made sure to toss out every vile insult and cuss word he could each time you slid that needle into his arm, which only broke your heart further. But it was the price to pay to ensure nothing worse would happen to him.

The only barrier that had been set between him and a fate worse off, was you, and that’s a fact you’d tried hard to remind yourself of in all the passing years you’d spent drowning in guilt for your sins. But even then, it never made enduring his mind-swept states easier, and especially not when he looked at you with such hatred solidified in his gaze that it became all you could think about.

You came back to the present when Ben’s hand struggled through the restraints to graze your fingers. You flinched at the touch, at first, but it wasn’t long before your hand relaxed within his hold. So warm, so gentle, even considering all that he’s been through. It was comforting to know just how human he still was.

“Untie me,” he said, and you opened your mouth to argue before he cut you off with an air of eager reassurance. “I feel fine. It’s been a good couple of minutes, and nothin’s happened. Don’t ya trust me?”

You tilted your head slightly at him. “You know I do,” you murmured, your hand tightening within his. “But Ben, there’s something el—”

“Untie me first, then tell me about all the shit I’ve got comin’ for me,” he insisted.

Your eyes scanned the room self-consciously, picking out the two corners that had cameras mounted to their wall. “You know they’re watching us,” you told him. “Our every move.”

“Yeah, fuck those fuckers,” he sniffed, following your gaze to do his own quick sweep of the room. “Fuckin’ assholes!” He called aloud, and you tightened your hand in his as a warning. He glanced back at you with a slight scoff. “What? They’ve seen my bare balls and ass, shit they’ve even stroked it. They know damn well how I feel about them.”

“Don’t provoke them,” you told him, and he flashed you a look that screamed bet, though he chose to resort to his best behaviour as he clamped down on his tongue. “I can’t take your chains off, they’ll storm the place the moment I do. I’m sorry.”

Ben held your gaze for a moment as he considered the circumstances, then his attention slid past you and lifted to the ceiling above your head.

You turned your head to follow his gaze. “What?” You asked, turning back to him with curiosity.

“Every time they roll me in and outta this room, I get a glimpse of the security room,” he said in a low murmur, raw emphasis on keeping his words out the enemy’s ears. “There’s two cameras in this room. One behind ya—“ he made a gesture with a flick of his eyes, “—and one behind me in the opposite corner. And it’s my lucky fuckin’ day, cause the camera behind me’s busted.”

You frowned as he spoke. “And what favours has that got to offer you?” You asked.

Ben seemed content to explain. “Camera behind you’s the only one still workin’. But your body—god bless it in its fuckin’ entirety—is blocking their dandy view of my dick.”

You listened carefully, the crease in your brow beginning to loosen at the understanding of where he was headed. “Absolutely not,” you scolded him, a dumbstruck smile poking through.

“Oh, come on,” Ben drawled. “Why the fuck not? I’ve been all pressed up in that sweaty fuckin’ tank for weeks, months, years on end and every time my eyes close, I get that goddamn dream of you and I, hittin’ pound town like there’s no fucking tomorrow—shit, and I mean no tomorrow. Seriously, all day, all night—“

“All right, all right,” you cut him short, heat beginning to flush into your cheeks.

“Now, it’s not gonna be a recreation of that sweet, sweet day,” Ben said regretfully. “But if you could give a man a taste of relief by using that hand for somethin’ other than sticking a needle in my arm, I will fuck you senseless as a reward as soon as I’m freed the fuck outta these chains—you just gimme a time and place. That sound like a plan, baby?”

You couldn’t deny the hot burn that jolted it’s way into your core at the sound of that promise, but you pushed it aside to address the other issue you hadn’t yet been given the chance to voice.

“It’s a date, Ben, but you need to listen to me about that something else,” you told him, releasing his hand.

Ben puckered his lips as he coaxed forward a shushing noise, jerking his chin toward his hard on. He didn’t often need a lot of pampering to erect his dick—the bloody thing could get off on the scent of your perfume alone.

With a frustrated sigh, you tossed a quick glance over your shoulder, glimpsing the camera that had been peering over your shoulder since you’d set foot in here. You saw it blinking with a red light at its centre, the dead giveaway of recording. You then turned to look at the opposite camera, and it didn’t hold the same red dot in its core, which meant that Ben was, indeed, right.

Of course he was.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Ben,” you muttered in disbelief, tensely guiding the hand that had held his only seconds ago toward the bulge in his pants, simultaneously shifting your body to shield the scene more firmly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Try not to make it too obvious,” Ben advised smugly, his eyes dipping to where your hand slipped under the flimsy waistband of his scrub pants.

“Shut up.” You were immediately greeted by his firm hard-on, not having any underwear beneath the scrubs. It felt warm and swollen against your palm, and when you passed a curious thumb over his tip, you felt the damp kiss of his pre-cum.

“Yeah, he’s a little excited—you felt it, get a move on,” he ordered impatiently.

You’d forgotten just how much of a curt dick he could be when it came to anything remotely sexual.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, your thumb gathering all tangible pre-cum to spread it along the head before you began to pump him with slow, fluid strokes.

Ben’s head collapsed back onto the table, his mouth falling slightly ajar with breathy grunts of pleasure.

“I need to make it less obvious?” You sniped in a harsh, low tone. “How about you?”

“Fuck,” Ben spat, lifting his head with what looked like great effort to face you. “Forgot just how good you feel, you’ll forgive a man for being expressive.”

Your heart fluttered at his compliment, and you tightened your hold on his girth to applaud his behaviour. “Keep on talking to me,” you said. “Make it look like we’re having a conversation.”

“Yeah. . .” Ben stammered distractedly, a clear indication that he was struggling to multitask.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” you muttered under your breath, picking up the pace of your strokes. You made sure to come down on his balls with considerable force to add to the stimulation, and he let slip a strangled, gruff moan that caused your core to ignite its own fire.

“Atta girl, pumping it almost as well as your pussy does,” he praised breathlessly as he struggled against his restrains with a frustrated grunt. “These fucking things. . .” He trailed off and met your gaze. “What was it you wanted to say?” He asked, his chest beginning to heave more rapidly now.

You were doubtful that you had his full ear to unload the importance of what you were about to tell him, but you decided to spill that can anyways, simultaneously making sure to keep up the pace of your strokes.

“This is the last injection you’ll ever have to get, Ben,” you told him softly. Ben’s sex-addled haze sobered up real quickly at that, his eyes now fully focused onto your face.

“The fuck you on about?” He asked.

“Tonight, you’re getting out,” you told him, feeling as the heat around his length began to build with each continued stroke. You could see Ben strain with the movements, wanting desperately to reach his release while trying to focus on your words. “I made contact with this group, they’ve been looking for you for a while—followed your trail all the way out here. You wanna know what the Russians intended to use you for? Well, Turns out, you’re the one strongest biological weapon that planet Earth has to offer.”

His eyes widened briefly at that before screwing shut as his head collapsed back onto the table with a strained growl, and then you felt him implode, his warm seed trailing down your hand. You gave a few more slow pumps to urge the last of it out, then gently released his manhood and discretely pulled your hand from his pants.

“Feel better now?” You asked, bringing your hand to wipe his juices onto your coat.

Ben lifted his head just in time to catch that act, which caused him to grunt in disappointment.

“Do it right next time,” he scolded you. “You know you love the taste of it.”

You did, but this wasn’t exactly the time or place for you to express that particular savoury tooth. “Listen,” you continued the earlier conversation. “This group, they need you, and come tonight, they’ll break you out of that fucking tank you’ve been stuck in all these years.”

Ben’s expression seemed to knead both relief and anticipation as he considered your words. “Where will you be?” He asked earnestly. “I’m not leaving without you.”

You took his hand into your own, and he squeezed it tightly. “You won’t,” you assured him. “I’ll be right there beside you when you wake up. But for now, you’ve got to go along with everything—act normal, like it’s any other day.”

Ben nodded slowly, the most docile and compliant you’d ever seen him. “These people . . . how much do you know about ‘em?”

You shook your head slightly. “Not a lot,” you admitted. “But enough to know they’re the lesser evil. They get us out of here, you do what you need to do, and then we run.”

“Yeah, fuck it, I’ve had worse odds,” he decided, something which you could contest to. “This group, they have a name?”

“Yeah,” you said, recalling the blatant stupidity of it. “They call themselves The Boys.”

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A/n: Man, this was pumped out of me at 3 am because my biological urges just decided to go full-blown FUCK YEAH for Jensen Ackles. Arg I NEED him. Anyways, stay tuned for part 2 with all the delicious smut. Thank you for reading! All likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

Tags: @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind

Comment/message me to be added to/removed from the tag list for any future Soldier Boy works!

Other works: The Boys Masterlist

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ nothing left to lose ❞

⤷ Word count: 5.2k

It’s that time of the month (yippeee) and my hormones are all over the place. And then I found this gif and I just need this man to hold me this way because I feel like it could solve a world crisis. Thank you.

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PAIRINGS:

S7!Negan x fem!reader

WARNINGS:

Cussing, fluff, mentions of reader on her period, tame cutesie stuff

SYNOPSIS:

It had been another fairly quiet day as you lounged about the Sanctuary, your mood only dampened by the first day of your period. You were perfectly content to dwell in your bed and rot away for the remainder of the week, not so eager to do much else when the twisting and contracting of your stomach was so prominent, but those plans are set awry when Negan makes a stop at your room with his usual request for a good time.

When you enlighten him on your situation, he decides he’d like to stay regardless and indulge in your company, revealing a side to him you weren’t aware he had.

═════════════════

It had been roughly a month since a group of saviours had scavenged you from your pathetic life of living off the woods. You’d been practically half-starved when the saviours had found you, a pitiful amalgamation of skin and bones that served no purpose other than to earn their ridicule. They’d have put you down and served you up as walker deterrent for their borders had it not been for one of the men recognising your face.

You’d been tracking the Sanctuary’s dealings for quite some time then, successfully managing to map out their routines and planning sparse trips to steal a few supplies from the pick up points. You’d had a few close calls, but even then you were like a goddamn shadow, in and out quicker than a blink. The men had never managed to catch you—up until that day, at least. The man had insisted you be dragged back to the Sanctuary, where Negan would hear of your actions and decide the best manner to make you atone for them.

Much to everybody’s surprise, though, he’d been oddly impressed with your skill—despite it being a massive leech on their supplies. His anger was more directed at the inability for his men to contain your posed threat, especially since you were no more than ‘a ghost of a woman’. You’d decided to ignore the implied misogyny in his words, instead focusing on the relief in his decision to spare your life—tied to the condition that you become his wife, of course. You’d reluctantly obliged, acutely aware of how the title would come to violate your own morals at some point, but he’d promised good treatment and up until now, he’d been nothing but true to his word.

The murmur of a light rain trailed through the crack of your partially opened window, infusing the atmosphere of your dim room with a further sense of serenity. You were curled up between the sheets of your bed, lounging on your aching stomach as you paged through your book of the week—a one thousand-paged hardcover on the tragedy of wars. It didn’t play into your usual tastes—it was far from it, actually, but there were so few options available that you couldn’t afford to be picky. It was amazing, really, what things you could convince yourself to indulge in when you were burdened with nothing but free time.

When you’d decidedly punished your stomach—and your mind—enough, you sluggishly rolled onto your side with a groan, flipping the book closed in the process. You didn’t think you could endure another mention of forced cannibalism, and you were only two hundred-odd pages into the historical hell. You doubted you’d find the strength to power through this pick, never having been much of a history fan to begin with.

Your back was turned on the book now, and there it stayed out of sight and out of mind as your eyes fluttered closed around a pressing series of cramps. You instinctively tucked into the foetal position, as though it would somehow lovingly cradle your stomach cramps and encourage it to ease off its painful hold. When the sensation didn’t budge, you opted for resting your eyes, allowing darkness to consume you as you fried to focus on the pattering of the rain against your window. In a way, nature had always been a mother, the rain her very own gentle lullaby that encouraged warmth and a long, peaceful sleep. You’d never get tired of that particular song.

A string of impatient knocks booted your door. You’d barely managed to open your eyes and give permission to enter before you heard the wood creek open, heavy footsteps striking the floor for only a few moments before silence re-emerged. Your head remained pressed against your pillow, your eyes squinting against the dim air as you managed to make out the tall figure of Simon. His arms were crossed against his chest as he glared at you motionlessly through the haze. You didn’t offer the courtesy of sitting up to greet him, which is as much as he’d offered by not waiting for your answer at the door.

“What?” You demanded, the echo of your voice damped by the downfall of rain.

“You know what,” Simon answered bluntly with that coarse annoyance edging his tone. “I don’t make a habit of visiting you for fun. If I’m here, it’s cause Negan’s in the mood for your goods.”

“God,” you groaned, finally lifting your head to properly glare at Simon. “Don’t ever say that again.” You settled for turning onto your back, your head upturned to face the white ceiling. There was a brief moment of silence before you sighed and said, “tell Negan that I’ll be unavailable for the next week.”

“Unavailable?” Simon echoed with a scoff. “You got some other plans we don’t know about?”

“Just my period, dipshit,” you responded thinly before lifting your hand in a shooing gesture. “Now scoot.”

Much to your dismay, Simon’s footsteps seemed to grow closer instead of further, and moments later his silhouette appeared at the foot of your bed. You felt a spark of annoyance at his insistence—the blood that quite literally poured from your insides left you little patience for social interactions.

“You think a little blood’s gonna deter Negan?” The man asked you, his tone mocking at the idea that you could be so stupid. “You’ve seen the guy, he can’t go a single day without that shit smeared all over him. Matters little to him how the blood is obtained—you know?”

You did. Murder and women, the two things Negan couldn’t absolutely ever have his fill of. But you also knew that you’d never been the one to frolic around while on your period, a fact that Negan would have to make peace with. Not only did you find it unappealing, but needlessly messy, too, and you’d rather not spend the aftermath of it all wringing your sheets out. No, your answer was final.

“You’re ruining my peace,” you told Simon pointedly, your eyes still studying the beams that reached between the walls of your room and upheld your pointed ceiling. When he didn’t seem to falter from his position, you sat yourself up with a huff, your fingers clutching your propped up knees. “Tell Negan that I politely decline his request—that is, if you have the balls to. Clearly you’ve got some reservations since you’re still loitering in my room after my many invitations for you to take your leave.”

Simon ignored your jest, running his hand across his hair to tame rogue strands. “He ain’t gon’ take nicely to your answer, sweetheart,” he said.

The pet name made your stomach curl beyond the cramps. “He’ll get over it when he gets on-top of the next wife.”

“Nah,” the man disagreed, rubbing a hand across his moustache. “You know he’s got some special obsession with you. You’ve been here for what—less than a month? Yet you’ve already left quite a mark on the boss-man.” He paused as his gaze lowered across you. “Can’t say I get the charm beyond your beckoning tits and ass.”

You glowered at his crudeness. “Gross, Simon. This is why you’re going to die alone, and the only hint of action you’ll ever experience is the caress of that explosion of bad taste stuck beneath your nose.”

Simon looked briefly offended by your dig at his stash, his jaw evidently clenched around his reckless temper, but he didn’t dare to unleash his fist or tongue. One of the few perks of being Negan’s wife was that you were awarded the opportunities to condescend his men time and time again, yet they were completely helpless in returning the sentiment—that is if they wanted to remain in goodwill at Negan’s side as opposed to being plastered along Lucille’s length.

“I’ll let Negan know,” was all that Simon offered before he departed your room, clearly eager to preserve what little dignity he had left. He made a point to slam the door behind him, which only made you chuckle.

Oh men and their fragile egos.

You could hardly believe they’d been made to rule the earth when their entire masculinity could so easily collapse at their rejected cock. You eased yourself back against the mattress, unable to help the faint smirk spread across your lips as your eyes fluttered closed once more. You were prepared for your second attempt at a nap, the rain growing progressively louder beyond a light drizzle. You remembered seeing the swath of grey clouds stretched across the horizon like an impending doom when you’d opened your windows this morning. It seemed that they’d finally arrived to deliver their promise of a heavy downpour.

It wasn’t long before the hum of the rain became distorted by your amassing fatigue, sleep arriving hastily to claim what remnants of your consciousness remained. You had surrendered all control, so eager to melt into the peaceful expanse of black where you could leave behind your mortal pain. You’d barely been gifted half an hour of that haven before Negan’s voice tethered you and withdrew you from the dark breaches of your mind, your eyes flickering open. You hadn’t even even heard him enter the bedroom.

“Holdin’ up there, sweetheart?”

The second greeting of his presence came at the menacing outline of Lucille, remarkably propped along his broad shoulder as he idled a few steps from the foot of your bed. You drew a clumsy palm across your tired eyes, attempting to chase away the drowsiness that clung heavily to your lids.

“Did something get lost in translation?” You managed to say, your voice slightly abraded by grogginess.

“Not the warm greeting a man expects to hear from his wife after a long and shit-filled day,” Negan said with a sultry gruffness, moving to take up a seat beside your torso.

The mattress dipped beside you, prompting you to turn your head and glance at him. “I’m sure one of the other girls can pick up my slack,” you suggested bluntly.

Your disinterest only seemed to earn that all-knowing smirk from Negan. “Goddammit, woman, you’ve got balls,” he remarked though that wide grin, his head slightly cocked to properly glimpse your face. He lowered Lucille from his shoulder, his hands propping onto the hilt as he planted the bat against the ground and leaned his weight onto it. “And that’s exactly why you’re my favourite wife. Hell, you even got me to walk the extra mile just to come and see you.”

“Not on purpose,” you sighed dejectedly, your eyes wandering along the glinting folds of his leather jacket. He did look good in that jacket—not that you’d ever milk his ego by admitting it. “If Simon truly had the nerve to refer my answer, you’d know that coming here was a waste of time. You’re going to have to fill your blood quota elsewhere.”

“Ah, come on,” he drawled, his gaze unrelenting through those darn hypnotising eyes of his. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but ain’t a good poking of the colons a great way to relieve some of the pain?” He asked pointedly. “In other words, you ought to let me fuck those asshole cramps right outta you. What’s a little blood, anyways?”

At that statement, you couldn’t help the flit of your eyes toward Lucille, the object always so menacing even when benched on the sidelines. You dragged your attention back to Negan’s expectant expression with a beleaguered sigh. “I don’t care what you get off on, Negan,” you told him. “Have your bloody fill of it anywhere else, but not here. I said no, and I meant it.”

You half expected him to further knead at the angle he was currently working, eventually wearing you down to a state that could almost be called consent—what more could you expect from a sadistic, murderous fanatic? A sudden cramp displaced that particular trail of thought, causing you to discreetly tense your lower half, inside of your lip taken into bite as an instinctual coping mechanism.

Negan’s head tilted back slightly with a trace of a chuckle, his tongue then poking through to glide along his lower lip as he gazed at you through narrowly thoughtful eyes. “All right,” he relented—much to your surprise. Had somebody knocked Negan out cold on the way here and taken his place? “If you’re going to deny my very eager balls a pleasurable time, the least you can do is entertain me with a conversation.”

You challenged the weight of his stare—ever so flirtatious regardless of the circumstances. “You’ve literally enslaved an entire selection of women,” you pointed out crassly. “Go bother one of them instead.”

“Enslaved?” He repeated, his eyebrows perched on a look of incredulity. “I didn’t enslave any one of those women. I’m a fair man—I believe in free will and I always honour my word. I weigh the options, I offer a choice—” he lifted one hand to gesture to himself, “—and they made their choice.”

“After you coerced them,” you said around a thick yawn, blinking away the moisture along your eyes as you focused your growing alertness on him. You sat yourself up with a muffled grunt, ignoring the sharp pains that struck your stomach with the movements. “You’re not a democrat. You’re just a bully with an unhealthy attachment to a bat. It’s like Negan’s version of Bonnie and Clyde.”

Negan fixated you with a long look, his expression ever so unrelenting on what thoughts were passing through that tainted mind of his. “You’ve got an awful lotta spunk for somebody actin’ like she’s on her deathbed,” he deflected, a short moment of silence following shortly after. “What about you—girl who knows what she wants and doesn’t take shit from the next gapin’ asshole?”

“What about me?”

“Did I coerce you, too?” He inquired huskily, his eyes narrowing in an almost dare for you to answer honestly.

You hadn’t ever needed much convincing to speak your mind. “Absolutely,” you answered simply, then paused before adding, “have you honestly managed to convince yourself that either one of your wives want to be here?” Your head was slightly tilted out of sheer curiosity, amazed at how painfully naive he appeared to be—for once.

Negan’s lips were spread thin with a smirk, parting as he said, “I appreciate your honesty. Although I’d be lying if I said I ain’t a tad bit hurt.”

A severe cramp seized your stomach, causing you to throw your face into your pillow. “Oh, you don’t know hurt, Negan,” you groaned. “If you truly had the capacity to feel, please be so kind as to spare me your company so that I can rot away in peace.”

He straightened up from the Lucille’s prop, his expression becoming inquisitive. “All right, I’ll leave,” he eased off, attention dropping to his lap, where he carefully rested the bat and stroked suggestively at her barbwire-infused wooden length. “And I guess I’ll be takin’ these with me,” he added, one hand dipping into his leather jacket to pull out a small, plastic cylinder labelled ibuprofen.

Your eyes practically bulged at the offering. Pain medication was strictly reserved for post-surgical cases and the physically wounded—those marred by gunshot wounds, blades, or even brute fists—you name it. That was Negan’s self-imposed rule. In this dying world, pain medication certainly wasn’t a medical luxury extended to lesser problems like a woman’s period pains—despite the entire gender technically being a victim of the repeated assault of severe period cramps. For at least a week of every month. For at least five decades of their lives.

“The fuck?” You murmured, hand reaching for the medication as though needing to feel it’s physical form to believe it’s existence.

Negan plucked it out of reach with a shit-eating grin. “You want it?” He taunted, propping his elbow onto his knee as he rattled the container between his fingers.

Your hand hesitated mid-air, expression becoming bleary as you hesitantly asked, “what’s it gonna cost me?”

“Question of the century,” he answered vaguely, intense stare beating down on you. He looked almost scheming, and that wasn’t a strange mask to wear—not for Negan Smith. But for once, his actions surprised you in a way that wasn’t coupled by repulsion. “Y’know, you’re a pain in my ass, ‘cause I can’t help but have a soft spot for girls like you—all feisty and opinionated and sure as hell ready to give my big balls a real good talking to.” The hand which clutched the medication gravitated toward you, offering it up without the tether of debt. “On the house, since I’m the boss man around here callin’ all the big, bloody shots.”

Your eyes narrowed cautiously, your hand slowly reaching to acquire your personal saving grace. You half expected Negan to yank it away as a feat of ridicule, but his hand remained steadfast, his expression eerily intense as he overlooked your internal war with a light undertone of amusement quirking the corner of his lips.

“Ya want it, or not?”

You took it from his grasp, bringing it closer to examine the legitimacy of the label. “I’m the only thorn in your foot because everybody else is scared of you,” you said distractedly, eyes then flickering from the medication to meet his idling stare.

Negan adjusted his torso to appear taller, Lucille slipping between his thighs to prod the floor under his guiding grip. “But not you,” he reaffirmed.

“I used to be.”

“Yeah?” He husked, eyes narrowed interestedly, tongue momentarily poking through his grin—as it so often did. “The hell’s changed? Real world toughen you up? Ya got a pair o’ steel down there now?”

You brushed aside his snark. “Nothing’s changed, really,” you admitted, attention drifting as you popped open the lid of the container. “But I’ve got nothing left to lose, and the worst you could do is make jam out of my brains.” You dispensed a tablet into your palm, then clicked the lid closed. “But you won’t,” you stated, meeting his gaze boldly.

Negan’s head tilted with a far too entertained air. “Why’s that?”

“Same reason you’re here. I’m your favourite wife, apparently—and what’s a man like you to do without his wife? You might just implode without a place to stick it,” you jabbed. “I’m always the one you come running to with all your shit—god knows why.”

“I gotta say, that’s mighty cocky of you,” he drawled through a grin, hand moving to whisk across his bearded jaw. “And that’s comin’ from me.”

You offered him the ibuprofen, a ghost of a cheeky-lipped grin setting in. “Force of habit when I’m obliged to be at your side every other hour of the day. Honestly, you only have yourself to blame.”

His grin widened, eyes leering you over before dipping to the container you re-offered him. “Nah,” he murmured. “Keep it. And not a word ‘bout it—I ain’t got time for ants up my ass when the other gals get wind of the shit I ain’t doin’ for them.”

“That supposed to make me feel special?” You jested. “Or just a threat?”

Negan’s lip hitched with a smirk—silent ambiguity, and reached a hand into his pocket to procure a fresh orange, bottled water and a packet of chips—your favourite chips. “That shit’ll put ya in a grave on an empty stomach,” he averted, chin jutting to the pill in your palm. He leaned over to place the snacks on the bedside table, offering you a sidelong glance. “I know your panties get all hot for this stale sack of shit,” he said, beckoning to your chips, then added, “and the orange will keep up that energy of yours—y’know, boost the spirit and fuel that friskiness o’ yours.”

You scowled indignantly as he took a swipe at your taste in chips. “Those aren’t my favourite chips,” you lied defensively, moving to place the pill beside your newly acquired snacks. “It’s practically the only brand that’s left in the midst of this dying world—so none of us can afford to be picky, can we?”

Honestly, you’d have to admit it to yourself that the chips being spared even in the midst of the apocalypse didn’t bode well for your case, but why go down without a meaningless fight?

Negan chuckled all-knowingly, settling Lucille onto the ground before he leaned his elbow onto the mattress beside you and brought his lips into the proximity of your face. “Tasteless or not, I’m willin’ to bet my dick that you’ll be back asking for more,” he murmured, hazel eyes glazed with that bedroom sex-haze as he delicately searched between your eyes.

Your attention flickered between him and the flashy, grit teeth poking through the lips you’d tasted countless times, his words so open-ended for interpretation—because Negan Smith loved playing games. “Are we still talking about the chips?” You asked softly, eyebrow hitched expectantly.

“We can talk about whatever you goddamn want,” he grumbled huskily, lips making an advance for yours, but you brought your hand up to press an index finger into the divot of his chin.

“I told you,” you began, “not happening—not today. So, off you scamper to the next wife for a good tickle.”

“Cut that crap,” Negan chided levelly, then reached for your hand and pried it from his chin. “The others can wait, let’s just get you up and runnin’ because it’s been a goddamn buzzkill on my dick.”

“Oh, how terrible for you,” you sniped, brows furrowing at his nerve.

He seized your hand in a tight grip to place a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes narrowed around an intense gaze as he maintained eye contact throughout the gesture. You fought the urge to yank your hand free out of spite. Once his lips retracted from your skin, he tucked your hand between your bodies as he leant down to place a kiss on your forehead instead. It was a rather gentle touch—the most intimate one he’s ever bestowed on you, but it didn’t linger long before he pulled back and released your hand.

“Jesus, burnin’ up all for me?” He remarked, pressing the backside of his fingers to your forehead before they caressed the expanse and moved to push back the loose strands of hair that cascaded around your view. “You’re hot as shit.”

“I am, thank you,” you said suggestively, adding more earnestly, “it happens sometimes—I think my body is literally trying to kill me.”

He pulled back his hand from your hair, finger trailing down the angle of your jaw before he withdrew his touch entirely. “Yeah, well, you’re tough as nails, so tell the biological bitch to dial it down a notch.”

“Duly noted,” you murmured, reaching for the orange atop the bedside stand, your attention deliberately downturned to the fruit in clutch as you began to peel it while simultaneously reflecting on the situation presented before you.

You were thankful for the medication, but it felt odd to hold a sense of gratitude for a man like Negan, and you had not the slightest idea on how to handle the foreign phenomenon. Even a month ago, when he’d quite literally plucked you from death’s claws, there was no gratitude to behold—his motives in sparing you had always been selfish. But this instance? This was an action you thought beyond his emotional capacity.

You’d thought his better conscious had been so far lost to a history of bad and reckless decisions that there was not a slither of DNA left still capable of holding regard for others—but this act of his prompted you to reconsider that notion. After all, he owed you nothing, and you owed him everything, yet it was him that had come to settle.

A manipulative tactic? Possibly. You weren’t all that naive to allow this instance alone to so easily sway your opinion on him. He was still of questionable character—and that moral debate could ricochet for an endless amount of hours.

You spared yourself the turmoil and brought yourself to it, lifting your head to meet his stare once more. He’d been watching you enigmatically, without his usual running commentary to fill the void—it felt uncomfortable to have a silence so long settle between the two of you.

You decided to settle for a simple, “thanks, by the way,” as you set aside the discarded orange peels and began to thumb at the centre to separate the slices. “For the medication,” you clarified, popping a slice into your mouth. The first bite was an explosion of sultry sweetness, a true pleasure to behold.

Negan gave somewhat of an accomplished smirk. “I got ya,” he answered, his gaze lingering incoherently on you before he blinked away the haze and straightened himself from the bed with a grunt. “Take a hot bath—” he suggested, hoisting up Lucille from her position on the ground, “—hopefully that Lady Uterus o’ yours will let loose for a bit.”

He strung the bat across his shoulder—the rightful queen atop her throne, and turned to begin his amble toward the door.

“Are you going to draw it for me?” You asked him hopefully, which made him halt and partially turn his torso to face you.

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “What’re you, ten?” He jested.

“If only,” you retorted wistfully. “The only stomach ache ten year old me ever got was because of one too many bags of chips.” You caught yourself at the mention of chips, then felt the need to clarify, “the good kind, not these ones.”

Negan lips spread with amusement. “What a goddamn time to be alive,” he stated.

“I’ll say,” you murmured, then turned your attention back to your diminishing orange. “Anyway, if you’re done bothering me now, I’ll draw that bath.”

“Damn, I stick my neck out for you and I don’t even get to stay for the show?”

“You’re always getting a show,” you retorted. “Let a girl have some alone time, for once. Besides, there’s no such thing as you sticking your neck out, seeing as you’re the one usually holding the guillotine.”

Negan chuckled, his eyes holding a mischievous glint. “Touché,” was all he offered. “I’ll draw you that bath.”

You perked with surprise, the last orange slice popped between your lips. “Only enough water for one,” you mumbled around the sweet, stringy flesh, brows lifted with implication. “Just in case you were getting any ideas.”

“Oh, I got ideas,” he hummed, scheming grin on his lips. “The meds I got ya? On the house. This? This’ll cost ya a little something. And once you’re feeling right as rain, I’ll come and collect.”

You gave a slight flicker of your eyes. “Okay, tax man,” you said, reaching for the bottled water and pill. “Whatever Negan wants.”

“Atta girl,” he praised, hand raised to point an index finger in your direction. “Now you’re startin’ to sound like a commendable wife—almost enough to make good ol’ Lucille here jealous.”

“Leave your weird bat out of this,” you said before splitting open the seam of the sealed bottle and taking an eager swig at the liquid. You popped the pill into your mouth shortly after and gave a hard swallow, your expression furrowing in disgust when it momentarily lodged itself against your tongue with the kiss of a bitter tang. After another gulp of water, it slid down uninterrupted.

“Somebody’s parched,” Negan remarked. “Never seen you take my seed that eagerly.”

You gave him a hearty middle finger, to which he scoffed amusedly and disappeared a short distance into your offside en-suite. “How hot?” He called back to you. “Three quarters to the hottest?”

“Sounds right,” you called back to him. “And add the bath oils, too!”

“Useless shit.”

“Let a girl indulge, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, settling against the mattress while you listened to the sound of the drawing bath. You noted the calm of the weather beyond the window, where a barely perceptible drizzle thrummed down gently.

It wasn’t long before Negan reappeared at your side, Lucille carefully discarded onto the foot of the bed before he inched his way onto the mattress and you felt his frame curl around your backside. Heat radiated from his body and flushed your back with a sense of comfort, his lips then finding the nape of your neck. He pressed a kiss there, his hand gently curling around your abdomen, as though he knew to take precaution around your sensitive area.

You shifted your neck away from his teasing lips, casting him a glance over your shoulder. “Why are you doing this?” You felt compelled to ask—this tender facade of his was disconcerting.

Negan’s held your stare levelly. “You’re my wife,” he stated simply. “A real man takes care of his wife.”

“Yeah, but that’s not real,” you said. “None of this is real—it’s all a made up, a twisted way for you to pass time. Us wives? We’re nothing but entertainment to you—so why all this effort?”

There was a brief pause from his side before he answered you with a sense of solemnity that you’d never truly seen him possess. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” He asked. “Hell, I know what desperation feels like. She’s a stone cold bitch, and you were nothin’ more than a husk of a person when we picked you up in those woods. You’re a fighter—death ain’t got a fuckin’ lead on you. I mean, shit, that deserves some respect—and I give that only where it’s due. So, call it respect, call it whatever you’d like, but just take the goddamn win, won’t ya?”

You listened intently, an emotion of something other than annoyance settling within your chest at his somewhat glorified image of you. For the first time ever, you didn’t know how to respond. It was easy to strike back when most of the conversation shared between the two of you was shallow, bitter banter, but as of this moment, this situation-ship was starting to feel as though the foundation was being built on something other than debt, and that thought was daunting.

“Bath should be drawn by now,” you said eventually, settling your head back into the pillow, glad to displace the view of Negan’s face.

The hand at your abdomen slid away as he lifted himself up with a grunt of effort. “Then you best go and dip your toes,” he said.

You took a moment to heave a breath before rolling over and sitting yourself up from the bed, to which Negan stepped a pace back to allow you the room to stand up. You straightened from the mattress that had held you captive for the entirety of the morning, offering Negan a long stare, who returned it with a grin that felt as though your thoughts were transparent to him.

You shouldn’t, but you wanted to. Fuck it, you would—you’d said it yourself, nothing left to lose, right? You brushed past him and hoisted a beckoning hand over your shoulder, followed by a sparse, cheeky glance.

“Come with me,” you told him.

“I like the sound of that,” Negan chuckled, trailing after you with a confident charisma. “Looks like I’m gettin’ that show after all.”

“Shut up about it.”

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Thank you for reading! All likes & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

Tags: @bohemianblasphemy @violent-darkness @gibson-g1rl

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ Scout’s Honour ❞

⤷ Word count: a lot

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Pls imagine he has his sexy beard in these gifs

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WARNINGS:

Billy x fem!reader, cussing, very mild angst, smut, fingering, oral f receiving, unprotected sex p in v (wrap it pls), cock-warming, lmk if I forgot any

SYNOPSIS:

Billy slips into the apartment in the early hours of a new day, after having abandoned you for a few nights in order to tend to business. You never minded a busy schedule, so as long as the time spent at your side balanced it out. However, he’s been slacking in his efforts, and you’re not one to be brushed aside whenever things got inconvenient.

He attempts to curb your anger with his god-given charm and bedroom generosity, and you’re almost tempted to forgive him—almost. But after a very generous, very convincing tongue to your cunt, and a good few of his inches stuck within you, you’re eventually compelled to give him another chance.

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The creak of the apartment door plucked your consciousness from the chasm of sleep. Your eyes split open without a breath to spare, your body still fuelled by the pent up adrenaline of the past shit-filled week. The door made a muffled click of closure before a sequence of heavy thuds pulled forth from you a more urgent sense of alertness. You lifted your head in a swift motion to spare a groggy glance over your shoulder, your agitation laid to rest by the scene of your beloved intruder traipsing across the dim, open-plan apartment—but the annoyance surrounding his prolonged absence quickly took its stead.

What was usually a temporary work setback that would only keep Billy away for a night or two had turned into a painfully drawn out week of his absence—without the courtesy of a notice, might you add. Not that you’d ever admit it to the bugger, but the atmosphere of his apartment had been unbearably dull without his effortless, colourful charisma, and his endearment for the word cunt.

You hadn’t minded that Billy was a busy man, and in any case, you’d made no official obligations to one another that would warrant your feelings. However, the bastard’s pattern of disappearances and reappearances without an explanation had started to wear you thin, and quite frankly, you’d started to feel like cheap company.

You birthed a groan at your premature departure from sleep and turned your head away from Billy’s wandering figure—you’d begrudgingly missed him, but you could hardly be arsed to entertain the questions of his whereabouts when exhaustion so perilously perched itself on your eyelids and burnt your eyes teary for as long as they remained open. This was one of very few occasions where sleep really could solve the problem, so you manoeuvred your body between the sheets and wrapped your arms around your pillow, trapping it against your cheek—a forceful plea to indulge your need for a longer rest.

Your eyes fluttered closed, not needing much prompting, especially with the added bonus of ignoring Billy’s presence entirely. But the voice you’d violently craved throughout your desolate nights traversed the room as a deep echo, plucking forward your consciousness once more.

“D’I wake ya, Love?”

You burrowed your face into the pillow and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s either that or you’re talking to a bloody ghost,” you pushed out groggily, your voice rough—breached by the night’s sleep—and muffled by the satin pillowcase.

You heard Billy chuckle half-heartedly from across the room. “D’ya sleep all right?” He asked—an attempt to brush off your foul mood. On a good day, which were most days, he could easily drink up and reciprocate your wit. Clearly, whatever he’d abandoned the bed—and you—for had taken its toll. You didn’t know whether he’d slept at all, when he was out doing whatever it was he so often left to do.

The initial agreement of your whole relationship—if you could call it that—with Billy, was never to ask questions about what he did, where he did them, and why he’s doing them. I don’t want nobody perched on me fuckin’ shoulder, houndin’ me around and playin’ devil’s advocate all bloody day until me head is done in. No babysittin’, no collar round me neck, no fuckin’ fuss, eh? Those were more or less the terms Billy had set forward, but your relationship had evolved since that point. The more nights your bodies had spent entangled, there came a mutual realisation that the company you both provided one another had become more like a deep-rooted, carnal need, rather than a impish way to pass time. Billy was pretty good in getting his cut of it from you, but had been failing to reciprocate the effort on his side. It felt like exploitation, and you’d just about had enough of that.

You came to it eventually, shrugging off the chain of thought that had shackled your brain. “Haven’t slept nearly enough,” you offered curtly.

There was a brief pause from Billy’s side, before he asked, “somethin’ been keepin’ yer up?” Your attention latched onto the hesitant undertone of his voice—barely noticeable, but undeniably there. He was far too good at his reserved facade, but you’d long since trained your ear to tell the truth men just like him would not. “Bet both me bollocks it’s tha’ cooing shit machine tha’ done set up base on the window outside. Annoying li’l fucker—you give me the word, Love, and I’ll evict the plumy wanker.”

His avoidant rambling triggered an involuntary clench of your jaw; you could almost envision the smug, lopsided smirk hitching up the corner of his lips. The moment of silence that had preceded his words made perfect sense—it was an acknowledgement of the truth he refused to directly admit; a rhetorical question he very much knew the answer to. He was no dumb man; he knew he’d gotten his stylish boots stuck ankle-deep in a fat pile of shit with you.

You weren’t nearly sleep-sober enough to entertain his bold query, so in an attempt to purge your exhaustion, you peeled back the comforters and finally sat yourself up to face him. Billy’s head tilted as he drank in your appearance, his expression glazed with the apartment’s dawn gloom, but you could make out the ruffled, jagged peaks of the hair crowning the top of his head—clearly ploughed through by one too many stressed hands.

“And there’s me dashin’ lady. Sincerest top o’ the mornin’ to you, Love,” he said, inching a few steps closer to your corner of the apartment. He hesitated beside the dining room table when his words didn’t enlighten your expression and hummed dramatically. “Knackered, are we?”

Around you, the warm glow of dawn began to creep its way through the crevices of the curtained windows, casting the apartment with an ethereal glow that almost made Billy’s figure appear angelic from where he stood at the other end of the modest quarters. The burly shape of his black-coated silhouette was traced with a line of liquid fire, perfectly encapsulating the true beauty of his essence when he was vulnerable enough to show it—and a beautiful soul he was, minus his impulsive need to play the absentee partner.

You leaned your back against the headboard of the bed, your knees retracting into your abdomen while your arms wrapped around them to trap them against you. “I am knackered,” you mocked matter-of-a-factly. “What was that you asked earlier—has something been keeping me up? Boy, what a question that is, Billy,” you said thinly, and Billy’s eyes narrowed in preparation as the nonchalant smirk was plucked from his lips.

“Well, for starters, these last few nights, the bed has been unbearably cold and empty. Now, I used to share it with a man to keep me all warm and toasty, but that same man? He’s one heck of a busy fucker. He’s always goddamn working—says he’s got his own little enterprise going on, but I’m not allowed to know the first thing about that—so who knows if it’s at all true? He could be out getting a full-course serving of pussy for all I know, while I’m left behind to keep his bed warm until he’s had his external fill of it and comes running back.”

Your convicted man hovered about, the usual furrow in his expression no deeper than usual, but you could tell by the faint tilt of his head that he’d been listening to your rant intently, and the squirming motion of his lower lip implied a tense biting. You squinted your eyes at one of his eyebrows that seemed to be thickened at the arch; you didn’t doubt that it was from the mean kiss of a fist, since he tended to collect enemies and wounds like medals.

“Not to mention the countless times he’s crawled into bed with unexplainable injured littered across his body, and I’m to pretend they’re not existent as I run my hands over them,” you added pointedly. “He’s a strange, mysterious man, and he’s gotten far too comfortable leaving me alone for nights on end and demanding everything his way the moment he returns.” Your brows furrowed sarcastically. “Now, what do you suppose I do about a dick like that?”

“Ya ought to give it a good ol’ wank and a tickle o’ the balls, and just before his shit hits the ceiling, yer give the tip o’ his knackers a diabolical twisty,” Billy suggested flippantly, his hands raised to mimic the theoretical scene.

“Cut the Billy-bullshit,” you snapped. “It’s bloody well been a week since I last saw you—and the shit you do is so goddamn sketchy, I had no fucking idea if you were even still alive. You couldn’t have even said goodbye, or, I don’t know, told me where the hell you were going to fuck off to?”

Billy’s hands were spread open into a scoff of a gesture. “Oi, gimme a bit ‘o credit there, will yer, Love? No Supe cunt has managed to put me in a grave for a good kip just yet.” He torqued his chin in that characteristic manner of his. “And I ain’t goin’ out without a nuclear bang; you’d have seen me face all over that shite news channel with me bloody arm stuck half way up that Homelander’s Comp V arsehole—like a good ol’ rectal exam.”

Confusion took the stead of annoyance at his mention of Comp V, but you were far more interested in the mention of Supes and the Homelander himself. This was the first time Billy had ever let on a fraction of information about who he was routinely involved with every time he disappeared—a royal fuckup, no doubt. You’d always been a determined girl with a knack for satisfying your curious itch, and that combination didn’t bode well for Billy’s need of discretion.

You’d have been a slow fool to question who Homelander was. While you’d never personally taken interest in the leader of the so-called gifted band of heroes who practically governed the state, you’d heard of enough incidents to know that The Seven were far from do-gooders. So, just what the hell would a man like Billy be doing with them? He was no angel—gods, you knew that, but he was not nearly tainted enough to sit and share bread at the table of the Superheros. Comp V, however? That term didn’t place among your knowledge. You wanted to—needed to know more.

You leant away from the bed frame and tilted your head with blunt scrutiny. “What business do you have with a freaky man-Supe like Homelander?” You asked sceptically. “Have you got friends up in higher places that I don’t know about? And what the hell is Comp V?”

Billy’s expression seem to buffer over your words, his shoulders lightly tilting from side to side as his brain took to working around his apparent slip up. “Ne’ermind you that, Love,” he averted eventually, reaching up a hand to swipe a quick scratch across his bearded chin. “Nothin’ to pick yer pretty li’l brain ‘bout, eh? Now, ya fancy a nosh? Me appetite’s just ‘bout burned through me stomach wall.”

You ignored his divergence, your expression hardening with warning. “You’re going to play games with me at this very early hour of the day, William?”

The use of his full name made Billy’s head tilt back in the slightest manner, his chin lifting with a notion of denial, then acceptance. You watched him furrow his thick brows and offer a low grunt before his head dropped to shrug off the weight of your accusing stare. His gaze remained averted as he rolled his shoulders to shed his signature black coat, and with that, his hard-ass facade he so often paraded under the public’s eye. In here—around you, he was afforded to step out of that role every once in a while.

The forsaken coat made for a gracious reveal of Billy’s fine-toned pair of biceps, the very set that had pinned you against this bed on far too many occasions. But you didn’t allow yourself to entertain those lustful memories for too long, knowing the power they possessed in their ability to completely eradicate any ill-will you currently bore him.

You followed the whisk of his arms as he moved to drape the coat across the nearest chair that bordered the circumference of the circular dining table, then watched as reached across to snatch a half-drained bottle of whiskey from its surface. A low fuckin’ hell split his lips as he sank himself down into the coat-crowed chair, his figure perfectly positioned to oppose you. You heard the whiskey bottle gurgle as he titled the nozzle into his mouth and eagerly began draining the beverage.

You squinted at the nerve of his nonchalance, then pushed on more pettily. “What, nothing to say at all?” You scoffed. “Never could get you to shut up, and now when you talking would actually offer something valuable, you choose to bite your tongue?”

Billy’s adam’s apple dipped with a large gulp before he lowered the whiskey bottle and dragged a brisk thumb across his froth-kissed beard, his hand falling away to offer a lopsided smirk. “I meant what I said when we first started this sweet, little rendezvous o’ ours, Love—no hounding me on me own fuckin’ business,” he warned. “That were our deal, weren’t it?

“Yeah, well , I’m no business man,” you retorted. “But by all means, continue with your shady shit. All I’m saying is give a girl a warning or two from time to time instead of pulling a hit and run in the middle of the night like some prepubescent asshole.”

Not sparing him the luxury of a back and fourth bicker, you sank yourself back into the centre of the bed and laid your head onto the pillow—deliberately facing yourself away from him. You didn’t even care to wrap yourself back underneath the comfort of the sheets, you just needed to shrink away from this conversation.

“Just do what you do best—leave and let me get some sleep, please,” was all you murmured.

“All right, don’t get yer pretty knickers ina twist, now,” Billy soothed.

You heard the distant rustle of fabric, followed by a grunt of effort, before the thump of his boots escalated toward you and then ceased to exist entirely. The clank of the whiskey bottle settled on the bedside table at your head, and a few seconds later, you felt his knuckles graze a light trail from your exposed shoulder down to your elbow—a beckon for your attention, but when you stubbornly kept your head turned the opposite way, his hand retreated.

“Oi, would you just look at me, Love?”

“Can’t,” you said curtly, eyes forcibly screwed shut. “Sleeping. Now, shut your trap.”

You thought that the last of it, until the mattress at your back suddenly gave slight way and Billy sat himself down beside you. His arm reached across your thigh, his hand finding sanctuary at your knee, which was tucked into yourself as you laid in foetus formation. You tried hard to ignore his imposition, but all hope at fashioning that mask began to crumple as his thumb began wiping aimlessly along your skin—a rhythmic back and fourth motion that was oddly soothing to your stress-riddled, exhausted body.

“Look,” he began—it was a tone far more genuine than you’d ever thought him capable of, and it piqued your interest enough to open your eyes. “I know I been doin’ a mighty shite job at stayin’ around here—bein’ with you and all tha’. I ain’t exactly fuckin’ Romeo with a loyal pair o’ bollocks when it comes to relationships, but tell yer what—” he paused to boldly trail his knuckle down your thigh. “I’ll try and do better by yer—I mean tha’, even if I’m a ripe, stinkin’ cunt at times.”

You listened keenly to Billy’s words, but his lack of a clear apology still leered at some petty part of you. The sensational line that he began to draw down the skin of your thigh was an unexpected and very difficult arousal to suppress, your legs subtly drawing together to safeguard the root of all lustful feelings, which began to brew with the threat of bubbling over should he continue his actions. You made the conscious decision not to give into his ministrations so easily, so you pushed aside your growing arousal and decided to focus on the fat lump of unresolved anger still wedged in your throat—a hard pill to swallow.

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” You asked, your field of vision falling into obscurity as you focused on nothing in particular. You could see Billy shift in the very edge of your periphery, the hand tracing patterns on your thigh removed to welcome the cool air of the morning. That same hand didn’t forsake you for long. Within a few seconds, he had a grip on your jaw, his thumb and index finger gently, yet firmly bracketing your chin.

“Spare me a look-see,” he mocked gently, your head forcibly turned up to him. Obliged beyond choice, you allowed yourself a closeup of the man you’d so dearly missed, shifting onto your back to better your view of him.

There was a lot to appreciate about Billy’s face, but for once, it wasn’t the bedroom eyes or the devilish smirk that captured your attention off the bat. Instead, your eyes flickered about the red lines etched across his face—markings that had not been there only a few nights ago, when you’d littered kisses all along the contours of his face. These cuts were fresh, the blood in the trenches of flesh still clotting and very shy of a scab. The discovery caused annoyance to prick at your chest, but you’d long since forsaken anger. If you’d ever managed to successfully talk Billy out of a fight, you’d have cracked a billion dollar contract by now.

“I look dashin’, don’t I?” He poked at your mindless glaring, then his expression softened as he drank in yours—reserved, save the unimpressed scowl. “Me face looks like a slapped arse, I know—bet yer half wishin’ to add another spank to this shitshow, eh?” He chuckled.

“Don’t temp me,” you scoffed, jutting your chin to the side to dislodge his hold on you. “God, did the other guy stick you through a paper shredder?” You shot, then added, “you look like absolute shit, I’m almost starting to believe you get off on a good beating.”

Billy Butcher was a man infamous for modelling a face of cuts and bruises, always managing to enlist a fist to the face through one interaction or the other. He wasn’t a particularly adored man, but you’d never found fault with that—it only meant more him for you, after all. You’d have appreciated that fact more if he’d been around enough.

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffed. The hand that had been robbed of your jaw now moved to swipe an aimless scratch across his beard, his gaze averting to the other end of the apartment with a forlorn expression. You recognised the turmoil in his features as an attempt to find the right words to express his more mushy feelings—not an easy feat for the asture, balls-of-steel Butcher.

“Look, I’ve been a plus-sized arse, I know that. I warned ya, ladies like you don’t stick around men like me for too long. The shit I do? Diabolical stuff, Love. Trust me, yer better off left behind in this bed where none o’ that can pucker up to yer arsehole like a good, mean case of diarrhoea.” He paused to soften his expression. “Just tryin’ to protect ya, is all,” he added softly.

You sniffled softly as you held his earnest stare, then forced yourself to sit up, while Billy simultaneously shifted to give you space. You searched his features for a few seconds and only saw sincerity—an eerily, misplaced emotion on his brute features, so the lump in your throat began to loosen an inch, permitting you swallow with more natural ease.

“Fine,” you relented softly, allowing the tension moulding your features to soften. “All will be forgiven, Billy Butcher—only if you start making an effort to treat me like less of a stress-reliever, and more like a person who wants a genuine connection with you.”

He gave a cheeky cock of his head. “Wha’, ya don’t like the way I blow off steam? Yer cunt ain’t ever said the same thing.”

“Classy,” you scoffed. But not wrong. Billy sniggered with his all-knowing grin.

You shifted yourself onto your knees as you began to make your way across the mattress and towards him. He watched you through a calculating look, his attention making a mischievous dip toward your thighs, so perfectly displayed in your finely cut pyjama shorts. You ignored the innuendo in his wandering eyes, reaching out an arm to clasp his shoulder for support. You leaned onto his broad frame as you meandered your way onto his lap, and his hands found grip at your hips as he aided your movement to straddle his thighs, his eyes hounding your every move.

“Makin’ yerself right at home, eh?” He remarked suggestively.

Once you settled in position, his hands trailed up to your waist to deliver a light squeeze to your neglected body, his palms then settling flat against the exposed stretch of skin deserted by the length of your cropped tank. His touch was warm—almost too warm, like he had something to prove following your very dramatic claim of the cold, lonely nights you’d endured. His hands began dragging a sensual pathway along your frame before settling at the small of your back, where he held you firmly against him—you wouldn’t be shunning him again anytime too soon, as fortified by his hold on you.

You curled your one hand around the nape of Billy’s neck, the other moving to frame the side of his head. “You look worse than a bruised prune,” you said, making a point to press your thumb across the fresh cut forming a vicious, bloodied trough through the arch of his brow. It was almost nasty enough to rival the scar tracing the opposite end of his forehead.

“Oi!” Billy protested, his head momentarily tilting away from you. “Yer got a bloody thumb on ya, fuckin’ hell. Save yer fingering for the little miss cunt down there.”

“Oh trust me, I have,” you retorted, to which a meld of surprise and admiration hitched his brows. You returned your finger to the cut in his brow, more tenderly this time as you felt across the surrounding blotchy purple-yellow bruise and then flitted to caress another cut along his cheek and the opposite temple. “After all, somebody’s got to keep me satisfied when you’re not around, and be thankful it was myself, you dick.”

“All right,” he said. “Fair enough, but I ain’t been dipping me wick in another woman’s wax, Love, so how’s ‘bout we lay off the poncy pouting—make no further delay in the inevitable amalgamation o’ pleasure the both of us are ‘bout to be?” The hands at your back burrowed under the waistband of your shorts and underwear with slick ease—a far too rehearsed and perfected performance. The way his large palms spanned a considerable area of your buttocks never failed to get the groin going; he knew that.

“You’ve got a lot to atone for before you get a good milking,” you warned, hand falling away from his face. Though, Billy’s grip on your ass began to tighten persuasively, and you thought that he could potentially work a few, unfair angles in order to knock off a good amount days from that sex-deprived sentence.

You partially turned your torso to reach for the whiskey bottle he’d set on the bedside table, snatching up the beverage at the neck of the glass. You turned back to him, and his eyes lowered to the drink with a cheeky gleam.

“Fancying a swig at the peek o’ dawn?” he poked. “Been learnin’ a thing or two from me, it seems.”

“It’s for you, obviously,” you said, lifting the nozzle to the wound in his brow. “A toast to your idiocy—cheers.” You tilted the bottle to free the whiskey, and the beverage formed a bubbly waterfall as it cascaded through the reddened cleft in his brow. The amber liquid slithered down his cheek and through the wilderness of hair framing his jaw, then reappeared at the base of his neck to seep into the collar of his floral shirt.

You never did miss the glint of the chain always wrapped around Billy’s neck like a lifelong claim of ownership, adorned with a St Christopher medal—an oath of some sort—which dangled from the steel-linked wreath. And it didn’t escape your notice now as a few of the silver links gleamed with rogue beads of whiskey. It must’ve been a keepsake from a past relationship that had meant a large deal to Billy, but the mystery of its continued existence around his neck was a secret barred from your common knowledge. If it had been a gift from somebody who meant a lot to him, it was a rather odd one—he didn’t particularly strike you as a man who dabbled in religious beliefs of protective saints. Then again, how much did you really know about Billy Butcher?

Either way, Billy had never once spoken about it, despite the many times you’d openly assaulted it’s presence with curious eyes. And there were some things you just would not push, despite your tendency to get brash. So, you’d made peace with the fact that perhaps he would never grant you the key to that particular cell of memories, but you couldn’t honestly say that the implied emotional ties of it all didn’t bother you—and more so, how that influenced his regard for you.

You were plucked from your gnawing thoughts at the sound of Billy sucking air. His teeth were bared as he stifled a guttural wince, and his eye had collapsed closed under the assaulting burn of the whiskey.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell!” he barked, his hands shifting up their position on your arse to rest on the upper curves, gripping them tightly like they were a lifeline for support. “Stings like the kiss of a bloody bee’s arse.”

“Always a pleasure enlisting your colourful poetry.” You retreated with the bottle and burrowed the glass body between your thighs, your hand then returning to aid his face. You swiped your thumb across his closed eye and along his half-drenched face eradicate the film of whiskey. “The prick did a number on you,” you remarked.

Billy tilted his head away from your prying thumb, “Yeah, well, that wanker takes the win on this one,” he insisted. “His lips done looked like a fat cunt by the time I finished him.”

You hummed absentmindedly in response, then felt as one of his hands abandoned the seize on your buttocks to capture your hand at the wrist. He lifted it up into the space between your torsos, his head slightly tilted to fix you with an unwavering stare as he released your wrist and his fingertips began a soft, upward trajectory along the tender skin. Your attention lowered to the work of his fingers as they passed into the gentle rise and hollow of your palm, before each digit diverged to claim a spot between your own fingers, and there they interlocked with near-perfect harmony.

Billy often reminded you that hands were meant to exist in pairs other than your own two when he performed gestures like these. It made sense, really, considering how perfectly fingers could interlink with one another—as though intimacy had always been engraved into the DNA of their skeleton.

He made a gentle twist of his wrist to expose the backside of your hand to his exploitation, and he lowered his lips in an antagonisingly slow manner to press a kiss to your knuckles, all while drinking in the look on your face.

You savoured the warm and gentle flush of his breath against your skin while it lasted; it reinforced the truth of his return and his presence right here before you. The loneliness had gotten overwhelming—a thought that scared you. The moment you admitted that Billy’s absence had an effect on the daily flow of events in your life, you’d have to admit that you’d gotten far too attached to an inevitably temporary situation.

You’d always been vulnerable to emotional investment, forming attachments with anybody you’d been afforded the opportunity to properly flesh out your five senses with; the prolonged touch of handholding, a connecting glance, being adorned with a cologne-scented clothing item of theirs, the sound of their laugh in response to a poorly made joke, or the taste of a shared kiss. It was a gift to love somebody the way you could love, but a curse when cast upon a man like Billy Butcher.

“Oi, Love,” he beckoned to you, the remaining hand on your ass squeezing lightly. You averted your gaze from your intertwined hands to glance at him, his head was slightly tilted as if to gauge a better understanding of the thoughts holding your speech hostage. “S’a weekend, so tell tha’ busy brain o’ yers to take a bloody day off, eh?”

You lifted your chin lightly, your nostrils flaring with a breath to reset your thoughts. “There’s been a lot going on lately, all right?” You said, wriggling your hand within Billy’s in an attempt to shake his hold, but his grip on you only tightened, so you accepted defeat and allowed your hand to fall limp.

He tucked your conjoined hands into the warmth of your thighs, careful not to knock the whiskey bottle. “Got places to be?” He asked insincerely, a mischievous grin peaking through.

“Apparently not,” you answered with a beleaguered sigh.

“Atta girl—right ya are!” Billy praised, then leant his head forward in an attempt to press a kiss to your lips. Your other hand that you had comfortably nestled atop his shoulder moved to intercept the action with an index finger to his lips, which left him with a frown of disappointment.

You pressed your finger into his lips slightly harder than necessary before sliding your fingertip down into the bearded divot of his chin, adorned with the moisture of whiskey. There, you prodded him away meanly, his chin jutting into himself with the motion.

His eyes drooped with disappointment. “Clenchin’ the arsehole outta spite, are we?” He said snarkily because Billy Butcher didn’t like, nor tolerate rejection. You knew that his ego had taken the front-seat, now.

As much as you’d have loved to further emasculate him with some petty banter, you merely reached for the whiskey bottle trapped between your thighs and eagerly brought the liquor to your lips. You managed a few, generous swigs as you held Billy’s stare—a mixture of surprise and respect dancing in his hazel depths. You felt a stray line of whiskey escape your swallow at the corner of your lip, slinking down the side of your jaw. You also noted the way Billy’s attention lowered to that same escapee bead of liquor, his eyes narrowing as though entertaining some internal thoughts of his.

Once you’d decidedly had enough of the whiskey, you lowered the bottle with a hearty swallow and held it out before you to see how much of the drink still remained. There was a decent amount of it left—enough to fill a glass and a half. Satisfied, you brought it back up to hover it over Billy’s head with a sarcastic smile.

“Bottoms up,” you cheered.

“Don’t ya fuckin’—” he was silenced by the stream of whiskey being inevitably poured onto his head and he dropped his chin to avoid a direct assault on his eyes—his generous and voluminous field of hair took the brunt of the force and flattened under the foamy weight of it all. Very little strands of hair were left unmarred by wetness, and the floral patterns in shirt had darkened considerably, mostly at the base of his neck. He released his grip on your hand and ass to run a hand through his hair and across his face. “Fuckin’ son o’ cunt,” he spat, his lashes fluttering with a strained attempt to open his eyes.

You tossed the empty whiskey bottle across the bed, watching as Billy managed to lift his head and part his screwed eyes at last. He was still dripping at the brow, and upon making eye contact with you, he passed an angry swipe of his tongue across his lips with the intent to scold you—but you didn’t give him the chance to fume as you gripped either side of his jaw and forcibly pushed your lips against his.

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan in response to your imposition, but shortly returned the kiss with an aggressive push of his own lips. You lapped up the amalgamation of whiskey and cigar smoke that basted his tongue like a starved street mutt while his large hands came down harshly on your ass—the reprimand that he hadn’t verbally been able to deliver, but you had a feeling that this was only the beginning, and that he’d have well made his point by the end of this heated, physical debate.

You felt the twinge of his nails even through the fabric of your shorts as he gripped you there and pressed your pelvis into him, the act so possessive you felt as though there were an unspoken presence in this room that Billy had a point to prove to. But his hold on you hadn’t come to a standstill—instead, he began to forcibly guide your lower half into a rhythmic dance akin to the waves of the ocean, to and fro, riding the shore of his ever-growing erection. His steering of your hips was godsent, the angle just right enough to provide sensory input to your own sensitive mound. Billy might’ve been self-serving in the pursuit of pleasure when it came to the bedroom, but he never neglected your own needs.

You bit your tongue to stifle the moans threatening to flee your lips. The last thing you needed was for your musical pleasure to whisper directly into Billy’s ear, cooing to his erection. Although you’d already given him exactly what he’d wanted by initiating this steaming mess, you wouldn’t make the entire process that easy for him.

As you were forcibly ground against Billy’s manhood, his kisses grew more impatient and sloppy, his teeth periodically seizing your lips somewhere in the mix. Your hands trailed down his bearded neck—further smearing the whiskey—to take grip at his shoulders before running your hands over the defined muscles, flexed while he worked at kneading your hips, waist and ass in an erratic, patternless desperation. The added stimulation of your skin-on-skin contact with his shoulders seemed to spur him on, his throat reverberating with a gruff moan that you instantly plucked from your shared kiss and shamelessly drank up.

Billy’s one hand shifted from his grip on your ass up to the small of your back; you felt the way his fingertips had grown sticky with the whiskey, puckering your skin every time he made contact and then abruptly moved away. Without warning, his palm curled supportively around your waist and he effortlessly hoisted your body against his navel, the other hand curling across your bottom. He pulled away from the kiss, his thick brows furrowed with focused intent as his eyes flickered all across your features.

“Yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse, y’know tha’?” Billy said in rough, breathy syllables. He then stole one last kiss to silence the stinging retort that was sure to accompany the indignant twist in your expression, and in an effortless motion, he had you on your back in less than a second.

“You aren’t exactly all sunshine and rainbows, either,” you countered through a huff, hands wrapping supportively around the nape of his neck as you suspended yourself from his overhanging frame. Your expression turned challenging. “Besides, you seem to enjoy pain,” you say pointedly, eyes flickering to the gash in his brow. “So I’m actually quite on-brand company, don’t you think?”

He gave a relenting torque of his chin, charming smirk plastered to his lips. “S’pose yer right. Must be why I fancy ya, then, eh?” He straightened up onto the support of his knees, his hands shifting to find place at your waist before he slid them up your frame to peel back the tank top concealing his desired view. “Now, lemme see me neglected pair o’ girls,” he demanded in an impatient grunt. “Tell ‘em daddy’s home.”

You grimaced lightly at Billy. “Don’t be gross,” you told him, hands falling away from his shoulders to aid his stripping of your torso.

“Bollocks,” he replied almost instantly, “yer love it.” You did—deep down, you devoured his crass attention. He had no difficulty sliding the tank over your head and raised arms, instantly chucking the clothing to some other end of the apartment.

Your hands flew to cover your exposed breasts, your expression alight with cheek as you flashed Billy a toothy grin. He leered you over, an approving smirk on his lips before his hands made an advance towards you. You almost thought he’d make a move to pull back the curtains on your breasts, but instead, his hands cupped your waist.

“All right,” he began—an entertained air about him. “You play it tha’ way.” His hands dipped into the waistband of your shorts, his calloused fingertips teasing at the skin of your back before they found the seem of your underwear and began stripping away the last of your clothed dignity. “Shit’s always arse about face with yer—ne’er the easy way.”

“Easy’s boring,” you told him. He tugged harshly at your shorts & underwear, managing to strip it from your lower half without a struggle. You watched as he shimmied the clothing items down the expanse of your legs, pausing half way to press a greedy kiss to your thigh.

Your legs instinctively squeezed together as the arousal between them became unbearable. Your feet were lifted from the comfort of the bed as Billy stripped the last of your clothing and bundled it aside.

“There we are,” he said with an undertone of accomplishment, his hands moving to curl under your thighs and take steady grip at the skin. Without warning, he tugged you a short length down the bed toward him. You gave a small yelp at being whisked across the sheets, the friction providing a momentary warmth that soothed the skin of your bare back.

“What you say we get the ball runnin’ on this thing, eh?” Billy remarked, and you felt as he encouraged widening of one of your thighs, his other hand making a motion towards your heated mound. You burrowed the back of your head into the sheets almost instantly as his fingers rudely acquainted your folds, teasing at the area that had grown slick with his mere presence.

“Blimey,” he said—an action that made you a tad bit self-conscious. It hadn’t been too long since he’d last seen you down there, but the conditions had already started to become less kept. He’d never been the one to judge, though. He was man enough to be unbothered by trivial matters of body hair. “D’ya have a good weep down here? It done look like a bloody water slide, and I ain’t barely laid a hand on ya,” he said amazedly, fingers grabbing ahold of your clit to deliver a brash squeeze.

Your lower body tensed with the jolt of stimulation his action elicited, and you lifted your head to glare at him. “I almost forgot what an absolute ass of a tease you are,” you told him with the beginning of a frustrated frown.

Billy thumbed an almost apologetic, circular motion around your sensitive area, flashing you a thin-lipped smirk. “Ease off the stick in yer ass, Love, s’all part of the process. Now, you just lay that head o’ yers back like a prissy li’l pillow princess and let good ol’ Billy take care o’ the brunt of things goin’ on down here, all right?”

You didn’t verbally scoff, but the flick of your eyes conveyed the gesture well enough. The hands on your breasts fell away to prop up your torso as you told him, “I’m not a pillow princess. You’re just a greedy—borderline control freak bastard that wants everything his way.”

Billy’s eyes dipped to your exposed chest, and you knew your words had escaped his notice entirely. “Ah, there’s me cheerleaders—come to give me a word of encouragement, have they? Always did love a good audience.” His hand continued to work at your sensitive areas as he brought himself up to your face, other forearm planted supportively beside your head as he leaned over and pressed a firm kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back eagerly, letting yourself fall back against the mattress as you took grip at the base of his neck before blindly reaching down for the buttons of his shirt. You felt the cold pendant of his necklace tease at your neck as he leaned deeper into the abyss of your lips, grunting at your efforts to undo his shirt. You felt his fingers grow impatient between your folds, making a sheer dip into your entrance—and it invited him in without a hassle. You broke off the kiss and sucked air through your teeth at his sudden intrusion, your lower half reflexively tensing with suspense and desire all at once.

“Relax, Love, s’just me—nothin’ new,” Billy murmured breathily against your lips. “Just like we done a thousand times, eh?”

You nodded wordlessly, lips brushing against his—it was well within Billy’s talents to ease the freedom of speech right on out of you, especially with a bedroom talent as skilled as his. You tried consciously to relax your muscles, and Billy had slowed his pace only momentarily to augment your efforts. The success of your attempt was confirmed by his fingers reaching a deeper, warmer depth with each continued thrust, and it wasn’t long before he began to brutalise his pace once more. You gulped hazily, hands hesitating against the fabric of his shirt as his work within you became too much to bear.

“Tha’s a good girl—swallowing me hand whole,” he husked against your jaw. “I know tha’ greedy li’l cunt o’ yers is havin’ a rave down there, but put them hands to work and take me shirt off, will ya, Love?”

Moans of pleasure began to stew in your throat as Billy curled his fingers into you—a foul move when you were already grappling with the near-debilitating euphoria of his lesser ministrations. You tried your best to make headway at undoing the buttons of his shirt as he patiently hovered over you, his kneading of your insides beckoning forth the familiar knot within your core. Once the last button relented, you slid your hands under the middle part of the fabric, palms sliding up his ribcage and across his hairy chest, then toward his shoulders where you tugged the sleeves down his forearms.

The hand buried snugly within your entrance took an abrupt leave as Billy straightened himself and manoeuvred his arms to shed his shirt. He dived back down almost instantly, as though not wanting to lose momentum on the events playing out, both of his hands taking grip at your waist. You felt the slick and warmth of the fingers he’d burrowed within you claw hungrily at your skin, then your attention drew to the upward trail his nose drew between your cleavage, where his lips dawdled greedily.

Your head sank further into the depth of the mattress as you allowed his skilful lips to dance across your skin, his tongue playing fair as he took turns twirling with each of your nipples. Occasionally, he’d deliver a cheeky bite to the sensitive bud, coupled by a husky chuckle when you’d release a wince of pleasure. Your hands took root in his full head of hair, fingers intertwining with the luscious locs and yanking them meanly to even out the playing field of Billy’s work on your breasts. His fingers began to grip harder at your waist, thumb pressing divots into your abdomen, only adding to the pressure that had long since amassed at your core.

“Fucking hell,” you breathed out as Billy’s tongue dragged a warm snail trail down your stomach and across your navel where he settled just shy of your mound with teasing, bordering kisses.

“Fuckin’ hell, indeed,” Billy echoed busily, palms flattened as he grazed them down either side of your hips. He ghosted over your thighs before reaching for your calves and pushing them upward in a gesture to prop up your knees. Once you lifted your legs from the bed, his arms diverged between your legs and curled around them, where he found grip at your inner thighs.

You propped yourself onto your elbows to glimpse your lower half now perfectly presented to Billy, who met your gaze with that scheming smirk of his. “Brace yerself, Love, I’m ‘bout to make a lovely nosh o’ yer cunt,” he warned before his head dipped into your yearning core.

The first greeting of his mouth came as a gaping hole, swallowing your entire being whole. With each lap of his tongue, his sharp nose prodded at your clit, which caused your core to bloom with debilitating pleasure. You tossed your head back, lower lip hauled into the firm clench of your teeth as you drowned the moans attempting to escape the depths of your throat. Straddled at your sides, your fingers furled into the disrupted duvet, ferociously groping the fabric as though it were the tether keeping you from getting swept up into the whirlwind of endorphins.

You adored the way Billy’s beard chafed your folds—coarse hair grating against pliable flesh, and you sought out the stimulation with such eagerness that you began to lift your pelvis deeper into his wet warmth. But the broad hands curled around your thighs proved their strength in the way that Billy kept you pressed against the bed, fingers melding into the flesh of your inner thighs as a feat of authority—control. His jaw began to swivel erratically as his tongue picked up the pace, swirling around, above and below your mound—even making a momentary dip into your slicked entrance. That action plucked an unorthodox moan from your chest, your hand flying to take grip at Billy’s hair.

“Oh, fuck me!” You exclaimed breathlessly, toes beginning to curl against the sheets as his tongue carried you to your climax.

“Tha’s well the plan, innit, Love?” Billy murmured against you, hand patting against your thigh as a teasing gesture of reassurance.

He went on and on, as unrelenting and greedy as the beginning, and the anticipation ricocheting about your lower extremities began to draw into a closely-knitted ball of stimulation just waiting to implode on itself. Your breathing shallowed, your fingers in his hair tightened, your shy noises became more boisterous, but Billy’s tongue pulled away from you, and with it, he quelled the ball of fire he’d lit in the first place.

Your expression furrowed with a mixture of disappointment and exhaustion as you sank back defeatedly into the mattress, the hand in his hair falling onto the sheets as you took a moment to replenish the stock of your lungs. “Asshole,” you huffed—barely audible.

“Oi, shut yer gob and gape yer cunt, ‘cause I ain’t finished with you just yet,” Billy said gruffly, hand reaching for yours. His fingers wrapped around your forearm and tugged suggestively.

Too tired to resist, you curled your fingers around his arm, and you were pulled up effortlessly from the mattress and into his frame. His hands came to rest at your waist, his lips finding yours in a desperate brawl. Your hands cupped his chest, ready to settle in their position as you intended to get lost in his overwhelming presence, but the kiss was abrupt as Billy pulled away to find your neck. He gave your collar bone a little nip, then eased the sting with a kiss before the hands on your hips turned you around and pushed you stomach-first into the mattress.

You gave a light yelp, but his tough fondling of you wasn’t a foreign practice, so you succumbed to his flow. You felt the cool metal of his chain graze up your back as he leant over you, his arm popping into your view as he reached for the pillow and snatched it up. He retreated and withdrew his frame, hand curling under your lower stomach and making the motion to lift you from the bed. You obliged and lifted your hips, to which Billy slid the cushion beneath your lower stomach, and you gladly settled back down into the cushioned support.

“There we are, all prepped for a good poundin’,” he remarked, the sound of his dropped zipper coming shortly after. You cast a glance over your shoulder just in time to witness Billy discarding his jeans and boxers to reveal the buoyancy of his hard-on—a view that you gladly drank up.

“Somebody’s missed me,” you poked.

Billy flashed you a grin, his hand moving to prep his hard-on with a good few strokes. “‘Course,” he said. “Been deprived o’ all worldly pleasures for a whole, bleedin’ week.” He released his manhood and shifted closer to your sprawled frame, hands reaching for your ass. “And yer cunt’s missed me, too.”

“I guess you could say that,” you sighed dramatically, fully aware of the self-forged dam between your legs. You flashed a cheeky grin before turning your head forward, crossing your arms and laying yourself into the support. “Well, have at it, then.”

You felt Billy’s palms caress the curve of your cheeks before he hooked his fingers below your pelvis and pulled your arse into an upward position. “C’mon, up we get. Ain’t s’pose to tell yer what to do—yer a right expert by now.”

You were—it was the same damn position every single time. Billy had a knack for seeing you bent over below him, face down and arse up as you lay all bare and presented for his very generous exploitation. “I’m just making you work for it, for once,” you said.

“Ne’er minded a job,” he answered, hand dipping into your slicked cunt, where he manoeuvred his fingers through the area and gathered and distributed enough of your slick to aid an easy insertion—and it wasn’t long before you felt his length insert into you with a slow and controlled ease.

A deep, hearty grunt of appreciation spewed from Billy’s lips, a low fuckin’ hell thrown somewhere into the mix. You mouth parted with a moan as you felt his girth ascend your entrance, glad for the gracious accommodation of your walls that practically welcomed him with open arms. Your eyes fluttered closed as you bathed in the initial bliss of his penetration, and you purposely perked your arse to deepen the sensation—and to spur him on.

Billy’s hands found a sturdy grip at your ass as his pelvis began to shift against you, the length within you retreating and returning with a steady pace. He held that speed for a good few minutes, feeling out the limits of your entrance, and once he’d reached a decent depth within you, he began to accelerate his movements. A hand slithered up to burrow into the small of your back, your abdomen pushed into the cushion below.

“Fuck, Billy,” you breathed out, pressing your face into the cushion as your arms strangled the feathered mass—his thrusts becoming too much to bear. You’d already endured his fingers & lips, and now the actual prize of the evening was proving too much of a mouthful—perhaps you’d bitten off more than you could chew, but it was far too late to spit out this particular morsel.

“Lovely arch you’ve got here—a bloody gymnast’s dream, that,” Billy teased, palm pressing harder into the small of your back, stomach further buried into the pillow—placed at your navel for the support he’d very much intended you to use. “Doing so well, Love, hang on f’me just a li’l longer, yeah?”

Blissful moans marinated within your throat, the sound hitched rhythmically by the slam of his pelvis against you. The bed rocked and creaked with the commotion, your propped lower half beginning to sag with exhaustion to the point where your entire weight was supported in Billy’s grip. You gnawed at your lip as his thrusts got harsher, faster—a means to an end.

The hand on your back moved to wrap within your hair. “Go on, use yer lungs, Love,” Billy demanded in a breathless grunt, using the hair he’d seized into his hand as leverage to hoist your head from the muffled comfort of the pillow.

Your head snapped into full extension, forcing you to take in the view of the pristine white ceiling overhead, not that the flecks of white dancing across your field of view allowed for much appreciation on your end. The compliance came like a reflex, shameless noises of pleasure streaming from your gaped jaw.

“Yeah, tha’s it,” he praised gruffly, his movements growing erratic. He paused his thrusts only to fold himself over you, his chest pressed against your back and his pelvis flattening your own against the mattress. He resumed his brutish movements, plunging your bodies with a motive that felt akin to reaching the depths of hell. His lips brushed against your ear, exhaustion latched onto his voice. “What you say we fill ‘er up, eh? Ya want that?”

His hand in your hair tightened, your neck further craning with the motion. “Need it,” you muttered thinly, your eyes growing watery with the overwhelming sensations flitting all about your being. “Please.”

“‘Cause yer asked so nicely,” Billy grunted into your head, then pressed a kiss to your temple. With a last bout of rocking, he delivered one last thrust that struck your core with all the pressure it needed to implode.

Your hair was released from his grip and your head fell into the crook of your folded arms, chest heaving as you fought to cling to the little sense you still possessed. Billy’s figure loitered on top of you, and you felt the way his own chest mirrored your exhaustion—if not worse. You sometimes forgot that he was riddled with a good few years of life, but he very rarely let that on in the bedroom.

The warmth of your shared arousal trickled from your entrance and watered the sheets below, but Billy stayed burrowed within you as you both laid motionless on the mattress. You didn’t mind it, though.

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” Billy groaned hoarsely, eventually slipping from your proximity and shifting onto the mattress beside you. He wasted no time in wrapping an arm across your back, hand tugging to pull your back into his chest so that you were comfortably spooned within his broad frame.

You melded yourself into his body, his arm sliding beneath your neck to offer your head some support while his other hand curled over your waist. His lips brushed against your shoulder, where he pressed a few, tender kisses—as if to compensate for his lack of playing nice for the entirety of the morning. You offered a light noise of contentment, a soft smile spreading your lips as your eyes fluttered closed.

All your worries? Forgotten as of now. Nothing mattered for the time being—you just needed to melt away into Billy’s presence. You knew he likely felt the same—a silent ghost whose hand on your waist dragged sensual lines across the skin, his breathing slowed as his jaw rested against your head.

“An Eggs Benedict would complete this morning,” you eventually spoke up, craning your head to glance at him with a suggestive hitch of your brows.

Billy grunted, his chin jutting in defeat. “Yeah, yeah, let a man catch ‘is breath first, then I’ll tend to me lady’s needs. Deal?”

You grinned with a sense of accomplishment. “Deal,” you replied, puckering your lips for a kiss. He leant over to press his lips against yours, and you turned away with a cheeky grin. “Old man,” you murmured cheekily.

“Oi,” he warned, hand on your waist delivering a light squeeze. “This old man fucks yer better than any other cunt ever did, innit?”

You shrugged dramatically. “All right, Billy, whatever you say.”

He scoffed with amused defeat. “Like I said,” he began, “yer a bleedin’ pain in me arse.”

“And don’t you forget it.” You bit the inside of your cheek, mind wandering back to the events of the morning. You had to admit that the anger you’d been harbouring towards Billy had long since eased away—might have very well been fucked right on out of you. If he could keep up this newfound apologetic package of his, you’d happily forgive any of his future shortcomings.

“Wha’s on yer mind?” Billy asked.

“I forgive you.”

“Well,” he remarked smugly. “Ain’t ya adorable?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly. “I am—so don’t fuck it up.”

“Don’t intend to, Love,” he said, pulling you closer against him. “Ain’t got the universe on me side next time yer work up a storm about all me shit. I’ll do right by yer, like I said.”

You turned to face him, your expression earnest as you gazed up at him. “Promise?”

Billy mirrored your stare with a soft smile. “Scout’s honour,” he said. “And yer give me a bloody ear if I break it, all right?”

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Thank you for reading!

I’m literally so sick of this piece I just want it out of my drafts 😭 apologies for any typos, it’s not entirely proof read towards the end. I hope y’all enjoyed it regardless!

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Other Billy Butcher / Karl Urban works:

I M A G I N E S

Carnival for Kisses

Lover Boy Butcher

S M A U s

Pov you hardlaunch your relationship with Karl Urban

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Tags: @violent-darkness @gibson-g1rl @shirley-girly @kus-babygirl @internetitgirl17 @dwinchesterspie1967 @babyfri3dric3

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ I’m the guy mothers warn you about, the son they’re afraid to have ❞

⇀ Word count: 15k words (sorry ☠️)

!! 18+ ONLY !!

Guess who finally mustered up the courage to write a Coriolanus Snow fic, and holy shit, this might just be the longest once-off I’ve ever written.

My dear @quicksilversg1rl , this fic goes out to you 100x over. I hope this makes up for the fact that I couldn’t put Tom under your tree ☹️ I hope that it’s enough that I put him in your dreams instead <3

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WARNINGS:

dom!coriolanus, some out-of-pocket makes-you-go “wtaf💀” Coriolanus moments, smut, swearing, possessiveness, manipulation, toxic relationship, choking, pet names, degradation, edging, lots of italics and dashes (sorry I was feeling myself (not literally you sicko) ), masturbation, unprotected sex, cockwarming, dryhumping/wethumping(?), fingering/fisting, oral sex f receiving, the therapy you’ll need after reading these warnings

‼️DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE ABOVE-MENTIONED WARNINGS‼️

SYNOPSIS:

Coriolanus had always known you held potential to win the games, from the day he’d laid his eyes on you at the 10th annual reaping. You were the key he’d been missing all these years, and how he saw almost every opportunity unlocked by your presence at that year’s hunger games.

The secret of how he’d risen into power? The answer was much simpler than anyone had expected. You. Sure, Coriolanus had done his fair share of treason and murder to contribute to his status, but it was your victory that had granted him access to the Plinth fortune and made his ambitions possible. He wasn’t a man that liked to share credit, but he thought your performance in the games a worthy enough candidate.

To show you just how thankful he was, he’d invited you to live with him after the games, for however long you pleased, and he’d made it his mission to show you all the pleasures the Capitol and his lifestyle had to offer. He liked having you near him at all times, and he liked it even better when he was inside of you.

What he didn’t like, though? When you flirted with other men, especially when it served to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus Snow doesn’t like sharing, and he doesn’t tolerate disobedience, either. You’d learn that lesson the hard way.

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Coriolanus was a man bred for purpose, like his father before him, and it was a purpose he often reminded you of—a means to keep your neediness at bay, to tame your urge to be at his side every waking hour of the day, a ploy to remind you just how little value you posed to him outside of a night of fleeting pleasure. He marvelled in the opportunity to make you feel insignificant, a false promise too-quickly forsaken the moment your existence captured another man’s desire—a man that wasn’t him.

In the midst of a party he’d rather not have attended, he watched you from a quiet corner of the venue hall, conversing away with a man he hadn’t had the displeasure of meeting just yet. He didn’t know whether you were honestly that painfully oblivious to the desires of the man before you, who clearly wanted nothing more than a taste of one of the renowned hunger games victors, or whether you had deliberately struck up a conversation to get a rise out of Coriolanus.

But when his eyes narrowed on your hand that reached to move a strand of your hair back to the security behind your ear, he knew then exactly which particular game you were playing.

You always did that when you felt subconscious—when you knew you were being watched. It was a tell that Coriolanus had come to identify the more time he’d spent observing you. He’d needed to—it was necessary in order to know the truths you would not tell him. Not out loud, at least. But now, he was pretty fluent in your body language, in more than one way.

He watched you tilt your head to the side in the slightest manner, an act that often sent all the conservativeness of men toppling over the edge. Your lip suctioned into a concentrated bite as you offered small, attentive nods—you were getting him to think you’re interested in what he has to say, pretending not to notice the way his eyes traced your lips and occasionally flickered across your peeping breasts.

The sight stirred an anger in Coriolanus, his fingers tightening around the glass of wine clutched in one hand. He lifted the wine to his lips, taking a sip as though it would somehow quench the imminent fire that threatened to take control of all reasonability. He couldn’t let you get a rise out of him, not in public where he had an image to uphold. Goddamn you and your games, he hated being the one to play it. That had been the fate of you and the districts, not him—Capitol-born and rich beyond imagination. Was this his retribution to pay? Sentenced to your little games after all he’d brought upon you?

You moved a hand to caress the man’s shoulder, offering a sweet giggle. And then there it was, the slightest glance in his direction, fleeting but an obvious beckon for attention. Coriolanus clenched his jaw as you purposefully turned your back on him, his eyes boring into your exposed shoulder blades, framed by a dress that paraded all the right aspects of your body—a dress he’d picked out for you. He hadn’t gone through all that effort to make you look so ravishing, only for another man to enjoy it. It had been for him, a reminder of what his prize would be after enduring this insufferable party.

He’d planned to rip it from you, as mercilessly as he could offer, to toss it onto the floor and you onto the bed, naked and accessible to whatever he desired. However, you seemed hellbent on denying him a good night. He watched you reach for the man’s hand, your motion suggestive as you tugged on him and began to lead him away from the mayhem.

Coriolanus knew exactly where you were taking him.

He watched you weave your way through the dancing bodies, the music falling into the background as he trailed your every move—the way the man blatantly admired the curve of your ass. What an unacceptable circumstance, to think his favourite toy was not his own limited edition—one only he could afford to play with. After all, why had he endured the battlefield of this unfair life to claim a reward that promised power and money and control, only to feel so helpless in his infatuation over you. He hated what primal need controlled him, rendered him incapable of letting you go.

What had it all been for? The poison, the betrayal, the heinous crimes he’d committed—all to prove that he bore no seal of humanity, felt no obligation to love, until you came along, making him look the fool each time you batted a devious lash or wrung those perfect lips around suggestive words. Each time you spoke was like fragments of an enchantment, slowly being made whole and taking its magical toll on his entire being, beginning to claim everything he was—making him obsess, making him weak.

The day he’d gotten you as his tribute, you’d had been nothing more than a mission—a means to secure a prize that would set him for life. But there had been something about you, something that had drawn him in like a sudden whirlpool, now he couldn’t escape the obsession you’d cursed him with. He’d never before felt the burden of caring about another person’s life, needing to know what they were up to at all times.

Coriolanus recalled seeing you for the first time, the day of the reaping, after the tributes had been transported to the Capitol. He remembered seeing you thrown into the zoo display—the way you had instantly found your feet and ran a hand through your hair, made unruly by a rough and sleepless night. Your brows were knitted closely together with unmistakable anger, a look that promised vengeance to the Capitol despite the silence on your lips. Your dress had been made ragged to match your hair, evidence that the bats had showed no mercy toward your pretty privilege. Maybe it had been your looks that had drawn them in, after all.

He’d been ready to deem you a lost cause, disappointed that once again, he’d been stuck with rigged odds. He had been convinced that somewhere beneath that shredded fabric on your skin, you bore the kiss of rabies, doomed to die like countless before you. But he’d seen a few of the other tributes, bearing the same tells of their struggle with the bats in their shredded clothes and tired eyes. One of those amongst the suffering had been your fellow district twelve tribute, Morgan Lark, and he had possessed the worst wounds out of all the affected.

It’d been less than a few hours until the wounded tributes started retching up fountains of white, their eyes glassy and their movements frantically lost on them. Yet there you had sat, watching with perfect control and composure as they had dwindled into mere husks of the people they used to be.

Coriolanus knew then that you had been different—stronger, a tribute that might just prove the risk to be worth it. He’d insisted on investigating the cart you’d been transported in, eager to know the truth behind your journey. Had you truly been strong enough to evade the consequences of the bats? The mystery of it all was pressing enough to consume his every thought. He needed to know. His future depended on it, depended on you.

That evening, after much persistence and a bribe that he honestly couldn’t have afforded, he’d gained access to your cart. There wasn’t much to look at, given that it was nothing more than an empty container, without even the courtesy of a blanket. The scene was almost hauntingly familiar, personal. Nonetheless, he’d paced the walls, eyes searching every aspect of the metal, every dent and hole in the floor. He’d found nothing other than a few rusty nails—nothing interesting, that is until he’d picked one of them up and inspected it closer to find its apex crusted with blood.

A few of the nails were identical in their blood-coating, not a coincidence. Coriolanus gathered them up into his father’s handkerchief, almost regretting the decision as the rust stained the symbolic, white fabric. He placed them cautiously into his blazer pocket, scanning the cart one last time before making his departure. He made a beeline to the morgue, where the bodies of the five infected tributes had been placed shortly after their passing. He needed to see Morgan Lark’s body, to know what secret you could have hidden in his death.

Once he’d gained access to the corpse, he’d pulled back the white covering. A strong waft of formaldehyde greeted his senses and burned his eyes teary. He had been surprised that the body was being preserved, though he didn’t doubt that Dr. Gual had plans to somehow extract and weaponise the rabies in the next games. The chemicals had instantly become so overwhelming that he had to pull his handkerchief from his pocket, empty the rusted nails onto the tray and cover his mouth and nose with the fabric to keep his nausea at bay.

Coriolanus studied the corpse, struggling to contain his pressing disgust as he laid his eyes on the shredded flesh. The bats had gone to town on Morgan, leaving little sections of skin intact. He’d mustered up the courage to get close enough to inspect the wounds, noting that the scratches embedded along his body were not all the work of the bats. No, some of them had been too deep of a wound for a bat’s claws to commit. He had a very good idea of the origins of those wounds, his eyes flickering to the rusted nails on the tray.

He knew then that it was not strength or immunity that had protected you from the touch of death, but your keen mind and craftiness with sharp objects. Coriolanus had pieced together a rough picture of what had happened: you’d managed to get close enough to cut Morgan with the nails, ensuring wounds that were deep enough to bleed profusely, which attracted and encouraged the bats to attack him. You hadn’t been so lucky to go completely unnoticed by the bats, hence the disheveled dress, but you had sure as hell been lucky enough to have been spared from their bite.

What a clever girl you were, perhaps too much for your own good.

Coriolanus had to admit that he’d been impressed by your cruelty—your drive to survive. It gave you an edge, a promising reason to win. He liked those odds, you were becoming a plausible risk to him. Just what would you have been willing to do to a tribute you’ve yet to meet, if you’d so easily betrayed a fellow district partner?

As he’d left the morgue that evening, he couldn’t deny the smirk that had wound his lips the entire trip back. He knew then that, for the first time in all his years as a mentor, this might be the year that he’d finally claim the Plinth prize.

What a worthwhile pick you had been. He liked good investments, and you had proven to be the best one yet. You’d taken that entire game, playing it smart, staying lost in the shadows and gathering what scraps you could make into a worthwhile means of defence. You weren’t the strongest or the most skilled fighter by any means, but you were smart, and that was a quality lost on many of the tributes. They all marched around, boasting their strength as some sort of show of dominance. They thought it made them ferocious, earned them another hour of life, but Coriolanus knew that it only drew attention, that they were stupid in bringing about a speedier death. You had known that, too.

Coriolanus slipped out of his mind, watching as you’d stopped by one of the tables to grab a snack, making a point to be sloppy so that the strange man would feel honour in being able to wipe your lips clean, spurring on his ego and his erection. You had pulled that trick on Coriolanus many times. He hated seeing you provide that same sort of attention to anyone else.

His attention was diverted to a pair of Capitol business men, who had approached him and were attempting to bombard him with pitches he couldn’t have been more arsed to consider, not when he had something more pressing on his mind—not when you had deliberately stolen his attention away.

How incredibly selfish that you should demand his time even when you were not at his side, or laying below him with your legs spread open and cunt practically begging for his generosity. He didn’t tolerate time-wasters of any regard, so he’d ensure that you made up for it.

He lifted a dismissive hand toward the face of one of the men, who fell silent with a look of indignation, but even he wasn’t fool enough to unleash his temper unto the heir of the Plinth fortune. Had Coriolanus known that murdering his best friend would have come with so many perks, he’d have made a point to bring about that particular death benefit much sooner.

He lifted the glass to his lips, draining the rich wine that had been marinating the depths of the glass for far too long. He beckoned over one of the runners, placing his empty glass onto the tray before turning his attention back to the business men.

He offered an insincere dip of his chin. “My apologies, but I’ve more pressing matters to tend to. Please, do enjoy the beverages,” he slipped between their dumbfounded bodies, before adding, “and the women, if it’d please you.”

Coriolanus manoeuvred his way through the crowd, his eyes not once leaving you, even if he had to watch you relentlessly flirt with the other man. Not only were you good with your hands, but you unintentionally weaponised your beauty, too. He had always thought you to possess an innocence that seemed to frame your features, a natural gift that kept eyes focused on the contours of your face rather than on the schemes of your hands. That had always been your advantage—in the games and in your everyday interactions.

It made him angry that you’d remade his mind in this way. No matter how much Coriolanus tried to remind himself of the purpose he’d been bred for, all that he’d done to get to where he was now, all the people he’d carelessly murdered—there was no denying the truth:

No matter what higher, callous deity he claimed to be, he was only just a man, carved from anger and burdened with otherworldly jealously. All because of you.

Just as Coriolanus had managed to push past the last of the dancing bodies that had been blocking his path, he spotted you leaving through the doors, dragging your new pet behind you. His footsteps were brisk as he made for that same doorway, his fists balling at his sides as he stifled the urge to redirect his anger unto the unsuspecting door man. No, he’d best save that anger for you, transform it into something that would make you suffer, as he’d been forced to endure this evening.

He slipped through the doors, instantly greeted by a much quieter atmosphere, the laughter and music of the event muffled behind the now closed doors. Across the room, he saw you slip into the elevator, glimpsing just a hint of a smirk on your perfect lips as the doors slid closed and engulfed his view of you.

Annoyance pricked at his chest, he’d have to wait for the elevator to come back down. That was too much time gifted to you, time that could easily be used to bring you one step closer to coming undressed for that man. He’d never found himself wishing for a stairwell more than he did right now, but Capitol architecture stupidly insisted that stairs were a concept made only for the districts.

Coriolanus trudged his way over to the elevator, running an impatient hand through his hair as he watched the countdown of the various different floors commence on the monitor. His residence was the topmost floor, an expensive suite that the Plinths had gifted him on his day of recognition. He’d been kind enough to allow you to stay in one of his rooms, to have you in his proximity at all times where you’d more than once enjoyed the free luxury of his lifestyle, and this is how you’d repaid him—by bringing other men into his sacred space.

He couldn’t help but imagine what you were up to at this instant. The thought of you trapped beneath the man on one of the sofas overlooking the city made him bite the inside of his cheek—those were the sofas he’d so often pinned you to, forcing you to admire the view as he admired you, demonstrating his praise for your beauty through the actions of his fingers in your cunt.

When Coriolanus had first met you, he had thought you hated drawing attention, especially when it warranted a much speedier death in the games. You’d always been so reserved, so hellbent on silence as you kept a calculating eyes on anybody who wasn’t you. He’d like that quiet air about you, it was a call for guidance, a plea for somebody to claim your trust—he knew he could have given that to you.

But now, Coriolanus could have laughed at that thought.

You, hating attention? What an odd facade he’d so easily been fooled by—but he’d grown smarter since your first encounter. He knew the real truth now. What a glorious night that had been, the first time he’d taken you to bed. He could still smell the desperation that had trailed from your cunt as his nose burrowed into your swollen and beckoning clit—the way his hands had squeezed the skin of your inner thighs a faint blue in his attempt to trap them against the bed. They’d been so eager to wrap around his neck, to make him prisoner within your euphoria. He’d shown his disapproval by wedging your thighs further apart, an action that earned a shocked moan from you, coupled with a gasp at the growing aggression of his tongue inside of you.

How he enjoyed being the puppeteer of your body, pulling your limbs every which way until you’d been contorted and opened up for him to exploit. You often needed reminding that you were sentenced to his will, made prisoner to his desires.

He could still feel the faint traces of your arousal that had painted pictures across the sharp lines of his jaw, mercilessly freed by the way his tongue had ravished your folds and plucked from you what little dignity and silence you had managed to fashion up until that very moment. No matter how much you’d pretend to feel indifferent to his attention, your body had always betrayed you—it was unashamedly and passionately thankful to his ministrations.

Your pathetic moans still echoed on a loop in the dark corners of his mind—an ear worm he couldn’t discard of, though he couldn’t honestly admit that he’d want anything of the sort. It spurred him on, serving as a constant reminder of his pretty possession, and just how much you needed him—his touch, his validation, his attention. He was the poison-kissed oxygen that you couldn’t help but inhale, fooling yourself that it would somehow replenish the air in your lungs and give you the freedom of living, existing, all the while your every bodily cell came closer and closer to becoming his. It didn’t take much for him to claim all that you were and all that you could be, only the right words and that glorious goddamn night in bed.

He’d completely remade you in his image, branded you with his bedroom generosity, always leaving you with just enough to satisfy, but never enough to last for more than a few hours. You always came back begging for more.

What an attention whore.

At last, the elevator dinged its arrival, the doors opening to welcome Coriolanus inside. He slipped in almost instantly, moving to press the button of the top floor. When the doors finally closed, he became trapped in the air lingering inside, noticing a trace of your sweet perfume. He’d come to admire that scent, thought of it as a way to identify every place you’d been in. But your sweet scent had fused with the musky odour of that strange man, an unpleasant smell that suffocated your own in mere seconds. He could only imagine that same odour plastering itself to your neck and all across your clothes as the man forced himself onto you, enjoying what didn’t belong to him.

After a few minutes, the elevator came to a stop, the doors sliding open to reveal two intertwined bodies at the other end of the lobby. You were pinned against the doors to Coriolanus’ suite, the man’s hands wandering beneath your dress and up your magnificent thighs, shrivelled lips sloppily searching the skin of your neck. Your head was tossed back against the wood, eyes sown shut as you let slip the sweetest of moans, a sound that Coriolanus had claimed as his own.

He barged through the elevator doors, the sound of his angered footsteps earning your attention. You lowered your head to him, watching with a playful smile at what was about to unfold. He ignored it, the satisfaction in that grin, the sense of achievement at your ability to control him, have him trailing after you like a dog on a leash. He’d let you have this moment, to savour its short-lived existence because once he was through with this man, he’d show you just how much trouble you’d caused him.

Coriolanus grabbed the oblivious man at the collar of his shirt, too far gone to think with his brain rather than his cock to notice he’d appeared, and plucked him from you. He shoved the man away, who stumbled backwards with his footsteps serving as clear evidence of mild intoxication. The toad began protesting, before his eyes finally found Coriolanus and his lips clamped shut on a look of realisation.

“You come into my house, drink my wine, enjoy my woman, all without a trace of shame?” Coriolanus snapped, his voice gruff with built-up anger.

The man fashioned an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean any offence, Mr. Snow, I swear by it!” His hands made frantic gestures, eager to exonerate himself. “It was her that came onto me, she invited me back here, suggested we get to know each other better—“

Coriolanus lifted his chin, his glare cold as he stared down his nose at the man. “Are you implying that it’s her fault?” It most certainly was, but if Coriolanus had to endure all that had just happened, he intended to have some fun with it.

The man stilled with a look of uncertainty that passed between you and Coriolanus, his hand moving to scratch the back of his head.

“Are you even a man at all, if you’re so easily influenced by a girl that bats her lashes at you and caresses your arm one time?” He had to ignore the irony in that statement; he could’ve almost been talking into a mirror. “You’re pathetic, blaming your lack of control and better judgement on her,” he said, eyes hardening as he took a step forward, the man simultaneously retreating a step with a gulp.

“Go find whatever excuse of a manhood you claim to have in somebody else’s cunt, and don’t let me catch you back in this building. It wont be words that warn you off next time.” His hands clenched into fists at his side, itching to grab the fleeing man and grace him with a well-earned punch—but he wouldn’t gift you that satisfaction, too.

When the elevator doors closed on the stranger, Coriolanus turned to face you. You were picking at your nails busily, as though the entire interaction had bored you beyond interest.

“What were you thinking?” He snapped at you, inching closer to glare you down.

You glanced up from your hands, offering a mere shrug as you crossed your arms and glanced up at him cheekily. “I wasn’t thinking at all, really,” you admitted. “Just wanted to feel some good things.”

Bitterness found its way onto Coriolanus’ tongue. “Do I not make you feel good enough?” He scolded coolly, his eyes searching yours angrily. “Would you rather I call that prick back and have him stick his two expired inches inside you?”

A hint of hurt seemed to widen your eyes, your expression shaped with confusion. “Didn’t think you cared what I got up to,” you muttered, glancing off to the side.

Coriolanus knew that to be complete bullshit, a feeble play at attempting to settle your own insecurities. He knew what you wanted to hear from him—that you mattered to him, that he wanted you to himself, that the mere thought of another man touching you would send him into inexplicable rage. To an extent, those were all true, but not in the way you'd wanted them to be, not in a way he was capable of giving.

He restrained the anger he felt towards you, knowing that he needed to take a gentler approach. You weren't in a state fit to endure his anger, not now. He needed to coddle you, to keep your emotions intact, otherwise he risked losing you. He couldn't have that.

“I care,” he said at last, moving a hand to grip at your chin. He’d forgotten how soft your skin was, it’d been weeks since he’d been permitted to touch you, business keeping him away from your warmth. He moved your face to his, searching between your eyes and your lips. “And you know that I care, too, or you wouldn’t have put on this little display.”

“You don’t care—not really, Coriolanus,” you snapped, your hand plucking his from your chin. “You constantly remind me that I’m nothing more than pleasure to you, an object you love to parade around, so as long as it’s your name engraved on me.”

Correct, he thought, his hand returning to his side. He gazed at you, the cogs of his mind reeling busily as he cautiously selected his next words. He couldn’t be angry with you, not now when you were so fragilely being kept together by emotion. It mattered what he said to you, even if the words weren’t honest. He knew that you needed reassurance, something akin to love to cling to, to keep you satisfied beside him. The condition that came with having a toy he loved to play with, was having to look after it, to ensure it didn’t break or wear with time.

That was exactly what he had to do with you, so he fed you whatever conniving words he could to keep you indulged in whatever illusion you’d had about your relationship with Coriolanus. A necessary evil to preserve his hold over you. He was selfish that way, but you were far too entertaining to let slip, and he did rather enjoy you—your company and your body.

Truthfully, you did have some sort of hold over him, and he’d let just enough of that truth show to control you, to convince you of his love for you.

“In all my years of existing, I've never once felt compelled to share my life with somebody else," Coriolanus told you softly. He moved his hand to return that same rogue strand of hair back behind your ear. "Not until you. I can't explain it, the way the mere thought of you with another man sends me into an unparalleled rage—to think that he could give you something I couldn't. The thought of somebody touching you the way I touch you. . . It's unbearable, unacceptable." He placed his hands on either one of your cheeks, lifting your head to face him. His words had too easily buttered you up, moulded your face with a look of infatuation. “If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have followed you all the way up here. I’d have let you fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, however you want. But the fact is, I care—a lot.”

You still harboured a certain look of uncertainty in your eyes, those damned eyes that made him go feral. He could tell that you wanted to believe him, but you had reservations that he hadn’t yet satisfied with his words. He needed to say more, do more.

“Do you see me chasing after any other girl the way I chase after you?” He pressed on, grabbing your face a little more ferociously, just to sell the point. “You’ve consumed me, reduced any ounce of respect I’ve once had for myself to nothingness. I could’ve had you pawned off the Capitol after the games, to do whatever bidding they demanded of you, but I chose to keep you by my side, to spoil you with everything you deserve for winning the games. Tell me one person who’d be willing to do the same for a district nobody that they held no care for?”

Your eyes had grown teary at his words, your bottom lip quivering beyond your control. You had meant to look tougher, Coriolanus could tell, unmoved by his words, but you were only just a naive girl burdened with the need to be loved. So you believed it, every poisonous word dripping from his lips—lapped it up hungrily like a douse of honey, in fact. Perfect. He was gaining back your trust.

You caved into Coriolanus, his hands falling from your face to wrap around your body and keep you against him. His one hand curled around the nape of your neck while the other wrapped around the small of your back, so perfectly shaped to accommodate his arm. How could he be convinced that you were not made just for him, when every aspect of your body seemed to be carved just for his touch? The hand on your head began to move with rhythmic strokes across your hair, his lips moving to place a kiss on the crown of your head. He rested his chin where he’d placed his kiss, as though sealing in the sensation, before he spoke up.

“You were incredibly selfish tonight,” he murmured. You pulled back subtly to glance up at him with slightly furrowed brows, and he lifted his chin from your head to gaze back at you impassively. “You put me through hell, making me watch as you flirted with that man, touched on him all over as you promised him sex. Do you think that was fun for me?”

Your eyes glinted with a hint of guilt, your lips parting with a soft no.

“No,” Coriolanus agreed, his eyes undeniably annoyed as he glared at your guilt-ridden expression. His fingers ventured along your back, finding the zip to your dress, the only thing keeping your body prisoner in the fabric. He tugged at the zip, harshly at first, his need to punish you poking through his actions, but he had to refrain from that for the time-being. More slowly, he began to pull the zip down your body. “I think it only fitting that you should be punished for your little games, don’t you agree?” His eyes flickered back up to yours coolly, almost challenging you to disagree.

The fabric of your dress grew loose on your body, the straps beginning to slide along the slope of your shoulders. You glanced up at him in silence, not wanting to admit the words, but the neediness on your expression told him that you were all game for your punishment—not that it ever was something unpleasant. Coriolanus was always generous when it came to putting you in your place.

“Glad we’re on the same page, dove,” he said, the dress releasing your body at last. It pooled onto the floor around your heels, leaving you barren save for the bra suffocating your breasts. He glanced down at your lower half, faintly surprised to find that you’d neglected the courtesy of wearing any underwear. "Was this supposed to be an apology?" He asked, glancing back at you through a charming smirk.

A smile broke through onto your lips. "I thought it'd make undressing me quicker," you replied, lowering yourself to remove the heels from your feet. You were glad to be free of that hell. They made your calves look good, but they were torture on your feet.

"Well, aren't you considerate?" Coriolanus responded, then paused before adding. "So you knew how this night would end, with you and I nothing but a sexual amalgamation?”

"It was more of a hope,” you replied as you straightened yourself up.

Coriolanus' constraint gave in at your insinuations, his hand moving to caress your cheek, his eyes lowering to your perfect lips that he craved to taste in that very moment. You reached up to deliver the unspoken need onto his lips, but he kept you grounded with a hand around your collarbone. "You're not kissing me with those lips," he told you. “Not after that prick has wiped his saliva all over you.”

His hand left your body to reach into his blazer pockets. He pulled out a key, his hand snaking around your waist to slip the key into the door hole. His face was intentionally leaned close to yours, his eyes narrowed with a mixture of concentration as he struggled to unlock the door, and because he could smell the man’s cologne clinging desperately to your skin. He’d need to take care of that before the evening could proceed, it was a detrimental hinderance to his cock. At last, the doors gave in with a loud click, and he pulled the key from the lock.

He leaned back with a curt beckoning of his chin. "After you,” he said, placing the key back into his blazer, his eyes not once neglecting yours.

You gave him a long stare, almost daring to be disobedient before you clearly thought better of it. You bent over to collect your dress and your shoes before turning to push the doors open. Coriolanus dropped his attention to your ass, which practically begged for his approval as it bounced with your every step. He entered inside after you, closing the doors behind him.

You ventured a few steps into the well-furnished living room of the suite and tossed your clothing onto the nearest sofa, your eyes trained on the glass walls that offered a breath-taking view of Panem. You’d always marvel over the cityscape as if it was your first time seeing it, but in all honesty, it was the fact that the lights of Panem fashioned a different colour each night, and it always seemed to illuminate new buildings and views that you’d never noticed before.

Coriolanus watched you, your hand absentmindedly reaching to hold your elbow as you admired the view—one that you’d already seen countless times before, he thought. He wondered whether you were contemplating your circumstances in this instant, as if the reality of what you’d done had finally started to sink in, and what the consequences to follow would be. He could read you fairly well, but there were still moments that your thoughts were lost on him.

“Are you scared?” He asked, his voice echoing throughout the empty space.

You turned to face him, your hands falling to your side. The lighting was dim, but the amusement etched onto your features were clear. “Scared? I didn’t survive the games only to be scared of you, Coriolanus Snow. Besides, this is hardly our first rodeo. I can’t imagine there’s much more surprises you could spring on me.”

Coriolanus cocked his eyebrows, smiling at those words. He appreciated your effortless wit. Most of Panem’s ladies were annoyingly submissive in their conversation, saying only what they thought he wanted to hear, as though it’d make them more desirable to him. You didn’t need to be told what to say, you just said it, and he was glad for it. Control could be exhausting, especially when he strove to maintain it in almost every aspect of his life. It was refreshing to know that he didn’t have to control your personality, too.

“Good,” he said, inching closer until he could reach out a hand to grab your arm. He turned you around forcefully, cool fingers teasingly tracing the skin of your shoulder as he made his way down to the clasp of your bra. He undid the hook, freeing your breasts from the pretty white lace, before tossing it onto the sofa beside your other discarded items. He turned you back to him, his eyes instantly lowering to the hardened nipples crowning your soft breasts. “Somebody’s eager,” He jested, his voice a soft rumble as his eyes rose to meet yours. “Did you want something from me?”

“You know I always do, Coryo,” you responded, taking your lower lip into a subtle bite.

Coriolanus’s eyes hardened at that nickname. “Don’t call me that,” he demanded. That version of himself had died a long time ago.

Your eyebrows cocked at his tone, your lips momentarily pursed before you asked, “should I call you Mr. Snow instead?”

“Just Coriolanus,” he replied, rolling his shoulders to remove his crimson blazer. Your eyes were stalking his every move. He could tell that you wanted nothing more than to reach out to what little clothing remained on his body and tear it away mercilessly—that you wanted him to take you right here at this very instant. But he was faintly impressed at your patience as you decided against any reckless action, instead opting to wait for his next command.

He folded his blazer and draped it over his arm, his free hand beckoning for you to follow him to his bedroom. “Come on.”

Your eyes followed his footsteps, your disbelief keeping your feet glued to the ground. Coriolanus glanced over his shoulder when your footsteps didn’t commence behind him. Your reaction was justifiable. He’d never once once invited you into his room in all the months you’d lived with him. He knew that you were foolishly thinking that this moment marked an intimate milestone in your relationship, that this act was an attempt for him to show just how much you meant to him.

“Problem?” He asked.

You willed away the dumbfounded look on your face, offering a half-hearted no as you caught up to Coriolanus. As if the sentiment was fragile, you merely walked ahead of him in silence, afraid that one wrong word would revoke the invite.

He trailed behind you as you approached the door to his bedroom. You tossed a glance over your shoulder as you sought out confirmation in your actions. Coriolanus gave a small nod, an encouraging smirk poking through. You smiled back, turning your attention to opening the door. You slipped inside, your attention instantly flying to the furniture that occupied the space. It was modest, very limited to necessities.

The bed, needlessly big, was slightly undone, the comforters left untidy as though he’d just climbed out of bed and the covers half pulled from the pillows—a picture frozen in time. A plate and a mug was stacked onto the bedside table, the previous day’s clothes draped across the sofas near the windows. Your eyes were fixating every detail around the room, as though burning a mental picture into your mind as a souvenir for later.

Coriolanus moved to place his blazer beside his other clothes on the sofa. “Sorry for the mess,” he offered, moving to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. “As I’m sure you know, I don’t usually have the worry of entertaining guests.”

You turned to face him, your eyes lowering to his skilful fingers. “I like the mess,” you responded, making your way over to him. “It feels personal, seeing this side of you—allow me to.” You shooed his hands off the waistcoat, taking his place in undoing the buttons. You glanced up at him seductively, your eyes flickering down to his full lips.

He watched you undress him, slowly but surely, knowing that he could’ve done a much faster job. But he allowed you to take on the role, knowing that it made you feel important, that your body would show him just how thankful you were and how much these little details meant to you. Once you had unfastened the last button, you removed the waistcoat and admired his toned and broad physique, painfully concealed behind his white shirt.

Coriolanus glared at your wandering eyes, wondering whether you were trying to picture him naked. He’d never been fully undressed in all of their little rendezvous, it was something far too intimate for him. And there had only been a few occasions where he’d fucked you with his cock and not his fingers or his mouth. He’d found himself deriving the utmost pleasure when he got to solely focus on how you came undone for him, how powerful his every movement upon you really was.

When your hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, he grabbed at your wrist. “Not yet,” he told you. “You still reek of him.” You frowned at his words, your hands falling to your sides in disappointment. “Come with me,” he said, moving past you toward the bathroom. “We’re going to take a little bath.”

Your interest peaked at his words. “We’re going to bath together?” You asked curiously as you followed after him.

“You’re going to bath,” Coriolanus corrected as he reached the large alcove bathtub. He leaned over to turn on the tap. “I’m going to watch.” His hand trailed the many soaps and balms that lined the rim of the bathtub. He’d made it a mission to collect every scented product he could manage once he got his hand on the money, simply because he could, and he liked smelling good.

“Sounds perverted,” you shot at him, crossing your arms as you watched him draw your bath.

He grabbed ahold of a rose-scented oil and began pouring it into the water. “You didn’t agree to live with me because of my normalcy,” he said distractedly. “But because you knew just how much my so called perversion had to offer your pathetic, little, touch-starved body.”

He tossed a glance at you over his shoulder, satisfied by the red gleam that had snuck onto your cheeks. He turned his attention back to the tub, reaching for a bottle of bubble bath. He began adding it to the water, a few droplets reaching up to stain his shirt.

“In any case,” Coriolanus continued. “It’s the least you could do for me after tonight’s shit-show.” He placed the bottle back against the wall, closing the tap once the water had reached an appropriate level. He unbuttoned the cufflinks of his shirt and rolled up the sleeves, taking a few paces back. He jerked his head at you. “Go on,” he demanded.

You unfurled into a dramatic stretch, parading your breasts as you faced him. “Join me.”

He fixed you with an unwavering stare, not so keen to play into another one of your games. “Get in.”

With one last glare, you turned and dipped one leg into the bath, instantly pulling back with a hiss. Your head snapped to face him. “It’s too hot,” you protested.

Coriolanus moved to retrieve a chair from the corner of the bathroom, placing it a few inches from where you stood. He sat himself down, offering a mere shrug to your words. “Good observation.”

“I’m not going to burn myself bloody just so that you can get off,” you spat.

“Then let’s kill some time while we wait for the water to cool down,” he suggested, his eyes once again tracing over every inch of your exposed body with keen interest.

You looked open to his request. “What did you have in mind?”

Coriolanus’s eyes flickered back up to you. “Touch yourself,” he said earnestly. You paused at his words, suddenly looking self-conscious, before you hesitantly began to caress your breasts. He watched your fingers squeeze and grope at your skin, imagining that it were his own hands in their stead, only he’d be a lot less kind in his touch. Your fingers trailed teasing circles around your nipples, further hardened at your own toying and his intense observation.

“Lower,” he ordered, feeling frustrated at your lack of venturing into your lower extremities.

Your eyes glinted at him, a look that seemed to say greedy. Yes, he was. Who could blame him? He’d grown up starving for most days of the year, now he’d take as much as he wanted.

His eyes fixated the hand that lowered in a painfully slow motion across your stomach, reaching that sweet spot housed between your legs. As your fingers began to fondle with your clit, you threw your head back with a pitiful moan. He knew he could’ve extracted a louder sound. He almost felt obliged to take over, but he had to remind himself that you were undeserving of his touch, that you needed to be punished with the urge to feel him, yet be denied that pleasure.

A few minutes of your fondling had passed before your ministrations eventually became too overwhelming to maintain control over your body. You lowered yourself to the bathmat, your hand not once leaving your cunt. You spread your legs open, offering a broader view to Coriolanus. Your eyes were glazed over as you glanced at him. He tilted his head slightly in approval, feeling his own cock growing interested at his view of your pathetic situation.

“That’s good, sweetheart,” he praised, noting the way your eyes lowered to his pants. He parted his legs slightly to take the pressure off of his growing erection, eager to hide his arousal. He didn’t want you to notice just yet how much he was truly enjoying this. Your movements eventually became more erratic, incoherent sounds spewing from your lips.

“I need you, Coriolanus,” you managed to blabber out, your tired head resting onto the rim of the bathtub, eyes periodically fluttering closed as you alternated between consciousness and whatever universe of pleasure was found behind your eyes. “Please,” you begged.

“You’ll have me soon,” he said, “when I see it fit.”

“I’ve been good for you,” you protested breathlessly. “I’ve done everything you told me to.”

“You have a lot to atone for,” Coriolanus pointed out, his eyes lowering to where your hand had slowed its movements. “Don’t stop until I tell you to.”

You glanced at him past your tired lids, but you obliged nonetheless, adding a finger inside of your cunt to increase the pressure. He supposed it was fair, if he had refused to place his own fingers inside of you. He couldn’t help the smirk that crept onto lips as he watched a stream of white begin to trail from your opening, recalling how good you tasted. It was a shame, really, that it would go to waste onto the bathroom mat instead of onto his appreciative tongue. From the sound of your pathetic mewling and your ragged breathing, Coriolanus knew that you were growing close to your high. He didn’t intend for the fun to end just yet.

“I want you to continue until you feel like you’re going to cum,” he told you, though he wasn’t sure you’d heard him past you own noise. “And then I want you to stop just before that happens.”

“That’s mean, Coriolanus,” you managed to say.

“You haven’t seen mean yet, dove,” he said. “Now stop talking and focus.”

Your fingers picked up their pace with a newfound eagerness, the knot in your stomach growing inescapably larger, the urge to come undone becoming harder and harder to contain. Coriolanus wasn’t sure you’d obey his command at this point, you looked too far gone to resume control over your own actions. His eyes narrowed, watching closely at what fate you’d choose to follow. Much to his disappointment, you practiced constraint, your hips shooting up with anticipation, only to sink to the floor as you denied yourself the orgasm.

You glanced at Coriolanus past your teary lashes, a silent request for praise. He heeded your need, rising from his seat to crouch beside your slumped figure. He combed the loose hair from your face, wiping away the beads of sweat that dotted your forehead.

“You’re too good for this world,” he murmured sweetly. He felt as though he could have choked on the banality of his words, but the soft look in your eyes as you gazed up at him made it worthwhile. He nodded to your hand, still resting on your cunt. “Show me how good you felt.”

You pulled your hand from its playground between your legs, creamy white webs entangled on your fingers. They pulled a string along your stomach as you lifted your fingers for Coriolanus to study.

“It almost looks like you don’t need my help,” he chuckled, his hand fastening around your wrist to bring your fingers to his lips. His blue eyes bore down into you as he took each of your fingers into his mouth. One by one, his tongue hungrily weaved around them, claiming your juices from your skin.

You gazed at him with a wild look ablaze in your eyes. “Don’t I deserve a taste?” You said. “After all, I did all the hard work. I deserve to taste the fruits of my labour.”

“You should be modest,” Coriolanus said once he removed your fingers from his mouth. “Nobody likes a brag.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” you retorted lightly, your eyes glinting with exhaustion. “I like you.”

“Mhm,” he offered softly, placing your hand gently onto your chest. He reached his hand between your legs, an action that caused your thighs to stiffen around him. “Relax,” he cooed, pressing his palm into one of your thighs, encouraging you to open up to him.

“Sorry,” you said, easing off the defensiveness. “I’m sensitive down there at the moment.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, gazing at your fragile expression. Fuck, he could take you right here. His fingers moved with caution as they glided along the folds of your drenched cunt, gathering up your cum into untidy clumps. He followed a trail of arousal that had traveled down into the cleft of your ass, pressing a teasing finger into your asshole.

You gasped at the sudden invasion, and Coriolanus’s throat rumbled with a chuckle. He removed his fingers and brought them to your lips. You glanced at his slender fingers, not needing much convincing to take them into your mouth. You turned your attention to him as you began to suck at him suggestively, exaggerating your head bobbing as you made a point to cover the entire length of his fingers.

He watched you with a lopsided smirk, enjoying the whore-like behaviour you so willingly offered him. Now and again, he’d thrust his fingers a little too deep, more than what your throat could handle, which caused you to gag around him. Strings of your saliva had begun to slither down his exposed forearm, pleasantly warm on his skin. He imagined his cock in the stead of his fingers, enjoying the same warmth and wetness your mouth had to offer.

When you’d decidedly had enough of licking his fingers clean, you pulled your lips from him with a characteristic pop. Coriolanus reached that hand over the bathtub, dipping it into the water to feel its temperature. It had cooled down considerably, but it was still warm enough for a worthwhile soak. He withdrew his hand and wiped his fingers onto his shirt.

“The bath will get cold soon,” he told you. “Get in.”

“Is that all?” You asked disappointedly.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll show you what I’ve got in stock for you.” He straightened up and took a few paces back as you perked with new resolve and found your feet.

He backed up to reclaim his position on the chair, crossing his legs as he watched you. Your back was momentarily on him as you climbed into the bathtub, the water sloshing a welcome. You submerged yourself into the warmth almost instantly, a content groan reverberating in your throat. His eyes lowered to your hand, which had began to spread the foam of the bubble bath across your bare chest and breasts.

“The water’s so good,” you murmured.

“Don’t get too relaxed,” he warned.

“Why don’t you join me, Coriolanus,” you said, your eyes fluttered open as you moved to fold your arms onto the lip of bathtub. You rested your chin onto your arms, glancing at the erection he could no longer conceal. “I’ll take good care of your little cock, that should keep me on my toes.” Your expression beamed at your choice of words, deliberately chosen to get a rise out of him.

Coriolanus merely scoffed at your teasing. He had many things to prove, but the size of his cock was not one of them.

“You sure you could handle me, since you’re still so sensitive down there?” He asking mockingly. He leaned back into his chair, his hand coming up to clench his chin, the other grabbing his elbow.

You tilted your head prettily to one side. “Only one way to find out,” you murmured, leaning back against the wall of the tub as you kicked your foot out and onto the edge. Water splashed partially onto the bathmat, but most had been caught by the bare floor.

Coriolanus lowered his eyes to the puddle. “You’re making quite a mess for someone who’s been in here for less than half an hour.”

“Give me an hour and you’ll see just how much of a mess I can make,” you challenged.

He lifted his chin to face you, his eyes narrowing the slightest. This side of you was something he’d never experienced before; you were a lot more daring, undoubtedly brought on by the importance you felt at being allowed the opportunity to bathe in his bathroom and in his company. He’d like to test just how long you could keep up this illusion of bravery, and how quickly you’d drop it when he had you sprawled onto his fingers.

“Come here, then,” he said, uncrossing his legs and spreading it as an invitation for your thighs.

Your eyes snuck a peak at his hard on before you broke away from your slutty pose and climbed from the warmth of the tub. You took a few steps toward Coriolanus, water and soap slithering down the curves of your body and onto the floor.

You stopped short of his legs. “You’re sure?” You asked, eyes making a point of the shirt and pants he still wore. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with a little less on?”

Coriolanus grunted from a place of impatience, reaching out his hand to grab at your wrist. He pulled you into his lap, rough hands guiding your hips to comfortably straddle his clothed thighs. The soapy water coating your body began to bleed into his clothes, his pants the most affected, but he could hardly be arsed in this moment. He just needed to feel you, needed to use you. His fingers gripped at your thighs, his heavenly blue eyes boring down onto your strained expression as he began to forcibly guide your bare cunt over his bulge.

Coriolanus’s movements set a generous pace, endorphins bolting through your core each time his bulge struck your sensitive clit. The texture of his pants was harsh on your skin, creating a friction that seemed to generate copious amounts of heat—screw sticks and stones, this method of fucking could have started all the fires in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your lower half instinctively beginning to cooperate as you rocked back and fourth in sync with his guidance.

Your head came to rest in the chiselled crook of his neck, his earthy fragrance fucking heaven-sent on your senses, further engulfing you in bliss. His throat vibrated against your ear with strained moans, they came as subtle grunts that prompted his hands to speed up the pace. He was so eager to feel you, to settle his drawn-out erection. You winced as his fingers burrowed into the skin of your thighs. He’d neglected all caution in your handling, his need to control your movements overpowering what slither of consideration he’d held for your comfort.

It didn’t take long for the stinging sensation to blend with your pleasure, slurred moans pouring from your lips as you felt cum begin to leak from your entrance. It lubricated the fabric of Coriolanus’s pants, offering some relief from the coarse material. You screwed your eyes shut and pressed your face into his shirt, eager to muffle the mewls of pleasure you seemed to have zero control over. His chest rumbled with a breathy fuck, and you felt his body momentarily convulse with the overwhelming feelings your bodies shared.

You turned your head, your nose brushing against the skin of his neck. Your eyes fluttered open, drinking in the view of his adam’s apple, so prominent and manly. It bobbed as Coriolanus swallowed a moan. You brought your furthest hand forward to hook the side of his neck, pulling him against your lips. He didn’t resist, it’s almost as though he was too focused on his own work to pay attention to your own dealings. You littered sloppy kisses all across his neck, placing extra emphasis around his adam’s apple. You kissed all around the bulge before giving into your thoughts and dragging your tongue over it, leaving a sloppy trail in your wake.

The warmth and wetness of your tongue on his throat made Coriolanus release an unexpected groan, a hand leaving your hips to wrap around your throat. You let slip a chuckle at his action, and he held you out in front of him, his cold eyes glaring into yours as he decided to brutalise his movements. You moaned loudly, the sound strained as you forced it past his suffocating hold on your neck.

“Coriolanus,” you choked out breathlessly, your hands sliding along his broad shoulders. “I need you inside of me.”

“You’ve waited this long,” Coriolanus muttered. “You can wait a little longer.” His hold on your throat grew tighter, your vision starting to blur behind a mixture of fresh tears and your compromised oxygen.

He watched your eyes flutter closed and your teeth clench as you inched closer and closer to your edge, your nails digging through his shirt and into his shoulders, steading yourself against his aggression. His singular hand on your hip began to cramp at his incessant groping and steering, but he was beginning to feel his own orgasm approaching, and that was motivation enough to push through—that, and your whorish desperation.

He released his grip on your neck, the air returning to your lungs as a cough and a splutter. He hooked the nape of your neck and pulled you into the comfort of his shoulder, urging you to rest your tired head there as he finished you both off. With both hands once again firm on your hips, he picked up the pace. He rested his chin onto the crown of your head, his eyes fluttering closed as he allowed the scent of your conditioner to swallow his senses.

With each movement, he brought you down harder onto his cock, craving rougher strokes. The squelching of the cum coating your folds and spreading along his pants was music to his ears, and he gritted his teeth to bite back his ragged breathing so that he could continue to hear the way he’d transformed your cunt. He could feel his own pre-cum trickling from his tip, the warmth spreading along his shaft by the generosity of your wet folds. Fucking hell did he yearn to be inside of you, almost as much as you craved him, but he had to be stronger than his own desires.

It didn’t take long before every nerve tracing the length of his cock began to fire rapid impulses, the prolonged stimulation proving to be too overbearing. His lips parted with strained breaths, the black abyss behind his eyes beginning to birth a cosmos of anticipatory stars. The image built and built until he thrust you one last violent time along his cock, his hips rocking up into you, delivering just the right ounce of pressure before white engulfed his vision.

His grip on your hips loosened, his ears buzzing with the aftermath of his high. He hadn’t even realised that you’d come undone before he had, your whimpers and vulgar pleas lost in his concentration. The only evidence of your orgasm was the new patch of wetness that had marked his pants, a generous mixture of squirt and cum.

Your breathless voice sounded at his ear as you moved your head from under his chin. “I want to feel like that all the time.”

“That can be arranged, dove,” he chuckled hoarsely.

You felt his hand leave your hip, the skin there instantly growing cool. He dragged his fingers repeatedly along the wisps of your hair. It was as though he were petting a dog, only his touch was a lot gentler and more intimate. You allowed your eyes to flutter closed, your lips parting with a content sigh as you waited for the ecstasy of your orgasm to dissolve. You rested your chin on his shoulder, listening to the calm of his breathing, focusing on his hand caressing your hair.

You pulled back to glance at him, his eyes questioning as he returned your stare. Your attention moved to his lips, they looked so soft and plump, not nearly red enough. You’d been robbed of the opportunity to nibble on them, to contort them between your own lips, to taste the wine he’d downed at the party. You didn’t think you’d be properly satisfied until you got your wish. Did that make you ungrateful?

Coriolanus offered a faint smirk, your thoughts loud and clear. How selfish of him, he’d forgotten to kiss you during your little ride. Not a train-smash, he had the entire night to make up for that. His hand on your hair tightened there, forcing you into his vicinity. You wanted to protest at the hairs pulling at your scalp, but you hadn’t gotten the chance, not when his lips silenced yours in a hungry tumble.

He didn’t kiss you as often as you would’ve liked, but when he did, it was always imbued with passion, his movements erratic like he’d been starving and you were the first source of food he’d encountered in days. You got lost in the movement of his lips, the pace so fast that you couldn’t properly match it, though not for lack of trying. You allowed yourself to be swept up in his kiss, accepting that he was in control.

Coriolanus moved his hands to grab ahold of your breasts, his attention marvellously divided between fondling them and tracing his tongue along the inside of your mouth. You moaned into him, the sound muffled and lost to your entanglement. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, offering a sharp nip that caused you to wince in surprise. You felt his lips broaden in a smug smile, his hands neglecting your breasts and trailing a seductive path down your waist to deliver a crisp spank to your ass.

The skin stung where he’d struck you, but he was so quick to soothe the ache with gentle rubbing. The curves of your ass fit so perfectly into his palms. He pulled his lips from yours, not sparing even an instant for you to process his movements before his sharp nose found sanctuary in your cleavage. He littered kisses there before moving to plant a trail around the circumference of your breasts.

“Coriolanus,” you moaned, your head lolling back.

He hummed against your skin, a halfhearted acknowledgement. His hand found its way between your thighs, his middle finger sliding between your labia where beads of your brand new arousal waited to greet him. He slathered his fingers in your juice, lubricating the skin before he slid his finger into your entrance.

Your entire composure collapsed at that, the built up suspense of needing him inside you satisfied at last. Your entrance clamped around him at first, the sensation always forgotten with how few and far apart these glorious moments were spread, but within a fraction of a second, you melted onto his finger.

You nibbled at your lower lip, the bite deepening as Coriolanus’s teeth found your nipple. He alternated between tugging at your hardened buds and swirling his tongue around and all over it, mischievously marking steaks of saliva along your skin. A few seconds later, his ring and index finger joined the party within you.

Your grip on his shoulders lowered down his back, eagerly clawing at the hard and chiselled muscles, but his damned shirt got in the way. You pulled back, Coriolanus’ lips robbed of your breasts. He glanced at you, his fingers continuing their thrusts. Your hands flew to tug at the buttons of his shirt. The first few you’d managed to undo, but you had finite patience for the others, resorting to an aggressive tug that split the buttons from the fabric.

“Are you going to pay for that?” Coriolanus jested lightly.

“I’m sure there’s plenty more shirts where that one came from,” you said hastily, yanking the sleeves down his broad shoulders.

You instantly dove in to kiss at his chest. He’d never been excessively muscled, but he was still strong and toned, his frame broad and absolutely mouth-watering to gaze upon. Your hands wandered along his chest, sliding along his shoulders and down his arms. You attempted to tug his shirt all the way off, Coriolanus aiding your motion as he momentarily pulled his fingers from inside you.

He rolled his shoulders and removed his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. You glanced at his torso, now completely exposed to you. You couldn’t stifle the smile on your lips, thinking that he looked a lot like a male stripper—bare-chested yet still clothed from the waist down, presenting himself on a chair. All he was missing was a sexy dance of some sort.

Coriolanus frowned at your gawking. “What’s on that mind of yours?”

You pursed your lips. “Nothing,” you answered, placing a kiss on his lips. You moved to murmur in his ear, “now If it’s not too much to ask, would you kindly stick your fingers back inside of me?”

When you withdrew to look at him, Coriolanus wore a wicked smirk. “What a slutty thing to say.” His fingers returned to your cunt, but instead of easing his way inside, he opted for his whole hand at once.

You didn’t know whether you were more shocked at his gesture, or the way your cunt had easily welcomed him. His movements were considerably less cautious than before, but you didn’t care about that now, only that he was finally inside of you. You let out a lengthy moan, so eager to verbalise your appreciation. Your hands moved to cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading them together as you tilted your head back.

You closed your eyes and focused on his hand inside you, how each thrust grew deeper and closer to your sweet spot. It’s as though he’d already mapped out your insides, his fingers knowing exactly which way to wander. Gods, you truly didn’t know whether you or Coriolanus enjoyed this more. He kept up a regular pace for a while, and you’d quickly grown impatient and needy for his brutality.

“Faster,” you complained.

Coriolanus slowed his movements, coming to a complete stop. He wholly expected the miserable look on your face as your head snapped down to face him. How could he allow you to think that he was here to serve you, as opposed to you serving him. He wasn’t just going to hand you what you wanted, life certainly hadn’t been that generous with him. No, you’d have to work for it.

“Okay, we can go faster,” he said, cocking his head slightly. You regained a spark at those words, but it quickly blew out at what came next. “But you’ll do it yourself, since you’re unsatisfied with what I’m giving you.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—“ you attempted to protest, but Coriolanus cut you off with free his index finger pressing against your lips, his lips fashioned in a hush.

“No talking,” he murmured. “Just get to work.” He beckoned down to your cunt, his hand motionless inside of you.

Devastated at having to do the work yourself, you crossed your arms around his neck, your expression adorably resentful as you lifted your hips and began to ride him. Coriolanus lowered his free hand to rest at your hip, his attention wandering to your breasts. He couldn’t have ignored them even if he tried, not when they were bouncing inches from his face and calling out for attention. Your moans quickly commenced, your hips already starting to tremble with your next orgasm. You tossed your head back, your movements becoming uncoordinated, like your body had already started to give up.

Coriolanus felt your walls begin to clench around his hand, glancing up to glimpse your face. “Look at me,” he called to you. Your head lowered to face him at once, your eyelids drooping. “Are you going to cum?” He asked, and you nodded eagerly, followed by a strewn out moan.

Good, he thought. His hand on your hip began to press against your movements, interrupting the pace you’d managed to get going. Your eyes widened as your orgasm retracted into a dissatisfying gasp, the high that had been building instantly collapsed at your sudden lack of movement.

“Coriolanus,” you snapped, your tone coming across as a whine. You’d become frustrated with his teasing, and your body shared the sentiment. Your clit ached now, exhausted tremors seizing every muscle of your body. “You’re being a dick!”

“No,” he countered, pulling his hand from your entrance. He looked condescending as his eyes flickered across you face. “I’m punishing you, just like I promised. You’re getting exactly what you deserve, but you’re spoiled and used to getting your way.”

You didn’t have anything to retort, so you glared at him in silence, ignoring the hurt that his words had inflicted upon you.

“Don’t pout,” he murmured, wiping his wet hand along your thigh.

Then, without warning, he hoisted you up at the thighs and manoeuvred you bridal-style from the bathroom towards the bedroom. He lowered you onto the undone comforters of his bed, leaning down with you to place a swift kiss on your furrowed brows. He straightened up at the foot of the bed, his hands reaching for your calves.

“You want to cum?” He asked, his fingers wrapping around your legs to pull you down the bed and closer to where he stood. “I’ll make you cum, over and over again.” That was a promise.

Your lips parted with shock, words scattering from your tongue as his hands travelled over yours knees and grabbed at your thighs. He pried your legs apart, exposing your cunt to him. The last view you captured of him was the way his eyes traced your exposed lower half, a barely noticeable smirk pulling at one corner of his lips. Then, his head dipped into you, his tongue flat and rough on your folds.

You threw your head back into the sheets, your fingers instantly curling into the material as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded and preventing you from getting carried away into another universe. Coriolanus was conscious to strike his nose against your tender clit every so often, clearly enjoying the way it sent a jerk through your body. It was like his own personal control-switch to play with. You were too exhausted to limit the noises that you produced for him, so everything came out a loud and blabbering mess. You didn’t ever want to stop being touched this way.

Coriolanus was a clean man. He liked to keep his hair tamed, his jaw void of any developing beard that he felt would deface his appearance. But it had to have been a week since his last shave, you thought. You could feel the faint stubble poking through, grazing your intimate area as he ravished you below. It was the perfect addition to your arousal, adding just enough noise to push you into overstimulation.

You fought the urge to lift your lower half from the sheets, to greedily claim a deeper thrust of his tongue. He wouldn’t take kindly to that, and you didn’t think you had the capacity to endure any more teasing. Instead, you opened your thighs even wider, your hands releasing the comforter to grip at your breasts.

Coriolanus approved of your behaviour, his praise coming in the form of his tongue up your entrance. You let slip a breathy gasp, your jaw clenching at the lightning that seemed to obscure your vision.

“Fuck, Coriolanus,” you drawled, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Please—let me cum!”

He hummed against your clit, the vibrations serving as the fucking icing on top of this sex-themed cake. You core knotted, your breath catching in your throat. Your eyes screwed shut, the pressure building and building and threatening to spill over as Coriolanus’ tongue picked up the pace. He twirled your clit around, his fingers pinching at your thighs, and just like that, your body released all the tension of the evening.

Your chest bobbed up and down with heavy breathing, not feeling as though you could bear to open your eyes. It’s only when you felt Coriolanus’ warmth withdraw from your thighs that you lifted your head to glance up at him. He straightened up and met your gaze with an impressed look, his perfect lips offering a smile—a genuine smile. The sight set off butterflies in your stomach. He was proud of you and your performance.

“You did well, dove,” he praised.

You beamed at his compliment, words not easily extracted from him. The sheen on his jaw caught your attention, your heart jolting with shame to see him absolutely doused in your juice. It trailed well down his neck and onto his chest, making a point to follow the natural contours of his pecs.

“I’m sorry—“ a hand flew to your mouth, hardly believing that you’d produced a mess of that magnitude.

“Sorry?” Coriolanus mocked, his perfect teeth flashing in a laugh. “Don’t be. It’s a compliment. You show your appreciation like a real woman, just the way I like it.”

You watched as his hands lowered to his red trousers, his fingers moving to undo the button. You glanced back at him in alarm.

“You didn’t think we were done just yet?” He asked, his smile turning wicked as he unzipped his trousers and pulled it down. “I edged you twice,” he explained. “And I’d like to think I’m a fair man. So,” he paused and lowered his underwear, which freed his erection. “I owe you another good time.”

He stepped out from the last of his clothing, towering over your body as he inched his way toward you. “I won’t lie, though,” he murmured once he’d reached your ear. “I’m doing this mostly for me. I think I’ve waited long enough to feel you, really feel you.”

You glanced up at him, your eyes large and pleading like a pathetic mutt begging for scraps. “I don’t think I can take any more, Coriolanus.”

“Did it feel good, what you did just now?”

“It felt like heaven,” you told him softly.

“Then this time will feel like being completely reborn,” Coriolanus insisted, his hand relocating hair from your sticky face. “And even if it doesn’t, you’ll push through because this is your punishment, and punishment is not always meant to be enjoyable.”

You glanced off to the side, hating how much the cold look in his eyes stirred something inside of you.

Coriolanus found satisfaction in the way his words kept you silent. He grabbed your chin and turned you back to him, his thumb pressing into your lower lip before he planted a hollow kiss in its stead. He placed his forearm beside your head, leaning onto that side as his other hand reached down for his cock. He gave a lazy pump across his hard length, a pathetic attempt at spreading his pre-cum. He didn’t need to do any better, not when your drenched cunt offered enough lubrication for him to enter without a struggle.

And it did, without a single hitch, as he pushed himself inside of you. Your soft gasp sounded in his ear, his attention still trained below. Once he was sure he was properly inside of you, he turned his head up and placed his arm on the other side of your head. You felt so warm and welcoming, definitely a lot more relaxed than the previous times he’d stuck his cock inside of you.

He began to thrust, not having much patience to start slow and gradually build up the pressure. This entire evening had been leading up to this moment, the opportunity for him to be in this exact position. He’d spent all of his patience, now he just needed to finish what he’d set out to do. He was pleased to feel your hands snake beneath his arms and take up a hold on his back, that is until your nails suddenly sunk into his skin.

He let out pained moan, his gaze growing fierce at the satisfaction on your face. Two could play that game. He withdrew his length a far way out, his tip almost slipping from your entrance entirely, before he rammed himself back inside with an animalistic thrust. His tip collided with your g-spot, a harsh and sudden greeting to the sensitive area.

You let out a scream, your stomach lifting against him. Before you could process the shock, he rammed into you again, and again, and again. Each time, he returned with the same force, and not once did he fail to miss his target. Your nails in his skin continued to sink deeper, the both of you reduced to nothing more than grunting and gasping.

The bed creaked with every movement, the room echoing with the raw percussion of your skin-on-skin contact. Coriolanus bucked into you with such aggression that he began to moan with every sway of his hips. His hands, trapping your head on either side, slipped behind your head to grip at your hair. He yanked, opening up your neck to him. You moaned as his lips buried against your skin, the tip of his nose flattening into you as his teeth sought out your skin.

His movements became jerky, his teeth gritted as he grunted against your neck. You slipped a hand from his back to bury it into his hair, fastening your fingers around his blond wisps that had turned curly from the sweat of his activity.

“I’m going to cum,” he breathed into your neck, his hand flying to one of your thighs. He pulled it up to wrap around his lower half, his thrusts growing violently needy. “Fuck,” he spat, then called your name desperately. You felt too good, especially now that your walls seemed to clench around him—he knew that you were close, too.

Your second orgasm arrived, the hot wetness pooling around his length. He couldn’t maintain his control anymore. At last, he gave himself over to his pleasure, his movements becoming sluggish as he felt his release inside of you. He didn’t stop his thrusts, not until he felt himself empty every last drop inside of you.

Coriolanus collapsed beside you, his hand finding your cheek and pulling your head against his chest. For many minutes, nobody spoke, each one struggling to regain their breath. His other hand held your lower body against him, keeping his cock secure inside of you. He could feel your mingled juices leaking along his thigh and onto the sheets, a mess he didn’t mind right now.

You burrowed into Coriolanus’ arm, a tired sigh leaving your lips. “Fucking hell,” was all you could manage to say after an ordeal like this. Tonight had been his most brutal fuck thus far.

Your body ached everywhere, and you weren’t sure your swollen clit would ever forgive you for what you’d brought upon it. You supposed it served you right for trying to make him jealous by flirting with another man. You’d never stupidly test his limits that way again, that was for sure. You two laid in comfortable silence, riding out the last of your highs.

“Coriolanus,” you called to him softly, your fingers playing with his. “Do you love me?”

Coriolanus tilted his head down to you, his eyes widening at the sudden question. His lips parted to say something, but he quickly bit on his tongue. It was clear that your need for his attention had grown into something more profound, that you’d started to care about him in more than just what he had to offer your body. He turned his gaze up to the roof. “My position doesn’t permit me the time to love,” he answered carefully.

Your hair shuffled against his arm as you sat yourself up to face him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He turned his gaze back onto you, calling your name softly. “I have goals to achieve in this world. It leaves little time for relationships.”

Your eyes held disappointment. “Then what’s the point of all of this?”

“The point,” Coriolanus said, taking your hand into his, his thumb rubbing comforting circles across your skin. “Is that we keep each other company, offer a comfort that others couldn’t gift us even if they tried. We satisfy each other in ways that only we know how to.”

“So I’m just a source of entertainment to you?” You snapped, attempting to pull your hand from his, but his grasp on you tightened.

“Am I anything different to you?” He asked, his tone level, his cool eyes challenging. “Don’t mount a high horse, not when you entered this knowing exactly what you were in for. I take care of you and I make you feel good—that’s plenty more than you would’ve gotten back in the district and in any other location in the Capitol, for that matter. Would you rather go back to your district, back to a cold bed and an empty stomach with nobody to rely on? Maybe you’d rather I put you on the market for as some Capitol slut looking for her next sponsor. I can make that happen—“

“No!” You interrupted, your hard eyes thawing with a look of horror, like you’d recalled all the terrible memories of your life in the district. It was far from pleasant, a past you’d have liked to forget for good. You had nobody, nothing to return to.

As for the Capitol, you knew that there were infinite weirdos and perverts that would marvel at the opportunity to get their hands on a hunger games victor, especially one that had been branded by Coriolanus Snow more than once. You could only imagine what sort of prize that made you, a collectible to be displayed. The thought made your stomach turn.

“I don’t want that,” you said, your head lowering in defeat. “I just want you.”

Coriolanus’s eyes raked across your figure, so slumped in submission and hopelessness. He realised then just how much he’d broken you, reshaped you into a lapdog that would only eat directly out of his hand. “Good,” he murmured. “I want you, too. Only you.” His free hand moved to cup your chin, tilting it to face him. “And maybe. . . you could teach me how to love.”

Your eyes widened at those words, the hand clasped in his going stiff. He tugged at you, pulling you into him. Your head found its way nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his chin moving to rest atop your head. He continued to play with your fingers, his other arm cushioning your neck and holding you against him. He felt your breathing slow into an easy sleep, your warm breath flushing against his chest. He closed his own eyes, breathing deeply at the sweet scent radiating from your hair. He allowed it to lull him to sleep, mulling over your interaction.

He’d known the truth for years already—that his heart bore no capacity for love. It had saddened him, at first, made him feel as though he’d been formed wrong in the womb. His father had loved his mother enough to bring him into this world—his cousin, Tigris, had loved him, too, to the point where she’d have sacrificed everything to ensure that he’d survived the war. Sejanus, too, had loved him like a brother, trusted him with all that he was, and it had ultimately killed him.

All his life, Coriolanus had been cradled with love, but he’d been forever cursed with the inability to return it. It had taken him years to accept it, until one day, everything had clicked into place.

Perhaps he wasn’t meant to love, not when the world had become a disastrous mess in need of order, in need of somebody to bring it to that stage. He knew then that he could offer the order that Panem needed. Peace came at the cost of blood, and blood came at the cost of strength. Strength meant that love had no place and no say in the hard decisions to be made, for its love that made you vulnerable, and vulnerability was a weakness. He didn’t bear that weakness, and he never would.

As for you? Well, you were somewhat of a complicated matter as of now. When it came down to it—the decision between you and his destiny, he’d choose destiny without a doubt. But for now, he’d keep you close. He’d shower you with attention, spoil you with his touch, offer you everything you’ve ever wanted in a partner. And once you’ve lost all worth to him, he’d discard of you.

Coriolanus knew that his path was one headed straight for the top, to claim the title of president of Panem. All that he’d done to get here, everything that he’d achieved up until now, it was all just the beginning. He was glad now—that he could not find it in himself to love anyone. It left him free of any liabilities, gave his enemies not even a fraction of power to hurt him.

For it’s the things we love most that destroy us.

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You MUST know I had to include that iconic line

Anyways, I’m sincerely sorry that this fic is like 15k words. I always tell myself to keep it simple but I’ve literally got no say over what happens once my fingers start typing away. I hope you all have enjoyed this read. I’m not TOO sure how I feel about it, but I think I’ve just gotten to the point where I’ve proof-read it so much that I honestly can’t stand it anymore.

This is my first every coryo fic and it was incredibly daunting to write, considering that he is such a complex character to portray and because I unintentionally resorted to flowing between his and the reader’s perspective, which I usually hate, but shit happens. I’ve never read the books (I am getting them for my birthday yay) so it was difficult to get inside of his mind given that I’ve never trod there before. In any case, I hope that I did his character justice in this blabbering mess, even if I did add my own sadistic twist lmao.

MERRY CHRISTMAS MY LOVELIES🎄

Your comments & reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you!! ~

I take requests (so long as I’m comfortable writing it) <3

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[bluemerakis]

┌──˚*❀*̥˚───˚*̥❀*˚──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━•❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃•━━┛

❝ white-haired devil ❞

⤷ Word count: 5.6k

!! 18+ ONLY !!

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WARNINGS:

Swearing, smut, power imbalance, mild sexual degradation/sadism, sexual "toy" use, choking, masturbation, fingering, gagging

‼️ DO NOT PROCEED IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THE ABOVE-MENTIONED WARNINGS ‼️

SYNOPSIS:

You always knew you'd marry one day—not in the way that every little girl dreams of, but because the knowledge of who you'd be marrying had been held over your head like a dark storm cloud since you were little.

When you'd been invited to dine at Malfoy manor with Abraxas and his son—your groom to be—Lucius, the reality became dauntingly real. But you never would have thought you'd find a euphoria of pleasure in your hatred for the white-haired devil himself.

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The entire foundation of our existence is built on one concept: an animalistic hierarchy.

The rich and the powerful are the predators. With their gold, status and excessive self-interest, they hunt the down the poor, the powerless and the insignificant. They close in on them until submission is the only acceptable choice. The magic world is no different. You came to understand that the moment you discovered that you had been betrothed to Lucius—pain-in-your-ass—Malfoy.

Arranged marriages were not uncommon, especially within pure-blooded families that wanted to maintain the importance of their self-forged status.

But this time was different.

Your groom-to-be, Lucius—cunt—Malfoy, is the son of a powerful witch and wizard. Your parents are renowned magic-folk, too, but here's where the circumstances differ: where Malfoy is a pure-blooded wizard, you're only a measly squib. That's right—the laughing stock of the magic world.

If it had been up to you, the Malfoys would have only existed in your nightmares. But you had not had much of a say in the final forge of the matter because you had not even been born yet.

You had only just turned six when you had met Lucius—and god did you hate him. Even at the tender age of eleven, Lucius was the biggest pain in the ass you had ever met. You had never wished a day to go by quicker than that very afternoon. When it was finally time for them to leave, you were more than happy to bid farewell. But everything had gone downhill pretty fast when your father and Abraxas Malfoy had herded you and Lucius into the same room to deliver the horrid news. Lucius had immediately objected and for once you found yourself agreeing with him. But neither father would have it. The deal was long done.

Even now—sixteen years later—you grew glum about the matter at least five times a day. You'd often find yourself mimicking a curse on your father for screwing up your life this way. You did it right in this moment as you watched the back of his head swivel to and fro in his attempt to navigate the winding hallways of Malfoy manor.

He ought to appreciate that I'm a squib, you thought defiantly, else he'd have had tentacles for legs right about now.

You balled your hands into miserable fists. You didn't know if they were trembling with anger, or anxiousness, but you weren't going to have your first impression after all these years be comparable to a sheep on death row.

The Malfoys had extended a dinner invitation as a pre-wedding icebreaker, though you hadn't had much of an appetite to begin with. Your stomach turned each time you heard footsteps clatter toward you, anticipating the appearance of a reserved Abraxas Malfoy. But you were only greeted by hasty house-elves determined to bring the manor to order. Though you didn't doubt the extra skip in their step was the result of a Malfoy threat.

You could just imagine Abraxas—if he was anything like his son—towering over the staff and tossing out all manner of condescending insults, threatening to torment the next elf who left a single fingerprint on the fine, black porcelain rim of his plate.

When your father came to a stop, you were dismayed to find yourself staring up at two double doors that stood way taller than necessary. Though you supposed everything needed to be scaled up in a rich person's world—to accommodate their massive egos, of course.

Your father turned to you. "The dining hall is just through there," he said.

"Are you sure those aren't the doors to hell?" You mumbled miserably and folded your arms.

"Don't be like that," he said gently. "Lucius is a perfectly suitable husband."

"But I'm not a suitable wife."

"And why is that?"

"You know why."

His lips pressed into a speechless line.

You turned your head to the side. "A wizard like him has no business marrying a squib. I'm surprised Abraxas even agreed to it."

"That's Mr. Malfoy to you," your father corrected sternly. But after a moment, his eyes regained their gentle touch once more. He called your name softly, "you are more than your magical status."

Not to the Malfoy family, is what you wanted to reply. But your father had been friends with Abraxas since they were in diapers. You were painfully aware of the bond the two of them shared and so you knew every complaint coming from your lips would fall on your father's deaf ears, leaving you trapped in a looped argument.

"Fine," you yielded.

Your father gave an appreciative simper. "Thank you."

You wanted to remain irritable, to make your displeasure obvious, but your father's smile always managed to bring a giggle to light. He always looked ridiculous when he smiled, so much so that you thought he did it on purpose.

"There's that smile of yours!"

"Stop."

"Come on." He offered the top of his hand, which you reluctantly placed your palm over, and with his other hand he knocked on the door.

Are we suddenly too good for handles, you thought bitterly. You still couldn't believe this was happening. For the longest time, you had hoped all this to be some cruel, drawn-out joke. But as the double doors suddenly creaked open, and you found yourself staring up at white-haired devil himself, the notion quickly dissipated within painful acceptance.

"Lucius!" Your father greeted cheerily. Lucius was dressed in an elegant black suit, his hair pulled back into a neat, low ponytail with his signature cane gripped in one hand.

The icy tundra of his eyes disregarded your presence entirely. "Mr Lee," he responded with a curt dip of his chin. "My father awaits you in his study."

"Ah—yes, of course. I do believe Abraxas has some relics he owes me the pleasure of seeing." He slipped his hand from yours and smiled at Lucius. "Will you take good care of her until dinner is ready?"

"I don't need him to take care of me!" you interjected.

Lucius paid no attention to you. It's as though you were nothing more than particles in the air to him. "Of course," he answered, stepping aside to let your father pass.

"I'll be back, dear," he said. "Stay with Lucius." With that, he hurried away into the next room.

You watched his back disappear into the next room before averting your gaze back to Lucius. "I think it's funny that you've got all these attendants, yet you're the one on door duty," you spoke up.

Lucius' head tilted down, and for the first time he glared directly at you. He lifted his sharp jaw, eyes narrowed disdainfully as his slender fingers moved to strangle the serpent head that crowned his cane.

"You're looking particularly sour today," he sneered.

"And you look sallower than usual," you retorted lightly, unable to deny the satisfaction tugging at the corners of your lips.

All the years you'd spent void of magic, you'd learnt to compensate for in your wit, and boy would you seize every opportunity to get under his skin. You brushed past him as you entered the room and you heard the doors click closed behind you. Lucius scowled and uttered your name bitterly. You hated the way it sounded on his lips.

"You're an embarrassment to the wizarding world," he said coolly. "You will do good to remember that before parting those crude lips of yours."

"Firstly," you started, turning to face him, "you'll be marrying this embarrassment, so please, do grow attuned to calling me your embarrassment," you said cheekily, lacing your hands behind your back. "Secondly, I'm rather fond of my lips. I've always found them quite perky." You lifted your face to his. "Don't you think?"

The white-haired devil sneered before lifting his wand from it's sheath and chanting, "Petrificus totalus."

In an instant and with a lack of control, your arms flew to your side, and before your legs could emulate the gesture, he propped his leg into the space so that your thighs straddled his knee. You went as stiff as a board, and panic thumped in your chest as you felt yourself leaning back. Just as you thought you'd hit the floor like a sack of meat, Lucius steadied you with a hand on your collarbone and pushed you flat against the polished wood of the door.

You wanted to wince as the door handle protruded into your spine, and Lucius, keenly aware of your discomfort, sought to worsen it as he gradually applied pressure to your chest.

"Not so gabby now, are we?" He rumbled lowly. His face was mere inches from yours. "Here's how this marriage is going to go," he murmured. "We have an appearance to uphold, so I do hope you know how to behave a proper lady in the presence of esteemed guests. Whatever squib-codswallop you indulge yourself in will happen behind closed doors, but whatever time you spend at my side, you will do it my way."

Heat began to pool at the tip of your ears. You hated the nerve of this man, to demand everything the way he wanted it, and in a way that explicitly stated he always got what he wanted. The knee wedged between your thighs began to trace small, slow circles. Occasionally, it would brush against the hem of your underwear. Your breathing deepened at the sensation, and Lucius extracted a faint smirk from the sight of your flaring nostrils.

Footsteps thrummed closer and closer to where the two of you stood, though Lucius didn't seem too concerned at the possibility of being caught in their position. When the footsteps halted, a dainty head popped up from behind the view of Lucius' shoulder.

"The food is ready, Mr Malfoy," the housemaid offered softly, evidently embarrassed at the sight of their tangled bodies. Lucius waved a dismissive hand, too busy glaring you down to spare the maid so much as a glance. She scampered away, and Lucius brought the tip of his wand up to your body.

"I do hope I have made myself very clear," he murmured. You glared at him bitterly. Go fuck yourself. It would have felt better to say it aloud. "Finite," Lucius chanted, and all control flooded back into your limbs.

You slumped against the door and his hand left your chest, but before you could snap at him, he pressed the nose of his wand into your throat. You glared up at him and he returned your attention with nonchalant eyes.

Slowly, he traced the wand up the expanse of your neck, and when he reached your mouth, he said in a low murmur, "I do rather like your lips."

"Lucius," a deep voice echoed throughout the dining hall.

Abaraxas, you thought horridly. You glanced past Lucius to glimpse your father fondling an expensive-looking object between his gloved fingers, and beside him stood Abraxas, watching the two of you with a cool yet dignified expression. They hovered at the doors to the study, and Lucius tucked away his wand rather tensely before leaving you in a hot flurry to meet with his father.

You cleared your throat and tidied the dress that had creased in various areas. The hem had managed to climb your thighs when Lucius had teased you with his own leg—you quickly pulled it proper before pushing yourself off of the doors. Your back throbbed where the handle had been buried only moments before. You cursed him for it. You cursed yourself for it; you hadn't hated it—the helplessness, his rough handling of you. You'd have let him continue had there not been an interruption, you knew that much to be true. Pathetic.

Your father called your name softly. You glanced up to see that he, Lucius and Abraxas had already gathered at the much-too-long dining table, all three had their eyes trained on you expectantly. Tensely, you made your way over to where your father stood, already reaching out a hand to pull out the chair beside his, but he quickly stopped you. You glanced up at him questioningly.

"Wouldn't you rather sit next to Lucius, dear?" He said gently. It was a demand, not an offer.

"I'd rather squat butt-naked over a wildfire," you replied discourteously, your gaze flickering over to Lucius, who looked enigmatic despite your comment.

Abraxas grew a scowl that almost seemed to speak for itself: why had he ever considered letting this ill-mannered squib marry into such a regal family. You couldn't help but smirk lightly, and your father's fingers tightened around your wrist, followed by the stern sound of your name.

"Do not start," he warned. This was the most serious you'd seen your father. It was quite unsettling, actually.

You snatched your hand from his grip and muttered a simple sorry before pulling out your chair. Your father cleared his throat and you glanced up at him once more. With the slightest flick of his head, he beckoned to where Lucius sat. You bit on your tongue and begrudgingly moved the seat back under the table before making your way over to where Lucius sat.

Upon your arrival, he stood from his seat and took the expected liberty of pulling out the chair for you, to which you dipped your chin in the slightest of thanks and sat down. Lucius propped himself down beside you, and his musky fragrance engulfed you in a gust. It was an enticing smell, and somewhere in the mix you could practically taste a hint of whisky.

If you were to be sentenced to his side for a lifetime, at least you knew you were in for drinks in good taste.

The dinner carried out rather uneventfully, and you spent half of that time praying for the hasty end of it. Lucius had gone back to dismissing your presence, he hadn't even spared you so much as a glance. Not that you cared. Because you didn't. Of course you didn't. Once everyone had finished eating, your meal had hardly been touched, yet you seemed the most prepared to take your leave.

Abraxas had stood and beckoned for the house-elves to tidy up the space while he and your father exchanged a few words. You glanced at Lucius, who had been watching the older men, though his attention shifted toward you as he became aware of your gawking.

"I'm bored," you said simply.

"Hardly my concern," he replied blankly.

"I could do with a drink."

"By all means, help yourself to the kitchen."

"I'm thinking stronger," you said with a dramatic finger to your chin, tapping away as though musing the subject. "Your father's sure to have some whisky in that study of his."

Lucius' eyes grew scathingly narrow. "Don't be foolish," he spat. "The only thing my father adores more than his wealth is his whisky. He'd notice if even a drop had left the decanter. And in any case, I hardly think you of all people could properly appreciate the sweet expense of the beverage."

Your composure collapsed fully at his words. Nothing more than a raging ball of impulse, you grabbed at his tie and yanked it harshly so that Lucius was leaned into you. "Come again?"

"I should have you thrown into the dungeons for your unbecomingness," he growled. His face was so close to yours that your lips could've brushed within the next breath.

You frowned cheekily. "I'd like to see just how daring you are, Mr Malfoy—"

"Don't call me that."

"Perhaps the rumours of your audaciousness are true," you continued with a glance at his lips. "And perhaps they are nothing more than rumours."

Your words sparked his interest. His bitter eyes thawed with a momentary look of curiosity, so faint but evidently present. "And just what are you insinuating?" He moved his cane to prop up your chin.

You winced as the steel python burrowed beneath your chin. It felt unpleasantly cold against your skin. A groan rumbled in the back of your throat and sent Lucius' conservativeness toppling over the edge.

"So fragile," he hummed, eyes gliding over your features. He was infatuated with your non-witchy delicacy. It meant you were powerless to him. You knew that. He knew that—and he loved it.

You practically held your breath as you glared up at him. His gaze flickered away from you and simultaneously, his hand moved to pry your fingers from his tie. He stood from his chair and you felt his cold fingers furl around your arm as he hauled you out of yours. You followed his searching eyes and came to realise that your father had disappeared, along with Abraxas. You had no idea where to, but you could hardly be arsed in this moment. Lucius hadn't given you a split second to speak before he began dragging you toward Abraxas' study.

You smirked as you stumbled after him. "Does this mean I'm getting that drink after all?"

Lucius tossed a swift glare over his shoulder, though he remained silent. When they reached the doors to the study, he extended his free hand to knock and waited for a response. When none came, he pushed the doors open and pushed you ahead of him.

You entered with an annoyed click of your tongue, but the rustic theme of the study stole your attention. A polished, deep-red wood—the entire room. One of the walls was lined with shelves topped with questionable collectibles and the room was furnished with red, velvety sofas. It definitely wasn't a taste you'd ever personally acquire, but you'd have to be blind to admit that it didn't hold some sort of charm. Straight ahead of you, an elegant, bricked fireplace was still bustling with a shy flame that burnt the room just the right shade of cosy.

Lucius released your arm and closed the doors behind him. You ventured a little way from his presence.

"Who knew Lucius had it in him to enter his daddy's study without permission?" You teased absentmindedly as you reached the fireplace and spotted a crystal decanter of whiskey. "Bingo," you murmured, picking it up.

"Put that down." A hand grabbed ahold of your wrist and yanked it roughly, causing you to drop the crystal container.

The whiskey toppled into the fireplace with a sickening slosh, and at the moment of contact, the fireplace burst into a hissing, spitting tornado. You narrowly avoided being nipped by the heat as Lucius pulled you toward him, though your dress was not as lucky. The fabric had caught aflame below your backside, but Lucius was quicker in acting. His hand snaked around your back and tugged at the zip. The straps of your dress fell past your shoulders and he slipped it down the curves of your body until it laid at your black heels and released grey squiggles of smoke.

You glared up at him. "Hey, asshole!" You spat, shoving at his chest. "I liked that dress—a lot!”

Lucius cocked an eyebrow at you and pressed the tip of his cane into your cleavage. Your breath caught in your throat like a lump of dry food. He said your name softly. You liked the way it sounded on his tongue.

"You've made a mess," he said, eyes observing the spill of alcohol that mottled the polished floor before glancing at you. He gradually began to press harder and harder into your skin until you had no choice but to back up to relieve the pain.

"Since when don't you like taking credit?" You shot back sarcastically. A dull coldness hit your back as you bumped into the fireplace, though Lucius continued closing in on the space between your bodies.

He said nothing, only glared at you with annoyingly incoherent eyes. You grew flustered now, grasping the situation. You were half naked and cornered by a wizard, and you had no magical means of defending yourself. You felt the heat of the fireplace begin to lap at your exposed skin. Your jaw clenched, and Lucius' gaze trailed down your neck attentively.

"The fire bothering you?" He asked lowly. You scowled. "Am I mistaken? Had you not mentioned earlier that you'd be more than happy to squat butt-naked over an open flame?"

"You're hilarious," you retorted before moving to shove him away, but his free hand moved to clutch your neck.

His other hand dragged the cane downward, slowly—first over the clasp of your bra, then across the soft skin of your stomach, before stopping short of your now-heated core. The fireplace couldn't take credit for that. You were completely and utterly overwhelmed now. Every sensation had become too much.

Lucius' grip on your neck tightened until your ability to breathe was at his mercy. With painfully exaggerated slowness, he brought his lips to your ear. "I must confess that the mere thought of ravishing a squib is unusually. . . exciting," he said in a gruff whisper.

You felt your expression twist at his words, and much to his satisfaction, too. He leaned away from you, his slender fingers leaving the flushed rim of your neck. His eyes swept over your posture, seemingly pleased with the way you had fallen tense under his control. Power. That's all it was about with him. He bathed in the power that came with any opportunity to completely and utterly dominate the lesser. You saw it in the way every action that earned compliance on the receiving end caused his lips to tug into a smirk. You saw it now as he glared at you.

Lucius' attention moved down to his cane. Slowly, he angled it into your skin and slid it under the waistband of your underwear. You sucked air at the cool sensation of the serpent head gliding down your skin and slipping between your wet folds.

"Lucius," you breathed through gritted teeth.

"Hm?" He hummed busily, his attention fixed on his cane that was now angled toward your entrance. He glanced up at you momentarily. "If you'd like me to stop, simply say so." He paused his movements and gazed at you impassively.

You glared at him in silence for many moments, only bouts of air whistled from your nostrils. Your breathing had grown shallow and quick at his touch. "I hate you," you said softly.

Lucius's lips stretched into a faint smirk before he roughly pressed his lips to yours. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his shoulders to steady yourself, moving one hand to mercilessly tug at his ponytail until it came undone in messy strands. He grunted against your lips and pulled the serpent head from between your folds. You hissed at his lack of caution. He lifted you into his arms and moved to his father's desk, where he set you down onto the fine wood—unpleasantly cold against your exposed skin. He leaned in and curled his fingers around the back of your neck to bring you into another series of rough kisses.

Your hands explored every inch of Lucius's suit. When you felt the hems of his black blazer, you lifted it up and over his shoulders, to which he aided the removal by rolling his shoulders back so that the blazer would fall to the floor. His tongue explored your insides roughly, you savoured the way he tasted. He still possessed a tint of red wine from earlier's dinner.

Lucius broke off the kiss rather suddenly, and you found yourself devastatingly disappointed at the abundance of space between your lips. You leaned back onto your palms, watching as he took a step back and lifted his cane.

"Do you ever not have that thing in clutch?" You asked pointedly.

"Be quiet," he demanded, reaching for your arm and yanking you from the desk. Before you had a moment to protest, he spun you around and bent you over the expanse of the table. Your entire backside was exposed to him, and you felt your face burn self-consciously.

"What are you doing?" You asked angrily, attempting to prop yourself upward, but Lucius held you down with a steady hand on the small of your back. You frowned. "If you think I'm going to let you fuck me like a common whore, you're wrong!" You felt the fabric of Lucius's shirt brush your back tenderly as he leaned over you and brought his lips to your ear.

"Whores don't usually talk this much," he said lowly before bringing his free hand toward your lips. "Spit," he demanded.

"I'm not spitting on your hand, Lucius," you objected. "You've got some weird kinks, you know—" you were cut off as Lucius pried your lips harshly with his middle and index finger.

You felt him push for the back of your throat, and even as you tried to yank your head away as a protest, he kept on reaching for your depths until you gagged around him. He removed his hand, and past your teary lashes, you saw his slender fingers painted in a slimy sheen.

Your back felt cold once more as Lucius straightened up. You felt the tip of his cane scrape your lower back as he hooked it onto your underwear and pulled it down your thighs, exposing your wet core to him. The fingers, coated in your saliva, traced a line down your back until it reached your arse and traced gentle circles around the entrance. A moan escaped your lips as he inserted a finger inside without the courtesy of a warning, and it was quickly followed by another.

You clenched around him at the unfamiliar, slightly painful sensation, but as Lucius proceeded to tease your folds once more with the serpent-crowned head of his cane, you began to melt into his rough fondling. It wasn't long until you felt beads of your arousal escape your main entrance and slither down the insides of your soft thighs.

Lucius noted this image, glorified it, even. "If this is what hate looks likes, I'd love to see what else your cunt would do for me once we're better acquainted," he commented in a low and sultry tone.

You laid with your cheek pressed against the table, your lips slightly parted and your eyes screwed shut at the feelings of ecstasy that now coursed through your veins, brought on at the sites where Lucius teased steadily. You were too far gone to retaliate as you usually did—no one had ever touched you this way. It felt like pure bliss, and now you didn't ever want to leave this manor.

A deep chuckle rumbled from Lucius. "Your asshole is tightening around me. Tell me, did you want something else from me?" He jeered. When you didn't answer him, he paused the movements of his cane and removed his hand from your hole. "Then I suppose we're finished here," he said, passing his wet fingers over the soft skin of your ass.

"No," you complained softly. Disgracefully. You didn't want this to be the end of it. You pushed yourself upwards, your underwear falling further down your legs until it lay a wet bundle at your feet. You turned to face him, your expression hardened. "You don't get to tease me like that and then leave."

Lucius tilted his head mockingly. "But a whore is merely a toy. It is hardly their place to complain when their master has finished playing, hm?"

You perked your chin defiantly. "I'm not a whore," you said scathingly.

Lucius took a step forward, his clothed leg pressed between your legs and forcing you back against the desk. "Then why do you leak like one?" He said softly, his eyes fixated on yours. You glanced down to see the dark fabric of his pants had grown even darker with your arousal. When you glanced back up at him, his eyes seemed to glint hungrily, and a satisfied smirk widened his lips.

He pressed a hungry kiss onto your lips, and you returned it without hesitation. He removed the knee straddled between your thighs and replaced it with his cane, which he slid against your clitoris and through your folds before pushing it inside of you. You gasped against his lips and swung your head back as you felt the steel teeth of the python lightly graze your insides.

"Lucius!" You said in barely more than a breathy moan. It hurt to have the item inside of you, but when he began thrusting it to and fro with slow, rhythmic motions, coupled with the wet kisses he littered upon your neck, it began to feel disgustingly right.

You fastened your hands around his neck for support, and he carefully hauled you onto the desk. His free hand made its way into your hair, and he tugged it harshly so that your neck was perfectly arched for him to exploit with aggressive love-bites. You felt the pit of your stomach grow tight in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and Lucius seemed to deduce this as well from your heightened breathing, so he pulled the cane from your entrance.

He tutted disappointedly. "I've barely had my fun," he said. "Don't finish until I say so." You lifted your head to him tiredly, barely able to discern his face. "Am I understood?" He prompted, his grip on your head tightening as he shook you lightly. You nodded, and he inserted his cane once more. Oh, Godric, you didn't want this to end.

It felt like hours had passed by as Lucius teased you with his painfully slow thrusts. He spent most of the time gazing at your face, gauging your every reaction at his movements, savouring the little mewls of pleasure you let slip every now and then. Encouraged by the sweet music you made just for him, he gave you permission to finish.

When he had finished having his way with you, he removed the cane from between your thighs, pulling with it a stream of your arousal. You felt the warm wetness pool around your bottom and leak into every crevice left between parts of your body in contact with the surface of the desk.

His eyes moved between your exposed lower half and your face. He lifted the cane to your lips. "Clean it," he demanded impassively.

You gave a chuckle. "Funny," you responded and pushed his hand back, shifting your weight to get up, but Lucius sat you down with a rough hand. You glanced at him in alarm. "You're serious?"

"Very."

You searched his eyes, waiting to find a glimmer of amusement, but anything he felt at this moment was incoherent to you. "I'm not doing that," you objected.

Lucius didn't seemed pleased with your answer. His hand moved down your body rather quickly. He moved between your thighs and inserted a harsh finger, which earned a shocked gasp from you. He seized that opportunity to slide the serpent head into your mouth.

"The decision is not up to you," he paused and wriggled the cane between your lips. "Wider." You shook your head and in response, he added every finger until his hand was fully submerged within you.

Tears brimmed in your eyes. The sensation was painfully pleasurable. There was no fine line between the two, you only knew that his touch was undeniably desirable. Obediently, you swirled your tongue over every intricate groove of the serpent head. The taste was unusual, but not unpleasant. You glared him down as you sucked on the cane suggestively, though Lucius' composure didn't seem to falter.

Once no slimy coating remained, you patted his arm and he removed the cane from your mouth, along with his hand from your entrance. You were mildly ashamed to see the sheathe of your pleasure around his slender fingers, but Lucius seemed satisfied in contrast.

"Proud of yourself?" You muttered.

Lucius leaned past you and when he withdrew, you saw a fancy handkerchief in clutch. He first wiped his hand before passing the fabric over his cane.

"Generally, yes," he replied busily. He tossed the handkerchief onto your lap and leaned past you once more to pull out one of the draws. "Watch your tone," he said before lifting a bottle of whiskey to his lips and taking a gulp.

"Excuse me—" Lucius silenced you by pressing the nozzle of the bottle between your lips, and he began tilting the bottle upwards so that you had no choice but to gulp down the drink.

His slender fingers reached for your bra, which he violently tugged on until the fabric surrendered and tore at the clasps. The bra fell from your shoulders and left you fully exposed. He moved the bottle away from your lips and began pouring it between your cleavage, over your breasts and into your lap.

"What the fuck, Lucius!" You snapped.

"Language," he warned, setting the bottle aside and planting a kiss on your exposed collar bone. He turned for the door and paused with a hand on the handle. "Oh, and you best make yourself presentable," he said, pointedly glancing you up and down. "I do believe I heard the chatter of my father and Mr Lee beyond the study. Wouldn't want either of them to find you this way, no?"

You face went cold with horror. You fucking bastard!

"Tidy up the office while you're at it, won't you, whore? And make sure to lap up every last drop of that whiskey. It's rather expensive." You saw a hint of a smirk wind his perfect lips before he exited the study.

[bluemerakis]

You tossed the empty whiskey bottle across the bed, watching as Billy managed to lift his head and part his screwed eyes at last. He was still dripping at the brow, and upon making eye contact with you, he passed an angry swipe of his tongue across his lips with the intent to scold you—but you didn’t give him the chance to fume as you gripped either side of his jaw and forcibly pushed your lips against his.

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a moan in response to your imposition, but shortly returned the kiss with an aggressive push of his own lips. You lapped up the amalgamation of whiskey and cigar smoke that basted his tongue like a starved street mutt while his large hands came down harshly on your ass—the reprimand that he hadn’t verbally been able to deliver, but you had a feeling that this was only the beginning, and that he’d have well made his point by the end of this heated, physical debate.

Hehehe a very lil snippet of the Billy Butcher smut I’m working on. I need y’all to know that I’m GETTING THERE OKAY 😭 have a lil more faith in me I SHALL DELIVER. It’s shaping out to be a long ass one shot but I’m so here for it and I’m thoroughly enjoying writing it!!

[bluemerakis]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ paper trails ❞

⤷ Word count: 2.5k

Pookies it was my birthday yesterday, so in honour of that, I wanted to write a lil something something with coryo 🤭 not anything grand, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless

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WARNINGS:

Implied smut ig, teensy bit fluffy, just coryo being the cutest little gentleman ever (outside the bedroom)

SYNOPSIS:

There was nobody else that Coriolanus trusted more with his cherished garden of roses than you. You were the keeper of his flowers, tending to them with a delicacy that only you were capable of. He’d always admired that about you—how your green fingers always seemed to yield a larger bloom rate than his own ever did.

You’d always thought that you were nothing more than a district eleven nobody gardener to Coriolanus, but little did you know that he knew pretty much everything (however little) there was to know about your history, including your birthday. He gives you a gift of his own, an invitation he’s hoping you’ll accept so that he may celebrate your birthday with you—Coriolanus Snow style.

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Crouched low to the ground, you bit back a hiss of pain as a thorn pricked the tip of your index finger, withdrawing your hand to wipe away the welling drop of red at your fingertip. You fashioned more conscious caution as you returned your hand to the culprit rose and gingerly bent the stem towards you, your other hand gripping a pair of garden scissors. You nipped the stem below the dying rose head, the decayed, featherlight petals drifting to the ground to form a scattered painting of a crime scene.

Each time you were forced to cut away the wilted flowers, a piece of your heart ached. It was a necessary practice in order to keep the bush healthy and set it up for a successful next season, but it didn’t hurt any less to know that you’d once poured as much effort into preserving that very flower, and now you would lay it to rest simply because it had lost all grace and beauty—and hence value. Funny, really, how much that concept seemed to equate to the real world.

Overhead, the sun seared on, taking full responsibility for the beads of sweat that now dribbled down your temples. You dropped your scissors to the ground, it’s fall cushioned by the decayed bodies of your rose victims, and wiped your dirt-strewn hand across your forehead with a sigh. You took a moment to glance around the garden of the Snow estate, your chest prickling with a sense of pride at the perfect order you’d managed to bring it to.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t much trust anyone to tinker with his garden, it was one of his most prized possessions—a symbol of sorts that only he knew the meaning of. No matter, he’d taken you in from the districts and trusted you enough with the duty of being his gardener, and he was a very generous host in return. You stayed on the property—in this very garden, in fact, in your own little rustic cottage. He didn’t often make a stop there, mostly tending to his own business, but there were a few occasions where he did manage to pass-by and would check in with you.

The last thing you’d expected him to be was generous—and kind. It was practically an unspoken rule in the Capitol for the higher classes to spit on and degrade anybody from the districts, merely because your lesser existence was offensive to their way of living. You had to admit that you didn’t much hold any love for the Capitol citizens, either, but you thought that your dislike of them was far more justifiable and valid.

But there was an air around Coriolanus Snow, not exactly the most humble, but he was far from boasting his wealth and luxury of a lifestyle from the rooftops of Panem. It was almost as though he were too afraid to, as though this life would and could be robbed from him in an instant. It gave you the impression that he was not like most other Capitol-born citizens—perhaps he’d known what poverty was like, whether it was him or someone he knew that had endured it. Maybe that was why he’d taken pity on your life in the district and offered you this opportunity to come and live with him in return for your services.

There were many possibilities at play, but because Coriolanus Snow was such an enigma of a man, there wasn’t much hope of closure. As if the mere thought of him was a summons, you heard footsteps clatter down the bricked walkway winding through the gardens, turning your head just in time to glimpse that signature red ensemble of the man who’d been plaguing your thoughts for the last hour or so.

You instinctively rose to full height to offer him a modest bow of greeting upon his arrival. It was a gesture he’d insisted on neglecting for the first few days of your presence here, but he’d soon after given up on the matter when he realised that you would not listen. Now, going off of the sheer delight that seemed to glint in those deep blue eyes, you thought he rather enjoyed the importance that your greeting seemed to imply.

“Mr. Snow,” you offered a formal greeting, feeling suddenly conscious at how ragged and sweat-stained your gardening dress had become under this hot weather. Quite frankly, you hadn’t expected him to pay a visit today, given the scorching weather. You only wished that you could have presented yourself in a better manner.

Coriolanus stood towering before you, his chin tilted down to glance you over as he merely said, “Coriolanus, please.”

You were hesitant at his correction, before offering a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Coriolanus,” you repeated softly, feeling out each syllable of his name. It felt odd to use his first name outside of your thoughts, but even then, you almost always addressed him by full name.

You noticed the way Coriolanus’ eyes had lowered down your figure, and the self-consciousness only seemed to worsen at the idea that he may be judging your appearance. But you were taken aback as he leaned forward to take your hands into his, his thumbs ghosting over the back of your hands before he turned them over to survey your palms. The way he cupped your hands in his felt far too intimate, and you hoped by the grace of all the Gods that the dirt plastered to your face was mask enough to hide the colour inevitably warming the apples of your cheeks.

“Have you not been using those gardening gloves I gave you?” Coriolanus asked as he trailed his thumb over the cuts littered around your palm and across your fingers. He lifted his eyes to yours, they were shaped with genuine concern.

You were taken aback at how blatantly careless he was in his handling of you, and for a second you almost felt like an equal in status. Capitol-born rarely laid their hands on district occupants, as though they feared the poverty and dirt they carried were a plague to be avoided at all costs.

It took you a few seconds to find your tongue. “No, I haven’t,” you admitted, then quickly added, “not for lack of trying, though. I’ve never used gloves, even back in the districts—they make it difficult to grab ahold of the stems, and I find that my cut becomes rather clumsy with them on. I prefer the unveiled contact with my greenery.”

The white-haired man seemed to nod with understanding, a faint smile stretching his full and soft lips. “I guessed as much,” he responded. The confusion that swept across your face prompted him to explain. “I never developed a taste for gloves, either. When I inherited this estate, the garden was in a ghastly state. No matter how many gardeners I managed to enlist, none of them could bring my roses to justice. For a while, I did all of the work myself, and the garden thrived.” He paused with a sudden and wistful look. “But as it seems, my time wore thin with all my newly acquired responsibilities, so I turned to the districts in hopes of finding a suitable gardener to continue my work.” He paused as his eyes lowered down to your hands once more. “And then I found you.”

Your heart lurched at the way Coriolanus’ fingers began to caress the curves of your palms. You felt that somewhere along the line, you had missed the part of the story where the two of you had grown close enough for this sort of intimacy. But even then, you didn’t find yourself withdrawing from his touch. It felt oddly soothing, the way he dragged a constant, rhythmic pressure across your torn and aching skin.

“Why did you choose me?” You asked suddenly, causing Coriolanus to lift his head with that lopsided smile.

“I just knew you were right for me,” he responded levelly. “When I found your stall, I watched you for a while—the way you tended the flowers and assembled the bouquets for that Capitol celebration order. I thought the work looked familiar, I’ve seen it decorating most—if not all of the foyers of the upper-class Capitol buildings. The bouquets have always had a signature crown to them—one flower in the centre that sits a little taller than the rest of them, like a king that gazes down across his people. I saw you do the very same thing with all of your orders, and I knew then that you were the popular artist whose flowers haunt me wherever I walk.”

You let slip a giggle at his last words, not caring for etiquette at this point. You thought that you’d long since left formalities behind when Coriolanus had taken up your hands.

“I was unaware of just how much of a fan you were, Mr. Snow,” you teased, instantly catching your fault and correcting yourself. “Coriolanus.”

“Involuntarily,” he chuckled, his smile quieting as his eyes flickered across your face rather intensely. You would have cowered away from his stare, had it been casted under a different circumstance. “In any case, I knew I had to have you. Your talent and potential would have been laid to waste crafting posies and ensembles for sanctimonious Capitol parties. I doubt either one of them could properly recognise and appreciate the true effort imbued into their side-piece decorations.”

You pursed your lips at those last words, feeling rather propelled by a sense of pride at his praise and recognition of your hard work. “Putting aside the “sidepiece decorations”—could you, Coriolanus, properly appreciate my work?”

“If you have to ask that, I’m afraid I’ve been too subtle in my efforts,” he responded. Your lips quirked at that, only to gape in slight shock as Coriolanus lifted both of your hands to his lips, and in elegant sequence, placed a tender kiss onto your knuckles.

You swore that the very skin of your hands shrank away from the feel of his soft lips, an explosion of shivers sent along your rigid arms. “Coriolanus—” you started softly, but he cut you off.

“I chose you because of what your potential had to offer me,” he said, slowly releasing your hands to return back to your sides, and there they quivered as he went on. “But also because I knew what I could offer you. Nobody understands the scars of labour more than I do—don’t forget that I’ve been kneeling in your place, doing your job, long before I brought you here. Gardening, it isn’t just an industry—it’s an art, one that very few can appreciate, letalone master. But you—you’ve perfected it. I’ve never seen flowers so full and abundant in bloom.”

“You’re being too generous.”

“No,” he politely disagreed, a faint smile trailing after. “I’m simply giving credit where it’s due. Please, allow me to commemorate your hard work.” Your lips parted to question what he meant by those words, but you were silenced by the shuffling of his hands as he reached into his crimson blazer and pulled a white rose from concealment. “Take this.” He offered you the rose, and you gingerly accepted it.

Upon closer inspection, you noticed that it wasn’t a real rose at all—not all of it, at least, but one whose petals were expertly shaped from paper. The stem of it was real, but the thorns had been carefully carved away, the leaves left behind already starting to wither at the edges.

“Coriolanus,” you breathed, tilting the paper rose in every direction to marvel at its beauty. “This is so beautiful. I never pegged you for an arts and crafts guy,” you added with a chuckle.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “It was one of the ways Tigris and I used to pass time as kids.”

You glanced up in faint surprise at the mention of Tigris. When Coriolanus had risen to power and status, shorty after inheriting the Plinth fortune, it was very difficult for his history to remain private. Everybody—even the districts, knew that Tigris was his older cousin, and that their relationship following his newly acquired fortune had since been estranged. After all, it was difficult to conceal the fact that his cousin no longer partook in his life, staying separated in her living quarters as well as neglecting the courtesy of attending his events of honour to show support.

You wondered whether Coriolanus ever regretted growing so distant with Tigris, but as you silently gazed at him, his expression let on not even the slightest hint of his thoughts or feelings on the matter. He was fashioned from composure, the only way to truly get an answer would be to hear it straight from his lips. But you wouldn’t pick at that particular scab, not when you had hardly known each other for more than a month—or spoken for more than a few minutes.

“Well, it’s beautiful,” you told him, gently clasping the stem between your fingers. “Thank you. I’ll cherish it forever.”

“I’m afraid you won’t have the opportunity,” Coriolanus said. You furrowed your brows. He made a slight gesture of his chin toward the rose, his hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. “I left some notes on the petals. Feel free to read it once I’ve taken my leave.”

Your tilted down to the rose, your eyes narrowing in an effort to spot said note on the paper petals. After twirling the rose around for quite a bit, you managed to find the neat scribble of his handwriting nestled into the middle ring of petals. Before you had the chance to read the first word, Coriolanus’ voice stirred your focus.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said before offering a smile and turning to take his leave from the garden.

You lifted your head and watched him disappear around a winding corner. “Goodbye!” You called after him, not sure he’d heard you at all. You turned your attention back to the rose and manoeuvred your fingers between the various paper petals, managing to find the beginning of the note. You push down the first petal and began reading it’s contents:

Your breath hitched in your throat at that last sentence. Coriolanus Snow, you little flirt, you thought, but you couldn’t deny the flush of your cheeks as you entertained that possibility. You pushed the thought away as you continued reading:

You chuckled at that statement. You weren’t going to be the one to say it. You bent down the last petal, the writing a lot less than the last few notes.

You averted your attention to the pathway that Coriolanus had long since disappeared along, your heart brimming with a sudden warmth. Nobody, other than your now deceased family, knew of your birthday. It had never been anything special, only a grim tally of your miserable years in the district.

You wondered how he’d come to obtain this information, and you realised then just how true to his word he’d been—he very likely did know every single thing about you. But you hated being perceived, especially by somebody you knew nothing about. So you decided then and there that you would take up his offer on tonight’s dinner,

And then, you intended to find out his every secret.

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This was so fun and refreshing to write. I’ve got about 7 unfinished drafts sitting around that I’ve been working on now and again, but I’ve been itching to get something complete and posted—so although this is something small, at least it’s something lmao. Sorry to disappoint y’all smut lovers, but I’ve got to keep it clean now and again.

Anyways, I just turned 19 yesterday, which feels surreal because I’m literally just a 17 year old teenage girl. I don’t think I’ll ever feel grown up. Every birthday is a goddamn existential crisis 😭

I hope you enjoyed this, likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Mwah!

𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸

[bluemerakis]

┃Welcome to The Boys masterlist┃

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⤷ bluemerakis ᡣ𐭩

Who I write for: For now, I’m mainly writing for Billy Butcher, but I do intend to expand into other characters from The Boys!

Requests: Open

「 BILLY BUTCHER / KARL URBAN 」

FICS :

⌖

ONE SHOTS :

⌖ Scout’s Honour

⌖ Sittin’ pretty poolside ▫️▫️▫️

DRABBLES :

⌖ Thigh-highs

⌖ Soft!Billy caring for sick reader

IMAGINES :

⌖ Carnival for Kisses

⌖ Lover Boy Butcher

SMAUS :

⌖ Ranch getaway with bf!karlurban

⌖ BTS with The Boys cast

⌖ BTS Pete’s Dragon with bf!karlurban

EDITS :

⌖ 111

⌖ 222

⌖ 333

「 SOLDIER BOY / JENSEN ACKLES 」

ONE SHOTS:

⌖ Feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic

⌖ Feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic pt. 2…

DRABBLES:

⌖ Soldier Boy teaches non-smoker reader how to roll a blunt…

IMAGINES:

⌖

EDITS:

⌖ 111

⤷ All headers & dividers made by me!

「 BACK TO NAVIGATION 」

[bluemerakis]

Like I literally have a drafted smut of coryo snow that I started all the way back in Feb and it’s basically done but it was supposed to be a Valentine’s Day thing and SURELY I CANT POST IT END SEPTEMBER? This is so funny because who actually still GAF about him???

[bluemerakis]

┃Welcome to THG masterlist ⁀➴ ┃

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⤷ bluemerakis ᡣ𐭩

Who I write for: Currently, I have been writing for young!Coriolanus Snow, but I can expand into other characters

Requests: Open

YOUNG!CORIOLANUS SNOW

FICS :

ོ Paper trails (I)

ོ (II)…

ONE SHOTS :

ོ I’m the guy mothers warn you about. . .

DRABBLES :

ོ

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[bluemerakis]

┃Welcome to TWD masterlist ☠︎︎ ┃

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⤷ bluemerakis ᡣ𐭩

Who I write for : Negan Smith, Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon, Maggie Greene, Rosita Espinosa

Requests: Open for all

「 NEGAN SMITH 」

FICS :

☠︎ …

ONE SHOTS :

☠︎ Nothing left to lose

DRABBLES :

☠︎ …

EDITS :

☠︎ 111

「 RICK GRIMES 」

FICS :

☠︎ …

ONE SHOTS :

☠︎ …

DRABBLES :

☠︎ …

「 DARYL DIXON 」

FICS :

☠︎ …

ONE SHOTS :

☠︎ …

DRABBLES :

☠︎ …

「 ROSITA ESPINOSA 」

FICS :

☠︎ …

ONE SHOTS :

☠︎ …

DRABBLES :

☠︎ …

「 MAGGIE GREENE 」

FICS :

☠︎ …

ONE SHOTS :

☠︎ …

DRABBLES :

☠︎ …

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[bluemerakis]

┃Welcome to my blog.ᐟ┃

˗ˏˋ Mera ⋆ 19 ⋆ she/her ⋆ pan ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ Fantasy ⋆ Sci-fi ⋆ Dystopian ⋆ Action ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ Writer ⋆ Reader ⋆ Busy Vet Student ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ TWD ☠︎︎ The Boys ༒ Hunger Games ཀ SPN ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ Karl Urban, Jackles & JDM ᡣ𐭩 ˎˊ˗

˗ˏˋ SZA ⋆ Chappell Roan ⋆ Childish Gambino ⋆ Mac Miller ˎˊ˗

┃ NAVIGATION ┃

All headers & dividers made by me!

[bluemerakis]

「 MERA’S MASTERLIST 」

Hey strangers, mutuals and delulus alike. Thank you for making a pitstop at my blog!

Below the cut, you’ll find a list of the various fandoms—and respective characters—that I’m currently interested in, with links to written pieces that I’ve completed so far. The list and characters will continue to diversify as I (re)discover more books/shows/movies/crushes along the line. But for now, enjoy what bullshit I have managed to push out so far.

The Boys Masterlist

The Walking Dead Masterlist

The Hunger Games Masterlist

Miscellaneous Writing :

• White-haired devil — Lucius Malfoy

▎ OTHER CONTENT :

• TWD themed top

• Makeup

• 1/11 w/ jay

• Fashion stuff

⤷ All headers & dividers made by me!

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