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whump-card · 1 year ago

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This Death That I Chose: Chapter 8

2862 words

CW: dubcon (not explicitly described), conditioning, derogatory language, manipulation, dubcon kiss, panic attack, derogatory tattoo, pet whump

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~~~

Sex with Vic was strange. He moved carefully, like Lark was some kind of fragile object. He was deeply mindful of Lark’s broken arm, and the IV antibiotics in the other. He used a condom, stolen from Faye’s supplies. He plied Lark open slowly, and it barely even hurt when he pushed himself in. In the end Lark found that an orgasm came easily to him, rather than being something he had to drag out of his body like a rotten tooth.

Lark almost enjoyed it. It scared him.

Vic left in a hurry after the act, guilt written all over his face. Good. He’d eventually turn on Lark to absolve himself of the blame. He was replaced by Hannah, who sauntered back in with her books, none the wiser. After Faye checked in on them at lunchtime, Lark tested the waters with Hannah as well. It couldn’t just be one person; one person fucking Lark was that person’s mistake, Lark needed to tempt multiple people to bed in order to prove that he was a foul, corrupting influence.

Unfortunately Hannah started gushing about her girlfriend as soon as Lark brought up relationships, so he fell silent and let her gush. He’d also preemptively struck Becca and Faye off his list; Becca was a barely-disguised bleeding heart, and Faye was too strictly professional.

Tao was a whole other puzzle. Despite reminding Lark so strongly of the Commander, he seemed to have zero interest in Lark’s body. That was… confusing. Lark didn’t like it.

But as long as the Watchmen keeping guard at his bedside changed every eight or so hours, he’d have an influx of new targets and plenty of time to work them. He just hoped none of them made him feel as strange as Vic had.

~~~

Tao ran into Marina on his way to check on Karlo that evening. They met at the end of Faye’s driveway, each carrying a bundle of cloth.

“I brought Karlo a change of clothes,” Tao lifted his bundle.

“So did I,” Marina smiled sheepishly.

Tao shrugged. “He can mix and match.”

Marina laughed brightly, but it quickly faded into a nervous silence.

“…Do you think I could try seeing him again?” she asked, “This morning was – I’ll handle it better, now.”

“Yeah, of course,” Tao nodded, “Do you want me to come in with you?”

“Oh,” she blinked at him, “Yes. Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.”

They entered the building and walked up to Karlo’s room together. Marina knocked, and waited until Hannah called, “Come in!” to enter.

They found Karlo sitting up with a book open in his lap, mimicking Hannah in the chair next to him. His eyes caught his mother’s for the briefest of moments before he looked away, stone-faced.

“Oh, are you reading?” Marina asked softly.

When it was clear Karlo wasn’t going to answer, Hannah piped up. “Yeah, I brought him something. I figured it’d get boring, stuck in here all day.”

“Thanks, Hannah,” Tao said, “You can take a break.”

She checked a cracked but functional watch on her wrist. “Dylan will be here in a minute anyway, I’ll just take off. G’night, Lark.”

She stood, and as she passed Tao he said quietly, “His name is Karlo.”

She hesitated.

“Not according to him.”

Once Hannah was gone, Marina took her place at Karlo’s bedside after setting her and Tao’s combined stack of clothes on the end of the bed. Tao leaned against the doorframe, watching.

“Tao and I brought you some things.”

No response. Karlo stared down at the open book, his eyes unmoving.

“What’s your book about?”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Well, I spent all day cooking for everyone. That’s my job, here, I cook.” She knitted and unknitted her hands together in her lap. “Karlo-”

“My name is Lark.” Hissed out like a curse.

Tao caught it: there was the tiniest waver in Karlo’s voice. He was sure Marina heard it too. She swallowed.

“Lark, then,” she yielded, “I-”

“I want to go home.”

Marina took in a shuddering breath. “Oh, baby-”

“To the Commander,” Karlo clarified, “I want to go home to the Commander.”

“Ka- Lark, honey, I don’t understand-”

“Then I’ll tell you.” Karlo’s eye flashed with some kind of mania as he almost – almost – looked at Tao. “I – I am – I am the Commander’s pet,” he drew himself up straighter, forcing out the words, “I’m his whore. I give him everything he wants. I’m not your son. I don’t belong here.”

Horror and gut-wrenching pity tore through Tao. Karlo truly believed he needed to be returned to the Commander – but that didn’t stop the shame of admitting what the Commander had turned him into. As adeptly as Karlo could control his posture, his face, and his voice, there were some things he couldn’t control. A bright red flush crept up his neck and flooded his face as he spoke, as it had when Tao saw his tattoos. His good hand trembled in his lap.

Tao’s eyes flicked to watch Marina; one hand had lifted out of her lap as if to reach out to Karlo, but she thought better of it. She touched her hand to her mouth, then dropped it; then, her voice came out unexpectedly strong.

“Well, you’re here now, whether you like it or not, young man, and here you will stay. You’ll go back to the Commander over my dead body.” She stood up. “Change your clothes, God knows how long you’ve been wearing those.” She turned on her heel and marched over to Tao, her face crumpling as she approached.

“I don’t know…” she breathed when they were toe-to-toe. Tao squeezed her arm.

“It’s okay,” was all he said.

That seemed to fortify her. She cleared her throat and said over her shoulder, “Goodnight, Lark,” and fled the room.

Tao watched her go, then stepped fully into the room and closed the door.

“I’m going to wait with you until Dylan gets here to make sure you don’t hurt yourself, alright?”

Karlo had turned his head to glare out the darkening window.

“Whatever,” he muttered.

Whatever? Tao wanted to shout back. He wanted to tell Karlo off for talking to Marina like that, wanted to get some straight answers out of the boy about what he was actually feeling. But Karlo’s shoulders were quivering, and his chest rose and fell too fast. Tao bit his tongue.

They remained in silence for a long minute, Tao shifting from foot to foot by the door and Karlo slowly calming down. Eventually, the boy spoke in a low, icy voice.

“He’ll still kill you to get me back, even if you leave this place.”

“Well, you know what?” Tao replied, “Coms has been listening, and we’ve heard nothing from him. If he really wants you back, he has a funny way of showing it.”

Karlo started to respond, but the door opened without warning.

“Hey Tao!” Dylan, a wiry young man, stopped short in the doorway, “Here for babysitting duty.”

“Right, yeah, um-” Tao bobbed his head, thrown off by Dylan’s sudden appearance. “Okay.”

“Did I interrupt something?” Dylan looked back and forth between Tao and Karlo curiously.

“No, it’s fine, just, uh… Don’t let him out of the room except for the bathroom, got it?”

“Got it, boss.”

“Okay,” Tao looked back at Karlo where he sat in the bed, suddenly looking very small. “Goodnight, Karlo.”

When he got no response, Tao reluctantly shuffled past Dylan out into the hallway, where he took a deep, instinctual breath as if he’d just been diving underwater, searching and grasping for an object lost.

Becca estimated that they’d be able to leave the following night, as long as everything went smoothly. The sooner they got on the move, the sooner Karlo would understand that he was safe. Tao had to believe that.

~~~

“Y’know, I was one of the ones who cracked the transport info, about you,” Dylan smirked at Lark from where he lounged in the chair at Lark’s bedside, “I know what you are.”

Lark tilted his head.

“That makes this so much easier, then,” he murmured.

“Whatcha say?”

Lark took a slow, controlled breath. This was the plan he’d decided on. This was the plan he’d already started. This was the plan he had to go through with.

“Can you… help me change clothes, sir?” Lark asked, putting on his best sweet-and-timid voice, “It’s just, it’s sooo hard with this cast, to get things on and off.” He lifted his broken arm slightly to illustrate his point.

Dylan’s slanted smile widened, and his eyes glinted with unabashed lust.

“Sure.”

Something surged through Lark’s veins, and it took him a moment to identify it as power. Lark had never before been able to pick and choose when and with whom he had sex, and here he was, playing these men like a fiddle. Lark was the one in control now. His beauty and allure made him the dominant one.

He was going to bring as many people as he could to shame and ruin. Then they’d have to get rid of him.

They’d have to send him back.

~~~

“Hey, Tao!”

Tao paused halfway down Faye’s driveway and turned to see the surgeon sanding on her front step.

“Yeah?” he called, starting back towards her.

“Did you steal condoms?” she asked loudly.

“What?” Tao glanced over his shoulder, making sure Marina wasn’t still lingering around. He jogged up to Faye, lowering his voice. “No, why would I steal them when you just give them away? And what do you care if someone snagged a couple?”

“Well, one, it fucks up my inventory, and two…” she hesitated, which was out of character for her. Tao frowned.

“What?” he repeated, concerned this time.

She folded her arms and drummed her fingers on her elbow.

“Vic was the only other one who had an opportunity,” she said quietly, “He came downstairs and then went back up, while I was out of the room. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“So Vic stole condoms, what does that matter?” Tao huffed.

“Well, a half hour later he left early.”

“And?” Tao shrugged, getting annoyed.

“God, you’re thick!” she threw up her hands, “I think he fucked Karlo!”

“Holy shit, why would Vic f- Why would he do that?” Tao couldn’t bring himself to echo Faye’s vulgar language.

“Because if he had literally any other hookup going on, he would be crowing from the rooftops about it, which is exactly why he gets none and is a desperate horny bastard, Tao!”

Tao froze in shock. Faye was right. The last few times Vic had found willing partners, he’d bragged about it for days leading up to the event and weeks afterward, absolutely destroying the chance of a repeat experience; but Tao knew from that very boasting that Vic was not someone who would ever be interested in an unenthusiastic lover, much less an unwilling one. Tao couldn’t imagine Vic forcing himself on Karlo, not in a million years.

But suddenly, what Tao could imagine was Karlo doing whatever it took to prove himself right.

I’m a whore.

I don’t belong here.

Tao jumped up the steps, brushed past Faye and ran inside. He bounded up the stairs two at a time to the second floor, and flung open Karlo’s door.

Dylan sat on the bed, and Karlo straddled his lap. Karlo cradled Dylan’s face in his good hand, and the other rested in its cast on Dylan’s shoulder. Dylan jerked his head back out of a kiss as the door opened. They were both shirtless, and Tao saw the tattooed lines of text on Karlo snake out of his pants at his hips and arc over his ribs before meeting at the top of his spine, where the words encircled his neck in a permanent collar, previously hidden by Karlo’s turtleneck shirt and his long hair, now pulled aside.

“What the fuck?” Tao shouted.

Karlo turned his head to look at Tao, his eyes burning with a kind of crazed energy and his mouth stretched into the imitation of a smile, slightly pink from kissing. He laughed – the first time Tao had ever heard him laugh, and it was a strange, strangled noise – and he said, “Would you like to join us, Tao?” It sounded more like a threat than an invitation.

Dylan, on the other hand, had a much more appropriate oh shit expression on his face. He roughly shoved Karlo, who fell and landed hard on his back with a whump.

“What the fuck!” Tao yelled again, rushing forward and dropping to his knees at Karlo’s side. The boy hadn’t even winced, he just lay on the floor, grinning.

Dylan jumped to his feet.

“I didn’t mean to, I, I-”

“Put your fucking shirt on and go wait for me downstairs,” snapped Tao.

Dylan snatched up his t-shirt and made a run for it, nearly trampling Faye in his hurry. She cursed as she watched Tao help Karlo sit up.

“Of course he pulled out his IV, too. You know you need that if you’re ever going to get better?”

“Not helping, Faye.” Tao kept one hand firmly on Karlo’s back, and with the other he reached into the stack of clothes that still sat on the bed and pulled out something familiar – one of his own flannel shirts, definitely too big for Karlo but the sleeves were wide enough that the cast wouldn’t give him any trouble.

“Here, let’s put this on.”

But Karlo was looking at him with the same unsettling, manic smile.

“You’ll send me back now, right?” He shifted onto his knees to face Tao. “You have to send me back now.”

“No.” Tao held the shirt open. “Arm.”

“No, no, I…” Karlo gulped, his breathing becoming erratic, “I proved it, I showed you, I’m a whore, I need to go back to the Commander now.”

Tao lowered the shirt. “We’re not doing that-”

“No, please, you don’t want me here,” Karlo shook his head fervently, his smile gone, “I fucked your friend, I fucked Vic, I’ll, I’ll fuck anything that moves, you don’t want me here, I’ll ruin everything.”

“We want you here, Karlo,” said Tao gently.

“My name is Lark!” Karlo raised his voice, hugging his cast to his body, his eyes welling up, “And why would you even want me here, you don’t even want to fuck me! That’s all I'm good for anyway!”

“You deserve to be safe, Karlo,” Tao asserted.

“No I don't!” Karlo screamed, and the tears overflowed. He sobbed, then turned his head sharply to the side, eyes wide, like he was seeing something that wasn’t there. Then he folded forward over his knees, slamming his head into the floor and awkwardly clasping his hands together in front of him around the cast. Now that he had started crying, it was like the floodgates had opened, and he sobbed and babbled uncontrollably.

“Please, please, sir, please, you have to send me back, I don’t want my mom to die, I don’t want my mom to die, please, oh my God, please, you have to send me back-”

Tao sat frozen as Karlo wept, temporarily paralyzed by shock and horror, until he found himself moving as if by instinct. He threw the shirt around Karlo’s bare shoulders, sat him upright, and pulled him into a crushingly tight hug, until he was practically sitting on Tao’s lap. Karlo collapsed against Tao’s chest, wailing full-throated into the older man’s shoulder. Tao held onto him for dear life, rocking him back and forth and whispering words into Karlo’s hair that he didn’t know the origin of.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it's going to be okay, you’re safe here, nothing’s going to hurt you anymore. Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”

He lifted his head, pausing his affirmations.

“Faye, can you get Marina?”

She nodded and slipped out, but Karlo struggled in Tao’s grasp.

“No, wait, I don’t want her to see me, I don’t want her to see…” He sobbed, clawing at the tattoo around his neck. This close, Tao could see the words.

I AM A GOOD PET. I DO NOT THINK. I OBEY.

“Hey, hey,” Tao caught Karlo’s hand, “She’ll still love you, no matter what.”

Karlo looked up at him, almost looking like he could believe it, before his face twisted and he pressed back into the crook of Tao’s shoulder.

“Karlo,” he spat out bitterly, “She loved Karlo.” His shoulders shook with renewed sobs.

“Well,” Tao squeezed his hand where it was pinned between them, “I like Lark, too.”

Lark let out a little gasp, and Tao realized it was a laugh, a real laugh, not the strained, forced thing he’d heard earlier. Lark relaxed in Tao’s arms, and Tao held him close, pressing his lips to the top of Lark’s head without a thought.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Lark took a slow, shuddering breath, and squeezed Tao’s hand back.

That’s when they heard the gunfire.

~~~

First, Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-em, @morning-star-whump, @thecyrulik

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #this death that i chose #pet whump #dubconcw #cw conditioning #cw derogatory language #cw manipulation #cw dubcon kiss #cw panic attack #cw derogatory tattoo

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whumpkink · 3 months ago

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Alphabet of Whump 2024 – Zip(-ties)

The Beauty of Suffering // Series: A Coven's Violence // Warnings: dehumanization, it/its pronouns for a person, dubcon kissing

Violet wondered if she could pull hard enough to snap the zip-ties biding Its wrists together. The hard plastic dug into Its scarred skin, Its shoulders were faintly aching with the position of Its arms forced behind Its back. Violet was kneeling, perfect posture and head hung low, like the good little thing It was.

Mistress circled Violet, her fingers tracing lines of muscles in Its shoulders and back. She stopped behind It, her hand cupped the back of Its neck. A firm, possessive touch. A touch that made the girl growl and spit curses, disgusted and revolted by the touch. She always was disgusted and revolted by Mistress' intimate touches.

Mistress' thumb caressed the base of Its skull. it'd be a soothing touch (it sort of was a soothing touch, Violet's body wanted to relax). The leaned closer, hot breath against Its ear, it sent shivers down Its spine.

"You keep getting prettier, that's impressive."

Violet purred, a noise that was rewarded by a kiss under Its ear. And then more kisses following Its jawline. Her other hand cupped Its face and turned it until she could kiss Violet's mouth. Her mouth was almost too warm, and tasted bitter like all that liquor she drank beforehand. She pulled Violet a little closer, breathing picking up. She pulled back with Violet's bottom lip between her teeth.

"Good girl," she whispered. "My good girl."

#alphabetofwhump #alphabetofwhump24 #the beauty of suffering #whump #whump community #whump blog #whumpblr #lady whump #whump writing #whump drabble #whump fic #original work #dehumanization cw #dubcon kissing cw

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civilight-eterna · 2 years ago

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Hope you've had a good weekend!! I love your works!!

It's my life's mission to spread the good word of Muelheyak and the possibilities of their enemies to enemies (sexual) dynamic. Would you be willing to cook up some messy elf getting dicked down with extra constrictor tail coiling?

thank you so much for saying so!! and thanks for this delicious request. okay FAIR WARNING it gets a little fucked-up and cruel but god DAMN is Ho'olheyak a blast to write.

cw: choking, asphyxiation, noncon/dubcon, bodily abuse (internal, external), tailsex

...

"Asphyxiation is a dreadful way to go."

Ho'olheyak is talking about it the way someone notices the turn of the weather outside: as though she's seated in a quaint little cafe and a gray rain has begun to pitter-patter against the warm glow of the window.

In no way does her tone belie the reality of what she's doing.

Muelsyse is completely bound in her tail, draped backwards over her ample lap. Her head is suspended upside-down, hair trailing and puddling against the floor, the end of Ho'olheyak's tail invading her mouth and worming against the back of her throat as the rest of it wraps around, leaves her more and more light-headed with each sinuous flex around her neck, her chest, her waist.

"But my, your body can take quite a bit, can't it? My lovely little elf."

Muelsyse groans from around her tail, struggling to keep her mouth open, hands helplessly pinned behind her back and against her captor's lap.

"...There you go. You already know what'll happen if you try to bite again. Good girl. Just like that. Open your throat for me."

Ho'olheyak's nails dance across the midline of her body, dipping between the gaps left exposed by her constrictive tail, admiring their way down between her legs. Muelsyse gags, hard and dry, around her tail, but her chest has nowhere to go from beneath it. She's just losing air.

She whimpers, tries to put herself into enough of a state of mind to push past the revulsion, to just focus on the abstract pleasure of being suffocated. If she tries to think of anything else, she's lost. She just has to live. She doesn't know what's in her captor's head-though as her fingers stroke deep between her legs she finds her prior suspicions confirmed-but the luxury to think beyond behaving in a way that pleases Ho'olheyak is long since passed.

She has to satisfy her. Her tongue laves obediently, and her legs squirm slightly apart to demonstrate her compliance.

Her reward is a wicked, sin-sweet laugh as one, two, three fingers plunge inside, too easily to hide what effect she's having on her body.

"...My, I didn't expect you for the type." She articulates her comments with deepening pumps of her fingers. "And just look at your pretty little neck now-" She coos, knowing full well Muelsyse can't see, even as part of her tail loosens from around it as the tip continues to swab it deeper, "-Your throat pushes forward whenever I push a little, like this-"

Tears spring to her eyes as Ho'olheyak demonstrates her complete dominion of her.

"-Like a cute little frog. Ribbit, ribbit. Hehe."

It hurts. It's absolute insanity. It's humiliating. It's-

-over.

All at once, Ho'olheyak slides her tail slowly out of Muelsyse's mouth, letting every inch of it drag from between her lips, letting all the saliva ooze down off of it and out of her mouth while she's still upside-down. It drips down her cheeks, threatens to spill into her nose, but the relief at being able to breathe again supercedes all else. All she can think to do as her tail uncoils from around her is to breathe, breathe, breathe. She's coughing and gasping miserably, her eyes dim and half-mast for want of air, light-headed from being inverted so long.

She's completely distracted with the prospect of simply living that it's already too late when she notices the wet tip of her tail teasing her clit, easing between her soaked lower lips.

"Uuuaaah-" Muelsyse wails as it plunges, wiggles inside, thrusting back and forth with unbelievable dexterity, rolling waves of pleasure along inside of her in a calculated rhythm. Ho'olheyak's hand presses against her stomach drags down low, petting her, and she can feel the shape of her tail bulging up against her fingertips through her body.

"So messy. Listen to that sound." Ho'olheyak teases her, letting each wet slap of every pump echo loudly. "You know...? I can give you something a little extra special. You've been so good for me."

Her tail starts fluttering around, as though looking for something. Muelsyse is already overstimulated, but the moment that the tip of her tail finds what it's looking for, she feels a sharp pain deep, deep inside, and can't help but cry out indistinctly.

"-Right here." Ho'olheyak spreads her free hand over Muelsyse's chest, caressing her pounding heart through her clothing the way a predator prefaces a mortal wound. "Your heart's beating so fast. Because down here-" The hand on her stomach drifts downward again, anchoring her-

"-I'm going to lay my claim to this tight little womb of yours."

The sharp pain from before stretches, intensifies, and Muelsyse sees white as the tail tip breaches the tiny space, flutters itself inside.

It's heaven. It's agony.

And it goes on, and on, and on-Ho'olheyak's tail continues to roll through her cunt, forward and back, even as the tip stays carefully lodged in that space, makes sure everything hurts.

She knows it's what she wants. She knows she won't stop until she's satisfied.

So she opens her mouth and sobs, without trying to hold it back. She doesn't ignore what's happening-rather, it's become a discipline of the lack thereof. She lets the pleasure crest high inside her like a wave-

-and comes, crashing down.

#arknights #ho'olheyak #muelsyse #foetp: your elven blood's stretched the expiration date on your good looks #requests #my writing #blows kisses to the requester #;)#cw: noncon #cw: dubcon #cw: asphyxiation #muelheyak #nsft

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e-m-p-error · 1 year ago

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[ @cervidae-demon LIKED For A Starter || Husk ]

[ Valentino ]

"Hey, Gatito~"

He was drunk. So drunk. Too drunk to get it up, but that didn't matter right now. No, what mattered was that he was going to get his kiss.

The mistletoe on his good antenna weighed it forward as he perked it up, stumbling against the bar. Leaning over it, he tried to reach it over to the bartender. Pressing his upper hands on the bar and gripping the edge with his lower ones, he leaned forward more.

Planting a kiss on Husk's forehead, he tried to drag his lips down his face, but he stumbled again, too drunk to stay on his heels.

#And If You Get In My Face Then You’ll Get A Taste Even God Would Run Son (ναℓєитιиσ)#(Valentino and Husk - Cervidae-Demon)#cw alcohol #cw alcoholic #cw alcoholism #cw dubcon kisses

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having-conniptions · 2 years ago

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Brooooo I can NOT get over the fact that KinnPorsche's first time was the one where one of them was drugged and there was no protection used (or at least not shown) and VegasPete's first time was the one with consent and protection lmao

#i mean sure there wasn't anything along the lines of #'are you okay with this'#'yes i want this'#or anything like that #but i mean not only were they both fully conscious #pete actually handed vegas the rope #and initiated the kiss #i know it was still under very problematic circumstances #but overall still passing the vibe check more than what kinn did to a roofied porsche #kinnporsche #vegaspete #dubcon cw #dubcon mention #dubcon tw

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drfrankensteinvsthequeerborgs · 2 years ago

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Bobby: “Y’know, sirens are nasty things. That it got to you, that’s no reason to feel bad.”

what a curious thing to say, father figure who’s much less uptight than their bio father especially about sexuality considering the most common method of siren saliva ingestion and no indication you were given an explanation otherwise

#dfvq liveblog #dfv queue #dfvq spn #spn4x14 #bobby singer #bobby deserved to hunt j*hn for sport as a treat #cw homophobia #this is a j*hn winchester hate blog #quotes #family don’t end with blood #baiting queerly #nothing but respect for my canonically bisexual protagonist #cw dubcon #considering bobby makes out with crowley later i think he is very pro-kissing boys for a case #or whenever

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bitbrumal · 2 years ago

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QUESTION @aalberich ↤ accepting :: HE’S A TEN, BUT... ↩

"he's a ten, but he deserves better than me. don't debase yourself, ayaks." [ >B)c ]

AYAKS ‘he’s a ten but he deserves better.’

huh. the callus on his thumb fits right into the dip behind his jaw- can scritch there on the thinnest border line between ticklish & titillating. ayaks’ mouth is a tight line as another’s carries on slipping up. ‘don’t debase yourself, ayaks.’ he says, & his hand slides across that rickety pulse - settles round his nape in some forbidding fashion.

the fool has the gall to smile. it’s thin. it’s real.

it is pried apart by freckled fingers. it is claimed.

ayaks kisses with the confidence of a man whose heart has always wanted the same thing & always recognised it. perhaps this is cruel. too brutal. perhaps the warmth of his mouth doesn’t make up for the anger in it; perhaps this honesty is too much. there’s a soft little face cradled in his hands & he lays waste to it the way those words lay waste to h i m.

it is brutal. but it is not harsh. maybe.

fuck, who knows.

—ayaks makes them go down together, curls around that lithe body that doesn’t think it’s worth shit. presses him into the comfort of a couch. straddles his chest & contaminates him. feel what i feel for you. soft soft blue tangles round fingers that will not let go — until the sweet warmth of him is felt, hungered for, worked to be made to feel beautiful. the growl in his throat speaks of something jagged. & his grip doesn’t shift. he knows exactly how to hold someone still.

if the heat of this feeling could press through, could sink into that cold chest, would it be enough? can he love well enough to make a man this good-know it?

heat surges with every facet of this hurt. it sparks when pain twangs ( that resigned sadness-! ), lances up through every wound kaeya shares into ayaks’ own soul. it is everything he cannot be protected from through traditional means. the drugging weight of a kiss ends where lips cling / bruised. slick, pinched between his teeth just a little ere he lets go. “you don’t say that shit to me.” it comes out half-mad & ragged / black as the snarling confidence of it. never has he kissed anyone this way & it may not mean a thing to all his fossilised agony. “you do not say that shit to me.”

“i decide who’s good enough.” the smell of sbiten mingles with frost. so close he could taste it - that it drowns out the spice of dandelion wine. gingers, tiny little gremlin gingers everywhere; catching the sun in their hair & their buckteeth. the warmth of a hug that is never in full, the gaggle of siblings that don’t know him. “don’t fucking insult me by saying someone i l-ove this much-” breath catches where it wasn’t expected to. ayaks trips over it in a gasp, shocks forward / mouth to mouth & the way lips cling where they are slick. “don’t you fucking insult me.”

family family family & a man so good he is better.

he wasn’t ever meant to be. i promise, mom. no comparison has been made—( he never meant to feel this, too )—it’s just a horrible offence. rooted in fact as its only argument, & yet it wins. going to mondtstad for a stolen visit versus a week spent faking it with people he loves more than they would even know him in turn. there’s no comparison because they don’t feel like the same thing. “you’re mine. i’m not letting you go.” shudders wrack these words / tug tension into muscle & bone. the glacier of his being heaves to give up one of its own fossils. family family family & it doesn’t matter. ayaks bares his teeth. they’re so close kaeya’s pretty eye is blurry. he doesn’t want to see it. “stop talking like i’m going to fucking go.”

#cw; spice #cw; dubcon #rp ✦ the young lord(e)#with: aalberich #aalberich #ic #i'm gonna tag this dubcon for ppl to avoid but i definitely don't intend for ayaks to be pushing thru with this if there is any struggle at #all from kaeya's end #this is meant to be like forceful but not FORCED #but without kaeya's end that's impossible to see; so.#kaeya: i'm worthless #diluc: oh... *crumples into a heap of sad*#ayaks: rolls up sleeves. cracks knuckles. did you wanna fucking go perchance?#ayaks being confused as to whether he's being too rough is re: his emotions not his actions. 'is this good enough to move him?' kind enough #soft enough etc #he doesn't know if he's kissing him right but he's definitely aware of whether or not kaeya's resisting #he's not That insane thasdnf;lkasdfj;alskdfjdlkf

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quarterlifekitty · 13 days ago

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One thing that makes me go feral is when in the middle of fucking, one person gets overstimulated and tries to crawl and squirm away from the overstimulation, and the other person drags them back by the hips like "Where do you think you're going?" 😩 which of the guys do you think is most likely to do this?

(Can you tell I'm ovulating... 🫣)

ALL

cw: daddy kink adjacent stuff for Nik, as per usual. Just a hint of aggression, and marking dubcon just in case

Gaz is literally so sweet about it. Like you’re a little kitten about to walk off the edge of a table and he’s just redirecting you. “No, no, love— this way,” he coos as he puts his hand beneath your hips to cup you and pull you back.

Soap is about to lose his mind, it’s so hot to him— “Ah’m just givin’ it tae ye so good, huh, bonnie? Cannae take it anymore? Too bad,” he tuts, his fingers sunken into your soft flesh as he pins your kicking legs and tugs hard.

Ghost reacts with some real aggression. He’s not mad at you— he’s mad at the idea. The concept of you being separated from him. He’s bruising and yanking your body, manhandling you under his weight. “Don’t fuckin’ run from me, birdie— don’ wanna know what’ll happen if’m pulled outta this cunt—“

Price can’t help but smile. Such a sensitive little thing. “If you’re already in this state— doesn’t bode well for the rest of your night, darl’— cause I ain’t near finished with you.” He’s prepared to wait upon you like you’re his ailing, bedridden queen suffering from the consumption tomorrow, cause you’ll have about as much energy left when he’s done.

König is holding you too tight to let you even begin to squirm away— he can just feel the tense and strain of your muscles against his hands. It makes him kiss you as deep as he can manage— he just thinks it’s so cute, like you’re a little moth with wings beating against his cupped palms.

Nikolai laughs. He laughs at you. You’re just so silly— thinking papochka will show you mercy. He’s not a merciful man, malýshka. He’d best remind you of that— not that you’ll ever really learn. He wouldn’t want you to, really. He likes playing this little game with you. It’s like ballroom dancing to him— very romantic and sweet.

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lovebugism · 1 month ago

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✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

part one | part two

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

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survivingandenduring · 11 months ago

Text

“He takes it. There isn’t a thought in his head. He lets his lips smash gently into yours, then your mouths seal together. You moan from your throat, making him twitch. His tongue finds yours, and his weary body is soothed as he takes this new part of you.”

can someone check on me in a few hours please?

😫🥵💗😭💀

the kiss (raider POV)

600 words, raider!Joel x f!reader

IMGs: closeup of his mouth, shooting target heart, wet sweet peas

I8+ Takes place during sex (sweet pea in his lap), toward the end of the fic bodies. Asked by @heartstoptrying and others. Happy v-day, sweet peas 🌸

You're such a good girl. You take it so good. You're snug around his cock, with his arms snug around you. He moves you at a steady tempo, and the sweetest sounds leave your lips. Your cheek rests against his, and he holds you as close as he can. He needs more. His skin tingles as his beard lightly drags against your cheek, with his head drifting backwards and his mouth inching toward yours. The corners of your mouths touch. Your heavy breaths against his skin make him even stiffer inside you. He’s aching to come, but denies himself the friction that could instantly do it. He holds you down, rocking into you, needing all of you wrapped around him--you're so wet and soft. His lips brush yours, and butterflies take his chest, then rush through his blood to his groin, his thighs, his arms that can't pull you any closer. He needs more. Your lips brush again and send a shiver down his spine. Your mouths half-connect. He breathes your warm air and feels it on his cheek. He has to have more.

His heart pounds in the shell of his ear. He loosens his arms and pulls his face back. He rests his forehead against yours and cradles your head. His jaw drifts toward yours. Your noses touch, your lips touch. A surge of arousal makes him throb inside you. As he brings you up and down, his lips hitch on yours. He can have more, it's right there.

He takes it. There isn’t a thought in his head. He lets his lips smash gently into yours, then your mouths seal together. You moan from your throat, making him twitch. His tongue finds yours, and his weary body is soothed as he takes this new part of you.

You begin to kiss back. Your mouths move together at a smooth rhythm. His arms tighten as he drinks and breathes you, filling his body with you and feeling it buzz inside him. In his tight embrace, your soft breasts smush into his chest, dewy with heat, dragging against the coarse hair, pulling it pleasantly. Your nipples harden, and so do his. He breathes through his nose and can't get enough.

His hand slides from your head to the nape of your neck, and he holds you there. He feels the thin leather strap under his fingers, then a burst of affection from his solar plexus. He kisses you and rocks you with his cock sheathed in your tight, wet cunt. You twitch around him, and he grunts into your mouth.

You whimper and your lips break away. His hand reflexively tightens on the back of your neck, holding you there, lips resting loosely against his. He moans as your walls clench down, and your heated breaths are caught in his beard. You’re squeezing him so good. He twitches, grunts, and takes the breath from your mouth as his lips embrace yours again. He erupts with a moan, holding you close, not letting you break away as your body spasms into his and he unleashes massive bursts of himself. He kisses you slow and deep, both of you vocal as you finish.

When the last of his cum dribbles out, he breaks away for a deep breath and strokes the back of your neck gently above the choker. His body is spent, but abuzz with something new--more of you. It's swimming in his chest and making his head light. He collapses in slow motion, then his back's flat on the bed with his cock still inside you. You're so warm and comfy. He closes his eyes with his hand on his chest. Within seconds, he feels it again–he needs more. He beckons you closer.

-----

Thank you for reading!