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drgnflyteabox · 2 months ago

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the lusty cabin-dweller

pairing: ghost / Simon riley x fem reader summary: your life gets wider when you find an injured man outside of your cabin. tags/warnings: Skyrim!ghost, secrets, graphic injuries, some angst, facial injuries, nursing Simon back to health one stew at a time <3, listen to this for the vibes, vaginal + anal sex, oral (f), animal attacks, blood, processing an animal for meat and fur, violence, death (non-major), mention of Skyrim racism, softdom!Simon, some backstory, please hmu if i forgot anything, one bed trope, simon backstory adapted to skyrim lol (so past abuse, murder, theft, domstic violence) but nothing graphic w.c: 5k

Honey-nut is squealing again. Some days you think she might not be worth the milk and cheese she gives you for all the trouble she causes. A high, strange bleating cuts through the chilled night air like a knife, sharp and terrifying only for a moment.

She's been at this since Frostfall. Maybe it was the weather causing Honey-nut distress - she was getting old, after all. For a goat.

In the time it takes you to trudge out of bed, pull on a wool shift and a fur, two things happen: one, Honey-nut stops bleating, and the woods surrounding your cottage becomes deathly silent.

Two, a crunch.

Just one, but it's enough. Someone is outside.

For a brief, hysterical moment, you worry for Honey-nuts safety. Have they hurt her to be quiet? No, you'd have heard that at least. Your breath comes fast, chest squeezing. Bandits? Probably not. It's a decent hike up to your wooden cottage. But it is nearing winter, and soon it will be Sun's Dusk. It's not unheard of that they'd be looking for a place to take over for the colder months.

Your hand goes to your heart, fingertips touching your throat. Be calm, you tell yourself. You aren't helpless, look. The axe, leaning by your front door. You can see in the dark well enough, and you're more familiar with your homestead than they are.

The axe feels right in your hands. Too-familiar, weighty, deadly. You touch your ear to the door, trying to reign in your fear. Nothing. Then, a wheeze, strangled and restrained like whoever it is can't afford to be heard. But you have heard it, and you push the door open.

"Show yourself!" You shout, voice surer than you feel. Your knees quake a little, but your grip on the axe is strong.

The animal pen is a mere few steps away from your front door. Past the front garden, it's wide open aside from the little shelter you built the past Mid Year. A foot sticks out, clad in armor.

"I'm armed," you add. "You're not getting anything from me!" The world is dark, the woods quiet. Adrenaline burns in you, bright enough to guide your steps.

"You gonna kill me with that, girl?"

Gruff voice, like scraping rocks. Coming into view, you see that this man poses no threat. He's half dead, slumped and pale, clutching his side.

"Who are you? What's your business here?" The axe is a deterrent, now. Just for show. You hold it above him, but nearly drop it when you see his face. It's sliced right through the middle, from his forehead to his jaw. "Oh, gods-"

"Mind yourself with that," his eyes flit to the axe. "Or put me out of my misery now."

Your shoulders dip down, lowering your weapon. Guilt crawls into your belly and settles there when you notice that yes- his feet are armored, but the rest of him is dressed in miners attire. White, coal-dusted shirt. Workman's pants, tucked into woolen calf wraps. God, he must be freezing. Maybe that's saved his life, staunched the bloodflow. It's tacky on him, not shining wet like you expected.

"What's happened to you?" You cringe at the sound of your voice. It's gone from fierce defensiveness to cloying concern, staring only at the blood staining his skin.

He breathes hard, staring at you a moment. It's hard to tell what he's thinking, what he's feeling. Outside of obvious pain. Leaves around you shiver in the breeze, a light snow beginning to fall when he finally speaks.

"Bandits," he grunts. "An ambush." Every word is a fight, a wheeze. Empathy drives away caution and you drop your weapon in favour of kneeling beside him.

"Come on, then. Let me help you," lifting him is a monumental task, even with him helping. He's as big as horse, thick as one too. Legs like tree trucks that hold him up just barely, feet sliding weakly on the uneven ground.

Looking back, Honey-nut watches you bring him through the doorway with a judgmental twinkle in her eye. Maybe it's time for goatherd pie.

///

Your bed is too small. His feet hang off comically, and the wood creaks under his weight. It'll have to do. Your mother would have beaten you black and blue for this - for inviting a stranger in, for settling him in your bed without so much as a what’s your name? But you know how to stitch and turning away someone in as bad a shape as he is would weigh on your conscience.

You light the sconces along the wall, and then a lantern to keep by his bedside. Warm, orange light fills the cottage, flickering every so often, inspiring calm.

"I'm no healer," you warn him. "Nor an alchemist." It’s not necessarily a lie. You had done a brief stint as a volunteer for the temple of Kynareth, lending your hands and your time to help nurse wounded soldiers. There had been supervision then, though. Guidance.

"I’m shit out of luck for choices, sweetheart,” his facial wound leaks a little when he speaks, blood running down the side of his face in thin rivulets. The wound at his side, however, is what worries you the most.

“Let me,” you murmur. Your fingers find the edge of his shirt, pulling them out of his pants, and up, up, gently. Looking him in the eye, watching his pain win over his weariness.

Another gash, swaddled in cloth wrapped sloppily around his middle. Without moving him you have to cut them off, slicing off his shirt at the same time. This one bleeds sluggishly, skin shredded, like he’d been dragged over coarse rock.

He words slur, energy leaving him. Mumbles under his breath things you can’t make out, and don’t try to. You’re busy rinsing, cleaning, and patting his ribs dry. Tensing every so often, he breathes hard through his nose to offset the pain. Mumbles some more, hands making fists.

It’s bad, but he’ll live. Exhaustion might trump over all, anyhow, what with how his eyelids have begun closing. Through the slit of them his eyes are pale, like sunlight through deep blue ice. Blonde lashes, stark against the dirt and coal smearing his skin.

You work in silence, letting him sleep through this one so he’ll hopefully be unconscious for the work you have yet to do on his face.

“Who did this?” You whisper to no one. You’re a breeze in the night, alone, hunched over this man and wiping his face with a cloth.

Clear of blood and grime, you gather a sewing needle and dip it into the lantern flame. Stitching is easy, but on his face? You falter a moment, worried, until you think of how proud men often are of their scars. Boasting battles won and creatures slain.

It’s that thought that pushes you through to the end, weaving the needle through until he's sewn and clean of blood.

///

Sweat and iron. The smell of it, sharp and salty, sea foam and earth, is the first thing you're aware of.

Then, the light of morning. Pale, almost white, invading through the windows in rays. A chill. Your eyes open with a not insignificant amount of effort, back twinging in different places as you become aware of the world again.

"Awake?" You startle, jerking up. It's the man from the night before, laying as he was, a little curled against the pain and big as an ox. "W's startin' t'think you'd sleep all day."

"It's morning, is it not?" You're not used to talking this early - or at all. "How's the- how are you feeling?"

He grunts, shuffling. His wrapped side has some blood peeking through, little spots of leakage, not enough to lose your head over. His face has swelled some overnight though, and you're awake enough now to hear the muffled quality to his voice. Part of the cut pulls his upper lip tightly. You wince.

"Just wait. I have something for the," you pause, crossing your space on stiff legs to find the bookshelf. Clay pots, glass bottles, books. Ah, here it is. "For the pain." It's some elixir. Purchased the last time you'd made the trek to Markarth from Muiri, the alchemists apprentice. It brings forth a distant memory of pain, of twisting your ankle running after Honey-nut.

Your ankle hadn't quite healed right, but this was good for when winter came and stiffness made the pain worse again.

He eyes you wearily as you approach. Suspiciously. As if you haven't been helping him out of the kindness of your heart…

"This will help," a promise.

"Don't need'it." He slurs, then cringes as it pulls his lip again.

"You'll recover faster if you're in less pain."

In the end he acquiesces, if not just to take the edge of the purpling that's beginning to show on the edges of his bandage. Broken ribs, maybe?

///

Chores need to be done whether or not there's an obstinate patient in your bed. Honey-nut needs to be milked, and she fights you every step of the way. You discover her pen open from last night and sigh with relief that she's still there.

The chickens have laid eggs for you, and you collect them diligently in your apron. Then, the garden. And finally a sweep of your traps in the woods.

Just one rabbit, but it's enough. You hope the man likes stew, and that his swelling goes down enough for him to tell you his name.

///

He tells you his name is Ghost. Strange, but you've heard stranger. Maybe he's a follower of Namira, you wonder not without an inkling of apprehension. Ghost is quiet, even as he heals. After you'd made yourself a straw bed on the other side of the cabin, you'd wake to him sitting up and stretching. Testing himself. Always silent.

The exhaustion was the worst of it. One nearly empty bottle of elixir later, the swelling on his face has gone down significantly. His ribs sore but on the mend. It was sleep that he needed, and lots of it.

Days passed like this. Switching bandages, wiping and cleaning, cooking enough stew for two. Nearly a week until he was up and about insisting to help around the cottage.

"No need," you tried to gently push him back into the warmth of the open door. He was too big, and having none of it. "You'll be better in no time."

He was just so tall. Were he to stand still at your doorway, half his face would be covered by the top of it. Despite his condition, you could tell that your initial comparison to a horse was completely on the nose. Stocky as a boar, arms thick as mammoth tusks. Hairy like blonde wheat shining in the sun. You'd noticed as much, watching him rest, watching his eyelashes flutter on his cheeks as he dreamt.

///

Ghost works like you're paying him in gold. He sweats, arms swinging down over and over again above the chopping block. There's enough wood to last three winters now - maybe four. Every job he takes is finished to excess. Your roof has never looked better, re-thatched in rotting places and swept clear of mildew. The old wood fence in your garden? Replaced.

Honey-nut finds her new favourite person when he dismantles what he calls shoddy work, and rebuilds her a shelter twice as big. The chickens are still weary, but enjoy receiving the kitchen scraps he tosses.

"There's really no need for all this," you insist again, because he's come back this afternoon with an elk on his back.

"Didn't need to fix me up, either, did'ya?"

You break it down together. Ghost does the harder part, while you take cuts of meat to dry for jerky. The rest will go into a venison casserole, with juniper berries.

"Hey- Ghost?" You call. He's skinning the rest of it for furs. "I'm off to gather some berries for dinner."

A nod, and you're off.

Your basket is old, woven, carried once by your mother and now you. Silly, but special all the same. It's stained with many years of berry collecting, many years of winter nights spent tucking into fruity crostatas or summers full of juniper mead.

The hills are rife with the low, rough trees. They grow like weeds here in the Reach, mountain pocked with patches of light green and little blue berries. Once, as a child, you'd made the mistake of eating one straight off the branch. Bitter as burnt coffee, it was lesson you'd learned through tears of laughter with your mother. A happy memory.

Does Ghost have a family? You wonder again about him, about why a man like that is wasting his time mining. He could've climbed the ranks as an imperial and been a General or - divines forbid - a stormcloak. You prayed he wasn't so craven as to follow Ulfric and his band of Nord supremacists.

It's this distraction that leads you right into the waiting jaws of a sabre cat. Quick and silent, it reminds you of your patient for an absurd moment before you're tripping backwards, basket full of berries scattered and forgotten. Your hip makes contact with the ground hard, pain lancing through your joint like a spear.

Fuck, how could you be so stupid? This was a mountain, leagues away from the nearest town. Sabres, bears, wolves. You'd always, always used awareness as a first precaution. Sight, sounds, keeping your ears tuned to the slightest crack in a twig. If not, there was the bow and arrow stowed away under your bed.

Now, you were caught unawares. Muscles under it's fur rippled, a low growl in it's barrel chest, creeping toward you. Adrenaline burned through you like a fever, hot and electric all at once, freezing you in place by the weight of your heart in your stomach.

Stendarr's mercy, dying from an animal attack after living years on the craggy peaks of the mountains, avoiding ambushes and robberies. Living on goats cheese and chicken eggs, nothing yet achieved. What a waste. Miserable, hopeless tears prick at your eyes. Your breath leaves you in quick, desperate puffs. Running wasn't an option - it would only encourage the sabre. Sovngarde, here you come-

"Aaarghgh aaaaa!" A roar. Loud, ringing in your ears, as fierce as a cave bear. It's Ghost, jumping through the brush towards you with his arms above his head. "Bugger off!" He's screaming loud, voice cracking a little, the stitches at his lip tearing just enough for droplets of blood to fall.

"I'll put you down!" It's nonsense, but it's loud, and he's massive. Taller than the sabre even if it stood on two legs. When he reaches you, he steps in front of you. Shields you.

The face-off is likely less than a few minutes, but it feels like time moves as slow as honey. Ghost faces of the sabre, screaming like a madman, beating his chest and waving his arms. It creeps backward, hissing and fighting, but is cowed by his stance and size.

When it's disappeared through the maze of juniper trees, he turns to you. Extends a palm rough like bark.

"How long have you lived here, again?" His voice grates as usual, made worse by his shouting.

Your face heats in embarrassment. "A few years. I'm not usually so distracted," you dust your dress, patting yourself. Twigs and dirt fall from the wool. "I swear. I got lost picking berries."

He snorts, like you're stupid. You feel stupid.

The basket is half empty when you call it quits, tired from fear. Ghost is hunched beside you, holding his ribs again, rubbing his lip almost compulsively.

"Stop that, you'll get a thicker scar," you reach for his elbow.

"Don't care much about that, love," he shrugs your hand away.

Dinner is made in silence. It's a miracle you have the energy, but while you're physically drained your mind is running in circles. You watch with concern as he sits gingerly back on the bed. The pain in your hip pulses with sympathy, pulsing heat travelling down your leg and up your back.

"Need me to take a look at anything?" Besides his obvious discomfort, you'll have to fix his face back up. You'd prefer for him to be in a welcoming mood.

"I can handle it," Mr Stoic over here. "Did'ya take a fall?"

You drop dried frost mirriam into chopped, boiled potatoes. Then a pad of butter.

"Yes, but I'm alright," the cream sauce comes together, ladled over the venison. You're out of eidar cheese, but Honey-nuts goat cheese crumbled over everything is perfectly fine. Ghost eats like a furnace taking coal, anyhow.

"Let me see," he's up close. Again, you've been taken unawares. A sharp inhale like a gasp, heart beat picking up, breathing in the smell of him. It's gone from bloody to pine, to earth, to fresh wood. His hands find your hip and you hiss, trying to jerk away. In doing so you press your side into his chest, curled close, warm not just from the fire. "It's alright, sweet girl." He murmurs into the top of your head.

This tenderness is new. His fingers are as gentle as you've seen them in the last few weeks, pulling up the thick skirts of your dress and assessing the tender skin. It's a little hot to the touch, painful. The rough pad of his thumb brushes against you softly, making you whine.

His lips brush your hair, not quite kissing you, but affectionate nonetheless. You're close enough to see his throat bob when he swallows.

"Just a bump, huh, sweet girl?" He takes over, mashing the potatoes, setting out plates at your little wooden table, guiding you by your lower back.

You eat in relative silence, thighs brushing, a tension bubbling to the surface like stew on the fire. He spares you a few glances between bites, still wincing whenever he has to bend down.

"I'll take a look at that again before bed," you speak through a mouthful of creamy venison.

Sure enough, he's reopened some of his stitches. Not worst case scenario, but you spend a few minutes hunched over and bandaging him up again. He stares at you intently, eyes so clear and focused you wish he wouldn't. It makes your hand shake.

Moving to get up and back to your straw bed, his arm shoots out as quick as an arrow and takes your wrist in his hand. His stare is the same, squinting at you like he's waiting for you to confess something. Like he's waiting for you to give in.

"You're not sleeping on the floor," he says, sure, chest puffed. "Not with your hip. Come on now, come lay down." Gently, he tugs you down. Protests make it to the tip of your tongue and nowhere else, not with the promise of a mattress on your sore muscles and screaming hip.

It's too small though, much too small. Already he was hanging off, shoulders taking up the entire width. You curl forward, on your good side, facing away from him and into the dark. The cabin is still warm from cooking dinner.

His breath puffs on the back of your neck, hand finding your arm and stroking up and down. Soothing you. He curls around you, following the natural bend of your body.

"Simon," he whispers.

Your brow almost touches your hairline. "That's not my name."

"No," his reply is half spoken, half physical. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, bicep under you, cradling you, his big bear paw hugging your shoulder. A stray pinky ventures dangerously close to your nipple, fingers spread. "It's mine."

The world widens. "Yours?" You breathe in, out. It's trust, is what it is. He's giving you a piece of himself, this stranger, for you to hold. "Simon," you taste it in your mouth. "Simon."

He laughs against your hair. "Was watching you," he confesses. "After we got- after the ambush. Walked for days, till I found you."

"How long did you watch?" You're curious, if not a little suspicious. "You weren't casing it, were you?"

"No, nothing like that. Couldn't keep walking," he sighs loud like a dog. "Hadn't eaten, hadn't drank. Needed to know if you were somewhere I could stay."

"That's why Honey-nut was losing her mind," the realization is half funny, half scary. By the eight, you really hadn't noticed someone living so close-by for so long?

"Honey-nut?"

"You've met her, Simon. She's the goat."

"Ah," he snorts. "I've been calling her Molag-Bal, for how she's got us in the palm of her hand."

"Simon!" You shriek with laughter, shaking until he squeezes you from behind. So close his heartbeat taps against your back.

///

A week goes by, and each night is the same. You wake together, sleep together, eat together. Simon regains his strength and his wounds turn into scars. His face is deeply marked, but you've never known him another way. Truthfully, it adds to his handsomeness. There's a ruggedness there that one can only develop living in the rough.

The air gets colder, frigid in the mornings and nights. Light snows have begun falling, and Honey-nut begins her bleating until you put up the winter wall of her shelter, boxing her in. The chickens slowly cease laying eggs, bundling together, clucking at Simon when he checks for the seasons last bounty.

The time to make a trek to Markarth is creeping. You need dried goods, grain, seeds for spring, dried meats, elixirs - everything. It'll be your last trip before you're stuck in the freezing mountains with nobody but Honey-nut to talk to.

Books are your salvation during the cold months.

"I have to get supplies soon," you break the news to Simon early in the morning, when the light just barely creeps over the craggy peaks of the mountains. "In Markarth."

There. It's over with - telling him. You know you're being a coward by not asking directly, but you need to know. What is he going to do now that he's healed? Spend a few more months with you? You're still mostly strangers, practicing domesticity together, but strangers nonetheless.

"Can't go to Markarth," he says.

"Why's that?"

Simon looks at you then, eyes hard and tender at the same time. He grimaces a little, scar twisting wit his expression.

"Used to work there," A pause. "Used to… mine there."

"What?" Cidhna mine is for prisoners. You take a small step back, shaking your head. "What?" You repeat. Cidhna mine? Is that how- oh. His injuries, his waiting to see who you were before approaching. By the gods, you've been tricked!

"You tricked me-" you start, upset. Was he a killer, a robber? Images dredged from the recesses of your mind float to the surface. Men, fire, your mother cut down before you.

"No, no," he interrupts. He's shaking his head, not quite stepping forward but leaning toward you. Eyebrows drawn up, palms facing you in supplication. "Sweet girl, I," he looks around then, as if the words will appear written in smoke from the hearthfire. "Listen to me please," he pleads.

"Tell me what you did!" It's a near-shout, but you're upset. He's been cozying up to you while running from the law. Not that you're a total stickler for rules, but the men at Cidhna mine aren't there without reason.

The most secure prison in Skyrim.

"I will, I'll tell you. Just sit down please, sit with me." He pats a chair, sitting in the one beside it. Beseeching you. "Cm'ere, sweet girl. M'sorry."

///

You sit quietly while he tells you, choking a little on the rising tide of emotions. The biggest question is should you believe him? This story of his past, his father, a childhood spent learning to steal and bully to survive. Elixirs for a brother hooked on skooma, food for a mother grown sickly from her husbands abuse. Eventually getting rid of his father altogether, and wining up in Cidhna.

"If what you say is true," your voice wavers, throat tight with emotion. "Why not tell me?"

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up for a moment as if asking the divines for guidance.

"You never asked."

For a moment, you want to be indignant. You laid with him, cooked for him, wiped blood and sweat off his brow.

But he's right. You never asked, never thought to - just wondered, minded your business, content to help someone in need of it. The feeling of betrayal loosens in your chest, releasing it's vice grip on your heart, a calmer acceptance taking place.

The position it leaves you in is awkward, even if you're content to believe him. You've been too yielding since you met him. Accepted him into your home, accepted his story. Ambushed by bandits? A silly lie, now that you think of it. Vague, believable. Easier than explaining that guards had slashed him as he escaped imprisonment. That he couldn't go back because he was so recognizable.

You don't speak as you get ready. It's not an angry silence, but one brought by embarrassment. How stupid he must think you are, cozying up up to him like that.

The question of where he'll go burns still in your mind, in your gut. You're nervous, fingers shaking a little as you wrap long strips of warm wool on your calves, forearms, and between your fingers. Your dress is double-layered, boots sturdy.

It's a trip and half, lugging everything. You're on foot until you reach the nearest inn, and from there you rent a horse and cargo carriage. Easier from there, with Jazbay the white mare to pull you along.

"I know someone in Cidhna," Simon interrupts your thoughts. He's always tall, imposing, a little intimidating. Now he looks as sheepish as a man like him can look. "Could you…" He extends his hand, a letter clasped in it.

You grimace, but nod curtly.

"Thank you, honey," he breathes a sigh of relief. Honey. That ones new. It fills you with warmth.

"You're welcome to stay with me," you blurt. Impulsive, stupid. Brought on by the familiarity of his affection. "For the winter, I mean."

He's across the cabin in two steps. He presses his front to yours, hands cupping your cheeks, thumbs gently rubbing your cheekbones.

He kisses you, then, and everything slides into place. Your stomach tightens, hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, gasping into his mouth. It's wet, lips smacking noisily, the only sound in the near-frozen forest. Acceptance, sweet and buttery. This is a man whose never had a home.

"I can't stall any longer-" you try. He interrupts you with his mouth again, long kisses like it's reviving him, revitalizing him. "I gotta-"

"Shh, sweetheart," he hums lowly. Gods, you've never been this wet. It soaks into your cotton underwear, clit pulsing in time with your heart. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

///

He's so solid, firm muscle and hard cock. It leaks between his legs, bobbing with his abdomen where he's kneeled on the floor, face in your cunt.

"Simon!" You're shouting, unabashed. Years have passed since anyone's touched you last, and you're sensitive as a maid, gripping his too-long hair almost meanly. Simon licks you like a starving man, slurping, letting you drip and then sucking it off your skin. His fingers find the entrance of your pussy, fitting himself in two at a time.

Once you've begun, you can't stop. He fucks you on the bed, letting it creak dangerously. Bends you over the table, cock dragging in and out of you deliciously. You shake and shiver in his arms, wrung out and insatiable all at once.

"Can I have you here, sweet girl?" He thumbs at your other hole, dipping in, kissing your inner thighs.

"Yes, gods yes, Simon," you drag his name out. Si-i-mon. It sounds good that way, breathy, not spoken but moaned and screamed. It's late evening, dark, colder now that you haven't lit the fire.

No need, when his cock is as hot as coals and slides between your arsecheeks like a divining rod. Your pussy is aching and hot, too-sensitive. You're belly down on the bed again, hands gripped in the sheets.

When you deliberately relax your muscles, he fits his fingers in your ass using come as lubricant. Spits down onto you, watches you start to rub yourself into the bedding desperately.

"None of that," he pants, pulling you up by your hips. A whine builds in your throat, which he shushes by pushing his other two fingers in your cunt. You yelp, moving toward him and away from him. He keeps you still, firmly holding your hips.

You come, tears beginning to leak into your sheets, when he presses his cock against the notch of your hole and pushes in.

A long, deep groan from the pit of his stomach starts and doesn't stop until he's sheathed. You're frozen, stuck in a gasp that doesn't end, filled to the brim.

Simon begins to rock, shallowly, stealing your breath and breathing it back into you with every thrust. It's then that you begin to make sound, crying out and fisting the sheets, rocking your hips with him. He reaches around, leaning down to kiss your shoulders and play with your clit at the same time.

"Not gonna last," he says into your skin. "Gonna come inside you again."

You're easy - so sensitive that if he breathed on you long enough you're sure you'd peak. His fingers twisting and pinching your clit is pure madness, and you tighten like a vice around him as you yowl your last orgasm of the night.

His hips snap into yours roughly, abandoning your clit for the flesh of your hips, pounding, dragging, grunting into you as he finds his own release.

Half-asleep, you fell him roll over onto his side and turn your head to face him. He's smiling lazily, stroking your skin, still sweating from exertion.

"I'll come with you tomorrow," he whispers.

"I thought you couldn't come to Markarth?" Confusion prickles at you, brows coming together. He finds the furrow with his thumb and smooths it away.

"I can't, honey. But I can come down and wait for you."

"You will?" Hope rises in you, in tandem with affection.

"Always," his voice is a soft murmur.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow. Goodnight, sweet girl."

#cod x reader #cod mw2 #task force 141 #141 x reader #drgnfly writes #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #skyrim au #i truly don't know but i had fun writing it #hehe #cw dubcon #tw dubcon #cw murder #idk what else to tag #i love skyrim #i dont know shit about goats #genuinely this is jokes but i've been playing a ton of skyrim so here you go

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 2 years ago

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"GANG OF FUR THIEVES FIND FINISH IN PRISON," Toronto Star. March 19, 1913. Page 5. ---- Two Members of the Outfit Sentenced - Stole Goods and Sold Them. ---- Lewis Seigal and Sam Shulman were sentenced to one year and two years less one day, respectively, by Judge Morgan for the theft of over $650 worth of furs from the store of Conrad Schcemhen, 572 College street.

In Seigel's possession, who has a long record with the police, was found a key which fitted the door of Schoemhen's store. Seigel's defence was that he got the furs from Shulman, who asked him to sell them for him as a favor.

Seigal sold $496 of furs to Harry Weindrow, of Sudbury, for $125. Part of these were recovered. Where the rest are is a mystery. the

Shulman claims that he bought the furs from that strange, strange man that the police are always looking for in these cases.

Judge Morgan found that the liability of the men was proved by their possession of the furs.

Crown Atorney Greer stated that by the conviction of these two men the police had broken up a hot-bed of vice.

#toronto #police court #stolen furs #fur theft #fur thieves #selling stolen goods #sentenced to prison #central prison #crime and punishment in canada #history of crime and punishment in canada

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internum--urbes · 2 years ago

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Well fuk

List of video games that turn 20 years old in 2021

Ace Combat 04: Shattered Skies

Advance Wars (Nintendo, please... a new one...)

The Adventures of Cookie & Cream (a cute, cuddly adventure game from the team that would go on to make Dark Souls. I'm not joking)

Aidyn Chronicles: The First Mage (an RPG on the N64 I really liked as a kid)

Anachronox

Baldur's Gate: Dark Alliance

Bejeweled

Black & White

The Bouncer

Burnout

Castlevania: Circle of the Moon

Civilization III

Clive Barker's Undying (remember when Clive Barker made video games?)

Conker's Bad Fur Day

Crazy Taxi 2

Dead or Alive 3

Devil May Cry

Dr. Mario 64

Dragon Warrior VII (NA version of Dragon Quest VII)

Extermination (a psychological horror game from Swery65, the guy who would go on to create Deadly Premonition)

Final Fantasy X

The Game Boy Advance

The GameCube

Golden Sun (plz, Nintendo... a new one... :'[)

Gothic

Gran Turismo 3: A-Spec

Grand Theft Auto III

Halo: Combat Evolved

Ico

Jak & Daxter: The Precursor Legacy

Kirby Tilt 'n' Tumble

Klonoa 2: Lunatea's Veil

Klonoa: Empire of Dreams

Legacy of Kain: Soul Reaver 2

The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Ages/Oracle of Seasons

Luigi's Mansion

Mario Kart: Super Circuit

Mario Party 3

Mario Tennis (N64)

Max Payne

Mega Man X5

Mega Man X6

Mega Man Battle Network

Metal Gear Solid 2: Sons of Liberty

Myst III: Exile

Oddworld: Munch's Oddysee

Oni (developed by Bungie)

Onimusha: Warlords

Paper Mario

Phantasy Star Online

Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney (in Japan)

Pikmin

Pokémon Stadium 2

Pokémon Crystal

Project Justice (the sequel to Rival Schools)

Red Faction

Return to Castle Wolfenstein

RuneScape

Serious Sam: The First Encounter

Shadow Hearts

Silent Hill 2

Silpheed: The Lost Planet

Sonic Adventure 2

SpongeBob SquarePants: SuperSponge

Star Wars: Rogue Squadron II - Rogue Leader

Super Monkey Ball

Super Smash Bros. Melee

Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3

Tribes 2

Twisted Metal: Black

Wario Land 4 (Nintendo... come on...)

The Xbox

Zone of the Enders

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blackbackedjackal · 8 months ago

Note

You know I've been feeling a little anxious bc Captain's werewolf form and June's shadowy version of her werewolf form look a lot a like and I always hope no one accuses either of us of design theft like it happened to me with one of my old characters, though I made his werewolf form in like 2020. June is cool as hell (if not cooler) I wouldn't want someone to be a jerk about it. Maybe I should draw them together shaking hands as a preventive measure lol

Heya! I hope this is ok to post but please don't worry about it! June's design is based off of other (mostly animated) werewolf designs I liked, but was given meaning through her story and the reason as to /why/ her form looks a certain way.

It's not that she's just shadowy, it's an intentional visual representation of black trauma. There's are cultural and social stigmas of Black people being systematically denied access to mental health resources or being told that they're just "lazy" or "crazy" or "faking it". June's form is altered by her mental/emotional state, it's what she /believes/ she is due to her past trauma and her story is, in part, learning deal with her trauma in a healthy way.

June's form is also based on the lesser known theories that The Beast of Gévaudan (which June is related to via her lycan lineage) was either a product of mass hysteria from the high number of wolf attacks in the region or was potentially a serial killer. The way the beast is often described (black fur, red lips, white/yellowed eyes and teeth) is similar to racist depictions of Black people in the past. I used this as a basis for designing her form. It's the intention and her story that's important, followed by visuals that are found within the werewolf genre and outside of it.

I'm a little too tired to go more in-depth but I'll leave this quote from the Jim Crow museum:

The mission of the Jim Crow Museum is straightforward: use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine the historical patterns of race relations and the origins and consequences of racist depictions. The aim is to engage visitors in open and honest dialogues about this country's racial history...The Jim Crow Museum is founded on the belief that open, honest, even painful discussions about race are necessary to avoid yesterday's mistakes.

June's story is about racism. It's about intolerance towards black queer folk. It's about how Black people (especially black women) have to suffer under a system that denies them mental health resources, resulting in many Black people turning to unhealthy coping mechanisms. Her design was me intentionally marrying old werewolf motifs with a different perspective on the werewolf genre (since even today is it still mostly a white space). There's a stark difference to me when someone comes up with a similar design independently vs when someone is actively lifting direct inspiration from my work and twisting the meaning in the process.

#ask #racism cw

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a-dauntless-daffodil · 3 months ago

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in fear of what awaits from @val-the-bun's AU, i dream up were-harpy Vaggie chaggie FLUFF to prepare myself

and also Razzle and Dazzle are here. whether they wanna be or not :D

Big scary harpy Vaggie repeatedly trying to “nest” Charlie’s little demon goats whenever Razzle and Dazzle show up to help Charlie with the whole “Giant Murder Bird Monster” situation

First time she lunged at them Charlie’s heart STOPPED

bc Razzle and Dazzle are hellborn they won't pull themselves back together if torn apart and why didn't Charlie think of that and does harpy Vaggie know that and is she about to kill th-

Nope!

Charlie’s weird new roommate grabs Dazzle by the scruff of his neck fur and shoves him deep into the pillow nest she spent two hours arranging Just So

Then harpy Vaggie chases Razzle around the room until she can do the same with HIM

By that point Dazzle had climbed free and when harpy Vaggie saw him escaping she SCREECHED and fluffed up

and THIS time after stuffing him back in the nest, she also herded Charlie over to “sit” on him

This was needed bc Razzle had taken the chance to escape too, taking off with a lot more speed than his brother, vanishing into the rest of the house while harpy Vaggie was busy

If he was hoping for out of sight out of mind he was wrong

Harpy Vaggie scents the air and goes hunting after him, making low soothing “coo” sounds and the occasional frustrate SQUAWK when the “chick” keeps running away from her

Charlie relaxes in the nest with Dazzle, heart rate slowly returning to normal, smiling in relief at the noise of harpy Vaggie crashing into things and breaking stuff somewhere in the house during her determined pursuit of Snuggle Times

A grumpy Razzle is finally brought to the nest clamped FIRMLY in Vaggie’s jaws (not a scratch on him) (plenty on Vaggie though, feathers ruffled from getting hit with falling debris)

And as Harpy Vaggie shoves her prisoner into the pillows before sitting over him (again very firmly) (sulking Razzle only kept in place by her weight while Dazzle snoozes peacefully under Charlie’s arm) Charlie risks reaching up to scratch the ridge of feathers over harpy Vaggie’s eye, making the demon bird monster slowly droop and fall over with head landing in Charlie’s lap

Charlie could get used to this~

She thinks, until Vaggie starts trying to FEED the “demon goat baby chicks”, and breaks out of a window to go eviscerate a sinner for their dinner

The sinner wouldn’t have minded so much

(vaggie swooped in from behind and made it quick so they honestly felt more surprise than pain)

but harpy Vaggie also insisted on taking their liver away with her afterwards

Charlie had leaped through the broken window after her, chased her down on hoof half way across the pride ring, and then spent half an hour trying to get her bird monster roommate to stop sticking her head into the sinners ribcage rummaging around for treats and come home already

Charlie did NOT have the energy to argue about the organ theft, but promised the sinner they’d return it soon

back home, harpy Vaggie tried feeding the liver to Charlie’s “kids”, getting more and more anxious and wound up each time they refused

Charlie’s solution was to plead for her plushie demon friends’ cooperation in a very gory stage magic trick

Razzle and Dazzle glumly pretend to ‘eat’ the organ, letting Charlie scoop it up and yeet it out the window while harpy Vaggie preened in satisfaction before stuffing the “chicks” back in the nest again

This horrified the Charlie, since harpy Vaggie was still covered in blood and gore

Charlie: “Noooooo no no no, Vaggie! Ew! We need to clean you up first before snuggle t- UGH NO DON’T LICK THE BLOOD OFF YOURSELF!!”

Sadly, giant bird monsters do not fit into your average sized bathroom for showers and scrubbies

So annoyed harpy Vaggie was herded up onto the roof by Charlie while Razzle and Dazzle connected the gardening hose

Charlie: “Oh stop hissing, I made the water the same temperature as a the, ugh, blood spray from earlier. You’ll be FINE.”

Harpy Vaggie: (clacks jaws and starts biting at the water)

Charlie: “That’s fine too. I literally don’t care HOW we do this as long as you Don't get guts all over the freshly washed pillow nest the moment Razzle and Dazzle take them out of the dryer.”

Harpy Vaggie: (SCREECH)

Charlie: “Look I’m SORRY we took apart your nest and you’ll have to spend forever getting it just right again-"

Harpy Vaggie: (SCREECH AGAIN)

Charlie: "I'm sorry! But I am NOT snuggling up with fresh bloodstains, Vaggie!”

Harpy Vaggie: (hissssss)

Charlie: “No! Now let’s scrub your talons so we can get this over with an dry YOU off!”

One traumatic failed attempt at using the hair dryer on Vaggie’s many, MANY soaking wet feathers later...

Demon Charlie: “HOLY SHIT IM JUST TRYING TO HELP YOU!!!”

Harpy Vaggie: (CAW) (CAW) (C- coo?)

Demon Charlie: “WHAT?” (deep breath) “What is it? The hair dryer not so terrifying after all?”

Harpy Vaggie: (edges closer)

Demon Charlie: “It’s okay, see? It won’t hurt- Hey!”

Harpy Vaggie: (snags hair dryer in jaws and bashes it to the ground)

Demon Charlie: “Fuck! Vaggieeee- Now how are we going to get you dry!? You’ll be miserable and wet all night like this!”

Demon Charlie: “…are you cuddling up to my angry hell fire flames, Vaggie.”

Harpy Vaggie: (coo)

Demon Charlie: “The hair dryer is too scary and has to die, but my literal demonic hellfire is nice and good for snuggling with? Really?”

Harpy Vaggie: (starts preening)

Demon Charlie: “I’d think that was so sweet, if my hair drying hadn’t just been killed before my eyes.”

Harpy Vaggie: (starts trying to preen charlie)

Demon Charlie: “Aww okay okay!” (laughs) “It’s cute even with the wanton destruction of personal property~ And I’m VERY honored to be your preferred method of getting all warm and fluffy again~”

Next harpy time, Charlie boarded up all the windows and rigged a box of donuts up with some decoy clothes and string so she could make it “run” down the hallway while harpy Vaggie pounced on it

(both had been Vaggie’s ideas, once she heard what happened with the liver incident)

And while harpy Vaggie looked a bit confused at the meal she brought back to the pillow nest

(why did the guts smell and taste like raspberry jelly???)

seeing Razzle and Dazzle dig into the offering so hungrily made her puff up again with satisfaction, which made Charlie breathe a sigh of relief and then laugh too, and from then on a pretty comfortable routine for harpy nights got established

(and if normal Vaggie was once caught sandwiching a piece of very rare steak between two donut halves as a snack, well, it probably wasn’t the worst thing hell had ever seen)

(probably)

Charlie really likes her weird new sinner roommate anyway~

(Vaggie stays awake at night after each de-harpy-ing, finding herself snuggled up with the princess of the people her every instinct is telling her to go back to killing and wonders if not being loose on the streets of hell regularly doing more murder is enough to balance out receiving so much kindness from the last person who should ever have to show her any)

(the person who would be fully justified in throwing her out or keeping her locked in a cage if she was ever told the truth of that Vaggie is- was- is no matter how hard she tries not to be-)

(coward. selfish)

(she wants to help Charlie redeem sinners)

(she'll be putting those sinners in danger of their immortal lives if she lives anywhere near them)

(except... when Charlie's there, making her feel safe instead of bloodthirsty...

(... maybe she can be safe to be around)

(maybe keeping quiet is her only way to have a chance to do something good for a change)

(she tells Charlie in the morning that it was being in harpy mode that wore her out so much, and left her with a smile so sad)

#hazbin hotel #vaggie #charlie morningstar #chaggie #razzle hazbin hotel #dazzle hazbin hotel #were-harpy vaggie au #silly fluff slight angst #im soothing myself with this im trying to feel better #It Didn't Quite Work #:(

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youreirrelevant · 3 months ago

Text

Sundog

pairing: Kendall Roy/Reader summary: Then, he's slotting his chin between your breasts, sighing so heavily you can feel the warmth and moisture of his breath ooze through the fabric of your shirt. His thumbs hook into the waistband of your pajama shorts, soft with age. “I’ve had a long fucking day.” words: 2865 tags: EXPLICIT, porn with some plot (Kendall is ceo, but-), a hint of angst, light dom/sub, mutual masturbation, thigh riding a/n: I started writing this back in February of 2023...

Long days. Clicking a pen, faster than the seconds could pass. Some days he’d lose track of time, the sun would have been fully set before he’d notice there was no more light streaming into his office. Today seemed to be never-ending. Words on the screen would pixelate, the ones on paper, smudging. The numbers meant nothing, and he felt quite the business school cliché, only really able to focus on the color of the candlesticks. Seconds, minutes, hours, too many seemed red, like the heat of the day crawling by. Kendall would hold a few slugged-through pages between his index and middle fingers up to reveal a new one, eyes moving over the words as many times as it took to actually read. Felt the rough paper against the sensitive skin of his fingers, to not think of harder things. Softer things.

---

Sometimes he’d look to his dad’s suite still expecting to see him sitting there. Five o’clock was out of the question, but he didn’t know if he had it in him to wait until whatever time his brain felt would have, hypothetically, satisfied his father. (There was no such time.) Another hour, but it was essentially time theft. And perfunctory, performative- he could leave whenever the hell he wanted. (Still under his watchful eye.)

For the short walk from the building to the back of his chauffeured car, Kendall felt ten pounds heavier. Slipping his sunglasses on as soon as he stepped outside to shield himself from the penetrative rays. Sweltering, heat distorted, the air is coming up from the asphalt, off the hoods of cars, in waves. He sighs. The air is thick with humidity and makes him think of things he always tries not to. He slides into the backseat, the leather mercifully cool from where the air conditioning had been allowed to run in preparation for him.

Summer seems to have crept into him, past his skin and into the meat and bones. His stomach. Thoughts of water trickling, pouring, trying to chill people who continued to warm themselves. You could generate steam off the friction and body temperatures alone.

He felt so hard it was almost juvenile.

—

Dogs and cats will sunbathe in the sunlight that comes in through those stain-glass windows in front doors. The AC will chill the air, but anything the light touches is warmed. Through fur, and through clothes.

It’s all fucking windows. Bedroom and great room and dining room. Inescapable, infrared. You long for paper-thin white sheets, a rattling box fan to tuck it around. Colder than laying in snow. Absolute zero. The setting of the sun was more attainable. Just three hours away.

By the time he’s in the elevator, he’s itchy and aching from irritation. Wants to shed himself of his blazer at the very least. Is tired of the abrasive, stiffened nature that he’s always surrounded with, standing sturdy against the loosening of every other molecule and bond. Somehow.

He knows where he can get pliancy, though.

When he steps foot into the penthouse it’s not exactly hot, but it's stagnant. Even here there are little specks of dust floating and visible in the beams of sunlight. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t really know how to prevent dust, or what even causes it. Skin? Dirt brought in from outside?

You round the corner from the kitchen- hardly its own, enclosed room- find Kendall rolling his sleeves up. His shirt is so white its almost blue; the tan of his skin, brown of his moles, darker against it. The glass water bottle you carry is perspiring, the heat of your body penetrating, evaporating. You want to watch him, biting your lip at the flex of his fingers, tendons in his hands, muscles in his forearm. He’s watching himself do it, making the folds neat and even. The angle of his face highlights the bumps in the bridge of his nose, the thickness of his lashes, and you have to close the gap.

“You’re home kind of early,” its sweet, affectionate. The way you sound when you thank him. Gracious; soft. He straightens. Glances at you.

“Yeah, well-“evasive. Not thinking of you at all.

Two ways- when your hand wraps around his bicep he wants to bring you closer, push you away. He manages to stay still.

“Did you guys ever put cold drinks against your necks to cool down?”

Before he can even answer you’re doing just that for him, the frosty glass pressing against his carotid quickening his pulse and seeming to chill everything inside his chest. The sweat is wetting his skin, dampening his collar. It's so quintessentially summer; some fleeting relief.

“No. We had servants to fan us with those, uh, big fucking leaves.” So deadpan one could think he was serious. Your cheeks are pinched with a restrained smile, eyes glittering. Sometimes he wishes you’d just kiss him instead of hesitating -admiring- and creating this tension.

“Mhmm. Naturally.”

When he pulls away you don’t try to stop him. He tugs the fold of his collar away, then pulls it back against himself. Trying to be subtle, like he’s just straightening it, not depriving himself of the now warm, damp spot for a moment so he can enjoy it more when it's returned.

He flattens his lips. There’s an endless itch he needs scratched.

He sits on the couch, ridged and on the edge of the cushion, like he’s trying to level with you, implore to you. His body strains against his shirt- the buttons strain a little, tufts of chest hair are visible where the top ones are undone.

Kendall beckons you over casually- “Come here.” The ease of it always made you feel a little hotter, a little giddy. When you get close enough, he takes the bottle of water from you, sets it aside before leaning forward. Eyes on yours as he grabs your waist, pulls you to stand between his parted thighs, lean and toned against yours. He smiles up at you and it’s downright sweet- you want to tell him he’s pretty, full lips pulled back in a wide v. Your hands rest easily on his shoulders, cheeks pink with affection as you return his smile.

The kiss is only natural, slow and tender, but just as you go to readjust the way your lips slot against his, he’s yanking you even closer, thumbs digging into your hip bones so deep you gasp, his nose pressing into your cheek so tightly it bends. Then his chin is slotted between your breasts. He lets out a sigh so heavy you can feel the warmth and moisture of his breath ooze through the fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your pajama shorts, soft with age.

“I’ve had a long fucking day.”

Kendall does it quick, undresses you from the waist down without much fanfare. Tipping his chin down to watch as he pulls the shorts- and your underwear- down your thighs, moving his head away from you just enough to make it easier when he slips it over your knees, his hands fisting themselves into the clothes to tug more forcefully. There would usually be some easing into this, more kissing and touching, (not that there were never rushes, but, well, this wasn’t rushed.) He runs his palms back up your legs, up the sides, your knees buckling a little as his thumbs swipe over them broadly. They move up and around your thighs, cupping your ass as he looks up at you again.

Your legs shift. You wonder what he’s going to do. What he’s got planned. Suddenly it’s not hot enough.

“Um-?”

“I want you to ride my thigh.”

You scoff incredulously. He’s deadpan again so, surely, he’s joking.

“Do people actually do that?”

“You will.”

Of course you will. He’s smiling up at you, digging his fingers into your hips. There’s a firmness to his expression. He nudges the side of your leg with his knee and it feels real. Whole torso seeming to bubble with nerves and excitement.

You look at him and huff out a single, weak little laugh, but there is no bluff to be called. His forehead wrinkles when he raises his brows. Impatient.

Moving to straddle him feels awkward. It's not exactly unfamiliar- lots of people get off like this, when they’re young and learning about their bodies, and maybe you had, too. And maybe there was fabric involved then, too, but certainly no leg beneath. No person around at all.

He feels your hands trembling as they slide down to his biceps- somehow you both feel more solid to each other than you ever have. He’s thankful you aren’t looking, because any commanding facade he had has slipped away with your gaze. Working too hard to school his breathing; you give in to him, and he’s enraptured.

When you finally press against him, it aches. Not unfamiliar. Your chest heaves. He’s slim, but sturdy. Your face tingles with warmth- embarrassment- and you try not to get ahead of yourself, thinking-

“Do you need help?”

As if you’d been just sitting there, like minutes had passed or something.

“N-no.”

You shift your hips, take in a staggered breath. Maybe you had been sitting here for minutes. Shame and desire are symbiotic, show in the way you tremble from restraint. His hands slip under your shirt, running up your back and nudging you forward.

“There’s a- I feel rushed.”

“Don’t feel rushed. There’s no rush. Just, fuckin, get yourself off on my leg. Now.”

It’s the kind of command that shows he knows he’ll always get what he wants, cushioned in excitement and eagerness. Infectious; if you see how much he wants it, wants you to do it, you’ll want it, too.

And you do.

The first pass is slow and tentative. The hood of your clit is tugged upward as you angle your pelvis back, and you exhale noisily. You can feel every thread of his slacks, finely woven and stiff, all the way down into your toes. There’s an instinctive urge to keep yourself quiet, to get yourself off as quickly as you can, so you don’t get caught. Fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, hips wiggling to get a better angle. If drool spilled out of Kendall’s open mouth, pooling, dribbling over the plumpness of his bottom lip, he wouldn’t be surprised.

He’s trying to keep his cool. This was supposed to be mean to you. Degrading, a little show for him. A reward for -a distraction from- the tedium and sterility of the job he gave almost everything up for. But his face is so flushed it hurts, ears and sinuses aching, and he kind of wonders where that blood even comes from, because he’s throbbing against his leg. You look so demure. Pretty, sweat gathering in the crooks of your elbows, along the base of your neck already, from the strain of perching, rutting against his leg. Glittering in the light from the sun. His pants are tailored too slim. He swallows, shifts on the couch to try and give himself some space, and you gasp as his thigh presses firmly against your vulva.

“Don’t—“

Wobbly and strained. It’s clear, from the minute trembling of your thighs, the slackening of your jaw, that you liked it. His hands glide over your hips, down your thighs, long fingers sticking to your dewy skin.

“Sorry.”

Licking his teeth. A big grin on his face. He’s not fucking sorry; he does it again. The heel of your hand digs into his shoulder, but the moan you let out undermines any attempt at really putting your foot down.

“Fucking— stop,” giggly and spineless, but this time, he does obey, pleased that the jolt of his thigh has knocked loose your inhibitions. You widen your stance, reach a hand down to his hip to get more leverage. The leather of his belt is cool and smooth against your heated palm. He’s pushed you onto the right track.

Emboldened, determined, messy. Really going for it, now, hips rolling, bearing down on him to get that perfect scratch. He tugs your shirt up to see, to catch a peak of the streak of wetness left behind, darkening the fabric of his slacks. In the center of his chest, this tightening, cloying need to touch it. Rub it in, bring it to his mouth and taste it, but he doesn’t want to interrupt. Doesn’t want to break the spell and make you remember that he’s there, so that the embarrassment might wash over you anew. No, he wants you to cum like this, desperate and animalistic. Redirecting that energy, that need to grab and touch, he presses his palm against his cock, grunting at the pressure, loosely curling his fingers around himself and tugging to get some sort of relief.

Both of you moan. That’s—plenty. Way too fucking hot. Your minds run, sprint, parallel to each other’s with the same desires. Watching each other, wanting the other to make a mess of his nice, expensive clothes. Cascading. A feedback loop. Your fingers open and curl to get a better hold, to ride a little faster. The clinking, the buzzing of metal. He unbuckles his belt, opens his fly. The air between you is muggy, rapidly exchanged. The head of his cock flushed pink and swollen, skin pulled shiny-taut. You’re staring, as he wraps his hand around himself. Your eyebrows pinch. You want him so fucking bad. In your hand. On your tongue. Heavy and smooth.

Another pass. The pleat of his slacks catches on you, rigid and perfect and just what you need. He sees you try to chase it, squirming but unable to hit it the same way. So he flattens his palm on his upper thigh, just tight enough to keep it in place, without smoothing out the fold. Blood rushes, tingly and hot, all the way to the top of your head.

“Yes, Kendall,” gasped and dripping with gratitude, like it’s the texture of his fingertips that’s rubbing against you.

One of your thumbs tucks up under his hand, so you can rest yours on his leg, too. Grabbing, pulling yourself over him. The touch is so tender and intimate it makes his heart clench. He really isn’t there, now, as you get closer and closer. As you grind, rough and frantic against his leg. He jerks himself rhythmically, mechanically, trying to time it with each desperate jerk of your body. Both of your hands wrap around his thigh, your eyes closed, each movement and moan and whimper shorter and harsher and his mouth drops open at the sight of it. He grips his thigh, pinching your thumb between it and his hand, but neither of you mind. His other leg swings wider, knee almost bumping against the firm edge of the couch as he feels his balls pull tight against his body. He can smell you, your sweat, maybe even the tang of your arousal. See the strain this puts on your body, to balance and rut and try to get yourself off like this. Chest heaving, eyes glued to where your shirt drapes between your thighs, like it’s this mystical, magical, unattainable place— though he tries to keep himself quiet, hidden, he moans, as that first rope of cum falls, splats dully on the hardwood floor. You look up, to his face, find long lashes fanned across his cheeks, face pinched as he works himself through it, his leg bouncing, just a little.

“Mm, fuck,” you look, sound, surprised, almost agonized, watching as it pools milky white and thick between his knuckles. He watches you, the webbing between his thumb and index finger nestled at the base at the base of his cock, holding it upright as you tilt your hips and move them raggedly, harshly, to get that kind of orgasm that feels gooey and wet and endless. Your face goes slack. You drag yourself through it, barely making a sound, wanting it to last as long as possible.

You want it to go on forever because, once it’s over, embarrassment starts to creep in. It creeps into you both. The pace and the roughness of your movements. The specificities of the way you liked to get yourselves off. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that neither of you expected. That you rarely ever were with each other. Your legs are shaking. Each crevice in your body is slick with sweat, and it makes you feel gross.

“That was— ha.”

You wet your lips. Your mouth is dry.

“I don’t know how you can do that for so long,” it’s sheepish, but there’s also a hint of appreciation. Moving like that, for even that brief of a period of time, makes your whole body hurt. Core and upper arms and calves. Top to bottom. You go to stand, and he has to catch you, steady you with a still sticky hand on your waist. You grimace, but the mess is also kind of— hot.

“You just need to work on your stamina.”

#kendall roy #kendall roy x reader #kendall roy/reader #reader insert #succession #succession hbo #my writing

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supercap2319 · 3 months ago

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"My name’s Bridget, and I have to bribe people with treats to be my friend because I’m such a loner." Uliana raises the pitch of her voice to mimic Bridget's. She and her crew of Morgie, Hades, Maleficent, and James Hook laugh at the mockery of Bridget and her stupid flamingo cupcakes.

"Hey! The Code of Conduct prohibits theft and bullying!" Chloe called out, pushing forward to the front of the confrontation of the two groups, but Hook gets in her way. "Easy, lass. I dunno whaur ye come fae, bit 'ere we don’t fight 'til efter school. Meet me then."

Chloe scoffs. "You wouldn’t stand a chance."

Before James can say something else, someone calls out his name. "Leave her alone, James." Everyone turns to see Elson, son of former Queen of Arendelle, Elsa, push his way through the crowd of people drapped in a light blue cloak.

"Ah. If it isnae mah favorite ice prince." Hook smirks.

"What are you doing here, Elson? Coming to tell us all to conceal and don't feel?" Uliana asked.

"I don't want to fight with you, Uliana. Just give Bridget back the cupcakes, and we'll all go our separate ways."

"I don't speak ice, little prince. Leave. This isn't your concern."

"Kin ah hook em?" Hook asked, eyeing Elson with a delight.

Elson raised a hand and frozen the tip of James' hook. Elson gave him a mock look of surprise. "Oops."

"Ooh. Ye'r gonnae pay fur that one, duckling."

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #james hook #hook x reader #James Hook x male reader #joshua colley #descendants #descendants rise of red #descendants 4 #captain hook #son of elsa

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decayedgloria · 1 year ago

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jailhouse rock

ft. Wriothesley

You land behind the bars of the Fortress of Meropide once again, and Wriothesley isn’t too keen on letting you off the hook this time.

Tags: Wriothesley x afab!reader, fwb-ish relationship, inspired by The Sin by Henreich Lassow, might be ooc/not canon, hate sex?, rough sex, oral m!receiving, degradation, copious amounts of swearing from Wriothesley, nsfw under cut, mdni

Word count: ~1.8k words, not really proofread lmao

One might call you stupid. Others might call you opportunistic. But as you sat in a dark, damp cell in the infamous Fortress of Meropide, you couldn’t help but grin.

You were a repeat offender. Petty theft, fraud, and money laundering were your specialties- roaming the streets of Fontaine having every intention of being an inconvenience to everyone who crosses paths with you. You’ve landed in prison on numerous occasions, with the Gardes already being on a first-name basis with you given how frequently you seemed to be thrown there.

But those weren’t the ones you came for. No, the prize you were after was much, much sweeter. You perk up as you hear the familiar heavy footsteps trudging closer to your cell, adrenaline and excitement flowing through your veins. The clanging of the metal doors opening and closing occupied the otherwise empty cell block as he neared, only stopping once he was directly in front of you.

Tall, looming, and dangerous- Wriothesley’s sharp eyes bore down on your hunched figure like a hawk examining its prey. You share his stare in response, a cheeky grin replacing your grimace at the sight of the man. Something inside you stirred- and it desperately needed to be quelled by him.

“Hello, Duke.” The nickname rolled off your tongue smoothly, a hint of mischief in your honeyed words. Wriothesley narrowed his eyes, brows furrowed as he huffed deeply.

“Don’t you get tired of this?” He draws closer to you, his large figure mere inches away from your smaller one with only the cell bars keeping him from coming closer. The moonlight seeped through a small window, illuminating his domineering figure and angular features. All you could do was smile, standing up and sauntering towards him.

“Not if it means seeing you…” Your eyes trail from his face to his chest, appreciating how his suit made his body look without his fur coat. Arousal stirred in your lower abdomen as he brought a firm hand to your jaw, forcing you to look at him once more. “Oh? And what now, my dear Wriothesley?”

“You’re such a fucking whore.”

Bringing you in between the gaps of the bars, he leaned in and began kissing you roughly- which you returned in earnest. His large hand was still on your jaw, while his other hastily unbuttoned your shirt, squeezing your mounds as you moaned into his lips. Your own hands made their way to his tie, easily tugging it off like you had countless times before.

You and Wriothesley’s relationship- if it could even be called that, at this point- was a complicated notion. On one hand, you were on drastically different sides of society; you, a feeble criminal, and him, the one who is responsible for punishing said criminals. Yet, no matter how much he tried to keep you as far away as possible, both of you always seemed to land in the same predicament.

Wriothesley dragged his teeth down your jawline, making its way to your neck and latching on your skin, leaving dark bruises where his lips were. Moans and groans bounced off the stone walls as you writhed against him, your cunt growing ever so needy with the way he practically manhandled you through the bars. Your clothes had long been discarded, and the last of his were finally thrown on the floor.

“This isn’t very responsible of you, Duke.” Your voice, despite its teasing tone, was breathy and weak. Wriothesley looked to you once again, uttering a tsk sound before shoving you down on your knees, rather easily, and had you face to face with his hard, angry cock. Licking your lips, you began languidly stroking him, almost instinctively as your eyes scanned his face, stricken with passion and lust.

Wriothesley’s half-lidded eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as your mouth enveloped him, a guttural groan escaping his throat. His hands gripped your hair tightly as you bobbed up and down, making sure to swirl your tongue on his tip as he practically facefucks you. You only grinned as he continued, sighing and growling while he used your head like a toy for his own pleasure. The thought of him being so rough and uncaring for you excited you more than you’d like to admit, feeling your panties getting wetter by the second as you took him in your mouth over and over again.

“You couldn’t get enough of my cock?” He said through gritted teeth, gazing down on you pleasuring him through the bars. “Fuck- you couldn’t last one week without my dick being shoved- shit, down your fucking throat?”

In response, you only took him in deeper, letting the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat in one long, agonizing motion. To this he cursed, moaning your name as his hands tried moving your head to bury himself deeper. His cock, girthy and long, almost didn't fit in your mouth- but it would be nothing compared to how it would stretch your pussy when he fucks you.

You pick up your pace as you slobber on his cock, matching the rhythm of his arms as he nears his release. Your eyes gaze up at the man standing over you, panting and moaning your name as if he were the whore that he always called you. Drinking in the rare sight of the Lord of Meropide coming undone by you, a criminal of all people- it turned you on in more ways that you could imagine.

By the trembling of his thighs and the careless groans coming from him, you could tell he was nearing his high. Just to tease him once more (and to make your inevitable punishment sweeter) you pulled yourself away from his grasp, slipping his cock out of your mouth as you grin up at him innocently. Wriothesley gasped at the sensation, eyes snapping open to look back at you, brows furrowed in frustration.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Can't have you cum right now, Duke. We're not even at the best part." Your wicked grin only served to aggravate him further, gloved hands yanking you up to your feet and connecting your lips once more, roughly shedding what clothing you had on left, fingers grasping and kneading at any flesh he could. A bruising grip found its way on to your hips as he spun you around, catching you off-guard.

"What are you-" Your resolve faltered when you found your bare ass rubbing against his slick cock. "Wriothesley-"

His large hand lands on the small of your back, pushing your upper body down to bend over so your cunt was easier for him to access. Not a second later, the same hand comes down hard on your ass, eliciting a delicious mewl from your lips as you get wetter and wetter.

His fingers ran up and down your already sopping cunt, making sure you were prepared to take him before suddenly plowing his hard cock into you. "The least you can do is take my cock, slut." he scoffed, deep voice filled with arousal as he stretched your hole open.

You moaned and whined at the sudden intrusion, arching your back as you threw your head back in pleasure. Your hands braced themselves on the bars behind you as Wriothesley began his slow, but deep thrusts in and out of you, hands firmly gripping your hips as he does so.

The rattling of the bars as Wriothesley pounds into you and your sinful noises were the only sounds in the otherwise silent cell block. His pace was becoming ruthless, rutting into you as if his life depended on it while his hands landed smack after smack on your plush ass.

"Your pussy belongs to me-" He pants, "Fuck- you're so fucking tight…" Another slap across your cheeks, "Take it, whore. Let the entire prison know who you belong to."

"Wriothesley-!" You were reduced to a blubbering mess, singing praises of him and his cock as your mind was consumed by endless pleasure from the way he drilled himself into your pussy repeatedly. "Your cock's s'big! Ah, fuck! More, more please more!" You could hear him chuckle at how pathetic you sounded.

"Yeah? Getting enough of this cock?" He grunts, well aware that the sounds coming out of your mouth were nothing more than slurred words as you helplessly writhe, body twisting and contorting in pleasure. He brings another hand to your ass, forcing you to reply to him.

"Y-yes! Oh yes- m'god yes!" You managed to whine out, voice shaking with each thrust. "Cock's so good- ngh, yes! 'Thesley-" Wriothesley's pace had become more and more erratic, breathing ragged and muscles tensing as he finally reached his high, spilling his cum inside your cunt as you shudder trying to chase your own.

The glow of the moonlight had now occupied much of the cell block, shedding light on just how much of a mess Wriothesley made of you as he pulled himself out of your stuffed cunt. Your shaky legs gave out, nearly collapsing until Wriothesley held your waist to gently pull you up; a stark contrast to how his touch was moments before.

Trying to catch your breath, you try your best to turn to face him, ready to tease the officer- but to your surprise he was already dressed, merely fixing his sweat-beaded forehead while he turned to look at you. You grimaced, a part of you wanting to spend some more time with the ever-so elusive man.

"It's best you get dressed." Wriothesley stated, casting a brief glance at your naked form. "I don't want anyone to see you like this tomorrow."

"Jealous?" You grin, trying to dress yourself with trembling arms. He focused his gaze on you once more, before sighing and reaching a hand through the bars to fix your hair. An unfamiliar gesture, one that had you stopping your actions to look at the tall man.

"The next time you want to see me, be a normal person and ask me on a date or something." Giving your cheek a gentle caress with his thumb, he gives you a small smile before finally walking away, tall strides echoing throughout the empty block once more.

You sit there and ponder the suggestion a little. Yes, that was always an option, but… isn't playing cop and thief much more fun?

im gonna be totally honest i lost interest in this fic like halfway through lowk and like begrudgingly finished it for yall

just started school so i might not upload as much, still trying tho

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #genshin wriothesley #wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley smut #afab reader

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