#go back and watch them with what we now know and just fucking. weep.

[llondonfog]

it's been nearly 12 hours and im still haunted by this comment i saw on a lilia and silver quote video in light of all that we now know about his curse 😭

[heytheredelulu]

To Have and To Hold-

And to Fuck Whenever I Want

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+

Word Count: 1.5k

C/W: Shameless smut. It’s our favorite dirty talkin’, 107 year old super soldier fucking you (his wife) on your period.

Gimme beefy Bucky coming home late, long after his kids are in bed for the night and finding his pretty little wife curled up on the couch with a frown on her perfect face, watching some shitty ass movie.

His cock twitches in his jeans at the sight of you in his tshirt and an audible groan rises up from his throat when he rounds the corner completely and notices you’ve chosen to forgo pajama pants altogether. Those innocent little cotton briefs of yours always do him in.

“What’s wrong, momma?” He asks in a low, gravely voice as he takes a seat next to you on the couch, resting a large hand on your bare thigh.

“Cramps.” You reply flatly, not taking your gaze off the garbage rom-com playing on the tv, though you’ve seen it numerous times.

“Oh.” He breathes out, glancing over his shoulder at the dry-erase calendar hanging on the wall in the kitchen that you use to manage your large family’s schedule. “Hm. Two days early?” He asks.

“Yeah, two fucking days early.” You snap, shifting in your seat.

He keeps his grasp firm on your thigh, offering an affectionate squeeze.

“You feelin’ that bad, huh?” He asks in a soft voice that he reserves only for you.

You nod, finally pulling your attention away from the television and turning it onto him. The only light source in the room at this time of night is from the flashing scenes across the flatscreen but that little bit of illumination is all he needs to see how glassy your eyes are.

“Oh, baby girl.” He murmurs, pushing your hair back off your face. “Lemme take care of you.”

You shake your head, knocking free a few of the tears that had been brimming your lash line. “No, there’s nothing you can do to help.”

He scoffs, his hand sliding up the soft flesh of your thigh until his fingertips brush the hem of your underwear.

“No. Baby, no.” You protest, bringing your hand down to stop him but his vibranium hand is faster, catching your wrist and pushing it away.

“Yes. Baby, yes.” He muses, slipping his index finger under the fabric and gently wrapping the string of your tampon around it.

“Bucky, that’s disgusting.” You hiss, frowning at him. “I’m on my period.”

He lets out a low, breathy chuckle as he slowly and carefully begins to tug. “It’s just blood, momma. You think me of all people would be bothered by blood?” He asks softly.

You pause, considering your answer but in your silence he continues. “Besides, wasn’t that part of the vows we exchanged in that sweet little church before God? To have and to hold and to fuck whenever I want?”

“That was not in our vows and you know it.”

“Hm, they weren’t? We should consider renewing those.” He replies with a crooked smirk as he pulls your tampon free, tossing it over the couch and into the waste bin with precision.

“I gotta be honest, baby girl. If the good lord hadn’t intended for me to fuck you everytime my cock was hard, he wouldn’t have blessed you with such a perfect little pussy.”

“Bucky..” you warn, sitting upright as he rises off the couch.

He shushes you, his large hands moving to unbuckle his belt as your eyes settle on the tented crotch of his jeans.

“If you think-“ He mumbles, pulling the leather through the silver buckle and unbuttoning his jeans with his thick fingers. “That I’m not going to bury myself balls deep inside my wife any and every chance I get- you are sorely mistaken.” He tells you matter of factly, tugging his jeans down his defined waist and kicking them unceremoniously aside in a pile at the foot of the couch. “Now take off those sweet little panties before I tear them off of you.”

You hesitate, swallowing down the whimper that rose up in your throat at his command.

“I said, off.” He repeats sternly, stepping out of his boxers and wrapping a hand around his weeping cock. He pumps himself lazily once, twice, in your hesitation before letting out an impatient growl and reaching forward to curl his vibranium fingers under the waistband of underwear, not allowing you a second more to protest before tearing them effortlessly off of your body.

“Now, are you gonna follow my instructions or will I have to pick you up and set you down where you belong?” He asks in a gruff whisper, his blue eyes darkening with desire.

“And where exactly do you think I belong?” You ask him defiantly, pulling at his last thread of patience.

“You-“ He growls, grasping your wrists in a punishing grip and yanking you to your feet. He jerks you towards him as he looms over you, his head dipped down to hold your gaze and his impossibly hard cock pressing against your abdomen, leaving a smear of precum across the soft skin of your belly.

“You belong wrapped around me.” He murmurs, cupping your jaw gently and brushing the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip in an affectionate sentiment that felt like such a stark contrast to the aggression he’d just been displaying. It was the little gestures that betrayed that dominance in him, that assured you that this powerful man standing so needy before you loved you so much that he’d do anything for you without question.

You lean into his touch and he lets out a low and breathy moan.

“You belong wrapped around me, momma.” He continues. “Crying out my name. Soakin’ my cock with your sweet, sweet-“ He pauses, his length twitching as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, I need you.” he chokes out, settling his hands on each side of your hip and he lifts you effortlessly, sinking you down inch by inch onto his throbbing cock.

He plants his feet and bends his knees, supporting your weight as he cups your ass, kneading the soft flesh while he allows you the opportunity to anchor your arms around his neck. A shameless moan rises from your throat, your head tipping back in the pleasure of him buried balls deep within you as he walks you backwards to press your back to the wall. A low and cocky chuckle is all the warning he gives you before he draws his hips back, thrusting up into you hard enough to kiss your cervix. Choked gasps tear from your chest as he picks up a steady rhythm, massaging your aching walls with every deep rut of his hips.

“I thought-“ He hissed through gritted teeth, dipping his head to nip at your pulse point. “You said nothing would help.”

You shake your head, mumbling incoherently and letting your head fall against your shoulder to allow him further access to the sensitive skin of your neck. “Seems like it’s helping.” He muses, licking a long stripe up the column of your throat. You whimper, tightening your legs around his waist as he slows his pace into long, deep strokes, groaning as he savors the way you grip him, the feeling of your building orgasm causing his hips to stutter just the slightest.

“Fuck, momma. You have.. the most.. perfect.. cunt.” He rasps out, emphasizing each of the last words with a brutal thrust.

You break with that last deep roll of his hips, the tension that was coiled tight in your abdomen snapping with a burst of white hot ecstacy, a broken cry escaping your heaving chest as your walls spasm around him.

“Oh God, that’s it. Come on my cock, come all over daddy’s cock.” He grunts, snapping his hips and increasing his tempo to fuck you through the dizzying waves of your release.

“Jamie..” You whimper, reaching a trembling hand to caress his jaw.

His name on your lips is the sweetest fucking sound, causing his breath to catch and his eyes flutter closed with a low and raspy moan. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm before you trail your fingertips down his shoulders in a featherlight touch. He buries his face into your neck, his short, sharp pants hot against your skin, his movements growing sloppy and erratic as he hangs on by a mere thread.

“I’m- I-“ He chokes out, sinking his teeth into your shoulder to muffle the primal groan that rips through his chest as his balls draw up and his cock pulses, emptying himself inside you with one last powerful thrust.

He’s still for a moment, working to catch his breath before he tightens his arms around you, peppering gentle kisses along your jaw as he lowers you to the floor on wobbly legs and you sway, stumbling forward slightly.

“Momma.” He says softly, splaying a large hand against the base of your skull and drawing you into his chest. “You alright?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m alright.” You assure him, a hum of satisfaction rumbling in his chest under your ear. “I’m feeling much, much better.”

He smiles, tucking your head under his chin just to feel you close to him a moment longer.

“C’mon, baby. Let’s get you in a hot bath.”

His hands trail along your spine in a soothing motion, goosebumps prickling along your flushed skin in response to his touch.

“To have and to hold.” He whispers, pressing a firm kiss to your temple.

You grin against his chest, closing your eyes and inhaling his scent.

“And to fuck whenever you want.”

Taglist (Taglist is open):

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[2kiran]

can we get some more of ghostface x top!male reader pleaseeeeeee 🥺🙏🙏

“Fuck, come on, put it in already!”

Ghostface whines in pure frustration, the little slit of his cock uselessly weeping, desperate for your attention. His gloved hands clench around the sheets underneath his tensed body, his head thrown back against the pillow as he gasps out.

You had two slick fingers rubbing against his walls, the digits gradually pumping in and out and effectively loosening his tight hole. “You’re going to bleed out if I do,” you warn, ignoring his sobbing protests as the pad of your index finger brush against a sensitive spot within him. Ghostface’s lean back arches off the bed, which has your free hand moving to weigh on his stomach to ensure he held still.

“Don’t be such a—mngh, oh God—stupid pussy. Fuck your cock into me, I know you want it,” Ghostface babbles mindlessly, his hips straining as they roll forward, trying to take your fingers in deeper.

To his disappointment and eventual anger, you pull them out and leave his wet hole pathetically gaping from the abrupt emptiness. Before his complaints burst from his chest, however, you align the head of your cock to his entrance and gently push it inside.

Ghostface’s thighs twitch, his legs automatically spreading wider as he squeezes around your tip. Though, to his surprise, that’s all he receives from you. His breathing grew ragged, puffs of air hitting his mask and causing the material to cling to his nose.

“What are you—?”

“Just the tip tonight,” You quickly hush, your palm soothing the tense muscles of his abdomen.

In complaint, he grumbled incoherently, beginning to slightly squirm in his place. This was basically the equivalent of you killing him. He wanted to feel your dumb, insufferable big dick inside of his tight, drooling hole; yet, you seemed to have no plans on giving what he wants. He whimpers shakily while he tilts his head to stare down at you, watching how you start to stroke yourself with only your leaky cockhead inside of him.

It’ll have to do. For now. Ghostface can only let out faint, pretty moans as he waits for you to cum inside of him.

[everythingspokenfor]

Helping hand

All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI

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"So you have never done it." You looked at him expectedly, like the answer you want from him is a day to day query, like this isn't an embarassing situation to land up in.

Bakugou fidgeted with his fingers, rosy blush spreading from his ears to the column of his throat. He looks at everything but you.

"there is nothing wrong with it," you are trying to help, "you have nothing to be embarassed about", but you aren't really helpful, every word that leaves your glossy lips pushing Bakugou further into humiliation.

"it's just.. I don't do it.. like my quirk, I sweat alot, I don't wanna blow my, you know", words finally spill out his lips, a little jagged but you take what you get. A big small part of you want to make a crude joke, tease him, say something stupid like he doesn't want his dick blown- but you stop, he has barely started coming out of his shell, any further teasing is simply going to get you kicked out of his room.

So, you choose to wait, let him get out any more words he wishes to say, when he doesn't, you continue," I see, we don't have to do anything major today", the implication of your statement makes Bakugou's imagination wild, his hips subconsciously humping the air, you notice it, he doesn't, "I'll go easy today, it'll help with the nerves, do you watch porn?."

You question baffles him but he still answers, nodding his head before already answering the question you would have asked next,"it's.. mild.... Like mild stuff, foreplay then sex haven't really paid mind to it", he is no longer fidgeting with his hands, they are now tightly gripping the bed beside his thighs.

Nothing to obstruct your view of his lap, you see his cock, it's hard and it's thick so thick that it probably won't be able to lift it's own weight. And it's creamy, distinct head of his cock, visible easily because all the precum that's leaking out, it's alot, messily smeared over his sweats.

"I guess I'll take things in my hands", another crude joke bubbles in your mind at your own words,"I'll do things at your pace, today I'll give you a handy, tomorrow we'll figure more out."

As much as teasing him was fun, you knew he needed release, today you'll spear him, you suppose.

Bakugou tensed up, probably imagining you giving him a handy, the word itself making him cringe. "you can do it", he mumbles, humping his hips up again this time more prominent. "Do what?", you question innocently, hand barely hovering over his thighs.

He knows you are teasing him, he looks at you like he hates you but his cock weeps, prominent drop of precum dribbles out. "Give me a handy, bitch." Desperation evident in his voice, tongue spitting venom because you won't let his cock splurt.

He barely has time to react before you grab his cock through his sweats and squeeze , already hard for so long, poor Bakugou cums before you even have a chances to stroke him.

His orgasm causing him to hunch over, both his hands grabbing your wrist and tightly pressing against his cock. Mouth open, in a silent moan, toes curled hlon his sock clad feet. He lets go of your hand and collapses back on the bed. Heavy breathing, accompanied by loud heart beats ringing in his ears.

You slowly pull your hand away, motion causing him to let out a hiss. "Don't fucking say it." He grits out, hand over his eyes.

You don't really know why you do it, the thought of teasing him not really in your mind, maybe you were asking pathetic of a mess as he was.

You looked at your hand, cum smeared on your fingers, before you put them in your mouth and sucked them clean.

"good diet." You breath out, before swiftly leaving the room.

Bakugou lay there, dumbfounded, and more pent up than he was before.

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[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Even if the sky was falling

Part I

a/n see I’m a nice person, I listen… sometimes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It felt as if the sun was snuffed out as Azriel unleashed all of his shadows. Clawing and ripping at everything they found in their way, they drank in all drops of light. They were weeping alongside their master. The screaming returned as everyone around tried to escape the wrath of a man who no longer had anything to lose. A man who had nothing else to fight for. A man who was finally in so much pain he no longer could handle it.

“Azriel”, a voice called him but Azriel didn’t move. How could he move when his arms were wrapped around your limp body? “Brother”, that’s when he felt Rhys’s arms reaching from behind him as the high lord wrapped the two of you in the darkness of his own. “There’s still a heartbeat”, Rhys muttered, “She’s alive but you need to let a healer close, Azriel, do you hear me?”, his voice seemed foreign and far away, yet Azriel still pulled back slightly so he could look at your face. “Don’t take her away”, a sob slipped past his lips and even Rhys had to tilt his head up so the tears would not flow down his face. Because he had his suspicions. You do when your brother who had been cold as stone starts walking around with a hint of a smile. “Let Madja and her healers take her”, Rhys urged him, pulling at his arms that were wrapped around you. “Rhys”, Azriel grunted trying to fight back but Rhys didn’t let go, pulling his arms behind him, right as Madja slipped through the shell of darkness, her arms replacing Azriel’s. “No”, Azriel trashed against Rhys, “I’ll kill you all, you hear me?”, he howled, watching as Cassian picked you up following the orders Madja was giving him. “Let me to her”, Azriel growled his shadows ripping at the walls Rhys had built around them. “You’re not thinking brother, we are not the enemies here”, trying to send calmness down the mind threads Rhys was trying to latch on to. “It’s because of your fucking kid this happened. You and your plans, you would sell us all if it meant you were the one happy”, deep down Rhys knees that Azriel didn’t mean it. Deep down Azriel knew better but not now. Not when his palms were soaked in your blood. Not when there was a wound the shape of you in his chest, eating at him. “I’m so sorry, Az, you got to know that I’m sorry”, Rhys muttered, his palm coming to brush over Azriel’s eyes and in a blink of an eye everything went dark.

Azriel had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened when he woke up. To his left, he saw Feyre, curled up in an armchair. He knew that Rhys had been in his head. He always felt the aftermath of it. The ache and that dirty feeling as if someone had rummaged through parts of you they had no right to see. Yet the strongest feeling was the depths of loneliness. As if longing for a limb you never had in the first place yet you felt it as if it was yours. He stood slowly, not feeling like interacting with anyone so in need of keeping Feyre sleeping.

But bumped into Madja almost as soon as he slipped out into the corridor. “Oh, Az, you should still be in bed”, the elderly lady muttered. Azriel didn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t. “Where did you bury her?”, his voice didn’t even sound like his own as he spoke. “Who, my dear?”, Madja asked, clasping his hand. “My Y/n”, he breathed and the name alone was enough to make his eyes sting. “Come”, was all Madja said as she squeezed his palm. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to see you yet. He just wanted to know where. Seeing you would make it real and for now, he wanted to live in a sense of delusion. Azriel tried to push the smell of medical herbs out. The smell of incense burning. His body walked but his soul was no doubt knees deep on the grass by the school still.

“I’ll get you something to sit on”, Madja muttered, before reaching for the door. Azriel knew there was no going back from this after he stepped in. But the door opened. Madja ushered him inside and the moment his eyes got used to the dim light he saw. And his knees buckled once more. “No”, he breathed out. Rhys halted, putting the spoon down. “Azriel”, it was so weak, barely a kiss of the wind but there and it was yours. “Get out of my head Rhys”, Azriel growled, shaking his head. “This is real-world brother”, Rhys reassured him, his hand moving to squeeze yours. But your tired eyes were on Azriel. And that was enough to make him crumble.

“Baby”, you whined, pushing to sit up only to be met by Madja’s firm palm, “You will rip the stitches, stay how you are”, she breathed. Yet your hand still pushed back, reaching for Azriel who was on the floor, head in hands as he cried. “Please, I… Come closer”, you begged, needing to feel him. “You were dead in my head, you were… I lost you”, he shook his head.

“Come closer, please”, you choked out, fingers grasping at thin air, “Azriel, please”. It was unbearable to hear his cries. To feel his pain. It was as if someone sent crushed glass down your bloodstream and told you it was fine. Each blood cell called for him. Ached for him. You knew he wouldn’t heal your scars. He wouldn’t make the pain go away. But you were sure that feeling him, sensing him would bring you peace like no other.

Azriel practically crawled towards the bed. Mindful of the stuff around the push tables, his hands first grasped your legs before he pulled himself closer. Hands moving to cup your cheek as you leaned into him. “Y/n”, he muttered, waiting for you to fade into nothing. But no matter how many times he blinked you didn’t go away. “I’m here, it’s me”, you whispered, letting your palm brush over his, “And I love you”. Your words made Azriel halt before a little smile spread onto his lips.

“I was ready to end the whole world for you”, he mused, “I wasn’t gonna stop till…”, “But you don’t have to and you will never have to”, you cut in, reaching out to pull his face closer, “Cause the way you pulled me out of my darkness, I’ll pull you out of yours”. Azriel let his eyes soak you up, the slight rosy tint that had crept back onto your cheeks. “Lay with me”, you muttered, trying to tilt to the side only to hiss in pain, Azriel’s shadows instantly swirling around you in worry. “I don’t think it’s a good…”, he had started. “Do as the girl wants”, Madja huffed, “Do it while I’m here so I can make sure it’s all decent”. Rhys snorted from the corner making Azriel shoot him a look.

Madja ushered Rhys over as they carefully lifted you up, letting Azriel settle onto the bed, before they carefully laid you into his arms. You both let out a sigh of relief in unison. As two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. “Rest”, Azriel muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. You reached for his hand, draping it over yourself, right above the tender skin of your abdomen. “Can you sing to me?”, you tilted your head up. “All night long, my love”, Azriel mused, kissing the top of your head.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #25

You held back the sobs that threatened to spill from your lips, clasping your hands over your mouth in an attempt to muffle yourself.

Part of you wished you hadn't heard the plans the cultists had for you. Ignorance was bliss, after all, and had you known how this would end, you'd never come close to these people in the first place. All you wanted was to understand them, to write your article, and be done with it. You didn't know it would end in you getting sacrificed to the god they worshipped.

Human sacrifice, who'd even do that in this day and age?

You thought everything was going well. You spoke with the members, worked with them, and ate at their table. Even if you disagreed with their views, you saw them as the humans they were, perhaps a little desperate for recognition from a god that may or may not exist but human at their cores. They didn't scream "crazy fanatics" to you, but it seems you were delusional, thinking they were normal.

"Fuck," you whispered to yourself. You shouldn't have been out here in the dark per their rules, but some friendly folks invited you for drinks at their cabins, and you didn't want to overstay your welcome. Even when they asked you to stay, you just wanted to return to your camper for a good night's sleep. Now, a part of you wishes you had listened.

But then again, what good would have not knowing done for you? You'd probably have gone along when they prettied you up for an initiation, thinking you'd get some good stuff for your article. You'd never known until these mad people had killed you, following them blindly like a lamb to slaughter.

"Someone there?" one of the cultists suddenly called out, and you jumped, quickly turning the other way to run. You just needed to get back to your camper, and you'd be out of here, gone, never to return. And you'd tell everyone about what you witnessed so it may never happen again!

With a yelp, you were tugged back, the inviting darkness torn to shreds by a flashlight. "Ah, you," one of the cultists said. You watched his face contort as he took in the obvious horror etched into yours. He looked almost... sad. Almost.

"That's not how... you shouldn't have—"

"Stop dallying, let's get them to the priest."

A second cultist approached, looking stern and unimpressed. He took your wrist from the first one, and when you began to brace your feet into the ground, the struggle ensued between you two. You screamed into the night when the first cultist wrapped his arms around you, too, covering your mouth with his hand as the two of them dragged you away to meet up with the priest.

You screamed and bit, but it was no use other than you agitating the two cultists further. Even when you thrashed and threw your body against them to knock them off balance, you didn't win against the two men, who almost seemed trained to handle these situations. Tears dripped down your face as the helplessness overwhelmed you. Was this how you were going to die? Would they kill you now?

After being dragged through grass and mud, the sound of steps on wooden planks as you enter the priest's cabin were deafening loud. Like the announcement of your death sentence. The struggle ceased as you lost the strength in the face of your killer, the surprise twisting into despair as the priest of this cult watched you being brought in.

"What is the meaning of this?" the priest asked as if he were innocent in all of this. He immediately stepped to your side and knelt down, your legs having long forgotten how to stand as you sat on the floor, weeping. Brushing the tears off your face, he made the other two stop handling you like a wild animal, your arms and body falling forward as you were released.

"Sir, they heard us talk about the ritual. We didn't mean to. We were preparing the site and thought everyone was asleep."

You couldn't look up even as anger flooded your mind. How dare they make it sound like it was your fault! As if you ruined something! But gripped with fear, you couldn't utter a word before the priest who held your life in his hands.

The priest sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You fools... Leave us!"

There was a moment of stunned silence before the two tried to argue, "But Sir..."

"Leave! You've done enough!"

Unsure footsteps made the ground shake as the two men left, and you almost felt like you could breathe again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dear. Come," the priest muttered, helping you up. With confusion clouding your mind, you let yourself be directed down into a chair next to the fireplace, the warmth prickling against your skin, fear having drained you of most of your body heat.

You had never been alone with the priest before, he seemed to have always avoided you, perhaps not trusting your intentions to write an article about the cult. He even told you to leave regularly in the beginning. And you had an inkling why, considering he was planning to sacrifice you.

"I don't want to die," you sobbed, scared but also hoping your tears could deter him. The man kneeled on the ground before you, his large hands falling to your knees, his thumb brushing back and forth reassuringly.

"I know, Darling. I know, but we have to. I sent you away so many times, but you wouldn't listen. I can't help you, I can't—"

His sentence broke off as he let his head fall, defeated. You didn't believe him, couldn't. Someone who thought that it was a necessary evil to kill someone was no one you should trust.

"Please just let me go! No one has to know!"

"Oh, Darling. They'd go after you. They already sliced the wheels of your car, and you'd not escape them in the woods alone."

You gulped at the revelation that you were already so deep in this misery, never even having checked if your camper was still useable while you spent your days frolicking with the cultists. Cellphone service was almost non-existent, but still! You couldn't die here! You were scared, but you had to try and convince the priest to let you go!

"Please let me try, I beg you! I won't tell them you let me go, I promise!"

"I—" the priest started, words caught in his throat as he stared. You guessed he was torn between two sides, but against your expectations, he didn't seem as bad of a person as you had feared. Then again, that's what you had thought about all the cultists.

"There... There's another way," he finally muttered, lowering his gaze to his hands on top of your knees. You thought you saw a hint of excitement and shame in his eyes, his lips quivering as he formed the words.

"I have yet to take a spouse. They wouldn't dare lay a hand on who I've chosen, and I... I'd like it if it were you."

The brushing of his thumb over your legs resumed a bit more forceful now. You felt sick hearing these deceiving words of safety, the undertone of greed and lust thicker than any sermon in church. You've learned from the others just how long this priest had served them faithfully, the most devoted and fanatic of them all.

And yet, when he looked at you, you saw the awe in his eyes, the sickening adoration of a devotee. It was almost as if he worshipped you more than his god, as if doing this wasn't a betrayal to the one he swore his loyalty to.

You'd never been so close, never thought twice about this priest, who had probably never been around anyone but the cultist all his life. You were likely something special, someone extraordinary in his eyes; at least, that's what his adoring gaze told you. But what if he started to make demands in exchange? Could you withstand them? Still, it might be your only chance! If you convinced him to keep you safe, you could play him and wander around the encampment to find something to help you—even escape in the daylight.

You'd make it through the dangerous night alive.

You could still run. Punch this guy in the face and never look back as you bolted, but if the preparations had been made, cultists out and about working on this sacrifice, could you really get away far enough before they noticed? Maybe it was worth playing it safe... You had no idea what would happen if you agreed to join hands with the priest. Still, perhaps it was worth it, considering you might die out in the forest, lost and in pain after hurting yourself if you simply ran.

No matter how easy the priest tried to make the decision seem, begging you with lovesick eyes to agree to his terms, you had trouble figuring it out. It had to be made, and quickly! Before anyone would come to find you and proceed with the original plan to sacrifice you!

(Reasoning and discussions welcome! ♥)

[macfrog]

little aphrodite sex on fire chapter nine

the amount i had to write jean-marc in this chapter makes me nauseous. anywho. these two heal my soul and make me weep. please enjoy a little look back at the ceo's experience of paris.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: we're going back to paris. this time, through joel's eyes.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, ostentatious flaunting of wealth (eat the rich i say), sugardaddy!joel, softdom!joel, oral (f and m receiving), daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, angst & pining, and...well. the ceo falls in love.

word count: 7.5k

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He wasn’t even sure you’d say yes when he asked. Thought you’d find it a bit much, flying halfway across the world just for one lousy meeting. He had what he’d say when you turned him down in mind, already: Sure, yeah, no problem. No, I just thought – Yeah. ‘s alright. I’ll bring you back som’ as a souvenir.

But you didn’t.

Oh, yeah? you’d said. Your face seemed to light – humored, impressed even. It made Joel feel braver. Reassured. You’ve a habit of doing that to him.

Mhm, he replied, chewing on the sub you’d ordered him after his conference call. He can’t remember what he promised Human Resources he’d have done within the hour. You walked in as he was saying it, and – well. Two days, he said, swallowing, Saturday Sunday.

And are you gonna make me take minutes while you meet with this Jean-Marc? You wiggled your fingers as you said it, letting the name drip through your lips in some kind of dreamy song. I don’t make the flight back unless they’re typed up by the time we leave? That the catch?

No catch. You don’t even gotta come to the meetin’.

I don’t have to –? Wow, Miller. You’re spoiling me, no? You kicked your leg, one knee hooked over the other. Your skirt shrinking up your thigh.

You were sat in the chair on the right, opposite his desk. You always sit in that one – and Joel’s still trying to figure out why. The working theory so far is that it’s at a good angle to watch the city below, and at the same time, see exactly who comes and goes in and out of the office during lunch.

But there has to be more to it, he thinks. He suspects. Martha’s desk is, like, five feet from yours. She spends her lunches in the conference room with Deb, shaking salads doused in balsamic vinegar and sharing cross-floor gossip. They invite you every day, and almost every day, you turn them down in favor of his shuttered office, the muted swish of cars on the street, the mock gasps and clutch of invisible pearls when you share that same fifth-floor gossip with him over the desk.

You’d been talking while he’d been thinking about the damn chair. He hadn’t heard a word of it. Huh? he asked, and you rolled your eyes.

Ain’t never listenin’, you muttered, peeling the damp paper back from your own sub.

Say it again, Joel said. Was just making a mental note to book dinner for us over there.

You scoffed, licking mayo from the corner of your lips. Why you making mental notes for anything? That’s what you pay me for.

And you were right – it is what he pays you for. Pays you to be his shadow, his right-hand man, his eyes and his ears and his entire brain, some days.

But lately – he doesn’t know. It’s different.

Truth be told, he has no idea what’s gotten into him. Looking at you the way he is. You’ve fucked around twice, now, and both times have been…nothing short of fucking amazing. Both times, Joel’s thought he might come within the first two minutes. Pushing inside your velvet walls, watching the way you roll forward, hearing the lewd moans pour across your lips.

He’s always thought you were attractive. It’s pretty fucking hard to ignore. Physically, sure – the look of your body, the way you know how to dress it. And the prettiest, softest face he’s ever seen. You can win him over in any discussion without a word, just by fluttering your eyelashes at him.

But you’re more than that. He thinks of you both as friends, maybe something more. Something deeper. It’s in the glances you steal, the silent lines tossed between one another. The way you read one another like an open book. Sometimes, he wonders if you actually can read his mind.

You’re intelligent, you’re funny, and you’re a hard fucking worker. Always on time, always seemingly juggling thirty things at once, and never letting him down. Nothing is too much, it seems; everything just is as it is. And he likes that about you. Simple. No baggage.

The morning of the flight, you send him a voice note telling him you’re downstairs. “And I ain’t lugging two cases up to the top floor only to bring ‘em back down when we’re leaving, Mr. CEO.”

He’s striding past Martha for the elevator before he’s even done listening to the message.

“Uh-uh!” she chirps, dashing over to slip between the brass doors behind him.

Joel sighs under his breath.

“I know better than to rely on you to remember all this stuff,” she says, holding up a file he’d asked her to put together for the trip.

She’s right not to – he’d probably leave that file in the car, or put it down somewhere and walk off without it. You’re the only one who can be trusted with it – with anything. You’re good at your job. And yet, he resents the fact that Martha’s about to lump you with even a fraction of responsibility for the next four days.

So when the Rolls pulls off and Martha is nothing but a pin-sized silhouette through the back window, still waving from the sidewalk, he pinches the folder in two fingers and tosses it to his left hip. Out of your grasp. You smile, eyes rolling, and pop your earbuds in. Joel breathes a laugh, eyes dipping again to skim read some contract on his phone. His hand is locked around your thigh. He likes that you just let him do it now.

Likes a lot of things about you. Likes that you put your music on shuffle, and then skip eleven tracks until you find one you actually want to listen to. Likes that your fingers twirl around the light chain of your necklace – the way they do anytime you’re nervous – and when he asks if you’re alright, you bareface lie to him and squeak, Yep.

Likes the glow the morning sun casts on you when you emerge from the car on the tarmac, pooling in the dimples on your cheeks, bright gold. The way you tug on the loose cotton of your sweatpants, bashful. Shy. And he likes that, when he follows you up the steps to the plane cabin, your awestruck expression lasts all of five seconds before that quick wit kicks straight back in.

“Feelin’ pretty guilty about all the air pollution,” you tell him, and Joel silently says his fifth thankful prayer this morning that he thought to ask you and not Martha.

He watches you settle into a seat by the window, watches you crane your neck to survey the view from the tiny circle of thick glass. He thinks about what he’d do if you were alone right now, if there weren’t crew slowly filing into the jet behind him.

He floats the idea. Tells you about the bedroom up back, tells you it’s cozy. You read between the lines just like he wants you to. And when the plane’s in the air, you follow after him.

You fall into bed together the same way you do when you arrive at the hotel. A tangle of limbs, of sweat and stuffy plane air. He sleeps the soundest he has in months – years, maybe. Pushed off by the sound of your breathing, the dip in the mattress by his side. The warmth which radiates from your body, the soft brush of your hand against his.

He puts it down to the travelling – the eight-hour flight, the plushy super king waiting on the other side. He puts it down to the way the world feels different, this side of the Atlantic. The privacy he feels come over the two of you, like sneaking into the next room: your voices muffled through the wall, your movements reduced to vague shadows beneath the door.

He watches you through sleepy eyes as you prance around the suite in the morning, twirling in and out of the bathroom while you get ready for the day. He wonders if this is what you’re like every day – if you spend your Monday mornings beaming like a little kid, toothbrush hanging lopsided from the corner of your mouth, white bubbles lining your gums. He wonders why he’s wondering. Why a part of him wants to see that version of you, too.

This version – now following his lead down Avenue Montaigne, doe-eyed and wonderstruck – is over all too soon. He’s dragged from her, from you, before he’s ready to leave.

His phone vibrates in his pocket right as he’s leading you out of some ridiculously overpriced jewelers – an irritating reminder of his meeting in an hour’s time.

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding you steady as you spin around to glimpse at the baroque building. “Hey, pretty girl,” he squeezes your hand, “I got some bad news.”

Your bottom lip pouts, eyes gleaming. It’s enough, he thinks, to convince him to stick around. If you asked him to, he’d text Jean-Marc right now and tell him to fuck off. But you tell him to go, tell him you’ll meet him back at the hotel once he’s done and you’re tired. With a teasing smirk and a tiny wave, you see him off down the cobbled street. He watches from the back window as you set off again, heading towards another iron-gated store.

Denis pulls up alongside the towering hotel, totters around the car to meet Joel as he stretches out of the Maybach. The square-jawed man stands with his hands linked, and nods enthusiastically when Joel thanks him.

“The shopping – I will take it back to the hotel,” he assures his boss, a wide smile on his lips.

He’s a good guy, Denis. He’s chauffeured Joel to five of these meetings over as many years – he knows the drill by now. Knows it’ll be a couple hours and a few whiskeys before he gets another call to pick him up.

His nodding doubles, more obedient when Joel asks him to make sure he listens for your call. “You mind stayin’ nearby that part of town?” he asks. “Just so – when she’s done, y’know…”

“Not at all,” Denis says, flapping two palms to the ground. Swatting away Joel’s concern, his worrying, his missing you.

He replies, a little absentmindedly, passing by the head of gray hair with a distant smile. “Thanks, Denis. See you later.”

Five meetings, five trips over here to be pestered by some obnoxious little man in an obnoxious little robe and obnoxious little loafers, and still, Joel never knows what to expect. He strides beneath the golden archway entrance into a domed lobby, every surface spotless and shining; marble counter in the center with a symmetrically-suited clerk sat behind.

She stands and smiles politely to Joel as he approaches, recognizing him with a flutter of her eyelashes. He feels the absence of your arm on his, an ache at his elbow.

“Monsieur,” she croons, pale fingers reaching for the telephone. She whispers something softly into the receiver and then nods, folding her painted lips together as she places the handset back into its cradle. With a floating hand aimed at the elevator behind her, she says, sultry and dreamlike, “He is ready for you.”

Joel fights an eyeroll with every fiber of his being. He wanders round the circular desk, bunches his shoulders into the tight elevator, and jams his thumb into the button marked P.

The doors shudder open when he reaches the top floor. He steps out slowly, waiting for the Frenchman to pounce on him like some kind of wild cat. Wouldn’t put it past him, Joel thinks. As he’s scanning the room, counting the six bouquets dotted around, there’s a single clap from behind the veiled curtains. A silhouette out on the terrace.

Jean-Marc swings between the sheer white, calling out to the lonely figure in his entryway. “If it isn’t my favorite American,” he sings, taking Joel by the arms and squeezing roughly. “How lovely to see you again, Joelie. Please, come.”

The sunlight blinds Joel when he steps out into it, peering over the city skyline under low brows. Jean-Marc is already sat at the top of a thin, glass table, pouring golden whiskey into a square glass and scooping two bulky ice cubes in. The nectar swirls around when the glass is held out to Joel, the ice tittering as he accepts it.

The table, a rocky terrain of pain au chocolat and brioche, pools of citrus spreads and dishes of butter. Joel keeps his hands to himself as Jean-Marc slaps jam onto a croissant, bronze flakes fluttering all over the table as he attempts to regale Joel with some investment into a casino.

“Riccardo says it is too much; I told him to go to hell. We will double the cost of the place, I know it, Joel. We have the eye for things like these, men like you and I, hm?”

Men like you and I, Joel thinks, lips tilting. He balances the glass on his thigh, watches the ice cubes turn over themselves. He thinks of you, thinks of the man you see him as. Thinks how tall he stands against the man Jean-Marc must see sat opposite him right now.

Thinks how rotten, and ugly, and how small the latter is. How easily you and your words could crumble him. All show, all sitting on perfect terraces with pretentious dickbags disguised as friends, drinking pissy whiskey with a plastered smile on his lips.

How comical it all is – the sound of yapping across the tabletop, These idiots would pay millions for manure if you painted it golden, the sprawling sheets of green-leafed plants, the headache-inducing flowers, the buckled loafers and the signet ring catching the sun.

How much he misses the weight of you on his hips, forearms flat on his chest, ear against his heart. The sound of your laughter lilting in his ear. The rosy smell of your skin and the feel of your eyelashes, featherlight on his cheek. He feels the distance between the two of you like elastic strung apart, stretching thinner and thinner, weaker and frailer, ready to snap into two halves at any moment.

“Anyways,” Jean-Marc says, lifting the wine bottle shakily. It clinks brashly against the lip of his glass, a painful scrape. Joel wonders if he’s already halfway to hammered. “Tell me how you’ve been, Joelie.”

Joel tells him he’s been fine. Business is fine. Money is fine. Company’s doing fine. Everything’s fucking fine. Easiest answer to avoid further questioning, to satiate Jean-Marc’s constant thirst for news, or intel, or just plain gossip.

He slips up, though. Makes the one colossal mistake he spent all morning hoping and praying and drilling directly into his brain that he wouldn’t.

Jean-Marc asks how his flight was, sticking the damp end of a cigarette to his bottom lip.

Joel says, “Good, yeah. We got here, maybe, ten o’clock last night.”

And Jean-Marc’s eyebrows arch. His hands freeze, match held against the striker strip. “We?” he asks, white stick flapping between his teeth.

“Uh,” Joel shifts in his seat. Your gentle wave, the corners of your lips, the toss of hair over your shoulder. It’s as though Jean-Marc can see his thoughts played on a reel before him, the haste with which Joel attempts to wipe you from his own mind. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “Jerry ‘n Lisa. Len and Pol.”

The Frenchman’s eyes narrow, a grin pulling on his pink lips. “We,” he says again, whipping the match roughly against the strip. Speaking into cupped hands, a cloud of white billowing from his leathery fingers, he murmurs, “Joel brought company with him to Paris, yes? Who is the lucky tourist? Une petite amie?”

Joel’s tongue dabs at the sickly wash of whiskey on his lips. He thinks to grab the fucker by the throat, throttle him until the idea of you rattles from his skull, spilling back into Joel’s safe hands where you belong.

He almost fucking lies. Almost says it’s just Martha, or Drew, or his fucking mother. But Jean-Marc is like a rat, scurrying along after a source of water. He’ll find it in the end. They always do.

He breathes your name, reluctant to let it go. Jean-Marc cocks his head, leans in, a swirling snake of silky smoke lifting from the cigarette between his fingers. Joel repeats it, voice louder, but flatter. Breaks it into too many syllables. Lets his host hear every bite of annoyance.

“She’s my assistant,” he says, and Jean-Marc claps again.

“Your assistant! How wonderful. And where is she today? She is not…” his fingers circle the air, disturbing the trail of smoke, “…assisting you?”

“Gave her the afternoon off.” Joel lifts his glass to his lips. The geometric shape amplifies his voice, bass like the growl of a bear. “Busy couple days. She deserves some downtime.”

He hates the sound of your name as it peels from Jean-Marc’s tongue. Like a hangnail, the residue a gorge of bloody, torn skin. Your name is Joel’s favorite sound, he realizes now, and the way this little asshole keeps butchering it boils an anger so hot and so quick under his skin that he’s not sure he can hold it at bay.

It’s not as if he owns you or your name – far from it. He has no desire to be anything more than a placeholder: somewhere for you to slot your hand, rest your head, curl your body against. Still, he feels a direct protectiveness over you right now. An impulse to stand in front of Jean-Marc’s tiny figure, arms wide, stopping him from picturing you or learning about you or meeting you.

Which is, of course, exactly what the little fucker suggests.

A wet pff sound as he rids his mouth of bitter smoke, and he offers to host breakfast in the morning.

“No, no, we, uh –” Joel’s hands are up, like pleading with the man, whiskey kissing the lip of its glass, “– you don’t have to – Look, Jean-Marc, I’m sure you’re busy enough with all –”

“Nonsense!” Jean-Marc waves a hand. Ash sprinkles down the cuff of his robe. “It would be my pleasure. Shall we say, ten?”

Joel grumbles, eye following the flight of a bird in the distance. What are you doing right now? Are you back in the suite, trying on the outfit you picked out together? Are you still wandering down the streets, drinking up the lavish city like a perfect little cocktail of bliss and wonder?

And what the fuck does he have to do to excuse himself, to come find you, to wrap his arms around you and never let you leave his side again?

He feels idiotic. Juvenile. Like a stupid little teenager, pining for his junior year girlfriend. The feelings all sharp and brittle, prodding his heart roughly anytime he thinks too hard on them.

When he looks back to Jean-Marc – the cigarette tearing closer and closer to his fingers, an expectant smile on his lips – he concedes.

“Ten is fine,” he says, and suddenly, the sky casts over.

You’re on the terrace when he finally returns to the hotel room. Head aching from the alcohol and forced conversation, he drags himself over to you.

The sight of you, hair lifting in the breeze, the sweet smell and soft touch under his hands feels like the pouring of honey on a raw throat, like cool water lapping at his waist on a scorching day. And he needs more, and he feels the saliva pool beneath his tongue, and you’re touching him and talking to him and all he can think about is replacing his saliva with you – with every drop of you that you’ll lend him.

You follow his every request – parting your legs, making room for him between them, opening yourself to him like coming home after work, like sinking deep into your shared bed, like pushing your salt-slicked fingers on his tongue and chanting taste me taste me love me need me.

Petals opening, shards of orange separating. His cock throbs in his pants when he feels the circle of your hips against his jaw, the taste of sweet, sweet nectar spilling from your center. His clothes still smell of the smoke from Jean-Marc’s weedy lips; the sweat on his skin borne from three hours sat in the sun, dehydrated by whiskey, discussing money and gold and then money again.

He doesn’t want to fuck you here, like this. As that puny, pompous prick he’s felt like since the second he wandered through the Frenchman’s hotel doors. He can’t. You deserve him clean, new. You deserve the Joel you think he is – yours. Affected by your touch alone, moved by the gleam in your eye. You deserve him, Joel decides, on your terms.

And that same night, stood in the same spot, dregs of sunlight replaced by molten moonlight, staring at the dazzling Eiffel Tower against the deep blue sky – that same night, when he turns and clocks the silhouette of your body just feet from him, he realizes that this is it.

He’s sure he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, standing in the dim light, your fingers playing with the bust of the silk robe draped over your body. The jewelry on your neck catching the light like his own private attraction, his own little spectacle. Just for him.

He forgets any other version of himself. Shakes them off like seawater flying from his body as he emerges from the ocean. Venus stood before him; hair lifting in the light, palm over her breast. And he doesn’t notice the departure of those old versions; doesn’t feel the way they tear from his skin. His eyes are glued on you, only you, everything around the two of you reducing to dark matter. There is only his awestruck gaze pointed to your radiant form, as though the scene sits alive in the eye of Botticelli or Michelangelo.

Baby, he whispers, and you move forward, dragging him with you under a wave of lust and rebirth.

He stirs the next morning to the feeling of a weight shifting across his body, two divots in the mattress either side of his waist. Something nuzzling, warm and featherlight, into the nook below his earlobe. Wet kisses trailing down his neck.

There’s no weight of you in the crook of his arm anymore. He’s scooping thin air. He lifts it, and his palm meets the baggy cotton of his own T-shirt, draped over your body, draped over him.

A laugh brushes between his lips. “Mornin’, darlin’,” he croaks, voice still low and broken.

“Hi,” you whisper back, voice like silk and sugar and tufts of lustrous clouds.

He opens his eyes and you’re hovering over him. Tip of your nose circling his, hips light as air across his own.

You look so fucking cute, he thinks. He’d take what he had last night – you, dripping in black lace and bound by satin straps – every night for the rest of his life, if he could. If you’d grant him it. But, this. This.

You – in Joel’s clothes and nothing else. You – the curl of your hair now a lazy wave, the smoky afterthought of your half-removed makeup. The smell of sex still lingering on your skin, the taste of Joel still home on your tongue. Each part of you laced with a part of him.

You – holding yourself up over him, less than an inch apart, and all Joel thinks to do is wrap his arms around your back and let you drop onto his body; his strong, solid body, which accepts the weight of you with only so much as a tiny grunt over his lips when you fall on top of him.

You giggle. He swears he feels butterflies in his stomach. He prays you don’t feel them, fluttering purposefully against your ribcage.

“You’re an idiot,” you mumble into his collarbone, words curled by the smile on your lips. You suck a mark into the hot skin, teeth and flesh and sel et sucre, and then push off from his chest, nudging his thighs wider with your knee.

Your tongue drags a wet trail down his chest, from solid sternum to suppler stomach, following the thickening of hair the lower you move. You leave wet kisses along the crests of his hipbones, the gentle slope of skin leading you to the wide base of his cock, already stiff.

Joel’s breath hitches when your tongue sweeps across it. Your eyes lift and lock with his, fingers taking a heavy hold of him. He smiles, tongue sitting patiently behind his teeth.

“Go on, angel,” he nods, “put that pretty little mouth on daddy.”

You obey instantly, as hungry for it as he is, your tongue swiping from the base of him up, curling around as you reach the head. Swollen, gleaming, slit dripping with slick precome that you lick with just the tip of your tongue and send a roll of pleasure across every nerve in Joel’s body.

He falls back, hands searching for the back of your skull as your lips sink further down down down, tightening around the smooth skin, stopping only when they meet the tuft of hair decorating his dick. His tip pushes against the back of your throat. His head begins to spin.

His back arches, hands anchored on your head, holding you steady as you bob up and down. His shoulders push heavy into the mattress, tummy sucks in until the points of his ribcage mold through his skin. And, oh – you’re so soft with it, so wet and so warm and so good with your tongue, kitten licks over his tip, wet fist wrapped tight around the width of him.

You lift your hand and meet his halfway up his stomach, fingers intertwining, Joel’s knuckles instantly whitening.

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he groans, gasping when your throat constricts around him again.

You gag, choking with a wet grunt, but you never pull away. A quick pause, a heavy breath from your nostrils, and your movements resume.

“’s alright,” Joel coos, fingers rubbing against the back of your hand, “you got it. Atta-girl, fuck.”

His hips begin to lift, slowly jerking up into your mouth. He looks down, loosens the grip you have on his hand only to run his thumb delicately across your cheek, dabbing lightly at the tears in the corner of your eye.

You suck hard around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flattening to his underside to let him fuck your mouth – a rhythm of sopping sounds and heartbeat hums from your throat. He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

“Just like that,” he tells you, and you blink up at him. Moans muffled by the mouthful of cock, saliva and sex slipping from your swollen lips. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come. You’re such a good girl – you want daddy to give it to you?”

Mhm, you mumble into the warmth of his cock, the vibration of your throat on the eager skin enough to send Joel over the fucking edge. He throws his head back, lifts his hips up to you, and fills your mouth at the same rate he fills the room with the sound of his orgasm.

You take every last drop. You’re so good for him. Once he stills, once the screaming in his ears subsides, once the room slowly desaturates back to normal, a faded, blurry normal – he sits up and hooks his hands under your arms, pulling you up into him.

You collapse against his chest for the second time this morning, giggling and licking the last of his come from your mouth. Joel guides your jaw towards his, lips meeting in the middle, and licks the salty aftertaste from your tongue.

He rolls you both over, your thighs sitting safe on his hips.

“I know,” you sigh, head rolling against the curve of his arm beneath, “I know. You don’t gotta tell me.”

“Tell you what, angel?” he asks, one eyebrow lifting.

“Best head you ever had. I know.”

He scoffs, lips finding the hinge of your jaw. You giggle into his ear, a sound softer than birds cooing at the break of dawn, sweeter than the first bite of ripe fruit – the sharp taste bursting across his tongue and coating his teeth in sugar, numbed by the holy coaxing of feathered doves.

“You’re good with it, I’ll give you that,” he murmurs, and the giggle erupts into a laugh which fuels him enough to follow your roll out of bed, tear his shirt from your shoulders, and slip into the shower behind you, kneeling before you when you turn to look.

Joel’s second encounter with Jean-Marc in as many days, goes about as well as the first.

He balls his fists as he introduces the pair of you, watches like a caged and bound animal as Jean-Marc’s eyes loop all around your face, your shoulders, the pull of your dress around your waist.

He knows he’s being quiet. The glances you keep stealing at him tell him you know it, too. He wishes there was something he could say, something his lips might be able to carve into a neat little sentence. Tongue sanding the jagged edges of what he’d really like to say into a joke, a quip to ease the tension you so obviously feel.

But he can’t. His tongue isn’t blunt, isn’t defensive. It’s sharp like the kiss of venom, protective and aggressive. He knows he’d do better to hold it tight between his teeth.

The best he finds himself able to do is keep a heavy hand on your thigh, let you wrap your fingers around his own, squeeze you in place of whispering in your ear.

You hold your own, up against Jean-Marc. He knew you would. He learned less than a week into working with you, not to underestimate you. Your quick tongue, the million and one observations hidden behind the flash of a frown. He knows you can read Jean-Marc – probably better than he can, having known the guy ten years.

It doesn’t make it feel any safer, though. Luring you into a lion’s den. He knows you’ll make it out alive, but he can’t stand the thought of the claw marks in your skin.

That feeling washes over him again – that urge scored so deep into his bones that it hits marrow, to put himself between you and anything which might come to harm you. He swallows it down with the acidic sting of orange juice – slots it somewhere safe in his chest until he can assess whatever the fuck it is. Whatever the fuck it means.

His hand tightens around your leg when Jean-Marc mutters something to his assistant. Joel decides against asking you what it means, for fear he’ll tear the Frenchman limb from limb, strips of satin robe strung across the paved patio.

The assistant – tall, thin, looming over you like impending doom on legs – offers to show you the view of the city. And as Jean-Marc settles into your empty chair, the image of that torn satin robe shunts closer towards reality.

“I wonder if you might indulge me,” Jean-Marc slithers, pinching thin air with one hand and resting the other on the back of Joel’s chair.

“I wonder,” Joel mutters, finger tapping angrily on the table.

“She is a wonderful character. Beautiful, and very smart, I can see. I would be crazy not to ask, you must understand, Joel –”

He can’t help himself. He bites before Jean-Marc lays the trap. His head shakes. “She’s – she’s –”

And suddenly there isn’t a single word in the English dictionary worthy of describing you. Not a single combination of letters, of sounds, of syllables and phonetics that would do you justice.

He settles for, “I wouldn’t be anywhere without her.” It feels fucking redundant. It is fucking redundant.

Jean-Marc nods. “And you know that I see the value in things, hm?”

Joel dead-eyes his opponent, gaze narrowing. “What are you sayin’, Jean-Marc?”

“Well,” he shrugs, gesturing to the shadow pointing out the Eiffel Tower, “Paul is fantastic. Dedicated, hardworking. But it is a lot, for one person. I am sure you can understand, being that you have two assistants yourself.”

“And you wanna take one of ‘em out from under me?”

Jean-Marc chuckles, shaking his head. Tutting. Teeth grinding. He senses the bitter tone, hears the distortion of words squeezing through gritted teeth. “Not at all, my dear Joelie, not at all.”

Placating. It pisses Joel off more.

“I simply would like to raise the question of: would she like to be…taken?”

“Taken?”

“Hired. By me.”

The smug grin which pulls over taut lips incites Joel with a desire to punch the luminous veneers from their gummy holders. His fist balls again, nails digging harshly into his palm. He swallows roughly.

“She seems…she seems happy enough where she is to me.” He glances over, catches your eye for a fleeting second before Paul’s ghostly hand perches on your shoulder and turns your attention away again. Resigned, he adds, “You would have to ask her. I ain’t speakin’ for her.”

Jean-Marc’s leer only grows. “Ask her,” he repeats, nodding. “That is an idea.” He pushes out of his chair with a squeal of wood across stone, calling to the party, “Why don’t we take a drive? There is so much of the city I would love to show you – both of you, of course.”

Before he knows it, Joel’s on his feet, too, panic hammering through every muscle in his body. He tosses some half-assed excuse to the breeze; a half-truth, a desperate attempt to pull you away from the beady eyes and sharp claws of Jean-Marc and his assistant, and back over to his side. He takes your arm and scatters, pulling you past four, five, six bursting bouquets, your heels clicking along the polished floor, your head spinning.

He can feel the blood thrashing through his veins as the elevator arrives back in the lobby. Can see the shadow of Paul the assistant still over your shoulder, the place his hand sat like charcoal on white linen. He feels red hot, anger mixed with panic mixed with a word he hasn’t let slip just yet. He covers it by answering your questions shakily, diverting the ones about the conversation on the terrace.

And then you’re back in the safety of Denis’s car. You’re back to being on your own, together. No third set of eyes watching your every move, studying you like you’re some doll to be observed, or worse. You’re touching him again, holding his arm, caressing his cheek. His breathing eases, his body relaxes into the backseat of the Maybach.

You tell him you’d like to see the Louvre. So Joel takes you to see the Louvre.

Joel Miller has never been in love.

He’s said it, sure. Said it plenty to Avery.

G’night, love you.

I’m so proud of you, sweet; I love you so much.

Thanks for makin’ dinner, babe, I love you.

It began to take the form of breath, passing over his tongue with as much ease and instinct as his lungs would push out air. She looked at him a certain way – he’d say he loved her. They’d talk about the future – he’d tell her he loved her. They fought, over his working hours or the interest rates at different banks or whose family to spend Christmas with – and he’d remind her he loved her.

He meant every single one. He did, truly, love her. He loved her auburn hair, the way it’d sweep over her shoulders like a wave of fire. He loved the way she would pause to take thirty photos of the sky at sunset. He loved how homely she was, how simple and warm she could be. Her recipe books lining the shelves in her kitchen. Her pajamas folded neatly at the foot of her bed, waiting for her at the end of the day.

He loved her enough to spend four years with her, a life split nearly down the middle. Never seeping into one another. His side of the bed, and hers. His items in the fridge, and hers. His fucking bathrobe, and hers.

But right now, standing in a jam-packed room, maneuvering awkwardly around museum guides and backpacked tourists, avoiding the knee-height glass barriers and dodging fucking selfie sticks – Joel knows: he has never been in love.

Not until the moment he turns from some headless bust to search the room – the dark marble walls and great, carved arches; the white Parisian sky illuminating everything in a pale glow. Not until he catches a glimpse of you amongst the sea of bodies – stood before the Venus de Milo, staring up in wonder at Aphrodite like she’s the first thing in the world you’ve ever truly seen. The gentle lean of her body, the low sling of marble fabric around her waist, the soft dimple of her navel.

The way your eyes scan every detail of her form – every fold draped over her thigh, ever chisel mark and chip in her torso. The round swell of her breasts and the wavelike swirl of her hair. Barely blinking, afraid to lose sight of her for even a second.

Joel’s never been in love. Not until this very moment.

He only turned to make some quip about…well, now he can’t fucking remember, can he? Something irrelevant. Something so mundane, so meaningless, so dull that he wishes he could take back every word he ever said to you and use the breath more wisely – use the time spent making stupid jokes and work orders, just to look at you. Watch you, like he is right now. Every other thought, every worry and concern drop weightlessly from his mind, with such ease that he doesn’t feel the loss.

Your fixed stare up at the statue’s set face, the slow pacing of your heels, ankles crossing over one another as you pivot around her. And the look of wonder on your face – as if Joel instantly recognizes eight-year-old you, thumbing through the pages of the first art book she was ever gifted, copying the curled hair and round shoulders of the marble goddess in a pencil sketch.

Haloed by the towering windows behind you, arms crossed over your chest. Lips melting from a content smile to agape, and then pinning back in a smile again.

And suddenly – he can’t remember the flame of hair over his ex’s shoulder. Doesn’t remember a single meal she ever cooked for him. In the blink of an eye, he realizes he doesn’t want a life neatly split anywhere.

He realizes that his life, the way he wants it, was always meant to be meshed with yours. Intertwined so tightly that there is no his and hers. Last night at dinner, you couldn’t decide between the bœuf bourguignon and the confit de canard, so Joel ordered both – as well as what he wanted – and the two of you picked at three separate meals. Holding out forkfuls to feed one another, comparing and judging them like professional chefs on a fucking cooking show.

Back at the hotel, you fell asleep in his arms. Your head nestled under his chin; your arms curved around his shoulders. In the center of the bed, laying at an angle. When he got up this morning, the robe he threw around himself smelled like your perfume. The terrycloth on your shoulders, tinged with the weak scent of whiskey.

None of it – not the relationship you had before any of this happened, not the strolling over one boundary to the next, not the blurring of lines between colleague, and friend, and lover – has been neat. None of it has made any sense. And maybe that’s why he fucking trusts it so much.

Joel spent the first two weeks after you fooled around in his office swearing he wasn’t that guy. Staring himself down in the mirror with a balled fist, a pointed finger that said, You don’t sleep with your fucking assistant, you idiot.

And now, standing opposite you in a crowded room and only seeing you – he knows. He finally gets it.

He loves you. He – no, fuck.

He doesn’t just love you.

He’s on his knees, dagger through his heart –

blood spilling all over the pristine floor –

pathetic and adolescent in its nature –

butterflies tearing through his stomach as destructive as a hurricane –

in love with you.

He thinks to say it. To wander over and kiss your shoulder, hook his chin into your collarbone like he did in the Dolce and Gabbana store, and whisper, Hey. I love you. Did you know that?

But he knows that’d be fucking insane. Knows you’d probably unstick yourself from him and back up, tripping in your step. Paris ruined.

He knows he’d probably get so far as curving around your back and then bottle it, anyway. The words would die in his throat. You’d just lean back into him, none the wiser. You’d still make his heart pound.

Pound the way it does when you reach for his wrist and drag him off into the next room, and the next, and the next. And with every piece of art your eyes fall upon, another fragment of your soul is revealed to Joel. The depth of da Vinci, the color of Bruyère. The scale of Veronese and the beauty of Canova.

And with every part revealed, a desire blooms in him to learn the next part. Understand you; know you better than he knows himself. See you, the way he’s seeing you right now.

He takes his ex’s lead, when you’re stood in front of the Mona Lisa. All those fucking sunset photos, like she was afraid to forget what it looked like. The thought becomes urgent, pushing past every other meaningless word in his head.

He taps you on the shoulder, says your name lightly. When you turn, he’s already holding the phone up, watching your delayed motions through the screen. Please don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you, like this.

“Smile,” he says, and you do.

“You’re cheesy,” you tell him, wandering off from the painting.

He’s still staring at the photo. At your dimpled cheeks, your red lips. Staring at your eyes, seeing a new glint in them that wasn’t there before. Like eight-year-old you smiling back at him, trusting him, knowing him.

Joel breathes, “She’s beautiful,” taking your waist in a steady arm to guide you out of the room.

You misunderstand him. He knows it. He doesn’t correct you.

She’s beautiful – the Mona Lisa. But she only became beautiful the second you laid eyes on her. The second she handed you a piece of your soul, the transaction laid bare for Joel to witness. A bucket list item ticked, or simply your childhood self, stood before one of her own seven wonders.

Everything is only beautiful after it comes into contact with you.

There’s a change in you, the morning that you leave. Something low-lying, melancholy and blue. Joel feels it under your skin, in the grip you keep on his hand the entire car ride from the hotel to the airport.

“You good?” he asks, walking up the steps of the jet, shelled around you. Safe, with him, safe with him.

You nod, but you’re watching the Maybach roll off, rounding the corner back to the airport. The same way you watch the city disappear beneath the clouds as the plane takes off.

The same way you glance over to him, your glossy eyes twinkling, pearly tears swimming across your waterline. Joel gets it. Figures he feels much the same.

He leads you slowly back through to the dark cabin bedroom, where you peel the shirt and sweats from your body. He watches from the bed, arm outstretched and inviting you to burrow into his side, curl around his body, loop your legs through his. His own little Aphrodite, the curves and the dimples and all the beauty to go with her.

He sinks his shoulder to let you nuzzle into him, let your slow-closing eyes follow his movements like rocking you back and forth to sleep. You link your arm through his, locking your bodies tight together. Joel slows his typing down, moves gentler, so you can fall asleep without being nudged too much by his arm.

You mumble something into the sleeve of his tee. He pauses. Looks down at your already closed eyes, your parted lips.

“What’d you say, baby?”

You take a deep, slow breath. Already sleeping, he thinks. And then, in the sigh that escapes from your mouth, you whisper to him.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

[justfreakynothingelse]

Wrote this over a few hours last night, on discord, and was asked to put it here. Made a whole new blog so I don't flashbang my friends with this shit XD

Mortarion's a man of few words in the best of times, even with his beloved. He knows this. So as his beloved lifts their eyes to his, they see a burning desire for them to have him. And he wants, if he knew what exactly he was feeling, to scream for them to touch him; to take him inside them and use him as a toy, but he's never gotten this far with someone, before. His relationships with others have mostly been professional, and even those have often been reluctant, for the other members. As such, when they meet his eyes and see the raw desperation within them, he does not scream out. He does not vocalize his desires, no. He simply pushes his pants down just enough for his aching, throbbing, leaking, painful cock to spring out. After eyeing his cock for a few (painful, nerve-wracking, to Mortarion) moments, they reach a hand up and tentatively rub the weeping slit at the head, and Mortarion moans. He swiftly clamps down on the noise; a hand rising to cover his scarlet face, embarrassed by his own weakness, but mere moments later, his lover touches him that way, again and again and again, dragging out, even against the resolute will of the Primarch, whimpers and whines and bucking hips that simply send Mortarion down into a further well of mortification.

" 'Tari, are you okay? We can stop if you need..."

"No!-" large lavender eyes clench shut, at his outburst "Do not."

Their tiny hands resume their ministrations, drawing gasps from the giant as his precum steadily drips onto his skeletal form. Mortarion's eyes slide shut; taking in the raw ecstasy of the moment and attempting to regain composure. He might even have succeeded, if not for the raw heat that ran over the head of his cock at that moment. His hips thrust into the air as he moans and startles up, finding his beloved staring in surprise at his reaction.

"I'm sorry, 'Tari! I've heard that a lot of people like um... being licked there... so I wanted to try..."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. This is actually happening. Disgusting. Worthless. Coward. I could've hurt them, why are they doing this?

Mind still reeling from what just happened, Mortarion pants as he runs a hand over his face, attempting to compose himself as he sees nothing but their deft little hands on his cock, and their wet little doe eyes—they look like they might cry—looking up at him.

(Inhale) "It's okay," (exhale) "you can, uh, keep going" (inhale)

His lover leans down, and Mortarion shuts his eyes, mind torn between desperation—hoping they don't leave in disgust, at his weakness—and the side of him he has always repressed; the side that even now, as the flames of his desire are mere embers compared to what they will become, are still burning within his core, and screams to sheath himself within their throat.

Tiny lips on the head of his- (exhale) Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, how is this better than before? (inhale) A soft tongue catches the slit of his cock, able to just barely dip down into it a tiny bit, his eyes rolling back as his lover does so (exhale)

A groan, driven by three ruined lungs and the bliss of a broken man, shakes the room.

(inhale) as they trace the vein on the underside, pulsing with need (exhale) Mortarion's hips twitch, as his lover slides his pants a bit lower.

Mortarion cracks his eyes open; tired and scarred from overwork and the acidic gasses of his homeworld. And oh, in that moment everything, his entire torturous life, has been worth it; his beloved trails their lips down to mouth at the base of his cock, and he's no good with people, pathetic, good for nothing waste but he thinks in that moment that he understands exactly how they're feeling. As they drag their tongue back up, swiping it around to cover as much of his shaft as possible, he watches one of their hands drift between their legs. Mortarion ventures to breathe through his nose (usually difficult or impossible, due to the gasses he breathes), and in that moment, a riot of primal hormonal scents swirl into being within his brain, all of them calling him to take-claim-pin-breed-protect.

A small growl leaves his throat, unusual even for the usually surly primarch, catching his lover off guard.

"Everything okay, love?"

And with a voice deeper than any they've ever heard before, all Mortarion can do in that moment (and his brain drags itself to forming words) is grind out a terse "yes."

"That doesn't sound like a yes, 'Tari-" rising in a flash—speed no baseline can muster, and even he usually doesn't use—Mortarion is over them; cracked lips poised by their ear as he snarls- "I said yes. I'm simply... unused to this sort of situation."

"Oh!- Okay, 'Tari." And oh, their little hands trail their way up and across his chest, and Mortarion, despite his hatred of his body, wants to rip his clothes to shreds so he can feel them better. As it is, he groans low in his throat, almost wanton, as his lover gently pushes his shoulders away, guiding him to lie down once more.

His cock, neglected for much longer than Mortarion would like (he needs to be inside them, please please please-), made a small mess on the sheets, when he pinned his beloved.

With a gentle smile and a shy kiss to his lips (he can taste himself on them, and the mix of essences almost ends him, then and there), his lover blushes and looks away, clearly contemplating.

I need them, I need them, I need them, by the mountains of Barbarus, please, I need them

In the few seconds where they look away, his mind flutters, finally willing to think of the things so long derided. Of soft hands on his stomach, as his beloved takes him to the hilt. Of little hands running through lank white hair, after the fact Of weak legs throwing themselves around his hips, as he drives himself deeper, harder, within his lover. Of the way they'd cry out for him; his ruined voice hissing in Barbarusan as he tells them of worlds burned in their name and cities gassed and poisoned, for the crime of an official mentioning their very existence. Of coming home to open arms and good food Of having himself be the sole star in their sky.

When they look back, his face is flushed as if he were a supergiant star about to burst; all but glowing from the redness of his face.

"Um, 'Tari... I hope this is okay, but can I... try to take you? It's okay if you don't want that I just..." His mind goes foggy as they continue talking; worries and need and apology dripping from their lips as they continue, blissfully unaware of the war raging in his mind. To take or be taken? He's torn between the ingrained drive, of his upbringing, of decades of torture, to submit. To beg and make himself small. Yet that clashes with the born and bred drive to conquer; to pin them and make them his, wholly and completely. To be entirely in control

A rattling breath leaves him, and he sits up. "...Fine," he grumbles, looking away, lest they see the nervousness swallowing his eyes.

"Wait, really?" And with a bounce they knock him over, practically mauling him with kisses, which, as reflex, he grumbles and hisses about. Their hands lace themselves into his hair, and oh, what bliss, but then their lips leave his face and their hands leave his hair, and the moment is over.

In a heartbeat (when did their clothes come off?), they're poised over his cock; red and hot and throbbing from need and neglect. Mortarion is about to protest, because Oh stars, how much did I miss? and I don't know what to do, help help help help-, but his protest dies in his throat as he watches their little body opening up to accommodate him. He's not the largest of his brothers, but next to damn near any baseline, he's apparently enormous. The willingness of his beloved to take him is almost disconcerting, on that count alone... Let alone that despite how long he's been with this little mortal, he still refuses to show them practically anything of his body, out of disgust at himself. Their pristine skin, so supple and soft, makes his look like a mockery of nature next to it. But nonetheless, despite such qualms, they fade to nothingness as inch after overwhelming inch of him slides into his lover.

"Mor--tarion, is-is-is this okay?" They stutter and gasp out, less than halfway down on him. His brain itself feels like it's backfiring; falling over itself and curving back onto previous topics, trying to find words for how he feels in this moment. After a few moments (his lover still slowly sliding further onto him), he decides on what he wants to say.

"Don't stop, please, I can't- don't stop-" Cut off with a moan, as his partner wiggles and manages to find, somehow, more space for him within, and oh, when did they get that far down? Their ass meets his hips with a tiny plap that'd be barely audible to any mortal, but to him it echos like a shot in a dark hallway. They took him. They actually, really took him. He didn't know they could do that; they're so much smaller than him.

A shuddering gasp leaves his beloved as they feel him hilt within them, and it's all Mortarion can do, hearing that gasp, to not pull them further down; to not arch his spine as he pulls so that he's as deep as possible. As they breathe, Mortarion manages to move; cupping their hips with his hands and letting his fingers interlace on their back as his thumbs run over their pelvic bone - just palpable under their beautiful shining healthy skin.

As his lover braces themself, hands on his gaunt stomach, Mortarion lets his head roll back. It's hard enough for them to straddle him (despite his malnourishment, he's still so big) that they're only able to raise themself a few inches before letting themself fall back down. A steady, subtle beat of skin-on-skin begins, as the scent of sex floods Mortarion's existence. He can't help but toss one of his arms up, to cover his flushed face.

It's so good, but it's not enough. He wants to grab them with a hand and take control; move them on his cock as if he was back rubbing himself, furtively, in the shower after they bring him food and smile at him so warmly. His beloved's panting increases—they're angling themself oddly; does it hurt?—to almost a fever pitch. Quirking a brow, Mortarion struggles to find the words; unused to this sort of situation.

"Do you—nghh—need help, little one?" For indeed, all mortals are little, next to Mortarion. And despite how much Mortarion would love hate for that answer to be yes, they surprise him.

"I- ngh- just... feels so good, like this... can't stop, please don't do anything, 'Tari-" and in that moment, Mortarion might have stayed still for a year, if it meant enabling them to feel good.

So as their eyes roll back, reaching their peak with a licentious moan, Mortarion... wasn't entirely sure what to do next. He wanted, desperately, to continue; to grind into them until his beloved's body is pulverized from the depths his only his; only ever his cock can reach. But he didn't want to hurt them, either; mortals are so fragile, and he is rather fond of his lover, despite how he acts in public.

(exhale) "Can I keep going?" (Inhale) "Please, 'Tari- don't stop, please- I came but it's not enough," (exhale) Mortarion braces his hands behind his lover's back; providing them support as he switches to kneeling, joints popping all the way. One hand and forearm grasp his lover's hips, and the other spreads up between their shoulder blades, like a tree, almost, gently grasping their neck to keep them in place.

With a rattling gasp, Mortarion pulls back his hips from theirs, before slowly moving back in. And oh, he understands, in this moment, why mortals do this so much. Why they risk their jobs and families for such things like the tight little body around him; whimpering as the pace of his hips increases. The slapping of skin on skin is now the only readily audible sound in the room; overwhelming his lover's panting and whines, and his own growls are getting so low and predatory that his lover simply keeps their eyes locked on him; fascinated by the animal urges that are almost palpably roiling off the large man, like solar flares from a star.

Pressing his lover into the bed now, Mortarion just takes them by the hips; arching himself awkwardly over them in order to reach as deeply as possible. His lover splays their hands across his scarred chest, tracing each scar with the reverence of a devotee, and for all his inexperience, Mortarion does know what an orgasm, rising like a rogue wave, feels like as it builds. So with a final few thrusts, he does something he's heard Calas speak about, before, while they do their post-battle poison ritual together: he forces his lover's legs against his chest, bending them in half as he presses them into the mattress. As his aching joints threaten to collapse under him, his white hair curtains them away from the world, and his orgasm eases, Mortarion tunes in to the feeling of tiny lips on his chest. Pulling away from his beloved a bit, still hilted within them, they secure their legs around his hips to keep him close, and oh... he could do this forever...

[brunetttebaby]

low honor arthur morgan corrupting you (NSFW)

(fair warning i never write lh!arthur so pls bear w me if this is shit)

“that’s it, girl. take it all.” he demanded as his fingers plunged inside of your wet cunt.

you were a good girl. always had been. your dad was a reputable man, mom respectable and kind. your entire life has been set out for you.

until arthur came along, that is. your parents didn’t approve of him from the get-go, but being young and naive, you wouldn’t listen to them.

he distanced you from them, and insisted you spend every waking moment with him. and you, being so helplessly in love (and lust) with him, you agreed immediately.

so here you were. sprawled out in his tent, far away from anyone, naked and aroused as ever. “a-arthur!!” you whined, tears building from arousal.

“shh, shh. just let me play wit you, darling.” he insisted, his callused thumb rubbing your clit, the pace alone could make you cum.

while he was rubbing away at your sensitive bud, three fingers pounded your weeping cunt, matching the pace of his thumb.

“there we go. such a good girl f’ me.” he chuckled lowly, hitting that spot in you each time.

you were writhing underneath his touch, squirming and trying not to move. loud moans and cries left your pretty lips, and he couldn’t help but smirk at the side.

“god, such a dirty girl for me too. all those sounds would put a whore to shame.” he commented, using his other hand to grip your breast, tugging at your nipple aggressively.

you yelped as he did, back arching off the ground. admittedly, it only made you more wet, hearing him degrade you.

with you nearly on the brink of your orgasm, your warm walls clenched around him, and he knew it was time to stop.

his fingers slid out of you, making you groan at the empty feeling it left you with. “wha-what are you doing?” you asked with a frown, simply wanting to feel good.

“patience, girl. otherwise i won’t fuck you like the whore y’are.” he rolled his eyes, flipping you onto your stomach.

“now arch your back. there’s a girl.” you complied as quickly as he spoke, and he only chuckled. “god, so obedient. you must really want it, don’tcha, sweetheart?”

you looked back, only nodding your head. he was right, she wanted him more than anything.

he tugged at his jeans, pulling them down along with his underwear. precum covered his tip, and he groaned at the sensation.

a firm hand flew to your ass, making you yell. “fuck, didn’t know you could make sounds like that.” he teased, doing it again for emphasis.

another yelp, and he chuckled. “so pretty f’me. and all mine.” his cock teased your wet folds.

arthur morgan was a lot of things, but gentle, both in general and in bed was not one of them.

in an instant, his cock hit a hilt, and he let out a loud, guttural moan. his fingers dug into the fat of your ass, as he began to move. “shit, you’re even more tight wrapped around my cock, darling.” he said.

fucked out of your mind already, you could only reply with a babble. arthur wasn’t satisfied with that, and his hand harshly slapped your ass once more.

“words. or else i’ll stop right now and leave you like the needy whore you are.”

“a-arthur…. p-please, faster.” oh, you really had to be more careful for what you asked for.

both his hands wrapped around your neck as he pounded you into the ground, your head tilted to the side. “f-fuckkkk.” he sputtered, hitting your cervix with every thrust.

“gonna make me cum, baby. gonna have t’breed you, huh?” he muttered. you only moaned loudly, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“you make it impossible not t’wanna to fill you up soooo nice. put my baby in ya,”

“watch you swell,”

thrust.

“with.”

thrust.

“my.”

thrust.

“child.”

another thrust, each harder than the last, if that was possible. “you’d make such a pretty mama, baby. i can see it now.” you only moaned, too cockdrunk to have a cohesive answer.

he was a selfish man, anyone could see that. so when you felt the warm liquid fill you up, it didn’t seem to phase you.

“holy shit, you’re so warm.” he praised lowly, for the first time that night, it seemed.

“f-fuck, arthur…” you blabbed out, looking back at him with splotchy vision. “i’m gonna cum…” you whimpered, hand reaching down to your clit to rub it at a furious pace.

“yeah? cum for me, darlin’. need to feel you clench around my cock.”

and with his words, you gushed around him, legs shaking. “that’s it. fuck, yeah.” he moaned, guiding you through your own orgasm.

he pulled out, cock twitching as he watched his seed spill out of your hole. “so pretty, filled up with me.” he chuckled, thumb teasing your clit.

arthur flipped you back over, smirking at the sight of you, tears covering your face, drool coming out of your mouth.

“ah, i love ya, darling.” he said, his voice softening slightly.

you couldn’t walk the next day.

a/n: i feel like this sucks…😭😭but i spent a little TOO much time ‘perfecting’ it, so i’ll post it anyhow.

[freedomfireflies]

sooooo where did we land with the pussy plug for harry and bee? 👀

We landed right here hehe

“Easy, Bee. That’s a good girl. Fucking look at you. Dripping all down my sheets.”

Your lashes feel heavy. Every muscle and nerve-ending weighed down by the burden of unyielding amounts of pleasure and overstimulation.

But Harry is far from through with you.

He watches the milky white cream dance down the backs of your thighs. Watches the way it glistens from your pussy, begging to be collected by his tongue. Watches the way your body spasms as the last aftershocks of your previous orgasms roll down your spine.

“Shh,” he whispers, swiping his thumb across your swollen clit just to make you whine. “Hold still, sweet girl. Don’t wanna lose a single drop, hm?”

Your quivering lips push into a pout as you shake your head in agreement, whimpering softly while he smiles.

He retrieves the sparkling plug from the bed and gently slides the tip from your ass to your weeping hole. Collecting the runaway drops before pushing them back in. Keeping them snug inside your pussy until the plug is settled just so.

You exhale a strained breath, back arching from the duvet while Harry’s hands smooth down your legs to push them down.

“There we go,” he murmurs, lips pressing into the soft skin of your thigh reassuringly. “So fucking pretty, baby. All plugged with my cum. S’it feel good, Bee? Feel good to be so full of Daddy?”

You writhe and pant something incoherent as Harry chuckles to himself and begins to crawl up the length of your trembling body.

“Now, now,” he warns teasingly, hips rolling against yours as the object is pushed further into your cunt. “Thought this is what you wanted.”

You gasp his name and sling your arms around his neck in an effort to keep him still, squirming away from the contact. “Shit—”

“Yeah. Shit,” he agrees coyly, settling his chest atop yours. “Be grateful I’m so good to you.”

You do your best to focus on anything else but the throbbing in your cunt. The ache from so much overstimulation and the cruel sting of his edging. The way he dragged you toward that blissful finish only to leave you there before you could find it.

“Gonna keep me inside this pretty pussy while we go have dinner with your parents, yeah?” he continues, nudging his nose under your jaw, ignoring your obvious frustration.

Your eyes roll back, pulse racing. “Har—”

“Uh-uh,” he whispers firmly, hand sweeping up your ribcage. “That’s not an answer. Try again.”

With a deep breath, you scratch your nails down his neck and whimper, “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you correct, clenching around the plug when he reaches down to swipe his thumb over the diamond shaped end of the toy. “Shit…yes. Gonna keep you inside me. Feels so good. So full.”

He hums appreciatively, mouth pressing to your cheek. “That’s right. Want you full of me, always. But especially tonight. Want you to sit at that table and be good.”

Suddenly, his hand is slipping around your throat and squeezing—hard. Enough to garner your attention as you swallow against his palm.

“And you will be, won’t you?” he implores sternly. “Not gonna disobey me tonight. Not gonna tease me or touch yourself while we’re out.”

The idea of sitting with his cum in your cunt is already more than you can handle. But knowing he won’t touch you or offer any sort of relief until hours later almost brings tears to your eyes. 

When his request is met with silence, his fingers curl even tighter around your neck, forcing your choked reply. “No,” you whine, arching until your chest knocks against his. “No, Daddy. Promise. Be so good.”

“Good.” He dips down and presses his lips to yours, sealing your promise with a rather sadistic kiss. “Now, I want you up and dressed.”

He smacks his hand against your outer thigh, and begins to grin.

“We’ve got a dinner to get to.”

- Full Teach Me Masterlist

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @onlystylesss28 @winterrays @jessitpwk @aslugforharry @allthelovehes @straightnogayhs @adoringhrry @lillefroe @avasversion @littlelunamoon @harrysgf01 @lexiecamposva @spinningoutwaiting4ya @hs-tpwkrry @vyctorya @b-reads-things @thiyaabs @buckybarnessimpp @whoreforjamesbuckybarnes @cherryluvhobi @mybabyh @xellybellyx @harrysxcarolina @reneemunson @juliatpwk @wolfmoonmusic @buckyssbestgirl @wandasbae616 @imavirginhoe @nuggetdean @chubby-cheek-calum @itsmytimetoodream @finelinesss

[reneeluv154]

Frostbite

Hope you enjoy🤍🤍🤍

In this imagine Newt finds out you have frostbite and takes care of you.

(More on my profile if you like this.)🫶🏼🫶🏼

I was cold, so cold but I wouldn’t let the others know, we had been walking in the scorch for weeks, although I wouldn’t call it the scorch anymore. It was cold, cold enough to make your lips blue and your skin crack and bleed. Newt tried to offer me his gloves when it first started getting cold two days ago but I denied them, instead wrapping them up in my sock’s.

Now the sock’s were just to hide my gruesome frostbite rather than keep them warm. “Guys, let’s stop here, we’ve been waking for far too long.” I couldn’t agree with Minho more, the blisters on the back of my heels and my toes making it to where I could barely walk.

“Y/n are you okay?” Thomas asked wearily before watching me stumble to the ground. “Woah hey.” Thomas tried to catch me but I hit the ground with him and Newt on either side of me. I began to weep which then turned into sob’s of anger. I punched the ground, “I’m fucking done! Do you hear me!” I screamed out as loud as I could, causing a vicious pain to shoot through my head. Everyone was crouched down forming a circle around me, fear and worry plastered on their faces.

“Hey, take a breath Y/n.” Newt was calm with a comforting hand on my back, the other on the sand, trying to keep from slipping. I violently sucked in air never fully finishing a breath. I truly couldn’t breathe. I looked at him with panic in my eyes as I tried to breathe, tears still rolling down my cheeks. “Okay, everyone back up.” His voice was stern enough so they understood but calm enough to not scare me. He gently grabbed my face.

“You’re gonna be okay. Focus on my heartbeat alright?” He grabbed my hand, placing it on his chest gently, leaving me to feel the calm, steady beating of his heart. After a few minutes, my breathing slowed, and my tears were gently wiped by his simple calloused hands. “You're okay.” He whispered, bringing me into a tight hug. I believe more for him than for me. He knew I never liked hugs. Although I had always wanted one from him, I hugged him back knowing that’s what he needed at the moment. I didn’t want to let go but loosened my grip leaving him to let go.

“Thomas, help me walk her over to that building.” He nodded over to what was more like a small shack a few feet away. So with Thomas on my left and Newt on my right we carefully walked over to the shack, taking a few minutes to settle down. I sat on a small crate while the others cleared spots to sit and sleep for the night. I was staring at the ground when Newt came, sitting down beside me, offering me a cup with something in it. Not bothering to zone back in, I shook my head.

“It’ll warm you up.” He said, setting it by my foot on the ground and kneeling in front of me. “Can you take these off for me?” He asked gently, laying a hand on top of mine. I finally zoned back in still not looking directly at him but carefully taking the socks off my hands trying not to let the fabric pull on the cracked skin.

His eyes widened when he saw the purple and blue, bloody knuckles and fingertips. ‘Fry, can you make a fire real quick?” He asked, not taking his focus off of my hands. “Already on it, Newt.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone Y/n?” He asked gently, trying to warm my hands with his own as well as blowing on them.”I don’t know.” I was quiet, barely even audible. “My feet are pretty bad too.” The look he gave me was the sweetest yet saddest thing I had ever seen. “They don’t have frostbite, just lots of blisters.” He nodded. “Go ahead and take your shoes off, the cold should make them feel a little better.”

I nodded, taking my shoes off while he went and grabbed a thin blanket we had stolen from W.I.C.K.E.D. wrapping it around my shoulders. He was right, the cold felt good on my hot blistered feet. “Here, let’s go sit by the fire.” He handed me the hot cup making my hands sting but I knew that meant it was helping. I was caught slightly off guard when he picked me up and carried me to another crate, this one close by the fire, my feet still being cooled off by the patch of cement underneath me.

I decided to sit on the ground closer to the fire. Newt came and sat on the crate behind me, his legs on either side of me. “Newt?” I asked and received a small hum while he set down his cup which I learned was just hot water, and started to play with some strands of my hair. “Is it okay if I just give up?”

“Give up?” He questioned. “Yeah, If I just quit trying to make it out alive.” I was ashamed of asking such a question but I knew he wouldn’t judge me. He grabbed both my shoulders leaning in close to my ear. “Y/n you can not give up, I won’t for one second let you believe that you can give up because I would never let you do such a thing.” And for the first time in a long time, a small smile made its way onto my lips. It felt so good to smile, especially with someone like Newt.

Around an hour later he had braided my hair and wrapped up my hands now everyone was getting ready for sleep. “Where are you sleeping, love?” He hadn’t called me that since the first time I came to the glade but it made me feel special.

“Can I…sleep next to you tonight?” He nodded, “Of course, c’mon.” He laid out some clothes on the ground and used a jacket as a pillow. “Go on, I'll tuck you in.” He smiled, so I laid down letting him lay two blankets overtop of me, given that was all we could spare. He then laid down, a small bit of space between us. “Goodnight Y/n.”

“Goodnight Blondie.”

I woke up a tad bit cold and a bit scared. There was thunder and rain all around us. The small shack was the only thing keeping us safe and that wasn’t promising. I moved over to where Newt was lying and rested my head on his shoulder, he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me closer. “Are you okay?” He whispered, his voice still sleepy making me blush. “Yeah, I’m a little cold but more scared than anything.” Just then lightning struck close making me jump. “Shhh it’s okay. I’m here, I’ll keep you safe I promise.” He rubbed my back and gave me a small kiss on the head now wrapping both arms tightly around me. Humming a small song, which soon put me to sleep.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Trying to keep this as spoiler free as possible for the new episodes of Vox Machina, so only vague.

One thing that’s been on my mind about Deadweight!Reader while watching the new episodes of Vox Machina is that Vax doesn’t have to worry about the visions. If you know, you know, that’s Reader’s burden now on rather or not to tell.

Deadweight reader doesn’t tell them shit.

You don’t tell them shit because you think they’ll only look at you crazy, or treat you like the treated you before the whole becoming the matron’s champion.

Vax, is the one who tries to understand the most about your visions, should you ever slip up and say something like, ‘this mission is pointless for only death lies ahead for all of us, you should’ve left me for dead in the tomb.’

He’s naturally going to want to know what these visions are and why they’ve got so scared out of your wits. He’ll try and sit down with you, reach out and touch your hand but immediately your pulling away and walking off, all the while trying to control your breathing and pretending that you didn’t see the mass graves that would belong to your group.

‘Why do you keep this shit from us!’ He’d exclaim.

‘You would’ve fucking understand!’ You’d yell back, ‘how the fuck am I meant to tell you that you did at the end of this when I don’t even fully trust you to begin with?’ You continued, feeling all your emotions welling up within your chest.

‘I thought that we-‘

‘That I would just give away my trust like that of a common whore?’ You cackled as the sound of rain hit your ears, the sound used to calm you but now only reminds you of gods weeping for the fate you’ll inevitably; the deadweight of vox machina, life cut short by pretending to be a hero. ‘You did save, and while I thank you all…that doesn’t mean I have to suddenly start spilling everything in burden with.’

‘And what are you burdened with exactly.’ Vax asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he feels his heart break, all he wanted to do was stand proudly by your side but he guessed he was too eager in forgetting that you had scars that were deeper then the surface level ones your more.

‘Glorious purpose.’ You spat out as you felt yourself physically react to the vision you just had, clutching your heart as it clenched in pain but still pushing through out of sheer stubbornness. ‘A purpose you’re all so fucking lucky you never have to bear because you wouldn’t last long before succumb to madness and rage.’ You blinked the tears from your eyes, not knowing Vax was already behind you, not until you felt him gently draw you into his arms as he held you against his chest and stroking your back.

‘That is true, we are lucky to no be burdened by what you are and you are indeed stronger then us to have managed to put up with it as long as you have. You have raven wings for fuck sake!’ Vax exclaims but his face softens when he felt you subconsciously lean into his warm hold. ‘But you’ve been strong for far too long peanut, if you won’t let all of us help then let me help, let me into your heart and trust in me to be your respite for when things get tough.’ Vax then rests his head against yours. ‘Just let me be with you.’ He whispers.

You swallowed thickly as you felt anything and everything all at once and it was overwhelming, so overwhelming that you burrowed your head into Vax’s chest without thinking. ‘I’m so fucking tired…so fucking tired.’ Vax kisses your head, holding you tighter as he reassures you of his presence. ‘I’m here, I’m right here peanut and I’m not going anywhere.’

[xenia12]

Here’s a bunch of 3+ year old incorrect TOH quotes from my notes app because I’m bored

News reporter: There are rumors that you recently went undercover at Hexside under the name “Caleb”. Is this true?

The Golden Guard: Pfft, TITAN no. Caleb’s just a pathetic wannabe who can’t stand his own incompetence. Like, seriously, he can’t do anything right. I feel bad for anyone who has to suffer the embarrassment of being within 20 feet of him. He’s such a loser.

Hunter, watching the clip on his scroll a few hours later: Say that to my face, you fucking tool. Stop being such a royal ass-kisser and get a real job.

The Emerald Entrails, sitting together after practice:

Willow: Are you okay?

Luz: No problemo!

Luz, internally: But it was all problemo.

Gus: What's your biggest fear?

Hunter: Being replaced.

Gus: Damn that's deep.

Gus: My new one is the Kool-Aid man but I feel kinda stupid about it now.

Hunter, lying in the woods, depressed: I'll never be a cop again. I'm gonna have to be a robber.

Lilith: You know, I really wish you’d just admit you made a mistake sometimes.

The Golden Guard, stirring his coffee: I prefer it with salt.

Willow: What are you two arguing about this time?

Hunter: He’s always using human phrases incorrectly!

Gus: Cry me a table, Hunter.

Luz: I'm very disappointed in you, Vee.

Hunter: C'mon, don't get mad at Vee!

Luz: Hunter, stop telling Vee it's okay for her to punch you! She needs to learn not to punch people!

Hunter: But I'm not a person!

Vee: Which is why I punched him!

Lilith: *Turns on the breakroom light*

The Golden Guard: *Sitting at the table, eating bread*

Lilith: It’s four in the morning.

The Golden Guard: Turn the light back off.

Hunter: The joy of hanging out with Luz. You look away for 5 seconds to make sure something is set up correctly, and she bites the tip of a marker off.

Camila: Can you come out?

Luz: Yeah gimme a minute…

Luz: Mom, I’m bi.

Camila: I know that. Come out to the car.

Luz: Okay.

Luz: Car, I’m bi.

Camila, a tired mother:

Willow: *lifting weights*

Hunter: Wow… She’s so intense!

Luz: I wonder what drives her.

Willow, internally: Oh I am going to be SO good at giving hugs.

Hunter, protecting a palistrom forest: I am Hunter, I speak for the trees. Chop them down and I snap your knees.

Luz: I wanna be a knight!

Hunter, basically a knight: What the fuck do you want this shit for? I kill people, all right? Their blood is on my hands! Every night, when I go to sleep, I see their FUCKING faces staring at me! Their families weep, and I FEEL NOTHING! I’M DEAD INSIDE!

Luz: Man, I want some of that in my life!

Luz: I want a trip down memory lane.

Vee: *proceeds to grab every warrior cats book they have and sets them in Luz’s lap*

Vee: I heard you needed these?

Luz: YES! ALL OF THEM!

Hunter: Due to personal reasons, I will be fucking sinking to the bottom of the ocean in a large metal box.

Luz: Did Willow say “I love you” and you said “Thanks”?

Hunter: THE REASONS ARE PERSONAL–

The Golden Guard, on live news: I can't imagine what the Owl Lady is planning, but I can tell you two things: we won't like it and it won't be legal.

Gus: Did you win? Or just not die?

Gus: Either way, hooray.

Hunter: ... Is "no" a valid answer?

Gus: The hooray is redacted and you frighten me.

The Golden Guard: Hey, do you know anyone who can teach me to play the trumpet?

Darius: Why?

The Golden Guard: I want to wander around playing it to annoy Lilith.

Darius: Technically, you don’t actually need to know how to play the trumpet well for that.

The Golden Guard: Darius, you have opened my eyes.

Lilith: Can we talk about that mass message you sent?

The Golden Guard: Why? It was important.

Lilith: All it says is, "I'm back on my shit".

Steve, shrugging: The people need to know.

Gus: How long do you think it’ll be until Willow finally snaps and commits murder?

Hunter: I’ve been operating under the assumption that it’s already happened at some point and it’s just that no one was ever able to trace it back to her.

Hunter: It was difficult, so you’ve just given up. You might fail, so why bother trying?

Luz: Exactly.

Luz, to Amity: I told you he’d understand.

Willow: Remember, when burying a body, make sure to cover it with endangered plants so it’s illegal to dig up!

Willow: Make sure to follow me for more gardening tips!

Hunter: There's something I have to ask about you-know-who.

Luz: Voldemort?

Hunter: No.

Luz: Is it Voldemort?

Hunter: It's not Voldemort.

Luz: You haven’t mentioned wizards once this conversation, so I’m gonna have to assume it’s Voldemort.

[kianaisspiraling]

*inhales*

WILD LIFE WILD LIFE WILDLIFEWILDLIFEWIL—

Okay okay so so far I've only watched Grian's pov but I'm gonna be binging soooo many others right after this.

First off- Skizz, Mumbo and Grian is just. Such an unexpected and silly group, I love them. Skizz, loyal to the bone. Grian, loyal but can switch sides if needed; won't betray you first. And Mumbo; the least loyal guy on the server, goes completely bonkers the moment he turns red

They also all just like. Carry themselves so seriously? But will very quickly devolve into being incredibly silly? So so silly. They will NOT last long, they're gonna fall apart faster than the Southlands for sure with the cheating allegations Mumbo is throwing at Grian, but it'll be hilarious :)

Grian: apologizing for knowing the wild cards beforehand

Me: smiles and adds it to the pile of Watcher Grian lore

Moving on from them:

*inhales again*

MISSING DOG FOUND-?!?

AND WE GOT TREEBARK BACK!!!!!! :D

The sheer happiness I felt when I saw Ren back oh my void, we missed you buddy. Martyn immediately pairing up with Ren whenever they are on the same server has my heart. They're theatre kids your honor. Can't wait to see Ren pull out his guitar <3

We also have TEAM CRINGE-FAIL-?! Lizzie, Scar, Jimmy all on the same team-? That's amazing. It would be hilarious if THIS is the season Tim wins. SURELY having such a high concentration of loser (affectionate) energy will circle around to make them clutch. Surely. It's their moment.

Smth smth, Lizzie and Scar were the only two people alone last season. Smth smth, Lizzie died first and Scar last. Smth smth, Scar reaches out an unconditional hand to Lizzie, offering her an ally because he knows what it's like to be without. Smth smth, Lizzie accepts because she knows waiting for allies leads to none. They're friends now :)

I also heard Scar brought the reputation points back?? If that's true then oml we're so close to getting a Third Life parody. So so close, especially with Scar falling off a cliff and dying while singing, claiming that everything that touches the light is his. It is SUCH a good season for us folks that never left the desert. Bonus points if Grian ends up with Scar after the Sub-One Club inevitably crumbles.

We've ALSO got the op, terrifying duo of Gem and Joel. They are going to be SO unhinged. They will be the chaos group this season, mark my words. They will inevitably fuck shit up and I am WAITING for it. Manifesting Gem or Joel win >:)

And over here we've got three of the divorce quartet (Scott, Pearl, and Cleo) allied with the local supportive dad (Impluse). Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone outside or in between, we once again have the girls, the gays, and ImpulseSV. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss, girldad <3

The three of them just reminiscing on Double Life while Impulse stays quiet, internally remembering his little life in the suburbs with Bdubs as they stirred the pot and watched drama unfold. He DOES NOT have anything to add to this conversation on messy divorce.

Also apparently Scott canonically believes that HE'S the reason Jimmy broke the canary curse and Scar won in secret life?? Because he stopped them from allying together last season or something?? That's just wonderful to me. I don't think he's entirely wrong either, they would've destroyed each other SO quickly

Now, getting on to BigB and whatever he's got going on. Something DEFINITELY happened to him in that hole last season, because he is getting increasingly cryptic. OF COURSE he would live in the Pale Garden with the Creaking. Where else would he go??

I absolutely love everyone making BigB a Creaking hybrid, but hear me out: BigB has ALSO been made a watcher by the fandom in previous seasons because of things like the Nosy Neighbors in Limited Life and his Whole Thing in Secret Life, right? You know what the Watchers are often compared to? Biblically accurate angels. You know what the Creaking has been compared to? Weeping Angels. BigB is a Weeping Angel.

(Maybe Weeping Angels are a type of Watcher. they're closely related to the Creaking; perhaps they made it?)

(I have not watched Doctor Who, though I'd like to. All I know is that Weeping Angels are VERY Watcher-core to me <3)

Finally we have a classic trio of Etho, Bdubs, and Tango. They're taming horses, they're non-stop bickering, they DO NOT share, it's every man for themselves. Tango is third wheeling Ethubs so much rn. They get on each other's nerves. They're besties, after all they keep putting themselves together no matter how much they bicker. Team BET ily <3

Love that Etho IMMEDIATELY tries to ally with the local Watcher for inside information, but Grian refuses to give it to him. It was worth a shot, buddy. I adore every second of screen time in which Grian and Etho interact. They are SUCH a good duo for me. One Stick Wither and Etho's Dishwasher, you will forever be famous <3

Anyhow, I think that covers everything I have to say for now, having watched one pov and scrolled Tumblr for a while. I cannot WAIT for this season, as there's a lot of stuff from previous seasons coming back, with Renchanting, the divorce quartet, Scar bringing back reputation points, and more. I can't wait to see this unfold :D

[little-miss-fandom-freak]

Could you write something for moon knight and his boys where they react to khonshu making the reader his new fist?

FIRST REQUEST FUCK YEAH!!! I based this off of the show since I haven't read many Moon Knight comics so if u wanted based off of the comics I'm sorry lol

Marc's kinda sad ngl, but that mainly bc of how he reacted to the idea of Layla being the next Moon Knight in the show. Steven's and Jake's aren't nearly as sad :)

ECLIPSE

Something felt... wrong.

Marc had gotten into another argument with Khonshu; it was something petty, ridiculous even, but Marc just had to run his mouth and complain. Khonshu had gotten sick of the disrespect he had been receiving from the three men, so he made his choice.

They felt a shift in themselves, like a piece of them had been ripped away.

"G-Guys..."

He turned around, the sight before him made it feel like all the oxygen was ripped from his lungs. His lover stood before him, dawning the Mark of Khonshu...

Marc Spector

He rushed to them, taking their face into his hands.

"Oh god what have I done?!" He cried. He spun around the room, trying his hardest to spot the deity. "Khonshu you bastard! Release them! Please! I'll give you my life but do not take them from me!"

"Marc!" They called. "Please just calm down-"

"Quiet, child." Khonshu silenced them. Marc could feel the deity's presence.

"Marc Spector; you have disrespected me for the last time. I had warned you once before, and now you love will suffer the consequences of your actions."

"Damn you!" Marc tried to blindly attack Khonshu, but it was pointless. He watched helplessly as his love's precious face was covered by the Moon Knight mask. They slowly approached his weeping form, gently cradling his head in their hands as they lifted his head up.

"Hey... it's okay." They said softly. "I'll be safe, and Khonshu will protect me."

"He won't. He can't-"

"Marc." They said sternly. "Its okay. I'll still be here, and we can still be together. But I can't keep myself sane if you're not there to help. So please, for me, just... try..."

He nodded, holding their hands against his face. He kissed the clothed wrappings that covered their hands, each kiss lingering a little longer than the last.

"I'll be here for you, every step of the way."

Steven Grant

Steven didn't know how to react. On one hand, it felt weird not have the deity inside his mind. But on the other, his partner looked so GOOD in that suit.

"Uh... darling? Wha-What are you, um, wearing?" He asked, cautiously making his way to his lover.

"I-I-I don't know. Steven... there's a giant bird in behind you." They said quietly.

Steven tilted his head, confused. He spun around, looking for the bird. "B-Bird? Wait, do you mean Khonshu?"

They shakily nodded their head. "I think so."

He gasped. "Does that mean you-you're his new host?"

"Indeed it does, Steven Grant. Your fellow host, Marc Spector, has disrespected me for the last time. There for, I am done with you three. It's time for a change."

Steven didn't know what to feel. Should he be happy? After all, Khonshu was finally gone. It's what he's been praying for since he met the diety. But he's had first-hand experiences on what it's like working for Khonshu. He didn't want his lover to go through that pain as well.

Steven watched carefully as his love had a silent conversation with Khonshu, staying back to give them some space. When it seemed like they were done, he slowly approached.

"So?... Do you want to be the next 'Fist of Khonshu'?" He asked, a tad bit over the top, but it was his little attempt at trying to bring light to the situation.

They sighed, their fingers twisted and toyed with the ends of their cape as they stayed silent in thought. He gently held their hand to stop their fidgeting.

They looked up at him, gazing into his eyes before they spoke. "I... I guess it's not a bad idea. I mean, I'll still have you and the others to help me."

Steven nodded. "If it's what you want, then I will support and help you no matter what." He lightly held their chin and tilted it twords his head, their for heads lovingly pressed together.

"I promise."

Jake Lockley

When Jake turned around, he was angry. Angry at Marc for making Khonshu give up on them, angry at Khonshu for forcing their burden upon his love, angry at himself for not doing anything to prevent iI.

But he didn't show it. He could see the fear and confusion in her love's face and knew that his anger was not what they needed right now. He rushed over to them and held their shoulders tightly.

"Hey there love, you with me?"

They nodded quickly, trying to focus on Jake and ignoring the terrifying bird man speaking to them.

"Jake... he-he keeps saying things to me and I-I don't understand- I don't get what he means-"

"Sshhh..." He said softly, rubbing his hands slowly up and down their arms. "It's ok, my love. We... we can figure this out."

"Jake Lockley, my favorite of three. He was always such an obidient host. Maybe he can teach you his ways."

"My love... if this is something you don't want then..." He gulped, trying to choose his next words wisely. "We can maybe negotiate with him. Try and get him to use us instead or-"

"Jake." They said softly. "I think... I think I want this."

Jake was... surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean I always felt useless when you guys would come home covered in bruises and scars. Now it's your turn." Jake chuckled at their weird form of humor, but ut did bring him comfort. He knew his love better than he knew himself; they can handle anything thrown at them.

"I promise to always be there for you, my love. There is no where you can go that I won't find you and save you."

They chuckled as they held his face in their hands. "Even when I'm the one with the powers, you can't let me do the saving can you?"

He smiled, kissing the palm if their hand. "Never."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

FIRST REQUEST COMPLETED! I HOPE YOU LIKED IT AND FEEL FREE TO SEND MORE MY WAY! <3

[lilithknoxville]

Needy (Johnny Knoxville x F!Reader!) 18+!

Summary: “Wait, what the fuck happened to your arms?!” You asked, your eyes widening again in surprise and horror. His hands grabbed your ankles, dragging you to the foot of your bed. Your breath left your lungs for a moment as he got in your face, his eyes needy.

“Anaconda in a ball pit. Don’t wanna talk about it. Need you.” He murmured, pressing his lips to yours within a second.

Content Warnings: Graphic Smut, 18+, Oral (Fem Receiving), Swearing, Dirty Talk, Daddy Kink

Word Count: 2,176

AN: PHEWWWWWWW. i was debating between a smut or a fluff and we see what side won. i am a whore. but it’s okay bc it’s johnny LOLLLLLLL. also maybe someday i’ll know how to properly end a story. today is not that day…

please leave requests in the inbox! this one just kind of. fell out of me. also if anyone wants to be my beta reader i think id love you forever. i need a beta reader bad. OKAY ANYWAYS into the story ✨

You were sitting in Johnny’s bedroom, mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, chuckling at videos here and there. It was one in the morning, and you were still wide awake. Johnny was out late, a shoot taking longer than expected. He had texted you, letting you know way beforehand that this one would be taking a while. You had sent him some videos of your rabbit vibrator in you, the videos going unanswered. You were used to it by now, the shoots took up most of his time. You had done your business, came to the thought of him three times, then put your toy away. You were getting sleepy, your eyelids getting heavy.

The sound of the front door to the apartment slamming shut made you sit up in a panic. Footsteps echoed off of the walls, and the bedroom door opened suddenly. Johnny was standing in your door frame, blood covering his forearms and soaked into his white t-shirt. His rainbow suspenders, which were also blood soaked, hung loosely around his shoulders. Your eyes widened in fear for a moment, before relaxing into a confused smile.

“Shit, babe. You scared the hell out of me.” Your hand came to your chest, but as you slowly took in the sight of his appearance, you blinked in confusion, “Wait, what the fuck happened to your arms?!” You asked, your eyes widening again in surprise and horror. His hands grabbed your ankles, dragging you to the foot of your bed. Your breath left your lungs for a moment as he got in your face, his eyes needy.

“Anaconda in a ball pit. Don’t wanna talk about it. Need you.” He murmured, pressing his lips to yours within a second. You made a noise of surprise against his lips, your arms wrapping around his neck. The kiss was bruising, Johnny not even giving you a moment to breathe. You broke the kiss, sucking in a quick breath.

“Whoa, slow down!” You let out a breathless laugh as Johnny’s hands were already at the waistband of your pyjama pants, pushing them down your thighs, discarding them somewhere on the floor, “Where’s the fire?” You asked in confusion, watching him kneel down at the foot of your bed. His hands shoved your thighs up towards your face, and you saw bloody handprints on your ankles. You gasped out a breath, trying to sit up. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. Your pussy was still soaked from earlier, and he moved his face closer, licking a long stripe up towards your clit. You bit your lip hard, your body writhing and your head falling back against your pillows.

“Need you. Fuckin’ opened the videos you sent me on set. Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about them.” He murmured, the southern accent causing thrill to run through your veins. His hands scrambled at the seam of your underwear, tearing them in half along the seam.

“Goddamnit, you can’t keep tearing my underwear, PJ.” You threw your head back against the mattress, a strangled moan tearing from you as he dove into your pussy, his tongue diving into your weeping slit.

“I’ll buy you more.” He growled, his hand coming up, his thumb lazily circling your clit. His tongue dove into you again, immediately finding that spot that had you seeing stars and your body writhing again. Your hands came to his hair, moans tumbling from your lips, as he devoured you like a cannibal. His mouth dipped up, his lips attaching to your clit and sucking gently. You rolled your hips, your chest rising and falling quickly. He changed his ministrations from sucking on your clit, back to his tongue diving back into your pussy.

It wasn’t long before the coil started to wind itself in your stomach, the pace of his tongue relentless. It was like he wanted to pull an orgasm out of you as fast as possible, and it was working. Between his tongue in your pussy and his thumb on your clit, he had that thread inside of you snapping within a moment. Your hands pulled his hair hard, your back arching off of the bed. His groan rumbled through your body, adding to the already heightened feeling racing through you. His face stayed between your legs until you whined from overstimulation. He pulled back from between your legs, his chin and lips covered in your slick. He wiped his mouth with his hand, giving you the smirk he knew drove you crazy.

“Head of the bed, now. All fours, hold onto the headboard.” His voice was gruff, and you scrambled over yourself, getting into the position he demanded of you. You faced the wall, your ass poking up into the air. You heard the sound of his belt clinking, and the soft Whoosh of his slacks hitting the floor. He came up behind you, his thick cock dragging against your weeping slit. You grit your teeth, shuddering.

He lined himself up, pushing into you with one thrust. You groaned, your knuckles going white from how hard you were gripping the headboard. He stayed in place for a minute, letting you get used to the feeling.

“Y-You’re good, honey.” You shuddered underneath his hands, which were on your hips, gripping them tightly. You heard a low chuckle from behind you, and if you thought he was relentless eating you out, his pace fucking you was even more brutal. You let out another groan, your voice cracking, as his hips slammed into your ass relentlessly. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, as you dropped your head, catching a glimpse of his cock slamming in and out of you.

“Take this fucking cock,” He growled out, his left hand coming from your hip to your neck, pulling you up to where your back was against his chest. His hand snaked around the front of your neck, his thumb and forefinger applying the right amount of pressure to the sides of your neck that made your head swim, “You fucking slut.” He snarled, and the tears pricking the corners of your eyes fell down your cheeks.

His tongue darted out, licking the tears off of your skin. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your right hand leaving the headboard and tapping his forearm frantically. The grip he had on your neck loosened, and you sucked in a breath. You heard him chuckle lowly in your ear, his hips snapping against you harder this time.

“Gonna cry over how amazing this cock feels?” He spat, his lips curled up in a vicious smile, “That’s it, you little slut, let Daddy love you the way you deserve.” His pace was relentless, almost frantic.

The coil in your stomach started to burn red hot again, and you sobbed, two of his fingers coming to your mouth and pressing hard against your tongue. Your lips closed around his fingers - your tongue circling around his digits - as your eyes rolled back in your head again.

“That’s it, my sweet girl. My sweet slut.” Johnny grunted out through clenched teeth, his voice tight in his throat, “Cum all over Daddy’s cock.” His words finally broke you, and you all but screamed around his fingers, your orgasm hitting you like a tonne of bricks. Your pussy fluttered around his cock, and he grunted out, his teeth sinking into the dip of your shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Yes, just like that baby.” He snarled against your skin, his tongue darting out and licking away the small amount of blood pooling on your shoulder. His breath was heavy against your skin, his pace speeding up even more. At this point, you were sure his hipbones were going to leave bruises against your ass with how hard he was pounding into you. You sobbed, thick tears running down your cheeks at the overstimulation, “Just like that, babygirl.” His tongue ran over the wounds on your shoulder, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses against your neck.

“Da-Daddy~!” You cried out, and you heard his groan reverberate through your head. His pace started to become sloppy, his own orgasm near.

“Fuck, sweetheart-!” He grunted out, his moans strangled beside your ear. You gasped out choked sobs, his hand leaving your neck and coming back to your hip.

Within a couple of thrusts, Johnny stilled, as his cock twitched and pulsed in you. You threw your head back, letting out an animalistic scream as another orgasm rippled through you at the same time. You dropped your head to the pillow in front of you, gasping in greedy breaths. Your heart was racing in your chest, and your thighs trembled around his legs.

It was a quiet couple of seconds while you and Johnny caught your breath. He sucked in a shaky breath, pulling out of you, causing you to whine from the empty feeling. Your legs gave out under you, and you heard him chuckle gently. He got up from the bed, getting into the drawer where he knew you kept the towels. He went into the bathroom, and you heard the tap running. He returned to the bed, using the - now damp - towel to wipe the blood off of your legs, hips, and anywhere he had touched you. He turned you over, wiping you completely down. You turned over after a moment, giving him a tired smile.

“Now do I get my answer of what happened to your arms?” You asked, a soft chuckle coming out of your lips. He laughed as well, going to the bathroom that was attached to your bedroom.

“Stupid fucking idea of me, Ryan, and Wee-Man in a ball pit with an anaconda. No, wait, it was two anacondas.” You watched as he dabbed one of the washcloths you used for cleaning across his arms, the activities opening up the wounds again. He patched himself up as best as he could, half assed putting gauze all over his arms, “I was supposed to catch one of them, but the fucker kept whippin’ his head back and bitin’ me.” He got all of the blood off of his arms, throwing the shirt he was wearing into your bathroom trash can. He was fully nude as he walked back into your bedroom, digging through your drawers for new clothes.

“If it was literally anyone but you, I would be surprised. You get checked by medical before you practically burst my door down?” You asked, a small yawn tearing its way from your lips. You heard him chuckle before he was slipping a new pair of underwear onto your legs, covering you with the comforter a second later. He crawled into bed beside you, holding you tight. You shifted uncomfortably until you got used to the feeling of the gauze on your skin.

“Yes, I did. Said it should heal within a couple of days, since they were surface punctures at best.” He held you tightly, the sound of his heartbeat soothing you and you snuggled more against his chest.

“You wanna explain why you practically tore my door off of the hinges to fuck?” You asked, his laugh rumbling through his chest.

“Bam’s stupid ass. I had my phone on one of the tables by the cameras, and before we got shootin’, you sent me that video.” His voice was husky again, his lips by your hairline. He pressed kiss after kiss to your forehead and scalp. “Bam brought me my phone, makin’ it sound like you were textin’ me frantically. Of course, I thought something was wrong at first, but I made the brilliant choice of openin’ the video you sent me.” He laughed, and you felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“Did anyone-” You asked, but he shook his head quickly.

“No, babygirl. No one saw what was on my phone. I closed out of my texts and put my phone in my pocket before anyone saw.” He reassured you, and you let out a shaky exhale, “Though it was in my head the entire time. Wasn’t thinkin’ straight, so that’s why the anaconda was able to take a couple of nibbles on me.” He chuckled against your forehead, his fingers tracing over your shoulder. He pulled his head back, looking at your shoulder. Where he had bit your shoulder had nice teeth marks in your skin, and he grimaced.

“Don’t worry about them, hon. They don’t hurt.” You assured him, shrugging, “I’ll doctor them up in the mornin’. It’s bedtime now.” You giggled softly, pulling his head down to where it was resting against yours. He hummed, his arms snaking back around you tightly.

“Bedtime it is, ma’am.” He murmured, and you rolled your eyes hard.

“Don’t call me that, PJ. I love you, but you know I hate that shit.” You chuckled, and he pressed another kiss to your forehead.

“I love you too, sweetheart. But you know my mama raised me to be a southern gentleman.” He smiled against your skin, and you shook your head slightly.

“I wouldn’t have you any other way, baby. Goodnight.” You leaned your head up, giving him a sweet kiss, before you nuzzled your head into his chest. His heartbeat was coming back down to a normal level.

“Goodnight, babygirl. Sweet dreams.” Johnny pressed another kiss to your head, before letting his head fall back against the pillows.