#god if only this could all happen at once
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ANACHRONISM ft. Mina
mina x male reader smut
part one of strange currencies
14k words
Go ahead, try and pretend like any of this happened by accident.
Like you totally didn’t mean to charm some poor, pretty little thing; dazzle her with the wealth, the fame, the you of it all.
Have her spreading her legs for you, bunching her dress up over her thighs, serving herself up like she’s one of those ludicrously expensive banquets you frequent, pleading—
"God, I need you inside me, like, right this fucking second."
Because here’s the truth of it all, what you’ve come to realise about this woman who has never once in her entire life been reduced to something as pithy as poor or pretty or little; let alone anything short of extraordinary. This wildly successful, elegant to the point of being untouchable, and just really, really fucking gorgeous idol:
Nothing about Myoui Mina is accidental.
Even all this—her idea: showing up at your suite uninvited, leaning against the doorframe, panties hanging off her fingertips. Showing off how ridiculously drenched she is for you and how badly she wants you to do something about it.
If only these walls could talk.
“Hurry up,” she’s gritting out. Deadlocking the door behind her. Still not used to waiting for anything, apparently. “Come on, I need your cum. Anywhere you like. Just inside me. Now.”
You should be more surprised. Instead, you’re laughing. “Patience, darling.”
A step forward, pants hitting the floor, cock in hand. Running the tip of it across her folds, making it shiny with her slick, forcing this sigh from her lips.
You pause, just to make her whine. To make her give you what you really want to hear.
Mina bites her lip.
Squeezes her eyes shut.
She knows the deal.
"Please."
That word, that crack in the composure, the control that Mina is so used to maintaining everywhere else but here. It’s the thrill of it all—the challenge in the attempt. Taking someone like Mina, all perfect posture, sparkling teeth, effortless grace; and bringing her to her knees.
Figuratively speaking, mostly.
Only, her phone lights up.
You look down and see it, left abandoned on the floor somewhere in Mina’s rush to get to you. But now its glow is stark against the dark parquet, beaming with messages by the dozen. All different variations on the same question: where the fuck is she?
Her eyes flicker to the screen, then back up to yours. There's a silent conversation happening there—desire fighting with duty, lust with loyalty.
You make it easy for her.
A push is all it takes, really. Cunt yielding to your will, cock sliding into that ridiculous tightness.
She freezes.
Braces herself.
Whimpers.
“Priorities, Mina,” you grunt through it, breaching in deeper; assaulted by the heat of her cunt around you, choking each inch. “Remember, you asked for this.”
The phone keeps buzzing, panicked vibrations at your feet. Urgent messages becoming calls, flashing faces across the screen. You can see them one-by-one, see Mina’s reaction as they pop up—sighing when she sees her managers name, eyes widening when a rather flirty photo of Chaeyoung comes next, and then her entire body tensing, tightening around you at the next picture:
Her and her boyfriend, arms thrown around each other, both looking all beautiful and famous and so very much in love. The perfect couple; so picturesque it might as well have come right off a billboard.
“God, fuck,” Mina groans out, panting, breathless. “You’d think they’d—ah—just leave me alone for one—single—night—”
“Should we snap some photos? Add them all to a group chat, send them through? Let them see the look on your face and figure it out from there.”
Mischief flashes across her eyes, mouth open to answer back with something that is no doubt clever and suggestive and designed to get you both into far more trouble than you’re already in—but she doesn’t get a word of it out.
You’re slamming into her.
Mina nearly comes apart then and there; eyes snapping shut, neck arching, back banging against the hard, unforgiving wood of the door behind her. Her lips round into this perfect ‘O’ of surprise, and this sweet, sweet needy whine comes slipping out from her throat.
And just like that, she’s all yours again.
It’s not like the phone goes silent—it just stops mattering.
“Asshole,” she’s saying—grinning now, doing that Mina thing where she says one thing but means another, expecting you to read the underneath. Which this time is—touch me, pull me close, pin me and keep me fucking trapped while you fuck the air right out of my lungs.
“Now there’s an idea.” You’re kissing her, tongue past her lips, tasting the rush of the forbidden, the lines she’s crossing just so she can have you filling up her cunt.
And there’s all this noise—the sound of your cock thrusting into her, skin against skin, shaft into wetness; the buzzing of the phone, her cries of your name dying in your mouth.
Oh, you know it’s going to be brutal if anyone was to overhear, if you’re caught and all this gets out. The narratives that will be crafted, the cliché of it all, the sizzling hot headlines that will undoubtedly paint her, as they are wont to do, in a million different unfair ways.
Seductress. Gold-digger. Slut.
But even as you’re fucking her deep, lips marking up her skin, digging your fingers into the meat of her ass and making Mina cum so hard that all she can say is— “please, please, please,”
—you know the facts, no matter who’s begging who under the shine of the outrageously garish chandelier hanging overhead:
You're the one that chased her first.
—
(It’s incredibly fitting that this whole thing started with a celebration.)
—
Taking a step back, to months earlier, at a gala:
Where it’s becoming apparent to you, and seemingly, just you, that Mina’s the only one here that doesn’t look entirely out of place.
Or at least, she’s the only one that seems to fit amongst the grandeur; the imposing pillars and archways, the ornate cornices, the glint of gold and jade beneath the soft glow of paper lanterns, and the shadow of the palace itself, cast over the sprawling garden like a looming guardian.
The anachronism of it all is the concept, or so you’ve been told. The new, the future—your company—against the backdrop of the old, the traditional. A fusion event, meant to celebrate and honour the past right before yanking it to the future; and yet it all somehow feels so…
Boring.
The same faces, the same games; sharks in a sea of corporate sabotage and political machinations. They’ll smile for you, sing your praises to the highest heavens, do everything they can to make you remember their name—right up until the moment you show your back.
All this to say, it’s going to be very hard to last four hours without wanting to punch someone in the face just to make things slightly more interesting.
(Oh come, one and all. Throw yourselves at the feet of Korea’s youngest self-made billionaire, and hope that by some stroke of luck or misplaced charm, you might just catch a crumb from his table.
That’s what this whole exhausting circus feels like to you.)
So, when you’re about done with what seems like the hundredth round of fake laughs and vacuous pleasantries with yet another politician who’s trying to sell you on the importance of family, and coincidentally, his very marriageable daughter, you make your escape.
Something about needing a drink.
Ease out of the circle, let the noise of the gala swallow you up like you were never there, and navigate across the garden to the bar.
Where you find her.
Mina, something of an anachronism herself; looking more at home amongst the pagodas and the cherry blossoms than in the company of suits and ties and plastic smiles. Like she’s been painted onto the scene; rendered in living colour—stark white, midnight black, blue silk. Or cobalt. Maybe azure.
You’ll have to reserve some time later to ask her about the colour of her dress.
What’s important is that she’s alone, which seems like a crime in and of itself, on account of, well, how fucking breathtaking she is. Add that she’s here at all, and it all amounts to some kind of serendipitous miracle.
(An idol, a celebrity, willingly spending her free time in the company of the elitist dregs of society? The world's gone mad.)
You don’t really need an excuse to join her; you know her, technically. Not intimately, but in that same way that everyone in this high society tapestry is threaded together. An award show here, a charity function there—the kind of acquaintance that lets you say hello without raising eyebrows, but not much more.
All this to say it makes some sense to slide yourself onto the barstool to her right, ignoring that the rest are completely unoccupied.
The smile that Mina gives you as you approach is a little sharper than it needs to be, a little too knowing.
“You’re not going to ask if this seat’s taken?”
You return the smile, a mirror image of hers, and lean onto the bar. You don’t even need to look at the bartender; your drink is in your hand, cold and crisp, the second you set it down. “I thought I’d risk it.”
“Neat trick,” Mina says, posting her chin on one hand, watching the sleek liquid slide down your throat. She’s got a flute of champagne in front of her, untouched.
There’s a gravity to her, you’re realising only when you’re this close. Something in the way the moonlight's kissing her skin, a blend of porcelain and peaches, glowing. Maybe that’s why she’s been left alone; the other guests were smart enough not to get swallowed up in it all. Better to appreciate at a distance than to drown in it.
She regards you for a beat, runs a finger around the rim of her glass. "Shouldn't you be off being the centre of attention somewhere? Shaking hands, kissing babies, that whole bag?”
“Nah," you’re dismissive, looking back out to the crowd milling about, lost in their own conversations and power plays. "This whole thing's more for them than it is for me."
Mina scoffs. Raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. You follow her eyes—across the banners, the placards, the giant projection cast onto the palace itself.
A brushstroke circle—the logo you designed—swirling around, stamping itself on what was once a symbol of absolute power, now reduced to just another stage for the rich and the elite and all their insignificant little games.
You feel the need to clarify. “For the company.”
Mina ripostes. “That just so happens to be named after you.”
“Just one of those funny coincidences.”
“Apparently so.”
It does occur to you that it should be somewhat startling how instantly familiar you feel around Mina. Slipping into casual conversation—light jabs, coded compliments; all soaked in insinuation. Just enough edge and implication to keep you on your toes.
There's an ease to her, to how she smiles, how she laughs, how she just sits there, all drop-dead gorgeous and oh, this? Nothing special, just how I always am.
So it’s only natural that somewhere in all this easy banter, between your third drink and her second, her hand lands on your forearm, your knee brushes against hers and you both decide to stop being so subtle.
You pick your moment, as she’s thumbing through a menu of drinks she’s already deciding she doesn’t want, to try to solve the mystery of her. Past the red of her lips, the edge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Along the neckline of her dress, where the silk clings like it’s afraid of letting go, and down to where it dips and angles out; the open shoulder, the collarbone, the swell underneath.
It’s the sum of it all, you’re realising. The dress, the look, the woman.
(Accentuate without revealing. Tease without giving away the prize. Show off that flawless ass and dare the world not to look. And yeah, they fucking look. They all do.
You’re just the only one that doesn’t look away when you're caught.)
But now, you could reach out and touch her; unlatch the straps of her heels, run your fingers from her ankle up, up over the smooth expanse of her calf, her knee, the bare skin of her thigh right where her dress decides to daringly split, and underneath, until your hand is filled with the heat of her and all she knows is you.
You could complete her. Or she, you, you think.
Only, there’s a slight misstep in an otherwise immaculate ensemble.
A necklace.
A ridiculous, ugly, tacky thing. Hanging off her like a misplaced jewel on a swan; more ‘costume party’ than ‘refined modern gala’. Fighting the simplicity of her gown, offensively jarring, especially against the serenity of the moonlit garden.
Mina notices you staring. “A gift.”
“Boyfriend,” you realise, doing the math in your head. A careless present, given by someone who doesn’t know (or doesn’t care to know) her. Hoping the flash, the dollars spent overshadows the unfamiliarity.
(It doesn’t.)
“Partner,” Mina confirms. There’s a slight dip at the corner of her mouth, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something unpleasant. It disappears as soon as it comes, but you caught it. “A little too old to have a boyfriend.”
“Hm.” You click your tongue. Narrow your eyes. You’ve been told that it makes you appear disarming. “And where is this partner?”
Mina’s smile returns. She takes her first sip of champagne. “You tell me. Don’t you sign off on all the invites?”
“Just the important ones.”
“Even so, not like he would have come if he was invited.” Mina leaves you to fill in the gaps. “A tad too public. For the both of us, really.”
“I see.”
And you do. You’ve seen your fair share of these types of arrangements, participated in a few, even. At the beginning, the secret of it all, the cloak and dagger; it’s exhilarating. But that only lasts so long. Eventually, like all things, it fades. Leaving you with someone who you don’t really see, who you don’t even know, and the sinking realisation that maybe the thrill was the only thing that kept it interesting.
“So,” you lean forward, drawing your conclusion. “You’re here. All alone. Stuck in a relationship with someone dumb enough to let you go out looking like that.”
“Careful.”
“It’s just,” you offer, your gaze lingering on her throat, “You don’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you deserve, Mina.”
That makes Mina pause. Almost flinch. Imperceptibly if you weren’t looking so closely at her lips. The sound of her name rolling off your tongue, like it's always been there, waiting to escape—it has her reeling.
And yet, somehow, she recovers.
“Because you know me so well.”
So, you switch up, throw a curveball. “Is it the sex?”
To her credit, Mina barely reacts to that provocation, as if she was expecting the follow up. Just takes another sip of her champagne with a grace that seems rehearsed. You’ll have to try harder.
She shrugs a bare shoulder.
"Sex is just sex. It’s not everything."
“So, no sex at all, then.”
Mina’s smile is like a knife’s edge. “Are you always this forward?”
“All I’m saying,” you keep going, somewhat emboldened by the game, by the warmth of the whiskey poisoning your kidneys. “If it was me—”
Mina’s hand slides up your forearm, ending somewhere around your triceps. You’re close. Close enough to inhale her perfume; cinnamon, smoke, darker than anticipated. You’d fill your lungs with it, if you could. “If it was you.”
You take another drink. She watches.
And it clicks into place. What this really is. What she’s really doing here.
The slight tilt of her shoulder, a slip of her dress—just a fraction. A shift in her seat and suddenly, the silk has risen, too high, and there’s a stretch of skin leading up to a flash of lace that’s more moonlit than the night itself.
The suspicion sets in. Was she waiting for you?
Mina laughs.
You ask, “What’s so funny?”
“I was just thinking,” Mina says, lowly. Grinning, like she’s reading your mind. “How even you’re the same.”
“How so?”
“All you men. How you see me, how you’re looking at me right now.” She reaches up to her neck, taps the clunky stone hovering over her throat. Once. Twice. “Making it about you. You think I need saving.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open once more to protest—
“That’s what you think.” Mina interrupts, smirks; and your eyes are on her lips, wondering if anyone would be able to pull you off them if you were so lucky enough to taste them. “What you want is to own me.”
“Mina,” you regard her, openly. Honestly. “I could never dream of owning you.”
She nods back towards your logo, emblazoned across the castle walls. “Because you’re clearly not the type of person that likes owning things.”
And there’s a realisation here, as she’s staring into your eyes—a real, actual, bone-deep revelation—that she's been doing the same thing as you this whole time. Reading you, until she's seeing through you.
The silence stretches, thick and sweet , and it’s obvious to see where this is heading. The idea that’s being sparked—lean in, kiss her right here, right now, with all these eyes on you. Kiss that smirk right off her face, steal whatever clever rebuttals she’s composing from her lips, the flirtations that she’s left hanging in the air. Replace them all with your name.
But it’s all hypothetical, for now.
“You’re not even thinking past right now, are you?” Mina asks, amused. "The rumours you've started just by sitting next to me."
"Rumours."
"The kind that ruins careers. That never leave. That would make him want to kill you if he found out."
Another sip, letting it burn down your throat. Think about it. Attack it from every angle—
(Doesn’t it just make sense; the billionaire, and his beautiful celebrity partner? Or even if there was a scandal, just a one-night fling; wouldn’t it be worth it?
You could both live off the thrill alone, it’d reignite whatever embers her boyfriend hasn’t stomped out yet.)
“Maybe I want the rumours.”
Mina’s eyes widen. It’s the first time she’s dropped her guard.
“If you were mine,” you start, and stop immediately, reining in that last word on the tip of your tongue. “If you were my girlfriend, partner, whatever label you want to put on it. I’d tell the whole damn world. Broadcast it on every channel. Make sure everyone knows exactly who I’m fucking every single morning, afternoon, night.”
You’re hitting the mark of something, you can tell, because Mina’s hand tightens around your arm, and she doesn't seem to mind when yours lands on her thigh. A flash; the thought of spreading them, of seeing her laid bare underneath you. Or flipped over in front of you, crumpling that dress around her waist, so you can take proper purchase of that ass that’s been hinted at all night long.
And all of a sudden, she doesn't seem to be as spoken for as she might have led you to believe.
She bites her lip. Keeps it there for a second, two, before letting it go.
“So, this is what you usually say to all the pretty girls you invite to these parties?”
The alcohol’s loosened your tongue enough to state truths you’re supposed to keep to yourself. “I usually don’t have to say anything at all.”
Mina challenges. “Must be nice, being this rich, cute, and charming.”
“The being rich part does a lot of the hard work.”
“So, the cuteness and the charm?”
“I’ll let you decide,” you finish, watching her smile spread, the corners of her eyes crinkle. It makes your chest tighten.
“I suppose, in your perfect world,” Mina surmises, and now she’s so close that your knee is splitting the difference between her thighs, and you’re already planning the logistics of it all—the where, the how— “this ends with you fucking my brains out behind one of these old houses.”
“I’ve got a few in mind.”
“I bet.” Mina takes one last pull of her drink, empties it, and sets it back down. “And afterwards? After you’ve made me forget my own name and made the entirety of my existence revolve around your cock—what’s your plan then? Who are we—who are you going to be?"
You finish off your own glass, setting it down with the same deliberate clink as hers. “You know, the funny thing about money is," you say, sliding your fingers up her thigh, higher, higher. "It can make you whoever you want to be. So, the real question is—who do you want me to be?"
You’re holding your breath as she answers: “Not some knight in shining armour. I don’t need a saviour. If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then what do you need?”
Mina inches, gets close, and now her breath’s a tickle on the shell of your ear. She bites. “Just someone to help me scratch an itch.”
There’s a moment, somewhere before Mina threads her fingers through yours, lets you lead her through the throngs of guests and into the shadows of the palace; where all of this—this want, this need, boils over. Where Mina kisses your cheek and warns:
“You don’t have the time for me.”
Now it’s your turn to grin; reaching up to her throat, slipping that necklace off her, leaving it to clatter onto the granite below never to be spoken of again.
“Maybe. But I can make every second count.”
—
This is how you end up:
Pinning Mina to some ancient wall; the moon’s spotlight spilling over the contours of her body, a hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing her dress higher up her thighs.
You weren’t lying, you did have a place in mind. Namely, by the west gate, where a house that used to be the servant’s quarters stood. It’s a part of the palace that’s been neglected in the reconstruction, and thus, ironically, the most authentic part of this whole sham.
A true hideaway for those not to be seen or heard; a building that’s seen centuries of service, of lives lived in the shadow of royalty, and now it’s going to bear witness to this, to you and Mina, undoing each other with every passing second.
Something a little sacred, a whole lot profane.
She’s smiling against your lips; a smirk, more likely. Because she’s new to this kind of thing—the almost romantic picture the two of you are painting—chaste kisses stolen in quiet corners of royal residences. The kind of thing that could fuel a dozen dramas.
But you both know better.
So, you let her start things off, let her set the pace for this evening's affairs. And Mina, to her credit, is gracious enough to tell you exactly what she wants.
(Kiss me harder, touch me here, please, please, don't let go.)
Twisting the lapels of your jacket in her hand, desperately pulling you closer, even though there's no more room left. Kissing you with longing. Making you believe that she's missed this—missed you—despite the fact that you've only just officially met. And sure, it's a lie, but it's a lie that feels so good, so right, that you’re willing to indulge her.
Indulge yourself.
Your lips veer off the corner of her mouth, ignoring the tongue and teeth that try to keep you there, the hand that kindly urges you to not stop kissing her.
Because you’ve got a ticking clock in the back of your mind, counting down the seconds before someone calls you or her away, or more problematically, catches you and her, a heap of limbs and lust and fucking in the dusty archives of history.
You break away, keep things moving, kiss your way along her neck, feel her heartbeat drum against your lips. Follow her neckline down, down; find this sweet little spot, a darkened freckle right on top of her collarbone that makes her sigh.
“Tell me something, honestly.” Mina finds her voice the same time your fingers meet the promised lace of her underwear, turning her words into these breathless moans. “How often do you do this?”
You tug the fabric pooling at her waist—once, firmly—and Mina’s dress slips from her shoulders, whispering down her arms and leaving her in nothing but flawless white and a strapless bra that matches the silk in hue.
You smile, look up. “This?”
Mina clarifies, "Whisk some innocent girl away into a deserted corner and—"
She’s cut off by the click-clack of her bra releasing behind her back, your fingers slipping beneath the cotton, and you’re filling your hand with the swell of her breast; so soft, so perfect.
The sound when you touch her and she gasps; if only you could capture, keep it forever. You’ll just have to make sure she keeps making it—kneading gently, rolling the pebbled peak of her nipple between your thumb and forefinger, feeling it bead and tighten.
Your lips to her shoulder, you ask, “And what?”
Mina sighs, “fuck her completely, thoroughly senseless,” and you swear there’s something revelatory about how she says it—sinful ideas from saintly lips.
"Honestly?" You pause, your gaze lingering on the goosebumps rising across her skin. "You're the first."
Her laughter's a surprise; it's light, disbelieving. "First?"
"First tonight."
Mina's smile widens, her grip on your jacket tightens. "You're so full of shit," she says, but there's no malice in it. Just the thrill of the hunt. Or, being hunted.
You don’t bother to argue the point; let her think what she wants. Instead, you lean into it (into her), let your other hand snake around her thigh, over the elastic of her panties and lower, until you’re palming the curve of her ass.
Firm, taut, flawless—because of course it is; exactly like the rest of her. She’s so hot under your touch; the softness, the smoothness of it. And you know—without a doubt—you’re going to worship this ass.
A squeeze for good measure—balancing the fine line of respect and greed. Mina yelps—surprise, pleasure.
“God,” Mina shudders, does her best under the assault of your lips on her neck, fingers pinching, tugging, hand squeezing. "You're—oh, you're not so bad at this."
You press a kiss to her throat. “Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Myoui.”
“Please, not with the government names,” Mina hisses, her cheeks flushing a soft pink that matches the glow of the lanterns outside.
“Apologies.” You chuckle, slipping your hand underneath the band of her panties, and around—down—pressing against her and sinking lower until you’ve got a proper hold of her. Soaking wet and dripping heat onto your fingertips.
A cry from her lips. A shiver. A buck of her hips.
Her hands shoot to your chest.
“Please, kiss me again.”
You oblige—how could you not, with the way she’s begging?
Her nails dig into your shirt, her breath hitches as you push your finger—your index—past her entrance and inside, and just before she can moan your name into the night air, you’re filling her mouth with your tongue, licking inside.
You kiss her like it’s your first kiss, like it’s your last. Like the only way to calm her down is with your mouth and your tongue and your teeth. She’s so wet and tight and pulsing around you, she’s trying to suck you in; and fuck, when you’re knuckle-deep she bites down on your lip so hard she nearly draws blood.
The moans that she's filling your mouth with; this symphony of want sends a jolt of pure, unfiltered desire straight to your cock. You're straining—against your trousers, against her thigh, straining against the urge to rip that dress off her and leave her bare, but you're not there yet.
It's about her, about needing her, making her beg for it. Making her so desperate that she'll do just about anything to get you inside her.
(Because there’s something about her, about Mina, that just makes you want to take your time. To learn the ins and outs of what makes her tick. The secret spots that make her moan into your mouth, the places to touch that make her shiver, the sighs and sounds that only you can coax out of her.
It’s etched into every line of her body; every curve and sharp edge—just pure heat from head to toe; And there’s a beauty so absolute in her perfection, the dash of makeup, the careful draping of her hair, it’s too good not to ruin. To not want to leave your mark on her in some way so that everyone knows she was once yours, if only for a night.)
“You’re just so needy, Mina.” You hum into her jaw, when your lips slip from hers and you struggle to resist the urge to leave these marks on her. Her cheek, her neck, her collarbone. Every part of her that she’s offered to you, every part you’re eager to claim. “Like it’s been ages since someone’s touched you like this.”
“I don’t—please—” is all Mina can manage, because the pad of your thumb is ghosting over her clit, pressing in and circling, and the way her pitch rises and she sighs your name gives you your answer:
It’s been a while.
“I don’t think—gah—” She tries agin, but you torture her with another finger, stretching inside her, sinking in and curling upwards. “I don’t think I’ve ever been touched like this.”
“Good,” you tell her, and she shivers when your voice rumbles through her, when you drop down and your lips go low again, and you take one of her stiff peaks between your teeth. “I don’t settle for second place.”
“Neither do—God—I—” Mina braces herself against the wall behind her, failing to find anything but cold brick to hold onto as you map out the rest of her with your hands and your fingers and your lips.
She’s so, so hot for you; you would’ve never predicted it, not in your wildest estimations. Never thought just how easy it would be to undo someone so poised and put-together like Mina, to render her into this puddle of need.
“So why don’t you show me then,” Mina breathes, voice trembling as much as she is. You suck deep, swirl your tongue, make her arch her back to push more of herself into you. “What all the—oh my—what all the fuss is about."
“As you wish, darling.”
And there’s part of you that’s recognising the awfulness of what you’re doing, taking something—someone—that’s not yours, and having her tell you all these things, finger fucking these words of oblivion from her lips, touch me, please I need it, kiss me harder, more, more, make me feel it, make me feel you.
But even that part of you is so, so small right now, buried deep down with everything that isn’t Mina, with everything that isn’t her pussy clenching around your hand, or the taste of tits on your tongue.
Ignore all thoughts of the after, of what happens when you’ve made her cum again and again, and you’ve wrecked yourself in the pursuit of it all. What happens when you return to the throngs of nobodies, all rumpled and flushed and red, and the whispers start flying, and the glances are no longer just knowing but shamelessly envious.
That’s a problem for future you.
Right now, you’ve nearly stripped her entirely, pressed up against a wall that’s seen more than its fair share of secrets, and your two—now three—fingers are ruining her in a way that has her dancing on that borderline.
“I’m close, so close,” Mina cries, but you already know.
Because you’re already giving it to her; everything she wants and then some. Touching her, fucking her with your fingers, pushing her higher, watching her unravel.
Making her whine against your skin, making her eyes squeeze shut like she’s afraid of what’s happening, afraid of how much she wants this.
“We’re only just getting started, Mina.”
You let her nipple pop out from your mouth, leaving it to bob in the cool night air, sensitive and dying to be back between your teeth. Hand shifts from her hip, sliding up to cradle her jaw, to tip her face back—force those deep, dark eyes to open so you can really look at her.
Panting, pupils blown wide, and the sight of her so undone sends another wave of heat straight to your cock.
“Look at me.” It comes out harsher, more of a firm command than intended. It does its job. “You're going to cum now.”
She nods, frantically, eyes locked on yours as your thumb traces over her bottom lip, feeling it plump and swollen from your kisses. Her tongue darts out, swipes over the pad, tasting herself and you; and you’re thinking about filling that mouth of hers, or maybe that cunt, or if she’s game, that tight, untouched little asshole.
But one thing at a time.
“I’m going to eat your pussy,” you’re saying everything you’ve dreamt of saying to her since you first saw her, first caught sight of that ass daring to wander past your line of sight; and suddenly, every raw, filthy thought you’ve had of her is coming to the surface. “Then I’m going to fuck you. Again and again. Your cunt, your mouth. That ass. I’m going to take it all. And you’re going to let me, aren’t you, darling?”
Mina breathes, nods, signing a verbal contract to let you do whatever the fuck you want with her, promising you all of her, every part of her you’ve so shamelessly craved.
“Good.”
And so, you drop to your knees.
You glance up at her. She looks down at you.
Like she’s been burning for this; like she’ll combust if you make her wait a second longer.
Pushing her dress up until it's around her waist, keeping it up with your hands on her thighs, spreading her legs wider. And you’re seeing her pussy, the darkened, plump flesh—bare, wet, begging—and so, so pretty.
Fuck—what kind of guy could resist this?
(The kind that buys her jewellery without knowing the first thing about her. The kind that leaves her to sit alone at a gala like a trophy on a shelf. The kind that doesn’t get to taste her—doesn’t know how.
The kind that’s not you.
And maybe she was right—you do think you could save her.)
“What are you doing?” Mina huffs, impatient.
You smirk, unable to resist the urge to drag this out, to keep her on edge a little longer. "Just appreciating."
Mina's eyes narrow, but the smile never leaves her lips. "Well, appreciate faster."
You don’t need to be told twice.
Take her by the hips, spin her around, make her inhale—sharp. Force her to look away from you, to face the cold, indifferent wall, to brace herself.
“Wait, why—”
“Hold your dress up for me,” you mumble against her thighs.
Mina’s hands obey, holding the silk out of the way; and now she’s bent over, like a fucking present. Letting your eyes drink in her ass; unable to do anything but just stare.
How the moonlight kisses the curve, makes the shadows play against it. So perfect. So round and tight and full. Fruit so ripe you could pluck it from the tree with your teeth.
You’re leaning in, kissing the top of her thighs, right below where her cheeks spill over. Kissing up, a soft press of your lips to one cheek, the other, and fuck Mina’s trembling; barely holding it together, and you’re just getting started.
You drag your nose up, across the cotton of her panties and inhale her deep. Sweet and musky, a fine wine that’s been left to breathe, and she squirms.
Shivers under your breath.
And when Mina sighs something that sounds suspiciously like a warning—because she’s not the type to let you get away with anything like this so easily—you take the band of her underwear with your teeth, feeling the fabric stretch. Thin, delicate, begging to snap.
The panties fall away, down to her ankles. The sound of her heels tapping the ground as she lifts her legs to let it slide off, leaving her bare, vulnerable, and yours.
Mina goes still.
Hands spread her cheeks, and finally, you dive in, tongue first. Swipe along the crevice of her ass, taste the sweetness of her from bottom to top, forcing this gasp from her lips. You’re not shy about it—no room for anything close to it when your nose is pressed up against her asshole—and Mina’s thighs are trembling, muscles in her legs tightening like she’s trying to run away from what’s coming next.
But she won’t. You’ve got her pinned. You’ve got her right where she wants to be.
You flatten your tongue against her pussy, lick from cunt to asshole in one, long slow drag, make her sigh your name like it’s a prayer.
“I can’t believe—I never—no one’s ever—” She’s talking, trying to keep it together, trying to rationalise how something so filthy is making her fall apart in a million different, tremendous ways. But the words break off into moans, pure music to your ears.
“Like that?” You murmur against her skin, words disappearing into her.
“Oh my god, yes,” Mina cries out, a benediction. Her grip tightens on her dress, holding it up like a veil. A fucked-up kind of thing, marrying her cunt to your lips; arousal so potent you’re drowning it.
Because she’s a wreck, been a wreck since the moment you laid a hand on her. And now you just have to keep her there.
You let your tongue slide up and down her slit, teasing the folds, going lower, spreading her legs to lap up her clit until she’s begging for it—until she’s begging for you to push inside, to fuck her with it, to make her scream.
"Enjoy it, enjoy being so messy for me.”
"Oh—oh my God!" Mina cries out as you delve into her, and the sound echoes down empty corridors, bouncing off the walls, taking a grand tour of the palace. “I can’t believe—can’t fucking believe—"
You can't believe it either. That no one else has had the pleasure of tasting, of licking, of dining on this slice of Eden laid out before you. It's a crime against nature, really. A sin that you're more than happy to rectify.
"Fuck, you're so good," Mina voice is strained, her legs buckling under the weight of her own desire, she needs to post one hand onto the wall to not completely collapse into your mouth.
A dark chuckle escapes your lips. Feeling smug and utterly in control. "It's not rocket science, darling. Just a little bit of appreciation goes a long way."
But you're not just tonguing her ass because it’s there, because it’s what you’re into. You’re doing it because it’s driving her wild, because you know it’s a button that’s been left untouched, unexplored. And there’s something about being the first to do it that makes your cock throb, makes you want to worship not just her ass, but all of her.
Every part of her that's been neglected, overlooked, ignored.
"You have no idea," she breathes, her legs trembling harder now, "How good it feels."
You lean back, just a fraction, looking up at her, the tension coiling up her spine. "Oh, darling," you say, "I do. Believe me, I do."
A kiss into the small of her back, and you slide your finger back into her, once at first. So impossibly wet, stretching so easily for you, welcoming you right back in.
It’s all for you.
And you can’t get enough, so you add another, then another, stretching her even more, making her drench you and moan for you louder and louder.
You’ve figured it out. How to fuck her, lick her, press into her cunt just right. Finding the rhythm, that makes her breath skip and her body tense, that makes her pussy clamp down around your digits.
“Oh, God, oh, oh, oh—yes—right there—right there—” She’s panting, her hips jerking back, meeting every thrust of your fingers and your tongue.
You’re so close to making her cum—so close that you can almost taste it on the air—and she’s begging for it, so sweetly, so desperately.
“Please, please, don’t stop, I’m right there—” Mina’s hand reaches back, tangling in your hair, and she’s pulling you closer, grinding herself against your mouth.
Bury your face between her cheeks, fuck her fast with your fingers. It’s heaven down in the depths of hell; her thighs, her cheeks, her cunt, her ass. So soft, so wet, so very yours.
That whimper, that beautiful sigh that escapes Mina’s lips is her final invitation. You push your tongue inside her, opening it up, feeling the tightness, the warmth. The shock coursing through her as she surrenders to the unspeakable filth and bliss of your mouth on her asshole.
So tight, so clean, so delicious.
You lick and suck and kiss, fucking her with your fingers, pressing into her, exploring the depths of that tight little hole.
"This is, this is—” her voice strains, wonder, desperation, downright heat at what you’re doing to her. "No one’s ever done this to me. Keep eating my ass, please."
It’s her words that keeps you going, and it all becomes a blur of moans and shivers, of the way she tastes, smells, feels. But you don’t stop, you can’t, all you want to do is make that tight ring of muscle yours.
“Please let me cum. Now. Please. I need it—I need you—”
She needs you to never stop.
You take her, right there in the moonlit garden, hidden by the shadows and the foliage and the silk of her dress. You can almost feel the vibrations of her voice in your mouth, against your tongue, like it’s a part of her, like she’s speaking straight into your soul with every moan and gasp and plea.
The squelch of your fingers fucking her. Her cunt griping you, being devoured. Your tongue invading her ass. The way you’re ruining her for everyone else. Her cries.
She’s so loud.
It doesn’t matter.
The whispers of the gala seem so far away, so irrelevant. It’s all about Mina and her ass and your three fingers sawing in and out of her and she’s saying—
“God, fuck, how can you do this, how can you make me—fuck—"
The answer to her unfinished question: it’s because she’s worth it. It’s because of her, how she makes you want to prove yourself. Because of her hips and her thighs and her cunt and her ass and all of her, every single part.
And that’s your name on her breath, that’s your name when she’s close, that’s your name when she finally tips over, when her legs give way and she’s gasping it into the night.
“Oh my—”
Mina cums.
You swallow.
Drink your fill from her cunt, fill up your nose with her scent. Burn the memory of what it’s like to have your face buried in her ass and have her leaking down your chin. It’s a full body spasm that wracks through her, setting her soul on fire. She’s a star, a supernova, a fucking explosion on your tongue.
Her walls pulse around your fingers, squeezing, clenching, and you give it to her, keep fucking her through it, keep licking, because she’s still there, still hovering.
It overwhelms her—she lets it—you feel her body tighten, quiver, then release like a bowstring snapped.
“Fuck me, fuck me, please—yes, like that—right—right there—yes—yes—yes—”
A chant of yeses right before falling off a cliff and into an oh fuck, I’m cumming.
And you’re right there, knees in the dirt, smiling against her cheeks, holding onto her hips, making sure she doesn’t collapse entirely.
And fuck, she goes, and goes and goes.
Until the ground falls beneath her feet.
You’re there to catch her, to ease her down to the ground with you, hold her in your arms until her world stops spinning.
It takes a moment, two.
And she looks up at you, like she’s unsure of how she got there, in this tangle of sighs and limbs and you. But it doesn’t really matter because she pulls you closer, hand still buried in your hair, needing to kiss you just one more time.
Her taste lingers on your tongue—sweet and salty and so uniquely her. She kisses you again, a little less frantic this time. A little more like she means it.
It’s hard not to feel anything but pride.
Mina’s cheek is pressed to your chest, her eyes barely able to focus, her breaths coming in quiet, contented puffs.
And you’re coming to realise what kind of woman Mina is. Even now, when she should be an unrepairable mess—sprawled out on the cool floor with her dress in a puddle around her, her pussy still pulsing and leaking down her thighs—there’s this poise to her that’s downright intimidating.
She breathes, “You’re just a fantasy, aren’t you?” It feels like a warm hand sliding down your spine.
You lean down, kiss her forehead, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
It’s peaceful. It’s perfect.
And then your emergency line rings.
Mina inclines her head. A spell is broken. “Well, that’s timing for you.”
You instantly regret the next words that come out of your mouth, the rational words that have never sounded more irrational. “I need to go.”
Mina’s far too polite, far too graceful to say what she wants to say, what you’re pleading her in your mind to say. But she knows the game. You both do.
She just nods, rewards herself with a peek at the tent angrily poking underneath your slacks.
“It’s fine,” she says. (It’s not). She reaches up to your lips, running a thumb over the gloss she’s stained you with. “I think I can handle it from here.”
Her other hand slips down to your thigh, gives you a courtesy squeeze as a farewell, and it’s all you can do not to jump. But you can’t, because the phone’s still ringing, because at the end of the day you’re still a billionaire with responsibilities and a reputation to uphold.
She’s kind of enough to give you an out. “You’re supposed to be giving a speech, right?”
Said responsibility and reputation has you answering, “Yeah.”
You’re stupid for it, stupid for even entertaining the idea of letting her go, or leaving her behind. But you’re not completely blameless—it’s near impossible to even think straight when all the blood in your body has gone south for the evening.
“Are you going to be okay with,” Mina blinks down at you. “Your situation?”
It’s painful to even say it. “I guess I’ll have to be.”
Mina sits up, pulls herself off you, untangling her legs with a grace that seems almost otherworldly. Pulls her panties back up, tucks them into place with a little shiver. Smooths her dress down, twisting it back in place.
You’re already regretting letting her leave before she’s even gone.
But the messages have piled up on your phone, and Mina can see it all, the endless frantic texts, the missed calls.
You’re late.
You’re needed.
The world’s waiting.
Mina reads your face, and you can’t tell if she’s impressed or disappointed. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
You stand up, help her to her feet, because that’s what you do—you take care of your own messes. She’s still smiling at you, and you want to tell her how much you wish you could stay.
“It’s okay,” is all she says, as you tuck your shirt back in and slick your hair down.
She’s redoing her own hair, trying to fix it into something presentable. Something less ‘I’ve been fucked raw against a brick wall’ and more ‘gee, quite a strong wind tonight’.
“I knew from the jump you didn’t have the time.”
You’re blurting out, “I can make more.”
“Not even money can buy that.”
Your phone rings again.
Mina’s eyes follow the screen, the glow lighting up her face. Ethereal. Yeah, that's the word for how she looks. You've never been sure of the definition but you're certain it fits.
And when she stands on her toes to kiss your cheek, to bid you farewell, she holds onto your shoulder long enough to whisper her address in your ear. “I’ll be waiting. If you can get away.”
“Why don’t I just come with you now?”
She laughs—but it’s empty, almost a little sad. “Because, you have a job to do, and I have an appearance to keep up. And unlike you, I’m not quite sure I’m ready to broadcast to the whole world who I’m fucking. Or who I’m going to fuck. If he’s not late, that is.”
And with a quiet breath, she’s gone.
A ghost in the moonlight, slipping away like she’s been painted out of existence, leaving you with the memory of her on your mouth and the ache she’s leaving in your cock.
You turn back to the gala.
The air feels somewhat colder.
—
The rest of the evening goes far, far too slowly for your liking.
While your absence has been noted, the whispers and glances are more curious than concerned. They don't know where you've been, and one of your assistants is kind enough to fetch you a new shirt to replace the one that's smudged with lipstick and makeup and Mina, before any real juicy rumours can start.
You try, and fail, to get things moving as quickly as possible:
(A business rival pulls you aside to congratulate you on the recent product launch—You're just thinking about Mina's ass.
A board member sings your praises about last quarter’s earnings, how you're really sticking it to those idiots that forecasted a downturn—You're only thinking about sticking it between Mina's thighs.
A reporter that sneaked in wants to know if you're planning another acquisition so soon after the last one—Yes, you're going to acquire Mina; find somewhere far away from here with another wall to pin her against and make her scream and ache all over for you.)
Thankfully, your assistant is at the ready before you can really make a scene, dragging you over to the stage and pulling you out of this shit show.
‘Just stepped away for some air’ is what you had assured her when she took the shirt off your hands, but really, there's no point trying to hide it.
She's seen that look before, that glow that you can't quite wipe off.
But she's loyal, she doesn't ask questions. Just tells you that you’re on in five, and that in the meantime, she’ll make sure the driver is ready for a quick exit.
So, you force yourself to smile, address the faces that meld together into a wall of teeth.
Make a speech that’s just a rush of words that you've recited countless times before. Innovation and growth, the future of the company, the same spiel from the annual report wrapped up in a shiny new bow.
But none of it matters. You're not even hearing yourself speak. You're hearing the echoes of Mina's moans, feeling the tremble of her thighs as you devoured her, replaying her orgasm in your mind again and again.
You can't wait to get off this fucking stage.
The second the applause dies down, you're off like a shot. The podium forgotten; the spotlight cold on your back. You grab your phone and slip out of the garden, dodging the eager hands that reach out for just a second of your time.
You find your driver waiting, just as instructed; Mina's address already punched in the navigation.
Just go, drop me off. Don't stick around. I'll call you to pick me up in the morning.
—
“It was cerulean,” is Mina’s amused answer to your admittedly idiotic question.
Not your best moment, to be fair. You raced up to her apartment so quickly that you really didn’t have anything more intelligent to say than ‘what happened to your dress?’ and ‘I wanted to know what colour it was’.
But still, show you the person living or dead that could have said anything coherent when being greeted by Mina, opening the door to her apartment—so unashamedly smug, and so very naked.
So what if you just stood there and stared?
Stared at the curves and dips, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders in inky waves, damp from a shower; making it cling to her skin, drape over her collarbone, her breasts. The nipples peeking straight at you, dusky, pointed, waiting the return of your tongue. Her pussy winking between her thighs, a treasure hidden in a sea of smooth flesh.
You don’t know whether to apologise for your lack of eloquence or thank her for being so incredibly distracting.
You kind of want to request that she turn around.
Mina laughs at what is certainly a stupid expression colouring your face; folds her arms across her chest, crosses one leg over the other. "Waiting for me to offer you a drink?"
You blink. “Thought you already gave me one.”
She scrunches her nose, answers, “I was only being polite.”
“I think we’re well past that.”
There’s that gravity again; shifting around Mina, tilting the world towards her until she’s pulling you into her apartment and you’re kicking the door closed behind you.
“Then hurry up and take me upstairs.”
—
There’s a part of you that feels like you should warn Mina when she tells you:
“Look, you’ve kept me waiting too fucking long. I need your cock, your cum inside of me. Right now. Before it’s too late and I change my mind. So, just please, please, please—”
But those kind of thoughts are lost halfway up the staircase; when you both decide that you just can't wait anymore, and your hands are back on her hips and your tongue is pushing into her throat.
Her fault, really.
Stripping you down the hallway, leaving a trail of your clothes through her kitchen; taking you by the cock. Firm, confident pumps as she leads you through her penthouse, refusing to give you a moment to breathe.
Because she’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with how it fills her hand, how it jumps at her touch, how it throbs when she squeezes it, strokes it.
“So big for me," Mina's says—to you, to herself, to your cock. "So perfectly, impossibly, big for me."
You’re never going to make it to the top.
Pressing her up against the banister, kissing her, hard. Deep, bruising kisses, because now that you’re out of the garden you don’t give a fuck if you’re leaving marks.
You just want her to remember this night, to feel it in every pulse and every breath.
Make her think of you when she’s with him, if she can even go back to him after this. Because you’ll both know that she’s yours even when she’s not.
“You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”
You look into Mina’s eyes. You can see it all, how the rest of the night will play out. You and Mina, tangled in her apartment. You and Mina, on top of the kitchen island. You and Mina, against the shower walls, on the living room floor, maybe even on the balcony.
You and Mina, until the sun rises.
You kiss her harder. “Is that a request?”
“Of course it is.”
Because now you actually have the time to appreciate her, to let your hands wander.
They glide over her body, mapping it out again, but slower this time. You've had your fill of the frantic touches, the greedy need. This is something else. This is savouring.
You start with your thumb at her navel, tracing the line down to her hips, then back up against to the base of her ribcage. It’s the feel of the muscles in her stomach tensing and relaxing as you touch her, the inhale and the exhale. How ridiculously tiny her waist feels in your hand, how your palm fits so perfectly into the curve of her side that you swear she’s been tailored for you.
Mina chokes on her breath as she tells you, “You’re going to have to stop, or we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.”
You don’t even slow down. You just don’t care.
Your hand rises, higher, finds her breasts again; cupping it in your palm. A thumb rolls over her nipple.
You pinch. She gasps.
You smile into her neck. “So, so, sensitive.”
Mina’s so willing, so keen to give herself over to you, to your touch. You’ve proven yourself to her already, made her cum with just your fingers and tongue. Now it’s just a matter of doing it all over again—but slower, better, more thorough.
You palm her breasts, rolling and pinching them until they’ve been given the attention they deserve, until she’s panting through your teases and caresses. Kneading the soft flesh beneath your hand and making her arch into your touch.
“You’re really going to take your time, aren’t you?” Mina mewls, half-sigh, half-plead. Grinding herself into you, making a shimmering mess on your waist. “Going to torture me until I can’t breathe.”
“It is your fantasy.”
Pull her closer, take a handful of that perfect ass once again. It hasn’t really been that long since you last had it in your hands but it’s all you’ve had on your mind. What it looks like under proper lighting, what it feels like without the dress in the way. What kind of noises will she make when you grope, and she doesn’t have to worry about anyone overhearing.
Press and squeeze, dig your fingers into her flesh. Not rough, but firm. Leaving little spots of red that will be gone by the morning.
Slide your finger down, down between her cheeks, and deeper, pressing into the sweet heat of her ass.
And then you feel it.
Her asshole. Wet and slick. Prepared.
A wink. A laugh. "Not my fault you're predictable."
You can’t fucking wait anymore.
She’ll just have to settle for the staircase.
Grab her by the hips—her ass, and pull her down with you onto the steps, her legs straddling you as you sit down.
Take her in—all of her. The curve of her, the line of her spine, the fucking paradise that’s her cheeks. Unbelievable.
You kiss into her back, follow down that trail right to where it swells, feeling the heat of her skin against your lips. You’re going to ruin this ass; permanently plant your flag there, mark it as property of you and your cock until she can’t take a seat without cursing your name.
Mina's shoulders tense when you pause, and she looks back over to you. There's a flash of nerves in her eyes, a gasp of "Here?" that's so faint you almost don't catch it.
Another kiss into her skin, you murmur, “Here’s perfect, Mina,” and she sighs when your finger presses against that puckered ring, cold with lubricant, made as ready as she’s ever going to be.
It’s the preparation that gets you; the idea of her in anticipation for you, for this, making sure she’s nice and primed. Mina at the store, still wearing that dress, fresh from her orgasm, buying lube. Mina in her bathroom, stripping herself bare, toying with her asshole, making it perfect for you.
And Mina, now, eyes clenched shut, breaths heavy as your digit is pushing through, slipping into her, and she’s so fucking tight around it.
“Oh my god,” she hisses through her teeth, a quiver in her legs as you push deeper into her tight channel.
Your hands shoot to her thighs to steady her, a reassuring anchor to keep her from toppling over as your finger fills her completely, twisting and turning, slowly but surely easing her into the idea of being taken.
It’s the moans that get you, the sighs as you intrude inside her. She’s so responsive, her breaths skipping and her pussy already starting to gush, coating your finger, your thighs, the steps below.
“You doing okay?”
“Yeah—yes,” Mina stutters, her footing slips just so, but she catches herself on the banister. “It’s—it’s intense. So intense. But don’t stop, I can take it. I want—I want more. I need this. I need this now, before—before I take all of you inside of me."
“You want more?” You repeat her words, before giving her what she needs—adding a second finger, pressing them in deep, making sure she’s good and open. The lube helps, but it’s the eagerness that gets her most of the way there; it’s that trust that she has in you, her willingness to let you take her here, in this way.
“Yes, please,” Mina cries, doing everything she can to not collapse on top of you, to not come completely apart.
You’re merciless, adding a third finger, stretching her until she’s panting, until she’s crying out, making this noise, this hushed whimper that takes the shape of your name.
“Please, please, please,” Mina whispers to herself, pushing back against you, starting to rock back onto your hand, taking your fingers into her ass.
“Not yet, Mina, not yet,” you tell her, because even though she’s close, even though she’s begging, you want her to be absolutely fucking desperate for your cock when the moment comes.
You reach around her with your other hand, finding that button, already swollen and begging for attention. Playing with it, gently at first, a soft pressure to help her let go, to allow herself to let her voice echo up the staircase and through the penthouse.
God, how is she this sensitive, reactive to every little touch, to every exploration of her cunt, her ass, her body.
It’s the ceremony of it all; this lurid, obscene ritual that you’re walking her through. Making her ass bounce on your hand in this hypnotic movement, making her stretch around your fingers, making her repeat your name over and over until she’s convinced herself that all of her belongs to you.
These perfect, near-silent sighs. This unbelievable tightness. Mina’s body, turning itself into a fucking playground for your touch; to do with it as you will. Even if it means ruining her.
And it’s when you have her creaming all over you; down her thighs, making a mess of herself with these pushes and pulls, these declarations of how ready she is for you, that her body shakes with one last, long shiver.
She cums.
Softly, soundlessly, another cry of your name dying on her lips. A hand to your wrist to stop you abruptly, panting.
Tiny, tiny shivers, twitches in her thighs, around your fingers, leaving her barely there, barely with you. Head hanging low, chest heaving, catching her breath, putting herself back together again.
Time stretches before she's cognisant again, and she turns back, looking over her shoulder and straight at you. Eyes half-lidded, hazy, dripping with lust, anticipation, burning with need.
Deep, heavy breaths. And then Mina says the most devastating thing:
“I’m ready. Fuck my ass. Now. Please.”
A gunshot in the quiet of her home, rumbling through your bones.
Your fingers leave her ass, her cunt with a wet pop, forcing a whine from her throat at the sudden emptiness. A look at her asshole, how it clenches and unclenches, beckoning for you to fill it, to claim it as your own.
“Good girl.”
Holding her by the hips, lining her ass with your cock, nudging her opening with your tip and making her shiver. You don’t go in immediately; you hover, giving her one last out, to really see if she’s absolutely certain.
Mina trembles. Nods. That’s all the invitation you need.
“God, I—”
You push in, slow and steady, eyes on her ass as she takes you. So fucking tight, so intense, you can feel every part of her squeezing, accommodating you, moulding itself around your girth and swallowing you whole.
“Take it slow, darling, take it slow,” you whisper into her skin, guiding her down, telling her how good she’s doing, how good she is for you, how much you love her tightness, her trust.
It seems impossible at first, the grip she has on you, like you’ll never get in. But inch by agonising inch, she takes you, and it’s nothing short of total heaven.
Mina, so fucking beautiful in this moment of raw vulnerability; all sharp inhales and strained quivers wrecking through her, voice shaky as she tells you, “I’ve never felt anything like this, I never thought—fuck—I never thought I could take anything like this.”
“You’re doing so good,” you kiss your words into her, wrapping your arms around her, holding her.
“I can—I can do better,” she gasps, and you believe her.
But you still go slow, so painfully slow, even though every fibre of your being is screaming at you to just dig into her hips and slam into that glorious fucking ass and never look back.
“I can take it,” Mina breathes, “Do it, I can take it. I want all of you. In my ass. I can handle it.”
Mina nods, clenches her ass, her cheeks firming up around your throbbing cock.
“I want it to hurt so good.”
No more convincing required. You push in deeper, make her back stiffen, her muscles contract, making her cry.
It’s a dance, a delicate ballet of bodies, of breath and touch, of your cock inside Mina’s ass. Lost in it, in the feel of skin on skin, the sound of wet, needy noises that she’s making, her shudders in your arms.
Until finally, with a strangled gasp, she’s fully seated. You’re buried in her tight, hot ass, basking in the warmth of her, leaving you both winded and struggling for air.
Stillness overrides the moment, because it’s too perfect, too overwhelming, and the feeling. You need to get used to the feeling.
You break the silence first. “Mina?”
“I know. I know.”
A kiss against her neck, scraping the soft skin there. A whisper in her ear, your breath hot and ragged.
“I’m going to fuck your ass now.”
You always keep your promises.
Mina answers by leaning back into you, her hand finding yours, her nails running along your fingers as if to say, “Yes, please, now.”
Moving, so slow it’s almost painful. The drag of her ass around your cock like nothing you’ve ever felt before—like you’re sliding through warm, velvet-covered steel.
“Fuck, yes, please,” with every inch you pull out, and “Too much, so good, too fucking much,” when you push back in, deeper and deeper still.
It builds and builds, this sweet agony, each pass in her ass faster, harder, turning Mina’s cries and wails into moans of pure bliss. It takes time and long, hard fucking for her body to relax into this rhythm, letting you take her, own her.
A vision above you, sweat glistening on her back, hair matted and sticking to her shoulders, and Mina’s ass, a snug ring around your cock. You watch as your cock slides out of her, the way her ass clenches around the head, holding on for just a second before pushing all the way back down.
You can’t help but groan, “Christ,” as she moves on top of you like that. So gracefully, so beautifully, so fucking obscenely on your cock.
“Thank you—God—thank you, thank you, thank you.” Mina’s moans are pure music to your ears, she’s babbling, talking through the pain, through the pleasure. “So, so good, filling me like—fuck—never been filled up like this.”
And as you push on, push further and further until your cock is melting inside her, burning her up in every way she's ever dared to dream, you can see the smile curling onto Mina’s face. It’s pride, you’re realising. Proud of herself, proud of how she can take you, how she can handle this kind of depraved ecstasy.
“It feels so deep.”
Tearing her open. Revealing the tender, delicate core beneath the glamour, the lights, the unreal beauty that is Mina. Leaving her sobbing, pleading, whining for more, more, more.
Bouncing on you now, each more assured than the last, cries of nothing but need. Opening up to accept you fully, completely, her ass a tight fucking sleeve for you, coming down and wrapping itself around you like a searing hot second skin.
You know the truth, but you still want to hear it.
“How many?”
Mina has her answer ready: “You’re the—you’re the first.”
You grin. A smug, triumphant baring of teeth that spreads from ear to ear. “I have no fucking idea how that’s possible. How nothing has ever been up this tight, perfect little asshole.”
“Oh, there's been toys,” Mina moans, strained and shaky as you pump into her, “But you’re just the first that's real.”
“Then your boyfriend is a fucking idiot,” you growl into her ear, your hand moving to her throat, gently clasping, making her gasp, making her eyes go wide with shock, with excitement. “He doesn’t know what he has.”
“Enough about my boyfriend,” Mina's quick to answer, snapping, her head thrown back, eyes screwed shut. “Even though—even if—he wouldn’t, couldn’t dream of filling me like this. Filling me up so much that it hurts, so much that—fuck, it feels so right, so fucking right—”
“You love this, don’t you, Mina?” You ask, but all Mina can do is nod vigorously, too overrun by the fucking to form words. “Underneath it all, you’re just a dirty slut for it, aren’t you? Letting me use this pretty, tight ass like this.”
“I—” she stutters, right before confessing, “I love it.”
She slams her hips down on you, the stairs groaning with each thrust, not built to withstand this kind of punishment.
“I love that it’s you, love that you’re the first. I can’t believe it—just—I need it. I need your cock in me, so deep—I need you, I need you, I need you—so please don't stop.”
“I would never dream of stopping.”
Never.
Not when she’s begging like this, her voice hoarse and her body quaking. When she sighs and shivers every time you fuck a little faster, push a little harder, testing just how much she can take.
Tits jiggling with every thrust, cunt leaking all the way down your thighs, ass puckering and loosening.
Her whole body, yours.
Yours for the taking. Mina’s divine body, in all its sharp planes and ridged muscles, squeezing and coiling at every juncture, every penetration setting her alight.
You declare it, even though it doesn't need to be said. “Made for me.”
“Yes,” she’s nodding. Or rather, letting her head fall into one. “God yes.”
“Just been waiting for me for so long, haven’t you? Been waiting for the right cock to come along and split you in half.” You’re saying these things, these stinging words that you fuck into Mina, send shooting through her like sparks. She’s a live-wire, a fucking blackout waiting to happen.
Weeping down her thighs, choking out every whine, “Yes,” she whispers, “yes, yes, yes, been needing to be ruined. Needing it, needing you. So much, so much, so—fucking—right—”
“Fucking criminal that you had to wait,” you’re saying, loving this, so enraptured by all of it. “But I’m here now.”
Mina shivers, pussy clenches, and she just can’t stop saying, “Yours, yours, yours—”
Completely, totally yours, now.
You know it. She knows it.
It’s written in the way she takes your cock, in the way she loses herself to you, loses all semblance of composure and decorum, peels back all the carefully curated layers that make her Mina, until all there is to see and touch is the raw, unfiltered need that you’ve unleashed from underneath.
"Touch me, fuck me, take me, take my ass, I need more—"
Again, your fingers find her folds, sticky and swollen and waiting.
You touch her, press down on her clit. Circling it with the same rhythm as your hips. Striking a match in a dark room, lighting up her body in this blaze.
The noises that it all makes; the slosh of your fingers at her cunt, the squelch of your cock invading her ass, so fucking explicit, so fucking filthy.
She’s erratic, breath catching, throat pulsing against your fingers, and she somehow, impossibly, clenches even more around you, suffocating your cock with just her tight, tight ass.
You keep that same tempo. That desperate, fucking unyielding beat that’s going to make her come, going to turn this idol, this mystery, this drop-dead fucking gorgeous woman who should belong to someone else but is now screaming proudly just how much she’s yours, into nothing but a trembling mess of whimpers and whines.
“More, fuck—oh my god, oh my fucking god—it’s so fucking good—so good—so fucking good—”
She’s reaching her peak—her voice, her body, her cunt, her ass—all of her reaching that perfect crescendo of pleasure that you’ve been orchestrating, that you’ve been waiting for.
“I’ve never—no one’s ever—fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Sinking into her, making her feel like she’s being torn apart and remade with every stroke, making her feel nothing like she’s ever felt before, making her feel like nothing but your fucking whore.
So, so close, barrelling towards it now, all these tears running down her cheeks, these filthy words slipping from her lips. Coming apart in your arms, because she’s never been this filled, this complete.
“Going to—going to cum—fuck me, harder, harder—going to cum all over your cock—” Mina tells you, a warning, the last one you get before she screams, “Too good—filling me—so good—give it to me—God—I can never go back—”
She shatters. Monumentally.
Into a million tiny pieces of pleasure, each one more brilliant than the last.
Her body spasms, her ass squeezes so fucking tight around your cock that you can feel the orgasm ripping through her, up her spine, through her throat, until she’s crying out and it’s hitting your ears—
“Oh my God, I'm going to—just, say my name—please, say my name when I—”
“Mina,” you say, and she cums.
“Mina,” you repeat when her pussy floods over your hand, ass smothers your cock.
“Mina,” again when it ripples across her skin, leaves her in fits, uncontrollable quakes, consumed by pure, unfiltered joy.
You watch the whole thing—watch her scream your name, watch her shake and quiver and fall apart, right there on your cock; and you're fucking her through it all, fucking her well past it, chanting “Mina” over and over again.
You'll never forget this, never forget this sight—this woman, this star, built up and broken down just for you.
“Mine,” you bite into her ear, because now, it’s true.
Mina’s barely there, eyes glassy, hand cradling your face. But she’s able to say it, because it’s branded into every bone of her body: “Yours.”
It’s a complete disaster.
And now you're cumming.
Brand new sensations, devastation in full measure—your soul ripped from your chest, until all that’s left is this impulsive, overwhelming need to give her your all, your everything—to fill her entire existence with just you.
You drive your cock into her once more, impaling her deep, and let go.
It floods her, rushes inside her, spills and spills.
Mina can't do anything but feel it—every pulse, every spurt. She throws her head back, her mouth open in this silent plea, satisfaction painted across her face as your heat surges inside her. Her ass milks you, needy for every drop, so, so thirsty for it.
“It's—cumming inside my ass—so, so nice, keep cumming for me.”
You hold onto her, throb inside her, pump ropes into her, and there's a kiss—hot and clumsy—somewhere in the midst of it all, your mouths colliding and tongues wrapping around each other in a futile attempt to last just that little bit longer.
Getting all dizzy and spellbound, floating back down to the ground as the last waves of your climaxes start to subside, until one of you says, “Thank you,” and the other echoes it back.
You stay like that, swallowed up inside her, dripping out of her ass. Lowering one hand from her throat, rising the other from her pussy, pulling her into an embrace, keeping her as close as you can while you both try to put yourselves back together.
It’s sex that soaks the air, fills the penthouse—sweat, lube, the musk of all the evidence you're leaving behind. Intoxicating, breathing it in, setting your nerves alight, rousing your cock inside her all over again.
But Mina, she’s a stunning catastrophe, torn asunder in all the best ways. Perfection not marred, but made better. Completed. Looking up at you with wonder, with gratitude, with a smile.
You look down at her and admit it, “Perfect.”
Mina laughs out loud, “Disastrously perfect.”
“This is going to be a problem, isn’t it?”
You kiss her once more.
Mina kisses you back.
“Only if we make it one.”
—
You think you can read her mind.
And she, yours.
It’s the only way any of this makes sense—how perfect you fit together, how well you read each other; fill each other’s needs without use of any words outside of curses and names and strangled pleas.
Printed onto your DNA, carved into your bones, these exact pathways you shape through her home and into her skin.
You do make it to the bedroom, somehow.
And then, exactly as predicted:
The shower, where Mina takes you into her mouth, gags herself around you, covers herself in your cum before letting the water wash it all away.
Then the kitchen, polishing off a bottle of wine, slurring promises into Mina’s cunt, having her rake the back of your scalp and scream the same promises back into your ears.
And finally, the living room, folding her over the couch, tumbling onto the floor with Mina, riding you so hard the neighbours below start banging on their ceiling in protest.
It's only the balcony that goes untouched.
Maybe another time.
But that’s where it ends: sprawled across a lush rug, sticky with sweat and cum and wine, naked and bare. Ignoring the watchful eyes of the photos that line the walls and shelves—family, friends, her boyfriend. Just living in this bubble where the sun will never rise and the world outside ceases to exist.
Getting to know each other in ways few people ever do.
Tracing patterns into the small of her back, asking these questions. Is this what you always imagined you would be doing? How you thought your life would be? Does it ever actually feel enough?
Mina pokes and prods back, her nails lightly scraping against your chest, leaving half-moons in her wake. Do you think you could ever be happy? Do you ever wonder why it’s so hard for other people to keep up? Are you fucked up in all the same ways as me?
And it’s so easy to answer truthfully, to be honest, because you’re both still maintaining the façade of this just being a simple fling; a blip along the timeline of your lives.
The yours and mine of it all, all those promises you were spilling. Just callous words tossed in the throes of passion.
They didn’t mean anything real.
Because it’s not like you’re going to see each other again, not like there’s going to be a mess of emotions and consequences that will have to be dealt with in the morning after.
Eventually though, the light does slip through the curtains, the clothes come back on, and you’re kissing Mina against the doorway and thinking of a million reasons why you should stay.
"So, how long are we going to pretend that this is normal?" You broach, and it immediately feels like you’re breaking some unspoken rule.
Mina’s keeping herself busy, hands at your shirt, buttoning it back into place, one by one. Hiding away evidence that her mouth, her lips, her teeth were ever on you.
She looks up at you. Smirks. “Fucking ‘til the break of dawn, giving each other orgasms that never quite end? Flooding each one of my holes with your cum?”
You tilt your head.
“I don’t know. This whole thing is… unique. Uncharted territory and all.”
“It goes without saying, but, yeah. Same for me.” You echo, “Unique.”
You reach for her, smoothing her hair back. The early morning light makes it shine like a crown of jewels.
“Do you want it to stay that way?”
Mina considers. Leans into your hand. “You think we should make a habit out of this? I didn’t pin you for the type.”
“Neither did I, but it didn’t seem so bad when you were riding me on that couch,” you tease. “And in the shower, and on the staircase, and in the kitchen…”
She blushes, lips caught between her teeth, looking like she’s struggling to hold in a laugh. There’s this glint in her eye as her hand wanders up to your cheek, thumb hovering just shy of your mouth. For a second, you think she’s going to kiss you again.
But instead, she just looks at you.
Eyes you with something close to fascination, something that makes your heart stop. And you're reading each other’s minds again, knowing you're both going to lie, going to pretend like this was just a one-night thing. Something the two of you can easily wipe your hands with and walk away from like it never even happened.
Because this really is the first time—you’ve never done anything like this before. Sure you’ve dipped your toe in the pool of commitment, paddled around in the shallow end, but you’ve never fallen for someone proper.
Never worried about what someone's going to be doing when you’re not there, never thought about whether you’d be better off sticking around to find out.
But you have a job. A company to run.
And Mina, a career. A boyfriend. A life.
So, you don’t make plans.
You don’t even ask for her number.
You don't need to.
Deep down inside you know you’ll find her again.
For now though, you spin your bullshit: “It’s probably for the best if we don’t, though.”
“Probably.” Mina agrees, but she can hear the same ticking clock as you.
The timer that’s already started, counting down to when she’ll inevitably be undoing the same buttons, redrawing the same patchwork of red and pink across your chest, and pulling you into her home and into her; fucking her pussy, her ass, her mouth, in all the ways she needs, until you’re spilling out of her all over again.
“Definitely.” Mina unlocks the front door. “For the best.”
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thinking about a yandere who was cursed by the gods (something similar to medusa), not because he did anything wrong, but because they found him too beautiful and too tempting.
what was once a god of a man was now but... still a handsome man, just with cursed eyes. with eyes that turn anyone into stone the second he gazes upon them. everyone who he once knew were now nothing more than mere statues, having glanced upon his beautiful eyes that now bring death.
he has chosen to live in solitude, away from everyon- well, not really. it's just that the once lively place he lived in.... wasn't so lively after all. i mean, they all turned into stone 💀
anyway, he shut everyone out because #1 they were all dead and #2 he didn't want to lose another person that he loved. what better way than to just... not interact with society and become a social hermit?
enter, you.
little ol' you who accidentally wandered into his place. he was flabbergasted and terrified. shit, he didn't want to kill an innocent person! so he tried to scare you away by making weird noises and blockign off your path while simultaneously not showing his eyes.
but wow, you just kept coming closer and closer!
"stay back! i'm warning you! you'll regret it!"
he tried to cover his eyes, tears threatening to spill from them as he absolutely majestiv form trembled on the spot. man, was he really about to take the life of another innocent person who didn't deserve to get turned into stone??
then you told him you were blind and he felt the fear leave his body as fast as it came.
from then on, the two of you chatted daily, talking about your different lives and such. it helped him regain a sense of... normalcy that he thought he'd forgotten. it was nice having you around.
so much so that he actually started to develop feelings for you. feelings that were so deep and obsessive that others would've probably ran away. not you though, never you. you were the only one to stay by his side despite his unusal predicament. perhaps the gods were sorry for playing such a cruel fate on him and decided to give him a blessing?
wrong.
"sweetheart! sweetheart! it's a miracle!"
your voice snaps him out of his daze, filling him with a giddy feeling that he's come to love and crave. oh you are just so delightful! he swears he could just lock you up to coddle you in hugs and kisses for the rest of his miserable little life!
"darling? what miracle?"
he pauses, feeling his heart drop into his stomach the second you enter his room without your usual glasses on. wait... what are you-
"i've regained my sight! bless the heavens above i-"
"no! no! no! don't look!"
but it was all for naught. you had already turned to stone.
"fuck! why did this happen?! no no no.... please wake up. please, you can't leave me too!"
the beautiful man sobs, cradling you in his arms as his salty tears fall onto your now stone cold cheeks. he cries and begs, voice growing softer and softer as the sun begins to set. how could the gods be so cruel? what had he done so wrong for them to subject him to such a fate? fine! take away his friends! take away his family! but why did they have to take you too?
"please come back...."
things were only made worse because today was the day when he'd finally decided to ask you to spend the rest of your lives together.
#yandere#tw yandere#yandere x reader#yandere drabbles#yandere scenarios#yandere imagines#yandere concepts#cursed yandere#cursed yandere x reader#gn reader#suiana rambling#suiana brainrotting
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Do NOT Touch a God- DC x DP Prompt (Tim x Danny)
Correction: don't touch Danny.
A rule has been added to the house rules of Titans Tower. It started after the arrival of the summoning of the interdimensional teen that takes residence there.
Despite being only a teenager the power he held was at the level of a god. He causally reshaped reality around him to his liking. Rooms are made bigger on the inside but remain the same outside. Danny's hate for things getting too dirty made all clothes left on the floor for too long disappear into the laundry room and spilled drinks evaporate. The tower became self-cleaning as everything found its place on its own. Danny said it was just what he prefers, lab safety and all that. Sometimes Danny would turn off gravity, no reason be just likes it like that.
Unfortunately, he doesn't go on missions except for extreme situations where he is needed. He is content to spend his time in the med bay as the resident healer. He is also one of the few that can fix up Cyborg. Danny doesn't get involved unnecessarily. This has led to a few arguments in the past over how unhelpful he can be despite being able to help them. Danny shrugs it off and disappears when it happens. It was not fair on him, if he didn't want to fight he shouldn't have to. He was an asset and he offered his help freely.
So why does the No Touch rule exist? Well, Danny doesn't like touching people. He wears gloves for a reason especially when he is working in the bay fixing up everyone after a mission. He also avoids others touching him, shrinking away when someone tried.
Everyone respected that boundary but after a rough mission in particular Kon started an argument with him. The injuries were severe and he was just mad that M'gann was hurt. Danny was already overwhelmed with healing everyone and Kon seemed to strike a nerve. When Kon almost made contact with him Danny flickered out of existence and reappeared further away.
After several hours of fixing broken bones and open wounds Danny retreated.
Tim decided to check on him later. Kon was sorry for overreacting and blaming Danny for something he couldn't control but Danny probably didn't want to see him right now.
Danny looked worse for wear when he opened the door. He looked tired, weary from using his energy. He wrapped a blanket around himself.
They talked for a while. Mostly about nothing important, other times about how stressful things were right now.
Tim often found it hard to believe that Danny wasn't just a normal teen. Then again, what did he know about normal?
But he had wondered something.
He reached out and tried to hold Danny's hand but Danny moved away quickly noticing.
"You shouldn't do that." He said simply.
Had he been Dick he would repect the boundaries and if he was Jason he'd probably agree. But he was Tim and Tim was very bad at boundaries. That's kind of how he got here.
"Why not?" Tim asked.
"It might be too much," Danny said cautiously eyeing Tim who held his hands up.
"Try me."
Danny sighed and removed one of his gloves and touched his hand to Tim's shoulder.
All at once different sensations filled his senses. A comforting touch of a friend, a light fluttering of a passing stranger on the street, a strike of a hated rival, the steady hand of a family member, the playful tap of a classmate, the caress of a lover...all at once. Each feeling is defined but also blurred. It was almost like being pulled in thousands of directions as they tried to claim a part of Tim into their reality.
A single touch sent him into a trace. When Danny pulled away he expected to have broken Tim like how a child accidentally snaps their toys when playing. He knew his touch could overwhelm people almost to death. Clockwork said he'd be able to control it some day but Danny didn't even want to test it. Being able to fracture someone's mind was scary. Seeing it happen once was enough. So why did he try it on Tim? Did he not care what happened to him?
It's a bit selfish and embarrassing to admit but...not being able to touch another person was awful. He's not clingy but it feels like he has lacked sensation for a long time. Tim willingly asked for this and Danny wanted this as well.
Tim wasn't broken. Infact he had never felt more alive. When Danny removed his hand he found himself pulling it back to him. He couldn't explain it but it felt like...everything. Indescribable but amazing. It was contradictory but all of it made sense.
"Do it again!"
Things kind of escalated from there. It would probably be crass to even say it but let's just say that neither was lacking sensation. It was profound, not purely physical nor emotional, something else entirely. The religious sort would call it divine or a blessing, perhaps it was what heaven feels like. Others would call it sinful, partaking in things no human was meant to know or experience. The folly of humanity.
It was certainly addictive though. Whispered words echoed in every tongue. With every contact a new chorus created. The memories of long dead god flashed and worlds yet unawakened showed themselves. And just when it seemed like everything in the universe had collided and finally made sense...it was over.
There was a knock on the door.
Danny managed to roll the breathless, Tim off with a groan. He stretched feeling a bit locked up. He had been holding each other for a while now.
He opened the door and saw Kon standing there nervously.
"Look, Im sorr-"
"Danny?" Tim called out groggily interrupting whatever Kon was saying.
"I'm busy," Danny said quickly closing the door to go back to...you know.
(So were they having sex or just cuddling? I have no fucking idea and I wrote this. I feel like it's a secret third that is somehow worse.)
#dc x dp#dpxdc#dc x dp prompt#dp x dc prompt#danny fenton#danny phantom#tim drake#tim x danny#dead tired#brain dead
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It wasn't necessarily that the trinkets and lucky charms would fly around and poke an eye out. Though that could of course happen as well. It was just that the tiny little gods that inhabited those things took severe offense to being taken from their nice land-locked lives without their consent.
And I could understand, I truly could. The gods that lived in trinkets were simple things. They'd give you a boost once in a while if you were kind to them, but they'd do so while both of your feet were firmly on the ground. It's because gods remember for a long time, and they remember the millennia when humans didn't try to tempt fate. Gods are very good with not tempting fate, don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all that. Gods do not want you to tempt fate. Gods want to live their quiet little lives in their charms and trinkets, and according to them, you agreed to their way of life when you bought or got their house.
I've explained this a dozen times, a hundred. You bought a thing housing a god, you now need to take care of it, and one of the ways to do that is to know what the god absolutely never wants you to do, or have you do to it, and then never do that.
Leave their house on the ground, and get your own head in the clouds, but for the love of... well... gods, don't bring them with you up there. Alright? Do not bring your little trinket-dwelling god up in the plane, not only will I not blame them for launching their house into your eye or ear canal, or nostril, no, not only that, it's also that damages brought by gods is not covered in the insurance.
It was always fun watching the new pilots in orientation slowly realize the wall of damaged and destroyed helmets behind you came from other hotshot pilots who didn't heed your warning about trinkets and "lucky charms" in the cockpit.
#writing#my writing#writing prompts#gods#religion#crack#crack treated seriously#urban fantasy#it is urban fantasy. right?
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This wasn’t planned || USWNT x pregnant!teen!reader
Request | Masterlist | Prompt list
Warning Teen pregnancy, morning sickness, cravings, long painful labour and delivery
Summary You fall pregnant very unexpectedly and feel like your falling but your teammates are there to pick you up
A/N I’ve done three different versions of this now with different teams but this is the final one 🫶🏻
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
“Y/N, what’s wrong hun?” Emily asked as she walked into the bathroom, heating your wracked sobs.
Emily was like your sister, having known you from the US team and Arsenal. You two even lived together in England.
You showed her the pregnancy test, her jaw dropping as she saw pregnant.
You weren’t surprised at her reaction, after all you were only sixteen. You don’t think anyone really expects you to be pregnant so young, but here you were.
“I did it once, Em. I was at that stupid party I told you about and I hooked up with a guy. It wasn’t even that long. Twenty second if that. And he wore a condom! I don’t get what happened.” You sobbed, Emily holding your shaking body.
“I know, hun. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Emily whispered repeatedly, stroking your hair. “The girls will be with you the whole way through. I promise. I’ll help you.”
You didn’t believe her at first, thinking that everyone would judge you.
But surprisingly, Emily was right.
You had no choice but to tell the team, some of them bringing up that you were constantly sick, especially in the mornings.
“Y/N, are you okay? I saw you run in here.” Sophia asked as you continued to throw up in the toilet.
She rubbed your back as you threw up, holding your hair back too.
“Hun, you’ve been sick every single day this week. Are you sure you’re okay?”
You debated whether to lie or not, but you figured you’d be telling her soon anyway.
“I’m pregnant.” You revealed.
“Oh my god… hun, this is big. I’m here for you, okay?”
“Thank tou.” You sent her a weak smile before hugging her.
The reactions of the others was similar, promising they’ll help with whatever they could.
There was one person though who you had to tell, Alex.
Alex Morgan was like your mum. After growing up without a mother, Alex took on that role when you joined the USWNT.
In the year you played together, the two of you became so close.
Since she’d retired, you rang her to see if you could meet her somewhere and you agreed a small coffee shop.
You were nine weeks already, the party having been nine weeks ago, so you were starting to show the most tiniest bit hence why you had started to wear baggier clothes.
“Hi, hun!” Alex cheered as you walked though the door.
“Hey, Al.” You sighed, melting into the hug.
You got caught into a conversation when you finally got the confidence to reveal the pregnancy.
“So… I have some news and I don’t really…” you began, feeling tears well in your eyes.
“You’re pregnant?” Alex guessed, your eyes widening in shock.
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“I know you, Y/N. The Y/N I know doesn’t wear baggy clothes and she certainly doesn’t not order coffee.” Alex explained, looking at you noticing how emotional you looked. “I’m so proud of you. You’re so good with Charlie, I just know you’re going to be a good mama.”
“Thanks, Alex.” You said between cries
“I’m pregnant too.” Alex revealed
“Are you actually?”
“It’s still really early. I’m gonna announce it when I retire from club football.” Alex said. “So, we’ll have each others backs, huh?”
—
“Em?” You shouted from the living room to Emily who was stood making lunch for you both.
“Yeah?”
“Can you please get the marmite for me. Bubba’s really craving it.” You said, rubbing your now seven month bump.
“Eww, marmite?” Emily replied, grabbing it from the cupboard anyway and bringing it through to you.
“Not my fault.” You told her and she nodded, understanding.
Just as you opened the lid, a knock was heard at the door.
Emily got up to answer it, Alessia and Lotte’s voices filling the house.
“Hiya, Y/N, hiya bubba. They’ve got so big!” Alessia exclaims as she settles on the couch next to you.
“Hi.” You greet back, your mouth full of marmite.
“New craving by any chance?” Lotte asked and you nodded.
“This is the fourth jar this week.” Emily added as you grinned cheekily.
“It’s not my fault the bubba wants it.”
Your phone started ringing and you picked it up to see it was Alex ringing you.
“Hey Al.” You said, lifting yourself off the couch and walking towards your room.
“Hey hun, how you feeling? Emily said bubba’s been kicking you every night.”
“Alex, they won’t stop. I swear, it’s like they do it at night on purpose.” You said, collapsing onto your bed after the difficult journey up the stairs.
“What’s wrong? You sound out of breath.”
“I’ve just walked up the stairs.” You replied, Alex humming, also agreeing with how you were feeling. “Anyways, how are you?”
“Broke, but I’m okay.” Alex said
“Why are you broke?”
“Because I’ve just booked plane tickets to come see one of my favorite girls in England.” Alex responded, a clear smile evident in her voice.
“Alex… no.” You said, shocked.
“Yes, I’ve missed you so much, hun. I want to come see you before bubba is born.”
“Oh my god! When do you come? I’m canceling everything.”
The conversation carried on about when Alex was coming and what you were going to do.
—
You were now approaching the nine month stage.
You were exhausted to say the least. You were tired of being pregnant, you just wanted your baby here already.
You had asked Emily if you could go with to Colney today, wanting to see the Arsenal girls before you have birth.
She said yes, knowing she’d been making you coop up in the house for weeks now.
Maybe it would be good for you to get some fresh air.
“Hey, hun!” Alessia said, watching you waddle into the canteen where all the girls were sat. “You ready for bubba to come?”
“No. I’m dreading it but I can’t wait for them to come.” You responded, still making your way over to where alessia was sat.
“I can’t wait to meet them.”
“Well, you’re not going to wait much longer. Not much longer at all. Maybe today even because by the looks of it, bubba wants to come out now.” You said, looking at the puddle by your feet.
“Oh my god! Your water broke? Emily!” Alessia shouted, clearly panicked.
“Less! Calm down.” You laughed
“Yeah? Y/N! Your water broke!” Emily exclaimed, noticing the puddle at your feet.
“Wow, I hadn’t noticed.” You replied sarcastically, Emily rolling her eyes.
“Come on, hun, let’s get you home.”
—
It had been a long day.
You went home after your water broke, getting changed before timing your contractions.
After three hours, your contractions were bad, but not close enough to each other to go through hospital.
Emily suggested you went on a walk, to try speed up the labour.
You went around the block, waddling along as you walked.
But when you got back, they were only six minutes apart.
It was three o’clock when you finally went to the hospital, five hours after your water had broken.
Your contractions were close together now and were painful. Very very painful.
Emily drove to the hospital, holding your hand for support and comfort.
When you arrived, the nurses guided you to your room, allowing you to settle first before coming back to check how dilated you were.
“So, you are four centimetres dilated. How long ago did your water break?”
“About five hours ago.” You tell her
“Okay, so normally you would be a lot more further on in labour but there’s no need to worry. Slow labour could be affected by anything. Your age. Your athleticism. Anything.” The nurse explained and you nodded along, trying to focus on her words but it was hard to with a contraction hitting. “I’d recommend trying to get to sleep. It’ll be a long night for you and it might speed things up a bit.”
You took into account the fact that you might not be getting sleep with a newborn so you managed to get a few hours sleep, which actually helped speed up your labour too.
—
You were now nine centimetres dilated.
You had declined the epidural, having a massive fear of needles and after reading the negative effects an epidural could have, you definitely didn’t want it.
You were given gas and air instead, trying to decrease the pain as much as possible.
It was coming close to midnight, your body tired and achy now.
Emily still stayed by your side, rubbing your back and holding your hand.
You were currently knelt against the bed, your head in your arms as they rested on top of the bed.
“I think you’re ready to push.” The midwife announced as she checked how dilated you were.
“Thank god. I don’t know if I can do this for much longer.” You said, letting a sigh of relief out.
“Ready to meet your baby, huh?” Emily asked and you nodded, feeling a contraction coming.
“Ready to push? On three. One, two, three.”
You pushed with all your might, gripping onto Emily’s hands as you did.
“Okay, another one.”
Similar to the first push, you tried your hardest but there seemed to be no improvement.
Emily stroked back your sweat drenched hair, placing a kiss to your forehead as you pushed.
“I’m never having sex again.” You revealed after a push.
“Okay, hun.” Emily laughed
You had now been pushing for over half an hour, but still there seemed to be no sight of your baby.
“Y/N, if we can’t see your baby after this push we’re going to have to rush you in for an emergency C-Section.” The midwife said, and you nodded, knowing it would be for the best.
You were fully exhausted now, having used all your energy on the pushing.
“Hun, you’ve got this.” Emily said, panic on her face.
You groaned into the bed as you pushed, this time, using your whole body to push.
“I can see a head! Keep going, Y/N!” The midwife announced, as you kept pushing. “They’re heads nearly out. One more push and your babies head will be out.”
You pushed once more, this one more painful more than ever as the babies head crowned.
“They’re heads out. Take a breather if you want.” The nurse told you, rubbing your back in support.
“Tissue.” You mumbled to Emily who reached over to the box of tissues, bringing it to your forehead and wiping the sweat off.
“Whenever you’re ready, Y/N. One more big push, and your baby will be here.”
At them words, you pushed, using all your energy.
“They’re here! Your baby girl’s here.” The midwife said, catching your daughter and passing her under to you.
You held her to you chest, looking down at her as you both cried.
“Hi, bubba. I know that was tough, hey? Oh, I know.” You cooed as she cried her little lungs off.
“She’s perfect, hun.” Emily said rubbing your shoulder as she looked down at the baby in your arms.
“I’m gonna take her over here to check her vitals. I won’t be long.”
Whilst your baby girl was being checked over, you pushed the placenta out and moved to the bed.
Your daughter was being passed back to you, this time she was wrapped in a blanket with a small hat on top of her hair, covering her small tuffs of hair.
“She looked like you, Y/N.” Emily said
“You think so?”
“Same nose, same mouth, everything. A mini you.” Emily pointed out
“Would you like to hold her?” You asked Emily and she nodded, an emotional smile taking over her face.
“Hi, bubs. I’m your aunt Emily.” Emily cooed, stroking her finger up and down your daughter’s cheek. “What’s her name?”
“Florence Alexandra Y/L/N.”
“Oh my god, Alex is gonna be so happy.” Emily said
“I’m hoping she is, just like I’m hoping you’d be happy when I ask if you’d be Flo’s godmother?” You asked, Emily’s face lighting up.
“Of course! Oh my god thank you so much, Y/N.” Emily exclaimed, getting up to hug you.
—
After a while, you’d fed Florence and she was now fast asleep in a milk coma on your chest.
Emily was also fast asleep on the seat next to you.
You’d decided to FaceTime Alex to tell her about Florence.
The phone rang a few times before Alex finally picked up.
You’d angled the phone onto where Florence was laying, Alex’s jaw dropped as she focused on what she was looking at.
“They’re here?” Alex asked, you kidding with a tired smile.
“A girl. She’s perfect, Al. I’ve never felt a love like it, I’ve known her for an hour or two but I love her more than anything in the world. I guess you know what that feels like, huh? With Charlie.”
“I feel it with all my kids. Charlie, this baby, and you.” Alex said through tears.
“Al… you’re gonna make me cry.” You told her, blubbering.
“You’re my daughter too, Y/N. Since the moment you came into my life, you’ve been my daughter. Charlie loves you like a big sister too. Anyway, enough crying. What’s bubbas name?”
“Florence Alexandra Y/L/N.” You replied
“Oh my god, forget what I said about the no crying. You named her after me?”
“How could I not? You’re my mom Alex.” You said with a smile
“I love you two so much.”
“We love you too, Alex.”
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On the scale of 1 (Rise of Skywalker) to 10 (Shadowbringer/Endwalker), where would you place Veilguard?
critical post
I’ve burst into enraged tears like 5 times since I finished it, which is not nearly even close to as many times as Rise of Skywalker, but still 5 times too many. Just the shallowness of the writing, the obviousness, the incredible frustration at the simplicity, the ignoring so much of my favorite character in order to make a stupidly simple plot work, the horrendous time I had trying to ignore Rook’s annoying stupid fuckass pov while just trying to self-insert myself into the end of my favorite fictional character of all time’s story after waiting 10 years. I screamed in frustration that I had to hear the painfully obvious commentary these brand newcomer characters who I did not give a shit about, explaining to me like a toddler how I should feel about revelations I have been writing about for 10 years, especially when what they were saying was stupid as fuck. I cried at the thought of so many cutscenes and so much effort went into stories I found very forgettable and went nowhere, while they were able to only scrounge up like 10 total animated shots reuniting Solas and Lavellan. I mourn that I could not make any decisions in a BioWare game. I mourn Solas’ story so much, and probably will for years. I will never get over the way they talked down to him and never listened to him for even a second, lest they actually have to write a branching path into their game. I hate that the theme was regret but Rook regrets nothing ever so (shrugs) regret doesn’t affect them or mean anything to them. I mourn the loss of the voice and point of view of his people, the ones he was fighting for, the ones who are alive. I mourn that it turns out that he’s just a stupid feral dog who is 100% wrong about everything always and he always has been from the beginning of time. I cried that the game said the answer was that Solas should NOT try to help his people and they never even discussed it as a philosophical question or the ethics of it or anything, or playing as a character so dense they never once even wondered if accidentally freeing the gods killed more people overall than the veil coming down would have. (We avoided this question like the plague, lest we feel less like purely Good Heroes who could talk down to the gods with righteous fury). I mourn that I’m never going to know what would have happened without the Veil. I feel so stupid for thinking that elves or spirits as factions would appear in any capacity with lines and perspectives in this game. I’m so angry at how safe and smoothed over everything in the setting is, and how it felt like the main characters never struggled with anything and have nothing to say. I can’t believe Dragon Age is so shallow and unsatisfying and head-empty. I mourn that the story of Dragon Age is Over to me and I will never play another game.
I’ve also cried a few times at the completely separated and individual imagery and music in the last scene. I’ve cried that my favorite character didn’t die in any world after 10 years of being at death’s door. I’ve cried at the thought of him being a little worm spirit, and that I was right about him the whole time. I cried when activating Felassan’s crystal in the final fight and seeing all the buffs. I cried when I turned the page and realized the default inquisitor was exactly the same as my personal Lavellan, down to hair style, eye color, hair color, vallaslin removed. I cried when I realized Solas thought he should have died as a spirit rather than be born. I cried that the main story Dragon Age has been telling the whole time has been about the reconciliation and freeing of my favorite fictional character. I cried that Solas and Lavellan got married in the end, when I genuinely wasn’t expecting either of them to even be alive. They’re both still alive and in love in every single world. I can’t wrap my head around that.
I have no idea where to put it. It’s a few high highs but some intolerably low fucking lows. It could have been so much worse but the bar is on the fucking floor. I go back and forth between moderate enjoyment to just being so angry. It could have been so much more and I do not know who to bite for it.
I have no idea.
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Nanami is in love with his best friend who saves him from a creepy woman. Honestly, I’m not sure what the plot is. I just wrote this because I was procrastinating my chem assignment.
Notes: reader referred to as wife
main masterlist
Nanami Kento didn’t know when he fell in love with you. Maybe it was when you giggled and pulled him out of the house to jump around in the rain with you. Or was it when you fell asleep on his shoulder after a long workday?
He didn’t know that you found so much solace in him.
His breathing was shallow as he watched you prance around your shared kitchen, singing a generic pop song about… love, was it? Or heartache. He didn’t know or care; all he knew was that you were wearing his shirt like it belonged to you- like he didn’t spend his hard-earned money to buy something for work, and you just plucked it out of the laundry room like it had your name on it.
He half expected you to be all bashful once you turned around and saw him, but no, you just pointed the whisk you used to mix your pancake batter at him and began lip-syncing the song's lyrics to him. He scoffed as he walked around the kitchen island and held on to your waist. Your singing slowed down as his grip tightened on you.
“What? You were hogging up the space in front of the coffee machine. Don’t stop on my account,” Nanami nonchalantly said as he dragged you away from the coffee station. Bewildered, you went back to singing again, facing away from him as you looked for cinnamon in the spice cabinet.
Nanami bit the inside of his cheek as he noticed your ears looked redder than usual.
It all felt oddly domestic. Your work shoes were strewn by the door, he was comfortable with his hair being disheveled, your unapologetically tone-deaf singing, and of course, the fact that you were making breakfast for him unprompted.
‘I could live like this forever,’ the blond thought. Of course, minus the whole best-friends-who-live-together-and-aren’t-in-a-romantic-relationship situation.
But was confessing to you a good idea? What if you both broke up and never wanted to see each other again? What would happen to your living arrangement then? He can’t handle not seeing you for a day. It would be horrible for his sanity.
But then again, you both have been friends for so long that it only felt natural to be with each other all the time.
He ignored his heart, screaming at him to confess to you. The man was clearly too far gone; if he spent another day in your presence, he would surely go mad. In love and in vain.
He ignored his thoughts when he saw you accidentally pick up his cup and place your lips exactly where his were a few seconds ago. You scrunched your nose, and it took everything in him not to kiss it. “Dear God, this is bitter. I’m sorry, Ken, but I will never enjoy your tastes in food.”
Ken
He could hear you say that all day, all night, and in his dreams. Fuck, weren’t you a magnetic being?
He ignored his heart while brushing his teeth later that night. He put his hand on his chest and rubbed it when he saw your toothpaste next to his. Yours was pink, and his was blue. A silly little cliche among most couples. He looked at the shower shelf in the bathroom- you used the same body wash as him because you said men’s shower gels smelled better. He simply complied and brought you a few bottles because it gave him the illusion that you had slept in his bed.
The two of you were polar opposites. He preferred a quiet night in, while you’d take advantage of your weekends and go out with friends. You hated cooking while he cooked elaborate recipes for fun. You were very outdoorsy while he preferred to use his treadmill.
There were so many differences, but you both complemented one another so well. So much that it confused mutual friends. People often asked why you both weren't a couple instead of if you were one.
He would also ignore his heart when it thrilled him to see men walk away from you as soon as he was in your space, hands naturally sitting on your waist while you whined about being single. ‘I’m right here!’ he wanted to scream. ‘Look at me!’
But his heart reached its wits end when you pretended to be his wife to protect him from an uncomfortably touchy woman.
Nanami is a simple man; he gets excited when he hears about food. Especially when it has to do with trying new dishes. So it was only natural that he dragged you to a global food festival in the city. It was pleasantly warm in the outdoor space for a cold winter night, thanks to all the cooking going on in the stands. You were a little overstimulated by all the smells, but the excitement on Nanami’s face was well worth the temporary discomfort. By now, you both had traveled to France, Turkey, and India via flavors alone.
The bar at the food stand you both were eating was getting increasingly crowded by the second, so it was only natural that there would be some unintentional physical contact with strangers. Nanami wrapped his arm around you to prevent the old man beside you from rubbing all his nauseating cologne over you. You ignored the way your body fit right next to his. And dare you say- like a puzzle piece with the silhouette of your breasts pressing up right beneath his pecs.
You both decided to share a bowl of spicy noodle soup, but you couldn’t handle the prickly taste of peppers on your tongue. “I’m gonna grab something sweet. You want anything?”
Nanami missed your warmth as you climbed out of the booth’s eating bench. “I’m alright, I’ll wait for you.”
You also needed a few minutes away from him so your body could catch a break. The rush of adrenaline you’d get when he’d touch you was unlike any other.
He didn’t touch his noodle soup in your absence. It felt tasteless to him without you pressed up next to him.
He continued his wallowing while staring at the bowl of soup until he felt someone slide in next to him. Excited, he turned around only to be met with a stranger. “Oh my, I really want to try the spicy noodle soup, but I’m scared it’ll be too painful.”
“I’m sure the owner can give you a sample, and this seat is taken, so I’m gonna have to ask you to move to another place.”
The insistent woman placed her manicured hand on his bicep, and Nananmi’s posture stiffened. “Oh, come on, I’ll just take a sip from you- I mean, your bowl, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
This was turning into sexual harassment, and he was about to pull out his sanitizer spray to put her in her place until he heard a familiar voice. “Hey, lady! Leave him alone.” He let out a breath of relief when you arrived, ice cream in hand.
“I can do whatever I want; it’s a free country,” she sulked.
“So can he, and he asked you to leave him alone,” you argued back.
“Who even are you?”
“His wife.” Nanami’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. By now, the people at the booth had turned towards the three of you to observe the spectacle. Before the creep could counter your answer or ask you for proof, the booth’s owner spoke up. “Hey, you buyin’ or not? I have customers waitin’ who actually wanna eat!”
The lady quickly tucked her tail between her legs and briskly walked out of the area. Never to be seen again. “Fucking hell, some people really need to learn about consent. You okay?” Nanami wanted to reply to you, but no words came out of his mouth.
You had basically declared to the world that you were his wife. Well, not the world, but all eight people in the booth (excluding you two) believed that you were his wife! It probably meant nothing to them, but to him it was like you had hung the stars in the sky.
“Ken?”
Ugh, you said it again.
“Yeah, I’m alright.” His eyes simply couldn’t look away from your spice-swollen lips. If you’re his pretend wife, then it’s okay for him to kiss you, right?
He mentally slapped himself at that thought. If he was going to kiss you then it was going to be the real deal.
—
Honestly, I like it when reader protects the character. Like yes, come here, my 6’4 baby girl, I’ll beat that person up for you.
#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jjk x you#jjk nanami#nanami kento#jujutsu kaisen nanami#nanami fluff#nanami kento x reader#jujutsu nanami#nanami x reader
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There is also a vague inclination in the lore that spirits and blight repell each other. Hence why Gaider said that in Anders case it's unclear what will happen to him because he merged with the spirit. At the same time tho Elven Gods used to be spirits once and can be Blighted for the reasons further explained in Veilguard (apparently their bodies are made of lyrium which... How does it work exactly? Is this an attempt to further legitimate Leliana as a Lyrium Ghost?) so I guess Flemeth and Anders are just a special case of possibly immune to the blight people which further explains why the Blight could even be trapped in behind the Veil without possibly affecting all the spirits there. I can't imagine Solas trapping the Blight in the Fade if it'd mean corrupting every spirit with it. (Albeit he did trap it in the Black City tho Veilguard seems to imply that actually Blight is trapped in the Fade overall, not only in the Black City and that the breach of the Veil can unleash it upon the world which is insane because we know that Solas tried to destroy the Veil so this seems like someone didn't think through the implication of Varric's words or Fade has several pocket dimensions and Solas knew how to take down the Veil without unleashing the Blight which brings us back to the Black City).
Also I think Fiona's total immunity is seen in the fandom and in the lore as a result of multiple stuff. It's just unclear what combination of them all or a few of them caused total immunity to the taint. I wish to study it. Why nobody is studying it?! First Warden, you idiot!
A list of potential cures for the Calling, that we know about, that BioWare has apparently forgotten
Andraste's grace: it's not specified whether the flower the kennelmaster has you pick in the Korcari Wilds is Andraste's grace or if the game just needed a one-off asset and decided to reuse one they already had. However, in the dark future in DAI, Leliana is found to have unusual tolerance for the taint, and in DAO she talks about her mother pressing her laundry with dried Andraste's grace flowers, so it makes you wonder. Anyway, the flower stops Barkspawn becoming a ghoul and seems to make them immune to the taint from that point on.
Maric's longsword: he finds it in the Deep Roads and is suprised it isn't covered in the same Blight-rot as everything else - until, that is, he touches the sword to a patch of it and sees it wither away. Whether it's the dragonbone the sword is made of or the runes on the blade is difficult to say, though if it was just the dragonbone then it would make sense for that to be a more well-known property of the material (and would have been an interesting reason for why dragons were hunted to extinction). If Alistair carries it with him, doesit slow the progession of the taint through his body? Does he know its effects, and give it to the HoF to help keep them safer on their journey to find a permanent cure?
That obsidian dagger Duncan finds in The Calling: the dagger belonged to First Enchanter Remille - who also gave the expedition members brooches that accelerated the spread of the taint. iirc the both the dagger and the brooches are made by the Architect with Blight magic, which means the darkspawn magisters have more knowledge of how the Blight works than the Chantry attributes to them.
Whatever the fuck is going on with Avernus: he hasn't managed to cure himself yet, but he's managed to make it to 200 and the Warden can let him continue his experiments if they don't kill him - and he'd be a really useful resource if the Warden later wanted to send him other potential cures for testing.
Dragons: they have an ability to isolate the Blight in their bodies by forming crystaline cysts around the initial infection to stop it spreading. Useful if it can be more widely applied. Also, it's implied that Maric's reaver blood, which Calenhad gained by mixing his blood with a dragon's, is what somehow cured Fiona of the taint, kinda like a reverse STI, BUT in the Deep Roads they went through an area where the walls were coated in a pale, chalky substance suspiciously devoid of Blight-rot and she touched it, so I'm a bit suspicious of that.
Blood magic: makes sense since the taint is a problem that starts with infected blood. There are two major instances in DA canon where blood magic has been used to purge the taint from an object or being (both by elves btw). The first is Isseya using it to draw the taint out of a clutch of unhatched griffon eggs, which she says is only possible because the taint hasn't yet taken over the hatchlings' bodies to the same extent that it had with the adult griffons. The second instance is Merrill purging the Blighted eluvian in DA2. It's insane that Anders - who is a reluctant Warden and who possibly knows the HoF seeks a cure - isn't more excited about this. She literally removed the Blight from a fully tainted object. Since Isseya proved the same can be done with living tissue, it's probably the closest we've come to an actual cure, but since it also took years there's no telling if it could be a practicaly solution for all Wardens
#dragon age#dragon age veilguard#dragon age the veilguard#cure to the taint#blight#taint#dao#da4#dragon age meta#dragon age veilguard spoilers#dragon age 4 spoilers#da4 spoilers#dragon age the veilguard spoilers
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Burning Flames I || Eris Vanserra
Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Ancheron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: less Eris than what you might expect, but with the next episode you'll forgive me; and english is not my first language :)
The first time Eris saw you was at the High Lords meeting. As soon as he had entered the room something flickered in Eris' chest, something warm that made his eyes looking around, a bored look on his calculated face, as he studied where the source of that flicker was. Then, his eyes laid on you, and oh gods if he had to call all his five centuries of practise to keep his breath from catching.
Before his eyes was the most beautiful female he had ever seen. He felt an unknown urge to know your name, your story, what had brought you there. Your eyes were on his father, studying him as the Vanserras had entered the room.
Eris took a second to realize that you were seated between the High Lady of the Night Court and another bautiful female. All three of you looking oddly similar to one another, and it was that moment that he realized who you were. You and the female at your left were two of the three High Lady's sisters, turned High Fae by Hybhern. Twins, he realized as he looked at the two of you. So close you looked like fire and ice. Your features were warm, even the colors of your hair, skin and eyes were a warm contrast to Nesta's cold features, all sharp and icy.
Your eyes scanned all his brothers until they fell on him, and Eris kept a cold face as you studied him, his posture, how his brothers obeyed to him.
Your eyes flickered quickly to Mor, then on him again and Eris could tell the exact moment that you connected who he was, because you grimaced and turned your face in a cold and dismissal expression. Of course the bastards would spread what happened with Mor; he thought with bitter humor. He gave you a lazy, mocking grin before turning his attention on Thesan, who now was talking to welcome everyone.
It was when Tamlin appeared that he felt that warm flicker inside him again, and when he curiously looked at you what he saw pietrified him. It wasn't cold that shimmered in your eyes. There were pure, burning flames in them.
Two punds of raging, wild, unforgiving fire were now locked on the High Lord of the Spring Court, and for a moment Eris was thankful that you have just watched him with dismissal distain, because what you were giving Tamlin was a promise of slow, painful death.
“It was so easy for you to call me a monster, despite all I did for you, for your family.” A sneer from Tamlin toward you and your twin. “Yet you witnessed all that he did Under the Mountain, and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?”
Eris saw your hands gripping the arms of the chair, your knuckles white from the strenght. You were going to kill him, he was sure of that. You were going to kill Tamlin someday.
***
You could feel your power, rising in your body, begging to be lashed out.
As you watched Tamlin's smug smirk a lovely imagine formed in your mind. Tamlin's body burning from the inside out, his blood boiling with your flames, his flesh coming down slowly and painfully while he begged to stop. Yes, more you looked at him and more that imagine gave you comfort.
He was the one who had sold you and your sisters to Hybern. He was the one who locked Feyre inside his house, who forbade her from doing anything she wanted. He was the one who responsible for your sisters' traumas, and you were going to make him pay.
You wondered if you were imagining his sweat on his forehead, his hand coming to adjust his shirt's collar every now and then, his breath heavier with every minute. It was if for once your power had listened to you and was now doing what you wanted.
Careful, for how much I'd like to see his blood boiling up it wouldn't win you many alliances to defend the humans. Rhysand's velvet voice appeared in your head, making you blink few times before lettiing go the arms of your chair and calming your breath.
Sorry. You answered him, not feeling ashamed at all. Tamlin was targetting Rhysand too, the male who saved you and gave you a place to call home, promising you that he would keep your sisters safe.
“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. “Do you hear what you’re saying?” Your sister pointed toward you and Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae, after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!”
“Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress, I’m sure the trait runs in the family.” said Tamlin with a scoff.
"It seems like you love to insinuate what an Ancheron girl want in her life and what she doesn't." You said slowly, your voice burning with fire as you locked your eyes with his. "I hope the trait doesn't ruin in your court. If you had any left after you let Hybern in their houses."
Tamlin snarled at you, and you only lift your chin higher not feeling scared or intimidated even for a moment. Many things had changed since he had come and wrecked your cottage, and now he was the one who had to be afraid.
"You'll find out, Tamlin..." said Rhysand with a bored voice. "That nothing good come out from telling an Ancheron what to do. But you should already know that."
You could feel the flames inside you ready to be leashed out, but you kept them at bay, knowing that all it needed was for Tamlin to make a move toward you or your sisters and you would let them out. It wouldn't matter if you burned too, you would make sure to incinerate Tamlin.
“Pity you didn’t bring the other sister. I hear our little brother’s mate is quite the beauty.” snorted the male you had recognized as Eris. Your eyes snapped to met his and you found him already looking at you.
As soon as he had walked inside the room your brain had gone silent for a moment. He was, with your deepest annoyance, the most beautiful male you had ever seen, and that thought alone was enough to make you ashamed. You had needed few seconds to recognize who he was, and as soon as you put the name on his face you had grimaced at the thought of have called him beautiful in your mind.
You narrowed your eyes, your hands hitching from the unleashed power you were keeping inside your body. If they did as much as to hurt Elain you would incinerate all of the red haired family in front of you.
Eris seemed to understand your look, because he only smirked amused at you before Mor's voice caught his attention. “You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.”
Eris’s mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending that they had not seen each other in years. “Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.”
You had barely widened your eyes, disgusted by his words, as a flash of blue light passed in front of your eyes. A moment Eris was seated, the next he was on the ground, Azriel over him.
You hid a smirk behind your hand as you watched Azriel's hands around Eris' throat, and the heir of Autumn running out of air. It didn't matter if you had a secret alliance with him, he had no problem into proving how horrible he was.
When the alliance had been forged the Inner Circle had proceeded to tell you and Nesta what kind of person Eris was. How he had left Mor die because she had refused to marry him. How he had hunted your sister and Lucien when they were escaping the Spring Court.
So, the show that was now in front of your eyes made you amused for the first time since you had been taken from home. Your sister, Feyre, stopped Azriel and invited him to sit beside her, making all of your shift of one chair.
He sat at your right, and after a careful speech from Feyre, Eris apologized with Mor. It was curious that the Lady of the Autumn Court, Eris' mother, watched him with an approval look as he apologized. Maybe not everyone in the Vanserra family was horrible.
Around you everything was going down. Thesand had proposed an antidote for the faebane and while the Night Court was willing to try it, Beron threw free insults to your sister and Rhysand.
Thesan asked, “And you believe the human armies there will bow to Hybern?”
“Its queens sold us out,” Nesta said. She lifted her chin, poised as any emissary. “For the gift of immortality, the human queens will allow Hybern in to sweep away any resistance. They might very well hand over control of their armies to him.” Nesta looked to you, to Feyre, to Rhys. “Where do the humans on our island go? We cannot evacuate them to the continent, and with the wall intact … Many might rather risk waiting than cross over the wall anyway.”
“The fate of the humans below the wall,” Beron cut in, “is none of our concern. Especially in a spit of land with no queen, no army.”
"There are people." You said angryly while the fire run hotter inside your body. All you could see was Beron's disgusting face and his arrogance. "There are families. A moment ago you were all horrified about Amarantha killing the Winter Court's children, but now since they are humans its different?" You asked looking to every High Lords in the eyes, watching them shocked and uncredoulous. "Humans children are less than yours?" Your eyes locked with Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court.
"Careful with your accusation." said Kallias with a low voice.
"Careful with your next actions." You said back, letting him see the fire in your eyes, calling back your emissary voice. "How many parents had died trying to protect their kids from Amarantha?"
It was Viviane who answered, her hand closed thighly around her mate's. "All of them."
You rose your chin high, watching her right in the eyes. "Every human will fight againsgt Hybern. With or without your help, they will fight for their children, their families. And they will die too, without your help, hoping for a better future."
“So go waste your own soldiers defending them,” Beron said. “I will not send my own forces to protect chattel.”
Your eyes snapped back on him. “You’re a coward,” Feyre breathed to the High Lord of Autumn. Even Rhys tensed.
At some point Feyre hit Beron with her power, breaking his shield and trapping him in a bubble of water. Your eyebrows rose, surprised to see your sister's full powers.
Let us out, your flames begged. We will end him.
No. You couldn't let them out. Your power felt too descructive to be leasshed in a room full of people. It was better burning from the inside out rather than burning everyone you cared for.
Your sister seemed to calm down after a while, letting Beron breath again with your displeasure. How could someone so horrible be still alive after centuries? Why no one had never killed him?
The display of Feyre's power got the High Lords tensed up. She had showed them she had all their powers and not all of them were too happy.
“The power belongs to us. I think it is,” Beron seethed making you close your hands on your laps in tight fits. if he did as much as take a step toward your sister he would find that your fire was hotter and more dangerous than his.
You could feel them, the flames, starting to come out from your hands. Beron would let the humans die for his own benefits, he will never see reason.
But it was when your sister apologized to the Lady of the Autumn Court and Beron called her human filth that everythink around you exploded.
You felt your power lashing out, and as much killing Beron would only bring you happiness, there was one thing you wanted more. and it was for him to be afraid of you. So when your fire lashed out you stood up and directed it to the chair on which Beron was seated, making him fall on a pile of burning wood.
He yelled in pain. Your fire was circling him like snakes ready to strike, and it felt so good to let it out finally. The room fell quiet, everyone was looking at you but your eyes were fixed on the High Lord of the Autumn Court who now looked at you with a promise of death in his eyes.
"We are here to discuss an imminet war against Hybern." I said deadly serious while every inch of you fought to control the flames that now were out and extremely close to the Vanserra's other memeber. "But talk to my sister like that again, and next time I won't be aiming at the chair."
Beron shot to his feet, his hand still tring to make the little flames on his clothes stop, and declared to no one in particular, “This meeting is over. I hope Hybern butchers you all.”
"This meeting is not over." said Nesta raising on her feet.
She stood tall, a pillar of steel. “You are all there is,” she said to Beron, to all of them. “You are all that there is between Hybern and the end of everything that is good and decent.” She settled her stare on Beron, unflinching and fierce. “You fought against Hybern in the last war. Why do you refuse to do so now?”
Your eyes studied all the Vanserra sons, marking how Eris gestured for his brothers to sit and how his eyes met yours again. You expected to find challenge, rage for what you did to his father, but instead something fickered in his eyes. Something like...pride?
Your confusion must have shown on your face because his expression become amused, and you quickly looked away from him. You didn't want for the heir of Autumn to study you, to think you cared what he thought of you.
“You may hate us. I don’t care if you do. But I do care if you let innocents suffer and die. At least stand for them. Your people. For Hybern will make an example of them. Of all of us.” said Nesta at your side.
“And you know this how?” Beron sneered.
"We went into the Cauldron." You said, pushing away the horrible memories that came back. “It showed us his heart. He will bring down the wall, and butcher those on either side of it.”
Nesta looked to Kallias and Viviane. “I am sorry for the loss of those children. The loss of one is abhorrent.” She shook her head. “But beneath the wall, I witnessed children—entire families—starve to death.” She jerked her chin at you and Feyra. “Were it not for my sisters… I would be among them.”
She was right. You and Nesta might have been twins, but you were born few days before her and that made you the oldest, and as the oldest you had taken upon yourself to provide for your family when the money had ended.
"We are not asking you to protect them." You said firmly, taking Nesta's hand in yours while you watched every High Lord in the eyes. "We are asking you to give them a chance to survive. To fight together for your lands. They have spent centuries starving and dying while you were here with every comfort. They hate you? Yes. They will ask for your help? No. That's why we are here, because without you there will be no human left after this war."
Thesan cleared his throat. “While a noble sentiment, the details of the Treaty did not demand we provide for our human neighbors. They were to be left alone. So we obeyed.”
"Because they are scared of you." You said. "Because most of your kind have enslaved them for centuries. And they are afraid that if they let you close it will happen again. Show them they are wrong. Show them your strenght doesn't have only evil ends, but it can help to build a future where no children, human or Fae, will have to worry ever again."
"You have been entrusted with protecting this land.” Nesta scanned the faces around her. “How can you not fight for it?”
She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering, impressed, even, by your and Nesta's speech. You met Eris' eyes again, and you looked at him determinated. He needed to convince his father to fight together, because otherwise the human lands would be reduce to ash.
You thought you had imagined it as he gave you a subt nod, masking it with his hand under his chin. What was it? A promise? Did he understand the gravity of the situantion and actually cared? Or was it only to ensure his alliance with the Night Court?
Beron only said, “I shall consider it.” A look at his family, and they vanished.
Eris stood behind just for few seconds, his eyes scanning all of us, his expression unreadable. His eyes fell on the pool in front of us, then on you and then on the pile of ashes beside him where his father had been seated. Something sparkled in his eyes as if he was understanding something, then with one last curious look toward you he vanished too.
You let out a breath you hadn't realize you were holding, and you seated on your chair again, feeling the tiredness that the leash of power left inside you. Your eyes fell on the pool, and, even if impossible, your blood froze.
There was no water left inside the pool.
That's what Eris had been looking. That's how powerful your flames had been. They had made the magic water evaporate into nothing. You looked over Thesan apogetically, but he just waved a hand as if to dismiss it while water appeared again.
At least now they know who is fighting with the humans. Maybe it was what they needed to convince themself, Rhys' voice appeared in your head with a calming tone, as if he had sensed your terror at what you have done.
What if I hurt someone of our army? You asked panicked in your head, trying to keep a neutral face while your sister was speaking to the High Lords.
I'll make sure it won't happen. Rhysand said firmly and yet kindly. I promise you.
#eris vanserra x reader#eris vanserra#acotar#autumn court#feyre ancheron#nesta ancheron#rhysand#high lords meeting#sarah j maas#cassian#azriel#morrigan#helion#beron vanserra#lady of autumn#night court#velaris#elain ancheron
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Hello everyone! I'm back with another au! Enjoy! :)
This au picks up at the battle of Camlann, where Morgana uses a spell to deactivate Merlin's aging spell. All of Camelot's forces look on in horror as the old sorcerer on the ridge turns out to be Merlin. Merlin himself looks devastated by this.
Morgana then begins goading Merlin by loudly revealing all his secrets to Arthur, Gwen, and all the knights on the battlefield, intending to make sure that he could never return to Camelot. She reveals that he is Emrys, all-powerful, magic incarnate, the son of the Triple Goddess, and a god of the Old Religion in human form. He is the the most feared creature in all of Camelot, and they never even knew it.
Merlin, enraged by this, viciously fights Morgana with his magic. Mordred abandons his goal of battling Arthur to rush over to Morgana's side, trying to defend her from Emrys's wrath.
Merlin, still carving a path of destruction and death through the battlefield, doesn't hesitate to strike Mordred down with lightning. While Morgana was too busy being stunned and horrified by what just happened, Merlin takes Mordred's fallen dragon-forged blade and runs Morgana through with it, ending her for good.
The remaining soldiers in Morgana's Saxon army, now decimated and seeing that their leader is dead, killed by a force far more powerful than she herself, turn around and flee, desperate to avoid being slaughtered at the hands of a god.
With the Saxons gone, the battlefield of Camlann goes quiet, with the only sounds being the quiet whistling of the wind blowing through the valley. Camelot's knights are frozen in fear and shock, looking at Arthur for guidance for what to do next.
However, Arthur himself is frozen still too, unable to tear his eyes away from Merlin, the man who he trusted more than anyone, who was never even a man to begin with. His manservant, who was secretly a god the entire time!
But Merlin has his back turned to Arthur, and is simply gazing out into the distance. He turns around though, and he meets Arthur's eyes for a split second, before vanishing into thin air.
A second later, Arthur could swear that he heard Merlin's voice whisper along with the wind, "I'm sorry."
Staring out across the now empty battlefield, Arthur had no choice but to shakily order the knights to pack up and return to Camelot. There was nothing left for them here.
They returned to camp and started the journey back to Camelot in silence, everyone's minds reeling from what had just happened. The sudden revelation of Merlin's true nature had left Arthur, Gwen, and the knights terrified and unsure of everything.
Once back in the safety of Camelot, Arthur has a huge breakdown, wondering how the hell he's even alive if the man he's bossed around for the past ten years was actually capable of brutally destroying an entire army with a wave of his hand the entire time. How had he survived if he had been humiliating a god every day for years, a god whose followers had been slaughtered by his hand!
Their return to Camelot had been stressful to say the least, all of them on edge despite their victory. Yes, Merlin Emrys had ensured their victory, but who knew what plans the god had for Camelot now that his true nature was revealed?! What revenge would he enact on the kingdom responsible for the purge?!
These thoughts haunted Arthur even as he returned to his chambers, changed himself into his nightclothes (and ignoring the fact that the god of magic had been dressing him for the past decade), and fell into a fitful sleep.
Arthur was shocked and terrified when, in the morning, he was awoken with a very familiar "Rise and shine, dollophead! You have a full schedule today!"
His heart stuttered with terror as his eyes shot open and beheld the sight of Merlin, smiling and looking as he always did, as if nothing had changed. His heart pounded with sudden fear as he leapt out of bed, scrambling for something, anything to defend himself with against the man who had once been his closest friend. But, Arthur's mind hissed at him, what good would any sword do against a god?! He was as good as dead already!
Merlin Emrys, to Arthur's shock, didn't even bat an eye at Arthur pulling a blade on him and set the tray full of breakfast on the table, completely unphased.
"Come on, we don't have time for this, Arthur! Just sit down and eat your breakfast while I pick out your clothes for the day."
Arthur's however, didn't move from his place against the wall. Did he really think Arthur was stupid enough to fall for something like that?
Well, Arthur's mind hissed again, you were stupid enough to mistake a god for an manservant for ten years.
Emrys simply rolled his eyes, his impatience now showing, and Arthur braced himself to be hit with the full force of divine wrath.
Something in the air shifted, and Arthur suddenly found himself sitting at the table without having moved a muscle, with the breakfast tray in front of him.
"There we go! Now, please hurry up and eat. I didn't even steal one of your sausages this time! So, for today, do you want to wear your training gambeson or your more formal set?"
Arthur said nothing in response, too busy staring, petrified by fear and bewildered beyond words, at the god of magic lay out his clothes for the day.
The rest of the day goes on like this, with Merlin pretending like everything's normal while Arthur, and everyone else in the castle, is completely terrified by Merlin's presence alone. But, they can't really make him to leave.
Knights who draw their swords at the sight of Merlin find that their blades turn to dust as soon as he looks at them. The servants who see him, who have no doubt heard the disturbing news about his true nature as Emrys, scream in terror and run away at the sight of him.
Even Guinevere, who was sitting on her throne next to Arthur when she saw Merlin out of the corner of her eye, holding a pitcher of watered down wine like it was an ordinary day, tensed up with fright, her hands gripping the arms of her throne and her breathing picking up as her mind replayed memories of Merlin, her dearest friend, raining death down upon Camlann.
Eventually, Arthur gathers enough courage to ask Merlin why he's still here, what he wants from Camelot, and what it will take to have him spare Arthur's people.
And Merlin's response is to simply smile and tell Arthur that he will not leave. He is Arthur's servant, and there's nothing Arthur can do about that other than accept it.
TL;DR:
Arthur, fearing for his entire kingdom: Please, Emrys, just tell me what you want! I'm sorry about treating you like a servant! I'll do anything, just please spare my people!
Merlin, doing laundry and desperate to avoid his life changing in any way: I'm :) your :) servant :)
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Breakfast (Lucanis x Rook fanfiction)
Lucanis x Female Rook one-shot.
Summary: Lucanis makes breakfast for Rook after they spend the nigth together once she's back from the Fade-prison, relieved to have her back but still worried about her. Short (2285 words) and sweet.
Lucanis woke up feeling rested for the first time in…he didn’t even know how long. That he'd been sleeping in Rook’s arms sure was the reason for it.
They were scrunched together on the couch in Rook’s room, with barely room to move, but for Lucanis it was perfect, with his head pillowed on Rook’s chest and her arms around him. Even Spite seemed to have calmed down, he hadn’t annoyed him once. His only regret was not having slept like that before that night, the distance he’d made himself keep for reasons that seemed important once but not anymore.
He was all too aware of how close he’d been to losing Rook. Since she’d been trapped in the Fade, Lucanis had been consumed not only by fear but also by guilt and regret. He’d let it happen, he hadn’t been quick enough, smart enough, and Rook had been taken from him. She had needed him and he had failed again.
He’d been searching non-stop for a way to get her back, even Spite had been agitated, driving him crazy, and he knew he had to be grateful for the team that they’d found a way to get Rook back.
After that, he’d known there was no way he’d let his fears and insecurities keep him from being truly Rook’s any longer. He’d kill the gods, the blight itself, anything that threatened Rook’s again, no matter what, he wouldn't fail her again, and he wouldn’t deny himself the comfort of her arms any longer.
Mindful not to wake her, Lucanis pulled back from Rook’s chest. She was still fast asleep, and Lucanis wondered if she’d slept at all those weeks she’d been trapped in the Fade, if she’d even needed it.
She didn’t seem more tired than usual, neither did she seem hurt, but Rook hadn’t really elaborated on what had happened to her, and Lucanis hadn’t pushed her to tell him. She seemed more worried about what’d been happening while she was gone and how to fix it, and Lucanis knew it was important, but he wished Rook looked out for herself more. If she didn’t, then he’d be the one to watch over her and care for her.
Lucanis brushed his knuckles ever so softly over Rook’s cheek. He didn’t feel there was much he could offer her, besides his knives and his skills as an assassin, in which he felt he’d been failing abysmally.
It seemed Rook was going to sleep longer, and so, Lucanis decided to get up and get her breakfast. Feeding her was, at least, one thing he could do for Rook without failing her.
He carefully covered Rook with a blanket, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and got dressed quickly.
Walking out of the room and down the stairs, Lucanis found Emmrich already awake, sitting down on the armchair next to the coffee table, doing research, with a cup of steaming tea in front of him, while Manfred hovered near. Emmrich looked up from his papers to give Lucanis a tired smile.
“Good morning. How is she?” He asked as he glanced upstairs.
Lucanis sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. Not bad I think, but she hasn’t told me much of what happened to her. She wants to focus on what we have to do now.”
“Understandable so,” Emmrich conceded. “I know everything we lost, everyone…and everything we have to fight now. But we got Rook back, enjoy that.”
“I plan to. Thank you, Emmrich.” Lucanis was aware of how, without the Fade expertise of Emmrich, he probably couldn’t have gotten Rock back to him.
Emmrich nodded graciously and went back to his papers.
“Manfred,” Lucanis addressed the skeleton, who hissed a yes. “If you see Rook getting up, you come running to find me before she can”
“Yes!”
Once in the kitchen, Lucanis tried to decide on what to do for breakfast. He didn’t want it to be something overly complicated or that would take too long, afraid that Rook might wake up before he was finished and find herself alone.
Finally, he settled for orlesian pancakes.
The kitchen felt cold and abandoned. Lucanis had been in no mood for cooking during the last couple of weeks, his mind was desperately looking for ways to bring Rook back, when he was not mourning their potential loss and blaming himself, and having to deal with Spite’s own commentary and franticness.
Trying to ignore the nagging thoughts of their missing friends, everything that had gone wrong and could get worse soon, and the still lingering fear of losing Rook, Lucanis focused on making breakfast and on the thought of a sleeping Rook, back to him.
He cooked swiftly, and once everything was ready, he placed several servings on a trail and walked out of the kitchen and back to the main building.
Emmrich was still in the armchair, studying the papers, while Manfred stood as a lookout on the staircase, watching the door of Rook’s room. When he saw Lucanis, he hissed and did a thumb-up, and Lucanis couldn’t help his smile.
“Thank you, Manfred,” Lucanis said while placing a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes on the table in front of Emmrich.
“Oh, thank you Lucanis,” Emmrich smiled at him over his papers. “This was most kind.”
Lucanis shrugged and made his way back to Rook’s room. She was still asleep. Lucanis placed the tray with the pancakes and coffee on the table and knelt down next to the couch, looking at Rook. He reached to trail his fingers down her cheek, ever so softly.
“Doesn’t. Wake,” Spite said, unhelpful.
“She needs rest,” Lucanis muttered, trying not to let Spite’s agitation get to him.
“She. Is not. Waking up,” Spite insisted.
Lucanis never thought the demon could care for anyone, but there they were. Still, he didn’t need Spite putting more fears inside his mind and going frantic again, it wouldn’t help anyone.
“Rook’s tired, she’ll wake up when she’s rested enough,” he tried again, although Lucanis wasn’t very sure if he was convincing himself or the demon. “Go play with Manfred.”
“Pff.” Spite brisked. “He. Thinks. He Is. A mage. Now,” the demon pretty much ranted. “He. Thinks. He. Is. Better.”
“I doubt it,” Lucanis answered, but truly, what did he know…he just hoped Manfred didn’t decide to try and teach Spite magic now. “Go with Manfred or shut it and let Rook sleep.”
Spite didn’t say anything else, but Lucanis could feel his unhappiness.
He watched Rook’s face, caressing her cheek ever so gently again, trying not to entertain Spite’s thoughts of her not waking. There was no reason for that, she was just tired, even if she was in the Fade in her sleep, she was not trapped there any longer, it was just normal dreaming…right?
Lucanis’ heart had begun beating faster, Spite’s unease was growing too, and so he tried to stop that train of thought. Rook was back, she was alright, she was just resting…but if she didn’t wake up by herself soon, he’d wake her.
Moving even closer, Lucanis leaned over Rook, still kneeling on the floor, until he could rest his head over her chest. He closed his eyes, listening to her heartbeat, feeling her chest rising and falling as she breathed, and he tried not to let worry and overthinking take hold of his mind.
Eventually, Lucanis felt the change in her breathing as she began to wake up, and relief washed over him. He pushed back to look at her as Rook’s eyes opened, and she gave him a drowsy smile that made something in his stomach flutter and twirl. She was there, she was awake, she was fine…and she was smiling at him, her sleep-lidded eyes looking at him so lovingly that it was hard to believe she was looking at him.
“Hey….” Rook reached to cup his face and Lucanis leaned into her touch. Her smile turned into a frown when she noticed he was on the floor. “Did I kick you off the couch? Shit, I’m sorry.”
“No, you didn’t,” Lucanis rushed to explain. “I was up already. I made you breakfast.”
There it was again, that soft smile and that love in her eyes, making Lucanis’ heart skip a beat. “Of course you did.”
Rook’s voice was quiet, content, while her hand cupping his face caressed his cheek, and Lucanis turned his head to kiss her palm. Rook’s smile grew wider at that and she leaned to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was gentle, chaste, yet it made Lucanis feel like he might melt.
Rook pulled back, reaching to take her shirt that somehow had ended up hanging from the back of the couch, and she put it on. Then, she reached as if to take her cup of coffee, but Lucanis was already handing it to her.
“Thanks,” she smiled again and reached to take his hand. “Come here.”
Lookanis got up from the floor and sat down on the couch next to Rook. Ignoring his own cup of coffee, he looked at her as she contently sipped hers while she looked at the fishes swimming in that odd aquarium. Lucanis had felt uneasy about that part of Rook’s room before, it reminded him of the Ossuary, but it didn’t anymore, not with Rook there next to him.
Rook caught him staring at her and gave him a small smile, leaning to kiss the side of his head. “I’m fine,” she reassured him.
Lucanis wasn’t sure if it was true, but he didn’t want to push her. She’d be fine, though, he’d make sure of it.
Rook leaned to place the cup back on the tray and cut a piece of the pancakes, bringing it to her mouth. She closed her eyes with a delighted hum and Lucanis felt something in his belly stir at it.
“This is so good,” she said as she took another bite.
“I’m glad.” Lucanis was pretty confident in his cooking skills, more than in his assassin skills right now, but it was nice to have confirmation that Rook was enjoying her breakfast.
Rook looked at him over her shoulder. “Did you have something besides coffee?” she didn’t let him answer. “Of course you didn’t.”
She cut the rest of the pancakes in small, bite-size pieces, and leaned back on the sofa again, taking plate and fork with her. “Here.” She reached the fork with one of the pancake pieces towards Lucanis.
“It’s your breakfast.”
“It’s enough for us both and more…come on,” Rook insisted and Lucanis gave in, taking the bite that she was offering.
Lucanis wondered if it should have felt ridiculous, letting someone feed him pancakes, but it didn’t, he just felt content, loved even. He wondered when was the last time he’d felt like that, or if he’d even felt like that at all before.
He let Rook feed him another couple of bites before nudging her and reminding her to eat herself, and so she dug into the pancakes with appetite. “Seriously, Lucanis, these are so good,” she said between bites and he couldn’t stop how pleased it made him feel.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been hungry, maybe even starving. How hadn’t he thought of feeding her sooner, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep last night without making sure she was fed, no matter how warm and comfortable her arms had felt.
“Did you eat anything while you were…away?” Lucanis found himself asking.
He wasn’t sure how the Fade worked, how she could have survived those weeks without eating anything, if maybe she didn’t need it while in the Fade…
Rook shook her head and leaned over to place the plate of pancakes, with barely anything left, on the table, taking the cup of coffee instead and leaning back on the couch again with a sigh.
“I know it was weeks for you here but…for me…I don’t know,” she trailed off. “I don’t know how it works, but it felt…I don’t even know…eternal but static at the same time…” Rook shuddered and Lucanis leaned to place an arm around her, regretting to have asked. “I don’t want to think about it now.”
“Of course,” he whispered, pulling her close.
His wings popped out without him meaning to, wrapping around them. Lucanis’d be embarrassed about his lack of control of the wings sometimes, if it weren’t because Rook seemed to like them. He had to wonder if Taash was right when they told him he should get out the wings when he was with Rook, that she’d like it.
“Good morning, Spite,” Rook said, smiling.
“Rook,” the demon greeted, but Lucanis was thankful he didn’t try to control him, seeming content just being acknowledged.
Rook took another sip of the coffee and then offered the cup to Lucanis. He was about to refuse, that was her coffee, he had a cup for himself, but she was looking at him with that soft smile, those caring, loving eyes, in a way that made him feel as if his heart was growing in size, and he couldn’t refuse her, taking a sip of the coffee before giving her the cup back.
Rook leaned against him with a content sigh and Lucanis kissed the side of her head.
There were gods to kill, people to help, a world to save, friends to avenge, they had to get at it soon but perhaps, perhaps it all could wait just a bit longer.
Perhaps they could stay like that, Lucanis’ arm and wings enveloping Rook, basking in each other, for a little bit, if only until they finished their coffee.
*
NA:
Both me and my Rook have fallen in love with this gentle, caring assassin and we want to hold him and protect him, but sometimes Rook needs to be taken care of too.
I think I want to write more for them.
If you liked the fic, please let me know in a comment, and as always, reblogs are more than welcome.
Excuse my English, it’s not my first language.
#lucanis dellamorte#lucanis dellamorte fanfiction#lucanis fanfiction#rookanis#rookanis fanfiction#lucanis x rook#lucanis x rook fanfiction#rook x lucanis#rook x lucanis fanfiction#protective Lucanis Dellamorte#short and sweet#emotional hurt/comfort and just comfort/fluff
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Something Something Yeah It's Still Solavellan Hours (Mythal is kind of here, too)
I've seen a few very beautifully articulated posts talking about the conflicted responses players are finding themselves having in regards to the decision by writers* to have Solas' atonement route possible because of his conversation with one of the remaining fragments of Mythal.
(*honestly I hesitate to put the weight of bigger game events on their shoulders because of how much I know bigger players in the company were involved, so when you read 'writers' know I just mean whoever had final say on plot)
I love reading where people are at on this, and having now breathed, re-played the scene, cried, read some more theories, and then played the scene again enough times I think I'm now able to figure out where I'm at.
TLDR: in my humble opinion, the conversation Solas has with Mythal doesn't bring him any actual closure at all. It is only the version of the atonement ending that has Lavellan in which he is actually set upon a road to redemption.
This, like everything else where I lose my mind, will be long. I tried to restrain myself and here we are, unhinged as ever.
I was unhappy at first that Mythal's incredibly brief conversation with Solas where she releases him from her service seemed to be what finally allowed him to make a decision based on his wants and not hers. My concern stemmed mostly from the fact that a lot of us are trying to be active participants in a society that recognizes patterns of abuse and seeks to establish channels through which individuals can pursue healing without the approval, consent, or demise of their abuser.
But the more I look at the scene, the more I wonder what would have happened in a world where Veilguard got just a little more time in development. Could we have gotten a scene that more elegantly conveys the theme that we cannot heal every part of our loved ones, much as we might like to?
In an imperfect world it isn't always up to us how someone finds closure, which really sucks when you'd like to ensure a loved one finds it in a way that preserves their dignity and limits exposure to the individuals who have harmed them.
And while it could be left there, I'd like to actually push back on the idea that Mythal is in any way responsible for "healing" Solas in this moment.
I went on a different tirade a few days ago about how at the end of Inquisition, Mythal says words to Solas that on their surface seem well-intentioned or placating, but they actually just serve to further bind him in guilt and a position of servitude. In Veilguard's finale, she still does not take accountability for exactly how much of a role she played in the pain that Solas, a man others have revered and feared as a god, has gone through as he cowers, actually cowers before her.
Mythal's interaction with Solas conveys exactly two things to him as far as I am concerned (I'm going to botch these quotes but my laptop is dying so please accept some paraphrase as I rush to finish this before I go cry about this analysis to my uncaring dog):
"The terrible things we did, we did together." You are forever tied to me.
"I release you from my service." But what am I releasing you to?
Because up until Lavellan joins the fray here, all I take away from the physical and unwilling emotional cues Solas gives in this scene (he is a master in trickery, for goodness' sake, the thought of so many witnesses seeing him unable to hide behind a mask has to leave him feeling anguished on top of everything else) is that Mythal has once again reminded him of everything he did in her name and telling him that all that's left for him is to go back to the fade prison and, as he as always done, endure the crushing weight of his failures alone.
To me, in my interpretation, the Solas that hears this from Mythal with no Lavellan intervention may choose to willingly step down from his original plan (and yeah, that's gonna do some damage) but he is certainly not free of his past. He's going to be reminded of it every time he turns a corner and finds more blight to try and soothe, and even the moments that he rests will be filled with more manifestations of his regret. He says it himself: where he's going? It's terrible.
Enter Lavellan. Yeah, he couldn't bring himself to listen to her at her first plea (but like damn how many times are we going to have to watch her give a heartfelt speech only for him to be like 'something something beautiful elven rejection'). But I know that you know that our clever icon knows better than to take what Solas says at face value. She tells Rook plainly that he's absolute dogshit at lies of the heart, and she says it with her whole chest.
Lavellan sees the way his shoulders slump (in resignation yes, but you can't convince me there's not a little bit of relief there, too), she hears the agony in the "vhenan" that escapes his lips (which, don't even get me started on the fact that it's been like nine years and he has no hesitation at all calling her his heart, it just spills out of him). It is not the sound of a man delighting in the steps he's about to take. They're certainly not steps he does not dislike that lead to a destination he enjoys.
And then she watches Mythal (who I can't imagine she feels any sort of fondness or respect for) pull some weird nonsense on her love one final time, and she knows it's her moment to shine.
Mythal, I would argue, pushes Solas down one more time, shames him into seeking atonement, into once again being alone.
It is the romanced Lavellan that kneels so that he cannot fail to meet her eyes. It is she who invokes their connection, not to remind him of his failures but to reaffirm his greatest strength: their love and their love alone is inevitable. Not the consequences of his past, not the regret he thinks will consume him as he seeks to mend what has been broken. It has only ever been them.
"There is no fate but the love we share". We are forever tied together.
"There is no fate but the love we share." *I* am releasing you from everything else save for this love.
Put colloquially: get absolutely fucking wrecked, Mythal.
Body language comparison to chase up the dialogue one, anyone? The way Solas shrinks before Mythal as opposed to him walking off into the fade with Lavellan at his side and standing tall, and he does not flinch when she lifts a hand to his shoulder?
Ultimately, Mythal is a part of the atonement endings no matter what. But it is only Lavellan that refuses to let him walk alone. It is only Lavellan that guarantees that his dinan'shiral ends not in a prison of regret, but a place of promise.
Mythal bends Solas until he breaks one last time. Lavellan takes each piece, claims it as hers, and uses them to build the beginnings of a future.
#solavellan#lavellan#dragon age the veilguard spoilers#veilguard spoilers#datv spoilers#solas#solas meta#solavellan meta#solavellan hell#solavellan heaven
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Sweetening The Deal. (part 6.)
Summary: Things between you and Melissa are working out on their own complicated way. And you start to feel comfortable with your new life while questioning if the redhead really cares about you.
tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @greencurlyhair @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr
Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.
Melissa’s green eyes were fixated on you, a flicker of mischief dancing behind them as she studied your every movement. The intensity of her gaze was enough to make your heart race, a rush of warmth flooding through your chest. There was a quiet power in those eyes, a hypnotic pull that made the air around you heavy. A depth you could never quite comprehend, but it made you crave her in ways you didn’t think it was possible.
She wasn’t just looking at you; she was seeing you, all the parts of you that you never let anyone else touch. And in that moment, you realized she could always read you, knew exactly what was going on inside your head without a word from you. It was both comforting and terrifying in equal measure.
“You’re too quiet, baby,” the redhead murmured, her thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of your mound before pitching gently, making you flinch and moan in response. “What’s going on? Did Mommy left you speechless?”
The way she said everything was soft, different from the teasing and raw degradation that you grow used to and learned to enjoy it. But there was an edge to it—an urgency that tugged at something deep inside you. You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. Your mouth was dry, and you couldn’t seem to form the words that were desperate to escape.
The truth was still clawing at you, fighting to be heard. It wasn’t just about the way she touched you, or how her presence made everything else fade into the background. It was bigger than that. Melissa had become everything to you. She wasn’t just your sugar mommy anymore—she was your world, anchor, everything to you. And the realization hit you like a wave again, crashing over you, pulling you under before you even knew what was happening.
But you couldn’t say it to the older woman about your true feelings, not yet. Not when you were so wrapped up in her touch, in the way her eyes held you captive, in the way she made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered. You couldn’t say it because it felt too real, too raw. Too dangerous.
You wanted to say it. God, how badly you wanted to say it. The words bubbled up in your throat, desperate to escape, to make themselves known to the one person who despite the conditions—made everything feel like it had meaning again. But every time you opened your mouth, they got stuck. You couldn’t do it. No. Not now.
Not when you were so consumed by her touch—the way her fingers brushed against your skin with a tenderness that left you breathless. The way her lips found yours moments earlier with quite intensity, her kisses both soft and demanding all at once. The way her eyes, those deep, searching eyes, seemed to hold you captive, drawing you in with every lingering glance.
The redhead had no idea of the depth of your feelings, of course. She had no idea how deeply you felt, how you burned for her in a way that scared you. She didn’t know that when she smiled at you, when she laughed, or when she looked at you with that unspoken understanding in her gaze, you were drowning in a sea of emotion you didn’t know how to navigate.
It wasn’t just the physical connection that had you tangled up. No. It was the way Melissa made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered. It was the way her presence filled the space around you, making everything else fade into the background. It was the way she made you feel safe—vulnerable, even—but safe.
But how could you tell her? How could you admit to the intensity of what was growing inside of you when you weren’t even sure if she felt the same way?
Hell, you weren’t even sure if she saw you as anything more than a passing sugar baby, a warm body to fill her loneliness and blow off some steam when she needed it. The uncertainty gnawed at you like a hunger you couldn’t satisfy. You wondered—did she use you? Was this just another game to her, another brief entanglement to pass the time until she moved on to someone else? You had no way of knowing. She had never given you any reason to think otherwise, but the thought lingered, uninvited and persistent.
Sometimes you thought she might be just playing with you—testing boundaries, seeing how much you’d let her get away with. The Schemmenti woman wasn’t cruel, but she was careful, and her intentions remained shrouded in mystery. You couldn’t read her the way she seemed to read you, and that left you with an unsettling sense of insecurity. The fear that you were only a toy in her hands, a distraction when she needed one, and nothing more.
You promised to yourself that you would never ask. You would never confront her, never would ask for more that you were receiving because you were too terrified of the answer. Terrified of what it would mean if she told you that all of this—that connection, that spark, those moments that felt so real—was just something fleeting, a brief affair in the grand scheme of things.
Although, you couldn’t help but wish, just for a second, that maybe, just maybe, there was something more to this. That Melissa Schemmenti wasn’t just using you, that you meant something to her the way she meant everything to you.
The fear of the unknown gripped you, but the desire to be with her—to be more to her than a sugar baby—was stronger than the silence that kept you from speaking your truth. So you held it in, buried it deep where it couldn’t escape. Not yet. Not until you were sure she felt the same.
Because if you said it now, if you told her how much you needed her, how much you liked her, you might just break your own heart. The thoughts raced through your mind, a jumble of confusion, fear, and longing. Could you let yourself be vulnerable like this? Could you trust her with all the pieces of your heart you were so desperate to give, but terrified to lose?
But just as the question swirled in your head, you felt her right hand—warm, sure, and gentle—glide over your back, her fingers brushing the hooks of your purple lacy bra from the lingerie she bought you with an almost practiced ease. A shiver ran down your spine as her touch sent a jolt of electricity through you, the sensation so intimate that it knocked every stray thought from your mind.
You hadn't even realized how close she’d gotten, how her arm stretched and reached towards your chest and squeezed your sensitive breasts, making your pink nipples harden at the contact.
“Fuck, Schemmenti,” you forced your eyes shut. You were suddenly hyper aware of every inch of her, of the way she touched the bud between her fingers, twisting and pinching.
There was no hiding from her. Not when Melissa was looking at you like this, her gaze stripping away every defense you’d ever built. Her other thumb from her left hand moved in lazy circles against your lower skin, her touch both teasing and commanding.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” she coaxed, leaning in closer until her lips brushed against your knee. “You know you can tell me anything. You’re mine now. I can feel it. Tell me, what’s going on?”
“I- nothing,” you stammered, breathing fast while covering your face with sweaty hands. “Just- keep going. Please, Mommy.”
Her green eyes locked onto yours, darker now, full of hunger. She moved lower again, her breath hot against your inner thighs. Then, with an ease that made your breath catch in your throat, she buried her face between your shaky legs that were already spread for the only Melissa Schemmenti, you couldn’t speak properly, couldn’t answer anything. Your heart thundered in your chest as her touch edged you closer to surrender. She tilted her head, auburn hair spilling over her shoulder like a cascade of silk, and lowered herself further between your thighs. Her swollen lips brushed your dripping folds as she parted them gently with her firm fingers.
You tried to form words, but all that came out was a broken stutter, your tone trembling. “M-Mel... I… I can’t… I c-can’t… I... oh, God.” The rest was lost in a breathless moan, your eyes rolling to the back of your head with the lightest touch.
“You’re drenched like a freakin’ waterfall, hun. That’s perfect ‘cause I’m ready to eat you out,” she purred, voice heavy with intent. You gasped, your body arching instinctively, craving more of her touch, craving her fingers inside you. But just as you thought you were going to lose yourself in her, just as her lips were about to press against your sweet pussy, the sound of something—or better, someone echoed through the entire room, loud and clear enough for both of you to hear.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Missy, sweetheart? It’s Pearl,” the voice of her longtime retired housekeeper and confidante echoed through the penthouse. “I need a moment of your time downstairs! It’s urgent.”
The sound reached further through the bedroom, breaking the moment entirely. You froze, heart racing in panic, your entire body tensing at the unexpected interruption. The thought of being caught in such a vulnerable position sent waves of embarrassment through you. You tried to cover yourself instinctively, pulling the blanket over your naked form as Melissa let out a frustrated curse under her breath.
The older woman gruffed, pushing herself off the messy bed with a frustrated sigh. “What the fuck,” she muttered, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. She shot you an apologetic look, but it only made you feel more exposed. Your body was still trembling from the tension, and you could feel your face flushing with embarrassment.
“W-What if she comes in?” you prompted, the words slipping out with fear and vulnerability, your pulse still racing from the sudden interruption.
Melissa, still adjusting the collar of her shirt, glared toward the closed door, her brow furrowed in irritation. “She won’t,” she muttered firmly, smoothing the fabric of her trousers. She turned back toward you, and for a brief moment, her gaze softened.
You swallowed hard, your breath shaky as you watched her pull herself together, her every movement deliberate, trying to mask the way the tension hung in the air between you two.
“You’re sure?” you asked, your voice small, almost pleading.
“Yeah,” the redhead replied, her tone much steadier now. She wasn’t looking at you as she adjusted her sleeves, but you could see her lips press into a tight line, the frustration giving way to something else—a quiet possessiveness, like she was trying to calm you without admitting how much this was bothering her. She then stopped, turning to face you directly, her posture shifting.
“I’ll be right back,” she said softly, low but confident. She took a few steps toward you, pausing right in front of where you lay.
You looked up at her, the blanket still clutched to your chest, unsure of what she was going to do next. Olive eyes locked with yours, and she lowered herself just enough to be within arm’s reach. Without breaking her gaze, she cupped your chin gently, tilting your head back a little, her fingers cool against your skin.
“Open your mouth,” she commands, but it wasn’t harsh—just quiet, almost tender.
You blinked, your heart fluttering as her gaze intensified. There was something in the way she said it that made your body obey before your mind could question it. Your lips parted, and almost immediately, you felt her finger still wet with your scent slide past them, resting lightly against the inside of your mouth.
You stared up at her and whined, your wide eyes full of that familiar mix of longing and uncertainty, the sensation of her finger so close to you filling you with both warmth and vulnerability. And you couldn’t help but suck on her digits like it was your job.
“Good girl. It looks like someone has a oral fixation, good to know,” she murmured, her thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip before she pulled away, her expression softening ever so slightly. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, her touch lingering a little longer than necessary, as if memorizing the feel of you under her fingertips.
You kept quiet, processing Melissa’s features aching adoration. She let out a breath, almost like she was trying to steady herself before turning toward the door, but not before casting one last look over her shoulder.
The moment the door clicked shut, you exhaled a shaky breath, your heart still racing as you tried to compose yourself. The silence that followed was deafening, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something that neither of you had fully acknowledged yet.
In the stillness of the house, you heard the faint hum of voices coming from downstairs. Melissa and Pearl. Their voices were muffled, but you could make out the tension in their tone, the words they were whispering between themselves too faint to catch, but heavy with unspoken truths. You curled further into the bed, the sheets pulling tighter around you as you pressed your face into the pillow, trying to drown out the faint sounds.
The low rumble of a car engine, starting and then fading as it pulled away from the driveway, filled the air. Your hand tightened around the blanket as reality began to settle in. Melissa was gone. She promised to you that she would be back quickly. It wasn’t just the absence of her presence in the house—it was the absence of her warmth, her voice, the life she brought.
Minutes ago. The last time you had seen her, you had been so sure that nothing would have interrupted your almost tentative of sex.
But now, it was just you. And her sudden absence felt louder than anything. Frustrating, even.
You rolled onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as a bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Well, this is fantastic,” you muttered sarcastically to the empty room. “Who knew it could turn into this?” You buried your face in your hands, the ache in your chest growing. Your own bitterness mixed with the hollow space she left behind, and you couldn’t tell which hurt more—the nonchalant way she left, her absence or the way the world seemed to spin on without her.
You spent the next hours wandering through the redhead’s penthouse, marveling at the sheer opulence of it all. The sleek, modern furniture, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city, and the art that adorned the walls—it was all so far removed from your cramped, old dingy apartment.
Your eyes wide with awe, as your fingers brushed lightly against the polished wood and cold marble that adorned the space. The grandeur was overwhelming—a stark contrast to your own previous home, where cramped spaces and peeling wallpaper made up the bulk of your existence. The penthouse was like a dream, all glass windows that looked out over the city and surfaces that gleamed, untouched and pristine.
With a quiet sigh, you turned back to the bathroom, and that's when you noticed the tub—a massive marble thing that looked more like a small pool than anything you’d ever seen before. The sight of it made your heart flutter. You had to try it. The thought of the bubbling water pulling you in like a soothing embrace was more than enough to sway you. The whole penthouse felt like an oasis compared to the clutter and grime of your own place.
You moved closer to it, slowly running your fingers along the smooth marble edges. A bottle of champagne sat on the counter beside it, glinting in the soft light, its gold foil catching your eye like a beacon. It felt almost surreal—like something out of a movie.
You chuckled softly at yourself, half-laughing, half-giddy. The idea of indulging like this, something you’d never thought you’d do, felt like a small rebellion against everything in your life. You uncorked the champagne, the satisfying pop echoing in the bathroom. The bubbles inside danced like tiny stars, and you poured yourself a glass, the cool liquid an instant contrast to the humid heat of the water.
Slipping into the tub, the water engulfed you, its warmth wrapping around you like a blanket, relaxing every muscle in your body. You sank deeper, feeling the bubbles fizz around you, the steam rising and swirling in the air like a cloud. You took a deep breath, letting it all go, letting the warmth of the water take over and clear your mind of the mess of your life.
The glass of champagne rested comfortably in your hand as you leaned back, the tension that had built up over the past few weeks melting away. You could feel your body starting to relax—something you hadn’t been able to do for so long. You closed your eyes for a moment, imagining yourself as someone new, someone who was leaving the dirty, cramped world of your apartment behind and live like this every day. The thought made you smile.
But that smell, the scent of old clothes, garbage, and the stagnant air of your apartment, still clung to you. You could almost taste it on your tongue, but it was fading away with each passing second. Here, in the luxurious warmth of the bath, you felt different. Clean. Free.
You took another sip of champagne and sighed, your thoughts drifting, your body swaying with the ripples of the water. This moment felt so far removed from the cluttered, stale reality that awaits you.
After your bath, you padded back to the main area, more specifically on the closet, wrapping yourself in one of Melissa’s robes. The fabric was luxuriously soft against your skin, and its scent—cigarettes, expensive perfume, and something distinctly her–wrapped around you like a quiet, fleeting embrace. You buried your face in the collar, inhaling deeply, feeling a pang of longing settle heavy in your chest.
You could feel the weight of the silence in the room, the penthouse too quiet without the older woman’s presence. Unable to resist, you reached for your phone, fingers trembling slightly as you typed out a simple text.
Hey, are you okay? :(
It wasn’t long before the message buzzed back with a curt response.
Busy. Be home late.
You stared at the cold words for a moment, the disappointment settling in your gut, an unshakable knot of worry that twisted tighter with each passing second. You set the phone down, heading to her bedroom to lay on her expensive bed—not caring about going to the spare bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the hours dragged on.
Finally, the front door creaked open well after nightfall. You heard the soft thud of her heels against the marble floor and got up, the sound stopping abruptly at the doorway. The rhythm of her footsteps—always so sure, so in control—was different tonight. More tired.
When she appeared in the doorway, she looked… broken. Her green eyes were red, streaked with the traces of exhaustion and something deeper—something unspoken. Melissa Schemmenti’s usually perfect, poised demeanor was replaced with something that felt more fragile, more human. She didn’t say a word, just kicked off her heels with a quiet sigh and padded into the room.
Her movements were slow, almost languid, as she stripped off her clothes, shedding her ‘armor’ piece by piece until she was left in nothing but a simple white shirt, the fabric loose against her skin. She didn’t even bother to look at you as or question about you being there without permission as she climbed into the bed.
The moment her cigarette touched her red lips and the first drag of smoke slid from between them, you could feel the tension in the air. It was as though she was trying to calm something inside her, and yet, it only made her seem more distant.
Still, the urge to be near Melissa was undeniable. You crossed the room with quiet steps, your heart racing, and sat beside her on the bed. You didn’t speak, unsure what to say, what to do. The silence between you was thick, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. It felt… like a shared space of unvoiced understanding.
Melissa didn’t look at you, but after a long moment, her hand reached out—her fingers brushing against your wrist before wrapping gently around it. The gesture was so tender, so soft, that it sent a shiver down your soul.
Without saying anything, she pulled you down, guiding you to rest your head against her chest, the warmth of her body seeping into yours. You could hear her heartbeat, erratic at first, but gradually steadying as you settled into the crook of her shoulder. The heat of her skin, the softness of her shirt against your cheek—it was like being wrapped in a sanctuary.
The Italian redhead still didn’t speak, but her other hand came up to cradle your head, her fingers threading gently through your hair. You pressed a kiss to the side of her chest, right over her heart. The cigarette smoke lingered in the air, but it was no longer the thing that filled your senses. It was the warmth of her, the rise and fall of her breath, and the quiet, steady rhythm beneath your ear.
“Stay with me tonight. We talk more in the morning,” she whispered, barely above a breath. The words held so much weight, an invitation wrapped in vulnerability, as though she needed you more than she was willing to admit.
“Okay,” you nodded without hesitation, your lips brushing against her skin, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke all the things you couldn’t put into words.
Her arms tightened around you then, pulling you closer, her body against yours, as if she feared you might slip away if she let go. There was a tension in her, something coiled tight beneath the surface, but the longer you stayed there, the more it unraveled. She breathed in, deeply, and then out again, and you felt her begin to relax. The weight of her exhaustion settled deeper, her movements slowing until they stilled entirely.
You pressed another kiss to Melissa’s chest, lingering there, your lips warm against her skin, feeling the subtle shift of her breath as she started to drift. Her body melted into the bed, her grip on you loosening, and the space between you felt infinite—no longer heavy with the unspoken words of the night, but soft with the weight of shared silence.
Her breathing became slower, more even, and you knew that she was falling asleep, her body surrendering to the warmth and comfort of your touch.
You stayed there for a while, watching the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the steady rhythm that grounded you both. Your fingers lightly traced the outline of her shirt, brushing against her skin where it peeked out from the collar. Your lips found her chest again, a soft kiss that promised to stay as long as she needed.
And as she slept, curled around you, her warmth and presence surrounding you like a quiet haven, you knew you’d stay with her. No matter what happens.
#melissa schemmenti x reader#melissa schemmenti x y/n#melissa schemmenti x you#melissa schemmenti#lisa ann walter#abbott elementary#abbott elementary fanfiction
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Judging the Autobots by how likely they are to argue during dinner
Note: I am not basing this off any single continuity
Optimus Prime- 1/10. He’ll know better than to bring anything up on purpose. He gets a 1 because he’s still capable of bringing up something he views as harmless but can accidentally start a dumpster fire. Will try to shut down any arguments that happen
Elita 1- 4/10. She probably won’t start anything, but if something happens she WILL be fact checking everyone in the room. Her fact checking will inevitably put people on the defensive. A 4 because she WILL be sharing her thoughts
Ironhide- 6/10. He’ll promise Prime that he won’t start anything, but either forgets halfway through or immediately fans the flames when a topic gets brought up. Only a 6 because of the effort he’ll put in at the start
Prowl- 9/10. He just can’t help it. They’ll be eating and he’ll pull a “Did you do the thing I asked you to do?” Or a “What’s the plan for the next Decepticon raid?” And it’ll all spiral down from there. He might not even want or try to start an argument, his aura is just perfect for it. That being said, if he is trying, it’s a 11/10
Ratchet- 7/10. Very likely to complain and start something. It’s all downhill from there, and primus forbid he starts being spiteful when the argument gets heated. Becomes a 10/10 if the topic is healthcare related
Wheeljack- 3/10. His won’t start anything, but his takes will be so out of pocket for any given topic that he’ll incidentally calm everyone down. But don’t be fooled, he WILL be contributing. He becomes a 7/10 if the topic is related to science ethics
Jazz- 5/10. Might start something for fun, but only if the topic itself isn’t serious enough to cause a full on argument. Now if something does start he’ll have fun and joke around with whatever the topic is, but on average he’ll be trying to calm everyone down.
Red Alert- 11/10. God help us
Hot Rod- 8/10. Flame fanner extraordinaire. He’ll start shit for fun or keep it going for entertainment. Plays devil’s advocate. Things will end poorly once anyone tries talking over him.
Bumblebee- 3/10. He’ll do his best to calm everyone down, but he physically cannot stop himself from saying his opinion or taking sides. Ultra Magnus- 0/10. The fabled true neutral. Shit hits the fan and he excuses himself from the dinner. This could potentially end the argument then and there. He’s kinda like the omen of disaster, if him leaving doesn’t calm everyone down then it’s a sign things can only get worse
Ravage- 15/10 or 0/10, no in-between. She was sent to spy on the Autobots and is hiding in the vent. If the argument stays off Decepticons topics she will remain in hiding and enjoy the show. If it touches Decepticon topics and false information (like bad stereotypes or bringing up rumors) starts spreading she WILL be joining the conversation.
#If anyone disagrees or wants to add anyone go right ahead and share#transformers#Maccadam#optimus prime#elita 1#ironhide#prowl#ratchet#wheeljack#jazz#red alert#hot rod#bumblebee#ultra magnus#ravage
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Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 5 part 3
(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])
(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3])
when I first watched this I reallllllly hoped sharon was about to come back. but she wouldn't have ever called herself mrs. hart, that was an obvious giveaway
I know I'm repeating myself but - THIS MOTHERFUCKER
aw of course alice is immediately protective. that's so hot of her.
rio you'll have to stop being delighted at her antics, you're only enabling her at this point
agatha you fucker. and kudos for the excellent debra jo rupp impression, kathryn.
it's sweet and so sad that lilia fell for it. she consistently loses her seer abilities when dealing with the guilt for the people she couldn't save
jen is so done
rio is dismissive but also soft when she says this. and then she raises her eyebrows at agatha, as if dating her to deny it.
you can literally see her mask falling off.
billy shakes his head, disappointed. this is the first time he sees agatha fall so low
rio is like, come back here and face the music, my darling. she's really not letting her off the hook anymore
rio laughing in delight when death is mentioned, like yes! that's me! I'm here! just happy to be included!
agatha's panic is so overwhelming she's already at the point when she bolts. but there's no running this time. billy, like wanda, is merciless.
screaming so awful that lilia jumps back to episode 2 to escape it. meanwhile, rio.
(is jen wearing bunny slippers lolll)
yes, yes, it's hilarious that she had to spit out her retainer. but dear god evanora getting to jen first because she's the one agatha hurt the most.
now rio is casually modeling. she's making a great show of not caring about what agatha is going through
her coven turning her back on her. again.
sorry for always pointing out what rio is doing, but aubrey is killing me. now she's going oh well! you heard what the lady said! looks like I'm not the only one who thinks you're a piece of shit!
and despite it all rio (who, once again, is not allowed to kill a fly) is not doing what everybody else is doing. she's just being butthurt at agatha
the essays I could write about agatha's internalized misogyny
oh billy, no. you didn't ever realize all the shit you were stirring.
wow this particular line coming from jen really hurts
rio is trying to decide if she's into zombie agatha, lol. it's like she's always in a different show than everybody else. or rather, she's transcending genres, she's always doing her own thing because the Road doesn't affect her. while the others see real danger, she sees painted sets she can cut through with her knife.
but look what happens next. rio suddenly turns serious, and there's even a hint of panic in her voice. it's as if she realized this is not all tricks and smoke.
and finally, she fully comprehends how dangerous billy is. like, the staggering scale of it. chaos magic creates life in an artificial way that goes against everything rio stands for. wanda did not create an illusion of Vision, she made a real, alive vision out of thin air. billy himself was created the same way. and now he has effectively brought back evanora - not a pale imitation, a ghost Evanora functionally indistinguishable from the real thing, just as full of hatred and just as capable of hurting agatha. if it wasn't personal before!
you know, I didn't like this episode as much as the others on first watch, but I was wrong. there is a lot to unpack here. like many things on AAA, it's all in the subtleties.
#agatha all along#agatha deep dive#agatha harkness#rio vidal#jennifer kale#billy maximoff#alice wu gulliver#lilia calderu#character study
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iv. two inches - acta, non verba
chapter 3 | series masterlist | ao3 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: will the stars finally align so you can have who you want? a/n: hiii! sorry it's taken me a month to update 🥲 after watching gladiator ii, i knew i had to come back to these two asap. as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care 💖 warnings (spoilers): 18+, mdni. smut incoming. sexual tension galore. marcus jerks off to the thought of you. kissing. breast worship. mentions of past sexual trauma/marital abuse. the tip goes in. misogynistic views. infidelity. dialogue in italics means it’s spoken in gaelic (unless stated otherwise, i.e. latin). marcus is 49, ofc!reader (callie) is 26. w/c: ~8.4k. dividers by @\saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)
Niamh’s appearance had startled you, bringing you back to reality. For a second you had let yourself rejoice in the moment, in having Marcus—quite literally—on the palm of your hand. You had not intended on it going so far; on grabbing his manhood with resolution and pumping him with delight. His hardening dick had been so hard to ignore, you just gave in to temptation.
His initial reticence to not be touched was what had spurred you on. Marcus had attempted to reject your advances, although unsuccessfully. Him turning you down only encouraged you more, wanting to prove to him how badly he desired you, even if he tried to conceal his lust.
The sooner he realised he wanted you, the faster your plan would move along.
And by the Gods did he realise, his steely cock living proof of his appetite for you.
What you had not expected though was your own body’s reaction to Marcus’ undeniable desire. Your pussy had been gushing all along, each stroke on his girth unravelling something within you — especially when you hinted at the idea of slotting his cock between your lips to suckle on him. That simple thought sent a warm wave down your spine, your folds wetting almost instantly. In fact, you could still feel the dampness your thighs were harbouring for him.
And it was all part of your scheme, anyway. Eventually you planned on it happening — sooner rather than later, preferably. If you experienced a few orgasms thanks to him in the process… well, even better. The trash sex Iain had subjugated you to for a decade was the only thing you had known in the bedchamber — not once did you climax, yet many a times—if not always—you wailed in pain. Considering how your flesh had reacted to Marcus, perhaps the General would be useful in more than one way to you.
Biting the inside of your cheek, you glanced at him over your shoulder — a quick peek through your lashes, your teeth nibbling on your bottom lip.
You were riding together on his horse, his arms tight around your shoulders pinning you in place. His bulge was pressing against the soft curve of your ass — no wonder your pussy was still laced with slick.
Knowing Marcus was in hell right now, you wiggled your hips back, the plumpness of your buttocks nuzzling his swollen groin. The General swallowed a groan, his arms tighter around your shoulders, and you smirked to yourself, feeling his erection hard pressed against you. Marcus had found no relief since Naimh interrupted you both and was still at full mast. And understanding that caused your insides to melt.
Truth be told, you would have liked to finish what you started. Not for his sake, but for your own. Making him come in your mouth would have partially put out the hellfire that burnt inside you, wreaking havoc in your seam.
The animosity between Marcus and Maximus shimmered in the atmosphere.
The Commander had only brought his own horse and yours had deserted you, which meant that, if you were to come back, you had to choose between the two Romans. Maximus had gracefully offered you to ride with him, and the mischievous sideways look he shot in Marcus’ direction didn’t escape you.
But before you could accept or decline, Marcus had mumbled something under his breath before ordering you to ride with him. Maximus was delighted with the whole exchange, and you understood that the Commander was actually teasing the General.
A little possessiveness wouldn’t hurt. It meant you were stirring Marcus in the right direction — yours.
You ventured another sneaky look at Acacius, your curiosity concealed by the cover provided by the trees.
His lips pursed in frustration, but his eyes distilled exhaustion. Marcus had lost enough blood to put a man to sleep for a week, but here he was, standing and conscious, away from Dhuosnos’ realm.
You had made sure of that, not only by mending his wounds, but also by killing one of the attackers. That ambush had left a crawling suspicion in the back of your mind, bothering and nagging. There was something weird about it all but couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.
Maximus spoke, filling the silence and voicing your inkling.
“And you’re sure you didn’t recognise them, General?”
Marcus slowly shook his head again, his chest rubbing your back with the motion.
“No. They spoke that barb— uhm, the local language,” he muttered, briefly looking at you sideways, almost apologetic.
You knew how the original sentence was going to finish: that barbaric language. A reminder of who he was after all—your enemy. You shouldn’t lose sight of that, of the true purpose of your actions.
It felt wrong, how your lust awakened for none other than your enemy. Yes, you intended on bedding him, but your previous thought of getting Marcus to make you come now angered you. Your arousal felt like a betrayal to the memory of your family. You shouldn’t wet at the idea of fucking him — if anything, you should feel disgusted of your own reaction.
Straightening your back, you just rolled your eyes with disdain, letting him know of your annoyance.
“I’ll ask around, see what I can find out,” Maximus thought out loud, then glanced at you through the darkness. “Did you recognise any of them? Their accent?”
Slowly shaking your head, you grasped the saddle’s horn.
“No, I didn’t. I’m not sure they were from around here,” you explained, wondering if you were saying too much.
They hadn’t recognised you, which showed they were not your clansmen. But they were pretending to be.
You went quiet, your frown deepening.
“What’s bothering you, my lady?” Marcus’ breath caressed your ear, your skin bristling instantly.
“Nothing,” you replied quickly.
Too quickly.
“I’m sorry you had to defend yourself,” he whispered, his husky voice low so only you could hear him. “I should have paid more attention. I won’t let it happen again.”
Suddenly you realised he thought this was your first time killing someone. Little did he know, you probably had reaped as many souls as he had. You were no stranger to the battlefield — your father had taught all his children how to wield a sword, how to take a life. You learnt how to detach your soul from your body whenever someone’s life was cut short in order to preserve part of your humanity. It was the only way you could live with yourself, because it didn’t matter if they deserved it or not, it still gnawed at your conscience at night.
Marcus, on the contrary, seemed to be oblivious to how much pain his killing had caused. Had caused you.
Another reminder.
But then you realised what he had said. He wouldn’t let it happen again — a fissure in his impassiveness. Was he starting to care about you?
So you played on his protectiveness, on his words. Pouting lips, doe eyes and all, you nodded.
“I… I just wanted to protect you, Dominus. I was afraid he would hurt you,” you mumbled back, faking your fear for him.
The decade with Iain was paying off after all. To survive by your late husband’s side, you had to master the ability of make-believe, to pretend you were feeling ways you truly weren’t — afraid, amused, sad, happy, distraught, content. You had acquired the skills to feign a whole range of emotions, and this would be useful with the General.
He bought it.
“Don’t worry about me, Callie,” his voice was but a whisper, but that wasn’t what distracted you.
His broad—massive actually—right hand had landed on your right knee, squeezing it lightly, as if to soothe you; your suffering for having killed a man. His touch was light and brief, but long enough to leave goosebumps in his wake.
You were not sure which one of you were more taken aback — him because of his sudden show of worry, or you because of how that had made you feel.
“But I appreciate what you did back there,” he quickly added, clearing his throat, both of his hands gripping the leather reins.
“I would do it all over again, Dux Meus. For you.”
Perhaps you were buying it too.
Nay, can’t be.
The whole ride back to Inbhir Nis castle was literal torture. A tempting nymph on his lap, warm and inviting, was the last thing Marcus needed to worry about.
But instead of the last, you had become the first on a never-ending list of concerns. Curbing his desire for you had been a herculean task, one he did not accomplish. Because as soon as the door to his chambers closed behind him, he stripped himself of all his clothing.
The moment the jail of his armour was gone, freed from its heaviness and tight grip, Marcus sighed, just finding a miniscule relief.
The erection that you provoked him was as hard as a couple of hours ago, shaft throbbing against his happy trail. It had been at least two hours since you had worked him to this state of unsatisfied lewdness and now it was just damn uncomfortable to be at full mast.
A warm bath was awaiting him, and Marcus only took a second to dive in. The hot, milky water was welcoming, soothing his strained muscles. There were herbs floating around — rosemary, lavender and thyme, at least the ones his sense of smell recognised.
A scent that had hit him before, when he encountered you getting out of the garderobe a few weeks ago. Why did that aroma remind him of you? Why would you just not leave his mind? This thought of you lingering was dangerous, distracting. But so fucking alluring too — there was something about you, the mischievous aura you exuded, that reeled Marcus in.
It was intoxicating, really. No, you were intoxicating. And he just wanted to drown in it, in you.
Marcus grunted in frustration, one hand sinking under the water to find his heavy balls and massage them gently. His head tilted back, resting on the edge of the wooden bathtub, and his eyes squeezed shut when his imagination took him back to the moment you wielded his cock.
Now that the haze of his fainting had lifted, he should have shown himself some self-restraint to stop whatever this was. But he couldn’t, the memory of your tight grip too unravelling, too compelling.
So, in the privacy and safety of his bedchamber, he gave in to temptation. A last squeeze on his full testicles and then he was pumping his thudding dick to the thought of you doing exactly the same. His hand was your hand, and that was everything Marcus needed.
His thumb pressed on the slit, just as you had done. Then the bobbing of his hand picked up a faster rhythm, his free hand drifting down to hold his balls again, and Marcus jerked himself off while he envisaged you sealing your lips around his plump head, just as you had teased.
That was his undoing — you suckling on him, milking him dry with your mouth. Marcus could envision it perfectly: on your fours between his hairy, thick thighs, hand twisting on the base of his shaft while you sucked in his mushroom head, dick pulsing hard for you. And you glancing up at him with those green orbs — full, hypnotising eye contact, almost too intimate.
A few more strokes on his cock, imagination running wild, and he finally came. His breathing hitched and accelerated, becoming irregular, as his fist clutched harder around his girth. Spurts of white, tacky robes left his slit, his glans just peeking out of the water, and landed on his chest.
It took Marcus a couple of minutes to come down from his high. This was a new low for him, having to masturbate himself to the thought of someone because he was too horny to let it go. Too proud to ask you to finish what you had started. Too loyal to his cheating wife.
The last thought annoyed him, not wanting to think about Livia at this precise moment. He resented her, probably more than what he should. But her betrayal stung like fire licking on his skin, their holy matrimony reduced to a farce. For all he knew, he did not have any children of his own blood now. Marcus loved them equally though, but it still gnawed at him that he had been raising the children of another man unknowingly.
The life he had carefully built seemed to have crush down to its foundations. Marcus truly did not know what to expect upon his return. He had left abruptly, called by the Emperor and Agricola, with no time to discuss his family life with his wife. He didn’t think he could just go back to normal, not after what had emerged.
Being out here in the wild Caledonia, Marcus felt his life on hold, postponing the inevitable. But he couldn’t think about that now, not when he had so many tasks ahead of him.
Absentmindedly, Marcus cupped some water and washed the cum off his chest, watching it swirl around in the tub.
A knock, then the creak of the door as it opened.
His heart jumped and he quickly sat back up in the bathtub, water splashing as he did. He had forgotten to put on the latch.
He hoped to hell it was Atticus, at least.
“Dux Meus?”
Wrong, fucking wrong.
Had he thought of you so hard that he had willed your presence?
Your profile peeked through the crack in the doorframe.
“Can I come in, General?”
Your ask was a mere formality, because before he could say anything, you had already entered the room and closed the door behind you.
Marcus’ back straightened, his relaxed muscles tautening again in your presence. Could he have no moment of respite, when he would not be haunted by bewildering scents and suggestive lips?
For a brief second, Marcus watched you look around, taking in the details of the room. A big, four poster bed with translucent veils hanging from every side; the matching oak furniture; the vivid, colourful tapestries on the bare stone walls telling stories he never heard of; a wonky standing shelf with a small library, books he had flicked through at candlelight before bed; the rudimentary chimney where a fire burnt and crackled.
Because even in spring, the thick walls of the castle kept a cool atmosphere inside. The pyre warmed up the room, but Marcus thought the temperature shot up the moment you stepped closer to where he was.
“What are you doing here?” his question sounded almost accusatory, his fingers gripping the edges of the tub, knuckles whitening.
His wary demeanour didn’t put you off, light feet closing the distance with a smirk.
As you approached, Marcus couldn’t help but marvel at the sight of you. Your green skirt flowed around you, hugging your voluptuous hourglass figure in all the right places. Your red hair framed your delicate features, freckles dotted around your nose and cheeks on your moonlight skin. Cherry lips as plump as figs, reddened and curled up. Some flickering green eyes as fiery as the orange sparks in the flue stared at him with unknown intent. A marble neck that led the path to the esplanade of your collarbone, and then, right underneath…
His mouth watered, and his cock inevitably pulsed again. Your full breasts almost spilt over the low squared neckline of your dress, like sunny hills welcoming him home. Pebbled nipples greeting him. A deep cleavage so inviting, he could imagine pumping himself in between them, his glans just peeking through and kissing the center of your clavicle.
Another twitch in his groin made him steel himself and drawing a deep breath in to calm himself.
You crouched down, squatting right beside the bathtub, and placed one soft hand over his.
“I just wanted to make sure you were alright, Dux Meus. That your wounds were not bleeding, and the stitches were holding up,” the concern tinting your voice felt real to him.
Marcus cleared his throat, tense.
“They’re all fine. My healer certainly knew what she was going,” he conceded, then remembered. “Except for the blunt tip of the needle. That I did not appreciate.”
You laughed and patted his hand a few times in jest.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure an acclaimed General like yourself can withstand a little bit of pain, Dominus,” you joked, long eyelashes batting at him. “But for that I am sorry, I had to work with what Naimh had at hand.”
“Thank you. For saving my life twice,” he whispered, almost solemnly. “I am indebted to you, Callie.”
You waved a hand to dismiss his gratitude, gifting him a crooked smile that quickly reached your eyes.
“You killed two men. I think we are even, Dux Meus,” you muttered back, a low, wicked husk that knocked him off his senses momentarily.
With the smile still painted on your round lips, your eyes slowly drifted down his chest. The milky water was murky enough so you wouldn’t see through it, wouldn’t see how hard he was getting again.
And then you bit and licked your lips, the grin almost fading as a darker, sensual expression transformed your face — a mesmerising gesture that forced Marcus to follow your sight. Then he saw what had caught your attention: his cum floating around, gathering around the herbs that scented the now lukewarm water.
A moment of silence stretched between you, his heart racing up as your gaze lingered on the water, as if you were hoping for his erection to peep its head out above it.
Your fingers reached down into the water; palm cupped to trap some of his wasted seed. It filtered through your fingers until it all fell back into the bath water. Swirling your fingers around, you grabbed a tiny bunch of rosemary, dragging it across the water until the small leaves caressed the exposed skin of his chest.
The summit of your tongue licking your bottom lip as your eyes locked intimately.
So fucking suggestive, Marcus’ breath hitched, close to losing his mind.
“Marcus,” you cooed, your wet fingers dropping the rosemary and lifting up.
Your hand slid to his, wrapping around his wrist, a warm touch that spiked his heart rate.
A thunder crawled under his skin the moment you guided his hand over to your bosom. You squeezed his hand, smoothing it over your lush left breast. He couldn’t help but cradle it, feeling the taut nipple grazing the thin fabric, rubbing his palm.
“Please,” you almost sobbed, moving his hand in circles over your boob.
To hell with everything. He shouldn’t let himself be distracted by the pleasures of the flesh during such an important campaign, but Marcus wanted you so badly — his new erection living proof of the desire that burnt for you.
Just one time, to satiate the caprice, and then he could go back to his duties.
Your mouth was agape, beckoning like a siren. And as he was about to relinquish to the temptation you offered, leaning forward, another knock on the door swept the moment away.
“Dominus, Commander Maximus necessitates your presence immediately,” Atticus forewarned him before his steps faded in the distance of the hallway.
Perhaps you despised Atticus more than you hated Marcus, and that was a feat to beat.
The universe was intent on your plan not taking form at all, otherwise you could not explain all these fucking interruptions. Another person might have taken the hint, but not you. Stubborn as a mule, you would not stop at anything — Marcus would fall in your tangled web, whatever the cost.
You only needed to remember to keep a cool head. Among the hatred, pleasure shimmered, and it certainly bothered you. How your body had a mind of its own and responded to his obvious desire, damp fold hidden away between your thighs.
It’s just an act, you reminded yourself.
But as much as you tried to convince yourself, your drenched pussy agreed to disagree.
Huffing and puffing, you went down the spiral staircase and sauntered towards the kitchens. You were in dire need of some light-hearted jest, and the old cook would help take your mind off things with his banter.
Cormag wasn’t there, just Isla and Brighid shuffling around the hearth, keeping it alive. The smoky smell filled the room, almost suffocating, and you coughed.
“That chimney is close to getting clogged,” you managed to say, clearing your throat. “Should put the fire out and get one of the helping lads to go in there and clean it out.”
Isla turned around, her head bowing down as a quick curtsy. They all really needed to stop doing that, even when no Romans were around.
“We can’t do that yet, mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, she replied, her hands busy kneading the flour on the counter. “Apparently there is a feast to be had tomorrow, one of the Romans’ birthdays. We’ve been asked to start the preparations for it, so will have to pull an all-nighter…”
Brighid voiced her discontent, crouched down by the fire, feeding it some logs.
“I don’t understand why we are wasting so much food on them. My family’s starving, we barely have any bread left, and these cu…” she quickly looked at you, embarrassed, but you nodded, encouraging, “these cunts eat like gluttons. Last night you were not here, my lady, but some of them even started throwing the food around at one another. Disgraceful.”
“Aye,” Isla agreed. “I had to pick up some unspoilt veggies off the floor. My nan has not had anything to eat for the last two days, she was worried that my siblings and I wouldn’t have enough to eat.”
Their struggles broke your heart. Not only because they were your clan, but because of the injustice of it all. No person should go to bed hungry, and these undesirable guests were forcing people to go without a meal.
You knew both of the maids, their families. Brighid’s son was three and had started to talk; her husband had returned with you from Raedykes and now was an amputee, trying to find a job to provide for his family. Isla’s parents had perished during the battle of Mons Graupius too, serving your father till their final days.
It was frustrating, but it was even more infuriating. Your hands were tied, and you could not wait to break free of your tethers. You looked forward to the moment this all would be over, that you could face a defeated Marcus Acacius and impart upon him the same misfortune he and his people left in their wake.
You stayed with them a little longer, helping out where they needed you to. A couple of hours later, tired and in need of your niece and nephew’s hug, you were flying by the hallways of the keep, heading back to your aunt Bonnie’s crannog, when male voices stopped you in your tracks.
The door to the great hall was ajar, Maximus’ raspy tone filtering through.
“Cassius’ henchman and some of his men went back to the spot where you were attacked. There were patches of blood on the grass, but the bodies were gone,” the Commander husked. “I find it weird, honestly.”
“So do I,” Marcus agreed. “I didn’t want to say it before, but one of them spoke in Latin to me. His accent was… definitely Roman.”
“That makes no sense,” Maximus replied, their voices clearer now. “What did he say to you?”
“Just ‘Die, bastard’. That was all, but I could tell he was fluent.”
“Leave it to me, I’ll see what I can find out.”
Heavy steps approached, and you knew they were close.
Picking up your skirt, you ran down the corridor, mixing with the shadows until darkness wrapped around you.
“What were you fucking thinking, Callie? You could’ve gotten killed!”
Torcall was not impressed with your outing, to say the least.
You rolled your eyes at him, arms folded. You shouldn’t have explained why you had been missing for so many hours, but you were not one to lie to your allies. Especially if they were family.
“I didn’t have a choice, Torcall. He saw me leaving and decided to accompany me. What should I have done? Tell him his gallantry was no longer needed because I decided not to go? That would have been so suspicious,” you reasoned, your own anger flaring. “And I was in no real danger, anyway. They were Caledonians.”
You downplayed that on purpose. They were Caledonians, aye, but they were really intent on killing you. You were still ruminating on that detail.
“And you killed one of them. For him. To protect the fucking General of Rome,” Torcall barked, teeth clenching. “Why didn’t you let them finish him? All of our problems would be over.”
His accusation, although deserved, enraged you. Even more so because you had thought exactly the same thing, and still decided to defend him.
“You’re so short-sighted, seriously. If I did, his entire army would have come hunt me down, ye eejit (idiot)!” You stood up, the legs of the chair screeching against the cobblestone. “Half of the castle saw us leaving together, I would’ve been the first one they suspected. And you know they tend to kill first and ask questions later.”
Torcall scoffed, fury distorting his features. But then a change of demeanour: he got up too and closed the distance between you two. For a moment he doubted, and then his arms wrapped around you, hugging you close to his chest.
The sudden proximity made you feel weird. Uncomfortable.
“I was just worried for you, Callie,” Torcall mumbled, his breath fanning over your ear. He leaned back, his hands lingering on your shoulders. “You’re like family to me. To my children.”
The intensity his eyes distilled caught you off guard. They were soft and pleading now, all his anger forgotten. And then they drifted down, landing on your mouth.
The whole atmosphere shifted, your heart beating wildly. Surely this all felt wrong to the both of you.
“You are family, Torcall,” you remarked. “You’re my sister’s husband, that’s actual family, not ‘like’ family.”
Your words carried meaning, and more than meaning — a subtle warning. A reminder too, of who he was and who you were to him. He shouldn’t forget himself. Torcall was your brother-in-law, and although pain had brought you closer these past weeks, it meant nothing more than that.
At least to you.
Torcall cleared his throat, his arms falling slack to his sides.
“Aye, I guess we are,” he sighed, pinched the bridge of his perfectly straight nose, and sat back down on the chair. “So, were they our brethren? You said they were Caledonians.”
You were relieved at the change of subject, the tension between you fading.
Nodding, you sat too.
“Aye, although their accent was not really from around here. But Acacius seemed to think they were Romans,” you added, your fingers drumming on the wooden table between you. “Think he’s wrong though, you can’t fake an accent like ours so easily. Do you reckon it’s got something to do with the attempt on the General’s life a few days ago?”
Torcall seemed to take a moment, contemplating his answer before he spoke. His eyes flickered for a second, his pupils a well full of doubts, something you thought odd.
“I don’t think so. They were just lads, highly doubt they could pull something like that off,” he commented, almost cautiously.
You frowned, eyes slightly squinting.
“They could be part of a larger group. You said so yourself, people don’t listen to reason when they feel threatened. Perhaps some of them have decided to take justice into their own hands. I never got a chance to speak to my cousins yesterday—”
“I did,” Torcall cut you off.
The wrinkles between your brows deepened.
“You did? You went to Bun Craobh?”
“Aye, had some errands to run,” he didn’t add any further explanation to that. “Ran into them and told them about your plan when I realised you hadn’t spoken to them yet.”
“That wasn’t for you to do, Torcall,” you replied, mildly infuriated at him for taking the liberty to do so. “What the hell did you tell them?”
“Nothing in too much detail, mainly because they’d try to talk you out of it the same way I did,” there was a note of reproach in his voice, one you decidedly ignored. “Just that you were planning on spying on the General to get details of their next steps.”
How you got to Marcus was none of his fucking business. Now you questioned whether you should have shared that information with Torcall or not, if he was going to fucking judge you at every step of the way. What you did and how you got what you wanted was entirely up to you. You hadn’t broken free from Iain to fall under the controlling hands of another man.
“Tiugainn (come on), Callie. I just told them enough so the word would spread that Murdoch’s only living daughter is planning on fighting back. Give the people a reason to hope,” he pleaded, sensing your anger.
“Aye, but next time, ask me. I don’t appreciate you bypassing me in these matters, not when I’ve got enough enemies at my doorstep.”
Marcus did not like all this unwanted attention. He was adamant this had been one of Maximus’ jokes, just to get on his nerves.
The General did not like celebrating his birthday. In fact, hated it. His wife would throw lavish parties back at home, wasting gold on unnecessary decorations and gifts — Livia would use any excuse to show off how full their vault was. Having made himself from nothing, Marcus understood how hard he had to work for each and every denarius to his name.
His most trusted Commander knew this and ignored it completely. He had mobilised the people of the castle to prepare a feast, food filling tables and wine spilling out of goblets in celebration. A fire had been lit in the big chimney presiding the great hall, white flower arrangements hung from the stone walls. There was even music being played in the background, the soft sounds of the lyre accompanied by a female voice who sang in Latin and praised all his conquests.
And what angered him most: there was a good handful of meretrices (prostitutes) lingering around. Most of them were local freedwomen, but others were slaves that Agricola’s men had brought with them. Marcus had not allowed his own army to bring any woman into this new land, needing them focused on the task ahead. Agricola was, on the other hand, very lenient in that respect — encouraging almost.
“How are you this beautiful afternoon, Dominus?” A sensual hum whispered in his ear tightened his muscles uncomfortably.
Looking over his shoulder, Marcus saw the blonde woman who had been eyeing him for a while. She was wearing a white toga, obviously one of the Roman slaves brought from overseas.
Unrequited, she sat on his lap, her round butt cheeks kneading his soft bulge, while one of her arms wrapped around his neck.
“Would you like a taste?” she asked with a bright smile, bringing a cup to his lips.
Marcus shook his head no, one hand stopping the chalice from getting closer.
“No, thank you. And I rather be left alone,” he told the prostitute, rejecting her advances flatly.
She just laughed, putting the goblet back down on the table. Then she leaned forward, her lips brushing the artery on his neck.
“Oh, we don’t really need to play this game, Master,” she whispered in his ear.
Unbothered by the suggestive talk and her pressing onto his lap, Marcus swept the great hall, a burning sensation in his chest commending him to.
Your eyes locked through the observing crowd. The green orbs that stared him down were filled with playfulness. Suddenly, that sensual wickedness transformed into brief anger, then disappointment.
It took Marcus a second to understand why you seemed upset. He had forgotten about the prostitute sitting on his lap, talking his ear off.
You stiffed, chin lifted up with disdain, and turned around with a wooden jug on your hands.
Fuck. Wait, no. It’s not what it seems, he wanted to say.
Marcus tried to get up, almost throwing the woman to the ground in his haste to get to you.
“I won’t require your services,” he politely declined when she looked at him in surprise.
“Oh…” her disappointment was visible, but it wasn’t the one he cared to soothe.
“Don’t worry, love, come here. The General seems in a hurry to leave. Some important matters, I wager,” Maximus extended his arm towards the blonde woman, inviting her onto his lap.
The sneering look Marcus threw Maximus’ way did not go unnoticed, his Commander laughing it off.
Ignoring him, he quickly walked off the dais, following your trail among the crowd. Your fiery red hair was like a beacon, one he followed to the main doors. A second later he was in the hallway and looked around, just in time to see you disappearing into the garderobe storing the wine.
Why he was following you, he was not sure. Why he needed to put your mind at ease, he was not sure either. All he knew was that the crushed expression you had given him stirred something within him.
In a few strides, he was right behind you, his hand holding open the wooden door to the garderobe.
“Callie,” he called you, your name rolling easily off his tongue, like a trained whisper.
Annoyed didn’t cut it, disappointed didn’t either. You were pissed. There you were, breaking your back to get Marcus to yield to you, for a prostitute to easily find comfort on his lap.
The man behind the façade was unknown to you, but you hadn’t taken him for someone who enjoyed his free time in the whorehouse. Judging by how his hand cupped the small of her back and how the blonde was basically licking his neck, you were mistaken.
You were not jealous though. Just pissed, that was it.
Mumbling to yourself, you had walked out of the great hall to refill the empty jug with his favourite wine, not wanting to see such a spectacle unfolding in front of you. The burning sensation in the pit of your stomach would eventually fade, you were sure.
Although the door behind you was open, the inside of the garderobe was pitch-black. Patting blindly in the dark, you found the open barrel.
As you were about to turn the iron tap on, the sound of your name made you jump on the spot. Your pulse accelerated and the jug fell from your hands, clattering on the stone floor. You didn’t need to look to know who it was — considering how your skin bristled and warmth pooled low in your tummy, you already knew.
“Fuck, Marcus!” you exclaimed when you turned around to look at him.
Your heart rate spiked again, for a very different reason this time.
He had followed you; he had left the prostitute behind to come look for you. That had to mean something. Perhaps you had a tighter grip on him than what you originally thought.
And that pleased you immensely, to your dismay. The butterflies in your belly should be fucking dead, not fluttering their wings in excitement. Your heart kept on pounding against your ribcage, even harder when Marcus entered the tiny room and swung the door behind him, leaving it ajar.
A sliver of light flooded in through the crack, just enough so you could make out his features and the hard lines of his body.
Suddenly, the garderobe felt extremely small with him inside too.
“It’s not what it seems. I wasn’t—”
“You owe me no explanation, Acacius. What you do or you don’t do, it’s not my business,” you cut him off with the right amount of bitter venom distilling from your tongue.
The General pursed his lips in frustration. A dose of his own medicine wouldn’t hurt him.
“It’s not like I’m waiting around for you to make up your mind,” you added, lying through your teeth.
But you were such a good liar, Marcus was none the wiser. He believed every word. His nostrils flared and his hands tightened into fists on his sides.
“What do you mean?” his raspy voice came out in a threat.
You cocked a brow, proud chin up.
“You know what I mean. Or do you need me to draw it down for you, so you understand?”
The provocation was, most probably, the last straw for him. Marcus almost snarled at you as he closed the distance. He grabbed both of your wrists with his thick fingers, yanked at them and pushed you into his chest.
The sudden display of anger took you by surprise. A pleasant surprise, especially when you noticed his swollen bulge pressing on your belly. Saliva pooled in your cheeks and slick in your pussy.
“I know that’s not true. You wouldn’t be so desperate—”
“I am desperate?” you laughed, the shaking of your tummy stroking the lump in his white toga. “You can fool yourself, Marcus, but don’t try to fool me.”
Marcus stiffened, pulling your wrists down and around his waist as his head bowed down to you, his lips ghosting over yours.
He was about to kiss you.
“You’ll be missed on the dais. I’m sure that blonde is looking for you. Is she the reason you are so hard right now?” you grumbled, your best attempt to get on the last of his nerves.
“She can go to hell. I want you,” he groaned, his mouth brushing yours. Your pussy gushing some more. “You are the reason why I can’t get it down.”
Marcus didn’t wait for your sneering reply — his mouth crushed yours, teeth colliding. The tip of his tongue pulled your teeth apart and he laid waste to your mouth. The stroke of his tongue on yours tasted sweet, warm. It swirled around in your cavity, looking for a crack in your determination to remain impassible.
But you were only human. You had wanted this since the moment you came up with your plan to destroy the General — you would never admit it out loud though.
So, you gave in, your tongue responding to his with little whimpers as your hands laced together on the small of his back to push him into you, feeling his erection through the fabric. One you knew how big and curved and thick it was. One you wanted to know the feel of in the most intimate way possible.
Marcus moaned in your mouth, and you breathed him in, bewildered by his taste and the herby smell his skin gave off. Your throat let go of a similar quiet wail, as you stumbled back, your back meeting the cold wall behind.
The General kissed you fiercely, the same way he waged war upon his enemies — relentless. His hips grinded against yours, rubbing his bulge on you to get off while his lips abandoned your mouth to lick the marble column of your neck. He trailed the path of your vein, leaving wet kisses on his way down.
Then he brushed the point where your left breast swelled, and the tip of his tongue skidded through your skin until it found the valley of your boobs. He licked between them, both of his hands cupping them up.
“I need to see them,” he whispered, your skin bristling instantly as his thumbs travelled up and rubbed the visible nipples. “Been dreaming about them since I met you. Can I?”
You did not expect him asking for permission, not when you assumed that, as the conqueror he was, he only took with no consideration.
Nodding with half-lidded eyes, surrendered to your own desire, you let him pull the neck of your dress down until both of your breasts were spilling over the hem.
“Good Gods, you are beautiful”, he muttered, marvelled at the sight of your boobs. His thumb brushed your taut left nipple, and you shivered. “They are perfect, columba (dove). So round and so full and so—” Crouched down over you, Marcus briefly licked it. “So fucking tasty.”
With no warning, his warm lips sealed around the tight button, and you couldn’t help yourself but moan, your hands burying in the nape of his neck and lightly pulling from his silvery curls. Marcus sucked it in, his tongue twirling around the nub. Then the caress of his wet muscle was replaced by his teeth lightly biting on your nipple and tugging.
Perhaps the sweet scent of the wine filling up the garderobe messed with your senses, with how you perceived the intensity of it all, of him.
You sobbed loudly, your cunt drenching and beating in response. Pressing your knees together, you wondered if this was how it was meant to be — how sex should feel every time. Warm, desperate, slick, needy. Because if this was it, if this was how it was supposed to be, you could never have enough.
A rush of wet warmth dripped onto your woollen loincloth, your lower belly inundated with a coiling feeling unknown to you — like a tense bow ready to fly an arrow.
Marcus’ right thumb found your unattended nipple, stroking it slowly as his devilish mouth devoured your other boob like a man starved. His tongue flicked and rippled against the tiny lump between his lips while his hips rutted into you, your dress and his toga impeding the contact you most craved.
“By Mars I swear you’re so fucking perfect,” he managed to say between licks before moving on to your other tit.
The General repeated the same process again and your legs trembled with elation. Tilting your face up, you massaged his scalp, soft moans slipping from your plump lips. His smothering tongue was so persuasive, lapping at you with precision, your mind went numb with pleasure. The coil in your belly tightened harshly, so much so you had to bite down your bottom lip to stop yourself from screaming his name.
Your damp pussy pulsated, another wave of slick wetting the pearly skin between your inner thighs.
“Marcus, oh, God,” you whispered, short of breath — your heart pounding in your ear drums, deafening.
“Let go for me. Come for me, sweetheart,” Marcus whispered before attacking your nipples again, one with his mouth and the other with his thumb.
His clothed cock rubbing low, right between your thighs. The roughness of your underwear abrasing your begging, writhing clit.
You couldn’t take it anymore. The overwhelming sensation between your legs was too much — your leaking cunt wanting to find release. And it did: the coil inside you finally snapped, warmth and dew soaking you. All your limbs went slack as you felt the last wave of your climax washing over you.
Then absolute peace, your brain numb with your first experience of an orgasm. Now you understood what other women whispered about when the men were away.
Speechless, you laid back against the wall as Marcus towered over you, a satisfied grin curling his lips.
“You’ve done so well for me,” his praise fell like sugary water from his lips, the palms of his hands cradling your face as he pressed his erection against you.
His tongue flicked between your lips, coaxing them apart, and you obliged. A soft, almost puritanical, kiss pressed on your mouth before his lingered to your cheek, then your ear.
“Callie, please, I need to fuck you,” the inflection on the word need made you whimper.
Unable to still find the words, feeling all mushy and heavenly, you nodded.
The sigh of relief that bubbled up Marcus’ chest would have made you laugh in other circumstances. But there was nothing laughable about this, about two people chasing the highest of highs.
“Praise be to the Gods,” he prayed at your acceptance, his broad hands landing on your hips to turn you around.
The cold stone wall greeted your nipples, the General pinning you against the wall with your back leaned on his hard chest. Tilting your hips back, your ass sweetly nuzzled his swollen groin, then his hands rode up the skirt of your dress, exposing your loincloths.
You gasped when Marcus pushed your underwear down to your knees slowly, his fingertips dragging along your velvety skin.
“I just know you’re gonna take me so well, mel (honey),” he purred in your ear, cupping your naked buttocks. “So, so well.”
The side of his hand slid across the fold between your ass cheeks until it found the dampness you harboured for him.
Marcus groaned in your ear, and you reciprocated, his touch so welcomed your clit twitched in response.
“Marcus, please,” you implored, eyes shut and mouth agape.
“I know, mel, I know.”
His clothes rustled behind you and knew he was naked from the waist down. Tempted, you looked over your shoulder just to confirm your suspicion, and your knees almost gave way. Pearls of precum topped the plump head of his throbbing cock, his hand holding it from the base.
As beautiful and tempting as last night, his dick twitched in need. Marcus stroked himself in a feeble attempt to calm himself. Leaned towards you, his lips nipping the crook of your neck, his beard tickling your sensitive skin, and you whined in desperation.
Guiding his thudding cock between your thighs, you felt it drag across your seeping furrow, wetting himself with your slick. The warm touch of his shaft along your puffy lips made you moan uncontrollably, back arched and your butt pressing onto his lower tummy.
“Shh, shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m going to feed it to you slowly,” he husked, voice raspy with want.
You wept some more, his cock sliding through your seam easily and freely. His mushroom head hitched on your clit, and then slipped back down to your entrance, catching too. Marcus pushed in ever so slightly, just half an inch, and your head tilted back, resting on his shoulder.
Another half an inch and then you felt it: the trained reaction of your inner walls clutching, not wanting to let him in. Years of abuse had taught your body to put up a fight, to squeeze your hole shut so your late husband wouldn’t hurt you.
You fought with yourself, asking your pussy to let Marcus in, as he intruded another inch.
He felt your hesitation, your inner struggle.
“Relax, columba, you’re too tight,” he groaned behind you, one hand sliding across your hip to your belly and diving between your thighs. Two of his thick fingers caressed your clit, the flick of them over your bundle of nerves softening your body. “That’s it, sweetheart, relax. I got you.”
Your inner walls loosened up ever so slightly as Marcus rocked his hips back and forth behind you, fucking you with just his tip. Easing his way in, helping you calm down as only his throbbing, leaking head pumped in and out of you. He was only feeding you a couple of inches, your pussy hugging him extremely tight as he did.
“Too damn tight,” he whispered, and you knew he was grasping for control, the pulsing of his cock rhythmic with the gentle petting of his fingers on your clit.
“Marcus, I can’t—”
Perhaps the trauma your husband had inflicted upon you reached further down than you thought. What a fucking moment to realise that.
“Shhh, it’s fine, it’s okay, mel. I’m more than happy with just the tip for now,” he reassured you, soothing your nerves. “Anything you give me willingly, I’ll take.”
True to his word, Marcus kept on fucking you with just the first two inches of his thrumming dick while his fingers worked your clit with expertise. Not too long after, your felt that burning, coiling sensation converging in your swollen pussy again, your cunt smothering Marcus’ tip even more.
“Oh, fuck, melculum (my little honey)… Come for me again, yes, come all over me,” he moaned in your ear.
At his command, you let go. A rush of liquid fire lapped at your pussy, then leaked over Marcus’ erection as you shrieked. Gathering your ridden-up skirt around your waist, Marcus wrapped one of his strong arms around you to keep you standing on your feet, rutting into to shallowly so he wouldn’t feed you more than two inches.
His cock pulsed hard in your entrance, a gruffy groan rumbling in his chest, almost tearing his throat apart. Marcus pulled back quickly, leaving you empty, and the tip of his cock rested on your left buttock as he jerked off.
A minute later, his warm white seed sticked to the skin of your round globe, dripping to the floor when it got to the cliff of your ass cheek.
Marcus kissed the back of your neck, both of you breathless and sweaty.
The first time you both found relief, together.
“You’ve done so well, mel,” he lauded you again, pulling your loincloth up.
You felt exhilarated, high and fucked out. Numb and spent. Satisfied.
You hoped he was too. He hadn’t been able to bury himself deep down in you, but you hoped you had been enough.
All the bravado you had showed him so far faded, a carefully built façade, and you felt slightly insecure with what had just happened.
“Marcus, I—”
Suddenly, the door to the garderobe swung open.
Marcus reacted quickly, pressing you against the wall some more and his hand placed against the wall, his arm blocking your face from the sight of the unwanted guest. His entire body along with the darkness shielded you from being recognised.
“Oh, Ò DHÌOL (oh my god)! Tha mi duilich (I’m sorry), General, tha mi cho duilich! (I’m so sorry),” you identified Brighid’s panicky voice and even though you couldn’t see her, you knew she blushed.
Then the door slammed shut.
Both of you started laughing.
@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey
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@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel
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