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kneelingshadowsalome · 10 months ago

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Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Theseus is dead. You’re escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in what’s between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete… (12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Part 1 here.) Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.

The candle goes out before you reach the surface.

To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, it’s only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly.

You’re not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldn’t be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And you’re not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... You’re only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.

And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, it’s difficult to predict the Bull’s moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasn’t lived in the real world among people; he doesn’t know what’s right or wrong and what’s expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...

Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then what’s the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.

So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope.

He doesn’t say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.

And it’s not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. There’s still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but you’re too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.

The Bull Man doesn’t object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night… You can’t tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and there’s no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldn’t do anything with them without a flint.

The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. You’re not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just don’t know if it’s a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you – out of lust or exertion, you don’t even know. Someone who wasn’t a maiden probably could tell… At times, you curse the fact that there hasn’t been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind.

The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because there’s simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.

You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo… It’s a joke, surely.

On the stone floor, it’s even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecate’s name has the beast survived this place?

“Bull Man,” you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virgin’s veil.

“Maiden,” he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name you’ve selected for him.

“Are you cold?” You whisper.

Perhaps he doesn’t quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesn’t matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if you’re going to survive this dark prison.

“I don’t get cold,” he finally responds.

“Good. I need your heat.”

The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.

“Come take it.”

You’re not sure if you’ve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? You’re placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And you’re not even sure if it’s a he, if this thing is human at all.

Human or animal, your hand meets the bull’s head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... It’s not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign lover’s arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up… These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you don’t need a bull to get yourself an heir...

You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel.

“Cold little female,” he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body.

You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.

Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. He’s not afraid or nervous; he’s just… big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesn’t take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.

Artemis… Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat instead…

You’ve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you don’t know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.

“Thank you,” you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from what’s happening downstairs.

“My pleasure,” he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his father’s great hall.

It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed.

“Can you do it again,” he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.

“...Do what again?”

“Touch me… With your hand.”

His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. It’s an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se… He’s just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear there’s not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.

Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. It’s the softest violation you’ve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like it’s the touch of Aphrodite herself…

You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard.

“Your hand,” he groans softly, “makes me sleepy and warm…”

The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.

“Then sleep, Bull of Crete...”

…

You wake up to his cock pressing against you.

Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep – that you could do with – but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.

The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself it’s just a cock. It’s just him. You’re simply in the Minotaur’s arms, and he’s sound asleep still; there’s no reason to buck and jerk and scream.

The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. He’s practically at the gates, and you’re lucky he’s still asleep.

It’s perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice you’ve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep… You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.

“Mm…” The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. “You smell like you want to fuck…”

“No I don’t,” you hurry to whisper.

Gods curse this man’s ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive.

What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?

“We need to go,” you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.

“I want to mate with you,” he says softly. “You want to mate too. Why go?”

He sounds so adorable when he’s still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.

“I thought you wanted to kill the king,” you try to point out.

“This is more important,” he gruffs. “Urgent.”

The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like you’re not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.

“No, it’s not. We need to get up.”

You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go.

You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you who’s changing…?

The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.

“You need more heat?” He asks softly.

You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.

“No… I’m hungry.”

He’s silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his “pantry” and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.

“Hmm. No mice up here,” he ponders.

“You eat mice…?”

“Sometimes.”

You leave it at that: you don’t want to know what he’s had to do to sustain himself down here. You don’t even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food.

“Not a long way up,” he says. “We will reach the sun soon. Then I’ll find you something to eat.”

“How do you know that…?”

“The air smells different.”

You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You can’t wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and you’re sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed.

To your knowledge, you’re the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You haven’t even had time to think about what you will unleash with you… The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here.

Well. It’s their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworld’s wrath.

And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you – the feared Minotaur set free, only because he’s mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldn’t make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.

But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt.

Many would hardly think you’re a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things you’ve seen and done, the white bulls you’ve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.

When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate.

“It’s too bright,” he says before you’ve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth.

You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. It’s mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.

“You’ll get used to it soon,” you extend your hand.

He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.

He’s only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if it’s truly the light that’s too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating.

There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.

“It’s alright,” you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you haven’t known since you were a child.

“There’s… so many colours,” he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if they’re already safe and sheltered under the bull head.

Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: there’s so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy… And all you’ve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: it’s standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like it’s nothing short of a miracle.

And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.

“What?” You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.

“You are pretty,” he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask.

Gods damn him…

He doesn’t know that human men don’t act like this, talk like this, or if they do, there’s usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesn’t know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.

The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare – he doesn’t understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesn’t seem to care. And it’s not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... It’s those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.

“Nonsense,” you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.

The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.

For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.

The vision is more adorable than when you’ve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you can’t turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.

You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory.

He asks questions like: “How can you humans stand this heat?” or “Why is there only one road?” and listens to your answers carefully.

He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about what’s behind that hill, or that one, what about that one… You wonder if he’s even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life.

But he doesn’t want to.

He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.

More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summer’s day turns into a nightmare once people see who’s on his way to the heart of Crete.

You don’t understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesn’t kill anyone, mainly because he doesn’t have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left.

You’re left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.

“Eat,” he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. “You were hungry?”

“This is not the way to–” you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. “This is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.”

“Pay? With what?”

He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his mother’s servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know?

“They will take your hands for stealing,” you try to explain with softly building despair.

“I will take their heads before that.”

“The next king will hunt you down and punish you,” you rush after him, and when he won’t listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.

“Bulls don’t have kings.”

Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things they’ve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while it’s none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.

“You are not a bull,” you wail in frustration. “You’re a man.”

He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.

“You’re the first to think that.”

Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.

He doesn’t need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.

You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasn’t a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost.

What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. It’s not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. It’s not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you.

You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.

He’s practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. It’s just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. It’s infuriating that you can’t dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, too…

But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast… The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you would’ve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that that’s what you expected to happen, and when it didn’t, you’re left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems… The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. There’s at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.

You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. They’re the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds.

“The King is dead,” you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like they’re a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.

You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like they’ve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.

“What?”

A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you don’t shy away from her like you used to.

“Or he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.”

“How did you… How did it...”

You’ve never seen the priestess in disarray. She’s always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didn’t even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecate’s servants a little uneasy.

She gathers what’s left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesn’t have the power to shake the ground anymore.

“Where is Theseus of Athens?”

“Disemboweled… is my best guess,” you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.

Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. You’re a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.

So…

The Minotaur has reached the king.

…

The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.

After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.

And this might be the only place you don’t get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bull’s loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.

But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.

So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.

“Where is the maiden of the crossroads?”

He came back for you, after all…

The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like he’s an envoy of Hades himself, and while you’re not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.

Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?

“We all belong to the goddess,” someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.

The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. You’re so far back that he can’t catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.

“This is a House of Hecate,” she speaks. “No man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.”

The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesn’t waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this man’s gaze.

“I am Death,” he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like she’s just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.

“She had a red string and a candle. Where is she?”

He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides it’s time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women.

“Please,” you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. “I’m here... I’m the one you’re looking for.”

The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. She’s shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak – that’s the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowd…

“Come with me,” he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like he’s in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.

“You belong to me,” he says with great weight when you don’t speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this… But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all.

“My place is here,” you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence.

“You were sent down to me,” he presses on. “You are mine now. You belong to me.”

Your body is singing, singing, singing.

It’s not a request… Or a proposal.

It’s a god, taking what’s his.

…

You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? She’s unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.

He doesn’t want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that he’s tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesn’t seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself.

People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as “Kingslayer!” and “Beast!” are accompanied with curses such as “You are an abomination!” and “Go back to your lair!”

No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well.

What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?

“Must I remind you?” You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. “According to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.”

“You led him out of the Labyrinth, didn’t you?” the voices ask.

“Gave him your cunt, too,” they sneer.

“You’re worse than the bloody Gorgon,” they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.

What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born.

“Hecate’s whore… I should kill you first,” one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.

The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didn’t prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queen’s son, after all: he’s more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.

Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.

“Stop,” you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.

“Let us go in peace,” you command, voice unwavering and stern. “Or I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.”

That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.

You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.

“You’re even prettier when you’re angry,” he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.

You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecate’s curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny.

“Perhaps you are part bull after all,” you retort dryly.

“It takes more than one spear to kill me,” he boasts, but you don’t need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but he’s survived every single attempt on his life – for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.

The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he could’ve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.

“Mother said I’m a monster instead of a man,” he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like he’s partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn.

“Your mother was heartless. And wrong.”

The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.

“But you’re not.”

“...What?”

“Heartless.”

You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.

You’re not sure who’s tied to whom anymore… Or if you’re tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like it’s you who took him and not the other way around.

You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you won’t be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.

You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sun’s heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.

“Did you meet her…? Your mother?” You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet – how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?

“Did you… kill her?”

“She cursed me,” he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?

“How could I kill my own maker?”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “For everything.”

You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday honours the womb he came from so much that he won’t raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You don’t know if it’s his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if he’s more human than humans, this beast.

“I’m not,” he retorts immediately. “The king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.”

You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. It’s more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you falter.

The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, you’re aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.

When have you ever faltered…? Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.

You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin.

Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.

Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you.

His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if it’s only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. It’s thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls you’ve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, they’re covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as he’s allowed to do so.

“You need to take off your helm,” you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if it’s laughable, a miracle that he doesn’t fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. “You’re a man, not a bull.”

His eyes don’t betray any kind of hesitation. He doesn’t seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if he’s indeed under a spell and nods.

“If you say so.”

The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. There’s not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male who’s in desperate need of a wash and a comb. He’s somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all – if you like your men rugged and wild.

He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like you’re his mother and he’s your cub about to get scrubbed clean.

He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If you’re afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.

Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay.

“They’re stars,” you say softly while slinking closer to him. “Have you ever seen them...?”

“Yes,” he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him – even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldn’t pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking.

“I have forgotten…” his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.

“Beautiful, aren’t they...?”

“Your world is pretty,” he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. “But you’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen so far.”

You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.

“You do not scream... You do not run. Why?”

Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.

But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.

“You are different,” he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon it’s mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him.

“Perhaps I’m crazy,” you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.

Yes… That’s the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.

“Is that why you took me?”

“I took you because you’re mine. I want you.”

“You can’t just take what you want,” you warn softly.

“Why not?” His head tilts a little to the side as he’s trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. “Don’t you want to be mine?”

You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clear…

“Perhaps,” you confess.

“I have nothing to give you,” he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand he’s liking you to the goods at the market and thinks he’s expected to have money to be able to keep you.

“You don’t need to pay for me,” you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.

“I don’t understand the rules of this world,” he finally shakes his head.

“I’ll teach you.”

For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. You’re careful with his legs, not because you’re afraid he’s ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon.

“I can hunt for you,” he suggests. “Bring you food… Protect you.”

He’s visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but you’re not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry...

“What do you think?” He asks, breath heavy from the bliss you’re already granting him by simply giving him a bath. “I could give you my heat. Please you...”

“You know how to please women?”

“No. But you could teach me.”

The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring.

And then…

“Do you know how to fuck?”

The ice holds, mainly because you’re too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.

“Of course,” you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didn’t.

“Teach me,” he says, ever more greedily.

“I…”

Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesn’t have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.

“You want my cock,” he says, mouth only an inch from yours. “Don’t you...?”

You wet your lips – a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. You’re in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?

“I’d give it to you happily,” he insists. “No female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.”

Or a leash.

Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bond…

“Really?” You breathe. “What fools they were...”

The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves.

You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.

The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside you…

“You make my skin burn,” he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. “My loins, ache…”

“Are you a witch?” He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.

If he only knew… But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.

Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. You’re too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.

Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when he’s already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesn’t seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.

“Gods...” you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.

He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.

“Do I hurt you...?”

“No… But this is not mating…”

“Even I know that much,” he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly.

He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when he’s seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.

Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: you’re drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost.

“Guide me.”

His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if it’s instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if he’s well-oiled. He’s about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.

“There…” you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot that’s leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.

“Tighter than my fist,” is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. “I will not last long…”

You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly you’re filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is – is it a good thing or a threat?

“Easy then,” you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking you’re about to go through.

He doesn’t move – inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.

“Does this feel good to you too…?”

You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know you’re still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesn’t move yet.

“Yes,” you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.

“Then I will fuck you every day,” his lips come to brush your ear. “Many times...”

You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffed…

He withdraws a little, asks, “Like this?” when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub you’ve flicked when you’re lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.

“Not so rough,” you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until he’s moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course he’s curious.

“Are you always like this…?”

“Like… what,” you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.

“Soft,” he rasps. “Tight… Wet like rain.”

“No. It’s just when…”

“When you want to fuck?”

You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.

“I knew it…” he says dreamily behind you. “Some women want to mate with bulls...”

He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.

“You’re not a–”

“Keep telling yourself that, little maiden.”

He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and you’re neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear there’s something wrong with you – no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beast…

I’m going to come… You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like you’re nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. You’re swimming in so much pleasure that it’s almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt.

He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans.

He doesn’t need to be told what it means when you’re crying like that: he doesn’t need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. It’s so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you.

Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. He’s like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. You’re still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.

“You were made for me,” he huffs. “You were made...for me…”

His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time.

They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him… But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, he’s groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked.

When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but you’re not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he pants into your ear, angry, almost.

“Good,” you breathe a smile, but he’s not satisfied.

“You couldn’t get enough of me too… I noticed.”

“You gave me pleasure,” you agree. “Lots of it.”

“That was a lot of seed… I haven’t spilled in days.”

He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure you’re real, as if having his cock inside you wasn’t enough proof of that. They’re a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.

He's boasting again perhaps, you don’t know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.

“I am filled to the brim with you, yes… It will take a while before I can take more.”

“...You have other holes in you,” he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact.

“Get off me, you beast,” you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but there’s a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later.

“This feels good,” he murmurs into your hair. “This feels right...”

He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.

You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesn’t matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.

“Yes,” you smile. “This feels right…”

Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet.

The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesn’t want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but that’s aplenty. That’s more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.

“Are you thinking about your hero,” he asks above you.

“What? No…”

“Good,” he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear he’s about to cry.

You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasn’t crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while you’re draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea.

The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.You’re my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.

It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet… That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you.

“My Bull,” you whisper. “Tell me your name. You must have a name…?”

His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.

“Asterion.”

Starry one…

Of course.

All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what they’re claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.

“Asterion,” you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. “Your birth is written in the stars. Did you even know…?”

“Does that make me a hero?” He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes.

You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.

“It makes you immortal.”

Perhaps you should’ve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strike…

It’s lovely, how he blinks every time he’s confused. You’ve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment… You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.

But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes you’re truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him – you’re my hero – and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, that’s when he’s truly granted divinity.

Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul… The deepest magic of all.

#könig x reader #könig cod #könig x you #konig x reader #könig mw2 #konig x you #könig smut #könig fanfiction #konig smut #cod könig

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finelinefae · 18 days ago

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safety [ceo!h x shy!reader]

synopsis: harry is always there to help bambi, always.

word count: 5.4k

contains: ceo!harry x assitant!y/n, deer!reader vibes, fluff, age gap (9 years), harry meets the family, crybaby reader lowkey

a/n: apologies for this taking so long. I've moved into university and switched courses within three weeks so I've had to do a lot of adjusting! But I hope you're doing well, thank you so so so much for all the love on the first part of bambi and being so patient with this part <333

this is part 2 of bambi, read part 1 here

. . .

Y/N sighed as she stepped into the living room, her heart sinking at the sight of her mother passed out on the couch. It was Friday night, and her mom was still in her work uniform, one shoe barely hanging from her foot while the other lay haphazardly across the room. A wave of frustration and sadness hit her hard. She had begged her mom to take the day off to watch the boys so she could go on her date with Harry tonight—the date she’d been looking forward to all week.

This was supposed to be their third date, just before she started working with him at Pleasing this weekend. Their last date had been simple—strolling hand in hand by the river, talking about everything and nothing. But tonight was different. Harry had told her to dress up; he had something important to ask her and was taking her somewhere special. Y/N had been buzzing with excitement ever since.

Glancing at her phone, she felt the sting of tears. Halfway through her makeup, she now realized it didn’t matter—she’d have to cancel. With her mother out cold and no babysitter available at such short notice, the responsibility fell on her. And it was ruining everything.

She opened Harry’s contact on her phone, staring at the little pink heart next to his name. Her thumb hovered over the call button as doubt crept in. What if he never wanted to see her again after this? Cancelling last minute was embarrassing, and she dreaded how angry or disappointed Harry might be.

Her thumb pressed down, the ringing growing louder with each second. Anxiety gnawed at her as she picked at the skin around her nails.

Suddenly, the call connected, and Harry’s voice, smooth and soothing like a lullaby, poured through the speaker. “Bambi? Was jus’ about to pick y’ up. You missin’ me already?”

Her lip trembled, and a tear slid down her cheek as she sniffled. “Harry…” Her voice cracked.

“Hey, what’s wrong, love?” Concern filled his voice instantly, and the warmth of it made her chest tighten.

“I-I can’t go on our date tonight,” she confessed, her voice shaky.

“What d’you mean? Don’t be silly, is something wrong?” His slight panic was clear, making her feel even worse.

“No, it’s not like that. It’s just… my mom came home late, and she’s, um, not able to watch the boys, so I have to stay and babysit. I’m really sorry, Harry. I wanted to go tonight, I swear. I understand if you’re mad or—if you never want to see me again—”

“Woah, woah, Bambi, baby, stop panickin’. I don’t hate you, not at all. It’s closer to the opposite, so calm down, yeah? ‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice still thick with emotion. “Y’promise?”

“Five pinkie swears, baby,” he chuckled softly, making her giggle through the tears. “It’s alright. These things happen. But are you okay? Need me to grab you anything? Have y’eaten today?”

His kindness made her heart swell. “N-No, but we’ve got stuff in the freezer I can heat up. Maybe we can reschedule?”

“Bambi, I’m already on my way to your house.”

Her breath hitched. “What? But, Harry, I can’t—”

“You think I’d let a little change of plans stop me from seein’ you? Been needin’ to see m’Bambi all day. How ‘bout this: you help your mum, and I’ll come by and make dinner for all of you. Sound good?”

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he real? Was he really this thoughtful, this willing to come over despite everything?

“Harry, you don’t have to—”

“I want to. Now, go get in some comfy pjs, and I’ll stop by the store to grab snacks. Maybe we can watch a movie later. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice lighter now. “That sounds perfect.”

“Alright, I’ll be over in thirty minutes. Take a deep breath for me, Bambi.”

Immediate relief washed over her at the idea of having an extra pair of hands to help her with something that she’d normally be left alone to and better yet it was Harry who was coming to help her. So, she did exactly that - breathe.

. . .

Y/N was pushing clothes into the washing machine when she heard the doorbell ring. Her heart skipped a beat or possibly maybe two when she heard it. She forced the door shut on the machine and walked to the front door. She frowned the closer she got when she could already hear Harry’s voice but that was soon followed by the voice of her younger brother.

“I know jujitsu, you know,” Archie announced, his small five-foot frame blocking the doorway.

“You take classes?” Harry asked, bemused.

“No, I learned it on Roblox,” Archie replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve heard of that one before. You’ll have to show me sometime,” Harry said with a grin.

Archie snorted. “You could just be saying that to get into our house and rob us.”

Y/N’s face heated with embarrassment as she approached the door, ushering Archie out of the way. Harry’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw her. “Y/N, this pizza delivery guy is trying to break into our house,” Archie said. Y/N looked to see Harry holding two pizza boxes and a plastic bag.

“Archie,” Y/N gasped, “this is not a pizza delivery man. This is Harry.”

Harry smiled, clearly trying not to laugh, and offered Archie a small wave. It did nothing to ease the suspicious look on Archie’s face. “Who’s Harry?”

Y/N froze, unsure of how to answer. Harry was both her boss and the man she was dating, but she couldn’t exactly explain that to her little brother. “He’s... my special friend.”

Archie looked between them for a moment, then shrugged and wandered off. Y/N’s shoulders sagged with relief as she turned to face Harry, who was still grinning at her. He looked incredibly handsome in his matching brown suit, his curly hair tousled in that familiar way. Her heart sank a little, knowing he had dressed up for their date.

“H-Harry, I’m really sorry—” she began, but before she could finish, Harry set the pizza boxes down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She breathed in the fruity scent of his cologne as he gently rubbed circles on her back.

“Bambi,” he murmured with a soft sigh, “I missed you.”

She smiled against his chest. “You just saw me the other day, and we FaceTimed last night.”

Harry pulled back slightly, cupping her cheeks with his large hands. “Kiss?”

Her cheeks flushed, as they always did when he asked for a kiss. She stood on her toes, meeting his lips, savouring the softness of his touch and the faint taste of peppermint from his lip balm.

“Have you eaten yet?” he murmured against her lips. “I brought pizza.”

“You didn’t have to,” Y/N sighed softly. “I was just going to throw something in the oven.”

“Hey, Bambi.” She looked up, meeting his gaze already fixed on her. “I wanted to. I’m here to help, okay? Now, why don’t we eat this before it gets cold? You grab some plates, and I’ll set the table.”

“O-Oh, okay.” She nodded, a bit flustered. “Just so you know, my brothers can be… intense.”

Harry smiled, his expression easygoing. “It’s okay, I’ve got a niece. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

Y/N led him into the living room where her little brothers were scattered. Archie sat in the corner, hunched over the computer, likely playing the game he had mentioned to Harry earlier.

“Who are you?” a small voice piped up. Harry glanced down to see a boy around six or seven, looking at him curiously.

“That’s Y/N’s special friend,” Archie chimed in without even turning around from his game.

“Weren’t you the guy making out with my sister the other night?” The eldest of the three boys, who looked about fourteen, spoke up from where he was watching TV. Despite his age, there was a maturity in his tone that caught Harry off guard.

Harry chuckled, feeling Y/N stiffen beside him. He gave the teenager a polite smile. “Well, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“Sammy go and get the plates from the kitchen, Harry bought us pizza.” Sammy huffed, pausing the tv and doing exactly as his sister said.

“Jack, can you grab an extra chair?” Y/N asked the youngest boy, her voice gentle but firm. Harry watched as the boys immediately followed their eldest sister’s instructions without question. A small pang tugged at his chest—part of him felt for her, having to shoulder the responsibility of looking after three growing boys. He didn’t know every detail of her family life, but seeing the way they interacted was enough to tell him they’d had to adapt quickly.

They all gathered around the table, two extra-large pizzas laid out in front of them. Harry chuckled at the sight of the boys eyeing the food like it was a rare treasure.

“Calm down,” he murmured with a grin, leaning close to Y/N. “Y’ so stiff, Bambi.”

Y/N blushed, fidgeting slightly. “Sorry, I just get so—”

“So?” Harry interrupted, smirking as he tried to coax her into a fluster. “So what, baby?”

“So nervous,” Y/N huffed, her cheeks burning as she realized he was toying with her.

A throat cleared from across the table, and Y/N suddenly felt three pairs of eyes locked onto them. Jack and Archie looked disgusted by the couple’s banter, while the eldest boy, Sammy, was glaring at Harry with an intensity that made Harry suppress a laugh.

“How old are you?” Sammy asked bluntly, his gaze sharp and protective.

Y/N choked on her drink. “Sammy! You can’t just ask people that—it’s rude!”

Harry chuckled, raising a hand to calm her. “No, it’s alright,” he said, amused. “I’m thirty.”

“Whoa, you’re old!” Archie blurted out, eyes wide with surprise.

“Archie!” Y/N gasped, mortified, while Jack burst out laughing.

“I guess it is kind of old,” Harry shrugged playfully, glancing at Y/N with a wink.

“Are you rich?” Sammy pressed, undeterred.

Y/N’s face flushed even more, praying the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

“I do well,” Harry replied, keeping his tone light. “I own a fashion company.”

“That means he’s rich,” Archie chimed in, eyes lighting up. “Do you have a sports car?”

Harry leaned forward, whispering conspiratorially, “I own three.”

Archie gasped, his face a picture of awe. “No wonder you can afford two extra-large pizzas!”

“If you think that’s cool, wait till you hear what else I brought,” Harry teased.

“Candy?” Archie’s eyes grew even wider, filled with excitement.

“Better.”

“Ice cream?”

Harry nodded. “Ice cream, candy, whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles... you name it.”

Archie looked as though he might pass out from pure joy. Sweets after dinner weren’t a common occurrence in their house unless it was a special occasion.

Harry’s smile softened as his eyes flicked to Sammy, who was still watching him with guarded suspicion. “What do you want from my sister?” Sammy finally asked, his tone sharp.

Y/N cringed, wishing she could disappear like Jack, who was contentedly munching on pizza, completely oblivious to the tension. Her cheeks were already burning before she’d even taken a bite.

Harry’s hand found its way to her knee under the table, a silent reassurance that he knew exactly how she was feeling without her having to say a word.

“It’s still early,” Harry said honestly, his gaze meeting Sammy’s without faltering. “But I really, really like your sister.”

Sammy seemed to relax at that, but not without a final warning. “You’re not allowed to like her as much as we do.”

Y/N’s heart squeezed at the words. Despite the challenges, the boys were her world, her best friends.

Harry smiled warmly, his voice sincere. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

. . .

"Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!" Archie came barreling into the kitchen, his face smeared with chocolate and whipped cream from the ice cream sundaes they’d made earlier. Y/N was bent over the washing machine, pulling out clothes to hang on the makeshift line by the window.

"Harry says he's gonna take us to the indoor waterpark in the city for my birthday! Isn't that awesome? And he beat Sammy's score on the new game he bought us!"

Y/N glanced up, smiling softly at Archie's excitement. The boys had been glued to the computer for hours after Harry surprised them with a game they’d been begging for. The sound of their wild laughter had echoed through the house all afternoon.

Footsteps approached the kitchen, and she looked up to see Harry standing in the doorway, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Harry, I was just telling Y/N about the waterpark you’re taking us to," Archie said eagerly.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Y/N. "Ah, yes," he said, smiling at her. "I heard there’s a certain someone’s birthday coming up soon."

Archie's birthday was still a month away, and Y/N had only planned a simple celebration—movies, takeout, and cake. As Archie bolted from the kitchen, beaming about the waterpark, Y/N’s smile faded slightly.

Harry noticed the shift immediately. "What’s wrong?" he asked, stepping closer and reaching for her hand. "Did I mess something up?"

"N-no," Y/N replied quickly, shaking her head. "You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just... Archie's birthday isn’t for another month."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "So?"

Y/N hesitated, her words stumbling over themselves. "I just don’t want to make promises, you know, in case… I mean, what if…" She trailed off, struggling to find a way to express the growing anxiety in her chest. She adored Harry, more than she could articulate, but a part of her couldn’t help worrying about the future—the uncertainties that came with letting someone new into their lives.

"Bambi," Harry’s voice was soft as he cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek. "Where’d you go?"

She blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

His lips quirked into a gentle smile. "Y’ do this thing where you space out, like your mind drifts off somewhere else ‘cause you're thinkin’ too much."

"I do that?" she asked, surprised.

"Mhm," he murmured, his thumb tracing the little furrow in her brow, the touch sending warmth through her. "I like you an awful lot, Bambi. I plan on stickin' around for a long time."

"You do?" Her voice was small, almost disbelieving.

"Yes, I do. And I really like your brothers—they’re a credit to you."

Y/N opened her mouth to deflect, as usual. "Oh, you mean my mom—"

"No," Harry interrupted gently, shaking his head. "I mean you."

Her lips parted in surprise, her eyes misting over. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear those words. Without thinking, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his, a kiss filled with the gratitude she couldn't quite express in words.

She was about to pull away, but Harry held her close, his hands gripping her hips as he deepened the kiss. His soft, warm lips made her head spin, and for a brief moment, the world around them disappeared.

That is, until Sammy’s voice rang out from the hallway. "I’m coming in, so you better not be swapping saliva in there!"

Harry broke the kiss with a chuckle, glancing over his shoulder. "Alright, alright, we’re behaving," he teased, winking at Y/N before moving to the sink. "Let me help you," he offered, turning on the faucet to start washing the dishes from dinner.

Y/N watched him for a moment, her heart swelling with warmth. The words he’d spoken earlier echoed in her mind—words that had already begun to feel familiar, but only when they came from him.

. . .

Y/N woke up the following morning, not from the alarm she’d set for 6 a.m., but from the rapid thumping of her heart. Anxiety rippled through her, making her stomach twist with nerves. Today was her first day working at Pleasing, her first day officially under Harry’s employment. She was excited, of course, but that didn’t stop the butterflies in her belly from multiplying.

She stared up at the ceiling for a few moments, taking slow breaths to calm herself. Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand, and she reached over, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened the message.

Harry: Morning, Bambi 🌞 There’s a car on its way to pick you up. No need to stress, yeah? I’ll be waiting for you at the office. You’re gonna be amazing x

A small smile crept onto her face despite the nerves. Harry’s words were like a warm hug on a cold morning, making her feel just a little bit braver. She couldn’t help but appreciate how he seemed to know exactly what she needed to hear, right when she needed to hear it.

She quickly typed a reply, her fingers still shaky.

Y/N: Thank you. I’m a little nervous but I’ll do my best. See you soon 💕

Y/N got out of bed and went through her morning routine, trying to focus on each task to stop her mind from spiraling into all the things that could go wrong today. She picked out an outfit she hoped said “professional but approachable,” taking extra care to smooth out any creases in her clothes. When she was finally dressed, she checked the time—6:45 a.m.—the car Harry sent should be arriving any minute.

She stepped outside, the cool morning air doing little to ease her racing thoughts. Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension. The street was quiet at this hour, and she couldn’t help but feel like the only person awake in the world.

Just then, a sleek black car pulled up in front of her, the driver rolling down the window with a friendly nod. "Y/N?" he asked, and she nodded in response.

“That’s me,” she said, her voice a little shaky. She climbed into the backseat, clutching her bag on her lap as the driver started the journey to the office. She stared out the window, watching the familiar streets blur by, and tried to give herself a little pep talk.

You can do this. You’re ready. Harry believes in you, so believe in yourself, too.

Her phone buzzed in her hand again, another message from Harry.

Harry: Also going on a coffee run, do you want anything? x

Bambi: Isn’t that my job today? x

Harry: It’s my job to take care of you everyday

Y/N didn’t realize how wide her smile had grown until she caught her reflection in the glassy screen of her phone. A soft blush crept onto her cheeks as she tried to compose herself, glancing out the window to distract from the giddy feeling bubbling inside her. She watched as the quiet suburbs melted into the bustle of the big city, her heart thudding against her ribcage.

Slowly, the car pulled up outside Pleasing. The building was elegant, with an arched doorway and a clean awning that had the brand's name in bold letters. Through the large glass doors, Y/N could see a glimpse of the bright, stylish interior. Her heart pounded as the car came to a stop, her mouth opening with a desperate plea to leave, to turn back and retreat home where she could hide away—but then she saw Harry, and her words fell away for an entirely different reason.

She’d seen Harry in a suit before, but seeing him in full CEO mode was something else. He wore a flawless black-and-white suit, cufflinks gleaming at his wrists. His eyes were stern, his entire demeanor unshakeable—until he looked her way, and his whole form softened.

“You’re here,” His voice was warm and inviting. She wanted to leap into him and hide herself within him but she wanted to be professional.

She stood in front of him, not wanting to get any closer to her new boss, “Good morning, Mr Styles.”

The corner of Harry’s lips quirked, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Good morning,” he replied, savoring her formality. He took a step closer, his gaze gentle yet focused. “Ready for today?”

“Y-yes,” She said but it wasn’t all that convincing.

Harry grabbed her hand, “You’ll be just fine Bambi.” He murmured the nickname just for her to hear.

The warmth of his hand around hers steadied her, but it also set her pulse racing. His fingers intertwined with hers, and he kept their joined hands subtly hidden between them as they walked through the grand entrance and into the lobby. Y/N’s nerves started to quiet, replaced by a growing excitement.

As they stepped into the elevator, Harry’s thumb brushed gently over her knuckles. She looked up at him but his eyes were looking ahead. Her eyes fixated on his sharp jawline and smooth, freshly-shaven face; he looked even more polished, clean-cut and distinctly professional since she’d last seen him.

When they reached his office floor, Harry led her down a sleek corridor and into an airy, open workspace with views of the city skyline. The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, and a few team members looked up with welcoming smiles.

Just ahead, a woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length auburn hair and an easy smile approached them. Her professional but warm demeanor put Y/N at ease almost instantly. Harry released Y/N’s hand as he greeted her.

“Lindsey, this is Y/N,” he said, glancing between them. “She’s starting with us today. I thought you might help her settle in and get familiar with everything.”

Lindsey extended her hand warmly. “Oh is this-”

Harry’s gaze lingered on her with a slight, unreadable intensity, prompting Lindsey to pause mid-sentence. Then, noticing Y/N, she broke into a bright smile.

“Y/N! It’s so nice to meet you.” She laughed lightly, her eyes flicking to Harry with a teasing glint. “I have to admit, I’m a little curious why anyone would sign up to be his assistant—he can be a real pain most days.” She shot him a playful look. “But don’t worry, just don’t enter his office at midday - he can get real hangry.”

Y/N giggled and Harry’s eyes brightened at the sound, ““Y/N,” he said, his voice warm, “you’re in very good hands.” He turned to Lindsey. “Make sure she gets a proper introduction to everything, but don’t overwhelm her.”

Lindsey chuckled. “I’ll keep it light for today, boss. We’d be here all day getting into your list of demands everyday.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and with a final look at Y/N, said, “I’ll see you later, then.” His words were simple, but the small smile he gave her was anything but. As he walked away, Y/N felt the anticipation return, wanting him to come back and be the one to show her around. She wasn’t the best with meeting new people. She was shy and nervous and fumbled over her words too often but Harry had great faith in her so she would try her best to do good.

“Alright, let’s get started,” Lindsey said, gesturing to an open desk area near Harry’s office. “First things first—coffee? I’ll show you the best spot, and then we’ll make our way through the to-do list Harry sent this morning.”

. . .

Y/N liked Lindsey a lot.

She was funny and gentle. Whenever Y/N made a mistake—like earlier when she accidentally printed everything in pink instead of black and white—Lindsey would correct her kindly, reminding her that mistakes happen. Y/N wasn’t used to this kind of patience; her old boss would snap or hiss at even the smallest error. Here, it felt nice to breathe a little easier.

Lindsey spoke warmly about her two little boys, whom she cared for while her husband was away with the military. She had once been a stay-at-home mom, but over time, the isolation began to weigh on her; she craved more than just the role of mother and wanted to be out in the world, around people. When she applied to Pleasing, she’d explained her situation to Harry during her interview, and he had offered her flexible hours so she could still make it home to her boys each evening.

Whenever Lindsey mentioned the things Harry had done for her and her family, her voice would grow thick with emotion, and she spoke of him with genuine admiration. Y/N found herself thinking of her own circumstances and the way Harry had taken her under his wing, feeling a warmth for him settle in her chest.

“Okay, Harry’s in a meeting, so we need to bring in tea and coffee,” Lindsey said, heading over to a small rolling cart neatly stocked with cups, a teapot, and coffee supplies.

She guided Y/N through the arrangement, showing her how Harry liked his tea prepared. “He’s particular about the temperature—hot but not scalding,” Lindsey explained with a wink. “Don’t worry you’ll get the hang of things.”

Y/N carefully poured the tea, her hands steadying with each instruction Lindsey offered. They finished preparing the drinks, and Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself as she reached for the cart handle.

“You’ll be fine,” Lindsey reassured her, offering a supportive smile. “Just go in, keep it simple, and make sure everyone has their drinks. You’ll be a natural at this in no time.”

“I’m going in alone?” Y/N’s eyes widened.

“It’s good practice,” Lindsey grins, “Good luck!”

Y/N squared her shoulders and pushed the cart toward the meeting room. The murmurs grew louder as she approached, but her nerves eased slightly upon catching Harry’s eye. His expression softened for a moment before returning to its professional coolness, a small signal just for her.

As she entered, she was met with the sight of a large glass table surrounded by men in sharp suits, all eyes shifting toward her. Taking a breath, she rolled the cart around and placed the cups in front of Harry and the others. Just as she reached for the teapot, a slight tremor ran through her hand, and she felt a sudden rush of panic.

In an instant, she lost her grip. The teapot tipped, sending hot tea spilling across the table and splattering onto a crisp white shirt belonging to one of the men. The room fell silent, and every gaze shifted from her to the angry figure, whose face flushed crimson.

““Watch where you’re going!” he barked, rising from his seat. “Do you even know how to serve properly?”

Y/N’s heart raced, the color draining from her face. Just as she opened her mouth to apologize, a surge of anger rippled through the room.

“Do you think it’s okay to talk to a woman like that?” Harry murmured, his voice laced with malice.

“She stained my shirt! She’s lucky I’m not making her pay for it,” the man continued, and Y/N could see the discomfort on the faces of the other attendees, their expressions telling her they knew he’d crossed a line.

Harry’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them. He reached into his blazer pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a fountain pen. With swift strokes, he began to scribble before turning to Y/N. “Y/N, would you mind delivering this to Mr. Smith?”

Y/N nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she accepted the check, its weight feeling both significant and heavy.

Mr. Smith snatched the check from her hands, glancing down at it with a scowl. Written across the page was Harry’s signature alongside a mere fifty dollars. “Your final check—enough to cover the shirt, I assume? I think I saw the same one in the TK Maxx sale rack.”

“Final?” Mr. Smith asked, incredulous.

“Correct,” Harry replied nonchalantly.

Mr. Smith’s face burned bright red. He huffed, rising from his seat and storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The room fell silent. “Meeting adjourned,” Harry announced, and everyone flooded out, eager to escape the awkward tension.

Y/N stood in the corner, barely able to look up. Embarrassment washed over her; she wondered if she could do any job right. Her eyes watered as she bit down on her lip to keep from crying.

Suddenly, two polished shoes came into view, and big hands cupped her cheeks, gently forcing her to meet his gaze. “Are you okay?” Harry asked, concern etched on his face.

She wanted to say yes, to express pride in her efforts and how well she had handled the day, but instead, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his shirt. “I feel like I can’t do anything right,” she admitted, her voice muffled.

Harry sighed, his arms encircling her as he rubbed the back of her head soothingly. “You did nothing wrong.”

“You can’t fire people because of me, Harry.”

“Don’t worry about him. We’ve wanted to get rid of him for ages—just a sexist prick. Turns out you’re a pretty good assistant for giving me an excuse to fire someone on the spot,” he chuckled lightly.

Y/N looked up at him, her heart fluttering as his hand held her cheek, his thumb brushing beneath her eye. “These eyes,” he whispered.

A smile broke through her sadness. “I’m sorry for ruining your meeting.”

“Don’t care, Bambi.” He was so much taller than her, nearly a foot difference, so he had to lean down to brush his nose against hers, their lips ghosting against each other. “You actually made it better.”

“I did?” she whispered, her mind suddenly forgetting the man who had yelled at her.

“Mhm,” he hummed, and then, gently, he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was soft and lingering, sending a warm flutter through Y/N that chased away the remnants of her earlier embarrassment. She melted into the moment, her worries fading as Harry’s lips brushed against hers.

“Okay, what the hell happened?” Lindsey barged into the room, causing Y/N to leap away from Harry, her cheeks flushing.

“Wow, Lindsey,” Harry said, rubbing a hand over his mouth, both of them flustered as Lindsey glanced between them. “Try knocking next time, yeah?”

“Since when have I ever needed to knock?” Lindsey shot back, her eyebrows knitting together as she assessed Y/N, whose face was now bright pink.

“Since now,” Harry replied. Clearing his throat, he added, “If you’ll excuse me…” He brushed past her, leaving the tension lingering in the air.

A laugh escaped Y/N’s lips, even as embarrassment tinged her cheeks; it was the first time she’d witnessed him so flustered. Lindsey arched an eyebrow, a teasing smile creeping onto her face. “So, are you two like…?”

“No,” Y/N replied, the denial tumbling out a bit too quickly.

Lindsey shot her a knowing look but chose not to press further. “Might want to let him know about that lipstick stain on his upper lip,” she added, rolling the cart out of the room and leaving Y/N feeling distinctly warm and flustered.

. . .

Harry kissed Y/N with the lights off on her front porch after dropping her home. Y/N melted against him, her fingers tangling in his hair as the kiss deepened. She felt a rush of warmth spread through her, the sweet taste of his breath mixing with the fresh night air. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, their bodies fitting perfectly together. “Bambi,” He slurred against her lips.”

“Hm?” She hummed, unable to stop herself when she pulled him closer.

“I was thinking,” He murmured, pulling away but his hands still firmly gripping her waist, “Maybe this weekend y’ could come to my place and stay the night.”

“The night?” She’d never had a sleepover before let alone one at a boys house.

“Yeah… Would you be okay with that?”

“Y-Yeah, I think so.”

“Y’ think so?” Harry grinned, “Are y’ sure?”

She smiled, “I’d like that.”

“Well, alright then,” he murmured, leaning down to place one last, soft kiss on her lips. “Goodnight, Bambi.”

“Goodnight, Harry.” Y/N barely suppressed a smile as she watched him walk to his car, a flutter in her chest as he turned back for a final wave.

Before she turned to step into her house, her phone buzzed and a text came through from Harry.

Harry: I think we have to get better at this whole sneaking around thing

Y/N: Tell yourself that, you kissed me first!

Harry: Can’t help it Bambi

Harry: I’m obsessed with you

. . .

taglist ~~

@ravenclawmarvel @noididnotsignupforthis @comicalivy @boomitsallie1 @hazzarules @squirreljoe @c3lline0 @harry2121 @lizsogolden @its-his-dimples @tchalametishot @youngpastafanmug @awritingtree @reidsblessing @idontcareforausernamesblog @madstyles3204 @cherrys4suckers @lomlolivia @tenaciousperfectionunknown

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dolcekissy · 27 days ago

Text

minty , ღ

: ̗̀➛ bunny!reader giving bsf!rafe head while using those mint drooling tablets while rafe records it.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ main masterlist | bunny!reader x bsf!rafe masterlist

disclaimer // 18+ content. this story includes oral sex, and a lot of spit ;)

─────────────────────────

you were bored ─ thumbs scrolling as you skipped through videos on tiktok. rafe invited you over just to chill in his bed and spend the night together, you loved spending time with rafe but you were fucking bored.

rafe laying down in his bed next to you, mindlessly scrolling through instagram ─ stopping to watch different reels and like pictures people posted. he stopped ─ his head snapping over to you and your phone when you gasped.

"oh my god! rafe look at this!" you shoved your phone in his face, showing him a video of a girl laughing with wide eyes ─ her mouth opened as saliva poured out of her mouth. "ew, what the fuck." he groaned out, his brows furrowing as he looked away.

"no way that shits real!" you laughed, clicking on the link to look at the little mints and reading the description. "we have to try these, that's so funny." you giggled, immediately adding it to your cart and purchasing it.

rafe scoffed and continued scrolling through his phone, "that shits not real ─ bet it's a scam or some shit."

─────────────────────────

a few days passed and your package came in the mail, you excitedly opened it and texted rafe to pick you up. you were going to surprise him and try to get him to try them with you.

rafe had totally forgotten about them, so when you pulled out a little bright package he furrowed his brows at you ─ asking you what that is.

"it's those mint tablet things i showed you ─ the ones that make you drool a lot, told you we were trying them." you giggle, opening the package and popping one in your mouth.

"you've gotta be kidding me." rafe scoffed, he looked at the little package and read the strength ─ not even a minute later you're opening the car door and laughing as saliva starts dripping down your chin and onto the ground.

"rafe! oh my god look!" you step out of his car, holding your hair back with your hands as your mouth drips and pours. rafe shakes his head and gets out of the car, walking over to you as you look up at him with a laugh.

you stick your tongue out and watch your spit pour down onto the ground with wide eyes. his eyes widened and his dick is immediately hardening when your wide eyes meet his.

"how long does that last." he asked, trying to adjust his pants as you looked down at the ground glistening in your spit. you shrug with a laugh, "i dunno ─ they said people use this for cotton mouth but i bet people use it to suck dick."

he shook his head ─ watching you close your mouth for a moment before opening it again, spit pouring down your lips and chin. you look up at him with raised eyebrows, his eyebrows raising too as he waits for you to say something.

"wanna try it?"

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you're on your knees in the back of rafe's car ─ holding all the saliva that's been begging to come out as rafe eagerly pulls his sweatpants and underwear down. you quickly grab his cock with one hand and open your mouth, letting everything drip on him.

he groans at the feeling of your warm spit and the sight of you in front of him. his hands pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail as you wrap your lips around his cock ─ your dripping tongue twirling around his pink tip.

"shittt." he groans. you begin bopping your head on his cock, feeling your spit run down and your chin and drip onto the floor of his car. he grabs his phone sitting next to him, pulling the camera app up and turning the flash on while he records you.

your eyes meet the camera lens as you let his cock hit the back of your throat ─ his groans going straight to your needy pussy. after a few moments of literally slurping on his dick, he guides your head up and down his cock before pulling your head back.

"fuckkk, m'gonna cum ─ stick your tongue out, doll."

you stick your tongue out, letting the camera watch your saliva and his warm seed drip off your tongue and onto his cock ─ the seat below him glistening and his thick cock shining.

"mmm, 's your turn rafey." you lean over, grabbing the pack and popping one into his mouth ─ immediately switching positions with him and pulling your lace panties down, your ass laying flat against the puddle of spit as you wait for him to create an even bigger puddle while he drools over your sopping pussy.

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#rafe cameron imagines #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe #rafe smut #rafe fic #rafe cameron smut #obx smut #obx x reader #obx fanfiction #obx imagine #obx fic #obx

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tropes-and-tales · 1 month ago

Text

Fall from Grace

(Captain John Price x F!Reader)

CW: Slight angst. Inexperienced (but not virgin) reader. Smut (oral, f!receiving; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 7324

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s part of Captain Price’s job to know his soldiers. He has their dossiers memorized, of course, but he also learns them intimately through their work together. How could he not? War reveals the true core of a person, their real character, but the mundane moments add color. The long helicopter rides, the long plane rides. The long stretches of time sitting, waiting for intel, waiting for orders.

It's boring. His soldiers talk to fill the quiet and pass the time. They joke and tease each other, discuss football matches and rugby scores. Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, in the quiet hours before dawn, they talk in low voices and share secrets, fears, worries.

Captain Price overhears much of it.

He overhears Gaz talk about his girl back in London, how terrified he is to lose her. How he worries that he’ll never be good enough for her.

He overhears Ghost’s low rumble as he talks about his family and the loss of them. How losing his brother Tommy and his nephew Joseph broke some part of him that will never heal.

He overhears Soap—convivial Soap—talk about his passel of siblings and how they’ve all married and found careers and started to have children. How he feels left behind, out of sync with his own family. How he doesn’t want to go home on leave, sometimes, because he feels so out of step with where he came from.

What Captain Price overhears from you is less deep for a long while. You’re a cipher. He has the bare facts of your dossier, but when it’s the small hours of the night and everyone is restless, you don’t open up the way the men do. You rarely let your guard down.

It shouldn’t affect Price, but it does. Is it a benign sort of misogyny that makes him want to protect you more than he does Gaz or Ghost or Soap? Or is it the fact that he sees how hard you try, how you keep your walls up even when everyone else is sharing their darkest secrets? Is it because he worries that you think he’s judging you, that when you catch him watching you, you see judgement there?

So for a long while, Price overhears little from you. He hears inconsequential things. Music you like, your favorite brand of beer. A memory from your childhood that makes the guys laugh.

But there is a night where it changes.

The 141 is on a plane back to base. The latest mission was a success, a new terrorist group quashed before it could get off the ground. Price sits in the back of the plane and gets a head start on his paperwork while you and the guys sit around a four-seat table and play a no-stakes game of poker for little chits of torn notebook paper.

Everyone has leave coming up, so the evening’s talk is brighter. There’s more laughter, more gentle shoving and ribbing as Gaz throws down winning cards and sweeps the pile of chits in front of him.

And when the chatter turns to sex, Captain Price bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He’s reminded that these soldiers, his men, are little more than boys sometimes.

It starts with Gaz waxing poetic about his girl, and Soap makes it bawdy by saying Gaz will spend his leave horizontal and return to base dehydrated and exhausted. Gaz chucks him on the shoulder but Price can see the pleased grin on the man’s face: of course he’s going to spend a lot of his leave in bed with his girl.

Then it shifts to Soap and his handful of reliable hook-ups. He says he has a bevy of women, all Scottish and feisty, and that earns him a chuck from you, a hard little punch to his bicep and you tell him to behave himself.

“Ach, don’t be jealous, hen,” Soap whines, rubbing his arm. “I could clear some room in the schedule for ye if ye want to join me in Inverness.”

“That’s a lot of travel for, what? Two minutes of disappointment?”

Soap lays his palm over his heart, mimes being wounded, and he says something in reply but Price misses it because Gaz and Ghost are laughing too loudly.

And that’s how Price learns about you. The flight turns into rapid-fire questions, talk, and rejoinders about sex. You mostly stay silent, but you take little zings—mostly at Soap—but each time Price glances over at you, your face has a taut quality that he’s only seen on the battlefield.

Interesting.

If he thought it’d be something for him to mull over later, he’s wrong. Halfway through the flight, Gaz brings up the topic of favorite positions, and when Soap asks you what your favorite position is, you snort and say, “on my right side, curled up with my pillow, alone. Asleep. White noise machine set on ‘rainstorm.’”

That makes Price laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a cough, keeps his head bent over his paperwork.

But the guys are like sharks, and your sarcastic non-answer is like chum in the water. And you’re good—smart, resilient—but you’re also their captive audience, and they wear you down.

An hour into their three-on-one interrogation, the truth comes out: you are fairly inexperienced at sex.

“Virgin?” asks Gaz.

“No.”

“How many times—” starts Soap, but you cut him with a glare that even he won’t challenge.

“Were you assaulted?” Ghost asks in his soft rumble, and that makes you go soft too, your glare shifting from Soap to gazing at the hulking man in his skull mask.

“No, Si.” Your voice is low, and Price watches as you lay a gentle hand on Ghost’s forearm. “I’m lucky. Never that.”

Ghost pats your hand with his own. “Just saying, love. If you were, and you knew the guy’s name, I’d make him a grease stain before the week is out.”

(And this is part of why being a captain is such a burden: the quiet little exchange between you and Ghost makes a hot flare of love burn in his chest, how the two of you are like a brother and sister to each other. The purest form of found family.)

But then Soap breaks the moment. “Just not into it then?”

You shrug. “Guess not.”

“Why?” Gaz asks it, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Another shrug. “It’s hard to have a relationship in our line of work.”

“Ah,” Soap says. He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest. “Makes sense now. You need to be in love with someone before you’ll sleep with ‘em.”

“Not necessarily.” You reach out and gather the playing cards, the poker game long abandoned. Price watches from under the brim of his hat as you fiddle with the cards, stacking them up, squaring the edges, shuffling them idly.

“Then what?” Soap prods, and you sigh.

“I dunno. It’s just…a lot of work, you know? You gotta vet a guy even if he’s a one-night stand, and you have to play it cool but not too cool, and you have to be friendly but not too friendly. You have to shower and shave and smell nice but not put on too much perfume, and you have to dress just right and wear uncomfortable lingerie and pinching shoes. I did all that shit when I was in my twenties, and the handful of times I finally got a guy on the line and reeled him in? It wasn’t worth the effort. All that work and stress for what? A few minutes of nothing. A few minutes of bad kissing where the guy slobbers on me worse than a Saint Bernard, awful beer breath too. And while he’s jamming his tongue down my throat, he’s groping me like someone drowning and grabbing at a life preserver. Then what? Then the main event, and all that effort is a waste because he doesn’t notice the nice lingerie at all, he doesn’t notice that I smell nice and shaved and moisturized because he’s lying on top of me like some paradoxical corpse slash jackhammer because he’s weirdly positioned and barely touching me, not looking at me, just dead eyes fixed off into space, but he’s also, what, thrusting for half a minute before he’s done? And then it’s ‘thanks, love, great shag,’ and he’s rolling off of me, getting dressed again and out the door, and the entire affair took less time than it takes to bake a frozen pizza. I mean, what’s the point?”

A deadly silence falls over the group. The only sound is the thrum of the plane’s engines, and you look up from where you’re fiddling with the cards to find everyone staring at you. Your eyes dart over to where Price is staring at you too, and you make a face and duck your head.

“Jesus, hen,” Soap breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” Gaz adds.

You chuckle weakly. “For what?”

“On behalf of men, I guess?”

Ghost, at least…sweet Ghost and his brotherly love for you…he pats your hand and says quietly, “well, you always smell nice, love, and I always notice.”

-----

Price doesn’t do anything.

Leave starts and you disappear, off to someplace on your list of places to visit. Who knows with you? You love the world, all parts of it, so it’s just as likely that you’re in a jungle in Costa Rica as you would be in Tokyo.

Leave ends and the team reassembles. There’s a mission in the mountains of a country teetering into civil war. There’s a mission for intel. There’s an extraction mission. There’s a mission to take down a warlord in a lithium-rich country, and there’s a close call there. A bullet grazes you, cuts a burning line along your hip, and seeing you bloodstained and limping pulls Price up short.

He shouldn’t care the way he does. He cares about all of his soldiers, loves everyone, but he’d be lying if you weren’t different. The love he holds for the men is paternal: Soap and Ghost and Gaz are the sons he never had.

You? His love for you is more complicated. There’s a whiff of paternalism, a protectiveness that he knows you’d chafe at if you knew. There’s admiration, of course. But there’s also a deep vein of romantic love that threads between you and Price, and if you don’t know it, it’s only because Price has a good poker face and hides his feelings so well.

By the time you’re shot, everyone has earned another leave. Ghost, Gaz, and Soap all disappear for a month. Price could go to his empty house in the countryside, but he usually just stays on base anyway.

You?

The night before leave starts, there’s a knock on his office door, and when he calls out, you poke your head in.

“Have a moment, sir?”

He nods, gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and he winces internally at how you limp a bit, your stitches obviously pulling. You settle in your seat and he nods at you to start.

“I thought I might stay here for leave,” you say. “I’m not really in any shape to travel, and I’d be close to medical if anything goes bad with my wound.”

He says nothing, so you add, with less certainty, “would that be alright, sir?”

Price clears his throat. “Of course.”

Of course it’s okay that you stay on base for leave. With him. With few other people around.

-----

But he does nothing during your month together. How could he? He’s your superior. It would be wildly inappropriate to knock on your door some evening and confess his feelings for you.

One small concession: he orders you to call him ‘John’ while you’re on leave. No Captain, no ‘sir.’ He wants you at ease, relaxed, healing. You still wake up early, he notices. You train on a modified program as you heal. You keep your room painfully neat, hospital corners on your bed, boots polished and tucked in your foot locker.

But you do relax. You go off base and have a pint alone in a pub, come back slightly looser with your smiles. His name rolls easier off your tongue when you have some alcohol in you.

You lie on the couch in the rec room and read giant novels. You doze off to tennis on the television, and Price aches as he watches you sleep. You look so young this way; the years and stress slough off of you in slumber.

There is one night he cajoles you into joining him out for dinner off base. There’s a steakhouse nearby, and Price is craving a steak and a whiskey and a good cigar, and he’s craving your company. You agree, and the weeks on leave have softened you towards him. Maybe you see him as John now and not just Captain Price, and the conversation over steak flows so evenly that any casual observer might think it a date between an established couple.

But he does nothing more. Not this time.

-----

Leave ends. Another mission. Another. Intel-gathering, coup-ending. They intercept a dirty bomb for sale in a Morocco marketplace. They break up a human trafficking ring. They support Kor-tac in a mission.

Another leave. You’re healed now, but when Gaz asks where you’re going, you shrug and say nowhere.

“I didn’t plan anything,” you admit, and Price watches you on the sly. You explain that New York City was next on your list of places, but you are tired of cities, tired of the crush of people and always wondering where the next threat was. You tell Gaz, as Price eavesdrops, that you really just wanted a quiet month in the country but hadn’t the time to research anywhere or book anything—

He has to wait for Gaz to leave, which gives him a moment to despair that it’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but even with a moment to stop himself, Price can’t stop himself. He pulls you aside once you’re alone and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I have a place in the Lake District,” he says. “Quiet, in Rosgill. I’m going myself, but it’s a big place for just me. Too big, really. You could join, if you want.”

It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but it must mean something that you only think on it for a beat before you smile at him and accept his offer with your genuine thanks.

-----

On the trip to his home, he explains it to you, and he hates how he sounds like an estate agent selling you on the charms of the place.

“It’s an old seventeenth century blacksmith forge that’s been converted into a home. Quiet. One side overlooks the eastern fells.”

He explains how he bought it when he was young with the windfall of his father’s modest estate when the old man died from a heart attack.

He doesn’t explain that it had been his dream as a young man to share it with someone, and as that dream had steadily died off, so too has the planned renovations. The place is half-restored—mostly the house proper—but his plans for the outbuildings and grounds have been abandoned. He had planned a copse of trees, a raised garden bed for vegetables and herbs, a small greenhouse. What was the point of sinking money into a place that never saw any use?

You laugh quietly, then say that you don’t even have a home, that you have a small storage unit in Reading for the handful of things you can’t bear to give up.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Captain,” you say.

He tuts, reminds you to call him by his first name. “There’s no Captain Price in Rosgill. Just John.”

-----

It takes less than a week to fall into a comfortable domestic rhythm with you. John wonders at it: he had a girlfriend in his late twenties who had moved in for a year, and the two of them never reached even a fraction of the ease you and he reach within days.

It doesn’t mean it’s not torture. The house has two bathrooms and a WC, but you end up sharing a bathroom because it’s the only one on the second floor, situated between both of your bedrooms. It’s torture to shower after you, when everything is damp and faintly scented with your soap. It’s torture to see your toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the sink, and of course he snoops. Takes in the tube of lip balm, your brand of toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol. He sees a little ornate glass bottle of perfume, and he uncaps it, smells it. It makes him remember the conversation on the plane, your rant about your disappointing experiences with sex, all the effort you put in to look nice and smell nice.

Which makes the rest torture too. You calling him John. You stretched out on a chaise in the conservatory that overlooks the fells. You making him a simple, hearty dinner—who knew you could cook?—then calling him to table, your name in his mouth, your hands passing him a plate with chicken and roasted vegetables, your smile as he pours you another glass of wine. You passing him in the hallway at night in your sleepwear, the soft-looking pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that strains around your breasts. You meeting his eye, smiling at him, saying “g’night, John.”

Then the torture of your bedroom door clicking shut behind you, with John on the other side of it.

-----

It’s the meteor shower that changes it. The Perseids, and John’s home has a big conservatory with a wall of windows that overlooks the night sky. He mentions them to you that morning, suggests it might be nice to stay up and watch them together, maybe open a bottle of Lagavulin to mark the occasion.

It’s also Soap that changes it. You and John make dinner together—just a spag bol—and your phone chimes as you’re sitting to eat. You swipe at the lock screen, read the message, and snort.

“Soap,” you say, and you hold up the screen to John even though he can’t read the tiny print. “Says he had a cancellation with one of his standby ladies and can work me into his rotation if I can get to Inverness in an hour.”

John chuckles, shakes his head. “Want me to put him on KP duty when we get back?”

“A few extra laps on his runs wouldn’t hurt. Wearing full kit, for the weight.”

The thread of conversation could die off, but it’s an opening, and John takes it. He clears his throat, spins a forkful of spaghetti on his plate, then offers, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it. Romantically, I mean.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve not had the easiest time of it lately.”

It earns him another snort, and you cock an eyebrow at him, pull an incredulous face. “I don’t buy it.”

He’s not lying. His twenties, he was a wolf on the prowl. Broke plenty of hearts, had his own broken in turn. He had a few girlfriends, one who moved in for a bit, then moved out after a terrific row, never to return. He always had the fixed idea that he’d meet someone by his mid-thirties, take an early retirement by his mid-forties, and have a family waiting for him by then.

But as his mid-thirties receded, he found the prospect of dating a bleak affair. Some women were too young, too immature. The generational differences in sex and love were too steep to overcome. Some wanted a sugar daddy. Some wanted to be taken care of with no care extending back in his direction. Other women were older, closer to his age, but saddled with ex-husbands, children bitter from divorce, a cynicism that John couldn’t overcome.

He doesn’t tell you any of that. Instead, he volleys it back at you, retorts with a gentle smile that he doesn’t buy that you hadn’t had a single satisfying experience in your life.

You sigh, shrug again. “Ah, well. I guess I can’t blame the men entirely. Who’s to say I wasn’t the problem? Maybe I’m a terrible kisser.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just outrageous amounts of tongue.”

John laughs, and you grin at him, add, “garlic breath, too. Got too bitey halfway through a make-out session. Made the guy bleed. Now he has a scar on his lip and he tells all the blokes down at the pub about the crazy girl he took out once who bit him.”

John puts down his fork and takes a drink of wine. He smiles around the rim of his glass. “None of that can be true.”

“Didn’t know how to move during sex, so I elbowed him hard and broke his nose. Touched him in a weird spot in an attempt to be sexy and creeped him out.”

He laughs again. “What’s considered a weird spot?”

“Maybe I, I dunno…rubbed his elbows in a seductive way. Touched him between his toes in the hopes of turning him on. Maybe no one ever told me that that there’s no erogenous zone in the space between toes.”

His laughter grows at the mental image you’re painting; tears creep out of the corners of his eyes. “That’s how I know you’re lying,” he manages to reply. “Because most men would find any type of touch from a woman sexy.”

You cock an eyebrow at that and take a sip of your own wine. “Duly noted, John. If I ever make a move on you, I’m coming for your toes.”

“Prepare to be awestruck then, sweetness: I have feet like a fucking hobbit.”

Your first response is to laugh at him, but he notes the way you take in the pet name, the little shine you get in your eyes. The conversation dies off, shifts to other topics, but the rest of dinner holds a charge in the air, and both of you can feel it.

-----

After you share clean-up duties in the kitchen, you make your way to the conservatory. It’s just a fancy word for ‘living room,’ but it holds no television: just a bookcase, a fireplace, and a few chaise lounges and couches for taking in the view. John used to envision lazy weekends in here with a family: a wife and kids, maybe, settled around a board game. A dog curled up by the fire.

He also used to envision something like this: sharing an intimate moment with a woman here. His ex hated the house, hated how remote it was. She liked London and the bustle of cities, but you are a better fit. You settle on the chaise, curl up on your side like a cat, and you sip at the cut-glass tumbler of whiskey when he hands it to you. John settles on the floor right near you, and the two of you chat while you wait for the meteor shower to start.

You don’t talk about much of consequence. It’s a rambling conversation, tinged by the alcohol but not impaired by it. The evening holds a dreamy quality, like it’s not quite real, like if John raises his voice above a low rumble he might pop the ambiance like a soap bubble.

When the first streak of white shoots across the sky, you both fall silent. John turns away from you and faces the windows, and you both watch quietly. Once in a while you sigh, a pleased little exhale, and the spell deepens. Weaves of magic seem to tighten around the two of you with each brilliant falling star.

John leans his head back and rests it against the chaise, but he bumps into some part of you. He mutters a sorry, and you whisper back no worries, but a beat later he feels your hand on the top of his head. Tentative. Shy. A question in the touch, and he answers it by leaning into you more. You push your fingers into his hair, and he honest-to-god has to bite his fucking tongue at the moan that threatens to tear out of his throat at the feeling of you touching him.

He turns his head and finds you watching him, not the meteor shower. He knows he cannot go a single step further without putting it all out in the open, addressing it immediately.

“You know I’m your commanding officer,” he says softly. “Not here, but when we get back. And I’m not stupid. I know some part of you still thinks of me as your captain even here, just like some part of me still thinks of you as my charge.”

You nod. Say nothing. Look at him expectantly.

“What I mean is, this leave will end and we’ll have to go back. We have to be able to compartmentalize it. And I need to know that you want this completely free and clear. That there’s no part of you that feels you have to do this, because I know there’s a power imbalance, but…” He trails off, doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“But what, John?” you prod, and he takes a breath, finally says it.

“I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I know I should be strong enough—should be your captain, I mean—and stop this before it starts. But I can’t. I don’t want to.”

You don’t laugh at him, and you don’t pout at his words. You nod seriously. You say you understand, that it’s complicated. You promise that you will try to compartmentalize it.

“It’s just me and you right now,” you say, softly. “Just two people. Not boss and employee or captain and soldier. I don’t feel pressured or feel any power imbalance. And John? I don’t want you to stop it before it starts. Truly.”

This must be what falling from grace feels like. Some small part of John despairs at this breach of trust, even if you assure him it isn’t so: he’s your captain, he’s worked so hard to always keep clear lines between him and his soldiers. He needs to be able to send people he cares about, people he loves, into situations where death is more likely than staying alive. He needs to be able to leaf through your dossier and not blink at the section where you’ve listed out your final wishes in the event of death. He needs to be able to leave you behind if it threatens the mission or the 141, and he’s always been able to do that before but the moment you lean forward and kiss him—your hand cupping the curve of his face, drawing him to you eagerly—he knows he’ll never be able to do any of that again.

He's failed as a commander, and a small part of him despairs, but the larger part rejoices at the feeling of your lips on his, your hands on him. His eyes shut, and you both completely forget the meteor shower as you fall from grace together.

-----

You make out in stages: the eagerness cedes to a near-shyness, then melts into a level of comfort as you get used to each other. John knows now that you oversold your inability to kiss—you’re eager, then you’re shy, but you’re pretty damned good at it after all, and if those other assholes you’ve slept with didn’t think so, then that’s on them.

He eventually makes his way up to the chaise to sit beside you, and then he guides you into his lap. He has you straddle him, and when his palm gently grasps your cheek to lead you back to kiss him, he feels how flushed you are under his hand.

“You okay?”

You nod against his hold. “Yes,” you reply, but you perch yourself back in his lap, closer to his knees, and he can feel how you’re holding your weight off of him.

“We can take this slow. There’s no rush. We can stop here.”

“I know.” A beat, and you add, “I’m good, John, really.”

“Then c’mere, love. Settle in.”

When you don’t move, he puts his hands on your hips and draws you down and in, pulls the delicious weight of you right where he wants you most. Right on top of him. His growing erection presses against your clothed core, and your breasts brush against his chest. He slides one hand around to your ass and grips the swell of you, kneads at your flesh, but the other hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck. To hold you steady as he kisses you more forcefully.

John tries to strike the perfect balance between gentle and still leading you. He presses his tongue against the seam of your mouth, urges you to open yourself to him, and you obey. He licks against your mouth, tastes the smoky peat of the whiskey on you, and the sensation of his tongue against yours makes you rock in his lap. He feels the pressure of you brushing against his cock, and it draws dual moans from each of you.

He breaks the kiss, catches his breath. “Sweetness, what do you want? What do you like?” He wants to make you moan like that again and again, wants you to breathe out his name or scream it or both. He wants your eyes to shine up at him like they did at dinner when he used that sweet nickname on you the first time.

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

He knows what it must take for you to admit that. He remembers your rant on the plane, the disappointment in your past dealings with lovers. It makes his chest ache at how lonely you must have been, how separate you must have felt from others.

He loosens his hold on your neck. He slides his palm around to cup your face, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek.

“Then how about we find out together?”

You answer him by turning your head into his palm and kissing him there, a sweet gesture, and that ache in his chest blooms stronger.

-----

It’s awkward at first, and John can’t figure out why.

He manages to get you out of your shirt and shorts, manages to unhook your bra and strip himself until you’re both nearly naked and stretched out together over the chaise. You let him lead, but you aren’t exactly eager. You are passive to an almost uncomfortable degree, and there’s something off—

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin. You’re so warm under his lips, soft, and he is going so slowly, but you’re hardly moving and you’re saying even less. Your earlier touches—your hand in his hair, cupping his face—have disappeared entirely.

Yet when he asks his question, you whisper back that it’s wonderful.

It takes another moment before he realizes part of what’s wrong: you’re holding your breath. You’re barely breathing, and once he locks in on that, everything else falls into place. You’re not precisely rigid underneath him, but you’re tense, your muscles taut to the point of trembling. And your hands lie by your side. Not touching him at all.

He pauses, then makes his way back up to where your face is. In the faint light from the windows, he can make out a tension in your expression too. Something else too. Not dread, maybe, but maybe a lighter version of that. Trepidation.

John kisses you lightly on your mouth. “How are you doing, sweetness?”

“Good.” You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Great, really.”

“You sure?”

You nod.

He brushes his lips over your cheekbone, to the edge of your jaw near your ear. “Not nervous at all?”

“Maybe a little.”

You’re hedging. Lightly lying to him. Your nervousness fills the room like the incoming tide, and John susses it out gently, teases it from you bit by bit. It’s not difficult to guess the source of your nerves.

“Thinking about past encounters, maybe?”

You huff softly near his ear. “Hard not to.” You hesitate, then add, “it was always so bad.”

“And you think you were the reason it was so bad?”

Another huff, and your voice is tinged with embarrassment. “I’m the constant factor each time, John.”

It occurs to him that you’ve likely missed all of the experimenting that many people get when they are younger. All the goofy, awkward moments in sex, when a person figures out what they like or don’t like, what they love and what they hate. You’ve probably been left with a handful of one night stands where you got no feedback, never had a chance to understand what felt good to you, and now are paralyzed to the point of doing nothing.

John resets the moment. He strokes the side of your face, then leans down and kisses you. Slow, gentle. No rushing. The barest brush of his tongue against yours, just enough until he feels you relax a bit underneath him.

As much as he wants to compartmentalize it, John knows from working with you that you’re eager for feedback. You’re eager to learn, and you never take constructive criticism badly.

“Let me help you,” he says now. “Okay?”

You gaze up at him, and if your body is tense as a strung wire, your eyes are full of trust. “Okay.”

“First thing, sweetness. You have to breathe for me. You’re holding your breath, and it’s making you tense.”

Sure enough, your tight, shallow breathing evens out and deepens. And sure enough, he feels your body relax a bit more. He kisses you as a reward, then gives you more advice that you take readily.

“You can move your body. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want to feel your hands on me. I want you to touch me too. I’m yours.”

“You need to talk to me. Tell me what feels good. Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

As he instructs you, he eases back into it. Kisses your mouth, kisses his way over your face and neck, spends long moments at your bared breasts. It’s the first test, but you breathe as he mouths at your tender skin, as he suckles against your hardened peaks. And you move underneath him, arching your chest to give him better access.

A beat later, he feels your hands—still tentative, but warm, soft—touching him. Stroking his shoulders, his arms. Running your fingertips through his hair.

He’ll find out later, days later, that you had only been working off of previous feedback from those terrible one night stands. The guy who told you that you were breathing too loudly, the guy who told you to lie still. One baffling guy who told you not to touch him, to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you.

But now? This is a good start to finally getting to what you like. To finding out together.

What you don’t like: anything remotely like tickling. He skates his fingertips too lightly over your sides, down the curve of your waist, and you jerk away from him like you’ve been burned. You apologize a second later, but John laughs, which makes you laugh too. It dispels some more of your nervousness, and when he tries the move against with more pressure—down your sides, over your waist—you like that far better.

You also don’t like it when he pauses at the scar on your hip. It’s still a lurid red, and it pulls him up short for a moment. Dampens his own mood. It reminds him at how close you were to really being hurt, even killed. You don’t like it when he bends his head to kiss the ridge of scar tissue, and he doesn’t push it. Instead, he shifts his head and kisses your stomach where the edge of your panties is, and you like that a whole lot more.

What you like: everything else. Every other thing he gives you, everything he does to you. You like it when he eases your panties off you. You groan when he buries his face between your thighs, and you gasp when he kisses you there, when he drags his tongue over the slick seam of your cunt. You like it very much when he laps at your arousal, when he lays plush kisses to your swollen clit, when he slides a finger inside you and a second finger and when he slides them along your inner wall until he finds the spot that makes you jerk underneath him, whine out his name, reach down and tug at his hair.

You like it when he makes you come with his mouth, and you like it when he makes his way back up your trembling body, when he spreads your legs wider to fit him. When he pushes into you in a slow, steady thrust, so soon after your orgasm that he feels the tiny aftershocks as he seats himself inside you for the first time. You gasp at the sensation, you breathe out a “god, John,” but when he opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, you grab his head and kiss him so hard you steal his breath from him.

And you especially like it when he coaxes another orgasm from you, his thrusts strong and steady, deep. When you bend one leg alongside him, he reaches down and hikes it higher over his hip. It allows him to push deeper inside you, that extra fraction making you cock-dumb, because you’re so far gone you forget to be nervous. You forget to lie still, to keep your hands to yourself, to hold your breath.

You arch up and meet him thrust for thrust. You wrap one arm around his broad shoulders but the other hand reaches down and grips the meat of his ass, urges him on. You breathe; you pant in his ear, and sometimes it’s just your hot breath, but just as often it’s you talking, babbling, begging him to fuck you, to please don’t stop, to keep going, to never stop fucking you.

And you like it when he does as you say. He doesn’t stop, and you come again, but then you whine out that it’s too much. It probably is: you’ve gone from disappointing interludes with absolute bell-ends, and now you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him. You’re not openly crying but tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and streak down your face. Your lips are slightly chapped and swollen, and you look stunned.

“Want me to stop?” he asks. He kisses one damp cheek, then the other, and he can taste the salt from your tears. “Too much?”

“Uh-huh.” It comes out slurred.

“Need you to use your words, sweetness.”

“I don’t think…” You blink, and you lose a bit of your stunned quality. “I don’t think I can again.”

“Oh, I think you could.” Another kiss, this one open-mouthed on your pulse point. He presses his teeth there, sucks lightly against your skin. “I think you have one more.”

“John—”

“Gotta make up for lost time.”

“I can’t.” You whine, but it ends in a moan as he bites you harder at where your shoulder meets your neck. “Too much. It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so well, though. You don’t have one more? Not even for me?” He laves the flat of his tongue over where his teeth have left dimpled marks, then he blows over the wet line, makes you shudder underneath him.

“John,” you reply, but it holds less of a warning than before. There’s surrender in your tone.

“Love feeling this sweet pussy coming around me,” he growls in your ear. “Fucking soaking my cock, sweetness.”

The dirty talk makes you clench down on him, and he smiles to himself. He draws back, sinks back into you. He goes slow, and you whine that it’s too much, but you like this too because you hold him tighter. You press back against him each time he seats himself in you, his hips settled against yours. He goes slow, so slow, sinks into you as deep as he can, barely pulls out before he’s pushing back inside. You’re swollen, fevered where he’s joined to you. You’re so fucking wet that he feels your arousal soaking the coarse hair at the base of him, dripping down your thighs, likely soaking the chaise.

He's proud that he’s been able to forestall his own pleasure, but his restraint has frayed. How could it not? The whole moment had been sold as for you, to make you feel good, to make sex not the scary specter it has been for most of your adult life, but John can’t remember the last time he had sex where he felt so connected to his partner.

Maybe he never has. He can’t conjure up a moment from his past when he felt so flayed alive, his heart visible and beating as he joined with another person. He can’t remember ever reveling so deeply in his partner’s pleasure. He can’t remember anyone else’s touch or voice in his ear or breath panting underneath him making him feel so whole.

But you like it when he finally comes too. He pulls another orgasm from you, less intense but longer—you tremble for longer, and your cunt twitches against him—and it sets him over the edge. He groans in your ear that he’s close too, asks where he should…but your hand on his ass pulls him deeper into you, and if the gesture wasn’t clear, you whisper that you want him to come inside you, you want to feel him, and he does. His pleasure breaks around him, shatters him, and he growls your name as he fills you, and you answer by whispering his name back, over and over.

-----

If you never had a satisfying sexual experience before, John can guess that you never had the post-sex moments either. The come-down, the cuddling, the falling asleep together.

He gives that to you now too, but it’s not altruistic at all: he wants it too. He selfishly wants it. He leaves you on the chaise to get a washcloth, a glass of water, and he helps you clean up. He helps you recover, but then he leads you to the deep couch on the other side of the room and has you lie down. He lies down beside you—it’s a tight fit, but he holds you safe between the broad planes of his body and the back of the couch, and he covers you both with a light blanket.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and it’s plaintive. It makes that ache in his chest flare back, so he kisses you gently, replies, “don’t ever thank for me this.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep: you go first, the slack weight of you pleasant against his body, the deep and even breathing, the little grumble as you shift. He’s not far behind you, but he has a moment or two where the earlier thread of despair pushes to the forefront of his mind.

He might just be John right now, and you’re just you, but soon enough you’ll be soldier and captain again. How will it ever work, now that you’ve fallen from grace together?

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and tales #captain john price #captain price #captain john price x reader #captain john price imagine #captain john price x you #john price #john price x reader #john price x your #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #cod

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wandaslovey · 2 months ago

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𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢

➺ step mommy!wanda x innocent!fem reader

wc ~ 2.8k

a/n: the people have spoken! the poll i posted was incredibly close between mommy!wanda w/ readers first time being with a woman and mommy!wanda corruption kink. i decided to just go ahead and combine the two. enjoy!

a/n: so i actually hate this buuut i figured i would post it anyways. any feedback is welcome, just please be nice :)) (im fragile🥹)

*not proofread*

cw: unspecified age gap, stepcest, mommy!kink, corruption kink, somnophilia, cunnilingus (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), mild humiliation (sorta?)

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

you were cuddled up in wanda’s arms as you lie on your side, facing the television with some old disney movie playing. she had her arm draped around your torso, holding your body back against hers. you had fallen asleep a little while ago, your breathing slow and even.

it was your last week of being home for summer semester before you had to go back to school. you had debated going back home for break, and not even because you had to face your notoriously neglectful father, but because you had to face your step mother—wanda. it had been a few years now that she had married your father. it was a marriage strictly out of convenience and stability. she had her twin boys to raise and wanted a father figure for them to look up to. what she didn’t expect was to inherit you. her beautiful, precious, innocent step-daughter. you were 18 at the time and a senior in high school. she easily took your under her wing and loved you just as much as she did her own children. her love for you started out innocent, but soon morphed into her own perversion. she loved how perfectly innocent you were—even as the years went by. the way your dressed, spoke and acted all seemed to drive her fantasies into an even more perverted corner.

she would often lay awake at night, touching herself to the thought of you. your soft, small hands squeezing and caressing her breasts. your full, pouty lips pressed against hers or better yet.. wrapped around one of her nipples. she knew you were inexperienced and that only drove her more insane. one of her favorite fantasies was having you in her lap, your little skirt bunched up at your waist as she had her wand vibrator pressed up against your cloth-covered pussy. she would try different settings, taking in your little gasps and whimpers as she takes note of just how sensitive you are.

“oh, does that feel good, baby?”

“mm, mommy loves watching you squirm like this in her lap.”

she would watch in real time as your panties become soaking wet, the material almost see through by the time she was done.

now you.. you were completely and utterly enthralled with wanda. she was so beautiful, elegant and seemed to perform every thing she did with grace. even down to the smallest domestic actions, you found yourself squirming in your seat as she went about doing the tasks. growing up, you never had much sexual interest in boys or girls. once your step-mother came into your life, boy, did that change. you found yourself instantly attracted to her femininity, her kindness, but mostly her nurturing disposition. having a narcissistic biological mother meant you lacked one of the most important female relationships in your life.

you craved her attention. since you were attending a local college, that allowed you to travel home often. you didn’t ever go back to see your dad (of course) but to see her. and if you were being honest, you did love billy and tommy as well. they were the greatest little siblings you could have ever hoped for.

each time you went back to visit, your fantasies and thoughts about wanda became progressively more explicit. it started with her holding you, gently stroking your hair as you were cuddled up. however, you knew your feelings were getting stronger when one day you were passing her bedroom and found the door open a crack. she was dressing into her night clothes and you caught a glimpse of her naked back. you couldn’t walk away even if you wanted to. you stood there gawking as she dressed, seeing more of her bare skin than ever before. there was a growing, slightly foreign ache between your legs as you watched her. you pressed your thighs together, mouth slightly agape as you stared at the sight before you.

from then on, anytime you were home you would make it a point to try and sneak a peak of her nakedness whenever you knew she might be showering or changing. in bed at nighttime, your mind ran wild with so many fantasies. you were innocent, but not clueless. you would imagine her perfectly manicured hands sliding down your bare torso, her fingers dipping into the hem of your sleep shorts. then after teasing you a bit, her pulling them off your legs. she would be slow, soft and gentle with her touches. her voice (which you could listen to all day) murmuring sweet praises as she drew small, tight circles around your clit. her kissing and marking your neck. you would proudly wear her love bites.

her gasping with you as she inserts her fingers into your virginal pussy for the first time…

as the movie played on the screen, wanda found herself unable to focus on the scene unfolding before her. instead, she was watching you—your chest rising and falling steadily. she propped herself up, peeking down at your face to make sure your eyes were closed. her libido was burning hot. your body held firmly against hers was enough to get her mind running a mile a minute. you sigh softly in your sleep, wiggling your ass further against her front. wanda smiles to herself, finding the image of you sleeping so soundly in her arms just adorable. but what would be even more adorable? hearing your little whimpers and moans as she touches you. she had never touched you in a non-innocent way before and honestly—she was tired of being good. she wanted her way with you, and tonight she was going to have it.

she began slowly tracing her fingertips up and down your arm, goosebumps rising in their wake. your skin was so soft under her touch. her hand slid to your torso, her fingers slipping under your shirt and running up your waist. she stopped when her fingertips felt the fabric of your bra. she shifted herself carefully so she was propped up on one arm, her body hovering above yours. her free hand now traced slowly up your knee, her fingers on a sinful journey to your soft, milky inner thighs. she gently squeezed the squishiest part, wanting to do that since she saw a glimpse of them whenever you wore your bikini’s at the pool. your legs parted for her and she smiled at your body’s natural instinct to open up for her.

her fingers teased the edges of your panties and she noticed there was already a small wet patch on the material. oh you were a needy girl, weren’t you.

she quickly became desperate to see more of you, but she didn’t want you to wake—yet. she gently pulled your shirt down, the material bunching just past the middle part of your bra. she then leaned down, pressing slow, wet kisses along the tops of your breasts. her tongue snaked out, dipping behind the material and grazing over your nipple. you shifted slightly, a small whine sounding past your lips. wanda paused her movements briefly, glancing up at your face to make sure you were still asleep. once she was satisfied you weren’t going to open your eyes, her fingers resumed their teasing of your inner thighs and panty lines. she dragged her tongue across your chest to your other breast, this time swiping her tongue more firmly over your pert nipple. the hand that was teasing the seam of your panties finally slid past the material, seeking your now inexplicably wet heat. her finger dragged down your slit, gathering the wetness at your entrance and then swirling it up around your clit. you began to stir slightly, your hips gently rolling up into her ministrations.

she kept you on the edge of unconsciousness, being careful not to rouse her little girl prematurely. once she thought you were sufficiently worked up, she maneuvered herself until she was laying between your legs. she gently lifted one of your legs so it bended for her, your unconscious body seeming to assist her as you rest your foot flat on the couch, your leg leaning to the side for better access to your core. she leaned down, her eyes intent on your face as she didn’t want to miss a single reaction. her warm tongue drew a line up your panty-covered slit. your body twitched at the sensation, a small hum in the back of your throat. she repeated the action, gliding her tongue up and down a few times before she needed the offending garment off your body.

her hands caressed up your thighs before grabbing onto your panties and sliding them off of you. she was mindful to take them all the way off, tucking them away in her pocket for later. returning to her previous engagement, she watched your brow furrow slightly, a small gasp leaving your lips as her tongue parted your wet folds. she hummed softly at the flavor of you and fought the urge to delve in right there.

wanting to see those pretty eyes of yours now that her head was between your legs, she licked a firmer stripe up your slit, her hands squeezing your hips. you began to stir again, a feeling of confusion washed over you as you realize there was something hot and wet against your core. you gasped, suddenly awake all at once as you look down and see your step-mother with her head between your legs, her tongue swirling all over your heat. “w-wanda?” you panted out, confused. while you had hoped for something like this to happen, you didn’t think it actually would.

“hmm, hi sweet girl,” she murmured into your pussy, her eyes gleaming with wicked intent as she looked up a you. her tongue expertly explored your folds and you couldn’t help but whimper softly, the sight before you almost overwhelming.

“what’re you doing?” you whimpered. your hips gently rolling into her face at their own accord.

“shhh, baby. let mommy have her fun, hmm? i promise you’ll like it.” you didn’t really need much further encouragement, so you let her proceed without further protest.

“that’s it, huh? were you hoping i would do this to you? were you hoping mommy would finally cave and eat her little girl’s pussy?”

you moaned, her words only making your head more cloudy. she chuckled and you could feel the vibrations reverberate through your core.

you were getting lost in the sensations when she suddenly stopped. “tell me,” she insisted, her eyes were intent on your face as if searching for the truth.

“y-yes mommy..” you whimpered, feeling embarrassed to have to admit this to your step mother. “yes what, baby?” you squirmed under her scrutiny, not wanting to reveal your naughty fantasies out loud. with your hesitation, she decided to tease you further, her finger coming up and circling your entrance. she teased your opening, dipping just the tip of her finger in and out. you whined, her ministrations pleasant but not enough. “please,” you whined. she persisted with her teasing motions, careful not to give you too much stimulation. “tell me the truth milaya moya..i want to hear your say it.” you swallowed back some of your nerves, your fuzzy mind making it harder to want to hide the truth from her. “i’ve wanted you to touch me like this for so long, mommy..” your voice was breathless, your body became more desperate as her fingers continued teasing you.

“have you? what a naughty girl.. and here i was thinking you were a sweet, innocent little thing.” she cooed, her touch becoming more pleasurable as she rewarded your honesty by drawing firm circles around your clit. you moaned, your eyes slid shut wanting to savor every sensation she was pulling from your body.

“ah ah ah, open your eyes. watch mommy.” her voice was gentle yet commanding; you had no choice but to obey. you opened your eyes and find that where her eyes were once green, they were now almost black with desire. “have you ever stuck your fingers inside here before?” her finger gently prodded at your opening, you body wiggling at the sensation.

“o-once..” while the experience wasn’t entirely unpleasant, you didn’t understand why girls would pleasure themselves that way. it just didn’t feel that good to you. “and you didn’t like it?” she gently probed, the hand that wasn’t teasing your entrance caressing the outside of your thigh.

you shook your head, opting to remain silent to answer her question. “that’s perfectly normal, baby. you know what though? i’ll bet mommy can find that special spot inside of you. will you let me try?” truthfully, she was going to try it regardless of what you said. she knew she would be able to find that sweet, spongy spot to curl her fingers against, drawing white hot pleasure from you. you nodded your head slowly, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth nervously.

with how wet you were, wanda was sure two of her fingers could easily slip inside. she watched you as your eyes were locked in on her hand that was between your legs. when she slipped her two fingers inside your hole, you gasped. there was a slight pressure from the stretch but you found it only added to the pleasure you felt. her face contorted with yours and she mimicked your facial expression, wholly invested in your pleasure as if it were her own.

her fingers moved slowly at first, but soon after picked up the pace. you threw your head back, your eyes shutting once again.

“open your eyes, pretty girl. look at me.” you whimpered, reluctantly opening your eyes again to look into hers. she chose that moment then to curl her fingers up against that spongy spot inside you. your mouth formed an “o,” your brows pulling together as you whined, the feeling surprising you. she quickly picked up the pace, her fingers curling and rubbing up against your g spot with fervor. “that’s it baby. you feel that? you feel mommy inside of you?” you moaned and bucked your hips into her hand, feeling her thumb start to circle your clit.

you felt the pressure building in your lower abdomen, your heart starting to pound in your chest as you get closer to your climax. one of your hands clutched onto her wrist of the hand that was pumping in and out of your wet hole.

“mommy! gonna cum!” your body was writhing and shaking under her touch. you finally become unraveled as she leans down and wraps her lips around your clit, suckling the bundle of nerves into her mouth. the moan you let out was downright pornographic as she helps you ride out your high; her fingers slowing and her tongue giving you little kitten licks until you were fully back down to earth.

you chest rose and fell heavily as you tried to catch your breath. wanda crawled up your body, her legs on either side of your hips as she gently rested her upper body atop of yours. she brushed some stray hairs behind your ear, taking note of your adorably flushed cheeks. your eyes were closed as you gathered yourself and when they peeked open to look at hers, they were met with a sea of green. a small smile was tugging on the corners of her lips.

“hi,” you whispered quietly, your eyes slightly hooded as your orgasm only made you feel sleepy again. “hi, baby love,” she smiled at you, her eyes crinkling and her nose scrunching. you give her back a small smile of your own, your brain and body feeling fuzzy and light. “mmm i feel like jello, mommy.” she chuckled gently at your chosen word to describe how you feel. “yeah?” she leaned in and began peppering light kisses all over your face, relishing in your cuteness. you giggled softly, wrapping your arms around her neck to keep her there. she scooted over, maneuvering herself so she was lying next to you with your body pulled close against hers.

you two lie there in silence for several minutes, just enjoying each others company. “wanda?” you questioned, your voice soft and a little hesitant. “hmmm?”

“how long have you wanted to do that to me?”

wanda smiled to herself which you didn’t see with your face tucked under into her neck.

“a long time.” she said simply.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda x you #mommy wanda #corruption kink #somno k!nk

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biscuitdragonwithastick · 1 year ago

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Minotaur Ranch

cw: cnc, dubious consent, monster fucking, bestiality(?)

Based on the Eggpregtober Fic 3

I keep imagining what it'd be like to work on a Minotaur Ranch.

The beasts mostly keep to themselves, grazing the fields and laying around in the shade. They can act real cute with you sometimes. Nuzzling into your palm when you scratch their head just right. Mooing impatiently to be let out after being cooped up at night. It's easy to forget they're running on primal instinct until one shoved you against a wall and rips through your pants.

That's when you remember the rules of the ranch: Don't pet the Minotaur, Don't feed the Minotaur, and Don't ever present your ass to a Minotaur.

You hadn't thought these rules were that important.

How could you have known that petting and rubbing their bodies with soothing touches would be seen as an act of submission. It never would have occurred to you that feeding them a bit of your lunch every once in a while would be seen as a sign of courtship.

And when you turned around to pick up some equipment off the floor, how could you foreseen that the bull behind you would take it as a sign you were in heat.

Muscular hands hold you off the ground. As your legs dangle below you, you feel the wet muzzle of your Minotaur lick into your neck. It's meant to be a soothing gestures as he lines his bovine cock against your opening, but all you feel is terror at the rough fucking about to take place.

You've seen the ways the Minotaur's fight each other in the fields. It's part of their DNA to show dominance to the weak. You've heard of monster "bitching" before, and you know it's supposed to be an act of ferocious claiming meant to humiliate a subservient other.

You close your eyes, waiting for the pain of being split on Minotaur cock, but instead yelp as they pull you up further off the ground and lick you. Their tongue is long, wet and thick, thicker than a human cock. You can't help but moan as it breaches your hole. That only seems to encourage it, roughly thrusting it's tongue into you as deep as it can go. You writhe in its grip. At the angle its holding you, you can look down and see its tongue pushing your skin taut.

Once it's satisfied you've been opened enough it moves you down, back over its cock and thrusts inside. It doesn't hurt. It's so gentle with you, fucking you like it knows you weren't built for the full force of a Minotaur's strength. You clench down as you cum from the treatment. It bellows loud and low at how good you feel.

It fucks you against the wall like that. Slowly rocking forward into your human frame You can't help but imagine if you had been any other Minotaur. Would it have fucked you harder? Or was Minotaur mating far softer than you gave them credit for? You'll have to answer those questions later. Right now, you just want to focus on your next orgasm.

You know its close when it starts to breathe heavier and thrust a little faster. Wet slapping sounds fill the air as its balls hit your thighs. In one final thrust, it groans and hot cum fills you. You can feel its balls draw up behind you. You didn't realize how long a Minotaur could cum until minutes passed and you were still being filled. Most of it has pooled between your legs and onto the floor, but your bulging tummy is aching from what little can fill it.

But you love it. You loved being bred by your bull. You wished you could be fucked over and over again just like this.

As it pulls out of you and holds you limp in its grasp, it hands you over to another Minotaur. The whole herd had watched you be claimed, now they think your a mare in heat. You can't blame them. As you spread your legs for the next bull, you think about how good it is to work on a Minotaur ranch.

#monster breeding #monsterfucker #terato #monster x reader #minotaur #nonspecified gender #might need to update my banner if I keep up the monster fucking #is it so bad that i want to be held down and fucked by a monster #Biscuit tumblr fic

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reidsfilm · 4 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 — SIMON RILEY

PARING: simon ''ghost'' riley x !fem reader

WARNINGS: SMUT!! (18+) pure filth, p in v, (wrap it up folks) unprotected sex, praise, petnames; bug, good girl, pretty girl etc, swearing, hair pulling, soft!dom ghost, oral (male receiving) aftercare. no use of y/n. simon being needy and desperate. slight dom! reader for a bit, creampie, cum eating, fluff.

SUMMARY: You and Simon were just casual until one day you weren't.

WORD COUNT : 6,3k

Notes: I wish fictional men were real. WHY AREN'T THEY!! not proofread.

Simon was never supposed to let anyone close, to let his whole stoic and brooding facade be weakened. He was a hard man, the years spent in the military have shaped him into something unbreakable.

Until you.

It was only supposed to be casual, shared cigarettes after a mission, and small chats, which led to numerous times spent in his barracks, his cock spearing you open each time. But you longed for it, to feel him against you, his praises and degrading words in your ear, his large scarred hands mapping out every inch of your body. His mouth caressing against your own. You'd never felt like this with anyone else, no other man has been able to bring you to this kind of ecstasy.

But this was only supposed to be casual. You weren't supposed to catch feelings, and neither was he. But you both knew you couldn't ignore them whenever you slept together. Or whenever you shared conversations about each other's past. Though you were more open about it than Simon, which was fair— you weren't going to force anything out of the man.

You knew how Simon worked, and vulnerability was a sight you did not often see whenever you were around the man. He was the most intriguing person you had ever met, and it only made you ever the more interested in him, and you knew you were in love with him.

But being just casual turned into something much more, though neither of you voiced your thoughts about it. Fleeting touches, eating together, and passing glances in the base hallway. It even went as far as her stopping using his callsign 'Ghost' and instead calling him Simon.

It was purely a slip-up once, and you had quickly apologized, though he was quick to say he didn't mind you using his real name. Because he didn't mind— at all. He liked the way his name sounded on your lips and was slowly itching to hear you say his name more, his name sounding sweet and like it was dipped in honey when it came out of your lips.

Your head lay on his chest, tracing shapes against his stomach as the two of you lay together in his bed, naked limbs tangled together. Smoke filled the room as Simon took another drag from his cigarette.

''You're quiet, what are you thinking about?'' You questioned, being met with silence from Simon. ''Simon?'' You moved your head so you could see his face, ''Us.'' Was all he said and your brows furrowed.

You sat up, the duvet slipping off down to your lap, exposing your naked upper body. Your chest was covered in love bites — something Simon had started doing more, like he was claiming you as his. Your breasts were full and supple and they moved when you turned to look at him.

''What are you thinking about that includes us?'' You questioned softly as you snatched the cigarette from his fingers, giving him a sly smile before taking a drag. ''You gonna cut me off?''

''Am I not good enough at giving head? Is that it? Or is it my lack of… experience?'' You questioned in a joking tone, though you were a little weary about what he had meant.

Simon takes the cigarette back from you. The filter is wet from your lips, something he quickly takes notice of. His eyes move up slowly, admiring your body before returning to your face. A small smile quirks up his lips at your cheeky question.

''You’ve never had complaints about either,'' he quips back with a smirk. ''And you’ll never hear one from me. Your mouth is good,'' he murmurs and brings the cigarette to his lips.

You hummed as you lifted the duvet off of your body before you straddled his hips. You once more took the cigarette from him, a teasing and taunting glint in your eyes as you giggled. ''Oh, is it good? Maybe I should practice on more men to get more opinions.'' You joked lightly as you stared down at him, though a dark look came across Simon's face at your words.

''I’m just joking. The only cock I want is yours.’’ You purred softly you traced your fingers over his stomach and up to his chest.

A sudden, irrational thought of your pretty, plump mouth wrapped around someone else's cock causes him to get angry in a flash.

He grabs your wrist, the cigarette nearly falling out of your hand as Simon suddenly sits up. His other hand grabs your jaw and his gaze locks with yours.

There’s a possessive, cold look in his eyes.

''You’re mine,'' he growls. ''Only mine.''

''I'm yours, baby,’’ You muttered softly as you looked at him, your eyes piercing through his dark ones. You used your free hand and placed it on his chest, over his heart. Before you reached over to the nightstand to put the cigarette out into the ashtray.

''The only man who can make me climax five times in a row is you.’’ You purred as you looked at him, caressing his chest. You felt his cock poking at your inner thigh, and you looked at Simon with a raised brow.

''Is the little man excited?’’ You questioned with a small giggle.

Your soft hand caressing over his chest helps to ease his possessive anger and Simon lets out a slow breath. He’s still simmering with jealousy but he can keep a handle on it now.

Simon looks down between their bodies and notes how his growing erection is pressing against you through the blanket. He leans forward and his breath tickles your ear as he replies with a low grumble.

''He gets excited just from you talking, love.''

You raised an eyebrow as you cocked her head to the side. ''Yeah? Is that so? Maybe I should give him some attention.'' You purred as your hand slipped down his chest, towards his stomach, and under the blanket, grabbing a firm hold of him and making Simon growl at your touch. ''Oh... he's hard as a rock. Poor baby.'' You cooed softly as you used your free hand to caress his jawline.

Simon's eyes close as you cup his throbbing cock in your hand. His hands grab your hips and he bites back a groan. Your touch sets his nerves on fire and your words fan the flames.

''Keep talking like that, love, and he’ll be coming very soon.''

''Yeah? Best get him inside me before that then.’’ You teased as you chucked the duvet off and to the side of the bed, exposing you both fully. You lifted your hips before situating yourself over his weeping cock, before slowly sinking down.

A soft moan slipped from your lips as you sunk down on him completely. ''Fuck… making me feel so full.'' You whimpered as you clutched onto his shoulders.

Simon moaned as your walls hugged him tightly and wrapped around his cock. ''So tight,'' he muttered huskily. ''And so perfect. This cunt was made for me.''

His hands grabbed your hips as you started riding him. The feeling was pure ecstasy. He’d never felt this way with anyone. You were unlike anyone before you. He was addicted. Addicted to you. Addicted to the way you felt.

''Bug...'' his voice was rough and his heart raced. He was falling in love with you without even meaning to.

Bug, the nickname used to carry mockery, now only served to make your stomach flutter. Simon had given you the nickname long before you became close because you irritated him— like a bug. A bug who always followed after him, ready to bite and latch onto him. You hated it at first, but now you couldn't help but find it endearing as it came from his mouth.

''Si…'' You whimpered as you clutched onto his shoulders, rocking your hips back and forth as you threw your head back in pure pleasure. Your breasts bounced at your movements, and your mouth opened and closed as your eyes shut. The feeling of having him inside you was heaven itself.

You had denied your feelings for him for way too long, but uncertain that Simon probably only wanted to continue your sex with no strings attached. But this moment brought your feelings up to the surface like an explosion.

The sounds of your flesh coming together filled the room. Simon was entranced by the sight of you riding him. He always was, it was like watching an angel.

His breathing was hitched and his grip on your hips was harder than it should have been. Most likely going to leave marks, but neither of you seemed to care.

He was falling for you. He wanted you. All of you. But he didn’t know how to say it without screwing everything up.

''You feel so good..'' he murmured between pants. ''So good for me.''

''You're the one that makes me feel good..'' You said between breaths as you continued to ride him, your hips rocking against him as you chased that high — that pure heavenly feeling you craved.

''Only one that makes me feel this good… just you... s'only you.'' You rambled on sweetly as you captured his lips in a searing kiss — an I am so fucking in love with you kiss.

One of your hands left his shoulder and instead gripped the back of his nape as your fingers threaded through his hair. ''I… I love you..''

You couldn't help the words from slipping from your lips as your mouth was against his. You had to let him know how you felt, how he made you feel. You weren't regretting it, not a bit.

Your declaration of love hits him like a truck. His heart raced and his blood pumped loudly in his ears. He had never been confessed to before. Never had anyone uttered those words to him. But he would only fool himself if he didn't admit it made him ecstatic.

He held your hips tightly as you rode him, his heart swelling at your soft words. His fingers dug into your skin as he kissed her back, filled with a sudden desperation to stay closer. To have all of you.

“I love you, bug...” he groaned as he panted against your lips.

He loved you— he actually loved you too. And your heart couldn't help but swell at the declaration. Only making your head feel all the more fuzzier.

''Mhm… I love you more.'' You muttered against his lips, your eyes locked as your hips ground against his, as his own hips pistons against your own. Your lips teasingly mingled close, your breaths hitting each other’s face. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers trailing softly against his back.

His cock twitched inside of you, making it known he was close.

Simon's heart pounded against his chest as you confessed your love for him again. He would never tire of hearing those words, never tire of looking into your eyes, and never tire of your sweet body against his.

He kissed you again, his fingers squeezing into your skin. He wanted to hold you to his chest and never let you go. Wanted to shield you from everything. He never wanted to leave your side. Simon wanted to be your man.

''Bug…'' he muttered. ''M'close, I'm close…'' Your walls clamped around him, squeezing his cock and making him groan.

''I know… I’m close too. Want you to fill me up. Make me yours, body and soul.'' You muttered as your breasts were squashed against his chest. Your pace quickened as one of Simon's hands held your hips while the other gripped the globe of your ass, groping and squeezing the flesh.

''You think I’d look good pregnant?'' You questioned as you rode him.

The thought just slipped into your mind, and the idea of being full and round with Simon's child did sound enticing.

Simon groaned as he heard those words. The idea of you bearing his child made a possessive thrill shoot through him and a feral growl tore itself from his lips. He held onto your hips tightly as his climax approached.

He’d never considered having children before, never cared for the thought. But the idea of you carrying his baby made him excited.

Happy.

You’d look gorgeous..'' he grunted as his thrusts grew more erratic. ''Would you let me give you my baby?'' He questioned as he panted.

''Yes… want to be filled with your cum and carry your child.'' You whined softly as you grew more tired of rocking your hips. Simon noticed and took charge, flipping you over so he hovered over you, before plunging back inside and making your back arch.

Simon settled between her spread thighs as he continued to plunge into her. Your words made his blood pound in his ears and his heart beat fiercely against his chest.

He would fill you up. Knock you up. Claim you as his.

Simon kissed you and whispered sweet nothings against your lips. ''Are you on birth control, bug?''

''Would you be mad if I said no? I have no intention of trapping you, unwillingly.'' You gasped as you scratched at his back, your breasts pressing up against his chest when you arched your back. Your pussy fluttered around his cock, feeling the familiar coil in your stomach hanging on by a thin thread.

Simon shook his head and peppered your neck with kisses. ''I want you to be mine,'' he growled. ''I'm yours. You're mine. I want to give you a baby.''

He pressed his forehead against yours, his thrusts slowing to languid but deep rolls of his hips. His breathing was labored as he panted, on edge but trying to draw out the pleasure.

''I won't pull out when I finish,'' he warned. ''I want you to get pregnant. Is that alright with you, love?''

''Yes… yes, I want that. Fill me up, paint my walls white.'' You moaned as he thrust into you, feeling your walls clamping around him as he twitched. You felt your climax nearing its peak, and you knew Simon was close too, by his movement increasing and the sound of your skin smacking against each other.

His balls slapping up against the underside of your ass.

Simon continued to slowly roll his hips, trying to hold out and not finish too soon. He wanted to make you finish first.

One of his hands grabbed your jaw and he turned your head so you would focus on him. His hazel eyes were heavy-lidded, his breath leaving him in heavy gasps, and his face flushed.

''You gonna cum for me, love?'' The pad of his finger rubs over your bottom lip. ''This cute little cunt takes me so well. ''Gonna cum on my cock, hm?

You nodded as you looked up at him, your eyes locked with his hazel eyes. The coil in your stomach was at a breaking point and before you knew it your orgasm came washing over you. ''Si...fuck... so good.''' You babbled as your juices coated around his cock, dripping out from your sopping pussy.

You arched your back more as you let out a wanton and loud moan, the sound bouncing off the walls as you buried your head in the pillows, your eyes rolling back in sheer delight.

Your orgasm triggered his own and he groaned out loud, his hips snapping forward as you came deep inside you. His cum spurts into you and as promised, coats your gummy walls white.

His orgasm tore through him powerfully and he could only manage to hold himself up by his elbow before he collapsed onto your body. He buried his head in the junction between your neck and shoulder and caught his breath against your skin.

You had never felt so blissed out and spent before. Sure, the other times you two had sex, it was good. But in those times you were only fucking for your own pleasures. But this was on a whole other level, this was to people who were deeply in love and connected to each other, making love.

''Fuck… mhm…'' You breathed out as you came down from your high. Your body twitched and writhed underneath him, as Simon was still buried inside you. He sat up and pulled out, making you whine as some of his cum spurted out onto your lower stomach.

You stared up at him and watched as he panted.

You watched the muscles in his body contract and his large cock growing soft against his stomach. His cum dribbled down out of your puffy hole, staining the sheets.

Simon looked down where his cum had leaked out of you and groaned at the display.

The sight of you covered in his cum did something to him. Made his possessive instincts flare up. You were marked by him and he liked it. He thoroughly enjoyed seeing you like this.

''Look at you. This pretty little cunt and stomach, covered in my cum.'' He muttered as he leaned down to kiss your cheek. ''Lay still. I want you… messy and reeking of me.''

You whined as he kissed your cheek then your forehead and lastly your lips. He chuckled softly at your whine before leaning over to open a drawer and taking out a Polaroid camera. ''You gonna take a picture of me like this?'' You questioned, your words so soft and almost a mere whisper as you stared up at him.

Your thighs were still quite shaky, a thin layer of sweat covered your naked skin. Your chest heaved as you breathed.

Simon looked down at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with desire just from the sight of you. God, you were perfect.

''How did you know?'' He murmurs, snapping a picture. He watched as it developed in his hand and another smirk tugged at his lips.

''God, you know how to make a man feral.'' He looked down at the picture, with your legs spread wide, your cheeks flushed and your half-lidded eyes looking up at the camera. His cum covering your stomach and leaking out of your pussy.

''Yeah?’'' You questioned as you sat up, taking a tissue and wiping your stomach clean. ''I want you to use me…'' You muttered as you crawled over to the edge of the bed. Simon growled as he watched you, giving your ass a soft smack.

You got down onto the floor, settling on your knees, as you looked over at him. You licked at your lips, your eyes gleaming. ''Please?''

''Bug, we gotta get you cleaned up first.'' He spoke as he neared the edge of the bed, settling down on it with his legs spread. His cock which was soft slowly stirring back to life again. You licked your lips again at the sight.

''Later, I want to make you feel good. Wanna be a good girl for you.'' You stared up at him, wide doe eyes piercing into his hazel eyes. Simon stared down at you, and god did you look good on your knees, all for him.

He leaned down on the edge of the bed and his hands reached out to cup her face. ''Are you sure?'' he asked softly, his thumb stroking the flesh of your cheek.

He wasn’t going to push you to do anything you didn’t want to. He never wanted to make you uncomfortable or push your boundaries. You were the one in control, and Simon would let you do anything you wanted, he just needed to hear you say it.

''I want to mouth on you.'' You purred as you nuzzled your cheek against his thumb, You shifted closer to his spread legs, your lips salivating at the sight before you.

His cock was thick, veins sticking out here and there. And his cockhead was the same color as his pretty lips.

Simon stared down at her, his pulse quickening as anticipation coursed through his veins.

''Baby...'' he whispered as he watched you press closer, his eyes dark with lust and need. The pet name came out of his mouth before he had even registered it, but you seemed to like it as you shuffled closer.

His hand threaded itself into your hair, his fingers clenching in your locks. ''You’re going to be the death of me, you know that, don't you? You're going to be my undoing.''

His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, his thumb tracing the skin tenderly.

His eyes watched your every movement, his gaze hot and heavy. It always amazed him how someone so innocent could look so sinful at the same time.

He gently tugged on your hair, his breath coming in soft pants. ''Go on, love. Stop staring at me like that, I might just cum from that look alone.''

You shifted a bit closer until you were between his spread knees. You were a sight to behold, sitting on your knees looking so pretty.

''Mmm... I’m just taking my time.'' you purred before leaning forward to run the tip of your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

''You like that, right?'' you whispered, your tongue still tracing his cock.

You could feel him straining, could see him twitch. Your gaze never left his. Your hand reached out and wrapped around him, pumping slowly. She watched as his eyes fluttered closed and he groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair. ''Bloody hell..'' he muttered huskily.

''Mmm.. seems like I’m doing a good job so far then,'' you said quietly, your thumb rubbing at the crown.

''I’m just getting started though.''

You began to pepper his cock with kisses, starting up at the underside all the way to the head before making your way back down.

You swirled your tongue around the flared head, He groaned again, louder this time. You gave the head small kitten licks.

''You’re being cruel, love.'' he bit out in a strained voice. ''Stop teasing me. Please.''

It wasn't often you found yourself hearing Simon beg. It was a rare occurrence. Usually, he'd just take what he wanted from you, forcing your mouth down on his cock and making you gag on it until you were crying. But now he was begging, pleading for you to give him more.

To have your lips wrap around him.

You smirked, your eyes filled with mischief. ''I’m not teasing you. I’m just giving you attention.''

You kept up with the kitten licks, purposely avoiding taking him into your mouth. ''You're fucking evil you know that, love?'' Simon groaned as he let his head loll back, eyes closed, his breath coming in short.

''Just give me that mouth of yours like a good girl, please.''

There it was again, that desperate tone of voice. It made you wanna hold back even more, have him completely and utterly under your control.

You chuckled at this. ''Impatient, Lieutenant?'' you questioned, knowing you were winding him up.

''Maybe I’ll just keep up this slow, torturous pace until you’re begging me to let you come.''

He growled angrily at her response. ''You've got a mouth on ya, don't you love?''

He pulled your hair, forcing your head back so he could look you in the eyes. ''You’re really going to make me beg, hm? Are you getting off on this, love? Is this making your pussy all creamy, hm?'' His tone was condescending, but it only seemed to further spur you on.

Having Simon who was a hard nut to crack, at her beck and call. Yeah, it felt damn fucking good.

''Maybe I am,'' you said confidently. ''Maybe I’m loving the thought of you at my mercy for once.''

His grip on your hair tightened, tugging again and making a small gasp slip from your lips. He hated being desperate. But he hated being at someone's mercy even more.

He let out a frustrated huff, his body shuddering involuntarily as your breath ghosted over his skin. ''You want me to beg? Then I’ll beg. I’ll do whatever you want, just give me those lips, love.''

He found himself almost wincing at how pathetic he sounded.

You hummed in response, your gaze shifting between his face and the straining cock poking you in the cheek. You let out a soft, fake sigh, a smirk still on your lips, and you looked up at him.

''Poor Lieutenant Riley. So desperate for my lips around his cock.''

''Yes.'' he bit out. ''Now be a good girl and give me your pretty mouth, please.''

Simon hated the way his voice wavered. How eager it sounded, how needy it sounded.

''Well, since you asked so nicely,” You said and finally, and finally, you took him into your mouth, a soft moan leaving you.

You began to bob your head as your tongue stroked the underside, your eyes still locked on his. ''That’s it, love. Just like that.''

Simon groaned as your tongue worked him. He watched you, his eyes darkened by lust.

''Christ. Your mouth feels so good. This mouth was made for my fuckin cock.''

You hummed, the noise sending pleasant vibrations through him, the sound only encouraging you more. One of your hands started to fondle his balls, your fingers applying a gentle but firm pressure.

Your free hand settled on his stomach, your fingers tracing patterns into his skin.

Simon groaned loudly, his head rolling back briefly. Your hand on his stomach was both soothing and arousing, your touch soft but firm.

He wanted so badly to push your head down and thrust into your warm, wet mouth but he held back, digging his fingers into your scalp.

''That’s it, love. You’re so good. So good for me. Just a little bit more. You can take it, I know you can.''

You kept up your pace, your mouth and tongue working diligently. You could feel the muscles in his cock tense under your touch, could hear his breathing start to become labored.

You could tell he was getting close, could feel his pulse fluttering against your tongue, and you were determined to get him over the edge.

Simon's breaths grew shallower, his body tense and quivering. The hand in your hair tightened his grip firm but not painful.

''Bloody fuckin hell. I’m close, love.'' he groaned. ''I'm gonna come. And you’re going to swallow every drop, understand?''

You looked up at him with hooded eyes and a full mouth, giving him a hum of acknowledgment. Your hand moved from his stomach to his thigh, digging your nails into the skin there, wanting to mark him in any way you could.

Your eyes started to water, feeling your jaw growing tense.

Simon's eyes darkened almost feral. ''You're taking me so well. Yeah, just like that, pretty thing.''

His free hand reached out and caught a tear that slipped free, his thumb tracing the trail it left. He couldn’t deny the way his heart twisted at the sight, how it both aroused him and made him feel guilty.

You whimpered around him as he so gently caught your tears, the look in his eyes and the feel of his hands on your skin making you lightheaded.

''You look beautiful like that.''

''You’re doing so well, love. Just a little bit more, okay?'' he muttered, feeling himself growing closer to the edge.

''So good for me, aren’t you?'' He continued to praise you, and they went straight to your pussy. His praises never failed to make your head feel fuzzy and mushed.

You hummed in response, your body shuddering as the sound vibrated through him. You could feel his cock swelling in your mouth, knowing he was close.

Your nails dug into his skin hard enough that he knew she would leave marks. He wanted you to, wanted something to show how much he was yours.

''So close, love. Just a little more.''

His hips began to jerk involuntarily, seeking that release he needed. His muscles were coiled tight with anticipation and his breaths were little more than pants now.

He was so close, teetering on the edge. His head was reeling, his eyes only half open and his heart rate spiked. And with one last swipe of your tongue, he came, your name leaving his lips like a choked whimper. He trembled with the force of it, his body twitching as waves of pleasure wracked through him.

His cum spurted into your mouth and you didn't waste a second on swallowing, lapping it all up like a starved person.

Simon's hand gripped your hair weakly at first, before gathering a fistful of it. He let his head loll back, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

''Christ,'' He muttered as he felt your tongue clean him gently. He was dazed and reeling, his mind fuzzy with pleasure and his body heavy.

He glanced down at you, his eyes raking over you, taking in her appearance. Your messy hair, your tear-streaked cheeks, your flushed and sweaty skin. You were a beautiful mess and it was a sight he would never forget.

His hand in your hair loosened, before gently scratching at your scalp as he slowly came down from his high. Once his breaths started to even out he gently tugged on your hair, signaling for you to come up.

''Come here, love,'' he said, his voice still gruff and raspy.

His hand in your hair encouraged you up to a standing position and he immediately tugged you into his lap, straddling his thighs.

He cupped the sides of your face with both hands, his thumbs gently wiping away your remaining tears.

He took you in, his eyes roving over your face, noting the tear tracks and his chest ached. You were gorgeous like this, but it also hurt seeing you like this, being the one to make you cry.

''You did so well for me, love,'' he said softly, his tone warm and tender. ''You have no idea how beautiful you are like this, do you?''

You buried your head against his shoulder, a whine leaving your lips at his words as you nuzzled against him. His hand went into her hair, caressing the back of her head. ''My pretty girl, did so good. Such a good girl.''

His hands moved down to your hips, holding them in a firm but gentle grip. ''Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,'' he murmured.

You gave a small nod, still feeling a bit dazed. You felt weak in the knees, your body shaky and sensitive.

''Okay,'' you whispered, your voice soft and a bit hoarse.

Simon gently lifted you up, shifting your weight so he could stand comfortably. He made a mental note to go get some water for your throat later.

He took you into the bathroom, setting you down on the edge of the sink and standing in front of you.

He started to gently clean you up, using a warm, damp cloth to wipe away the tear tracks on your cheeks and the sticky cum on your inner thighs and folds. You hissed at the feeling, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his chest. ''I know baby, shh, I know you're sensitive.'' You only whined once more in response.

He was gentle and meticulous, taking care of you as though you were a fragile doll. His touch was tender and affectionate, his usually cold eyes soft. And you were a fragile doll, to him.

Once he had cleaned her up to his satisfaction, Ghost picked her up and carried her back to the bedroom. ''Let's get ya back to bed.'' He took you over to the bed and gently laid you down, his actions and his eyes tender.

He got in beside you, pulling the covers over them and wrapping an arm around you. He pulled you against him so your back was flush with his chest, his large form surrounding her in a protective embrace.

"You alright, love?" he murmured, gently nuzzling his face into the back of your neck. Simon was feeling surprisingly tender now, the weight of his emotions bearing down on him.

You let out a small hum of contentment, feeling safe and warm in his embrace. Despite the slight soreness between your legs, you were feeling relaxed and at ease.

"Yeah, I'm good," you whispered, snuggling back against him.

''You sure?'' he asked, his voice still gruff but soft. His arm tightened around you, holding you closer. He always got a bit more protective and attentive after sex. It was a habit he couldn’t seem to break, and nor did he want to.

"Yeah, I’m sure," you replied, your eyes closing at the feeling of being so close to him. You reached up and put your hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I feel good. A bit sore, but good,” you admitted a small chuckle leaving you. There would never come a day where you complained about Simon leaving your pussy sore and bruised. Ever.

He hummed, placing a kiss on your shoulder. ''Good,'' he said, a hint of possessiveness in his voice.

You felt a pang of concern for him, knowing how closed off and reserved he could be about his emotions.

''Are you good?'' you asked softly, rolling over in his arms so you were facing him. Simon took a moment to answer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you. Finally, he gave a short nod. ''Yeah, love. I'm good,'' he said, his voice gruff and low.

You watched him closely, your eyes searching his. There was something in his expression that made you hesitate, afraid of what his answer might be.

''Did you mean it when you said you loved me?'' You asked, your voice quiet and soft. Your eyes roamed over his face, taking in the faint white scars and the faint freckles on his cheeks and nose.

His eyes darkened momentarily, and he was silent for a moment.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and gruff. ''Yeah. I meant it.''

The weight of his words hit you, and you felt your heart flutter. You knew he wasn’t one to voice his feelings often, so for him to say that he loved you…it was huge.

''Okay,'' you said, your voice cracking slightly. ''Okay.''

You burrowed into his chest, burying your face in his chest hair. Simon wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer to him. He could feel you trembling slightly, but he didn’t comment on it. He knew you were probably trying to process his words.

He let his hands gently stroke your hair, his movements slow and soothing.

As you clung to him, Simon's mind started to wander. It bothered him, that nagging uncertainty. He needed to hear you say it too.

His chest felt tight with the words, and his heart was racing, but he needed to know if this was real, if you loved him too.

''Bug,'' he murmured, his voice thick. ''Did you mean it when you said you loved me, too?''

You let out a shaky breath, your heart skipping a beat at his question. You had said it in the heat of the moment, driven by passion and pleasure, but now…now it felt huge and overwhelming.

You took a moment to gather her thoughts, her fingers tracing small patterns on his chest.

''Yeah,'' you whispered. ''I meant it.''

Simon felt his chest tighten at your words, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over him. He had hoped you felt the same, but he hadn’t dared to get his hopes up.

He pulled you closer if that was even possible, holding you almost desperately. ''Christ, bug,'' he muttered, his voice gruff but wavering slightly. ''Say it again. Tell me again.''

He needed to hear you say it to him again, afraid his ears might have betrayed him.

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a warm rush of affection for this gruff and reserved man.

You pulled back slightly so you could look at him, your gaze locked with his. ''I love you,'' you said again, clearly and firmly. ''I love you, Simon.''

And you did, and there was no way you would ever go back on your words. This cold and standoffish man had wormed his way into your heart. Hearing his name from your lips was a sucker punch to the gut. His whole body shivered and his heart stumbled in his chest.

''God,'' he grunted, his voice thick and raw with emotion. ''Bug, say it again, just once more.'' He sounded almost pleading, desperate to hear those three words again.

You could see the raw emotion in his eyes, the pleading and desperate look on his face. You felt your heart clench in her chest, his vulnerability and need for reassurance surprising you.

You reached up, gently cupping the side of his face, your thumb stroking against the faint stubble. You met his gaze firmly, your voice tender and earnest as you said, ''I love you, Simon.''

Simon's eyes fluttered shut as the words left your lips. It was like they were a soothing balm on his roughened soul, helping to ease the ache in his chest. He let out a shaky breath, his arms wrapping around you tightly, holding you against him as though you were his lifeline.

And you were, he knew that deep down.

''Love you, too, so damn much,'' He muttered, the words hoarse and low against your ear.

You let out a soft giggle, feeling giddy and lightheaded from the emotions swirling around you. You snuggled closer into him, enjoying the feeling of being held in his strong arms.

''Is this you…asking me to be your girlfriend?'' You asked, your voice playful and soft.

He pulled back slightly so he could look at you, his gaze intense and serious.

''I'm asking you to be my girlfriend. I'm asking you to be my future wife. And the mother of my children.'' his voice was rough with emotion.

You felt your heart slam against your chest, your breath catching in your throat. Simon had just asked you to be his girlfriend and to be his wife. And on top of that, the mother of children.

You felt overwhelmed and dizzy, your emotions and the words and the implications of what he was asking you crashing over you like a wave. You just stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence, until you finally managed to find your voice. “Yes,” you whispered. ''Yes, to all of it.''

As soon as the word left your lips Simon felt something inside his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, his face softening slightly. ''Yeah?'' he asked, his tone still gruff but filled with a hint of excitement.

It touched something sweet and painful inside you, that this big strong man was still so unsure about your feelings for him. You reached up, gently cupping the side of his face.

''Yes,'' you repeated. ''Yes. I want to be your girlfriend. And your wife. And the mother of your children. I want all of it.''

He needed you so close that there was no space between you, that you were one and the same.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, muttering the words against your skin. “That's all I've wanted.''

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