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dykepuffs · 11 months ago

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How Do I Make My Fictional Gypsies Not Racist?

(Or, "You can't, sorry, but…")

You want to include some Gypsies in your fantasy setting. Or, you need someone for your main characters to meet, who is an outsider in the eyes of the locals, but who already lives here. Or you need a culture in conflict with your settled people, or who have just arrived out of nowhere. Or, you just like the idea of campfires in the forest and voices raised in song. And you’re about to step straight into a muckpile of cliches and, accidentally, write something racist.

(In this, I am mostly using Gypsy as an endonym of Romany people, who are a subset of the Romani people, alongside Roma, Sinti, Gitano, Romanisael, Kale, etc, but also in the theory of "Gypsying" as proposed by Lex and Percy H, where Romani people are treated with a particular mix of orientalism, criminalisation, racialisation, and othering, that creates "The Gypsy" out of both nomadic peoples as a whole and people with Romani heritage and racialised physical features, languages, and cultural markers)

Enough of my friends play TTRPGs or write fantasy stories that this question comes up a lot - They mention Dungeons and Dragons’ Curse Of Strahd, World Of Darkness’s Gypsies, World Of Darkness’s Ravnos, World of Darkness’s Silent Striders… And they roll their eyes and say “These are all terrible! But how can I do it, you know, without it being racist?”

And their eyes are big and sad and ever so hopeful that I will tell them the secret of how to take the Roma of the real world and place them in a fictional one, whilst both appealing to gorjer stereotypes of Gypsies and not adding to the weight of stereotyping that already crushes us. So, disappointingly, there is no secret.

Gypsies, like every other real-world culture, exist as we do today because of interactions with cultures and geography around us: The living waggon, probably the archetypal thing which gorjer writers want to include in their portrayals of nomads, is a relatively modern invention - Most likely French, and adopted from French Showmen by Romanies, who brought it to Britain. So already, that’s a tradition that only spans a small amount of the time that Gypsies have existed, and only a small number of the full breadth of Romani ways of living. But the reasons that the waggon is what it is are based on the real world - The wheels are tall and iron-rimmed, because although you expect to travel on cobbled, tarmac, or packed-earth roads and for comparatively short distances, it wasn’t rare to have to ford a river in Britain in the late nineteenth century, on country roads. They were drawn by a single horse, and the shape of that horse was determined by a mixture of local breeds - Welsh cobs, fell ponies, various draft breeds - as well as by the aesthetic tastes of the breeders. The stove inside is on the left, so that as you move down a British road, the chimney sticks up into the part where there will be the least overhanging branches, to reduce the chance of hitting it.

So taking a fictional setting that looks like (for example) thirteenth century China (with dragons), and placing a nineteenth century Romanichal family in it will inevitably result in some racist assumptions being made, as the answer to “Why does this culture do this?” becomes “They just do it because I want them to” rather than having a consistent internal logic.

Some stereotypes will always follow nomads - They appear in different forms in different cultures, but they always arise from the settled people's same fears: That the nomads don't share their values, and are fundamentally strangers. Common ones are that we have a secret language to fool outsiders with, that we steal children and disguise them as our own, that our sexual morals are shocking (This one has flipped in the last half century - From the Gypsy Lore Society's talk of the lascivious Romni seductress who will lie with a strange man for a night after a 'gypsy wedding', to today's frenzied talk of 'grabbing' and sexually-conservative early marriages to ensure virginity), that we are supernatural in some way, and that we are more like animals than humans. These are tropes where if you want to address them, you will have to address them as libels - there is no way to casually write a baby-stealing, magical succubus nomad without it backfiring onto real life Roma. (The kind of person who has the skills to write these tropes well, is not the kind of person who is reading this guide.)

It’s too easy to say a list of prescriptive “Do nots”, which might stop you from making the most common pitfalls, but which can end up with your nomads being slightly flat as you dance around the topics that you’re trying to avoid, rather than being a rich culture that feels real in your world.

So, here are some questions to ask, to create your nomadic people, so that they will have a distinctive culture of their own that may (or may not) look anything like real-world Romani people: These aren't the only questions, but they're good starting points to think about before you make anything concrete, and they will hopefully inspire you to ask MORE questions.

First - Why are they nomadic? Nobody moves just to feel the wind in their hair and see a new horizon every morning, no matter what the inspirational poster says. Are they transhumant herders who pay a small rent to graze their flock on the local lord’s land? Are they following migratory herds across common land, being moved on by the cycle of the seasons and the movement of their animals? Are they seasonal workers who follow man-made cycles of labour: Harvests, fairs, religious festivals? Are they refugees fleeing a recent conflict, who will pass through this area and never return? Are they on a regular pilgrimage? Do they travel within the same area predictably, or is their movement governed by something that is hard to predict? How do they see their own movements - Do they think of themselves as being pushed along by some external force, or as choosing to travel? Will they work for and with outsiders, either as employees or as partners, or do they aim to be fully self-sufficient? What other jobs do they do - Their whole society won’t all be involved in one industry, what do their children, elderly, disabled people do with their time, and is it “work”?

If they are totally isolationist - How do they produce the things which need a complex supply chain or large facilities to make? How do they view artefacts from outsiders which come into their possession - Things which have been made with technology that they can’t produce for themselves? (This doesn’t need to be anything about quality of goods, only about complexity - A violin can be made by one artisan working with hand tools, wood, gut and shellac, but an accordion needs presses to make reeds, metal lathes to make screws, complex organic chemistry to make celluloid lacquer, vulcanised rubber, and a thousand other components)

How do they feel about outsiders? How do they buy and sell to outsiders? If it’s seen as taboo, do they do it anyway? Do they speak the same language as the nearby settled people (With what kind of fluency, or bilingualism, or dialect)? Do they intermarry, and how is that viewed when it happens? What stories does this culture tell about why they are a separate people to the nearby settled people? Are those stories true? Do they have a notional “homeland” and do they intend to go there? If so, is it a real place?

What gorjers think of as classic "Gipsy music" is a product of our real-world situation. Guitar from Spain, accordions from the Soviet Union (Which needed modern machining and factories to produce and make accessible to people who weren't rich- and which were in turn encouraged by Soviet authorities preferring the standardised and modern accordion to the folk traditions of the indigenous peoples within the bloc), brass from Western classical traditions, via Balkan folk music, influences from klezmer and jazz and bhangra and polka and our own music traditions (And we influence them too). What are your people's musical influences? Do they make their own instruments or buy them from settled people? How many musical traditions do they have, and what are they all for (Weddings, funerals, storytelling, campfire songs, entertainment...)? Do they have professional musicians, and if so, how do those musicians earn money? Are instrument makers professionals, or do they use improvised and easy-to-make instruments like willow whistles, spoons, washtubs, etc? (Of course the answer can be "A bit of both")

If you're thinking about jobs - How do they work? Are they employed by settled people (How do they feel about them?) Are they self employed but providing services/goods to the settled people? Are they mostly avoidant of settled people other than to buy things that they can't produce themselves? Are they totally isolationist? Is their work mostly subsistence, or do they create a surplus to sell to outsiders? How do they interact with other workers nearby? Who works, and how- Are there 'family businesses', apprentices, children with part time work? Is it considered 'a job' or just part of their way of life? How do they educate their children, and is that considered 'work'? How old are children when they are considered adult, and what markers confer adulthood? What is considered a rite of passage?

When they travel, how do they do it? Do they share ownership of beasts of burden, or each individually have "their horse"? Do families stick together or try to spread out? How does a child begin to live apart from their family, or start their own family? Are their dwellings something that they take with them, or do they find places to stay or build temporary shelter with disposable material? Who shares a dwelling and why? What do they do for privacy, and what do they think privacy is for?

If you're thinking about food - Do they hunt? Herd? Forage? Buy or trade from settled people? Do they travel between places where they've sown crops or managed wildstock in previous years, so that when they arrive there is food already seeded in the landscape? How do they feel about buying food from settled people, and is that common? If it's frowned upon - How much do people do it anyway? How do they preserve food for winter? How much food do they carry with them, compared to how much they plan to buy or forage at their destinations? How is food shared- Communal stores, personal ownership?

Why are they a "separate people" to the settled people? What is their creation myth? Why do they believe that they are nomadic and the other people are settled, and is it correct? Do they look different? Are there legal restrictions on them settling? Are there legal restrictions on them intermixing? Are there cultural reasons why they are a separate people? Where did those reasons come from? How long have they been travelling? How long do they think they've been travelling? Where did they come from? Do they travel mostly within one area and return to the same sites predictably, or are they going to move on again soon and never come back?

And then within that - What about the members of their society who are "unusual" in some way: How does their society treat disabled people? (are they considered disabled, do they have that distinction and how is it applied?) How does their society treat LGBT+ people? What happens to someone who doesn't get married and has no children? What happens to someone who 'leaves'? What happens to young widows and widowers? What happens if someone just 'can't fit in'? What happens to someone who is adopted or married in? What happens to people who are mixed race, and in a fantasy setting to people who are mixed species? What is taboo to them and what will they find shocking if they leave? What is society's attitude to 'difference' of various kinds?

Basically, if you build your nomads from the ground-up, rather than starting from the idea of "I want Gypsies/Buryats/Berbers/Minceiri but with the numbers filed off and not offensive" you can end up with a rich, unique nomadic culture who make sense in your world and don't end up making a rod for the back of real-world cultures.

#worldbuilding #world building #fantasy races #racism in fiction #nomads #romani stuff

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yeyinde · 8 months ago

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old, grizzled retired alpha!Price who gets stuck in his cabin with omega!Reader when the winter roads, the only way in and out of his domain, melt with the encroaching spring. and really. what's an alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat without any suppressants. it's not like either of you really have a choice, after all.

dub con; age difference; power imbalance; rough sex; size difference, size kink; abo dynamics: knotting; breeding kink (astronomical); mean!Price, Dom!Price; unsafe sex; oral (f!receiving); slight innocence kink; implied kidnapping; coercion; slight baby trapping; possessive, greedy Price pulling strings from behind the scenes, as per usual. this is basically Alpha John Price knotting Omega Reader in mating press, bullying you into submission

It's an accident, of course.

An unfortunate combination of poor timing and human error.

But this accident culminates in Price folding his body over you—mating press, you note a touch hysterically; you'd have expected him to be all tradition: presenting to an alpha on your hands and knees, cunt bare for the taking, waiting to be claimed. And while it might not be traditional, Price will claim you tonight. Bully his cock into your drenched cunt, split you wide on the thick of him, on his knot (fuck, fuck, fuck—), and keep you plugged up around him until the unexpected heat passes.

And really. What's an old, grizzled alpha like him supposed to do when an untouched, unclaimed omega like you—so sweet, so desperate—is thrown headfirst into a vicious, blistering heat. It's not like either of you really have a choice, after all. It's agony. It's want. Primal, instinctual. You need him. Ache with it. The urge, the desperation, to be filled. Claimed. Conquered. Owned.

As he presses bluntly against your drenching slit, notching heavy and insistent into your fluttering, aching hole, spilling slick in thick rivulets down your thighs, over the engorged head of his cock, you can't help but wonder how could you be so stupid?

“Spread your legs for me.”

The command rolls off of his tongue, slips—liquid, molten—down his chin, where it dangles for a moment. Pebbled hest. A globbing demand. You want to roll away when it starts to fall, unspooling slowly until it drips down to your chest, but you can't. You're stuck. Trapped. All you can do is watch helplessly as this barking order, matchstick casuistry, touches your kerosene-slick skin, igniting in a bloom of fire that spreads, rapidly, through your veins. Your body.

An Alpha's whim must be met. Even this one. This one—

Your former chief, boss. Now retired in the mountains, chiselling out a little place for himself in a corrie, pitching this log bivouac beside a marbled blue tarn. Cut off from the rest of civilisation every spring when the only way in—and out—melted into a raging, uncrossable stretch of river. The ravine frothing too furiously for boats to dock safely on either side. Trapped here with him until next winter—

(oh god oh god—)

You don't know how it got to this point. Scorched. Soaked. With him leaning over you, in all his tartarean glory, making demands of your body as easily as pulling on loose thread between his thick fingers.

You could blame Gaz for this.

Sat pretty at his desk, idling a jar of gun oil in his hands. Your gun is spread out on the desk, taken apart. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he said, “someone should check in on Price. Haven't heard from him in a while.”

Through a quick game of hierarchy, that someone ended up being you. Forced to trek halfway up a mountain just to make sure your mercurial boss didn't die over the winter. Bitten off more than he could chew and too much of a proud Alpha to admit defeat, and call for help.

You had enough suppressants to last you there and back. Three days. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Price, despite his surly disposition, is an intense Alpha to be around—

Even for Betas.

Some, unintentionally, succumb to his whims without even a forethought spared on rationality. It's innate. He says something, and people listen—

Like now. Hours after you discovered your suppressants were gone, and his heavy, cloying scent thickened in the air, suffocating you. When he leaned against the thick log doorframe on the porch of his cabin, thick arms folded across his broad chest, murmured, “come all this way just to see me?” and all at once, the world fell out from under you—

Plunging you into his arms, his embrace. His growl in your ear, “you’re in heat,” he grunted, fists balled against your sides. “fuckin’ Christ—” and the death sentence he imparted on you: “either I take care of this, or your heat becomes too much for me, and I tear you to pieces. But it doesn't matter does it, mm? You can't make it back down in this state,” more snarling anger, dry heat. Scorching. His chin jerked to the river at the foot of the mountain. “In a few hours, It’ll be melted through. Uncrossable.”

Per usual, John Price leaves you very little room for choice, doesn't he?

Slowly, shakily, your pitched knees part, unveiling your bare cunt to the man towering over you with a condescending coo on his lips, red-hot desire in his smouldering Tartarean eyes.

“Tha’s it,” he murmurs, voice full of sarky delight. “Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

It’s not meant to be answered—the jeer chock full of hyperbole. Despite this, your body responds instantly. Back arching, legs spreading out wider around the bulk of his frame, nearly flush against the warmed fur covering the floor of the cabin—wolf, he muttered proudly before he pushed you down against the soft pelt, mouthing teasing at your jaw. Chest heaving. Fingers curling, knotting into the pelt.

The urge to present for him is intense. An unanswerable call when he pins you down on your back, body a cage keeping you trapped where you lay. Open, inviting. All for him.

This surly, awful man—

His hands are rough, padded with calluses and hard, jagged scars that jut up from his flesh. It feels abrasive, sandpaper grit, when he leans down, hand pressed against your knee. The drag, then, when he lets it drop down the skin of your inner thigh, makes you keen in the back of your throat. Gnarled palms bleed heat into your soft skin. The contrast is dizzying—size, scale, texture; it all leaves you breathless. Victim to your own instincts, ones that scream at you to roll over. To run. To make this massive, virile alpha yours—

He cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, heel pressed against your clit, fingers sliding between your slit, touching your entrance with the tip of his middle finger. The way the length of it swallows you whole, long, thick fingers reaching beneath you, grazing the cheeks of your ass, sets you on fire in a way you've never felt before.

Price sees it. He must. He leans back on his haunches, broad chest heaving as he stares, transfixed, at his hand folding over you, wrist propped against your mons.

He groans low in his chest. When he speaks, desire scorches his words to cinders.

“Ever had an Alpha's cock here?”

His question is scorching.

In a small town, choice is slim. The ratio of alpha to omega, and beta to both, is skewed highly in the latter's favour. You think, Price included, there are maybe five eligible alphas in the whole township. Two omegas, yourself included. Everyone else—

Unbothered, unburdened by this horrific anomaly of genetics, of lingering animal instinct. A relic of when people were more beast than man.

But even with that, the suitors lining up ready to claim you since you arrived three years ago is negligible. Nearly nonexistent.

The shame of it is absurd. You know without any shadow of a doubt that your worth is not measured by the number of Alpha's wanting to claim you, but that prickling unease in the back of your head won't be quelled by common sense. Who cares, you want to scream. Who fucking cares—

“No,” you bluster; choking on your anger, your shame. Despite being an omega—rare as they are—everyone in town seemed soured by your scent. Adverse to the pungent pheromones you released innately.

“No?” He echoes, and the stab of worthlessness needling into your pericardium makes you want to howl, want to cry.

He doesn't let you. He leans down, hand resting on the floor beside your head, the other still anchored to your cunt, and presses his lips to the shell of your ear. His breath is a humid kiss that tickles across your flesh.

“Good.”

The praise bubbles in your marrow. You melt under the heat, whimpering. Head lulling to the side, exposing your neck. Offered up for him to take.

He huffs, chest expanding. The coarse bed of hair tangled on his sternum in a smattering of black catches on your nipples, the rough graze making you gasp, soundless, into the humid space between your bodies. Aching already and he barely touched you.

Price follows the twist of your chin, lips pressed flush to your ear. With him crowding so close, you can feel the rumble, the low vibration, through his chest before he even speaks. A soft purr, sultry and rich. Pulling you deeper into the throes of your submission with a startling ease.

“I don't share, and I'd hate to have to tear another alpha apart for touching you,” his beard scrapes against your cheek, words soaked in possessive fury at the thought alone. “You're mine.”

You want to fight against it. Against him. No one owns you. Has claimed you.

You have only ever belonged to yourself.

“M’not—”

Price shushes you with a nip, blunt teeth dragging down the plush flesh of your earlobe. “Don't fight it, love. Just—give in.”

You won't. Can't—

Despite the heat—heavy, oppressive, and wet, like the balmy swelter of a tropical jungle; bubbling dross on molten metal—you fight. Rage. Push back against the heady scent he exudes, ones meant to soothe, melt. Until you're malleable. Tensile. Mouldable to fit his needs, his desires, his cock. Putty in his scorching hands.

It bleeds through, though—noxious and potent. The acrid miasma of a wild, untameable man: leather, hide, and animal rot; bleached bones; felled timbre. A wet forest after a wildfire; charred wood, argillaceous soil. Damp. Cloying. Choking.

Reeking of authoritative power, he leans over you, breathes in the heaving exhales you let out. Lets the taste of you sit on his tongue, curl between his crooked teeth.

He's close like this. All fire, all heat. And underneath the scent of a pursuing alpha, you pick up hints of him. Of what he smelled like before, when you were his subordinate and he spent most of his days making yours miserable. Stale smoke, wet tobacco, old leather, dry whiskey.

You hate how much it calls to you.

Maybe sensing your defiance, or growing tired of this push-pull game, he huffs out a breath that sounds less aggrieved than you'd want it to, full of playful amusement. Like he expected this. Like he knew you'd fight back with brittle fists and wicked teeth.

Price pulls back, leaning against his haunches. Content now to devour you at a distance. His eyes leave a scorching trail from your heaving breast, your quivering stomach before fixing once again on the way your pussy is swallowed by his hand. His middle finger circles your sopping hole. The tease is a burst of pleasure, of sensation. A tickle, a taunt. The drag of it makes a loud, sticky noise; the unmistakable slosh, the squelch of just how wet you are for him.

And it is for him. All for him.

Your heat is an incipient bloom on the horizon—a slow, crawling sunrise. You shouldn't be this slick yet. This drenched.

The embarrassment blisters through you when he makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A loan bitten, swallowed before it can fully form.

Price coos, voice scorched. Full of char. “All’fer me, mm? Such a good little omega.”

You hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it—

—but nearly choke yourself on a moan.

He chuckles, dark and rich. The sound entirely too similar to crushing a fistful of charcoal, and you're reminded suddenly why he's unmated at the age he is.

Surly bastard. As approachable as a fucking grizzly bear in a rut.

Your lips twist, jerking downward. “Fuck you—”

He circles your rim once more, chuffing low as he does so, letting the slick noise of your soaked cunt speak on his behalf.

You bite back a snarl, letting it fizzle out in the back of your throat. However reckless you might be, however much you might dislike him, he's still an alpha. Snarling in his face would only get you bent over his knee (at best).

And at worst, well. Maybe they'll find whatever is left of you next spring.

Next spring.

Thinking about just how long you're trapped here with him—no phone, no service—makes you want to cry. To break down, to—

No. You can't. Won't. Not in front of him.

Not Price. The awful man who spent three years picking away at everything you've ever done. Writing you up for every little misstep. You wondered then, and you still wonder now, if he hated you because you were an omega who dared to work with him, as his equal, or if his brand of distaste was just for you.

(The latter, it must be—he’s always been so kind to Alex, an older omega.

You're just the exception.)

This sprawling train of thought is clipped when he sinks his finger into you, to the second knuckle, and you choke.

“Ah, fuck, don't—”

He curls his finger. “Protest as much as you'd like, but if you didn't want this, your pussy wouldn't be this fuckin’ wet would it, love?”

He's right. You hate him for it.

But he doesn't give you a chance to complain. He slips his finger out, the wet drag of your flesh pulling on him, unwilling to let go, is loud. Awful. You burn hot—hotter still when he groans at the noise.

“Such a good girl for me, ain't you?”

Price circles your entrance as he says it, pressing two fingers against your rim, rubbing. Gathering slick. You wish it didn't feel as good as it did—electric shocks of pleasure sparking at his touch, but the feel of it is a tease. You want more. Much more—

He presses those long, thick fingers inside again. Two this time. All you can do is mewl around the sudden stretch, the sting.

Your discomfort is a palpable thing. Unease, distress—the acid scent plumes around you, leaking from your pores. Price stops suddenly, fingers still crooked in a half knot inside you.

“You're tight,” he drawls, jowls working. Tensing. His eyes flash, heat lightning. “You—”

He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes narrowing into slits. They drop down to where he disappears inside of you, flesh stretched tight around him. Drilling into the way the slick runs down his fingers, over his knuckles, drenching the back of his hand, and he hums.

“Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

More shame. It bubbles in your chest, this awful, insidious thing.

It hasn't been for a lack of suitors, really. But rather, other things have always taken precedence over heats, over ruts. School, then your career. And well—

Betas around here don't seem very interested, either.

Maybe you have peculiar wants. Urges, needs, that you've always been hesitant to fill. A wellspool of desire that runs deep, vicious. You want to mate. For keeps.

Maybe they can scent that on you. A loud cry that says, stay away.

You take a shuddering breath before nodding shallowly, twisting your head away so you don't have to look at the patronising gleam swirling in frothing Tryhennian.

“Look at me.”

The command bludgeons your resolve. Your chin jerks back immediately. Desperate to obey. To listen. Frantic with the urge to quell the alpha, to soothe his plight—

But where you expect anger, you're met with the most peculiar sort of expression etching itself into his brow, his rugged face.

His lips parted, lax. The picture of surprise.

Your eyes widen. A gasp is ripped from your throat at the raw, fractured look in his eyes. It's new, this. Unexpected. Where you anticipated scorn is instead a slow, unwinding look of want, of greed, so thick, it glues to the air.

Patchwork hunger, predatory and damning, hews into your skin. Fine needles piercing, pricking, along your flesh.

Branded ownership. You feel it settle against your chest. Dig in when his chest expands with his, hissing inhale.

There's a dark tremble to his shoulders that makes your toes curl.

“I should take this slow, then, mm? Prep you. Get you nice and ready for my cock,” his words have you keening, arching for him. Achingly empty. His hand lifts, settles against your quivering stomach. The slightest pressure makes you shake, quieten; submitting to the touch. “But. I don't have the patience for that.”

He slots his thighs between your legs, pressing it tight against your cunt. The pressure—blissful pleasure; frantic at the touch—is almost your undoing, but there's a plexiglass between full submission and the urge to flee. Still. The heat is rapacious. The desire, the yearning, doesn't abate.

The haze is thick. So thick. It would be easy to slip under the veil, to let yourself go. To give in—

"Easy, omega," it comes out as a guttural rasp; the charcoaled command uttered in a mockingly placating tone. The sort one might use to soothe a wild animal or a startled mare. Fitting, of course, when you're rutting against the thick spread of his thigh, leaking slick all over him.

down girl, he doesn't say, but he might as well have because you're clenched tight around nothing, aching hollowly in a way that rings through your bones. You can't help it, you want to whine when he huffs, lips pulling downward in a frown. Disappointed in you, perhaps. But how do you fight instinct when you're hardwired to want to spread your legs at the pungent, lour stench of a virile alpha's incipient rut, the briny tang of his pre-cum saturating the air. A heady elixir that sends shockwaves of agonising need through your body.

It's too much. The burn of your heat is a vicious, deadly combatant. Knife to your jugular, hand around your throat, it demands compliance.

And when he reaches down to his stained slacks, drawing your eye to the tent in the front, to the dark pool at the front where he leaks his spend into the fabric, you keen. Jealousy scorching through you instantly at the sight; animal instinct that makes you want to bare your teeth at it because his cum is just for you, all for you—

Amusement pierces the air. Punctuates it with the heavy, noxious weight of his satisfaction.

He hums, reaches into his slacks. Curls his fist around the thick of himself.

“Want this, don't you?”

You gnash your teeth against your desperation, legs popping open further. Inviting. Eager.

“Of course you do. Want this—” he frees his cock, pulling it over the band of his trousers, and you choke.

It's wet with his spend, and angry looking. The mushroomed head engorged, swollen. Flushed a deep vermillion. Veins run the length of it. Pulsing with his need. His want.

Price groans, strokes his hand down his shaft. Pearlescent beads of pre-cum bubble up from the tip.

You ache. Suddenly, viciously. Hollow. Empty. You want him. Need him—

“Yeah? Want this fat cock inside of you, mm?”

And you, finally, give in—

"Please, please, Price—"

"No." He taps the head of his cock against your clit once, twice. A warning. A reprimand. You keen at the whitehot agony, the unfathomable burn of pleasure ripping through your body. He coos into it. Echoing your whimper with a derisive snort. Mocking. Cruel. You hate him. Hate him. Need him so badly you think you might go insane if he doesn't pry you apart right this instant—

"I'll give you my knot when I'm good and ready. Now, be good for me, mm?” His eyes are dark in the harsh flicker of the wood stove. Burning liquid black. Molten puddles of crushed sapphire. You hate the way he looks at you. Hate how it makes you want to roll over on your belly, soft and submissive, giving all of yourself over to this terrible man. “That's it. Good omegas get what they want. Bad ones get punished. And I don't think you'll like being taken over my knee, would you?"

His words send a fresh wave of heat through your veins. Hellfire. Scorching. You want to blame the fever on the stove burning away in the corner of the room, on a sickness you can't scrape off of your bones no matter how many times you chisel into your skin. An infection eating away at you from the inside out.

But it's futile. He doesn't care about your excuses. He never has—

“Spread yourself. Go on and show me that pretty cunt you want me to ruin so badly.”

Unspooled, liquid under his bulk, you don't even hesitate before your fingers unfurl from their fight knot in the fur, making a slow, timorous crawl down the supine length of your sun-scorched body.

Your flesh feels foreign, like it belongs to a stranger. To someone else. Each touch is a phantom whisper gliding along sweat-slicked skin; new and different, and not yours.

Not yours at all because your skin would never prickle with goosebumps over the sight of your chief kneeling between your legs, the hair on his thigh matted, slick with your wetness. The unruly black thatch darkening into a patch where you shamelessly rutted against him, eagerly seeking friction over the place you ache the most.

For him. All for him.

It's impossible. Impossible. And yet—

As your fingers curl over the tops of your thighs, notching into the soft, heated flesh at the bend of your hip and groin, you feel just how soaked you are for him. How wet. How eager. It stains your skin, reaches almost down your bent knees. Beneath you is a puddle drenching the fur.

Your fingers slip, sliding in the mess you made. You flush when he huffs, humoured by it all, and dip your chin away from the scorching, piercing look in his cerulean eyes, drilling holes in the apex of your thighs. Greedily taking in his fill as your fingers glide over your sopping folds, gingerly parting them. Presenting to him on your back. Ripe for the taking.

“One hand,” he rasps, words clicking in his throat. He holds his hand up, curling his fingers down and leaving his index and middle finger up in a pointed V. “And the other—” he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing. “I want you to touch your clit for me.”

You follow his instructions, slipping your fingers between your folds, opening yourself up for him. Your other hand sits on your mons, fingertips brushing your swollen clit as heat floods you. Electric. Each touch is a shock of pleasure roiling down your spine, and more slick dribbles out of you, dripping down your aching, empty hole, down your ass, until it soaks into the furs below.

The scent of a needy omega fills the air. Your scent.

Where most are sweet, supple, yours has always had a bite. A tartness to it, an earthy tang. Boysenberry. Loam. Lemongrass. Beeswax. You bluster. Flushing. Embarrassment plumes up, mushrooming in the air—smoked orange peels, coral berry sour—and you wonder if he's repelled by it, this strange smell of yours—

Price’s head rolls back, nose pitched in the air. Breathing in deep, groaning with his exhale. Eyes fluttering, flashing. He eats it clean from the air. Mouth dropping open, panting.

It's then when the unmistakable musk of a pleased Alpha—smoked tobacco and sage—clots beside your scent do you feel the prickle of free will hewing into your periphery.

None of what he demanded of you carried the unignorable weight of a command. Before you can even think of the ramifications of that, he's moving. Heavy body falling, sliding down the furs. His hands come to rest, hot and firm, on your knees, spreading you wider, wider, to fit the boxy heft of his broad body between them.

He hovers over you, head bending to fit in the brackets of your thighs. Leading with nose, nostrils flaring, fluttering, as he pulls in deep lungfuls of your scent. Over and over, and—

His head bows. Humid air ghosting over your sopping cunt when he exhales. It's then when he dips his chin further, further, until the bottom of his face is flush with your pussy, mouth parting around a groan that reverberates through the floorboards, rattles your bones.

“You smell s’fuckin’ good, love,” he rasps, choked. His eyes are gyres. They might just swallow you whole. You fight back a shiver, resolve threadbare. Stitches coming apart. “Bet you'd taste even better.”

It's all the warning you get before he pushes his face into you, mouth dropping open to let his tongue lull out. Licking a scorching stripe from hole to clit. And, oh—

Oh.

Your head drops, eyes slipping closed at the liquid feeling between your thighs. The whitehot sensation of his tongue laving across your slit.

So this—this—is what you've been missing out on. Pure feeling. Molten. It blooms in your loins, knots tight like a spooled bow.

Your fingertips are in the way from him pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where you throb the most, and you move to pull your hand away. To give him access to everything, all of it. Every part of you he wants. It's all his, his, so long as he keeps doing what he's doing with his mouth, his tongue—

But his hand slashes through the air, snatching your wrist in a vice grip. Stopping your retreat. You whimper, hips flexing up, wanting his mouth. Needing more of what he's doing between your thighs.

“Look at me,” he demands. You obey. Instantly. His eyes are black holes. Everdark. Eclipsed, totally, by the bleed of his black pupils spreading out. You moan, thighs parting wider, wider. “Good girl. Such a good omega for me, aren't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. Draws your wet fingers to his mouth, pressing the pads against his lower lip, nails scratching his teeth. He breathes in, shoulders bunching up. Eyes fluttering again, rolling back in his head. And it's divine—

To have such a surly, contemptuous Alpha on his knees for you, fat, heavy cock drooping between his thighs, spitting a steady stream of spend onto the floor. Wasteful. You keen again, back arching. Needy. Wanting—

Price sucks in your fingers, tongue laving between your knuckles. The pressure, the feeling, is good. You like this. Like his mouth.

But your fingers are not where you want him.

“Please, Price. Please—”

He pulls off with a pop. Leans his cheek on your inner thigh.

“What do you want? Use your words, omega.”

Heat blooms in your chest, but you're long past the point of embarrassment anymore. Shame. It's all awash under the torrent of need. Desire. Swept in the rage of your heat. Nearly rendered delirious by it.

“Want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“M–my—” you swallow, fingers spreading your folds wider. Opening yourself up to him. He glances down, nostrils flaring once again. But he doesn't move. Won't. You groan, head rolling back. “My pussy. Please. Want your mouth on my pussy, Price—”

He groans, low. Dark. But then he's moving. Head bowing. His tongue is scorching. Whitehot. He drags it through your folds, teasing at your rim. Presses it inside, just a touch, a shallow thrust. And—

Ah.

You make a noise in the back of your throat. Awful, wet. Choking. The feeling of his tongue inside of you is good. Beyond words.

It slips in more. The full length. Stuffed. You keen, arching. Aching. Hips flexing, jerking against his mouth. He lets you ride his face like this, fucking your hole with his fat tongue, nose glued tight to your clit.

All you can do is sob his name, fingers curling, knotting, into his damp hair, holding him close.

His tongue leaves you, sliding up your seam until it cups your clit. Laves over it. He lifts his chin, and seals his mouth over you. Sucks—

The spool unravels. Pressure released. You flood around him, on him. Pussy gushing slick over his chin, drenching him. Drowning him.

Lips sealed over your throbbing clit, he moans low. Deep. Eyes rolling back in his head. Gyre blue.

“Tha’s it,” he coos, pushing two thick fingers inside your throbbing cunt. “Think you're about ready for my cock, ain't you?”

He doesn't let you answer. And—

You don't think you can form a coherent thought. Running on sensation. On instinct. You make to roll over on your belly, ass pushed into the air, ready for his knot, but he stops you. Hands squeezing your hips. Firm.

“No. I'll take you like this.”

And it's hard to reconcile the urge to present with his demands. His wants. You whimper. He answers it with a grunt.

“Stay still.”

You flatten to the fur, body melting. Lax.

“Good girl.”

The praise is a serrated knife to your jugular, cutting a jagged line across your skin. Spilling blood. You quieten under his bulk, now. Desperate. Docile. Collared in blood.

His hands push behind your knees, lifting your legs. Pushing, pushing. Until they rest under your ears. Spread open for him. Ready to be claimed, owned. Bred.

“Price, Price, please—”

He shushes you with a coo, pitching your heels over his shoulders. Shuffling closer until his heavy cock, hanging thick and fat between his legs, bumps against your ass. Your cunt. You whimper, back arching. Needing him to fill you up. Split you apart.

Ruin you—

“Gonna fuck you now. Knot you.”

It's a warning. A threat. You feel it trail over your skin, branding. A collar. You lift your chin, letting it settle there. So long as he makes you feel this good, he can do whatever he wants to you. Anything—

And so, he does.

His cock is a heavy weight against you, pressing. Pushing. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, for your body to acclimate to the burning stretch of him splitting you apart.

Your slick aids in the brutal onslaught of his cock prying your untouched flesh apart, chiselling open a space just for him to fit.

It should hurt more. And maybe it would if you weren't drowning in the throes of a vicious heat, numbed to everything but the way his cock feels as it slides, inch after inch, inside of you. Thick, fat. Pulsing. You pant shallowly, head turning. Chin pressing into your shoulder.

It's good. This burn, this ache. This madness—

“Christ—” he spits, sounding almost angry. Furious. You peer up at him, eyes wet with unshed tears. Through the murky haze, you catch the clench of his jaw, the prominent divot between his brows. Face tightening with pleasure. Rapturous. “This cunt was made for me, wasn't it, love?”

“Yes—” it's breathless. An airless whisper. “All yours, all yours, John—”

You repeat this as he reaches halfway inside of you. As he bends down, mouth feverish he slots it greedily over your lips in a bruising, sloppy kiss. You mutter it against his teeth, his tongue. He swallows your acquiescence, your submission, down with a moan. Drinks you in as he takes, takes, until you're full of him. Stuffed.

John bottoms out with a moan that trembles down your throat, balls pressed flush against your ass. Split apart on him. Claimed.

He settles, letting you adjust to the sensation. Content to simply mouth sloppy kisses over your face, your cheek, jaw. Nipping your skin. Basking in this, in finally having you stretched around him. His pleasure is ripe in the air. Heavy and acrid. Smoked leather. Fresh, and heady.

It's novice, this feeling. This pressure. This fullness. Your hand drops, falls, palm sliding between his heavy, hairy belly, resting over yours. Feeling the unmistakable bump of him rearranging your anatomy to fit—barely—in you.

He lifts up, elbow dropping to the floor beside your head so he, too, can feel for himself the way he fits within you. His hand comes to lay beside yours, flattening over the bulge of him protruding from your flesh. His cock jerks inside of you, twitching. The feeling makes your toes curl, your cunt throb.

“Like that, huh?”

Your nod is slowly, languorous. Everything feels unreal. Like you're staring at the world from underwater. Inky. Fractured. Raw.

The burn of the stretch is there, throbbing like a bruise. A contusion. He scents the sting, the ache, and slides his hand down, cupped over your swollen, stuffed pussy. Fingers tangling into the thick bed of curls grazing your mons. Price quells the burn with a swipe of his thumb rolling over your clit.

It has you clenching, tightening even further around him. Feeling the thick stretch thrumming inside of you. Plugging you up. And fuck—

If that doesn't just light you up from the inside out. Supernova. Blistering heat.

Pieces of yourself chip off, fluttering to the soft, downy fur below you with each heavy breath he takes. Your heat swells to a crescendo, breaking over the edge of your lingering cognisance. It's all sensation now. Pure, unfettered feeling.

And Price takes no time at all to exploit it. To batter your melting, liquid body into submission even further.

It starts with shallow grinds against the plug of your womb. Carving more space inside of you for him to fit, to ruin.

He fucks you like this. Cock heavy and fat inside of you. Giving you the full length until your rim catches on the burgeoning swell of his knot. Over and over again. Pulling deep, delirious moans from your throat. Breaking you to pieces on the spread of him seated deep. Tugging more and more compliance from your body, wringing pleasure out of every nerve ending.

The sounds are horrific, and had you any sense of self left to mull over them, your shame, embarrassment, would have burned you alive. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowing him down, over and over and over again—

“Needy little pussy,” he bites out, blunt teeth skirting over your pulse point. A tease.

The press of them heightens everything, elevating it to a tipping point.

This is what you were made for. What every atom in your body screams out to. Wanting. Needing to be spread out under him, this dark, awful man.

“I'm not going to claim you,” he's saying, words wet against your temple, tongue snaking out to catch the droplets of sweat beading on your hairline.

It makes you whine in dismay, desperate for his teeth buried in your skin.

“No, no, please—! I need it, John, I need it—”

“Then beg me. Beg for it—”

You do. It babbles out of you. Broken, fractured. Pleas, orisons, screamed to heavens; aching for his teeth on you, in you. Claiming you for his own. You want it more than you think you've ever wanted anything in your whole thing. Half of you, empty and vacant, hollow, begging to be filled. To be completed.

And really—

You've felt it from the beginning. This stirring, agonising want. Desire. A bone-deep yearning for the man who looked at you, up and down, and dismissed you with a charred scoff and shallow shake of his head.

“What's a little omega like you doin’ runnin’ around the woods, love? Ought to be at home—”

Where you belong.

It didn't make sense at the time. He's so different with everyone else—Alex, Farah—but reserves his scorn, his discrimination, just for you. Special little thing, aren't you?

But even still. Still. You tried. Struggled against the crushing weight of his derision, burying your fingers into the rubble, clinging on for three, devastating years until your nails broke, bled. Left stains on the pavement. Until he, stiff-lipped and clipped, told you he was retiring. Escaping the loose binds of a non-existent town on the fringes of civilisation for the sanctum of the wild, untamed forest. The mountains.

You wanted him to say, come with me, even if you might have gouged his eyes out for even asking. Tore his still-beating heart out with your bare hands.

But instead, he nodded at you. A quiet goodbye. Left you bewildered, furious, and unclaimed, unwanted, and now—

Those blood-stained fingers dig into the softness of his nape, biting flesh until it gives, breaks, under the jagged stumps of your nails, and you wrench him forward, into you, snarling mad. Apoplectic with fury at being denied so long.

“Fuck you,” you bite out, brittle with ire. Disobedient even through the noxious curdle of heat subduing your senses. Your rationale. “Fuck you, John—!”

His skin breaks first. The bitter scent of hot, wet pavement, pennies in the summer sun, sickly sweet iron, fills the balmy cabin. He groans, choked, throat bobbing, jaw clenching. You don't let him get anything out.

You pull him by the scruff of his neck into you, face buried in your collarbones. Heels dig in, sliding along the slick sweat of his broad back. Finding purchase against the knob of his spine, and pressing. Pushing. Kicking at him until he slots his hips into yours, pressed as deep as he could possibly go. Throbbing inside of you. Spitting molten spend as he wrenches you open.

The first person to ever do so.

He must know this, feel it simmering in the air, because he groans low, deep. It bubbles out of his chest, a half-bitten snarl saturated in the smoke of his desire. Feverish, possessive.

“Mate me,” you demand, head tilting back into the awaiting plinth of his palm, cushioning your crown. “Claim me.”

He—John, you think, delirious; gone—John places a tender kiss to your pulse point, soft despite the uneven, desperate way he fucks into you now. All that careful finesse falling to pieces under your foot, growing choppier as he sinks in deep. Pistoning shallowly into your sloppy cunt, taking. Taking.

“Please, John,” you breathe, clenching tight around him. Needing that last push to drop over this vertiginous precipice that yawns out, a growling, hungry chasm, before you. Heat spears into your marrow, drowning out all the fight inside of you. Dousing those flames until they're a smouldering heap; clumps of hot, wet ash in your hands. “Please take me—”

The growl he makes is inhuman. Lingering in the shadow of it is a mocking burst of laughter. Dark, hellish. He leans in close, mouth tight against your skin, and whispers, “already have, love.”

Those words lose any meaning when he opens his mouth wider, licking a stripe over your neck. A soothing rinse. And then he buries his teeth into your pulse, tearing through your skin. Claiming. Owning. It rips through you—all heat, sensation: blistering, inferno. You burn alive beneath him, smouldered under his possessive, heavy bulk.

Price leans back with a vicious, terrible growl. Blood dripping down his chin, mixing with the tacky slick of you still covering his face. Pinkish under the waning light of the dying sun.

The sight of it, the horrible throb in your throat, breaks over you.

His tongue flicks out, chasing the drops. With a swipe of his finger over your clit, you fall to pieces around him, clenching. Throbbing. Screaming with your release. Gushing around him as he grips you tight, working you through it, muscles fluttering, flexing. The deluge of pleasure is molten, spreading liquid through your body. Inescapable bliss.

He grunts, pace slowing to a sloppy grind. Letting you leech pleasure from the overfull feeling of being speared open on him. Knot swelling. Bumping into your rim. John gives you respite for a moment, content to hump against your messy cunt until you melt into the furs, panting with exertion. With pleasure.

He keeps his thumb pressed against your clit, stroking. Shoving you into the side of too much, of pleasure-pain. Overstimulated. You mewl, whimpering.

“Greedy girl,” he chides, cruel, and pulls back. The wet drag of his cock against your sore, sensitive walls is overwhelming. You keen, shaking under him. “Couldn't wait to cum around my knot, mm?”

He doesn't wait for your excuses. He never does. He just thrusts into you again, a slow climb until his knot bludgeons into you. Fatten up at the base of his cock. He holds it there, grinding it against your pussy as you arch, mewling at the sting of your hole being stretched further around the curve of his knot.

“You can take it,” he coos. The muscles in his shoulders flex. You reach out, petting along his chest. feeling him. All powerful, corded muscles hiding under a thick layer of pelt. Soft flesh.

His knot catches. Slips. He bullies it against your sore, stuffed rim, throwing the full heft of his weight behind his shallow grinds until finally, finally, your body yields. Giving in. Opening for him.

He sinks in with a broken groan, mouth dropping open. Lax. His shoulders slump under your hands as he pumps you full of cum. Plugged up tight on his fat, pulsing knot. It's too much. Too much. All you do is cling to him, nails biting into his flesh. Marking him like the bloody ring around your neck marks you as his.

Locked together, damned, he leans down. Huffs in your ear.

“Gonna fuck you full all spring until it takes, love. Until you're swollen, fat, with our kid.” His voice is a thunderclap. A promise. A threat. “Won't keep them lonely for long, though, will you? We'll give him a sister or brother. Gonna breed this pussy as much as I want, mm. Give us a big family. I've already started on the nursery for you. After your heat, I'll let you pick the colours, yeah?”

Satiated Alpha permeates the air. It's thick in the back of your throat, clogging your senses. Drowning you. Pulling you under.

The last thought before you sink below the waterline is a broken, fragmented sense of dread, confusion. It comes in a daze. Flickering embers. Quickly snuffed out by his palm gliding across your eyes, closing them.

“Sleep now,” he rasps, hips stuttering as he fills you with more cum. Uncomfortably full, it floods your cunt, locked tight against your womb. “Gonna need it when my rut starts later.”

And, docile, collared, you obey, drifting. Dazed. But wondering, in the back of your head, in the part of you not yet consumed by the ink-black darkness that eats away at you, why did he build a nursery for you if he didn't know you were coming today—

—swallowed, eaten. his teeth are buried in your neck once more, and all thoughts dissolve in an instant. Dissipate into the gnawing aether where he splits them between his molars, gulps them down.

nothing matters anymore. you belong to him—

The cabin reeks of satiated omega—sweet, pungent. Rotten apple peels, and burnt orange. It's this heavy scent—sex, loam, and you—that draws him out of his doze, tired eyes blinking against the flickering light of the wood stove pushed into the corner.

Price groans when he shifts, body aching. Muscles stiff, sore, from disuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he knotted an omega, and he underestimated the sharpness of your claws, your needle-like teeth. But he wears the marks, the scars, of your aggressive coupling on his shoulders, his back. Clawed up, torn. He grimaces when a clotting scab breaks, peels back from the wound. Blood drips down his spine in a steady, ticklish trickle.

It took a lot more than he expected to make you submit. Had to force you to take his knot twice more before you finally, fully, relented, slurring his name into the sheets as he rutted into you from behind, begging for your Alpha to fill you up.

Had you again after that—so soft and sweet for him now. Pulled you down on his lap, let you take what you wanted from him, sluggish and lazy, until he gripped your hips tight, fucking up into you as he thickened with his release. Plugged you up nicely as you drooled on his shoulder, lulled to sleep from three brutal rounds of fucking.

But the battle was worth the victory in the end. To have you tucked into his chest, purring with contentment and too blissed out from heat exhaustion to worry about anything else, was enough. More than, really.

Especially now, with you curled on him, snoring lightly, breath tickling his chest hair, he feels more sated than he ever had, breathing in the heaviness of your smell. Your thick miasma. New, now. Different.

His scent, his mere essence within you, changes your smell already. Chemicals admixing. Body moulding, morphing, to adapt to him. His presence. You smell like the sea, salt water. Algae blooms. He leans down, breathes you in. Tastes his own headiness in the back of his throat—charred timber, smoke; leather. It clings to you. A second skin.

No matter where you go, everyone will know you belong to him.

This thought, this truism, makes him purr. A deep rumble from the pit of his gut. Satisfaction rolls off of him in towering waves, hewing the air where it congeals into plumes of conquest. Hard earned, too—

Three years. It only took three years to get to this point. To chisel under your skin, to break you down in his paws. Fine powder.

He lifts his hand from your back, and scours it down his salt-slickened face. He feels heat blooming under his skin. A telltale flush of his approaching rut. Perfectly timed, too. And that reminds him—

He pushes away from you slightly, spent cock slipping free from your warm, drenched cunt. His cum drips out of you, a deluge that leaks steadily onto your thigh, the ruined fur below. It puddles there and stains the air with his unmistakable musk. The conquering of an omega in heat; claimed. Owned.

He doesn't go far. Can't. There's a possessive, needy thrill under his veins. A snarling growl in the back of his head, snapping rabid jowls at him. Demanding he stay close to his mate. His omega. Don't leave the nest, it warns, or another could crawl in, fill the empty space—

Price cuts that thought off with an aborted snarl. There are no others. He made sure of it. Bloodied his knuckles against every alpha within a one-hundred-square-mile radius of his territory. Growled in their faces, hand against their throat, and told them to stay away from, you, this pretty little omega.

Message received, of course. But you were a prickly little thing. Bitter. As much as he wanted to roll you on your belly, make you present your cunt to him, he knew he had to tread carefully. Baby steps until you were close enough to his jaws to snap up, all his. Always. Ever since you stepped foot into his domain, your tart scent coalescing perfectly with the pine, oakmoss, tang of him. You've been his before you even knew who he was—

Wily omega with your shaking fists and bared teeth. Skittish little thing. Needed to play his hand slowly, to box you into a corner before you were even aware of the walls closing in around you. Snapped up tight his maw. Bear Trap quick. Had to be smart about it, bide his time. Push and push until all you thought about was him.

(checkmate)

John reaches for the loose floorboard, prying it open, and pulls his cell phone out—one he knows he’ll have to bury in the yard before you wake. There are very few contacts on his list, and he idly scrolls through the messages (steaming Jesus, the smell o’er—ye sure ye don’ share, cap?; better take her, Price, before I do) before he finds Gaz’s.

The last message sent was hours ago from Kyle. on her way. but fuck, didn't realise how fast fake suppressants worked, chief. gonna have to find her quick. might not make it up the mountain smellin as good as she does—

Good boy, he types with one hand, the other petting possessively down your spine. Curled there, a weighty pressure. You found him in the end, right on the cusp of your burgeoning heat. Pawing desperately for the suppressants Kyle made sure wouldn't be there.

(His parting gift brought on by a conversation ages ago—

“why haven't you mated, cap? not gettin’ any younger.”

“haven't found the right one. ain't gonna settle.”

“more like, your shitty attitude scares all the pretty omegas away, huh?”

“that, too,” he bit down into his cigar. suddenly angry, viciously so. “‘cept one.”

Kyle followed his gaze, and—

“so, take her. she wants you. reeks like she does. you can smell it, too, can't you?” his eyes flashed. playful. “maybe that'll be my retirement gift to you.”

“not funny, Garrick.”

“m’not tryin’ t’be, cap.”)

Three dots appear almost instantly. It takes a moment. Then: fuckin’ prick. Another message from Kyle pops up seconds after. told you, didn't i? i wasn't bein funny. congrats, cap ;)

As if sensing the sudden whiplash of his mood—deep, proprietorial—you stir in his arms, mewling in confusion. John drops the phone, hiding it from view, and pulls you tighter in his arms. In his embrace. Mouth pressed tight to your hairline, he rumbles, “shush, shush. I got you.”

His words make you quieten slightly. Quelled under the susurrus lull of his bellowing purr. But there's still a deep ravine between your brows. Unease lashes the air, acidic. Bubbling up from deep within you.

None of this must make any sense to you. Mercurial boss to mate, but he knows you'll come around to the idea of him soon enough. After all,

he has you all to himself until winter.

all to himself.

His hand falls, cups your lower belly possessively. Covetous. You grimace in your sleep, shifting away from the heavy, oppressive brunt of his smell. Obsessive. Potent like a wildfire. Dangerous.

But there's nowhere for you to run. Nowhere to go except deeper into his arms, his hold. Gyves around your throat; a bloody ring of his teeth.

Price hums. “Best gift I've ever gotten.”

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #alpha price #alpha john price x omega reader #idk how this is like 8k its all just smut lmao #captian john price #john price #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price #cod

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targaryen-dynasty · 8 months ago

Text

REDAMANCY.

Cregan Stark x female Targaryen!Reader (Part 4 here)

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept your younger brother’s offer to return to the capital for your child to receive his blessings. And when you‘re finally on the way, it’s your husband‘s duty to take care of you.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, lactation kink, lactating, pregnant sex, pregnancy, slight breeding kink, praise kink, slight degrading, angst, fluff

WORDS: 3.3 K

NOTES: Redamancy means A love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you, and let me tell you: these two are in love. Thanks to @sylasthegrim, it‘s always good to know you help me with my zero grasp on English!

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Ravens from Winterfell flying all the way down to King’s Landing has always taken quite some time. And therefore it was no wonder you were surprised that one of your younger brother’s ravens reached the castle not long after you'd informed him you were with child, inviting you to birth it in the Red Keep for it to receive the young king’s blessings.

Being the ever dutiful Lord of House Stark, there was no way your husband would refuse the offer, and once your pregnancy had crossed the seventh moon mark, a carriage and your husband’s entourage were sent south.

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept the offer. Westeros’ capital has brought nothing but pain and grief to you, and you’re afraid coming back ruins the comfort and peace you’ve found far, far away from the castle in the North, in Winterfell. But a part of you misses and longs for your siblings and the part of your family that’s still left, hence it didn’t take too much convincing from your husband.

You’ve lost count of the days you spent in that damned carriage by now, solely accompanied by your maids as your dear husband rides at the front of his entourage, joining his men on horseback. But there’s one thing all days have in common: it’s you being exhausted beyond relief once night comes.

For the longest time you thought your unborn babe to be no-fussy and calm, which proved to be false just one week into the travel. It’s restless, kicking and moving especially when you finally find rest in the bed of the receptive inn you stay in for the night. Your feet are swollen, just like your breasts, and your body provides milk as though the babe has been long born already, and all you crave at this point is for the pregnancy to be over already.

As the wheelhouse comes to a stop, you rub your swollen bump with a sigh, looking toward the door with heavy footsteps approaching. Your beloved husband opens the door, and even though he won’t admit it, he looks just as exhausted as you do.

“Is it time?” you ask, slowly rising to your feet with another sigh. You place your small hand in his large one, allowing him to help you out.

He nods, bringing a hand to the small of your back. “Indeed. We have reached the crossroads. From here we are only ten days away from King’s Landing, which means the end of our journey is in sight,” he replies. “How are you and our son feeling?”

Cregan guides you away from the wheelhouse, escorting you through the crowd of his men towards a large inn sitting right where the river road crosses the kingsroad. And from old tales of your uncle you know it has to be the Bellringer Inn, a place where even your great-grandfather and great-grandmother have stayed at before.

“We do not yet know if this babe will be a boy or a girl, husband,” you chastise him in a teasing manner.

“You are right, we do not,” he says. “But I feel it in my bones. Just call it a father’s intuition.”

You roll your eyes at his words and nudge his ribs with your elbow, yet there also pulls a smile at the corners of your lips. He chuckles at that. “Careful, my love, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

Shaking your head, you giggle softly. “Do not tell me that you are an old man now, Lord Stark.”

As you make your way through the courtyard and towards the inn, you can feel the curious glances of the passerby; a man of Cregan’s caliber always drew the attention toward him, just like your hair did. But you’re unbothered by it all. You carry a piece of your husband within you, and that thought fills you with a sense of fulfillment and pride.

He looks for the innkeeper as you reach for his hand, pulling it from your back around your frame, squeezing it softly. “Might you join me tonight? I know that you can not leave your men alone, but one night will surely do no harm. I must admit that I have hardly found sleep without your warmth for the past weeks.”

With a gentle, intimate gesture, Cregan brushes his fingers over your swollen bump, before pulling you against his side. “How can I ever be expected to refuse anything my beautiful wife asks of me? Of course I will join you tonight.” Leaning a bit closer toward you, he adds with a quiet whisper: “Your presence has been missed in my bed as well. The nights feel cold and lonely without you by my side.”

Heat crawls onto your cheeks at the proximity and the slight implication that comes with his words, solely interrupted when a stout man with a bushy beard but otherwise pleasant demeanor walks around the corner and welcomes you two.

Upon Cregan’s inquiry about the availability of a room, he hands over the keys and leads you toward your place of retreat for the night. More than once have you told Cregan you’re perfectly fine with sleeping in a tent with him, yet he always came back to your delicate condition, stating he only wants the best for you and his unborn child, and you eventually have given up and accepted it.

The room is decent. Not as big as your chambers at home, but still larger than what you’ve slept in for the last few weeks. Your maids already scurry into the room to bring some of your belongings and clothes to get you ready for the night, while Cregan leans in to kiss your temple. “Let me arrange for my man to sleep outside the inn for the night,” he mutters against your skin. “And then we shall spend the night in warm beds.”

Even with your maids bustling around you, you can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement at his words. The prospect of sharing the night with him is enough to make you forget the soreness of your swollen curves that has become a constant companion over the past few moons.

“I will freshen up in the meantime,” you say, leaning into his touch before he pulls away to take care of his men’s sleeping arrangements for the night. Once everything was adjusted in the chambers, your maids moved to help you out of your clothes, but you refused them, having planned something very special.

Standing in front of the small window, overlooking a stable with a thatch roof and a bell tower, you all but admire how quietly Cregan opens the door, and with the lock falling right into place behind him, the room grows even quieter and the atmosphere becomes charged with anticipation.

“Is everything sorted?” you ask, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“All set,” your husband replies with a low voice as he approaches you.

He comes to tower over your frame from behind, moving his hands over your hips up to your waist. Lifting your head, your eyes lock with his. “Alone at last, hm?” There’s a sultry smile on your lips now, and you gently reach behind you to cup his cheek with one hand. “Now you’re all mine for the night.”

You lean against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths against your back. Cregan seizes the opportunity and brushes your hair over one shoulder before he presses his lips to the crook of your neck. The touch makes you sigh, stirring something inside of you you have had to keep at bay for quite some time. When he brings his large hands to your swollen breasts, fondling them through the thick fabric of your dress, you can’t help but moan, the slight squeezing aiding against the heaviness.

But then his hands and lips leave your body, and he slightly leans around you to look at you – or rather your breasts – and you immediately know the reason why.

The gray fabric has become damp under his touch, two dark spots prominent in the front of it. While it brings a bit of shame to your cheeks, the low rumble that escapes his chest sends a fire straight down between your legs. “I should have warned you I started leaking a fortnight ago,” you admit ashamedly, biting your bottom lip.

“I quite enjoy the sight of it, you know,” he says, voice laced with a combination of awe, adoration and burning need. His hands shift to the lace in the back of your dress. “But let us put this to good use.”

The dress comes undone with ease, falling to the floor in a puddle around your feet. Damp spots are decorating your smallclothes, but this time you don’t mind the sight. Cregan’s hands now roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist and your growing bump.

Although you know exactly what it is his words are meant to imply, you choose to tease him. “And what is it you have in mind right now, hm?”

His gray eyes briefly flicker to the bed close to you, before meeting yours again. “I have a few things in mind. But for now…” He cups your chin, tilting your head up so he can claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss that’s full of desire and passion. It makes you feel as though the air is sucked right out of your lungs by him, as if you can’t survive without his lips on yours. “How about we make the most of this night, my love?”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe against his lips.

His large hands roam your curves, helping you out of your undergarments, until they settle at your thighs, wrapping around them to effortlessly hoist you up. Although Cregan is quite the bull of a man and appears to be a brute, he possesses a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him, gently keeping your body against his and lying you down on the bed not far away just as carefully.

Soft, gentle kisses are pressed to your collarbones, igniting a fire within you that has been smoldering for too long. As his fingers glide over your skin with featherlight touches, leaving a burning trail behind, he finds his hands drawn to your full breasts, cupping and holding them, and eventually squeezing them.

More droplets of your milk trickle into his calloused palms, wetting his skin, but he does not care–not when he has you writhing and whimpering beneath him at just the faintest of touches.

Your husband’s eagerness would have almost made you chuckle, watching him rise from the bed to rid himself off his clothes hastily, if it wouldn’t match your own desire and greediness. With his breeches falling to the ground, his cock stands to full attention, hard enough for it to almost seem painful.

His hungry gazes devours your bare form, tall frame slightly hunched forwards as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Will you just stand there and watch, my wolf?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What happened to ‘let us put this to good use’?”

It’s the teasing lilt in your voice that pulls him out of his stupor like a wave, the chuckle he releases low and throaty. “You are a temptress, my love,” he replies. “You are lucky I am a man of my word.”

“Then touch me,” you whine, words coming out more desperate than actually intended.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Slowly approaching the bed, Cregan bows forwards and grabs one of your feet. He lifts your leg and starts to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your leg, occasionally nibbling on the skin of your inner thigh.

Your back slightly arches off the mattress, body thrumming with desire. Entangling your hands in his dark curls, you use the grip as reigns to where you want him most, but your husband acts completely unfazed, not allowing you to tug him higher up.

He takes his time, kissing and nibbling your thighs, before he boldly presses a kiss to the apex of your legs, tongue briefly dragging through your folds. It elicits a shudder in its wake, and you can’t stifle a moan.

Making his way up, he licks your navel, and eventually traces the curve of your full breast, circling your hardened bud. Cregan laps up every drop of milk that oozes out of your bud like nothing else than a starved wolf, the edge of his teeth applying just a faint pressure to the sensitive skin to stimulate the flow.

But when his other hand comes up to fondle and squeeze your other breast, that’s the moment you lose your composure, shamelessly smothering him with your breasts. “Gods, Cregan…” you whimper, immediately bringing you relief. There isn’t even time to waste a thought about the indecency of it all, not when it feels just so right.

It’s your mewls, your whispered whines and moans, the sound of you saying his name in such a desperate manner that drives him to continue. “You make me ache for you,” he rasps against your skin, voice thick with desire. Your husband never falters to ignite a fire inside of you with his words, especially when there’s an innuendo hidden between his praises.

Bringing his hand from your breast down between your bodies, he aligns himself with you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds in a way that makes you bite back a moan and grind against him. You grip his dark curls harshly as he finally eases inside, pushing into you inch by inch, agonizingly slow to make sure you feel him enter you.

His suckling falters with the tightness of your walls embracing him, overwhelmed by pure bliss and a feeling he’s missed for the past few weeks.

Every gasp and whine that escapes you only serves to embolden him further, continuing to tease and taste your breast with unrivaled enthusiasm. It juxtaposes the slow, sloppy thrusts of his hips, and brings you two different kinds of sensations at once.

Cregan has made himself home between your legs, rocking his hips leisurely back and forth. He has dropped his weight on one elbow and leant his upper body to the side, determined to not put any weight on your swollen bump. His lips are firmly wrapped around your bud while his hand teases the other, pinching and squeezing it between his fingers. The proximity is unmatchable, feeding into your constant desire to be as close to him as possible.

You can practically watch him lose every ounce of self control, his suckling becoming more intense and the thrusts growing in determination. His groans and grunts are muffled, and droplets of your milk trickle idly down his chin, getting lost in the dark, coarse hairs.

You fully expect him to say something when he releases your bud, but he’s far too eager to get his fill again. Pinching the perky bud of your other breast harshly, droplets of milk run down the curve of it, only to be traced by his tongue, liking a flat stripe over your skin. He chokes on a groan as the sight has you clenching tightly around his hard cock.

“Please– do not stop,” you whimper, applying a bit of pressure to his head to urge him towards your breast again. “... not yet.”

Dark-blown eyes suddenly flicker up to meet yours, and a shuddered breath leaves your lips. “My my, what a greedy wench I have for a wife,” he chuckles to himself. You don’t take offense, but the statement does make you duck your head and bite your bottom lip sheepishly. “I do not intend to.”

Despite the teasing, it’s obvious your pleas fall upon eager ears as he heeds your command and closes his lips around your bud again. Every hungry pull of his lips draws more and more milk from you, and while relief makes itself known in your breasts, a different kind of pressure starts to settle in the pit of your belly.

Squeezing him so well, you make it impossible for Cregan to move on his own accord, and quickly take over, rolling your hips against his. It’s a race for completion, making your pearl throb with anticipation.

The coarse hairs of your husband’s beard drag over your sensitive skin with his eager suckling, tickling you and causing you to arch against him even more. You have your arms wrapped around his neck at this point, keeping him tightly against you.

A string of yesses falls past your lips like a chant, and the pace of your hips increases as far as your bump allows you to. Your mind grows hazy with pleasure, until your peak washes over you with a loud gasp.

You haven’t noticed Cregan watching you through it all, too focused on the sensations coursing through your body. His gaze is mesmerized, clearly relishing in the relief that’s etched onto your features and the way your walls flutter around his cock.

He pulls back, droplets of milk resting in the corners of his lips, and lifts his body to tower over you. The thrusting of his hips grows sharper now, determined to help you through your pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasps, one hand resting on the mattress next to your head while the other gropes at your now relieved breasts.

“Once this pup is born,” he emphasized the words by rolling your sore bud between his index finger and thumb, drawing out just a few more droplets of milk. “I shall put another in you to keep you round with my seed.”

Your head grows dizzy, lightheaded even, and you can’t do more than whimper and whine through your peak, not fully comprehending what he’s said.

Cregan snaps his hips into yours once, twice before he topples over the edge with a loud groan, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of you. Cupping your breast, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh.

You continue to roll your hips against his, prolonging his pleasure. Switching roles, it’s now your turn to milk him for every drop, taking everything his cock spills inside of you. Every muscle in his body tenses, until eventually, he collapses to the side, careful not to put his weight on your swollen bump.

With his cock slowly becoming flaccid again, the sensation of his seed leaking out of your cunt is more apparent, causing heat to spread throughout your body. If it wasn’t for you carrying his child already, you would have mounted him to make sure his seed would bear fruit.

Cregan eventually lies down on his back, and you seize the chance to rest your head on his chest. It’s hard to keep your eyes open as his hand softly entangles into your hair, scratching your scalp in the manner that usually lulls you to sleep. His breath is slower now, his chest rising and lowering your head.

“I can not bear to spend another night without you by my side,” you all but whisper, bringing a hand to his stomach.

Your finger trails the contours of his muscles, before following the dark trail of coarse hairs down.

“You needn‘t worry about that,” he says. “We shall not stay in King’s Landing for too long. And I highly doubt that anyone could get me out of your chambers during the time we stay there. Once we arrive, we shall stay together.”

Nodding your head slowly, you hum a ‘mh-mh‘, too engrossed in the feeling of his hand in your hair and the other rubbing soothing circles over your back. Having trouble staying awake, you’re hardly able to process his next words, already drifting off to sleep.

“Let us sleep now, my love. We have another tiresome day ahead of us.“

Cregan Taglist: @nats-whore @aemondsbabe

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cutesyh · 10 months ago

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If a scene feels flat and you can't figure it out, ask yourself:

• What can MC smell? Is there an ocean breeze, sweat, a cinnamon roll fresh out the oven?

• What can MC hear, besides the dialogue? Is a bird singing, river flowing, a car speeding, clock ticking?

• Can they taste something, even if they're not eating? Previously drunk alcohol or juice, aftertaste of a cigarette, smog, too instense perfume?

• Can they feel something on their skin? Rough clothes or delicate material, blowing wind, an allergy or a rash, grass that theyre laying on?

• What does the character see, besides other characters? Is the room dark or is sunlight coming in nicely? Are the colours vibrant or dull? Are there any plants?

• What's the weather? Is it snowing and the cold is making goosebumps appear on their arms? Is it hot and sweaty and clothes are clinging to their body?

• HOW DOES IT MAKE THEM FEEL? To any of the above.

Do they like the smell of cinnamon rolls or are they weirdos (I'm a weirdo, I don't fit in).

Does the clock ticking calm them down or annoy them?

Do they enjoy the aftertaste of a cig and like how dirty it makes them feel?

Are they sensitive to touch and how their clothing feels on their skin or are they indifferent?

Would they enjoy the scenery more if it was more sunny out, because they're afraid of the darkness?

Do they like it snowy or are they always cold and hate winter?

Come on, give them persoanlity, likes and dislikes, don't be scared to make them people and not only likeable characters.

#writing advice #writing help #creative writing #how to write #writing #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity

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arminslovurrr · 7 months ago

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choso who loves when u ride him, his rugged hands on ur ass as u grind ur cunt on his length. he’s a mess, his eyebrows furrowed as he immersed himself in the way u looked down at him like u owned everything that was him, his pillowy pink lips parted as whiny moans spewed out of his mouth like a fluid river. “fuh-fuckkkkk… u-ur so pretty baby mnghh..” he’d whine with his glossy eyes glued to ur pretty face. i mean, who wouldn’t be a wreck? the way u would move ur hips in a circular motion whilst still slamming ur self down onto his pelvis at an agonizing pace, the way u would every so often leaned down to peck his puffy lips n the way ur tough facade began to fade when his fat tip would slightly graze against ur g-spot. slowly losing himself everytime u would clench ur warm walls around his girth, it was all too perfect,even the part when u continued to ride him even though he had already spilled his thick silky cum into ur warmth.

he’d grip ur ass so tightly as he pushed himself impossibly deeper into ur heat, kissing ur cervix in the process just to spurt his creamy seed into ur womb, “awh choooo,” u whined as u slowed ur hips “that was alot, no? think you’ve been pent up, huh?” you teased as he nodded his head profusely. “s-shit, mhmm.. been so worked up angel..” he said as he wiped a bit of sweat off of his head. “then ya must have some more f’me, right?” u said tilting ur head to the right as u began to ride him again. “wha-what are you doin.. i just came, don’t have anymore f’yo- fuckk!!” he groaned softly when u bounced up n down on his thick cock, “shh it’s okay cho” you smiled at him, reaching a hand down to rub his rosy cheeks with ur thumb. digging his nails into ur hips as he tried to get u to let up on ur pace, “ple-easeeeee, c-can’t- hah fuckin take it babyyyy..” choso whimper as tears brimmed his waterline. not responding to him, u sped up ur pace, his sleepy looking eyes widening as he tosses his head back. if he wanted to say something, now he couldn’t, all words were stuck in his throat only letting a string of whines pass through.

“too much ‘s too much, gna cum f’you again baby!” he simpered as his hips involuntarily buck up to meet ur thrusts. it was so much, his eyes squeezed shut, biting his bottom lip in a attempt to stifle his moans- which did not work btw tears rolling down his pink cheeks,spilling his hot sticky cum into u once again as he cried out ur name. “fuck choso, ur cryin..” u watched in awe, ur hips slowing down to a maintainable pace so he could ride out his orgasm. once he came down from his high, he looked at u like u we’re a psychopath “u almost rode me to death, i mean it felt good but i felt like i was dying!” he said dramatically as he stared up at u, watching a smile form on ur face. his theory of u being a mad woman checked out when u said “chooo, i still haven’t cum yetttt, think you can go again?” ur say batting ur eyelashes,putting on the most irresistible face u could. u knew u won when he threw his head back into the pillow with a groan. he just couldn’t resist u n u knew it!

a/n: hiii guysss, i just wanted to whip up something real quick so im sorry for any spelling mistakes n stuff !!

#[linnie’s works]#jjk smut #choso kamo #jjk choso #choso kamo smut #choso smut #pleaaaaseee #jujutsu kaisen #linnieloveswhen #whiny choso #[linne’s thinkin about..]#「 linnies daydreams 」

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pseudowho · 1 month ago

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The Watchmaker

Newly employed as the assistant to a renowned watchmaker, you soon discover how deeply his obsessions run.

Warnings: 18+, boss/assistant relationship, mutual longing, loss of virginity, fingering (f!receiving), nipple play, hand job (m!receiving), creampie, gentle manhandling (consensual), breeding hints, gentle period-drama Nanami snippety-snaps and becomes unhinged, two desperate people getting far too sexy over timepieces and pots of tea

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It was unusual for a lone young woman to be lodged and apprenticed by a single man; and, yet, it came to be, when you alone passed the Watchmaker's interview.

You approached on dry cobblestones, to a handsome, deep shop, with glossy black and gold railings and doors. Your corset felt heavy with the city's summer humidity; the river held the heat like a simmering pan, and its heady stench threatened to consume you. You were used to being without a chaperone, but your modest dress and poor accompaniment drew more wayward glances in this part of the city.

You hurried into the shop, a brass bell above the door tinkling your arrival. Nobody came to greet you. You followed the voices to the back, the eyes of many timepieces following you, their ticking as whispers and gossip in your wake. You came, in time, down tiled steps to a workshop, warm and bright and full of men...naturally.

A single, cursive note graced a sign before the only remaining workbench.

Repair the clock.

Such meagre instructions for a sought-after job. In golden lamplight, a pile of cogs and a loose-handed clock face glimmered like dragon hoard. You cast your eyes, stroking your corset and heavy skirts. You nodded once, and reassured yourself, only once.

"You can do this."

The Watchmaker, a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick hands did not suggest one with a delicate touch, neither agreed nor disagreed; he simply watched, silently observing you like the many faces of his timepieces. You set to work before your audience. The Watchmaker came and went, seeking to observe the half-dozen men competing alongside you.

And, in time, half a dozen sweating young men failed one, by one, by one. The Watchmaker's disgust was apparent, and his sneers soured one, by one, by one, until the last young hopeful curdled like milk before him.

When the Watchmaker came to you, you and your box of gold were not at your station. He frowned, kept company only by muted ticks and tocks. He followed your trail, out to his walled garden.

The test would have been considered a 'trick' only by those who were angry that their lack of respect for precision and accuracy had been identified. You, who could not fathom such sloppiness, found an honest solution.

"A sundial?" The Watchmaker rumbled. You felt a rush of heat from fingertips to toes, untouched by such a voice before. Smoothing your skirts again, and finishing your adjustments to hide the heat in your cheeks, you nodded.

You had fashioned your clock face and myriad small clock pieces to form a glimmering sundial. You had positioned it just so, and confirmed its position with the time shown on your own, battered pocket watch.

The Watchmaker circled you, with narrow eyes that may contain humour were they not so scrutinising. He was impeccably tailored, you noted; a high, crisp collar and rolled back white sleeves revealed enough throat and forearm to make you sweat. An exquisite navy waistcoat nipped his waist only marginally more than his tied apron, and he hummed at your sundial.

"Not what I'd call accurate."

"I disagree. While it may not be very precise, it is accurate. The cogs for the clock couldn't be set in such a way as to make the seconds correct. They were always just out. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He almost smiled; his eyes certainly did. Nodding, and not one for hyperbolic praise, he bowed, instead.

"Nanami Kento. I would be privileged to offer you the role as my apprentice."

The earth formed a springboard, launching you to heaven, and it wrenched the breath from your lungs on the way. Checking yourself before you babbled over with incredulous tears, you choked out an answer on a sloppy curtsey.

"Even though-- even though I'm a woman?"

A scoff. "I don't see how that's relevant."

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Mr.Nanami sought your constant presence.

A natural timekeeper, himself, he sought the company of those like him, who would not expect him to partake in social niceties and small-talk. It was no wonder, then, that he became a Watchmaker, whose many-natured friends had the same face but twice a day.

While Nanami Kento was normally at peace in ticking solitude, the many hands and ceaseless seconds had eventually, as the years went by, begun to grind into an aching loneliness.

You felt it, as summer crisped to autumn, and frosted to winter-- his desire for your company. The way his obsession bloomed to include you alongside his timepieces. The way he lingered in doorways while you handled the customers' repairs. The way he seemed breathless when your smile sent another happy patron on their way. The way he would flinch if you brushed past him.

And god, how it burned you. Eyes downcast in reverence could not remain so for long, so magnetised were they to him. His silences were rarely cold, but rather, simply those of one who held his tongue until he had something to say; a far cry from the men you knew, who sought to usurp the monarchial peace through vocal domination.

Learning such craft at Mr.Nanami's thick, calloused hands, required intimate proximity; he would have to lean around you, at points, with his chest to your back. He moved your hands within his, teaching you the dexterity needed to repair a tiny watch with surgical precision. He leaned like this around you now. You could barely breathe.

"You were not wrong. Though not strictly right, either," he murmured in your ear, his breath grazing over your cheek. His hands held the tools in yours, using your body to perform miracles. You felt faint, flushed, hot against his body, and breathed a shaking breath, quiet in your frustration so as not to disturb the sleeping cogs.

"I want to be perfect, I-- I need it--"

An amused hum, used to your angry tiny mechanics. "You are perfect, thank you. Now let us make the pocket watch match."

As your hands worked in tandem, and another impossibly tiny cog found its home, you gasped in delight, relieved, and not thinking.

"Ah, yes, Kento, we--"

Mr.Nanami stiffened behind you. You backpedaled.

"Ah-- I mean, Mr.Nanami-- I'm so sorry--"

He did not seem upset, though his ears reddened as he stepped away from you. He murmured again, unused to being perceived.

"No, no-- it's quite alright-- I use your given name, after all."

With his face flat but his eyes alight, when you looked up at him in wary apology, he sought to reassure you with a smile.

"Really, please-- please do call me Kento."

"It feels...wrong."

"I...would not seek to make you uncomfortable. It is entirely of your preference."

Your heart drowned out the whispering whirrs of the room. You heard the tap of Mr.Nanami's feet as he ascended the workshop stairs, and blurted out.

"--Kento, I'll...I'll call you Kento. Please."

A pause. Another silence. Kento's voice tightened with something altogether more intimate.

"I fear I shall get used to it far too quickly."

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Too long were you lingering in your respective doorways, before bed. Too sweet, were the shared evenings in a firecrackle sitting room. Too electrifying, were the hands that met to pour just one more cup. Too intentional were the slim-eyed stares that burned down to the very bones of you.

If you died, and committed your body to science, the ghost of you would be unsurprised if a surgeon found Nanami Kento's name scored across your ribs; for nobody else could access that cage to your heart and soul.

Nobody else could warm you, during Winter fairs on the frozen river.

Nobody else could take your hand, to help you down the stairs at the Timepiece Exhibition.

Nobody else could still you with a look, or teach you with such few words, and this was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

Your peak hit you in a burst of static. You clasped your hand over your own mouth, as if it would sell you out for your filthy crimes. Still, you arched in your bed, your toes curling against the sheets, bucking up into nothing in waves. Clarity did not hit you after, for it had already hit you during, and had done nothing to still your fingers.

Rolling over, and pressing your face into your pillow after the ecstasy had passed, you held your breath. It was too quiet.

Your eyes sprung open. The muffled bustling you had heard from the bedroom next door, had stopped. You weren't sure when. The silence was deafening...until movement started again, more clipped than it had been before. You could feel him, moving with irritation, a prowling beast in a cage.

It was over an hour before Kento's own hand travelled down his belly, to grasp himself with whispered curses and pleas of your name. Long enough, he hoped, for you to be asleep. Long enough, he hoped, that he could hide this rampant obsession that was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

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"I should think I'll be home for tea. Inspector Aberline's grandfather clock again. It has stage fright, I fear, for how often the Inspector stares at it."

Kento's words, from hours before, rolled through your mind again and again. The smile you had sent your final patron of the day on his way with, slipped away, for you saw the lamplighter beginning his rounds on the cobbles outside. The sun had already set; he was late, tonight. You'd have offered him a lantern, but without Kento beside you, you felt you would need its warmth and light more.

Your eyes flickered to a package on the desk. It was imperative, Kento had said, that this was delivered to the customer today. 'Today', as a concept, was growing increasingly more abstract as it threatened to expire.

You saw the deep, dark circles under Kento's eyes, in your mind's eye. He had not been sleeping well. He needed the rest. You could not bear to see him overburdened.

Taking a deep breath, and undoing your apron to replace it for your heavy coat and gloves, you tucked the package under your arm, locked up to the tune of the tinkling bell, and stole away through the night like a thief in the dark.

Clacking across cobblestones, and trying to diminish the noise of your boots upon them, you walked for what felt like miles. Though you were sure you were safe, in this part of the city, the darkness turned shadows into beasts of great renown.

Spring-Heeled Jack stalked you from the shadows. You clutched the package closer, walking faster, breathing harder--

"What the hell are you doing out here, at this time of night?"

You squealed, and flattened against a red brick wall. Kento, imperious and huge in a heavy brown overcoat, glowered down at you with unbridled rage.

"The package," you squeaked, brandishing it as a shield, "you said-- said it needed to be delivered--"

"And it is not your place to take it upon yourself to do so. Returning to find you gone, out delivering a bloody package, while there's a killer on the loose? Extraordinary." The coldness that Kento reserved only for others, now directed at you, was a bitter sting.

Still; Kento held out his arm, stiff. His lip curled when you did not immediately take it. He grew frosty as he waited, and you slipped your arm into his, to a mollified grumble.

"Come," Kento rumbled, arresting you in a hold so intimate against his side, "let us not waste a journey. The customer isn't far from here. It shall give you time to think about your foolish choices."

You felt furious tears prickle behind your eyes. Like a dog with a bone, Kento struggled to let his anger go, and you snapped up at him, "Give it a rest. You're not my husband--"

"--yet, if it would allow me any sort of say over your safety, perhaps I should be your husband." Kento had frozen, looming over you. Your belly twisted, your face hot. You turned aside, chastised like a child.

"I'm no girl," you whispered, venomous, "I can take care of myself--"

"In a world that places no value on women, why should you ever feel safe? Out here, instead of in my--"

It was Kento's turn to redden. His jaw clenched. His fingers tapped upon the package. You felt righteous anger bubbling over, and rolled the dice, in a stabbing final gambit.

"In your what, sir? In your workshop? In your arms? Or in your bed?"

Kento's stony impassivity was tested, but remained steadfast even against your snapping. But you knew him, now; you saw how his chest hitched, heard his knuckles crack, and caught the faintest flare of his nostrils. Ducking his head for a moment, and dramatised by lamplit shadow, he stepped in just once to whisper above your ear.

"You forget yourself. I am your mentor, and you are my assistant, and--"

"--and I've had enough of you pretending that's all we are--"

"--and it's hard enough not bursting into your room at night when I hear your fingers drag my name from your mouth, so if you will be so kind as to cease and desist, I will not have to press you against this damn wall to hold your tongue with my own."

His hissing reproach doused the argument with ice water. Numb-footed and stunned, you walked through treacle, as Kento dragged you to deliver the package. Your chest was still thickened by mortification by the time you approached the Watchmakers' familiar iron railings.

You found yourself pressed inside, hearing the door bolted with force. Kento's hands softened as they removed your coat from your shoulders.

"Bed," he snapped. Kento turned his back to you to light a waxdrip candle. White shirtsleeves billowed from the shoulders of his waistcoat, and he checked his pocket watch as if it would give him the answer. You reached one hand out, to bunch in the back of his waistcoat, as if a child, and he snapped again.

"Alone."

You flinched. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. You swallowed hard, rolling the dice again.

"I hear you, too. In your room at night. The walls are thin."

"So is my patience, young lady, I will not tolerate--"

"You treat me like a girl to distance yourself from me, but pleasure yourself to my name? Please. You can make a fool of yourself but don't make a fool out of me--"

Kento spun with a growl, lifting you by the waist to drop you upon the counter. You squeaked, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself when he closed the gap between you.

"Do not act as if you know," Kento whispered, low and slow, "what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring. Do not act as if you know what it means to be reduced so, that I must spill myself onto my belly every night, to preserve your virtue.

I do not blame you, naturally-- it's my burden entirely-- but if you add one more ounce to my shoulders with that incorrigible little mouth of yours, I'm afraid your virtue shall be...under threat."

You couldn't deny the heat pooling between your thighs, now, trapped as it was by Kento's taut body. You couldn't deny your craving for such fabled bliss.

"How does it feel," you whispered, your hand creeping up the buttons of his waistcoat to stroke the silk of his cravat, "Kento? How does it feel? Do you use your hand, or--"

An agonal little choke broke past Kento's high collar. His eyes begged you to stop him. You felt his long fingers twitch on your waist.

"Do not ask me--"

"Please," you whispered again, just as desperate as him, "please, I need to know, I can't keep living life in the dark--"

"My hand," Kento choked out, his chest barrelling with the weight of his breaths, "I use my hand. But even in the dark, I can't seem to convince myself that it-- that it's--"

You felt him falter, and you begged him, your tugging loosening his cravat enough to see his throat bob behind it. Kento whined, begging in kind. His face twisted, as if the thuds of pleasure lengthening his cock were hurting him. The torture was sweet; you felt it, too.

"Don't make me say it," Kento pleaded, nose to nose and nuzzling from side to side, "I can't take it--"

"You can-- you can take me--"

"--you don't know what you're saying--"

"--I do, Kento, please--"

"--don't know what you're sacrificing--"

"--you wouldn't," you pressed, feeling his hands moving against his wishes to unbutton the back of your dress, "you wouldn't sacrifice me, I know, so just--"

Kento groaned, a sound so sinful, just to feel your dress release and slip down over your shoulders. Pinching the ends of your sleeves, with his fingertips grazing your palms and inner wrists until you shivered, he pulled. A gossamer shift of white ghosted over your skin.

"So many layers, upon a lady," Kento murmured against your lips, "like unwrapping a gift."

He sounded drunk, and the honeyrich pools of his eyes had darkened. You couldn't pinpoint the moment his resolve had crumbled, but crumble it did, with the tick-tocking eyes of many upon you. Kento grazed his fingers against your lips, ordering in a whisper.

"Open." You didn't have to, your jaw already slack as promise burned you at the edges. Kento swiped his thumb and forefinger across your tongue with a groan, and reached out, snuffing the candle between them.

What dim light there had been, died. None that breathed would hold court or witness to what Kento was about to do to your virtue.

"This will not happen only once," Kento murmured against your neck, his tongue darting out to taste you until you mewled. He cursed to hear it, becoming more unhinged by the minute. "I will take your maidenhood as a lover, but take your hand as my wife. You cannot refuse."

You could refuse-- you knew you could, in absolute safety, but such refusal would take his mouth from you with immediate effect. His hands would cease their insistent glide up, and up, beneath your skirts. He would stop rutting forwards against nothing, with each whimper that left your lips. He would no longer drag your bodice down with his teeth, to suckle at the plump swell of your breasts.

You nodded, breathless, your hands shaking against the buttons of Kento's waistcoat. He grunted as it fell open, and your hands settled upon his waist. His graze against your neck was more insistent, now, and sloppier; hungry, open mouthed kisses that suckled the salt from your skin. Occasionally, you heard him murmur, begging to you, or to his god, or to himself, for any sort of release.

Overtaken by need, you finished unbuttoning his trousers, and tangled your fingers in his hair, instead.

"Don't know what you're doing," Kento mumbled, drunker by the minute, "going to ruin you, I-- I'll ruin you-- I'm no sensible size for a virgin--"

"So you suggest I find some other man?" You panted, "You suggest I find someone smaller--"

"They don't fucking deserve you," Kento spat, forcing the last of your skirts up to grind himself at your core until you whined. With your corset untied, Kento tossed it to the floor behind him with disdain, and yanked the final layer down to free your breasts.

Shuddering, he gripped his cock to restrain himself.

"Divine," Kento whispered, ducking to nuzzle against the tips of your breasts, "I have to-- please allow me to--"

Without waiting for an answer, Kento lapped your nipple into his mouth with a groan. Suckling until you pleaded his name, with hot bursts of pleasure to your core, Kento's hands reached the crest of your thighs, and groaned to find more layers in the way.

"Buy you some more," he grunted against your breasts, gripping the fabric between strong fingers to shred it apart, "my apologies-- now, just-- oh, fuck, I--"

His fingers had slipped between your folds to glide through them. Needing to see you arch against the sudden intrusion, Kento pressed you back until you were lying on the counter, and loomed over you. You caught sight of him for the first time in minutes.

Kento was utterly dishevelled, unabashed, and too far gone. With his cravat and waistcoat hanging loose, and a long, thick swell beneath what remained of his unbuttoned trousers, he looked more debauched than your wildest fantasies. He twitched with the spurt of pre-cum that left his cock, to see you spread out before him.

Sniffing, and dragging one hand back through his parted hair, Kento scoffed at your look of glassy-eyed wonderment. His fingers curled through your lips until that sought-after arch graced his eyes, and you mewled again, your thighs clamping around his hips

"More than one of us can be reduced to a beast," he growled, circling your clit with calloused fingertips, "as you have insisted. I've taught you with these fingers before. Let us teach you something new; how it feels to peak upon the hands of a man."

"--o-oh god, oh god oh god--"

A bark of laughter, "--he won't help you now--"

"--oh, sir--"

"Try again."

"K-Kento!" You chastised through blinding pleasure. Kento chuckled again, intoxicated and made ruthless by it, and holding you flat by the belly as his hands worked miracles on your core.

"That's it-- good girl--"

The way he praised you had always brought you to a blush, but how he growled his praises while he fingered you to completion was another entity entirely.

Your hips rolled up, trying to fill the emptiness that his fingers alone couldn't. Your body was rendered base with pleasure, and nature's insistence that such passiveness should be used to leave your belly full of seed.

You could see that, too, in his eyes; an urge; a hunger that belied his gentle nature. In sudden clarity, you understood his cry of agony, from mere minutes before: 'Do not act as if you know what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring.'

"--K-Kento, I-- I don't know if I'll-- it's too much, aches-- augh--"

Your approaching peak threatened to overwhelm you, and you squirmed and begged, though you knew not what for. Kento pinned you, with one splayed hand on your belly, and whispered you on.

"That's it-- don't be afraid...shhh, now. Good girl-- that's it-- beautiful--"

You came with thigh-clamping bursts of ecstasy, so sharp and static by the hands of another, that your belly ached and cramped with the force of the spasms. Kento's fingers slowed, massaging the pleasure out of you at length, though you could feel his body growing heavy with the weight of self-restraint.

You felt yourself twitching, crunching forwards involuntarily, with little more than broken whimpers and cries as he talked you down. Though, as clarity dawned in supple bliss, you felt he may be trying to talk himself down.

"...good...that's good, that's enough, I...I am satisfied, I..."

Kento lied to himself so exquisitely, as if he didn't palm his cock with one trembling hand. As if he hadn't pulled his shirt off to relieve the prickling heat of his skin. As if he couldn't kiss you because that, oddly, would be the intimacy that broke the dam.

You broke it for him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck so he couldn't rear away from you. He tried, at first, with a grunt of surprise, gripping you by the waist. Feeling your lips against his rendered him dumb again, feral and nuzzling his nose to yours, like an addict in a field of poppies.

"Please-- I'm afraid I won't-- won't be gentle--"

"Bed," you whispered against his lips, "not alone."

Kento groaned again, cupping his hands beneath your thighs to lift you, and carry you up the narrow wooden staircase. He knew every shoeworn step in the dark; knew where the corridor dipped; knew the amount of steps between his bedroom door and yours, so many times had he paced between the two.

With his curtains un-drawn, only the cold winter moonlight lit the room. Meticulous, uniform possessions left meticulous, uniform shadows. The whole room smelled of Kento; of soft wax, leather and musk. In his room, in his arms as one leg flicked the door deftly closed behind him, felt like being brought home.

"If I show you how," Kento whispered, laying you on his bed, just to stalk you slowly up to his pillows, "will you...can I..."

You'd have said yes to anything. Without knowing exactly what Kento asked for, you nodded. He saw the absolute trust in your eyes, and stiffened, his eyes darkening with something more profound than need.

"Do you know what physical love entails?" He rumbled, nosing against your neck again, and depriving you of the first kiss you so desperately craved. "Do you know what it is, to be taken?"

You swallowed hard, feeling lead weights in your still twitching belly. You cursed the society that had sought your submission through ignorance.

"We...are supposed to fit together," you whispered, to Kento's satisfied rumble. Stil, it was not enough; you knew he would not continue past his insistent suckling of your throat, if you showed true ignorance, so you mumbled past your blushes.

"You...press yourself inside me, until...until you..."

"...go on."

"Until...you finish, like--like--"

"...like you did, on my fingers. Except, your completion simply fills my soul...metaphorically speaking. My completion fills you literally."

Your hand had trailed down his bare chest, reverent at his form, so different to your own and witnessed before only in fine art and statues. He didn't stop you as your hand trailed lower. He simply fixed you with a stare, that was half hope and half despair.

With rising breaths, you looked down between your bodies as you freed him. Animalistic relief twitched across Kento's shoulders, for the release from his confines. He groaned into your throat, husky in a way that made you throb. You longed to see his pleasure as he had seen yours.

Tentative, you grazed his length with the barest fingertips. Rigid, woody, hot, velvety, wet at the tip and so long and--

"Oh," you breathed, gripping him and feeling his heartbeat through his sex, and utterly unsure what you had expected, "feels...good--"

Kento breathed harshly, and had dropped onto his elbows above you, his face twisted in agony. He panted, fractious.

"Don't-- do not--"

Your hand flinched away, horrified for having hurt him, and he cursed, rolling off you to sit, strewn and messy and barely dressed, against the head of the bed. Your eyes fixed again on his manhood, heavy and twitching against his belly.

"I won't touch-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't stop," Kento emphasised, breathless, "don't...dont stop."

With a flush of heat in your cheeks, you understood the nature of Kento's agony, and it only made you hungrier. Crawling over him in the barest white undergown, to straddle his thighs and sit upon them, you reached out to grip him with one trembling hand again. Kento arched, moaning that rusty, desperate moan again.

"Show me? Like you do in...in the workshop."

"God, your hand is so sweet--" With his own hand, big enough to engulf yours, he wrapped around your grip to his length. Slowly, deliberately, and watching where your hands clasped around him with sweat on his brow, Kento used your hand to pump himself.

Feeling the glide of silk on iron made your core wetten and clench. Watching how Kento moaned, bucking into your joined fists and reaching up behind him to grip the pillows, was hypnotic. Within seconds, your hand had begun to move independently of his, stroking him with raw determination to witnessq his unravelling.

Kento groaned in time with your rhythmic strokes. His newly freed fist bunched, instead, at your hip, having rucked your slip aside to dimple shaking fingertips in the plush of your curves. You began to squeeze a little tighter at the tip, twisting a little, and making Kento see stars.

"Hah--haaaaah-- don't-- don'tstop-- better than any dream-- good girl, please, please--"

Your thumb swiped without warning across a bead of wetness that had seeped from the slit in his tip, and Kento swore, bucking hard enough to make you chirp and grip his thighs for purchase.

"--wait--wait-- I'll spill in your hand, wait--"

This didn't deter you; if anything, it spurred you on to faster and faster strokes. Kento writhed, sweating and gripping, and you watched the heavy balls beneath his length tighten up, and--

"--ungh--coming--don'tstop...unh--"

Kento's whole body tensed. His face fixed in divine ecstasy. You watched his length jerk in your fist with thick, warm glugs of sticky white seed. You stared, your new obsession making you want to stroke Kento's release between your folds, but you held him instead, feeling him rut into your fist to chase his high.

After what felt like a lifetime, Kento came back to earth, with a heavy chest. While lax, for now, something in the way he looked at you, kneeling above him and examining the way his release dripped down your forearm, told you he was barely sated.

"Always were a...a fast learner."

"Well, you always wrote me off as a child--"

"I did not," Kento huffed, a mortified, angry flush colouring his cheekbones, "I knew exactly the woman you were. I do not lust after girls. If I didn't separate you, I knew I would...I knew we would..."

You nodded. You had both fought to convince yourself against such inevitability. Pondering, and curiously disappointed in the aftermath of Kento's pleasure, you stroked his slippery length in your hand again.

"You're...still hard."

Kento's eyes flicked down, that animalistic hunger taking seed in his eyes again. When he spoke, it was low, and barely measured.

"It would not usually, but-- but feeling you above me, so close that I could flip you over and trap you beneath me, I--"

You felt your breath leaves your lungs at once. Kento winced, disgusted with himself, but you snatched it away before it could take root.

"Please-- I want that, please--"

"With all this seed, and more to come after I bury myself inside you, you will be with child within days," Kento spat, gripping your cum-slick wrists to stop you stroking another orgasm out of him. Kento froze; having been about to throw you off, he saw the look in your eyes. The look of willingness. That sheer determination that had taken you as his apprentice in the first place.

"You like that," he mused aloud, enraptured as you lifted your undergown away to reveal yourself in your entirety. With your wrists gripped in one broad hand, the other stroked down between your breasts, to settle, stroking, on the soft plush of belly just above your mound.

"You...like that? The thought of a part of me, growing inside you? The thought of me spilling myself so deep, it has nowhere to go but your belly?"

The thought made you lightheaded. Why? Why was the thought of the same sticky release that coated your hands, inside you instead, so alluring? Beast in fine tailoring a beast in fine tailoring a beast--

Kento rolled you over. The strength you always knew he had, carefully restrained by waistcoat and pocket chains, bore down upon you now. He kicked away his trousers, desperate to be as bare as you, and brought his sheets over his hips to bury you both in a warm little den. You shivered to feel his length rest on your belly and mound, so close to where you wanted him.

Kento shook his head, trying to see logic, "If I finish inside you-- you really will be in danger of bearing my child, you..."

His voice had faded, gobsmacked as you stroked your seed covered fingers between your folds, mulish and clipped.

"There," you snipped, "I've already covered myself in you, so that's that--"

"You are utterly feral, this is what I get for bringing a guttersnipe into my workshop--"

"--so you might as well just finish the deed, sir, because--"

Kento laughed, overjoyed by your fearless audacity. His lip curled, and he reached down again to stroke his sticky seed between your folds.

"You think that's what I meant by inside?" He pressed, so close to the entrance you had never sought to penetrate, "You think I meant here? No, my love...I meant here."

You squeaked to feel Kento press one thick finger at your entrance. You felt the briefest sting of resistance, felt yourself clench and buck. Kento stopped, and pressed a first kiss to your lips, so sweet that you rushed through a wildflower meadow in summer.

He stroked circles just inside your entrance, loosening you with the slick of his seed, and kissing you with an intimacy that felt so much more than all the sordid deeds you had stolen from each other so far.

"And when I say 'here'," Kento continued, his breathing getting heavier, "I meant deeper. Much deeper than my fingers could reach. In truth, I would rather break your maidenhood with my cock, than my fingers. Some...filthy little part of me, I think. I loathe it. But, since we are well past being dishonest with each other..."

"Want that, please--" you babbled, squeaking with the promise of being filled with the rod you felt dragging on your belly, "--please, do it, I need to know, need you--"

"You beg like you mean to corrupt," Kento grumbled, pressing a little harder against your entrance and shivering as you squeaked, "I was a good man before this...I think. Shhhh, shh shh...that's it...soften you up...good girl."

"Not a girl," you gasped, your voice breaking and your nails digging into Kento's shoulders. He laughed, a full, rich, deep laugh of genuine delight. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as his fingers were replaced by his cockhead.

"You are right," he rumbled, nuzzling his nose to yours again, "you're certainly not. At least...you won't be, in a moment." Nose to nose with you, and whispering into your mouth, Kento pressed insistently forwards, "Hold onto me."

You did, feeling a brief sting, and stretched and stretched and stretched and--...full. You whimpered, bringing your legs around Kento to embrace all of him to you. He grunted, and gasped, pulled to bottom out within you, when he had meant to take you slowly. You clung him inside you as he moved to pull out, and begged, afraid it was already over.

"Nonono-- don't come out-- stay--"

Kento bucked into you involuntarily, and groaned a godless sound, arching up and gripping the headboard, white-knuckled.

"Got to-- got to move, to-- to finish...but at this rate--Christ, you'll kill me-- god, can't-- can't finish straight away like a boy--"

If the pleasure of being locked into the warm, wet drag of your pussy hadn't almost taken Kento to the edge, the way you looked up at him with glassy adoration would. He moaned again, another certain stepping stone to damnation.

One more glance at you had Kento planting one forearm above your head, and plaiting his fingers with yours upon the pillow. He gasped, trying not to take you too roughly, and finally, whispered again.

"Hold onto me."

Smooth, and fluid, and with the barest scraps of self control, you saw stars to feel Kento drag his cock back to your entrance, only to fill you again. You felt the thickfriction drag, and its bursts of belly-deep pleasure than rendered you oddly submissive. You revelled in it; drugged, and sighing, your eyes slipping closed.

The drunken animal in Kento had returned in force.

"...feels...weird...good--- don't stop, Ken--"

"--sh-shit, won't last-- I'm sorry--"

Kento watched you in wonderment. Whatever pleasure your ripe core gave him, could not compare to that given to him by your face; your mewls, and sighs, and whispers.

You couldn't seem to whisper his name, though; it tasted so sweet upon your tongue, that you could not bear to let it go.

You could feel Kento losing his ragged self-control. Watching your face, the plush bounce of your breasts, and the way your thighs spread against your belly every time he fucked into you, was an otherworldly delight. You took it; gladly. Your pleasure built strangely-- deeper, and more powerful, and yet not quite enough.

Your fingers sauntered down your belly. In your addled, fucked-into state, you barely noticed what you were doing. Kento noticed, though, and growled, a droplet of sweat dropping from his forehead between your breasts. His thrusts deepened, harder and faster and desperate for orgasm.

"F-fuck...just like that...just like you do at night-- my name--"

"Ke...Ken--"

"My name."

"Kento," you half-sobbed, lost in his promise to fill you with the sticky cum that had dropped down your hand, "please--pleasepleaseplease--"

"--the begging, fuck, I'm-- I'm done, I'm-- ungh, fuck--"

You knew Kento must be finishing. You felt him twitching, and jerking, within the snug gripping heat of your cunt, ruined by him as per his promise. You felt the curious warm spill somewhere deep inside you.

You knew the look of bliss upon his face. Your fingers, still rolling the remnants of his seed around your clit, moved faster and faster and faster--

You arched, seconds after Kento's own peak had begun, into your own. You heard the headboard crack under Kento's grip, heard the rhythmic, fractured moans that may have been his and may have been yours, too lost were you both in oblivion.

The world may have completed one full turn. Struggling to hold himself up, Kento shook, dopey and half-asleep after filling you as he had threatened. You locked him within you, and held him like a lead blanket, nuzzling into his throat.

"Just...stay there. Stay. I like it."

"That feels...indecent," Kento mumbled into your neck. His uncharacteristic colloquialism was winding back again, and you felt the clipped man in the waistcoat and pocket chain returning to earth. You whispered, to his devilish laugh.

"How are we supposed to make watches together after that?"

"Carefully. Very, very carefully. As husband and wife."

"...oh."

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