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davdcorenswet · 1 month

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🌲 road trip.

scott miller x reader Synopsis: when your camping trip with scott gets cut short because of a work emergency, you nearly kill him and every member of storm par, intent on making your ire well known on the drive home. but when you push scott too far, his impatience has other plans. or “If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” Word Count: 13.3k Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!, no use of y/n, bdsm, established dom/sub dynamic, pet names (honey, sweetheart, baby), brief mentions of serial killerisms (teasingly… maybe), semi-priv public sex (in a truck), scott has a whore mouth (again), groping, belting (f! receiving), spanking/slapping (f! receiving, breasts & v), oral (m+f), nippleplay (f! receiving), unprotected pinv, orgasm denial, fingering (f), cumplay, breeding A/N: when the "just a quick one shot" turns into a beast... oops? 😬 thank you to my proud sponsor aka the scott rot™️! if you enjoyed, pls feel free to reblog or give it a like and as always, my inbox is open if you want to chat!!! 🤍

On hour two of the drive back to OKC, you think you’ve lost your mind.

What had begun as a much-anticipated weekend road trip with Scott — an incredibly overdue escape, though you weren’t exactly keeping track — had swiftly turned from enjoying the fresh, open air and the promise of an entire weekend distraction-free, to a mountain of frustration that battled the ones in the distance. All because your charming, secretly sentimental boyfriend had wanted a picture of you and the sunset for his lock screen.

If you weren’t so upset about it, you probably would’ve laughed.

But this was the fourth (fourth!) time that something had gotten in the way of your Scott Time, and, look — you needed it. So. Fucking. Badly.

Which was why when his phone had gone off again, after Scott had ignored the voicemails Javi left him, you were so, so very tempted to hurl the fucking thing into the pond. Instead, you sat there, already trying to think of a way to get your lick back with the fact that he was the one who’d insisted that going off the grid meant going off the grid and electronics simply took away from the nature of it all, the hypocritical ass. And you’d watched, with dawning realization and equal devastation, as Scott’s entire demeanor had shifted from peeved that Javi even had the audacity, to shutting his mouth and speaking in yes, sir’s and I understand, sir’s.

Oh, Marshall Riggs was going to get an absolute earful the next time y’all sat down for Sunday dinner.

But first, you had your sights set on Scott. And, quite frankly, he deserved every second of petulant that you were giving him.

When he adjusted the air conditioning, you dropped the temp lower. When he found a good station on the radio, you changed it. When he asked for one of the snacks by your seat, you munched on it first, mumbling a fake apology when you passed him a small piece. And when you finally started talking, it was one word answers: yes, no, dunno, sure, fine, whatever.

And every time he gripped the steering wheel just a little tighter, you felt vindicated by the fact that it was ticking him off.

Good. You were ticked off. And unbelievably, atrociously bored. There were only so many things you could do in his truck while you were half giving him a cold shoulder. And, well, after the last time you’d reached for the volume and he’d caught your wrist with a stern ‘knock it off’, like you were a child, you’d resorted to pouting out the window, then sifting through his middle storage, and then snooping through his glove box.

All of which were boring, in the exact way that only a man’s truck could be boring. Who didn’t have a car Chapstick, but could have packs of gum hidden everywhere? And where were the just-in-case napkins? And what did he even use pliers for?

Your brattiness — no, curiosity — wins over the agitation that still simmers just under the surface. You turn to Scott with a mischievous grin as you hold up the pliers. “Be honest. Are you secretly a serial killer?”

Scott glances at you, then at the pliers, before rolling his eyes with a faint smirk. “Caught me,” he deadpans, his voice carrying just enough sarcasm to draw out your giggle.

“I knew it.” You dig further into his glove box like you expect to find a pair of gloves, which stupidly has you giggling because you’d lost your mind, see, and there was no way there’d actually— Oh. Shit. He really did have gloves. “You’re the worst serial killer I’ve met. Your whole murder kit is in here and you haven’t even tried to kill me yet?”

“Getting close to it, honey,” Scott quips, a teasing edge to his voice that makes your heart flutter. His eyes stay fixed on the road, but you catch the slight twitch of his lips, betraying his amusement.

Until you keep it up, making an exaggerated show of pulling out every item you find, each discovery more dramatic than the last. The subtle tightening of his jaw tells you that rummaging through his stuff is getting more of a rise from him than your earlier silence had. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the whites of his knuckles glowing under the moonlight, and you can’t help but feel a thrill of satisfaction at the sight.

Curling your knees to your chest with his newest item in your lap (a bundle of zip ties), you bat your lashes up at him with feigned innocence. “Am I bothering you, baby?”

“Nope.” Scott, to his credit (you pretend it’s not because you’re his girlfriend but because he just chooses to be kind), swallows down whatever shitty retort is on the tip of his tongue as he shakes his head. “Not at all.”

His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to the road, as if anchoring himself, before he plasters one of his obnoxiously fake smiles on that doesn’t reach his eyes. Your own smile slips at the blatant irritation bubbling just beneath the surface, hating that look, knowing he knew you hated when he was fake with you. He reaches over, his hand finding your knee — not in the usual affectionate squeeze, but more as a grounding gesture, a silent plea for you to stop before you push him too far.

“You might want to close that now,” he adds, his voice soft but laced with an unmistakable edge as he jerks his chin toward his still-open glove box. “Before I really lose my patience.”

“But...” you start, pouting a little, your fingers lingering on the edge of the glove box. “I was just having fun. I mean, what else could be in here? Secret spy gadgets? Hidden treasures?”

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. His patience is fraying, each word clipped and precise as he says, “Close. It. Now.”

You relent, closing it with a dramatic flourish and an equally exaggerated sigh. “Okay, okay. Glove box exploration time is over.”

Scott exhales, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Thank you,” he mutters, though his eyes still carry a hint of irritation as he changes the radio station a couple of times, scowling at the country crooning through his speakers, before just shutting it off.

“You sure you’re okay?” You test, still pushing his limits. You figured that Scott knew you better than that. That you knew him better than that. Nearly seven months together — again, not that you were counting — and he really thought you couldn’t tell when something was off?

You continue, “Just because… Well, you seem a little stressed. Is it because you didn’t get to tie me up and torture me back there by the pond? I mean, I’m sure you’ll get another chance someday, like when cows fly, but—”

“Are you done?” Scott huffs, shooting you a look.

You don’t back down from it, leveling him with your own hard expression. When he’s forced to return to the road, breaking eye contact first, that prideful part of you purrs. He sighs. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but I don’t have any other choice. So sit down, shut up, and stop fucking with my system, please.”

He says the last through gritted teeth, and as much as you loved to antagonize him, you knew when to push and when to not. Putting the last of the stuff back where you’d found it exactly how you’d found it, you stuff your hands under your thighs and pout quietly until he visibly relaxes again.

“You’re not being very nice,” you mumble, the silence that encases you both too much to bear.

Scott runs his tongue over his teeth, then looks over at you, his expression hard. “And you’re lucky I haven’t spanked your ass raw for that attitude yet.” Surprise must flash across your face, because a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth that he quickly masks. “What? Did you think I would just let all that slide?”

“No.”

Maybe.

“Liar.”

Damn it.

Before you can say anything else, Scott reaches over, gently but firmly tilting your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze as his eyes leave the road for a second. “Do I need to remind you of the rules?” he asks, his tone shifting from frustrated to something far more controlled and deliberate — each word laced with a quiet authority that sends a shiver down your spine and makes your blood run hot.

It’s a tone you’ve come to know all too well, one that signals a subtle shift in the dynamic between you, a reminder of exactly who’s in charge.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like another classic Scott lecture — a stern word from someone who was used to being in control. But you knew this side of him intimately well, understood the depths of what he was really asking. This wasn’t just about a conversation or setting you straight; it was a command, a subtle but potent assertion of the power he held over you.

“Answer me,” he prompts, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum that makes your pulse race. “Yes or no, honey.”

“No,” you breathe, testing the waters of defiance.

“Let’s try that again.” Scott’s grip remains steady on the wheel, but the weight of his gaze feels like a tightening hold around you. “No, what?” he asks, his voice low and demanding, leaving no room for anything but the correct response.

You swallow. The tension between you is thick and electric. “No, sir.”

He holds your gaze for a moment that feels like an eternity, long enough for you to actually worry about him being behind the wheel. But a quick glance at the road reassures you — he’s in complete control, staying perfectly between the lines, maintaining a comfortable distance from the cars ahead and behind.

His eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering there with a deliberate intensity. “We’ll see.”

A noise of discontent escapes you immediately when he returns to his side of the truck as if nothing happened, all the air leaving your lungs. We’ll see. That was it? No good girl? It’s a reprimand all on its own, defiance filling you quickly.

What was the point of his rules if he wasn’t going to listen to them?

First with his phone, which had gotten you here in the first place, and now this. You pout, crossing your arms as you glare at the car in front of you, hating everything about this weekend. God, you’d both been so exhausted from the drive to the campsite that you hadn’t even touched him like he’d promised you could **— **on top of the week he’d already instructed you not to touch yourself.

And now Scott was going to be buried in work again. He’d drop you off at home just to drive another hour or two to who the hell knew where, and from there it was back to the office to get the paperwork rolling, call the banks, pouring hour after hour into making sure this deal went through. All because Riggs had decided his time off was more important than yours.

But it wasn’t. You’d waited eons for this. And you were damned if you were going to let both him and Scott stop you.

Slowly, so slowly, you angle yourself toward your boyfriend, his eyes distant as he readjusts in his seat and fishes absentmindedly for a piece of gum to smack on. For a moment you can’t help but admire him, appreciating the way he filled out the seat, the way his jaw worked with the gum, how when he got lost in his thoughts and had a particularly interesting idea he swiped his fingers along his perfect, full mouth.

He was masculine without any effort, intelligent and calculating, and, despite this weekend, was the most attentive boyfriend you’d ever had.

And you ached for him.

Just that tone shift alone — from Scott to sir — had spiked your temperature, leaving you warm with the lack of air conditioning. You knew better than to reach for the knobs, even if the thought of him pinning your wrist down had your thighs pressing together. So you shift forward to unzip his jacket you’d stolen, meaning to shimmy it off, when you catch his eyes on you.

Instead of taking it off completely, you let the gray fabric bunch to your elbows. His eyes slide from the way it now sits on you to your white tank top before focusing back on the road, his gum making that unmistakable snap! he always did. “What’re you doing?” He asks, stealing another glance as you wriggle in the seat.

“Just hot, baby,” you hum, which wasn’t a lie.

But there’s no way to be subtle as you collect your hair into a ponytail and tie it with your scrunchie, just like there’s no way Scott can be subtle as he zeroes in on your hair being up or the fact that your tits jiggle with every bump or dip in the road. His hand flexes on the wheel, quick to snap his attention to the mirrors, as if he’d been checking them in the first place.

You bite back a smile.

By the time Scott is pressing on the brakes, an accident brings the two-lane down to one, one foot is propped up on his dashboard, your head turned to face him with every sigh that leaves your lips. With nothing to pull his attention now other than the slow crawl, his eyes catch yours again, his guard dropping as he falsely believes you’ve listened.

And that’s when you make your move.

“Baby,” you groan, wetting your lips as your fingers brush across his sleeve. Your other hand rests against your knee, slipping down along your thigh while you bat thick lashes up at him. “Can you turn the air on, please? I’m dying.”

“Mhm.” Scott does, following the invisible line your fingers paint across your skin as the air kicks on. The cool air is welcomed and the content noise that leaves you isn’t entirely fabricated. When his hand drops to rest on your thigh, you know he feels how flushed you are under his cold touch. And you know he feels you arch into it. “How’s that? Better?”

“’ Little.” Not even close, but you play it up now that you’ve got him. “Still too hot.”

“Sorry, honey,” Scott’s deep voice is genuine, frowning a bit as he squeezes your thigh. “Got it the lowest it can go. Need me to roll a window down?”

You shake your head. “It’d just bring all the hot air in.” Something he should’ve known, but you couldn’t blame him for being a little distracted. You press on, confident, still inflecting that whine in your voice. “Your hand feels good, though.”

His touch inches up your thigh in response, sure that he’s not even aware he’s doing it. As your touch moves in time with his, you drag your free hand across your chest, pressing against the leather of his seats and pushing a strap off your shoulder. The cool air directly hitting you causes a flurry of goosebumps to rise and your nipples to poke through the fabric, chest rising and falling as you make a show of overheating.

Scott snaps his gum again, removing his hand to tug gently on his jacket. “What did I say about going through my stuff?”

“Oh, you left it at my place. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.” You try to play innocent, but the smile you give him is nothing short of mischievous as you intentionally arch up into his touch. “Do you want it back, sir?”

He’s quiet for so long that you think he’s returned to the road. Instead, his eyes are locked on the thin tank top that clings tight around you. A quiet hum echoes in the back of his throat as he runs his knuckles over the swell of your breast, dragging slowly across your nipple, before he seems to think better of himself and places both hands back on the wheel.

“Keep it.” He grunts, “It looks better on you, anyway.”

“Really?” Despite how you try to hide the happiness from your voice, you fail miserably. Scott didn’t offer many liberties, especially not with his personal belongings. You don’t let the distance keep you far, unhooking your seatbelt and leaning over the center divider to beam up at him.

“Really.” Your heart pitter-patters in your chest when he hums again, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. His eyes slide back to the road, still at a slow crawl. “Don’t get any ideas, honey.”

Oh, you had about fifty different ones, most of which included seeing how far you could go down this new avenue. You drop a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling against his cold skin, slipping your arm through his and guiding his hand back to your thigh. Scott squeezes again, a small warning to behave. But since when did you do that?

“Come on,” he taps an index against you after a few minutes, “Buckle up. Safety first.”

“But—” You pout, wrapping your arm around him tighter. He could drive with one hand, and besides, you were barely moving enough for a seatbelt to matter. “You feel so nice. And you’re always away for sooo long, baby. And now you’re gonna be gone again?” Brushing your nose along his jaw, you let your hand drop casually to his thigh. “I just miss you.”

“It’ll only be for a few days.” He shifts under you, chewing his gum slower. No doubt weighing whether he should let this continue or end it early.

“A few days too many.” You feel him inhale as your touch roams, sliding over his muscled thigh and across the zipper of his jeans. He’s already half-hard, the outline of him growing more apparent as you continue, “Do you know how lonely it gets without you? Knowing I can’t cuddle you… Kiss you… Touch you?”

You grope him where you know his weak point is while leaning up to scrape your teeth against his earlobe. His hips lift of their own accord as he instinctively searches for more, his grip on the wheel tightening as he squeezes your thigh in his big hands.

You hide your smile as he thickens under your palm. And smile wider at the growl in his voice as he orders, “Behave.”

“Am I breaking any rules, sir?” With your lips at his ear, every needy breath against him has Scott tensing in response.

Your shorts ride up — and so does his hand, until he’s close enough that you can grind your clothed heat into him. It’s just a single roll of your hips, keeping pressure where you crave him, but it has you whining all the same.

“Please, I missed you so much… I miss touching you, feeling how big you are in my hands…” You drag your palm against his thick length, fully straining against his zipper now, his breath coming out heavy as you grip him. “Please, please, just let me taste you. I’ll be such a good girl, I promise. Wouldn’t I look so pretty with your cock stuffed down my throat? Sounding so pretty as I choke on you?” You whimper against him, the sound small and needy. “Please, sir?”

The combination of your fingers wrapped around him and the feel of your tongue lapping at that sweet spot on his neck has Scott groaning, the noise coming from deep in his throat. Before you can react, he presses you firmly back into your seat, keeping you pinned with his hand across your sternum while you try to fight against the distance he forces between you two.

“Behave.” His gaze meets yours, dark and heavy and no-nonsense.

Your cunt clenches at the authority in his tone, nipples peaking in response. Scott slips his palm under the fabric of your shirt, kneading your heaving chest and rolling the hardened nub between his index and thumb. You writhe at the sensation, a moan spilling out of you, until he pinches you hard enough that you gasp. Just as quick as it happens, he pulls out just enough to bring his palm down roughly against your tit.

The sting of the impact has you arching off the seat as your cry pierces the silence.

Scott presses his index to your mouth in warning as the police lights finally illuminate his truck, the accident off to the side. You’re breathing too heavy to pay attention to it beyond that, not caring about anything happening outside of this truck, and you pass by quickly without any incident.

The air is still heavy as you meet his gaze. And you can’t help when your fingers grip the sides of your shorts to bunch the material in your hands, greedily grinding into the taut seam aligned perfectly with your center.

Scott watches it all silently. “You want to be my good girl?” His fingers draw invisible lines down your thigh, spreading your legs apart with just a touch. You comply easily, nodding as he smooths his hand along your skin and ignites a fire inside you. “Then fucking act like one.”

There’s no warning when he slaps your pussy hard, the denim digging painfully into you. Your hands fly out to grip whatever you can as your hips stir against the pain, crying out as another smack sounds, punishing your disobedience.

And still, you can’t help but whine out for him. “But I need you! I’ve been so, so good this whole time, I swear. Even when you told me not to touch, even when I wanted to so badly— I listened, I swear I did.” Pouting over at Scott, you whimper. “Please, I promise.”

“Go on. Keep it up. Do you think you’re listening now?” His hand tightens to a fist as he rests it hard against the center divider. His gaze pings to the time display on the dashboard, then to you. “The more you misbehave, the longer you wait. Was a week too short, honey? Do we need to extend it to two? Three? Can you even wait that long without disobeying me again?”

You can barely answer, only whimpering out as you press yourself into his arm, careening out of the seat. His hand clasps hard around your wrist when you reach for his zipper again, cutting off whatever noise is in your throat with a low growl.

“If I have to pull over,” he grits out, looking you dead in the eyes, “You won’t be able to walk for a week.”

You level his hard gaze with your own even as your heart pounds heavy, his threat thinly veiled as his grip tightens around your wrist.

And you swear you don’t mean to, but the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. “Can you go that long without fucking me? If I can’t touch, neither can you. Not a kiss, not a hug, I won’t even let you fuck my mouth!”

As your frustration boils over, you breathe raggedly against yourself, fighting to rip your hand out of his strong grasp. He’s quiet as he watches you, the look in his eyes betraying nothing that simmers underneath the surface.

Calmly, too calmly, he continues driving, following the road as the dark trees pass you by. When he moves off the pavement to turn down a dirt road, your heart flies to your throat.

“What are you doing?” You squeak, looking behind you as if expecting anyone else to follow, but it’s just you on the solitary single lane, his tires crunching on the dirt road. “Scott?”

His mouth stays shut, turning into a clearing of trees. You usually love the outdoors, but the forest around you looks foreboding and eerie, the trees looming large overhead. You glance out the window to the night sky, but there’s not even a twinkle of starlight here. Just inky black nothingness.

He shuts the engine off, taking the headlights with it.

You think you stop breathing.

“Get in the back.” His order is quiet against the silence but travels along your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Now.”

As much as you want to protest, the words catch in your throat, refusing to form. Instead, you wordlessly climb over the center divider, dropping his zip ties into the cupholder with a deliberate clink. Your bags, shoved angrily into the back when he’d asked you to pack up, tumble to the floor, landing in a haphazard pile as you settle into the backseat.

The sudden darkness engulfs you, your eyes straining to adjust to the dim light. You can barely make out Scott’s silhouette, his intense gaze fixed on you before he opens his door with a determined click.

Silently, Scott slips out of the driver’s seat, the slam of each door echoing through the night like a final verdict. You hold your breath as he rounds the truck, each crunch of his boots against the twigs and leaves sounding louder than meant to be. The backseat door opens, and he slides in beside you, the leather creaking softly under his weight.

You find your breath again when his hand, warm and steady, smooths around your ankle, his touch both grounding and possessive. He makes room for himself, his presence filling the confined space with an electric charge. The air grows thick with anticipation as you sit there, the darkness around you deepening, your heart pounding in your chest.

Scott’s fingers trail up your leg with deliberate slowness, each movement precise and controlled. His eyes never leave yours, the intensity of his gaze holding you hostage. “You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you?” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, searching for some sort of escape. But it was too dark outside to see, the woods maybe terrified you a little bit without Scott by your side, and even if he chased after you — and you weren’t bratty enough to do that — you had absolutely no idea how to get back to a road, let alone the road.

And, well, you didn’t really want to get away from him. Just the punishment you knew he would dole out for your disobedience.

Still—

“I thought we had to get back to the city,” you squeak out, voice trembling against your better efforts as you try to plead your case to deaf ears, “Riggs– Riggs said you needed to be back, right? And you know how far my place is from your office, and—”

“We have time for this,” Scott interrupts, his voice firm, a low rumble that leaves no room for argument. He presses his index to the pout of your mouth, silencing you. It sends a jolt of electricity through you, your breath hitching as you squirm under his grip, eyes wide and pleading.

If you were a deer in headlights, Scott was a hunter. And he was a damn good hunter.

Scott’s beautiful mouth curves into a grin, his eyes darkening with a hint of amusement. He leans in closer, his presence overwhelming, the scent of leather and the outdoors mingling with his intoxicating scent. The tension in the air thickens, every sound amplified by the stillness of the night. The rustling leaves outside, the distant hoot of an owl, even the faint hum of the truck’s cooling engine — all seem to echo the pulsing beat of your heart.

You can feel the rough texture of his jeans against your skin as he shifts, making himself comfortable, his body pressing against yours in the confined space. His hand, warm and commanding, moves from your mouth to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your lips.

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so,” he states, his eyes gleaming, all possession and affection. His words wrap around you like a promise, binding you to this moment, to him.

You swallow hard, your throat dry, the gravity of everything sinking in. Scott’s eyes lock onto yours, a silent command for your complete attention. His other hand slides down your arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, before settling on your waist, pulling you even closer.

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re safe with me.”

Your lashes flutter as a noise sounds in the back of your throat, caught between a plea and a whimper. You trusted Scott more than anything, and knew, without question, without fear, that he would never do anything you didn’t want.

And god, you wanted him bad enough that it ached.

“I need you to understand a few things, honey,” Scott continues, his voice still that deadly calm, his finger dragging slowly down your chin, tracing a deliberate path down the column of your throat. “I can tolerate you being upset. I’m not happy about it, either, despite what you might think.”

He pauses for a moment, letting his gaze lock onto yours, his eyes dark and unwavering. “But what I won’t tolerate,” he says, his tone sharpening as he closes his hand around your throat with a possessive grip, “is your disrespect.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” Scott’s voice is a low, dangerous growl as he tightens his hold on you, his thumb pressing firmly into your pulse. The pressure is confident and calculated — the kind of control that comes from having done this countless times before. “I’m not done.”

Defiance bubbles up and fights Scott at every turn, and despite the way you wriggle under him, your eyes grow hazy with need at the feel of his hand around your throat. God, you knew exactly what those hands were capable of; sweet, delicious torture, doling punishment and reward with equal passion. “But—”

“Why can you never fucking listen?” His voice drops to a growl that vibrates against your ear, his body shifting so that his weight presses down on you. You whimper at the added pressure, your fingers instinctively fisting the fabric of his shirt, trying to hold onto something solid.

Scott notices. With a swift motion, he knocks your wrists away, gripping both of them together with a firm, unyielding hold. When he pins them above your head, possessive and commanding, you can’t help but moan, growing pliant under his weight.

“Maybe I do need to remind you of my rules,” he says, his voice a dangerous purr, “since you seem to like breaking them.”

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. Every word is low and steady, completely in control. “You’re going to pay attention now, aren’t you? You’re going to listen to every word I say.”

Your pulse races under his thumb, the pressure making it difficult to focus on anything other than the commanding presence of his body pressed against yours. The conflicting emotions — fear, need, frustration — swirl together, drawing the breath from your lungs.

Scott’s eyes meet yours again, the dark intensity he’d first set on you softening slightly. “Do you trust me?” He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper, carrying with it both a challenge and an invitation.

“Yes, sir,” you breathe. Always.

“Good.” He presses a tender kiss to your temple and cheek, nudging his nose into the curve of your shoulder and kissing the column of your throat. Your body responds in kind, arching up into his generosity, the calm before the storm, as he slowly releases his hold on you. One tap against your wrist is a silent order to keep them there, and you thread your fingers together, looping them into the door grip as he kisses his way back up to your mouth. “Because you’re going to hate me tonight.”

You want to tell him that such a thing is impossible — there was nothing Scott could do that would make you hate him, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he was sometimes — but he doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Lifting you up, or at least as much as he can in the truck with his hulking size, Scott draws a hand around the curve of your waist, pushing his jacket aside to expose more of you.

“Take this off.” He orders. His expression melts back into one of superiority, one you’re all too familiar with, and you try not to pout when he continues with, “I changed my mind. I want it back.”

“Want what back?” You hum, fingers twitching. You debate the pros and cons of pointing out that you can’t take off his jacket with your hands still pinned in place, but bite your lip instead. You were already pushing the envelope — a lot — by feigning innocence.

“You know what.” Sensing that you’re still… sort of… listening, Scott, taps your wrist twice, freeing you of your position. Under his tone, your fingers close around the material of his comfortable clothing, lifting to slip it fully off your frame. You drop it next to your stuff with your eyes trained on his. “When I’m convinced you can behave, I’ll consider giving it back.”

That snaps your mouth shut. Pressing your lips together, you nod as you place your hands back in their previous position, the only tell that he’s satisfied by your change of heart being a slight twitch of a smile.

“I didn’t say you were done,” he drags his gaze along the length of you, his touch following where his eyes roam until he hooks a finger around the belt loop of your shorts. “Take these off, too, and turn around.”

Electricity charges through you at the command in his voice. Your movements are slow, careful, as you try not to bump into anything as you slide out from under him and remove your shirt. Your shorts follow, but he stops you as you hook your thumbs under the waist of your panties, both of his large hands sliding on your hips to face you opposite him.

He’s massive against you, your back pressing against his chest as his hands roam freely, trailing up the length of you and then down your arms to place your hands back in their previous position, fingers curling around yours in a silent gesture. And then his touch returns, calloused fingertips dragging over every spot of your soft skin, cupping your breast in his hand as he sighs against your neck.

You feel the hard length of him straining against his jeans as he pulls you to him, every caress coaxing a fire in you. Even though you want nothing more than to touch him, to take him into your hands, he has you caught. You really wanted that jacket.

And you hated disappointing him.

His touch wanders to your ass, squeezing the flesh in his hand before he smooths a hand up your spine, signaling for you to bend over. You comply with shallow breaths, the warmth of him missing when he puts even more space between you.

“How many times do you think you disobeyed me tonight, honey?” He asks, the question making your heart stutter. He continues to knead your skin, but with your angle, you can’t see anything happening behind you. “I’ll let you guess.”

You try to think back, but everything is hazy now. When you got in these moods — which was more often than not — you had a hard time telling which rules were broken and which weren’t, because, well, you tended to do it a lot. And you knew Scott well enough by now that even if you guessed any number, it wouldn’t be specific. It wouldn’t be right. Guess lower, and he’d add more. Guess higher, and he’d use your number, then remind you of the true one after it was all said and done.

A gasp escapes from you as your eyes flutter shut. Fuck. “I– I don’t know, sir.”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he just hums, adjusting the twisted straps of your underwear higher up on your hips. “Thirty-two times.” He lets that sit heavy in the air for a moment, your breath stalling in your throat. “You know what happens when it gets that high, honey.”

“You use the belt,” you whisper, the words barely audible.

Scott nods. “Mhm. I use the belt.” The soft, metallic clink of his buckle coming undone is followed by a steady hand against your hip, smoothing circles along your skin as you begin to tremble in anticipation. “Shhh. You know the rules. Count.”

The first point of contact is always the worst. He lets the moment play out, your body tensing and easing as you wait for any sign that it’s coming, but he gives no indication when he stops touching you. And then the sharp sting as leather meets your rear, the folded-over halves biting into you with practiced efficiency.

Your eyes squeeze shut, fingers tightening around the handle as you gasp out, ��One.”

By the end, your muscles are taut and your backside is red and flaming, your whimpers spilling freely from your mouth. It takes more effort than you’d like to admit to hold yourself up, trembling with exertion. Scott rubs his hand along your curves, having given equal attention to both cheeks, a content noise sounding in the back of his throat as you still careen toward him.

“Last one, honey. You’re doing so good.” He praises quietly, the only encouragement you need as his belt goes sailing toward you again, leaving another welt in its wake.

“Thirty-two!” Escaping through gritted teeth, you jerk forward with the impact, breathing hard and heavy when you hear the clink of his belt falling to the floor.

Scott taps twice along your stomach as he brings you up to his chest, careful to leave space between you as he smooths over your sore muscles, easing the pain. He presses kisses along your throat, your shoulder, letting you shake against him as you lulls you down from the high, every touch soft and affectionate. “That’s it, I know… Shhh… Did so good for me, honey…”

Each sweet nothing brings you down, continuing to press kisses against your skin until your breathing evens out. Scott sets his hands to your hips, holding you firmly, nudging the space just behind your ear.

“If you just listened, I wouldn’t have to punish you.” He reminds, letting your hands drift over his. Despite the softness of his tone, you still catch the authority seeping through every word, and you know it’s far from over. “I don’t like how you spoke to me today, honey.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you breathe, meaning them truthfully. Scott presses another kiss to your skin in acknowledgment. “I was just upset. I wanted to spend this weekend with you, and—”

“Am I not making this time now?” He questions, cutting you off. When his touch wanders between your thighs, fingers circling your clothed clit, soaked despite his brutal treatment, he groans against you. “What was it you said earlier… That I couldn’t touch you? That you wouldn’t let me?”

Vaguely, through your hazy mind, you remember saying that. But you keep your mouth shut, quiet little noises escaping as he continues to please you, easing away the pain he’d caused. Your desire for him, so neglected because of his orders, coils deep inside you as he recites your perfect tempo — having spent hours exploring, learning, and committing what you enjoyed to memory.

“Let’s make one thing abundantly clear,” he continues. “Every part of you is mine to touch, spank, suck, lick, and fuck as I please. Any time. Any day. Any place. Those are the rules you agreed to. If I want you just like this…” Adding pressure, he holds you up as your knees buckle against him, “I will, for as long as I want. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Your words come out shaky, breath hitching with every skilled circle of his fingers. “I understand, sir.”

“Then show me you understand.” Within a second his touch is gone, leaving you delirious as you search for him. You hear the rustle of fabric behind you, twisting to watch him slip off his shirt, then ease himself down on the backseat with a foot firmly planted on the floor. His fingers hover over the button on his jeans, flipping it open as his dark gaze trains on you. “Come here.”

You comply immediately, drawing forward as his hand slips in your hair. Scott pushes down the restricting fabric, slipping his hand into his black briefs, freeing himself from his jeans. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, thick and veiny and dripping with precum, his fist stroking himself as he holds you there, coating his length with his desire.

“Look what you do to me,” he whispers, drinking in every shallow breath, the way your eyes remain fixed on his hand, how your hips stir with every twist like you imagining yourself riding him. “Even when you’re a fucking brat, I can’t get enough of you, honey. Always so fucking hard for you. You have no idea…” He releases himself to cup your chin, spreading himself over the swell of your mouth. You greedily taste what he offers, tongue lapping at him before sucking on the tip of his thumb. “I’d spend an eternity inside you if I could.”

Those words — the claim, the rare admission — makes your heart somersault in your chest.

Without waiting for his command, you crawl between his legs and sink to draw your hand along his jean-clad thigh, a silent plea echoing in your eyes. As he wets his lips, you grip his length in your hand, his girth barely allowing you to wrap fully around him. Scott’s breath hitches as you stroke him exactly how he prefers, your hand sinking lower with each slow, deliberate movement.

He’s hot and heavy in your hand, the tip of his cock as pink as his lips, and you pay special attention to it, thumb smoothing along the sensitive underside of him. The soft action has his hips bucking up into your touch, breath hissing between his teeth as he wraps your hair around his fist.

No matter how many times you were in this position, nothing changed how exhilarating it was to have brief a moment of power over him.

When you move to take him into your mouth, your tongue flat and eager, Scott wraps his fingers around your throat, that playful glint in his eyes replacing quickly with hellish intent.

“Did I tell you that you could touch?” He murmurs, releasing his grip on your hair to pluck your hand off him.

You want to point out that he didn’t seem to have a problem with that when he’d been half-thrusting into your hand, but the look in his eyes silences the retort on your lips. So you let him grip your wrist, and your throat, sure he can feel the heavy pound of your pulse as you whimper at the interruption.

“I just want a little taste,” you plead, jutting your bottom lip out and batting your thick lashes up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze.

Scott just shakes his head. And you feel the coil of defiance begin again.

“Don’t you want my tongue on you, sir? Licking up every thick inch of you? Seeing how much I can take in my hot little mouth?” You know you’re pushing it with how his grip on your wrist tightens, but fuck, you needed to feel him, to touch him, especially after he’d denied you the pleasure of it for so long.

You shift so your free hand wraps around his shaft again. Scott grunts as he watches you play with him, your small hand moving effortlessly along his girth. With both his hands occupied, he has nothing to stop you from doing what you want, what you need, as your gaze flickers down to openly admire his masculinity. “Don’t I look so pretty when I choke on you, baby?”

Despite how his gaze darkens and he twitches in your hand, Scott releases your wrist enough to rest his hand on the edge of the backseat, his brow raising. “You’d look prettier if you listened, sweetheart.”

The condescending nickname rolls through you, your face twisting in disgust at it — he knew you hated it, knew it reminded you of the old men who often tried to make passes at you. It disgusts you enough that you release him from your grip, watching a smile slowly spread on his face.

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to sound weak with his fist still around you.

“And I thought I told you to listen, but you don’t seem to be doing a good job of that even after the belt.” He shifts his grip from the front of your neck to the back of it, pulling you closer. “What’s my name?”

You hesitate at how hard his gaze is trained on you. “Sir.”

He nods. “And what did you call me earlier?”

Oh. As the dots connect, realization flickering across your features, Scott’s eyes mirror your understanding. He doesn’t give you a chance to say it, continuing, “Until you can learn to listen, you don’t get to cum until I say so.”

You wait for a day, an end time, something that’ll make counting the days at least a little worthwhile — but it never comes. Instead, he just stares at you, waiting for you to defy him again, waiting for you to open your mouth, to push back. But his fingers twitch like he’s going to reach for his belt again, and the thought of that on your already raw backside makes a whimper escape.

“I understand, sir.”

His gaze softens for a moment — and a small part of you hopes that he changes his mind, that he’ll take it back… But Scott was never that type of man. Once something was final, it was final. No amount of begging or pleading could win your case.

He cups your face in his hands like he knows what he’s asking may push you past your breaking point. Never in the months you’ve been together has he implemented something indefinitely, but you’ve never pushed back this much. When his mouth roams over yours, gentle given the circumstances, you taste the sharp spearmint of his gum as his tongue explores you, soothing your whimpers and whines until you’re somewhat relaxed under his touch.

“Are you going to be a good girl if I let you blow me, honey?” He asks, lips ghosting over your mouth, your jaw, pressing a kiss against the column of your throat. You nod, not trusting your voice. “I mean it. No whining. No pleading. No biting.” His gaze flickers up to yours as a memory passes through both of you, your cheeks heating up, caught. He knew you too fucking well. “If I want you to choke on me, you’re going to choke. If I want you to wrap those pretty lips around my head, you will. And if I want your mouth not on me at all…”

“I’ll listen, sir,” you promise, breathless, squirming with need.

Scott’s eyes flash with approval, pressing one more kiss to your mouth before he settles back down against the leather. You follow, slow, cautious, your hands pressing into his thighs as he grips himself.

And when you wrap your lips around him, everything else fades away. You take him at his pace, slower than you would prefer but dutifully obeying his silent instructions, your hair coiled around his fist. The taste of him on your tongue has your eyes glazing over with desire, flickering up to watch him watch you, your head bobbing around his length, spit sliding down his shaft as he makes you take him deeper, deeper, until he’s hitting the back of your throat and there’s still inches between you.

Scott groans as he pushes you further, trained on how your body instinctively fights him, taking his cock entirely in your mouth when your nose brushes the soft skin of his abdomen. Your core drips with need, soaking your panties, at the guttural sound that escapes him: all masculine and intoxicating. You crave more of it, more of his approval, more of him — but he pulls you off with a pop, a trail of saliva traveling from his swollen head to your mouth, before doing it again and again, each time longer than the last.

“So fucking good,” he pants, pulling you off him again, his eyes blown as you suck on his tip like a lollipop.

Your tongue swirls around his head, wrapping your hands around the rest of him that you don’t swallow, little moans escaping.

And then he’s pressing you back down again, his grip holding you stationary as he thrusts into you like he can’t help himself, every action powerful and erotic as the sound of your throat taking his vigorous pace fills the truck. As he fucks your mouth, you knead your breast in your hand, pinching hard at your nipple when the desire to slip your hand between your thighs nearly overcomes you.

Scott watches it all with a growing arousal, his voice deep as he groans. “Fuck, honey, just like that. Want you to remember this next time you think of talking back,” he says, eyes closing briefly at how good you feel. “So fucking perfect with my cock down your throat. Does that make you hot, honey? Wanna rub that fucking clit while I fuck your face?”

You moan around him in response, something between a yes and a please that sounds more muffled than an actual word. Every time you take him deeper you feel that hot flash of aching desire pulse through you, your blood hot, sure that even through your panties you were dripping all over his leather seats.

The thought has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Scott’s growls turn positively primal as he pulls you off. “Keep making that face and I’m gonna cum right down that pretty throat.” He lifts enough to bring you to your knees, wrapping an arm around you to pull you flush against him as he drags his heavy touch along your naked frame. “You don’t want that, do you, honey? Fuck, I can smell how soaked you are for me.”

He wastes no time as he slips his hand beneath your panties, fingers sliding easily between your slicked folds as he groans. “My dirty girl. You like my filthy fucking mouth, honey, is that it?” Scott pushes a finger inside you, your body arching up into his as you nod, a breathy noise escaping. “Like when I tell you how good you feel? How fucking hard it gets me? How I dream about fucking you every single night when I’m away?”

God, yes. You assumed — but never asked — about what he thought when he couldn’t be near you, but the confirmation that you were on his mind just as much as he was on yours makes you clench around his finger.

“I’m gonna taste you,” Scott promises, his voice ragged. “And then I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’ll hear you in the city.”

It’s all the warning you get before he presses you down onto the seat, his mouth capturing yours as he settles atop you. Your body is pliant underneath his, gripping every inch of him, while he trails his mouth along your soft skin. Fuck, you felt like heaven to him — so smooth to his calloused hands.

And you made the prettiest noises when his mouth descended on your nipple, sucking and flicking at the hardened nub before giving equal attention to the other, all too aware of how your hips roll helplessly as he kisses his way down your tummy.

“I love how desperate you get,” he groans, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties, drawing them down your legs. He nudges your legs apart with his nose, dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin of your thigh. Thick fingers spread your folds apart as he takes you in, the touch making you reach for something to hold onto.

“Please,” you whine, running your fingertips along his shoulder, propping yourself up as he sucked a possessive mark into your thigh. Scott just hums, moving to the other, relishing in the sharp intake of breath as he nips at you. “Please make me feel good, sir?”

“You gonna be good for me?” He asks again, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours, his question serious as he nears the apex of your thighs.

You nod, tongue darting out between your lips as his focus momentarily breaks, darting down to watch how his fingers slide effortlessly over you, teasing your clit. “I’ll be good, sir, I swear.” Just as long as he keeps touching you like that, you’ll agree to anything.

Scott hums, playing with you for long enough that you think he’ll tease you into oblivion. But then his tongue darts out. licking a hot stripe up your center, and he groans, and you… You have just enough time to fall back to seat before his mouth is upon you.

The way he claims you with his tongue makes the wait worth it. Scott isn’t shy about feasting on you, his wet fingers slipping to spread your thighs further apart for him, lapping at you like your pussy is a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer day. Every swirl of his tongue, every flick against your clit, every long drag that has you gasping for breath, your mouth falling open while he readjusts his grip to keep you steady.

Scott groans as he collects your desire on his tongue, pulling back enough to revel at how spread open you are for him. He spits, the lewd action making your head spin, before his fingers rub it through your folds, circling your entrance while his other reaches up to knead your breast.

“I wish we had hours for this.” The admission is low in his voice, ragged from claiming you, pressing a kiss to your thigh as you try to still your hips against his torturous fingers. “Just as sweet as I remember, honey. Better. Fuck, you taste so…”

He doesn’t finish his thought, descending upon you again as his mouth attaches to your clit. You cry out at the special attention he gives it, teasing you just right, his tongue swirling and flicking and lips closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your hips move on their own accord, fingers digging into his brown curls as you grind in time with his tongue. Scott gasps as his touch abandons you to stroke himself, the angle uncomfortable in the cramped space of his backseat.

You clamp down on your bottom lip when your orgasm builds faster than you expect it to, hoping to stifle the increase of noise as he brings you closer and closer. Scott just keeps his brutal pace, those dark blue eyes drinking in the sight of you.

“Sir—” Your breath comes out hot when he groans, the vibrations of it nearly toppling you over the edge. You want so desperately to listen, fighting the way he coaxes it quicker, something heady and mischievous sparkling in those eyes, but it’s too much, he’s too much, that invisible rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, your control slipping, the wet sounds of his tongue dragging over your heat too much to bear—

You scream out as Scott pulls away entirely from you, all that tension coiling tight with nowhere to release, and watch helplessly as his expression flickers somewhere between smug and disappointed. You tremble against the loss, little twitches that give away how close you were from disobedience, your whine high and keening.

“Oh, honey, were you close?” Scott coos, his tone full of condescension as he rests his cheek on your thigh, an evil, wicked, vile grin teasing the corners of his mouth. You glare at the dimple in his cheek. “You think I’m dumb enough to not know when you are? That your pussy doesn’t tell me when you’re trying to be quiet? I know all your tells, honey. Every. Single. One.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, his palm coming down hard against your open heat. The slap has you spiraling, a cry escaping you as your back arches up off the leather, the pain lingering uncomfortably as your ass grinds against the seat. Scott wastes no time crawling up your body, swallowing all your pitiful noises as you taste yourself on his tongue.

His teeth sink into your bottom lip as he pulls away. “Not tonight, honey.”

Your heart seizes in your chest at the confirmation — having suspected it, but half-hoping that he’d forgive your past sins if you were good enough. Scott just grins, lifting so all his weight isn’t settled atop you, running his hands down the still-twitching frame of your body, pushing his jeans down further as one hand drags along your hip.

“Please?” You beg, taking his face in your hands, blinking big doe eyes up at him. “I can’t—”

“You can.” His confidence in you is unwavering, pausing his movements to give you his undivided attention. One kiss, two, three, to the corner of your mouth, each softer than the last, bringing you down from a high he stole away. “We’ll test those limits properly another time. I have so many ideas…” He trails off with a groan, seeming to think better of listing all the ways he could make you bend to his will. “But you can. And you will.”

A whimper escapes at the finality, but you manage a weak nod. It’s all the encouragement Scott needs to draw your leg around his hip, slotting himself between your parted legs. The weight of him dragging through your slicked folds presses a gasp into his shoulder, your arms sliding around his broad frame.

And then he’s sinking into you, stealing the breath from your lungs as your taut body stretches to accommodate his size.

He’s massive — and delicious and throbbing and every other perfect word in the dictionary as you forget how to breathe, how to think, the more he buries himself inside you. You hear his strangled moan against your neck as your head tosses back, pulling him closer, hissing as he draws back just to press right back into you.

He works you just like that for what feels like hours, pushing and pulling, slow as he presses kisses to your skin, holding your hips steady. You know he’s holding himself back, that he’s letting your body get used to him after so long apart, after little more than a press of his fingers and tongue at your entrance. It makes your heart flutter in your chest — he could have fucked his way ruthlessly through you and you would’ve taken every second of it just the same, but the fact that he pauses to take his time now, to lengthen a moment that he shouldn’t be having in the first place…

God. You loved him.

You both moan as he bottoms out inside you, his hips driving forward just a little further on instinct. “Fucking missed this,” Scott pants, careful as he slides a palm under you, lifting your ass off the seat to thrust inside you again. Your gentle touch trails across his broad shoulders and down his arms, a silent message for him to keep going.

And then he fucks you like he promised.

It’s a combination of everything: the time apart, the time you had left, how neither of you could seem to get close enough to each other. He splits you apart and brings you back together with every snap of his hips, filling you exactly how you need, gasping against each other as you angle up to meet him halfway.

Your mouth presses feverishly to his, the sound of your desperate moans filling the small space against the way your body greedily accepts his. Scott stalls his tempo just enough to pull away, sliding his hands back to your hips to lift you onto him before returning to his brutal pace, the new angle giving you a perfect view of his cock stretching you out.

“Being so good for me,” Scott hums, pleased, his fingers splaying over your belly as he ruts deeper into you. The intensity of it, of him, makes you blink back stars as his heady gaze is trained on yours, grabbing onto him as he continues, “Feels so fucking good, honey, fuck.“

Your eyes slip down to watch as he slides in you, the sight of him hard and coated with your arousal making you moan. Scott grips the back of your neck to keep you there, your body curled up into whatever mold he desires, pressing your knee back to the cushion as he shifts himself closer.

“Dirty fucking girl, you like that?” Scott’s voice turns guttural with how you tighten around him, your pretty moans like music to his ears, “Like watching your little pussy take my cock? Seeing how fucking good I stretch you out?”

You nod, another moan spilling from your mouth, only to whimper when he slides fully out of you. The crude smack of his cock against your clit only makes you hotter, your skin on fire as he plays with you, always in control. “Tell me,” he groans, teasing as he grinds himself against you. “Let me hear you, honey.”

“I love it,” you pant, unable to tear your gaze away from his thick length. You want desperately to reach down and press him where you crave him most, but you resist, fingers curling into fists at his sides as you plead, “Please fill me up, sir, I need it. Need you to fuck me, need you to claim me, need you to make this little pussy all fucking yours, please.”

It’s all Scott needs to press into you again, his pace hard and demanding with your wishes. He slides an arm underneath you to hold you steady, his teeth leaving marks on your neck, your shoulder, your collar, pressing moans into your skin with every rough piston of his hips, the sound of skin on skin, and your hard, labored breathing filling the space. And then he’s flipping you over, your hands and knees pressing into the leather as you push back against him, delirious with the new angle as he tugs you up, your back to his chest.

The possessive, strong grip on your waist slides up to knead your breast while he thrusts into you from behind, his lips at your ear, growling every profanity under the sun.

“This what you want, honey?” His hips snap hard into you, the contact against your sensitive ass making your eyes roll back into your head. The mix of the pleasure and the pain he gives you is unlike anything else you’ve ever felt. Scott always finds the perfect balance, his hand sliding between your thighs to tease your clit, your body wanton against him. “Being claimed? Owning you completely?” At your answering moan, he grins. “Could you handle it? Being mine in every way?”

“Yes,” you moan, trying in vain not to swirl your hips and failing, searching for more while he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “I’m already yours, sir.”

“Yeah, honey, I feel it.” They come out strangled as you clench around him, your body responding eagerly to every touch. “So sweet right now, aren’t you? Wanna cum so badly, don’t you?” You whimper out as he angles himself deeper inside you, hitting that spongey spot in time with his ministrations. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, as he finds the perfect pace to drive you closer to the edge, dangling just on the precipice of release. “Bet you’d agree to anything right now just to cum, wouldn’t you, honey?”

Head tossing back against his shoulder, you dig your nails into his jeans where you hold him to you, looking at but not seeing the reflection of how he commands you, his mouth drawing along your neck. “Please,” you beg, trembling with the exertion of holding yourself together. “Scott— Sir, please, I’m so close—”

“I know.” Cooed, mockingly, along the column of your throat, he ceases every torturous move as he stills inside of you, his hands quick to press your hips down against his. The sudden lack of attention makes you cry out, chest heaving, as he steals your orgasm away again, the frustration and desire mixing until you’re growling through clenched teeth.

Scott just grins, watching it all with a gleeful expression, that dark look swirling in his eyes as he doesn’t dare move an inch. “You can be as nice as you want, honey,” He presses a patronizing kiss to your shoulder, that alone having you twitching against him, small little sounds that you can’t control escaping as he toys with your fraying edges. “I’m still not letting you cum tonight.”

“But—” You think better against talking back, clamping your mouth shut as you whimper again. “When?”

“When you’ve earned it.” Scott slides his hands over your body, dragging along your peaked nipples, taking both breasts in his large hands and groaning as he touches you. “You want to earn it, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp automatically, your hands fisting handfuls of his brown locks as he sucks another possessive mark on you. “Please, sir.”

“How far would you go?” His voice carries that inquisitive tone that speaks of danger, the kind that has your cunt fluttering around him in response. He grunts against you at the sensation, still unmoving, just thick and hard and throbbing in you enough to leave your mind reeling. Your breath stalls when his touch wanders down to press at your belly. “Would you let me cum inside you?”

Every thought in your brain scatters at those words, wanting and needing before you can even voice it. He’s never asked; always pulling out to paint your chest, your back, your face. But the way he asks, his voice quiet yet desperate, the unmistakable edge to it that tells you he’s been thinking about it for a while, waiting for the right time, the right moment — suddenly his insistence on if you’d brought your birth control comes to the front of your mind, and you know. Know he’s been planning this. That if it weren’t here, it would’ve been sometime this weekend.

Scott is patient as he lets it all sink in, studying you, waiting for a shift of an expression, or your body responding against his desires. Something dark awakens in him at your whimper of approval.

“You’d look so fucking pretty like that,” he continues, slowly resuming his pace, much slower now than it was before, as he groans every fantasy he’s dreamt of for the past week into you. “So full of my cum… It wouldn’t all fit, would it, honey? But you’d beg me, wouldn’t you? Beg me to fuck it deeper in your sweet cunt?” Your breath labors as he grunts out, teeth sinking into your skin. “Beg me to put a baby in you?”

Fuck, yes.

You writhe against him with every word out of his mouth, your moans spilling freely as you nod, desperate, agreeable, unaware of how much he wanted it, obsessed about it. How the sight of you in his clothes made him want to put a ring on your finger, how every time you came over to his place he had to fight to ask you to move in, how the idea of your belly swollen with his child made him so horny he couldn’t think about anything else some days, how the thought of you and forever were so intertwined to him now that he couldn’t imagine anyone else to spend the rest of his life with.

All sappy, sentimental things that he didn’t dare voice, locked tight between his teeth, letting only a little spill out.

The need to own you, to claim you, was overwhelming. Scott wanted nothing more than to fuck you hard enough to make your brain flicker off until you couldn’t even speak, until you were completely at his mercy, until every drop of him was spent inside you. Possession and desire bleed into one — just waiting, aching, throbbing, bruisingly so, for your voiced consent.

“I need it,” you finally choke out, trembling, your voice utterly broken. “Please give it to me, sir? Please, please, pretty please?”

Scott moans, long and deep and loud, as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. And then he’s pounding into you, every muscle of his body pulled tight as you wrap around him like velvet perfection, his grip hard and unyielding against your hips as every rough slam of his hips into yours sends your body jolting forward. Your hand slaps to the window in front of you, leaving prints against the foggy glass, and he follows greedily, pressing his weight into you as he spreads your thighs further apart with a growl, fucking you into the seats.

Your orgasm painfully lingers, every needy moan spilling from your mouth only driving him further into you, wild with need, no longer the controlled man you knew but something more animalistic, primal.

“Fucking take it just like that,” he growls, not even sounding human, every word gritted through his teeth as you feel every thick inch of him around your slick walls, his hand slotted between your thighs to part your folds, sinking deeper until there’s no space left. “F-fuck, that’s so fucking— Perfect, honey, fuck— Pussy’s fucking made for me—”

He’s close — you can feel it in the way his thrusts grow uneven as he chases his release, the way he roughly grasps your chin to kiss you, sloppy and more tongue than lips, how his fingers leave Scott-shaped bruises wherever he grips you, his blunt nails biting into your hip, your sides, your breasts as he struggles for purchase. You don’t realize you’re sobbing in pleasure until he wipes your tears away, until he praises how good you’re being taking him like this, groaning when your body responds eagerly to his positivity.

You dance in time with him, meeting him halfway, angling your hips up just right. And you feel, rather than hear, the way Scott moans in ecstasy as he finds that perfect spot in your heat, numb to anything and everything that isn’t his thick cock pounding your weeping, used hole.

You think you cum — or maybe it’s just the last shreds of sanity leaving as Scott reaches his peak, nothing but your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he fills you with his seed, rutting up against you until it’s painful, the warmth of him spreading into you. His heart pounds against you as he slips his hand to your belly, pressing you closer, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as his hips twitch until he’s emptied out, fucking the last drops of his cum into you exactly like he’s dreamt.

And when you come down your orgasm sits uncomfortably high and untouched, a broken sob escaping you as he pulls out with a wet pop.

You feel his cum slide down your swollen cunt and flinch with sensitivity as he’s quick to collect himself on his fingers, fucking it back into you. The tension coils tightly inside of you until you’re sure you’re begging him to stop, the pleasure and pain completely overwhelming, exhausted with the effort of obeying his orders as he presses his digits into your used hole.

When you think just about to break, he stops.

And you know you’re going to kill him as he steals your release for a third time.

“Good girl,” Scott whispers, pressing kisses along your soft skin, his hands soothing every part of your twitching frame. You don’t have the strength to ask for more as he pulls you into his arms after sliding your panties back into place, letting you come down as he finds his peace in caring for you, murmuring sweet nothings while your body is pliant against him.

You nuzzle into him when you feel more in control of yourself, your heart slowing to a more steady pace. His name falls softly from your lips, your arms snaking around him to hold him close, his fingertips soft along the small of your back.

When he presses his mouth to yours, you melt into his embrace, exploring him lazily until he’s pulling away, brushing your unruly hair out of your face. “Mine.” He praises with a smile, that dark expression gone, leaving nothing but bright, shining blues you could drown in for hours. “All fucking mine. I own you.”

“Mmm,” Despite the weary in your bones, you can’t help but smile back, a giggle escaping, “Do you?”

Scott doesn’t need to slip his hand between your legs for you to get the picture, just hooks a finger along the waistband of your ruined panties. “You just let me prove it, honey.” He leans forward to kiss you again, slower this time, before pulling away with a regretful sigh when the distinctive chime of his phone goes off. “Need help getting back in your seat?”

“Already?” You whine.

“Gotta go, honey.” He taps your hip, twice. Non-negotiable. “Come on, before the bears smell you and want you for themselves.”

That has you cracking a grin. “You wouldn’t fight a bear for me?”

“What do you think the murder kit is for?” One last kiss to your mouth. “’Course I would. Just not tonight.”

You pout further, but let him grab your long-forgotten clothes off the floor, making yourself presentable again before he does the same. And when you settle back into the passenger seat as he starts the engine, you let your head rest against the window, bubbly and content and happy. Even if you know it won’t last when he has to leave.

As Scott drives through the familiar city streets, you hate the knot of apprehension that clogs your throat when your mind wanders too far about him being gone. Out on the field, anything could happen, even if it was just one of his routine visits. The people he spoke with — if he approached the wrong one, it would be so easy for them to lash out. Scott was a big man, he could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop your fears from pressing down against you.

His hand is firm on your thigh, thumb stroking soft lines in your skin as he catches your expression. And then his truck takes a turn in the opposite direction of your apartment, heading toward his house.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice tinged with confusion as you try to shake off your emotions.

Scott’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a fraction, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “My place,” he answers simply. “You’ve been up all night, and I’m not about to drop you off and leave you alone like that.”

You frown, the earlier emotions fighting to come back; you glance quickly out the window, cheeks flaming as you’re caught, hating that he’d noticed your weakness. “I’m fine, Scott. I can—”

“No,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “You need rest. And I’ll rest better knowing you’re somewhere comfortable.” His eyes flick toward you, catching your reflection in the dim light of the street lamps. “Besides,” he adds, his voice lowering to something more intimate, “I’ve got a bed that’s been missing you.”

It’s not a request, and the way he says it makes your heart skip. You know he’s right. As much as you’d wanted to protest, the thought of sleeping alone in your own bed feels wrong, especially with the lingering warmth of his touch still buzzing under your skin.

By the time you pull into his driveway, the familiar sight of his place is almost a comfort in itself. Scott’s fingers brush over your thigh before he parks the truck, a silent reassurance. “I’ll be gone for a few days,” he murmurs, shutting off the engine, “but I want you here. I want you safe.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with a meaning he’s too stubborn to say out loud, but you feel it all the same. He reaches over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek. “Let me make sure you’re okay.”

You nod, unable to find the words, so you just lean into his touch. Scott doesn’t need more than that. He’s out of the truck and rounding it to your side before you can even blink, opening your door and offering his hand.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” he says softly, tugging you out and pulling you close against him. His arm slips around your waist as he guides you to the front door, his hold steady and reassuring.

Once inside, the warmth of his home envelops you both, and you feel the tension in your shoulders start to melt away. He’s quick to guide you to his bedroom, knowing the layout of his place better than anyone, but still taking the time to make sure you’re comfortable, handing you one of his shirts to sleep in.

As you slip under the covers, Scott pauses at the edge of the bed, eyes lingering on you. “Get some sleep,” he tells you, his voice gruff but tinged with affection. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You reach for him, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide in beside you, pulling you against his chest. For a moment, you both just lie there, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear soothing you into a drowsy haze. Scott presses a kiss to the top of your head, his hand resting protectively over your hip.

“Sleep, honey,” he murmurs, his voice the last thing you hear before sleep claims you.

In the morning, you wake to the sound of his alarm, the room still dark. Scott’s already dressed, but he hasn’t left yet. He sits on the edge of the bed, watching you with a softness in his eyes that he rarely lets show. He reaches out, brushing his fingers through your hair as you try to rustle yourself awake.

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly, his thumb grazing your cheek. “I’ll be back in a few days. Promise.”

Before you can respond, he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for you to feel the warmth of his lips. You smile, eyes fluttering shut as you drift back into a peaceful slumber, the last thing you feel is the comforting weight of his hand slipping from yours.

When you finally rise, well rested but achey from the night’s exertions, the sun is high in the afternoon sky and his house is empty, his truck missing from the garage. You wander into the kitchen in search of a cup of tea, pulling the kettle out from underneath his cabinet. And when the steaming mug is in your hands, settling into the breakfast nook that overlooks his backyard, your eyes fall upon his jacket, folded neatly atop all the stuff he’d unpacked while you were sleeping.

And you know he loves you as much as you love him.

#twisters #twisters x reader #scott twisters #scott twisters x reader #scott (twisters)#scott (twisters) x reader #scott miller #scott miller x reader #scott twisters x you #scott twisters x y/n #scott miller x you #*fic #**#fic: roadtrip.

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rerefundslocals · 2 years

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BIG DEAL . JJK

Summary : lately you've been feeling lack of affection from your boyfriend and you decide to let it be. until your silence catches up with you.

>>pairing : idol!jungkook x fem!reader.

>>trope : established relationship.

>>genre : angst, smut, fluff.

>>warnings/tags : softdom!jungkook, sub!reader, sad confrontations, crying, wall sex, one ass slap, unprotected sex, oral for one second (f recieving), teasing, dirty talk, cum tasting, sweet aftercare, they jus inlove.

a/n - yall juh vibe and enjoy this, I tried to write it up to par, but it was rushed and is poorly written, forgive me. No bam appearances. Maybe next time!

~★~

"It's not even that serious."

"Jungkook, it is. Stop arguing and fix it."

This is one of the most normal days in your life, non- stop bickering between you and your boyfriend, on the broken kitchen cabinet holding all the fragiles.

"Jungkook, don't go back and do karaoke, my mugs are suffering!" You exclaim, rubbing your forehead at frustration of your boyfriend walking away.

"Baby, come on. I'll do that tomorrow. I'm not even sane enough to hold a screwdriver." Of course he isn't. He just had some beer and is now singing out of his mind, and it doesn't usually annoy you, not when he's listening to you.

You sigh, your heart feeling heavy at his response and you wouldn't usually feel this way over a cabinet, but it's constant now, jungkook doesn't listen to you these days, doesn't even hug and kiss you like you'd like. Those gestures feel forced nowadays.

"Fine, Jk. Whenever you're ready." You don't miss the way Jungkook furrows his brows in confusion when you leave the room.

He wonders why 'Jk' and not 'kook', 'babe' or 'koo'.

Dropping the LG remote he walks behind you, and upon entering your shared bedroom, he finds you on the floor with your phone screen lit up in your face and it looks like to him, you're going through his and your album filled with all your pictures.

"Stop staring, Jk." He catches himself staring too long and perks up at your voice, reminding himself what he's here for.

"What's wrong, baby?" Its ridiculous isn't it? How he thinks he could waltz up in here and expect an immediate response, he should know by now or is he that insolent?

That's all that plagues in your head.

"Bab-"

"What don't you see? Hmm, Jk. You don't care anymore, never listening to me, not even paying attention to my needs anymore. But you have the audacity to ask what's wrong? I don't even want to talk anymore."

By the time you're done, your lash line is filled with tears threatening to spill and soil your cheeks. Jungkook takes note of it and gets on the floor with you, wrapping his arms around your waist to bring your face into his chest as you sob your heart out, too weak to push him away. Jungkooks tattooed hand pats your head lovingly as he whispers apologies, his own eyes burning at the tears threatening to spill.

"I-im so sorry, baby. You and I both know I'd never want to hurt you. Please forgive me. I love you so much." He doesn't expect a response immediately but he yearns it so bad. He want to hear you tell him you love him too.

Your chests are heaving against one another as you both cry your emotions out. Jungkook crying from the stress at work, the stress over you, stress from his bad habits, as he cries into your hair.

You cry on his chest, your tears making his shirt wet as you cry from frustration, crying from the touch you've yearned for weeks, crying because he loves you. He said it and it felt genuine as it swelled in your heart from weeks of not hearing it.

It's about 20 minutes later when jungkook feels your hands fisting his shirt and he knows what you mean, cause when he looks down, your wandering and red eyes are staring straight into his own red eyes and prominent bags.

You bring your hand up to his hair and you run your hand through his locks. You then force his head down to meet with your forehead.

Leaning up, your lips meet his slightly and ever so quietly you whisper to him, " Don't make me feel alone again. Listen to me sometimes and I'll listen to you. I'm here for you, Koo." And softly your lips meet his chapped ones.

Jungkook allows for you to take the lead, as you kiss him softly and ever so passionately, your hands running through his soft locks.

The kiss turns heated as you probe your tongue on jungkooks lower lip, urging him to allow your tongue and he does. His tongue meets your warm one and you swirl it around, doing it as you would a lollipop.

Your hands instinctively go lower as you pull jungkooks shirt above his head, your lips separating to allow the action. You dive back in for his lips but jungkook holds your cheeks in his hands, as his eyes roam your face underneath the bright mikrokosmas light.

"I love you,____, so much." And before you could respond with the same adoration, your being lifted up and your back meets the cold wall.

"Tell me you love me." Jungkook prodes as he removes your baby tee from the confines of your chest.

Your breathing is picking up as you're only getting wetter at the thought of being fucked against this wall, and jungkooks dominance showing out.

Jungkooks hand is toying with your tits and you throw your head back to moan, totally forgetting what jungkook had asked of you.

"Tell me or I'll stop,___."

"I do, Jungkook. I love you so much! So, Please touch me." Your hand guides his tattooed one to your clothed pussy, and jungkook complies, rubbing your clit on your spandex shorts.

"That's it, baby. That's all I wanted. Gonna fuck you now."

"Please~" you whine, feeling your high coming from just being rubbed through your shorts.

Jungkook chuckles at your desperateness, choosing to tease you even more as he peels off your shorts at a torturous speed, that is so so slow.

"Jungkook! Please!"

"Getting there, baby." And with a swift pull, both your shorts and thong are ridded off your body and you're left bare for jungkook.

Your pussy meets the cold air and a thin coat of sweat is on your collarbone and forehead from your desperation, you tell yourself to wait a little more as you watch Jungkook rids himself of his sweatpants.

But you can't. So you bring your fingers to rub your clit and the pleasure has you moaning exaggeratingly.

"Fuck! Kook!" Jungkook perks up and quickly brings his tip to your aching pussy, the hardness of his cock confining in your pussy walls.

In unison you both murmur a , "fuck!" Into the room.

As slowly as he starts, jungkook thrusts up into you as your hands come down to his hair, and your lips meet for a loving kiss as his thrusts become more sharper and faster.

"Mmh, such a tight pussy for me. And you always this wet? Tell me, baby." Jungkooks words are so dirty and urge your tummy to coil tighter as you feel your high coming.

Jungkook recieves a Moan as response and he isn't so happy, he just wants his good girl to tell him if she's so wet for him. What's so hard about that?

If only he'd know how his dick makes you lose your ability of speaking. But he doesn't when he lays a slap upon your ass, the sound filling the room along with your slickness on his cock, as it slips in and out of you with ease, the sound of Mac and cheese in the room.

"Answer me." You mutter a chant of 'fucks' as you lay your head on his sweaty shoulder, your high approaching.

"Y-yes, Koo- m' so fucking wet for you! I'm gonna cum! Sh-hit I'm gonna fucking cum." You mewl your sentence messily as a fucked out jungkook smirks at your legs going weak in his arms.

"Cum all over this cock, baby, wanna hear you cum." Jungkools gruff voice fills your ears as you bite down on his shoulder, your eyes hazy and watery at the sensation of cumming do hard.

Jungkook doesn't stop thrusting and youre moaning loudly and tiredly, awaiting jungkooks load in your pussy.

"Mmh, fuck! So fucking tight." His thrusts are sloppier and wetter, as the mix of your cum and his wet dick fill you up.

"Cum inside, kook. Fill me up." With a low groan, spurts of white fill your pussy as your feel it trailing down your thighs.

Jungkook came.

And it's so fucking thick. But with enough time to spare thinking about it. Jungkook peels your body off the wall as he brings you to the bed.

Quickly rushing to grab a wet cloth.

He comes back and places it on your swollen clit and messy pussy.

He backtracks, moving it away and taking initiative as he places his tongue on your pussy, licking up both yours and his cum off.

It catches you off guard as you let out a low moan.

Jungkook quickly finishes and he finally cleans you both up. Grabbing fresh clothes for you to sleep in.

When jungkook places you comfortably in the blankets, he turns to leave and your grabby hands pull him back.

"Koo, where you going?" Your eyes are fighting it at this point and jungkook chuckles at that, his smile genuine.

"I'm just going to switch off the TV and lights, okay? Be right back, angel."

And he's back before you know it, leaning over to switch off your side lamp.

Placing a long deep kiss on your forehead, jungkook promises to love you forever as you fall into deep slumber.

whispering the promise back into his chest, you finally allow sleep to take over you.

Do not copy my work. I'll find you.

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bloodorangesoup · 1 year

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Kinktober '23 Day 1 - Bound/Begging (TXT Soobin)

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

Warnings: light bondage, begging whiny soobin, the most basic sub soobin one-shot ever

Word Count: 1.3k

A/N: I haven’t written in over a year, and even then it was just Marvel characters. This was also written at 3am and not edited so I apologize if my writing isn’t up to par 😭 this is basically a practice exercise

The sheets were wrinkled and out of place, a corner lifted off of the mattress from his writhing around. Although his range of motion was limited, he was still moving around too much, eliciting a light slap to the side of his thigh. Your hand rubbed the irritated skin, squeezing at the pulsing muscle underneath.

“Keep moving these and I’ll tie them up, too.” Your eyes pierced him as you looked at him through your lashes. He rushed out a nod, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he tried to control his body.

Sinking back down, you continued your previous work kissing and biting at thighs. The two of you had been going at it for well over an hour. A conversation about taking time to relax turned into a make out session. That make out session turned into Soobin strapped to your bed. He was only in boxers, his cock pressing hard against the fabric begging for attention. One thing led to another, the mention of a past comment about wanting to try something new, and Soobin now had his hands restrained against the head of the bed frame, his wrists held together by the belt you were previously wearing. Your bedpost clanged as the metal buckle of your belt hit against it, the sound a result of his struggle to maintain himself.

A kiss pressed to a sensitive spot high on his inner thigh caused his body to jump.

“Oh, baby,” you feigned concern, “what did I tell you?”

He whined as you stood up to grab a scarf from your closet. Soobin’s head fell back, his eyes staying open to watch your naked form walk across the room. He wanted nothing more than to take you by the hips and satisfy the need that you had built in him.

“Y/n, please,” his voice came out in breaths as he watched you saunter back to the bed, two of his belts in one hand and a scarf in the other. You took a hold of his ankle, sliding it to the corner of the bed before carefully strapping it down to the leg of the bed with his belt. His leg jerked, only making an inch of movement before hitting a hard stop.

He was at a crossroads. There was a burning in his abdomen, he was so desperate for a release, but he couldn’t deny how much this side of you was affecting him. He never even thought about liking this sort of thing, feeling comfortable with a simple routine when it came to intimacy. His whole life his large stature and his dancing career forced him to be extremely aware of his body, careful of his movements and in charge of what his body did. This was the first time he was at a true loss of control. He could only lay there and watch as you slowly wrecked him.

Finishing securing his other ankle, you slid your hands up his legs. Rising to meet him face to face, you cupped his cheek and left a small peck on his nose. Soobin’s face flushed.

“Baby,” he sighed, not even knowing what he was pleading for.

“Yes,” you dragged, smirking at the gasp he let out when your fingers ghosted over his cock.

“Baby please, I need more.” His eyes shut tight, his expression pained as his legs pulled against their restraints.

“Well I can’t do anything with that, now can I?” You left a kiss on the corner of his lips. His hands ached to hold your face and kiss you himself.

“Please touch me, baby, I need it. I’m going crazy.” His hips lifted off the bed, searching for anything to take away the buzzing all around him.

Using the hand holding his face, you turned him to you. You leaned down and bit his lip, pulling it back as he moaned at the contact. Releasing his lip, you watched it spring back to him. Your tongue jutted out, licking his lip, slipping into his mouth to meet his. This was destraction enough for you to slip the front of his boxers down, freeing his pulsing cock. He let out a strained moan, a mix of pain and pleasure as his delicious torture went on.

Your hand came back up to rub up and down his chest. He let out a high pitched whine as your fingers slid over his sensitive nipples. The pleasure amplified by the lack of touch.

“Fuck, baby. I can’t take it. Pleas- ah!” He gasped as you continued to rub down his stomach, teasing under his navel.

“Do you think you’ve been good tonight?” You asked, your lips inches away from his.

“Yes, I-, baby please.” His body was shaking, his eyes glossed over, tears ready to spill.

“Hmmm, I think so too,” you agreed. Leaning down to his right, you whispered in his ear as your hand finally grasped his length, “I think you’ve been a very good boy.”

Soobin let out a strangled moan as he felt your hand squeeze his cock, the pressure built up too much to handle. He couldn’t bare to look down as you slid your hand from the base of his member to the tip, fingers coming together to rub against it. His body was on fire, the heat on of his cock cooled from the air as you spread his precum down his shaft.

He was sure he wouldn’t last, your previous teasing having already put him on the edge.

“Baby, I can’t. Gonna come,” he whimpered in your ear. His hips jerked up on their own accord, finally giving his body some control. He couldn’t help it as he fucked himself up into your hand, moaning into your ear. You looked up to see the muscles in his arm tensing as they strained against the belt.

“Come, baby. It’s okay. I’m right here.” Your breathing matched his, your chest heaved against his chest. Lowering down, you kissed his neck, working your way to the sweet spot behind his ear.

Soobin’s whole body convulsed once he felt your lips on his neck. He moaned your name in a chant as you quickened your pace.

“Come for me, Soob. You’ve been so good for me,” you spoke in between kisses. You brought your lips back to his, catching his moans in your mouth. Your tongues met in a sloppy kiss, the mess of it all only spurring him on.

You pulled away, kissing down his throat and leaving bites at his collar bones. Only then did Soobin look down, feeling a pressure on his thigh. Your legs were straddling his right thigh as your body ground down against it. He took in the sight of how needy you were against him, watching your bare cunt slide against his skin. You let out a moan at the friction, sending him over the edge.

“Fuck, ah.” Soobin hissed as his body jerked. You kept stroking his cock, riding out his high as a reward for his good behavior. Ropes of cum shot out onto his stomach. His head fell back, finally feeling relief after being worked up for so long. His felt movement on the bed, a loss of weight. By the time his mind cleared his hands were on the bed next to him and you were gently massaging his irritated wrists.

You left for a moment to grab a towel, Soobin was still processing what had just happened. Wiping at his stomach, his body still jerked at the sensitive touch.

Your hand cupped his face, thumb caressing his cheek. “You okay, babe?” Your eyes held real concern this time, a stark contrast from the act you had going on before.

“Yes baby, thank you.” Soobin sighed, relaxation spreading from his head to his toes. He felt the drowsiness take over his body. He threw an arm around your side, pulling you in to lay against his body. Your head fell against his chest, your hand finding his and intertwining your fingers as you finally let sleep take over you.

A/N: ty for reading this far! again this def isn't my best work, I didn't wanna make it too long or else I would have fleshed it out more. If you liked this please send me suggestions for kinktober!

#txt soobin smut #soobin smut #txt soobin imagine #txt soobin x reader #soobin imagines #soobin x reader #txt kinktober #soobin kinktober #txt imagines #txt smut #txt hard thoughts

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missmaywemeetagain · 2 years

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Pink Scarf - PART 12! (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: Spanking. (If spanking is not your thing, I have marked those parts with ~ at the start and end of them so you can read past them.) Dom!Elvis and dom/sub dynamics. Sex. ANGST. Jealousy. Cussing. Infidelity. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline. Priscilla doesn't exist in this timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 10,660

A/N: We're back, y'all and this part is a MONSTER so you're gonna have to carve out some time (it's what you deserve)! It took on a life of its own, honestly. I really wanted to explore the darker sides of both our Reader and Elvis and their choices. It is important to me in this piece to show that Elvis was a very complex human with very real faults, which can throw some people for a loop if they idealize him or don't know much about him, so be warned.

With that said, the convo between him and Anita in 1961 is real. I transcribed his parts as best I could with the quality of the recording. Hopefully, I did his mood justice in the writing (in terms of how Reader is interpreting it), but if you do choose to listen, I recommend headphones and patience. It's a long one and not a great recording. And once again, depending on your point of view, it shows a not-so-flattering side of EP, so proceed with caution.

Thank you all SO MUCH for your love, patience, and distractions as I've been ill! This community has been so wonderful and it's been amazing getting to know you all better and to be able to share our love of EP in all the ways! 💖

As always, to all my babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. I will say I'm a bit self-conscious about this part for a variety of reasons, mainly covid-brain, so be gentle! I'm sorry in advance if it's not up to par.

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I think I put everyone on the taglist who requested it, but please let me know if there are any issues or if I missed anyone.

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my long-neglected AO3 account (which some of you already discovered!), so if you are so inclined, you can check it out over there, though it's not all updated yet!)

Los Angeles, 1961

Walking down the hallway, you cannot help but be drawn to the perturbed sound of Elvis’ unique cadence from beyond the door of the den. It is cracked open just enough for the sound to come through, which must have been a mistake by whoever left last, probably one of the guys. You had seen Red come from this direction not that long ago.

You’d come out to LA at Elvis’ behest to join them all for a visit while he was filming his latest movie. You were happy to see Jack after so much time apart, and you’d instantly gotten swept back up into the Elvis lifestyle while being here, though it was moderately toned down considering his filming schedule. It was a nice change from what was becoming a bit of a lonely existence at Graceland. It wasn’t that you were alone, per say, it was just that the other wives were having and taking care of their little ones, which was a constant reminder of a life you couldn’t have. You loved spending time them and with the children—they just weren’t your own.

You certainly don’t mean to snoop, you’d only been making your way through the California villa to the bedroom to grab something out of your bag, but your curiosity wins out. You stop just shy of the door, head bowed, ear to the crack, wondering who has Elvis in such a state. Of course, you can only hear one side of the conversation, but you try to piece together as best you can what might be going on. You know you shouldn’t, but you do anyway.

Elvis responds to the person he’s talking to in an exasperated tone, “You know why—you know why I don’t call you anymore? This very reason, right here. This very reason right here…I-I-I-can’t talk to you, hon. You mess with my damn head, man. I-I-can’t count on a decent conversation with ya. Ya start throwin’ up all kinds of shit to me. Look, if I called you e-e-every damn night, you’d start bitchin about something different. You’re just a fuckin’ nag, that’s all, you’re just a nagger that’s all.”

Your eyes widen at that, at how mean he’s getting with whichever one of his women he’s talking to. You have seen his temper firsthand over the years, but not directed at you and you’ve never heard him talk to a woman this way. After knowing him all this time, this side of him shocks you a bit, and you stay rooted to the spot.

“Well, that’s the way I feel about it, a-a-and y-y-y-you don’t have to be that way either. Not to the extent that you are, you don’t have to be that bad,” he says vehemently. “I just know you’re gonna start throwin’ something up to me a-and I ain’t got time to hear it. You turn me the fuck up, you know that?”

And he certainly is turned up, you think. His annoyance and frustration are coming through loud and clear on this end, punctuated by his stutter. The woman must be talking because he pauses before continuing.

“Yes, all the time. I-I-I can’t stand it, I-I can’t stand it, Anita, I swear I can’t stand it. I call you and do right, my ass,” he says, annoyed. “I do, do right! My ass. If I called you e-every night, you’d start that shit.” Elvis starts mocking her in a whining, high pitched voice, “‘Who’d you see today? You g-got a girlfriend, I’m surprised at you, blah blah,’ that bullSHIT!” He spits it out at her, angrily. “Naw, it ain’t no lie. Naw, you bring it up every time I talk to you.”

Your heart races a bit just hearing the confrontation and at the thrill that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping in the first place. Of course, it’s Anita, you think. He’s been seeing her the longest of any of his girlfriends, even through Germany. You are friendly with her, but not very close. Although she is always nice to you, she has an air about her that rubs you the wrong way. Not that you’d ever show it, but she just seems a bit self-important to you, what with her beauty queen titles and flitting up to New York or out to Hollywood for her singing or acting. She is a little too pretty, a little too nice, and sometimes it just feels underhanded.

Or maybe you’re just jealous, a niggling voice in the back of your mind says.

You scoff at that. Jealous of what? Sure, it seemed like she had a glamorous life, what with all the things she did, and how beautiful she is, and being the girlfriend of THE Elvis Presley, but you know better than that. And right now it sure doesn’t seem like you have much to be jealous of, considering the way he’s talking to her. She’s been around four years, and there is still no true commitment from him. At least you have a husband who loves you and you are a permanent fixture in Elvis’ inner circle, giving you a leg up in this situation, you think a little haughtily.

Good god, what is wrong with me? Why am I being so petty?

You don’t have an answer to that.

Obviously, Anita is not happy, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Anita’s not dumb, even though she can play that part if needs be. She knows he’s seeing other women, and just because you’re not her biggest fan doesn’t mean she deserves to be treated poorly, by him or anyone else.

The thing is, you realize suddenly, even though he is likely in the wrong, you are still going to take his side in the end because he’s your friend. And that thought surprises you a little bit. But at the same time, there is anger starting to simmer in your chest at his poor behavior, at the way he keeps some of the women in his life hanging, waiting with bated breath to see if they will be the one to win his undying and singular attention.

You, of course, know better. Elvis is needy and fickle and loves being adored by as many women as possible. If there is one thing he’s addicted to, it’s girls. But he would no sooner give up his freedom to love as many of them as possible than he would to give up his career. Not to say that he doesn’t genuinely care for some of them; in fact, he is overly loving and demonstrative in some ways. It’s just that the standards for his love seem different than anyone else’s, and he gets away with things he might not otherwise because of who he is. But in your experience, the girls all figure it out eventually, and it seems like Anita is finally getting there.

It sounds like she is giving Elvis the business about it, which he doesn’t like one little bit.

“Why can’t you be sweet instead of bitchin’ like an old naggin’ ass wife, huh?” you hear him say, a little viciously, your eyes going wide. “I can’t stand that, I can’t stand it. Baby, you’ve got me crazy, you know that? You get worse a-all the damn time, a-and th-th-that’s why I don’t talk to you on the phone.”

You really, really should leave and get your nose out of his business, but it’s like you’re incapable of getting your feet to move. You’re mad at him for speaking this way to her, even though she likely IS nagging, you know it’s for good reason. She is right. He wants to have his cake and eat it, too, and he does not like being called out on it.

You hear him backtracking now, almost wearily telling her how much he loves her, over and over. The man doth protest too much. And the way his stutter pops up now, it sounds more like a child covering a fib than agitation. But you hate to assume.

“I told ya that I’m in love with ya. I-I-I-I-I-if I—if I—if I didn’t love you, I tell ya, I wouldn’t waste my time with you. I don’t have to,” he rebounds bluntly, harshly, then recovers quickly, “Well, I-I look forward to being with you, and I-I think about you a lot. But because I don’t call you three or four times a damn week, you say to me ‘Why don’t you…?’” His nastiness gets the better of him again, as he starts to mock her, but then he stops, his frustration evident. “Aw, HELL. I tell ya how I felt aboutcha, you oughta know how I feel. I mean, three long years, w-we’ve been battling this back and forth this same thing. You know I love you, darlin’.”

It all sounds rather unconvincing to you, as he seems to bounce so quickly from one emotion to the other. Maybe he believes it, you think, but you don’t think she’s buying it, not by the way he continues to reassure her, nearly pleading in some moments, and calling her pet names before that indignant tone returns to his voice. Even from out here, you can feel just how hard he’s trying to be patient, trying to placate her, with the many declarations of his love.

Silence falls for a moment, and you wonder what she must be saying to him, whether she’s falling for this or if she’s just as disbelieving as you are. You think she might be coming around based on how his voice changes yet again, how he’s both gentle and matter of fact, then his tone becomes almost boyish and sad.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps coming down the hall towards you. In a complete panic, you nearly jump out of your skin before looking around frantically for an escape. Desperate, you fling yourself into the room across the hall, but in your excitement, the door slams behind you.

Your hand pops to cover your mouth, as if this action alone will have kept anyone from hearing the door.

There is silence for a moment before you hear Elvis shouting, muffled, “Cliff? Cliff!”

Your heart thunders in your chest as you chastise yourself for being so damn stupid as to be eavesdropping on Elvis of all people, then you say a silent prayer that no one finds you as you hear more footsteps and another door slam. The footsteps head away, and with shaking breaths, you slowly open the door to find the hallway empty once more.

You tell yourself you are gonna skedaddle right out of there and go on with your business, but then you hear Elvis lay into her yet again:

“I-I-I love you very much a-and q-quit-quit-quit bitching and nagging me so much. I get so mad, I could break your neck.” That takes you aback, the way he just throws the phrase at her before going back to imitating her meanly, “’I can’t help it, I can’t help it! I can’t help it!’” W--w-w-w-what are you gonna do when I’m nuts and in an asylum?” Then he mumbles something you can’t understand but you hear him chuckle before he sighs big and loudly.

He's telling her he loves her but in a way that makes it obvious that he wants off the phone. She’s not having it based on the silence from his end.

Then he’s back to talking real nice and low to her, seemingly contrite and sorry, his stutter emphasizing it all. The stutter gives him away, you think, though you aren’t sure if it’s more agitation at her or that he’s feeling guilty. Perhaps it’s both.

“Well, m-maybe I’m not doing my part right now, but I mean give me a chance, you know. Just give me a chance. Don’t-don’t-don’t worry, j-j-just give me a chance, I-I, it’ll all come out in the long run. Okay? Take my word for it, hon, I wouldn’t lie to you. I love you, Anita.” A pause and then he giggles, “I’ll enjoy it. I love you very much darlin’. I do, Anita, I do…w-w-w-why would I lie to you, baby? I-i-if i-i-i if I’m l-l-l-lying…” he says, his stutter so bad now it’s hard to understand anything he’s saying.

You internally scoff at this. He’s been lying to her for years. But part of you wonders if he truly believes it will all turn out for them in the future. He is something of an idealist, after all. Maybe he really does fear losing her. Maybe that stutter is betraying his nerves rather than his guilt.

You aren’t sure how you feel about the prospect of him actually settling down, especially with Anita. For one, you don’t think it’s in his nature, but two, something about him doing it turns your stomach. You can’t pinpoint why, exactly, but the idea of him being married with little ones running about Graceland makes you want to scream.

You quickly push that thought out of your head, convincing yourself that your broiling frustration at him has more to do with his treatment of Anita than anything else. If he loves her and needs her so much, maybe he should just tell her the truth. You continue to listen in as he talks baby talk to her and emphasizes just how much he really will call her more, and then you hear him yawn.

“Hell, I’m tired. Oh, yeah. You do? You do? Well don’t sound so damn serious. How much you love me? How much you love me? Maybe? Baby? I love you. I love you. I wish, I wish, I wish I was with you,” he says, weary and tired of the conversation. There are long moments of silence, and you wonder what she is saying or if she’s hung up on him.

“I gotta go. There ain’t no party, I just gotta go. I’ll talk to ya later. I will. Don’t throw up more ideas…” He starts that terrible imitating of her again, “’I can’t! I can’t help that!’ I could slap your face right off.” He laughs through the rest now, and you know him well enough to know he’s being an asshole, provoking her. You can practically hear her shouting through the receiver, she’s yelling so loud.

“I think you’ve lost your damn mind. Yeah, ya have,” he says gently, quiet but cutting. Then he continues to chuckle, seemingly finding her agitation amusing. “Well…we’ll see. I’ll talk to ya later. Okay? Okay? Take care honey, be patient. Alright. Take it easy. Bye.” You hear the receiver click as he finally hangs up the phone.

You’re fuming now, a bit off the rails considering none of this has anything to do with you, and you know it. The gall of him to behave that way when he knows he’s in the wrong, that he is lying to her. For god’s sake, he is having a party right now and there are girls here that you know were invited by him for a particular purpose, and he’s over here telling Anita how tired he is and how crazy she is when she is right all along.

The now-small logical part of your brain is screaming at you to leave and to get your nose out of his business before you do something stupid, but instead you listen to Elvis as he lets out a huge sigh that ends in a frustrated growl.

“Who in the hell is out there lurking in the hallway?” you hear him shout out of nowhere.

Shit.

Your heart pounds, knowing you are caught, and you are mad enough that you refuse to run away. You take a deep breath instead, pushing the door open slowly.

Elvis looks up through his dark lashes from behind the huge mahogany desk, his hands steepled and his jaw set. Surprise flashes over his features when he lays eyes on you, his left eyebrow shooting up, but his eyes quickly return to a steely blue, hardening.

“How much did you hear?” There’s no preamble, no beating around the bush, no charming quip.

You consider lying for a moment. “Enough,” you finally say, knowing lying would be futile—he knows you well enough to see through your deceit. You are angry enough at him for it to show on your face.

“Hmmm. Mmm hmm,” he tuts, seemingly disappointed in you, his anger still simmering just below the surface. “What the fuck were you thinkin’, listening to my private conversation?” It comes out frighteningly low and biting.

You open your mouth to speak, but before anything gets out, he’s yelling, “What is it with the goddamn women in my life sticking their noses where they don’t belong?!” You cannot help but flinch at his outburst, even as angry as you are.

Elvis gets up so fast and so violently the rolling chair he’s sitting in flies backwards, hitting the bookshelf behind him. Rounding the desk, he advances on you, and you stumble, countering by stepping back. With his dark hair and flashing eyes, his features both soft and severe all at once, his natural beauty is intimidating.

Already angered by his conversation with Anita, he is teetering right on the edge of fury, on that blinding temper of his. Which is why you have no idea what comes over you next.

“So, how’s Anita?” you ask sardonically. A small part of you is hoping that your sarcasm will deescalate the situation. It does not. More likely, for whatever reason, you have this urge to push him right over the edge. He’s never turned his temper on you before, and his temper can be blindingly terrible, yet still you persist.

“Don’t be insolent. It doesn’t become you, y/n,” he seethes, his soulful eyes now a churning, hard, steely blue, like the northern Atlantic during a storm.

You continue anyway, “You should just tell her, E. She obviously suspects what you’re doing, wouldn’t it just be easier—"

“I didn’t ask for your fuckin’ opinion!” he shouts at you. Your heart begins to pound in your ears, along with the ringing of his voice, but you are stubborn as hell and pissed off, too, so despite all the warning bells, you keep going.

“You’re right, you didn’t, but I’m telling you anyway as your friend and as a woman who knows—and more so because no one else will dare to call you on it—” you shoot at him, trembling with anger, “Being cheated on and then being lied to and made to feel crazy about it when you know something is wrong is awful. That’s why she’s nagging you all the time. You are making her feel crazy. You should either tell her or leave her, Elvis, but this isn’t right.” You let out a breath, your body hot with anger and you are surprised at your boldness.

“Aw, hell, y/n, you gonna be bitchin’ and naggin’ now, too, huh?” he barks, his eyes flashing.

More words, ones you didn’t expect to speak, come rolling off your tongue. “Why are you hanging on to her if you are just gonna constantly screw around behind her back? How can you really love her and do that to her? You have to know after all this time that she wants you to marry her, but I think we both know that’s not going to happen, is it? What exactly is the point of all this, then, Elvis?”

You expect him to scream at you again and you brace for it. But instead, he steps closer, cornering you. Anger is rolling off him in waves but now it’s tempered by something else, too. Something heavy and thick that starts to suck the air from the room as his deep eyes lock onto yours, unwavering.

“Why y/n, you sound almost jealous.” It comes out smooth, too smooth, with a dark chuckle as he takes one more bold step into you. Your back hits the wall, breath catching at the insinuation.

“W-what? No,” you eek out defensively, in a voice far too high for your liking. You feel your cheeks flush. You know objectively what he’s trying to do, distract and deflect blame for his situation off him and onto you. It’s manipulative but effective because you are flustered beyond repair now.

And maybe because there’s a little truth to it, that small voice from earlier adds. Though you have no idea how Elvis may have pulled that deep thought, one that you barely acknowledged yourself, from the deep recesses of your brain.

Faltering under the pressure of his gaze and the closeness of his lean body practically pressing up against yours, you try to skirt around him.

He slams his hand onto the wall next to your head and you wince as his arm blocks you in. You’re breathing hard now, feeling something between shock and fear and exhilaration as his beautiful face comes too close to yours, forcing you to turn back to him.

Elvis will not be ignored.

“I’m not sure I believe you, baby,” he purrs. “Why else would you be snooping into my private romantic business?” His nose almost grazes your face, tantalizing, the scent of his Old Spice filling your nostrils, consuming you. You realize you’ve never been this close to him, not like this.

Maybe there’s a good reason for that.

Your heart drops into your stomach, but you roll your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” you respond, glaring at him. It sounds almost convincing.

Elvis chuckles meanly, not believing you, his lip curling into a grin, but the smile doesn’t meet his eyes. He’s a panther stalking his prey, and you have come crashing into the jungle, demanding his attention.

His wrath is laced with something fervently sexual, and anything sexual coming from Elvis is ten times what it might be from another man. It’s intoxicating in the worst way possible, clouding your thoughts, distracting you from your frustration at his behavior. It’s as though, over time, he’s learned to wield his charismatic essence and his sexual energy into a weapon, one which he is now turning on you.

You realize you are in way over your head, but you’ve left yourself no room to backpedal out of this.

Elvis’ icy eyes roam over your face. For a moment you think he might close the gap between you two and press those pillowy lips to yours. For a moment you allow yourself to wonder if they feel as soft as they look, if they taste as sweet as you imagine.

What would he do if it were you that closed the gap? Would he be shocked out of his rage and pull away? Or would he kiss you back? Would you want him to?

Guilt washes over you, a cold shock, in response to these thoughts. What in the hell is wrong with me today?

But right now, cornered as you are, you feel like you might do almost anything to get out of this intense limbo he has you trapped in. You decide to call him out and see what happens.

“Oh, please, Elvis. Does this bull work on all the girls?” you hum almost nonchalantly, even though your heart is galloping, but it has the desired effect. He bites his tongue and shakes his head, leaning back from you. “What, you think you can just try and beguile me, of all people, and I’ll forget about what a jerk you’re being?”

“That’s not—,” he begins, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, shut it,” you interrupt, even more mad now after calling him out on his bad behavior for the second time. “I have half a mind to call Anita up myself after the stunt you just pulled!”

“The hell you will!” Elvis growls, eyes heated, yanking you by the arm towards the desk. “I’ll teach you what happens when you stick your nose where it don’t belong.”

You yelp in surprise as he pulls you over. It all happens so fast; you barely resist because your brain doesn’t comprehend what’s happening until he’s planted himself on top of the desk and bends you over his knee.

“Elvis, what are you…?” you yell. He cannot be serious, there is no way he will—

The first smack hits your backside hard. You choke in shock, not just at the sting but at his audacity. You are frozen, speechless, until you realize he’s aiming to do it again. You try to wriggle off his leg, flailing your arms for purchase, but he is much stronger than you. His arm clamps down on your back, holding you fast.

“Elvis!” you shriek at him, “Don’t you even think about—!” The second smack lands harder than the first, on the other cheek, and you squeal, kicking your legs.

“You gonna stay outta my business, y/n?” he asks.

“Goddamnit, Elvis!” you hiss, trying to glare back at him, but he holds you fast.

“Takin’ that as a ‘no’,” he muses, and you can hear the smirk in his voice as he brings down his hand again. You yelp again, then grit your teeth. He’s not going easy on you, though you are absolutely sure he’s not anywhere at full strength, either. He’s not truly trying to hurt you. While your dress is softening some of the blow, it still smarts, sending your eyes watering.

You are livid, but much to your shock, you are also finding yourself exhilarated, stimulated. Your heart races and you have no idea what’s gotten into you. It’s like everything you’ve done in the last thirty minutes—poking your nose in where it didn’t belong, becoming so angry at him, pushing all of his buttons on purpose—was some strange way to get here. Not that you knew, not at all, that this would be your punishment, but it was almost as if you were crying out for his attentions all along.

This realization stuns you into stillness, and you barely register him talking to you again.

“I can do this all day, y/n, until you tell me what I need to hear,” he says in a sing-song voice. He’s enjoying it, his anger still there, but no longer at the forefront of his intent. No, now he is entirely focused on getting you to cry uncle.

You are stubborn and silent, though still reeling with confusion from your realizations of what got you here, slung over Elvis Presley’s knee, and that you, too, might be enjoying this, but in all the wrong ways. When his hand slaps your ass this time, you bite back the sound that wants to come forth, because it is no longer one of shock. Never in a thousand years do want to admit that you are relishing the feel of his hand on you like this, that the sting is having the opposite effect of what he wants or what either of you expects. It is wrong in so many ways.

Your lack of response must confuse him because you feel him hesitate in the slightest. You are unsure what comes over you, other than the impulse that you don’t actually want him to stop, which means he definitely should stop, but you can’t let him know why and instead it all comes out jumbled. The intended, “Elvis, please don’t!—Stop!” somehow (perhaps a little less than subconsciously) turns into a breathless, pleading for him to continue, “Elvis, please…don’t…stop.”

And though you feel his leg tense under you slightly, the only outward indication that he takes it any other way, he indeed does not stop. You squirm at the last second, realizing your mistake. And when his hand lands this time, fingers splayed wide, he hits decidedly lower and more centered than before. There is no way to know if it is purposeful or accidental, not that it matters in this moment because you cannot help the way your fingers dig into his thigh and the embarrassing moan that escapes your lips when he slaps your center along with your ass.

There is no denying what that sound meant. There’s no way to play it off or pretend it didn’t happen. You are fully aroused and completely mortified.

And Elvis knows it. You know he does by the way he stills, how his other hand clenches your dress at your waist, how you can feel his chest heaving along with your own in the thick, heavy silence that comes after.

For a moment, you wonder if he will push, if he’ll try to continue under the guise of this insane game, and a shameful part of you almost wants him to, wants to see how far you’ll both go, but that thought is fleeting.

He releases you, and you scurry off his lap as though he is on fire. And he might as well be with that tell-tale twinkle burning in his crystalline eyes, which are no longer stormy with anger but brimming with amusement and surprise and curiosity and heat. Then, as if he can’t help it, those pink lips pull up into a wide, cheeky smile, his tongue peeking out between his teeth and the tip touches his top lip. The look is somewhere between bashful and positively sinful.

You smooth your dress frantically with your hands, your face burning. Flustered beyond repair, you swipe at your watering eyes, feeling the heat scorch through your body. You are so utterly embarrassed that you could cry. Neither of you speaks at first (what in god’s name can you say??), but Elvis starts to giggle—giggle—that hiccupping little laugh of his that you know will spiral into a fit if he really gets going.

“Don’t you…don’t you dare laugh at me, Elvis Presley!” you sputter and stamp like a child, pointing at him, but his face is going red now and he’s starting to lose it.

“I’m-I’m n-n-not! I just c-can’t…” he stutters before he erupts into full blown belly laughs.

“Oh, my god,” you cry, bringing your hands to your face. You are both livid at him and mortified at yourself, but the situation is completely ridiculous and his laughter becomes contagious. “I swear to god, this isn’t funny!” you wail, fighting back your own laughter.

This just sends him into fresh peal of laughing, and he doubles over.

You finally break down, laughing, too. “Shut up!” you yell, but all the sting is out of it with your own giggles. “This is all your fault!”

“MY fault?!” he cries, trying to catch his breath, tears leaking from his eyes.

You don’t have an answer to that. You know it’s very much on both of you, especially you.

Finally, the laughter starts to die down and you both are wiping at your eyes and catching your breath. Silence starts to hang heavy again, but you break it with ferocity.

“Let’s just pretend that none of this ever happened, okay? I’ll forget everything I heard, and you’ll forget…the rest of it, and we’ll never, ever speak of this again,” you say seriously, with conviction. “Deal?”

As absurd as the whole situation is, you both know there are very real consequences, for both of you, if any of what’s transpired leaves this room. The problem is you know he can be terrible at keeping secrets; however, there is no way for him to tell yours without exposing himself. You can see him work through this now that he is calmed down, his blue eyes regarding you carefully.

You force yourself to remain steady under his intense gaze, trying your best to ignore the way your body wants to involuntarily respond to him all the sudden. You need him to know how serious you are because if this somehow got back to Jack, or to anyone at all, you would be humiliated at best and divorced at worse.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic, you think, but it wouldn’t be good for anyone. But it lights enough panic in you to get your head on straight.

“I’m serious, Elvis. Not a word from either of us,” you reiterate, as Elvis’ face has become unreadable. Your body still feels hot and you will your heart to slow, praying that he’ll give you the answer you need so you can get the hell out of here.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally nods, “Not a peep.” He purses his lips and mimes locking them and throwing away the key. You want to roll your eyes, but instead breathe a sigh of relief. You turn, quick on your heel to leave, needing as far away as possible from this whole situation. Far away from him.

“Y/n?” he calls out from behind you as you reach for the door.

Your heart drops into your stomach and you brace yourself for a quip. You turn, not expecting to see the apologetic look on his face that you do. It’s almost childlike in its sincerity, his eyes big and mournful.

“I-I’m sorry I lost my temper. I-I-I shouldn’t have put my hands on you like that,” he says, playing with his ring nervously.

Your jaw nearly drops to the floor. An apology is not at all what you were expecting. You blink a couple of times, your whirlwind of emotions calming for a moment.

“Thank you, E. And I’m sorry for sticking my nose where it didn’t belong. It really is none of my business,” you add, cheeks warming again as you look down, feeling embarrassed for all the reasons, feeling exposed under his gaze.

“Naw, baby, you’re just callin’ it as you see it. You’ve never pulled punches with me, and I don’t expect you to start now,” he replies, lip curling up in a smile.

You nod. “Even so, I’ll do my best to refrain from spying on you in the future.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay.” You turn and leave before he has a chance to stop you again. Hurrying to the bedroom you are sharing with Jack, you lock yourself in, lean back on the door, and slide to the floor with your head in your hands.

What in god’s name came over you? Why would you do such a thing? And why in the hell did you like it when he touched you like that? Panic and guilt run through your veins like ice. You push all the thoughts away, as deep and as far as they will go.

Not a word. Pretend this never happened. Nothing is wrong if it never happened.

You repeat it in your head until it sticks.

Carrying the black folder with your sheet music, you take a deep breath and take a seat on the stage behind the curtains that hide the backstage from the audience. You’ve never been backstage for one of his shows, and it is bustling with musicians. Your job tonight is to follow along with the Sweet Inspirations and see if you can find your footing in the music while the show is happening. With the volume on stage, no one should be able to hear you from out front.

Nerves flow through you, nevertheless. It’s been a crazy three days with the vocal coach, who has assured you that, yes, you have the capability to do this and are “a natural,” but that you need to work through your stage fright. You’re not sure if it is her idea or Elvis’ to put you backstage during a performance, but here you are, your heart pounding as though you were going on stage with the rest of them.

In those three days, you haven’t seen Elvis alone, either. This has made you incredibly uneasy for a variety of reasons. Part of you is glad because you feel like your head is clearer about the whole affair, that you have some semblance of control, that if you want to end it (and you should) that you can.

However, another part of you craves his attention, missing him desperately, worried that he’s gotten what he wants from you and now is moving on. You keep thinking about how if he’s not spending his nights with you who might be keeping his bed warm instead. This fear is beginning to wreak havoc and is at odds with your logical thoughts. You know you need to get over it, to get over him, that all of this is just for fun anyways. It’s just sex. Nothing other than that was ever promised. He’s free to do what he wants with who he wants.

It's not as though you haven’t seen him, though, it just hasn’t been alone. Between your lessons, his schedule, and Jack seemingly looming everywhere, it’s been hard to steal any time away. As soon as you told Jack you were staying, that Elvis was offering you a job as part of the show, you couldn’t quite get a read on how he felt about it. Jack seemed surprised, a little annoyed, and wary when you told him. You were sure he wouldn’t want you around anymore, but instead he has been more attentive than usual, which has also thrown you for a loop. You don’t know if he suspects something might be going on, but he hasn’t been off cavorting until all hours of the night anymore, instead staying with the guys at the after party every night in Elvis’ suite.

In any case, all you and E have had are a couple of fleeting, longing looks and the occasional touch, which is maddening. He did come to one of your lessons, but remained professional in front of the coach, only giving you a quick peck on the cheek and left a lingering hand at your waist, burning through your dress and threatening to set you aflame right there and then.

During the after parties, where the gang, plus a lucky group of fans (usually pretty, young things), would come up and join you all. You smiled your way through the gatherings trying to appear as normal as possible as the girls flirted endlessly with Elvis, and he flirted back at them. Not to mention the way Jack would look at the girls, too. The whole situation was becoming untenable.

Thank god for Sandy, who always seemed to be there when you needed her, with a squeeze of a hand or a bump of your shoulder, stealing away with you to the bathroom when it all became too much.

But, lucky for you, you at least had a distraction of learning all the music for the show, hence why you are here now, amongst the fervent energy that is building backstage. The Sweet Inspirations just finished their set, and now everyone is waiting on the man of the hour.

You finally see him round the corner, clad in his black herringbone suit, the one you find impeccably flattering on him. He looks gorgeous but is vibrating with nervous energy and seems like he could be sick at any moment, his eyes focused on something only he can see. Involuntarily, you rise out of your chair in his presence, wanting to go to him, to comfort him, but you stop yourself. It isn’t your place, and you don’t want to distract him or possibly make his nerves worse.

Much to your surprise, Elvis seems to sense you, turning to you, and his cobalt eyes light up when they meet yours. He switches gears, much to the surprise of some of the guys, and walks towards you. They don’t follow, which you are glad for. You meet him, desperately wanting to pull him in for a kiss, but everyone seems to be watching. His eyes travel over your face, needy under the fear he’s experiencing.

“You’re here,” he says gratefully, as though it is a surprise that you actually showed up.

“I’m here,” you reply. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous. But better now,” he says, those big blue eyes blinking at you with an almost shy smile.

“Me, too,” you laugh. God, you want to touch him so badly, it’s like an itch you can’t scratch.

“I miss you,” he whispers, and it nearly breaks your heart with the way it makes it swell in your chest.

“I miss you, too,” you nod breathlessly, “and we’ll talk later, but right now, you need to go out there and kick some ass, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a deep breath, puffing his cheeks and letting it out slowly. He reaches out and grabs your hand, squeezing it tight, his huge rings cold against your skin. Then he turns abruptly, heads off, and cues the band to start.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. Seeing that side of him, so needy and small, is such a contrast to how larger than life he is as he walks on that stage. It reminds you so much of the young man he once was, so different from the cocky, self-assured man he can be today.

Then the show starts in earnest and you sit back down, realizing you have a job to do and can’t just moon over him the entire show. You do your best to follow the music, humming along, quietly finding the high harmonies to the songs you feel like you’ve heard a million times but are now experiencing differently because you are listening for other things.

You do notice that some of his jokes are falling flat and that the audience isn’t responding as enthusiastically as they could be. Elvis fights for their attention, being the consummate performer that he is, and you can tell he’s a bit ruffled by it.

By the end of the show, you’ve been swept up in the music and it feels like no time has passed, your nerves long forgotten. It’s an amazing feeling, really, as the crowd applauds and the curtain falls and everyone bustles with after-show energy. Even though you weren’t officially on stage, you still feel swept up in the high of it all and it’s invigorating.

Elvis, of course, is soaked with sweat, breathless as the swarm descends with compliments, though he doesn’t smile or seem to believe them even though he nods through them. You know he is a perfectionist in his own right and by his demeanor, he seems agitated by how the performance went. His eyes find yours only briefly, guarded, before he is hustled away. You hide your disappointment in collecting your music and instead focus your energy on conversing with some of the musicians as they pack up their instruments. The mood feels sour, dampened, as Elvis’ displeasure radiates even after he leaves. Your emotions are tumultuous, as you feel neglected, and you are glad when you see Sandy waiting for you so you can go up to the penthouse together.

“How’d it go?” she practically bounces. “How nervous were you?”

“Pretty nervous at first, but after the first song, I just kinda got swept up in the music. It was pretty remarkable, actually,” you reply. “Though E didn’t seem very happy with the show.”

She pulls you along, through the curtains and out into the hallway. “And how is…everything else?” she intones with a knowing look.

You sigh, shifting your music folder to the other arm, looking down. You hurry her along, away from prying ears. “He came up to me before the show and told me he missed me,” you whisper.

“Oooh, really? That’s good, right? Sometimes a man needs to know what he’s missing to really appreciate it,” she muses. “Do you miss him, too?”

“I don’t want to! But as soon as he was there in front of me, I felt like I was gonna come out of my skin to get to him. I’m just…having all these feelings I don’t know what to do with, San,” you fluster. “Every time I think I have a handle on it, something happens to remind me that I’m completely off the rails.”

“You’re not ‘completely off the rails’, y/n. You’ve just got it bad,” she says almost nonchalantly.

“Ugh! I’m desperate to see him alone, and seeing him but not being able to touch him or to do anything that might give us away is hard. Not to mention, all these girls hanging all over him is making me crazy, and Jack seems to be everywhere under foot all the sudden, which is even more maddening. Oh, I need to end this. I can’t keep doing this,” you whine.

“Listen to me, we are just gonna go upstairs and hang out with everyone just like normal, okay? And we’ll try to get you two alone at some point. I’ll talk to Jerry, okay?” Sandy says, grabbing you by the shoulders. “I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, babe,” you sigh. “I’m fine, really.”’

Sandy side-eyes you as you both head up to the top floor.

The guys have procured yet another gaggle of women and a few men to join the party tonight. Jack has planted himself next to you, uncharacteristically putting his arm around you. Surprised, you try not to stiffen, reminding yourself that this is your husband and it’s totally normal for him to put his arm around you, but it feels more possessive than affectionate. Or maybe you are just imagining it.

You busy yourself making small talk as you all wait for Elvis to appear. When he does, freshly washed, the smell wafts over you, reminding you of your most recent escapades in the shower. You flush a little at that, hiding your face by taking a drink.

Elvis glances at you only momentarily as he enters. He seems a little off, you think, a little edgy, as he commands the room and finds a seat amongst the girls. Your jaw tenses as they fawn and fall all over him, and he flirts back as though he can’t help it. This makes you insane to watch for the third night in a row. All you can think about is his hands on someone else the way you want them to be on you.

And the more you want Elvis’ hands on you, you instead get Jack’s, which seem to be gripping you at all times in some way. Over your shoulder, on your knee, on your hand…you’re trapped in this tortuous hellscape where you would do anything to get him to stop touching you, but you can’t, you can’t without it giving yourself away.

You are equally trapped as you watch your lover give his attention to everyone but you. Every time Elvis laughs or smiles or his eyes sparkle flirtatiously, or if he touches one of them or when they touch him, you want to launch right out of your chair at him.

He wants them, you think. That’s why he hasn’t seen you the last few days. He’s been with other women.

The thought drips like poison into your heart, twisting it, filling you with anger and sadness.

Why would he want you when he can have any pretty young thing? No one wants you. No one chooses you. It drips again, icy and brutal.

All of it goes on for what feels like an eternity, and you want to scream, to cry, to escape, but you’ve made this bed and now are being forced to lie in it. It’s your punishment for all your misdeeds, you think. But your stomach is rolling with an ever-growing fury at Jack, at Elvis, at those girls, at yourself, and you start to squirm in your seat.

Finally, your jealousy gets the better of you. If Elvis won’t pay attention to you, then you’ll find someone else who will. It makes the most sense that it’s your husband, of course, who is already strangely attached to you tonight, so you bite your tongue and force yourself to return his affections instead of shirking from them. You lean into him, you put your hands on him, on his chest, his arm, his leg. You pretend it was like it was years ago, when you still both wanted each other more than anything. You throw yourself into the act because it takes your mind off the women across the room.

Jack is surprised, you can tell, but he’s not too far gone into the bottle and soon is returning your affections, pecking at your cheek and neck. After a while, when he whispers in your ear that he wants you, part of you is exhilarated, powerful, because finally your husband wants you again.

It’s in that moment when Elvis’ eyes find yours for only the second time since you’ve been here, those intense blues locking on as Jack’s breath tickles your ear. Elvis’ gaze darkens dangerously, and you watch his jaw clench as he watches you and Jack. And when Jack takes your hand, pulling you off the couch, you feel Elvis’ eyes burning holes into your back.

Finally, is all you can think. Finally, the men in your life are paying attention.

You are so wrapped up in this game, in your anger and your jealousy, that when Jack yanks you into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, you aren’t even upset about it. You want to be disgusted at him (and you are—you still hate him for what he’s put you through), but in this moment, he only has eyes for you and that’s all you want right now, even if it is misguided. Even if the love isn’t there like it’s supposed to be.

When he kisses you with his whisky-tinged breath, it almost feels like he cares. When he gropes you and touches your body in the places he thinks he knows will turn you on, you pretend that it does. You let yourself get swept into a fantasy, into the act, because at least it’s something to chase away all the terrible things you’ve done and all the terrible thoughts in your head.

When you grab at the straining erection in his pants, the heat of him burning into your palm, and hear his gasping moans in your ear, you feel powerful. As you sink to your knees, you relish the look of lust and surprise in your husband’s eyes, and it’s enough to keep you going, even though part of you is appalled. You take him into your mouth, closing your eyes, wishing he was someone else. Jack twists his hand in your hair as he leans against the counter, slack jawed, and you know this won’t take long. It makes it bearable. You’ve known him long enough to know exactly what to do: how to lick, where to touch, the noises you need to make. And you relish in the control you have as he comes undone in record time.

Jack is still gasping for breath when you stand, spitting what he left in your mouth in the sink and washing your mouth out. He grabs at your ass, panting, “Jesus, treasure, what’s got into you? That was fuckin’ hot.”

You shrug coyly at him in the mirror. “I gotta pee, sweetie,” you say, shooing him out, wanting him away from you. More than anything, you want to be alone to simmer in your anger and revulsion.

“Mmm, okay. Thanks, babe,” he hums, still obviously refracting, drunk on you rather than whisky for once. He kisses your cheek sloppily before zipping up and heading out. It doesn’t escape you that he didn’t even make an attempt to get you off. Not that he could, but it figures.

You look at yourself in the mirror, hair askew and cheeks red, eyes blazing. This is the woman I’ve become, you think bitterly. I’m either fucking my lover with my husband in the next room, or I’m sucking off my husband with my lover in the next room.

It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself anymore. You ache for Elvis, but you cover it with anger and jealousy and fear. You hate Jack for what he’s done to you, yet you fall into him and use him the first chance you get.

Rooting around in the drawers, you find some toothpaste and swish it around in your mouth, hoping, wanting to get the taste of Jack, the taste of your own bitterness out. You wash your hands and comb your hair, wondering if this was enough, if you can go back out there at watch Elvis with those women and not die a little inside.

Knock, knock.

The insistent rap on the door startles the hell out of you and you jump. “One second!” you shout with one last look in the mirror. You open the door quickly, not wanting to keep whoever is waiting, and walk out.

And you run smack into Elvis’ chest. You don’t even need to look up to know it’s him—at this point you know his physique and his scent anywhere. A little yelp escapes your lips, and you feel the heat, the anger rolling off him in waves. You gulp, raising your eyes to his and they are as hard and dark as you’ve ever seen them. Your heart jumps into your throat as he grabs you by the arm and yanks you across the hall, throwing you into his bedroom and slamming the door behind so hard that the wall shakes.

You stumble for a second in your heels but recover quickly, turning to face him. Elvis is furious, in that terrifying way you’ve seen before, nearly blacked out with rage. You can see him barely holding on, gripping to a sliver of sanity as he faces you, chest heaving.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?” he seethes, his hands fisted and jaw clenching and unclenching, black hair tumbling over his forehead.

Your heart sprints in your chest and you unconsciously step backwards before you catch yourself and stop, lifting your chin at him. “I don’t know what you mean,” you say almost haughtily.

“The fuck you don’t,” he says, advancing on you. You scurry back again, putting the large couch in between the two of you. “You think I didn’t notice the way he was all over you and how you were all over him out there for everyone to see?? You think I didn’t know what was goin’ on when you left?? You think I didn’t see his fuckin’ face comin’ back into the room, grinnin’ like an idiot?!” he screams, grabbing a bottle of water off the coffee table and hurling into the wall.

You flinch as the bottle explodes, glass tinkling down to the floor. “Elvis, stop it! Calm down, everyone can hear you!” you hiss, trying to knock some sense into him, but he’s way beyond that.

“I don’t give a shit!” he yells. “How could you fuckin’ do that?” The rage and the hurt you see in his blacked-out eyes is more than you ever expected and tugs at your heart. But you are still furious in your own right, furious at him for this display, furious at the whole situation.

“How could I do what, E? What? Be with my husband? My husband? Or have you forgotten since the stunt you pulled the other day in the bathroom that I have one?” you throw back at him, “That I have to go back to my room every night to him, pretending like everything is fine? Did you forget that?”

You’re not even sure if he hears you with how gone he is. He rounds the couch, coming for you. Scrambling back, you find that you have nowhere to go, your back is against the wall. Reaching you, he grabs your face in his large hands, his intense eyes drilling into you. “I don’t ever want to see you looking at another man, touching another man. I’m a really jealous motherfucker, y/n. And I don’t ever, ever, ever want you to be with another man, I don’t care who he is. I want to know that you’re mine and all mine,” he heaves.

“Are you kidding me?” you say, wrenching out of his grasp. “How can you demand that of me when you know it’s not possible? I have to keep up the pretense of my marriage! And you think I don’t know that you’ve been with other women? It’s been three days, Elvis, I’m not an idiot!” He looks at you with a mix of dumbfounded innocence and rage. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Maybe it was the girl in your lap just now or the one kissing you that gave it away!”

Elvis growls, shaking his head, staring down at you with those endless eyes. “You’re just fuckin’ jealous. You’re so jealous you went and fucked your husband in my bathroom to get my attention, is that it?” He slams his hand on the wall next to your head, but you refuse to react.

You know you shouldn’t say it, but he’s right and you know it. You did do it to get his attention, and now you have it. “No, baby, I didn’t fuck him. I just sucked him off and spit him out,” you say demurely, cutting, batting your eyes at him, knowing and not caring how awful you’re being.

The way his eyes widen betrays his shock, but he covers it quickly as they narrow. You wonder for a moment if you should be truly afraid because you have pushed him too far, but you almost don’t care. Part of you wants him to feel all of this, a fraction of the tumultuousness that you’ve been feeling for the last week.

“Hmmm…,” he hums, then clicks his mouth. His eyes are black and blazing as they pass over your body. This stillness is almost more frightening than the shouting. You shiver, trembling, but it’s just as much from your own anger as from his, and you can feel the fury laced with something else entirely. You refuse to back down or look away.

“You goddamn fuckin’ little brat,” Elvis finally snarls and yanks you with him to the couch. He slams down and pulls you over his knees, and suddenly, a memory from a long time ago flashes in your brain, one you had entirely pushed out of your mind. You choke on it as it floods back to you, knowing he must remember, too, knowing that everything is quite different this time around.

You gasp when Elvis pulls up your dress and yanks down your panties, the cold air of the room hitting your most sensitive areas. “Elvis! Elvis, don’t you dare, don’t you even--!” you shriek, writhing in his lap, not knowing if your words are protests or encouragements at this point.

When his open palm slaps your ass, the sound reverberates through the suite, the sting radiating down your thighs and sending water into your eyes. You gasp again, more from surprise than anything. Surprise that while it smarts, it doesn’t feel bad.

“Elvis,” you breathe out, wriggling in his lap.

He holds you to him. “Oh, don’t you ‘Elvis’ me. You’ve been an obstinate, naughty lil’ brat, and I ain’t havin’ it,” he says through gritted teeth before bringing his hand biting down onto the other cheek.

You hold back your cry, digging your nails into his thigh instead, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a big reaction. Beyond the sting, you feel heat gathering in your belly, but you don’t want him to know that either.

“Seems ya need a lesson or two about how to behave, now don’tcha, you naughty lil’ girl?” he seethes, laced with a sneer. He brings down his hand again, and this time you can’t hold back the sound that emanates from your throat, a whiny moan.

“Ah, that’s what I thought,” Elvis purrs wickedly, rubbing your stinging skin with his fingers. You are completely at his mercy now, your frustrations unravelling under his touch. You buck in his lap, needing more, needing him to ease your toxic thoughts.

“Hmm, you like rilin’ me up? Like gettin’ me all worked up and jealous, huh?” He smacks your ass again, this time his fingers grazing your core. You moan fully now, unable and unwilling to contain it, tears running down your face, your heat building in the most confounding of ways.

“Answer me—didja pull that lil’ stunt on purpose, baby?” he asks, his hand reverberating on you again.

“Y-yes,” you breathe out.

“Yes, what?” he pushes, palming your ass, leaning down towards your ear, his breath hot.

It takes you a second in your haze to piece together what exactly Elvis wants, and once you do, it sends a delectable shiver down your spine. Once again, he never ceases to amaze you in how he can bring out pleasure in you that you never knew you craved or needed.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whine.

You hear him choke back a groan at that and next to your arm, you feel a twitch in his pants. You can’t help but smile.

“You wanted my attention, and now you’re gettin’ it, honey. Is that what you want?” he says, heat leeching from his voice.

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathe again.

He brings his hand down one more time with a grunt, and you cry out in pleasure and pain, ass raw but you are somehow feeling a release that you didn’t know you needed.

“Look at you, baby,” Elvis says, somewhere between pride and surprise, running a finger through your folds, which unbeknownst to you are dripping wet. You bite your lip at the contact, sucking a breath in. You want him to touch you, but instead he pulls you up to face him. You hiss at the feeling of your raw ass hitting the backs of your heels as you kneel on the sofa.

He takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him, tears staining your cheeks. “I need ya to look at me, honey,” he orders. You do. His eyes are still dark, but his fury has been tempered by lust.

“You been waitin’ eight long years for me to do that, haven’t ya?” he murmurs. Of course, he remembers exactly how long it’s been.

Your heart flutters and you nod, admitting to yourself that it may have crossed your mind once or twice, in your most secret moments.

“Ain’t nobody else touched you like that, baby?” The way he asks it is almost laced with hope, hope that this is something of you that only he gets to have.

“Never,” you whisper, shaking your head, his hand still gripping your chin.

“Only me, huh? Good girl,” he says, pleased. He lets go of your chin, wiping the tears off your face with his thumb. Then he looks in your eyes.

“I need you to be truthful with me now, baby, yeah? Don’t just tell me what you think I want to hear. Do you want me to keep bein’ rough with ya? Are ya likin’ that? Because if you don’t, I’m gonna stop,” he asks, voice real low.

You appreciate him pausing long enough to ask you and you consider him for a moment, though it doesn’t take long. “Yes, I like it,” you say, surprising yourself with the truth of it.

That dark look flashes over Elvis’ face again, and it sends a thrill right through you.

“Okay, but you tell me if you need me to stop, promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good, cuz I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet and I’m still fuckin’ pissed,” he growls. Your heart plummets into your belly with excitement as you watch the sweetness drain from his eyes, replaced by his fervent anger from earlier.

And you smile.

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giantchasm · 10 months

Text

Random Kirby Headcanon #19

As an astral, Kirby doesn’t have a biological family. However, shortly after he arrived in Dreamland, Rick, Kine and Coo took him in, and they’ve effectively served as his parents ever since. Similarly, he sees the the rest of the Animal Friends as family, with Nago as a beloved uncle and Chuchu and Pitch as siblings.

Dedede comes from a kingdom many miles from Dreamland. He grew up a spoiled only child who was enabled by his parents. He wasn’t royalty, but he dang sure felt like he was! This led to him developing a massive ego, and eventually he was kicked out for generally being a lazy and rude person. His family told him he needed to change, and he clearly wasn’t going to do that here. Shortly after, Dedede found Dreamland and declared himself king, and well… the rest is history.

Surprisingly, Dedede still has a good relationship with his family despite getting booted like that. In hindsight, he realized it was what he needed, and they seem to be proud of him for finally maturing into a relatively well-adjusted adult despite their originally sub-par parenting.

Meta Knight was created by Nightmare, so the evil wizard is technically his ‘father.’ However, he’s long since cut him off, and considers the Halberd crew his family instead.

Bandee grew up an only child. This is an EXTREMELY rare occurrence for Waddle Dees. In a way, though, it’s what spurred his independent, self-sufficient behavior. He was raised by an only mom who he’s still very close to, and seems to get some of his fiery behavior from her.

Interestingly, Bandee and his mother did not live at the castle or serve Dedede. They had no interest in doing so. It wasn’t until later that Bandee stared working for the king

More under cut!

Rick grew up the eldest of eight children on another planet. His family wasn’t very well off, but his mother and father tried their best to provide for them. Eventually, he set out looking for adventure, but he and his family are still close, and he regularly visits.

Kine was the youngest of three siblings. His siblings pushed him around a bit as a kid, so he learned how to strike back relatively quickly. That said, it was never anything more than well-intentioned teasing, and he still loves his family even if they can get on his nerves.

Coo has a twin sister. She’s much, much, MUCH more rambunctious and bubbly than he is— a bit of a daredevil, too. One has to wonder if his more serious and stern nature arose from keeping her in check when they were young.

Nago grew up on the same planet as Rick, albeit better off. The two didn’t know each other super well, but they were acquainted, at the very least. He was the middle sibling. Eventually, he too set off to make his own, and also traveled to Popstar. There, he bumped into Rick, who offered to take him in for a bit. He ended up getting on well with the rest of the Animal Friends, though, and so he’s just sort of… stayed.

Apparently his siblings are every bit as lazy and cuddly as he is. Their favorite activity as kids was laying in a big snuggle pile basking in the sun together.

Pitch is, believe it or not, Coo’s son. Initially, he had no relationship with his father, who was a bit irresponsible at the time— afraid of commitment, and effectively left his mother on her own. Eventually, though, after Coo took in Kirby, he realized he wanted a relationship with Pitch and reached out. Pitch’s mother was hesitant at first, but cautiously agreed, and nowadays they’re healthy coparents, with Coo having apologized for how he treated her and explaining it.

Chuchu was found washed up on one of Dreamland’s beaches one day, VERY young with nowhere to go. It seems she was probably separated from her birth family? The Animal Friends— especially Kine ended up looking after her, though, and she’s completely content having them as a family.

Gooey does not have a traditional biological family as Dark Matter. Technically the rest of the species is a family of sorts, but he doesn’t like them all too much. Instead, he also considers the Animal Friends his family.

Marx has no real relationship with his family. They’re your typical sleepy Noddies and so he generally finds them boring and un-noteworthy.

Adeleine grew up on Shiver Star alone due to reasons I should really get into in another post eventually. As such, she has no known biological family, but after Kirby 64 she was effectively taken in by Queen Ripple.

Ribbon’s parents disappeared shortly after she was born. Her mother— close friends with Queen Ripple, asked her to keep an eye on Ribbon while they were off on a quest, but they… never returned. Ripple doesn’t think they were the type to leave their daughter behind, and so it’s unfortunately likely something bad happened. She’s raised Ribbon for the majority of her life, and the two of them are very close despite the fact that Ripple was more or less tossed into this completely unprepared for it to be a long term thing at first.

Dark Meta Knight considers Dark Mind his ‘father.’ Like Nightmare created Meta Knight, it created him. He’s loyal to a fault to the corrupt being, and would do almost anything for it.

Daroach grew up an orphan on the same planet as Rick and Nago. He never really knew Nago, but he’d sneak out of the orphanage to get up to shenanigans with Rick, as the two of them were childhood besties. Eventually, after a fallout with Rick as adults, he returned to their home planet, where he met the rest of the Squeaks, who he now effectively considers his family. Spinni and the Squeakers in particular were a bunch of kids he busted out of the same orphanage he grew up in.

Magolor has no known family, never having met his parents and having grown up in Another Dimension. This is something he’s touchy about, and he’s secretly deeply insecure over not even knowing what he ‘is’ or what sort of history he comes from.

Following Star Allies, though, he’s sort of started inserting himself into the Jamba family. He quite looks up to Hyness as an ancient as well as a more mature adult and likes the Mage Sisters as well, so desperate for a place to belong, he’s started being like “I can join your found family, riiiighhhtt? I’m a cool guy.” And inviting himself to their holiday dinners.

Hyness just hasn’t had the heart to turn him away. He’s a poor little kitty with nowhere to go! Of course he can be considered part of their family. 🥺🥺🥺

Zan Partizanne wants him to die.

Taranza grew up an only child and a commoner, and is estranged from his parents. They never quite approved of his friendship with Joronia, thinking she was a bad influence on him, and at only 14 or 15 he ran away to become her retainer despite their objections. In theory, things were still salvageable at that point, but seeing as how he’s since aided and abetted a dictator I think his parents are pretty disgusted with him. They sincerely think they raised a monster, and from the perspective of the rest of Floralia, they’re not entirely wrong.

He’s considered trying to fix things with them but always decided against it. He has a feeling they’d try to make him admit to Joronia being bad the whole time and them having been right all along, and he simply won’t hear it. She was a good person until he messed everything up. He won’t spit on her memory like that.

Joronia/Sectonia herself also had a poor relationship with her family. She was always held to an extremely high, if not outright unhealthy standard when she was younger, and they pretty much never let her have fun or be a kid. When she went off the deep end she ended up having them assassinated alongside the rest of the royal court, terrified someone would try to usurp her.

Susie’s relationship with her father is obvious. She’s never known her mother, though. Haltmann was irresponsible and messed around a bit when he was younger. One instance of this messing around resulted in Susie. Shortly afterwards, her mother showed up on Haltmann’s door, saying she had no idea what she was going to do. She was considering finding someone else to take care of the child, but at least wanted to ask him for his input first as the father.

Initially, Haltmann was all-in on this plan, but once he saw Susie herself something just… changed. He realized she was little and vulnerable and his, pretty much instantly falling in love. He never planned to be a father before that, especially not as young as he became one, but he just couldn’t bear the idea of leaving this sweet little kid in anyone else’s hands. If he didn’t protect her, who would?

As such, he pretty much fully embraced the role of single dad while the mother handed Susie over to him and they parted on good terms. Susie doesn’t think she’d be interested in meeting her mom. It’s not like she’s ever has a relationship with her, and it would probably just make her sad. She’s not looking for a replacement for the parent she had and lost.

Francisca has no recollection of her biological family, having been found alone in a blizzard when she was too young to form long term memories. Flamberge was close with her biological family—consisting of a mother, a father, and two older sisters, but all four of them died in the fire that nearly took her life as well. Zan Partizanne refuses to speak about her biological family, but the general understanding is they were extremely abusive, quite literally driving her to the brink.

Nowadays they, obviously, consider each other family, alongside Hyness. In fact, if you were to ask Francisca and Zan, this is the only real family they’ve ever had.

Hyness had a traumatizing childhood. He was very close with his parents, but was young when he and the other magic users were driven from their homes. Both of his parents ended up dying on the journey being chased to the very edge of the galaxy and he never quite got over it. He was taken care of by the other magic users, but eventually fell into the occult looking for some sense of control over his life. Now, many years later, he’s an unwell old man.

While Elfilin and Forgo have no real parents (Except, perhaps, Elfilin considering Carol something akin to a mother figure), Elfilis was actually created by Morpho Knight. It was hoping to create a being that would strike down the wicked and fell corrupt societies en masse. Elfilis quickly got out of control, however, considering just about everyone wicked, and when they were captured Morpho decided it was probably for the best not to help. It abandoned its only creation.

When Morpho appeared to put Fecto Forgo out of its misery in Forgo Dreams, Forgo sincerely thought Morpho was finally coming to rescue it. It was not.

Morpho has since taken to watching Elfilin from a distance, grateful that some good, at least, could come from its mistake.

Galacta grew up with a sister around the same age as him. She wasn’t one of the heroes of yore, but they were decently close, although they also argued a fair amount… especially about how far he’d go on occasion. When the Ancients turned on Galacta, they turned on her too, paranoid she would try to free him. Also testing out the ability to create magical artifacts through channeling peoples’ souls at the time, they sealed her in a legendary sword, that way she could never interfere with their plans.

I believe her name was something like… Galaxia? No-one’s quite sure, though. It seems she just hasn’t gone down in history in the same way.

Prince Fluff’s mom also left when he was young, setting off in search of the creator of Patchland, who she was very close with once upon a time, but who seemingly abandoned her since. Ironically, in doing so, it seems she effectively went on to abandon someone as well: her own son, seeing as she’s never returned. Fluff doesn’t know if she’s still out there somewhere, still searching, or if a terrible fate has befallen her. Either way, he’s been alone for most of his life and was forced to grow up far too young.

#Kirby #sack’s kirbyverse

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allycat75 · 14 days

Text

You are turning out to be much worse than the douchebag I once thought you were, Boston Dumb Fuck.

You know, when you first came onto the scene, I really couldn't stand you. I would see your generic smug mug in a movie and always say, "well he's in it, it's gonna suck!"

Even when you got Captain America, I pondered, "who did he have to blow to get that gig?" But then I saw The Avengers and I thought, "He's not so bad. I didn't puke when he recited his lines."

Then I caught wind of your political tweets and was rather impressed. See, I like when people surprise me by being much more complex than what I thought them to be. So there appeared to be more depth to the Hollywood fuckboi chuckle head afterall. Then, of course, I melted completely when I saw Dodger's adoption video.

And I have been enjoying watching your career, as well as what I thought was your personal growth, for the past few years. Your performances were authentic because you seemed to put in the work. Even in bad movies, you gave us something solid. That is up until probably The Grey Man junket and premieres in the summer of 2022 when you gave us the first obvious "I want a partner..." manipulation and we saw more than a few appearances of Pissy Chrissy.

From there it has just been an embarrassing downward spiral of additional manipulations, breadcrumbing, lame stunts and pranks, photoshopped tableaus, pathological lies, dissociation, gaslighting, hypocrisy, laziness, disturbing hints of misogyny and narcissism, privledge, perpetuating dangerous myths about what love and respect actually look like (some girls look at how shitty you treated the "love of your life" during that Central Park calamity and think "oh, I want an older, rich man to take care of me and I know I can change him so he will treat me better"), a mentally unstable GQ article (and even a bit of the SMA was concerning), 2 completely made up kinda "ceremonies", pretending to attend fancy parties where real celebrities (including Alec Fucking Baldwin 🫤) were actually invited to- begging for an ounce of pathetic attention (like Oliver Twist holding an empty bowl of gruel asking "can I have some more?"), being obviously unconfortable holding the Nazi wifey's hand, giving her a peck on her nicotine and herpie infested mouth, wearing a toxic ring 3 sizes too big (yes we all see your hand shoved in your pants big guy), taking the ring on and off constantly like a nervous tick, phoned in acting performances for sub-par scripts with sub-par directors (the best thing I can say about you in Ghosted is that you were only the second worst actor; Adrian Brody was far more offensive, enough so that I wanted to revoke his Oscar; Pain Hustlers should have never been made and everyone involved owes an apology to anyone really suffering from the Opiod crisis), selfishly using your fans, friends and family (including Dodger) for your own gain (often without consent), soulless eyes that once sparkled and just general foolishness and time wasting,... how I long for the days I thought of you only as a douchebag.

If I could only get a read on your self assessment of the last three years, as it seems we may be at the precipice of some change and announcements, or perhaps just more lies and bullshit. Do you feel bad, but hey the industry makes you do things you dont want to do? That there is no such thing as negative emotions and nothing bad will ever happen (because you did actually say that in an interview)? Or do you see the destruction in front of you and understand your role? More importantly, do you know you have to change, regardless of who is coming to save your ass? And do you care enough to make amends to the very real people you have hurt? The worst being yourself- by crossing the work-life barrier, you have created a dangerous new reality for yourself where you are a mere character in a life being written by a room of untalented writers, directed by nefarious puppetmasters for networks that want to cancel you the minute you are irrelevant and don't make them a buck. You don't exist as a sentient being anymore, just as a projection of what others want, or don't want, you to be.

Can you find your way back to something actually real and authentic? Do you even understand what that is anymore? I just don't know.

#You need some serious fucking help!#No more shushing #Liars suck!#i hate hypocrites #i don't like manipulation #Brian Wilson vibes #You are the company you keep- past and present #You are still soulless #Do you understand how many people you hurt and disrespected and disappointed?#Do you even care?#Went from everyone's internet BF to everyone's creepy uncle who can't make a good decision to save his life; and it got you worse roles.#What was the point? Was it worth it?

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sariastrategos · 1 year

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Writing prompt! Hux being a snooty tea aficionado while Kylo's like "it's not that deep". Bonus if Kylo tries to make Hux some tea and and it's just water and leaves, getting Hux all flustered up on his high horse about varieties and steeping times, etc.

I love this so much, reminds me of my tea shop AU!

“Listen, I know you’re particular about everything, but don’t you think this is a bit much?”

Hux scoffed “There is nothing wrong with being particular, I shouldn’t have to settle for sub-par in anything. And no, this is perfect.”

They stood looking at the machine Hux had dramatically revealed moments ago, expecting the deserved oohs and ahhs such a marvel was due. Kylo had looked at it and raised an eyebrow. Hux was beyond thrilled with the final product and Kylo was certain it had been a waste of time and effort.

“It isn’t a kettle you neanderthal” Hux clicked his tongue and took a calming breath before continuing, quite patiently he thought. “It’s a variable range temperature controller. You see I pour water in the reservoirs and-“

“And it heats it to whatever temperature you program it to?” He asked wryly.

“Yes, exactly!” He replied excitedly. Or as outwardly excited as he ever got. “I can program any temperature I want and-“

“And it boils the water.” Kylo felt his lips twitching up.

“It heats the water precisely to the set temperature. To the very degree!” Hux told him, desperately trying to impress upon him how magnificent the machine was and rapidly losing his own enthusiasm.

“So it’s a very precise kettle.” He replied, amused “It’s still just a kettle.”

Hux had kicked him out after that. He may have deserved it, Hux had apparently put a lot of hours into designing and building his very own water heater. With separate reservoirs that heated individually in case a guest wanted a different tea. Kylo understood being proud of something you’d made but Hux had already had a perfectly fine kettle that even heated the water to different temperatures. Maybe not to within ‘the very degree’ but an acceptable range was fine for most people.

Not to Hux who shunned tea from the mess hall or anything not prepared meticulously by himself. Kylo had seen him choke down a cup of tea at a social event with a dignitary they’d needed to secure relations with. He’d looked like someone had handed him water from the garbage disposal as he forced down sip after sip until the cup was empty. He’d politely declined a second cup, he was watching his caffeine intake he’d lied through his liar teeth. Kylo had declined simply because he didn’t like tea.

So fine, Hux’s big things were tea, engineering and precision in all things. And maybe he should have at least made an effort to fake interest. Made the oohs and ahhs Hux felt were due. Not that Hux would have believed it for a second but he appreciated whenever he made an effort.

Often when it came to Kylo, Hux was satisfied if he at least tried. The bar was pretty low but he somehow managed to slide under it.

He’d make it up to him. Go back later on once he’d cooled off with a few cups of precisely boiled tea. He’d tell him to give him a demonstration, to the very degree, and pretend to be suitably impressed. He’d choke down the examples of perfection and Hux would be delighted and appeased with his suffering. Apology via self sacrifice.

Hux wouldn’t give him the chance.

“Ren I don’t have time to entertain you.” He’d declared the moment the door opened. “I have work to do and so do you.”

“Well…maybe we could work together? You can make me a cup of your fancy tea and we-“

“Your pathetic attempt at an apology for your shameful lack of appreciation for my efforts is less important than my budget reports.” And the door was shut in his face.

Ouch. Shunned for budget reports…

So Hux may be more upset than he thought.

A bigger gesture would be required.

He spent a few days trying to talk to him. Asked him how his day was going (“like you care”) how were the budget reports? (“Can you even tell me what a budget is? Hm? After destroying yet another console when I expressly told you the expense?”) how was Millie? (“You leave her out of this!”).

He even tried brewing him a cup of tea! Maybe a little to show him that the precise temperature barely mattered but also as a peace offering. He’d made sure to put in exactly as much tea as he’d seen Hux use and followed the steeping times and everything.

Hux had sniffed it like it might be poison, sneering in distaste but he tried it. He took a tentative sip and promptly spat it back out into the cup “Stars, Kylo, what did you brew this in? A metal kettle? Did you even strain it, there’s leaves everywhere!”

“You can taste the kettle I used?” Was he serious? “And of course I strained it, it’s just hard to get all the pieces out!”

“Of course I can taste it, there’s an awful metal tang! A standard kettle no less, the leaves, which are everywhere by the way, did you even use an infuser? The leaves have been scalded by the incorrect temperature and made it bitter. Undrinkable. Thank you for the further insult.” He thrust the cup back at Kylo who just barely caught it and stomped away.

Hurt and anger rolled off him in waves, amplified whenever Kylo was close enough. The crew had picked up on the tension, barely hiding the fact they were watching and listening to their conversation. Not even bothering to cover their smirks as he stomped off the bridge. They were all Hux’s men and he’d never bothered to endear himself to them. Perhaps he should have. Ever since their argument, his favourite foods were mysteriously all gone from the caf before he could get there.

Before he could figure out a way back into Hux’s good graces, and by extension the crew’s, he was sent away. A minor planet under their control was trying to rise against them, burning banners and FO symbols, declaring their freedom. Kylo and his Knights were dispatched to quell the matter quickly and a contingent of troopers left behind to maintain control.

It was on his way back that he got the idea. They were right by the system…

He informed his Knights of a detour and that they were to proceed without him. A chorus of acknowledgements rippled around him laced with amusement and at least one impression of a whip being cracked. He had old them to fuck off and changed his flight path.

The delay had cost him several hours, two hundred credits and the mortification of walking in civilian clothes through the streets but he thought it would be worth it. The looks he got stalking the halls with his prize grated against him. The amusement flooding his senses even more so. But he would bear it. The echo of Hux’s disappointment and hurt had followed him like an echo for long enough.

He approached his quarters with no small amount of trepidation and fumbled the basket to remove his helmet. Took the time to position everything just so, precision in all things, presentation. Hit the request for entry button.

It opened seconds later “Where the hell have you been? Your Knights-“ Hux’s furious face morphed into one of surprise. A look Kylo didn’t get to see very often but now was not the time to revel in it.

“I’m sorry.” He told him quickly “Your work deserved more than my derision. You put time and effort into it, you were happy and proud of it and I didn’t appreciate it as I should have.”

The surprise only grew with each word and when he held out his offerings he thought he almost saw his jaw drop. Almost. “I’d like to make it up to you.”

Hux took the offered items from him, the tiniest hint of pink at his ears and Kylo thought maybe he’d done well. He belatedly hoped the general had no allergies as he leaned forward to delicately sniff at the perhaps overly large assortment. Hoped the shopkeeper had made good recommendations from the sparse information he was able to give them. That the baked goods weren’t too sweet. Hux didn’t like sweet. He liked tart. Citrus. Shortbreads and lemon tarts were the sweetest he’d seen him go. Was it enough? Was it too much?

“Kylo this is…” the struggle for words gave him a slight thrill of hope “You went out of your way to get these things? For me?”

Kylo nodded, tried not to swell up with pride when the pink crept down into his cheeks. Hux hated blushing, thought it made him look splotchy and undignified. Kylo sought to make him flush as often as he could.

“Kylo is that tea from the-“

“The Christoph system? It is.”

“Don’t interrupt me.” He glared. The rebuke held less venom than it might have normally. Lost some of its impact with the colour staining his cheeks. “You went to the Christoph system to get me tea and flowers? Because I was mad at you?”

Kylo shifted his weight from foot to foot, an action he was supposed to have grown out of, and measured his words carefully. “Because I was an asshole and I hurt you. And I needed to make it up to you. I may have gone a little overboard…”

Hux huffed at him, the corners of his mouth beginning to twitch up. “I don’t know, the insult to my work was worth at least the flowers.” They’d die all too soon “But I do appreciate the effort.” Kylo smiled hopefully “Did you get me six teas?”

He ran a hand through his hair “I couldn’t pick one. I don’t know enough about tea, I just told the guy your three favourites and he recommended these-“

“You know my favourite teas?” The colour bloomed a little brighter, reaching across his nose. “How?”

“I do listen when you talk” Kylo smiled “I notice things. Like when you reach for your tarine and click your tongue when there’s only a little left. The little hum when you take your first sip of Orange Pekoe with an extra scoop of tea in the afternoon. You like lemon ginger if you’re feeling ‘less than optimal’ and trying to hide it. I notice.” He finished quietly.

The flush had well and truly reached his collar and beyond. “Would you like to come in for a cup?”

“I would love to.”

He might not know a thing about tea.

But he knew Hux.

@janzoo I love you I’m sorry it took so long!! What a fic this turned into, thank you for the prompt!

#Hux is insane about tea #Kylo has no fucks for it #but he’ll do a lot for Hux #asks are still open #still taking prompts #star wars #general hux #armitage hux #kylo ren #kylux #writing #asks #prompt fills #tea

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mikka-minns · 1 year

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Hey Minnie! Hope you don't mind me coming into your inbox to ramble, but I had a realization and a theory that I think you might appreciate.

So, I know we always complain about Dominic as The Guy Who Can't Write MK, and I do think he's part of the problem, but I think the real final boss of Bad MK Writers is Shawn Kittelsen.

He wrote the MKX comic, and is thus responsible for "Cassie was the result of a one night stand and Sonya never loved Johnny before MKX" (which is a bullshit interpretation of their dynamic), Hanzo "Sub-Zero is Beyond Saving Let's Just Leave Him For Dead" Hasashi, and probably other awful shit (oh wait, now I remember. Killing off a bunch of characters unceremoniously, for really no reason other than blood. That's just a shitty use of resources)

He started working on the games in MK11, and I'm pretty fucking sure he's responsible for Kotal/Jade (weird because it has no buildup), past Sonya being an unrepentant bitch (telling the father of your future daughter to get a vasectomy when you know said daughter personally is bitch behavior. As is not reading a mission report all the way through. Sonya is an emotionally repressed soldier, duty comes before everything for her. That's kinda the point of her arc in MKX??? But now she's suddenly incapable of understanding the idea that military service is about duty and sacrifice), the weird sexual threats Shao Kahn dishes out (because what the FUCK NRS? That's never been an aspect of the character before. Forced marriage, yes, but you'll note that he has no offspring of his own. Also, that's just a little much for the tone of MK), and probably the Sindel Retcon.

I have no idea what we're getting at, other than "Dominic is semi competent at writing" and "Shawn might just be on par with Stephen King, but only if you're comparing his writing to the sewer scene in IT."

Dont worry, i dont mind at all! I do appreciate this!☺️

And yeah, Shawn is apsolutley to blame as well. I think that the whole NRS writing team hates the franchise tbh(not the whole, but the Ones who write the most important stuff for the games and media). I did hear he was one of the main writters for mk11.

You are right tho, his interpretation of the characters that he did in the comics is pretty much what is ruining them the most(before mk11 ofc). I first found mkx the game and then the comics and without the knowlage of what comic!Hanzo did, i Just Kinda Thought he was Just a vengfull ass, but then the comics are what made me hate him.

I realy want to know what all of these mfs are smoking, cuz it doesnt seem like its good for them.

I also heard that mkx the game and mkx the comic were in production at the same time, so whoever was in charge of making sure they are on the same Page didnt do a good job, since the comics are not even complitely Canon at the end. Mostly cuz they didnt fit in with the game's narative and the characters were off(even they noticed, but a little too late). The "Cassie is a product of a one night stand" is one of them, cuz, in the game, some of the dialogue seems to indicate that Sonya was realy in love with Johnny and they only divorced later cuz of their marriage problems.

Some of their choices for mk11 are just disturbing. Someone Thought of that and actualy presented it and then someone ALLOWED it!

And Ed Boon seems to not give a flying f about what people do to the franchise he has built. Just stands around and hopes it makes him money.

In advance, i apologize if i ended up a bit biased and its complitely alright and understandable if Someone disagrees with me. I am in no way a profesional and probably just letting my emotions do all talking. (imma be honest, im mostly mad cuz the torture Kuai and then make him the bad guy or imply his life is easy)

#Mortal kombat #Mortal kombat x #Mkx comics

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allylikethecat · 4 months

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ally!! i am extremely busy with uni assignments rn and keeping my new puppy from destroying everything and unfortunately for me i have had NO time to read your wonderful updates.

i did however find some time to read the latest on a friday update today and i was going INSANE. tbh i’m about to treat myself to a re-read rn bc omg you are insane and this update was so good. (also can’t believe you double updated us that’s so crazy it’s like christmas - i cannot wait to read ducklings)

first of all fictional!matty’s distress was so wonderfully written i don’t know how you manage to devastate me and get me more and more invested each time u put him through something lol it’s SO GOOOD

secondly, i’m afraid i may have to accuse you of being a bit of a liar bc there is no way that you can claim to be a sub-par smut writer after this — this chapter was so intense and so well-written and i truly think your writing (smut and otherwise lol) is so wonderful — i just hope that you see that too!!!!!

p.s this dynamic between fictional!matty and fictional!george is lowkey super hot i love how u write these characters, my friend u r a genius !

— 💌

Ahhh hello my dear 💌 anon! No worries all oh my gosh! The updates will always be there! I hope that uni is going well and a new puppy is SO EXCITING even if they are trying to destroy everything 🥺

Ahhh I'm so happy to hear that you enjoyed the new chapter of On a Friday though!! I was feeling rather insecure about it since 1) smut isn't something I am very confident in writing (even though everyone has been so supportive and lovely and kind about my attempt omg) and 2) I was like... is it too jarring having Fictional!Matty going from crying in the bathtub to getting fucked lol

AHH I'm so happy that you enjoyed the angst portion of the chapter, I really wanted to show how panicked and not in the right headspace he was, and how irrational his thought process was (ex. he was paying the alpha to help him, everything was on his terms she was never going to actually hurt him and he was only able to shove her off of him because she let him because he was in control of their interactions the entire time) I'm so glad you liked it though I do apologize for the devastation 😬

Oh my gosh 🥰 this is honestly so kind of you to say. I'm so happy that you enjoy my writing in general but that you also enjoyed my attempt at writing smut! I know I have a long way to go, and will hopefully get more confident but I'm so glad that my first attempt wasn't as embarrassing as I feared it would be. I'm so glad that you like their dynamic! I've had a lot of fun working on it and building it up / fleshing it out- it's different from some of the other Fictional!Matty/Fictional!George dynamics I've crafted and leaning into those differences has been super fun and rewarding!

I can't wait to hear your thoughts on Ducklings when the time comes and I hope you continue to enjoy my fics! Thank you again for the continued support!! Once again I hope uni and the new puppy are going well, and that you are having a fantastic Monday and a great rest of your week!

❤️Ally

#allylikethecat #ask ally #anon ask #keep it kind #fanfiction #gatty #matty fic #fanfic #on a friday #omega verse #omegaverse #the next chapter is smutty too #its not finished yet because im me lol #but im hoping its maybe even a bit better than this one?#idk im trying to bring the heat and get out of my head with it lol #i over think lol

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rsfive · 1 year

Text

Bottom line is, these guys are top notch in every way.So, I started seeing shingles in the landscaping debris and didn't think much of it. Then, a few months later, the "storm chasers" (sub-par roofing companies that come around the neighborhood and try to get you to re-do your roof with them) came around and tried to get us into a contract right then and there. I wasn't really sure what was going on, so, I called my insurance company. Long story short, they approved a new roof due to storm damage that had occurred 11 months prior. I told my adjuster that I wasn't sure about the storm chaser company and asked them for recommendations for contractors. My "A" rated insurance company suggested 3 contractors of which RS Five was one. Only 2 of the 3 offered to come out for proposals, so, that knocked 3 out right away. I called RS Five and spoke to Steve who set an appointment to come out the next day. Steve and Marty showed up early and did their own inspection. They found additional damage that the insurance company missed the first time. They were able to get those additions approved for payment. I liked that they were informative and explained everything they were going to do. They also dealt directly with the insurance company so I didn't have to. After all, I'm a software guy, not a roofer. On the day of work, Steve and Marty were both out doing pre-install inspections and prep with the crew. After checking the manifest for proper materials (this becomes important in the next few sentences) the supply company delivered the roofing by crane, right to the top of the roof. The guys began work and by the end of the day we had a new roof. NOW FOR THE KICKER - My wife gets home and says "why is there red in my roof" Turns out the supplier had mismarked the shingles and inadvertently delivered the wrong ones to the site. Upon checking the manifest, all was good. Upon installation all was wrong. Of course, the crew would never have noticed. They didn't know what we ordered. They just install what get's delivered. Anyway, we didn't notice until the end of the day when the last lower part of the roof on the garage, visible from the ground, was done. I called Steve and said that you guys installed the wrong shingles. He laughed and though I was joking. They began investigating the issue and found that the supplier was at fault and had indeed mismarked the pallets. Steve and Marty both came out to apologize and committed to fixing the roof right away. Sure enough, a few days later, the crew was back out ripping the newly installed roof off and re-installed the proper one. This time we all checked the shingles. Twice At the end of that day, we had the beautiful new roof we wanted and it looked great. The other new roof looked great too mind you, but, red was just not our thing. So, not only did RS Five perform flawlessly under normal circumstances, they dealt with a major issue beyond our expectations. We were so pleased with this company that we started telling our neighbors. I believe RS Five did another 5 or so homes in our neighborhood. They totally deserved the business in my opinion. Several members of the team would stop by from time to time after the install to make sure things were good. No leaks, no loose shingles, etc. Sometimes Steve and Marty would just drive by and crack a joke when I was outside doing something int he yard. Just a great bunch of guys who truly care about their work and customers. They don't chase storms and knock on doors. Their business comes from referral and word of mouth. The fact that our insurance company recommended RS Five meant a lot and gave me some piece of mind going into the process. The team, their strong work ethic and overall knowledge and command of the market needs, kept us at ease and very happy with the overall job. I'm pleased to be able to write this review and would truly recommend this company time and time again.

Call Us: (847) 556-8667

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blacksun-judar · 2 years

Text

Relationship headcanons with Haruchiyo Sanzu ❀

rating/warnings: second part is nsfw! mdni. mentions of knife and gun play, choking, degradation, dacryphilia, overstim and other mature themes.

notes: english is not my first language, so I apologize for any and all mistakes. I'd let this man do unspeakable things to me.

masterlist

• oh honey, what were you thinking?

• no really, you’re in for a ride.

• this man is unhinged in the best and worst ways imaginable and you’re his number one prey.

• i pin sanzu as someone for whom the concept of personal space simply doesn’t exist. he loves to touch you, not necessarily in a sexual way. but feeling your warmth grounds him and provides a sense of security. • all those drugs really mess with his head, so memory issues and mood swings are a given.

• he keeps track of important dates by writing sticky notes or setting reminders on his phone.

• doesn’t want to lash out at you but if he’s had an especially rough week even the smallest of things can tick him off. won’t harm you physically but by god this man has a foul mouth.

• i only really see sanzu working out with someone who accepts him for who he is. you may suggest he tone down the drugs or work a little less but don’t expect him to quit either. • he is a workaholic par excellence, so please understand if he has to prioritize bonten at times. • it’s not that he doesn’t want to spend time with you, quite the opposite actually. but living life as a criminal, there’s just things he can’t forsee.

• if you make him choose between yourself and bonten, he’ll 1000% go with the latter. • firstly, quitting bonten not only meant certain death for himself but it also put you at high risk of being hurt. secondly, if you truly loved him, you wouldn’t force such a decision on him.

• I mentioned this in another post but sanzu is a surprisingly good cook. he sucks at anything else domestic but preparing a dinner for you at least once a week is his way of making up for all those nights he couldn’t spend with you.

• despite what he seems, this man has a really gentle and playful side that only you really get to see.

• cute date nights at home playing video games or watching movies.

• sometimes he’ll even have you paint his nails or do his hair.

• likes going out for drinks and flaunting you around. if there’s people checking you out it fills him with a weird sense of pride. though they’d better not stare for too long.

• loves watching you do just about anything. you could be sitting at your desk reading a book or doing laundry and he’s completely enamoured.

• really into matching couple outfits.

NSFW

• freak. absolute freak.

• name any kink and there’s a 99,9999% chance he’s into it.

• definitely leans more towards dom but by god does he make for a good bratty sub too.

• likes it messy. like really, really messy. • if you’re a squirter. he’ll make sure to soak the sheets with your juices and won’t stop until you’re a trembling mess

• knife and gun play!!! you know he’d never actually pull the trigger but that small glint of fear makes him so hard. if you let him, he’d carve his initals into your pretty skin. and of course he’d be happy to have you return the favour.

• please tease him. a lot. sanzu likes a challenge and he doesn’t want you to just lie there lifelessly.

• let him know you’re just as into it as he is. tug his hair, scratch his back, bite his lip, anything.

• sometimes wears a cockring to keep him from cumming so soon.

• very high libido. doesn’t always act on his urges but he’s ready to go whenever you are.

• sanzu enjoys giving head as much as receiving. • definitely a head pusher because how could he help himself when your pretty lips feel so heavenly around his cock. you’re just so good that he barely lets you get a breath in. • sometimes he’ll tie your hands to the headboard and fuck your throat until there’s tears streaming down your face.

• again, loves the mess.

• if you’re on top, overstim him. he swears he can take it.

• very vocal and will degrade you to hell and back. nothing but filth leaves this man’s mouth and he absolutely needs to hear you beg for him. • one of these days your pretty little moans will be the death of him.

• definitely into choking. Because nothing beats the way your gummy walls tighten impossibly harder around his cock whenever his fingers are wrapped around your neck.

• surprisingly gentle after sex. whispers sweet nothings into your ear and loves taking a bath together.

#blacksun judar writes #haruchiyo sanzu #haruchiyo akashi #tokyo revengers #sanzu x reader #sanzu hcs #tokyorev x reader #sanzu smut

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fandoms-writings · 3 years

Text

Wedding Bells

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary: You’re getting married, and Bucky was invited, but not as the groom.

Word Count: 6.8K

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, violence, mention of injury (stabbing)

A/N: I’ve been out of the writing game for awhile and this is my first Bucky Barnes fic, but I had to write for him because he has my heart.

Bucky Masterlist || Main Masterpost

Dread.

That’s all that was stirring in Bucky’s stomach in the hours leading up to the big moment.

Your big moment.

He wishes you hadn’t invited him. He really didn’t want to see you married. Especially married off to some oaf named Bradley from the team's legal department. He didn’t know what about the guy made you so interested. He was sub-par at best, always making sure you know what could happen if things went south - the team being sued or shut down - as if you didn’t already have enough to worry about with your life on the line. The guy was boring, and Bucky could tell you thought so too, so the fact that you were marrying him bewildered Bucky.

But he knows you invited him because it would be weird if you didn’t. You worked together after all. You were best friends. You were each other's partners in the field. You always had his back, and he always had yours. He always would.

He stared at himself in the mirror, ocean eyes clouded in despair, hidden by a nice suit and a half attempt at a fake smile. He pulled most of his hair back into a small bun at the back of his head, just how you had done for him —

He had been woken up from his nightmare by your gentle touch on his flesh shoulder and a whisper of his name. He shot up with a gasp, almost knocking your foreheads together before you quickly jumped back.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” You squatted next to his bed, with your hands open in front of you. He took in the tired alertness in your eyes, your messy hair, your wrinkled pajamas, and the pillow creases in your cheek.

“What are you doing in here?” He mumbled as he bent his right leg up. He rested his flesh arm on his raised knee and used the metal one to hold himself in his sitting position as he hung his head, letting his hair attempt to hide his eyes from you as he tried to even his breaths. You were immaculately good at reading him, so if he could hide just a bit of himself from you in that moment, specifically the horrors he had been reliving moments before, he’d be relieved at least for a moment.

“I heard you screaming…” You stood to sit in front of him, your knees bent in front of you and your feet hanging off the mattress. You leaned forward, placing one of your hands lightly over his metal one.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He glanced at you expecting to see anger, or disappointment that he was still struggling; but all he saw was worry and concern laced in your irises. He didn’t know why every time you woke him, he expected you to be upset with him that he wasn’t better. He should know by now that that’s not the case. He should know that you basically sleep with one eye open and as close to your door as possible just in case you hear him. It was your routine.

“Bucky, you don’t have to apologize to me, you know that. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” you were ducking to try and get a view of him but he wouldn’t lift his head. Your lips pressed together in a hum, before your voice reached his ears again, “Can I do something?”

His brows furrowed together as he slightly lifted his head and looked at your gentle smile. He knew you were changing the subject, and for that he was grateful, but he wasn’t sure what you were up to.

Slowly, he nodded and then watched as you moved to kneel behind him in between the pillows. Your fingers raked softly through his hair, causing the tension in his shoulders to wash away with a heavy sigh. He heard a proud giggle from behind him and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. You pulled the hair from his face, combing it back, and took the hair tie from your own hair, wrapping it in his.

You crawled back around the bed to face him, the bed dipping under your knees, and your hand brushing against his shoulder to keep your balance. You sat with your legs loosely crossed once you were back in front of him with your hair loose and messy, “There, now I can see you.”

He lifted his hand to the back of his head slowly to feel what you had done, touching the elastic and the small loop of hair before he looked at you.

“You know,” you started as you pulled your knees to your chest, resting your chin on them, “you should wear your hair back more often.”

“Why’s that?” He asked as he put his hand down as a small tint of pink invaded his cheeks. He watched your grin grow into a gentle smile that sparkled in your eyes.

“Because then I can see your handsome face, silly.”

He was pulled from his memory by a knock at the door followed by Steve's voice, “Hey, Buck! We gotta go or we’re gonna be late!”

He didn’t even want to go, but he was your best man. “Yeah, yeah! Coming.”

He was supposed to give you away, he was supposed to make a speech about you and your husband-to-be and how he wished you both a happy marriage full of love and light. But all he could see was grey clouds that covered a looming darkness - a darkness he was sure would swallow him whole.

The more he thought about just not going, the more and more clearly he could picture you looking into the crowd to find him missing. The disappointment and heartbreak that was sure to etch into your face when it’s supposed to be the happiest day of your life. You having to walk down the aisle by yourself. Just the thought made his heart crack. He wouldn’t do that to you.

He couldn’t.

So, he took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremor in his hands, and grabbed his wallet and phone and went to meet the others in the tower's lobby. Natasha and Wanda were already at the church, they were your bridesmaids so they were helping you get ready, So, he was met with Steve and Sam at the front door. Tony and Pepper were picking up your cake, and everyone else had already piled into their cars to head to you.

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready there with the girls? Since you’re the maid of honor?” Sam smirked in his direction, sarcasm dripping from his words.

“Shove it, Sam,” he muttered as he pushed his way past and out the door, down to the car waiting for them. He jumped in the backseat, slamming the door behind him.

“Well someone's grumpy today,” Sam announced as he crawled in the driver's seat. “Why’re you so mad, man? Your best friend is getting married. You’re supposed to be happy for her!”

“He’s mad because he’s in love with her,” Steve calmly responded as he slid into the passenger seat. Sam’s eyes grew as his jaw dropped with a silent gasp.

“Whoa whoa whoa, hold up,” he spun in his seat to face Bucky, “and you agreed to be her best man?” There was a hint of pity in his tone that didn’t sit right with Bucky. That was the first time Sam had said the words “best man” without teasing him for it; it somehow made it that much more real.

The absence of a reply was all Sam needed to know. “Why haven’t you told her?”

Why hadn’t he told you? That was the question that had been repeating itself in his head at max volume for the past two months. He knew the answer, but he didn’t want to admit it, especially not to Sam fucking Wilson.

“Because she’s happy? I don’t wanna tell her and have it ruin our friendship. She’s getting married, and that’s fine. We’ll continue to be friends. We’ll stay partners on missions. If that’s all I can get, then I’ll gladly take it.” He was looking out the window, waiting for Sam to take off down the driveway. When the car was filled with a heavy silence and the scenery outside hadn’t moved an inch, he turned back. “Sam start the car, let’s go.”

“Buck…” Sam looked to Steve who looked down at his lap with guilt, “you tell him.”

“Tell me what? What’s going on?” He sat forward and reached over the chair to grab Steve's shoulder. Steve turned back to him with sadness in his eyes.

“This morning, Fury let me know that she put in a request to change departments,” Steve glanced at Sam before looking back to Bucky again, “She’s moving to PR.”

Bucky's stomach dropped and his heart was in his throat as he slumped back against the seat. You were leaving him? But why? As the car roared to life and the scenery started to whir past him, he remembered you telling him you loved working in the field --

You two were stuck waiting in a safe house in the middle of nowhere Rusia. The cold from outside was frosting over the windows and the only heat and light inside was coming from the small fireplace. He was at one of the windows that wasn't frosted over completely just yet, keeping an eye out for their extraction team, and you were huddled under two blankets by the fire. The cold didn't bother him too much, just enough so he knew it was there, the serum was helpful with that, but you were shivering. He could hear your teeth clattering from across the room.

"You okay?" He asked over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from where Sam was supposed to come with the quinjet any minute now. He heard you chuckle before sighing.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he heard the floorboards creak as you stood, followed by soft thuds of your boots as you walked over to him. "Are you?" He glanced down to see you watching out the window, eyes on the same spot he had been staring at for the past ten minutes.

"Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t really get too cold, remember?"

"No, not 'are you cold'. Are you okay?" You looked up to meet his stormy blue grey eyes, "You took a nasty hit for me back there." He huffed with a half-smile. He had shoved you out of the way of a fairly large man who had been swinging the butt of a rifle at your head. Bucky took the hit to his temple, but it only made his ears ring for a couple minutes before he was good as new.

"Yes, I'm okay." He saw the small smile hike up the corners of your lips as you looked back out at the blanket of white. There was a comfortable silence that followed, the only noise in the room being the crackling of the dying fire. You two sat in that silence, waiting for Sam, for what felt like minutes but were only a few mere seconds before he heard you sigh.

"You ever think about not doing this anymore?" He whipped his attention down to you, but you were still watching the snow, a slight admiration in your irises.

"No, not really. I don't think I'd really be good at much else," He muttered, refusing to take his eyes off you, "Why? Are you. . . are you thinking of leaving?" He tried to keep the slight panic out of his voice, but you knew him too well, and he knew you picked up on it. His mind was racing, his heart practically beating out of his chest with his nerves. If you left, who would watch his back? Who would wake him from the monsters that plagued his dreams most nights? Who would make him coffee in the morning when he was too stuck in his own head to do it himself?

"No," You sighed, with that smile never faltering, "I don't think I could. I love working in the field. Getting to see new places, even if it's under the worst circumstances. I love the team." You looked up to him, "I love being your partner.” You were just a few inches away, he could feel your warm breath against his cheek. You turned your head back to the window, but he could swear he saw a flush of color on your cheeks. He figured it was from the cold. “Plus, if I leave, who're you gonna have to shove out of the way to take the butt of a gun to the head for?" That caused a chuckle to rise out of Bucky's chest as his nerves melted away.

"There's always Steve." Now it was your turn to laugh, causing his cheeks to hurt as he smiled down at you. Your laugh was his favorite sound in the world.

"Steve doesn't need to be shoved out of the way. He's a big boy, he could take the hit just like you did," Your hand dropped from the warmth of the blanket and slipped into his own, giving it a gentle squeeze before you looked back up at him. "I'm not going anywhere."

His heart clenched at the memory. You said you weren't leaving, and now you were moving departments. It didn't make sense to him. Why all of a sudden? What had changed your mind? And why hadn't you told him yourself? He had become the first person you told everything to.

He remembered you telling him you were seeing somebody. How it had made his heart and stomach plummet to the floor, but he had put on a smile for you. He told you he was happy for you, happy that you found someone who was willing to work with your insane and impromptu schedule. He remembered you telling him when Bradley proposed, how you showed off your ring, a large diamond with smaller ones lining the band. It was big, loud, meant to catch attention. It didn't have any personality that matched your own. You weren't one who liked having the attention on you, the ring looked too big for you, it didn't match you at all. But he smiled and said it looked lovely. He remembered you asking him to give you away, since your mother and father were no longer in your life, and he was all you had. How could he have said no to you when you had those unshed tears in your eyes as you asked?

For you to not tell him you were leaving the team after the wedding felt wrong. But as he saw the large building come into view, the thought tucked itself into the back of his head. It didn't matter how the fact made him feel, this was your day. He wouldn't ruin it by dwelling on something that could wait till tomorrow.

His eyes squinted at the large church. It was nothing like you told him you wanted.

You wanted a botanical garden, or an outdoor wedding in the mountains. You had told him how you only really wanted to invite the team if you were to ever get married. "Having the team there is all that matters to me, you guys are my family." Those words echoed in his head, but as he looked at the crowd on the inside of the building, he knew that you probably didn't even know more than half of these people, if you knew any of them at all. There was a weight on his chest, something was wrong. But was it really? Or was it just him pointing out everything that he would've done differently for you.

"Finally, you're here!" Wanda's voice from behind him grabbed his attention and he spun around to see her with her hair perfectly curled and pinned back. She was wearing a light blue dress with matching heels. At least you got to pick your colors, he thought to himself. "(Y/N) has been asking for you for the past ten minutes." She grabbed a hold of his wrist and dragged him down a hallway to a secluded room. He could hear Natasha's mumbled voice from behind the door before Wanda threw it open.

Natasha was standing behind you, fixing the loose strands in your hair. You hadn't put your dress on yet, you were in your favorite sweat pants and an old tank top, but he could see the white dress hanging on the window on the other side of the room. When you spotted him in the mirror, he could see the relief wash over your features before you pulled yourself from Nat’s hands.

"Bucky! Oh, thank god," You all but ran into him, wrapping your arms around his torso and squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He loosely wrapped his hands around you before you pulled back.

"What's wrong?" He asked, watching as your eyes fell downcast to the floor.

"Hey, Wanda? Nat? Can you guys give us a minute?" Your voice was quiet, but they nodded before leaving and closing the door behind them.

"(Y/N)? What's wrong?" He was looking down at you, still looking at your feet. He watched as you took a deep breath before finally meeting his eyes and giving him a smile.

"You pulled your hair back," There was a gentleness in your words, a fondness that matched your small smile, "You look handsome."

"You're changing the subject," He muttered, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. Your smile faltered before you turned around and walked back to the chair you were sitting in earlier. There was a large mirror in front of the chair, so he was able to watch your face as you stepped over the bags and boxes of makeup and hair supplies to sit down. There was a tension to your shoulders and a grim look on your face as you sat. He walked up behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders, causing you to look at his reflection.

"What's gotten into you?" He whispered, but he knew you heard him when there was a flinch in your right eyebrow.

"I - I don't really know," Your voice was so quiet, so small. He'd only ever seen you this nervous once before, when you first joined the team. But after that first mission was an insane success thanks to your quick thinking, he'd never seen you this way again - until now.

He released your shoulders and walked in front of you, kneeling down to be at eye level, "Talk to me."

"I just - I don't know - I guess I'm nervous is all," You whispered as you looked at him. He could see the slight panic in your eyes as you searched his face. What you were searching for, he didn't know.

"It'll be okay, you look amazing. Bradley is a lucky man, and you've got the team here to support you," He was hoping it was what you needed to hear, and a sad smile made its way up your face.

"Yeah," you glanced at the dress, "I know Nat and Wanda are supposed to help with my dress, but could you? They've got a lot of energy that I just can't handle right now." He sighed as he stood, grabbing your hands to pull you up.

"Of course, doll. I'll stand over there with my back turned until you need me, okay?" You nodded before walking over to the dress. As he made his way to the other side of the room, he could hear you opening the dress bag, the plastic crumpling filling the void between you.

Why hadn't he told you how he felt? It was the only thing going through his mind. There were so many opportunities that he didn't take. He didn't think you felt the same, so he kept it all to himself, burying it down in his chest. He took solace in the small moments he had with you. The small undercover ops, the safe houses where you’d wait for extraction, the moments in the middle of the night where you'd hold him and remind him he was safe. He had almost told you once.

"Get Cho!" He shouted as he carried you from the quinjet down the hall to the medbay. Your skin was cold and clammy, your eyes were unfocused and your arms were limp. You had been ambushed on your mission in France, and you had suffered the worst of it. There was blood soaked into the dress you were wearing, the only thing keeping it from spreading too much was the makeshift bandage he had put around you from his torn shirt. But it had started to soak through that, and was staining the skin of his chest.

You had been stabbed in the torso, and the assailant had ripped the blade out to go for another stab before it met with the vibranium of Bucky's left hand.

He gripped the hand that held the blade handle before pulling him down to land his knee in the man's ribs, aiming his pistol as he hit the ground. The bang that echoed in his ears was nothing compared to the scream that ripped from your chest when the last man standing caught you off guard and landed his shin right on top of the open wound. Bucky remembered swinging his pistol around and barely needing to aim as your body fell to reveal a clean shot at your attacker. A second bang echoing off the building walls and a single second of silence that followed.

That scream still replayed in his head as he laid you on the bed for Dr. Cho and he was ushered out of the room so they could fix you. His chest was rising and falling faster than he was used to and his heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest. He slumped to the floor with his back against the wall, burying his head in his hands and pulling at the roots of his hair.”

"Bucky?" Steve's voice sounded so far away, yet so close. It was like he was underwater, everything around him was muffled and blurred. None of it mattered. Not until he knew you were okay again. "Bucky, tell me what happened." Suddenly, there was blond hair and blue concerned eyes in his view, and it all came rushing out.

He told Steve about how the mission was going fine, you were tailing a suspected Hydra affiliate from a fairly large distance. It was an undercover mission, you were pretending to be on a honeymoon, there for the 'romance' of Paris. But the man in suspect had made a few quick turns down different alleys and you had both lost him. He told Steve about the group of almost twenty men that had appeared from the shadows and surrounded the both of you. How you had fought by his side, and taken a knife that was meant for him. He didn't even know there were tears racing down his cheeks until he went to wipe the blood from his face, and his hands came back wet, but not red.

"She'll be okay, Buck, Cho will make sure of it." Steve reassured him before taking a seat on the floor next to his friend. Bucky was pretty sure that's when Steve knew how Bucky felt about you, he wouldn't have been this torn over anyone else on the team, not enough to drag tears from his eyes. Though, Steve didn't make a comment on it.

They sat there for hours, unmoving, not saying much of anything to each other, just waiting for Cho to appear from behind the surgical room doors. Hours of agony of not knowing, of not being able to try to save you himself. Of wishing you hadn't stepped in front of that blade that was headed for his back.

The door swung open and Bucky leapt to his feet faster than Steve had ever seen him move. "How is she?"

"She'll be fine, she's resting now, the bandage you made for her saved her life." Cho placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "If you want, you can go see her. She won't wake for a few hours, but I'm sure she'll want to see you when she does." He pushed his way past her to the room you were in. He stopped in front of the door, taking in the sight of you.

Your eyes were closed with your lashes barely resting on your cheekbones and casting small shadows under your eyes. Your hair was splayed out on the pillow around you like some sort of halo, and you were no longer wearing the blood soaked dress. He made his way to your bedside, silently pulling up a chair and sitting next to you. Your breathing was even as he watched your chest rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. He glanced at the heart monitor to see a steady beat and he finally let a small fraction of the stress melt away.

He reached up to grab your hand, gently holding it in between his metal and his flesh ones, rubbing soft circles over your knuckles. "Don't you ever do that again, you hear me?" He whispered, he knew you probably couldn't hear him, but it didn't matter. "I can't lose you." He squeezed your hand slightly before leaning down to place a ghost of a kiss on your fingers.

He sat there for hours, watching your vitals and the rise and fall of your chest, refusing to sleep because he needed to be awake when you opened your eyes. There was a small squeeze around his fingers, and his eyes shot to yours. Your lids were fluttering before they pinched closed, your nose scrunching up, before your face relaxed and your lids opened.

Your eyes were unfocused as he watched you try to take in your surroundings. You glanced around the room, your eyes never settling on one thing for more than a few seconds. He watched as you glanced at the IV stuck in your arm and your eyes followed your skin down to your hand that was encased in his own. Your eyes squinted as you raised them to meet his own.

"Hi doll," He whispered, with a ghost of a smile on his lips, "You scared me for a second there ya know that?" He watched a smile grace your lips before you squeezed his fingers.

"You got me here in one piece didn't you?" He laughed at that, filling the silence.

"You can't keep doing that. Taking hits that are meant for me. What will I ever do if I can't save you?" Your eyes dropped at that.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, causing him to stand and sit next to your leg on the bed.

"You don't need to apologize, just promise me you won't do that anymore. I can't lose you, okay?" Your eyes widened.

"You know I can't keep that promise, but I can promise to try." He wanted so badly to tell you what you meant to him. Why he couldn't risk losing you out in the field, or ever. He wanted to tell you he loved you and that he was so scared you weren't going to make it on the flight over. But, he held his tongue. There would always be another time.

"Bucky, can you come help me now?" Your voice caught his attention and he turned to see you with your back to him, the zipper of your dress down by the bottom of your spine.

"Yeah, of course," He walked over to you, "My hands might be cold, so sorry in advance." He muttered before gently grabbing hold of the zipper, the tips of his fingers barely grazing over you back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pulled the zipper up and his hands lingered just a moment too long before he quickly pulled them to his pockets. "There."

You turned to face him and all coherent thoughts vacated his mind. You were breathtaking. Your dress hugged your curves to perfection before flowing out around your feet. The sleeves fell off your shoulders and your neckline plunged just low enough down to accentuate your chest.

"Wow," He breathed before he could stop himself, causing his face to grow hot. "Sorry, you just look amazing." He looked up to your eyes expecting to see a smile, but was met with a straight line on your lips.

"Thanks," You muttered before turning to yourself in the mirror, "I never really thought I'd ever get married if I'm being honest. Our job is a little too dangerous for most people to just be okay with accepting isn't it?" He nodded as he mumbled in agreement. It was a dangerous job, but you were leaving so why did it matter now?

Suddenly, he felt a wave of courage wash over him as his mind cleared.

"(Y/N), I need to tell you something," He started, taking a step towards you as you turned around.

"Okay?" Your eyes held what looked like hope, but he wasn't too sure.

"I - uh - " He chuckled as the courage started drain, "The truth is -"

There was a sudden knock at the door, before it opened slightly and Wanda's head peaked through, "It's time." She smiled at you before shutting the door again. The last of the courage he needed shrunk down in his chest and just as quickly as it rose, it was gone. He looked back at you with a smile.

"Come on, let's get you up there." He held his hand out for you to take and you gently placed yours in his, squeezing his knuckles.

"Bucky, you were about to tell me something. It sounded important." You pressed, concern lacing your words, but he just shook his head.

"It can wait." He tugged you forward for a hug. "You ready?" He took notice of the uneasiness in your gaze, but you nodded anyway, grabbing your bouquet before looping your hand in the crook of his arm.

He led you down the hall, to the large set of double doors that you would walk through together, where he would hand you off to your fiance. Where you would be out of his reach for good. He was trying to memorize the feel of your hand on his arm, the warmth and comfort that your touch brought. He watched you standing next to him, memorizing the shape of your lips and your nose. The way your lashes lightly dusted your cheeks every time you blinked, the twitch in your eyebrow that was surely caused by your nerves. The way your hair perfectly framed your beautiful face. He wanted to brand it all to his memory, so he never forgot how gorgeous you were.

"Ready?" He asked as you two reached the doors. You looked up, giving him a small smile, one that looked a little sad, if he focused on it too much. This was your big day, you should be happy. It was probably just his mind being cruel.

"With you by my side, always." You whispered. The music on the other side of the door started, muffled by the thick wood of the doors and he watched as you looked ahead of you.

The doors opened, and Bucky looked forward, out into the crowd of people who stood from the pews and turned to face them. To watch him hand her off - his heartbreak is on display for everyone in the room. He took a subtle deep breath before leading you down the aisle.

He saw Nat and Wanda waiting on your side of the stage, watching with wide smiles. Your fiance was watching, a small grin as he looked you over, taking in your dress and your hair and your makeup, all done to perfection. His friends were at his side, but Bucky didn't know them, and he was sure you didn't either. He glanced to the side to find Steve's eyes filled with a sort of sadness. It wasn't meant for you though, it was meant for Bucky.

You reached the steps that led to the stage where the pastor waited patiently and you turned to Bucky. He gave you a smile before he hugged you, your arms wrapping around him in a death grip. He could feel the beat of your heart against his ribs, and he leaned down to place a kiss on your cheek. You pulled away and turned to your fiance, who held his hand out to help you up the steps, and just like that, the warmth from your embrace left Bucky cold with tears in his eyes.

He took his seat in the first pew, at the very end. You wanted him to be nearby in case you needed him, so he had to be up front. Although, all he wanted to do was disappear into the shadows of the back corner, but he would stay for you. His hands were trembling as he watched the pastor ask you for your vows.

You had the most personal vows, remembering every moment that made you say yes to your husband-to-be. Every reason you would stay with him through anything. All handwritten, on a little piece of paper that Nat had held on to for you. Then came Bradley's vows. He hadn't written anything for you. He just repeated after the pastor, the stereotypical "to love and to hold till death due us part" and Bucky couldn't help the anger that surged in his chest. He claimed to love you, made your wedding a huge show, inviting people you didn't know, and he couldn't even write personalized vows? For you?

The rings were exchanged, the one put on your finger, lacking personality. And then the pastor asked, "If there is anyone in this room who objects to this marriage, please speak now or forever hold your peace." The room was silent. Too silent. Bucky was sure you would be able to hear his heart racing. You didn't belong with this man who couldn't even give you a ring that screamed you and he hadn't written anything personal to read to you. You deserved more than that.

Suddenly, all eyes were on him. He looked around to find himself standing in the middle of the aisle, hands in fists at his side, clenching his jaw and a bead of sweat tracing down his temple. He looked up at you on that stage and he swore he never felt so small in his life. You were looking at him with confusion and concern. You weren't even mad he had interrupted.

"Bucky?" Your voice was small and he thought he heard a hint of pleading in your voice, but he couldn't tell. He took a deep breath before clearing his throat.

"I can't let you do this, doll. Not until - um - not until you know." You turned your whole body to face him and he saw your almost husband roll his eyes, they never did get along.

"Know what Buck?" His flesh hand was trembling even in the fist he so tightly held it, digging his nails into his palm. He could feel the weight of everyone's eyes watching him, like they were trying to push him underwater, trying to rip the courage away from him. When he was silent a moment too long, Bradley scoffed.

"Can we please get him out of here so we can finish up?" He smugly asked, causing you to turn on him with a deadly glare.

"Shut your mouth. He's my best friend. And until he says what he wants to say, everything is on hold." Your words were dripping with venom as you glared knives at Bradley, causing Bucky to let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. You turned back to him with the gentlest smile he'd ever seen, all the anger Bradley caused disappeared. "Go ahead Bucky, whenever you're ready."

He nodded, your words giving him the strength he needed to straighten his back and say his words with the most confidence he could muster, "I love you."

A small gasp left your lips as they parted in shock. Bradley scoffed again and shook his head. "You what?" your voice was barely above a whisper, but he heard you. He would always hear you.

"I'm in love with you, doll. I always have been. I love everything about you. Even the things you do that drive me nuts, I love them. And I can't let you marry him. Not when he invited all these people who I know you have no idea who they are. Not when I know you wanted to get married surrounded by nature, and here you are in a brick building with only dead flowers to provide a fraction of what you want. Not when he didn't write you personal vows like you did for him. I can't let you go. You're my best friend, and my partner in the field. You keep the monsters at bay so I can get a good night's sleep. You take care of me when I have bad days, make me coffee when I'm too sluggish to do it myself. You helped me stop hating myself for the things people made me do when I didn't even know who I was. You - you are everything to me." He took a breath as he took a small step forward.

Your face was a twisted mix of shock and sadness, he could see the tears welling in the corners of your eyes, just like they were gathering in his own. "Bucky. . ."

"If you still want to marry him, that's okay. I'll stand by your side and I'll support you the whole way. But, please, don't leave the team for the PR department. You don't belong with them," He saw the way your brows knitted together, "You belong with your family. You belong with us." He gestured to the rest of the team who were sitting to his left.

"Bucky, I'm not leaving the team," You had a hint of confusion in your voice as you looked at Bradley, all the anger from just moments before returning in the blink of an eye, "You had no right to do that behind my back."

"Baby, come on, you can't expect me to just be okay with you running around and almost dying and causing property damage across the world for our department to somehow fix later on." He reached for you, but you took a step back, remaining just out of his reach.

"No, I suppose I can't. But that doesn't give you the right to do that without so much as a discussion about it with me." Bucky watched as you removed the ring around your finger and roughly grabbed hold of Bradley's hand, causing him to wince at your tight grip. You dropped the ring in his hand and forced his fingers to close around it painfully. "Screw you."

You whipped your head back to Bucky as you bounded down the two steps to grab his hand and lead him back down the aisle and out the front doors, your fingers laced together. He was struggling to keep up with you, the shock of your decision slowing him down, but as it wore off and the reality of what you just did started to settle into his mind, he squeezed your hand back. The smile that grew on his face made his cheeks hurt as he followed you out the car that was waiting for you and your now-ex.

He opened the passenger door for you, helping you tuck the skirt of your dress in so it didn't get stuck in the door before he ran around the side to hop in the driver's seat. The keys were in the cupholder, waiting to be put into the ignition, but he couldn't grab them. All he could do was watch you as you ripped the bobby pins out of your hair, letting it fall.

"You're beautiful," His voice was low, but you caught it, and turned to him with the biggest smile he'd ever seen on your face.

"I love you too, Bucky," He leaned forward, closing the distance between you, weaving his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck as his lips met yours. The grey clouds were gone, and on the other side wasn't the dark void that Bucky expected. It was bright, sunny and warm. It was you.

Dividers: @whimsicalrogers

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x female reader #bucky oneshot #marvel imagines #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes (marvel)#james buchanan barnes

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gavin-plz-call-me · 3 years

Text

Trust in Him

TW: Depictions of sexual harassment and sexual assault

You love your job, so when one of your coworkers begins to harass you, you're scared that you'll have to choose between your job and your safety. Luckily, Artem is here to support you.

This is my first time writing about sexual harassment/assault, so I apologize in advance if it's not a perfectly accurate portrayal.

AO3

Word Count: 3.3k

You needed this job, those words alone were all that kept you from doing something rash, but your resolve was growing thinner and thinner by the day. Every day you worked in the office, which, luckily for you, grew less frequent after becoming partners with Artem and joining NXX, one of your co-workers in particular was bound to come speak with you. This wouldn't be an issue if he were speaking to you about work issues, or a case, hell, even the weather but he, Julius, never came over for any productive reasons. The two of you had worked a case together a few months ago, but other than that, you should be complete strangers.

You could see Julius approaching from the corner of your eye, a nasty smirk plastered on his, and you hated to admit this, conventionally attractive face. While others might swoon at his good looks, you had to hold back a gag as he placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, enveloping your senses in his stale scent. He then slowly leaned down, his lips almost touching your ear, and whispered "That shirt makes your tits look great," his disgustingly wet breath sent shivers through your body as he gave your shoulder a squeeze and headed off like nothing happened.

As far as you knew, you were his only victim. The other ladies in the office swooned over him, speaking highly of his good looks and "great" skills as a lawyer. A few who had witnessed his advances towards you and misinterpreted your blush as shy interest complained of how envious they were that such a handsome, successful man was interested in you, and you kept quiet. You had heard enough horror stories of women who had come out about work-place harassment who were fired, never given or even considered for promotions, and even sued for slander, and you couldn't let any of that happen to you, you had to tolerate it. A job at Themis law firm is a dream for many law students, you included, and you wouldn't let that slip away. Even if you had to endure harassment, even if you had to leave your desk to escape to the bathroom some days because you couldn't keep the tears out of your eyes, even if you couldn't fall asleep some nights because images of what he's done to you and what he's capable of doing to you infect your mind, even if you had to start wearing ill-fitting clothes to hide your figure in an attempt to get him to leave you alone, and even if you were terrified to be in a room alone with him, lest he become bolder, you had to persevere. If everything in your life went right, you'd become his boss one day, and when that day came, you could fire his ass.

Of course, though, you weren't the boss, and you had to listen to what yours said. So, when your manager approached you a few days after Julius's latest incident telling you you'd be assisting him in a case, there wasn't much you could do to get out of it. Artem and you weren't working on any urgent cases at the moment, so he gave them permission to steal you away for the case. You were very skilled in working the case type Julius was "stuck on" so your manager said you the obvious choice for the job. There was no way out.

Julius invited you into his office with a sickly-sweet smirk and an almost impermeable wink as a knot settled in your stomach. Something in you screamed at you, don't go in there, it yelled, anywhere else. Just not his office.

"Well, I wouldn't want to intrude in your personal space," You said, trying to keep an aura of professionalism while also trying to protect yourself. There were still others around, if you start to show your discomfort, you'd be found out. You felt like you were lying, in a way, maybe you were? Guilt ran up and down your spine, and you hoped the feeling didn't translate to your expression.

"Oh, MC." His voice was outwardly cheery with an undertone of something, though you couldn't pinpoint what exactly it was, "You could never be an intrusion to me. Let's use my office, I insist."

No, no no, the voice within you screamed again, you felt your breath hitch slightly, but you forced your breaths to be normal, despite how badly your lungs wanted you to gasp for air. "I would prefer it if we worked somewhere else, Julius." His name tasted disgusting on your tongue, "My desk for example," the two of you squeezed together, trying to work at the same small desk, his smell surrounding you, "or an empty conference room," still alone in a room together, his hands reaching out to touch your body, "or-"

"Mc, this would all be much simpler if we just worked in my office, I promise you, I don't mind." There was a hint of aggravation in Julius's voice, but it disappeared the longer he spoke. "There won't be any meeting halls open, now come on, let's go to my office."

You stood still for half a second, debating just running away, job be damned, but you didn't have time to start walking. You hadn't even decided which way to go, towards Julius's office or towards the main exit, when a voice rang out, "Mc, Julius, conference room six is open." You turned around, eyes meeting the bright sapphire eyes belonging to Artem. His brows were slightly furrowed, looking you up and down.

"Great," You said before Julius could say a word, "thank you Artem." You turned back to Julius, his eyes were much less kind than Artem's, and all you wanted to do was turn back to face the man with the beautiful eyes and put Julius in the depths of your memories, but you plaster on a fake smile as you say, "conference room six it is, then!" You quickly passed Julius, feeling two sets of eyes burning into you as you walked away. Julius's office was past conference room six, so as you entered the room Julius walked towards his own office instead, muttering something about needing to grab his case files.

You were glad that you didn't end up in his office, but the conference room wasn't much better, panic began building up in your chest again. There were large windows leading out into the hallway, which you sat right in the middle of giving anyone who walked by a perfect view of you and whatever you were doing. Conference room six was the most open of the conference rooms, but the hallway around here was never too busy. The windows also left a few blind spots, places he could back you into if he really wanted to. With slightly shaky hands you opened your laptop, opening an audio recording app. There weren't any security cameras in this conference room, and even though your gut stopped you from telling anyone about Julius, something within you told you to record.

The door to the conference room quickly opened and shut. You minimized the recording app, the pulsing red dot indicating that it’s recording disappears along with it. Julius throws a few case files onto the conference table before walking around to sit directly next to you. You rolled your chair away from him slightly, trying to escape his revolting stench. You began speaking about the case, reading the case files, and making comments about the stranger details, details you could use to defend your client.

The two of you continued to talk about the case for a while, the anxiety that had grown so high before began to dwindle, maybe you were wrong. Maybe Julius wasn’t going to take this chance to do something horrible to you, maybe he never was going to do anything to you. Had you just imagined his threats? “Mr. Johnson’s embezzlement of the school’s funds could be grounds for-”

"Tease," Julius interrupted you, his voice much darker, almost an inhumane growl, than what it was when you were surrounded by your coworkers. Darker than it was even a few seconds before when you were talking about the case.

"E-excuse me?" you asked, your professional front slipping, anxiety raising in your stomach once again.

Julius inched closer to you, holding the back of your chair to prevent you from rolling further away from him, "I said, you're a fucking tease Mc. Making me go back and forth like that." The undertone you couldn't pinpoint from before was back, but it was much more pronounced now. Anger mixed with desire, his unkempt nails dug into the skin of your thigh as he pushed himself onto you, "but you're not gonna tease me anymore."

Desperately, you pushed your feet against the floor as hard as you could, propelling your chair into the one behind you, allowing you to stand up and try to make it to the door. Julius's hand violently grabbed your wrist, yanking you back towards him. “Come on, Mc,” he growled in your ear, “everyone in the office knows you’re whoring around to get to the top. You can’t refuse me.”

You struggled against his grip, but every movement you made had him tightening his hold around your wrist, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Julius.” you gasped as the pain of his hand on you became too much.

This seemed to enrage Julius, who suddenly stood up from his chair, forcing you against the wall furthest from the door. Your head smacked violently into the wall sending sparks of pain through your vision. “Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Everyone knows you’re putting out for Artem. Why else would he choose some sub-par slut of a lawyer to be his partner?”

“I-I didn’t-” Julius put more pressure on you as you tried to speak, stopping your words completely.

“Let’s put it this way, Mc,” Julius's hands snaked in opposite directions, one reaching your throat, putting suffocating pressure on it, the other gripping your ass, pulling you unwillingly closer to his body, “You put out for Artem to advance your career, and if you’re a good little slut for me, you can keep your career.” He pulled you somehow tighter into him, his mouth ghosting your ear before delivering a harsh bite into its flesh. “If not, you can kiss being a lawyer goodbye.”

The knot in your stomach twisted, the job you were passionate about, the coworkers you loved, Artem, your senior partner who had already taught you so much, could he really take all of that away from you? Was it really worth it to lose all that to him? Maybe you should just let him have you, once to save your job. But, as Julius’s hand moved from your ass forward, threatening to touch you in a much more intimate place, something in you broke. No. You wouldn’t let him take your career away, but you also wouldn’t let him have you. Throughout your career as a lawyer, you fought and fought and fought for your clients, day in and day out so they could find justice, and it was time for you to fight for yourself.

You thrust your knee upwards into Julius’s groin, and in the split second where he was caught off guard, you used all your strength to push him off of you. You ran for your laptop, his angered cries of pain filling the room as he stood motionless in the spot you left him in, grasping at his groin, trying to ease the pain. You took the opportunity to haphazardly grab your laptop and head for the door. Julius’s hand grazed your arm again as he regained some of his movement, but you were too far away from him at this point. He couldn’t reach you.

Escaping the suffocating air of that conference room could have been the happiest moment of your life. You saw Julius staring at you from the corner of your eye, still standing in the conference room, slightly doubled over. He wouldn’t dare chase you through the office, and he was out of sight before you could figure out what his next move would be. Adrenaline pumping through your body, you made your way across the office. You weren’t sure where your legs were taking you until you were already knocking at the door you sought out, Artem’s office.

The moment you saw Artem as he opened the door, his face going from stoic as always, then softening at the sight of you, and finally, his eyebrows furrowing in concern as he got a better look at you all in a matter of seconds, the emotions you had kept hidden for months suddenly broke free. Tears threatened to escape your eyes, so you broke your gaze away from Artem, opting to look down at your own shoes instead. You really didn’t want to cry in front of Artem. You so desperately wanted to be a great lawyer like him, famous for winning countless cases. He wouldn’t be so vulnerable as to cry in front of a coworker, and you wanted to follow in his footsteps. You tried to push them back, but they refused.

Artem put a gentle hand on your upper back as he led you into his office, closing the door behind him, and placing his jacket on you. It smelt strongly of him. You could detect hints of vanilla from his cologne which made you want to envelop yourself further into the cloth. He led you to the sofa in his office, Artem himself sitting down on the coffee table in front of you. His kind, gentle movements, so contrasting from Julius’s threats, made the tears stream down your face harder. You began to shake from the loss of adrenaline, and you buried your face in your hands.

Artem was at a loss for what to do. He’d never seen you cry before, he felt helpless as he watched you heave from your tears. One thing was certain in his mind, however: Julius had something to do with this. He could sense your discomfort earlier when he’d suggested the two of you use conference room six to discuss business. He could tell you were trying your hardest to suppress the feelings, but they were prevalent enough on your person for him to detect, but his actions had failed to protect you further. A part of him wanted to leave the office immediately, find Julius, and beat him to a pulp wherever he stood, but a more sensible part of him knew you needed him right now. Julius could be dealt with later.

Slowly, Artem stood up from his place on the coffee table and sat down on the couch, a good few feet away from you in order to give you space. You finally looked up at him when you felt his weight on the couch. Your eyes were red and irritated from the tears, makeup running down your face in light gray streaks. You desperately wiped away at them, but it didn’t make a difference. Artem’s soft voice finally broke the silence between the two of you, “Mc, can I hug you?” The hysterical part of your brain was surprised by his words. In your emotional state, you expected him to reject you, and act disgusted by your emotions. You nodded slightly, desperately wanting his comfort.

Before you knew it, Artem had slid closer to you on the couch, taking you in his arms, and gently pressing you into his chest. This simple action started your tears anew. You began crying harder than before, gasping for breath. Clumsy words spilled out of your mouth as you tried to tell Artem what had happened. You thought he deserved to know why you came to his office crying, but Artem simply gently shushed you, rubbing comforting circles into your back. “You don’t need to say anything yet, Mc,” he whispered

The two of you stayed like that for a long time until your tears eventually slowed to a stop. At that point, you pulled away from Artem, desperately missing his warmth as soon as you did so. Artem slid his hand in yours, giving it a gentle, supportive, squeeze before speaking again, “If you’d like to tell me what happened, I’ll be here for you, okay?” Artem’s comforting words, his warm hand in yours, and his beautiful blue eyes made everything that’s happened with you in relation to Julius spill. You couldn’t look at him as you told him about everything: the case you worked on together, how he’d continue to go to your desk even when the case was over, how that escalated to the harassment you had to endure, what just happened in the conference room, and the audio recording of the incident.

When your gaze finally settled back on Artem, he was wearing an expression you had never seen on him before. It was anger, it was concern, it was... it was something else you couldn’t quite place. Artem pushed himself up from the couch, his eyes on the door to the office. You tightly grasped his arm, stopping him from moving towards the door. The door meant he’d tell, the door meant all your fears would come to fruition, the door meant you’d have to face the world outside Artem’s warm embrace again, and you didn’t want that. “Please don’t,” you whimpered, new tears stinging your eyes, “don’t tell anyone, please.” A sob escaped your throat, making Artem sit back on the couch next to you. “I love my job here, I love working with you and Kiki. I love being your partner and working on NXX cases with you. I don’t want to lose it all.”

Artem was back to rubbing circles into your skin, this time at the base of your shoulder. “You won’t lose your job, I promise.”

“B-But, so many people have b-been fired because they r-report assault, I-I can’t l-let that happen.”

“Mc,” Artem said, his voice slightly stern, but still gentler than you’d ever heard it before, “please look at me.” Your eyes trailed up his body, which was still holding you, and finally met his eyes. “I won’t let that happen, okay?” His hand found your hair, gently combing through it with his fingers, “I promise you that you’ll be okay, that your job will be okay. I’ll put Julias in jail if it’s the last case I ever take, just please, please let me help you.” Before that day, you could never imagine Artem crying, but you knew the sight of his eyes filled with tears was real. He allowed you to see his emotions just as you’d allowed him to see yours. He wasn’t some emotionless lawyer who would allow his coworker to be fired because they told the truth. He was a man who’d openly share your emotions with you, even if that meant sharing your tears. You could trust him, you knew that now.

“Okay,” you let the word with a shaky breath, “I trust you, Artem.”

Artem stood up from his place next to you, not letting your hand go quite yet. He leaned over you, giving your forehead a gentle kiss, before looking into your eyes, determination filling his own sapphire ones. Your body slightly tensed when Artem finally removed his hand from yours, you quickly grew cold at the lack of his warmth, but you let him go. You watched his figure as he reached the door, taking one more glance behind him towards you, and left, shutting the door behind him. Eventually, you knew, everything would be okay again.

#tears of themis #tears of themis fic #tears of themis fanfic #tears of themis artem #artem x reader #artem wing #angst #hurt/comfort #tw sex assault #tw sa #tw sex harrasment #artem wing x reader

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piceuscelus · 2 years

Text

little minx (tuesday) by piceuscelus

Chapters: 1/1 (2662 words) Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: implied Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion - Freeform, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Voyeurism, at least sorta, extremely light dom/sub, Mild Humiliation, Dirty Talk, Mildly Dubious Consent, on jaskier's part, Ciri is being a minx, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Dom/sub, Come Swallowing, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence Series: Part 2 of ciri week 2022 Summary:

“I see you’ve finally discovered how much of a little minx she is."

Ciri apologizes in her own special way for frightening Jaskier; Geralt catches them.

full fic below the cut! (ditto to the italics issue on monday’s post, too)

Jaskier has never experienced fear like he feels when he opens the door to their inn room to find Ciri isn’t there.

He’s been chased by men and monsters and Geralt alike, and sure, he’s been afraid then, but this – this is a different kind of panic. For a long moment, all he can do is stand in the doorway, casting his eyes back and forth over the room – empty, empty, empty – feeling his heart rate triple as his stomach sinks lower and lower through the floor.

Finally, he snaps out of it, and he can think. At least, kind of. He’s definitely not up to par with, say, Geralt’s intelligence in an emergency, but it’s better than staring dumbly at an empty room, certainly.

First: Ciri might not even be missing. He’d told her to stay in the room while he performed, sure, but she could have needed to use the bathroom, and preferred to go out to the outhouses rather than deal with the pot. Or maybe she wanted a bath, and so she wandered down to the small bathhouse at the back of the inn.

There are perfectly reasonable explanations for where she’s gone. Jaskier forces himself to take a deep, deep breath, and then goes looking.

– – – – –

He doesn’t find her in the bathhouse, or at the outhouses, nor is she even wandering about the market anywhere, and that is about when he becomes certain that he is a very, very dead man.

Geralt had told him to take care of her, and to listen to her if she told him he was being stupid, and he tried. But he had to perform, because if he didn’t perform they wouldn’t have the coin for the room, and he – thought that it would be a decent compromise. Stay in the room while I perform, and when I’m done we’ll do whatever you want.

And Ciri had agreed! Willingly, even!

He’s just about worked himself into a proper panic attack, breath stuttering in his chest, when he suddenly catches sight of a flash of very familiar white-blonde hair around a corner. It’s entirely possible it’s not even her, but he can’t risk not finding that out for sure, so he picks up and practically runs to follow where it disappeared.

And finds…Ciri, with what looks like the stable hand from earlier, looking caught and mortified, respectively.

“Oh my gods,” Jaskier explodes, and the stable hand bolts to the other end of the alley just to disappear around the next corner, as if Jaskier might give chase.

He considers it, honestly, but then he turns to Ciri, and she looks so apologetic he’s entirely distracted.

“I – ” she starts, and then she takes a great, stuttering breath.

Jaskier sighs, partially in exasperation, mostly just to try and regulate his breathing.

“Back to the inn,” he orders, pointing, because he really cannot take any more excitement, and having this conversation in public is much too likely to cause some.

She pouts, legitimately pouts, the little brat, but she goes.

– – – – –

By the time they get back to the room, her pout is gone, but the not-quite-smile on her lips instead is a little impish and Jaskier is – rightfully, he thinks – damned wary of it.

“Ciri,” he says, when the door is closed and locked behind him. “I’m not stupid, I know you’re a teenager, but – ”

He’s going to give her a whole speech about responsibility, and how she’s still wanted, and how dangerous it is to just go wandering anyway, even if she wasn’t a missing princess.

Ciri, obviously, has other ideas.

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, and he’s stunned silent for a solid minute because since when does she just apologize like that, and so she continues: “Let me make it up to you?”

“I – sure?”

He has absolutely no idea what she could do to make it up to him. She’s already apologized, which is above and beyond what he expected, and really, that’s the only thing she can do, aside from never disappearing like that again, but –

…her clever little fingers are on his breeches. He feels like he’s being spun around on some kind of wheel.

“Ciri?”

“You said I could make it up to you,” she says, with a bright, mischievous grin, and when she flattens one hand on his belly to push him back, he doesn’t have the wherewithal to resist. He stumbles back, and then back again, until the backs of his knees hit a chair and he falls into it with a skidding thud of the feet.

Her fingers are still tugging at his buttons, and now she’s getting to her knees, and Jaskier is…conflicted. On one hand, she clearly – wants this, he guesses, or she wouldn’t be initiating it; on the other, she’s barely fourteen, and Geralt’s daughter, and –

“I really am very sorry,” Ciri says, and she sounds it, all sincere and contrite, “I just want to show you.”

His cock throbs.

Ah, fuck.

– – – – –

Ciri knows she’s being – well, wicked, to quote Geralt from the last time he had to fish her out of an alley, before he started giving her rules and an education on how to take care of herself. But she really had hoped to have some fun with that stable hand before Jaskier’s performance had ended, and she’s not exactly used to not getting what she wants, no matter how Geralt tries to rein her in, and…well.

It doesn’t seem like Jaskier is exactly opposed. He mostly just seems bewildered, which could be because Ciri’s fairly certain he doesn’t know that she’s…a bit more like him than he may think. Even so, she gives him plenty of time to stop her, between getting him in the chair and when she finally has his breeches undone; and she gives him even more time, really, when she carefully works his slowly-hardening cock out of his pants.

She even pauses, mouth open and close enough she knows he can feel her breath, his cock twitching in response, looking up at him.

He blinks. “I – you – Ciri.”

“Please?” she asks, mostly a breath, her lips just brushing where his cockhead is wet with precum as she whispers it.

Jaskier swears colorfully, one of his hands landing on the arm of the chair he stumbled into and gripping it so hard his knuckles go white.

“Yeah, you – yeah,” he stammers, and Ciri tries to hide her grin by ducking down and taking him into her mouth.

She moans at the salt-skin-sour taste, and Jaskier’s knees tremble around her shoulders, but he holds remarkably still otherwise. When she looks up at him through her fluttering lashes, he’s biting his lip bloodless, but his eyes are dark and wide-open, gaze fixed on her face.

She sucks gently at the head of him, luxuriating in the taste of him and the way he twitches against her tongue, and then she bobs forward a little. His hips shift, not quite a jerk, but a sort of flinch toward her. She’d be grinning if her mouth wasn’t full.

This, this is what she loves. The power this gives her, how much control she has even if she’s the one on her knees. And Jaskier is – different, too, than the boys her age she’s fooled around with, or even that slightly older blacksmith the one time. He’s…considerate, for one thing – it’s clear he’s trying hard to keep his hands to himself and still his hips, where the others often didn’t bother to try at all. For another thing, he’s much better groomed than the others – both that he keeps himself well-groomed in general, and also, he’s clean.

She hums around him, pleased, and delights in the way his legs tremble even harder and the chair creaks beneath his effort to stay still. Slowly but surely she works more and more of his cock into her mouth, sucking until her cheeks hollow just to hear the way his breath punches out of him, digging her tongue into the slit and tracing under his foreskin to feel how his cock jumps against her palate.

“Gods, Ciri.” He’s panting when she pulls off for a moment, and she smiles up at him with the head of his cock just resting on her lips. He throws his head back and whines.

This time, when she takes him into her mouth, she goes a little further, until she has to take a deep breath through her nose to stop herself from gagging. He whines again, and then keeps whining when she just stays there, sucking at him while her throat works to try and swallow where she’s drooling around him. It’s mostly futile, but that’s fine, because clearly Jaskier doesn’t mind, from how his whining slowly morphs into moaning, and then, after another few moments, wild gasping.

The door clicking open just about startles both of them out of their skin, but before Ciri can even finish pulling off Jaskier's cock, there’s a large, familiar hand on the back of her head.

Geralt doesn’t push her, or anything, but his hand is a steady force preventing her from pulling away from Jaskier, and when she looks up, his other hand is pressed against Jaskier’s chest, stopping him from trying to bolt up, probably.

“I see you’ve finally discovered how much of a little minx she is,” he murmurs, and Ciri’s entire body flashes hot. Jaskier’s cock throbs in her mouth, and she reflexively sucks at it, giving a startled little moan when she’s rewarded with another flex and precum dribbling from his tip.

Geralt chuckles, but it’s different from his usual laughter – there’s an edge in it Ciri doesn't recognize, but it seems her cunt does, because she’s soaked and clenching around nothing at all as she sucks instinctively at Jaskier’s still-twitching cock again.

“How is she doing, hm?” he asks, clearly directed at Jaskier. “As good as those whores you rave about?”

Jaskier makes an odd, choked noise. “I don’t – bit difficult to compare experienced professionals w-with, uh. But it – it’s…. Fuck.”

Geralt just chuckles again. “Fair, she is inexperienced,” he agrees, and then his attention clearly turns to Ciri, as his hand moves from just resting on her head to threading through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp with blunt nails. “Guess we ought to teach her, then.”

Ciri shudders from head to toe, and moans like the whore she’s just been told she’s clearly not. Geralt hums, something clearly pleased, and Jaskier just whimpers, cock jerking in her mouth again.

“Is that as deep as you can take him?” Geralt asks, and Ciri sucks in a harsh breath before carefully shaking her head. “Show me.”

She swallows, mostly uselessly, and bobs down until Jaskier is just threatening the clutch of her throat again, the point where she can hold him without gagging if she focuses. The longer she holds there, though, even trying to swallow and wriggle her tongue against the throbbing vein up the bottom of Jaskier’s cock, the harder it gets to restrain that gag, until her shoulders are shaking.

“Good,” Geralt murmurs, and tugs her hair just a little to pull her up. She gasps with Jaskier’s cockhead still in her mouth, and the bard makes a weak, pitchy noise. “He doesn’t really care too much for depth, though, in my experience,” he says once she’s finished trembling, and it takes a split second too long for Ciri to realize he’s talking about Jaskier – talking about Jaskier’s preferences for having his cock sucked, like he knows.

Her cunt clenches again. Gods, she’d love to hear how he knows that.

“He just likes the attention,” Geralt continues, and there’s another edge in his voice now – mocking, almost, except for how fond he sounds. When Ciri looks up, Jaskier has gone scarlet, but he’s giving Geralt the same dark, wide-eyed look he was giving her earlier, and it clicks into place that this is probably another thing Jaskier likes: the not-quite humiliation.

She shivers and works her tongue around and against his cockhead, swallowing down the wealth of precum she gets as a reward. Jaskier makes that same pitchy noises as before, eyes flickering between her and Geralt like he can’t quite decide who to focus on.

“How close are you, bard?” Geralt asks, and there’s almost an order in it. Jaksier jerks, rubbing his cock along Ciri’s palate in a way that makes her gag lightly.

“I – sorry, sweetheart, I’m – fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier babbles, and when Ciri pulls back to catch her breath, he’s tossed his head back and is heaving like he’s run a race.

Geralt just scratches at her scalp. “Keep going, once you have your breath,” he murmurs, and she presses back into the attention with a little nod. Once she’s not half-coughing anymore, she does exactly that, sucking hard at the head of Jaskier’s cock before she slides back down as far as she can go again, hollowing her cheeks as she pulls up again.

Jaskier keens.

“Close,” he hisses, and Geralt gives another pleased hum.

“Good,” he says. “Make him come, Ciri, and then he’ll reward you for being such a nice little cocksucker, hm?”

The both of them are whining, at that, and Ciri nearly gags again in her enthusiasm. This time she doesn’t pull back, though, just works through catching her breath with Jaskier still in her mouth, feeling how he throbs on her tongue as she swallows.

“The two of you are quite a sight,” Geralt murmurs as she works and Jaskier starts to quiver, “didn’t think I’d find a show waiting for me when I got back. I’m not complaining, though.”

Jaskier makes a sound, something almost like he’s trying to speak, but Ciri sucks particularly hard at his cock at the same time and it peters out into nothing more than a breathless moan. She does it again, and then again, and when she pulls back to pay attention to his cockhead and foreskin again she can see and hear and feel the signs of his orgasm: his breath stuttering, his mouth working around near-silent moans, his cock jerking against her tongue.

“There you go, Jaskier, go on, come for her,” Geralt encourages, and Ciri makes a surprised little noise at how that works. Jaskier makes one last near-silent, squeaking noise, and then all of the tension is draining from him as he spends into her mouth.

It’s bitter-salt and not exactly pleasant, but she doesn’t stop sucking at his cockhead, making a mess of him the same as he is to her, drool and cum dripping down her chin and his cock. One of his hands finally finds her head, and he tries weakly to push her away. She doesn’t let him, and instead just stops sucking, letting him finish coming against her tongue.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes fluttering open to meet hers. She just opens her mouth wide enough for him to see the wealth of white painting her tongue. “Fuck.”

“You can choose if you spit it out or swallow,” Geralt tells her, and she realizes for the first time that his hand has disappeared from her head and he’s crouched to whisper in her ear. She shudders, rubbing her thighs together as if it would provide enough friction for any kind of relief. “But he prefers it if you swallow.”

Ciri’s never really had a preference, herself, but looking into Jaskier’s eyes as his face floods scarlet all over again, she thinks anything that makes him look at her that desperately is always what she’ll choose. She closes her mouth and swallows slowly, pointedly, and Jaskier makes a sound like someone punched him in the chest.

Geralt chuckles in her ear and then settles a hand on her belly, just to start slowly pulling her up from her knees.

“Your turn,” he says.

She whines and goes where he puts her.

#celus writes #dead dove #dead dove: do not eat #ciriweek #celus wrecking ciri #...this one is pretty tame actually #celus speaks

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