#v: you are carnage | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

swordgrace · 3 months ago

Text

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!healer!reader.

SYNOPSIS: serving as a healer on the frontlines of a war that is tearing the realm apart, you come to tend the wounds of the warden of the north. inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 8.2K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), fic is inspired by robb & talisa’s relationship, description of wounds/injuries, mentions of violence & war, canon-typical misogyny (cregan goes to the northern school of feminism), heavy mutual pining, both cregan and reader have experience, p in v sex, unprotected sex, all stark men have a breeding kink, size kink (cregan is much taller/bigger than reader), fingering (fem!rec), biting, breast play, hair-pulling, rain-soaked cregan, bed/cot breaking, lotus position, riding/cowgirl, gentle-ish sex, soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Back with another Cregan fic! I absolutely love writing for him & this request was so perfect. This is taking place during the wars (HOTD S3). Thank you guys so much for your continued support and kindness, it means a ton to me! I hope you all enjoy! ❤️

𝐖��𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 — 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Yet, as he lay in his tent, feeling the bitter sting of what pain could bring, face-to-face with carnage, he felt some semblance of fear. It was the only time that a man could ever be brave, in the face of such strife. The Riverlands were occupied by Ser Criston Cole for some time, and in the name of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Cregan Stark aimed to reclaim it.

The road to the Riverlands had been a lengthy one, hard on his force of Winter Wolves, greybeards that itched for combat. They were met with resistance at every turn after crossing the Twins, yet they endured, still a force of nearly two-thousand men.

More were on their way from the North, bannermen of all ilk and family called to-arms at Winterfell, to ride North and join his forces in the Riverlands. Despite his youthful age of one-and-twenty, Cregan was a fierce and proficient fighter, better than a great deal of the men under his command.

Struck by a stray arrow and slashed with a blade, he bared his injuries incredibly well — better than most. Cregan’s stalwart, hardened exterior served him well, never giving way to the pain he felt beneath. The arrow had gone clean through, thankfully. Much of his recovery was simply bandages and time.

He chafed at the notion of being bound to his tent for days on-end — he wanted to be with his men, helming any attacks, leading them to victory. He was useless here, abdomen wrapped in soiled bandages, laid-up and no good to anyone.

The healers who passed through all possessed older, wrinkled faces — men who had seen countless wars, perhaps thrice his age, acclaimed in talent and skill with the art of mending wounds and sewing bone together.

Imagine Cregan’s bewilderment when a young woman entered his tent one dismal morning.

You couldn’t have been much younger than him, clad in a tattered, coarse dress with a hem steeped in mud, white apron sullied with countless stains. Much of the cruor on your garments wasn’t your own, the blood of Stark men, men from White Harbor.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark.” The songbird’s lull of your voice had made him unusually calm, as if able to quell the growing tide of irritation he’d felt with his inaction. You brought with you a basket of supplies, tools of the trade that you had to scrounge around to get.

Men never looked upon a woman-healer with interest or a desire to teach — much of what you knew was from your own mother, or things you’d observed and taught yourself from piles of books at your disposal. Though, you found yourself excelling within your area of expertise.

Perplexed, Cregan watched you hawkishly, sluggishly sitting up from his bed of furs, a low grunt escaping him in the process. “My Lady,” He greeted with a nod of his head, muscles aching and sore from the clashes and skirmishes, coupled with time spent on the road. “You are a new face.”

Part of you wondered if he would take offense, given that you were a lady, but you decided not to address it. “I certainly hope that it isn’t a disappointment,” You mused, placing your supplies down at his bedside. “Other hands were needed elsewhere.”

He wasn’t disappointed in the slightest.

Cregan found you to be breathtakingly beautiful — it took one stolen glance for him to discern that. Your very presence seemed to flourish with warmth and amiability. It was a welcome change from the old men who poked and prodded at him, and he wouldn’t complain about being in the presence of someone his own age.

With a huff, he shook his head, wisps of chestnut tresses framing his visage. “Not at all,” He murmured, studying you with a thinly-veiled intrigue. “A welcome change.” Cregan replied, catching your amiable smile, as warm and as bright as the first inkling of springtime.

You had seen Cregan only in-passing, brief moments where you spotted the young Lord atop his dark steed, or stomping through muddied encampments alongside his soldiers. Now, up-close, you realized how young he really looked, with a youthful, babyish visage that did not match his stony expression or wisened, gray eyes.

“You say that now, but you’ll have to get used to me first, my Lord.” You mused, reaching for the first wrap of his soiled bandages. It was easier to make small-talk in the midst of situations like these — it often eased your nerves, gave you something else to think about.

Cregan moved his arms just enough, allowing you to unravel the crimson-crusted bandages. There was some momentary relief, without the scratching and irritation of coarse linen, wounds exposed to the lick of fresh air.

A steady exhale escaped him, and he watched as you discarded the bandages, fetching more from your basket, coupled with some strange poultice in a jar. He did not recall his former caretakers ever giving him something like that, and he refused Milk of the Poppy.

“How long have you had an interest in this?” Cregan inquired, genuinely interested in what led you down such a path. It wasn’t commonplace for a woman of your station, not in the slightest. He would never discourage it, but he was itching to know.

As you wrung out a cloth of hot water, you brought it to his left shoulder, thick and burly with muscle, gingerly swiping over the wound to clean it. “Many years,” You hummed, brows furrowing together in concentration. “My father didn’t like it, but I learned what I could from others.”

Cregan was the stoic sort, an indomitable mountain of a man who appeared so rugged and indifferent, yet he possessed a gentle hand and heart when away from wandering eyes. He listened attentively, soothed by the tenderness in your touch.

Becoming a Maester was something you’d desired in your youth, yet the Citadel never allowed for women to study and attain the position. You were left to your own devices, a life of healing and service to those who needed it most, and you were content with that. You would forge your own Maester’s Chain.

You then pressed the cloth against the still-swollen gash from the sword across his abdomen, the flesh around it somewhat angry and reddened. “You took quite a beating. I have no desire to see who was on the other end of your blade.”

A soft huff escaped him as he rolled his shoulders, dwarfing you completely in size and stature. Even for a man of his youth, he seemed imposing, larger than plenty of young men his age. “Best not to dwell on it,” He grunted, stormy hues following you wherever you went. “You are not a Northerner.”

The lack of a Northern accent gave it away, but you also spoke properly and eloquently, as if you had been raised somewhere with plenty of civility. “The Stormlands — I am from Bronzegate.” You replied, which happened to earn you a very threadbare smile from Lord Stark.

“A Southerner, then,” A twinge of amusement seemed interwoven with his gruff, husky timbre, a voice that you were rather charmed by. He was mesmerizing to listen to, Northern dialect and deeper voice marked by a stalwart calm. “What are you doing here?”

As you cleaned away the sluggish ooze of cruor, you ensured that his wounds were free of dirt or dried blood, inspecting them for infection. “Finding my way in the world,” You confessed, reaching for the jar of herbal poultice, a salve that you had made yourself. “As we all are.”

Cregan could respect your honesty and earnestness in knowing that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life — sometimes, he didn’t know, either. It was easy to forget oneself when tasked with the charge of leadership, easy to allow it to become a burden instead of a challenge.

Dipping your fingertips into the salve, you gently spread it across the wound on his shoulder, the strange concoction icy against his hot flesh. “What is that?” He questioned, the unusual smell of it stinging his nostrils. Whatever it was, it felt incredible.

“A salve that I made,” You chimed, clicking your tongue as you concentrated on spreading it thin, layering it across his skin. “It’s not something conventional. I exchanged certain herbs for others, and added something of my own. It takes the sting away, numbs the flesh around the wound.”

It did take the sting away, as you said, and soothed his wound at the same time. Cregan admired your ingenuity, charmed and ensnared by you. He hadn’t expected to enjoy your company as much as he was, which was always enough to draw some concern.

A union formed out of wedlock was a dangerous one, but these were perilous times, in the midst of war. He was bound to no one — he had no one. Gray hues silently appraised you, and whenever you got close enough, he could feel your sweet breath upon his flesh, smell the faint aroma of wildflowers and a dab of honey.

“If you are willing, I’d like to have your ingredients. It would be worthwhile for the rest of the healers to craft it, too. Do not waste it all on me.” Cregan rumbled, a soft sigh of relief escaping him as you spread the poultice all along the gash across his abdomen.

The instantaneous relief he felt made him relax, the tension unfurling within his shoulders. Once the salve began to dry just slightly, you took to bandaging him again, nearly chest-to-chest with him when you wrapped the linen around his torso.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, muscles tightening whenever you pressed closer, even if the action was a necessity. You felt the onslaught of warmth creep into your features, goosebumps cascading down your spine with the intensity of his gaze.

You happened to meet his smoldering stare for just a moment, butterflies swelling within the pit of your stomach, followed by a rush of heat that seeped into your very bones. “I will provide you with the list tomorrow.” You murmured, finishing wrapping up his wound.

The arrow puncture on his shoulder was something that you covered in a few layers of sturdier medicinal cloth, before wrapping it once to keep it stable. You had backed away slightly, the close proximity having made your nerves spark to life.

It was a warmth and intimacy that you hadn’t touched before, unfamiliar yet wild with curiosity. Perhaps you had a tryst with a young man back in Bronzegate, but never to this degree of intensity. Cregan gazed at you as if you were the only one to exist.

“I am finished here,” That was enough to shatter Cregan’s incendiary look, the heat dissipating from his gray hues. His visage resumed that stone-faced look, and he suddenly remembered himself and the bonds of propriety. “I will visit tomorrow with your list, if that’s all you need from me.”

He noticed how you straightened, posture somewhat rigid, fingertips stained in dried blood and cruor. You retrieved what supplies you had, placing them all back into your basket before you curtsied, as a Lady would before a Lord.

“You do not have to bow, my Lady,” Cregan assured, standing to his feet with a strenuous grunt. He was massive even when sitting before you, but seeing him upright and so close — Gods take you for the things you began to ponder and imagine. “I am grateful for your aid in these dour times.”

Cregan was as stubborn as an old mule, despite being so young. Rarely did he accept help from other people, preferring to do it all himself and be the guiding example, but this was something he was not practiced at.

“It is my duty, my Lord. It is a responsibility that I share for yourself, and for your soldiers. I pray that the Gods will usher you into a swift recovery, and victory.” That smile — Gods, you had a beautiful smile. It could melt even the hardiest of ice, bring exuberance and joy to those who had none. “I should take my leave.”

“Of course,” Cregan bowed his head, timbre gentle and akin to the roll of thunder before an encroaching thunderstorm. He retrieved his tunic from the foot of his bed, and before you could disappear from the tent, he cleared his throat. “What is your name, my Lady?”

You smiled, gaze dancing with a twinge of mischief and amusement as you chewed at the inside of your cheek. Lingering within the entryway of his tent, you took one, deliberate step backwards.

“I suppose you’ll have to learn that tomorrow.”

Sitting idly by while a war raged nearby had soured Cregan’s mood exponentially.

He had stared at the canvas canopy of his tent for so long that he began to lose count of the hours. It was only when his second-in-command harkened him to the war table, that he obeyed.

Green forces had stationed a battalion at The Trident, and the rest were attempting to seize Harrenhal from Daemon Targaryen and his Rivermen. Cregan intended on cutting off the battalion, ripping them out root and stem, effectively carving away a portion of Cole’s forces.

War was an ugly thing — killing a man never pleased him as it did some, but it was an unfortunate necessity. Ensuring that Rhaenyra Targaryen took her place upon the Iron Throne was paramount, an oath he forged with her son, Jacaerys Velaryon.

Cregan covered his wounds with his tunic and a fur cloak, knowing that the weight of armor would only hinder his recovery, and he needed to be prepared for what was to come. He spoke strategy with Lord Roderick Dustin of Barrowton, before taking his leave.

You happened to occupy his thoughts — a girl from Bronzegate, with a rosy, heartening smile and a demure nature, tending to his wounded men. Not a moment passed from last eve to now, an afternoon marked by grim, gray storm clouds, that he hadn’t thought of you.

It was improper, perhaps, to think so fondly of a young maiden out of wedlock, one he barely knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He was drawn to you — and he had a feeling that you felt the same, a mutual sentiment.

The massive tent erected for those wounded in battle was marked by an ivory canvas and the hurried pace of healers floating in and out. Cregan knew where to find you, and he had learned of your name from several of his bannermen.

He spotted you outside, washing your hands free of crimson, the ends of your sleeves just as tattered and wrought with blood that didn’t belong to you. Your tresses were pulled into a braid to avoid interference with your work, brow creased in concentration.

“My Lady.” He greeted you with that familiar timbre, husky and gallant. There was a warmth that radiated from him, both in his tone and physically, that enveloped you whenever you were in his presence. He was a man of few words, but you made up for it.

Surprise settled into your features as you regarded him with mild bewilderment. You weren’t expecting him to seek you out. “My Lord,” You exhaled, bowing your head in reverence as you wiped the blood from your hands with a rag. “What are you doing out of bed?”

Cregan enjoyed your concern, staving off a threadbare smile before he shrugged, wisps of chestnut tresses fluttering with the breeze. The air smelled of rain, an approaching deluge. “You never said that I had to stay.” He stated, looking towards your hands.

A huff of laughter escaped you, hands mostly free of any blood, your knuckles bruised and bearing some scrapes. “Are you feeling well enough?” You asked, head canting to one side. There was a quell in the battle for now, allowing you time to recuperate.

“I have been for some time,” Cregan sighed, brows furrowing together. “Old men wished for me to stay abed, and I heeded them, until now.” Two wounds wouldn’t stop him — there was something powerful about him, a determination to continue even in the face of agony or strife.

You couldn’t help but smile in spite of his stubbornness — you wondered how his men dealt with him. Many soldiers and bannermen that you had conversed with praised Cregan, with nothing but honorable things to say about him. He was regarded as stoical and resigned, patient and pragmatic.

“Let me have a look. It’s the least that I can do, considering you made the trek here.” You motioned for him to follow you, sweeping the canvas aside as you beckoned him into the wounded tent. There were scores of men in worse states than he — some of them brushing close to death.

Cregan stepped behind you like a massive wall of stone, a mountain of a man, his shadow casting itself over you. Some of the healers seemed surprised with his coming here, a handful being familiar faces that had tended to him when he was first wounded.

The space in which you operated was a great deal smaller, yet tidy and orderly. He sat down with a grunt atop the cot you gestured to, shrugging off his fur cloak. Part of him felt strange for being here, considering the grievous state of some of the men.

A roll of parchment lay atop your footlocker, a lengthy list of ingredients used in your medicinal salve, the one that Cregan had requested yesterday. He watched you scurry about, fetching fresh bandages and your mysterious poultice that seemed to do him a world of good.

Some of the healers looked upon you with thinly-veiled disdain and scrutiny, eyes of wizened men who believed themselves to be better than you. A woman doing such gruesome work wasn’t exactly proper.

“Your tunic,” You murmured, averting your gaze away from Cregan’s body as he removed the smoky-blue garment, revealing his herculean musculature. The more you studied Lord Stark, the more enamored you became — he was handsome and well-spoken. Stubborn, perhaps, but most Northerners were. “Thank you.”

Cregan thoroughly enjoyed watching you work — it was a captivating thing to behold, the way you navigated a wound with such care and precision. Your hands were disarmingly gentle as you shifted the linen wrappings away, exposing his shoulder to the brisk afternoon air.

The pain had certainly diminished, moreso in his shoulder than his abdomen. In usual silence, Cregan studied you closely, storm-colored hues appraising you, committing every detail to memory. There was something breathtaking about you, a magnetizing pull that drew him in, kept him enthralled.

He reveled in the sensation of your fingertips tracing around his wound, feather-light and delicate, leaving behind a trail of fire in your wake. “It’s healed wonderfully,” You murmured, brows furrowing together as you applied a dab of honey, a natural antiseptic. You placed the bandage back over it. “How does it feel?”

“Acceptable.” He grunted, though his tone seemed somewhat warped with amusement. Your lips twitched into a brief frown, as if he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “I am well enough. You needn’t worry, my Lady.” Cregan assured, resting his thick forearms atop his thighs.

A soft sigh left you as you circled around him, coming to stand before him with a tender expression. Your countenance still seemed furrowed with concern, but he neglected to comment on it.

Peeling away the linen bandages that clung to his abdomen, the angry-red swelling had nearly dissipated, and the gash remained, still healing. “The salve seems to have helped,” You fought hard to ignore the closeness between yourself and Cregan, mere breaths apart. “The swelling has gone down.”

The scent of your warm breath fanned across his visage, basking him in your saccharine smell. Even if your garments were well-worn and speckled in gore, he could still detect the aroma of wildflowers on you.

“You have my gratitude, my Lady.” Cregan uttered, a valiant attempt to relieve some of the lingering tension. It was something he rarely, if ever, experienced with a woman — especially one such as yourself.

“You know my name already, Lord Stark. You do not have to continue to refer to me as a Lady,” A twinkle of amusement lingered within your eyes, knowing that his bannermen had shared your name with him. “I am not of noble birth, I’m afraid.”

Cregan huffed, and he realized that you were clever. The wit and fiery spirit leapt out from you on occasion, and this happened to be one of them. “Honor and good pleasantries demand that I continue to refer to you as a Lady.” He replied, tender and deep, like the shaking of a mountain.

With an amiable smile, you changed the bandages around Cregan’s torso, applying your salve before discarding the old ones. “Don’t,” You chimed, tone softening to the lull of a songbird. “Call me by my name.” You stood, wiping your hands against a swath of clean cloth.

A low, rumbling ‘hm’ escaped the man, whose chestnut brows furrowed together as he ogled you — shamelessly, this time. There was a fond playfulness laced within your banter, something that Cregan wasn’t entirely accustomed to. “Cregan.” He insisted, establishing a firm foundation for your blossoming relationship.

“Cregan.” You repeated, his name sounding sickeningly sweet from your Southern tongue. The young Lord moved to tug his tunic back on over his hulking frame, musculature working in such wondrous ways. It was difficult to tame your wandering eye, heat crawling along your spine.

Ripping yourself from your trance, you busied yourself with something else. “The salve ingredients that you requested, I made a list.” You stepped towards the footlocker, retrieving the scroll of parchment as you offered it to him. “I hope that it will do some good.”

After having placed his thick cloak over his shoulders, Cregan grunted, the vibration spreading throughout his chest as he accepted the list. “This is noble of you,” He murmured, turning it over within his roughened hand. “The men here owe you their gratitude — as do I.”

Dismissive of his praise, you remained humble, politely curtsying before Lord Stark. “It is my duty, that is all. I will continue on for as long as I am able.” You didn’t like being thanked for healing — it was a passion that you chased after, a job that brought you joy.

“If there is anything that I can do for you as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, name it — it will be done.” Cregan nodded, countenance bristling with a burning affection, one that wasn’t concealed in the slightest. Despite his stalwart demeanor, he made his fondness of you known.

A delicate hum escaped you, but nothing of importance came to mind. You didn’t want to make any demands of him, especially given the circumstances — he had little time to cater to a healer when war loomed overhead.

“If you insist, I would ask for a suitable stationary set,” Simplistic and curious, something uncommonly asked for. Writing was something you had no part in, but illustrations — that was a different story. “Do not toil over it, my Lo — Cregan. Your generosity is kind enough.”

Cregan nodded, taking it into consideration. “I will not toil over it,” He replied, peering over his shoulder toward a pack of healers. There were plenty of wounded men that required your attention more than he. “Consider it done. I will leave you to your work.”

You bowed again out of common courtesy, hands folded together as you offered Cregan another warm smile. “Of course. Should your recovery change course, please do not hesitate to return. I wish you good fortune in the battles to come.”

“Until next we meet.”

Bellflower flourished in moss-laden groves around the forks of the Trident, petals ranging from ivory to shades of cerulean and a light lilac. It grew in clutches, its blooms spherical and pleasing to the eye. Despite the deluge plaguing the Winter Wolves at every step, it seemed to slow Cole’s army down exponentially, too.

As dusk fell in a dark, cloudy gloom across the encampment, Cregan carried a bound bundle of bellflower in his hands, to be given to one person in particular.

It had only been two days since your last meeting in the healer’s tent, his wounds on the mend, no longer weighed down with bandages. The stationary you requested had been brought to your tent sometime the next day, after you had addressed it with Cregan.

It was intended to be a gesture of gratitude, something that he knew you would find favor in, but it was easily passable as a rite of courtship. The constant prodding of a marriage proposal was always at the fringes of Cregan’s mind — it was his duty to marry, and he had prolonged the process as much as he could.

With war tearing the realm apart, there was little time to consider a marriage — but a relationship, perhaps a budding bond, that was something he could make time for. Even in his duties as the Warden of the North, a champion for Queen Rhaenyra, there would be a lull, a calm in the storm.

Your tent wasn’t a far trek from the healer’s tent, smaller and humble compared to his own. It didn’t seem fair, given your importance and what you had contributed to their cause, but he didn’t dwell on it — not now, anyway.

To see the ferocious, stoic Cregan Stark carrying a bundle of flowers that seemed minuscule within his grasp was a most peculiar sight. His fur trappings and leather-and-chainmail bore the motif of the Direwolf, the sigil of House Stark, making him seem larger than he already was. His ancestral longsword, Ice, remained slung across his broad shoulders.

The glitter of candlelight cut through the dismal haze of rainfall around him, its orange glow pooling from your tent, closed-off for privacy. Through the sliver of canvas, Cregan could see you, hunched over your chair, moving a quill across parchment. You wore your hair down this time, visage framed by wisps of your tresses, brow creased in concentration.

Cregan stepped forward, announcing his presence with a noisy clearing of his throat. “My Lady,” He rumbled, standing just outside of your tent, chestnut tresses sticking to his skull from the deluge. “If I might have a moment of your time.”

Your surprise was palpable as you flung open your tent, with Cregan Stark standing before you, soaked to the bone and entirely unphased. Your gaze fell to the bouquet of bellflowers in his hand, features becoming hot almost immediately.

“Cregan,” You stepped aside to usher him in, getting him out of the storm. “I apologize if you attempted to summon me, I’ve been preoccupied.” Preoccupied with the wrong things, perhaps, but you felt horrible that he had walked all this way in a torrential downpour.

“An apology isn’t necessary,” Cregan assured, so tall and mountainous that he seemed to consume much of the space in your tent, scalp scraping the canvas above. “I merely wanted to extend my gratitude, for your diligence and steadfastness in my recovery.” He murmured.

Your lodgings were quite humble, your bed nothing more than a cot lined in fur blankets, pillows stuffed with linens to make it bearable. The rickety wooden chairs were ones you’d borrowed — it served as a place to draw, a series of candles sitting along your footlocker. The ground below was covered in layers of canvas and fur — perhaps more comfortable than the cot itself.

You offered him a polite smile, though the air seemed charged with more than just friendliness. “You’ve already extended your gratitude, my Lord. You needn’t do it again,” You replied, heart thrumming within your chest. “You are soaked to the bone. Why don’t you warm yourself?”

Cregan was plenty warm, his own metaphorical sun, blood running exceptionally hot — especially this evening. “There is no need,” He rumbled, jaw somewhat tense as he extended the bouquet of bellflowers to you, bound together with a thick cord. “Blooming along the Trident. I thought of you.”

Thought of you — did he do that often?

Gods, did you think of him — you thought of him at each waking moment, torturing yourself over him, the Lord of Winterfell. There were nights where you fantasized about him in such sinful ways that it left you gasping for air. It made your belly stir with butterflies, heat simmering across your flesh.

“These are beautiful,” Touched by such a simple gesture, you accepted the bouquet from him, moving to place it inside of a tall flask that once held one of your salves. Its mauve petals added a flair of color. “Thank you, Cregan.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

Every man in this dreadful encampment paled in comparison to Cregan Stark, who gazed down at you with such intensity that you feared you would melt away. Your breath hitched within your throat when he stepped closer — involuntary or not, you sorely yearned for the closeness.

Droplets of water rolled from his temples, chestnut tresses sticking to his forehead, garb damp from the rain. He smelled of the woodlands — pine and petrichor, intermingled with that of a natural musk. Those gray hues of his raked over you, drinking you in with a thinly-veiled rapture.

“There are other ways to express your gratitude.”

Your mouth moved before your mind could tell you to cease — speaking to your Lord in such an uncouth manner was grounds for trouble. You hadn’t fully realized the salacious implications of your statement until it sank in, and you became nervous. Before you could apologize, Cregan stopped you.

“Why do you think I came all this way, my Lady?” He rumbled, lifting his hand to cup your face, palm nearly engulfing half of your visage. Gods, you were beautiful — nothing short of perfection in his eyes. The bulk of his arm hesitantly reached out to circle around you, drawing you closer into his embrace.

That wasn’t the only reason — Cregan’s fondness of you had manifested into something uncontrollable, and you shared the same sentiment. Your feelings were now just as raging as his own, like a wildfire spreading across a forest, unchecked and unchallenged.

“Aren’t you cold?” You whispered, brought into the warm expanse of his chest, broad and taut with muscle. Even through his armor, you knew that he was indomitable. Though, for all of his physical intimidation and mesomorphic might, he was disarmingly gentle, this mountain of a man.

“No,” The husky timbre of his voice made goosebumps dance along your spine, causing you to shiver. “Not anymore.” He murmured, gaze silently asking to kiss you. He did not move, didn’t intend on acting until you decided to let sentiments flow freely.

It was you that kissed him first, seeking his lips with a desperation that rattled even you. Cregan didn’t hide his mutual desire, brows furrowing together as he reciprocated your kiss, using the leverage of his arm to lift you closer.

His lips were rough, icy from being in the damp outdoors, visage slick from the rainfall. It was a stark contrast to the softness of your mouth, pliant and plush against him, your body curvaceous and perfect within his grasp. He felt your palms press against his chest, drifting towards the nape of his neck.

Rain-soaked tresses glided through your fingers, curling inward to grip and pull, kissing him with such dizzying passion. In the slim space of your lodgings, with rain pounding above, it provided a gentle ambiance that only provided to the charged atmosphere.

Your hands shifted toward the clasps of his thick cloak, hesitating as you pulled away, looking to him for approval. If it weren’t for the many layers he needed to remove, you would’ve shed your dress already.

“Is this what you want?” Cregan needed your consent and assurance before continuing on, thumb drawing circles into your hip as he held you close. His voice had dropped to a near-growl, husky and thick with desire. It only served to stoke the growing fire between the both of you, cracking with a mutual need.

You nodded, nearly rendered breathless. “Yes,” Barely above a whisper, you felt his hands settle over yours, unclasping the metallic direwolves that loosened his cloak. It was all damp and soggy from the rain, and it felt good to be rid of it. “I need you.” You murmured, voice pitched with lust.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, hands unfastening his armor, buckle by buckle, piece by piece. Your hands sometimes joined in on occasion, loosening a strap or helping to take it off altogether. You didn’t move away, allowing each item to join the growing pile until he was left in his smallclothes.

He gently reached for the nape of your neck, massive palm caressing into the base of your skull, tracing along your silky flesh as he brought you in for a kiss. Even without his armor, Cregan was impossibly large, with a bulk and stature that dwarfed your own.

His mouth moved in-tandem with yours, each kiss blistering with passion, an eagerness that never exceeded into something rough. There was a domineering undertone to his actions, but never anything that would hurt you or scare you off.

Northern perfection, an immaculate wall of strength and muscle, yet so gentle — it rattled you to your core in the best possible way, filling your belly with molten heat. You kissed him fervently, until he stopped to kiss along your jaw, roughened lips finding the silky column of your neck.

The coarse, cloth ties that gathered at the small of your back became unraveled by you, loosening the periwinkle-colored garment until it sagged upon your body. You let it drop, your plain dress pooling to the ground in a heap of wrinkled fabric. You nudged it aside, letting it join Cregan’s armor.

Gray hues flickered across your naked flesh, beautiful beyond compare, a woman’s body that possessed the loveliest of curves. Cregan was swift to lower his hands, smoothing them across your sides, and then to your hips, shamelessly grabbing greedy handfuls of your derrière.

“I’ve never seen a beauty like yours before.” Cregan rumbled, mouth pressing soft kisses all along your neck, and then to the hollow of your throat. His calloused palms caressed everywhere they could, savoring the sensation of your velveteen skin.

You shivered at his reverent touch, lips parting as a soft gasp escaped you. Your hands held his biceps, thick and taut beneath your fingertips as a warm slick continued to mount between your legs. He hitched one of your legs around him, keeping you steady.

As he continued to savor your throat, mouth dragging from your neck to collarbone, his available hand stroked along your belly, tracing a path toward the heat between your thighs. Cregan searched for signs of hesitation or protest, but found none, thick fingers sluggishly slipping against your core.

“Cregan,” You gasped, a sharp inhale escaping you as you desperately held onto him, clinging on like a drowning woman as he toyed with your cunt. He deftly pushed past your folds, digits tracing along your slit in rhythmic motions, exploring your body. “Gods, don’t stop.” You pleaded, face pressing near his shoulder.

Teeth scraped along your throat, gently biting at your sensitive flesh as his digits found a steady rhythm. With two fingers stroking along your cunt, his thumb moved to nudge against your clit, circling around the sensitive clutch of nerves. He was silent, save for the rumbling sounds of his grunts.

Gently coaxing you towards your cot, Cregan didn’t stop to think about how feeble it was for two people. Nevertheless, he sat beside you, wood groaning and splintering in protest to the sudden amount of weight it bore. Sitting atop the furs, he collected you into his lap, slotting you against his thigh.

Tangling your hands into the hem of his tunic, you managed to maneuver it off with his assistance, all wisps of air stolen from your lungs at the sight of him. Seeing him in this light, full of desire with candlelight dancing across his skin, he was wonderfully handsome.

One palm cupped your hips, holding you close as his fingers resumed their previous ministrations, thumb seeking your clit. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Each kiss left you gasping and heaving, wanting more of him, all that he could give. Your hands sought to drape themselves over his broad shoulders, threading into his damp tresses as you rocked yourself into his hand. The friction it created was delicious, a raging heat that crawled all over your body.

Thunder split the skies outside, rain coming down in a noisy deluge that pounded against the durable canvas of your tent. Cregan shifted backwards, the cot continuing to groan and creak beneath his bulk, threatening to snap into two if your ministrations continued.

You felt along the corded muscle of his shoulders, his skin unusually soft beneath your palms. With the relentless appetite of a wolf, Cregan kissed you again, pulling away just enough to kiss your collarbone instead. Thick digits continued to nudge against your cunt, threatening to push their way inside of you.

At a slow pace, he eased two fingers inside of you, stretching you just enough for it to be quite pleasurable. A whine of delight tore from your mouth, head rolling back enough for him to have unobstructed access. Teeth nipped at your collarbone, providing a sharp sting that flourished across your body.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits sluggishly pumping themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Planting hot kisses just above your breasts, Cregan’s rough palm caressed from the swell of your hip to your chest, full and perfect, kneading into your breast. The entirety of your body felt so soft — like a plane of velvet, unblemished and left in some state of perfection.

Rocking yourself into his hand, a myriad of needy whimpers left you in droves, ones that occasionally tapered off into wanton moans, others left hushed. Cregan’s chest blossomed with a stoic grunt, the vibrations of it rattling you to your core.

“Cregan,” A fleeting sigh of passion escaped you, breathless and wanting, caught within a tempest of desire and carnality. Your digits touched him wherever you could, from the bulk of his shoulders to his biceps, thick and taut, and his face. “Gods, I need you.” You moaned, coaxing him in for a kiss.

Such a sentiment was mutual — Cregan did not know what depths of want he was capable of, and the carnal need he developed for you was intense. Though, it had also manifested into something else, transcending into affection and ardor.

He did not want to be parted from you after this.

His rough lips molded themselves to yours, kissing you desperately, until he stole every wisp of air from your lungs. He occasionally scraped his teeth across your lower lip, digits still working their way in and out of you, continuing to palm at your breasts.

Between the stimulation of his mouth and digits, you were already worked up, tangled within a web of desire as the cot groaned in protest again — and then snapped.

Only one of the wooden frames suffered damage, and Cregan was quick to shield you from harm, if there was any harm to begin with. He simply sagged further into the canvas, a look of mild amusement rising to his features. “The ground, then.” He rumbled, and you began to giggle, nose crinkling from the awkwardness of it all.

“I could’ve warned you,” You mused, affection dancing within your fond gaze as you kissed his jaw. “It would not survive with your muscles sitting atop it.” Cregan found it difficult not to smile, the gesture faint yet prevalent as he stroked along your spine.

“I will have it replaced.” Cregan grumbled, but you didn’t care in the slightest, the both of you relocating to the sprawling floor of thick, layered furs. It was arguably more comfortable than your cot would’ve been anyway. Drawing you back into his lap, he touched you everywhere he could.

The glow of orange illumination covered the both of you, however faint, aided by slits of clouded moonlight that poured in from the gap in canvas. You were beautiful — everything that he had ever wanted, caged within his arms, staring at him with a heated intensity.

He was mountainous, even when sitting, large and powerful enough to move you wherever he pleased. Your kisses became feverish, as if each entanglement would be your last, heart hammering within your chest with a flurry of excitement.

For a moment, Cregan withdrew, content to gaze upon your smiling visage, gaze sparkling with affection. He lifted his hand, cupping your cheek and jaw, allowing himself a moment to commit every feature of yours to memory. His next kiss was agonizingly slow in the best way possible, causing you to sigh with passion.

He needed to be close to you, chest to chest, savoring every inch of your silken flesh. Cregan had never touched something so soft before, drinking you in again with those tempestuous hues, as alluring as gray clouds before a thunderstorm.

“I want you inside of me,” You pleaded, lips parting slightly as Cregan’s jaw tensed, lust festering within him. Gods, what a wonderful mother you would make — the thought was fleeting, but it lingered like a thick fog, taking up residence within his mind. “Please.”

Cregan did not hesitate, hands joining yours as you hastily unraveled the leather ties of his trousers. He wanted to stay this way, sitting up with you in his lap, allowing him to look upon your face, ravage your skin as he guided you atop his length.

To match his imposing stature and wall of muscle, his cock was just as intimidating, causing your stomach to turn with a twinge of worry. Then again, you had become so worked up that pain seemed impossible. Cregan’s hands steadied themselves atop the swell of your hips, bringing you up enough to let his cock glide against your slick folds.

“As you wish.” He huffed, letting you find your way, the flushed tip of his length beginning to penetrate you. You moaned at the intrusion, able to feel the girth of it stretch you perfectly, just as his fingers had. Cregan grunted, guiding you down until you could go no further.

Strong enough to ease you along his length with his hands alone, Cregan seized the opportunity to kiss you. You were only a few breaths taller like this, slotted within his lap, hands finding their purchase atop his shoulders as you began to ride him.

Gods, he was big — enough for you to realize that soreness was an inevitability. Being flush against him, nearly chest-to-chest, was perfect, something so intimate and sensual that hot shivers rolled down your spine. Cregan guided you up and down upon his cock, ensuring that he went at a sluggish pace, more for your sake than his own.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the tent with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. Your nails sank into the muscle there, countenance one of complete and utter pleasure.

Cregan untangled his lips from yours, finding the column of your throat, greedily kissing and nipping wherever he could. Your taste was ambrosial, skin delicate and saccharine beneath his mouth. You moaned, one hand moving to tug at his chestnut tresses, bringing your hips down upon his cock again and again.

The sluggishness of the repetitive motion was agonizingly wonderful — the pace was perfect, not rough enough in the slightest, but passionate, instead. You much preferred this, the intimacy and closeness of it all, the way in which heat radiated between the both of you.

You felt incredible, every fiber of your body burning for him, arousal thick and heavy between your thighs. “Cregan,” A noisy moan escaped you, grinding yourself against him, hips flush together. It was as if you were touched by hot embers, the heat raking across your body time and time again. “Cregan!”

A deep, trembling groan tore past his mouth, one that made your belly fill with liquid fire. You shivered within his grasp, feeling his lips clamor to the underside of your jaw, nose brushing against your chin. His cock throbbed with a sense of urgency, slick with precum.

He continued to guide you, hands descending from your hips to the pliant flesh of your haunches, digits sinking into your derrière. Despite the chill of the rain and song of the storm raging around you, Cregan kept you anchored, warmth radiating from him.

Your hands deftly roamed across his musculature, coming to plant themselves against the expanse of his chest, his heart thudding beneath your palm. “That’s it.” Cregan rumbled, kissing at your jaw before he finally coaxed you in for a passionate kiss. He wanted you to come undone for him.

The intensity of your release blindsided you, crashing into you like a wave breaking upon the rock. Your nails desperately scratched at Cregan’s chest, sinking into his collarbone as you bucked forward. He continued to guide you up and down along his cock until your legs rattled like leaves in the wind.

Cregan joined you, following suit as he reached his peak, forehead bumping into yours as he sought your mouth for a tender kiss. He swallowed your sweet moans, spilling his seed into your cunt. Hot ropes of his spend filled you completely, causing the both of you to sigh, a low rumble reverberating from his throat.

You very nearly collapsed within his lap, heaving with excitable pants, basking in the aftermath of your release. In an intimate gesture, you kissed his jaw, peppering his visage in soft kisses that only made Cregan pull you closer. “Are you alright?” He murmured, running a hand along your side.

“I am,” You smiled, palm reaching to cup his cheek. Cregan’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing a kiss to the silky skin there. Thunder crackled overhead, followed by a flash of lightning, the onslaught of rain pounding overhead. “It seems you’ve no choice but to stay.”

A bemused huff left Cregan, who seemed more than content to share your tent. “Thank the Gods for the deluge, then.” He rumbled, continuing to kiss from your wrist to your hand. A shiver rolled down the length of your spine, aided by his affectionate gestures.

Removing yourself from his lap, you settled down to lay beside him on the floor of your tent, gazing up at the damp canvas. The Warden of the North descended to you, offering you a muscular arm to rest against, moving the furs around the both of you.

It was a comfortable silence, born in the aftermath of your lovemaking as you curled against Cregan, palm settling above his abdomen. “When do you ride next?” You uttered, referring to the raging war that you were both caught within. It was easy to not think much of it when you were with him.

“On the morrow,” Cregan murmured, chestnut brows furrowing together. He loathed the thought of leaving again, now that he had so much more to lose. His calloused digits idly traced around your shoulder, his other arm propped beneath his head. “We will fight hard, like Northerners.”

A subtle terror gripped your heart, foul tendrils sinking into every fiber of your being. You sat up just enough to gaze upon him, fingers drifting toward the slope of his jaw. “Promise me that you’ll be careful.” You uttered, stern as could be.

Cregan could not make such a promise — war was harrowing, and it was unpredictable. Instead, he reached for your face, holding you there as he met your gaze. “I will try,” A low rumble left him, gray eyes boring into you with devotion. “Should I fall prey to another arrow or sword, I will know who to seek.”

It was difficult not to smile, in spite of everything. You sighed, leaning in to kiss him, allowing gentleness and ardor to prevail. A low grunt escaped Cregan, gray hues fluttering shut as he drew you closer into the warmth of his musculature.

“I would certainly hope so.”

copyright @ swordgrace ; please do not copy/steal my work and claim it as your own. please do not translate my works onto other platforms.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd smut #house of the dragon smut #game of thrones x reader #hotd fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

allthingswhumpyandangsty · 1 month ago

Text

WHUMP ALPHABET

*anything that can be triggering is most likely listed here, skip this post if you think it might upset you*

A is for asystole, amputation, amnesia, asphyxiation, asthma, autopsy, asylum, abandonment, anxiety, abuse, assault, aneurysm, anger, addiction

B is for blood, bruises, blunt force trauma, burns, bite marks, blisters, betrayal, beating, blindfolding, bondage, brainwashing

C is for cannibalism, cuts, convulsion, concussion, cardiac arrest, corpse, chains, cult, carnage, craniotomy, craniectomy, chest compression, choking, coughing up blood

D is for delirium, dehydration, disfigurement, dismemberment, demonic possession, death, dehumanization, degradation, depression, disease, drowning, distress, despair, dizziness, drug withdrawal

E is for exsanguination, electrical injuries, electroconvulsive therapy, electrocution, execution, exhaustion, eating disorders, emergency room

F is for fever, flu, fatality, flat-lining, fractured bones, fear, fatigue, force-feeding, flagellation, flogging

G is for garroting, gunshot wounds, grief, gallows, guillotine, guilt, gash, gag

H is for hypothermia, heatstroke, hallucination, hyperventilation, hemorrhage, handcuffing, hospital, hanging, hatred, hate

I is for intubation, infection, injuries, injection, illness, internal bleeding, intravenous therapy, insomnia, illusion, innards

J is for jealousy, jugular veins

K is for killing, kidnapping, knife

L is for laceration, lobotomy, ligature marks, lack of oxygen, loss of consciousness, lies, living weapon, locking up

M is for morgue, miscommunication, murder, manslaughter, massacre, mourning, miscarriage, masochism, mistreatment, manipulation, misery, mental illness, malnutrition

N is for nightmares, nausea, necrophilia, necrotizing fasciitis, necrosis

O is for outbreaks, obeying, operating theater

P is for physical restraints, pain, punishment, poison, panic attack, paralysis, PTSD, penetration, pierced lung

Q is for quadriceps tendon rupture, quadriparesis, Quebec platelet disorder

R is for ruptured blood vessels, respiratory failure, rabies, rape, rope, resentment, ritual

S is for schadenfreude, strangulation, starvations, shock collar, shock therapy, straightjacket, sadism, scapegoat, shame, sacrifice, sadness, sorrow, slaughter, suicide, self-harm, self-hatred, self-destruction, stabbing, slavery, seizures, stress, slash, suffering, surrendering, somnophilia, shackles, sepsis, surgery

T is for torture, trauma, tears, toxicity, trust issues, traps, tying up

U is for urinary tract infection, unresponsive, unconsciousness

V is for violence, vomiting, viruses, venom

W is for wounds, weeping, waterboarding, weakness, whipping, whimpering

X is for x-ray

Y is for yellow fever, yelling, yelping

Z is for zombie apocalypse

934 notes · View notes

keravnous · 8 months ago

Text

diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

#i'm back girlies #john wick smut #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #smut #my writing #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves smut

2K notes · View notes

peachedtvs · 9 months ago

Text

TIL' DEATH DON’T WE PART ft. Yandere!Alastor

⃝𖤐 VALENTINES DAY 2024 SPECIAL…

⃝𖤐 SUMMARY: After fleeing from your fiancé, it isn’t long before the two of you reunite, against your will or with it—on Earth or not.

⃝𖤐 CONTENT WARNINGS: afab, fem!reader, yandere!ex-fiancé!alastor x reader, alastor being a serial killer, moderate description of gore, NONCON/DUBCON, fingering, oral (fem receiving), big dick alastor—not great prep, p in v sex, rough sex, biting/marking kink, fear play, predator/prey dynamics, size kink, alastor uses his shadows,

⃝𖤐 WORD COUNT: 3.9k | 2k plot, 1.9k smut

⃝𖤐 STREAM NOTE: SMUT BELOW THE SECOND NSFW BANNER !😋i am IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN GUYS

⃝𖤐 MASTERLIST. Main blog @peachedtv

Alastor felt you were quite silly, even from when the two of you were small.

So silly, in so many ways.

You were silly in the way you spoke. Expressive, lively, words filled with kindness and rhythm. Words Alastor wanted to lock away for only him to hear. Your voice always melted into his mind like honey. Soothing, calming, just like the radio he’d hum to silently during his auditory carnages. Screams of pain, terror, and torment vastly contrasting a smooth swing of jazz muffled through a radio’s buzz.

Your smile was silly too. Loud, boisterous laughs pairing with it each time as you’d close your eyes tightly, breaths jagged as you’d brace your stomach from the joy. Your smile so mesmerizing Alastor wanted nothing more to lock it away behind a key. To melt away in the melody of your laughter, to spread it across his lips and adorn the smile as sweetly as you do.

He’s adapted that wish somewhat.

What was even sillier was how silly you made him feel. On the surface, the twist in his stomach was sweet. An admiration, an appreciation of something so pure. Although,

Alastor always fell apart.

Even in the room of his own heart.

Every silly thing had something inside of him twist. A strange twist, a bubbling feeling that had his gut wrench around itself—curling around and laying discomfort deep into his heart, where it stood mockingly. Unable to be buried beneath other thoughts, placed behind distractions, or replaced with another. And this bothered him.

Alastor was always in control.

Control of his subordinates, control of his manipulation, his chaos around him. So why couldn’t he control this?

What were you doing to him?

He thought it was uncomfortable at first. But that strange feeling was quite addicting, stacking tenfolds in intensity ever since the first time he felt it with you.

“Are you okay?”

By now, this memory had occurred over a century ago, on the Earth he no longer lived in.

The first day you two had met, Alastor was a clumsy boy. His two feet carrying him slower than the beat of his heart, tumbling him down onto his knee into the unforgiving concrete. It hurt. A sting and burn that tugged the corner of his lips into a frown, holding back tears as other children ran past him without any acknowledgement.

He never wanted mother to worry, and so, he always sucked it up. Tugging his knee into his chest, he blew onto the wound and hugged his leg—his lips wobbling.

And suddenly, there you were.

A small, petite child then. Clumsy and expressive as you stared down to him with empathy, your hand extended to him as the other rested on your knee. Alastor was surprised. Enough so that for a split second, he had forgotten of his wounds, of the pain. Cautiously, he took your hand.

Your hand felt right in his.

Soft, smooth, and warm against his cold skin. Soon, your fingers were almost always intertwined with his. Alastor’s mother would coo at the two of you each time Alastor brought you over to dance, smiling happily as you stumbled over his feet in the living room—his favorite radio buzzing soft melodies in the background. Alastor moved gracefully, having danced with his mother in preparation. You were not the same. You couldn’t help but have your eyes stuck on the floor, eyebrows raised in concentration as you followed his steps.

One step,

two step,

three step,

four.

You weren’t a great dancer. And after a long afternoon of clumsily tapping your feet around, the sun began to retract past the skyline, and Alastor had offered to walk you home. It was bright, really bright. Your eyebrows furrowing at the light from Earth’s warming star, a small hand raised to your forehead to soothe your eyes from the bright light.

“Al, look!” You pointed to the sun. Orange hues trailing red as the two colors bleed together, warm tones mesmerizing your childish heart and sparking wonder into your eyes.

Meanwhile, Alastor was looking at a different star. His star.

“I want to make a deal.” Alastor spoke softly. And slowly, you turned to him, curiousity tilting your head as you met Alastor’s timid expression with a hum of acknowledgment. Alastor raised his pinky finger.

“I want to be with you forever.” Alastor tucked away into his body. For the first time, his eyes looked away from you—the warmth from the sky traveling down to blush his cheeks, a pale red hue over his soft features. To his surprise, your pinky hooked onto his in an instant.

“Forever.”

And there was Alastor’s first deal of souls. A deal that tied your essence to his until the end of time—for a promise between two whom are pure surpasses the strength of any other.

And forever meant forever.

Years together flew by, and Alastor became your fiancé, set to tie your love together by law in a couple months. You both had your own jobs, despite his insistence for you to stay at home and allow him to care for you. Although, you wanted to work. You wanted to experience the world. But what you didn’t want were the unreasonable hours of overtime your boss had subjected to you. Much to Alastor’s dismay, many late afternoons he would return to an empty home. Full of furniture, light, decoration, but never with the person he truly wished the presence of. Every evening, you would trail home hours after him. Enervated, dragging your feet along the floorboards as you slumped into his open arms.

“I missed you, Cher.”

Your voice was like honey.

“I missed you more, my Dear.” Alastor greeted you softly. There it was again. Something twisted. Alastor looked down to your visage. Dark eyebags staining your soft skin, a pout dragging your lips, your eyebrows furrowed slightly as you sighed from exhaustion. His gut was twisting stranger than usual. A mix of annoyance for those who have exploited you, an annoyance that made his stomach curl inside.

Alastor did not want you to continue working.

Your boss had gone missing for a couple days now.

The company was in disarry, having strangely lost empolyee after empolyee ever since you were recruited. The once bustling, lively atmosphere became quiet, dull, and empty. And with the new loss of your empolyer, there wasn’t an office cubicle you could return to. For the first time in months, you returned home before Alastor.

Although, something felt off.

With Alastor home, it was always lively. The ambience of radio would hum an electronic swing of jazz, a low vibrato of your home’s ventilation system, and the comfort of your fiancé’s presence. He was such a soothing soul. Without him, the home felt strange. You felt presences of another, many, an overbearing amount. As though invisible strings clumped together to weigh you heavier into the floor boards, creacking the dark oak louder than usual.

Without Alastor, it felt as though something was calling for you—and curiously, you began to explore. Exploring as the home you resided in, as this home empty of your lover didn’t feel like a home anymore. And that lead you to the door that stood at the far end of the first floor. Tucked beside the laundry room, you stood still and seemed confused.

Was there always a lock?

A sturdy lock it was. Heavy metal weighing it flush against the wood, holding the door firmly shut to keep everything in out. There was a strange smell, too. A scent that leaked from beneath the dark oak doorway, filling the air with a musk of cooper and spoiled eggs. Your hand reached for the lock, flinching when built up static pricked your skin. A warning. But you held firm. Giving a cautious, downward tug as the lock went slack. It was open. You pushed the door back slowly, a low creak humming your presence, a flood of a strange meat stinging the view in your eyes.

Firmly, a familiar hand held your shoulder.

The hand of your fiancé.

You were terrified.

“Dear, what are you doing?”

You couldn’t think.

Not with the view of mangled flesh, the smell of copper and iron so strong your head began to haze strangely. No, you couldn’t think. Even moreso with scattered limbs decorating the floor—being the remainder of the morbidly intact heads of your former colleges and empolyer, of your missing boss. Pieces of them did not fit like a puzzle. Limbs, skin, so much of their bodies were missing.

What was that dinner Alastor served these passing evenings?

And it seemed as though fate enjoyed sparking your memory.

This time around, nearly a century later, it was not scatttered corpses, blood, or flies that greeted you. You stood before the door of a new, Hazbin Hotel. Advertised as a place for refemption, a gateway of return to Heaven—the place you swore you should have ended up in. And yet, nostaglia always played its role.

Just as a century ago, nails dug into your shoulder, holding you in place. A voice staticy, strange, and terrifyingly familisr beneath it’s vintaged filter. The grip dug into your flesh this time, keeping you from running—just as you did in 1933. With a door you shouldn’t have opened, and a hand on your shoulder that felt larger than usual.

Your fiancé’s hand.

“I missed you, my Dear.”

You didn't know what was happening.

You scrambled fruitlessly, trying to shove Alastor's hand off your shoulder when sharp, black tendrils gripped your wrists in an instant. By the next, it seemed you were melting into the floor, the world around you sputtering and glitching as your vision faded out and back in as you fell back onto a large bed.

You couldn't recognize the monster that was before you.

You didn't want to recognize the monster that was before you. Although, a sharp, large hand gripped the lower half of your face, covering your mouth and pinning you down into the plush duvet to muffle horrified screams, forcing you to look deep into a being empty of a soul.

Even back then, you always felt Alastor’s deep eyes lacked light. They seemed dull, strange, and detached from any wonder or interest. All until his gaze would flit upon you. A spark of light dashing his iris, a soft smile spreading his lips. He only looked human when he looked at you.

Alastor still kept that smile. A smile that had morphed after his descent into Hell. Sharp teeth, discolored skin, bloodshot eyes that contrasted against dark red sclera. He looked terrifying. His body was misshapen, large, his face framed with blood-colored hair and root-like antlers protruding from his head. His size dwarfed you, a wolf to rabbit. Predator to prey.

“Al—“

"You recall the time when you'd say it back, don't you, my Dear?" He leaned down by your neck, breathing in shakily as though he couldn't believe you were finally here. With him. All to himself. "When you would say you missed me too." His voice was disfigured. A static like radio and dark undertone to his speech making your head spin and eyes well with tears. Your entire body was trembling, the skin on your back burning as every nerve in your brain set off sirens that resonated throughout your head. You felt too fearful to even choke out a pathetic sob, wanting to blend into the sheets below you.

Meanwhile, Alastor felt himself going crazy. He couldn't help the way his mind ran a mile a minute as he stared down at your dicheviled form. You were always so pretty, absurdly so. Even as the strands of your hair fell misplaced over your face, even as you looked up to him with so much fear, hatred, and terror, his stomach twisted just as it did nearly a century ago. That strange feeling laying addiction down into the lining of his stomach, soothing his body that felt run dry of how you made him feel.

He needed you. Now.

Alastor brought a hand to his lips, hastily removing his right glove as he bit the fabric covering the tip of his middle finger, tugging his glove off by his teeth. His free hand pinned you pliantly down into the mattress by the lower half of your face, the other sliding beneath your shirt to tear the fabric off your body. You thrashed, muffled sobs and tears running down your cheeks, wetting the palm of his hand.

Your terror only fueled him further.

His hands groped and fondled every inch of your skin that one could imagine, a long tongue pairing with his touch as Alastor licked a long stripe up your neck—sucking deep blotches and bruises of dark blue and purple hues across your neck and chest. Alastor marked you as his, bit your flesh like a meal, and ruined your soft skin for his pleasure.

The mattress beneath you was in shambles. Inch deep tears lay by your head as Alastor held back the urge to squeeze you blue, from ripping into your flesh, the torn mattress a goreish display of holding back the brutal cuteness aggression Alastor got from the sight of you.

His hand slid from your mouth, gripping your neck tightly to restrict precious air from flooding your throat. He wanted you ditzy anyway. Nothing but a lifeless shell of who you were once he was done.

Pilant.

Obidient.

And what better way than halfway choking you out?

Your hands held his wrist desparately, nails scratching into his skin as he only smiled wider in response, stitches appearing on the corners of his mouth to prevent his face from ripping in two from his pure display of euphoria.

You hadn't stopped crying this entire time. Desparate pleas falling on deaf ears as you begged Alastor that this was enough, that you'd listen, that you'd stay. And as convincing as it seemed, Alastor was not giving you another chance to escape him. Not again.

His hand trailed down until it cupped your clothed cunt. Nothing on your body remaining besides your panties. A gift, perhaps—the best for last. Alastor pushed your panties to the side, experimentally swirling the pad of his thumb onto your clit, causing you to wretch out a struggled moan.

"A-Alastor—!" He only smiled in response.

"Quite sensitive, hmm? It seems you haven't changed at all." His thumb pressed harder onto your cunt, rubbing your clit side to side as the palm of his hand pressed firmly down upon your womb. He watched you fall apart with glee, sliding his other hands between your thighs and gently nudging a finger inside of you. You threw your headback into the sheets, grabbing the duvet desperately, your hips trembling as you felt your sanity waste away to the pleasure wracked into your body.

You always fell apart so prettily.

Your hand shakily reached out to Alastor, your lips quivering as a second finger curled into your cunt—the heel of his hand hitting the underside of your puffy clit as he kept toying with the bud. It burned, terribly so. Considering how much larger his stature was to yours, how much larger his finger would be to your own, it was a miracle you weren’t ripped in half yet. Although, it sure felt as though you were.

Alastor stretched you out relentlessly, scissoring inside of you before curling the pads of his fingers plush against your g-spot. You arched your back desperately, crying out as your hips stuttered in response. And Alastor kept prying there. His fingers pounding into your cunt, hitting your g-spot over and over and over until you felt as though you'd die from the overstimulation. As you reached out to Alastor, the black tendrils appeared once more. Grabbing your wrists before tying your hands together and in front of your chest as through you were praying—and perhaps you were. Praying to Alastor to slow down, to be more gentle.

A third finger was nudged deep inside of you, pairing with the speed of his thumb on your clit increasing. His fingers pounded into you feverishly, sounds of your arousal soaking your inner thighs and his forearm—dirtying the sleeve of his pinstriped coat. You couldn't concentrate, no longer resisting against the firm hold his shadows had upon your wrists. No longer holding back your sweet moans.

A burning desire began to pool in your gut.

"Alastor, p-please—"

A hand gripped your throat.

"What was that?"

"A-Al, please— I'm gonna cu—m!" He smiled to you. You always were a quick learner.

"Cum then, dear." His fingers sped up their speed inside your cunt, recklessly pounding and curling into you, brusing your g-spot painfully as you sobbed out, clenching your pussy around his cock as you squirt onto him. Alastor smiled, leaning down to suck your clit and swirl his tongue around the bud as your mouth opened silently. Your hips struggled away, and yet his shoulders spread your knees firmly, the underside of your thighs thrown over them. Alastor continued to bully your pussy past your orgasm, sucking and licking your clit as his fingers continued to curl and pound into you to ride out your high. You were crying endlessly. Begging him to stop, that it was enough. And yet, he didn't pull out his hand until you were merely twitched and whimpering in his bed. Broken.

"Have you lost yourself in the pleasure, Cher?" Alastor was manic. Your pleasure felt like a high he couldn't describe. The way your fingers clencthed around him, he felt as though it was a sign. A sign that all your struggling was only to encourage him to fight against you, a sign that you were only pretending to be scared.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Your eyes widened open when you felt the tip of his cock slide between your folds, Alastor having removed his clothing now too. You struggled, trying to sit up when his hand once again held your throat warningly, choking you lightly against the mattress—gently enough that you could take slow, shallow breaths.

"Al, it's not gonna fi—!" Your mouth fell open silently as Alastor suddenly shoved the head of his cock inside of you. Your pool of arousal allowing him to slide in with just a minor amount of resistance—minor to his strength at least.

Meanwhile, your eyes blew wide as you whimpered out desperately, struggling against the binds on your wrists as your cunt stretched around him. He was big, painfully so. And you were thankful he decided to slide the remaining of his length in slowly, inch by inch. And yet, even when he was just halfway, you felt as though he was already plush against your cervix.

"Is she resisting, hmm? I guess a little force would be needed in the end." Before you could understand what Alastor meant, he slammed the remaining half of his length deep inside of you as you screamed out, your hands curling tight fists as your nails dug deep crescents into your palms.

Before you knew it, Alastor pulled out to the tip, and slammed right back into you. His pace was unwavering. A hand gripped on your neck, the other pressing you into the mattress by a palm against your womb as he split you on his cock. Alastor pounded into you, skin against skin as you soaked his cock, splashing your arousal onto his pelvis and lower stomach. He was big, too big. Tears streamed down your face, and Alastor only wiped them with his thumb before licking it into his mouth. He wanted to taste your fear.

He wanted to rip you apart.

Your chest heaved as his thumb came down to your clit once more, roughly pressing onto you before swirling it harshly. You arched your back, clawing at the wrist on your throat as you moaned, crying around his cock when the underside of it would press into your g-spot, when the head of it would slam so deep against your cervix you felt he might fuck himself into your womb. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head, a hand gripping the torn sheets below you as you cried out when your pussy clentched around him.

"Please, please, can I c-cum—" You sobbed, looking down to where you and Alastor where connected, seeing your cunt stretched impossibly wide for your ex-fiancé's cock.

"Don't you dare."

"Please, Cher."

Fuck.

You drove him fucking crazy.

Alastor swore he could’ve cum on the spot from hearing you finally call him Cher once more, the name you neglected from him. The only name you should be calling him. Alastor laughed.

"You truly know me so well, my Dear." Alastor's pace increased. His cock pounding into you hard enough to have your tits bouncing and the frame of the bed on the verge of giving out—your cunt clentching onto his fat cock even more.

"You can cum in three seconds." You nodded stupidly, too desparate to think.

Alastor pulled back to the tip, slamming back inside.

"Three," His palm pressed into your womb, feeling the buldge of his dick against his hand, his cock dragging against your velvety walls. You swore you were going to die if you couldn't cum soon, Alastor's counting teasingly slow as he fucked into you like a fleshlight. Like a pet.

"Two." Your pussy fluttered against him, Alastor's shadow taking his place on your clit as it swrled the bud ruthlessly—his now free hand grabbing your face to squish your cheeks.

"One," You whined, sliding your hands to his upper back as you raked down his skin.

"Please, please, please, let me cum." You were going crazy.

"Cum." You threw your head back, near screaming his name like a mantra as you clencthed around him, squirting for the second time that night as his cock continued to pound deep inside of you. Alastor let go of your throat, his hands sliding beneath the underside of your thighs to push your knees into your chest—fucking you meanly in a harsh mating press as he refused to slow down. You felt like your soul was going to fall out your body, your pussy spasming as Alastor continued to pound into you without any concern to your fresh orgasm and painful overstimulation that burned your walls.

"C-Cher, Al—please, I can'—"

And for the first time since 1933, and for the first time together, in the new realm of Hell—Alastor kissed you.

His kiss was soft, gentle, loving. His hips never stilled, continuing to rip orgasm after orgasm out of your poor little pussy. Although, his mouth was soft against yours, eyes closed and hand holding your neck lightly as the tips of his fingers graced your bruised skin. Bruised with the marks of his love, his obsession.

He held your face as kindly, as though you may be gone if he didn't keep you in his arms forever. Alastor's tongue slid into your mouth slowly, and you moaned around him—letting him in. Your body missed him so much.

Maybe you still love him, even after it all.

Alastor's pace became staggered, his hips slowing until he kept his cock deep inside and came directly into your womb. His load gushed out from the sides of your hole that stretched around him, stuffing you full. Alastor allowed your thighs to rest by his hips, laying you back against the mattress as he continued to kiss you. His hands massaged your body, comforting the bites, hickeys, and bruises.

"I love you, my Dear."

Alastor spoke softly, pulling away from you. Admiring your fucked out state.

"So don't leave me ever again."

You're watching...

2K notes · View notes

elliesbelle · 11 months ago

Text

DO YOU THINK I DESERVED IT ALL????

NOW I HEAR YOUR VOICE EVERYTIME THAT I THINK I’M NOT ENOUGH

#DID I???? DID I FUCKING DESERVE ANY OF THAT?!#how can i EVER fucking forgive you for what you did???? how could anyone forgive that?!#not that you don’t care anymore because you don’t FUCKING care about me anymore!!! i am nothing NOTHING to you!!!!?#you have left me again and again and AGAIN have you NO fucking remorse??????#is that how much i fucking meant to you??? idc i don’t FUCKING care how it supposedly was for you at the time #because it’s YOU who left YOU are the one who chooses to leave me and leaves me with the carnage you move on and get to be happy #everything hurts everything fucking HURTS every fucking day of my life!! you are FINE and happy and in love and i am in pain CONSTANTLY #you do NOT fucking care i have fucking loved you through your loneliness i have fucking loved you through the adversity #i have always loved you and stayed loving you for years and years i have never stopped and you have #idc if you say you still loved me anyway it does not matter i have ruined everything for you you ruined my relationship with c*****#it is ALWAYS fucking harder for the one who gets left behind and you do NOT care because no matter how lonely you’ve felt #no matter what you believed when i had to pull away i have NEVER left you i have always stayed #i will spend the rest of my life having countless sleepless nights screaming and sobbing in bed over you #and you get to live your fun and happy domestic life with someone else and willingly be happy without me #i’m nothing to you i am NOTHING you promised id always be everything and i am nothing #v #belle speaks

32 notes · View notes

javier-pena · 4 months ago

Text

circumstance

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a stormy night, you’re haunted by a ghost from your past.

Notes: God idk what it is with me and seeing random pictures of Pedro characters that make me go feral. Anyways, wrote this in an hour, hope this is anything. I had Latin in school but I’m not vouching for any of the Latin words in this. I mostly wrote this because I’ve had a vendetta against international bestselling author Robert Harris ever since I was 15 years old. This is loosely based on a scene from his novel Imperium that has been haunting me for almost 20 years now. Also based on this post by @ozarkthedog.

***

There’s war. Outside the city, the land is burning. Behind the city walls, life goes on as it always has. There’s decadence and dissipation and life. That’s your part of the story. That’s all you’ve ever known. The comfort and the safety. That’s all you’ve ever needed to feel fulfilled.

During the night, when the city quiets down, when the people return to their homes and the public life ceases, you can sometimes hear it, like a storm brewing over the distant sea, like the rumbling of a volcano miles and miles away, taking deep breaths before spewing its fiery death. On clear nights, nights free of clouds and wind, nights where the air is so heavy it feels like a blanket weighing you down, you can even see it, the light from the battlefield, the glow of a carnage that swallows everything, even itself.

This night isn’t clear at all. This night brought rain and hail and thunder so violent it shakes the foundations of your house. You’re alone, reclining on your triclinium, too drained from dinner to move much. The storm promised some reprieve from the muggy summer air, but the heat is worse now than it was this afternoon. The wine you had with your meal, the glass in front of you now refilled a third time, combined with the weather makes your head feel like it has been wrapped in wool. Even breathing seems laborious.

But there are footsteps against mosaic floors, and footsteps mean visitors and visitors mean business. Business at such a late hour is never a good sign. With a groan you stand, with a sigh you straighten your tunic, and then the footsteps are drowned by a clap of thunder so loud you flinch.

What follows it is not the sight of one of your servants or even your husband. In the gloomy darkness that always follows a flash of lightning a shadow moves into the room, and when your eyes have adjusted to the dim lights of the lucernae all around you, you flinch again, this time with cause.

A man is standing before you, looking like the slain ghost of a soldier from the battlefield nearby. He is covered in dirt and grime, wet from the rain, wet from the blood he has recently spilled. His armor looks black in the darkness, and your eyes flicker to his side in trepidation only to discover that he’s still wearing his sword. He’s still wearing his sword, going against the rules of your house, the rules of your husband.

“Where is he?” the stranger asks, his voice deep and dangerous like the thunder outside.

You could play dumb, you could act like you don’t know who he’s talking about, but in that voice you discover something familiar, like a memory of a distant dream, never quite forgotten.

“He isn’t here,” you reply. “He might come back later, but he’s with the senate.”

The man steps closer, quick strides that take him right to the foot of your triclinium. You step backward until you reach its head, trying to put the piece of furniture between the two of you. Your hands are clammy.

“Good,” the stranger answers with a twitch of his lips that’s all too familiar for all the wrong reasons. “I promised you I’d be back for you, and I always keep my promises.”

There’s a doorway behind you leading through a small peristyle straight to your husband’s tablinum. You glance at the court, at the shrubs and flowers and fountains that you know are there but that are currently hidden by curtains of rain and darkness.

“Don’t –,” the stranger starts, but it comes too late.

You turn and run, skip down the two steps from the porch into the garden itself, your feet splashing into puddles as you run and run. Heavy footfalls behind you, heavy breathing, and a heaviness in your heart, calling back to a similar moment years ago that happened on such a different day full of laughter and sunshine and secret kisses exchanged in secret corners.

You reach the doorway to the tablinum. “Stop!” you bellow, and to your surprise he does. To your surprise, this works, and you don’t know what to do with that. “What do you want, Acacius?” you ask, your heart growing even heavier when you name him.

“You know what I want,” he answers, the rain loudly hammering against his armor, the water dousing his hair, making his curls stick to his forehead. “I came back to collect what you owe me.”

“We were children,” you remind him.

He’s up the steps faster than you can say those three words, the years between now and that summer afternoon seemingly having left no traces.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, the storm raging over the city reflected in his eyes.

You step backwards into the tablinum, one hand protectively slung across your stomach. “You should leave, Acacius. I have nothing more to say to you.”

But there is only so far you can go before your back connects with your husband’s writing desk. And once it does there is nowhere for you to run to.

“I don’t need you to say anything.” His face is cast in shadows now, but when another flash lights up the night sky, you see that his expression is completely blank. “I just need you to lift up those expensive skirts of yours and let me take what’s mine.”

“Go back to that battlefield of yours,” you reply. “Go back and defend Rome like you’re supposed to. Or are you too much of a coward still?”

You should have known he would not take that kindly, should have known that provoking him wouldn’t make him leave. But when you feel his cold, wet hand wrapped around your wrist, when you’re being yanked into his chest, turned around, and shoved up against the desk, it still catches you by surprise. Some part of you, the one that never left that sunny afternoon, didn’t think he’d have it in him. Another part wanted him to.

His body presses into you with such force the desk scrapes against the stone floor with a creak loud enough to be heard over the storm. The sound that cannot be heard is the gasp you let out when he pushes up your tunic, exposing your legs to the humid night air.

“Don’t –,” you start.

He shushes you, one dirty finger touching your lips. You can smell the storm and the blood on him. He can feel your shaky breath.

“Just this once,” he mumbles into your hair.

Maybe you should fight this, but you don’t know how. He kicks your feet apart, and maybe you should kick back, connect your heel to his shin, and run. He bites the spot where your neck connects to your shoulder, and maybe you should bite his finger that is now resting against your lips while the rest of his hand is wrapped around your chin and throat, bite down hard until the bone cracks. He runs his other hand down your backside and pushes it between your legs, groaning at the warmth and wetness he finds there, and maybe you should use this moment of weakness to climb across the desk and search for something to defend yourself with.

All of it passes and you do nothing. All of it passes and you push backward against him, sucking his finger in between your lips. He pulls it out of your mouth, grabs the hair at the back of your neck, and pushes your head down toward the desk, your shoulders straining in protest. The groan you let loose is read as defiance by him.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Just …”

He trails off and at first you don’t know why but then the hand at the back of your neck is gone and you sigh with relief, a sound that turns into something less human when he pushes two fingers into you.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

“Please …,” you try again, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for.

There’s a rustling sound behind you, leather and fabric being moved frantically, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by something thick and heavy spreading you open. You lift yourself up on the tips of your toes, trying to adjust, trying to lessen the burn, but he digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you back down, right onto him.

“Stay,” he orders. “Just … just take it.”

His words are slurred now, and your vision is blurry, your eyes wet from biting your lip so hard you can taste blood on your tongue. He rocks into you, and your nails scrape against the wood of your husband’s desk, leaving marks in their wake. But you do as you’re told.

“That’s better.” He bites your shoulder again and you gasp from the sudden burst of pain, gasp from the way you constrict around him in response. He laughs, a rumbling like thunder, then pushes your upper body against the wood, holding you down, one hand in your hair, the other firmly locking your hip in place.

Another bolt of lightning must have illuminated your face, turned sideways for him to see the trepidation in your eyes because he says, “Don’t cry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not crying because you’re afraid of him. You’re crying because you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way, the last time sex wasn’t just a duty you had to fulfill but something someone wanted from you, and just from you, so much so he would abandon his duty to take what’s his. You don’t know how to tell him you’re terrified of what that discovery might mean for you and your marriage, how you’re hoping your husband is going to walk in right this very moment and free you from the bonds that bind you to him.

Acacius starts to lose control of his body then. He’s pushing himself up deeper and deeper into you, groaning louder with each thrust. You know those sounds, dread them when they’re coming from your husband, encourage them now with desperate whimpers of your own. He grips your hair again, pulls you up flush against his chest so hard you yelp with pain, fumbles with your tunic until he finds that bundle of nerves between your legs that he loved to kiss when you were both free to enjoy each other’s company. But it’s just for a brief moment he considers your pleasure before hitting the desk with his open palm, holding onto the wood, and letting go.

You close your eyes, waiting. It doesn’t take long for him to let out a sigh, to still deep inside of you. You can feel him twitch, you feel his hot release, but most of all you feel the sting of a promise broken. Your whole body is on edge, wound up, pulled taut, and there is nothing he’s going to do about it.

When he’s done, he pulls out of you and lets your tunic fall down around your legs. You turn to face him, your cheeks burning with shame, but his face is once again hidden behind all those shadows that come with a starless night.

“You wanted to take good care of me,” you point out, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just did,” he says, running his thumb from the corner of his mouth along his bottom lip. “You’re mine now. Leave that between your legs for him to find.”

“Acacius …,” you try, a name once so familiar then so strange now growing familiar again.

He crowds you against the desk, chest to chest this time, and wraps his thick fingers around your throat. The kiss he presses to your lips is hard, devoid of all tenderness. “Mine,” he repeats. “Never forget that.” And then he’s nothing more than heavy footsteps against mosaic floors.

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #aksjdhfjsdf it is what it is #i'm gonna go hide now hahahahah

563 notes · View notes

hopesangelsprite · 4 months ago

Text

Finders Keepers

Synopsis: Illumi's been tasked to take out a rival family, leaving no survivors, and that's exactly what he does... with the exception of you.

Warnings: Dubcon/noncon, Unprotected p in v, Overstim, Dacryphilia, Light choking, Creampie (this is Illumi what'd you expect-), analifyousquint, fingering, mentions of bl00d

MINORS/AGELESS ACC DNI

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a telltale sign of the impending storm on the horizon. The wind was chilled and heavy with the smell of earth and smoke as Illumi watched. Below him was a compound, an estate of sorts, under the protection of a dozen armed guards. Past its walls he could see maids and servants busy with daily tasks, too caught up in the hustle and bustle of life to sense neither him nor the storm coming.

Though he couldn't see them, he knew that deeper inside the compound were his targets. It wasn't often his family attacked other families, getting by with sheer intimidation and wealth. Still, when rival families got out of line... they had to be dealt with accordingly. Thunder rumbled once more, this time closer, and Illumi stood from his perch on a high oak branch. This wouldn't take nearly as long as he thought it would.

Dealing with the first wave of guards was less than anticlimactic, each falling quicker than the last. The second wave was able to get a few shots off before they too succumbed to his needles. Illumi placed a hand on the main gate and pushed sending the heavy steel doors flying off their hinges. The screams and squelches of people being crushed met his ears as he made quick work of the servants outside, as well.

The stench of blood, death, and rain was thick in the air as he entered the estate's front doors. Illumi made his way through its walls, killing everyone he found as he traversed floor after floor. Finally, he reached the master bedroom, kicking past its weakly barricaded door, and stared into the terror-filled eyes of the last four living people in the house. "Consider me your reckoning.", he mused as he stepped into the room and began picking them off until no one was left.

He looked around at the carnage around him and sighed. The rain would be coming soon, and he wanted to be home by then. He turned to leave the room but stilled as sound met his ears. Illumi turned and scanned the room's interior, sure that no one he'd confronted had survived the massacre. Illumi spotted the cracked-open wardrobe almost immediately and rolled his eyes. He'd missed one.

He took several steps toward the wardrobe before it burst open, your teary-eyed figure pushing past him toward the open door. Illumi reached and grasped a handful of your hair before taking in your features. You were small, not much younger than him. Though you bore a striking resemblance to the older man and woman he'd just killed, his intel hadn't alluded to either of them having children.

Upon further inspection, he found you healthy-looking; a tad on the heavier side with plush thighs, your soft breasts heaving with every sob that shook your frame. You were quite attractive aside from how bloodshot your eyes were becoming as you begged him to spare you. It didn't sound like a bad idea the more Illumi looked you over. So, he slung you over his shoulder, advising you to keep your eyes shut as he stepped onto the bedroom's balcony.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You trembled as you crossed the threshold of the Zoldyck estate in Illumi's arms, eyes screwed shut in fear as he took you deeper into the mansion. You didn't bother trying to remember how many turns you were taking; it was becoming increasingly clear that you wouldn't be leaving alive. You only allowed your eyes to flutter open as the two of you entered a room, the door locking behind you.

Illumi sat you on the edge of a large bed, uncharacteristically gentle considering how brutally he'd ended the lives of those you loved minutes prior. "You've two choices: accept me voluntarily or involuntarily.", he offered as he let his blood-soaked top drop to the floor near the edge of the bed, "You'll find I'm much more agreeable should you choose the former.".

His belt and trousers dropped to the floor leaving him only in his underwear. Your face grew hot at the sight, your hands trembling at the weight of his words. Fighting would wax futile; you knew that well enough. Cold fingertips met your cheek and tilted your face toward his. A few more tears slipped from your eyes as you weakly clasped his wrist. "Please... don't d-do this.", you pleaded once more before Illumi leaned down to kiss your cheek.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle.", he hummed into your skin as leaned in more, caging you underneath him. His lips felt icy as they trailed across the expanse of your skin, stopping at your lips. You whimpered and Illumi swallowed the sound. You reciprocated his movements sloppily, unfamiliar with the motions. The kiss broke, a trail of saliva connecting your lips which he broke with a swipe of his thumb. "How cute.", he breathed into your skin as he began marking a fiery trail down your throat.

As he traveled lower, you clenched your teeth in hopes of silencing the tiny moans building in your throat. Illumi took a break from his attack on your breasts to look over your dress. "There's no use in trying to keep quiet, you'll only tire yourself out.", he mused as he tugged harshly on the fabric causing it to rip. Your bottom lip trembled at the sight of what was left of your favorite sundress fall to the floor, and Illumi noticed. "My apologies, little dove. I'll have you a boutiques worth of dresses here in the morning if you're good for me.", he explained as he rid you of your undergarments leaving you bare.

Your eyes flickered up to his face as he placed butterfly kisses down the expanse of your stomach, eyes dark with lust as they met yours. So, this was your life now. "P-promise?", you asked as your heart began to settle. Illumi rose and placed both hands on your thighs, pulling you until your bare core was flushed with his clothed member. He hummed as he leaned down, bracing himself on one forearm and slipping the other between the two of you to slide between your moistening folds. "I promise.", he assured you as two of his fingers scissored open your entrance, his thumb working over your bud with expert skill.

A broken whimper left you as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure, as you let yourself succumb to fate. Your body trembled as his ministrations quickened, a knot forming in the pit of your abdomen. Everything was so wrong, yet it felt so, so good.

Just as the knot within you came close to snapping, Illumi pulled his fingers from you. You whined in frustration as you watched him clean your slick from his fingers with his tongue before beginning to remove his underwear. You watched in awe and terror as his cock sprang free, tip flushed pink and dripping with his own arousal. He was just as pale there as the rest of his body, a bit longer than he was girthy. "That's n-not gonna fit...", you whispered into the air between you. For the first time since he'd taken you, he cracked a smile. "We'll make it fit, little dove.", he replied while easing you onto your stomach.

Illumi's lips met your shoulder, cold and soft, and traveled down your back causing you to shiver. He shifted a bit, resting his chin in the nook between your shoulder and neck. "This might sting a bit, for that I offer my apologies.", he warned as you felt his tip catch on your entrance. Your breath hitched as he rolled his hip forward, allowing the first few inches to slip inside you.

He was lying when he said it'd sting a bit. It hurt like hell. You yelped and pushed your face into one of the plush pillows beneath you to muffle the sound. Illumi cooed and whispered praises into your skin, voice laden with sympathy as he continued to fill you. He rolled his hips once more filling you up fully, his tip threatening to push past your cervix.

"Such a good girl taking all of me.", he purred as you lifted your teary eyes from the pillows, "Now, let me take the pain away.". With one hand, Illumi laced his fingers with yours while the other reached between you to resume abusing your clit. His pelvis retreated from the swell of your ass, all of him leaving your walls apart from his leaky head, before thrusting forward again slow and deep. The moan that left you would've made even the finest of whores blush.

His hips rolled on, the room filling with the obscene sound of your slick coating his cock and your little whimpers as the pain was swiftly washed away with mind-numbing pleasure. Illumi continued to praise you between quieter moans of his own only stopping to tug at the shell of your ear with his teeth.

The intimacy, the steady pace of his body colliding with yours; All of it was becoming too much for you to handle. Illumi shifted, his tip kissing your cervix too suddenly for your liking drawing a gasp of discomfort from your trembling lips. He hummed and abandoned your clit to steady himself before rising with you in tow. You yelped and scrambled to your elbows when you felt the pad of his thumb swipe over your ass, thrusts gaining in speed. "N-not there-", you tried to reason with him before your jaw slackened upon the foreign intrusion.

Your thighs shook, threatening to give out, as Illumi hooked his thumb into your spasming hole up to the first knuckle. Heat crept across your body at the feeling of the knot in the pit of your stomach snapping. "Coming already? Who knew my pretty girl was so perverted. ~", Illumi groaned. His words fell upon deaf ears, your mind blank and full simultaneously. You buried your face into the sheets beneath in a weak attempt to save face, orgasm taking you forcefully.

The walls of your cunt fluttered, painting his lower half with your arousal. Illumi hissed, thrusts growing sloppy, at the sight and grasped at the fat of your ass. "Look at that pretty little cunt of yours. Almost like she wants me to fill her up.", he practically mewled, "Isn't that right, little dove?". All you could do was cry out in response, thoughts occupied with the delicious drag and sting of his cock inside you. Illumi huffed at your lack of response, hand abandoning your ass cheek for the column of your neck and squeezed.

"I asked if you wanted me to paint your walls white, dove, now answer like the obedient little wife you're going to be.", he hissed into your ear. You nodded vehemently, head light from the lack of hair. "Yes, please cum in me! Please please please-", you babbled as another orgasm ignited your overstimulated core. A string of wild curses and strangled moans fell from Illumi's lips as his hips snapped forward once more, locking as hot ropes of cum filled your sputtering hole.

A few moments passed as both of you came down, your smaller body trembling, before Illumi relaxed and pulled both of you down to the mattress. You shifted and shuttered at the feeling of still being full while listening to his breathing. "I'll have a ring and paperwork ready for you by noon, so I suggest you get some rest.", he hummed whilst pulling the sheets over your bodies,

"Besides, I need you fully rested and ready to take me in the morning."

#illumi zoldyck #hunter x hunter #anime #hxh #fanfic #hxh illumi #illumi x reader #smut #illumi headcanons #headcanon #hxh smut #hxh x reader #illumi smut #anime smut #anime fanfic #anime headcanons #yandere #yandere smut #tw yandere

973 notes · View notes

hellsbedroom · 27 days ago

Text

call out my name

pairing: winter soldier!bucky x f!reader

word count: 4k

summary: as an assassin for hire, you often worked alongside the Winter Soldier. immediately after the events of CA:TWS, that soldier shows up at your doorstep needing help. and he thanks you in a very particular way

warnings: 18+, nsfw, brief mentions of violence, mild alcohol consumption, heavy petting, hair pulling (m receiving), p in v, porn with actually a lot of plot, angsty ending because i couldn't help myself, google-translated romanian

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The frantic knocking at your front door shouldn’t be happening. Even though Hydra’s secrets had been blown open a couple days ago, your name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Mercenaries’ names never are. So how could anyone find you?

You slow your breathing to counter the adrenaline as the knocking rattles the hinges again. Clutching your gun tighter, you throw the door open and aim into the night.

The barrel lands against a man’s chest and takes you both by surprise. You pull the gun away when a familiar pair of blue eyes blinks back at you from underneath a ballcap. His face isn’t one you ever expected to see again, especially after the carnage in DC.

“Soldier?” You’d never known him by any real name.

“Can I come in?”

“Am I gonna get killed for it?”

He glances behind him and tugs his backpack tighter. “Not if I’ve done my job.”

That’s enough of an answer. You wave him in with the gun still cocked in case it’s a trap. But after you lock the door, you turn to find him staring at you and all at once the gun is no longer necessary.

His eyes are different. You’d seen them empty, you’d seen them focused, you’d seen them angry, you’d even seen them lust-blown as he thrusted into you in some alleyway after a mission. But you’d never seen them scared.

And he is terrified.

“I need your help. I have to get away.” Vigilance strings his shoulders taut and you wonder how many sleepless nights had led up to this.

“Okay, my cover’s not blown and I’ve still got my contacts. Is the west coast far enough? Canada?”

“No. Farther.”

“London’s pretty big.”

He grips your forearms in a flash, gruffly pleading an inch from your face. “Somewhere they can’t find me.”

The intensity freezes you for a few moments before you nod. Wordlessly you cross the room and rummage through papers strewn across your desk. Identities, informants, any connections you still have. Anybody they can’t get to.

“Does Romania work?” You proudly hold up some papers with illegible scrawls. “I can get you out at dawn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

His sigh of relief leaves you comfortable enough to grab a couple beers from the fridge. Might as well drink when it’s clear that he’ll stay the night. But when you try to hand him one, he’s staring off into space and doesn’t seem to notice. You aren’t the best at comforting people, especially not Hydra’s former war dog, but you clasp a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’ll be okay.”

He snaps back into the moment, nodding in thanks as he takes the beer and opens it with a simple flick of a metal finger. He rubs the other hand down his face, dragging away the last of whatever thoughts had distracted him.

“Yeah.” He still stands resolute in the center of the room, even as you sling yourself into a chair. “Sorry for grabbing you. I just—”

“It’s alright, Soldier. I’ve been roughhoused before.”

“It’s actually Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name is Bucky. I didn’t know that for a long time. Hydra’s doing.” He sinks onto your couch, still weighed down by the revelation.

You immediately sit up straighter, the gears in your head trying to make sense of it. The whole story comes out with just a bit of prodding. World War Two, his capture, his fall, Hydra’s brainwashing, all of it. You sit in stunned silence through it, nodding in support every now and then. He finishes after the second round of beers and checks the magazine of his gun from force of habit. You do the same, then venture with a question itching to be answered.

“Do you remember anything you did?”

“Some of it. I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t...I didn’t want to stop it.” A guilty silence follows and you hear the distinctive whirring of his metal arm as he clenches his fist.

You laugh to lighten the mood. “Hey, that’s better than me. I chose to do this shit and got paid for it.”

Bucky nods solemnly, staring down his empty bottle. Then he flicks his gaze back up to you. “I also remember you.”

“On a mission? Marrakesh was pretty memorable.”

“Yeah. But I remember us doing some other stuff, too.” A smile ghosts his lips for the first time that night.

Memories of him sucking angry marks into your neck as you writhe on his cock come flooding back, making you cross your legs. You clear your throat and try to seem nonchalant.

“I hope that’s not something the brainwashing made you do,” you joke.

Bucky’s eyes are sharp as knives as they cut across the room. “It wasn’t. And I didn’t want to stop that either.”

“Oh. Good.”

The next silence thunders with anticipation but you don’t push your luck. Instead you focus on clearing away stray dishes and papers, flitting back and forth and trying to remember how to play hostess. You cross in front of Bucky and easily lift the bottle out of his hand. But before you can step out of reach again, he takes your arm.

This time his grip is gentle, nothing like the way he’d ever touched you before. You swallow thickly and dare to meet his gaze.

“Yes, Soldier?”

The gentleness is abandoned as his mouth crashes into yours. You knock off his ballcap in a rush to card your hands through his hair, desperate to have him closer. It’s all practiced and familiar, tilting your head to deepen the kiss and his teeth nipping at your lower lip.

His scruff burns against your jaw and then he’s kissing in its wake, lips and teeth devouring down your neck as his hands dive under your clothes to brush at your waist and hips. The skin-to-skin contact lights you on fire and you help him lift off your shirt in a flurry that’s followed by his own jacket and shirt. The fleeting moment spent apart is enough for you to catch your breath and shiver at the desire swirling in his eyes.

You collide into his chest again, wasting no time in dragging him backward with you toward somewhere, anywhere sturdy enough for support. It’s like you’re back in Mumbai or São Paulo or Kosovo, desperate to find a pleasurable release at the closest available location where he could grind his hips into you. This time it happens to be your kitchen island, a throne of granite onto which Bucky lifts you and your legs easily split, letting him settle between them and pull you so that his bulge presses just so against your core.

You're grabbing his shoulders — clutching flesh and metal — and that familiar coolness of his titanium arm curving around your back brings heat pooling between your legs. He captures your lips in an eager, fluid motion, tongue darting out to graze yours. Expert at killing, expert at kissing. The tendrils of his long hair tickle your forehead just like you remember.

With the usual haste and fervor, you grind against his solid hips in search of friction and he obliges by slipping his hand down to rub through your pants.

Soldier...you nearly moan, but stop short. You don’t have to settle for this kind of quickie. He isn’t just Soldier anymore, and you aren’t under the pressure of a mission.

“Bucky,” you murmur against his lips, grounding him to something besides what you both once were. “Bucky, wait…”

He slows down, his grip moving to your thighs, two heavy palms weighing down on you. Then he looks up slowly — his gaze could crack you in half. There’s a vulnerable tenderness in his eyes, clouded over by the bewilderment of what being Bucky once was.

“Bedroom,” you order gently.

“What?”

“Let’s do this in the bedroom.”

He has a lot of unlearning to do after so many years of Hydra control, so maybe you can help him with this one thing. You aren’t sure why you want this extra layer of intimacy, but it feels right.

Your insistence makes him wary. His eyes dart around, calculating whether or not this, too, is an attempt to capture him. Anyone could be in on it.

“It’s not a trap, I promise,” you coax, holding your hands up. “It’ll be better like this. I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t move as you slide off the island, brushing against him and letting the moment linger. You leave your eyes locked on his as you turn and take a few inviting steps down the hall, not abandoning the gaze until his doubts subside and he follows you.

The sparse bedroom is suddenly alive with electricity as you kiss him again to pick up right where you left off. Your grip dives into his hair, pulling in the way you remember makes even the stoic soldier moan. The liplock is blinding and his hands mold to your waist and hips and everywhere, keeping you close as the last of the clothes are haphazardly tossed away. Once you’re bare it’s a short stumble onto the bed and he falls on top of you with his metal arm braced in the unmade sheets.

Somehow Bucky looming over you, sinking down with every delectable muscle, is more breathtaking than the Winter Soldier fucking you senseless against a brick wall that digs into your back.

You don’t get a chance to catch that breath before his hand snakes down to toy with your clit, expertly coating it with your slick with a particular brush of his finger that he knows works so well. The gasp wracks your chest — you’d been ready for this since he admitted remembering every salacious encounter — and you almost give in then and there.

But where’s the fun in that?

Your thighs are locked around his hips and you swiftly flip on top, sitting up to settle on his lap. You’re naked, with no chance of hiding weapons, so he quickly relaxes and focuses on how new this is. Studying your form, from draped legs to raised brow. His hand lifts and you catch it in sync, bringing it up to your breast where he rolls your nipple instantly, carefully watching the arch of your back in response. Bucky is nothing if not a quick learner.

He’s hard, aching underneath you, and the tug in your core calls for the same thing. He helps lift your hips and you brace on his chest and then you’re slowly sinking down on his length to draw out the sensation.

It’s a pretty thing to watch his lips curl as he hisses out your name — your real name, not just one of your aliases — and your own sigh flies out when you reach the hilt. You take a few moments to adjust and then start rocking to an inaudible beat. Or maybe that’s your heart thrumming with pride.

It’s different this time. Everything is still eager and strong and deliciously satisfying but this isn’t just a convenient tryst. That has its time and place, like a muggy Havana afternoon after a vicious shootout. This time there’s something in the way Bucky rubs along your thighs while you lean in close, the rhythm of the thrusts keeping you just out of reach of his lips and yet leaving you anchored to those blue eyes.

He cradles the nape of your neck, watching your face morph in pleasure while the tension builds. You can’t help kissing him then and there and everything winds tighter and tighter until the climax takes you, your open mouth grazing against his as bliss washes all over. His name is a whispered prayer from your lips.

Your stuttering hips drag him into the throes a moment later and his gasp rushes past your cheek. A moan rumbles through his chest and you collapse on it, daring to smile as you breathe him in.

God that was good. The two of you still have it.

You unceremoniously roll off and into the sheets before another thought strikes. You’d never had to deal with Bucky in the moments after a good fuck. You always went your separate ways down dimly-lit alleys or out of a jungle. But here he is, stretched out beside you, with no prerogative to leave until morning.

Apparently the same thing was on his mind because he suddenly sits up and tugs a weary hand through his hair. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No.” You catch his wrist before you know what’s happening. “It’s alright, stay. You need a good night’s sleep. Getting to Romania is gonna be a hell of a ride.”

His eyes sweep over you but there’s no wariness this time. Instead he blinks slowly, giving a half-smile as he settles back down and pulls the covers up. It’s quiet for a few moments, comfortably so, and his arm brushes yours without pulling away.

“You should come with me,” he finally says, voice raspy with sleep and sex. “You need to get out, too.”

It isn’t the first time that thought has crossed your mind but it suddenly feels much more serious. A real chance to escape. Your fingers trace the sheets and mattress below, a place to lay your head that you had never really called home. Of course you have a bag packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice, every good mercenary does — but are you ready to be on the run? To live your life at the whim of whoever finds you in every city?

Bucky has already dozed off beside you, his gentle breathing interrupted by furrowed brows and an occasional shake of his head. He has no choice but to run, though you doubt he’ll outrun the nightmares anytime soon.

Sleep does its job of lulling you, too, and you decide to make your choice in the morning.

***

Two Years Later Bucharest, Romania

The rusted faucet gives a weak stream of water but you still rinse off the dishes, watching stray peelings and seeds whirl down the drain. Big bowls of fruit are your staple breakfast now that you have the time to enjoy them.

The apartment is silent except for the gentle ceramic clinks, with Bucky having stepped out to the market next door to pick up more plums — the favorite household snack.

As ex-assassins, calling your arrangement “dating” feels childish. You and Bucky sleep in the same bed, fuck regularly, cook each other meals, watch each other’s backs, and take turns cleaning the arsenal of weapons. So whatever the term for that relationship is, that’s what you have. You need each other.

With the dishes clear and reading to catch up on, you step into the bathroom in the back of the apartment to grab a clip for your hair. Can’t have the locks in your way when novels await.

You hear the front door open and a smile tugs at your lips. “Ce mai faci?” you call. (How are you?)

The Romanian greeting is part of yours and Bucky’s precautions — a code for when one of you reenters the apartment, just in case. You expect to hear the coded answer: Voi fi mai bine mâine (I will be better tomorrow).

But there’s no reply. Only muted footsteps toward your kitchen.

Your heart slams into overdrive. There’s a handgun hidden under the bathroom sink and it’s cold in your grip as you level it at the door, cautiously stepping into the small hallway. No one is immediately visible but your senses don’t fail you. Someone’s there.

“Reieşi!” you spit. “Come out!”

Still no answer but a careful shuffling of feet just out of sight. You hunker at the wall for only a moment and then fling yourself around the corner, barrel first.

Standing by your refrigerator with arms warily raised is Steve Rogers, Captain America himself. You recognize him from both the news and Bucky’s attempts to piece his life together. He cocks his head in surprise — whatever intel had let him here, it hadn’t mentioned you.

But he keeps his voice steady as he breaks the silence. “Where’s Bucky?”

You don’t answer. It’s pointless to lie, since he somehow found the apartment, but you know better than to tell the truth. You can’t claim ignorance anyway — the unwavering handgun in your grasp says otherwise.

You stare back in silence and take a couple calculated steps forward while trying to figure out what the fuck to do. Despite the proximity Steve lowers his arms, correctly guessing that if you haven’t shot yet, you won’t do so without warning. Killing Captain America isn’t exactly the best way to keep people out of your life anyway.

“I just need Bucky. People are coming for him.”

That raises goosebumps along your arms. It makes sense, Steve only finding him when someone worse is on the way. You’re about to demand more answers when footsteps reach the outside of your apartment and pause, no doubt noticing the door slightly ajar.

“Ce mai faci?” It’s Bucky’s strained voice trying the code. Then he more urgently adds, “Esti in siguranta?” (Are you safe?)

“Da,” you call quietly, keeping your eyes trained on Steve. “I’m alright, Bucky. We have a visitor.”

Bucky carefully treads in, his eyes darting between you and Steve and the gun in your hand. The air stings with confusion. But eventually he crosses to you and closes his hand over the barrel to make you lower the gun, and not even your incredulous gaze changes his mind. He simply nods and runs his hand down your back. Trust me.

He pushes a newspaper into your lowered hands and you look down at the words plastered across the top: ‘Winter Soldier Bombs UN Headquarters’. The newspaper crinkles in your tightening grip. Underneath the headline sits a photo of Bucky’s face, clear as day, when it isn’t possible for him to have been there. You’d come out of hiding to vouch for it yourself.

But that wouldn’t matter, you know better. The little world that you and Bucky carved out is caving in fast.

“Do you know me?” It’s the intruder, his gaze no longer fixed on you or your weapon but on his long-lost friend.

“You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

A pause. Steve clenches his jaw. “I know you’re nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be. But you’re lying.”

He pauses again as the comms unit crackles in his ear, probably warning of the distant commotion now rumbling up the building from many floors down. You sneak a glance at Bucky and the grim set of his mouth.

“I’ve got him here,” Steve says into his radio. “He’s with someone. Unclear whether she’s a hostile.”

He clips that last part at you, demanding your intentions as you still bristle at him. But you don’t get a chance to threaten him again before Bucky steps in front of you.

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore. Neither does she.”

“Well the people who think you did are coming here now. And they’re not planning on taking you alive,” Steve adds, the gravity in his voice sinking deep into your chest.

“That’s smart, good strategy.”

Bucky’s right. Special forces are always taught to eliminate a threat, not wait for heroic negotiating. That doesn’t happen in the real world when real consequences are at stake. A rattling shakes the staircase outside your apartment door, the telltale sign of heavy men and heavy guns on their way. You quickly realize that whether or not Steve is on your side, he’s a better option than what’s waiting out there.

Steve softens. “It doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

Bucky takes off the glove concealing his titanium hand, flexing the joints and heaving a sigh. He looks at you and tips another nod. Get ready. You grab another magazine of bullets for your gun.

“It always ends in a fight,” Bucky murmurs.

“That’s why we ran, you know. To try and stay away from the fight.” You cock the gun, staring Steve down. Blaming him for this situation is wrong but damn it feels right. “But when it comes to our door we have no choice.”

Steve gets agitated, glancing between you and Bucky and trying to piece it all together. “Bucky, you pulled me from the river. Why?”

Bucky stays still. “I don’t know.”

The thundering footsteps get closer, louder and louder like in every nightmare you’d had about being found. You walk to the windows, looking for any trace of the enemies no doubt rappelling down the building at that instant. There are more weapons hidden on that side of the room anyway, and you gather what you can.

“I hate to break this up,” you quip at the men behind you, “but we can’t keep standing here playing high school reunion.”

“She’s right, Buck. We have to go.”

“She’s coming with us.”

You spare Bucky a grin over your shoulder. Of course you’re going with them, but it’s good to hear him say it.

Steve steps closer, faint warnings still being yelled into his comms unit. “They aren’t looking for her. She’ll be safer away from us for now.”

That makes your breath catch. Arguing with Steve will make the oncoming fight that much more difficult. You turn, a sneer already waiting on your lips, but Bucky once again interjects. He catches your shoulders and his gaze sinks deep into yours.

“Steve’s right.”

“What?”

“They’re after me for the stuff in Vienna. You need to get out.”

“Bucky, I’m not —”

Crash! Grenades come flying through the windows, shattering the tension with shards of glass. You knock one right back out and Bucky kicks the other to Steve, who covers the blast with his shield. Bucky is two seconds ahead of you and lifts the mattress to cover you both from a third grenade tossed in. The explosion is hot against your back and your muscles tremble. With his free hand Bucky throws the steel table at the door, blocking it and buying a few minutes before the tac team can bust through.

Rappelers burst through the windows and Steve kicks one down, his gunfire raining into the ceiling instead of your flesh. You return fire to another, clipping his knee and shoulder, while Bucky yanks the third and knocks him against the wall. Two more come swinging in — your adrenaline kicks up another notch — and a scream grates your throat as you land a few good punches on the closest one. You hadn’t fought for your life like this in a long time, but it’s a skill that comes back quick as lightning.

Bucky dashes over to Steve, forcing the other rappeler out of his grip and onto the balcony with a swift knee to the chest.

“Buck, stop!” Steve calls. “You’re gonna kill someone.”

“I’m not gonna kill anyone,” Bucky grunts. Floorboards splinter under the force of his punch and he pulls out his backpack before tossing it onto the roof of the adjacent building.

You take a respite from watching for more assailants and step over downed bodies to reach him. The other backpack lands heavily in your hands and despite the chaos, the rest of the world briefly fades when Bucky drags you closer.

“Go, you have to get out!”

All air vanishes. “No. I’m not leaving —”

“Please.” Bucky’s voice is small against the rushing of blood in your ears. His iron grip pulls you toward the windows and he hands you a rappelling rope. “I’ll find you later.”

You know there’s no choice. And arguing further will put everyone in danger. You attach the rope to yourself and the balcony, still pulling Bucky with you as you back onto the ledge. Shotgun blasts at the hinges of the door across the room draw Steve away and you know this is your last blessed moment alone.

Whatever version of Bucky Barnes this is — the man out of time, the assassin, the shell of a vintage hero — you don’t care. This version is yours, and you love him.

You kiss him, hard. He returns it with fire, his hand tangling in your unkempt hair. A sad smile creeps onto your lips when you pull away and Bucky nods solemnly. One gentle push later and you drop from view.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier!bucky #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes imagine #am i insinuating that the winter soldier didn't properly touch a t*ddy for 70 years? maybe #and yes i namedropped as many cities as possible #because the winter soldier is truly mr worldwide when it comes to klling and fcking

334 notes · View notes

tallulah477 · 1 year ago

Text

Hunting the Tawtute

Kinktober Day 19: Threesome

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader x Lo’ak

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, AgedUp!Lo’ak, Dark!Neteyam, Dark!Lo’ak, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Primal Kink (Hunter/Prey Kink), Oral (female receiving and male receiving), P in V, Fingering, Handjob, Breath Play, Dirty Talk, Size Difference, Belly Bulge, Alien Genitalia, Slight Knife Play, Multiple Orgasms, Bukkake, Hair Pulling, Slight Humiliation, Slight Thigh Riding, Knots/Knot Play (but no actual knotting), Marking Kink/Biting

Word Count: 5.4K (of pure self-indulgent fantasy)

A/N: I don’t even know what to say about this. This one kinda like so fucking much got away from me. It’s like I went crazy, blacked out, and this happened. Hopefully some of you guys will like it too as much as I liked writing it.

Summary: When the Omatikaya raid an RDA outpost, you just barely escape the carnage with your life. You're stumbling through the forest when they find you, and the dark grins on their faces make shivers run down your spine. You try to run, but they’ll catch you - they’re little beautiful prey.

Extra: Pretty, But Not Stupid

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Tawtute - Human

Mountain Banshee - Large, dragon-like aerial predators

Sevin - Pretty

Vrrtep - Demon

Paskalin - Sweet Berry (term of endearment)

The ground is shaking underneath you as you run, booming with the force of the explosions and gunfire racking the now nonexistent RDA outpost. You can still hear the screaming, both war cries and cries of terror, echoing through the forest as your tired legs carry you further and further away.

You’re gasping for breath, heart feeling like it's going to pound out of your chest as you sob. You hated the RDA, they were mostly all power hungry assholes anyway, but some people in the outpost were good - innocent people who fled Earth just to get away from the horror there, only to be met with a fate possibly crueler here. All the cooks, cleaners, and medical professionals who just wanted a chance - all dead within minutes of the start of the emergency alarm that blared through the base. If not by the explosions, then currently being picked off without mercy by the Na’vi.

You’re lucky to even be alive right now.

You shake your head, trying to ignore how your heavy, panicked breathing is fogging up your mask and how you can barely see through your tears. You need to keep going. You can’t think about it now. Can’t think about the carnage you're running from and the people you’re leaving behind. You need to find safety.

You run a little further, trying not to trip on any more upturned roots. You fell over one a little ways back, and your ankle protests the more weight you put on it, but the fear of being found and killed keeps you going. You quickly round another tree and stop, bracing your hand on the bark of the massive trunk and lifting your hurt ankle up a bit just to relieve the pressure for a moment. Your eyes hurriedly scan the area, trying to keep an eye out for danger you wouldn’t even be able to defend yourself against. Even if you did have some kind of a weapon (which you don’t, you barely had enough time to sprint away with your life as it was, let alone grab any kind of form of defense), you wouldn’t be able to win against the strength and prowess of one of the natives anyway.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips when your eye catches movement a few trees down from you. There’s a male Na’vi standing there, long braids still swinging around his shoulders from his abrupt movement, and he has an arrow notched and pulled back, strong muscles and chest bulging behind the bow as he steadies the arrow - the arrow that’s pointed directly at you.

“Wait!” You yell, hands instinctively coming up to protect your face as if they could ever stop the Na’vi sized arrow. “Wait! Please, don’t shoot!”

The male stops, curious amber eyes locked on your trembling figure, and to your complete shock, he lowers the arrow. Why isn’t he killing you? The Na’vi kill humans on sight, they don’t hesitate. You should have been dead the second he saw you. But you’re not. He lowered his arrow, and for a brief moment relief and hope flood your chest.

“I mean you no harm,” You call, voice shaking. “Please, don’t k-kill me,”

The male tilts his head at you and you watch cautiously as he puts his bow away, reattaching it to his back, before reaching up to touch his throat. From this distance you can just see the outline of a necklace. A throat comm, you think. He has his fingers pressed against the buttons and you can’t hear what he’s saying, but you see his lips moving as he talks to whoever is on the other line.

A dark smirk curls at his lips as he speaks. He’s looking directly at you and whatever hope you had disappears as dread fills your entire being.

You are going to die.

You can’t stay here, staying still even as he’s watching you is a risk. If you’re going to die, you’re at least going to go down trying to live.

You turn to run, making it just a few steps away from the tree before the canopy bursts above you, a roaring shriek piercing your ears as a large blue and purple mountain banshee descends down towards the forest floor. You scream, falling back on your ass as the dragon-like animal lands just feet from you, the wind from its strong wings beating over your body and making your hair whip around your face.

The banshee’s rider descends from its back, landing on the ground with a thud and disconnecting his neural queue from the animal. He stalks towards you, golden eyes gleaming behind a few loose braids falling in front of them, and he grins, long pointed canines biting into his bottom lip.

“Where you running to, sevin tawtute?”

With another terrified sob, you scramble to your feet. The second Na’vi’s low chuckle, despite being fairly quiet, rings loudly in your ears, and you can hear the footsteps of the first’s getting closer and closer to you each second.

“Don’t do it,” The second warns, and you don’t even have the mental capacity to realize that he’s speaking to you in English. You’re already spinning and darting away in the opposite direction.

You run as fast as you can through the dense Pandorian forest. They’re chasing you, you can hear their footsteps pounding against the forest floor behind you. They mock you, first just making quick yipping and whooping calls, communicating with each other in a way you would never even begin to understand. And then they switch to your language.

“Better run faster, human!”

“Getting tired already, baby?”

“Can you feel my breath on the back of your pretty neck?”

“We’re going to get you!”

Your sobs get louder, terrified as you try to push yourself harder. They sound so close, like they’re right behind you, like they could just reach out and grab you. But they don’t. They’re playing with you. They’re faster than you, their legs significantly longer than yours and more adept at running and navigating the forest terrain. They’re letting you keep going on purpose, finding glee in your terror and enjoyment in chasing their prey.

Your ankle is aching, pain shooting from the twisted limb, and your running is quickly turning into panicked hobbling. You can’t do it anymore. Can’t do it - they’re going to get you. Without thinking, you dive under a slightly uprooted tree - the tilt of the base giving you just enough room to crawl under the trunk, thick roots caging you in and separating you from the two male Na’vi.

The second you make it through, there’s a burst of movement as the long haired male slides in front of the opening, long arm sticking through the roots and reaching for you. You whimper when his fingers brush your mask and you try to scoot yourself further back against the dirt, but there isn’t much room.

“Come out of there,” He says, voice soft like he’s trying to coax you out, but the underlining reverb of a growl taints the attempt. “It’s dangerous under there,”

“Yes, tawtute,” The other says, long legs visible from behind his brother’s upper body. “Much safer out here with us,”

You can’t help the anger and frustration that wells inside you as you hear the absolute lie they are trying to tell you.

“Bullshit,” You spit.

The long haired male removes his reaching arm and peers at you through the roots, eyes alight with mirth. “Oh, you hear that, brother? Our little vrrtep has a mouth on her,”

The other male chuckles and squats down to peer at you through your self imposed cage. “And what a pretty mouth it is. Can’t wait to see what else it can do,”

Your eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. That sounded . . . suggestive. That couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like, right?

“What do you say, sevin? Want your gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock?” He asks, playful fingers lifting up the front of his loincloth slightly as if to tease you. And then, suddenly, there’s a new fear taking over.

They don’t want to catch you to kill you - they want you.

“My name is Lo’ak,” He continues, lifting his hand from his loincloth to wiggle his fingers at you in greeting. Five fingers, you notice. “You know, just so you know what to scream out later when I’m fucking you,”

More tears well up in your eyes, cascading down your flushed cheeks. “P-please. Don’t hurt m-me,” You beg, wide eyes pleading with the large blue men holding you hostage to show you mercy. “I’ll leave! I promise! You’ll never see me again,”

“She begs so beautifully already,” The other male says, nudging his brother’s arm. “She’s gonna sound so good when she’s crying in pleasure. Go ahead and try it out for me, paskalin. Let me hear you say it: Neteyam,”

Neteyam looks at her expectantly, golden green eyes dark from where his pupils have nearly completely taken over.

“Fuck you,” You hiss. You try to put as much malice and ferocity in your words as you can muster, but Neteyam only grins at your curse.

“Yeah, tawtute. That’s the idea,”

Lo’ak suddenly moves, shifting over to the side of the tree and you panic at the abrupt movement, scrambling over and pressing your back against the roots on the opposite side just to be as far from him as possible.

“Come on out, baby,” He purrs, eyes hooded as he stares at you. “Don’t you want to take a ride? Feel some big alien cock in your pretty, tiny pussy?”

You open your mouth again to shoot some more choice expletives at him, but all that comes out is a scream when the roots behind you rip and a large hand grips at your hair, dragging your body from its hiding spot and into the dimming light of the forest.

Neteyam hauls you up on your feet, fist tangled in your hair keeping you from running and grabs one of your swinging arms, pinning it behind your back. Lo’ak steps in front of you, tall and imposing at nearly twice your height, but you still try to fight, fight for your life and your freedom, and your hand smacks as hard as it can against his hip.

It doesn’t do anything to him obviously, you’re not even sure if he felt it, but all the fight leaves you in an instant when the large knife the size of your forearm waves in your face.

“You’re gonna be a good girl for us now, okay?” He says, tapping the glass of your mask with the tip of his knife as if he were trying to boop your nose. The tip of the knife travels down your neck, over your collarbone, and towards the center of your chest. If you were able to think correctly, you would be amazed at the control he has over the blade to not let it cut you despite your chest heaving with your frantic breathing. “Stay still now,”

The knife travels towards the valley between your breasts, taking the neck of your t-shirt with it and pulling it down and down until Lo’ak just cleanly slices through the whole front of it. Neteyam releases your arm now that you're not fighting against them anymore, but still keeps a firm grip on your hair. The ruined shirt slips from your shoulders and Lo’ak brings the knife back up to hook underneath the band of your bra, slicing through the material like it was paper and pushing the remnants of that off of your body as well.

“Such a pretty little thing,” He muses, running the flat of the blade across one of your exposed breasts, the cool metal making you shiver as it presses against your heated skin. Lo’ak twists the knife and places the very tip of it at your nipple. The sharp edge makes you gasp, the bud starting to harden immediately at the feeling and you can’t help but feel mortified when you feel wetness pool in your panties.

Lo’ak’s nose twitches, a wicked grin pulling at his lips as his large amber eyes catch yours, but it’s Neteyam that digs the metaphorical knife deeper, furthering your humiliation and making your face burn.

“Aw, is the cute little tawtute getting wet for us? We can smell you,” Neteyam laughs, dragging your head back further so he can get a good look at your face. “Look, brother. Look how flushed she’s getting,”

“You think that flush is going all the way down here?” Lo’ak asks, the tip of the knife leaving your nipple to tease your clit over your shorts.

“Rip them off and find out,” Neteyam suggests, and you start to wriggle again in his unrelenting grasp.

“Wait!” You shout. Your neck is still craned up towards the sky, so you only feel rather than see Lo’ak undo your button and zipper. “Wait, please. I’ll do anything,”

“Yeah,” Neteyam agrees, looking down at your pleading face. His fingers latch onto one of your hard nipples and pulls on it, eliciting a sharp gasp from your plump lips. “You will,”

In an instant, Lo’ak yanks your shorts and panties down and Neteyam moves behind you to kneel on the forest floor, one knee pressing into the ground while the other acts as a stabilizer, foot flat against the ground. Neteyam’s grip on your hair is released as he grabs you by your hips instead, pulling you up to sit on his thigh, bare pussy pressing against the bulging muscles.

The feeling of his muscles tensing under you makes more heat pool in your stomach, and your pussy is wet and sticky already as you squirm against him. Your legs fall on either side of his and even with him kneeling your feet still can’t touch the ground, toes just barely brush against the grass and only if you’re actually stretching to reach it. But the additional stretch just makes you push your cunt harder against his thigh and you whimper, not knowing what to do or how to move.

Neteyam wraps a restraining arm around your chest, trapping one of your arms under his and grabbing onto your other bicep, his large hand practically spanning the entirety of your upper arm and pinning it down. His other hand moves up to his mouth, long middle finger sliding between his lips, licking the long digit and pulling it out when it’s wet and glistening in the setting sunlight. He brings his wet finger to your core, dipping it between your folds and circling your clit.

“So wet already, tawtute,” He whispers, lips brushing against the curve of your ear.

You whimper as he rubs you, dipping his finger down lower to gather more of your wetness and dragging it back up to tease small circles around your pulsing nub. When his fingers trail down again, it's to press at your entrance, and you can’t help the whiny moan that escapes you as his finger slips easily inside your leaking hole.

Lo’ak’s been watching you this whole time, crouching down to get a good, clear look at your glistening pink cunt, and the sight of his brother’s finger sliding inside of you prompts him to have some fun of his own. He stands, fingers moving quickly to untie his loincloth, the material loosening and sliding down his legs, flittering to the ground below him.

You’re distracted, Neteyam’s finger is rubbing against your gummy walls, sliding in and out effortlessly while his thumb plays with your clit, so you don’t realize what’s so wrong with Lo’ak’s body until he’s directly in front of you - naked pelvis and even more naked center only a foot away from your face.

Your eyes widen as you look at it, confusion written all over your face as you stare at the empty, flat space where his member should be. Lo’ak laughs at the bewildered look on your face and Neteyam mouths at your shoulder to hide his own grin.

“Don’t worry, pretty girl,” Lo’ak says. “I’ve got plenty of cock for you. It’s just hidden. I’ll get it out for you since you're a little tied up.”

His fingers reach down to rub at the empty space and you watch in fascinated awe as he plays down there, fingers pressing in harder and sliding against the hidden slit you hadn’t seen before. His fingers dip inside, eyes closing in pleasure for a moment before they flick back open, sultry hooded orbs locked on your own.

“What the f–ahh!” You cry, eyes squeezing shut, back arching in pleasure against Neteyam as another of his fingers pushes inside you. They’re long enough on their own, the combined thickness enough to feel like a cock inside you already.

When your eyes open again, they lock immediately on what’s happening between Lo’ak’s legs. There’s something poking out from the slit and it takes your scared and pleasure hazed brain way too long to realize it’s his cock. It’s just the head peeking out, the mushroomed lavender tip like a bright, slick beacon between his dark blue thighs. He grins when your mouth falls open at the sight, fingers dipping back into his wet slit and pulling out another inch.

Every inch of his cock has your eyes widening, the long and hard length now fully unsheathed and bumping against his belly. Blue skin and even darker stripes litter the shaft, small bioluminescent freckles scatter towards the top and lead to the light purple tip. A fleeting thought has you thinking it's pretty, the colors blending in beautifully with one another, but when you see the textured bumps decorating the entire length, the panic hits you again.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting against Neteyam’s hold, but hold is firm. “It won’t fit! You can’t! It won’t fit!”

“That’s why we have to stretch you out first,” Neteyam mutters, mouth pressed against your shoulder. His third finger nudges at your entrance and you stop breathing when it pushes against your already stuffed hole. The stretch is intense, your small body struggling to take the invasion as his long finger pushes in beside the others. His thumb rubs lovingly at your clit, distracting you from the stretch and working up the pressure starting to build in your belly.

Lo’ak strokes at his cock, shuffling forward until the weeping tip of it is inches from your face.

“You wanna taste it?” He asks, his other hand gripping onto the bottom of your mask.

You whimper, terrified at the prospect of him pulling your mask off, but can’t get out anything more than a stuttering, “P-please,”

“Be a good girl and hold your breath for me,”

There’s a loud hiss of air as the seal around your face breaks, and then you can’t breathe. Can’t even make a sound when he pulls the mask halfway up your face to free your mouth, letting the bottom of it sit below your nose as he pushes his fingers into the hinges of your jaw to pry your mouth open.

The lavender tip of his cock pushes between your lips, the underside dragging along your tongue. You can feel every bump and ridge as it pushes in further, the texture both unusual and intimidating as it slides against the warm wet muscle.

And then it’s gone, your mask replaced and the burst of oxygen rushing into your lungs makes you feel even more lightheaded than without having any oxygen at all.

“Good girl,” Lo’ak coos, hand once again gripping the bottom of your mask and leaning down to press a sweet kiss against its glass.

Neteyam’s fingers are still working themselves in and out of your stuffed pussy, and you see Lo’ak’s ears twitch a second before you even hear it: the horrible squelching sounds your pussy is making as it rocks against his three fingers.

“Such a good girl,” He grins. He stands up, holding his cock steady and pulling your mask up again, the hiss of air mingling with the wet sounds coming from your drenched cunt. “Let’s go again,”

His cock pushes inside of your mouth again, barbed length sliding against your tongue and nudging the back of your throat. You gag, choking from both lack of oxygen and Lo’ak’s thick cock, and you can barely register the light and strangely sweet taste of his precum as it coats your tastebuds.

Neteyam’s fingers are ruthless inside of you, curling and dragging against your gummy walls with skilled expertise and his thumb is practically a blur on your clit. When Lo’ak replaces your mask and air once again fills your lungs, it's only there for a second before you’re screaming and gasping, the coil in your stomach almost too much to bear as it tightens, threatening to rip you apart when it snaps.

Your screaming is cut off again when Lo’ak lifts the mask away, shoving his cock harder and deeper into your mouth until the glass of your mask is pressing against his pelvis and his cock has slipped down your throat. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as you take it, legs shaking against Neteyam’s thigh. When it's replaced this time and air is once again allowed into your lungs, Neteyam’s teeth latch onto your shoulder, sharp canines digging into the tender skin. The bite brings about a sharp pain immediately followed by a flood of intense pleasure - your body jerks in his hold, shaking violently as the coil in your belly snaps. Your pussy clenches around his fingers, gushing against his hand as your orgasm rips through you without mercy.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” Lo’ak grunts, fisting his cock with one hand while checking to make sure your mask is secure with the other.

You mumble a weak reply, but the words don’t make sense, they don’t even sound like real words to your own ears - and your ‘not words’ turn into a forlorn whine as Neteyam pulls his fingers from your still pulsing pussy.

He tilts your upper body to the side, sliding most of you off of him except for your leg still draped over his thigh at the knee while your other foot presses onto the ground, leaving you spread wide. His free hand falls behind you, somewhere around his hip where you can’t see, and then something large and round shaped is nudging between your folds and prodding at your entrance.

“No,” You mewl. “Won’t fit,”

“Shh, be quiet, ma sevin tawtute,” He grunts, pressure pushing at your hole as he starts forwards. “It will fit,”

You take in gasping breaths as the pressure intensifies, dripping hole resisting the push as much as it can before relenting to the large male Na’vi’s wishes and the thick mushroom head of his cock pops inside. Neteyam groans when he breaches you, unwrapping his arm from your upper body and gripping both of your thighs with his large hands, hauling you up and in the air as he stands up.

Your back is pressed tightly against his chest, thighs spread open and vulnerable to Lo’ak’s hungry gaze as gravity pushes you down further on his brother’s cock. You whimper loudly, hands desperately gripping at Neteyam’s forearms as he impales you on him. The bumps on his cock drag without mercy against your sensitive walls, and your right leg shakes in his grip from the overwhelming intensity.

It feels so good, so devastatingly good inside of you, the barbs and ridges sliding just right against your gummy walls and you toss your head back with a silent scream as he bottoms out, tip nudging against your cervix.

You’ve never felt so full before. It feels like he’s all the way in your stomach, cock barreling through your important organs and rearranging your guts just to make enough room for him to fit. You chance a look down, letting out a wailing cry that’s half pleasure, half horror when you see the large bulge protruding from your abdomen.

“Fuck,” Neteyam moans. “She’s so tight,”

Lo’ak grins mischievously as Neteyam lowers his mouth to the side of your neck, pressing gentle kisses there as he starts to rock into you. One moment he’s in front of your face, sending you a cheeky wink when you gasp as the cock inside of you hits just the right angle to brush against your special spot, and then the next he’s crouching down, textured tongue lolling out of his mouth and licking against your swollen clit.

You squeal at the feeling of his rough tongue, textured similarly to that of a cat’s, lapping at the sensitive nub.

“T-too much!” You cry. You can’t close your legs, Neteyam’s hands holding them firmly open as he thrusts harder inside you, and your hands push against Lo’ak’s head, but he doesn’t budge - large head staying put while his tongue continues to swipe against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

When Lo’ak decides he’s had enough, he lifts his head, trailing kisses up your stomach starting just above the disappearing and reappearing bulge in your belly and up your chest, tongue laving over the swell of your breast and latching onto your nipple, sharp teeth nibbling on the hard bud as you yelp.

His lips wrap around it, suckling on it for a moment before pulling off with a pop.

“You taste so good, baby,” He murmurs, reaching down to play with your clit. “Like the sweetest little treat,”

“Feel so good, paskalin,” Neteyam grunts, lifting your body up and slamming it back down on his cock to fuck into your harder. “Snug little pussy squeezing me so well. You were made to take Na’vi cock, weren’t you?”

“Oohh my goooooood,” You moan, eyes rolling back into your head from the overwhelming stimulation. “C-can’t t-take i-itt,”

“Sure you can,” Lo’ak teases, face so close to yours that in your haze all you can see is his bright golden eyes. “Didn’t you hear what he just said?”

Neteyam’s thrusts are getting sloppy, moans and grunts a constant source behind you, and he hisses a quick “Fuck, take her,” at his brother. Before you know what’s happening, you’re suddenly pressed against Lo’ak, chest pressed tightly against his and Neteyam releases one of your thighs in favor of gripping your hip. Lo’ak’s hand cradles your released thigh instead, keeping you steady against him as his brother uses his new found leverage to pound into your tight cunt. Your arms instinctively wrap around Lo’ak’s neck, holding on for dear life as you moan and whimper loudly with the cool glass of your mask pressed against his collarbone.

You can feel the knot in your belly tightening again, and you can’t think about anything other than how impossibly full you feel and how good the ridges and bumps on his cock feel as they scrap and drag inside of you. Neteyam’s grip turns bruising, fingers digging into your hip and thigh as he fucks you harder.

“Who’s pussy is this?” Neteyam growls, mushroomed tip pounding into your cervix. “Go on, tawtute. Say it!”

“Neteyaaamm,” You moan. “Please, please, please,”

Distantly, even through your hazy, fucked out brain, you can feel something thick and round prodding at your entrance, bumping and stretching you out even more with each thrust. You cum, sobbing as you contract tightly around him, body shaking in Lo’ak’s hold as his large hand rubs up and down your back soothingly.

Neteyam pulls out of you with a tortured groan and your eyes flutter shut, pussy still contracting and squeezing and wanting - wanting his long, hard length inside of you again, wanting it splitting you open, and now that it's gone, you can’t believe how empty you feel.

Lo’ak lowers you gently to the ground, resting your exhausted body on the soft moss. You feel the way he pulls your thighs apart again, settling himself between them, what’s left of the setting sunlight filtering in behind your eyelids getting blocked as he hovers over you.

“Stay awake, vrrtep,” He says, smacking your thigh lightly to wake you back up. Your heavy eyes peel themselves open, watching as Lo’ak braces one hand above your head while the other guides his cock to your core. You whimper as he drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds, teasing the tip against your clit before running it down your slit and lining it up with your entrance. “It’s my turn,”

The slide is easier this time as he pushes in, but still no less intense. Your tired and overstimulated body tenses at the intrusion, tightening around him as he spears you open with his thick girth.

“Such a pretty demon,” He moans, pleasure shooting through his veins at the feel of your tiny body hugging his cock like it never wants to let him go. “Tempting us the way you did,”

His hips start up a gentle tempo, rocking inside you to help you get used to his size and letting you feel the pleasurable drag of his barbs against your oversensitive walls.

You whine, denying his comment. “D-didn’t do anyth–”

He silences you with a sharp snap of his hips, upping the rhythm of his thrusts and leaning down further so his pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust. Already you can feel another orgasm barreling towards you, threatening to rip you apart the same way his cock is splitting you open.

“Fuck!” You squeal, back arching as your pussy squelches between your bodies. “Oh my god, fuck!”

“Say my name, baby,” Lo’ak grunts. “Wanna hear you moan it,”

“Looo’aaaaak,” You moan, bliss clouding your judgment as your hips buck into his in return.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Neteyam, standing just to the side, watching as his brother fucks your very soul from your body as his hand strokes along his raging length. Your eyes catch on something unusual towards the base of his cock - a thick, round bulb that shouldn’t be there and he smirks as he sees you gaping at it, hand stroking down to the base and squeezing the thick engorged knot of tissue tightly, moaning at the sensation.

Lo’ak thrusts in you harder and you feel that same thick, round ball bumping at your entrance that you felt when Neteyam was fucking you. The same bulbish ball of tissue that must be the same as the one you're looking at right now.

“Great Mother,” Lo’ak groans, face scrunched up in pleasure. “I wanna knot you so fucking bad,”

“Don’t,” Neteyam growls, jerking forward as if to pull his brother away from you, but Lo’ak curls his body around yours protectively, a deep hiss of warning ripping from his throat as he bares his teeth at his brother.

Neteyam freezes, hands up in surrender but he glares at the brother inside you all the same. “Don’t. We don’t know if her body can take it yet.”

Lo’ak grunts, resuming his thrusts. “I know. Just back off,”

His cock pounds you relentlessly, kissing your cervix and his hand reaches down to caress the bulge in your belly. He presses down on the bulging bump firmly at the same time that his teeth sink into the still unmarked side of your neck, making you scream, the blissful agonized cry echoing through the forest as you cream all over his cock.

He pulls out, groaning woefully like his brother did, and fists his cock furiously, aiming the leaking tip directly at your puffy, spent pussy. Neteyam does the same, crouching low and close, stroking his cock beside you as he aims for your chest.

They cum within seconds of one another, shooting hot, thick stripes of pearly bioluminescent cum all over your body, covering your chest and lower half with their release.

You can barely feel your body anymore, can’t move a single limb on your own, and, despite not having any use of anything, your body won’t stop shaking - oversensitive and overstimulated and completely satisfied in a way you never thought you could be.

“Ready to head home, sevin tawtute?” Neteyam asks, breathing heavy as he recovers from his orgasm. He just came but his eyes are still dark and sinful, looking at you like he wants to eat you whole. Your exhausted eyes flick to Lo’ak only to see the same desirous expression.

There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach as you close your eyes, listening to their dark chuckles as your body forces you to rest. The last thing you hear before you drift off to sleep is a low, deep voice say . . .

“You’re ours now,”

Extra>>>

**Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife

#lunaskinktober2023 #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x reader smut #neteyam smut #neteyam x reader #neteyam x human reader #lo'ak x female reader #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak smut #lo'ak x human reader #neteyam x reader x lo'ak #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent #tw: non con

3K notes · View notes