#you are not allowed to say anything about my taste

[bunny-jpeg]

honey, i'm home!!, convict!simon r.- you were a bleeding heart, a softie. maybe that was why you took a photo of the flyer taped against the glass wall of a bus stop. it was advertising a service for people on the outside to communicate with convicts in prison. those who didn't have family on the outside. it broke your heart as you thought about it on your commute to work.

these poor people, all alone with anyone to keep them tethered to outside. it must be so isolating, so cold. you knew the risks and when you put in your information on the website, you didn't pay too much mind to the possibilities. you were surprised when you got an email back saying that they had found you a inmate to be a pen pal with.

simon riley - five year sentence for assaulting a police officer. he had no living family and was allowed to join the program due to good behavior during his time in prison. the mugshot of him made your eyes go wide. blond, a smattering of moles and freckles, alluring brown eyes (even in the horrid mugshot light), a crooked nose from multiple breakages and scars on his face.

if your jaw dropped at the sight of his photo imagine the surprise on his face when they gave him all your information. no photo though. but enough about you to pull the convict in. oh, you were beautiful. at least on paper you were.

ideal wife-y material. that made simon chub up in his jumpsuit. he didn't care what you looked like, by the first letter he was already calling you his wife to the likes of johnny. calling you missus riley by the time he had been exchanging letters with you for a month. he learned so much about you, and you became more endearing. you told him your favourite movies, that some flowers made you allergies act up, your love of animals. you even told him about the stuffed animal you 'rescued' from a puddle, washed it up and named it tulip who now sits on your desk at home. it was sweet, you were sweet.

simon near killed a man in a botched robbery and you were talking to him like it was a first date. mind you, over letters but simon loved them. you were advised not to send anything in the mail, your address was obscured with the service's address so simon couldn't find you once he got out. but, with the right words and promises, he had your full name, the location of your job and the address of your home. you were even sweet enough let him put it as his main address once he left prison. already the sweetest thing since honey.

but simon was a greedy man, asked for a few photos of you. while you were shy, he said to you, "wanna know what my girl looks like. wanna know how she looks so when i come home, i'm able to recognize her in any crowd." and you sent a few photos, and to simon's surprise. a suggestive one.

he could see a peek of your breasts and he realized he wanted to get his paws all over them. he wanted to leave pretty bruises on that tender flesh. mark what was his, that was what he learned in prison. in order to keep something he had to keep a tight grip on it. not even johnny saw the photos, you were for his eyes only.

you were nice enough to print them on good quality photo paper, and after that there was an increase in simon's good behavior. he had to get out as soon as possible to sink his achy cock in his missus. and when the day finally came and you came to pick him up. he already felt tight in his jeans.

and not that you were so innocent either, you had your hand on his thigh while you drove home. months of dirty talk over letters, the time simon basically wrote poetry about how he wanted to taste between your legs was still a favourite to read while you were all alone in your apartment. your hand between your legs, imagining a man like simon pleasing you in a way that made orgasm come quick.

your self pleasure was nothing compared to the feeling of simon against your skin. you barely got his scarce belongings into your flat before he was pressed up against your behind. his large, rough hand on your hip, which made your stomach leap. your core got warmer.

he then said to you, "aw, doll. that's not a way to greet your husband. been away for too long, need to feel her." and then dropped his duffel bag in favour of having you pressed up against the door of your flat with your shorts soon around your ankles.

"simon! ah!" you said as he held you by the shoulders against the door while he got his belt off and his cock out. five years without a hole to call home, but he got out of the pit with a little (future) wife to happily make up for loss time.

when he sank into you, it was a religious experience, "oh honey, i'm home." before he got both hands on your hips and his hips hit up against your ass. there was little time to get familiar, it was a deep seated want. simon rutted against you like a feral dog and the pleasure made you mind race and your knees wobble.

you two couldn't even get to the bedroom, not that simon cared. he'd happily have you over the hood of his car. you knew he didn't have any satisfactions from the outside. you were being good and being his connection to the outside world. it was only fair that he thanked you with all the orgasms he could wring out of you. he'd make sure that the third round was in your soft bed. but his thrusts were heavy and desperate and the uneven pace made your brain become flooded with pleasure.

you tried to find some kind of leverage against the door, but you were simply stuck against him. you were fucked against the wood door with your hips in your convict lover's hands. he may have smudged a little bit of the details of his crimes, but it was alright. you were such a forgiving soul that you let him into your life, into your home, into your womb. he couldn't remember if you still took the pill, but it was too late for that. not while your slick cunt drooled all over his balls.

why complain about a slice of heaven when it was dropped into his lap. he eventually wrapped both arms around your middle and fucked into you feverishly. he felt the excitement in his body as he moved against you. you felt amazing, there was a certain beauty to you as you took his cock was cemented that you were his. you'll have a ring on your finger and a fat belly by christmas. the thought made him twitch.

been too long since he had a homecooked meal, and while having your cunt grasp his cock. he knew that he'd be spoiled with his wife's cooking. if it was as warm as you pussy, maybe it'll reform him more than prison ever did.

after so many years without a touch of a woman, it felt nice. it felt great to work his cock into you. have you squished up against the door as he worked himself into you. breaking in his home, breaking in his wife. what more could he want. even gave that stomach of yours a sweet little pat.

be a good girl and give him a chunky riley baby by new year.

when you climaxed, you basically were limp in his arms and he pressed you further against the door for leverage. he purred to you, "that's it, that's is, doll. you're doing so good, fuck. been wantin' this for ages. good girl, good cunt. all for me. not gettin' into trouble while i was in, right? keepin' yourself for me."

you nodded, cheek pressed against the door as he continued to fuck you. your head felt dizzy. you didn't bother dating after you started your correspondence with simon. no point, he kept your happy. simon knew that loyalty was rewarded, so he did so by shoving every inch of his length inside of you an finishing straight into the back of your womb.

he groaned and gave you a few more thrusts before he pulled out. he patted you on the behind and kissed the back of your neck, "happy to be home, doll. our home. now why don't you show me around." and chuckled when you could barely string together a sentence. he pulled you up against his chest and near leaned over you to kiss you on the cheek, "look alive, sunshine. gotta show your husband his new home. except i think it might be too small. especially when the twins come." and it went in one ear and out the other, you dumbly nodded and simon did the right thing and fucked you over the coffee table until you came a second and third time. it's alright, he'll get a tour of his home by fucking you over every available surface. <3

a/n: happy near year, my dear bunnies <3

[dollfacefantasy]

im shaking begging on my hands on knees pls if that’s okay and you’re comfortable with it could you cook some tongue sucking and spit play with Leon like absolutely sloppy messy nasty 🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲🤲

it was a mistake telling leon that you'd never been kissed.

you'd been going out with the d.s.o agent for a few weeks now, and last friday night on another one of your dates you let that little not-so-fun fact about you slip. in your defense, you were a bit tipsy, and the buzz of alcohol dulled the points on your decision making skills.

"wait really?" he'd asked after a small laugh. he leaned forward, forearms pressing down on the white table cloth. "never been kissed? not even once?"

"well... one time sorta in third grade. but i don't count that," you amended.

that only made his smile wider. "wow, i thought you were cute before, sweetheart, but this just takes it to another level," he chuckled.

you felt your cheeks starting to burn, realizing that you may have made a mistake in disclosing this part of your past. it wasn't like you were totally innocent or something. you'd just never found someone you felt deserved to experience your lips against theirs.

he didn't continue to mock though. he just shook his head and eyed you over the brim of his glass.

"i'll have to change that then," he said.

that night as he dropped you at your apartment he acted on his words. before letting you leave the proximity of his car, he guided you close and pecked your lips. something soft and sweet. intimate but simple. your first real kiss.

it would be far from the last if he had anything to say about it though.

tonight he came over to your place to spend some time with you before an upcoming mission. the two of you laid on the couch, bodies intertwined. he had you tucked to his chest as a movie played on the tv in the background. his eyes stayed on you though.

his fingers ran down your cheek along the curve of your jaw. you could feel him staring and finally gave in, turning your head to smile at him.

"what?" you said with a small laugh.

"nothing," he replied, "am i not allowed to admire you?"

he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheekbone. one soft kiss landed on your skin and then another and another until his mouth reached your neck.

you giggled softly and squirmed beside him. he grinned against your throat, not letting up on his affection. his hand squeezed your waist. you felt his tongue slide out and glide across your pulse point before his lips latched on again.

"you know, baby... i've been thinking about kissing you again ever since last friday," he breathed.

"really?" you whispered in return.

"mhm. couldn't get you out of my head. even more than normal," he said, "those lips are just so soft and sweet. one kiss wasn't enough."

he began moving back up, cresting his lips over your chin to below your bottom lip.

"it wasn't enough for me either," you agreed, getting the words out while you still could.

in seconds, his lips landed on yours. this kiss was deeper than the last, more sensual and full of intention. he suckled on your bottom lip, scraping his teeth against the plush skin. his nose bumped yours. you could feel the soft puffs of his breaths on your face.

"of course it wasn't. that was just your first taste. it's only natural you'd want more," he murmured between smooches, "but i'm gonna give it to you. make up for all that time you went without."

his mouth connected with yours in full again, drawing a quiet moan from you. your fingers ran through his blonde tresses. he shuddered at the feeling of your fingers raking over his scalp.

it was weird. kissing him felt effortless and like something you needed to be conscious of at the same time. you melted into his movements and let him guide you, but you also thought about every detail from how much you were responding to the tender sighs slipping from your lips.

your breath hitched when you felt the tip of his tongue drag across the seam of your mouth. you didn't really know what to do, so you just went with your first instinct and parted your lips slightly.

"that's it, honey, let me in," he cooed before sliding the wet muscle into your mouth.

that got a louder sound out of you. he cupped your cheek and worked it in, swirling it with your own. the kisses got messier now. your head spun with the bliss of being so wrapped up in him.

he sucked at your tongue, and your legs squirmed in response. you didn't expect it to feel so nice. it was almost soothing in a way, to have him so intensely focused on you. the hand that wasn't on your cheek squeezed your hip, teasing at his want for more.

when he finally pulled away, a smile broke out on his face.

"look at you," he crooned, "you liked that, didn't you?"

all you could do was nod while staring up at him. your eyes were blown out with lust, your chest heaving with the same emotion.

his thumb came up to your wet bottom lip. the pad of it stroked back and forth, pressing down and opening your mouth a little. so cute.

"messy girl," he purred.

and then, without warning, he gathered some spit at the front of his mouth and parted his lips to let it fall into yours.

your body lit on fire at the sight and sensation. you felt the liquid hit your tongue and slide towards your throat. a soft moan made its way out of you before you lazily swatted at his arm.

"leon!" you whined, sticking out your lip into a pout, "ew."

he laughed at the simple reaction before ducking down to swap more spit with you. he kissed you deep and hard, twirling his tongue through your mouth languidly.

"that'll be the least 'ew' thing i do to you before tonight's over," he teased before sweeping you up in another passionate exchange.

[lolitastories]

Ringing

Bucky Barnes

Description: Y/N helps him out with the ringing. She distracts him with something she has been wanting to do for awhile.

I was currently in the kitchen preparing a drink for Bucky and I. It seems today was a hard day for him and it was becoming worse due to the ringing in his head. He tells me it was the effect of what Hydra did to him as the winter soldier. He would keep the radio, tv, or force himself to be in a crowd just so it would drown out the noise a bit. I look over from the kitchen island to the couch where he was sitting and notice his hands placed over his ears. His body slumped over with his eyes forced shut. I set the glass down and immediately rush over and kneel in front of him. He described it as a phantom sound. The transition to the winter soldier always peered in once in a while. The last time he had one of them, he told me it was 2 years ago but it was never this bad. I gently wrap my fingers around his wrist and he allows me to peel his hands away from his ear. His eyes are still shut and he slowly shakes his head. He had told me all about his time as the winter soldier, I could see his regret each day even if he seemed happier. When I met him he was afraid to come close to me and when he explained everything I knew why. As a school teacher I am around kids most of the time and it took him a while to come around the idea. We have been dating for almost 5 months and he has been nothing but respectful and a true gentleman. So it pained me to see him struggle, I had to do something. With still a grip on his wrist I move them to give me space to straddle him. Moving closer to him I could hear his unsteady breathing, even a light cast of sweat on his forehead. I didn’t say anything, I just hoped my actions would get him distracted from the ringing. I let go of his wrist and moved my hands up his waist to grab a fist full of his black shirt. My lips fell to the accessible space between his neck and I started to place some kisses. Soon those kisses turned into tasting him, sucking on the spot and once he groaned I knew it was of dislike. “Doll,” He whispered. He pushed his head back and kept his eyes closed. His hands gripped my hips and I involuntarily began to grind on his lap.

“I want to make you feel better” I whisper as I continue my movements and kisses. His throat moans as my kisses move lower. He pushes my hip forward with more force making me groan at the sudden friction.

“You don’t have to” He struggled to get out as his words were mixed with moans and unsteady breathing. In our relationship we had yet to be this intimate. I know he was holding back but I was tired of it. I was ready and I knew we both wanted it badly.

“I know.” I pull away just enough to see his face. “I want to.” He opens his eyes. His blues looked intensely at me. “I have been wanting you to fuck me for so long that looking at you this vulnerable gave me the right opportunity to take advantage of you” He closes his eyes but this time he lets out a chuckle. He knew I was teasing him but before he could change his mind I began to rock my hips again. “Will you allow me to take advantage of you?” He grips my hips once again.

“Honey, I will allow you to do anything to me.” He lifts up his head, crashing his lips onto mine. My hands ramage to grip onto his hair pulling him closer. It was so little but my whole body was burning up with his lips and our bodies grinding like two teenagers. I moaned into his mouth and he took the chance to slip his tongue in. Messy and sloppy was becoming our kisses as the lower part of my stomach was twisting in pleasure.

“Bucky,” I moans, pulling away. My head falls against his shoulder. His hands still gripping my hips pushes us with much force. “I need you” I groan sitting up. His eyes find mine once again and he nods.

“The ringing is gone,” He whispers. He grabs onto my bottom and stands up with me. My legs wrapped around his waist. “I can give you my full attention all night” A mischievous grin appears as he starts walking towards his bedroom.

“All night?” I choke out. It was only 5 in the afternoon right now.

“I know once I get a taste of you, I won’t be able to quit until I am satisfied,” Holy shit.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey, sorry if you already answered this question before, but I would like to enjoy some Welsh media, like songs, tv-shows/movies or books. Do you have any recommendations? Also, happy holidays and a happy new year!

Hello! I hope your holidays were happy.

I'm assuming you're asking for Welsh-language media specifically, so that's what I'll offer; if you want anything from the rest of Wales, give me a shout.

Music - so, my personal Welsh-language playlist on Spotify is here, which may contain things to interest you as a sort of jumping-off point to explore an artist more. I'll also put my Welsh music tag on this post, though, so you can check that and see what recommendations others have made on my posts in the past. You'll find people recommending Adwaith and Gwenno and people like that, see, neither of whom I particularly like and so don't have on my list, but are pretty popular. The true cultural tour-de-force for young Welsh speakers is Sebona Fi, by Yws Gwynedd - if you listen to no other, listen to that one.

TV and Film - tricky because availability is difficult. I gave some recent recs here; others to consider are Ar y Ffin (the big current drama on S4C), 35 Diwrnod (sort of a thriller - each series focuses on a murder, which you see in the opening minutes, and then rewinds to 35 days before it happened. You then watch the events play out. Kind of murder mystery, but no detectives), and...

Actually, maybe check out Hansh across its various platforms? It specialises in little short pieces (a few minutes each) that could be comedy skits, documentary shorts about a social issue, cultural round ups of the various gigs happening this week in Wales, etc. Very diverse. Their target audience is, basically, Millennials And A Bit Under. They also do longer form variety things on S4C, but the shorter stuff is on FB, YouTube, etc.

Oh, and my husband has a kids variety show coming out in the next few months! I don't know what I'm allowed to say yet, but I'll definitely blog about it closer to the time.

Books - Obviously I don't know your tastes in books, but my recs:

Absolutely anything by Mihangel Morgan. He's the gold standard if you're learning, because his language is lovely and accessible; but also if you're a fluent speaker, because he writes mundane sci-fi and slightly absurd horror and things like that, all with an undercurrent of social commentary, and his stuff is absolutely fantastic. Dan Gadarn Goncrit is my husband's favourite book of all time in any language; meanwhile, I was given Saith Pechod Marwol at A Level and fucking loved it. I believe he's had one book translated into English, too - Melog. I've not read it in either, but I've heard great things.

Y Llyfrgell, by Fflur Dafydd (the author is also on my music playlist). Here's the blurb:

On a cold February morning, in the year 2020, Dan, a porter at the National Library of Wales, is committing his daily offence against the regime. Greeting him at the door is Eben, a biographer, itching to be admitted. But, they are both unaware that Ana and Nan, two librarians intent on revenge, are on the brink of changing the history of the National Library of Wales forever. This novel transforms the peaceful atmosphere of the National Library into a theatrical set full of possibilities - where bullets cut through the silence, the Reading Room is a cell, and the Library itself is an anti-hero of our literature...

Spectacular book, won the Gwobr Goffa Daniel Owen at the Eisteddfod in 2009.

I hope anything in there is useful!

[getaandlucius]

A brief taste of honey (Geta love story)

Summary: Geta is recovering from his injuries. Lucius must go to war again.

Previous parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, Part 4, Part 5, part 6

"Who is Arishat?"

Lucius blinked. Slowly, a pair of intense brown eyes swam into view. He had not regained full awareness of his surroundings, and it took immense effort to translate his thoughts into words.

"Mmm." Lucius groaned softly as he turned on his back and stretched out his arms above his head. Of course, Geta did not know about her. Who would have told him?

"You... said her name. In your sleep," Geta clarified.

Lucius nodded. "She was my wife. She died in the invasion of Numidia." He rubbed his chest. "She was shot. In the ribs. Drowned soon after."

Geta stayed silent for a while. Then, quietly, "I'm really sorry, Lucius." Something in Geta's tone surprised him and made him turn his head. The sincerity in it. Perhaps he recognized, remembered the feeling of loss.

"It's okay."

There was a time he would have blamed Geta for killing her. But knowing him and his brother for longer, he understood the way they ruled. Like kids. Ignorant, with no idea of the consequences of their actions nor the lives lost and affected. Bitterness still filled his heart remembering how he had felt.

Geta shook his head. "It is not. And I am sorry."

Lucius could feel his throat close up, so he just gave a nod, quickly blinking away tears.

"What was she like?"

Lucius did not reply right away.

"If you want to share, of course."

"It's okay." He frowned. "She was... strong. Independent. A great fighter." He stared at the ceiling. "Never allowed me to protect her."

Geta's fingers slid into his curls, stayed there until he began playing with them. It startled Lucius; Geta had not done this before. Never touched him in such a way.

"It, ehm..." He cleared his throat. "It drove me nuts, to be honest."

"That doesn't surprise me," Geta said, lazily winding a curl around his middle finger. "You miss her?"

"Very much." Lucius looked away from him. He could feel Geta's eyes burning in the back of his head.

Geta came closer, his warm breath fanning over the side of his neck. He then ghosted his lips over the shell of Lucius' ear.

"I can't bear it when you're sad," he said, his voice solemn and low. Then he sighed and lowered his head, tucking it between Lucius' chin and shoulder. Lucius did not know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything, just focused on Geta's heartbeat drumming against the side of his ribcage.

"What about your brother? How are you coping with his absence?" Lucius asked, feeling guilty he’d gone so long without asking. Geta said nothing for a long time.

"I feel half-human without him."

Lucius squeezed his arm.

"I'm sorry too."

Geta nodded. Then he added, "I know you were right when you said he would kill me if it came to it." Geta turned his face inwards, talking to the skin of Lucius' neck. "I knew you were right, and that's why I struck you." Geta was crying now.

Lucius nodded. "I assumed so."

Geta swallowed. "I would have never been able to kill him. Never. Not even if I would lose my mind."

Lucius nodded again, looking down at him. Geta was softer than most people gave him credit for.

"How are your wounds?" Lucius asked after letting him cry for a while, changing the subject. "Are they still hurting badly?" Geta nodded without looking at him. "Sometimes less than other times."

"When does it hurt the most?"

"When I sit up, or when I accidentally turn on my stomach."

"Can I see?"

"The wounds?"

"Mm-mm."

"No."

"Why?"

"It's ugly. I don't want you to see it."

"Do you think I care if it's ugly?"

"I care. It looks gross."

"It's not healed yet."

"It will scar. Pius said the scars will be the size of my hand."

"It bothers you?"

"Yes. It does."

"It doesn't matter to me."

"It's not about that. I liked the way I looked. I liked my skin. It will never be like that again. Every time I see my reflection, I will be reminded of terror. It bothers me."

Lucius propped himself up on one elbow, searching Geta's eyes. "I'll teach you how to fight. We'll get you healthy again." He insisted.

Geta shook his head, his cheeks still damp from previous tears. "I will never be the same again. I'll never walk around these halls the same man."

Lucius frowned. "You don't know that."

"Mmm. I do."

Lucius adjusted so he was in the same position again, with Geta's head resting against his shoulder. "We'll take it a day at a time, alright?"

Geta sighed and didn't reply. When Lucius looked down, his eyes were closed again.

"You want to sleep?"

"Yeah."

Lucius brought his hand to Geta's face, letting it rest there protectively. "Sleep then," he said.

Geta murmured something unintelligible. Lucius adjusted a little and yawned himself, letting his eyelids close too. Unexpectedly, he was off in a heartbeat.

When he woke again, it was hot and early in the afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the open window, and his thin tunic clung to his damp torso. Geta’s arm was draped across his chest, his body tucked gently against him. He was lying on his side, deeply asleep. That was good—he probably needed it.

Lucius carefully lifted Geta’s arm off his chest and slid away from him. Geta's breathing remained heavy, his arm falling limp on the bed, palm flat against the mattress. Lucius pressed a kiss on his arm before standing up, leaving him to sleep undisturbed. It had never felt right to leave him, but it was becoming harder and harder the more time he spent with him—like a fabric being pulled tighter with every thread.

If he could, he would have stayed with him all day, all week, making sure his heart kept beating steadily, kissing him, caressing him. But this was not the time. Geta needed his rest to recover, and Lucius had a battle to plan.

----

That night Lucius entered the dining hall. Geta was already sitting at the main table, clearly just awake, looking a bit disheveled with his hair sticking out all over the place.

"I will leave in two weeks," Lucius said, sitting down.

Geta looked up with sleepy eyes. "How long will you be gone?"

"I expect around three or four weeks."

Geta nodded. "Okay."

"When I get back, we’ll start our training sessions, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good. In the meantime," Lucius added, "I want you to be careful and stay in bed most of the time. You can have my quarters to yourself. If you’re in pain, tell one of the guards and they’ll get Pius or Ravi. I know you’ll get bored, but please do not go roaming around the gardens or do anything Pius hasn’t advised you to do."

Geta grinned and took a sip of wine. "Okay, father."

Lucius shook his head. "I’m serious."

"I know you are. When are you not?"

"Mmm..." Lucius knitted his brows together. "True."

"I like your solemness. Don’t worry."

Lucius took a bite of his food. "I’ll make sure you have enough to read. I heard you like to read."

Geta nodded, letting his teeth sink into a piece of chicken. "I do, thank you."

Lucius smiled. Watching Geta eat was one of his favorite things in the world.

They finished their meal in a comfortable silence.

After dinner, Lucius went looking for Marcus for the most recent reports on developments along the trade routes.

The news was not good. The Phitians were closing in on Rome’s lifelines—grain from the north, salt from the mines, and trade along the coast. Without these, Rome’s legions wouldn’t march, its cities wouldn’t eat, and its people would face starvation and chaos.

Lucius asked Laurentius to find Mantius, the main military leader of the Roman army, who had replaced Acasius.

Inside, Marcus studied the map, his hand hovering over the grain routes. "They’ll strike here first. If they cut off the grain or seize the salt mines, the people will feel it within days. We can’t protect everything. Where do we hold?"

Lucius stepped forward, scanning the map. "The coast. Without trade, we can’t resupply at all."

Marcus nodded sharply. "And the salt mines?"

"Decoys," Lucius said, thinking aloud. "We let them believe we’re prioritizing the mines while fortifying the coast and the grain routes."

Mantius pointed to the passes. "If we control the high ground here, they’ll walk into a trap."

Lucius’s jaw tightened. "It’s not perfect, but it gives us a chance to keep the people fed."

He walked over to Laurentius at the door. "Could you please send a message to the local governors that I need to speak with them?" Laurentius nodded.

---

The next two weeks, Lucius spent preparing for battle and training his men. He and Geta slept mostly in separate beds, as Lucius often worked late into the night and Geta needed his undisturbed sleep. But when Geta’s nightmares became severe, Lucius would come to his bedside, rub his back, and whisper to him until his breathing calmed.

Sometimes his eyes would drift down to Geta’s full lips, wondering what it would feel like to kiss them, to slowly part them with his tongue. But he would quickly push those thoughts away. There was still a shyness between them—something Lucius wasn’t willing to break away from just because of impatience. What they had was delicate and precious, and he wanted to savor it. Savor him.

The evening before his departure, he went to find Geta. His horse had been readied, his men were prepared and had been spoken to. Geta put his hands on Lucius’ shoulders. "You will come back to me soon." It was a demand, not a question.

"I will come back to you, soon," Lucius nodded in agreement. "Remember what I told you. Be safe, ask for help."

Geta nodded. He was cold; the evening air left a wave of goosebumps on his arms.

Lucius sighed, feeling more reluctant than ever to leave.

"Lucius?" Marcus was standing at the gate, fully dressed in golden armor. He was too old to go to battle but had refused to stay behind. Lucius nodded at him before returning to Geta.

They just stared at each other, not knowing what to say.

"Okay, goodbye then," Lucius said after a moment.

Geta nodded. "Goodbye," he said, looking over Lucius' shoulder to Marcus, who had stepped outside. Lucius could hear Geta breathe in before he bent forward and pressed his lips to Lucius' mouth. It was a simple, understated kiss—a promise. Geta grinned when he pulled back, his big eyes devoid of any shyness.

"Now go, you fool. Don’t make them wait."

Lucius nodded and turned on his heel, walking toward his horse.

"Strength and honor!" Geta called after him.

Lucius looked over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Strength and honor."

Please let me know what you think in the comments!

Taglist: @potato1d-blog1, @joan2914

[alevolpe]

In honor of the new year I ask you, what do you think the girls' favorite alcoholic beverages are? (Feel free to include Mamo or anyone of your liking in this list)

Alright! Happy new years everybody!🎉🎇🍾

Please drink responsibly.

Before I start me clarify *I am NOT a drinker or an expert of alcohol by any means*

This is just what I personally believe would fit each of the girls based on my knowledge about them and my *very* limited knowledge on alcoholic beverages.

Usagi - Sex on the beach

Usagi would like something super sweet and fruity, with not much of a bitter aftertaste. Something that she can casually sip throughout the night without going out immediately. It also doesn't look 'scary' to her like many other beverages cause it looks like juice. (She'd def be too embarrassed to say the name to the server tho, so she'd ask Mako or Mina to order it for her everytime)

Ami - Kirsch

Ami doesn't drink. Even during big events and celebrations, I think Ami is the one person to abstain, BUT on that extremely rare occasion I think she'd enjoy drinking Kirsch with her mother. The bitter black forest cake and cherry flavor brings good memories to both of them. She prob bought Kirsch once, drank it with Saeko on a couple occasions and never drank again.

Rei - Sake

Rei was the easiest one. Rei drinks Sake. She not only enjoys the flavor, the experience, and the price (lol), but it's also something that is deeply ingrained in Japanese culture. It finishes well and can be casually enjoyed while eating other meals that pair well with it. She loves efficency ;)

Makoto - Rum

Mako drinks straight shots of dark spirits, which I think would surprise some people. I see her as someone who's had their fair share of experience with alcohol since a young age, so she's developed a refined taste for strong and hearty alcohol with some light accents of wood and smoke. She drinks very occasionally now and if she wants to take it easy, I can see her lightening it with sodas or teas.

Minako - Piña Colada

Mina could drink anything you put under her. She'd chug it like it's nothin, but if you were to ask her her favorite I could easily see her going for a bit of a basic, but classic cocktail like piña colada. Despite being relatively low on alcohol content, I think she'd throughly enjoy the favor and body as well as the beachy, summer vibes it brings.

Imma do a second part with Haruka, Michiru, Setsuna and Mamoru tmrrw in a reblog cause Tumblr is being a lil baby and not allowing me to link more pics (it's also getting a bit late and I need to do other stuff)

[click4rainy]

Syzoth Boyfriend Head Canons

👽: He’s so cutie patootie frfr

⚠️ :freaky lizard man, (up to your interpretation) dual penetration, cunnilingus, biting, edging, idk if I left anything out but he’s so fine isn’t he? OH, and breeding kink kinda implied? (Definitely)

SFW 💚🦎

★ Syzoth is kind and nurturing. Despite going through immense loss—he still holds that aspect of himself. He’ll often check in just to ensure you’re okay.

★ “Are you feeling alright, bug?” “Are you sure?” “Do you need anything?” “Are you hungry?” “Have you drank water today?”

★ He’s open about his grief, but only when he feels safe enough to share it. Sometimes he’ll tell you about his family with a bittersweet tone, grateful that you’re willing to listen.

★ Syzoth never wants to burden you with his immense guilt. No…But in nights when the memories are too much for him, he allows himself to lean on you. He will hold onto you tightly—as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear too. Your touch often the only thing that can ground him from his despair.

★ He isn’t interested in grand gestures or gifts. He thrives on small, intimate moments. Sharing a meal, late night walks, fire fly watching, or simply enjoying a movie in bed together.

★ He’s honestly so thoughtful, like remembering the tiniest details about you, kind of thoughtful. Your favorite flower, the way you like your tea, and even the books you’re reading. “I saw these flowers on the way back…I think they’re the ones you wanted for book marks. I don’t know, either way they made me think of you…”

★ Syzoth knows what it feels like to hide who you are, given his shape shifting ability and the stigma that comes with being Zaterran. With you, he’s completely himself and encourages you to do the same. Your little hype lizard.

★ He’s does this thing (usually when you’re alone and not particularly doing anything important.) where he’ll suddenly get really close to your face and stare at you intently. This habit (even though you’re used to it) catches you off guard from time to time.

★ “you’re doing it again…” You’ll say with a quirked brow. He leans in closer, still staring intently. “I just can’t help it, love. I can’t keep my eyes off of you…” He answers honestly, his eyes tracing every line of your face shamelessly.

★ Syzoth naturally gravitates towards warmth, which often means curling up to you when he’s feeling a bit too cold. He’ll quietly rest his head on your lap or pull you into his arms, justifying it with a cheeky comment. “What..? You’re practically a walking furnace…” he says with a sly grin “let me borrow some of this heat you horde.”

★ He loves soaking up the sunshine. And if you’re outside together, you’ll often find him lying on his back with his eyes closed, taking in the warmth with a gentle smile. It’s one of the few moments where he looks completely at peace. And you’ve learned to just let him bask while you do your own thing nearby.

★ “I don’t understand how you can just stay there like that for hours…” you tease. He smirks, not bothering to open his eyes. “It’s absolute bliss for us cold blooded creatures, bug. Absolute bliss…”

★ This man will use his forked tongue to “taste the air” gauge his surroundings, especially when he’s in his true form. It’s an instinctive behavior. But he’ll use this ability to playfully taunt you as well. Flicking his tongue in your direction—making you roll your eyes. “You smell nervous.” He quips with a smirk.

★ “I smell just fine, thank you very much.” You retort, lightly swatting at him. (for being right.)

★ He isn’t prone to outward displays of anger. But if he’s upset, he’ll let out low rumbling sounds, or even hiss. It’s a subtle but telling sign of his irritation. And it’s cute as hell.

★ If you’re the type to tease back, Syzoth will respond in kind. By playfully stalking you of course. His movements becoming deliberate and slow, almost like a predator.

★He’ll sneak up on you when you least expect it, his footsteps silent as he follows your scent, his eyes fixed on you. When he finally catches you, his touch is light but teasing, his breath fanning against your skin.

★ “Trying to run away from me?” He asks, his voice coming out in a purr. “You’re not fast enough.” he adds, moving closer. “You’re clever, but I’ve never been one to let my prey get away.”

NSFW 🦎💦

★ He doesn’t mind being a bottom if that’s what you want baby! But he’s personally more of a top. He loves whatever you love. He’s gonna make you cum regardless. “mmmh, absolutely.” “Whatever you say, love.” “Is this what you want?” “Must I really keep my hands to myself…?”

★ I’m saying he’s got two of em. Not elaborating.

★ Syzoth, with his love for warmth, is quite touchy. His hands roaming your sides up and down before sliding into your bra, toying with your nipples until they perk.

★ He likes to bite. Sometimes he’ll bite too hard, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure throughout your entire body. you pout, but he softly hushes you with a murmur, licking his lips and finally pulling away, flicking his tongue over the bite mark, soothing the pain slightly.

★ Of course, he loves to worship your body with his long, dexterous tongue, tracing every curve and contour, leaving absolutely no inch of soft skin untouched. Pinning your thighs in place, he eats you out like no tomorrow.

★ Reaching places you never knew could have feeling, your hands gripping the sheets as he looks up at you through his lashes. He moans, barely audible against your pussy. Lapping at your clit before thrusting his tongue back inside of you, just barely tickling that sweet spot to make you desperate and reeling.

★ He gets off on edging you. Until you are a sweating, crying, whimpering mess. “What’s wrong love?” He croons, feigning ignorance while using his index and middle fingers to spread you open—exposing the fleshy, slick heat to his hungry gaze, his breath teasing every nerve that makes you arch and squirm.

★ He takes his time teasing you, bringing you juuust to the brink of ecstasy before backing off, only to start all over again.

★ Syzoth loves it when you give him head. It’s double the fun. Literally. Your soft, plump lips wrapped around one of his thick, pulsing dicks as your fingers stroke and caress the other. The dual sensations of your hot, wet mouth and gentle touch drives him wild.

★ He’ll tangle his fingers in your hair, (or grip the melon you never know) guiding your head and bobbing it on his length. “That’s it, love…mmmh, perfect~” Your muffled moans vibrate around his sensitive flesh, and it only spurs on his onslaught of face fucking.

★ Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, he’ll yank you up and pin you beneath his muscular, cool form, one cock plunging deep into your slicked cunt while the other seeks whichever entrance you’ll allow.

★ “You drive me absolutely mad. I want to ruin you for anyone else…” “ssso good…sso warm…”

★ Rocking into you, desperate and needy, rutting his hips against yours as he fills you utterly, stretching you deliciously while nibbling your shoulder, both cocks fucking into you simultaneously.

★ His tongue snakes out, tracing the curve of your ear before he nips the lobe sharply. “I'm going to fill every inch of you” “Fill you until you’re dripping with my seed.” “When I’m done with you, the only thing you’ll be able to think about is the feeling of me splitting you open.”

★ He will fuck you for hours—relentlessly. Until finally he hilts inside you, twin cocks throbbing and pulsing. He grunts and shudders, picking up pace once again, pounding into you roughly while his claws dig into your hips. his thrusts become more sloppy, less coordinated.

★ “Want to see you round with my brood,” he grunts, or something similar, slamming in one last, merciless time, flooding your insides with his virile seed. He pulls out, a river of pearly white cream oozing from your well fucked hole(s) “Marked you inside and out.” he purrs, watching his semen drip out of you before falling beside you.

★ He immediately pulls you in close, cradling your head against his chest as he tries to catch his breath. But once he regains some composure, he’s the epitome of a cuddle bug. Stroking damp strands away from your face, kissing your forehead, cheeks and nose. He murmurs praise and words of affection.

👽: I LOVE HIM UGHHH. If he gave me a cup of his cum milk I’d drink it.

[olderthannetfic]

I hope you don't mind a long story in your inbox.

Reading through the fic deletion wank and then the commenting not-so-wank left me in a bad bad BAD place. The consensus on comments seem to be "comment anyways, even if you come across as a psychopath!". But there are differing opinions on whether or not deleting fics from an archive is in bad taste.

I'm the person right in between. An author (possibly a BNF?) doesn't allow comments on any of their works. They also link no socials so I can't leave them anon asks or follow them and cozy up to them like a true freak and hopefully gain some scraps or excerpts.

So they wrote an absolute masterpiece of a short fic for a rare rare RARE pair with like 10 fics for it. I think about it daily. This <500 words of a fic is practically my religion.

Due to no socials and comments, we can't know for sure if they've gotten any hate about it. However, it's safe to say that they don't want comments. So I left a bookmark that sounds like "This is my holy grail. If the author reads this note, know that you are my lifesaver" and weeks later... The author deleted the work. And all of their works for this fandom (not just the rarepair).

Naturally, I was upset. I have this one fic downloaded, but I didn't download their other fics (which are all masterpieces), so they're gone forever. However, the feeling of guilt is worse. Am I the reason the fic was deleted? Was I trespassing? Should I have not left the bookmark note as a poor replacement for a comment? Was the note not good enough? Should I have added "i'll match the love of 1000 people for this one rarepair so plz never delete this is my life support"? If I hadn't left the comment, would the fic still be up today?

I know it's just me overthinking and that the deletion probably doesn't have anything to do with me (or does it?). But still... All the wank have left me so conflicted. A part of me regrets leaving that bookmark note/comment. The whole of me regrets not downloading all of their other deleted fics.

While we're at this, what's my best shot at getting a copy of their other deleted fics? Contacting them on their other (can be commented on) fics under another pseud (sounds rude)? Rarepair community (nonexistent)? Reddit (which subreddit)? Or is this in poor taste?

If this author sounds like you, reader of OTNF, then can I get your number haha ha jk i'm shy

--

LOL. I doubt it was about your bookmark.

The main place I see people ask is on r/Fanfiction, though they don't always have any luck.

[idontevenremember5minutesago]

[icewindandboringhorror]

I have a big google doc thing where I keep track of media and stuff (putting everything in loosely ranked categories), which is mostly just for my own reference so I know what tv shows I've already seen before, etc. and I never really look back through it, typically just a quick "okay, watched two movie in the past 8 months, need to quickly slap them somewhere in the lists. okay. done. save document. exit". But today I was actually reading through some of the old notes and there are like... MULTIPLE places where my comment is basically "It would have been good if it were about elves" or "I wish there was a fantasy show made in this same style" or "It's well made, but I just keep thinking about how I would like it more if everyone was an elf or was in old 1700s costumes" or etc like...... lol.... Most biased media ranking system on earth blatantly made by someone with an extremely hyperspecific range of narrow interests. It'd be like if a food reviewer only had 5 foods they actually liked, so they'd just go to a pizza place and be like "eh, the pizza was okay, but I just think it would be better if it was cereal instead. :/ ...2 out of 10"

[astralmarionette]

im currently writing an atsugawa (I hate the name shin soukoku or whatever I'm sorry but I'm actually not. also I cannot pronounce soukoku {this is the real reason I don't use soukoku}) and I don't even ship it lmaoo

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

���Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[leyiorr]

you and satoru decide pretty quickly that you want your daughter’s ears pierced.

she’s a gorgeous baby; bright blue eyes and soft white hair just like her father. her nose and lips are your genetic touch, and satoru insists that it’s your features that make her look so adorable.

you’d asked your husband what he thought about getting her ears pierced so young, and obviously he thought it was a great idea - his two favourite girls should match earrings.

and so, once she’s old enough, the two of you bring her to a store to get her ears done.

satoru has her sat on his lap, entertaining her as you spoke with the piercer about the placing and colour of the earrings. he talks to her like he can understand her baby babble; no one understands his daughter better than he does.

eventually, the time comes, and the piercer lines up the piercing gun with your daughter’s ear after marking the spot with temporary ink. she’s giggling gleefully, trying to grab hold of the piercer’s hair.

satou’s anxiety is on high, he doesn’t want his daughter to flinch and cause an injury that no one wants. the peircer seems nice enough though, and her friendly smile coupled with your hand on his shoulder and his baby’s laughter settles his nerves marginally.

but he speaks too soon.

the minute the metal pierces her skin, your daughter instantly breaks into tears, twisting her small body toward her daddy as she lets out dramatic screeches of pain. satoru’s heart sinks immediately, large hands gently trying to soothe his daughter - her tiny ones fist his shirt like a lifeline.

she cries and cries like she’s dying, and satoru feels his soul bleed.

“daddy’s sorry, baby,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “it’ll go away soon. i wish i could help you, sweets.”

but she’s having none of it, crying harder when he tries to put her back into position. he feels his own eyes sting; his heart aches from being unable to take away his precious daughter’s pain.

his eyes snap up to your face, hoping you’ll have some insight on how to help her. you’re smiling fondly, softly pinching her cheeks in effort to distract her from the pain.

“don’t be dramatic,” you scold sweetly, dropping into a crouch to press sloppy kisses to her chubby cheeks.

she hiccups, letting her father’s shirt go in favour of trying to grab your nose instead. her cries turn into wet giggles within a few seconds and satoru feels relief fill his veins.

you look up at him with a raised eyebrow, “i mean you, mister.”

it takes him a full second to realize that there are tears rolling down his face, and he quickly wipes his eyes in embarrassment. he hears the piercer giggle; may the ground open up and swallow him whole.

“you’re such a baby,” you say, but your heart felt so full - your husband just cried at his daughter getting her ears pierced? you were never going to let him live that down.

satoru doesn’t say anything, obediently allowing you to tilt his head back to meet you in a kiss. through the salty taste of his tears and your fingers holding his throat he doesn’t even notice when the piercer approaches again, quietly lining up with the other dot.

she looks to you for consent, and you give a subtle nod as you continue to distract your husband with kisses. he breaks it in surprise when he feels your daughter flinch, though this time there’s no wails.

he looks down. her face is scrunched up in effort not to cry, cheeks puffed up as she looks up at her father proudly as if to say: look, daddy, i didn’t cry that time!

he feels his eyes fill up again. his head drops to rest on his daughter, kissing her all over her face and eliciting a series of giggles.

“that’s my girl,” he boasts proudly, grinning wide while bouncing her on his knee, “i knew you could do it!”

he hears you laugh from the counter, “you cried the most, satoru.”

he scoffs, picking the baby up and nuzzling his face against hers, “i don’t know how you didn’t! her cries broke my heart!”

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old Man!Price has a thing for pretty little things.

He'd be the type of soldier to randomly pick up a dandelion or random weed flowers, inspecting it closely before crushing it in his calloused palm as if he was not admiring it a moment ago.

And you're no exception.

Pretty and perfect. An invitation for corruption as if you're begging to be ruined, shown no mercy and totally under his control. You're perfect for it, almost too perfect as if reality is playing a cruel trick on him by putting you into his arms. It was too easy, very easy but John doesn’t complain. He knows better than to fuck up a good thing by overthinking. 

John holds your nose closed, stopping you from breathing for a moment. He tsks you at your feeble attempt to take his whole length and currently you are paying the price. Eyes glaciated with struggle, slobbering down his length, your drool dripping onto your tits- a perfect display of submission, compliance. 

“I told you you couldn’t take me all the way but you just had to argue with me, didn’t you?” John says, his voice dark and glazed with authority. 

You let out a pathetic, muffled whimper, your gaze filled with apology and regret. He lets go of your nose allowing you to get a breath of air as you pull away from his cock breathing heavily and babbling a series of ‘I’m sorry’s’. 

John sighs as tears roll down your flushed cheeks.

“I’ll give you one more chance, dollface. Open wide.” 

You part your lips hesitantly, scared of disappointing him. John pushes his leaking cock past your lips, your tongue instinctively darting out to lick the tip, gathering his pre-cum as you savour the taste of his salty goodness. A soft moan of satisfaction leaves your mouth as you try your best to take him fully. 

John shudders, groaning, his eyes screwed shut. Damn it, he didn’t want you to do that, he was gonna end up cumming and at his age, there was no way he could be ready for another around straight after. 

He grips the armrest trying to think of anything else other than his pretty babe sucking his cock so bloody well. 

Ponies… Beer… Shit- No, beer makes me horny… the SAS… military life… my birdie sending me a boudoir album on our first anniversary when I was away- Lake… Lake house… Holiday… Birdie in lingerie… pretty boobs, soft, warm… Wait, no- Ah, fuck…

He gives up as he feels the impending coil about to snap. Grabbing the back of your head, he shoves his whole length in not caring about your comfort. Your nose nuzzles against his dark bush, musky scent engulfing you. John cums, cums so hard that it makes you gag and spill out of your mouth. 

You pull away panting, swallowing what remains of him. Looking up at him, you raise an eyebrow at the sudden loss of John’s control. He laid back, spent and heaving with his arm covering his eyes. 

“Let's go to a lake house, Birdie.”

[slapintoaslimjim]

katsuki bakugou boyfriend headcanons !

fem pronouns used :3

-you’re the ONLY person he allows to invade his personal space

-he actually gets kinda offended and pouty when you’re not clung to him while you two are spending alone time together

-“what’re you doing?” “kats i’m doing something real quick-“ “my girlfriend hates meeee” (dramatic much)

-you two have matching hoodies (that were his idea) and when you two wear them he’s constantly posting photos of you two wearing them

-scary dog privilege!!

-he doesn’t even have to say anything to anyone- no need for “i’m her boyfriend you prick” nope. his arm is either around your waist or his hand is holding yours and his presence is enough to keep people from being weird to you

-hot take, but he’s not possessive. he knows he can trust you and he knows you trust him

-protective? absolutely

-if it’s night time, just be prepared for constant check ins, or for him to self insert himself to come with you wherever you’re going. unless it’s a girls night out, he has the respect of boundaries to not insert himself into that and wants you to enjoy your time

-you’d swear he has maternal instincts because he does not go to sleep when you’re out late with friends, not until you are home

-he doesn’t flip his shit either if you don’t message him back in a “timely manner” bc yes he’s protective of you and wants you safe, but he’s not a controlling asshole

-he has a lot of body heat due to his quirk so anemic girlies who are always cold RISE UP cause he’s taking advantage of that to cuddle the shit out of you (even if you don’t have anemia he’s still gonna cuddle you)

-if you’re a miss independent, he loves that about you

-but some things he wants to do entirety for himself without your help/input

-paying for things (everything) is a big one. “babe i can pay for this it isn’t even much” and he won’t even verbally respond, he’ll just give you with an offended look like you just cussed him tf out LMAO

-he’ll set you on the counter and let you yap to him while he cooks for the two of you

-if he’s trying a new recipe, you’re his taste tester

-“this is actually really good, good job baby!”

-cue him smiling like an absolute fool

-you’re definitely his natural valium, whenever he’s in an overstimulated/pissed off/panicked state, something about your presence just calms him down to where he can talk it out with you

-oh, and don’t try insulting yourself around him

-cause good GOD the glare he’s gonna give you is insane

-knows how you’re feeling just by looking at you

-he’s a super observant person, so he knows a lot of your patterns, favorite things, etc without you having to mention them over and over

-“oh you’re making [favorite meal]?” “yea, ya mentioned how you haven’t had it in a while and how you missed it”

-food is definitely a bond and love language

-he’s pretty passive about pda, as long as he’s got an arm around you, or you’re holding his bicep he’s more than okay

[madamechrissy]

$ Sugar Daddy! Gojo $

$ NSFW- Sugar Daddy Gojo x Sugar Baby reader $

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who loves to pay for your nails just to see how pretty they look when they're wrapped around his cock later that night. He especially loves to babble as you're sucking him so sloppy. Stroking his thick length up and down. 'F-fuck baby.... right there, look at you, can you take more?"

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who offers to up your daily allowance to three thousand if you can take his cock all the way down your throat. As you look up at him, manicured nails trailing up his thighs, tears in your eyes, you let his cock stretch your throat, until your nose is against the white hair on his pelvis. He offers to up it more if he can bust down your throat like this, you swallow him right up.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who loves taking you shopping for dresses, urging you to try on more and more. He also loves to tip the girls who work there, to ignore the fact that he's in that dressing room, fingering your slick little cunt in each dress. 'T-Toru!" You cry out, as you hear your squelching wetness in that dressing room, his blue eyes glint as he smirks, shoving his two fingers deep, making you cum all over them. 'Try on another, baby' he says, pulling them out and sucking on them.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who loves to have you ride him in the back of his limo, he lets you take the limo anywhere you want. Now he's got you straddling him, riding his cock, your tits bouncing in the brand new lacy bra he bought you. He laps at your nipples over the lace with his hot, wet mouth, grabbing your hips with his big hands and shoving his cock deep. His leaky tip is grinding on your cervix, you're soaking his Armani slacks as you cum all over him, only for him to order- 'clean this up baby' and have you lick both of you off him.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who buys you so many panties there's a dresser of them, only for him to take each pair every time. He loves to put them to his face later, inhaling you when he has to work, jerking his cock to the pictures and videos all over his phone of you. He particularly loves the one you took for him where his cum is pouring out of your pussy, ass in the air, covered in his hand prints, and there's money all over the bed around you.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who you don't even want all this from, all you want is him, but you let him do it because he enjoys it. Gojo takes you to every fancy restaurant you can imagine, feeding you decadent deserts and buying insanely expensive bottles of bubbly, only for him to finger you while you're eating, betting you money you can't hold in your moans. and when you fail at that, he's fucking you right in the bathroom of each one, as you look in the mirror and see your fucked out expression, dressed in an expensive Givenchy dress that he yanks on to pull your tits out and watch them bounce.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who loves to bring you to work, Satoru is flicking his tongue on your clit while you're on his CEO meeting table, in a room full of fucking glass where anyone can see, all you care about is gripping that silky white hair, shoving his tongue further inside your velvety walls. He leans up, smirking, covered in your slick and says 'taste like a million fuckin dollars, baby' and you whine out 'please, let me cum, Toru...' 'Anything for my baby'

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who has you cumming all over his mouth now, your head is slamming back, thighs shaking around his head, his tongue is stupidly talented, especially when he's fingering you with those long fingers, moaning on your clit. 'Toru! love... love you, f-fuck...' you whine out, only for him to unlatch himself from you clit, picking you up and shoving his cock inside you, lifting you like you're nothing, carrying you over to that twenty story view and fucking you on the window.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who whispers - 'you know what to call me' and you cry out 'Daddy!' he responds by wrecking your cervix, his thumb circling your clit as he fucks into you. 'Good girl, gonna get you fuckin pregnant, baby, you'll stay mine' which may be concerning to someone else, but you want his cum inside you, want to have his baby, so you just whine out 'please!' begging until he fills your greedy pussy with all his cum, dripping down with your arousal, only for him to shove the cum back in your pussy saying 'don't waste all this now, sweetheart'

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who constantly is buying you jewelry but especially diamonds, diamond necklaces, that are the only thing he'll let you keep on when he fucks you, watching how the necklaces fall between your pretty breasts. He fucks you so good tears fall, he loves to whisper 'you cryin baby' only for you to weakly nod. He also loves especially that diamond tiara he bought you, when you're crying while choking on his cock, and he can stroke your hair and call you 'princess'

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who pays all your bills in your fancy loft, the only agreement is he can come fuck you any time he wants, even when you're asleep, but you always want him, so you make sure to leave everything unlocked and wear no panties. Tonight you wake up clenching around two fingers, whining out as he's already brought you near climax, wet tongue lapping at your clit, hands gripping your waist as your nails are gripping his strong shoulders, he drinks you up before sliding next to you, pulling you against his hard body.

Sugar Daddy! Gojo who offers you a thousand if you brush his hair good enough you make him go to sleep, and you just giggle and shake your head. 'I want you to stay every night, even if you were broke, silly Toru' 'broke, yuck that's disgusting, I'll throw bands on you tomorrow' you snort and roll your eyes, holding his head in your lap and looking at his pretty face as he falls asleep, whispering 'night Daddy' and earning his full lips smiling.

This was a request for Sugar Daddy Gojo! <3 Hope you enjoyedd