#you'll be made of ashes too

[cressidagrey]

you'll be made of ashes too

Summary:

Elain Archeron makes the most beautiful bride.

Azriel...Azriel copes. 

Warnings:

Rhys Bashing, Azriel has a horrible time

Notes:

Mostly Canon Compliant Through A Court of Silver Flame including the Azriel Bonus Chapter with some teeny tiny changes, which are explained in the story (a difference in the necklace arc). Set around 1 year into the future from that point, where it veers off wildly.

(thanks to @firefly-graphics for the super pretty dividers!)

Elain Archeron was the most beautiful bride the world had ever seen. 

Azriel was sure of that . 

A flower meadow come to life , clad in a white dress that was shot through with her favourite blooms, sparkling with every step she took. Hair falling down her back like spun gold, whiskey brown eyes filled with the kind of happiness that nothing could touch. 

She was irrevocably happy as she married her husband. 

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind how much she adored him as she gazed at him with such love in her eyes. 

Lucien looked at her in awe as if she were a precious, precious thing he didn't deserve. 

Azriel watched from the shadows as the person he loved found her happily ever after with somebody other than him. 

Elain Archeron married Lucien Vanserra on a gorgeous spring day in the garden of his townhouse in Velaris. 

The garden bloomed with the couple’s love and Elain’s love for the flowers that she had planted, roses and lilies and daffodils. A whole ocean of them, blooming brightly for their mistress. 

Azriel watched. 

It was all he could do. 

All he had done over the last year as Elain and Lucien had fallen in love. 

After that catastrophic solstice. 

That would-be kiss. When Azriel still thought that maybe…maybe he had a chance. 

He hadn’t. 

Rhys had made sure of that. 

So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. 

Like that was all he had wanted from her. 

Like that was all Azriel was good for. All that he wanted. It hadn’t even passed Rhys’ mind that Azriel had actual feelings for Elain. Or maybe it had and he hadn’t cared. Azriel didn’t know which was worse. 

But it hadn’t mattered either way, because Rhys had pulled rank. It hadn’t been his brother saying these words, but the High Lord of the Night Court. 

What Azriel wanted…it hadn’t mattered. 

Not that it ever had before. 

He should get used to that by now. 

He had followed that order. What else was he supposed to do? He had left. Left their friendship in tatters…and Feyre had played matchmaker. Elain had moved on. Lucien had a chance. They had fallen in love. 

Just like the cauldron had wanted. 

He had gotten to see that every family dinner he attended, even when his attendance got rarer and rarer. 

Saw how Elain, beautiful Elain bloomed under Lucien’s attention. When Azriel could stomach to look at her. When there wasn’t Rhys reminding him with harsh words if he so much as dared to look at her for too long.  

He stopped coming so often.

It was better that way. 

The question was just for whom. 

He thought that maybe if he didn’t go…then it wouldn’t quite hurt so much. But that wasn’t true. It still hurt. Even more maybe. 

Likes somebody cleaved his chest open and burned out his heart. 

And then they had announced their wish to marry and…well. 

That was it then. 

The people around him found their happily ever after. 

Rhys and Feyre. 

Cassian and Nesta. 

And now…now Elain and Lucien. 

It seemed like the cauldron knew what it was doing after all, didn’t it? 

There weren’t even words that could describe his bitterness. And he cut off that line of thought before it could…result in anything unpleasant. 

Not now. 

Not here. Not where Rhys could hear.

He could feel his shadows curl against him as the evening progressed. Trying to offer him any comfort they could, regardless of how little it was. They slithered against every bit of skin they could find, cloaking him in darkness underneath his clothing, as he was reduced to watching. 

Mor pulled him to dance once, because, of course, she did. 

Morrigan. 

So beautiful, so unattainable. Pining after her had been safe, because why not want the unattainable? 

It wasn’t like he had ever really had a chance with her. And a part of him had known that from the start. 

Morrigan had been unattainable. (And so Azriel hadn’t…hadn’t needed to think about it. Not really. Whether he deserved her or not, because it was Mor and he wouldn’t be able to have her anyway.)

But with Elain…with Elain…Azriel had thought he had a chance. 

Elain in all her beauty and softness and gentleness…Everything good in the world…He had seen her and he had fallen in love. 

And then it had been taken from him before he had ever had a chance to go for it. 

He watched. The Bride and Groom. The friends and family surrounding them. 

He slipped into the shadows because that was the one comfort he had right there. The one thing that he could do. 

He waited and he watched…he saw Nyx in Feyre’s arms, looking halfway to sleep already, saw Feyre watching the other Faes dancing… He slunk out of the shadows. They followed along with him. 

They had clung tighter to him over the last months, ever since that solstice, slipping underneath his leathers, clinging to his wrists and ankles, like they wanted to assure him that they were there. Or maybe to shackle him. 

He wasn’t sure anymore. 

Not anymore. 

He didn’t care anymore either. 

“I can take him,” he offered to Feyre. Holding out his hands for his nephew. He could do that. Hold him. He didn’t want to dance. He wanted to go back to the shadows. 

She exchanged a look with Rhys. “Thank you, Az,” Rhys said as Feyra passed Nyx over without hesitation. Azril took him, just about a year old, wings sleepily fluttering as Nyx yawned and moved closer to him. 

“Good boy, Nyxie,” Feyra whispered before she grasped her mate’s hand and pulled him towards the fun part of the party. Azriel quietly swayed in place, Nyx sleeping against his shoulder, a scarred hand gently holding him in place. 

He wondered if Nyx was ever going to look at them in disgust. 

They were dripping in blood, but for just a moment, he could forget that. 

He forgot all of that. 

Until he felt nothing, was nothing at all. 

He was good at that. 

If he wasn’t…well, then he wouldn’t be there anymore. Then Azriel would have ended his horrible existence already. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it through half a millennia of life. 

Or especially over the last year. 

Sometimes he sparred with Cassian and the instinct of self-preservation wasn’t there anymore. He wondered what would happen if he just…stopped to fight back. 

He never did. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Cass. 

But the thought was there as he watched the love of his life falling in love with another male. 

Nyx slept until his parents returned… until it was late enough that Azriel wasn’t the first person to go…until Cassian was drunk enough that he didn’t try to get Azriel to get drunk as well. 

He said his goodbyes. 

Although it felt like he was ripping out his heart, he forced a smile on his face as he congratulated Elain and Lucien. She smiled at him. He wanted to hoard that smile away somewhere, wished it was…wished it was there on her face for another reason entirely. 

But it wasn’t. 

It didn’t matter. His pain didn’t matter. 

It never had. 

It never would. 

And then, finally…He let the shadows take him. 

He resurfaced in the forest, feet away from his house. 

His house. Because as much as he loved Cassian, spending time with him and Nesta at The House of Wind was not his version of a fun time. Especially not with everything that had gone down. 

Being surrounded by a freshly mated pair, watching his brother being so utterly…in love and happy…Somebody thrust a knife into his chest and twisted. 

And so he had bought this house, hidden away…still in Velaris, on the outskirts, built into the mountains, surrounded by forest…

Alone. 

Nobody would hear him scream. The wards would take care of that.

He staggered as he hit the ground. 

And then Azriel gave up trying to push it all away from him. 

It didn’t matter anymore. Rhysand was far away enough from him that he wasn’t going to be the witness to Azriel…falling apart. 

Nobody would be the witness. Just the forest and the sky and stars. 

The shadows converged upon him.

Maybe it should scare him, but it never had. They talked to him, told him stories… were always there, even when nobody else was. The shadows were a part of him as true as his right hand was. 

And right now they muffled his screams as he bellowed into the sky. Pain apparent in every single second of it, as he screamed his pain and grief into the void. 

The shadows tried to comfort him. They always did. Many voiced, bundled into one. Master…

They tried. 

But even they couldn’t stop the pain that threatened to rip him apart.  

Azriel thought he knew pain.

Of course, he did. 

He just needed to look down at his hands to get a reminder. Grotesque, half-flayed skin that covered his knuckles. Every winter they hurt. It didn’t matter that it had been 500 years since he first received these scars. 

The pain of having his wing tied up, two emaciated things weakly, uselessly hanging off his back…he remembered the phantom of that every time he stretched them nowadays. 

And then there were dozens and hundreds of other pains…scrapes and bruises, broken bones from practice gone wrong, knife wounds and sword nicks…ash arrows. 

He knew it all. He had experienced it all.

Physical pain and emotional one as well. 

Born a bastard, step-brothers loving to torment him…spending the first years of his life in a dark cell without even a window…seeing his mother one hour a week, used by his father to hurt his mother… He had lived through all of it. 

But somehow a part of him had believed that maybe…maybe that was over now. He had found and fought for his family. Right? 

And still, somehow, losing Elain was…Losing Elain was the pinnacle of half a millennia of torture. 

He screamed. 

He didn’t know how long it lasted. Did it matter?

Not really. Nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing mattered as he cried and sobbed and railed against the forest ground, pounding it with his fists, burying them in the damp ground…

For the first time in his life, Azriel thought…that maybe giving it all up was worth it. 

Why not? What did it matter? 

All life had for him was more pain. The cauldron may have given other faes their perfect mate. Not him. 

Who would even care ? 

His brothers? Sure, for a moment. But they had mates that would take care of them. They had each other.  They wouldn’t be alone. Everybody seemingly had somebody . 

Just Azriel. He was…alone. 

Master isn’t alone!

Right not alone. 

The shadows weren’t amused by that thought at all, poking him in the ribs. He wanted to laugh at how sharply they disagreed. 

Normally, he was disciplined about them. He never let them talk to him like that, berate him into anything…but the last year he had depended on them…more often. Let them shoulder the brute of…everything that had gone on. Let them hiss comforting things to him and complain about Rhys…let him feel like maybe he wasn’t the only one who thought something was unfair. 

Shadowsingers were rare for a reason. They died young because they couldn’t live with the incessant hissing of the shadows surrounding them. And Azriel…he wallowed in them. 

Why not? What did it matter?

He stared unseeing into the night sky. 

He should get in the house. He didn’t want to. 

The shadows slivered up, against his neck, rubbing against his skin. They never felt hot or cold to the touch, just a velvety sensation…not unlike a snake. He couldn’t even remember the last time another person had touched him like that. It must have been decades ago.

Master should go into the house, they whispered. Master needs to rest. 

(Did he mention that they could be surprisingly pushy? But did it matter? Not really.)

He wanted to protest. Why did it matter? 

It didn’t. 

None of it did. 

And his chest still felt like it was caving in.

Master…Master, please.

Even his shadows were worried about him. That was the only reason he could fathom why they would ask him something like that. Soft. Imploring. 

Like…Like a friend? Or a lover? 

He forced himself up from that forest floor. The shadows gently pressed down onto his body, nearly like they wanted to praise him. Good, Master. 

He trudged up into his house. 

Open the door, the shadows whispered. Master, open the door. 

He opened the door

He hadn’t even bothered to furnish it.  He had survived a childhood with nary a bed, so what did it matter now? Neither he nor the house were anything more than empty shells.

He could have used magic to make it inviting, to light the fireplace, to maybe do something that wasn’t just opening the door…but it was all he could do. 

The house was dark. 

That was alright. 

Darkness was what he knew. Darkness protected him. 

Always had, ever since his childhood cell. Why change it now? It didn’t…

The shadows spilled into the house and he stepped in after them. Pulling his jacket off, his shirt…all of it muddy with forest grounds. He never wanted to wear it again. Didn’t want to ever remember this night. Didn’t want…Didn’t want to live through this anymore. 

That was as far as he came. 

He didn’t want to go further into the house. He didn’t. 

So he just collapsed into one corner, wings curled protectively around himself. 

He had sat there that morning, trying to force himself to attend the wedding. 

He had done it. Pure willpower. Or maybe stubbornness. He had been known for his stubbornness for centuries, after all. But now there was no more stubbornness left. There was nothing left anymore. 

The shadows swirled around him, like even they didn’t know what to do anymore. He thought about sending them away, but he couldn’t. They were the one comfort he had. 

What did it matter? 

What did that say about him ? 

He closed his eyes. 

He couldn’t help but see Elain. 

It was all there in front of him, every moment they had shared. Every conversation they had. Every smile she had gifted him with. 

The headache powder she had given him…He had never used it. He had stared at it when he couldn’t sleep, he had kept it on his bedside table in the House of Wind and…It had been comforting. For months it had been comforting. How often had he held it in his hands and tried to smell if maybe there was still a whiff of Jasmine and Honey clinging to it?

The pair of earplugs meant as a joke to help with the noises of Cassian and Nesta’s nightly activities…The Rosequartz necklace he had given her. Or tried to give her. Before it all went to…when she had given it back to him, he had wanted to return it to the shop he had bought it from first but then finally he had hung onto it.

He had held it in his scarred hands so often, thinking about how he didn’t deserve to even look at the beauty before him. 

And then they had announced their wedding and in a fit of rage, he had thrown all three things into the Sedra. 

He shouldn’t have done that. 

But he was already a monster, so what did it matter?

There had been no gifts this year. 

It was better that way. 

The tears fell down his face but he couldn’t even bother the energy to wipe them away anymore. 

Tomorrow he was supposed to do his job. Azriel had no idea how he should do that when it felt like a knife was lodged into his chest. 

He would get used to it. He would. 

He always did. 

It had been a crazy hope anyway. 

Monsters like him didn’t get…what they wanted. They got what they deserved . 

And Azriel knew that he simply wasn’t good enough for a cauldron-blessed mate. 

He closed his eyes, tipping his head against the wall. The shadows seemingly pulled tighter against him, trying to cover him whole…they had done the same back then as well, trying to offset the lack of a blanket with their very presence. 

Master…Master, go to sleep, they whispered to him, the voice, their many voices, an echo. Soft, indulging…trying to be comforting. 

He wouldn’t be able to sleep. He knew that. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, he didn’t want to sleep, not to be greeted with nightmares and memories. 

He didn’t know what was worse: The things he had done or the things he hadn’t. 

He had drenched his hands in blood to protect the Night Court and Prythian. Or at least that’s what Azriel told himself. To pretend that the things he had done were…just. Not right, never right, but maybe he had a good enough reason to do what needed to be done. 

He was an expert at that after all. 

Cloaked in shadows, that whispered the secrets of the land to him, with Truthteller on his thigh…he was the Night Courts spymaster after all. 

He did what needed to be done. Until he felt nothing, was nothing. 

It was all he could do after all. And still, he knew…He was simply not good enough. 

Not good enough. 

The words followed him since he could think. Born as the bastard son of an Illyrian noble who was well known for his cruelty and not much else, used as punishment for his mother and a plaything for his half brothers…not good enough for a stepmother that kept him locked away in a cell without even a window. 

Not good enough once he reached Windhaven camp, without even knowing the one thing that every Illaryan should know…how to fly. 

Not good enough . 

He wished he was like Cassian, had his brash extroverted personality, believing in the good of people…he wished he was like Rhysand, a powerhouse with mythical powers, who had that inbred arrogance….

Not good enough. 

He was neither. 

He just…existed. Surrounded by the shadows that always surrounded him, the one thing that he could count on that would never leave him. 

They pulsed around him like they tried to promise him that they would stay with him. 

That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Back to only his shadows as a company, just like in his cell. There was some humour in it, he was sure. But then, in his cell, he had known that every day would be worse than the day before. Outside of it…outside of it, he had hoped that day one day there would be…more. 

He had been wrong. 

So back into the cell with him. 

Sometimes he wished that he really felt nothing. He was good at pretending. Of course, he was. He was a spy. 

He was good at pushing it all away until he felt nothing, was nothing…

But still, he felt things. 

He didn’t know if it was love, didn’t know if he was capable of love at all. He wondered if his brothers knew that. Maybe that’s why Rhys had warned him off. Elain deserved better than him. Rhys must have known. 

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid…

Master, stop, the shadows whispered, tightening around him. A reminder perhaps? That they were there? Wouldn’t leave him? Would be there even if nobody else was? 

He wanted to thank them. He couldn’t. 

He could just feel the pain deep within him, welling up once again. 

It didn’t matter. 

Not anymore. 

Though now…now with Elain happily married, with his own heart burned out of his chest…maybe finally he would get that.

Nothing . 

An existence bookended by nothing. 

He would do his job. His duty. For the Night Court, for Pyrithian. 

Of course, he would. 

But if…if something happened to him…then that was alright as well. 

It was. 

He felt nothing. 

He was nothing. 

What did it matter?

It didn’t. 

It never would. 

[lavenderpanic]

@mandyyvibes got the idea of drawing some iaafyf rumlow in his uniform stuck in my brainnnnnn i just couldn't get it out. so happy valentine's day everyone here's rumlowwww

[lynzishell]

no but lynz what is this WHAT IS HAPPENING i'm scared

Ahhh freaky!! What is that indeed! 🫣

Surely there's no need to be scared, right? Maybe? ::wraps you in a warm blanket and brings you tea:: Perhaps the question isn't What IS happening? Maybe the question is What DID happen? Or maybe What WILL happen? Or maybe Atlas is just remembering a weird dream he had years ago... Or maybe... all of the above ???

According to Sam, these creepy guys "take their victim’s greatest wish and turn it into their nightmare."

But what does that even mean??? All I can say right now is, all these questions will be answered soon(ish) 👀

...also, try not to look him in the eyes 🫣

[vaguely-concerned]

just going about my day idly contemplating how some of the ways hawke can interact with a romanced anders are not at all unlike how they interact with leandra (and a bit of carver too, especially with a purple hawke), and then thought about my hawke in the timeline where he romances anders and was hit straight in the face with 'was he ever actually in love, or was he just desperately trying to renegotiate with his mother's ghost in any way he could' and now i need to lie down. this is the power of dragon age 2

[wiildroses]

tags drops 2/??

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

It's been many moons since I have enjoyed watching two women practice the Art of Pleasure

I've taught a few.

[sapphiredhearts-a]

new oc tags pt 1

[lyonnerileyauthor]

you live like Cinderella, used and abused by your so-called family, forced to work all day and live in the barn like a rat. you clean up after them every moment, doing all the chores and cooking all the meals. you're tired, so tired of the punishments that meet you for stepping slightly out of line.

one day, it goes too far. with a broken arm, you hobble back out to the barn, intent on one goal: to get revenge and escape this place.

there's a village witch, you see, who everyone detests. they throw food at her when she comes to the village and taunt her as she buys her groceries. you find your way to her house after dark, and knock on her door. when she sees you, it's as if she expected you, and she has a small stack of ingredients ready.

mix them together over a flame and chant these words, she says. this spell will fix what ails you.

you chant the words and stir the mixture. then, as instructed, you pour it out onto the floor. the whole barn turns red, bright red, and you wonder if you've made a mistake by listening to that old witch.

he appears in a puff of smoke, skin as crimson as the dawn sky, with a spaded tail that flicks like a cat's. he has many horns along his crown, and a snakelike tongue darts out as he regards you.

for what purpose have you summoned me? he asks. but all you have to do is show him your arm, and he understands.

he rains down punishment upon the family, turning their house to ash, sending his fire nymphs to chase and beat them. when the true monsters are burned and bruised, he aims to kill, but you stop him.

that's good enough, you say. you've had your revenge. but you see, he's infuriated at how you've been treated. he wants to end this, to bestow the final blow, but you convince him to let them live with their punishment.

then what else can I do? he asks. where will you go next?

you'll wander, you figure, until you find a new home. at least now you're free.

then I will wander with you. he's not ready to return to the other realm yet, not while you still need his help.

together, you abandon the village before anyone can discover what you've done. deep in the woods, though, there's nowhere to sleep except the circle of the demon's monstrous arms.

I promise I won't use my claws, he says, welcoming you into them. here, ensconced in him, you feel his cock emerge from that pocket at his groin. he doesn't move to use it, but you find you want him to—this creature who saved you, who has helped you without asking for payment in return. he's marvelous, powerful, and strange. perhaps this is how you might reward him.

you spread yourself and slowly, sink down on that massive crimson cock. he groans as you take all of him, soaking up his need, coasting on a river of your desire. you begin at your own pace, until his lust grows overwhelming—and then he throws you down to the forest floor, his eyes wild and red. now he fucks you harder, claiming you, owning you. you're mine now, he mutters, bringing you to your finish over and over again. he will eat your pleasure until there's nothing left, drowning in it.

when you're finished, you sleep; but soon he grows hard again, his craving for you having taken over. when you've restored your strength, he fucks you again, demanding that you never leave him. whichever realm you choose, he'll stay by your side.

[bunnys-kisses]

"if you don't shut up. i'm going to shut you up." was a common phrase that captain jonathan price would often say to you. inconsolable brat. he had just gotten home, can a man not relax in his own home. you stood there with your arms crossed. you looked almost cute when you were angry, you looked like you could take him. maybe you could take his cock, but never in a fight. no matter how much he smoked and how angry you got, price could easily keep you from doing too much damage. he eyed you up and down and said, "don't give me that look. you'll get lines." his words were bordered by poison.

a drag from his cigar before he grabbed you by the arm to pull you into his lap. you were whining against about him smoking in the house. you had no room to talk missy, you were the spouse of breadwinner. you hadn't work since you got 'fire' from your job right before your wedding. and, you had been looking into another job. but nowhere is hiring in the town you live. so keep that damn trap shut. let the man of the house do as he please. he'd even be petty and knock some ash from his smoke and onto the hardwood floor. "clean it up, love or i'll make ya lick it up." john was domineering, aggressive to a fault.

but yet you stay firm on your stance. you hated the lingering scent of smoke that forced you to open most of the windows the next morning. and john had just enough of it. those cheap sleeping shorts you wore were now on the floor, split down the seam. "stupid whores don't need these." he added as the panties became scrap fabric in john's grip. he was soon fucking you, that big fat cock of his. as he held you by the throat. you made sharp noises as the air got restricted. he wouldn't bruise you up, he wasn't a monster. but his monster-like cock was already bruising your poor little cervix. be hard to get your own job when you're all fat with john's kid. but all in due time. he continued to hold your throat and fuck you with the pace of a stallion. even at his age, price was far from feeling his age. he could keep up with a cock-hungry dog like you. he squeezed a little tighter and heard you choke a little. he groaned against your skin. it only made it hotter when you claws at him and whimpered.

"that's it. that'll shut ya up." before he gave you a messy kiss on the lips. <3

a/n: "and what do we say, bunny?" "sorry women."

[holygraund]

And if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes, too.

[lavenderpanic]

I AM ASH FROM YOUR FIRE PREQUEL

I'm so so excited to share the first chapter of You'll Me Made Of Ashes, Too, the prequel to I Am Ash From Your Fire. If you've ever wondered how Brock and Bucky got together (and how exactly innocent, naïve Bucky became the man he is in I Am Ash From Your Fire), make sure to check out You'll Be Made Of Ashes, Too!

[moondirti]

kyle yearns for his captain's approval. you're the perfect medium through which he can secure it.

featuring: gaz x fem!reader x price. very consensual. fondling. inspection. fluff. praise kink. objectification. cucking? anal play. mentions of dp and breeding. 4k words of nonsense.

when price asks gaz if he's got anyone at home, gaz answers.

truthfully. he'd be hesitant to admit that he does to anyone else – soap especially, what with his track record of worming his way into people's pants – but his captain is... his captain. jonathan price. a real force of nature, cursed with an uncanny determinism and a habit of getting what he wants regardless of if those around him are willing. gaz knows that price will find out eventually; when the ring he's been planning to purchase for months finds it's way onto your finger, and he requests a change be made to the dependants section of his paperwork. perhaps before then too, if he really did some digging. but gaz also knows that, if there were anyone to trust with this precious knowledge, it'd be him.

so, he tells him about the little number he's got tucked away in a home in south oxfordshire. it's the lazy afternoon before a big mission, and he shouldn't be drinking but he is, a tumbler cradled between his palms and the burn of rye whiskey loosening his tongue. price doesn't speak, just listens, as the sergeant gradually devolves into more and more detail about your meeting, your courtship, the work you distract yourself with when he's not around. and despite his reverence, he admits it all breathlessly, a sheepishness pervading every word. how is he expected to keep his composure when the air is so heavy? unrelenting scrutiny and the potent waft of cigar-smoke draw a hot flush to his skin, the older man humming every so often as a prompt for him to continue.

he wants to, oddly enough. gaz is a reticent man, second only to ghost when it comes to keeping his life private. but something about this circumstance has him ready to lay it all bare. he wants to tell price about how you kiss his neck, the wicked fucking ways in which you use your mouth to milk him dry. he wants to pull out his phone, scroll through the hidden album full of pictures of your tits, of home-made films that paint you in a cum-covered, dazzling light. he wants price to know that he chose right, wants to hear the praise whispered in his ear as his captain lays a sturdy clap onto his back.

instead, he shrugs.

"not much more to tell, cap."

"damn shame." price taps his cigar to rid of the ashes. "sounds like a proper match, garrick. good for you."

and it's enough. a big enough lump of wood to keep the needy fire in his belly roaring. he shifts in his seat to dissuade the heat, rubbing his jaw in contemplation like he hasn't already thought of a perfect way to reap more.

"tell you what, sir. we survive this next assignment, i'll bring you over to meet 'er."

it's a hairbreadth escape, but they do manage to make it back alive, albeit a bit more scarred than they once were. gaz gets home late at night to find you awake, waiting on him despite the incredibly short notice he'd given you for his arrival. it's there – in the foyer, his nose buried in your neck as you babble on about how much you missed him, and what you'll make for breakfast to celebrate, and questions like hey, are you okay? that cut looks fresh or when was the last time you slept? – that he breaks the news. you'll be having his captain over for dinner in two week's time.

of course you're overjoyed. you've been begging to meet the people he risks his life with ever since he told you what he did for work. the planning is immediate. you're dumping recipes on him the next morning, asking for his opinion on what appetiser, main, and dessert your guest of honour would enjoy best. and what's his poison, anyway? i can get my hands on a nice bottle of scotch if you think it'd be worth it. kyle doesn't have the heart to tell you that nothing you'll do would matter much, that price has already taken a liking to you. besides, if anything, your homemaking ability makes him chub up in his pants. best not to rob himself of that delight.

the night arrives as quick as it had been put forward. gaz has to dodge your attempts to put a tie on him, stifles your complaints with a kiss and insists that it's not that kind of dinner party. you're confused (bless you) but flit around making last minute preparations in your bustier midi-dress anyway, kitten-heels clicking against the polished hardwood floors. at a certain point, he can tell that you're fussing over nothing and pulls you by the hand to stand by the doorway with him.

"there's something i didn't mention earlier." he whispers when you're finally settled, tucking his index finger under your chin. your brows knit anxiously. he pecks the canyons between them, stroking your bottom lip until the frazzled energy bleeds from you.

"why would you wait? there's not enough t–"

"not exactly something you can plan for, doll. s'just gonna happen." when you fail to push him for more context, he sighs. "price is expecting to see you."

"sure... that's the whole point, isn't it?"

"no, sweetheart." gaz's free hand wraps around your waist, lowering until it reaches the plush sweel of your ass. his touch lays breadcrumbs for you to follow, leading you down the very depraved path he's trekked a million times the past few weeks. "i mean all of you."

your lips part in realization. oh. he's scared straight for a second, heart hammering like it always does when he reveals a darker fantasy to you. but you merely smile – anxious, sure, pupils clouded with fresh concern, but a smile nonetheless – and accept his admission gracefully.

"and you want me to let him?"

gaz nods. "if you'd please."

you place a chaste kiss on his cheek, careful not to smear your makeup onto his clean-shaven skin. "okay."

he visibly slackens, an edge of playfulness cutting it's way back into his tone. "what's say we take those panties off, make things easier when the time arrives?"

"can' remember the last time i had a beef welly this good, love. family recipe?"

"yes, actually! but it took me some time to perfect for my own. the original called for sherry in the duxelle, but i always thought wine was better suited."

kyle doesn't know if he's ever been more proud of you.

you're a vision. the paradigm of charm. he half feared things to would be awkward following your conversation at the doorway, but aside from the first few minutes of price's arrival – the time it took everyone to thaw the ice of unfamiliarity – you've been anything but stilted. in fact, he worries that you missed the true implication of his request – of the direction things will take later – given the way you laugh openly. the ease in which you bridge conversation topics. your attentiveness, eyes roving over both your boyfriend and his captain to ensure everyone has everything they need. you certainly don't act like a girl who's going to be nakedly appraised tonight. all the expected clumsiness, the stumbling over your own words, replaced instead by eloquence and quick wit.

sweet girl. bloody... beautiful, darling girl.

price seems to think so too. he chuckles heartily at the stories you offer of kyle failing learning to waterski during your anniversary trip to mauritius (and offers his own insight too, something along the lines of how you'd expect the sergeant to be better balanced, given he's survived hanging off a helicopter before). offers some solid advice on how to deal with the ostentatious coworker whose been bugging you for months. and when you question him about his personal life – a line every good soldier knows not to take with their CO, which has gaz wincing internally – all your guest offers is a genuine, crinkle-eye smile. no doubt appreciative of the non-intrusive manner you ask.

he shoots gaz a look before answering, and it's one full of tacky warmth. a look he's seen several times on the field, molasses sweet and satisfying, one that invades his private thoughts too often to admit. whose effect he knows only comes off in a cold shower, a quick pump to his cock if you're not around to help relieve it. something like approval. unspoken praise.

"wish i could say i've been blessed like the two of ya. married to my work, m'afraid."

"oh." you wave your arms, standing to clear the table of dirty plates. "don't be ridiculous, john. you're a wonderful man. put yourself out there and i'm sure it'll come to you." you say it like it's breathing, and just as easily prance away to the kitchen, your voice losing to the clatter of silverware in the sink. thus, when you yell out something about dessert (price is really only able to decipher i made madeira! over the illegible chorus of cabinets closing) kyle is the one to answer you. well-trained in untangling your voice from any sort of ruckus, poor cell reception and moans and drunk gibberish and the obstructive fabric of his hoodie when you sob into his chest.

"maybe later, doll!" he voices back, scratching the back of his neck as he takes in the food still laid out in front of them. picked apart by hungry forks but still, enough to make up days worth of leftovers.

"mm. the girl stuffed me full, garrick." price stretches from his seat. "if i didnt know any better, i'd reckon you lot were fattening me up to feast on me come winter."

gaz stores the remains of your meal into nearby tupperwares then follows suit, urging his captain to follow him into the lounge. "please," he laughs, nodding when the man pulls a cigar from his pocket and twists it in a silent question. "she thinks they starve us out there. tries to make up for it by feedin' me into oblivion when i'm home."

"speak for yourself. i could do with a home-cooked meal every now 'n' then." the captain takes a puff of the maduro between his fingers, lets the smoke cloud his hindbrain. your house smells so much like you, like kyle and you – warm laundry and anise and jasmine – that he feels a quick lick of guilt at ruining the fragile balance of it. too little too late, too – the scent of leather and oily spice pervades the space.

but you don't mention it once you waltz back in, smoothing your hands across the back of your dress. "if we don't get a chance to try the cake tonight, remind me to send you home with some, john." gaz poorly conceals his laugh with a cough, sinking into the cushion when you shoot him an offended look. "what?"

"nothing," he pouts, then hides his next words behind the back of his hand, whispering to price. "i told you."

"i can hear you, you twat!" you flick his ear, brows furrowed in faux irritation as your boyfriend wraps an arm around your legs.

"i know! hey– i know, gorgeous. was only joking." his forehead nudges your tummy, restless until you comb your hand over his tight curls. "th'captain knows that too. isn't that right, sir?"

"of course."

"you laugh now, but wait until you're halfway through a month long mission. you'll wish you had me around!"

"don't i know it." kyle murmurs, the fingers at the back of your thigh slowly creeping upward. the skirt of your dress slips, climbs up your legs with the motion of his forearm, and all too suddenly he remembers your lack of undergarments.

fuck. he almost forget he pocketed your panties. and you... you've been so natural, such a good hostess despite the cold brush of air constantly on your cunt. it flips a primal switch inside him – that same trigger that'd prompted mention of this night in the first place. blood rushes to his cock so fast it hurts, desperation flooding his lungs until the only thing he can breathe out is your name.

"hmmm." you smile in return. and if price weren't here, he'd bury his nose into the canyon between your legs and take a deep inhale of your natural musk.

but he is, and so all gaz can manage is a quiet: "how about you show the captain our little surprise?"

"oh?" the man in question hums. dangerously relaxed, two legs spread and his posture curved as he watches the little display you put on for him. "what's this about a surprise, then?"

you bite your lip, raking your nails down from your boyfriend's neck to his shoulder and placing a tight, reassuring squeeze there before breaking away. nothing is said as you push an ottoman between price's knees, making sure it's steady before pushing him to rest against the back of the couch.

"do you like my dress?" you practically purr, bending over as to pronounce your tits. kyle's breath stutters, watching for the way superior's eyes take in your form. gratification swells in his belly when he just smiles, patting your hip.

"s'that really a question that needs to be asked, lovie? you know the answer."

an adorable mix between a shrug and giggle is all you give. "kyle says you want to see me."

"aye. i do."

"and i wanna make him happy."

"same for me."

and kyle thinks he could just cum in his pants if this keeps up. he feels filthy, both an observer and the main act in this spectacle. the knowledge that his captain doesn't just want you, the love of his life, but him too works away at him, hollowing him out until he's nothing but a husk of docile yearning.

"so, what'll it be?" you say.

"turn around. elbows on the ottoman, knees on either side of my thighs."

you obey instantly, lamplight catching the heated flush of your skin while you position yourself according to price's wishes. your back arcs so that your ass is prominently within his view, plump even beneath the loose material of your dress.

"kyle."

"sir." he coughs, shifting to conspicuously adjust the aching mass tucked in his waistband.

"on your knees, son. righ' here beside me. when i ask a question, you're expected to answer."

"yes, sir."

"got tha' that, lovie?" he grunts. "respond now, and then it's silence from you."

"okay!" you wiggle your hips, forgetting yourself for a moment. "sir!"

this gaz can do. following orders. grounded pragmatism, however far this is from a professional setting. he figures price has gleaned as much, has given him this task so he doesn't flounder off track throughout the evening and ruin things for everyone. the hard part is over then, all of that hesitant foreplay – of opening up, getting you to agree, of the stretch of time it took for everyone to warm up to one another – wrapped up for something simpler.

all he has to worry about is answering promptly and correctly while he watches his captain–

flip your skirt over your hips.

a low whistle. then, two hands on your backside, kneading the soft flesh there. working either globe apart like dough, the glistening seam of your most private parts spread open to prying eyes. price appraises your cunt for the first time like he would a winning showdog, or the sky on a particularly pleasant day. all utilitarian-like. if it weren't for the bulge in his trousers, your boyfriend would almost be offended.

"no panties, hm?"

"no-" you start, squeaking out an apology when you earn a firm swat to your thigh.

"i asked her to go without them tonight. thought... you'd appreciate it, sir." kyle replies, swallowing the saliva that arises upon seeing your lips flutter.

"good lad." a hot flash of arousal breaks across his chest. the captain lets go of his grip on your ass, watching how the fat jiggles back into place, then returns to squeezing it. "surprised i couldn't smell 'er, way she was dancing around us all night."

it isn't a question, so gaz stays quiet.

the groping continues. sometimes its light – brushes of calloused palms across the area, disturbing the stillness like a rock skipping over water. you ripple when he pokes, shake when he taps. other times, and increasingly once price notes your resilience to pain, it borders on rough. moulding your flesh into compact pinches, jabbing his thumb into the softness so hard it'll bruise. you take it all with grace, a low whine building in your chest that he let's go unpunished.

"she's taking this well. you rough her up often?"

"when she asks, sir." he thinks for a moment, catching your wily smile from the corner of his eye. minx. "likes it more than i do giving it to her."

"need someone to take care of the both of ya." price chuckles, then moves on, oblivious to the way the sergeant's hips buck at his implication. or, maybe he notices – probably does – and stores it away for another time. "looks like a greedy little pussy to me." his thumbs hook onto either side of your labia, pulling it apart like fresh bed to reveal the sloppy mess between. your clit is enflamed, angry for being neglected for so long. if you were allowed to speak, kyle can guarantee with almost a hundred percent certainty that you'd be whining to be touched. "look a' tha'." price's accent grows thicker. "fat little thing just jumping for attention."

he curls a finger, then flicks the swollen bud. a loud moan bursts from you, your face falling between your forearms as you hold yourself back from begging. gaz would've acquiesced by now, would've rubbing the bundle of nerves raw the second you fanned your pretty lashes up at him.

but price snaps it three more times in rapid succession, which apparently is too much for you to handle because you yell. "p-please!"

he remedies your slip up with a slap to the same area. the crack on impact echoes long enough to tell him that one hurt. "shhh. so spoiled, sergeant. how often do you make her cum?"

"a-at least three times a go, sir."

"what's the record?"

"eight."

"and the longest you've held off?"

kyle hesitates, bowing his head for the reprimand he knows is coming. "never... never tried. sir."

"tch."

a precision blow. swift but petrifying. the captain's managed to find both your loose strings in a matter of minutes, tugging to see them come undone on his lap. gaz has got the unwavering urge to rest his chin on his strong thigh, put it on the record that he isn't weak willed, just indulgent. something that can be easily remedied, with his guidance. if he'd let him.

and you...

you're gyrating your hips, begging for some pressure on your aching centre. price gives it to you, though not in the way you expect, pinching your clit and tightening his hold until you're motionless, muscles trembling but otherwise perfectly poised.

so the inspection continues. he fans out your vulva, exposing the hole that clenches around nothing. a laugh wracks his frame at the sight, the aftermath of it husky. amused. "begging to be filled, a'right. how many cocks has she had in 'ere?"

"just mine, sir. and her toys."

"how about at once?"

kyle's never been so bold with you; has always held back that godless part of him, that needy dog he sees his comrades often embrace. pure, unfettered degeneracy. you're soft, and pretty and good and a high-functioning member of society. and he's never once wanted to see you hurt, uncomfortable or bite-mark-bloodied, despite the way his mind screams at him to at least ask. see if you'd be willing to appease that side of him.

yet you visibly shiver at the thought proposed by price, gooseflesh pocking your skin, and he knows he should have thrown caution to the wind.

"one, sir."

he watches the man's finger outline the circumference of your opening, dipping in by the millimetre to test the waters. "shame. could probably stretch her out. get 'er nice and loose for whenever you wan' something to keep you warm without the commitment."

the finger plunges in.

gaz watches you swallow his superior to the last knuckle in what must be a world-record, no time to blink lest he misses it. price goes with the motion, setting his free hand onto your ass to keep you steady as he wiggles his digit to make space amidst the tight embrace of your walls. or, that's what he thinks is happening. the only indication he has of things are the lewd squelches your cunt emits and the face of pure ecstasy you pull. but he's well-versed enough in your bodily functions that he's sure of his estimate.

"scratch wha' i said. nothing beats this." his superior groans, and for the first time that night, adjusts himself in his pants. kyle wishes he would pull it out, allow himself the relief of freeing a raging hard-on from its confines. but kyle also wishes that he could be given something to do, something with his mouth perhaps, to sate the unaddressed thrill in his bones. it wouldn't take a smart man to figure out that both wishes are very much correlated. "fucking suffocating clutch. wouldn' pull out if my life depended on it. pussy like this isn' made for that, garrick."

"sir?"

"you cum inside her, lad?"

"i- yes. i-i do. she's on birth control."

"best to see to that, then." he says, like the contraceptive is an obstacle and not a consolation. you release another, long-winded moan, to which price pulls his finger out to pat your vulva. like taming a wild animal. "though what i said still stands. could always do with a loose hole."

his hand inches up.

this time, it's gaz who groans.

loudly. his eyes fluttering halfway shut, hands tugging at the tight fabric over his groin. you throw a curious look over your shoulder, concern glossing your pupils until you confirm that the source of the sound isn't pain, but pleasure. ecstasy at finally having his wants vocalised, that incessant impulse that nags and nags and nags anytime he's fucking you from behind, tight rim practically leering up at him, tempting him to thrust upwards and 'accidentally' slip in.

"you like that, sergeant? hm? ever use this asshole? it looks unbroken to me."

"y-you're... not wrong, sir. i–"

"but you want to?" he finishes for him, scooping some of the abundant slick from your cunt and slathering it onto your back entrance. it's not enough lubrication to do anything but press one thumb in, but he repeats the process to push the other in alongside it.

"yeah."

you give him a look that can't mean anything except we'll talk about this later and he can bloody kiss price if he was given permission to, if not for anything but helping him open this impossible subject with you.

"we'll see to tha' some other day, then."

his thumbs retreat. your hole winks shut again. gaz is torn between looking at you or his captain, but the latter man robs him of the indecision by bringing his dominant index and middle fingers to his lips. they're shiny with the remnants of your fluids, as if he needed any incitement to wrap his mouth around the digits. he works at them until price's fingers prune, laving his tongue around the knuckles, against the nail beds, all the way through to the fold of skin between them.

so desperate to please, to see to it that 'some other day' is everyday henceforth.

a future with price by your sides. beyond just the field. the bite in your supple existence. spice supporting anise and jasmine, some aphrodisiac blend that'll carry you through to the end of your lives, happy. sated. a mediator. commander. captain. his captain.

"that's a good boy."

he could really get used to this.

[dead-boys-club]

†  what do you want? : the fatui.

❥ scenario: answering a simple question. ❥ no triggers ❥ i don't have any beta readers - you get what you get. ❥ taglist: @mimis-happiest-day

"what do you want from me?" the words slip out, trembling in the cold. your voice is barely louder than a whisper, as if the weight of the question itself could shatter the silence around you. they stare back—each gaze colder or hotter, more calculating or more devouring than the last. whatever their answers, you know the fatui don’t give anything freely.

❥ arlecchino.

her gaze remained sharp as you stared at her, cutting through you like glass. "what do i want?" she repeated, almost mocking, but there's a softness - she thought over your words. "everything," she finally says, her hand reaching to trace over your jaw with the tip of her nails. "your loyalty, your strength, your heart. and, only if you're strong enough, your soul." her words are both a demand and devotion, the only way she would deliver them.

❥ dottore.

he chuckles, the sound low and unhinged. "what do i want?" he purrs in amusement. he takes your hand to hold it open, his thumb rested against your pulse. "to see what makes you tick, of course. to pull you apart, piece by piece - and then, perhaps, if you're good.." he trails off for a moment, his smile mischievous. "i'll put you back together, better than you ever were."

❥ childe.

he grins, a mischievous glint to his eyes. "what do i want? hm.." he echoes, moving closer, voice playful but laced with a surprising depth. "i want everything you've got - every laugh, every secret, every scar." his hand finds yours, fingers threading between your own. :i want to fight beside you, protect you, and maybe.. just maybe, find another reason to stop fighting."

❥ pantalone.

his smile is knowing as it forms, eyes shining with something dark and calculating. "ah, my dear, you know very well what i want." he steps closer, fingers finding your cheek, his gaze holding a weight you couldn't name. "loyalty, love - such beautiful words." his hand lingers a beat too long. "but, what i truly want.. is to see how far you'll go for me."

❥ signora.

her gaze is fierce as always, though tempered by something gentler, softer than her usual demeanor. "what do i want?' her voice is barely audible and she pauses, eyeing you closely. "i want to burn the world down, watch it all turn to ash - with you by my side. you're the one spark i never expected," she adds, a rare smile gracing her lips. ❥ scaramouche.

he scoffs, arms crossing in his usual fashion, acting like your question offends him. his tone is biting and mocking as he repeats your question. "i want you to stop asking stupid questions." but he looks away, letting out a deep sigh, annoyed. "you should know by now.. i wouldn't keep you around if i didn't think you were important."

❥ columbina.

her smile is serene, unsettling so, as if she sees far beyond you. "what do i want?" she hums, thinking over the answers as her fingers dance against your shoulder. "i want you, my songbird. to sing for me, to shatter the silence. most of all.." her voice drops, becoming a whisper, like the next words were a deep secret. "i want you to stay, forever bound to this melody only we share."

❥ pierro.

his gaze is unreadable, maybe solemn if you had to choose a word, carrying to weight of worlds and beyond. he repeats your words, considering the question. "loyalty. strength. is that not what everyone wants? but with you.." his hand fingers your shoulder, steadying and grounding you both. "i want.. peace." there's a softness to his voice, a rare vulnerability that you deemed impossible. "stay besides me, and let us carve a legacy that will never be forgotten."

❥ sandrone.

her head tilts, observing you with an eerie, calculating gaze. she always looked at you as if you were a piece of her collection. she repeats the words, quiet and detached, in a way that made you feel like she didn't quite understand. "i want you to stay perfectly still, exactly as you are. i've never been fond of things that break too easily." he fingers lift, tracing your cheek bone, a possessive, chilling touch. "for you, i might make an exception. just don't disappoint me."

❥ capitano.

the weight of his voice is that of unspoken promises, deep and quiet, a rumble if nothing else. "what do i want?' he asks, his tone unwavering but something told you he'd never been asked such a thing. "i want you to stand beside me without fear. to see the world through your eyes and remember what it is i'm fighting for." a gloved hand rested on your upper arm, a surprisingly gentle touch. "and, you're willing, i want you.. as my reason to keep moving forward."

[simonbrain]

part one

you awaken the next morning to the smell of something delicious, something familiar. like what your mother makes every morning.

you suddenly jolt up to find the bed empty, the thought of your family sending a wave of panic down your spine as you hastily pull the thick furs off of you and make a break for the front door, almost forgetting about the man who carried you home with him last night.

"oi, where are you off to?"

the deep voice from behind you causes you to yelp in surprise, and the arsehole has the audacity to chuckle.

you could only turn around and stare at him, unsure if you should run. he looks like he could snatch you up in a few strides, even if he gave you a head start. you glance back at the front door and remember just how long it took to come back here; there's no way you'll make it back home without getting lost.

"...my village. i— i need to go see my family, please." your voice breaks as you think about your loved ones, and tears begin to well up in your eyes. you try to blink them away, and the blank look on his face only makes you feel more helpless. he doesn't look bothered in the slightest.

"your village went up in flames—nothing but ashes now. no use going back." he says it so bluntly, moving past you to block your only exit and disregarding the dejected look on your face. you shouldn't be so ungrateful; he saved you from those beasts, didn't he? a poor thing like you would have been torn to shreds by them if they had found you crouched behind that tree. sweet little lamb wouldn't have been shown half the mercy simon showed you.

even if you did manage to escape them, what would be the point of walking around the endless forest in hopes of finding help? you wouldn't have made it. no, the pretty thing looking up at him with glossy eyes would have tripped over her own two feet.

"but— but i—"

your bottom lip quivers when he steps forward, crowding your personal space. he stares you down so intensely that you lose the ability to speak. go on, love, his eyes say. try me.

he huffs softly when you sniffle and look away. sensitive thing you are.

your stomach growls quietly, and that's simon's cue to place a rough hand on the nape of your neck so that he can guide you to the table.

he watches with quiet satisfaction as you eat breakfast, an even quieter interest bubbling in his stomach as he observes you. the sullen expression on your face almost makes him feel bad, but you'll just need to understand that this is for your own good.

as days pass, you find yourself growing more comfortable in your new home. simon (you've come to learn his name) is quite odd. he doesn't reveal much about himself, but he does listen when you ramble about your family, and he feeds you the most delicious things. it's quite a lot to eat, but you shouldn't be surprised; he's built like a damn bull, so it's no wonder he makes enough food to feed four people.

you try not to stare at his back too much when he's in the kitchen cooking, or at his arms when he's outside chopping up firewood, or at his hands when he absentmindedly places a paw on your leg.

however, simon—the mutt—is shameless. he drinks in the sight of you, with or without your knowledge, eyeing any exposed skin with a hunger he hasn't felt in years. he doesn't push you to do anything; he wasn't raised like that, but at the end of the day, simon is still a man. it's in his nature to go a little dumb in the presence of a sweet girl.

he quenches his thirst with a hand on your thigh during mealtimes. his palm against your back, slowly trailing down to rest on your ass as he teaches you self-defence outside. an arm wrapped tight around you as you both lay down for the night.

still, it's never enough.

then one day, when simon returns home after spending several days out, looking more rugged than usual with torn clothes and dried blood on him, he pulls you in for a hot kiss. he doesn't give you a chance to tear up at finally seeing him after so long or question him about what he did while he was away.

he only takes what's all his.

you let out a squeak, grasping at his hands, desperately trying to keep up with how he devours you on the spot, his greedy tongue licking into your mouth. the tension radiating from him is palpable, his itching fingers trailing down to squeeze at your hips, tugging you closer to him. simon swallows up your little noises before pulling away, humming in satisfaction at the dazed look on your face.

"even taste sweet," he muses quietly to himself, his thumb running over your bottom lip.

"you're injured." you frown, finally finding your voice. your face is still burning, but simon just chuckles softly, interlocking his hand with yours and leading you to the table. the quicker he patches himself up, the quicker he can get back to pulling more of those sweet sounds out of you.

[pricegouge]

Haul

Part Three MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon nudity, noncon touching, graphic depiction of injuries

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.   If you survive this indeed, though.

You count distance in the taste of fabric on your tongue. As hours and miles pass, the cotton fades from heavy copper, to salt-lick piquant. The trailer heats with the rising sun, metal hull hotboxing you in. The tight space you're kept in is padded, probably for sound proofing though you're almost grateful for it, given how it prevents you from burning yourself on the corrugated siding.

It's hard to guess how much time passes. It feels like days, but the trailer does not go through a cooling cycle, nor do you die of dehydration, so you assume only a handful of hours pass. You spend them drifting in and out of consciousness, wishing you had enough wherewithal to try escaping. Unfortunately, with the heat and the dark comes exhaustion, and with the adrenaline crash comes intense pain so you do little more than catalog injuries when you can concentrate enough to do so. 

It takes some test runs, but you eventually figure out your arm and shoulder are okay, though your collar bone likely isn't. You're lucky there - as far as you can feel, if it's fractured at all, it isn't compounded and you'd much rather heal a clavicle than a shoulder. Your cheekbone's fucked though; you can feel how it sinks into your face in a way it never has before, and blood pools in your sinus cavity, infects your saliva. It's likely going to need surgery, though you doubt your current ride is headed to a hospital. If you survive this, you'll end up with a pretty lopsided face, you figure.  

If you survive this indeed, though.

Poor Ash. She may have been a pain in the ass, but no one deserves to go out like that. It's hard to stop the tears when you think of her but you try anyway, knowing full well that further inflaming your face isn't going to do anyone any good. You wonder why they kept you alive - why Ash didn't make the cut. Or, did, you suppose. Maybe they felt two victims would have been too difficult to deal with. Maybe they thought Ash, who was still able to get around quite well, would've been too much of a handful. 

Maybe you're trying to reason with hurricane season, as it were, find rationality where there was none. These men were motivated by something you'd never understand and perhaps it was best not to waste your efforts on it. Still, it's hard to move past Simon and Gaz's brief exchange. 

'For cap?'

'For all of us.'

The thought of being shared by them made your stomach turn, but the thought that there was another one - one they evidently often brought victims back home to - that was even worse.

'Captain,' you sneer. You can't help but picture some old geezer who couldn't pull his own victims anymore; real Texas Chainsaw shit. The boys would probably have to hold you down so he could wax poetic at you about what a good hauler he used to be, help him lift a tire iron so he could get his rocks off. It would be enough to make you laugh, if it didn't feel like the tire iron was already whaling on you.

Still, you suppose knowing your fate lies with an old man and his lackeys is better than the alternative; even in your current state you know a truck with a soundproofed false back generally spells human trafficking for anyone with the misfortune to find themselves stuck in one. Your prospect doesn't make you happy by any means, but you suppose the enemy you know is better. Even if that enemy is a group of known killers. 

It's not too long after the trailer starts to cool that the quality of the roads changes; long, smooth interstate giving way to potholed, winding highway. You grit your teeth each time you're jostled, groan every time you remember your jaw is actually your biggest source of pain. 

The passiveness with which you wonder about our whereabouts surprises you, but you're so exhausted you don't hold yourself too accountable for that. It's not until the truck slows to a stop that you sit up straighter, heartbeat hammering when the back up alarm confirms your fears that you have arrived at your destination. They let you sit for a while after. Long enough to get cold. There's the occasional sound of air brakes firing and you figure you're in some sort of lot. You try yelling for help a few times, but between the gag in your mouth and the soundproofing around you, your cries go unanswered.

At least you hope that's the reason. Otherwise this entire lot is filled with people who are in on this potential trafficking ring and Simon's words echo even more ominously in your ears. 

A quiet rattling form the end of the trailer tells you when they open the doors hours later. The truck engine roars to life seconds after, backing up the final few feet necessary to slam into the loading dock hard enough to make a gruff voice from within yell. 

It's unfamiliar, makes you steady yourself harder against the unknown quality of it. You figure this must be Cap, feel some small sense of satisfaction when the old, ragged voice matches what you'd pictured. You listen intently as pallets are cleared away, the loud clatter of the jack ringing even through your soundproofing. There's a lower murmur of laughter, the boys regaling the older man with a story you can't quite hear but can definitely infer. When the truck is fully unloaded, their heavy boots tread the short runway - Johnny's truck, then; you'd wondered who you'd been riding with -, their voices coming clearer as they draw near. 

"- banged up, but mostly from the crash," you hear Simon rumble. 

Johnny's next, his grating brogue echoing within the trailer, "Well, except her nose. We can thank Gaz for that one."

"She can thank herself for it," Gaz snarks back, and you would bite your tongue if you could. There's a beat of silence. You can almost feel the heavy gaze their silent captain turns on Gaz, prompting him to elaborate, "She ran. Not very fast. When I caught up, she tried bite me so I headbutted her a little."

"A little!?" Johnny cries, but is cut off by a gruff scoff.

"No way to treat our new guest, Kyle. Go on, make it up to her. Bring her out here."

You expect something dramatic, like a flood of blinding light or strong hands reaching in to yank you out. Instead, when the panel is pulled back, the indirect light from the building is mostly blocked by the row of bodies in front of you, and Gaz squats off to the side, body language friendly and inviting despite the coldness you can feel radiating from him. This man hates you, you can feel it. You remember how he wanted to kill you, wish you could tell him the feeling was mutual. Rather, you stare at him loathingly until he tires of your inaction, leans in to grab you by the zip ties that bind your feet and cuts them with a knife you didn't even see him pull. When he grabs your wrists and pulls, you resist as much as you're able but in the end you're no match and he pulls you from your hideaway with little more than a grunt of pain and annoyance when you elbow him in the ribs.

"Feisty one, is she?" the captain's low growl observes and you turn to the newcomer with fury in your eyes which stalls out when you take him in properly for the first time.

You're disappointed to discover he's not as old as you'd been expecting. Nowhere near, in fact. Mid forties most likely, early fifties at absolute most. And densely built enough to speak of a physicality far younger. None of them were small, but the captain still managed to look big among them - nearly as tall as Simon and just as broad as Johnny, though it looked a little leaner on him given his height. You think the worst part about him is how genial he looks. Like Gaz, he's a brand of handsome that comes with charm and approachability, and you wonder how long it will take for that facade to crack like Gaz's did. Worse, if it ever will.

Certainly, his voice is disarmingly sweet when he greets you, coos and calls you a dove. "Weren't lying were they, love? Did a number on the poor girl, Ghost."

Simon - Ghost? - grunts in acknowledgement, motions for you to step closer. You don't, of course, and get a sharp shove from Gaz which sends you stumbling toward the larger men, caught by a firm hand on your bad shoulder. You yelp, breath heaving behind your gag as Cap adjusts his grip, studying you by your hip instead as his eyes dart to Simon.

"Shoulder. Maybe collar bone. Happened when she flipped her car." When you flipped it. Right.

The older man tuts dissapprovingly. You try to swat his hands away but stumble without his support. He ignores you anyway, hand returning easily while the other reaches up to carefully grip the edge of the duct tape. "Can't be easy to breathe in there, can it doll? Not with that poor nose. Let's get this off, shall we? Easy," he soothes, voice a low pur. His task hurts like hell anyway, the sticky strip pulling your tender, swollen skin. He's gentle about it at least, murmuring sympathetically when you can't contain your whimpers. You don't judge yourself too harshly when a few tears slip through, but do very much so when his thumbing them away twists your stomach unexpectedly. 

It's just because you haven't seen tenderness all night, you reason, and resolve yourself against him, even as he removes the gag with utmost delicacy.

"That better, dove?" he asks when your breaths come quicker, deeper. It's like resurfacing after being submerged for too long, clarity coming to you like a cold breeze on soaked skin: this is a calm meant to put you at ease, but you will die here if you become complacent.

So when Cap tells you to call him John and asks what your name is, you spit at him, blood and mucus staining his shoes.

The boys go quiet, like a record scratch moment in an old b-movie. You stare up at John defiantly, waiting for him to scream at you, hit you - anything.

Instead, he just pulls a pocket knife from his pants, grabs your bindings when you go to flinch away. "You've had a long day, love," he starts as he slips the thin blade between your wrists. Your skin is tender there, rubbed raw from the tight binds. The cool blade feels sharp despite the care he takes to aim the edge away from you, never once letting it touch your skin. "You've had a long day, so I'm going to let you get away with that this time." When he pulls against the zip ties, they cut into your skin briefly before giving with a sharp twang. He pulls one of your wrists into his free hand, rubs the raw skin there with a calloused palm before taking the other wrist in his grasp and giving it the same treatment. "But the next time you misbehave will not go well for you. Understood?"

Of course, you don't listen. Fuck this guy for real, you figure. What's the worst he can do? Kill you?

This time, when you go to spit at him, he catches it against his palm, wide hand slapping over your mouth so hard you're breifly concerned for your good cheek. You gasp in shock and pain, nearly choking on your own spit. John steps closer, one boot knocking your foot wide to let himself between your legs. He's so close, if he moved his palm you'd be breathing the same air.

As it stands, you can barely breathe at all, nose flush against the fat side of his hand. His own breath fans across your skin, heavy and hot as a bellows. The quality of it is thick, humid. You're glad you can't smell anything because it feels like it reeks. 

"Simon, she give you a name?"

Ghost's uncomfortable movement is obvious in its silence. "Took to calling 'er Betty."

"Betty," John repeats, lips curling in amusement. "Like an old timey, proper little wife. That you, pet?" You wanna shake your head, fear for your sinus cavity if you do. "Not yet, eh? Gonna have to train you up first. Ease you into it." As if in demonstration, his body sags into your own, presence oppressive. "That's okay, pet. We'll start you off easy. Get you nice and clean, get you fed. In the morning, Kyle will help with your injuries and when you feel more like a proper lady, we'll try again, hm?"

You can't say anything, so you don't.

"But in the meantime, I can't let that kind of behavior go unchecked. Boys," he calls, eyes still boring into you. "Which one of you wants to help our guest clean up?"

The general din of excitement makes you flinch, eyes going wide as if pleading with the man who holds you so cruelly will do any good. When Johnny suggests they play rock paper scissors to decide who gets the honors, it's suddenly, belatedly clear to you that your murder would almost be a kindness. No, the worst thing this man could do for you would be to keep you. John sees it the moment you realize this. His grip eases, eyes softening in some gross perversion of kindness. He strokes your cheek soothingly when Simon goes out in the first round, smiles condescendingly when you flinch at Johnny's crow of victory. John tuts at you, but says no more as he turns you toward the Scot.

"All yours, Soap," he rumbles, pushing you not ungently toward the other man. "Spic and span, you hear?"

"Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir." Johnny's hands are much harsher than John's when he guides you from the trailer, giving you no sympathy when you flinch under the harsh warehouse lighting. You try to take stock of your surroundings as you're pulled along: spare, dusty racking; a forklift in need of repair. There are multiple loading docks, most of the viewports obscured by backed up trucks. One sits vacant and you briefly wonder if there's even more of these monsters waiting in the wings before you're pulled past a dank little office. You catch sight of outdated equipment - a rolodex, a CB - but it's the shadow boxes full of military honors that your eyes lock on the longest.

Of fucking course.

The door Johnny leads you out through is tucked off the side of the building. You stumble when he pulls you down through the door, feet unsteady where they kick up dirt. It's cold outside, colder than it had been in the dankness of the trailer. You can't help but shiver, bite your tongue as best you can when your companion takes that as invitation to draw you in close and rub a big, solid hand up your arm. 

"We'll have ye warmed up in no time, lass," he promises, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. This man murdered your friend with a crowbar and dragged her around like a slaughtered animal. You expect no kindness from him. 

He orders you to strip before turning to a small station built into the side of the warehouse. You do not strip, electing instead to take off running in the opposite direction, cursing as the gravel churns loudly under your shoes. Soap swears, his own heavy boots following at a pace you didn't think his burly body capable of. Your breaths burn your chest, each pull coming labored in your blind panic but you refuse to slow or relent, ignoring the flaming pain in your shoulder every time you swing your arm forward for propulsion.

Well, you ignore it until the ground comes tilting up to meet you, your body crushed beneath the considerable weight of one grunting, cursing Scot. You sob at the pain, or maybe the fear - hard to tell. When he levers himself off you, he wastes no time grabbing your ankle as he stands up, towering over you. If you were capable of stringing two thoughts together, you'd wonder if this was the last thing Ash saw: pale blue eyes gleaming in the low light, the cruelty that twists his face. Instead you wonder how likely your arm is to maintain full mobility after a night like this. 

Not very, you decide, sobbing in pain as he drags you back to the warehouse. He's muttering something above you, but you can't hear him over your own cries. When you kick at him futilely, he yanks on your ankle until you fear for it and you don't try it again. Not even when he gets you where he wants you, back under the wan outdoor lighting of the station he'd turned to before, crouching down next to you to rip at your shoelaces.

"Please, don't," you murmur instead, fear churning in your belly as he continues to strip you. You'd known it would come to this, known the moment the captain had mentioned something about a wife. It doesn't make it easier, doesn't make the prospect of the gritty sand underneath you any more comfortable, or your repulsion for the man above you any less sharp. "Please, please, please let me go. I could -."

"What? Suck me off?" Soap laughs harshly, "Think ah'm gonnae ge' tha' anyway, hen."

You were going to say keep your mouth shut, but you suppose that never works anyway.

The sound you make when he pulls your pants off is wretched, but the shriek he earns when he pulls a knife on you is worse. His laugh is mean, reveling in your fear for a moment before cutting your shirt from you with one deft movement. He's pulling you to your feet before you can really process why and shoving you against the metal siding of the warehouse.

"Stay there," he warns and you're unsure if his tone or the throb in your shoulder is a more effective threat. When he walks back toward the station he'd been after earlier, your gaze turns to follow until you catch sight of your own shoulder at the bottom of your field of view and you draw short, taking in the severe swelling there. You prod at the edges of the mottling, wincing at your own ministrations. 

Absorbed in your own injuries, you don't notice when Soap turns on the spigot, or when he aims the nozzle of the high pressure hose at you. He calls for you to hold your breath, but gives you no more time than that which is necessary to look up, confused, before he's spraying you down.

It's freezing, the flow hard enough to bruise where it jets against the fatty bits of you; feels like it might sheer straight through hide where your skin thins around joints. You gasp, get a mouthful of aerated hose water. Spluttering, you try blocking the stream with your hands despite it feeling like your palms are being struck by a thousand rulers.

"S'wha' we use tae wash the trucks!" Soap calls, cackling loud enough to be heard over the spray that engulfs you. You can't get away from it no matter how much you fold into yourself, catching the jet alternatingly on your hip, your ribs, your ass. It does a better job of indexing your injuries than you did, the blooms of pain where you accidentally turn a bruise toward it letting you know that the hip which took the brunt of the collision is sore, that there's a spot on your good shoulder where Gaz tackled you which smarts. Your knees and elbows are all scuffed up, dirt grinding in before being stripped away. You feel like you're being sandpapered down; buffed until you're gleaming despite knowing how the dirt he kicks up clings to your skin wherever the hose isn't actively being pointed.

Soap keeps it up for another minute or so, only turning it off when your shaking gets so bad you think you're like to fall apart. "Quit yer whinging," he warns, creeping closer as he adjusts the nozzle to another setting. "Jes' havin' a laugh, bonnie, no need tae get all bent outta shape."

You want to tell him you're not laughing, but a small voice in your head says you should be grateful he didn't turn that hose on your face, so you keep quiet to prevent him getting any ideas.

When he's close enough to touch, Soap reaches out and grabs your wrist, spraying your pebbled skin down with a softer shower of water that would set you at ease, if not for how cold it is. From your arm, the stream moves up over your head, mussing your hair beyond recognition before trickling down your battered face. Here, the cold water feels good against heated skin and despite yourself, you heave a sigh of relief, tilting slightly into the unexpected relief. 

"Like tha' hen?" he asks, and you hesitate briefly, wondering how much satisfaction you want to give him. He doesn't give you a chance to decide, ruining your brief moment of reprieve by reaching out and tweaking one hard nipple.

You squawk, swatting at him. Johnny laughs long and loud, letting the stream from the hose fall dead as he watches you fume, shaking.

"Look like one ah them wee doggies, lass," he chuckles, "angry cause ye cannae even bite properly." The bastard flicks your cheek, feigning a sympathetic coo when you flinch away. "Tha's righ', bonnie, nothin' ye can do tae fight back," he murmurs, gliding his fingertips against your cheek in a move he probably thinks is soothing. "Ye jes' remember tha', eh? Might keep you alive."

You swallow back the lump in your throat, eyes boring a hole into his shoulder because you can't stand to look him in his terribly cold eyes. When Johnny moves again, his touches are back to the easy, soft caresses from before as he hoses you down. He's surprisingly good at it, despite being armed with only a shammy and a gnarly looking bar of soap. At least he knows to avoid your hair once he realizes he'll need conditioner. That damage is already done, but you appreciate him not dragging his fucking fingers through it on top of everything else. You try taking the soap from him once but he just tuts at you warningly so you go back to shivering, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to preserve body heat and keep yourself marginally modest. You can't decide if he's being obstinately particular just to torment you longer or if he's genuinely just like this until he raises your good arm above your head and finds your armpit overgrown.

He grins, sending you a delightfully scandalized look. "See Ghost chose well. Cap's gonnae love ye," he chuckles, and you feel your panic heighten when you think of the threatening older man again. Soap notices. "No need tae worry, hen. You jes' keep bein' good fer us and Cap'll be good tae ye."

For some reason, you don't trust this man's definition of being treated well.

After getting you all washed up, Johnny marches you back into the warehouse where the other men gather around a small, dingy breakroom table pecking at microwaved burritos. They're laughing uproariously as you arrive, Gaz talking animatedly about a loading mishap back in Arizona. The noise drifts off when they spot you, eying you over like a scrap of meat. There's no covering everything and despite yourself, you're almost grateful when John stands, bringing you a blanket he had folded on the seat beside himself. 

"Feeling better, doll?" he asks, patting you dry with a gentleness you didn't expect from the big man. He frowns at the swelling of your shoulder, eyes darting between you and it with an exaggerated level of concern that makes you want to hurl.

You avoid his gaze, your own flickering around the room as you ignore John, trying to gather your resolve enough to appease him. It's a struggle until your eyes find Simon's, apathetic as always despite the disapproving set of his scarred mouth. 

"Yes, sir," you murmur, watching raptly as Simon disguises a quick nod as a glance at his plate. Your heart rate picks up, an impossible tendril of hope slithering up your aorta when John hums contentedly at your words.

"That's a girl, love," he starts, warm palm falling heavy on your back as he starts to guide you back through the warehouse. "Gaz, bring the soup. You're hungry, right pet?"

You are, but Gaz doesn't wait for confirmation, falling in stride as John guides you toward the quaint office you'd caught a glimpse of earlier.

"Now, one day, you'll be able to stay up here with us," John promises, gesturing magnanimously across the dingy warehouse as if it contained all the gold of El Dorado within its rickety racking. "But until then, we're going to have to keep you below." 

Gait faltering, you glance up at the older man fearfully but he pays you no mind at all. "Don't worry honey, only temporary. And I'll have the boys visit you daily to keep you nice and stimulated, hm? Gaz," he barks before you can reflect too much on his choice of words. Kyle, evidently knowing exactly what's expected of him, places the soup bowl he's been carrying on the cluttered desk before moving some chairs, rolling the rug back enough to reveal a cutaway door in the cement slab.

You still, every muscle in your body tensing up when John tries to coax you along. "'S'not so bad, sweetheart, I promise. Come look, yeah? Think you'll have a nice little time if you just give it a try."

Like hell you'll give it a try, knees locking up so tight you look like a GI Joe when John guides you first down the stairs. It's cool, the descent marked by the wet gradient of the cement slab as you pass further underground. It's deeper than you'd expect, the dug dirt bottom damp under your feet when you alight on the landing. There's a short hall ahead, braced by rotted-looking timber. A lone door on the opposite end, braced on one side with a long line of bolts and locks. A single light hangs from the short ceiling, low enough you could smack your forehead off of it if you're not careful. 

"Had Simon come down while you were out, get it nice and ready for you," John brags. You doubt the room on the other side of that door could be made live-in ready even if Simon had been given three years to work on it, but you know better than to say as much. 

This time, when John prods you forward, your legs don't obey. "CanIsleepwithyou?" you blurt, a last ditch effort you're not sure you want him to accept.

But John just chuckles. "Eager, eh pet? Don't worry, you'll earn that right soon enough. Now go on, I'm sure you'd like some nice new clothes to put on, hm?"

Damn him, but you do, so you slink forward, ducking under the hanging light as you pass. The door creaks when you pull it open, weight heavy despite how meager it looks. It feels solid, unbreakable, and you notice quickly that you won't be able to barricade it if you have to pull it open. John does not notice your hesitance, following you into the room with a proud little smirk on his mustached face.

"Well, what do you think?" 

Not much. The floor isn't finished, just cold tile pressed into the dirt. The walls and ceilings are, though, and you briefly feel grateful for it until the batting on the door registers and you realize it's for soundproofing purposes. There's a bed in the corner, larger than you need yourself and made up in cutesy sheets with a strawberry motif. A pile of heavy quilts sits folded at the foot and despite yourself, your fingers twitch eagerly at the prospect of sleeping soon, warm and snug under all that weight. 

"We've got some clothes for you here," John continues. You get the feeling he doesn't need a lot of input so you stand there quietly as he opens a foot locker for you, tattered and olive green. Inside sit two neat stacks of clothes, battered looking but approximately the right size. You remember Johnny's comment about the Captain liking your pits and wonder if they always bring him back a certain type.

And if so, where they are.

"G'on love, pick out something you like," John leers, and you realize you won't be able to get away with waiting until he and Kyle leave to get dressed. 

There's a marked efficiency to your movements. Grabbing the first top you see, you briefly check the tag before doing the same with the bottoms at the top of the pile. Close enough for rock and roll, you figure, dropping your blanket to the cold floor and pulling the clothes onto yourself as quickly as possible. Kyle's eyes are heavy, John's heavier. Your skin crawls, the goosebumps which never really went away after your little bath returning with a vengeance. To your immense displeasure, John has to help you pull your bad arm through the sleeve and he tuts sympathetically when you whine.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'll bring you down some button ups tomorrow, yeah? You nod when he pauses too long, realizing you're not going to be let off the hook without a proper answer. You creep toward the bed when he hums in acknowledgement, but he tuts in warning again, nodding toward a little desk shoved off to the side of the room. You sit obediently, thanking him with a little murmur when he ferries the bowl of soup from Gaz to you. He hovers, watching raptly until you bring a spoonful of the room temperature meal to your mouth. 

"Good, right?" he asks, before you can even get a proper taste of it. 

You take your time swallowing, playing up the pain in your cheek as you try to suss out a good response. It's just microwaved soup as far as you can tell, but you figure saying as much won't garner you any favors. Instead, you hum appreciatively and shovel in another bite before John can ask you any more questions.

It works, mostly. John takes a quick lap around the room instead of standing over you, sighing now and again at whatever he finds while Gaz continues to stand in the doorway, evidently unamused. 

"It needs work, I'll give you that," John eventually concedes as you slurp at your meal. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until that sweet sweet MSG hit your tongue. "It needs work, but if you're good, we can spend some time down here fixing it up for you. Would you like that?"

You stall, spooning through some of the chunkier bits at the bottom of your bowl. It was kind of them to give you soup, you registered belatedly. Solid foods would have undoubtedly fucked up your mouth. Instead of answering, you ask John what would happen if you were to be bad and watch as his genial nature flips like a switch.

"Got a couple of news articles upstairs if you'd like to read 'em and find out."

Next>>

[kyuuviix]

first time posting el oh el!!!

NSFW warning!!! laios from dunmeshi x reader type beat

im nowhere near used to the format so ill get there but this is just a lil blurb i wrote in maybe 30ish minutes??

tw: cunnilingus, def ooc laios, he's horny as hell 😞

enjoy i hope

-

-

another orgasm bubbled out of your sopping slit, thighs trembling as your high, reedy moans crumbled into low, broken cries as tears ran down your face.

"my lord- fuck, please...!"

you wept, sweat trailing down your neck and making your skin stick to the filled-out parts of your messy silk button-up.

the king- or rather, your husband had come back from his dealings hungry, and with his limit of preferred food, (monsters no longer being on the roster) you were the next best thing.

"still talking with such formality when i'm eating this pretty little pussy of yours? hope all of that royalty talk didn't fog your brain while i was away."

your eyes were on the verge of rolling into the abyss of your eyelids, chest quickly falling and rising as his grip tightened around your thighs.

your lips felt bludgeoned, a tingling feeling rippling over your face, your spine- and especially between your legs.

his tongue flayed against your messy cunt, prodding and thrusting the slick muscle against your folds, suckling down onto your warm bud as his lips trickled out a deep groan in response.

"but don't worry, you'll call me by my name soon enough."

as soon as he came home to the castle, he was quick to locate you in your usual spot, demanding everyone leave to a different floor, as he needed time to 'debrief' everything to the queen. as you could easily tell, he needed his fix.

he dragged you to your shared bedroom, which you were more than ecstatic to follow along with, after all, it's been far too long since you two were intimate.

and here you are now, only in your unkempt button-up with your thighs held apart, sweat dotting every inch of your skin as your husband happily nestled his head between your legs, lapping at your cunt fervently.

his hips pressed against the comforter of the bed, sucking your sweet liquids into his mouth, pulling an uneven whine out of you- which made him grin.

"you just love what my tongue does to you, huh?"

his lidded gaze was scoped on you, laying his tongue flat against your clit and gently caving it inside of your tight slit.

your back arched upwards with a defeated cry, head pressing into the silk comforters, legs instinctively trying to writhe out of his grip.

but the way your hand tussled and messily gripped at his ash-blonde tufts told him otherwise, your spare hand gathering in the covers.

his pupils dilated further as his tongue dipped into your warm, velvety walls yet again- a coy grin eating at his lower jaw. he was teasing you, he knew you were close to cumming again, he just wanted you to beg for it.

and beg, you'd do.

-

sorry this is so half-assed lol