MASTERLIST LINKED IN PINNED POST. roo●multiracial●33●fic daddy●shrek simp●roo boo bear●salami mommy●semen demon●hateful bitch●incredibly weird and sick●bitch of a robot●goblin queen don't ask for updates. completed and in progress noted in series masterlists. still writing unless noted as hiatus. AT THIS TIME I CANNOT ACCEPT REQUESTS. NO TAG LISTS. MY FICS ARE NONCON. PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE YOU GO FURTHER. 18+ if you can't guess 🙄 also theimaginesyouneveraskedfor. (Find my other, lighter fics there). This is a place for all my dark!fics. Mostly MCU. Some Tolkien. my AO3 username is theimaginesyouneveraskedfor. Check out my masterlist at @darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor on tumblr
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The nature of women's rape fantasies: an analysis of prevalence, frequency, and contents
Prompt: June 8th - Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / “I feel a premonition.”
Character: Geralt of Rivia
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
"I feel a premonition."
Geralt sighs and shakes his head. He kicks the dirt as he drags the whetstone up the blade. You stare off into the sky.
"It's probably those berries I told you not to eat." He growls.
"You should listen to me…"
"I'm not in the habit of listening to sorceresses." He sneers as he tilts his sword to reflect the moonlight.
You set your eyes on him. "I've told you, I am no witch. If I were, I'd not be sitting here with ropes on my wrists."
"Your charms do not work on witchers." He grits.
You roll your eyes. "I was only passing…"
"A black rot follows you. Look." He bows his head and you follow his gaze.
You look over at the green foliage as it darkens and curls in on itself. A moth falls from the air and the fire between you fizzles to smoke. You frown.
"It's not me." You plead. "I swear it--"
"Yet it goes wherever you go." He challenges.
"Or maybe wherever you go."
He squints at you and snarls. You stare back, hooking your bound hands around your legs. You shiver.
"It's cold."
"I'm not the one put the fire out."
"It wasn't me!"
He huffs and sets the sword side. He stands and bends over the charred sticks. He focuses on the task, blowing and fanning the embers.
He circles around, not far from you. You lean forward and slowly tug up the loose leg of his trousers. You hook a finger under as he grunts and you touch his skin. He roars and falls into the freshly lit fire.
"Charms don't work, huh?" You grin and hold your wrists to the flame until the rope breaks. "Though my plague be even more potent"
A/N: Written for the June Jukebox Scribbles. Prompt:“I feel a premonition”
Word Count: 197
James had been in the field often enough that he could sense when something was off. He could never explain it beyond, "I feel a premonition." It was like a sixth sense telling him a predator was stalking, a venomous snake was in the vicinity, a thief is going for his wallet.
He'd hoped that being with you would help him calm his nerves, and it did. For a bit. But when your companionship turned into something romantic, his nerves picked up again. He was scared to lose you. He needed to protect you. He couldn't relax until he knew you were safe.
The only time he could rest, give his nervous system a break, was when he was in your arms. You held him with such gentle strength it was easy to melt into your touch. Your hands gently rubbing up and down his back helped ground him. Nuzzling your face against him tells him he's wanted, appreciated. He feels safe.
Your apartment is his sanctuary. Your arms are his reprieve. When you're with him, there is nothing he needs to focus on outside of you.
And he'll love you forever for that feeling of safety.
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 8th’s fic!
Andy Barber + “I'm tired of repeating myself.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Andrew takes his jacket off. Andy. That’s what he told you to call him. The metal on your finger presses into your flesh and you look down. You pinch the white stone through the lace glove and quickly pull your hands apart.
You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.
He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.
He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.
“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.
You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.
“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.
You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.
He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.
“Re-lax.” He insists.
You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.
He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.
He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.
“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”
“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.
He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.
“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”
You shake as he presses himself to your back.
“It’ll only hurt more if you don’t relax.” He enunciates the last word harshly, his other hand slipping down along the front of your panties.
Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
I want to run away with Kemp 😭 though, not sure if he's better than Ransom in the long run...but at least he'll be good in bed lol. And hopefully treat us nicer.
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 8th’s fic!
Andy Barber + “I'm tired of repeating myself.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Andrew takes his jacket off. Andy. That’s what he told you to call him. The metal on your finger presses into your flesh and you look down. You pinch the white stone through the lace glove and quickly pull your hands apart.
You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.
He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.
He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.
“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.
You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.
“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.
You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.
He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.
“Re-lax.” He insists.
You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.
He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.
He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.
“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”
“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.
He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.
“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”
You shake as he presses himself to your back.
“It’ll only hurt more if you don’t relax.” He enunciates the last word harshly, his other hand slipping down along the front of your panties.
Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
Hugh is dumb but I think he knew he didn't have a choice if he was gonna be cucked or not, but thought he could get something out of it, which is stupid bc Kemp isn't the generous type.
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 8th’s fic!
Andy Barber + “I'm tired of repeating myself.”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
Andrew takes his jacket off. Andy. That’s what he told you to call him. The metal on your finger presses into your flesh and you look down. You pinch the white stone through the lace glove and quickly pull your hands apart.
You exhale and look up as you sense movement. He puts his jacket over a hanger then tugs at his bowtie. Your eyes wander around the room. Dark hardwood and ivory curtains. The bed has canopies draped from the tall posts and the edges of the pillow cases are scalloped. From what you’ve seen of the massive house, it’s all intricately decorated. Nothing is out of place… but you.
He slings the bowtie over the bottom of the hanger and unbuttons his vest. Petals from the corsage still on his jacket flutter down to the carpet. He strips off the vest and you watch how his shoulders strain his white shirt.
He hangs the vest too as you stare at his thick neck and the neat trim of his beard. Your ankle bends. As you fix your stance, your heel clunks and draws his attention. He looks at you and you wince.
“Relax,” he says as he pulls free the tails of his shirt from trousers.
You nod. He nears as his shirt hangs slack. He stops in front of you and takes your hand. He peels off the lace gloves, tugging each finger delicately. He strips them both away and sets them aside. You tremble.
“Honey, please… relax.” He says again.
You’re trying but you can’t even say so. Your chest is so tight. This is the man you’ll spend the rest of your life with and you just met him five hours ago.
He takes your hands again. He kisses each knuckle, each time looking at you. Your hands are heavy like stone. He squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the back.
“Re-lax.” He insists.
You curl your fingers and straighten them. You just can’t get the tension out. He lets your hands fall and gets even closer. He traces the off-the-shoulder neckline down to your body and trails down to the skirt. He pinches the fabric and purrs.
He drags his hand around your hip as he circles you. He stands behind you. You shiver. He undoes the top button of the dress. You gasp.
He continues down the buttons, plucking each one free of the loop. He stops halfway and grips the fabric. He jerks you.
“I’m tired of repeating myself.” He growls. He yanks and the rest of the buttons scatter as the dress slackens entirely. “I said relax.” He pushes the bodice down to your waist. You pull your arms free of the sleeves and squirm. “I’m being nice.”
“I’m sorry,” you eke out and clasp your hands in front of your lacy strapless bra.
He shoves the dress until the skirts heap around your ankles and calves. You look down as you twist, the lacy thong high on your hips and exposing your ass and most of your pelvis. He touches your bare back and drags his touch up your sides. He squeezes and growls.
“You said it. You made the vow.” He drawls into your hair. He reaches to touch the gem-covered clip. “You said you’re mine.” He strokes down your cheek and opens his hand to frame your chin. He nuzzles the rim of your ear. “So why are you acting so scared?”
You shake as he presses himself to your back.
“It’ll only hurt more if you don’t relax.” He enunciates the last word harshly, his other hand slipping down along the front of your panties.
Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
Warnings: this fic is set in a dystopian world with suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 7th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Steve Kemp + “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!
Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖
"Don't embarrass me." Your husband warns as he fixes his dark red jacket in the mirror.
You peek over your shoulder as his derision radiates from the reflection of his light blue eyes. You dip your chin and resume fussing with belt of the velvet dress. You can't quite make the bow look anything but droopy and depressed.
You focus on that small struggle, one battle you might prevail in. You can never win with your husband. Without reason to fear it, he's paranoid about your every breath and word. You've only ever done what you're supposed to... Including marrying him.
"Turn around," Hugh demands.
You obey without hesitation. He clucks as he approaches you. He snarls under his breath as he loses the pathetic bow you've looped at the side of your waste and reties it effortlessly. It's perfectly straight and set.
"This is important. The magistrates' dinner could determine everything for me." He pauses, fingers lingering along your belt and slowly creeping up the front of the dress. "Don't forget your charms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Magistrate,” he chides. “Remember who you married.”
“I’m sorry–”
He presses a thick finger to your lips. “Don’t be sorry, be silent.”
He taps your chin then turns away. You put your shoes on and grab your stole. You do as he bid and don’t say a word.
When he’s ready, you depart. You sit in the back of the car, the driver blocked out by the tinted divider, as your husband taps his leg and his lips move in rehearsal of the night to come. You sit stiff and still, staring ahead, just as you’ve trained yourself.
You arrive to the usual reception. The deference of others does little to nurse the powerlessness of your own position. You hand over your stole as the staff take Hugh’s jacket. Not Hugh, Magistrate Drysdale.
You let him lead, as always. You’re just another emblem of his status. Just like the medal on his ceremony jacket and that signet on his pinky ring.
“Our seats should be better than last year,” he mutters as he keeps his arm through yours. “Don’t expect we’ll be sitting at the end with Brenner and his gaudy side piece.”
Sure enough, you’re led to the head of the table, right there at the corner. Your husband takes the first seat and as always, you take the secondary. You sit and thank the staff as they push in your chair. Hugh sends you a sharp glance for that courtesy.
The other guests straggle in to join those already arrived. There aren’t many empty chairs left at your arrival as your husband is rarely in a hurry. You wait patiently, staring ahead at nothing in particular. You’ve disciplined yourself to exist in that void. The less you know, the less you feel, the safer you are.
Finally, the table is full. There is but one seat left. That at the very head, to the left of Magistrate Drysdale and Magistrate Fowler across from him.
The host enters. All go silent as they watch the Magistrate Primus approach. You turn your head without seeing, only mimicking those around you. You see only a hazy shadow step up to the chair.
“Welcome all,” Magistrate Kemp preens. “Firstly, I must thank you all for attending. It’s not often we get all of us in one place. Better for it, likely.” He pauses for effect and a hearty chuckle rolls over the table. “Secondly, I need to apologise on the behalf of my other half. She remains ill and continues her treatments.”
There’s a low drone of manufactured empathy. You let your face form the expected mask but make no noise.
“Let’s not dwell on the latter. We should enjoy this rare occasion. Enjoy the calm amid the storm. Our work never ends, does it?” There’s a rabble of agreement and Magistrate Kemp claps his hands. “Alright, without further delay, I’m starving.”
He sits, the scrape of his chair breaking your trance. As Kemp sits, your eyes meet. His cheeks dimple in his perfectly practiced grin. His blue eyes swirl like a stormy ocean. You bend your neck humbly and focus on the table setting before you.
“Drysdale, already into the scotch?” Kemp leans into your husband.
“I have to make up for being sober for so long,” your husband retorts.
“Ah, are there not better ways to unwind? You’ve a lovely wife.”
“Mm, she goes well with scotch,” Hugh scoffs.
You don’t react. You keep your hands folded in your lap and stare at the table. The voices around you rise to a steady buzz.
“Goodwife Drysdale, you look wonderful in that colour. Much better than your husband.” Kemp snags your attention.
You must appease him. You simper in his direction. “Thank you, Magistrate.”
Your husband is obtuse to the compliment as he leans back and orders a servant to fill his plate with mini quiche and crab cakes. Kemp runs his fingers up and down the stem of his glass and watches you. You nod again and look down.
“I must admire her manners, Drysdale.”
“Hm?” Hugh grunts.
“Your wife. She’s well trained.”
“She does what she’s told.” Your husband shrugs.
“Oh, I’m sure your demands are endless,” Kemp chuckles.
“Speak for yourself,” Hugh counters playfully.
“You,” Kemp points to a servant, “this lady needs a drink. Champagne with frozen strawberries.” He flicks his finger. “Now.”
The servant rushes away. You chafe in your dress and make yourself look at the magistrate. Hugh reaches to pinch you under the table. You’re drawing too much attention. He is trying to get in with the most powerful man in the republic.
“Thank you, Magistrate Kemp. That sounds delicious.”
“Oh,” Kemp arches a brow. “I do have a taste for the delectable.”
👄
“Let us speak somewhere less… well, less.” Kemp insists as he sneers at the drunken guffawing of Magistrate Bodecker.
“Let’s,” Hugh agrees triumphantly. “I have some thoughts on the Western Territory.”
“I’m sure you do. I however have my own proposal in mind.” Kemp intones.
“Goodwife,” Hugh squeezes your forearm. “I won’t be long–”
“Bring the Goodwife. Don’t leave her to these wolves.” Kemp insists.
You sense your husband bristle. He doesn’t need you getting in the way. This is his chance to get himself above all the others.
“Sure. I suppose it wouldn’t be a good look for a Goodwife to be wandering alone.”
“Not one as lovely as her,” Kemp steps closer and offers his hand. “You’ve never seen my reading room, Goodwife.”
You resist the urge to look at your husband. You can feel his discontent. The Primus Magistrate leads you across the room as your husband strides at your other side. Your heartbeat picks up. That well-honed numbness slowly dissembles.
Kemp takes you from the large front room and up the east ascent of the curling staircase set against the wall of the foyer. You take your steps cautiously, intent on the movement of your body over the fragility of your predicament.
Down the corridor and to the right, three doors down, and he leads you through double doors. He sweeps you inside as he gestures widely with his other arm. “I come here and read by the windows.” He brings you across to the large arched window that opens to the immaculately curated gardens. “Or I simply watch the world outside.”
“I’ve always admired your taste,” Hugh praises. “Is this a first edition?”
Kemp doesn’t look back. “They are all original prints.” He shifts closer as he lets go of your hand and runs his fingertips up your sleeve. “Do you see how the fountain reflects the moonlight? It’s like the sky looking up at itself.”
“Very pretty, Magistrate.” You murmur.
“About the West Bridge…” Hugh begins.
“Ran,” Kemp addresses your husband by his informal pseudonym. “No work tonight. I didn’t put this whole thing on to sit through another council.” Kemp huffs and plays with the bow at your waist. He turns to face you, standing close. You feel his gaze on you. “You require a break as well. All that fretting over the West…”
Hugh exhales. “I… guess you’re right.”
“Drysdale,” Kemp drawls. “How can you be so uptight when you have this creature attached to you?”
“What?” Your husband scoffs. “Primus?”
“You have a beautiful wife. So soft, so pliant. She would do anything for you and you can hardly look at her.” Kemp brings his hand up to pet your cheek. “Do you even fuck her?”
Hugh snorts. “Kemp.”
“It’s a simple question.”
“She’s my wife–”
“Fine. She is honest. Let her tell me.” He strokes your hair. “Goodwife, when’s the last time your husband made you cum?”
You shift and shiver. You stare out the window. You’re choked in horror. You can’t not answer the Primus Magistrate, but you also can’t shame your own husband.
“I am happy with my goodhusband–”
“That is not what I asked.” Kemp trails his fingers down your spine. You quiver. “I can feel it in the way you shake that it’s been a while. If he’s ever made you cum.”
Hugh growls and you hear his knuckles crack. Silence roils around you as Kemp continues to feel you up, brushing his hand across your ass as he presses himself to your side. You bite down as your vision blurs.
“Primus,” Hugh utters quietly. He struggles to continue. “You can have her for the night… if you give me the West.”
Kemp snickers and runs his hand up your side. He takes your arm and turns you to him. He grabs your hand and toys with it admiringly. He places it on his shoulder.
“I don’t need your permission to fuck her. But I’ll let you choose; stay and watch or go cower with the rest of those dogs.”
Silence, stillness. Kemp’s hand comes up under your chin and he forces your head up. “Look at me, goodwife.”
Hugh harrumphs and shadows shift in the edge of your sight. Something clatters and he stomps off, the doors slamming after him. You tremble as your hand slips down to the magistrate’s chest.
“Don’t be scared,” he coaxes.
“Magistrate, my husband–”
“Tut, tut,” he swipes his finger across your lips. “Firstly, don’t speak of him. Second, you will call me by my name.”
You bat your eyes. “Yes, Magist– Um… Steven?”
“Steve…” he traces the shape of your lips.
You stare up into his eyes, layers of azure and cyan dancing around his growing pupils. You gulp. “Steve,” you whisper.
He licks his lips and pushes his finger inside your mouth. “My name tastes so good on your tongue, doesn’t it?”
Your eyes widen. He pushes down on your tongue. You seal your lips around his fingers and instinctively suck. He purrs as his other hand tugs free the bow on your dress.
“I want you to scream it every time I make you cum.”
Prompt: June 7th - Jump (For My Love) - Pointer Sisters / “I know you like what you see”
Character: Kraven the Hunter
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
You squirm and turn your back to the aisle. You sidle along the shelves and distract yourself with the fantasy section. It's not your usual fare. It doesn't matter. You're not truly seeing them. Only pretending to.
You tap your purse, a cat's head with a change pocket as the nose. Hot tension speckles across your shoulders. You exhale.
You go left and turn down the biography section. You hide your apprehension as you see the same figure at the other end of the aisle. You slow and turn, faking interest in the shelf of political memoirs. This man has haunted you from romance to mystery and back again.
His looking presence makes the stacks and shelves feel even tighter in the used bookstore. You turn again and make your way back down the back end of the store. As you come to the far right corner, the man appears again. This time closer. So fast and silent you nearly cry out.
He reaches toward you and at the last moment, raises his hand just past you to take a book off the shelf behind you. You stare at him in shock. He's so close, you're sweating even more. His brows lifts above his deep blue eye. The dangling fang hung around his neck catches your eyes.
"Indecisive?" He asks.
You can't speak as he opens the book. He drags his finger across the font. He reads, "For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing."
You blink dumbly, leaning against the shelf. He lowers his voice as he leans in.
"I know you like what you see and I know exactly," he snaps the book shut. "What you want to do."
Warnings: this fic has an age gap. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 6th’s fic! (Sorry it's lates)
Hal Carter + “I was happier when it was just you and me. Can’t it be that way again?”
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Your walkie goes off again. As you hit the button to reply to the call to confirm the job site, Hal's face falls. As he approaches his usually cheery demeanour turns grim. You tell Cole to send the estimate through and clip the radio back on your belt.
"So, how was the site down in Heath?" You ask as you open a folder on the desk and delve back into the cluster of crumpled receipts.
“Another shit show.” He crosses his arms. His toolbelt hangs crooked and low over his jeans and his usual white tea is streaked with sweat and dust.
“I figured it would be. Thanks for taking that on. You know how some of those macho guys can get with me.” You sit slowly and smooth out a bill for caulk and tile. “Got a call from Colorada… bit far. Ranch house.”
“Sure,” he says as he looms on the other side of your desk. His tone is crisp.
Your radio scratches again and Sy reports back that there’s a water leak. Great.
You grab your radio again. “Call Morton. Closest plumber I know.”
“Morton?” Sy growls from the other side.
You look at Hal and shake your head. “Don’t touch that pipe. I don’t need that coming out of our invoice.”
“Yes, ma’am.” You get in return.
You go to put the radio down and another beep sounds. You listen to Cole as he lets you know he’s sending for a different grade of wood to match what’s there.
“Sometimes I wonder how we break even,” You tut as you set the radio down and key the totals on the receipts into the computer.
“Mm,” Hal hums flatly.
You look up and lower the stapled bills. You tilt your head. “Something going on? Something in Heath?”
His eyes drift and his brows draw together. “No, work’s good. You know I can handle it.”
“You’re my best guy, Carter.”
“Carter,” he echoes.
You sit up all the way. “What is going on?”
“Do you remember when we started this?” He drops his hands to his hips.
You remember it. The young carpenter you found on some online job board, who showed up just as lost as you. You didn’t have a single idea how to keep your dead husband’s business alive, only that you had to.
“I remember the bent nails and bruised fingers.” You chuckle.
He’s quiet. Your neck bristles. You sit straighter.
“Something’s… up?”
“You always were a smart lady.” He says.
“I’m also a lady that appreciates when people say what they need to say,” you fold your hands together and lean your arms on the desk. “Carter.”
“You used to call me Hal.”
You shake your head.
He hesitates and shifts in his shoes. He shrugs and drops his hands. “I was happier when it was just you and me.” He steps closer to your desk. “Can’t it be that way again?”
You stare at him. “Cart– Hal. We need all the help we can get–”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
You sit back and lower your gaze. “Don’t. I told you then–”
“I’m older now.”
“So am I. And that’s always going to be the case.”
“Do you think I care?” He strides around the desk. He grabs the back of your chair and swivels you to face him. He grips above your shoulders as he bends over you. His nose is almost touching yours. “I’ve waited this long, haven’t I?”
Well how can you turn that down? He waited long enough for her to grieve, now he wants what he’s been wanting. How can she say no when they work so well together?
