Thank you for the commission @bloodandglittertastessobitter! Hope you love it.
Contains: Daddy kink, rough sex, semi public (kind of).
—-
The music in the club distracts you from your voice of reason, desperately urging you to take it easy on the drink in your hand. This is your third, and despite what the rumors say, alcohol doesn’t make anyone look any better. You hadn’t seen one man you had found attractive all night, and you’re close to giving up. You had been into the idea of dancing tonight to forget about life for a while, but a little something extra is always nice too.
You almost spill your drink from some faceless dancer nudging you. When you turn, she nods toward a dark booth in the corner.
“He’s been looking at you all night.”
You follow her line of sight to see a man staring you dead in the eye. The surprise of meeting his gaze so suddenly almost forces you to look down, but something holds your mutual eye contact in place. He looks like the cat who got the cream now that you’ve noticed him, a smirk growing on his face. His posture tells you everything you need to know about the man– cocksure, his legs open in a lazy sprawl. He’s considerably older than you, with a little bit of silver in his blonde hair.
“Who’s that?” you shout over the music.
“Don’t know,” the girl shouts back. “I don’t typically take names when I arrive at the club.” Well, with that answer, you figure you’re on your own tonight. You’ll have to find out for yourself. When you turn back to face the stranger however, he’s not in the booth; all that’s left is an empty whiskey glass. Before you can complain about the loss to your friend or set off on a drunken venture to find him, you’ve forcibly added to the dynamic mosaic of dancers on the main floor, weaving in and out of people to the music. Every time you close your eyes, you can see his half lidded ones trained so intently on you. He must be interested; that’s why he had been staring in your direction. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, jumping on the first chance at something exciting tonight.
You lose yourself momentarily in the music, feeling hands on you as you’re passed through everyone like the rest of the dancers are. You start to move to the beat, until you feel someone’s hands rub up your arms. Your eyes open to look into blue ones.
Side note: this is my first fanfic so sorry if there’s spellings mistakes or misplaced punctuation- story does contain the following…
.Smutt. Offensive language. 4 play.
Summery: You had only been in the presence of the priest a few times, only in morning masses. Your Papa enforced this on you. He believed young women must bathe in gods words as to pursue life. What ever he means is necessary-doesn’t fell like it at all.
~~~~~~~~
The priest was a generous and honest man, you could tell. The way he spoke the messages of god was deep from his heart, not always from the bible as if anyone cared enough to notice as you were board in the masses. At the end of a mass, there was a glint of kindness in his eyes as you would walk up to him, as he would bless you from almighty god. His soft wrinkled smile shone on you. At times you couldn’t help but feel warmed…
One day, to your surprise, you felt excited to go church. Your papa would notice the subtle gleams of light you showed as you would walk into the holy walls. You didn’t know why, nor how, but you knew it has something to do with the priest. He felt comforting…you had never spoke to him but only looked and smiled in approach at the end of the function. And then…and then, you had finally opened your mind. Thoughts started to plunder your head. Deep and-much to the lords demise…sinful thoughts. Thoughts that you felt as though you should be shamed for, you felt ashamed. The way you would imagined his breath mix with yours, the way his stern hands would press against your soft flesh, his worn eyes licking the view of your body. The feelings themselves also grew to an extent. You noticed that your heart would pound hard every time you’d see him, most times harder knowing he was looking back at you…
~~~~~~~~
Today you had decided to confess the feelings away and find help some kind of help from the lord, for good. It was too much at this point. You could feel your face burn when ever you were near him. Watching and listening him replay the blessing words of god started to make your heart skip a beat. Sometimes you thought he noticed. You didn’t want to be a sinner no more, so washing these feelings away *not mention to a holy man* was meant to strike for the better.
You had arranged a day to go play through your plan, today was a time that your local known priest was out of the city for the day. Going to confess to the man you had been filling your head with didn’t feel right. You needed to go to a different person of holy property, someone who wouldn’t recognise you at all, even if they tried behind closed curtains. You had heard a different priest was in the church for the day, so going to them was your destination.
You told your papa you went to pick up letters from the bank. Said there was “a mistake with the postage”. That statement should keep him occupied…
You walked through the cold, tall building. Over looking the rows of bench’s in the hall, you saw that they were empty, completely empty. The only sound was that was peeping in the atmosphere was your footsteps. You approached the confession booth. One door was closed, the other…it was open, just for you…You looked around you from side to side, confused if there was someone going to appear to join you in the booth. You weren’t sure if they were already in there. They must be, wouldn’t make sense if the other door were open. Not sure, you squeaked a “hello?” to be sure…your echos danced in the open air, travelling to almost what seemed like miles and yet…no one answered. Nor did anyone come.
Looking back to the open seat in the booth, it made you shiver. Why was this nerve racking for you? They don’t know who you are, these are confidential confessions. What could possibly be so bad about it? With a deep breath, you carefully stepped into the booth, closing the door behind you.
You take a seat, you look to the sliding screen in-front of you. It had embroidered holes in the screen, just small enough to peek body movement from the other side, it was also covered by a velvet purple curtain as another layer of coverage. It was dark and you only see a bit of the screen that wasn’t entirely covered behind the fabric. You could faintly see someone, only managing to make out what looked like their shoulder and forearm hiding behind. You almost sigh in relief as there was in fact, someone.
There was a moment of silence between the two of you. You almost twiddle with your fingers as you don’t know where to start with your confession. You parted your lips to speak, until the person on the opposite side beat you to it.
“What is troubling you my child?”
His voice…it was soft and yet almost sharp and daring. It seemed familiar, but seeing no face to match was seemingly impossible to determine who it was.
You swallow hard, blinking momentarily. With no more thought you reply. “Father? I…I’m sorry I don’t know where to begin” you bow your heard to your lap as you still find the struggle to tell your words.
“Front the start would help”
You shot your eyes back up to the curtain. You almost laughed, however to the persons unknown knowledge, you just smile shyly. “I feel…I must confess…since…ugh, since my papa had made go to these morning masses, I…I had developed…feelings”
“What kind of feelings?..”
That question nearly made you choke. How do you describe that? About a priest!- and speaking about it to another priest!? “…I suppose longing feelings…feelings that are strong, they make my heart dance…and in this case, I don’t think in a good way”
No comment was heard, you felt urged to go on.
“It’s towards a person who I know couldn’t ever want me back. It would be impossible to do so. He’s…devoted to another I guess you could say. Not only that he’s…rather…rather”
The priest was definitely an older man. Much older than you, that was another error in your sane persona. But honestly you didn’t care. You admired the work of his, tired face. His grey locks that sat comfortably behind his ears, his late shaved face and furrowed silver brows that matched. The way the sun blanketed on him through the tinted windows was more shimmering compared to a young pigmented hair like yours. You were so in awe of this man that even you can’t comprehend.
The unknown person predicts the end of your sentence
“Old?” He says
Your eyes widen. Well…maybe it was obvious you were going to say that from how your confession is sounding so far.
“Yes…” you say under a breath in shame, clutching the fabric of your dress in your lap. Wanting to bite back your admitted case. You wince saying every word in this moment, but you push yourself on.
“I don’t know what is wrong with me father. I know it’s wrong, I know it is. But I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s just so…” you pull back the paragraph of your poetic dreams for the priest. “I’m so ashamed of myself, he’s loyal to another and I’m young. I don’t want to be stupid about this, I want to be clean father. Please, you must help me” at this rate you’re begging for help.
There was another moment of silence, you itched to hear something from behind the closed screen and curtain. He must be thinking, thinking how silly you must be.
“Why would there be something wrong with you? It is only love you seek, correct?”
Surprised to his understanding and acceptance, you now feel more confident to proceed with the conversation.
“Yes, yes it is”
“Love, longing…yearning. It is something we all share, a natural drug. It is what makes us human. Even monsters of thirst can feel the same way” You furrow your brows at his last comment, what did he mean by that? “Even when you think this person is out of reach, you should never belittle yourself for feeling something so normal”
He was right, that part was clear.
“But what should I do father?” Your tone unknowingly becomes tense and ridged with frustration, still desperate of how to get ride of your stinking thoughts.
“You said a brief moment ago, you said (he’s just so..) what were you going to say? How do you really feel about this-well I presume a man…”
You pause. This felt off trail going back of the path from this topic, it didn’t feel relevant. Your paranoia kicked in, was he avoiding your plea for help because he doesn’t want to help you? Or understand? You really must be mad. You take moments to collect yourself. Prepare how you’re going to say this, but oh…you could go on. You could write a whole novel about him if you could. Your heart hurts for this man and you felt it could kill you.
“Father I-“
“What do you wish for him to do to you?”
Now your heart drops. Was this inappropriate? or was it appropriate? You didn’t exactly know, you weren’t the advising professional. He was wanting to know what you how you wished to be treated….surely….he was pushing you to speak more. Your mind floods to think he means it in a sensual way, maybe he didn’t mean a sensual way. Your breath hitch’s before you speak again.
“Well…” your huff a laugh under your breath, nervous as you were “I just…I imagine myself with him. I imagine him…talking to me, laughing with me. But sometimes…sometimes I want him…doing things to me, things I’m fear as though I’m too frail to say, it’s silly father…” you can’t say, it was too much, you feared if you were to say, even in a confession booth, it would scar you…for life. You still felt silly about it. Imagining yourself with a holy man. It was something so surreal, you knew it was not only wrong but forbidden.
“Do you wish he would fuck you?”
Bewildered by the comment. Your mouth fell agape.
“I don’t think this is appropriate fa-“
“Do you wish he would press himself against you…licking your lips doing so?.. do you want him to feel your legs…feel the cheeks of your face as he drives into you…”
Your face sparked in a warm flame, your chest pounding. Who was behind this screen!? In the dark, you glared at the curtain, tempted to rip off the thing and peep through the screen to see who was practically mocking you. This couldn’t be a priest, they were making a joke out of you, this is some kind of drunken fool who thought it would be fun to make a clown out of a young woman like you.
“H-how dare you” your say in a quiet tone, dumbfounded by his ridiculous comments. Your poor attempt to defend yourself wasn’t going to help you. You prepped yourself to leave. You are not going to stand for this. Right now you just wanted escape and forget this ever happened. You’ll just have to carry on with your life, knowing you’ll never get rid of a burning desire. Turning to the door, you are about to raise yourself from the chair.
“Y/N…” his words shot you like a poison dart, paralysing you to stay seated. How did he know your name? Then it occurred to you…something mortifying. No, no it couldn’t be him, it couldn’t! He’s out of the city, you were certain. Who else could it be, saying all these things. Even knowing your name. But the thing is, you don’t remember ever making a peep of your name to him, you never spoke to him…until now that it is. You hoped it wasn’t but you were definite it was…
You heard shuffling from the other side, then the sound of the door opened. You gulped. You stayed waiting, watching your own door, closed and in this moment it felt like your shield. His footsteps quietly and slowly made their way a bit closer to your side. You couldn’t determine where about he was from the outside of the booth but he was…right.there…
The footsteps came to a halt, you could tell by the way the sound of his shoes shifted on the stone tiles. There was yet again another moment of silence. This was tormenting, you just wanted your suspicions to be proven wrong. But you knew that wasn’t going to happen. You felt caged and cornered, you couldn’t go anywhere, you couldn’t leave anywhere.
Suddenly. The light peeked in the crack of the door, it opened from the other side. In this moment you didn’t know whether to feel scared or…pleased?
The man standing before you. Was indeed…the priest. His black dressed frame towered in front of you. Almost blocking the light from outside of the booth. His eyes were dark, but they stared down at you in way they never did before. His deep and slow pants of breath made you quake. He looked as though with struggle, he had just freed himself from straitjacket. His eyes looked at you like you we’re a poor animal indeed of help, or asthough he was going to tell you off? Perhaps it was both. It was a mix of that same kindness he had always given you, but there was something sinister lurking in his gaze. What was he going to do with you? You felt your restraints loosening as you felt a weak shiver in your legs. You wanted him to do something-say something…anything….
“Stand” he says. His voice low and bewitching
Like casted under a spell, you do as he says. You rise from your chair. Locking eyes with him at level.
“Father I’m sorry, I-“
“Shh…don’t speak” he shakes his head at you with briefly closed eyes. He’s heard enough sorry’s, he will now let yourself be forgiven under his care.
He slowly walks into the booth, closing the door behind him. You subconsciously attempt to back away as to give room, but there was barely any. It was a space for only one person and he was making it impossible for that to be compatible. Your breath hitch’s once more when he turns to face you, he was so close to you, more close than ever, even when not touching you, you felt his warmth radiate.
“Your hurting, I see that now”
He read you like the bible itself, you were hurting, you wanted some kind of release as you just begged for, however in this case…this might be meant differently. His eyes fall down your figure and ever so tenderly and slowly look back up to your eyes. They dart not just to your eyes but your hair, your red cheeks, your lips. He was observing you like the starry night painting. It was a look that told you that you were safe with him. To not be afraid.
“You are a smart woman, choosing to be rid of your thoughts of me” he inch’s closer. “But as a man of god, I want to help you” he circles you, you follow his movement and now your back now faces the wooden wall. He takes a deep breath as looks down again at your frame again.
“You want to be clean?” He looks back your desperate eyes once more. “My dear, I must tell you that’s impossible” he warmly smiles
You stand there a little lost, hearing his words were coherent but somehow sounded like riddles. Maybe that was because you couldn’t stop paying attention to how’s he’s constantly looking at you. It made you feel naked, and something tells you…you liked that.
“Everyone, such as yourself…” he inch’s more towards you, your back now pressing against the cold wall. “can have a dirty mind, however yours in particular…it’s filthy”
Hearing your confession made him more aware what you really wanted from him, not just a talk, not just a laugh, he knew you wanted him to take you like a starved beast.
“You’re a filthy girl” he tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, now he was so close, your breaths now mixing. Your heart was going to be ripped out of your chest at this rate it’s beating, you could swear he can hear the pounding. With the back of his fingers, they brush against your warm cheek.
“Tell me what you what you want me to do to you”
He basically already knew, he even said it for you, but he wanted to hear it from your lips, in the font of your voice. You wet your lips with tip of your tongue before you spoke. “I…I want you to take me, do all…sorts of things”
“Like what?” He was desperate to hear it more specifically. He somewhat liked seeing you squirm under his intimidating gaze and words. That warm smile of his still lingering.
“To kiss me, to…taste me, touch me in a way I won’t forget” you couldn’t bring yourself to say *fuck* the word alone was bold, not to mention you were both in the house of the lord. Why you still felt the need to be pleasant, you weren’t sure. The whole time your chest is heaving up and down.
His lash’s softly flutter. He noticed how hitched and frozen you were, he wanted to warm you. He proceeds to look down to your lips. The hand he brushed your cheek with now cupped, his other hand doing the same, now both hands holding you’re r face gently. His lips press against yours.
Closing your eyes, you felt like the whole world had stopped turning. That the whole world had turned dark and you two were the only source of light. His lips were soft and nurturing, they brushed yours so steadily. You thought you might faint.
He parts away from you, already missing his touch.
“Father” you heave out, as if the priest stole your breath away. You wanted more. Hearing his title behind told from your tongue made his heart triple in size, oh how it made him crazy.
And without thought, the possession took over and his lips met against yous once again. This time, more harshly. They wedged into you, making you kiss him back, pushing your mouth against his more prominently. His hands found their way to burrow through your hair, the other, tracing down your arm and made its way to cradle your jaw. You let yourself go, your arm wrap around his shoulder, the other on his chest.
He parts from you temporarily, “I noticed they way you look at me” he said before now, slightly parting his lips to you again, they quickly open even more, you felt his tongue slip into the welcoming home of your mouth. You mimic the action, brushing your tongue up against his, the wet slithers made you release a moan. His hand traveled to the nape of your neck, murgding into your mouth more thoroughly. He felt the vibration of your sound, your sweet sound, he wanted to hear more as he told you more about how you see him, how he sees you.
“When you come into mass, when you left. I saw how much you wanted to be played with”
His mouth moved away, you let out a huff of stifled breath. The priest now suctioned onto your neck, his hands finding their way under your skirts. You shiver under his touch. His broad hands were warm and they palmed your crotch between your legs. His index finger rubbing sweet circles on your clit all by through your undergarments. He could feel the dampness already seeping through. You hear him make a grunt by his discovery.
You let out another moan, this time more winced. The sensation made you unstable to stand, but he held you against the wall like a mousetrap. You tug on his grey locks for some-kind of support. His other hand travels to your leg, he kneads the flesh of your thigh, and quite aggressively, it hurts but you didn’t stop him.
“The first day I saw you, when you came you to me to be blessed before the end of the session” his mouth leaves your neck, leaving his bruised mark on your clavicle, he leans up to your ear, and whispers “i wanted to fuck you right then and there” his tongue licks from your jaw and up the side of your face. His words ascended you into heaven, was this heaven? You thought briefly. You let out a satisfied sigh. Exposing that you had liked hearing him speak these things to you. His fingers circling you more faster and harder. You wine into his touch, his other hand palms the cheek of your backside, squeezing onto the warm flesh.
“Nngh”
The hand that was busy on your clit, moves to fiddle with your undergarments, you missed the sensation already. Leaning your head back on the wall, you close your eyes. Feeling his fingers tug and slither his hand between the fabric and the surface of your hip. With no patience. You try to help him pull them down. You needed him inside of you already-now, you waited long enough. You struggle as you look back down. Only seeing the layers of your skirt ruffled up around your hips and upper legs. The priest creates a hum of a chuckle, he honestly found it adorable how desperate you were.
“You’re a sinful little girl for wanting this so badly”
Oh he was teasing you, his tone was playful. You had surprised yourself at how much you liked being called these things, and oh how it would mortify your papa.
You felt his other hand leave from under your skirts, they wrapped themselves around both of your hands that attempted to pull down your undergarments. He pinned them against the wall by your wrists and above your head.
“Don’t” his tone had now took a turn, one second it seemed he liked seeing you helplessly want him faster, but quick as lightning the flavour of his identity grew shadowy. He looked back at you with the same kind look he gave you beofre but now it was strict and dominating.
With swift motion, he pulled down your undergarments, and before you knew it, he had unfastened the lower half of his black robe. You both eye make contact as you share a gulp of air as he placed himself inside of you. You felt him slide, he filled you tenderly. He felt so big, he swallowed the wet welcoming space you had for him. His hard and long awaited began a pace.
He bucked himself into you, pushing you against the wall with ease. His hips had only set a slow, gentle pace to start with and yet it felt as though you were already seeing stars.
“You feel so heavenly” he chants. You couldn’t help but let a breathless smile cross your face. You couldn’t believe this was finally happening. You wanted him for so long and now all your wish’s-your dreams Ahmad come true.
He thrusted into you again. You wanted to grab onto something-anything! But he had his hands on you like a hawk with its prey. His hips waved into you like the sea tides. The way you could feel his size fill your space, it was sending you to roll your eyes. You squirm, already wanting him to go faster. You buck your hips, moaning as you wanted him more.
“P-please…I beg”
The priest looks at you with a slight gleam in his gaze. As he still rolls into you, he leans into your ear for a second time, “you beg?” He repeats your words in a question, and to his comment, he slows down his pace. You wine and look at him with a distasteful expression.
“What do you beg for?” His tone of course held a playful tease, he licks and gently bites your ear. You shiver under the touch of his tongue. How were you suppose to answer when he’s doing all of this. However you knew if you didn’t answer him, he won’t go any faster. In desperation you tumble over your words.
“ faster, father-please”
He grunts with a smile. He liked that answer, with a wet tongued kiss on your ear, his free hand pulled up your leg by your thigh. You wrap it around his waist, pulling the both of you closer and deeper. “Such a good girl”.
You hum by his comment, His grey whiskers scratching you as he spoke to you in such sin. Usually that would be uncomfortable but knowing it was him, knowing it was his face, his hair, his whole self, it just made you more aroused. His pace had increased. You gasped as he practically and blissfully penetrated into you, feeling him hammer your bell and rub your walls, cursing your core to tighten as you felt yourself already approach the end.
His gripe on your writes tighten aswell, still at your ear, he grunts, the gruffness he held from his throat sends a spark within you. he marches himself between your legs harder. The squelched sounds erupting in the small contained space. Both of your breaths hot and a heavy.
The priest felt your walls closing on him, he couldn’t resist but to moan. His face fell into the gap of your neck as his thrusts become erratic, your climax was reaching its peak, you felt your whole body tense, your back arching away from the wall with mouth agape, pressing your body against his as he too stiffed, he tiresomely groaned as his peak had finally filled you. You both cum at once. His hips coming to a shaky still. You felt it hit, the warm lotion soaking inside you. His hips moved away, as he became soft. The remains of his residue seeped out of you and trickled on your thighs. Hearing the drops fall onto the wooden floor boards.
You both stand there for a moment. Your legs turned weak and bodies hot and flushed. There was no noise except for the huffing coming from your mouths. The priest lets go of you writs and leg, he pulls himself away from your neck to look at you. His hands resting the wall from both sides of your head. The bead of sweat rolled down his aged temple, his hazel eyes focused on you like you were the sweetest thing he’s seen. You smile in response. Your hands fall down to stroke his hair, his eyes close contently from your touch.
You kiss his forehead, your lips remain there as you speak against the surface of his warm skin.
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
no pressure tags @ramblings-of-lola @sunflower-chai @hiddenvioletsgrow @williambryantlesbianaunt @iceman-kazansky @beconna @determinedowl23
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
No pressure tagging: @footprintsinthesxnd @makriiii @liptonwashere @themuseinthewoods @screaming-panama506
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
I feel like some of these was a lose-lose for me. Anyway, I'll tag @rambosgirl @nana-lundgren @moronic-validity
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
Wow! I really enjoyed this survey. It was fun. ☺️ Thank @sweet-dorky-crazy
@my-gunnar-jensen, would you mind participating? 💜
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology sorry none of them because i hated it at school😅 | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten maybe both | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
Uhm i don't know who to tag😅🤷♀️ @sativamommy @iwmflbb
coffee or tea | early bird or night owl | chocolate or vanilla | spring or fall | silver or gold | pop or alternative | freckles or dimples | snakes or sharks | mountains or fields | thunder or lightning | egyptian mythology or greek mythology | ivory or scarlet | flute or lyre | opal or diamond | butterflies or honeybees | macarons or eclairs | typewritten or handwritten | secret garden or secret library | rooftop or balcony | spicy or mild | opera or ballet | london or paris | vincent van gogh or claude monet | denim or leather | potions or spells | ocean or desert | mermaids or sirens | masquerade ball or cocktail party
No pressure tagging : @sexy-monster-fucker @shiinata-library @princessglittergore2
Gunner Jensen x reader. Takes place during Expend4bles. (moodboard)
Warning: References to alcoholism.
*****
Six months sober. And for what?
Gunner glares at the small glass placed on the table in front of him as if the innocuous container had caused him some grave offense, and weren’t simply something the waitress has just brought on his expressed request, the amber liquid filling it his poison of choice since he was still in school.
He could drink it. He ordered it, the waitress brought it over, and it is now in front of him, waiting to be drunk. Well, not really, no, he corrects himself, struggling to make sense of his own thoughts in his pain-, rather than alcohol-, induced stupor; it’s just an object, lacking a will of its own, it cannot wait for something anymore than it could burst into song.
Still, Gunner could swear there is an intention, a deliberate will, in the tiny glass recipient, a malicious, seductive voice calling to him: what are you waiting for? Drink me, you know you want it; drink me and have them fill me again, and you’ll feel better.
The scary thing, Gunner thinks with a sigh as he stares at his tiny opponent, is that it’s perfectly right.
Around him, the party in celebration of Barney’s life -not his death- is in full swing, people drinking and crying and remembering a man who was loved by many, feared by some, and respected by all. Christmas is sitting alone, Gina standing next to him; the others are scattered around the bar, each mourning in their own way. Gunner knows his case is not special, at least not among the Expendables; Barney was their leader, and each of them has a history with him, a history that saw their friend recruit them in that ragtag team of mercenaries that, Gunner is ready to bet the little he owns, will be short-lived now that its founder is dead.
Dead. Damn, Gunner still can’t believe it. Barney can’t be dead; not him, not yet. He is too strong, too smart, too… too important to die, in a shitty mission like so many others he had completed successfully. But he did; he died, and nothing will ever be the same.
Barney wouldn’t want him to drink, Gunner knows it well; Barney was proud of him when he decided to quit, supported him during his two brief but painful relapses, and even remained by his side on the nights when the thirst felt unbearable. You can do it; I have faith in you, Barney told him, squeezing his shoulder in support. He was being sincere, and this matters to Gunner more than he could explain in words.
He’s surrounded by people he knows, including the only few people he can call friends; and yet, he has never felt more alone, and somehow… distant, as if an invisible wall had suddenly appeared around his table, separating him from the rest of the bar and its patrons. No one seems to pay him any mind, and the babble filling the room -To Barney!, repeated over and over again- sounds dull to his ears; it’s like being underwater, or the way ears don’t work properly for a little while -if one’s lucky- after a bomb has gone off in the vicinity.
The glass is still in front of him. Gunner wishes dearly someone would bump into the table and spill it, but he feels completely unable to simply stretch his hand to do it himself; if anything, his hand literally itches with the desire to grab the glass and pour its content down his throat. Then, as he always did, he would order a second, and then a third, and then some more until numbers ceased having a meaning, and the others would have to carry him home.
No, Barney wouldn’t want him to drink, after six months of sobriety; he would be worried for him, and a little disappointed as well, even though he’d be careful not to show it. Gunner, who knows the consequences alcohol has, and had, on his life, knows he should resist, for his own sake if not for his friend’s. Alcohol has led him to levels of wretchedness he would have never come out of if not thanks to Barney’s help, and Gunner never wants to repeat that experience ever again; he’s not sure he could survive.
He doesn’t want to disappoint Barney; but Barney is dead, Gunner thinks sadly, so why does it matter since he’ll never know?
All of a sudden he wants that small glass, and its content, more intensely than he has ever wanted anything - and anyone; it won’t help, quite the opposite in fact, but only for a minute it will feel like it does, and that is enough for Gunner.
He’s exactly half a second away from reaching out to take the glass when -
“I thought you had quit.”
He hasn’t heard you approach, but here you are, standing in front of him with your arms to your chest and a disappointed scowl that makes him feel even worse than before.
Well, not anyone.
Gunner doesn’t know what the deal is -was- between you and Barney. His friend had never manifested a particular interest in any woman in years, beside the occasional one night stand, when one day he had gone on a business trip to Los Angeles to meet his old friend Bonaparte, and when he returned you were with him. From that day on, the two of you were inseparable; you lived with him in his apartment, and one had to be blind not to see the way you immediately looked for each other when stepping in a room, not to mention the countless times each of you had risked your life to help the other. Gunner had even seen the two of you holding hands in comfort after something particularly traumatizing had happened.
You’re a valid asset to the team, your experience as a mercenary and, previously, special forces operative making you highly suited to the team; you get along mostly fine with the others, including Gunner… which, he has often reflected morosely, is only due to the fact that he’s never told you what he has come to feel for you.
He’d rather eat glass.
“I have quit.” he points out.
“So what’s that in the glass? Soda?” you ask sarcastically, a moment before you notice the glass is full, and softness fills your gaze. “Shall I take it away?”
Gunner nods, relieved. “Or drink it yourself if you want. Just… take it away from me.”
You obey, returning the untouched glass to the counter before walking back to his table; you take the chair in front of his, and that is when Gunner first notices your blood-shot eyes, the deep pain etched in your features. It’s understandable, he thinks. No one better than Gunner knows how strong you are, how resilient and headstrong; but losing the person one loves… that is something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy.
He tries to imagine a parallel universe in which you had been the one not returning from the mission, rather than Barney, and shudders; the mere idea is unbearable. Then he wonders if you’d be in the same state if he had been the one dying; you obviously wouldn’t, even though you’d surely mourn, and he has no reason to feel even worse, but he does…
“How are you?” he asks softly, already aware of the extreme foolishness of his question, and you shrug in response, helpless and dismayed, like a child who has lost her way home.
“Not well.” you admit, your voice barely rising above a whisper “It… it still feels a little unreal, you know? There are still his clothes at home, and his things… any moment I expect him to come through the door to tell me we have a job, or ask if I want to get a pizza for dinner. But he’ll never come; God… I can’t believe I will never see him again…”
You cover your face with your hands, but Gunner can see your body trembling, the quiet sobs you are hiding from him -but you shouldn’t; there is nothing, no matter how private or embarrassing, he wouldn’t readily accept, and love, if it’s part of you. It’s true, more true than anything he has ever said or done or felt in his life, and while Gunner knows he could never tell you, not even in a million years, it does feel good… even though it will always be the sort of happiness that is and remains just beyond his reach- breaking his heart.
He wishes he could hug you; a purely platonic embrace, because he’s not the sort of bastard who takes advantage of a mourning woman to cup a feeling, no matter how delicious it would be to feel your body pressed against his; the sort of hug friends share, and that he would want to receive if he were in your place. He doesn’t dare to, of course; it’s absurd, but Gunner knows how perceptive you are, and he’s sure that if you were to hug you’d perceive what he feels, what he has felt for years now, and that would ruin any chance he has to at least be and remain your friend.
Therefore no, he can’t hug you, but after a moment of deliberation he reaches out to take your hand and squeeze it gently. He feels you shiver for a moment, but you don’t pull back. “Barney wouldn’t want you to be sad. I know it hurts, but you’ll have to find a way to go on.”
“I know; I will, and that is what scares me the most.” you admit with a sigh; you are not crying, to be honest you are more in control of yourself than many women Gunner has seen in your situation, but pain and sadness seem to almost ooze from your skin… as if you were surrounded by a black cloud of sorrow “The fact that I can go on living even though he’s no longer here. I know you all loved Barney, but for me he… well, he was my family.”
Family? Gunner’s eyes descend on your free hand, resting on the table beside the one he’s covering with his own, and while there is no golden circle on your ring finger, you are wearing a ring, a pretty little thing with a precious stone on top.
You were engaged, Gunner realises feeling more stupid than ever, probably soon to be married since Barney was not the sort of man to waste time when something was important to him. He didn’t know; did the others? Maybe it was recent -he doesn’t remember ever noticing the ring before, even though Gunner spends more of his time looking at you than he probably should- and the two of you were waiting for the right moment, or maybe you and Barney had planned to elope and then celebrate with the rest of the team later.
Whatever your plans were, they have gone up in smoke. Gunner can only imagine your pain, so he avoids asking questions, and just rubs calming circles on the back of your hand until your tears stop running, and you look at him, not smiling but still grateful. “Thank you. I am so sorry, Gunner, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s alright; you’re one of us, and we all know what you and Barney shared.”
“You’re not alone, you know that?” he murmurs, meeting your eyes; the bar is even louder than usual, but he knows you can hear him just fine “We’re all in this together. We all miss Barney, but we’re here for you. We won’t leave you alone.”
“You… you did? We… we had planned on keeping it to ourselves…”
In that case you have done a terrible job, Gunner thinks, given all the touches and looks and the ring now on your hand; still, there can be better times for that conversation.
“I know; thank you, I… I don’t know what I am going to do from tomorrow on, I can’t think about the future.” you admit softly; a brief pause follows, and then: “Do you think we can go on without him? The team, I mean.”
You sound almost scared as you speak, clearly dreading the possibility of losing your friends as well as the man you loved, and Gunner really wishes he had a better answer to give you, even though the option of lying to you, even just to make you feel better, never even crosses his mind. The truth is, you are a tight knit group, firm friends and all more than capable to keep up the good work even after losing your best man. On the other hand, Barney was your centre, your glue; not just the man who arranged the missions and made plans for all of you, but the person the others all looked to for reassurance and leadership.
“I don’t know. I… really want to, and most of the others will probably say the same, but I’m not sure we can go on now that he’s gone. The Expendables will never be the same without him; I don’t even know there can be Expendables, without Barney.”
You nod, agreeing with his judgment. “What are you going to do now?”
“I have no idea. You?”
“Well, I still have Bonaparte’s number, so I might call him and ask if he has any work for me. I still have the place where I was living in Los Angeles, so I could just come back there.”
I could come with you. Gunner thinks those words with such an intensity it’s a miracle you don’t hear them, or that you don’t at least read the sentiment on his face. Maybe this is what you need, what both of you need: a new beginning, far from sad memories. Maybe, in that apartment where you were living when Bonaparte introduced you and Barney, there’s a room for him as well, or maybe another place nearby, so that you could meet every day, have dinner together…
You are now single. He doesn’t want to think about it, to feel his heart fill with hope at the mere thought, but he does, and no matter how Gunner hates himself for that, he can’t help thinking that he might have a chance now that your relationship with Barney is over. You’ll never forget and stop loving him, and he doesn’t want you to, but maybe you’ll be able to move on and find someone else, and he has made so many mistakes in his life but God, if he really were to be so lucky as to have you want him, Gunner knows he could be worthy of it, he’d treasure you as you deserve, he’d treat you right, never look at another woman ever again and make sure every day, every moment, you know how special you are…
Stop it. You bastard, her fiancé died two days ago; how can you even think about trying to get with her? She’s in mourning, and at best you’d be taking advantage of her.
But it’s not just a matter of time; Gunner knows it well, well enough to feel his heart break because of it. You are your own woman, a self-sufficient person with her own opinions and feelings, but you were Barney’s partner, the woman who would have been his wife had you had the time, and he… he has to respect that. Even in the highly unlikely event you actually developed feelings for him, he’d always feel like the third wheel, an intruder who -even if you got together a decade later- had waited for the woman of his dreams to have lost her man to shoot his shot with her.
He just couldn’t do it; you deserve better, and Barney does as well. In his friend’s memory, and because of the love he feels for you, Gunner promises to himself he will always take care of you, support and comfort you when you need it, but actually entering a relationship with you, or even just confessing his feelings, would feel like stealing you from the man he owes everything to. And Gunner has stooped very low in his life, but he wants to still be proud of the man he is.
He’s so deep in his thoughts he almost jumps when he sees you stand. “You alright?”
“I’m going home.” you explain, doing your best to smile; you have no idea how beautiful you look when you do it, and Gunner would give half of his blood to be able to tell you “I know it’s early, but… thank you for talking to me, Gunner; I’ll see you soon.”
“I’ll come with you.” he immediately decides, standing from his chair; if you’re going to leave soon, he wants to spend as much time as he can with you, even if just platonically by your side, for a fifteen-minute walk home. It’s pathetic, but he can’t help it “I mean… Can I walk you home?”
You nod in response, and a moment later, after you have said your good-byes -Gunner sees the ease with which the others hug you expressing their condolences, and he feels more of an idiot than ever, since he would never dare, fearing his body and his feelings would betray him- you leave the bar together, immersing yourselves in the cold darkness of the night.
*
You’ve always liked walking outside at night, especially in a relatively silent area like the one you went to live in after moving in with Barney; it’s in those moments you feel you can think better, reflect on whatever issue is troubling you, or make a decision over which you had obsessed over for days. You usually prefer to do it alone, in order to be excused from having to make small talk; Barney is the only person whose company you enjoy on your walks, because when you’re with him, silence feels peaceful rather than tense or awkward. There is nothing you can’t talk about, no topic or matter that the two of you can’t discuss; all the same, the moments you enjoy the most are the silent ones - when you’re together, either walking side by side carrying the groceries or sitting on the sofa to enjoy a movie, his arm draped across your shoulder. In moments like this, neither feels the need to talk, because all you feel, especially for each other, is clear.
You love those moments; you cherish them, especially now that they are over forever. Barney is gone, and you’re alone, alone in your home, and alone on your walks.
Except that you aren’t, not tonight at least.
“Thank you for this.” you murmur quietly. Neither of you has spoken since you left the bar, but you’re deeply aware of Gunner’s tall frame next to you, his hands in his pockets, and the way he moves uncomfortably away every time his elbow brushes against yours “You didn’t have to, you know it’s not far.”
“It’s not a problem.” he mumbles, his eyes trained on his boots “I thought you wouldn’t… you know, want to be alone at a time like this.”
You don’t, and the fact that he was the one offering to walk you touched you deeply. You get along splendidly with all the guys, but you have always had the impression Gunner sort of dislikes you; you have no idea why, since you’ve never argued and you’ve never done anything to displease him as far as you know. Still, even though you usually get along and are able to work well together, there are moments in which he seems uncomfortable in your company, unable to even just meet your gaze; a couple of times you could have sworn he left the room just after you entered, as if he couldn’t bear to be in your presence.
Saddened and confused, you asked for Barney’s opinion, and he grinned in response. “Don’t worry, you did nothing wrong; you just need him to grow a pair and tell you.”
Tell me what? You never knew, and Barney, who seemed deeply amused by the whole matter, refused to tell you; the doubt was more than a little frustrating… especially since you’ve started liking Gunner a little more than it would have been safe to.
Having him by your side, his silent but solid presence a source of unexpected comfort, should make you happy, and it does - which, in turn, fills your heart with shame; what sort of woman would feel a positive emotion, of any kind, when the man she loved the most in the world has been dead for only two days? But you can’t help it, which is why you feel yourself growing tense as your unhurried walk brings you closer and closer to the apartment you once shared with Barney and that is now only yours.
“Thank you.” Gunner murmurs after a while “For stopping me from drinking; I was this close to giving up.”
“Glad I could help; and I guess it’s harder when you’re sad or angry about something, isn’t it?” you consider; then, after a brief pause: “How long have you been sober now?”
“It’s been six months last monday.”
“Wow… it’s a lot. Good job, Gunner.”
You’re sincerely impressed, and even though he’s still staring at his boots Gunner has to feel it, because he smiles - just for a second.
“I do miss him too, you know? A lot.” he adds, finally turning to look at you; he looks strangely… earnest, as if it were important to him to convince you of that truth of which you have no reason to doubt “I know Christmas was the one he was the closest, but he was my friend too; he was a great guy, and he helped me a lot.”
“I know. He loved you too, he really did.”
Silence falls again; turning a corner near a small bodega you sometimes come to when you don’t feel like driving to the supermarket you enter your neighbourhood. You’ll be home in less than five minutes, and with the realization you can feel panic rising inside you… until Gunner speaks again.
“A few years back, before you came… I hit a particularly low point in my life, and I… I betrayed the guys for a man who was the dictator of some small country far away.” he says, his voice barely rising above a whisper “I have known a lot of lows in my life, but that… that was the worst of them all; alcohol, drugs… I wasn’t myself anymore. I wasn’t thinking; I think I wasn’t even feeling. I almost killed Yang, a guy I had been friends with for years, and I felt nothing, not even shame. I was… empty; a husk, nothing more.”
You don’t answer, well aware that sort of confession just needs to be heard; this time, when your arm touches his, neither pulls back.
“Barney was the only one who still gave a shit about me. He fought for me, to have me readmitted to the team; he had seen better than anyone what I had done, how much… darkness there was in me, but he still cared; he still trusted there was something in me that was worth the effort. He saved me, and I… shit…”
He rubs a hand on his eyes, and you quickly look the other way, not wanting to intrude. “If Barney fought for you, he must have thought you were worth it.” you say; you feel strangely ill at ease, as if you had witnessed some delicate and private moment, but Gunner is hurting, and you know he doesn’t deserve to “He loved you; he considered you a dear friend. So if you’re grateful for what he did, the least you can do is to keep on living, and remain sober. You got me?”
He sniggers. “Yes ma’am…”
“Good.”
That small, fragile moment of serenity comes to a halt when your destination appears in front of you; the building is shrouded in darkness, but you can see the windows of your apartment on the second floor, and that is enough to make you tremble uncontrollably.
Gunner looks at you; he frowns. “Are you alright?”
“I can’t do it.”
“What do you mean? Did you forget your keys?”
“No, I… I can’t go in there. Not anymore; there’s Barney’s jacket on a chair and his coffee cup on the kitchen counter… the place still smells like him…”
“(name)...”
“I can’t go in; I… I have slept in the car the last two nights, I packed a bag and went to the gym to take a shower, and I had promised I would stop, that I would return home tonight, because otherwise I’ll never be able to, but I can’t, I really… I’m scared…!”
You’re blabbing, shivering from head to toe, and worst of all, tears have started falling from your eyes; you don’t even dare to think what you look like at the moment, and you don’t care. He’s dead, dead, and you only had him for five short years, rather than the many you had hoped you’d have together.
Your world is empty now; and no matter how much you cry, curse and throw a tantrum, nothing will change the truth.
Gunner doesn’t speak, but when you feel his arms tentatively touching yours you give in, and a moment later you are sobbing into his shoulder, Gunner’s warm and solid body holding yours, shielding yours, gently rocking you as if you were a child needing to be comforted after a nightmare. “It’s alright.” he murmurs; your eyes meet for a moment, and the gaze you exchange is enough to make you both shiver “You’ll be alright, I promise.”
You know perfectly you never will be, no matter how many years pass there will always be a piece missing inside you, but in the pit of pain and darkness you have fallen in Gunner’s words feel like a rope pulling you to safety, and you cling desperately to them as, without fully realising it, you return his embrace, your arms circling his back.
Time seems to stop. You’re still holding each other tight, tight enough you can feel Gunner’s heart pound against your chest; he’s warm, unexpectedly gentle as the fingers of his hand run through your hair, his deep voice murmuring words you never dreamt you’d hear him say.
You hadn’t meant to kiss him; you could swear it on your life, you really hadn’t, and neither had he. It’s just that… it feels so good, so sweet and right, to be held in his embrace, his body close to yours, his fingers in your hair, the touch of his lips to your forehead timid but warm, full of tenderness. For the first time in two days, since you had received the phone call that had plunged your life into darkness, you feel able to breathe freely, at ease in your body, free from the frozen cold that has enveloped you.
You raise your eyes to meet Gunner’s. Thank you, you’re about to say, but then he moves his face to look at you as well, and those few millimeters make a whole world of difference. Few millimeters; that’s also what separates your mouths, little enough to make you both perceive that the other is holding their breath. Neither feels able to move…
“Gunner, I…”
“Oh, darling…”
… until you do, and those few millimeters disappear as Gunner’s chapped lips meet yours.
It’s sweet, and hot, scorchingly so, enough to make you forget the cold, and maybe you’ll fall to the ground since your legs are trembling, if not for the strong arms still holding you in place. Gunner is kissing you, and you kiss him back, tilting your head to the side to grant him better access to your mouth, and it’s like an executioner who grants the convict a minute of reprieve; for a few short seconds the loneliness inside you recedes, and you can feel blood run in your veins again.
It stops much earlier than you wished, but it does, with Gunner who seems to have to force himself to break the kiss, and to remember how to breathe. And then, whatever shame and guilt he felt after realising the depth of his betrayal years ago, must be nothing compared to what you can see on his face now.
“Gunner…”
“I’m sorry.” he murmurs, avoiding your eyes “Shit, I… I shouldn’t have…”
Of course he shouldn’t have, you realise with a pang; he was trying to comfort you, because he knows the extent of your pain and what you and Barney shared, and probably the closeness did the rest. He hadn’t meant to kiss you, and you were so stupid, a naive idiot, to think things might have been different, that he might have cared…
“No, I am sorry… don’t know what has gotten into me, I didn’t mean to…” you stammer, trying to scrape up some modicum of self-respect, and quickly finding you have none left. God, and you thought you couldn’t stoop any lower… “I better go now…”
“Where? To sleep in your car again?”
“Probably. I’ll be alright, really, it’s no problem…”
Gunner sighs. “You can come to my place if you want.” he offers after a moment; he’s mumbling, and staring at his boots, again.
It has never been easy for you to accept help from others, even from friends, and doing it now, from the man who has just kissed you and immediately regretted it fills you with shame. On the other hand, he is asking…
“... sorry?”
“You can have my bed. It’s not much, but it’s warm and more comfortable than a car.”
“Oh, well… if you don’t mind…”
“I don’t. Come on, or we’ll both freeze here.”
You slowly follow Gunner down the road, neither of you speaking as you leave behind you the building shrouded in darkness and the second floor apartment that will remain empty for at least a night more.
You had never been to Gunner’s place, but it’s more or less like you expected it, and like Barney’s was when you moved in; a simple place, cosy in its own way, a large TV, an old sofa, the furniture essential and durable.
You like it, and if the situation were different you would tell him, surely Gunner would appreciate the compliment; but things are the way they are, and so you remain silent while he shows you the bedroom -”The sheets are clean… I think…”- and the nearby bathroom.
“Make yourself at home; I’ll be on the sofa.”
“Oh, I can take the sofa…”
“Nah, you take the bed; just… call me if you need anything.”
“Oh, God, (name)...”
He can’t even look you in the eyes, and you hate yourself for it, because while you are pretty sure your kiss -that kiss that, almost half an hour later, still makes you tremble as you think about it- was mutual, you have made him uncomfortable as he was trying to support you. God, what sort of person have you become? And what would Barney think of you if he could see you now?
“I’m sorry, Gunner.” you murmur, and he, who was about to leave to retrieve a blanket and a few other things from the bedroom, turns to look at you “I’m sorry for… for what I did. I didn’t mean to… upset you, it’s just that… I feel so alone…”
For a moment -and your heart leaps- you’re sure he’s going to hug you again, but then his large, warm hands rest on your shoulders, gently rubbing up and down your arms, as if he had perceived how desperately cold you feel and wanted to help. Again.
“It’s not your fault, you hear me? You are hurting; you’re not responsible for what you do…”
“I feel so stupid…”
“God, no; you’re not stupid. You are…”
A pause.
“... precious.” he concludes, sounding a bit awkward as he does so; he swallows, and then he looks at you, and you can see him tremble “Tell me what I can do. If there’s something, anything in the world, that would make you feel better, even just for a moment, you tell me, and I’ll do it. Please, (name), I can’t stand seeing you like this.”
His desire to soothe your pain is the most important thing you could ever ask for, but the truth, no matter how guilty you feel just admitting it in the privacy of your heart, is that there is something he, and only he, could do to give you a moment of respite, a single instant of light in the darkness, but you don’t dare asking…
And you don’t have to, because Gunner only needs to look you in the eyes to understand.
You’re standing face to face in the apartment’s central corridor, muscles tense, hearts pounding, like two enemies a moment away from drawing their weapons and fire; you move at the same exact time, your hands grabbing onto Gunner’s shoulders and his cupping your face, and then you’re kissing again, and while the kiss you shared in front of your apartment was sweet, a little shy, and innocent, this is the polar opposite.
You’re both panting heavily as you let Gunner press you against the wall, and you hear him moan when your tongues meet, hungry, avid, aroused. Wasting no time, you tear his shirt open to take it off him, and you can’t hold back a gasp as you drink in the sight in front of you. Even among the Expendables, it is easy to see Gunner has an impressive physique, but now that you actually get to admire him, you feel yourself struggling to swallow: his well-defined pecs and abs, his wide, muscled shoulders, his bulging biceps… he literally looks like the realisation of all the wet dreams you had in your life, and judging from the way he’s grinning, he is well aware of the effect he’s having on you.
“Like what you see, darling?” he asks, his deep voice almost purring with lust, and then, for good measure, he lifts his arms and flexes, huge muscles bulging out; you nod, all too aware of how wet you already are.
“I’m very impressed.” you admit with a small grin as you unashamedly admire his deliciously masculine figure, and for a moment you are simply a couple of lovers like many others, who hook up for the first time, having hidden your feelings for each other for years or having met at a bar an hour before. For a short, precious moment all is fine in the world, before reality comes crashing down.
Like Gunner said, you know Barney wouldn’t want you to cry, to mourn him to the point it stops you from living your life and be happy; he’d want you to go on, learn to live without him like the strong, self-reliant woman he has always known you to be. He’d be happy to know you have started a relationship, especially with a person he had known and liked. He wouldn’t care if it had happened less than forty-eight hours after Christmas had called to inform you about his death; Barney had known pain more than anyone you know, and wouldn’t care about that sort of technicality.
You deserve a good man, or at least a good fuck, more than anyone I know, (name); he’d tell you; at first he never spoke to you like that, he avoided swearing and vulgarities, until you made it clear that he didn’t need to watch his mouth just because you were a woman and of what you shared, you wanted him to talk to you as freely, and honestly, as he did with any of his friends, if you meet someone you like, go for it; just make sure they know how lucky they are to have you.
Yes, Barney wouldn’t mind if you hd sex with Gunner, or whoever else, while his body is still warm in his casket -it’s just an expression; as usual when one of them dies the Expendables buried him in Libya, rather than bringing the body back- he would be happy you found comfort in another person, but you can’t help it, you feel ashamed, and guilty, unworthy of what you shared, and unworthy of Gunner’s desire to comfort you.
And yet, you can’t help it; because you do need comfort, and the only person in the world who can give it is the man in front of you, who is still kissing you, his huge frame enveloping yours as he touches you as if you were the most delicate, the most precious, thing in the world.
“Is this what you really want?” he asks, breaking the kiss whose intensity is making your head spin; despite the relative darkness of the room, his blue eyes look brighter than ever.
You bite your lip. “I know I shouldn’t, but…”
He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to. He just stares at you, his huge chest rising and falling as if he had run for his life, and then he takes your hand to accompany you to the bedroom you just walked out of.
“I’m not judging you, darling; far from it. I just want you to think about it now, because a minute more and I know I won’t be able to control myself.”
The raw desire in his voice, the open vulnerability those words express, are enough to make you forget all your doubts. “I want you, Gunner; I-I have for a long time; please, I need you. I need you to make it all go away.”
Neither speaks as your clothes start falling to the floor around you, your mouths meeting in a new, scorching kiss as often as they can, and soon you are both naked save for your underwear, Gunner’s large hands holding you close by the hips, close enough you can feel his turgor pressing against your stomach. The mere thought that in a minute you’ll feel it inside you makes you pant; Gunner smiles as he delicately, devotedly, kisses up and down your neck. He can see the way you look at him, but he wants more, he wants all, all of you, even if just for an hour and just because you can’t do any better.
“You can touch me if you want.” he murmurs. He takes your hands in his and raises them to his chest, your fingers reflexively spreading over the firm, taut skin of his pectorals; you groan, arousal making you lose any ounce of control over yourself, and a moment later Gunner is holding your head in his arms as you worship his body like he deserves, your hands and mouth and -shit- tongue moving on his flesh, claiming as their own “Yeah… like this, darling... take it, take it all, it’s all for you…”
You help him take off your bra, and then you’re lying on the bed, Gunner on all fours above you, and the ardent desire in his eyes as he -May I?- takes off your panties could almost scare you, were it not for the profound affection in his smile, the adoring look of a man who wants nothing but to serve.
For a moment, the thought that all of this is happening because Barney is dead, and Gunner wants to comfort you in your moment of need, breaks your heart; but you force yourself to banish that thought, and to focus on the beauty of the moment you are living…
And then Gunner stands on his knees to take off his pants, and any ability you ever had to speak completely abandons you beyond “Oh, my… God…”
He grins as he kicks his pants to the floor, now naked as the day he was born, and returns to loom over you, his right hand tracing the outline of your cheek. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be gentle.”
You nod wordlessly, thinking that it’s been a long time since you needed to be reassured like that, but Gunner is much bigger than any man you’ve ever been with, and now you’re not simply eager to have him inside you… you need it, and him, because if you don’t you might lose your mind or die…
“Please… Gunner, take me, I need you…” you murmur, and his smile is the last thing you see before Gunner lowers himself to kiss you, his hand descending from your cheek to plunge into the warm wetness between your thighs.
*
He always thought you were beautiful, even when in pain, wounded and bruised at the end of your latest mission, but Gunner thinks you’ve never looked more breath-takingly gorgeous than you are in that moment, peacefully sleeping in his bed, the light of the sun at dawn giving your skin a golden hue.
He pays no attention to the fact that you’re still naked, the warmth of the early morning, not to mention the one that you have exchanged during the night and that still lingers on your body, making the sheets and blankets superfluous. He can see you’re sleeping soundly, resting from the pain and sorrow that have filled your days, and he’s relieved, and even proud, that he could give it to you, even though it will never mean what he wants it to. It will never be something you have wanted, rather than just needed.
He had known it from the start, and he accepts it; he can’t help feeling a certain bitterness about it, but he doesn’t regret it. He has had six beautiful, precious hours to hold you in his arms and give you everything he would never dare express in words, and that is enough.
It has to be.
Sitting on the bed by your side, Gunner allows himself a minute more to admire your beauty, then he stands, retrieves his clothes from the floor, and silently moves to the kitchen to get dressed in order. He knows he has no reason to leave before you wake up, you wouldn’t want him to and after all that is his home, but he can’t bear to see your reaction when you wake up, now clear-headed, and reflect on what you shared last night.
Would you be embarrassed? Regretful, or guilty? Would you hurry to get dressed and leave, without even meeting his eyes? Would you tell him something like listen, last night was great, but it can’t happen ever again… ?
No, thank you; slipping away like a thief from his own home sounds much better. He ties his boots, makes sure he has his keys and phone, and then glances one last time towards the bedroom. He hears you shift, maybe searching for a more comfortable position on the bed, and he could swear you are mumbling something - his name?
Or maybe Barney’s?
Gunner crosses the room and leaves the apartment, silently closing the door behind him.
*
And then, of course, it turns out Barney is not dead after all. Go figure.
He hears the two of you arguing loudly -especially on your part- in the next room before you depart, as you tell him how unacceptable it was to keep her, as well as the others, in the dark regarding the small, inconsequential matter of him being still alive.
“Didn’t you think I deserved to know? Christ, Barney, do you have any idea of what I have been through?” he hears you scream, which proves how upset you are, since raising your voice it’s something you rarely do. Barney’s deep, soothing voice answers, and then you sob, and through the wall’s barrier Gunner could swear he hears you say his name, but he must be mistaken, because a minute later you’re joining the team together, you beaming despite the tears with Barney’s arm wrapped around your shoulders.
Gunner is overjoyed; he really is. Once Barney has explained the truth regarding the need to fake his death to reveal Ocelot’s identity, the two of them meet face to face and neither hesitates before enveloping the other in a bear hug; Gunner’s heart is heavy with emotion, and even though he’s not the sort of man who talks about feelings and stuff, he wants his friend to know how happy he is.
“I knew you weren’t dead; not even Satan himself wants you.” he jokes, his eyes misty, and Barney grins, friendly punching him in the arm.
“It’s good to be back.” he simply says, you still by his side; a moment later your eyes fall on him, and Gunner quickly looks away, despite the joy he feels unable to bear the sight of you and your man together once again.
It’s not like he had hopes about the two of you. He didn’t regret the night you shared, both because it had helped comfort you and -more egotistically- because it had been the most intense, loving and pleasurable love-making of his life, but he had always known there was no hope for the two of you, that you’d always be Barney’s woman, and he nothing more than a friend who offers you a shoulder to cry on. He’s happy for you, of course; he really is, how could he not be, when joy is literally overflowing from your eyes as you look at the man next to you, miraculously returned from the afterlife? But as far as he is concerned, nothing has changed; he could never be your man, whether you were single or taken, so why should he feel disappointed?
But he does. He feels terrible, and guilty for it, because this is about Barney, and then you, certainly not him; so he tries to hide his pain, and to focus on the joy of having his friend, and their leader, with them again.
You fall asleep on the plane back home, huddled on the bench with an arm bent under your cheek, which is good, because Gunner wouldn’t be able to avoid you in the confined space of the fuselage if you tried to talk to him - not that you need to, obviously, since he’s determined on doing the right thing and step aside, letting you pursue your relationship with your lover once again rather than causing trouble between the two of you.
Barney is in the cock-pit as usual, but mid-flight he asks Christmas to take his place and comes sitting just in front of him, unfortunately in the exact moment when Gunner is stealing a glance towards you, filling his eyes with the beautiful scene of your sleeping, relaxed face. You seem to be having a good dream; who knows, he wistfully thinks to himself, maybe you’re dreaming about him…
“Everything good with you, Gunner?” Barney asks, his tone deceptively relaxed; Gunner nods in response, unable to return his friend’s gaze, and then Barney grins as he brushes his fingers against your cheek.
There is a matter he hasn’t considered, Gunner realises. Have you told him about the two of you, of what you shared? Or will you? It wouldn’t be surprising, you surely want there to be no secrets between you and your man, and Barney is reasonable enough to admit that one can’t cheat on a partner they believe to be dead - or at least Gunner hopes he is. Losing Barney’s friendship and respect because of what happened that night would fill him with guilt, but if it ended up ruining things between you and Barney he’ll never forgive himself…
With an effort, he meets Barney’s eyes; they stare at each other across the fuselage, the plane pitching around them, your sleeping form by Barney’s side -which is where you are meant to be, Gunner thinks morosely- impossible to ignore.
“Seriously, are you alright?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Right…”
The skepticism in Barney’s voice is also too intense to turn a deaf ear to, but his friend seems to decide not to insist, and the rest of the flight passes without accidents.
*
Not wanting to spend the next days, or even longer, with that sword of Damocles hanging over his head, Gunner decides to address the issue directly with you, asking what you did, or plan to do. He doesn’t dare call you while you’re home with Barney, so he decides to wait for that night, when the whole team meets to celebrate Barney’s return in their favourite bar.
This time, despite the anxiety, he doesn’t feel the impulse to drink; he’s tense but focused, as if he had just recovered from a long illness, ready to face whatever comes his way. He gets to the bar slightly late, and as he steps into the room, the first thing he sees is Barney sitting at the counter, next to a woman who is clearly flirting with him, her hand resting on his bicep, her cleavage in full display.
Gunner knows Barney well enough to perceive his friend is not particularly interested in her, but on the other hand, he’s not even rebuffing the woman outright like a man in a years-long relationship should. Shit, I thought you were better than this, Gunner thinks, and he’s about to intervene when suddenly
“Hi.”
you murmur, appearing by his side seemingly out of thin air. You’re simply gorgeous in your jeans and simple top, lipstick enhancing the natural beauty of your smile, but for once Gunner wastes no time in admiring you; he tries to move to shield Barney from your sight, but you have already noticed him.
“Alice is nothing but persistent, I have to give her that.” you consider, sounding amused rather than upset, or furious, or brokenhearted, or whatever other reaction Gunner could have expected from you.
“You…”
“Why should I? If anything, I hope he actually brings her home this time; Barney really needs to unwind after what happened.” you consider, and then notice Gunner, who is looking at you as if you had suddenly grown a second head “What’s wrong?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not… angry?”
Gunner shakes his head, suddenly appalled; he briefly wonders if he after all did drink and that’s why the world is not making any sense, but his throat is dry -very dry, suddenly- which means that no, he is sober. But then why…?
“Gunner…” your hand touches his bicep “What’s wrong?”
“Well…” he begins, carefully choosing his words “It’s just that I would probably feel upset if I saw another woman flirting with my lover, and he doing nothing to discourage her.”
You blink. “My what?”
“My lover. Your lover.”
“What lover?”
“I mean Barney.”
“Barney what?”
Is the music in the bar so loud you can’t hear him properly? “Aren’t you upset that Barney is letting another woman touch him even though he’s with you?” he finally asks, clearly and slowly as if he were talking to someone a little slow on the uptake, and finally he sees realization dawn on your face.
You blink; and for almost a minute you remain completely still, your eyes trained on Gunner, your mouth slightly open even though no word escapes them. Gunner, whose heart is pounding hard enough it hurts, can almost see the wheels turning in your brain.
“Come with me.” you then say, grabbing his hand, and Gunner has no other choice but to follow you, until the bar’s door closes and you’re alone, standing on the sidewalk with the moon’s soft light falling on you.
“You think… that I am Barney’s woman? That we are in a relationship?” you ask, sounding as if you had just accused him of thinking that the Earth is flat “Gunner, I can’t believe… all this time you… oh, God…”
“You… are not?” Gunner asks, completely nonplussed; anxiety is making him literally shake.
“Of course not! Gunner… Barney is my brother.”
*
“Well, half-brother, technically, since we have the same father but different mothers; when I was born, Barney was less than one year old. Our father, who was married to his mother and was seeing mine on the side, was able to juggle having two families for almost five years, until my mother got fed up and went to the house of Barney’s parents to confront him. She had brought me with her, and he was there as well; that was the first time we met, and it was also the last for decades. While the adults screamed and threw things and exchanged threats and accusations, we simply looked at each other, both too young to understand what had happened but still aware of what we shared.
Soon after my mother and I moved to California, and I lived a pretty normal life for several years. I joined the army, then special forces, that part of my life you know. I left in my thirties to take care of my mother, who died two years later. At that point I met Bonaparte, and he brought me in the game; I started working as a mercenary, lived my life, I was happy.
Our father died when I was twenty; I heard about it from a friend of my mother who still lived here in the city. He hadn’t been a bad dad, all things considered, but he had also never made any effort to maintain a relationship with us after we had moved, not even writing, and so neither me nor my mother felt any pain for his passing. She never even wanted to mention the fact that I had a half-brother somewhere, no doubt because she wasn’t proud of that part of her life, but I never stopped thinking about Barney; I also toyed with the idea of looking for him, especially after my mother had passed, but I never thought we’d actually meet… until one night I went to a bar, a place many in our field frequented, and he was there, with Bonaparte.
We had met just once, as small children, but you know? We immediately recognised each other; it was the most thrilling moment in my life. We spent the whole night talking, and then the day after, and in the end, Barney proposed I move here with him. And the rest is history.”
*
You are now sitting side by side on the curb, the night silent around you if not for the music coming from the inside of the bar; Gunner can’t stop looking at you, at the pensive, almost dreamy expression on your face as you recount your story, which is dramatically different from anything he could have ever imagined, and forces him to reconsider truths he had until now taken from granted.
“Opposed to what, incest?” you ask, amused “Of course. He really hit it off from the very first moment. I don’t know if it’s because of our blood connection, or simply because we are similar in many ways; and maybe the fact that we ended up working independently in the same field was a sign of destiny. We became inseparable in the span of a day; Barney told me he had thought about me growing up as often as I had thought about him, and since I had nothing in particular that kept me in Los Angeles, we agreed I could move in with him so that we could spend some time together and get to know each other.”
But for me he… well, he was my family.
“So what’s between you is… just that? Family love?”
“Hmm…”
Gunner sighs; he can’t help feeling an idiot, and what’s worse, you’re there to witness it.
“You don’t look alike, you know.” he points out “At all.”
“I know; I take after my mother. Barney looks a lot like our father, at least judging from the pictures he’s shown me, but he is more attractive, and a better man altogether.”
You’re sitting with an arm wrapped around your knees; you turn to look at Gunner, and your smile falls, heartbreak filling your eyes.
“You thought we were a couple for five years?”
“And not just me; that’s more or less the general view among the guys. I hate to tell you this, but you look nothing alike, you live together, and you kiss and hug all the time. Is it really so weird we thought you were a couple?”
“Well, now that you put it like this…”
“You kept this thing a secret deliberately, didn’t you? But why?”
You tell him it was Barney’s decision, out of respect for his mother, who is still alive and perfectly lucid despite her advanced age, and who has never forgotten her husband cheated on her and had a child with another woman. Mrs. Ross lives in a nursing home, so it’s not like you could meet her in the street or she could hear about you being part of Barney’s life unless he told her, but he asked you to keep it to yourselves, pretending to be just friends.
“I supported him, of course; I mean, that’s exactly the sort of man Barney is, devoted to the people he loves, how could I say no? God, and you all thought… I can’t believe it…”
You fall silent for a full minute, running the fingers of your free hand through your hair, and then talk again, looking straight in front of you.
“That night, when I… when I came to sleep at your place. You thought I was crying because I had lost my man, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes…”
“And then I asked you to sleep with me, not even two days later. God, Gunner, what you must have thought of me…”
“Hey…” he begins softly, his hand finding your shoulder “As I said that day, I’m not judging you. You had lost someone you cared about, you needed comfort, I was happy to give it to you, end of the story.”
“Right…”
“And that ring you wear?”
“I bought it at some stall. What, you thought it was my engagement ring?”
“Well…”
“Oh my God…”
You sigh, finally turning to look at him, and for a moment you seem not to find the words to express what you feel. “I thought you disliked me, you know?” you murmur “At least, that you didn’t trust me or consider me a friend. The way at times you seemed uncomfortable when we were together, and then I kept telling myself you had slept with me out of pity and it had to have been the worst sex in your life…”
Gunner sighs; he doesn’t even try not to smile. “I don’t dislike you, (name). At all.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“And that was not pity sex. Did I really look like a man who was not enjoying himself?”
“Well…”
Another sigh; when you speak again, it’s like you are not sure whether you want to cry or to laugh. “Five years, Gunner. Shit, I can’t believe… five years. We wasted so much time, so many opportunities…”
“I know, darling; I know.”
He takes your face in his hands; you swallow, as if hypnotized by his bright blue eyes.
“I couldn’t tell you, you understand?” he tells you, earnest and almost desperate, the intensity behind his words making you shiver “The woman of my friend, of a man I owed so much… how could I tell you how I felt? And I could see how much you loved him, I never thought… you could care for me, but God, I would have given half my blood to…”
“I am so sorry. Gunner, I ruined everything, I’m sorry…”
“You ruined nothing; I just grew to want you even more. Now come here…”
You meet in the middle, covering the brief distance separating you until your mouths are pressing against each other, Gunner’s muscled arm quickly wrapping around your waist to pull you closer; you run your fingers through his hair, kissing him as if your life depended on it, until a car on the road speeds past you, making you both jump.
“Come to my place?” Gunner murmurs, and you beam at him. You’ll have a lot to discuss, you and him and Barney as well, because you don’t want to hide what is being born between you or the others to suspect you and Gunner are seeing each other behind Barney’s back, but right now you don’t care - you physically can’t care. Two days ago you thought your life was over, that no one in the world was left who cared for you and that you had lost any chance to love, and now… and now your brother is back, safe and sound, and the man you have long given your heart to is holding you close, never wanting to let go.
Yes, you wasted five years, and for that you might never forgive yourself; but at the same time, you are even more determined to make the time at your disposal count… every day, every hour, every single moment, you promise Gunner will never have to doubt of your love, and he’ll always know how important he is to you.
How precious.
“I’ll text Barney on the way.”
“Good idea.”
You stand together, made a bit awkward by the embrace you’re still sharing; you take Gunner’s hand and let him guide you down the road, leaving the bar behind you.
*
Having finally gotten free of the woman who has harassed him for a full hour, clearly unwilling to take no for an answer, Barney has just ordered a drink at the counter when the buzzing in his back pocket announces the arrival of a text. He retrieves his phone, taps the screen and a moment later he’s smiling broadly to himself, thinking that had he known this is what those two needed to take the plunge, he would have faked his death years ago.
Going home with Gunner. Don’t wait up. (name).
He’s still smiling when Christmas joins him, a beer bottle in his hand, having made his way among the small crowd gathered in the bar.
“So.” he begins, clapping the other man on his shoulder with his free hand “Where’s your girlfriend? Gina wanted to talk to her.”
Barney turns to look at him, dumbfounded. “... my what?!”
'Talking it out' often makes for appropriate conflict resolution. But where's the fun in that?
Masterlist
In which they switch it up like nintendo-oh 🎶 . 12k words of switchy, yucky, hate sex. 3rd person, no y/n, grammatical errors (ooo scary) likely
CW for mildly dubious consent and two bitches being mean to each other. For detailed tags take a peek at ao3! Could only bring myself to write this while ovulating which is why it took so long </3. Enjoy!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭
Sam doesn’t know what smells worse. The stale carpet, the acrid, yellowing wallpaper, or her fucking attitude.
His hand lingers on the doorknob for a beat, eyes scanning the motel room with feigned indifference. He bites the bullet and steps in, dropping his duffel onto the bed, preparing himself for an ear-full.
“Wait,” she says sharply, her voice cutting through the repetitive clicking of the faulty ceiling fan. He cracks his neck in preparation for another bitch fit.
She’s still standing by the door, her breath still heavy from the adrenaline of the last few hours. She's had enough. She wants a plan, a strategy. But every damn thing is on the fly when he’s around. Mortality included.
“What the hell is this?”
“What?” he replies, all casual like they hadn’t just escaped certain death and walked straight into… this.
“What do you mean, what? This place is a dump.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Yeah. I see that.”
She rounds on him. “You see that? That’s all you’ve got to say? There's one damn bed-”
“What do you want me to do, princess? Build a second one?” He practically spits the nickname.
She slams the door shut, throwing her bag to the floor. "Far be it from me to want a bit of space after you tried to kill me off."
He groans. "Don't start-"
"Don't start?" Her incredulous laugh escapes before she can stop it. "I almost got impaled back there because you couldn’t be bothered to share your genius plan - oh hold on. No - that’s right. There wasn’t one.”
“There was a plan,” he counters, turning from her to pat his pockets for his box of cigarettes he’d somehow managed to salvage from a trap he’d accidentally triggered hours earlier. “You just didn't follow it.”
All right, so she'd fallen with the box, stuck clinging to the edge of a spike-filled pit. So what? He pulled her out. She's fine.
“Because you didn’t tell me!”
“It was implied,” he says, the smirk tugging at his lips enough to make her see red.
"What else was implied was the fact that you don't ever think about anyone but yourself."
“Really? You think I dragged your ass out of that hole because I wanted a goddamn medal?”
Get a grip.
"Oh, fuck off, Sam." She exhales sharply, hands braced on her knees as she plops down onto the end of the bed.
Her chest still heaves from the rush of it all - dodging death, being forcibly confined to his bullshit, this shitty room. Feels like a boot on her chest.
She forces herself to breathe and enjoy the momentary silence.
Clink.
Her head snaps up. Of course. HA! Of course.
Tck-tck.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps, seething again. “You’re actually lighting up in here? Can't even be bothered to open a damn window?”
He doesn’t even look at her, his lighter sparking to life. “Relax,” he mutters, cigarette between his lips. “Look how yellow the walls are. You’ll survive.”
Her fists curl at her sides as the sharp tang of smoke curls into the air. "Unbelievable." She marches over to the window, wrestling with the latch. "You couldn’t wait two minutes?”
He exhales deliberately, the smoke drifting lazily between them. “Two minutes, ten minutes - doesn’t really make a difference. You’re gonna bitch about it either way.”
Her jaw clenches, “God, you’re… infuriating.”
“Gotta unwind somehow.” His drawl is lazy, but his eyes are sharp - he’s waiting for her to crack. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
Her stomach twists. It’s the way he looks at her, like he’s waiting for her to lose it. She huffs, giving up on the stiff window latch, turning back to him with a scowl.
She doesn’t like it. She hates it.
He takes another drag, exhaling slowly, watching her through the clag of smoke. “Tell you what,” he drawls, shifting his weight, standing upright as opposed to leaning against the chest of drawers with a few missing handles, “Why don’t you take a swing at me, huh? Let it all out.”
He beckons her with two fingers, the cigarette still pinched between them, his grin deepening as he watches her stiffen. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re dyin’ to give me a good fuckin’ smack. I can see it.”
Her nails dig into her palms, biting into her skin as her pulse pounds in her ears. She pictures her fist connecting with his jaw, that stupid smirk wiped clean off his face as she pins him down. It would feel so good.
He takes another step forward. “All that energy,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, almost provocative. “What’re you gonna do with it?”
Fine. Definitely provocative.
She swallows hard, her voice tight. “You’re disgusting.”
Sam watches her, his lips curling as she darts a glance between him and the cigarette. He leans back against the wall, a picture of nonchalance, silently revelling in the way her composure seems to crack, his arrogance only bolstered by her obvious distaste.
Without a second thought, she yanks it out of his mouth, shoving it between her own lips in one fluid motion.
“Really?” he growls, reaching for it, but she steps back, holding it just out of reach with a glare.
“What’s the problem, huh?” she taunts, the cigarette dangling between her fingers. “Can’t go five minutes without something in your mouth? Guess that explains why you’re so full of shit.”
“Ha. Classy.” He scoffs.
“You are the most crass, irresponsible - no, insufferable - asshole I’ve ever met.” She can feel his eyes on her, and she takes her sweet time before looking back up at him, taking a drag, before huffing it out purposely up towards his face.
He waves a hand in front of him, coughing once. “Real fuckin' cute. Give it back.”
“Give it back,” she mocks, her voice purposely lowered in a crude impersonation of him. “No, no, hold on a sec. I wanna be like you for a moment.” she says, her voice tight with anger, the smoke rolling from her mouth with every word. She raises her chin up to face him. "Can’t be that hard, right? Just gotta act like an arrogant prick."
She ignores the burning ash against her fingers as she scrapes her hair back from her forehead - a gesture that makes him roll his eyes. She leans against the wall in a stance that's just as affected and smug as he is.
“Hmm. Yeah, this - this is nice.”
He chuckles thinly, his arms folding tight across his chest. “Well, I’m glad someone’s entertained.”
“Entertained?” She leans into the word, dragging it out as she takes a drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke in his direction with a casual flick of her wrist. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m more than entertained.” She snaps her fingers, flicking ash. “I’m inspired! I mean, you’ve got a hell of a system going. The quips. The brawn. The charisma - God, it’s practically oozing out of your every pore, right?”
His grin freezes in place, tight at the edges, but she’s not done. Not even close.
“Hi, I'm Sam. I like to fuck my way out of every tight spot I get myself into, then proceed to leave everyone else behind to clean up the mess.” She steps forward, her eyes gleaming as she watches his jaw tick. “It’s genius, really. Self-destructive, sure, but hey, you’re nothing if not consistent.”
His smirk twitches, then falters. “You done?”
She ignores the warning in his voice, taking another slow step toward him. “Have you ever thought about teaching a class? Writing one of those 'for dummies' books? ‘How to Charm Your Way Through Life Without a Shred of Accountability.’ Could be a bestseller. You’d make a killing.”
“Alright,” he mutters, voice clipped. “That’s enough.”
“Enough?” Her head tilts, her eyes wide. “Come on, Sam, don’t tell me you can’t handle a little constructive criticism.”
He stays quiet, his grin gone now, his jaw tightening as his eyes follow her every move. She doesn’t stop. She loves this. Loves seeing him like this.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say a word. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and though his expression remains composed, she can feel the anger simmering beneath the surface. It thrills her. She doesn't want to examine it too closely - the rush - but she can't deny the flicker of satisfaction in knowing she’s gotten under his skin. Better than that smug, righteous babe-magnet haughty bullshit he insists on projecting ninety-nine percent of the time.
“You’re just trying to distract yourself, aren’t you? The scams, the smirks, the sex - oof, let's not forget that. It’s all noise. A shitty cover-up for what you actually are.”
The tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darken, the little scrunch at the bridge of his nose; it's real - a side of him he tries too hard to hide behind that dumb, cool exterior. Boy, does it add fuel to the fire. A rogue spark bouncing onto kindling. She knows she’s pushing him. But hey, they're stuck together for the foreseeable, so what's really the worst he could do?
“And what’s that?” he finally bites out, his voice sharp and low, but she doesn’t flinch.
Her lips curve into a cruel smile, and she gestures to him with the cigarette, her tone cutting. “A sycophantic hedonist with a nicotine addiction, trying - and failing - to claw your way out of your brother’s shadow.”
Then, he laughs, teeth bared in a parody of a grin. No trace of humour. It’s dangerous now. She licks her lips.
“You wanna say that again?”
“Sure.” She takes another step forward, close enough now to feel the heat rolling off him. “I think you’re lame. A shadow-dwelling grifter who’s just pissed he’ll never. Be. Good enough.”
Before she can blink, his hand shoots out, rough fingers clamping around her chin. The suddenness of it sends a shock-wave through her, and she stumbles a little. “And I think that you," He yanks her face up toward his, his grip just shy of bruising, "Are a frigid little control freak who wouldn’t know fun if it bit her in the ass.” he shoots back. The cigarette flies onto the floor, smoke trails smouldering between them, until his boot grinds it into the carpet without even looking.
Her breath stutters, but it’s not fear that does it. She smirks, even as her pulse races. “Hit a nerve, did I?”
Then he shoves her, hard, and her back hits the wall with a thud, his thumb digging in just beneath her cheekbone.
“Listen, you sanctimonious bitch,” His eyes are sharp, narrowed, the fury in them burning hot. “I’d have loved nothin’ more than to have left you to rot in that pit - hell, I’d certainly have much less of a goddamn headache right now if you’d’ve fallen ass-first onto one of those spikes.” Her head jolts in his grip as he punctuates each word, “But luckily for you, I’ve got a job to do. So here you are.”
She doesn’t shrink. Doesn’t falter. Instead, she pushes, craving the intensity. Ha. Frigid. “And wouldn’t that have been dull.”
Stupid fucking men and their need to assert physical dominance. It’s boring.
Her lips curve, deliberately, the ghost of a smile curling at the edges. Not sweet. Not kind - never kind with him. Instead, mocking. Dangerous.
Her chin tips up, her lips parting ever so slightly as she pushes against his grip, her breath warm and steady as it grazes his mouth. Close, but not close enough. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away.
Go on, her silence says. Do something.
Sam’s jaw is ticking. He wants her to flinch, to crack, to give him something - anything - but all she gives him is a tilt of her head, her neck arching just a fraction to shift the angle.
He’s holding on by a thread. She knows it. His jaw clenches, and his pulse hammers as she lets her fingertips drift across his stomach. Teasing, toying, until she hooks them around the buckle of his belt, tugging him closer.
“Do you get off on this?” She speaks quietly, her chin moving against the palm of his hand. The question catches him off guard, making his frown deepen. Because a part of him does. “Using your height and your muscles and cute little frown to intimidate girls young enough to be your daughter?”
Disgust flashes in his eyes. But beneath it, intrigue? Desire? Some gross spark that twists him up inside. He’s disgusted with himself for feeling it, for letting her get to him like this. But the hard truth, as betrayed by the semi he can’t fully hide, is that part of him is undeniably drawn in.
She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Oh… I think you do.”
His breath falters - barely perceptible, but she catches it. Of course she does. Her eyes catch the flicker of hesitation in his, narrowing as his anger wavers. Shifts. Into something else entirely. It takes a monumental amount of effort to stop herself from laughing in his face.
Her lashes lower, eyes dropping just below his belt for a heartbeat before dragging back up. Slow. Calculated. Intimate, to the point where she’s almost taking herself seriously. She’s not backing down - no, she’s playing with him now. She tugs at the leather, a deft pull that has the belt sliding free of its buckle, then presses her palm against him - light, barely there - but enough for him to feel it.
She feels his fingers loosen their grip on her jaw, just slightly. It’s so subtle, he thinks he’s gotten away with it... and he would’ve, if he hadn’t audibly swallowed and given himself away mere seconds after. Her mouth twitches. The strings are falling into her hands.
“Look at you,” she taunts, her voice a purr now, filled with mock encouragement. “You've got it all under control, haven't you?” She lets her hand move over him again, slower this time, the pressure just enough to make him grind involuntarily against her touch. His breath comes faster, harder, and she feels his body tense against hers.
His grip on her face tightens as he stares at her with scorn - it's starting to hurt, now - she's almost certain his thumb's going to leave a bruise just beneath her cheekbone - but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t give him what he wants. She holds him there, her fingers still teasing him through denim.
Her lips are hovering just shy of his, still. The space left between them is so veil-thin it’s barely there. She won’t close it, though. She wants to let him feel her there - let him ache for it. Allow the tension to fester, coiling tighter and tighter with every second that ticks by. His pulse kicks - hard.
Sam doesn’t realise he’s leaning in until it’s too late. His rage, his whole resolve, all of it crumbling under the weight of her strategic silence. His fingers tighten their grip again as he feels his frown falter, thinking it’ll hold up the bravado.
She pops the button through its hole, pushing the zip down with her thumb, "Do you want me to touch you, Sam?" she whispers, stroking along the length of him, light and teasing, drawing a sharp intake of breath from his throat. His body reacts before his mind can catch up, his hips pressing into her touch, desperate for more. "To treat you like the big, strong man that you are?"
Her deepening smirk tells him he’s fucked it all up. It’s slow and sly and her eyes are sparkling with a satisfaction that’s almost unbearable.
He can’t think straight.
“Fuck you,” he growls through gritted teeth, but there’s no strength behind it. It’s not a threat - it’s a plea. Even he knows it's lazy.
She laughs, soft and mocking, her hand still stroking him through his boxers, the feeling of him hardening against her hand is captivating.
She leans in, too, grinning against his faltering grip, letting her lips graze against his in a way that goads him so hard that the power trip alone sends heat coursing through her. He remains still, aside from the loosening grip of his hand once more. He’s trapped.
Her eyelashes flutter as she pulls back mere millimetres, eyes intentionally dropping to his lips again before flicking back up, head tilting. Making sure he sees her display of self-indulgent curiosity. He doesn’t know she’s just tossing the bait into the water.
His fingers twitch at her cheeks, grip loosening just as his body instinctively leans closer, reeled in by her. His hand starts to slide, his palm brushing the curve of her hip as if testing the boundary of how far he can take this.
Her lips part, and for a split second, he thinks she might actually let him. That she’s given in, that this isn’t just some cruel game she’s playing at his expense.
She thinks he's a moron.
So she finally yanks on the rod out of the water.
She stills her hand, and whispers against him: “I’ll take the floor.”
Before he can react, her palm presses against his chest in one swift, decisive shove, forcing him back. The movement isn’t violent - she doesn’t need it to be.
By the time he’s recovered his footing, she’s already long gone. The smirk she tosses over her shoulder is pure satisfaction, her steps casual and unhurried, as though she hasn’t just torn him apart and left the pieces scattered across the shitty old carpet.
It takes him a moment to realise she’s actually walking away. His chest rises and falls heavily, the faint scent of her still clinging to the air around him, all warm skin and sweat and something faintly sweet. Infuriating.
The humiliation crashes over him in waves, his pulse pounding. His body burns with frustration, with the bitter taste of defeat. He feels like a fool - a complete fucking idiot.
He had her caged, in his grip, and still, she slipped through his fingers, leaving him humiliated, rock-fucking-hard, and wholly unsatisfied.
He watches her approach the window, his hands curling into fists as the truth sinks in: she never lost control. Not for a second.
He's not about to let that stand.
His tongue drags over his teeth as he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back while she struggles against the window lock.
Poor thing. She usually knows how to press the right buttons.
The sound of her irritated huffs provokes him. She’s giving him space - space to stew, to think. Maybe she knows it. Maybe she planned it. The thought only pisses him off more.
“You’re good at this.” He murmurs, letting his voice dip low, zipping his jeans back up, “The games. Smirks. Little looks. Actin' like a fuckin' skank ‘cause you think it makes you untouchable.”
Her fingers still, gripping the latch tightly. She doesn’t turn. She hums contemplatively.
“Untouchable? No.” Her voice is steady. “Smarter than you, though? Sure.”
He can’t help but laugh. “You think you’re smarter than me?”
“No, Sam, I know I’m smarter than you.” She doesn’t bother glancing his way, but her smile - the kind that cuts and soothes all at once - tells him she’s enjoying this. “You huff and puff around, throwing tantrums, like you’re God’s gift to brawn,”
His self-control is hanging by a thread. He knows he should let her have the last word and leave it at that. Walk away. Take a fucking shower and sleep it all off, but he can’t.
“Brute force doesn’t equate to intelligence. Pushing me against a wall, blah blah, fucking blah. What next? Gonna toss me out the window because I bruised your ego?”
It's a nice thought. He'll give her that.
His presence is a shadow swallowing hers, a heat at her back that she feels before she even registers the sound of his boots crossing the room. She stiffens, her knuckles whitening on the latch as his arm brushes hers.
Before she can snap, his hand replaces hers on the latch, effortlessly forcing it open with one sharp motion. The cool air floods in, trading places with the stale smell of smoke, but she barely notices it. She’s too focused on him - on his arm brushing against hers, the way he leans in slightly closer than he needs to.
His hand is on her hip.
No more beating around the bush - He rams her forwards with a thunk, her palms bracing against the windowsill as his chest pins her in place.
She sighs, performative insouciance, despite her racing heartbeat. “What are you doing?” she manages, her voice sharp despite the subtle wavering to it. He catches it and he bites back his grin.
“Opening the window. Putting my brute force to good use. Can’t have you straining yourself, can I?”
Her teeth grit together. She doesn’t push him away, though.
The hand at her hip digs in, while the other drifts upward, curling around her throat. Firm. Controlling. She stiffens, chastened anger flickering hot and wild in her chest, but her body doesn’t move. It can’t move.
What the fuck is he doing?
“Tell me to get off’a you.”
His chin rests against the top of her head, a display of dominance so casual it makes her blood boil.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Samuel?”
His lips quirk in a dangerous smirk, his confidence snapping into place now that he has her at his mercy. “Making sure you get the last word, sweetheart. Isn’t that what you always want?”
“You’re such an-” she starts, but he cuts her off with a low laugh, speaking through the top of her head so his voice reverberates through her skull.
“What? An asshole?” His voice cuts her off, gravelly and edged with something teasing. “Crass? Reckless? Got any new ones, or are we recyclin’ tonight?”
She blinks, her mind struggling to catch up.
“C’mon,” He chuckles again, “Tell me to get off.” His grip tightens, just enough to keep her in place but not enough to hurt.
Her heart is thundering now - a crack in the armour she’s so desperately trying to keep intact. What’s worse is the heat from moments ago continues coiling low in her stomach. She hates it. Hates that her body betrays her rationale, hates the smugness in his reflection. That's what she tries to tell herself, at least… though, the reality is more that she hates how much she's anticipating his next steps.
“You’re insane.” she mutters, though her voice lacks its usual bite.
“Insane,” he parrots, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “Insufferable. The list goes on.”
Her lips part, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but it refuses to come out. She’s frozen, her pride locking her in place even as her body betrays her.
She feels his grip shift, the hand at her hip sliding lower, brushing the top of her thigh, coming round further. The deliberate motion pulls a defiant grunt from her throat, her body betraying her mind’s fury.
“Listen,” His fingertips rub circles into her thigh.
Light, slow.
“I might be all those things,”
Inwards.
Upwards.
“But, I’m not a monster. So…” Her eyes dart downward, caught between the shame of her own hesitation and the maddening awareness of his every movement. He’s quick to correct that, fingers tightening around her throat just enough to force her head upright again. “Uh-uh,” he chides. “Eyes up, huh? Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now.”
She almost bites out another snarky comment but all semblance of wit flies out of her head as his thumb swipes between her legs along the seam of her shorts.
Shit, shit, shit.
Her thighs tighten together instinctively, mindlessly trapping his hand there, which only makes him laugh into her ear, squeezing the sides of her throat a little tighter. He's such a delinquent, relishing in her hushed breathlessness and all the soft sounds she's trying to keep behind her teeth.
“Last chance.”
She’s livid. Because she thought she fucking had him.
Say something, She thinks. No - don’t. That’s what he wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Ah, shit.
Her mind scrambles for control. She can’t tell Sam to stop. To do as she’s told. He’d just love that, wouldn’t he? He’d win. Never let her live it down. But she shouldn’t let him keep going, either - because, then, he's still winning, and worse, she’s letting him.
Panic swells in her lungs, her insides churning.
“All you men,” She starts, pausing to compose herself once she realises how breathless she sounds, “are exactly the same. So desperate for things you can’t have. Pathetic, really.”
Not her best attempt at tugging back the reins. But at least she didn't call him a skank.
His breath skates along her neck when he snorts at her, and she swears she’ll scream if he doesn’t stop - if he doesn’t move - if he doesn’t-
“All the same, huh?” The condescending prick speaks into her temple, hips pushing firm against her so she knows she's got no choice but to reap what she's sewn. “Wonder if that rule applies to uptight little smart-asses like you?” His hand trails back up from between her thighs to her waist, fingers pulling the material of her shorts away from her stomach, smoothing over warm skin as she tries to control her breathing. “In my experience, they're wet in an instant - fuckin' freaks behind closed doors.”
Her embarrassment is flaring white-hot now. He's giving as good as he got.
Her pulse quickens, and she forces herself to glare at him, jaw tight, nails gritting against the glass to keep her hands from trembling. She refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction other than that.
Which is a huge mistake.
“Jesus Chr-” He giggles, rubbing against her underwear with an abruptness that has her biting back a mewl. “You’re actually wet, aren’t you?”
“Choke, you piece of shit.”
That makes him snort.
“Choke? What, like this?”
His fingers flex harder against the sides of her throat, applying just enough pressure with each hand to make her body arch involuntarily against him. It knocks her for six, eyes widening as a palm clambers its way from the window pane up to the hand squeezed around her neck.
He hums low in his throat, a sound of mock consideration as her nails scratch at him.
“That's what you want? To see how far I’ll go? Never pegged you for a whore.”
Her teeth grit, rage bubbling as he sneers his way through his sentence. The push and pull of him pressing damp fabric against her isn't helping matters.
Everything’s too much.
The weight of him pressing her down. His hand at her throat. The fucking self-satisfaction on his face as he pinches her clit through her underwear and makes her buck into him.
She wants to snap. To move. To do something. But her thoughts are slipping and it’s all more intoxicating than it has any right to be.
He thinks he’s in control. He’s so damn sure of it, so drunk on his own smug confidence. She can feel it radiating off him.
Her lashes lower. She lets her lips part slightly, and her body slacken against the window. A deliberate show of defeat. A histrionic surrender. His grip eases just a fraction, and she feels the subtle shift of power.
Her breath shudders, her chest heaving in what she knows he’ll mistake for resignation. He leans in closer, his body flush against hers, bulge pressing into her ass adding insult to injury as she tries to maintain concentration.
She's reluctant to admit to herself how galvanising it all is. The weight of him. The heat rushing through her as his fingers stroke and tease. The unbearable closeness-
Nope - no, this can't continue. Not like this, at least. Let him have what he wants. But it'll be on her terms.
He doesn’t expect her to fight back. He’s too caught up in his performance, too sure of his control. The stupid fuck.
She lets him savour it - hell, she lets herself savour it for one, two, three seconds.
Then she strikes.
Her hand shoots up, grabbing his wrist. Hard. She doesn’t pull away. She pushes, twisting his grip just enough to loosen the choke-hold on her throat. Clarity floods her brain, and her elbow drives back - sharp, fast, ruthless. It connects with his ribs, and the sound of his grunt sends a wild rush through her.
He stumbles, grip faltering.
She pivots, twisting out from beneath him in a blur of motion. Her hands shove against his chest, forceful, determined. He doesn’t stand a chance. His balance tips, his knees hitting the edge of the bed.
Sam falls flat on his back.
For a moment, he looks almost comical, sprawled across the bed in stunned silence, blinking up at her as though he can’t quite believe what just happened.
She takes a step forward, her breath still heavy, her heart pounding against her ribs as she looms over him.
And there it is again - that shift in power, slipping through his fingers and landing squarely in hers.
He knows it. She knows it. She’s straddling him before he even has time to process it fully, pinning his wrists hard against the mattress above his head, her knees clamped to the sides of his hips.
“Cute,” the sarcasm comes out low and gravelly. It's… well, it's hot. She digs her nails into his skin out of contempt for the both of them.
“Well,” she ignores him, leaning in close, her nose brushing his. “Congratulations.”
His brow quirks. “Yeah? For what?”
“For proving my point.”
She can feel the heat radiating from him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers. His skin is warm under her touch, and the way his muscles twitch beneath her grip sends an undeniable rush through her. Her nails dig into his wrists, and even she isn’t sure if it’s to keep him down or to rile him up any more.
There’s tension beneath his skin, the restrained strength of someone biding their time. He stays still. Watching. Waiting. Curious. His muscles flex in warning, but his eyes glint with that maddening mix of intrigue and amusement. Always testing her. Always waiting to see how far she’ll push.
"And what point is that?"
She's strong. He's watched her kill men twice her size. But still, he knows he could have her flipped onto her back in a fraction of a second if he pushed.
Her line of sight rakes down his face. He looks infuriatingly good pinned beneath her, and it grates at her self-control. His confidence seeps through the cracks of her power, unrelenting even now.
Her body remembers his touch, the bruising force of his hands, and it deceives her reasoning. She’s soaked. Her arousal seeps out to the tops of her thighs as she gives her hips an experimental roll against his.
She watches him swallow, jaw clenching slightly to fix his smirk in place. She leans in, lips grazing his ear as she grinds on him again.
“Men,” her lips drip venom, “are fucking pathetic.”
Her pulse races, hammering through her, but she pushes the doubt down, letting the smirk sharpen into cruelty. The ever-precarious balance continues to tip in her favour as she senses a touch of nervousness in his little huff of laughter.
“And you,” she whispers, forcing him to hone in on what she's saying, “might be the most pathetic of all of 'em.”
“Keep runnin’ your mouth. See where it gets you.”
Her head tilts, eyes flashing smug. “Right where I want to be, obviously.” A bold move to admit it, but they know each other too well to deny what's about to happen. Of course they do. To despise is to know.
Her hands move fast - just quickly enough for his arms to stay where she's had them. The hem of her shirt is over her head in a fluid motion. His eyes flicker, distracted for the briefest second.
“Focus, Samuel,” she snaps, her grip catching his chin, forcing his eyes back to her face. “Getting distracted already? You’ll never keep up like this.”
"What's there to keep up with, huh? A little dry humping? What are you - fifteen?"
His jaw clenches, but he forces out another frustration-tinged laugh. She can see through it, feel the way his body tenses beneath her. She shifts, pressing harder against him, and the subtle change in his expression tells her everything.
His control is slipping.
"What? Desperate to get your fingers into me? Pervert." She raises a brow, palms moving from his face and wrist to trace the tension in his forearms. His muscles twitch beneath her touch, a reminder that this could end the moment he decides to reclaim control.
She sits up, hands pressing flat against his stomach, tucking under his t-shirt and smoothing over hair and warm skin as her fingertips curl into the fabric. She speeds up when she sees him watching her hands work, until she yanks the shirt up and over his head.
She tosses it aside as his eyes narrow. For a moment, it looks like he might flip her over, shut her up, but she restrains him once more. His muscles flex beneath her grip, coiled tight and ready to spring, but she keeps him there, her nails biting into his skin as if daring him to break free. The uneven rhythm of their breaths fills the tiny space between them. The room is too small, too hot, and the tension is making it all the more damn suffocating.
Suffice to say, Sam's had enough of the purgatory.
When he finally moves, it's sudden - violent almost - a flash of motion she doesn’t anticipate. His head snaps forward, and his lips crash against hers with enough force to steal her breath. It’s hardly a kiss; more of an attack, all teeth and heat and fury. She gasps into it, shocked, her body stiffening for a split second before the wave of intensity drags her under.
Her grip on his wrists loosens as his mouth claims hers, teeth scraping against her bottom lip hard enough to sting. The faint taste of copper blooms on her tongue, but the pain only fuels her, sending a jolt of heat through her spine. Bastard.
She collapses into him, matching his ferocity, her hands abandoning his wrists to thread into his hair. She tugs hard, earning a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat that vibrates against her lips. Her nails scrape against his scalp, and she feels him shudder beneath her as one of her hands flies down, scrambling for the metal of his zip. Her nail catches - it snaps. She hisses.
His hands move fast as she's momentarily distracted, one wrapping around the back of her neck, the other gripping her hip. The total one-eighty in power is instantaneous, his body surging up against hers as he pushes back, refusing to let her hold the reins any longer.
She doesn’t fight it. She lets him guide her into the chaos of it. His lips move against hers with bruising intensity, his tongue sweeping past her teeth in a way that makes her snarl back at him. Her nails rake down his shoulders, over the expanse of his bare chest, leaving faint red lines behind - the broken, jagged edge of the one she'd caught seconds ago scratching against his nipple.
He hisses against her mouth, his grip tightening as he shifts his weight. Then, with a sharp twist and a surge of strength, he flips her onto her back.
The mattress creaks as she lands, her breath knocked from her lungs. His body presses down against hers, pinning her in place as his mouth moves to her jaw, then her throat, teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there.
Her hands are on him immediately, roaming over his back, her nails digging into the hard lines of muscle as she arches up against him. Her heart pounds in her chest, adrenaline tangling into a volatile and all-consuming high.
His lips find her pulse, and she swears under her breath, the sound caught somewhere between outrage and need. She bucks her hips up against him, desperate to feel more, to take back some semblance of control.
But he doesn’t let her. He hovers above her. She whines, and it's embarrassing.
"Christ - someone's in heat, huh?" His tone is entirely too nonchalant given what they're doing.
She has half a mind to tell him to go fuck himself, but as the words form in her brain, the sensation of his hand snaking back into her shorts, scooping her underwear aside to stroke a line through her arousal only causes her to shudder. His mouth twists into an even deeper smirk at the atypical shake in her throat, taking it upon himself to make said shake worse by single-handedly shunting the waistband of her shorts down to mid-thigh.
She grunts, grabbing his face, pulling him back down to meet her, and this time, it’s her tongue that presses forward, demanding, devouring.
Teeth smack teeth and he mutters something about how wet she is - that his 'theory's got legs' - she calls him an insufferable cunt. He laughs, tracing circles everywhere but where she most needs it.
She bites his bottom lip, returning the favour from earlier, neither of them able to decipher whose blood they're tasting at this point. It's hard enough to make him pull back, his breath ragged as his eyes lock onto hers.
His patience snaps.
“Fucking animal,” he growls, his grip tightening on her waist.
Before she can call him a hypocrite, she’s flipped face-down on the bed, her arms crushed beneath her chest, as he presses himself down against her back.
Her breath leaves her in a startled rush.
Oh, shit.
Her thighs press together instinctively, and she thrashes, but it’s useless - he’s stronger, and he’s got her pinned. Hard.
She snarls into the sheets, writhing beneath him, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, his arm slides under her, curling around her stomach, palm pressing firm against the soft plane of her lower abdomen before moving lower still.
Heat licks up her spine, colliding messily with her frustration as she stiffens.He enjoys this - holding her down, feeling her succumb.
“Jesus, don’t tell me you’re getting comfortable,” he murmurs, his voice all mock sympathy, breath hot against her ear. His fingers flex, tightening his hold. “That’d be embarrassing.”
She lets out a sharp, breathy laugh, twisted against the sheets, her cheek pressed hard against the mattress. “Oh, please, do keep talking.” she spits, writhing against his grip.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, he curls two fingers inside her, her body arching involuntarily into him, a curse slipping from her lips before she can stop it.
He smirks, his free hand sliding up her back, snapping apart the clasp on her bra, before snaking back up just below her throat, leaving her no time to retort. His thumb presses lightly against her windpipe, a warning, as his fingers continue their infuriatingly pleasant pace. She swallows hard as he speaks into the shell of her ear.
"Growing a bit compliant there, doll. Makin' me think this has been on your mind for a while."
With a grunt, she jostles herself up hard, trying to throw him off, trying to wrestle back the last bit of power she can. But he doesn’t budge. If anything, he only presses into her harder, his fingers hooking up in a way that makes her vision blur at the edges and a soft gasp fly out of her mouth.
Her lips part, her breath ragged, eyes locking with his over her shoulder. "You think… th-this means anything?" she spits, but her voice trembles, a touch of desperation creeping in.
He leans in closer, teeth grazing her bottom lip again, but this time softer, taunting. "Not sure." he replies, amused. "Ask me again when I've got my cock in you." He snorts at his own asinine remark. Her nostrils flare.
“Pig.” she manages to grit out, voice hoarse, teeth clenched.
His lips brush her ear, and he chuckles. "Pig? I'm not the one squealin'."
His wrist picks up the pace, causing her face to screw up, expression tightening as his thumb finally nudges her clit - her body seizes; she contracts unwillingly around his fingers, but he pries her back open with a third.
She can’t stop the moan that tears from her throat, her eyes squeezing shut as he watches her start to unravel beneath him with a sadistic grin.
Her body jerks against him as much as it can, the sharp edge of pleasure overtaking the defiance she's clung onto for the past few minutes as she tries to free her arms. She bites her lip hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of her falling apart beneath him.
That is until she feels his hand pull away from between her thighs with a humiliating squelch, and she tries with all her might to hold back a defeated whimper at the sudden loss of sensation.
She tries to turn her head, impatience tightening her muscles, but he’s got her locked in place, every shift of her body met with an unyielding press of his weight. She can’t see him, can only feel - the absence of his fingers a cruel tease, leaving her thrumming with frustration.
Then she hears him sigh - quiet, almost contemplative. Then the slow drag of him sliding against her, gliding through the pool of slick he’s already drawn out.
Her breath stutters, thighs twitching in trepidation as the warm head of his cock nudges at her clit, pressing into her just enough to make her agonise for more. It’s humiliating, the involuntary clench of muscle, the way her arousal drips down onto the sheets. She hates it. Hates him.
Hates even more that every nerve in her body is screaming for him to keep going.
His chest is flush against her back, the unbearable heat of him sinking into her skin, searing, suffocating, branding, almost, in ways she refuses to acknowledge. She won't be forgetting this feeling for a long time. Neither will he.
His breath skates along the shell of her ear - ragged, smug. He knows. Of course, he fucking knows.
His hips shift, and then - fuck.
The first thrust knocks the air straight out of her lungs. He doesn’t ease in, doesn’t give her a second to adjust - just drives into her in one inexorable push, filling her so deep her fingers claw uselessly at the sheets.
She chokes on the moan that tries to escape, biting down hard on her lip until blood oozes back onto her tongue. She refuses to give him the satisfaction.
“Holy sh-” he grits out, adjusting his grip, one hand firm on her hip, thumb digging into the dip of her spine. “Wasn't expecting such a tight fit - Jesus.” His words cut through the haze as his other hand re-tightens around her throat.
Her eyes screw shut, her pulse hammering away. He shouldn’t feel this good. Given his big fucking mouth, she'd always assumed he was trying to compensate for something. More fool her.
Sam pulls back slowly, the stretch sending unbearable anticipatory pleasure sparking through her veins. Then he slams back in with a grunt, punching a breathless gasp out of her. He holds himself there for a second, feeling her stretch and squeeze around him.
“This really all it takes to get you to shut that whiny little mouth a'yours?"
Her hands fist into the sheets, wishing the same could be said about him, as numbness sets into her arms from being stuck under her own weight for so long, her jaw clenching as he sets a brutal rhythm, every snap of his hips forcing her forward, shunting her deeper into the uncomfortable mattress.
Her body gives in so easily, molten heat spiralling away in her stomach. Ugh, she wants to spit something back at him, but she can’t. He’s fucking the breath right out of her, and all sense of the disgusting room around her is fading, slipping into nothing.
In her attempt to keep quiet, she must make a sound - broken, subservient - damn near wrecked, because he laughs against her sweat-damp skin, pressing her down harder, cock driving deeper, with the intention to bruise - he wants her to remember this.
She groans, long and lewd, her forehead pressing into the mattress, her body traitorously growing more pliant under him. The pleasure is unbearable, tangled with resentment, with rage, with the utmost desire to wipe that smug tone out of his voice.
His hand around her throat scoops her upwards, and she whines through gritted teeth as her back is forcibly arched and her breathing is restricted. Every breath is laboured, his grip unrelenting, pushing her into a tight space between ecstasy and… well, suffocation, probably. Her vision blurs slightly at the edges, but a dull prickling sensation creeps through her arms. Pins and needles.
She feels the slow return of blood flow, the sluggish tingling that signals her strength coming back. The feeling shoots through her hands, all the way to her fingertips. Soon… very soon, she’ll have enough control to move. To shove him off, regain the upper hand, and wipe that smug expression off his face. Or… Or she can let him keep going. Let him use her, drive her deeper into this haze of loathing-stunted pleasure.
“Y’know,” oh what the hell does he want now? “I could stop-"
“Don’t you fucking dare,” she snaps, her voice rough from the pressure on her throat. His laugh vibrates against her back - he calls her a whore again. A cheap insult, but infuriatingly taunting nonetheless.
“Ugh,” she rasps, struggling for air, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re-”
He cuts her off with another brutal snap of his hips, his fingers tightening around her throat, making her clench her teeth around a particularly loud moan.
“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”
Her arms twitch beneath her, the prickling sensation turning into something more solid. She can feel the strength returning, knows she can move if she really wants to. But does she want to?
“So fucking full of yourself,” she manages to spit out between gasps, but even as the words leave her lips, she’s not sure if she believes them. She’s close - too close to care about pride right now. Her hands flex against the sheets, feeling the last vestiges of numbness fade. She knows she has a choice to make.
He lets out a low, breathy chuckle, somewhere between a smug exhale than a giggle, his thumb brushing possessively along her jaw. “God, I can think of a great retort for that one,” he murmurs, his focus now on the ripple of her flesh as he buries himself into her again and again. “Bit on the nose, though, even f’me - ha, fuck.”
And then she notices he’s losing it. Rhythm’s all over the shop. Messy. Sloppy. He’s lucky he’s got such a maddeningly nice dick because he’s barely holding it together. And the grip? He’s not pulling her up to control her anymore - he’s using her to hold himself up. Leaning on her, pressing his weight down into her and her shaky arms that are just about holding her up. Idiot.
Ooh, he's close.
He shifts slightly, just enough to adjust his grip on her, and that’s when she moves.
She bucks once more. As hard as she can. A violent twist of her hips, using the last of her strength to wrench herself sideways, unbalancing him just enough to make him swear under his breath as he slips out of her.
She almost mourns the loss… but she certainly won’t waste it.
Her knee plants against the mattress, her body surging with a reckless, desperate twist. He tries to grab her, but she’s already moving, shoving her shoulder into his side, using her full weight to knock him off balance.
And then they’re falling.
They hit the floor hard, tangled, his hand shooting out to grab at her, but she’s already moving.
A scramble, her knee grinding into his ribs. A sharp shove. Teeth gritted. His growl’s met with a vicious laugh.
He reaches for her wrist. Stupid move.
She twists his arm instead. Slams his chest to the floor. Limbs tangled, messy, but she’s got him now. Breathless, glowing with sweat. Arousal. Victory.
“Finally,” she exhales, shaking the hair from her face as she plants her weight against him. “You alright down there, champ?”
He’s seething. Muscles coiled tight - and he’s still fucking hard despite it all. God, he’s pissed, and she's more than aware that she's got limited time to wrangle full control, so she’s already moving, already fumbling for the closest thing-
His belt.
Perfect.
Leather snaps free from his jeans with a crisp thhhhk, click-clack, and Sam’s eyes go wide, rage and panic flickering. He’s still throbbing, still right there on the edge, but everything’s slipping out of his hands. Stone to sand. All power gone. Kaput.
“Nah - no, no, no, no. We’re not doin’ this," His voice breaks, a low growl, a shot of panic. "We’re not-“
His laugh comes out stilted, but it quickly morphs into a guttural growl of frustration as he tries to throw her off. She digs in - knee to his shoulder blade, boot to the small of his back. It’s enough to pin him, pain sharp, getting the job done.
His hands press to the floor in a last-ditch effort to push up. “You arrogant, goddamn- Agh-”
Her hand’s in his hair. Brutal. His face gets shoved to the floor, cheek grinding against the rough, dirty surface.
“Shhh.” The slimy little bitch’s voice is low, condescendingly soothing - all a stark comparison to the way she yanks his arm round to his back. “Quit being so dramatic. You’re gonna get us noise complaints.”
He spits curses, body jerking beneath her, but it’s all in vain. Leather loops once, twice, three times. Tight somewhere between his wrists and his elbows. Just out of reach of his fingers. The buckle clinks. Coffin nailed shut.
By the time he stops thrashing, his breathing’s ragged, face half-planted on the floor, arms bound behind his back.
He’s trapped. Tense. Furious. Fuck this.
"Up you get, big boy." With a grunt of effort, she grabs the fabric of his trousers near the waist and braces herself, leaning back slightly to use her weight. It's not graceful, but it's effective. He resists, of course – a deliberate shift of his shoulders, a tensing of his limbs that makes it harder than it needs to be. She growls in frustration, her fingers digging into his flesh as she pulls. He shifts begrudgingly, his body fighting her for every inch as she hauls him upright.
Another shift, a last-ditch effort to resist, but finally - finally - he’s on his knees, breathing hard, eyes glued to the floor as he fruitlessly tries to tug apart his arms.
She looks down at him, noting the anger in his expression, as he looks over his shoulders to assess the binding situation he's in. Then, she glances at the rigid set of his cock sticking out of his jeans. A grin tugs at the corner of her mouth as she mulls something over, sore lip pulled between her teeth.
“Show me your tongue.”
His head snaps in her direction, eyes shifting up towards her, but he remains silent.
“You heard me.”
The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he mutters, his brows furrowing as he looks up at her with that familiar blend of defiance and derision, swallowing at the sight of her nudity.
She cocks her head, the very picture of patient amusement, and sighs theatrically, as if his resistance is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Always the hard way with you, isn’t it?”
Her fingers find his jaw, the pads of them tracing the gentle edge of bone with mock delicacy, dragging down to his stubbled chin and around to the nape of his neck. Her touch is deceptively gentle, lulling him into a brief moment of unease.
He doesn’t like the way it feels. Softness isn’t her weapon of choice; she’s more prone to acting like the human equivalent of barbed wire, so this tenderness sets his nerves on edge. His eyes flicker, skittering over her face as she kneels to his level.
“Ah, shit-”
The words break from him as her fingers knot into his hair, the tenderness of her touch abruptly morphing into a sharp yank that forces his head back. His throat bobs as he swallows, the motion starkly exposed in the taut column of his neck.
Sam tries to shift under her grip, angling his head in an attempt to take control of the movement, but she tightens her hold, keeping him off balance. It’s a deliberate cruelty, that refusal to let him get comfortable.
“Open your mouth,” she demands, her voice dropping. “And show me your fucking tongue, Sam.”
His eyes squint against the sharp tug of her grip, discomfort twisting his features as his teeth clench in defiance. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to push back, to spit some insult at her that will surely make her pull harder. She almost wants him to - any excuse to relish in this a little more.
But then her thumbnail skims over the head of his cock, fingers squeezing him gently, coaxing out a pretty bead of precum as her other hand digs fiercely into his scalp, sending a sharp pulse of debauched pain down his spine, and he realises - reluctantly - that there’s no winning this battle.
His lips part slightly, the smallest gesture of compliance, allowing a soft shudder of a gasp to slip. Enough to earn a triumphant quirk of her brow, nonetheless. Her smile sharpens, and he hates it. But still, he swallows his pride and lets his tongue dart out briefly as she pumps her hand tight around his slick shaft.
“There he is,” she murmurs, her tone laced with condescending approval. His eyes shut in an attempt to remove himself from the situation - just to focus on the feeling of being jerked off, and she watches him with parted lips of her own.
She exhales slowly, her hand loosening in his hair just enough for him to relax a fraction; her thumb hooks over his bottom lip, prying him open just a touch more, tip of it resting against his teeth.
It’s all a cruel mislead, of course - an opening for her next move. Her tongue rolls around the floor of her mouth, letting herself salivate for a moment as satisfaction rolls through her in waves.
With a sudden, fluid motion, she leans forward and spits. Directly onto his tongue. The wetness lands with an audible sound, catching him completely off guard. His body flinches instinctively, a mix of shock and disgust flashing across his face as his eyes snap open.
Sam recoils, twisting sharply in an attempt to pull away, but her hand tightens in his hair again, keeping him in place.
“Swallow it.”
He gawks at her, blinking, disbelief carving deep into his face. Then, defiant, just as she’s halfway to standing - he spits right back at her.
It lands on her thigh.
Her eyes track the slow slide of it, narrowing, sharp with intent.
"You're gonna clean that up."
It hits him sideways, enough to make him bark out a laugh and tell her she’s fucked in the head. He shifts, rocking back to stand, sick of it- but before he can get far, she’s got him. A sharp yank, fingers curling tight in his hair, dragging him between her thighs as she sits herself on the edge of the bed.
He fights. For a second. Maybe longer.
Jerks against her grip, muscles straining, breath sharp. A tangle of half-formed curses and gritted insults spill from his mouth. He bucks, twists, pushes back all sloppy and desperate. But it’s instinct more than anything.
She holds steady.
Unyielding. Even shushing him at one point, her harsh clawing at his hair turning into a patronising stroke.
Just a roll of her hips - grinding her cunt against his spit-slick lips. His breath stutters, his pulse a frantic hammer. He wants to pull back. He needs to, or he’ll never hear the end of this. But it’s already slipping - crumbling.
And she knows.
That faint, knowing smile. Just enough to gut him.
He loathes her. But right now, he's fucking powerless against the way she holds him, so he loathes himself just as much. The beauty of her contempt, the sight of her; swollen, dripping, so fucking pretty - it unravels him, inch by inch.
Lust coils around his willpower, thorned vines twisting, piercing, digging in deep, holding him there just as her thighs do. Every defiant twitch grows weaker. His fight crumbles, piece by piece, drowning under the weight of his own sickening want.
It’s like being stuck in a weird loop - one second clawing for control, the next watching it slip through his fingers. His mind spirals, blurring need with shame. Clawing for control. Losing it. Over and over again.
A shuddering sigh escapes him. Surrender. His mouth moves before his mind can catch up, tongue finding rhythm, following instinct. Thought dulls. Exhaustion takes hold.
She tastes incredible. Feels incredible. He lets her keep rubbing against his nose, his lips and tongue - hell, he even catches himself looking up at her to see how she reacts - if he’s doing a good job. And worst of all - he can feel his cock twitch as she damn-near suffocates him.
Fuck, he hates her. She sounds so goddamn pretty as she pants and mewls as she uses him like a toy, and he fucking hates her.
Her thighs tighten around his shoulders, boots digging into his back, tugging him in closer. He exhales, sharp, ragged. It fans over her clit and she laughs softly at his final act of dissent before it all caves in.
Then, her head tilts and her eyes drop between his legs. She streams around his tongue when she sees how swollen he is, reminding herself of how he felt minutes ago.
A sharp tug - his hair burning against her grip as she pulls him away, just for a moment, just to drink in the sight of him - face slick, pupils blown, chest heaving. He barely has a second to catch his breath before she shifts, hands pressing against his shoulders, shoving him back.
He hits the ground with a ragged gasp, body thrumming, limbs heavy. The world tilts, his mind scrambling to keep up, but she’s already moving - crawling over him, her thighs bracketing his head, knees pressing firm into the floor.
His bound arms ache beneath him, shoulders burning, but it barely registers.
Sound, weight, scent - she drowns him in it, a force as consuming as the taste of her on his tongue. It suffocates, but he doesn’t fight it. No, he revels in it.
The pressure of her thighs, the slick heat against his mouth, the way she bears down with full intent - it dilutes the pain, the sheer humiliation, all eclipsed. And God, does he feast.
He laps over her, tracing the edge, tugging at her hardened clit, pulling a raspy cry from her, muffled by her thighs. He pushes his tongue just a little further, breaching and earning another gush as she braces her hands against the floor.
The sharp roll of his tongue, the relentless way he works her over - it’s almost too much. Her thighs twitch around his head, her breath coming in short, hitched gasps, and she knows she’s close. And she won’t give him that victory yet.
She moves because she wants to see his face - wants to see the mess she’s made of him. It’s not enough to feel him unravel beneath her; she needs to witness it. Needs to drink in the sight of him, sweat-damp and dazed, lips pink and slick, chest heaving from the effort of it all.
She lifts herself just enough to glance down, and - oh.
He’s a sight. Pupils dark and glassy, lips parted, jaw slack like he hasn’t quite remembered how to hold himself together. His shoulders twitch beneath the strain of being bound for so long, but he’s not focused on that.
Her legs feel unsteady as she moves, dragging herself up his body, heat still pulsing between her legs as she settles over his chest instead.
His face is slick with her, lips parted, gaze flickering between her eyes and the curve of her mouth, like he’s searching for something -defiance, permission, something he can twist back in his favour. But she doesn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, she just smirks, tapping a single finger against his jaw. “Arms hurt?”
His eyes track her, blinking through the mess, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His lips part, like he wants to say something, but instead, he just watches her. There’s defiance, of course, and something almost like curiosity.
“Arms. Shoulders,” he mutters, still catching his breath, his eyes narrowing up at her, “you try being tied up by a total amateur.”
She laughs lightly, breathless herself. “Could’ve fooled me, you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
He groans, rolling his eyes, but there’s a hint of something that might be a laugh in there. “Enjoyin’ mysel- Jesus, you really are… not right in the head.”
Her smile sharpens, and she leans down, foreheads touching as she mimics his cadence. "You really are… not handling this well, are you?"
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his temple, but his voice comes out hoarse, lacking the bite. “I swear to God…”
She can’t help it - she laughs. Breathless and sooo giddy.
He shakes his head, hers still resting against his, a mix of frustration and something dangerously close to resignation. “I’m gonna break your damn neck in a min-“
She silences his cheapened fury in an instant - he doesn’t even realise she’s kissing him until she pulls away and his lazy threat slides back down his throat. She tilts her head, lips curving in that smug, infuriating way they always do.
“Get this shit off of me,” he grits, trying to hold onto something solid, cheeks warming despite his best efforts to keep it together.
Her grin spreads, slow and syrupy, and her fingers trace along his jaw, then down to the ink on his neck. Her hips press down, just enough to make him aware of the weight of her against him, soaked folds sliding over him.
“In a minute,” she chides.
He groans, a tongue pressing against his teeth, a mirthless huff of laughter escaping as he turns his head slightly. “Nope. Right now,” he mutters, but it’s more of a complaint than a command, his resolve fraying at the edges, worn thin under her touch.
She hums thoughtfully, as if actually considering it, before leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. "Do you want to finish?" Her tone is casual, light, like they’re talking about the weather.
Ugh. He rolls his neck, a sharp crack that makes her wince, but there’s no real venom left in him. Just frustration, heat, and a grudging acceptance of the situation.
“Thought so,” she murmurs with a grin, and she angles herself against his tip, he doesn’t have the energy to fight it.
She watches him with curious intensity as she sinks down, a soft laugh and long exhale pulled out of her when he winces. Her cunt swallows him whole, searing her in two, boiling his blood, all the heat and tension and rage and exhaustion of this seemingly endless ordeal of being stuck together for weeks on end - making them a mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths, sounds pulled out of both of them, her moans caught between sharp inhales, his teeth clenched around groans that scrape up his throat.
“Mm-ff-fuck-” he stutters, teeth snagging against his lower lip as he can’t prevent himself from fucking up into her any longer. “Y’know you’re so much more- ha- more tolerable like this.”
“Woah - was- was that a compliment?” She slows, letting him take the reins for a moment.
He laughs, head tilted back into the carpet. “Fat chance.”
“Oof,” She scoffs, leaning back to brace her hands on his thighs. She sits up fully, enveloping to the hilt and he watches himself repeatedly disappear into her, lips parted, trying to maintain a semblance of control over his breathing. Fuck, she loves the way his eyes roam her body - hungry, devouring, darting from the ripple of her stomach to the bounce of her tits, lingering on the flush that spreads over her skin, the sweat-slick glow catching in the dim lamplight. “And to think I was about to give you some… jargon about how nice your cock feels.”
“Wouldn’t want it.” He lies, eyes shut as he smirks to himself. “Servile praise never really did much for me.”
“Hah, well your tongue was acting pretty servile a second ago… ugh, fuck.” She groans, shunted forwards, hands smacking onto his chest to stop her falling flat onto him. He swears as she accidentally pushes more pressure on his arms. His shoulders flex, trying to balance the ache beneath him with the overwhelming pleasure of her on top, the cruel mix of restraint and indulgence that keeps him teetering on the edge.
She should leave him like this. Should keep him right where he is. But when he shifts beneath her, just enough to drag a ragged groan from deep in his chest. Something about it makes her cave. Maybe it’s pity, maybe it’s power, maybe it’s just the fact that she wants to see what he’ll do with his hands freed.
She reaches behind him, fingers working the buckle loose, and the second the belt slips away, his arms fly forward. One hooks around her waist, dragging her down so fast the breath jolts out of her, the other fists into her hair, yanking her into a kiss - clumsy, messy, all teeth and heat and unspent frustration. It’s not tender, not sweet. It’s nothing but a last-ditch attempt to swallow down the sounds she’s already torn from him, to reclaim some semblance of control before she can smirk against his mouth and make him feel even more, as she’d rightly put it, fucking pathetic.
She’s embarrassed him enough. He’s got to keep something to himself. He fucking groans anyway when he feels her clench around him.
She pulls back just enough to smirk. “What was that?”
“Will you shut your fucking mouth?” He doesn’t give her time to answer. Just flips them, shoving her onto her back, thrusting into her with new, unrestrained fervour. She gasps, half-laughing, half-moaning, her nails digging into the back of his neck.
“I get it,” she breathes between ragged inhales. “You - oh, fuck - you’ve gotta hold on to what little dignity you have left.”
His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring. “Be quiet.”
It’s a half-hearted command, lost between a sharp exhale and the way his pace turns frantic, his restraint fraying at the edges.
But she’s not faring much better. Her moans rise in pitch as his hand pushes between them, recklessly rubbing against her clit again - no doubt she’ll have something smart to say about him coming first - she writhes, arching up unto him, tits crushed against him, her thighs twitching around his waist, her nails pressing deep enough to leave crescents in his skin.
She gasps, startled as he presses against her almost painfully, and he takes the opportunity to bite down on her lower lip, just to feel her jolt against him, just to make sure he’s still got some say in how this plays out. But she’s never been one to let him win easily - her fingers twist into his hair, pulling just enough to sting, her hips rolling up against his in a way that makes him groan despite himself. He curses into her mouth, swallowing it down just in time.
Her body tightens beneath him, trembling, and god - he knows she’s close.
So is he.
“Gonna- ah, shit, c- can I cum in you?”
She swallows before she can register what he’s said, eyes squeezing shut as a stuttered cry tumbles out of her mouth - then she’s pulsing - gushing around him. Nails dug into spade, heart, club, diamond, as he fucks her through her climax. Lucky is right.
She feels nothing short of transcendental around him - the only thing putting a stop to him mindlessly telling her this is his own building panic.
“P- shit- fuckin’ answer me.”
Oh, he’s seriously asking? Her thighs tremble as she falls limp under him, nodding into his shoulder as a cock-drunk flash of a smile plasters its way onto her lips.
His hand quickly tangles into her hair as a ragged, stuttering groan resonates in his chest; the jerky, force of his hips against her thighs bruises as he succumbs to his own release. She’s all-encompassed by a sudden warmth filling her up, the intensity of her heartbeat thrumming away in her ears.
He lets out a long huff of air, hand snatched from between them as he braces himself against the ground, breathing heavily.
For a moment, neither of them move, bodies buzzing with the mental and physical aftershock, chests rising and falling out of sync.
He eventually rolls off of her, rubbing a hand over his face.
“What... the hell was that?”
She huffs, staring at the ceiling. “Your poor anger management.”
He turns his head to glare at her, but there’s no real bite to it, just exhaustion and the ghost of humiliation he’s struggling to swallow. "Yeah, well, you’re not exactly a picture of restraint either.”
She shrugs, stretching her arms above her head as she sits up, cheeks flushed, hair matted. “You called me frigid. Had to prove you wrong.” He snorts, full of resentment.
A few more beats of silence, then- “What are you smiling about?”
She bites back the smug little grin threatening to spread wider, rising to her feet. “C-c-c-can I c-c-cum in you?” She stutters, blatantly ribbing, voice pitched in a terrible imitation of his desperation.
His jaw twitches, shuts his eyes, grits his teeth. Ugh. “Your presence is excruciating.”
She clicks her tongue, gesturing to the pearly liquid slowly dribbling down her inner thigh. “Sooo excruciating.”
He groans, shoving a hand through his hair, looking very much like a man questioning his life choices. “Fuck off.”
“I am.” She steps over him, standing on shaky limbs with an obnoxious head tilt as she goes for one of the poorly folded scratchy towels on the dresser. “I’m not leaking all over the floor. Even if you’re sleeping there. I have standards.” He makes a face, brows furrowing, mouth parting slightly like he wants to argue but just… can’t.
She watches the realisation dawn on him with no small amount of satisfaction.
“Jesus Christ.” He groans, flopping back onto the carpet, throwing an arm over his eyes. She laughs as she heads for the bathroom. His hand blindly grabs for his belt, launching it in her direction with an irked grunt.
It thuds against the door as she shuts it behind her. He exhales sharply, rubbing at his jaw. Stares at the ceiling. Fuck.
I Fiori Del Male - John Brannox (The New Pope) x Reader [Smut]
Synopsis: Scandal is trivial when it comes to Catholic factions, as long as it’s well hidden. You, a nude model, and the High Priest of England are forced to put that to the test during one last night of passion, when Papacy looms.
Notes: Once again my love of old men is my downfall. I watched the show for Manson, and ended up really liking John Malkovich’s character as well. He’s just so sweet and charming! So here’s a sporadic one shot I really enjoyed writing.
Gif belongs to lousolversons!
Your robe trails behind you along the marble floors of the manor. It’s the middle of the night, and you knew he’d be waiting for you when you arrived on the grounds.
“You’re early,” John says, smiling. You shut the door quietly, walking over to the bed and discarding your robe. The older man is sitting, contented, by his fireplace, harp resting comfortably in his lap.
“I got here just when I intended to,” you reply, and he pauses his playing of the harp to admire your body. He turns back to face the far wall.
“You’ve heard the news, I take it.”
You take a breath. You hadn’t expected him to bring that up before joining you in bed… it took a toll on the expected activities of the night. “Yes. I’ve heard.” He plucks a couple of the strings on the harp, and you realize you’ve closed the conversation too early. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.” That, you weren’t expecting. John glances over, eyebrows raising a little at your reaction. “You’re upset.”
“I’m surprised,” you correct, though you can’t ignore the tugging feeling you have in your stomach. John stands, abandoning his instrument, and walks leisurely over to the bed in his purple velvet dressing gown. A small smile appears on his lips.
“You’re upset.” Before you can search your brain for any excuse or assurance that you were, in fact, unaffected, he puts his hands on your shoulders. “I’m upset as well.”
The elves reacting to the different types of kisses (forehead, cheek, jaw, wrist elven ear, nose, shoulder, lips...)
Celebrimbor version below. enjoy Gurlie as you love Celebrimbor 😉❤️🔥🫶✨ (I’m still working on Gil-galad one)
💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻
Forehead Kiss
The forge had grown quiet, the rhythmic clanging of metal replaced by the soft crackle of embers in the hearth. Celebrimbor sat on a low bench near the fire, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. His long fingers, so skilled and steady, were now laced together tightly, betraying the weight of his unspoken thoughts. Shadows played across his face, accentuating the lines of exhaustion etched into his features.
You approached him silently, your footsteps muffled against the stone floor, and rested your hand gently on his arm. He didn’t move at first, lost in the labyrinth of his mind, but when you stepped in front of him, his silver eyes lifted to meet yours. There was a flicker of weariness in them, mixed with a quiet gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words.
Without speaking, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel his tension ease beneath the touch. His breath hitched softly, his eyes fluttering closed as if savoring the moment. He leaned into you, resting his brow against your chest, and his hands rose instinctively. One cupped your face, his calloused thumb brushing tenderly along your cheek, while the other settled on your shoulder with a grounding weight.
“You steady my heart,” he murmured, his voice a soft, fragile thing in the quiet forge. His fingers tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself to you. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” You stayed there for a moment, the warmth of the fire on your back and the steady rhythm of his breathing against you. In that small bubble of peace, the burdens of the world seemed far away, and the ever-dedicated smith allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability, resting in the quiet reassurance of your love.
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Cheek Kiss
The forge buzzed with energy as Celebrimbor bent over his workbench, utterly engrossed in his latest project. The mithril necklace before him glittered under the soft light, its intricate filigree design nearing perfection. His brow furrowed in concentration, and he muttered to himself about symmetry and balance, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
His focus was unshakable, his quill poised midair as he examined the delicate etching in front of him. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him like this—completely lost in his craft, his silver hair falling messily around his face. Stepping quietly behind him, you leaned in and pressed a quick, playful kiss to his cheek.
The reaction was instant. His quill stilled mid-stroke, and his shoulders stiffened momentarily before he turned his head to look at you, his expression shifting from surprise to warmth. A faint blush crept across his pale cheeks, his lips parting slightly as though you’d momentarily stolen all coherent thought from him.
A soft, unguarded smile curved his lips, and he chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and laced with affection. “Always so sweet with your gestures,” he murmured, setting the quill down carefully as if this moment mattered more than even his most delicate work.
He stood and turned to face you fully, his hands finding your waist as he pulled you closer. The calluses on his palms brushed against the fabric of your tunic, grounding and gentle all at once. His silver eyes sparkled with a teasing light, though there was no mistaking the adoration behind them.
“But I warn you,” he continued, his voice soft yet laced with amusement, “distracting me like that is dangerous work.” He leaned in, his lips brushing yours briefly before pulling back, his smile widening. “You may find yourself entirely at my mercy if you’re not careful.” His arms tightened around you, and for a moment, the world beyond the forge ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of his touch, the deep timbre of his voice, and the love that radiated from him like the faint glow of mithril under firelight.
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Lips Kiss
The late evening light spilled through the open window of the forge, its golden hues mingling with the soft glow of the hearthfire, casting a warm, almost ethereal light over Celebrimbor. He stood by his workbench, shoulders heavy with exhaustion but his hands still steady as they gently polished the edge of a newly forged blade. His focus was unwavering, but you could see the toll his work had taken on him—the faint circles under his eyes, the weariness etched into the lines of his face.
“Celebrimbor,” you called softly, stepping closer. He didn’t respond at first, too absorbed in his task, but at the touch of your hand on his arm, he froze. Slowly, he turned to you, his silver eyes lifting to meet yours. There was something disarming in the way his gaze softened the moment he saw you, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips as if you had brought a moment of peace into his ever-busy mind.
“You’ve been working too hard,” you murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. The faint touch made him sigh, his shoulders losing just a fraction of their tension.
He caught your hand, holding it as if it were the most fragile thing in the world, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. His gaze lingered on you—your eyes, your lips, every detail of your face—as if committing you to memory. Slowly, with an almost reverent pause, he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was unhurried, deliberate, like he was pouring his heart into the act. His hands slid up to cradle your face, his touch firm yet tender, grounding you in the moment. His lips moved with a gentle rhythm, as though each movement was meant to reassure you, to communicate a love he sometimes struggled to put into words.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath came in soft, uneven sighs. His hands didn’t leave your face, his thumbs tracing gentle circles along your cheekbones as if reluctant to let go.
“You make my world brighter,” he whispered, his voice raw and filled with emotion, his lips brushing yours again in a featherlight caress. “You are my brightest star, my light in the darkness.” For that moment, the weight of his responsibilities, the forge, and the dangers of the world melted away, leaving only the warmth of your embrace and the quiet intimacy shared between you.
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Elven ears kiss
The cool night air drifted across the balcony, carrying the faint scents of Eregion’s gardens mingled with the distant smoke of Khazad-dûm’s forges. The stars gleamed like diamonds above, their pale light mirrored in Celebrimbor’s silver-gray eyes. He sat beside you, his posture uncharacteristically relaxed, though the faint crease between his brows told you his mind was still caught on his endless toils.
You studied him quietly, the way his sharp features softened in the starlight, his hand resting idly on the stone ledge beside him. Even in this rare moment of peace, there was an aura of quiet intensity about him—a man whose thoughts were never far from his craft or his duties. Reaching out, you brushed your fingers over the back of his hand, drawing his attention. His gaze shifted to you, and as he met your eyes, the tension in his expression eased. His lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that was reserved only for you, and his hand turned to intertwine with yours.
“You always know how to bring me back,” he murmured, his voice low, warm, and filled with quiet gratitude. A playful glint sparked in your chest at his words. Tilting your head, you leaned in, pressing your lips to the delicate tip of his ear. The warmth of your breath lingered, deliberate and teasing, against the sensitive skin. The reaction was immediate, visceral. Celebrimbor’s entire body stiffened, his breath catching sharply as a shudder ran through him. His silver eyes fluttered shut, his head tilting slightly as though caught between retreating from the overwhelming sensation and leaning into it.
A soft, breathless gasp escaped his lips, followed by a low, uncharacteristic groan that sent warmth pooling in your chest. His hand shot up, gripping your arm tightly as though anchoring himself, while the other rested firmly on your hip. His flushed cheeks stood out starkly in the moonlight, and his breathing turned uneven.
“Vanya…” he breathed, his voice unsteady as he whispered the Elvish word for “beautiful.” His usual eloquence seemed to fail him, leaving him vulnerable, his composure crumbling in the most captivating way. Smiling, you leaned in again, this time brushing your lips slowly along the sensitive curve of his ear. His breath hitched, his grip on your arm tightening as another tremor coursed through him. His fingers splayed against your waist, pulling you closer, as his free hand moved to rest at the nape of your neck. “Cala nórelya,” (light of my life) he murmured through uneven breaths—“You will undo me.” His voice was a mix of playful reproach and raw affection, though it cracked slightly, betraying the intensity of the moment.
When you finally drew back, his eyes blinked open, clouded with emotion, the silver depths reflecting a potent mix of love and longing. He pulled you close, wrapping both arms tightly around you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath against your skin. For a long moment, he simply held you, his composure gradually returning as he basked in the closeness you shared. When he finally pulled back, his smile was soft and unguarded, a rare and breathtaking sight. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin.
“I should warn you,” he murmured, his voice low and husky as his lips ghosted over your temple. “Such power in your hands could be the ruin of me, my love.” Though his tone carried a teasing edge, the depth of the emotion in his gaze was undeniable. And as he held you, his body still trembling faintly in the aftermath of your touch, you knew there was no place in all of Arda where he would rather be.
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Nose Kiss
The soft morning light filtered through the windows of Celebrimbor’s study, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. The air was warm and still, broken only by the faint scratch of his quill against parchment. He was hunched over his worktable, silver-gray eyes focused intently on the intricate designs he was sketching. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and yet, despite the weight of his meticulous work, there was a calm serenity about him.
You watched him for a moment from the doorway, a soft smile curling on your lips at how deeply immersed he was in his craft. You stepped closer, your footsteps quiet against the stone floor. “Still working?” you teased lightly, leaning against the edge of his table.
Celebrimbor glanced up, his gaze lifting from the delicate curves of mithril designs to meet yours. The faint lines of tension in his expression softened instantly, replaced by a gentle warmth in his silver eyes. “When inspiration strikes, it does not wait,” he replied, a faint chuckle in his voice. The corners of his mouth quirked in that almost-smile that always made your heart flutter.
You leaned over, pretending to inspect the sketches in front of him. The lines were precise, almost impossibly so, a testament to his unparalleled skill. But your true intent wasn’t to admire his work. Instead, you tilted your head and leaned in closer, pressing a light, playful kiss to the tip of his nose.
The reaction was immediate and utterly endearing. Celebrimbor blinked in surprise, his quill stilling mid-air as his lips parted slightly. A quiet chuckle escaped him, warm and unrestrained, as his hand reached up to brush softly against your cheek. “A bold move,” he murmured, his voice low and tinged with amusement. Despite his playful tone, a faint flush colored his pale cheeks, betraying the delight your gesture brought him.
Before you could pull away, he leaned forward, tilting his head slightly to meet yours. His nose brushed against yours in an affectionate nuzzle, the gesture so tender that it left your heart aching. His laughter was soft and warm, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace. “You make me feel so young again,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of unguarded joy. For a moment, the weight of his responsibilities—the forge, the guild, the growing demands of his people—seemed to melt away. All that remained was the golden morning light, the quiet warmth between you, and the love that shone brightly in his eyes.
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Shoulder Kiss
The evening was quiet, the gardens of Ost-in-Edhil bathed in soft silver moonlight. The stars above seemed impossibly close, their faint glow shimmering like scattered diamonds against the darkened sky. The scent of blooming flowers drifted through the air, mingling with the cool breeze that rustled through the leaves.
Celebrimbor sat beside you on a wide stone bench, his arm draped loosely around your shoulders. His other hand rested on his knee, fingers occasionally tracing idle patterns against the fabric of his robes. For once, the master smith’s hands were still—no tools, no sketches, no heavy hammer strokes breaking the quiet.
His silver eyes gazed out over the moonlit blooms, his expression relaxed but distant. You could tell his mind lingered on his work, even in this rare moment of rest. The faint crease in his brow and the way his fingers twitched betrayed the thoughts that refused to leave him.
Shifting slightly, you leaned closer, resting your head against his shoulder. The tension in his body seemed to ease at your touch, his gaze flickering down to you as a soft, almost shy smile curved his lips. Without a word, you tilted your head and pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of his shoulder, just where the fabric of his robe parted slightly to reveal his skin. The kiss was light, but it carried with it all the affection and comfort you felt for him.
Celebrimbor froze for a moment, his breath catching at the unexpected gesture. Slowly, his silver eyes softened, the faint crease in his brow disappearing as the meaning of your touch sank in. With a quiet sigh, he tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the world.
His head lowered, and he brushed his forehead against your temple, his voice breaking the stillness. “I feel whole with you beside me,” he whispered, his words a quiet confession of gratitude and love. You felt his cheek rest against your hair as he breathed deeply, as though trying to memorize the moment—the scent of the flowers, the warmth of your presence, and the comfort of your touch. His hand drifted to rest lightly over yours, his thumb brushing small circles over your skin.
In that moment, there was no forge, no looming responsibility, no shadow of the burdens he carried. There was only you and the unshakable bond that held him steady. The faintest smile tugged at his lips as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You are my peace,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, but you heard it clearly. It was a truth he carried deep in his heart, one he rarely allowed himself to say aloud—but tonight, he gave it freely.
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Hand Kiss
The forge had grown silent, the once-roaring flames reduced to a low, flickering glow that cast long shadows on the stone walls. The faint scent of smelted metal and burning coals lingered in the air as Celebrimbor stood by the window, his tall frame outlined by the pale light of the moon. His hands rested on the sill, their calloused surfaces illuminated by the silvery glow, and his gaze was distant, lost in the quiet contemplation that often followed his long hours of crafting.
You approached him softly, your footsteps almost soundless on the stone floor. He didn’t turn right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his shoulders, a sign that he was aware of your presence. When you came close enough, his silver eyes flickered to you, and the lines of weariness on his face softened.
Without a word, you reached for his hand. It was warm from hours near the forge, rough and textured from centuries of work. You held it carefully, cradling it as if it were something delicate despite the strength it bore. Celebrimbor stilled, his breath catching as he watched you bring his hand to your lips.
When your lips pressed a tender kiss to the rough skin of his palm, he exhaled a slow, uneven breath. His fingers twitched, curling ever so slightly as though trying to hold onto the sensation. For a moment, he simply stared at you, his silver eyes wide with unspoken emotion. There was no trace of his usual composure, only quiet reverence and a vulnerability that made the moment feel achingly intimate.
He raised his free hand, cupping yours with a gentleness that belied his strength. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lifted your hand to his own lips. The kiss he placed on your knuckles was lingering and deliberate, his warm breath ghosting over your skin as his eyes stayed locked on yours.
“These hands have forged much,” he murmured, his voice low and weighted with emotion, “but none of it as precious as the love we share.” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles, as if trying to ground himself in your touch. The way he looked at you—soft, open, utterly unguarded—made your heart ache in the most beautiful way. In that moment, it wasn’t his legacy, his craft, or his burdens that defined him. It was the love you shared, the quiet connection that made him feel seen in a way no one else ever had.
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Wrist Kiss
The workshop was dim and tranquil, the embers of the forge casting a faint orange glow that flickered across the walls. The scent of heated metal and the faint tang of oil filled the room, mingling with the quiet hum of the evening. Celebrimbor sat at his workbench, his posture relaxed yet focused as his long fingers moved with precision over a piece of delicate filigree. The faint scrape of tools against metal was the only sound, until your footsteps brought a soft rhythm to the quiet.
You stepped behind him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. He paused, his fingers stilling as he leaned slightly into your touch. When he tilted his head to look at you, his silver eyes were warm, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Am I being summoned away from my work again?” he teased gently, though there was no annoyance in his tone. If anything, it was laced with affection. Instead of answering, you slid your hand down his arm, taking his hand in yours. He let you guide it, his movements slow and curious as his eyes followed your every gesture. Holding his hand delicately, you lifted it toward your lips, brushing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin of his wrist.
The reaction was instantaneous and visceral. Celebrimbor’s breath hitched audibly, his shoulders stiffening as a visible shiver coursed through him. His eyes fluttered closed, his long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. When he opened them again, they glimmered with something unspoken, a mix of awe and vulnerability that made your heart ache.
The soft skin of his wrist, rarely touched and sensitive from years of meticulous crafting, seemed to heighten the intimacy of the moment. His free hand rose to cradle yours, his thumb brushing over the delicate veins beneath your skin as though tracing the lifeline that sustained you.
“You…” he began, his voice catching slightly as he paused to steady himself. His tone, when he spoke again, was quiet and reverent. “You remind me how fragile yet strong love can be.” His fingers tightened slightly around yours, not with urgency, but with a quiet, grounding need to hold onto the moment. He set his tools aside, turning his body toward you fully as if to give you his undivided attention.
Slowly, he guided you closer, his hand slipping to your lower back as he brought you to sit beside him on the workbench’s edge. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. He simply held your hand, his thumb tracing idle patterns on your wrist as though he couldn’t bear to stop touching you. His expression was open, soft, filled with a tenderness that few ever got to see.
“You do more than remind me to stop working,” he murmured eventually, a small, almost wistful smile crossing his lips. “You remind me to live.” In your kiss, he had felt more than affection; he had felt trust, warmth, and the weight of a love so deep it could sustain him through even the darkest days. The intimacy of it lingered, leaving him utterly enchanted and more deeply connected to you than ever.
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Jawline kiss
The air in the forge was thick with the mingling scents of hot metal and the earthy undertones of ancient stone, yet a soft tranquility hung over the room. The rhythmic hum of the forge had quieted to a low murmur, and the distant clang of hammer on anvil barely registered as Celebrimbor stood hunched over his workbench. His long fingers traced the delicate etching of a bracelet with meticulous care, his silver-gray eyes narrowed in deep concentration. The flickering glow from the nearby hearth cast long shadows across his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and proud demeanor of his features. He was unaware of your presence until you stepped up behind him, your quiet approach undetected amidst the quiet pulse of the room.
With gentle, deliberate steps, you moved closer until you were only inches away. You could feel the heat emanating from him, the warmth of his body filling the space. Without warning, you leaned in, brushing your lips lightly along the edge of his jawline. The tenderness of your kiss caught him completely off guard, and his breath hitched in his chest. His fingers froze mid-motion, the metalwork momentarily forgotten as a shiver ran through him, the soft touch of your lips igniting something deeper inside.
For a long heartbeat, he was still—his heart racing faster than he would admit. He turned his head, eyes meeting yours with a flicker of surprise and something that bordered on vulnerability. His usually composed voice faltered, a breathless quality seeping through. “Teasing me, are you?” His lips quirked into a playful smirk, the rare warmth in his eyes making him seem less the stoic smith and more the man who was utterly undone by you.
His hand rose slowly, a movement that was almost reverent, and he cupped your cheek in his calloused palm, brushing a thumb tenderly across your skin. He pulled you gently towards him, your foreheads meeting with a soft touch. “I will never grow tired of these little surprises,” he whispered, his voice thick with affection, warmth, and something more—a deep, unspoken desire.
The playful edge in his tone remained, but there was a sincerity beneath it, one that only you could draw out. His lips brushed lightly over your forehead, and you could feel the smile on his lips against your skin, the rare, unguarded joy he found in your company.
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Temple kiss
The glow of the hearth was the only light in the room now, casting a soft, flickering warmth that contrasted with the growing coolness of the night air outside. Celebrimbor sat in a wide, plush chair beside the fire, his broad shoulders and tall frame relaxed, but his eyes—those silver-gray eyes—were fixed intently on the flames as they danced and crackled in the hearth. His posture, typically so precise, had softened in the quiet of the evening, though there was still an air of gentle tension around him.
You sat beside him, your body close but not touching, savoring the stillness of the moment. The world outside was asleep, and in this brief quiet, you could hear nothing but the crackle of the fire and the soft beat of your own heart. You knew, though, that Celebrimbor’s mind rarely found peace, even in the stillness of such moments. But he was here, with you.
After a long silence, you leaned in, your lips brushing delicately against his temple. The soft, intimate pressure of your kiss on that sensitive spot sent a shiver through him. For a brief moment, his eyes fluttered closed, his breath catching in his throat as his body responded instinctively to the unexpected tenderness. The temple, often a place of sharp focus and thought, was now the site of a quiet vulnerability—a place where he allowed himself to soften, just for you.
His hand moved, fingers brushing over yours as he rested them over the top of your hand, pressing it gently to his chest. He leaned into the touch, a quiet sigh escaping him as the weight of the day seemed to slip away. “You are a quiet storm, you know that?” he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection.
There was a teasing lilt in his tone, but it was undercut by the depth of the emotion there. His hair brushed against your cheek as he leaned his head against yours, his breath warm and steady in the close proximity. “But I could get lost in these moments with you forever.” His words were soft, almost as if he were speaking to himself, as if the act of simply being with you in this quiet moment was a luxury he rarely allowed himself. His arm subtly encircled your
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Back of the neck kiss
The study was bathed in the soft golden light of a nearby fire, the shadows in the room flickering and dancing across the stone walls. Celebrimbor sat at his large oak desk, the room filled with the faint, soothing scratch of his quill as it moved across the parchment before him. His silver-gray eyes were narrowed in concentration, brows furrowed in a way that spoke of the weight of his thoughts. The work at hand was important, but you could tell that even in his focus, a part of him was still burdened by the ever-present duties that came with his position.
The quiet hum of the fire seemed to magnify the stillness of the room, but you entered soundlessly, your steps soft against the stone floor. As you moved closer, the warmth of his presence wrapped around you, drawing you in with a sense of quiet comfort.
Celebrimbor was unaware of your approach, too absorbed in the world of ink and parchment before him. Without a sound, you leaned in, your lips grazing the tender skin at the back of his neck. The sensation was immediate and electric, sending a rush of warmth through his body, breaking the focus he had so carefully maintained. For a split second, he froze—his quill halting midair, the subtle tremor in his fingers a sign of the effect your simple kiss had on him.
A soft, shuddering breath escaped him, and you could feel the heat of his skin as he slowly turned his head to meet your gaze. The silver of his eyes shimmered in the firelight, caught somewhere between surprise and admiration, as though you had revealed a part of him he didn’t often let others see. His lips curved into a slight smirk, the familiar confident composure returning, but now laced with a tenderness that only you could draw out.
“Such a subtle attack,” he murmured, his voice laced with both amusement and something deeper—an appreciation for the unexpected intimacy of your gesture. His hand came up slowly, his long fingers stilling the quill before he placed it gently on the desk, his attention now fully on you. His lips parted as he spoke again, the words carrying an affectionate weight, “Do you know the power you wield over me?”
His voice was thick with something more than simple teasing. There was a vulnerability in his tone, one that you rarely heard, a depth that he only revealed when he was in your presence. He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing, as if the sudden surge of affection had momentarily lifted the invisible weight he had carried for so long.
You moved closer, and without a second thought, he cupped the sides of your face with both hands, pulling you in towards him. His touch was gentle yet firm, as though he was claiming you, pulling you into his world of quiet strength and unspoken emotion. His lips brushed against your forehead, a soft, tender gesture that spoke volumes.
“You always know just where to place your touch,” he murmured, his voice now a whisper that seemed to tremble with a rare kind of longing. He pressed his lips to your forehead again, lingering there, a slow exhale escaping him as he absorbed the quiet moment. “It drives me mad.”
His words, thick with both affection and desire, sent a wave of warmth through you. The composure that he so often held—so tightly—was slipping away, and in its place was a man undone by the simple, intimate affection you gave him. His hands gently cupped the back of your neck, his thumbs brushing across your skin in a motion that was both soothing and intimate.
In that moment, his armor of emotional distance seemed to vanish completely, leaving only the raw honesty of how much you affected him. He had always been strong, composed, and carefully guarded, but now, in the quiet intimacy of the moment, he was entirely yours—vulnerable, tender, and completely unafraid. Your kiss had shattered the walls he had built so carefully, and it was clear that, for him, this moment was as much about you as it was about letting go of everything he carried.
“Never have I been so grateful for a tease,” he whispered against your forehead, his voice thick with emotion. His lips brushed against your skin again, and you could feel the pulse of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. There was nothing but this—this closeness, this shared vulnerability—and in it, both of you felt an undeniable connection that transcended words.
kinktober day three | restraints, bratting (if you squint, he's very polite) | cw: 18+, sub!Gil, service dom!gender neutral! Reader, inappropriate use of Elvish rope, mouthy princess gil, oral sex (m receiving), safe sane and consensual | word count 4,1k | author's note under the cut | click here for the full kinktober list |
“Now,” a majestic voice rolls over the room like thunder.
You cannot see its owner for that he is hidden behind several of his advisors but your mind paints a picture familiar and amusing.
Face scrunched in petulance, crown slightly askew, the High King bends down to bring his face closer to the dignitary. “I have spoken all there is to say on the matter. Do not make me repeat myself!” He straightens promptly, dark eyes flashing in flickering golden light, and addresses the expectant crowd. “I have exceeded my quota of patience for today! Take your leave! Ego!” The command comes off as harsh even for the King when he is in one of his moods, so he hurries to soften the blow. “We shall continue on the morrow.”
Golden robes billowing out behind him, High King Erenion Gil-Galad takes his leave without sparing a second glance towards the disappointed Elves. Some nod in understanding, knowing just how heavy-handed some of the advisories can get when vying for the King's favour. Some frown and rush off towards the main exit, muttering displeasures to themselves. You linger, letting the crowd disperse into smaller groups, and nimbly make your way towards the side exit, unnoticed amongst various discussions and arguments.
The narrow hallway greets you with a silence and a chill, this year's autumn exceptionally windswept and grey. Erenion's abandoned outer robe stands out like a sore thumb: carelessly thrown over a toreutic statue, it glistens with what little sunshine pierces through low-hanging clouds pregnant with rain and fog. You pick up the garment and fold it at the waist before throwing it over your shoulder, adjusting the pile of notes to your chest. Well-worn soles of your shoes make no noise as you near the King's private study.
The door stands open, no more than a hand's width, and most of your field of view inside the room is occupied by the broad back of your King. It is tense, hard at the nape and taut at the seams of his shirt. Often, you have privately wondered of the possible incident that may finally cause him to burst out of his clothing - once or twice, you were sure Lady Galadriel had come very close to causing Erenion to simply spontaneously combust.
Such he stood with his back turned to you. Pent up, hard-boiled and simply done. A mostly empty carafe of wine at his left hand, a drained glass in the right.
“More wine,” he said the moment you announced yourself with a light step and a creak of the door.
“Yes, my Lord,” you replied evenly, racking your brain for the probable location of the nearest servant. Erenion Gil-Galad was a fair king and a kind ellon but that did not stop all servants from clearing his path when he got into a particularly sullen mood. A sulking King was no good company to anybody.
You trotted over to the nearest chair to place his outer robes onto. He turned swiftly. You needn't raise your eyes to see him struggle to swallow whatever bitter remark had been curling on his tongue; even so hotly angered, stupid he was not. Erenion knew better than to bestow unjust abuse towards his most dutiful and loyal attendant.
He spoke your name and you nodded in acknowledgement before smoothing out his robes and placing your stack of parchment on a nearby table. Not engaging in chit-chat but simply offering a quiet, steady, ataractic presence to the disgruntled King. Soft swishing of the parchment as you rearranged it invited a soothing ubiquity into the cool room. You felt, not saw, your King's shoulders drop. The clink of an empty glass being put down followed suit.
“These noxious vultures!..” Came the predicted grumble. Erenion's footsteps, unusually heavy and resounding for an Elf, traced a path from that corner of the room towards his desk. “Arguing for the sake of it...” Some of the more passionate choice words got lost in the pull of drawers being opened and paper bags' crinkling.
You hid a secretive smile. The Royal Snack Shelf, having been restocked by yours truly, was doing splendid at its job. A whimsical, silly detail even, but nevertheless quintessential at easing the burden of your King's day-to-day routine. A mentor in your past had given you valuable lessons on sweetening the bitterness of all that is tedious and mundane and you had taken them all to heart.
Periodically interrupted by crunching, the King's mouth ejected a day's worth of vitriol into the world, onto you and onto nobody at large, as he paced the long, spacious office like a caged lion. With every sentence he seemed to deflate a little and you counted every tiny victory as you mindlessly sorted and re-aligned your pages. The ranting was a canonical event and you did not interfere.
“... Grach! What secret information do your scrolls contain that is more important than listening to your King?!” Erenion's exclamation was not loud, but his deep and rich voice made it sound petulant and harsh.
Ah. One of those nights.
You straightened your back, taking your sweet time to readjust the muscles of your spine that were beginning to cramp from your hunched position and rapidly evened the stack that had previously preoccupied all of your attention. The bottom of it connected with the table with a sharp, resound tap, and Erenion immediately froze in his tracks.
You turned around slowly, body coiled in perfect precision, a masterful image of picture-perfect regard. Wide-eyed, Erenion frowned, dark brows creasing over the bridge of his nose. Your voice was even when you spoke.
“I am your dutiful servant, my King.” Bowing at the neck and not at the back, you crossed your hands behind yourself, looking him directly in the eye. “It is my job to thoroughly inspect all that concerns you and see to your comforts, which includes your spiritual well-being. At the present moment, it is imperative I allow you to vent your frustration without risk of scrutiny and judgment.”
Erenion, ever the imperfect perfectionist, scoffed. A knee-jerk reaction you harboured no ill will towards, for that you knew it would serve to be so much more rewarding when he finally decided to yield. As the King's brow darkened further with peevishness, his body language spoke of unmistakable interest. A creature of greatness and great contrasts was your King, most exhilarating. Bittersweet, like sour cherry wine.
“You think you know me better than myself?”
You pretended to think about it. “In certain areas, yes.” Jerking your shoulder a little, you took small, short steps towards him, observing him for any changes. Although his face was now contorted in a kingly version of a pout, his chest remained open and shoulders lax.
Looking down on you, Erenion seemed almond amused. “And what is it that you think I presently require?”
“Temperance,” you crooned. The air between your bodies thickened. With your eyes, you traced the fluid lines of his arms covered by his form-fitting undershirt. The hills of his biceps tapered down to wide forearms and sturdy wrists; towards broad palms, adorned with multiple rings but calloused from practice of warcraft. Erenion Gil-Galad was a beautiful King, all smooth lines and luxuriance from the regal curl of his plush mouth down to his shaking fingertips. “You need a lesson in temperance, my King.”
“Is that so?” He inquired lowly. Amusement, intrigue and apprehension all mixed up in his voice, colouring it with hoarseness usually reserved for lovers of a capricious occasion. Erenion was not known for those, but then again, it was unbecoming of a Noldorin High King to voluntarily overturn control of his persona to an assistant, even if it was temporary.
But you were just so good at what you did. How could he not surrender? With a gentle touch and a sharp word, you beheld the King within your eye as if nothing else outside it existed at all. The usually reserved personal aide, you became anything he needed you to be behind closed doors, be it a punching bag filled with sharp nails that cut him right back at every snap or a firm palm, offering rich handfuls of well-earned praise.
There was no diplomatic school advanced enough to lecture anyone on how to handle a King, so you could say that it came naturally. And proof was in the (re)actions: the willingness of Him to acquiesce, the intensity with which you handled him and just how far you were willing to go.
Erenion Gil-Galad stepped back. Again, and then again, until he landed noisily in the nearest chair, his broad, tall body sagging into the comfort of soft upholstery. Like this, you were just about eye-level with each other, and you beheld him with genuine sympathy and utter devotion. He stared back, eyes wide, deep irises seamlessly blending into dark pupils.
A cursory sweep around the room while he was contemplating your expression revealed an unexpected treasure: a thick roll of elvish rope laid on a nearby chair, likely accidentally left behind by a commander rushing in to receive or confirm orders. You smiled and looked away, least your plans be ruined by Erenion's inherent reaction to do the opposite of what people wanted him to do.
Carefully, you raised your hands to rid him of the crown. It always had to go first - dutiful servant as you were, it was most cumbersome to be reminded of his higher status when doing something scandalous with the King's body. Not that the situation lacked appeal, as a concept, but the crown had a weight attached to it. You were set on freeing the King of his burdens, after all.
Erenion's eyelashes fluttered as you gently carded your fingers through long, thick chocolate hair. Tugging lightly at the roots and brushing over the shortened warrior's edges at his temples. Tracing his strong jawline to brush a teasing thumb over his lips just to withdraw before he licked it like a playful kitten. You caressed the sensitive leaf shape of his ear and were immediately rewarded with a pleased rumble coming from the depts of his chest. For now, Erenion was much content to sit back in his chair and hold the outside of his palm against your leg, but it would not last.
Not when your fingers made swift work of the laces on his shirt and freed him from it. As the fabric landed on a nearby ottoman, his large palms settled over your hips, possessively kneading the meat there.
“Impatient,” you chided with a gentle shake of your head, eliciting a displeased grumble from the King, followed up by his fingertips digging deeper into you, clinging to your bones. A tap on his nose caused his eyes to shoot open. Your smile only grew. “Impertinent.”
Opening his mouth, Erenion's eyes shot to his crown abandoned nearby and back at your face. He pursed his lips, and, in lieu of a response, leaned in to rub his cheek over your clothed chest. You stood still, letting him find his comfort, but did little else. Until the very moment Erenion withdrew, his famous kingly pout back on full display.
“Melmë.”
“Erenion.” You echoed, matching his tone. “Are we in a rush?”
“Yes!” He grumbled. Looked at the window, where the clouds had obscured stars and the moon, blanketing Lindon within an impenetrable darkness. Several candles illuminated the room and that was it: not a single torch was lit outside the window. Erenion sighed. “Well, no, alas...”
“We are not in a rush.” You placed your palms atop his own, squeezing them once: a wordless command to release you. He did so and you stroked his face, his eyes, which he closed. Placing a kiss on his forehead, you swiftly grabbed the rope and returned with it, unfurling the roll as Erenion grew visibly more restless from the lack of touch. He dared open his eyes and immediately gasped, aghast. “Temperance,” you reminded him.
“No!” He protested, but made no move to get up or otherwise interrupt your planned activity.
You were sure many would call you mad for enjoying this exact moment of your games: the feigned resistance. Erenion would gripe and groan and complain and inevitably ruin his trousers in the process and there was no sweeter reward for your troubles that could be. The more he objected, the higher he riled himself up. That final leap over the edge beckoned you both in the distance. Erenion fell apart beautifully and...
A sigh. “Yes,” you stressed, wrapping the rope around his chest and the back of the chair before weaving it swiftly and delicately over his forearms, effectively securing them to the armrests. The length of the rope allowed for a safe amount of movement and several pretty knots.
It should withstand a good deal of resistance; Erenion's awareness of his own size and strength and their comparison to yours put an upper limit on just how physical these games would get. Ever cognisant, Erenion would flat out refuse even the possibility of causing you pain with his body so certain workarounds had to implemented. And even then, you found yourself wistful, wishing nothing more than for your King to lose himself to simple, mindless pleasures.
When was Erenion Gil-Galad ever simple? Effectively prevented from seeking out touch, he sat poised and regal, chin pointed in defiance, as he watched you shed your outer robes and and miscellaneous clothing. His eyes roved over you hungrily, yearning, as you stood before him in nothing but your underthings. Veins of his hands thick with rushing blood, what little was south of his trousers anyway: obscured by his breeches, the outlined of his hard cock stood as tall and proud as him.
You sat astride it, reveling in the hiss that came from his lips as you pressed your weight atop it and stayed still. The line of his jaw was fascinating to explore: you enlisted your lips, your fingers to do so.
As you'd predicted, his patience was... Not there.
“Well?”
“Hm?” You rumbled at the root of his ear, hot breath ghosting over the lobe.
“What now?” Centuries at Court kept his voice steady; his body was the biggest traitor. Blood rushed, a siren's song to you, enticing to switch your attentions to the other side of his face. Tenderly and thoroughly, you lavished it with attention, attacking Erenion's erogenous zones with tempered precision. You were in no rush to reply. He could not wait to feel. “I am sat in my office, indisposed and restrained, for the sake of your amusement?” He spat.
“No,” you murmured. And immediately corrected yourself because lying to your king is wrong. “Well, yes. But you are restrained for your own sake, as well. Good things come to those who know how to wait.” You preached, finishing off with a quick bite at the ball of his shoulder. Your hands slid lower, palming his thick pectorals, flicking his nipples.
There wasn't much to do but feel and bestow sensation and Erenion knew that. And enjoyed it so, his length twitching against your leg as you alternated between hard and soft, fast and slow, biting and kissing. Periodically, you withdrew enough to observe the changes on his face: how it grew from annoyed to flat to quivering. He panted softly through parted lips, groaning upon coming in contact with your own sex.
The buck of his hips straightened you up atop his lap. “You are much too impatient, darling,” you whispered against his lips. “Rushing to start one thing before the last has even ended,” withdrawing from his cock, you kissed him gently, pulling away as soon as he leaned in to envelop your tongue with his hot mouth. A whine slipped out instead and you smiled, brushing your closed mouth over his, moist and spit-slick.
“Multitasking is a necessary skill!” He objected, the ‘for a King’ hanging heavy and unsaid.
In lieu of a response, you ran your hands through his crown-free hair and gathered it in a loose ponytail, arching his head back. He moaned, low and long, and you rewarded him with a kiss to his lips. He did not misbehave this time as you mouthed at each other, losing time and space where your lips connected. You heard the creaking of wood, felt the bulge of Erenion's muscles as his body released all of its pent up tension.
Slowly, you lowered yourself back down to sit over his cock. Swallowing his moan and a noise of your own, you felt sparks fly as a sloppy movement brushed over where you were most sensitive. It was a sobering action. There was very little time for pleasure while you were doing your job, or, rather, the pleasure came from granting your King such. Boldly, your tongue snuck into his mouth to coax out his own so you could suck on it with conviction.
Erenion moaned, back arching within confines of his restraints. A wet spot was steadily growing under you, the result of your combined desire. Your mouth slid off his, smearing spit over his cheek as you panted. To pretend to be unaffected would be pointless and foolish. A pair of dark eyes sparking with amusement met yours: he looked too smug for an Elf who was at the brink of coming undone.
Cheeks flushed and mouth wet, Erenion Gil-Galad gave you a little smirk.
You wished nothing more than to bite him. So you did. Teeth clashed as you initiated another kiss, taking full control of it this time. It was wet and messy, full of growling and fangs as you temporarily abandoned your gentleness. You fucked his mouth with yours until your tasted bloody meat, and only then you withdrew, observing the momentary change in his behaviour. He was surprised, conquered, staring at you with reverence.
Your game of tug of war continued. He pushed and you pulled: he arched his chest and you bit down on his nipple, pulling it taut and letting your teeth scrape the surrounding sensitive tissue until his gasps descended into whimpers and bitten-off, broken Quenya. You raked blunt nails over his sides as he shuddered with sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. Very few knew their King was ticklish and even fewer had the skills to incorporate it into ardurous sensual torture. You could have given any experienced courtesan a run for their money with how you played the High King akin to an instrument.
Maglor's incredible and terrifying singing had nothing on the broken noises coming out of the hot wet mouth of your King. Erenion was no songbird, no, he was a lone wolf howling at the moon. You observed the results of your handiwork as he shook with desire. There was little else to do but marvel.
Erenion Gil-Galad was a vision. Arms and chest criss-crossed with angry red welts where the ropes had rubbed a webbed pattern into his skin, he sat flushed and panting. Mouth red, as if wine stained, and eyes lidded, moved in wordless pleas for release. The need was showcased at the apex of his thighs where he'd leaked right through his trousers. Brown fabric was stained nearly black all around his sizeable bulge.
It was when you found yourself kneeling before it that reality sharply hit you in the face. Here you were, a servant, kneeling at the feet of your King, and he could do little else than plead for your mercy. And there was nothing else you wished to see more than give it to him - to see his face fall slack and easy, to see his twitching fingers finally find rest. But it was not the point of this. One release just bought the two of you a little time until the next.
The only thing you truly had control over was the amount of time it passed between the two. Not when you gave it and not how you gave it, for all that Erenion had to do was dismiss your advances and you would go back to sorting his mail and compiling his daily schedule.
Distracted, you nuzzled into his crotch, and fiddled with his trousers. His erect cock greeted you with a throb; the King moaned and threw his head back, straining the ropes to a point you began to consider they would lose their magic at once and simply snap. No such thing happened even as you blew gently onto the heated head of his cock.
“Cruel!..” He mumbled in between curses in languages you did not even know. “I was patient!” He objected to your withdrawal from his cock with fervor.
You were simply adjusting yourself. Not that he saw it, nearly delirious with need.
“Patient on account of lacking other options,” you teased him mirthfully.
He chuckled, but that noise quickly turned into a moan as you stuck out your tongue to trace the thick, prominent vein curving along the underside of his cock. Taking care to avoid the sensitive head, you took some tablets to lavish the shaft with soft licks of tour tongue. The sweet-salty taste of him beckoned you, clear droplets sliding down his cock just so you could curl your tongue around the middle of it to catch as much of the nectar as you could.
You went downwards, popping each of his testicles into your mouth. A whine in a pitch very few had ever heard echoed in the room; the chair creaked, it's back legs lifting off the ground. You immediately withdrew, placing apologetic kisses all along his cock as you ascended towards the tip. Erenion had been patient indeed and was now firmly stood at the edge of total overstimulation.
Sensitive Elven bodies, used to hard wars and tender lovemaking, had a very fine line that separated pleasure and pain. It'd been a steep learning curve to learn how to pluck the strings of your King just right, but once you figured out how to get him in that sweet spot betwixt the two and never firmly on the side of either, your sessions became something beautiful.
You wrapped your lips around him - he shuddered - and hollowed out your cheeks, tonguing along the frenulum as you swallowed as much of your King as would fit in your mouth. What couldn't fit was taken up by your hand, working him with all your might, going in for the winning round with single-minded abandon.
Erenion bucked his hips wildly, adding to the cacophony of your coupling. Moans, sighs and wet squelching, the creak of the chair that surely was to be replaced come morning - it all faded into the background as you kept your eyes firmly on the face of your King. Contorted in sweet agony, he gasped for breath once, twice, before his brow turned lax and a torrent of bittersweet nectar flooded your mouth.
Kneeling in awe and reverence, you swallowed it all. Erenion's chest heaved, covered in a translucent sheen of cool sweat, and he remained moaning softly all throughout it, reacting only when his flaccid flesh slipped from your mouth. His mouth was open and eyes closed as you undid the knots, content to ignore your own discomfort until the moment to relieve it offered itself.
You rubbed his wrists, eyeing his face for any discomfort. There was none - Erenion remained as timelessly beautiful when disheveled as he was in his golden garb. The corners of his mouth turned up in a lazy, absent smile, he freed a wrist to pull you in. You mirrored his smile.
“Come,” he spoke, voice rough. Unsteadily, he stood up, and pulled you towards the hidden door leading to his chambers. “We are not finished yet.”
Pretending to be surprised, you chuffed softly at the lack of care he showed at his own state of undress. He truly cared not, for he was the King, and managing his reputation (and any missteps of his in that regard) was your responsibility as his personal attendant anyway.
Would he ever make it easy for you? No. But, perhaps, one day you might get him to beg...
Someone said slightly bratty sub gil x service dom reader? OK I said it. I am pretty sure this is gender neutral, but in case it isn't, point out gendered things/words to me. I didn't bother to proofread it because I got too horny while writing it. I don't like this as much as I wish I did but oh well.
a/n: the bigger sub/smaller dom is an actual issue if you get physical during your scenes. I've dommed men roughly the size of Ben (I'm 5'4 130?lbs) and there are scenes and things that we simply cannot do safely, unless the sub is at least somewhat restrained. Even further, taking into account that canonical gil-salad is 7+ft... Tie that elf down before you let him brat/overstim or you'll get flat out 💅yeeted💅 across all Lindon.
Listen, if Saw VI director Kevin Greutert didn’t want me to fantasise about being pinned to a wall and penetrated by Detective Lieutenant Mark Hoffman then he shouldn’t have shot this scene.
But he did. And it’s hot.
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