König watched her shudder under him, the way her breath snagged in her throat. He loved that. Loved the bashful tilt of her chin, the lashes lowered like she feared she'd burn up if she met his gaze too long.
"Schau mich an," he murmured. (Look at me)
It wasn't a request, but a quiet command.
And she did, slowly, her cheeks flushed and warm as sunrise. König's eyes softened.
"There you are," he breathed, his thumb sweeping across her cheek, dragging a tendril of hair behind her ear. "Sweet little thing… hiding from the man you called to you."
His hand slipped down, rough palm curving around her waist, guiding her hips forward. Not pushing. Guiding. Making her feel the size of him in every inch of space he filled around her.
"You think I don't notice how you watch me in the fields?" His voice dipped low, all warmth simmering under the surface. "How you linger with the milk pails in hand just to hear me whistle? You tempt a man without trying, Herzchen."
Her breath caught again. He felt it when he leaned closer, the shadow of his hood brushing her hair.
"Don't turn away now," he whispered, mouth grazing the shell of her ear. "Not when I finally have you where you fit so well."
His fingers traced up her thigh again, slow enough to make her knees tremble, stopping just shy of claiming her fully. Hovering. Letting the promise hang heavy between them.
"You asked me to be good to you…" He kissed the corner of her mouth, lingering, tasting the hesitation melting away. "So let me. Tell me how to break the storm."
Wholesome!König who metamorphoses into the ultimate European Dad whenever you go to the beach.
Insists on picking you up at 7:15am sharp so you can arrive before all the good spots are taken? Check.
Pulling up his weather app at 15 minute intervals the whole ride there, updating you on wind speed, pollen count, and UV index? Check.
A chunky, waterproof watch on his wrist with three alarms set to ensure the day stays on schedule? Check.
Sunscreen applied to every conceivable inch of skin, with an extra thick glob on his nose? Check.
Swim trunks with tiny pineapples that you bought him after the first time he tried to wear a Speedo to the beach? Check.
But for all his foibles, the day you spend together is truly the highlight of your summer. Arriving early to set up your towels, chairs, and umbrella in the right spot was the best move; the generous application of sunscreen prevents you and your dreadfully fair-skinned boyfriend from turning into lobsters; and to his credit, his regimented, Austrian work ethic does turn off once you're truly settled in your spot.
You alternate between sunbathing, walking up and down the shoreline, and cooling off in the ocean. You've never had a relationship this easy - anything you suggest, he's already halfway done making it happen. Plus, seeing his Baywatch body and muscular build on full display fills you with a mix of desire and smugness, like you know the other women on the beach wish they were you.
When lunch rolls around, König sweeps you out of the water and carries you to the towel "so your wet feet don't get sandy." You would be embarrassed if it didn't heal your inner sixth grader, who'd always dreamed of a man so chivalrous.
It is entirely unsurprising that he's packed an incredible picnic lunch, with kartoffelsalat and hearty roast beef sandwiches and those little packs of pretzel sticks kids used to trade in the cafeteria. He also withdraws a small pitcher from the lunch box and shyly explains that he tried to make mojitos, but he's certain they're terrible and, honestly, you don't actually need to drink it, he's got some water bottles under the icepacks...
When you finally wrap up your day, you're relaxed and sleepy and as happy as you've been in a long, long time. König insists that you remain lounging on your towel while he packs everything else into the car. You doze off on the ride home as your boyfriend smiles fondly and turns down the radio as not to wake you.
[Smut beneath the cut.]
He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.
You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.
But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.
König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.
He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.
When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.
König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.
You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."
It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.
He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.
Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.
A goal for next summer, maybe.
===
I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!
Helloooo ☺️ waiting for my day to get going, and for my husband to take the kids so I can do a final run through and then post ch 24. It should be up a bit later today!
This was a really tough chapter to write, but I’m happy it came together despite how hard these last few months have been. I’m nervous and excited to share it with you guys 💕🐇
'Forbidden Desires' Pt 1.
Knight!König x Princess!Reader || 667
Series: Here
CW: Yearning, Fantasizing, Hinted at Shame for wanting
You watched him, your father's greatest hound, with careful detachment but behind every shielded glance you were as tremulous as he, your mind raging day and night. You came to anticipate the rhythm of his footsteps along the north wing; you measured your days in the length of his shadow down the silent, torch-lit halls.
In the gardens, he followed three respectful paces behind, but you felt his eyes tracing the thread of your hair, the curve of your throat. Many days you wondered if he imagined pressing his lips to the errant tendril always loosed from your braid. However, your own fantasies were less disciplined: visions of hands, ungloved and strong, stealing you up against a stone archway, his hunger a shield lifted only for you.
It was a foolish game, you knew, and still you played it, pushing boundaries like a child at the edge of the grand moat. You left a slipper in the armory, the embroidered handkerchief you'd used to patch his wound… Each token was returned to your chambers with crisp efficiency and no note, except one time, when your handkerchief came back folded neatly and lay on your bedside table. Still as blue as Robin's egg, embroidery clean and lace edges pressed. You held the folded fabric to your nose, inhaling a trace of smoke and iron.
It was clear the cotton had been cleaned, and yet… You pressed it flat against your sternum, then brought it back to your nose, searching once more as if scent alone could bring answers. There was still the scent of smoke and iron, but beneath those, something warmer - something that had no business being in your lungs. Your pulse knocked against your ribs like a thing trying to get out. You did not know whether he had held it close to his body or merely laundered it poorly, and the not-knowing was its own torment. Your mind went where it had no permission to go: stone walls, firelight, the particular sound of a man’s breathing when it changes, and you swore the Saints above would smite you for these thoughts alone.
You clutched the kerchief like blasphemy and waited, counted the breaths between heartbeats until the shudder in your hands passed. A glance at the heavy oaken door confirmed your secret safe: no nursemaid or handmaiden, no gossamer slip of a spy in the corridor, only your own reflection in the looking glass, cheeks gone wild-rose, eyes bright and too alive. You tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in your throat and stuck there, making you less a lady and more a caged thing.
You collapsed to the window seat - so like a swooning maiden from the romances your tutors rolled their eyes at - and wondered, not for the first time, what it might be like to unsheathe every closeted want before him. Your wandering mind pictured burning all the tokens at once - slipper, handkerchief, every pious thought - and letting him gather the ashes in his palm. What would he do, your Knight, if you laid out your heart like the spoils from a raided keep? Would he flinch, or would he take it, greedy, as though he'd been starved for years?
To wish for it was one torment. To suspect he suffered the same was another entirely.
Chapter 3 of 'Feral Yield'
Part of The 'Eyes of Lilith' collaboration
Nikto x Afab!Reader || 3.5k
CW: This chapter contains depictions of captivity, coercive power dynamics, confinement, references to breeding programs and reproductive control, discussion of past torture and physical abuse, dehumanization, and developing obsessive attachment between characters, yearning, sexual tension, intense observation, mentions of auditory hallucinations/voices.
There are a thousand ways to measure freedom; the first is how you breathe when you no longer expect the next second to be stolen from you. The second is moving your body like it actually belongs to you.
--
He looks down at his hands, at the reddened skin of his wrists where the cordage had bitten in, and flexes them open and closed. The knuckles pop and a low grunt escapes him - whether approval or pain, neither of them could say with certainty. Then he lowers his hands to his sides, fingers curling loose against his thighs, and the room goes quiet once again. He does not speak; instead, his gaze snaps to the left, sharp and immediate, as though someone had called his name. His jaw tightens, pupils dilate slightly, tracking something invisible across the bare wall, and for three full seconds he holds that fixed attention on nothing at all.
You watch the movement and feel the clinical part of your mind try to file it: auditory hallucination, possible stress-induced, document for later. But the other part of you - the part that had requested this assignment against better judgment - notes the way his shoulders relax incrementally after, as if whatever phantom voice had spoken had offered reassurance rather than threat.
"You hear someone," you say. Not as a question, but more like a gentle observation. His gaze returns to you slowly, dragging across the distance between them. That flat chemical quality is gone from his eyes now, replaced by something more guarded, more present. Still predatory.
"Nyet." His denial is a lie so transparent it barely warrants the breath he spent on it. And you see it, the lie - how could you not, when the evidence still lingers in the tension at his temples, the slight cant of his head still tuned to some frequency you cannot access - and he sees you seeing it. For a stretched moment the recognition passes between them, and you don't press - you know better. More importantly, you know better than to question, at least not now, not when the cost of pushing might be measured in the sudden violence of a man who has survived goddess-knows-what. The dossier's details flicker through your mind - not as warning, but as data points - and you weigh them against the living specimen before you.
The Seedwarden in you surfaces like a slow tide, displacing the woman who had felt that tight pull behind your sternum when the cordage fell away. You catalog with the dispassionate focus of someone trained to find pattern in chaos: the way his pupils have returned to baseline, no longer blown wide from whatever phantom had seized his attention; the micro-tremor in his left hand, barely perceptible, possibly residual from restraint or possibly something older, deeper, a neurological signature you will need to document; the precise angle of his jaw when he tilts his head back toward the window, reclaiming the sunlight as though it were a resource he'd learned never to waste.
It was all calculated.
He shifts his bare feet on the concrete slab, toes curling once against the cold before settling flat. The movement is unconscious, animal - a body reacquainting itself with equilibrium after prolonged immobilization. You startle briefly and move to stand once again before you note it, file it and add it to the construct forming behind your eyes: Subject demonstrates high somatic awareness. Proprioceptive recalibration post-restraint. The language is sterile, necessary, a shield against the other things you feel when you look at him.
But he is also watching you watch him. The flat chemical quality you'd noted earlier has not returned, but something adjacent has taken its place - an appraisal so thorough it feels almost tactile, as if his gaze were a hand running down the length of your spine, counting vertebrae. You want to bristle at his scrutiny, but instead you choose to allow it, for now. You were like two feral animals in a cage: neither cowed nor dominant, but each exquisitely attuned to the possibility of the other's violence. You wonder if this is trust, or a more advanced stage of mutual suspicion, and find the distinction so fine that your pulse does not care for the difference. Hell, you figured if some bored botanist had peeked through the window, it would look like nothing more but a study in comparative anatomy: apex and apex, thrown together, sizing up threat and reward.
He tips his chin as if completing a final inventory - your hands, empty and open; your posture, relaxed but not unguarded. There's a flick of calculation behind his eyes, a ledger balancing: what you have, what you lack, what you might do if pushed. It is only then you realize that for all your meticulous preparation, for all the anticipated permutations of this encounter, he is not the only one under observation. It is you who is being appraised, weighed, categorized for future utility or threat. So you reach back into the procedural comfort of the protocol you’d grown to know so well.
"As mentioned before, you're to remain here, in this room, with me." You attempt to clear your throat of the nervousness that had made it's home there and gesture around the space awkwardly but with a firm hand. "There are facilities through that door and meals will be provided to both of us three times daily." Your voice calms a little, even if it's a bit modulated, but you feel the small give in your knees that betrays adrenaline smoothing out through your body; the body that is, for the moment, still considered mostly yours.
"I also expect you to walk with me through the garden quadrant for one hour every day at dusk." You hear the command in it the moment it leaves you, and do not reach back to soften it. He inclines his head in acknowledgment, not in submission, not in obedience. Acknowledgment. And the distinction lands somewhere beneath your ribs.
You've spent years issuing instructions to males. The majority of them struggled against the verdant chains of the Mother, spitting obscenities at the Seedwardens as if their vicious words would grant salvation. Others were too weak, too broken to do much more than mumble and drag their feet like some broken toy. The ones who fought - really fought - went to the Iron Daughters, or to the pits, where the Enclave's upper tiers paid good credit to watch them burn through whatever was left of them against each other.
But this feels different. As though he has listened to your rules, measured them, and decided that for now they are worth following.
You hold his gaze for a moment longer than is strictly necessary, turning the acknowledgment over in your mind like a stone with uncertain weight, and then give a nod of your own and feel, distantly, that you are not entirely sure which of you has just conceded something. So you decide to watch the muscle along his jaw smolder and set. The way he folds his arms across his chest just enough to stake his territory but not so much as to close you out. It's a neutral posture on paper, but everything about it is a provocation, a dare, a test of wills that does not require violence to be utterly transactional and - Goddess help you - intimate.
You are hyper-attuned to the small violence of his attention: the way his eyes flick in the direction of each new sound, every pulse of your own breath. You're not supposed to feel it, whatever it is, but you do. The rules say you must observe, not engage outside of testing, and certainly not want. Yet, standing here, you know in a deep marrow kind of way that the latter is not a variable you can simply switch off. Maybe it was already encoded when you first caught sight of him in the intake queue, or maybe it’s something in the architecture of his gaze - how it can flatten a room and make you the only thing in it.
You're desperate to not flinch again and clear your throat once more. Not because it needs clearing, but because you want to remind both of you about the terms on which this is proceeding. "My work bench is off limits. The plants, likewise." Your voice collapses into the air with less force than you intended, as if half-strangled by the mildness of the rules and his mouth tugs into something that might be a smile, but his eyes are dead and ice blue, whittling away at you with each micro-movement. You add, more quietly, "The rules are for both our benefit."
With all the stoicism you'd hoarded and layered upon yourself, you'd anticipated it would function now like a shell, but the way he keeps looking at you strips it off by degrees. He watches your mouth as you form this last sentence, as if searching for some flavor in the syllables that might betray your weakness. And for a breath, it is just that: the small, consuming violence of another human knowing you're at a disadvantage and savoring it. Yet you're mulling over a dozen rules, sitting in a hothouse of self-control, and you find yourself destabilized, anchored too close to the predatory gravity in his stare. It's not even desire, not yet. It's the idea of desire, the unspoken promise of something more basic and resonant: the biological imperative underneath all your intelligence and caution, as if every inch of him were engineered for exactly this - a machine to flood the air between you with pheromone and challenge.
But then the tiniest shift in his posture - a fraction closer, weight settling from foot to foot - signals an aperture. You notice it, you seize it, if only to fill the gap between what the protocol demands and what your heart is beginning, treacherously, to want. You step backward, put the width of your workbench between you, and reach for the comfort of your notepad, even though you aren't quite sure what you intend to write. He notices. Every motion you make is a pebble dropping into the still surface of his attention, sending ripples that return tenfold.
You document: Subject complies but demonstrates anticipatory resistance to further boundaries. Threat assessment… you leave the line unfinished, your eyes climbing from the notepad to him. He hasn't moved. Not in the overt ways. But beneath the surface, some tension winds tighter, an uncoiling more dangerous for how slowly it comes. The wild fragrance of his skin, the animal heat of him, it fills your sanctum now in a way you hadn't prepared for.
"Do you have questions?" you ask, your voice aspirated and half-dismissive, the kind of feint you’d use on a recalcitrant child.
His answer is nothing more than a deliberate, silent stare, and you feel yourself flush, and it is a most unwanted feeling, to be so visible, and he lets out a low, abrupt sound and his gaze traces you with a new, speculative weight, pausing at your throat, your hands, the subtle flex of your forearm as you steady yourself against the bench. An animal, yes, but not a beast in frenzy; a predator in the cold aftershock, testing the borders for weaknesses, learning the scent of the room.
It was then that you remember your training: If they size you up, bare your teeth. So you answer his gaze with one of your own. You take up the cataloging posture, hands loose and visible, and you will the blood not to rise along your cheekbones. And surprisingly? It works; his lips flatten in recognition of the play, and you both let the tableau sit, a stalemate neither of you is committed to breaking.
He is animal, yes, but not in the diminished sense in which the other Seedwardens refer to males, as if all that survived the Collapse were dogs and wolves in borrowed skin. He is animal like a glacier is a flood - a force, but a patient one, content to assess and wait for the inevitable weakness. This is the quality that both draws you to him and stokes the slow heat of fear - and something else - at the base of your spine. It is the quality that reminds you, fundamentally, that the leash is in your hand, not around your neck. You hope it is not delusion.
You speak first to break the silence once more, a low directive: "You may sit, if you wish." And gesture to the array of resting places he has to choose from. A old leather couch, stools near work benches, a worn cot which he'd soon learn was his own, and he shifts to the nearest low cot, moving with a fluidity at odds with the rusted chains and livestock partitions that had defined his prior existence. He perches there, elbows to thighs, the first hint of real exhaustion crawling up his neck, but he never loses track of you. Perhaps he is waiting for you to announce the next rule, or perhaps for you to slip, to give him the loophole he is clearly engineered to exploit.
Yet you catch yourself already cataloguing his posture: feet flat, open; hands, fingers laced and hung loose between knees; You wonder if he was ever taught to wait, or if it was beaten into him by the world that made men like him both necessity and threat.
When you set the notepad down, he watches your every millimeter of movement, and you realize the silence stretches like a garrote; a noose of unsaid implication forming between you. It isn't clinical anymore - it's awkward. You make a point of taking your chair: the tall one at your main workbench, the one with armrests and a high back. The throne of the observer. You want him to see the hierarchy. You want him to know that nothing here is accidental, everything documented and deliberate. You shuffle through your notes, every page a ritual, and clear your throat. "For the duration of your stay," you say, "all observations and tests will occur at my discretion. That includes the time of day, the method, and-" your eyes lock with his, "the content of the test. You will comply with any procedure, at any time, without objection."
You blink once, twice and expect an immediate rebuttal, or at least a flicker of weak protest; instead, he tips his head just so once more, acknowledging the rule as if it were a physical thing he could hold and calibrate in his palm. The absence of argument is almost disorienting. You wonder, briefly, if this man simply lost the faculty for protest, or if he's reserving it for some later, more valuable moment. Again, suspicious.
You watch his shoulders fall a single degree lower and for the first time, he looks not just unbound, but truly unprotected, as if the removal of the cordage had also abraded the last layer of skin that shields the animal from itself. There is a grace in it; it reminds you of certain plants, how they fold their leaves at dusk to survive the cold.
"Am I clear?" You ask, though you've already turned back to your notepad.
"Mmh." He offers a simple grunt, and you can't help but slowly lift your eyes to watch him once more. He had the quality of a stray that had finally, cautiously, let itself be led inside and was now reading the room for the location of the door it would inevitably be shown to once again.
————
He wonders, softly, if this is what a cage of velvet and steel would be. To be here, unfettered in the raw sense, but captive to protocol and female scrutiny. He tests every boundary in his mind, teeth-first, the way a wolf might test the strength of its own jaws. There is a sweetness to the air he hasn't tasted since before the years spent under floodlights and bullet rain, before the horrors. It comes from the one across the room - he can't yet bring himself to think of her by name, as if that would make the whole arrangement more real and less adversarial - she sits in her chair, back straight, pretending to be the observer. But Nikto knows the contest for what it is, knows the way power is currency, how information is always the key, and he is already running parallel tracks of possibilities through his mind, indexing every tick and tremor of her body as she pretends to be unmoved.
The echo of voices, old and sharp, cuts across his thoughts: test the window, find the weak spots in the frame, never take the food first. He catalogs the scents in the space, the resinous tang of crushed herbs, the catch of her sweat under the clean laundry. He wonders, in a way that’s purely technical, how the fabric of her uniform would taste between his teeth, whether she's the sort to fight or submit, what her threshold would be for folding under pressure. All the while, he lets fatigue slacken his shoulders, lets her see the tiredness she thinks she wants, all the while keeping his limbs tensed and ready for the next surprise.
She says more things, talks of rules and tests and note-taking he tall he can think is: Different cage, different captor, same flavor. This one just hasn't hit him, yet.
But when she moves to the subject of physical tests - breeding capability, stamina, endurance thresholds - something stirs in him that he had filed away under the rubble of everything else, something he had assumed the years and torture had finished off entirely.
The voices found the idea of that test interesting “She likes you,” they say, “She wants to break you in, see what you'll do when the rules turn wild.” The possibility of breeding, of tests for stamina, is mentioned. The voices laugh at that, a low, electric ripple in the back of his mind. When it happens - if it happens - he will not be the one who breaks first, the voices assure him. He ignores that part, as best he can. But the dormant part of him - locked down through years and weeks of deprivation and violence - notes the spark and holds it close, for warmth or for future ammunition.
—————
You set the pen down and his attention snaps, the scar-latticed face twitching as if struck. The light of the setting sun highlighting dips and ridges of the scars that had been so meticulously and cruelly given to him, that permanent sneer, the burns. A face that makes your cheeks heat, makes your pulse betray you, and you curse every ancestor who bred in this precise flush response. He notes it, and you swear you read something closer to appraisal than aggression on his face.
And at that moment you imagine, viscerally, the loneliness of the Wildes: years-gone echoes of comrades, the competition for calories and warmth. In that context, 'breeding' is not a word but an open wound, a signifier for every hunger the world has denied him, then promised to exploit. You see it on his face, the way those words still him; how it corners him into a posture not of defiance but of something worse: expectation.
He does not speak, not even a grunt, just watches you as you taste your own shame for the question unasked in your own mind: Is that why you wanted this specimen, this particular file from the intake, and not the dozens with less trauma and fewer warnings? Shame is an inadequate word for the feeling, but you let yourself linger in it. He makes you want to confess the unspeakable, that you want to see what would become of the women who tried to break him; whether you, with all your intelligence and training, are any different. Or if you are only another layer in the soft lamination of his captivity. Or, worse: that you just want to see what he will do or what kind of power you could gain from pairing with a specimen like him.
But Goddess help you, he is still watching. And you understand now, with a clarity not afforded by textbooks or sequestered conference tables, that the only clean data here is in the friction you both generate - subject and observer, both. Oh, how quickly you have slipped from the illusion of observation into the blunt fact of participation.
You could only wonder if the High Mother had known all along until his heavy voice breaks the silence once more:
"When?"
"When your initial evaluation is complete." You pick up your pen again, let it hover over the notepad, let him watch you decide how much to give him. "Sooner than later, if you stay cooperative, Andr-"
"-Никто." He stops you mid-syllable, the name in the file dying on your tongue. "Nikto." He repeats. You look down at the page, the pen is still in your hand, and you nod.
You can thank @silverlullabies for possessing my hands
John Price x Reader
CW: idk man, mentioned insertion, slightly toxic? idk? manipulation? It's barely there, but cw's just in case.
...He's not a romantic man, not really.
But you wanted it, so he'll do it. The stupid candles and the roses. Oils going in the diffuser to relax you and put all your worries at ease… makes it easier to convince you of things..
It's overwhelming, really. how heavy he is behind you while your front is pressed into the plush of the blankets below. He'd washed the sheets even, that clean scent sitting as a low note compared to the musk of him. Compared to the stench of the cigars he usually smelled of. Tonight though? Must've been new cologne. Tobacco, woodsmoke. Oud, maybe. Hard to tell when he's muttering to you. Counting freckles, tracing the outline of your scapula with a calloused thumb.
"Plush lil thing, mmh?"
His hips roll deep and smooth, not rushed or brutal like he usually was. Typically you were treated like a mission objective. But tonight? He savored you like a last meal.
Price was a methodical man, and he'd use that to devour each bit of you until there was no doubt, no question behind those pretty eyes on whether or not you belonged to him. He even promised to put pen to paper about it if you'd wanted.
But tonight? Mmh, no. Tonight he had to prove that Price wasn't just a thing that was paid, but that Price was a name that could be branded on more than just flesh.
