Hands off
Summary: Katherine brings you, a healer, into the Devil’s Pack, sworn to your own business, useful to keep alive the lads, and sacred enough to mantain unbothered and untouched. For most of the Pack, the rule is simple and irrelevant. For Adder, it’s unbearable.
Warnings: 18+, obssession, Adder being a pervert, stolen clothes, male masturbation, wanking to stolen clothes (?), oral sex, teased smut, reader being clueless.
Characters: Adder x Female Reader
Word count: 1.7k
A/N: Listen to me, I haven't write smut in AGES, so bear with me. I still am somewhat proud, since it's something I've always struggled to do. Nonetheless, keep sending me prompts since I am trying to come up with ideas or characters to write, it's fun to read you! :) Also, Adder had to be the first +18, I don't make the rules.
The gif belongs to @komorebian
If you'd like to read more, here is my materlist and my Ao3
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The Devil’s Pack was not known for their restraint, especially not Adder. They all drank too much, fought too much, swore too much, and in the eyes of most decent folk, lived too much like sinners that were too far gone. But even savages like them, as some had dared to call them, valued certain rules in order to assure some sense of order, and when Katherine brought the newcomer into their den, a strange sort of line was drawn. The woman had assured them that the lass was to be trusted.
You were no fighter, no thief, no loose-tongued mercenary. You were a healer, a woman with gentle hands and an easy silence, who tended to bruises and cuts without complaint, with an efficiency that had saved their arses on more than one occasion, and most importantly, you did not ask questions. Sometimes you earned coin at the bathhouse, helping the girls with customers, and then went back to Žižka to give him the money you had earned, so they could hire some more mercenaries for their plans. When you felt a bit relaxed, you lingered with them while they drank, and in both roles you always seemed untouched by the chaos that swirled around the Pack. Just like Katherine, there had been a collective silent agreement that the new girl was to be left alone unless they were bleeding like a pig.
It was Katherine herself who had vouched for you, said she’d met you in Kuttenberg, and convinced Žižka —who later persuaded Dry Devil— that you wanted Sigismund gone as much as they did. Adder didn’t really catch the full story, not like he really cared, but whatever it was, it seemed enough for the girl to be accepted in. Katherine had approached Adder when he was drinking with his good Hungarian mate Janosh, her index finger out threateningly, and told them both —in reality just Adder— that none of the men were to lay a finger on you. That decree alone was enough to make Adder’s blood boil. It was not in his nature to obey, unless Dry Devil had a sword against his neck or Janosh punched him to set him straight, least of all when desire clawed at his belly. God knows the man liked a challenge.
His desire for you had taken root the very first night, when you had knelt to clean mud from Henry’s split lip and the lamplight had caught in your hair and cleavage. He did not care if you never laughed at his crude jokes, or that you answered his wolfish grins with no more than a polite shake of your head. Not like you could understand a word he said. He wanted you precisely because he was told he could not have you. Every teasing warning word from Janosh, every glare from Katherine, only sharpened his hunger.
He did not rationalize it. He did not dress it up as affection or admiration. He dwelled on it the way a drunk dwells on an empty tankard: angry, restless, frustrated by what was not in his grasp. He tried, of course. When nobody with enough power to kick his balls looked, Adder whispered to you, though in Polish, very inappropriate pick up lines, knowing you did not understand, but hoping the tone alone might sway you. He got hurt more often just to be left alone with you, leaned close when you bandaged his hand, let his gaze fall openly where it wished, hoping you would notice. If you did, you seemed to not care in the slightest, as if you had been trained to purposefully ignore men like Adder. Once he even brushed against you deliberately as he passed, feigning accident, and Janosh cuffed him hard enough across the back of the head to make his ears ring.
“Leave the girl alone, you Polish pig,” Janosh had said, with humor in his tone, and Adder had slunk away muttering curses in his mother tongue. “She could snitch to Katherine, and I don’t like mad woman screaming.”
Adder didn’t give a damn about that statement, it only made the fire burn hotter.
One afternoon, an opportunity presented itself. The Pack was scattered, sleeping off last night’s ale or busying themselves with dice. You had washed your garments and left them to dry in the sun, in the yard behind the tavern, pinned neat and clean on a line stretched between two trees. Plain clothes, nothing fine, but they were yours. And when Adder passed by, faking innocence, and caught the faint trace of you on the cloth, his body moved before his mind could catch on. He snatched them down, stuffed them beneath his shirt, and slunk off like a thief with a holy relic. If he was not to have you, at least he needed some release, as his lust had begun to grow unsufferable.
That night, in the silence of the inn, while the others snored and shifted in their beds, he pulled the garments and clung to them as if they might answer his want. The act was his alone, shrouded in the dark, unspoken but no less consuming. He smelled them, profusely, with no shame for such a filthy act, only the sour edge of frustration, since this poor substitute was not enough to even remotely satisfy his desire. He could never be sated by a piece of clothing. Not while you sat so near, untouchable, while the others watched him like hawks, ready to strike, should he dare. The thrill pissed him equally off as it made the fire inside of him burn even hotter.
Making sure with a quick check that nobody around was awake, he brought the garment close to his face, and with his free hand he roamed down his body, until he grabbed his hard cock past his breeches. He grabbed the base of it, taunting himself, almost teasingly. Her fabric brushed against his cheek, impossibly soft, carrying a faint scent that stirred his imagination he’d been long forced to contain. His grip around himself tightened, it wasn’t just the garment but the flood of thoughts threatening to overwhelm him. His heart pounded, a mix of danger and excitement, as his calloused hand began going up and down his dick.
Adder bit his lower lip, he couldn’t risk making a sound that could possibly wake someone up, the teasing remarks would never cease. His pace quickened, but when he felt the knot of release building up in his crotch, he stopped, edging himself as he knew that a fast wank wouldn’t satisfy him in the slightest. Then he started speeding up once again, enjoying the tease.
He closed his eyes and allowed his dirty thoughts to rule free. He imagined your hand being there instead of his own, the scent of the garment helping him to pretend you were there. He imagined the filthy sounds you would let out if no one would be close to hear. His grip on his shaft became desperate and harsh, trying to match his desire. Adder thought of how he wouldn’t be able to resist you, pushing you against the cheap hay mattress, how he would tear apart your nightgown, your thrilled laughter filling his ears. The way he would spread your legs open, your core fully in display, wet and ready for his tongue. He felt the pleasure building up, the warmness extending from his feet to his stomach accompanied with a tingling sensation, as if some ants were roaming inside his body. He thought of his tongue licking your folds, savouring your sweet taste, finally in his reach. How you would beg him to move forward, to take you and claim your body. Adder wouldn’t listen, of course, taking his precious time eating you out, and only when he felt like you were overstimulated enough, he would position himself in between your legs. And then…
Kurva! Adder pushed the garment off his face, and looked down, realising the mess he had made. His imagination had prevented him from realising how close to orgasm he was, and now he had cum all over his torso and abdomen. He breathed out upset, and used the piece of clothing to clean himself. He then put said garment under the pillow and went on to sleep like a baby.
When morning came, it was obvious you noticed your missing garment. You asked softly at first, almost shyly, if anyone had seen your clothing, scared of making the men feel accused. You had checked the line, the ground, even asked the innkeeper’s wife if perhaps a gust of wind had carried them off. Your brow furrowed with confusion, not anger, but the Pack caught the scent of trouble quickly. You might not have imagined what could have possibly happened, but the rest did.
“Lost your clothes, have you?,” Kubyenka jeered, and the laughter of Dry Devil followed, coarse and sharp.
Katherine stepped in, telling the men to hush, but her eyes were already darting suspiciously towards Adder. She knew him too well, unlike you. And Adder, though he lounged against the wall with a smirk plastered over his face, hands out defensively, felt the itch of her gaze like a dagger pointed at him. Not guilt —never guilt— but the irritation of being so easily read and blamed. He shrugged when the question floated his way, answering in Polish with an exaggerated tone of innocence, drawing another round of laughter from the Pack. To them it was a joke.
It tormented him, watching how you stood there, biting your lip, looking for something you would never find —not like you wanted to see the state your garment had been left in—, because he wanted to shout at them all to go fuck themselves, he craved to tear down the whole masquerade and claim you as he pleased, just like he did last night in the privacy of his imagination.
But he didn’t. He leaned back, arms folded, the stolen memory of the night before still clinging to him, unsatisfying, gnawing. He said nothing more, because words would not quench his thirst, nor would the laughter of his comrades. All he could do was dwell, endlessly, on what he could not have, and burn with the hunger that no decree, no threat, no stolen scrap of cloth could ever put out. And so Adder finally sat with the rest of his peers, smirk fixed, frustration simmering, already plotting the next time he might take what little he could grasp from your shadow.
“Has no one really seen it?,” you asked one more time. “I barely have some left! Fabrics aren't cheap during war, you guys know that, right?”
