His Weapon
⇒ Main ongoing series with Metahuman!Reader (140k+ words and now with improved nagivation)
⇒ Additional scenes
⇒ AU scenes
⇒ Asks about His Weapon
Ficlets
⇒ Vigilante!Reader (with Slade in trucker disguise) and Part Two
⇒ Slade accidentally hurts you and removes himself from your life. You fall into despair without him and end up getting sectioned. Slade finds a replacement of himself for you but in the end you refuse to move on and he accepts your unconditional love.
⇒ Getting into a car crash (Slade hunts down the driver) and Part Two
⇒ Mercenary trainer!Reader with younger Slade
⇒ Slade hunting you (for fun)
Imagines
⇒ Poly Slade?
⇒ Getting spiked at a party
⇒ On your period
⇒ Slade deals with your abusive ex
⇒ You kill Addie in self defence
⇒ Slade punishing you too far?
⇒ Slade branding you
⇒ Virgin!Reader
⇒ Slade pole dancing for you
⇒ Sub!Slade
⇒ Brat!Reader
⇒ Free use
⇒ Aftercare with Slade
⇒ Teasing Slade while he's working
⇒ You get arrested for exhibitionism and Slade's having the time of his life
⇒ Slade gets hard when you do something slightly suggestive
⇒ Transmasc!Reader
⇒ You're in need of a chiropractor
⇒ Slade giving you wedgies
⇒ Friends with benefits
⇒ You have an oral fixation
Tags: NSFW, Female Reader, Exhibitionism
A gift for @terrence-silver
🖤🖤🖤
An Evening At The Opera
You were out like a light.
Was the opera really that boring? Terry sniggered to himself as he possessively caressed your hair, fingers twirling and wrapping around the strands. You were napping on his lap while Reginald drove the limo back home to the hills. The lights of LA streamed past him in an unintelligible blur, the events of the evening still rushing through his body like two fresh hits of ketamine in his bloodstream. He could do with a cigar right now, but didn't want to disturb you with any movement. The celebration could wait.
There was a growing urge to take you the moment you entered the mansion's threshold, or hell he could even fuck you right on the entranceway, smear his come and yours on the front door to mark this home as both his and yours forever. Like two king cobras marking the entrance to their den, a declaration of their mated nature, a warning to strangers to stay clear or face the consequences. Love and death all intertwined as one.
However, his beloved needed to rest. He'd have you again first thing in the morning, wake you up to the sensations of his body desperately rubbing against yours.
"We missed over an hour of the opera, my dear, we'll simply have to go again."
He'd whisper and giggle into your ear, no doubt thinking of what transpired.
/ / /
La Bohème was completely sold out.
So of course, Terry had purchased the biggest box of the theatre, best seat in the house. The previous holder of the box had been outbid, much to their distress Margaret had assured him. Well, if you wanted something, you took it. Why was that so hard for people to understand?
Just like he took you.
Somehow you were both easier and harder to take than he thought it would be. Easier because your feelings for him were so potent even from early on. That made his toes curl just at the thought, how much you wanted him, how your devotion shone through you like a reflection of his own, more blinding than the sun itself.
And it was harder because he needed to earn your trust. Trust had never been something he'd needed to foster when he was seducing someone. Usually all he'd need to do was give the right look, mutter an innuendo here or there, and his body would do the rest of the work. He never had to chase someone before. Whoever peeked Terry's interest, already wanted him. There was never any hesitation involved.
He never realised how exciting the thrill of the hunt would be. Forever being thrown prey into his cage, fat and lazy from the endless offerings, until the day he spotted you beyond the threshold of his contained dominion. He couldn't just take your body, that was too easy. He needed your mind, your heart, your fucking soul cradled against him to keep for all eternity.
When you both arrived at the theatre, Terry ensured you went through the staff only entrance. You simply looked too ravishing tonight, he couldn't allow the paparazzi to have up close shots of you. He guided you through the back area like he owned the place, which he of course did now, past the stage hands and technicians, past the dressing rooms of the performers. They cooed and greeted you like you were both the star lovers of the show, wishing that you enjoyed the evening.
"Break a leg." Terry announced to them. He smirked at you then, enjoying the amused but almost reprimanding expression on your face. His heart panged with desire, fuck he wanted you so badly.
The waiting area was buzzing with guests and conversation, the excitement palpable in the air, but the noise noticeably quietened when the two of you came in. Many faces turned to you, Terry subconsciously tightened his grip around your white faux fur capelet-covered shoulder. Your capelet matched the white ribbon adorned on his ponytail, which you had tied yourself. Your blood red tailored dress matched his cravat and waistcoat underneath his jacket. He ensured that it was the exact shade of your blood from the cut he most definitely didn't purposefully cause by prodding your finger against a rose thorn in the east wing greenhouse almost a month ago.
His mind was filled with the image of sucking your finger for almost half an hour, the heady metallic taste of you ripe in his memory. Heading to the box, he led you up the stairs, hand in hand. An announcement was made over the speakers that the performance would start shortly. Right on cue.
You were shown into box by a personal butler who he immediately dismissed after you'd taken your seat. He wanted the two of you alone, undisturbed. After all, he wasn't here for the damn opera.
The box was extremely luxurious, it had its own bar in the corner, its own bathroom. Rather than two separate seats, the two of you sat on an eighteenth century Chesterfield that he'd had specially procured for the evening. He asked whether you liked the box and you were gushing out compliments to him, eyes wide with excitement as you took in view of the theatre, the perfect central location with the best view of the stage and the orchestra in front of it.
"Have I told you how beautiful you look, my dear?"
Your cheeks reddened like he was summoning your blood to the surface like a satanic blood ritual, your skin almost splitting open upon a rose thorn.
“Yes you have, Terry, thank you. And you look very handsome.”
"Do I?" He feigned, his hand reaching up to rest on your neck. The lights of the theatre dimmed, his thumb rubbing along your throat. It was his explicit gesture to you that he was hard and desperately needed to be inside of you. A gasp escaped your mouth before you stuttered out a yes.
His eyes flicked down to his lap, his silent command for you to place a hand on his cock, to feel how much he needed you, for you to dare question his desire for his beloved. Your motion was slow, delayed, you weren't entirely comfortable doing this here, but you obeyed, you always did. You were so good to him.
You gasped again, feeling how hard he was over his slacks. You never could exactly grasp the depths of his want for you, the hardness of his cock physical proof that words couldn't quite place.
La Bohème began its opening act with its star lovers rather too preoccupied, he mused before shifting his body like he was paying attention to the performance. You followed suit, though your soft, gentle hand kept up its teasing motions, fingers rubbing against his length.
His hips lazily kept raising slightly to meet your touch, the music and singing mere noise in the background. He slid an arm around your shoulder, his thumb rubbing up and down your throat, I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, he conveyed to you over and over and over. Branding his desire onto your body.
Were you wet yet? Were your thighs aching? Were you finding it impossible to take in a deep breath? Was your clit twitching?
His other hand rested on your thigh, and your free hand shot out to his with surprising speed as you began urgently rubbing his inner wrist. Now this was your explicit gesture to him. I want you, I need you, I want you, I need you, you begged him, you screamed at him with your wordless gesture. He shot up from the Chesterfield, wrenching the privacy curtains closed as far as they would go. Climbing on top of you, his mouth devoured yours, his lips pressing against yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth to meet your own before he began to suck on your own tongue. He growled at the way you groaned in surprise at the sensation.
He pulled away. This wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all, would it? He hurried you to your feet, ready to carry you out of the box and down the theatre stairs if you weren't fast enough. But you were up and being pulled by him out through the door like the box had been set on fire.
“Mr. and Mrs. Silver?” The butler called out, concern heavy in his voice. Terry knew you'd want to satiate this complete stranger, purely out of the goodness of your heart. He sighed internally.
"Pressing business!" Terry shouted back, pulling you around the corner. He looked back at you, inflamed by the smile on your face for him knowing just what you wanted. He immediately stopped at the top of the stairs, out of sight from any of the staff. His hand slid under your dress, cupped your cunt and squeezed, forcing a squeal out of your hot, wet mouth.
"Pressing indeed." He murmured, capturing your lips for a brief moment before forcing himself to take you down the stairs. Otherwise he'd be fucking you right there and then. He told hold of your waist, taking some of your weight to keep you balanced, how could you not be weak at the knees for him?
He came to a halt in the waiting area, head flicking side to side as he took in his options, body shaking in need, cock straining against his underwear, hand gripping onto yours like a lifeline, it was too far to the limo, the back area was busy with people, hmm. . .coat closet?
Practically shoving a wad of cash at the attendants, he ordered for them to leave and slammed the door shut behind them. With no time to waste, he stripped off the fur capelet that was covering your bare shoulders and ripped the top part of your dress down, the sound of tearing material made his balls ache. As you stood frozen in shock, his mouth immediately attacked your nipples, he manoeuvred you against one of the coat racks, your back cushioned by real fur coats.
He nipped and sucked and nibbled at you without breaking away, you were more out of breath than he was. Something had to be done about those real fur coats, he thought to himself, letting out a chuckle as he pulled back, giving you a second to take in oxygen. Taking to his knee, he wrenched up the dress to your hips, knocked apart your legs and shoved his mouth into your wet cunt like a man dying of thirst and god he felt like it.
You squealed and desperately grabbed onto his shoulders for support. He played with your clit with his tongue, incensed by your constant stream of moans and cries. Working a finger inside of you, he began a relentless pace, rubbing your clit side to side, fucking you deep with one finger before working in another, and then a third. Your legs were shaking by then, your eyes kept rolling back, your hand mindlessly gripping onto his hair, undoing the meticulously neat ponytail you'd tied back earlier that evening.
His white ribbon fell onto the floor.
He was too selfish to let you come first, he wanted to come with you. Pulling his mouth and fingers away from you, he rose off the floor to stand. You looked like you'd been fucked out of your mind and his cock hadn't even been inside of you yet. As he scrambled to release his cock, he lifted up one of your legs and you cried out together when he sunk into you. He growled at the wet, tight, hot sensation, relishing it for a fleeting moment before he began to move.
Leaning down, his forehead pressed against yours, his tongue licking up the side of your face, his lips laying kisses on your cheeks. He could taste your come, your sweat, your skin. He fucked you hard and fast, your bodies laced together, the mated king cobras deep in the throws of heat. The two of you as one, like it was always meant to be.
His hips kept thrusting into you. He knew you were close, he was close to. Weeks and weeks had been spent tuning himself to your rhythms, learning how to delay his pleasure and the effort had paid off tenfold. He upped his paced, feeling that you were about come, his body clinging onto yours. Falling silent as you climaxed together, the sound of you orgasming was music to his ears. He slowed his pace after you reached the peek, emptying himself inside of you.
He looked at you then, his thumb coming up to rub against your throat. The touch made you come back to reality, you looked back at him, mouth open, expression spent, someone needed a nap, rest her head right up against his cock. Pulling out of you, he took to his knees again to admire some of his come drip down your thighs. He wiped it off your skin with his hand and wiped it on the fur coats behind you.
"My dear doesn't like fur." He commented casually as you stared at him quizzically. After collecting more come leaking from you, he wiped it on another coat, and another. He was doing his part after all, ruining these horrible people's coats. The curiosity on your expression was replaced by concern, your eyebrows furrowing when he took to his feet.
“Angel, your hair,” you muttered, regret on your expression, hand reaching out to tuck some of it behind his ear.
He snatched onto your hand, staring at you for ten long seconds before sniggering and falling into a fit of laughter.
