the pads of his fingers traced delicate patterns on your side, hands gently feeling the smooth skin. you leaned into his embrace and moved one of your hands to tangle in his hair, your fingers beginning to massage his scalp. he hummed quietly and leaned into your touch while his eyes fluttered shut
"feels good," he murmured, gently squeezing your side with his fingers. your gaze slid over his content expression, and you moved down to press a sweet, lasting kiss to his forehead. his soft hum of satisfaction urged you to continue. you moved your slow, tender kisses from his forehead to his nose, his cheeks, his chin, making sure to kiss and caress his entire face, until you pressed a final, lingering kiss to his lips before gently pulling away
once he noticed that your lips lost contact, his eyes lazily opened and met yours, and your breath caught in your throat at how he looked at you. "come back," he mumbled softly, moving one of his hands from your waist to cup your jaw in the process. he brought your face closer to his and ran his thumb along your cheek. you sighed and looked back at him, a subtle smile on your lips before you let him do it
he positioned himself above you and soon had you pinned beneath him on the bed, legs spread as he leaned in, crushing his mouth against yours. his body pressed against yours, still holding your jaw as he kissed you. his crotch met your thigh, moving slowly against it. you let out a soft moan as he moved his hips forward against your cunt, eyes shut when he slipped his tongue to tangle with yours. he moved slowly, feeling himself grow hard
he broke the kiss, a string of saliva connecting your mouths as he leaned in toward your neck, nuzzling his head against you. his teeth grazed the skin, still grinding into you with pressure, the outline of his cock straining against his pants. he sucked on your skin, a quiet whine escaping your lips. you felt him increase the pressure of his movements, his bulge shifting just right against you. you pulled him in, legs wrapping around his hips, making him press even closer
Tell me baby if I fuck you right,
Can I fuck forever?
He's fucking you, taking you apart and putting you together like his life depended on it. You're a sight under him, beautiful body covered in hickeys, sweat, cum—his and yours—and you're holding on to him, clawing at his back, legs shaking and barely holding on to his waist, he's fucking you so good.
Fuck, is this what it feels like? Pure fuckin' nirvana? He's hitting spots, holding and molding you in ways you didn't even know existed, bringing out so much more than moans and orgasms, making you goddamn addicted, and the bastard would be lying if he said you didn't have that same effect on him.
You say his name like a prayer, like a fuckin' prayer, and he thrusts harder, faster now, so close, so damn close, the crescendo of your moans music to his ears, warmth tightening around him, arms and legs keeping him in a vice grip, fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK—
You cum. He does, too, but it ain't enough.
Not for you, sweetheart.
Gonna love you some more. He's gonna love you until you can't think of anything else. Until you can't think of anyone else but him.
He doesn't stop. He keeps going, keeps fucking you through the overstimulation, wanting to hear more of you, watching the tears of pleasure sit on those pretty lashes, fucking you—making love to you—like it's the last thing he'll ever do.
Say it, baby. Say it.
"Tell me you fuckin' love me," he begs, words slurred, lost to the pleasure, helplessly in love, and lost in you.
words: 1.7k
warnings: 18+, hurt/comfort, public punishment (inspired by gale's whipping in catching fire), mentions of alcohol and drugs, pain, pain, pain, blood, injury, just a lot of whump
description: Disobeying the Peacekeepers comes with punishment. Haymitch is the one to protect you, sitting at your bedside and helping you through the agony.
You kneel because it’s all you can do, just as all the residents of the Seam can do is watch it happen. Beside you, the little girl who you’d leapt in front of just a moment ago sniffles and cries for her mother. You think you know her as the daughter of one of the coal miners, but you don’t see either of her parents anywhere now. Likely, they’re at home, waiting for her to bring that stolen wedge of cheese before they starve. Now, it lies on the floor at the Peacekeeper’s feet, dirtied by the sooty ground and laid to waste.
“She’s just a girl,” you say again — plead. You’re met with a blow across your face, one that knocks you to the ground. Though it steals your breath, you only grunt, determined not to show weakness. It’s what they thrive on, but you are not weak. Not for this.
The crowd gasps in shock, but nobody steps in. Nobody can, not without twice as terrible a punishment.
When you rise onto your elbows, the Peacekeeper grabs your chin, teeth bared. “Well, I sure hope she was worth the twelve lashes you’re about to get. Let’s see how heroic you feel with your back in tatters, shall we?”
He drags you over to the whipping post, your knees scraping against the cobbles, heart pounding in your ears. The girl is crying, but you glimpse a neighbour pulling her away. Good. His focus is on you, and that means she’ll get to go home today — without food, but safe. Perhaps one of the onlookers will take pity, find something to fill her belly. God knows she looks like she needs it, joints jutting out of grimy, freckled skin. You know that hunger; the type that aches in every bone, burns right through your insides. Her tiny frame wouldn’t survive the lashes, but you will, so you let the Peacekeeper rip off your shirt and bare your back to him when he asks, another of them approaching to tie you up with rope that immediately chafes your wrists.
“Please,” the little girl is shouting, but she’s far away.
You grit your teeth when you hear the whip crack against the floor. Focus on the rows of feet surrounding you, as though counting the holes in the miners’ boots might be enough of a distraction and you won't feel it.
Except it isn't and you do. The whip tears over your spine and you can’t keep from letting out a scream this time, entire body shuddering as though it can’t quite settle into this new pain. The Peacekeeper counts with every lash: one, two, three. By the fifth, you can’t hold yourself up, slumped against the pole as hot blood trickles down your skin and gathers at the waistband of your trousers. The shoes blur and tilt with the rest of the world, and you wonder how you’ll work tomorrow, or the next day, or the next day. You hope the girl isn’t looking. You wish nobody was looking.
Before the seventh, a new voice chimes in, footsteps scuffing against the stone behind you. You don’t need to see him: his voice is enough for you to recognise who is trying to rescue you.
Haymitch.
“All right, all right, don’t you think you’ve proved your point?” he’s saying with that usual hint of a slur, because you can’t remember the last time he wasn’t drunk. It’s the only reason you’re friends. He buys your liquor, enough that you started watering it down a while back both because you don’t want to enable his addiction and because it gives him reason to come back more often, even if it’s to yell at you about the quality of your booze.
“The sentence for attacking a Peacekeeper is twelve lashes. Step aside, or join her,” the Peacekeeper warns.
Attacking a Peacekeeper. You barely touched him, only pushing him back before he could hit the girl.
“Leave it, Haymitch,” you manage to force out. You taste blood and realise you’ve bitten through your tongue, but it’s impossible to feel it with your back on fire. “Let the man finish. No Peacekeepers, no peace, right?”
Your sarcasm is rewarded with another whip, right across both shoulder blades.
Seven.
“Stop it!” Haymitch orders. There’s something rich and husky in his voice. Desperation. There you were thinking he didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. You'd be surprise if you could muster the energy. “You wanna punish someone, punish me. How about we see what happens when one of the Hunger Games victors gets all bloodied up in the street, huh?”
Silence. Likely, the Peacekeeper realising who he is. District 12's only victor. You squeeze your eyes closed, dreading that Haymitch might actually take the lashings for you. The only thing you could bear less than this.
“Victors aren’t exempt from the rules,” the Peacekeeper decides, but his voice is no longer as stiff and certain as before. “And Seam scum like her certainly aren’t.”
“Maybe not, but what would everyone think, seeing Panem’s hero at the hands of a Peacekeeper? You sure that’s an image Snow would want associated with his precious Games?”
A scoff. “I don’t care about Panem’s heroes. You have nothing to do with this, so step aside.”
“She’s my wife!” Haymitch claims, causing another wave of shock to rattle through the crowd. And through you, because like hell you are. But he’s lying to save you, and you don’t know why. “I won’t let you do this to her. So whip me, or let us both go. What’ll it be?”
The moments that follow are excruciating, and you can do nothing but pant as the cool air hits your ruined skin. Finally, a Peacekeeper comes before you to cut through your bindings. You’re about to fall back onto the stone when two arms wrap around you, your soft whimpers landing in their chest.
“All right, sweetheart. I gotcha now.” He picks you up, then whispers an outpouring of sorries when his arms scrape against your wounds, drawing another agonised keen from you. The sky is cloudy and grey above you, and it’s all you can do to stare at the clouds as he walks with you, each step jolting another rush of pain through your body.
“Gonna getcha all cleaned up,” Haymitch soothes. And then he’s shouting for someone, for Asterid, and the sky is replaced by the wooden beams of an old house.
Immediately, orders are shouted: clear the table, get the morphling, lots of gauze. You’re set down on something hard and clutch at Haymitch’s shirt desperately. His face swims over you, blue eyes glassy yet alert. More alert than they’ve ever been before.
“Can you roll off your back for me, sweetheart? That’s it.” His hands are at your sides, anchoring you as you try to take the weight off your injuries. Everything is slippery with your blood and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t anything, because it hurts. You must say as much, because his hand smoothes over your hair. “I know. I know. Gonna get you something for it, okay?”
“It’s going to be worse, just for a moment. We need to clean your wounds,” a kind voice, Asterid, warns, and then it is. You imagine fire all around you, and somewhere distant, hear your own screams. Haymitch’s hand stays in yours as he holds your convulsing body down.
“Can’t you get the damn morphling first?” Annoyance bubbles in Haymitch’s tone.
“I can’t find it!” a younger, more flustered voice says, the sounds of riffling breaking through the cotton wool in your ears. Must be Asterid's daughter, Prim. She's barely younger than the girl outside; she shouldn't have to see the mess the whip has made.
And then you must pass out, because suddenly, you’re rising from fog, body heavy and pain dulled, and Haymitch is in a chair by your side. Your blood is on his shirt, you notice, and his hand is still holding yours on the table, thumb smoothing over your knuckles in a way that is both gentle and rough.
“Hey. There y’are. Welcome back.”
Moving makes you hurt again, and he shushes you when you cry out. “Stay put for now, okay? Wounds are still open.”
“Where are we?” Your voice is almost as hoarse and slurred as his.
“Asterid’s house. She’s getting you all cleaned up.”
“Did… did they stop? Did the girl get away?”
He brushes the hair off your forehead. “She did. Made sure she got some food in her belly, too. Jesus, what were you thinking, getting in between a fight with a Peacekeeper like that?”
“Wasn’t a fair fight.”
“Never damn well is.”
“She was just a girl, Haymitch.” Anger rises to the surface, breaking through layers and layers of pain and sedation.
Haymitch sighs. Leans his elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. You wonder why it brings you comfort to smell his alcohol-laced breath, to feel it across your skin, to have his crooked nose graze yours. So gentle compared to the whip and yet it still leaves you shuddering.
And yet his words are serrated as ever. “I know. But if you could find some sense of self-preservation, that’d be great.”
You shake your head, lids growing heavy again. You’re still conscious enough to point out, “You didn’t seem to have much of any, either, jumping in front of me like that. Calling me your wife. How long ‘fore they realise that’s a lie?”
His brows knit together, fingers drawing absent circles into your arms. “Shut up and get some sleep.”
Somehow, you find it in you to smirk. “‘Cos I’m right?”
“‘Cos the morphling’ll wear off soon, and it’s gonna hurt like hell.” Then, he softens. "And because you're a little right."
And you dread it, that first part. You can already feel the flames charring the edges of your consciousness, trying to take over again. Chin dipping back onto the table, you squeeze Haymitch’s hand tighter. He’s all you have here. No family to come sit with you, no friends who’ll take care of you the way he has. He's stupid for it, for putting himself in the crossfire, but it means something. Right now, you don’t know what, but you’ll figure it out. Maybe. If he’ll let you.
“You gonna leave?” You sound so small, and it leaves you regretting asking at all. This isn't you. You get by on banter and jabs, not... this. Not vulnerability. The scars might heal, but you won't be able to take back the things you've given to him today. Shreds of yourself you didn't know existed.
He shakes his hand; strokes your hair again. “Gonna be right here when you wake up, sweetheart. Not going anywhere.”
With the morphling humming through your veins and his gentle, soothing touch taking your mind away from the pain, you drift back into a restless, uncomfortable in-between.
One where he is here, and for that alone, the agony is almost worth it.
He's missing you, missing his baby, and he can't help it. Can't help but think of your touch, your scent, and the way you say his name. The way you love him. Can't help but think of the way you plead for more as he fucks you, as your legs wrapped around his waist trembles with each thrust and he knows he's bringing it home.
Shit.
And so he calls you. Wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you want him the way he wants you. Wants to hear you tell him you love him. He calls you and makes you touch yourself for him, makes you tell him who you belong to. And fuck if the way you say his name isn't heaven to his ears.
He doesn't touch himself. Doesn't want to even though he's rock fucking hard. Just wants to bask in your pleasure and so he does, closing his eyes and listening to the music of your moans, biting back a groan of his own as you cum and he ruins his pants with the intensity of his own orgasm. Damn. He likes this pair, too.
But it doesn't matter, not when he's thinking of how fucking beautiful you always look after you've cum, when you're both basking in the afterglow and your love is once again reaffirmed. And he can't wait to get home. Can't wait to get to you. Can't wait to feel you under him and hear heaven once again.
Can't wait to hear you want him the way he wants you.
Summary: During a stand-up set, Matt Rife gets hilariously flustered when he spots his (Y/N) in the audience, leading to a sweet and self-deprecating performance fueled by her presence.
The spotlight was blinding, but Matt could make out the familiar sea of faces in the crowd. He was mid-joke, riffing on a story about a disastrous first date, when his eyes landed on (Y/N). There you were, sitting a few rows back, your eyes sparkling with laughter. And suddenly, the rest of the audience faded away.
Matt's mind went blank. The carefully crafted punchline vanished. He stumbled over his words, the smooth rhythm he'd perfected dissolving into a nervous jumble. He could feel his cheeks flush under the hot lights. It wasn't just the fact that you were there, it was the way you looked at him – with pride, amusement, and an undeniable spark of love. It was a look that always managed to disarm him, no matter how many times he saw it.
He tried to regain his composure, to pull himself back into the persona of the confident, quick-witted comedian. But it was no use. Every time he glanced in your direction, he lost his train of thought. The jokes felt flat, the delivery awkward. He could feel the audience's energy waning, their laughter replaced with polite chuckles. Matt knew he had to say something, anything, to acknowledge your presence and break the awkward spell. Taking a deep breath, he finally spoke, "Wow, um... I didn't know my girlfriend was here tonight. Hi, baby!" He grinned sheepishly, hoping you wouldn't be too embarrassed by the sudden attention. Your eyes widened slightly as Matt acknowledged you from the stage, a blush creeping up your neck. The spotlight shifted momentarily in your direction, and you offered a small wave, a shy smile gracing your lips. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of pride for your boyfriend. He was up there, doing what he loved, and you were lucky enough to witness it firsthand.
Matt chuckled, relieved by the warm reception. "Alright, alright," he said, regaining his composure. "Now that I've been properly distracted, where was I?" He paused, pretending to search his memory. "Ah, yes, the terrible date. But honestly, nothing's more terrifying than trying to be funny when the love of your life is watching." The crowd laughed again, and Matt felt a renewed sense of confidence. He knew he could always count on you to bring out the best in him, even if it meant a few stumbles along the way.
The rest of the set went by in a blur. Matt's jokes flowed more easily, his energy revitalized by your presence. He even managed to weave a few anecdotes about your relationship into his routine, much to the audience's delight. As the final joke landed and the lights came up, Matt took a deep bow, his eyes fixed on you. He couldn't wait to get off stage and into your arms, to thank you for being his muse, his inspiration, and the best damn audience member a comedian could ask for.
“Fuck…Fuck me, Princess you’re blowing my brains out with how your soft lips keep sucking the ever living fuck outta my cock. Yeah, just like that keep going, you’re doing such a fantastic job fer me. Awe are you thirsty? Don’t worry doll I’m about to give you some jizz milk in just a second”
He groaned.
Feeling the heat of your slick saliva encompassing his foreskin while your tongue mapped out his shaft. Trailing your tongue flat alongside the prominent veins that pulsated underneath your attention. Which caused his heavy balls that were noisily slapping the base of your chin to tighten up ready to burst at any moment. A feral lopsided grin was present on his lips as he tugged on your hair, stuffing his fat dick meanly down your throat before letting out a loud audible growl. His shaft throbbing meanwhile he deposited his salty man milk, coating your esophagus in a creamy white hue.
/—-//——/————\——\—
The Overindulgent
“Please keep squeezing my cock with your sweet pussy baby! Uhn so delicious, feels sho wonderful I can’t stop… I can’t stop my hips. Don’t look at me like that, you know I can’t help it. It’s all your fault for being so tempting sweetheart! Haa the way your slick heat keeps suckling at my tip is driving me insane~”
He slurred.
Tears pricked his glistened eyes as he outwardly blamed you for how pent up he was. Sawing his long slender shaft in between your puffy pussy lips marinating it with your juices and left over cum he had spurted prematurely. Watching the way your gushy cunt suckled at his leaking blunted tip whenever he’d “accidentally” slip his cockhead inside. In a matter of seconds he became boneless at the sensitivity. And he whimpered bucking his hips while spraying bucket loads of his baby batter all over your simpering walls.
/—-//——/————\——\—
The Teasers
“Mhm you look so beautiful covered in my seed darling~ Hmm? What was that? You said you want to be full of my dick? Well don’t worry sweetness, keep being a good girl for me and I’ll fuck into your precious twat until all you can feel the phantom shape of my cock inside your tight walls. My pretty girl would love that wouldn’t she?”
He hummed.
Methodically torturing you, his eyes filled with sadistic mirth as he pinched and toyed with your nipples forcing you to arch your back. While he began rubbing against his half massed dick between the crease of your asscheeks smearing his precum against your puckered anus and your dripping pussy. He relished in having you under his control, at you begging for him to give you exactly what you needed while he humped your sweet ass. He momentarily adjusted his hips so that his thick shaft could slide in nicely between your moist quivering thighs. Aiding him in taunting you with the idea of him plunging his cock inside your spasming cunt. While he snickered cruelly into your ear as he kept purposefully knocking his fat tip against your pearl with each controlled thrust.
you wake up facing the wall. the sheets are tangled from how you both slept angry, or tried to sleep, and the room is too bright now that it's morning.
you don't know if he's awake. you don't want to check.
then: "hey."
his voice is rough, unused. you don't turn over.
you feel the mattress shift. he's moving slow, the way he does when he's thinking too hard about something. then his hand finds your shoulder, not grabbing, just resting there. warm. familiar.
"are you still mad?" he asks.
you shrug under his palm. you don't trust your voice yet.
he doesn't push. he never pushes. instead he traces down your arm, finds your wrist where it's tucked under the pillow, and he just holds it. loose. you could pull away easy. you don't.
"turn over," he says. not loud. never loud. "please."
you do. he's on his side, propped on one elbow, and he looks tired. the fight is still sitting in the room between you, but he's looking at you like he's trying to find his way back.
he touches your jaw. runs his thumb over your mouth. you part your lips without thinking and he watches you do it, something shifting in his expression.
"i need to know you're still here," he says.
"i'm here," you say, and it sounds more raw than you meant.
he nods. he moves down the bed slow, pulling the sheet with him, and you watch him go. he kisses your stomach first, your hip, the inside of your thigh. he's taking his time. he's always been patient in ways you aren't.
he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and looks up at you, asking without words. you lift your hips and he slides them down your legs, drops them somewhere on the floor. he spreads your thighs with his palms, thumbs tracing the creases where your legs meet your body, and you feel yourself arch toward him without meaning to.
when he finally puts his mouth on you, you gasp, and he brings one hand up to find yours where it's gripping the sheet. he threads his fingers through and squeezes.
you try to move against him, chase the feeling, but he pulls back just enough to say "slow down" against your skin.
you groan. he does it again, deliberate, and you're already wound tight from the night before, from the silence this morning, from wanting.
"let me," he says. "i need to."
you stop trying to rush. you let him set the pace, which is maddening, which is exactly what you need. he brings you to the edge and holds you there, his tongue precise, his hand keeping yours pinned to the mattress even though he's not holding hard. you could get free. you don't want to.
"please," you say, and you hate how desperate it sounds, but he makes a soft noise against you that means he likes it.
"what do you want?" he asks, looking up at you now. his mouth is wet. you could die from wanting him.
"you," you say. "just you. inside me. please."
he crawls back up, kissing your hip, your ribs, your throat. he pauses at your wrists, lifts them both above your head and holds them there with one hand while he reaches down with the other. he pushes his boxers down just enough to free himself, and you feel him hot and hard against your thigh.
"look at me," he says, and you do. he guides himself into you slow, so slow, and you gasp at the stretch, at the sudden fullness after all that teasing.
he doesn't move yet. he's watching your face.
"tell me what you were actually mad about," he says.
you blink. "what?"
"last night. you said i didn't see you. what did you mean?"
he's still inside you, still holding your wrists, and the combination of intimacy and vulnerability makes your eyes sting.
"i thought," you start, and have to stop. "i thought you were pulling away. that you were tired of me."
he closes his eyes. when he opens them, he looks wrecked.
"never," he says. "i'm never tired of you. i was tired, period. i should've said. i let you think-" he shakes his head. "i'm sorry."
he starts to move then, slow rolls of his hips that make you whimper. he keeps your wrists pinned, keeps his eyes on yours, and he tells you again, between thrusts, that he's here, that he wants you, that the fight was stupid and he hates when you don't know you're loved.
"you have to tell me," he says, voice finally breaking a little. "when you're scared. i can't fix what i don't know."
"i know," you breathe. "i'm sorry too. i shut down. i shouldn't have."
he lets go of your wrists to cup your face instead, and you wrap your arms around him, pull him down until his weight is covering you completely. he kisses you then, deep and unhurried, and you can taste yourself on him, can taste the apology in it.
he shifts his angle and you moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like he's hungry for it.
"let me take care of you," he whispers against your lips. "can i?"
"yes," you say. "yes, please."
he builds it slow, the way he does everything, watching your face like he's memorizing it. when you try to chase your own finish he slows down, shakes his head, makes you wait until you're trembling beneath him.
"look at me," he says, and you do. "stay with me."
"i'm here," you say again, and this time it means something different. this time it's a promise.
he finally lets you come, his hand sliding between you to help, his mouth at your ear telling you how good you are, how loved, how he's not going anywhere. you cry out, arching against him, and he follows you over not long after, burying his face in your neck and groaning long and low.
after, he doesn't pull away. he stays inside you, stays close, kisses your shoulder and your jaw and the corner of your mouth.
"we're okay?" he asks, tentative in a way he rarely is.
"we're okay," you say, and you mean it. you run your fingers through his hair, hold him there. "come here."
he shifts, pulls out gentle, and gathers you against his chest. you listen to his heartbeat, steady now, and his hand traces lazy patterns on your back.
"i love you," he says, into your hair. "even when i'm bad at showing it."
"you're not bad at showing it," you say. "you just showed me pretty thoroughly."
he laughs, soft, and you feel it rumble through his chest. "you know what i mean."
"i do," you say. "and i love you too. even when i'm bad at saying what i need."
he kisses your forehead. "we'll work on it. together."
