Beloved Sandworm Of The Desert

Request Rules (Requests are open):

1. I won’t write about anything related to self harm or romantic age gaps involving a minor. I try as often as possible to work with the requests that I receive, but occasionally I will refuse or modify a request if I feel like I am not capable of writing it properly. Please know that this is not a critique of those requests, it is about me understanding my limits and capabilities as a writer.

2. I write for fun in my free-time, please don’t demand updates.

3. If you’d like to request a continuation of a oneshot that I have written, I would appreciate it if you could give me something to work with, like a specific situation or event you would like to see. I am willing to continue most of my stories, it just might take a little longer while I plot the next steps in the story.

Characters I Write For:

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

Steve Harrington

Robin Buckley

Jim Hopper

Star Wars Light Side (Sequel Trilogy):

Finn

Poe Dameron

Rey

Rose Tico

Star Wars Dark Side (Sequel Trilogy):

Kylo Ren

Armitage Hux

Captain Phasma

The Mandalorian:

Din Djarin

Daniel Brühl Characters:

Laszlo Kreizler (The Alienist)

Adam Driver Characters:

Clyde Logan (Logan Lucky)

Marvel Characters:

Baron Helmut Zemo (TFAWS)

Sam Wilson (TFAWS)

Triple Frontier

Ben Miller

Will Miller

Shame pools like oil in his throat, recognizing the casual cruelty in it, but that doesn't steal the truth from the statement. Some part of him had believed, had hoped, even, these desires would wane once sated—that, at some point, he would no longer feel so starved of you, for the brush of your lips against his, the caress of your fingers at his neck.

But this is a hunger that has him clinging to the bunched fabric of your skirt with the kind of grip he'd normally reserve for the hilt of a blade, so transparently desperate in his attempts to keep you close.

You sigh at his lips, your breath almost chill compared to his feverish skin. At the fear of your absence, Armitage slips a hand from where it rests at your hip, encircling your waist until he feels the press of your chest against his own.

And in response, you shift more fully into his lap, kissing him deeper than before, your thumb brushing over the expanse of his cheek. If a there will be a day when Armitage stops craving the feeling, he cannot bear to think of it. He's becoming more and more certain that this need will be insatiable long after he meets his grave.

The shape of you is distorted by the layers of fabric between his body and yours, but the pressure is enough to bring a gasp to his lips when he feels your hips meet his, the welcome weight of your body against his quickly-stiffening cock.

There's a little pause in your movement, and the smile that comes after burns like a brand against his cheek as your kisses drift further from his mouth, across the contours of his jaw to the space just below his ear.

The trace of your tongue along the edge of his earlobe, the sound of his name, your voice thick with suggestion. Armitage cannot help himself.

His hips shift upward without any command, and a groan he can't suppress forces its way between his teeth at the feeling of it, at the friction, even through the layers of your skirts, the drag of his uniform.

Your ribs flex under his palm with a heavy gasp, stunned maybe, at his boldness. And yet it cannot shame him out of the subtle pull at your hip, encouraging you to follow suit, to feel the effect you have on him.

You sit back as much as he'll allow you, meeting his gaze, eyes wide for a moment before your lids flutter closed, hummed moans breaking from your lips in time with the movement of your bodies. Armitage has let himself forget again—that you enjoy this. Being with him. Feeling him.

And so your husband makes no apology as he allows the hand at your hip to drift upwards over the silken bodice of your dress, thumb just brushing over the stiff peak of your nipple. The moan that breaks through your lips carries the sound of his name.

Oh, no. Armitage can feel his pulse throbbing, insistent, through his dick, and the spike of fear in the front of his mind cannot stop the end that is quickly approaching.

"Sh-should we—" Armitage can hardly get the words out, and you show no interest in helping him, your lips back at his neck, the drag of your cunt right where he needs you most and where he cannot stand to feel you as his toes curl in his boots, thighs aching with this final attempt to restrain himself, if you would only give him a moment, he could—

Fuck. Too late now.

Armitage groans, low and deep, breath feathering through the soft hairs by your ear as the embers of his release course through him. Before the pleasure has even subsided, humiliation follows. He would run if he could manage it, if you were not still perched in his lap, frozen, with your fingers carding through his hair.

"Armitage?" He hears the question hidden in the way you say his name, and he cannot bear the weight of it, cannot bear to meet your eyes, burying his face in the palms of his hands—a weak attempt to hide from you, with the cum-soaked fabric of his trousers pressed against your thighs.

You try again, repeating his name, softer this time, your fingers slipping into the space between the edge of his gloves and the sleeve of his uniform, gentle, as you tug his hands into your lap.

Stars, he cannot face this—the little dip in your brow as you watch him, those curious eyes and your flushed lips, waiting, still, for him to explain to you how imbecilic he has been, how selfish.

"My apologies," Hux just manages to spit out the words as his fingers curl into fists, "I hadn't meant for that to- to happen."

He watches you, anxiety tugging at his every nerve, taking in the little twitch at the bridge your nose as you process his words. And when the smile begins to form, Armitage attempts weakly to avoid your gaze, but you will not allow it.

"Really?"

You release your grip on him, let one of your hands press into his chest, traveling upward until you take hold of his jaw, stealing the breath from his lungs, and there's no shadow of disappointment in the path of your fingers, no trace of reproach as you lean closer, your lips hovering just out of reach of his own.

"Because of me?" you whisper, and you must find your answer written in his red-rimmed eyes and pathetic expression, because your smile only grows wider. Armitage lets his head fall back against the couch cushion, eyes shut tight to you and your indefatigable ability to see the best in him when it is not deserved.

"I had hoped to—" You must already know, of course, heard those whispered words—inside you, please—every time you had granted him the privilege to feel you beneath him, beside him, above him. Armitage stalls, at a loss. He doesn't have the language to map the caverns of his disgrace for you, to make you understand that it was his own lack of restraint that had deprived both of you of the incomparable delight.

And yet you are undeterred, once again taking his wrist in your grip, guiding Armitage's hand beneath the sea-foam ripples of your skirts, (like your eyes, you had said, when he complimented the color, the words that had started this whole mess), pressing him nearer and nearer to the apex of your thighs until his fingers just brush the dampened lace that covers your cunt.

"I think we'll manage," you whisper, your wet lips pressed up against his ear, and for a moment Armitage forgets those wells of shame surging inside him, pressing at your core until he hears you gasp, stroking his fingers along the soft valleys of your body.

"And you're not—" he shouldn't even speak of it, shouldn't give the idea any weight in your mind, and yet his fear will not allow him to let those insecurities fester inside him, "disappointed?"

Your brows pull together, confused, but only for a moment before pleasure overtakes it, soft moans spilling from between your lips, your fingers tightening their grip at his shoulder as he pets at your folds.

"I had never hoped," you whisper, "for something like this. I never thought I'd know what it feels like to be so—"

Armitage cannot help the terror that grips his lungs at the thought you might say it—the word that has been on the tip of his tongue from the beginning, the word that could tear him apart to hear it in the open now, as vulnerable as he feels, as undeserving as he is.

"Admired?" he supplies, before you can complete your thought, and his suggestion brings a laugh to your lips that quickly dissolves into a sigh as Armitage shifts the wet fabric out of the way, tracing your slit with his leather-clad fingers.

You shake your head as your eyes roll back at the feeling of him, at the pleasure he can bring.

"I've been admired more than enough," you respond, and even with his fingers thrusting in and out of your pulsing cunt, Armitage feels a spark of jealousy.

It's quelled quickly enough—you press your forehead against his own, his breaths coming almost as hard and fast as your own, and he knows you're close, the heel of his hand grinding insistently against your clit.

He tastes your words sooner than he hears them with the way you whisper against his parted lips.

"You've shown me what it's like to be adored."

Oh. The truth of it rings through his body, through his fingers as he works at your core and his chest where it meets yours and the flush of his cheeks. Armitage adores you, his wife, the singular joy his blood-stained hands and repugnant soul will ever be allowed.