Summary : The Sarentu Clan have coalesced with the Zeswa, Aranahe, and Kame'tire for the Zakru Migration to the old site of the Great Games; Thus, the Sarentu indulge in celebrations and delve into the finer print of their culture during the occasions. Too much of a good thing brings So'lek's reservations to a boil. Or, Tamtey and a [mildly] jealous So'lek get sloppy drunk and fuck like hares in the moor.
Characters : So'lek te Elusa Kiro'itan , Tamtey/Sarentu, [minor ocs] Akxu and Tsu'tnok , and Anufi [mentioned]
Pairings : So'lek te Elusa Kiro'itan x Reader/Tamtey
A/N : ignoring the fact that i've been gone for an eon and a half because i got cold feet over a wee trend... HELLOUU and welcome to those that may have just found me. i'll be demonstrating my multi-fandom side a bit more incessantly now that i'm out of my rut, so expect more avatar and assassin's creed fics !! also, leave me a request !! i got an ask cooking now as we speak ;)) love you my darlings, and as always, ♡♡ reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated !!
He was selfish.
It was damning, the way he carried himself once they were alone, but in the moment, his decorum was the furthest thing from So'lek's mind. The Zangke had flowed freely around the warmly illuminated camp, alive and alight with the motley mix of the nearest Western Clans, competition at the Games was tense, the demand for courtship high, and the pheromones were higher; So'lek preferred to forget about the Resistance's presence altogether for a night.
One chosen well.
Tamtey had been seen in company with a young Zeswa father since they'd joined the convoy to the Plains, a warrior named Akxu. To preserve his dignity, So'lek had done his utmost to subtly intervene. He'd asked her along on a few Pa'li rides, a couple races, to join in on refreshing some murals, one he'd even pitched listening-in on a story-hour; So'lek could only imagine how foolish he made himself look. He almost felt like a boy again.
He'd been honest when Tamtey had asked; Events like these were often rampant with blossoming courtships. It was evident she had numerous questions about the matter.
And since, she's learned a lot about her sexuality around camp, much to his dismay.
So'lek had kept a bottle flowing casually between them while they spared an ear for one of Anufi's stories as the sun wilted past the horizon, seated close despite the warmth the Zangke had offered. It had been a tale relating closely to the nearly-lost Sarentu Clan, and he dared not interrupt the enraptured look on Tamtey's face. There had been a mutual stroll, and a personal exchange of humorous stories as they kept the bottle exchanging, before they'd peeled off across the open moor.
Drunk and competitive, their feet of course felt lighter, a newfound adrenaline surge in their limbs in the wake of the copious Zangke consumption. Clumsy and buzzed, So'lek gave Tamtey a start before pursuing her painted hind, breathless guffaws drowned out by the howling wind that came with the dusk breeze skimming over the Plains, finding humor in how Tamtey's tail whipped around for balance as she fled him with an incoherent squeal.
It was hardly any contest. So'lek had caught Tamtey in the secure strapping of his arms, enveloping her safely as he swept her legs and brought her down in the tall grass. Her laughter was much more audible now, and he remembered turning her over vividly, as he's committed the image of her hysterical fit to memory as he chortled along through his teeth.
They'd hardly given it thought when they began to preen each other whilst recapturing their breaths. So'lek adjusted her choker as her fingers tucked a loose plait back behind his ear, which had flicked back against Tamtey's cool thumb before he lowered to seal his mouth to her own. There had only been a moment for Tamtey to catch the half-lidded, pooled look in her karyu's overtaken peridot eyes before he'd ducked down, and just as quickly, So'lek tried to wrench back with shame.
Quicker still, had Tamtey caught the back of his head with a fist to reciprocate his sloppy, drunken confession with an earnest, wordless one of her own, moaning as she lapped into the seam of his lips in kind, taking him by the flank of his loincloth to keep them flush in the grass. It swayed and undulated like the sea, the blades gossiping of the coupling on their lush bed as So'lek and Tamtey tore and fumbled at each other. Uncoordinated and drunk, they were warm and desperate for more, communicating only with whimpers and whines as they pawed at each other.
Tamtey became frustrated with the fastenings of his chestplate as she absentmindedly aided So'lek's nimble hands in freeing her of her lightweight clothes; He'd helped, if only to see that precious pout melt back into an intoxicated phase of awe.
It couldn't hold a spark to her expressions now.
Thoroughly debauched, hidden under the shadow of his frame and the hissing grass-blades, Tamtey arched drunkenly into his narrow hips -- from his own substance or the Zangke, he didn't know. Likely both. So'lek kept her wrapped close, using himself to break the wind as he lazily alternated between fucking Tamtey slow, deep, and wholly, to nearly pounding into her within an inch of her life; Memorizing her, relishing in the way she felt squeezing him, expelling him, and sucking him in as she yowled behind her trembling hand or into his drooling mouth.
He hadn't been keeping tally of Tamtey's summits, as of yet, So'lek kept himself a bit too busy familiarizing himself with her quirks while he still could.
Eywa, he wanted her much more than this. So'lek sat himself up on his haunches and pulled Tamtey's lower half across his lap in a heady daze, assisting in keeping her heavy legs across his forearms while taking the full curve of her ass in his palms. His thumbs dug-in on either side of her hips and angled her downward before So'lek doubled his efforts, staying true to the consuming, even pace and angle that made Tamtey squirm and curl beneath him as he fucked upward into her vent, groaned raggedly as his hips applauded against her ass.
As So'lek kempt tempo, Tamtey cried out her psalms, writhing up into their cum-lathered coupling to meet the even slap of their hips, a slew of wordless, degenerate cries spilled from her swollen lips as her arms contorted and fisted at handfuls of grass. Lost on her profile as she chased her umpteenth climax, shivering and raking at his abdomen, So'lek could subconsciously note his selfish impulse to link their Kurus, even if it had been brief.
They were drunk. This was very much impulsive between the pair of them. As much as he wanted to share the sensations of Tamtey's debilitating orgasm as it mounted, So'lek wanted a chance to be serious about it. More than anyone he'd crossed paths with as of late, Tamtey deserved such treatment.
"Hh-hnng-- ohhn-- fuck, Ssoo'le-- ohh ma'Eywa..." In the wake of such unbridled confessions, Tamtey tried to turn her head away and silence her moans in her bicep before gaining enough sense to cover her mouth with a cupped palm. So'lek had already met her halfway there, keeping her wrists jointed and pinned to the earth as he honed in, attacking Tamtey's sinewy throat as it was bared in her embarrassment. Opportunistic, So'lek left small nips and bites here and there in his wake, appeasing his unsettling urge to fit his mandibles in the crook of her neck and mark Tamtey in a more permanent sense... Drawing small pricks of blood to spread warm across his tongue would suffice him in the meantime, and he'd savor the smell and taste of the blood from her gland.
Tamtey came with a nearly devastated cry as a shudder wracked up her spine, clamping like a vice around the base of So'lek's cock as he throbbed, biting a hole into his cheek to avoid slamming a fist into the earth as the slit of his cockhead pecked Tamtey's puckered womb with each pulse. He wanted to spill forth into her so badly it ached in his loins, and just as he'd finished that forbade thought, Tamtey clamped her spasming walls around him manually, effectively milking So'lek's orgasm from his balls as they drew up with a surprised yelp and three stunted, quaking thrusts as he withdrew his twitching, softening cock from Tamtey's drooling folds.
If only to nestle himself in her neck with a devastated moan to inhale her sweaty, sweet Zangke-laced, musk, chuckling languidly into her neck as he sagged; "It is... a good thing we are downwind..."
Footnotes : for some reason, i'm always self conscious about posting small fics. is that just me? its a habit i'm trying to shake, so let me know if you enjoyed reading !! comments and reblogs are greatly encouraged, my ask box is open as well if there's anything specific you'd like for me to write !!
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A/N : this is probably the least amount of time i've ever spent on writing a fic but i'm really pleased with how this one turned out this time! took me about two days, phew!! please comment and reblog to keep small accounts like mine on the algorithm !!
You'd only snapped out of your idle, aimless thoughts while staring through the barred cell window when a set of keys had been tossed over the Sheriff's desk with a raucous jangling. Irritably, you only spared him a peripheral glare before bringing your knees up toward your chest, hunched over to interlock your arms across them; You still needed to ruminate on a solution of this bullshit situation.
Some loud-mouth had gotten smart with you in the saloon down the way a couple days back, and you'd biffed him something fierce. He'd socked you good in return, tried to turn a knife from behind the bar on you before you'd shot him.
It was instinct; Defense, you protested.
They threw you in a cell nonetheless.
This town was a good distance from their current camp, but you had a reason to be all the way out here in New territory; Let it be evident that folks in this corner of Montana didn't take manslaughter so lightly.
You were to be hung tomorrow.
The soft scrape of a match against a bootsole drew your attention back to the deputy -- whom, as of now, was temporarily occupying the Sheriff's shoes -- once more. He arrogantly kicked his feet up on the edge of the varnished table while cupping a hand around the butt of his cigar as he lit and puffed the cherry full; His eyes met yours with a pearly grin to crease the corners, blowing the tangy smoke from the corner of his mouth like a locomotive's scathing exhaust.
"So," he started casually, his dark mustache quirking with aloof amusement, "considering your condemned status; Any final meals on your mind before execution, sweetheart?"
You visibly turned your nose up at the impudent suggestion dancing on the young deputy's tone, scoffing at the impression you decided to leave hanging in the stuffy air. Not even if he were the last man on earth, would you let him even get a peck on the cheek.
"Aw, what's the matter?"
His chastising lilt grated on your nerves like a cat being stroked against the grain; And if you possessed a tail, it might have snapped in agitation. You shot him another glare instead, watching chapped lips suck around the end of the cigar and puff out another furl of smoke into the still air.
"It's just the pair of us here, darling," he attempted to negotiate, letting the cigar hang from between his lips as he stood with a flourish of his coat lapels to begin striding toward you.
A click from the door to his left would halt him in his tracks, each pair of eyes in the jailhouse shifting to the threshold as a figure engulfed the doorway.
Your eyes naturally flickered up toward the man's face hidden by the brim of a sand-blasted leather gamblers hat, and saw the familiar frayed wax-hemp for a hatband before you got to see the rest of his face.
Arthur had come to save your sorry-hide once again.
Your heart had soared with relief upon knowing that the gang had caught wind of your disappearance, but it plummeted right into your guts when you caught the brief, pointed snarl on Arthur's face when his eyes flickered to you in the opposite cell.
"Deputy," he began, cool as ice, shutting the door behind himself as he set his hand on his hip and kept the other on the door handle, "why ain't this young lady ready for transport?"
The deputy just gawked before he found his authority again, "Excuse me, mister?"
Arthur slowly advanced on the deputy with a curl set in his nose like a buggered mutt, hand retreating from the doorknob to snatch the lapel of his duster aside, flashing the brass star of a United States Marshal with a short-tempered growl; The Deputy followed Arthur's hand, and you could see his face go white as a sheet. "Go ahead and ask me another goddamn question, and I'll have your Sheriff tearing your ass raw," the undercover gunslinger barked as he jabbed a finger in the younger man's sternum.
"Y-Yes, Marshal, sir," was all he could muster under Arthur's intimidating shadow.
"Either you're too goddamn ignorant to be trusted with federal telegrams, or your Sheriff just didn't give a rat's ass to tell you in the first place -- here's hopin', for your sake." Arthur's ire was evidsnt on his voice, and you had a hunch that most of it would've been meant for you if this deputy hadn't been such a greenhorn.
Oh, but Marshal Morgan wasn't finished.
"You ought'a know the broad in that cell has a federal bounty, I've come to collect for my superiors, and I'm already way behind my schedule without this wench situated in a wagon upon my arrival, boy," Arthur lowed, leering over the deputy until his cigar smoke wafted near his face. In a fraction of a second, Arthur angrily snatched the cigar from his fingers to sneer a question that came off as an order, "Where the hell is your Sheriff, I want a word with him."
"Oh! Oh-ho, uh -- that's unnecessary, sir -- Marshal -- I'll get that all arranged for you right now. I just -- I had no idea --" the deputy scrambled in place for a moment to remedy this unfortunate coincidence before darting off toward the Sheriff's desk.
"I'll bet," Arthur deadpanned, unimpressed as he took a long pull from the cigar, watching the deputy scurry to the entry door before he hissed sharply. "Just -- For Christ's sake, boy, I'm already behind! Just bind her, I'm hittin' the damn breeze."
The deputy gaped again before padding past Arthur with a purpose, fiddling with the keyring he'd retrieved to unlock your cell. It was all you could do not to grin like a moron at the scene before you; Arthur quelling his ire with the deputy's smoke while the latter shat himself over being reprimanded by an alleged Fed.
You managed to rein it in by the time your hands were bound at the small of your back for 'transit' to your Federal reprimand, or whatever the hell; It didn't matter on this day. Still, you shot the deputy a look and feigned a silent gag as Arthur escorted you toward the door, if only to save your bruised pride after being catcalled by grass-bellied bastards all weekend.
The look on his face was befitting of an entitled man that could get a badge for a handout, and not pussy.
Arthur mumbled his gratitude -- for what it was worth -- as he passed the deputy, flicking the fresh cigar into the mud with a final drag once the door was shut behind him as you trampled down the pinewood stairs. Your small victory dissipated like dew under the high sun when you became aware of the thick, heavy air Arthur tensely exuded in his silence as he escorted you down the road by the elbow.
"You're goddamn lucky I caught wind of this," Arthur finally spoke up once they were out of the office's ear-shot, the vestiges of the cigar smoke from his last pull wisping in your periphery, his grip tightening on your arm. "I should'a left you to swing in the mornin'. Let y' think we'd forgotten all about you."
It could've been an empty threat, but that wasn't likely the case with a man of his caliber.
Your responsive chuckle was more to ease your own nerves than to annoy Arthur further; It wasn't received as such, evident in the way he jerked you outward and back into his side as if you'd been fighting your binds, "All you do is provoke me, woman."
"You don't even know what happened, you got no right to be --" you'd began with a start, head whirling around confrontationally before Arthur curtly cut you off.
Between the deputy and your incarceration, as well as your attitude, he seemed to be at his wits end. His hand tightened into a painful vice on your upper arm while the other snapped up to scruff you and yank your head backwards. While you jerked to retaliate Arthur's abrupt temerity, he practically hoisted you up by your bound arms and hauled-off into an alleyway within three strides.
It was a blur of stars and streetlight between your strands of hair, eyes transfixed on the sky above as you were moved between two tall buildings, dizzy with an adrenaline spike as Arthur threw you face-first into the oak shingles. You stumbled to catch yourself as your legs buckled, unable to flail your arms and spare yourself that way, you just wobbled upright the best you could. Right as you'd caught your footing, a numbing crack split the air and spun you around, pain blooming across your cheek in waves as you gasped aloud.
As soon as you'd registered that Arthur had slapped you, his bare hand seized your jaw with a bone-breaking grip, yanking you toward himself to snarl, "You're a fuckin' idiot, girl. Every town from here to Custer's heard about you shooting half a man's face off in a bar; Just how often do you think that happens?"
His breath was hot and seething, and from what you could see past the mess of your hair, he was enraged, now.
"He pulled a knife on me, Arthur!" You'd whinge, biting your lip when you felt it tremble with the waver in your voice.
"You shouldn't have been there in the first goddamn place," Arthur roiled like thunder, pushing your head back into the wall as he shifted his grip to your throat. "Should'a let you believe I'd let 'em stretch this pretty fuckin' neck o' yours, maybe then you'd be more thankful for what I do."
"I'm sorry, Arthur," you puffed while nervously wetting your lips, tasting a hint of copper on your tongue. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that -- I know, thank you for busting me out."
His lips pursed as his head reeled back in feigned contemplation, his other hand was gloved, reaching up to messily pet your hair out of your face. With a hum, he shook his head and shrugged, "Uht-uh. That's just not good enough for me this evenin'."
Before the words had even fully ran off his tongue, your world spun again, facing the wall with an airless gasp when Arthur flattened his chest against your back, his bare hand replacing itself around your front to cup your throat as he pressed his erection up against your ass with a groan.
"W-What are you doing?"
It was all happened quicker than your addled mind could keep-pace with, twisting at the hemp that bit into your wrists as Arthur flattened you against the wall and slotted his face against your neck. Squirming was goddamn useless; You were only grinding backwards into the tent of his trousers without your hands free, fruitlessly pressing him back and away only afforded him more opportunities.
"Arthur, stop it!"
When your ass pressed back into his cock as it jumped againat the fabric, Arthur reached around to palm your clothed sex in his gloved hand. His fingers kneaded into the seam of your jeans, bringing you up on your tiptoes by his grip under your cunt, lifting you backwards onto his dick as it throbbed against your mound.
"Shut the hell up," Arthur mumbled lackadaisically, entirely unamused by your chaste protests as he rutted into your clothed ass. "You owe me, woman, and I ain't letting your interest stack-up."
You bucked with a stifled whine when Arthur pulled his hand back and slapped your pussy through your jeans as if to drive his point. Then he was fumbling at the buttons in the front, only enough to loosen your waistband, giving himself ample room to shove his hand down your pants, plunging into your bloomers and between your legs while you writhed and thrashed.
"No! No, Arthur -- please, not there --"
"Shut your goddamn mouth, before I gag ya the rest of the way home!" Arthur thundered, shucking your pants past your ass to deliver two harsh slaps that lingered against your naked thigh. "I don't want your filthy fuckin' cunt, anyway. Christ-knows where you've been."
His hand found the front of your sex again, cramming past the hem of your jeans to swipe two fingers up the seam of your sex, an unbridled, throaty moan breaking past his locked teeth. You were drenched, embarrassingly so; Sticking to the inside of your bloomers, your cunt was absolutely drooling over his fingers.
"I can feel you through my damn gloves, dirty fuckin' girl," Arthur rasped into the crook of your neck, grazing his teeth over the column as he rutted against your bare ass with temptation. You knew he wanted it. No man in his right mind would pass-up a quick, sloppy fuck in this situation, but Arthur held onto his resolve.
He had enough discipline to know how he wanted you at the end of all this.
His leather-clad fingers slipped along the folds of your cunt from your clitoris to the fluttering ring of muscle that wept for his attention. He was appalled, if his open-mouth breathing beside your ear had anything to show for it; You felt his cock pulsing and jumping against your ass with each pass of his fingers.
"You're gonna stay quiet and make this shit up to me," Arthur whispered, his tender, careful tone misleading you into a false sense of security as his erection stirred against you. "Or I'm leaving you here when I'm done and you can fuckin' walk home.
All you could do was concur with a nod against the rough oak panels, a soft whine betraying your distress as Arthur twirled his finger around your clit.
In the same heartbeat, Arthur shifted focus and crammed two of his thick gloved fingers into your sopping cunt, tightening his grip on your throat when you instinctively tried to fold and buck away. He only adjusted his angle, fully sheathing his two digits into your spasming walls as his hips pressed you against his palm from behind.
Your hands fisted at the front of Arthur's shirt as he pumped his hand, jackrabbiting his hand into your pussy with a lewd, wet slapping noise as you struggled to acclimate. "You'd better make-do with this, sweet thing, 'cause this is all I'm giving you," Arthur huffed out, meeting the frenzied contortion of your hips with the outline of his cock, pulling back from biting at your shoulders only to watch the wet patch of pre-cum on his breeches spread.
Occasionally, the thumb-seam of his glove would nip into your clitoris and leave you spasming frantically, whimpering in frustration as you sought it out for a modicum of relief. Your arms flexed and pulled at your restraints, kneading at Arthur's shirt as he pummeled your cunt raw and pink.
He moved in a way that utilized your grip on his shirt, your desperate fumbling pulling the hem up from where he'd tucked it into his jeans earlier. His murky brain seemed to come-to once more, the firm collar around your throat retreating between them to thumb-open the buttons on his breeches, maneuvering his cock out of his union suit and into your restrained hands.
The hot, velvety flesh knocked against your palms with a heavy weight, feeling his bare hand wrap your fingers around his shaft as the other persisted until your knees buckled.
"Shit, baby, le'me fuck those hands," Arthur growled like a depraved hound in rut, his dribbling cock already humping into your clasped hands.
With your grip secure, Arthur wrapped his arm around you in a bear-hug, fixing his hold on you as he centered his attention once more as your moans rose in pitch, his wrist snapping harshly.
His entire glove must've been drenched at this point, gliding easily against your folds as you rolled into the seam at the heel of his palm, head canted back against Arthur's shoulder with ragged, uneven gasps for air. Arthur almost matched your octave when your grip strangled his cock, zeroed-in on your pleasure for now. "This is all you fuckin' get, all y'get --"
Your nails bit into Arthur's shaft when your mind blurred around the haze of your pleasure, spasming between him and the wall as you pursued your permitted summit, fucking yourself onto Arthur's fingers as your clit ached and your guts rolled with a blinding-white heat. Your orgasm was practically ruined against the seam of his glove, his cock throbbing in your hands instead of where you needed him most, clamping around absolutely nothing as Arthur withdrew his fingers at the last second to abuse your clit and draw-out your climax almost painfully as your brain fought between stroking him or bucking into his hand as you babbled nonsensically.
Arthur's warmth and presence separated from you almost instantly, your glossy eyes shooting open against the wall as you turned around to find where he'd gone, your thighs still shivering from the aftershocks. He stood with his cock in his gloved right hand, stroking your slick over the engorged, mauve head of his uncut dick as he took a mental image of your disheveled visage. It was always rather evident when he was committing something to memory for his journal later, and that inking on its own made you clench around nothing.
"On your knees, sweetheart," Arthur chuffed, rolling his hand over his shaft wetly.
Of course, until now, you might've spat on his face and tore off in the other direction just go spite him. That was before he'd fingerfucked you within an inch of your life, however; Your legs were still trembling and your breath still short, so you obeyed and lowered yourself to the gravel that bit into your knees.
Arthur groaned openly as he watched your slow descent, hissing inwardly when he reached out to paw at your flushed, teary face. "You look so fuckin' good like this, baby," he huffed, his pupils engulfing the sunflowers of his irises in the dark, stroking your hair back from your face to grab a fistful of it and guide her head toward his erection, "Go on, so I can take us home."
You yourself got a big photographic with him displayed before you like this; Thick, long legs parted in a wide stance, fully-clothed and absolutely debauched with his battered cock in-hand, damn-near drooling over the way you looked.
Small victories.
And brief ones.
Once your tongue rolled out of your mouth, Arthur tapped his head against your cheek and then your tongue, just to watch your face blench before thrusting into your hot mouth with a heady moan. His fist twisted your bundle of hair around his fist, admiring the way your lips stretched around his shaft, delving halfway into your mouth before you'd gag and attempt to withdraw. Your screwed-up expression made Arthur grin in that crooked fashion he always did, feeling it bolt straight to your mistreated sex in response.
"You can do much better with that filthy lil' mouth, pumpkin," Arthur purred misleadingly, petting your hair out of your face before slapping the opposite cheek to elicit a cry from your full lips. "All 'at talk earlier? For this kitten-lickin' shit?" Arthur slapped you again, his opposite hand pushing your head a tad further when you found a rhythm.
He continued like that, gripping your hair close to the scalp to hold your head in place as he began to fully thrust into your mouth, passing the wedge of your throat with a perverted, broken moan as you gagged, "Mh-hmfph -- My cockdrunk girl, look at'cha... Show your Marshal just how goddamn grateful you are, baby, go on -- Mmf-fuck."
Your face had flushed as tears sprung into your eyes, choking and gagging simultaneously as Arthur sheathed himself to the hilt, pressing your nose flush against the dirty-blonde curls at the base of his cock until you coughed and his thighs shook. Eventually, his second hand would join the other behind the crown of your skull, bringing your face to meet his hips with each thrust as his balls applauded against your chin, switching between drilling into your throat and holding you in place until your throat clicked.
He was speaking absolute nonsense as your head bobbed, babbling and cooing praise in spite of his temper from earlier, peppering his affection to keep you from breaking away entirely. Arthur cussed as his head rolled back on his shoulders, shuddering before he folded over to watch you, "Fuck-baby-I'm-gonna-cum -- Christ alive, fuck!"
With a wheeze that tapered-off into a weak roar, Arthur exploded down your throat with a final thrust, panting hoarsely as he basked in the warmth of your mouth for a moment. He let you pull back from his musky pubic hairs a smidge, but refused to give you full control just yet as he let himself grow soft on your tongue.
"Show me," his command surprised you as he pulled his hips back, your lips releasing his cockhead with a soft pop as he pulled your head back to inspect your flushed, tear-tracked face. Astounding yourself, you unrolled your tongue to show him the pearlescent cum congealed on your tongue, studying Arthur's own scrutable astonishment as he cupped your jaw.
"Swallow it."
And you did; Closing your mouth, you gulped his tangy seed down with a sigh, absentmindedly licking your lips of any residue as Arthur's mouth fell open with a lewd moan.
He said nothing when he pulled you back up to your feet and wrapped you up in his arms to seal his drooling mouth to your own, lapping against your tongue to taste himself, allowing you a sample of that cigar from earlier along with it. You could've came again right then and there as Arthur practically devoured you, reaching around to knead the bare globes of your ass, dangerously close to your pulsating cunt, licking into your mouth until he'd had his fill, withdrawing only to reprimand you half-heartedly.
"Don't you ever do this shit again. You wait for me from now on," Arthur demanded, pinching your stinging cheeks together to drive his point home as you blinked at him.
You only nodded. He seemed pleased with that.
Arthur helped you put yourself back together after stuffing himself away into his jeans again, fixing your bloomers and breeches back into place, neatly tucking your shirt back in while your hands were still bound.
"Hey, d'you mind, Marshal?" you teased, smirking to yourself as you turned and flapped your hands at him pointedly.
Arthur just scoffed, perching his hands on his hips, "And how would that look on my record, lil' lady?"
"Wouldn't be the first time a U.S. Marshal partook in negotiations, no?"
He barked a short laugh, "Not this one."
He moved quicker than you again, even with most of his blood still accumulated in his cock, Arthur managed to grapple you to the dirt quickly. You almost shouted on instinct before remembering yourself, and you were only able to writhe for a moment anyway before his weight was on you, tugging at your ankles after bringing them together.
"The fuck are you doing, Arthur?!" You hissed in annoyance, feeling something cinch your ankles together before Arthur rolled you onto your back, pulling you up by the collar to sit-up so he could haul you up and over his shoulder.
Then you yelped, struggling to wriggle away as his arm strapped across the backs of your knees. You knew he wore that crooked, facetious grin.
"That's Marshal Morgan to you, ma'am," Arthur correctly truffle as he turned out of the alley, you watched the world pass from above behind Arthur's back as he made his way toward Boadicea. "Now, I'd hate to gag a lady, so please keep the complaints to a minimum," Arthur piped, reaching up to pat your ass before depositing you over Boadicea's dappled croup with a wheeze.
"You really are a fucking asshole," you growled, going limp once you knew your protests would get you nowhere.
Arthur mounted up with ease, turning Boadicea down the uneven road out of town, her gait punching into your diaphragm with each stride. Your alleged captor reached backwards to give your upper thigh a reassuring squeeze through your jeans, his pinky covertly stroking your sensitive pussy as he did.
Opportunistic pervert.
Footnotes : GODDAMN i had fun with this one. i got this idea in the middle of composing my cnc Alpha-17 fic and i needed to get it out before it managed to evade me, im a little proud of this one so i'd really love to know what you guys think !!! love y'all, more to come !! as always, reblogs and comments are encouraged/appreciated!!!!
Summary : M!reader and Nikolai are captives of the Ultranationalists.
Pairings : Nikolai x M!reader
Rated : E
Word Count : 1.5k
Warnings : SMUT, DUB-CON, NO USE OF Y/N, porn w/o plot, frottage, military-typical violence, reader dons a chosen call-sign, 'Anvil'
COD Masterlist / Masterlist
A/N : This is one of my first attempts at a male reader's POV in an insert prose, written in haste during my most recent MW1 playthrough. Please let me know how I did !! Crossposted on ao3
The pay grade was too good to be true, that much was certain, now.
For all the ache that was active duty, it kept his folks at home fat and happy. Now, granted, perhaps now was a risky time to be an able-bodied enlisted lad.
The pay jump from being an aerial repairman to a mounted gunner for transports was stupid, and hard to turn down. There had been a certain stir within him, a restless, gluttonous urge to get moving, again; As always, he fed it.
Now, he was in Russia.
Now, he'd pay the penance.
The other day, he'd been ordered to extract a crucial package with urgency, and just yesterday, at least two teeth must've been knocked out of his head during the ambush on their transport.
Anvil didn't understand a word of Russian, and most -- if not all -- of his teammates had been slain on the road or maimed during interrogation. At the very least, he wasn't alone.
The 'package' in question.
A Russian spy for the S.A.S., known by alias as 'Nikolai.'
They'd attempted to pry himself open a couple times, but Anvil refused to crack out of his own interest to stay alive -- if not for his former training keeping his will ironclad.
The heavy gunner's preceding thoughts were sliced by the light of the hallway cutting into the dark room, spilling across the floor. Some guttural protests tumbled past the door as two of Zakhaev's men crossed the threshold, finding the aforementioned spy doubled-over in their grip. Some curses were spat in Russian, some of which Anvil recognized -- "Mongrel," and "bastard," to name a couple -- before Nikolai was shoved into the corner of the room to stumble on buckled knees into Anvil, sat against the wall.
He grunted as his duct-taped wrists uncomfortably squished between his large frame and the wall, but managed to absorb most of Nikolai's weight upon impact. The spy writhed in Anvil's lap with a curse, struggling to get up -- he cursed himself as a grunt crawled from the base of his throat, managing to bite it down long enough to aid Nikolai in sitting upright without the use of his hands.
Once the door shut, Nikolai spat a series of furious Russian curses towards its rotting face, his face flushed with a sheen of sweat, a vein popping out from his neck over the collar of his gray crew-neck as he shouted in a tone that felt raw from protesting his interrogators.
Fuck him, this dry spell was something...
The spy turned toward Anvil, his ire shifting as he saw him there. Nikolai spoke quickly in Russian, clearly prompting him.
"What?" Anvil croaked, blinking like a fool.
Nikolai huffed, "I said, 'what did they ask you?'."
Anvil blinked once more, flexing his bound hands at the small of his back as Nikolai's gaze flickered over his profile in the dark. " 'Asked me about you."
"Yes, and?"
The former repairman shrugged minutely, swallowing hard as he pried his gaze away from the bead of sweat trickling down Nik's stubble; "I know nothing, lad."
There was a subtle shift in Nik's expression that Anvil may have missed had he not been practically mapping out this unfortunate informant down to his bloody genotype.
Something inscrutable.
A silence stretched on between them, settling over the room in a thick discomfort as Anvil tried to subtly fix the growing firmness within his cammies. The quiet became suffocating, roaring in his ears, when Nikolai's head angled back towards him, it took every remaining modicum of his restraint to resist meeting his gaze.
This was precisely the reason he was kept from fieldwork to begin with.
"You stiff, right now?"
Anvil gulped hard, feeling his Adam's apple bob within his throat as a shaky breath of denial slipped past his lips, "No..."
While avoiding the informant's gaze, Anvil could hear him chuff with an unreadable sort of amusement, feeling his face scathe as Nikolai muttered under his breath in Russian. Once Anvil opened his mouth to half-heartedly apologize, however, Nikolai spoke;
"Are your hands free?"
Anvil paused, the hot flush in his face draining with a chill. What the hell did that mean?
"N-no, why?"
He couldn't help but ask, this time, unsure as to where the lad was going with his line of questioning. Anvil dared a glance at Nikolai, and swore his heart could've dropped to his ass.
Steely-colored eyes weren't just looking at him anymore, ogling now, with flared pupils and a bitten bottom lip.
What in the green hell...
Anvil wasn't sure what Nikolai had uttered in Russian, but before another one of his incessant questions could rile the skittish spy, he was pouncing. Nik wasn't a small man by any means -- broad, at least six-feet-tall with a stocky build -- but Anvil would've thought so, based on how the man swung a leg over Anvil's thighs to straddle him where he sat.
What the fuck~~
There was hardly a chance to voice any protests or ask for reassurance before the enigmatic informant sealed his mouth over Anvil's.
It was as if he'd been baptized in boiling oils as Nikolai kissed him, warm breath sighed into the Russian's growing stubble, wavering when their teeth clicked together. It was nothing romantic, their desperation was apparent as their kiss quickly evolved into teeth and tongue.
Nik's tongue would pass the roof of Anvil's mouth as he beared down over the stiff bulge in his jeans, swallowing any moans that may pass. Anvil's head spun on its axis, battling Nikolai's tongue for a modicum of dominance in their dubious situation. Everything else was secondary.
Zakhaev's men were just outside this door -- rotting and without a doorknob -- a goddamn sneeze could have those bastards barreling in here. It hardly mattered to him now, blood roaring on his ears, cock throbbing against the zipper of his cammies as he squirmed to meet Nik's hips.
Nik's mouth traveled down Anvil's chin, up his jaw to the patch beside his ear, mouthing hot kisses down to the crook of his shoulder and nip a mark there -- hidden just-barely beneath the collar. With his jaw set, on the edge of letting his restraint snap, Anvil opened his unoccupied mouth to protest -- giving Nik another opportunity.
Anvil couldn't find it within himself to protest anymore as Nikolai lapped into his mouth again, greedily mapping every tooth, suckling the tip of his tongue before withdrawing. He'd incinerate this entire field without concern for his brethren if it meant kissing this bastard again for another heartbeat --
Like a prayer being answered, Nikolai cocked his head back, scooting back on Anvil's lap and bringing his hips along, trapped between his strong thighs. He swore to God he would've passed away, there and then, and would've gone with glee.
"Work with me, for Christ's sake," Nikolai hissed, leaning back in Anvil's lap -- he understood it now. Anvil followed in suit as he leaned back with a groan that Nikolai echoed in a rough baritone, hissing a breath inward every so often as Nik bucked to meet his thrusts.
Anvil couldn't tear his eyes from the tent in Nik's jeans, writhing with mounting desperation as the Russian found a rhythm, churning the bulges of their cocks into each other, seeking the dry friction that made them jump behind the contrasting fabric of their trousers. He couldn't speak for Nik, but Anvil had been halfway there since the brutish bastard was thrown into his lap, feeling his pleasure mount with the stiffening discomfort in his jeans.
He'd give absolutely anything to pull his cock out, to fuck his fist until he painted the front of Nik's shirt -- or, Goddamn, if Nik would let him, run his cockhead over Nik's sweltering tongue.
"G-Guh~~ fuuuck..." Anvil growled, setting his jaw to keep his noise to a minimum as his cock jumped against Nikolai's, feeling the Russian's jerk in response. "Fuck, you're so..." he wasn't able to deliver a full sentence, but he was blessed to know that Nik understood.
Quite well, he was afraid.
A guttural moan strangled Anvil at the base of his throat as Nik threw his hips into a doubled rhythm, bucking to meet his hasty partner's thrusts as their cocks notched together through the fabric --
A few silky words in Nikolai's mother-tongue, and Anvil was folding like scaffolding made of fucking toothpicks.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Nik --" Anvil hissed under his breath, gasping for air like he was held underwater as he exploded in his cammies, mutedly moaning and twitching as Nikolai persisted, riding him until Anvil was jerking from overstimulation, boot-heels scuffing the dirty floor.
Anvil's eyes shot open as he raggedly gasped for air, meeting Nikolai with a panicked plea as his stimulation bordered on white-hot pain; Satisfied with the image of the burly gunner, teary-eyed and desperate below, Nikolai let himself go with a broken groan, shuddering in Anvil's lap as the front of his jeans bloomed with a damp spot over his crotch, warm and welcome against Anvil's own.
Once the euphoria wore off with a slow fizz, and their heads stopped spinning long enough to let the roar of blood evaporate from their ears, Anvil and Nik could hear the distinct echoing-pop of gunfire. With an airy huff of laughter, Nikolai pressed a deep kiss to Anvil's chapped lips that kept his face tingling afterwards.
The informant practically chirped, "Glad the boys weren't punctual for once."
Footnotes : THANKS FOR READING !! I will be participating in Kinktober this year to exercise the smut muscles in my brain, feedback on my MLM prose would be phenomenal ♡♡
7. Blindfolds / Reluctant marriage, marital grooming, Occult!CotW, fingering, PiV, slight breeding kink, pwp, Winston Duke as Paz Vizsla (pls see the vision)
As of yet, you hadn't a moment to rationalize the whole of this ceremony; Most of it explained in a broken tongue.
You'd met your fiancé by chance -- by accident -- and with your alleged knowledge of their covert, came your permanent residence. He'd been amongst those helmed individuals that loathed your very presence, and when the bulky Mandalorian began to chafe his stern beliefs around you, it was already decided.
Paz had married you out of convenience, you surmised. From your understanding, no warrior within the Covert married outside of it, and for as young as it was, they were strict on pedigrees. Inbreeding wasn't ideal in the long-run for the future, but that was beside the point.
He wasn't straightforward with you about it, only claimed it would be safer for you under his sigil. If you weren't permitted to the armor, you were at least enabled that so-called 'right.'
The right to be brought to the Armorer for permittance.
The right to be protected.
Under unification.
You would never be allowed to leave if you remained as you were, but they'd never accept you as their own. A handful of warriors might think to finally get rid of you -- the threat and liability your very presence held within the Covert -- they might even think to have their way with you, prior to tossing you into the channel of magma flowing through Nevarro or dumping you in the middle of nowhere.
You weren't to be protected, not as an outsider -- you were nobody to protect -- that much was obvious. You couldn't believe that Paz would have pity toward you, much less any sympathy. Something in him must've shifted during that small window of time, because his proposal had come with a grace period.
It didn't take long for your decision to be made, -- not with such lacking options -- and you agreed to marry him, much to your chagrin.
The ceremony wasn't small by any means, the stone hall full of Mandalorians pressed together in a calico quilt of painted metals as they bore witness to the words that had been foreign on your tongue. You could remember the cold kiss of his helm to your sweating brow, the thunderous applause of armored fists on cuirasses and collective accompanying mantra of 'Vizsla, Vizsla, Vizsla!' , your new surname.
Now, you were stood in the center of the room -- your room, now -- feeling buck naked despite being fully clothed. Paz had tied a band of silk across your eyes, careful yet taut around the back of your head -- he claimed it to be customary until the marriage was consummated in its entirety.
You nearly asked how he'd know such a thing if his people never married a being outside of beskar, but you bit your tongue nonetheless.
Aside from the idle droning of the ventilation shaft overhead, you could hear the gentle clicks of his armor plates as he lumbered about around the room, working to remove each individual plate into a neat pile. A meticulous routine, yet a practiced one. You weren't sure what to do yourself, shifting from one foot to the other as you strained to listen to his movements, estimating what actions he was carrying out.
With a quiet finality, you assumed he's finished removing his armor and other utilities. A few zippers and popped buttons brought you to surmise he'd moved on to his flak vest and flightsuit, hearing the durable fabric crumple and chafe his skin as he slipped himself free of it. The whole time, you could feel his gaze upon your nape, heavy on your shoulders at the back of your head like a weighted shroud.
Your mouth was parched with anticipation, absentmindedly holding your breath in waiting as you tried to ward yourself from spiraling into your anxieties again. You tracked his hulking footsteps with pricked ears, letting your fingers flutter at your sides when he stopped behind you.
A gentle touch to the heel of your hand made you blench and your ears ignite -- ungloved and warm, it shocked you after living within the Covert for so many waning moons.
"I won't hurt you," Paz droned flatly behind you, his tone hopelessly inscrutable. He reached for your hand again, plucking it from your side carefully between three fingers.
They were long and calloused, dry against your clammy palm as he slowly pulled you to turn around and face him. You could imagine his broad outline behind the band of silk across your eyes, you could try to imagine the face that matched his voice, but each time, you'd fail.
You were sure he looked smaller without his armor on, but you couldn't imagine that, either.
Unable to hide from his unwavering gaze, you felt yourself shrink the longer you stood before him, your throat tight as Paz skimmed his smooth fingertips up from your sweaty hands, up your wrists and arms to the sleeves of the itchy cotton smock you'd been given. It was a war to swallow your own spit when Paz flattened his palms to your shoulders, slow-like, rolling his hands over your skin like he'd never felt anything like it.
For all you knew, that was in fact the case.
"Paz..." you tried, your voice nearly inaudible as you attempted to rouse his attention.
His only affirmation was a quiet hum as his hands drifted back down to your elbows.
It took you a spell to find your tongue again, waggling in your mouth before you spoke, "W-We don't... have to, I mean --" You gulped, eyes flittering behind your blindfold as you searched for the words that were brewing in your head. "I can just say that we did, and --"
Instead of responding, Paz began to walk you backwards. You'd been turned around just slightly, but you had the location of the short, stiff bed against the farthest wall.
"They'll know," Paz finally responded, keeping a hold of your elbows as the cold frame of the cot kissed your calves. "And my wife won't be a liar," he added, "you're a Vizsla, now."
You gulped hard, clenching your fingers into your palms as Paz's hands left you, returning to you just as slow as before as he weaved his fingers into your hair at the base of your scalp. Your heart rapped against your ribcage when he slowly balled your hair into his fists.
"You understand what this all means by now," Paz declared, angling yourself head back until you assumed your covered eyes met his gaze.
You were his.
Shrouded in the banner of his House, the vows spoken in a foreign, disingenuous tongue.
Together, you'd raise warriors.
You understood enough, and it was far too late to protest. You wouldn't make it two strides past Paz, armored or otherwise, he'd outmatched you thricefold. And even if you did make it out of the room, whose to say what the other Mando'ade in the corridors would do.
Return you? Reclaim you? Slit your throat?
You knew nothing; Akin to a babe, as the Armorer so eloquently put it.
Paz called your name, and wrenched you from your thoughts.
"I'll keep you safe," he hummed, a softness on his voice that you'd yet to hear. His venom returned just as quickly as you noted it's absence; "But only like this..."
Traditionalists.
You swallowed thickly as a pregnant pause lengthened between you, before giving Paz a stiff nod, balling your lips together as his fingers released your hair. His hands didn't fall away, however, instead framing your throat as his palms settled on the crook of your shoulders. The way his fingertips nearly met around your nape allowed you to gauge his size in comparison to your own, even if you hadn't felt his presence loom over you already, feeling his breath ghost across your cheeks.
It made your stomach flutter and flip irregularly in your gut.
There was only a brief moment for you to brace as you felt Paz's fingers curl at the back of your neck before his full lips pressed into to your own. You flinched back upon the terse contact, triggering Paz to act swiftly -- he must've thought you'd attempt to flee entirely -- his arms snapped around your back from your neck to hold you against his chest.
The kiss was sloppy, evidently inexperienced, yet wholly eager. You were bent backwards in Paz's hold, having to brace your arms somewhere, your hands landed upon his shoulders -- bare, hot-blooded, already damp with sweat, you could feel his corded muscle ripple beneath.
It was all too much at once.
Your attempts to squirm away were fruitless within Paz's grasp, his large hands splayed at your back. When his head cocked back for a breath, you sucked in your own quickly, unsure if you'd get another chance before Paz kissed you again. Better this time, you could note; Slower and less frenzied, you felt encouraged enough to try and reciprocate his actions, if only to show him what was right.
You slackened your jaw with pinched brows to return Paz's kiss, setting your lips against his own like a jigsaw piece as opposed to his full-contact on your mouth. When you focused on his bottom lip, and graduated to experimental nips, you could hear Paz's reaction as it filtered into your mouth with a small hum.
His grip tightened around your back, strapping you flush to his barreled chest that beat fervently against your own. The blindfold had aided in keeping you oblivious to his crumbling stoicism in the wake of his own nakedness after the ceremony. You weren't the only one in foreign territory, it seemed.
The urgency in his grasp seemed to disperse, his touch slightly softer now as he allowed you to lead the kiss, sweeping his hands down your back to hesitate at your hips. This wasn't going to get done anytime soon with that -- you had almost hoped he'd just take you and be done with it.
This was harder.
Attempting to be intimate toward a man you'd never seen, a man you hardly knew outside of his name and what Clan history he'd shared.
Your permission was granted with a reaffirming hum against Paz's lips, swiping your tongue across the seam of his mouth as his large hands finally descended to cup the globes of your ass. His touch was tentative, but not entirely yielding, his fingers kneading almost painfully into the flesh of your ass, the backs of your thighs, entirely bared for his access, had you tried to put up a fight.
"Ju -- kiss my neck," you interjected once Paz reeled back for another breath. He hesitated for another moment before ducking his head below your ear to inhale you deeply. His damp lips parted to peck your pulse, and you'd tilt your head upon feeling the coarse scrape of the beard on his chin, affirming him with a moan that was barely audible.
As he initially ravaged your mouth, he did so freely to your throat. Paz broke a hand away from your ass to grab a handful of your hair and peel your head back for his access, suddenly emboldened by your encouraging noises. His tongue laved broadly up the column of your neck before stopping to grate his teeth into your skin and soothe it with a kiss; As if he were sampling you while half-starved.
Your feet shuffled against the duracrete for purchase when Paz's fingers dipped toward your sex, curling your nails into his upper arms while you instinctively made an attempt to push away and gain some ground of your own. Hard to do with your legs pinned between a cot and a voracious, herculean Mandalorian.
"Stop karkin' moving," Paz grunted, craning your head back to suck a mark below your jaw, strumming his fingers over your vulva in an attempt to part you. Frustrated, he released your hair in favor of your nape, his fingers nearly wrapping around the front of your throat as Paz scruffed you. The tips of his foremost digits found your entrance already slick from your gestating anticipation, upon his discovery, a rough sound rumbled from Paz's chest.
"You want this," he required against your flapping pulse, pulling back to ogle you. As he did, Paz circled his fingertips over your fluttering hole, then up and down the slippery seam of you, investigating what made you writhe.
"No," you'd protest weakly; Paz, not entirely convinced, grumbled near your ear as he pressed a single digit into your entrance, feeling your sex flutter around his intrusion as he proceeded.
"Yes," the heavy Mandalorian nipped back his statement, sliding his other finger into place beside the other. The stretch was slight around his calloused phalanges, not painful just yet. "You may not want me, but this? Oya," he chuffed, working you to his knuckles with minimal movements.
You weren't about to argue the minutiae of your biology while in a position like this, biting your tongue when Paz began withdrawing his fingers from your cunt, hissing something foreign as your walls gripped him on the way out.
"Are you refusing me?"
His question sent a chill down your spine, settling in your gut with a cold dread -- your head was shaking erratically before the question could marinate in the air.
"No --" you began your firm protest, and whatever words you'd planned to let spill from your tongue were promptly silenced when Paz was on you again. With indubitable ease, he'd stooped down to hook one of your knees up as your other leg was swept away by the edge of the cot. The thin mattress hit your back with a muted thump, groaning under your weight as Paz joined you.
His presence was a mass over you, unsure where he started and ended as you kept your arms close to your chest out of habit. You could feel him brace a hand beside you as the other swept up the underside of your thigh from your knee, bringing it over his hip as your breath subconsciously accelerated.
"You're fine," Paz placated you haphazardly.
You felt the cot shift slightly as Paz leaned back, hearing a rustle of fabric as he opened your legs across his thighs, skimming his hands along the insides; You could feel his gaze ogling your sex, flushing from the notion. His thumbs pulled back at your lips with a thoughtful hum as you swallowed thickly, ears pricked for any hints.
"Show me," Paz said next, and you swore you felt his eyes rake up your body to your face, followed shortly by his hands as he peeled your smock up over your breasts, pushing away your arms as he dis. He must've noticed your silent fish-like gaping as he slowly elaborated, "Touch yourself, show me."
A few beats passed in your silence until you snaked a hand down between your legs, past the burn of your embarrassment as you glided your fingers over your damp folds. Balling your lips in the ringing silence, you let your touch descend to your entrance, dipping your fingers into your sex in more of a display than anything. The width of your two fingers didn't hold a candle to Paz's, and you opted to bring your sampled arousal back up to your neglected clit, drawing tight, slick circles around your bud.
It brought you some comfort, passing your fingertips around your most-sensitive area for about a score; You nearly forgot Paz was even there, if not for the quiet heaviness in his breath. Eventually, the 'schlick' of his damp hand over his cock reached your ears, the sound recognizable to your seasoned ears. A quiet moan wrenched itself from the center of your chest, accompanied by a slight tremble in you leg as you quickened your pace around your swelling bud of nerves.
When Paz brought a hand down on your thigh, your legs jerked and your pace faltered until he squeezed your flesh so hard you might've bloomed with bruising. You'd jump again when you felt that hand descend to your fluttering entrance to join you, and even as your ears filled with cotton, you could hear Paz conquering the groans that accumulated in his chest as he pleasured himself in tandem.
"Elek, elek..." which to your mild understanding meant 'yes' in his tongue, encouragement as you found your desired pace again; Even as Paz pushed a thick finger into your seizing cunt.
Your back arched off the bed, effectively steering the pad of Paz's finger into the tender patch at your front wall, an unbridled keen spewing past your teeth as you bucked into your own hand as it scrambled to stay on-target. Paz was struggling himself it seemed, his presence feeling closer than before as he loomed over you, feeling him watch your half-hidden face as he coaxed his fingers into that spot with earth-shattering precision.
The tension in your core wound up, and up, until you were fumbling for purchase -- on Paz's wrist, on the mattress -- but that cord snapped before you really could, opting to ball-up the cushion under your head in your grip as you careened over the edge. Mouth gaped in a silent scream, you arched and shook with relentless, stunted breaths.
Paz ripped himself back like you'd burned him, and you hardly had a moment to articulate your tongue before his own was pressed between your teeth. With a haggard moan into your mouth, Paz settled over you, babbling praise and curses in that nonsensical language against your lips whilst knocking your legs apart.
"Ori'jate, karking well done, riduur --"
"-- Did s'good, tenn: open," Paz commanded between his fervent kisses, already pressing the fat head of his cock to your entrance as you jerked with aftershocks. You hardly had time to process what was said with your brain buffering, much less his next course of action, until Paz was mounting you, pressing his fat cock into you slowly.
Your arms jerked, grabbing ahold of Paz's arms while your jaw fell open, squirming between him and the bed to avoid the heavy split of his manhood as Paz carved his new ownership within you; Coaxing your walls to conform around him. He was almost too much once he was at the hilt of you, and even then, you couldn't feel the warm press of his thighs flush to your own, nor the coarse hair at his base; Meaning, he likely wasn't even in all the way.
Just as you made that realization, Paz was reeling back agonizingly slow with a rough groan until the tight ring of your sex snagged the flare of his tip; Then Paz was pressing back in again, rolling his hips back and forth to coat his painfully thick member with the evidence of your arousal. His hands found their placement around your thighs, kneading into your pliant flesh, you could feel his gaze zero-in on your breasts as they swirled upon your chest with the punctuation of his hips.
He wasn't excessively rough or relentless, but by the Maker, Paz was damn persistent. Still taut and trembling from your first, you were quickly approaching the second as the head of his cock continuously pummeled that spot within you.
Hard to miss it, hung like that.
"Hnmmhh! Paz, I --" your words were barely audible, snagged out of your throat as Paz rolled into you, dragging against your taut, spasming walls with each thrust. "F-Fuuuck! Jus' like -- don't change, oh~~"
A ragged moan ripped itself from Paz's throat as your head craned back in ecstasy, buckling down from his arm onto his elbow, his hips now slapping against your own as he increased his pace with your unbridled verbal encouragement. He'd seemed to get the hang of it easily enough, you'd muse to yourself. He was slurring overhead in Mando'a, now, and eventually you'd feel the damp crown of his head against yours, muttering a mantra that was rather familiar to you.
"Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum-Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum-Ni kar'tayl gar daras --" over and over until you were wailing in the wake of your release, a raging monsoon swirling in your gut as your walls clamped like a vice around him, locking down and slowing the smooth glide of his cock to a trudge as Paz pushed through your release.
"Warriors, cyare-- verda, w-we'll raise-- Hng! Skrag --!" Paz punched out, you felt his abdomen tighten against your seizing stomach, followed by three punctual thrusts. Your riduur was reduced to ruin as his climax collided with him, and you swore you'd felt his cock jump with each generous spurt of his release deep within you.
Delirious and exerted, you didn't protest when Paz gathered you into his shaking arms with a groan, and you hardly noticed when the cool, damp silk was peeled away from your eyes. He hadn't uncoupled from you yet, letting himself soften as he clung to you, peppering affectionate kisses across your brows, blowing cool air over your dewy hairline, humming a sigh as he kissed your eyelids.
Only then did you think to open them, swallowing hard while your eyes fluttered to focus on Paz, dark brown eyes blinking back at you, framed by a glittering umber face that split with a nervous grin as you finally realized what you were looking at. Your husband, your riduur; Paz.
"Su cuy'gar," he chuckled with a slightly mischievous edge, the genuine humor in his voice taking you aback as your eyes flitted over his handsome features. Awfully criminal to keep a mug like his hidden behind a Creed.
"What's that?" you chuffed, shifting yourself weakly as Paz maneuvered your bunched-up smock the rest of the way over your head to toss beside the bed.
"Means 'hello,' " Paz surprised you as he answered immediately with gusto, his arms going under your back once again to roll you over along with him; It allowed you to get some air as Paz kept you full. "Also means, 'you're still alive,' " he added with that small chuckle of amusement from before.
Seeing Paz barefaced and laid out, vulnerable and the baritone of his arrogant amusement -- it went straight to your pussy with a brief clench that made him hiss.
"Ulyc, ner riduur," Paz drawled, letting his hands traverse from your back to your ass with the promise of another go. "Nuhoyir for now..."
You'd understand his language in time; Through his guidance you supposed, as Paz cupped the back of your head to lower you to his chest, still pounding beneath your ear. Sleep? Rest? One of the two; There was a lifetime to stress about it now...
Footnotes : This did NOT feel as long as it turned out, but yet again, i was roosting on it for a while. hi guys back with another abhorrently late update to this promptlist i foolishly subjected myself to. Next up is TECH how exciting not rlly his diction makes me feel like a dumb hillbilly. anyway ! hope yall enjoy, more to come !!!
Summary : Molly O'Shea deserves better than what she has...
Characters : Molly O'Shea
Pairings : Molly O'Shea x Butch F!Reader
Rated : M ⤵
Word Count : 2.9k (gulp)
Warnings : NO USE OF Y/N (sincerely, a y/n h8r), WLW yearning, jealousy, semi period-typical swearing, misogyny if you squint, mentions of manipulation, mental + verbal abuse, Irish women not knowing their worth (BOOO TOMATOES)
Red Dead Series Masterlist / Masterlist
A/N : I went and looked back on my dead account, and what do you know ? >B] I found my old Molly fic !! It's pretty neat to see how much I've improved with my writing within a few short years, (this is from 2020 !! holy crapola) writing helped me cope quite a lot back then. I hope I do 2020 weens some justice with this one !! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡♡
Each passing day was beginning to meld together into one with this infernal routine.
Like clockwork every evening, a cacophonous bout of bickering would spit from the confines of Dutch's tent in the heart of camp -- of course, a spectacle in the center of camp, that was practically Dutch's middle name. If she had a quarter for every time that greasy fool plucked at his lover's nerves, she'd be able to afford Molly a ferry home.
Whatever the reason was for a woman such as herself being here in this dastardly territory of crooked-toothed racists and seedy opportunists, it wasn't her business. Personally, if she'd been fortunate enough to be born to wealth in Ireland of all places, she never would've left.
But, she wasn't Molly.
That much was obvious.
She wasn't born milk-pale, with hands as silky as the underbelly of a newborn kitten, nor was she reared with a decorum that could rival the Queen across the pond. No, she'd been born in rough country into rougher hands, adopted freckles from the sun and not genetics, growing up without a clean stitch of linen on her person.
Perhaps, it was natural for someone that had been born so comfortable and fortunate to seek things that weren't, she did her best to try and understand Molly in that regard. She could see Dutch for the man that he was from a mile off, even if she respected him as a leader, adoring him was something else entirely.
As a matter-of-fact, she could remember just how gross the pair of them had been in the beginning of their relationship -- their physical displays of affection were not subtle whatsoever -- it even irked Arthur at a few points. Her attitude toward all that shifted, however, when she began to notice Dutch's slow-drifting distance from his lover over the course of the last six months.
Oftentimes, she'd see Molly wandering around camp, avoiding their tent entirely in favor of sitting in the clay, or pouting on the edge of Flat Iron Lake. Occasionally, she'd be the object of Molly's ire, like some of the other girls in camp -- she didn't mind it as much as Karen or Abigail did -- it was rather funny to her. Seeing Molly get all red in the face, spewing out the anger that she allowed to build-up beneath the surface of her dandy and proper visage, before stomping off like a fussing girl; It just tickled her like nothing else, even when Molly had found the courage to punch her square in the jaw one evening when she'd snickered at her ranting.
All amusement and jests aside, it was plain to see that Dutch had been making lame excuses surrounding his relationship with Molly -- for whatever reason. So far, the ferry job, the blizzard, the gang itself, and the law, have all kept Dutch abstinent from any form of affection toward his own woman. His God-damned gorgeous, ethereal, fuckin' ol' lady... it was preposterous to her.
She'd never felt lucky before in her life, and fortune seemed to be vacant from a woman such as herself, but a lifetime of misfortune was worth being in her presence for whatever the reason may be. If Molly hated her, then so be it; At the very least, she could share her air and the rays of sun that bathed her scarlet veil of curls into molten copper.
Christ help me.
She could see those coppery twines in the plaited ginger bundle on her nape, now, braided protectively into a coiffed bun for bed-time, one of the sleeves of her nightshift drooping past her freckled shoulder, dipping dangerously close to the peaks of her breasts beneath the clean white linen. Her posture was akin to that of a pianist, but she was uncharacteristically stiff on the edge of her shared cot with Dutch.
Molly had a hand cupping her compact mirror while the other fisted the lacey hem of her nightgown, her smooth, cleanly nails biting through the fabric into her palms, a leg thrown over the other as she did her utmost to avoid Dutch's newest spectacle.
The gramophone was blaring loudly over the idle noises within camp, likely carrying Dutch's insufferable tunes across Flat Iron Lake, and for whatever reason, he had Grimshaw whisked up off her feet from the main table in camp for a brief dance. Not entirely a harmless sight, if one didn't take into account that Dutch had been involved with Susan years prior.
She could see it on Molly's face -- where her brows furrowed together and a slight frown tugged at the corners of her lips -- she felt like a fool, doing her best not to pay Dutch too much mind, while keeping him in her periphery to ensure he stayed "in line."
It was just plain ol' fuckin' mean. Insulting.
Even a tipsy uneducated outlaw like herself could see the pain tightly concealed behind Molly's powdered face from leagues away, a singular track of tears paved down her cheek, cutting through the foundation she wore to reveal her prominent freckles beneath. She didn't make any attempts to wipe it away or hide it -- Dutch wouldn't notice it there, anyway.
It made her chest twist with something ugly, settling into her stomach like a ball of lead as she watched Molly from afar, worrying her lips between her teeth as the Irishwoman stood up from the pelt-laden cot with a sharp huff before stepping out of the opulent tent into the damp clay on the bank of the lake. It felt wrong, watching someone like Molly tiptoe off to self-soothe in silence when Dutch should've been in there, knelt down and groveling at her damn feet.
God knows what she'd give to do that herself.
There was hardly a moment of contemplation between witnessing Molly's flight from Dutch's tent, and getting the notion to follow her before she'd sprang out of the rickety old chair and onto her feet. Bill called her name from the campfire in an attempt to bring her back he was in the midst of a -- rather uninteresting -- retelling of his time in the Army, while Arthur swatted the elder veteran off to leave it all be.
Despite the lukewarm beer coursing through her veins, her boots moved briskly across the sparse grass and lumps of dry clay that crumbled to dust under her soles with each step, greedily slurping down the dregs in the bottle before casting it off somewhere near Strauss's tent. She'd likely be amongst the women picking it all up, anyway. As she drew closer to Molly, her gait slowed significantly, nearly tripping on her own spur while coming to a halt a couple meters away.
The shimmer of Molly's tears on her velvet cheeks drew her attention foremost, gathering on her lashes in wet peaks, sprinkled in moonlight like the lake she stared daggers into. She could imagine how her sunflower-green eyes would be bloodshot at the edges, damp and puffy -- runny with mascara if she hadn't removed it already -- a God-damn sight worthy of a muse on her mind's eye.
After fumbling at the crumbling leather strap of her gunbelt, a gentle cough brought Molly's attention to the boyish-looking woman on her right as she swayed in place, feeling the saturated clay suck at the soles of her bare feet along the lake's shoreline as she shifted her weight uneasily. It was a subconscious thing that Molly did while soothing herself from the precipice of another fit, swaying, rubbing up her bare arms -- although, Scarlett Meadows' evenings had a certain chill them.
"Ma'am..." was all she could think to say as Molly narrowed her gaze, hesitant before pulling her hat off her head to fiddle with the brim near her fluttering breast.
"What the hell d'you want?" Molly hissed, her chin tucking inward as she kept a steady friction over her upper arms, glancing away to inconspicuously clear her eyes and cheeks of any evident distress.
Well... there wasn't exactly an acceptable -- much less appropriate -- way to answer that prompt...
After a brief pause of contemplation, rotating the brim of her hat between the pads of her fingers, she answered whilst closing the distance between them; "I'd want for nothing, Miss O'Shea... honest, just wanted to check on you --"
"Well, I don't need it," the estranged Irishwoman retorted, scoffing under her breath as the bridge of her nose wrinkled, "and as a matter-of-fact, you should want for a modicum of sobriety."
That statement alone had the outlaw chortling under her breath, fighting a smirk as Molly's saccharine lilt cursed her, quick as a whip, sharp as a tack. "Well, you go on enough jobs with Bill and Sean's obtuse behinds, and you might understand my lil' crutch," she mused, taking her place beside Molly with a small huff. "Ain't you cold, ma'am?"
Instead of a verbal answer, Molly rolled her eyes with her head as she looked away from the infernal outlaw with a shake and an inaudible curse in her mother-tongue, shifting her weight to the opposite leg. Subconsciously, the sticky clay only added to her irritation.
"C'mon, miss O'Shea, I wasn't trying to rouse you, at all," she tried once more, wetting her lips absentmindedly whilst mulling over what to say, hanging off her gunbelt by a thumb as she mirrored Molly's guarded stance. Bluntness would have to suffice. "Why you figure Dutch was dancing with Miss Grimshaw instead of you?"
Miss O'Shea's neck very nearly snapped as she whirled her head around with a shocked expression, opening her mouth to fire off another retort, but there wasn't going to be anymore room for fussing, not if this dull, uneducated, drunk excuse for a lady had anything to say about it.
"If you got half the mind to speak on his behalf, please do stow it, miss," she bit firmly, meeting Molly's eyes with her own hardened pair. To her surprise, Molly's gaping, rouge-stained mouth shut with a soft noise. "The pair of you have been at this for months, now, and when you're not boxing each other's ears, either of you are on the other side of camp --"
Molly chuffed, bewildered by this girl's temerity as she turned her body entirely to face her, "Who in the bloody hell are you talking to?"
"-- You, ma'am, but my qualms really only lie with that blithering fool in your bed," the gunwoman snapped back, letting her hat hang between two fingers at her side as she met Molly in the middle, the brass-capped toes of her boots near the Irishwoman's bare toes. Part of her wanted to jump across the Atlantic until she hit Ireland and beat O'Shea Senior senseless for raising his daughter to accept a man like Dutch. "If it ain't the gang, or the money, or the Pinkertons halfway up his ass, its you he has a problem with --"
"And you have an issue with that?" Molly scoffed around a sputtered laugh of disbelief, her head cocked back and brows pinched together as the gunwoman went on.
"Who in the green hell doesn't, Miss O'Shea?" Now who was getting roused, a voice in her subconscious chirped facetiously. "Why do you always assume I'm picking at you, or trying to stick my nose in your business, when all you do is make me fuckin' worry for you?"
There was another beat of silence where Molly could only blink in her inscrutable silence, where the pair of them could only hear the drowned-out ruckus of that infernal gramophone and idle conversation from the men within camp. Taking only a moment to find her tongue again, she spoke once more;
"Since Tall Trees, and West Elizabeth, and comin' out'ta Colter... you simply being here makes me worry. What made you trade opulence for a motley crew of thieves and deviants, I'll never fuckin' understand, miss O'Shea..." she took a breath, releasing it sharply through her nostrils as she squished her hat back over her head. "So why -- why did you come to the states for a pitiful living such as this one?"
There was another gaping silence, an uncomfortable one that festered for what felt like minutes, stretching between the two women as they glanced between each other's eyes on the lake's glittering edge. She could audibly hear Miss O'Shea swallow thick and hard, like she was trying to down a spiced rum without tasting it, before finding her tongue one more.
"I left home... I came here to find love..." the Irishwoman remarked with a frown that deepened exponentially, bringing her brows closer together like a ladder stitch while her hands resumed that path along her bare arms, already pebbling with goosepimples. That statement on it's own was gut-wrenching, rooting up the sympathy she'd tried to stamp down for Molly's sake -- Christ knew how much she hated pity.
"Well..." she hummed after that, swallowing loudly enough for Molly to hear as she nodded, tilting the brim of her hat downward for a moment, "I can't exactly fault you for that, Miss O'Shea."
"Could y'please call me Molly?" The request that came tumbling from her melodic lips stunned the gunwoman into another bout of silence, unable to will herself to form her tongue around Molly's name quite yet as she nodded.
After another awkward shift from the outlaw, she threw her shoulder back to catch the sleeve of her jacket between her fingers, using it as leverage to shrug the heavy leather off her back. Upon grabbing the scruff of the collar, she offered it to Molly with a prompting quirk of her brows, slipping it over her smaller arms with relative ease -- if not for Molly's jasmine and vanilla tickling her nose.
"You really should keep a shawl on you, cold breezes come right off the lake," the gunwoman advised with a small cough to clear her throat, doing her utmost to avoid committing Molly's image to memory in the leather jacket that engulfed her. "Ah-- And some shoes..."
Molly sighed upon that, her shoulders dropping practically two inches off her ears as she glanced down at her muddy toes, puffing a curl out of her eyes as she thought back, "There's a bit of water left over in the basin..."
Perhaps it was the warm, frothy ale taking the reins, or maybe even her newfound boldness, but she wasn't about to send Molly O'Shea back into that tent to wash the mud off her feet while Dutch pranced around with his old flame. It was easier for her to do rather than to speak, anyway. With a gentle hand, she'd guide Miss O'Shea to the water's edge, taking the opportunity to hold her by four satiny fingers, cupped as delicately as a dove in her own weathered digits.
It was a slight gesture -- maybe even a flirtation if she felt deluded enough -- the way Molly walked into the shimmering water with only a drunk's hand for balance, letting her amusement show with a small giggle under her breath as she smeared the clay away with her toes.
God help me.
"Now that I'm cleanly, how do you suppose you'll get me back over there?" Molly asked in a tone that could've been facetious -- once again, likely the ale keeping her deluded.
The question had the tipsy gunwoman sputtering a raspberry to the stars, snickering as she stood back on the bank, sinking into the clay, "Step on, Miss O'Shea," she beckoned with pursed lips to the steel toes of her boots. It certainly would've been easier to just scoop her up bridal style and haul her back to the pallets that kept Dutch's tent off the ground. However, the tumultuous struggle to walk Molly back on her toes in slick clay to wring out their chaste time together was preferred.
So, Molly did. With a scoff of feigned annoyance, she mounted the gunwoman's worn brass-capped boots by the bare balls of her feet, holding onto her shoulders while her dance partner kept a respectable hold on her waist. If she dropped this woman flat on her back in the mud at this point, she'd probably have to flee the country.
It was a good thing Miss O'Shea weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. After waddling across the slick shore into the dry crabgrass with Molly balanced on her brass-toes, she deposited the Irishwoman onto the rough-made pallet on the edge of Dutch's tent -- a make-shift porch of some sort -- before reluctantly pulling her hands away from the swells of Molly's hips, the clean linen of her nightshift leaving a single on her fingertips.
"Thank you for the ferry," Molly japed half-heartedly, a ghost of a smile adorning her features, and even if it were so faint, she could've caught a whopping toothache from the sheer sweetness of it as it reached Molly's eyes.
"Anytime, ma'am."
"Molly," she corrected firmly, one final time.
She couldn't help herself any longer, mapping the inside of her mouth with her tongue as it parched within an instant, nodding along with a vague smile if her own; "Yes, ma'am, Molly."
Upon another immeasurable, stagnant pause had stretched on between them, Molly pulled the sleeves of the leather coat down her arms, the warm, heavy fabric taking the sleeves of her nightshift along some ways. She'd be a fat liar if she claimed she didn't sneak a glance before accepting her coat from Miss O'Shea with a grateful smile.
Their knuckles brushed with a flush that crept up their arms as they exchanged the garment, their mutual silence delaying the inevitable for the evening until their 'good night's overlapped in a warm unison.
Sweeter than anything, they parted ways in reluctance.
Footnotes : This one ran from me again -- gonna have to give my sleep schedule some serious TLC after this (finding time to write during the day is hard) LOL. Anywayyy, I was seriously considering making a part 2 for this one of you lot were interested !! Lmk how I did ! Comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡♡
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3. Threesome (heh) / NO CLONECEST, Alcohol use, smoking, recreational drug use, reader has a shitty friend, brotherly banter, multiple reader orgasms (to make up for last time), no proofread
Absolute fucking bitch.
What a blithering fucking idiot --!
You were parked in the vacant lot of your apartment, tapping incessantly on the dash of the taxi door as your eyes scanned the haphazard message that had slipped onto the small interface of your holo-comm, bouncing your leg as you read it over and over again.
"Hey !! sorry girl, i can't make it out with you tonight :(("
"Suuuper last minute, i know, but some things came up at my flat :/"
You heard your cab driver hiss.
"I hope this didn't ruin your evening, babe, have a good night !<3"
Yeah fucking right.
Someone might send a few lame-ass texts like that over a missed date or a change in plans, but you knew exactly what this was about.
It was the entire reason you tried getting her miserable ass out of her flat in the first place.
This was about her ex from the Ninth ring of Hell, likely making his guest-star debut in your friend's sheets for some reconciliation. Gods, it made your blood boil. She could be so damn stupid, Maker love her, and that idiot hardly has an ass-hair's amount of decorum to his name.
You had half the mind to turn the taxi around and reprimand her yourself. All the bantha-shit you went through to arrange this skrag, and she can't even cancel plans in person? You hardly even wanted to do something like this anyway!
"Hey!" The Bith taxi driver barked, an arm propped up on his seat to look at you as your head shot up from your comm. "You're shaking the cab."
"Sorry," you apologized lamely as you ceased your idle leg-dribbling, pursing your lips as you glanced back down to send your girl friend a slew of messages she likely wouldn't see until morning, anyway.
"Just-- C'mon, miss, I got other routes. Where am I takin' ya?" The cab driver exasperated.
Frustrated, -- beyond that now -- you look up to give the cab driver an agonizing blink before relenting with a sigh of your own. "Yeah, just... take me to that address."
With an exaggerated roll of his large black eyes, the Bith faced forward once more, taking the steering into his large hands to navigate out of the dim, empty lot into the skylanes.
You should've known she'd opt out. She wanted to forget her ex in the simplest way possible; Another man.
Verbatim! Ver-ba-tim.
You could pull your hair out, stressing over how you were going to tell these two strangers about this. It would've been much simpler for you if she'd been looking to hook-up with two Coruscanti randoms pulled out of a hat, but no, she wanted to fuck a goddamn soldier.
Oh, yeah, just those six-foot-tall, two-hundred-somethin' pound, genetically enhanced, built-like-a-brick-shithouse soldiers. There's a load of them, how hard can it be?
Very fucking hard, unless you stood outside on the corners near Clone bars, hoping a fucking convoy of them passes you in a cab.
There were a myriad of variables. Serviceman shore leave on Coruscant was always brief, this was especially the case for clones. Where a citizen might have allowances, the clones had a grain of it. They had curfews, protocol, check-ins, too, far more rigid than the typical standard, you assumed. They weren't seen as citizens, not even second-class -- military equipment -- and they had their limitations.
And you worked with two of them to make sure this shit panned-out --
-- For a friend that ditched you for some chump and his chapped pecker. Unreal.
You weren't entirely off the hook, either, you were pretty enthusiastic about this during the week before tonight, egging yourself on to ease your nerves. The profound guilt was there, a ball of lead behind your sternum, yet fluttering with excitement any time you toyed with the notion of sleeping with a clone.
You weren't blind; They were goddamn hot!
It didn't matter if their duraplast was splattered with heinously clashing colors, or if their hair was dyed or trimmed oddly, the bastards must know they could get away with it. You'd gone to the clone bar, The 79's, only a few times with your friends, witnessed a few clones dressed-down out of their armor, sans-helmet, baring their tattoos, scars, implants, cybernetic eyes or whatever feature made them stand out from their 'standard issue' brethren, even if it was only for a handful of hours.
For crude military equipment with strict limitations, the clones seem to let loose better than anyone you've ever met. Perhaps that was the paradox. The 79's is definitely a good place to people-watch.
So you stupidly agreed to this "two-man" as she called it, and now you were en-route to the rendezvous, spending your credits on this shitty cab and this shitty room, for absolutely nothing. The ride to the motel was short, your driver's tense silence made it no less awkward for you.
Honestly, you paid it no mind. There was far worse things to worry about, for instance, having to reject two servicemen at the last bleeding minute.
It wasn't long until the cab pulled off the skylane, drifting out of the saturated luminescence that baptized every inch of Coruscant's night-life, blinking magenta and pulsing blues flickering across the dash and your lap. It faded away as the taxi pulled into a darker lane off the main route, down a skylane that was more seedy than a lower-level cantina.
You were sure that numerous public officials had utilized the secrecy of backwater motels and hostels below Coruscant's surface level, maybe even that fat creep, Senator Free Taa. From what you understood, they had all a matter of lecherous perversions, one way or another.
Might make for a good story over a drink if you spotted one, you mused as the taxi pulled to a stop. The Bith glanced at you through the rear-view expectantly, hardly bothering to turn around to receive his pay, let alone speak or wish you a safe night. No, just extended an open palm to accept his credits.
Jerk-off.
Without a word yourself, you dropped your credits into your sour-breathed chauffeur's waiting hand before promptly exiting the cab, feeling the taxi's repulsorlift sink and jostle as you stepped out onto the tarmac. The incessant twat pulled off before you could fully close the door -- what-the-kriff-ever.
It dawned on you then, the next tooth to be pulled, as you reluctantly made your way across the open pavement, utterly vacant, save for a few speeders and shanty little crotch-rockets. You could admit to yourself you felt paranoid as all hell walking across the empty lot toward the rental room, the setting doing little to put you at ease. It might've been less nerve-wracking to have company with you, you thought bitterly, gnawing into your cheek as you withdrew your comm from your pocket to briefly check if anything had changed.
No messages. Lucky bitch was probably riding that asshole into the horizon.
More likely than not, the troopers were already there, punctual as ever, your palm were already damp as you mentally prepped yourself to let them down easy, preening yourself in the reflection of the transparisteel window as you walked along the array of rooms.
You let a sigh waft from your nose as you went to punch-in the code you'd been sent, only for the door swish open with a pneumatic whir, the threshold engulfed by a hulking silhouette a head taller than yourself.
Well, you at least anticipated that.
The pair of you stood there in silence for a moment, both parties unsure of what to say as you both gawked at each other. Clean-shaven, save for a handle-bar mustache, and a head of tight black curls kept tame with standard trim you saw on most clones. He was dressed-down from the waist up, a black GAR-issued body-glove fitted to his lean form as he leaned into the door frame.
"You, uh... hiding your friend?" He asked roughly, his thick brows pulling together as he glanced around you, ducking out of the room to look up and down the walkway.
What else were you supposed to say? As of right now, you felt like a Corellian hooker.
"So, I um..." you began, trailing off as your neck flushed, words failing you.
The other suspect of the night poked his head out from around the corner of the refresher further in the hotel room past the two double-beds, dressed-down in a similar manner, save for his white and orange-swatched duraplast armor from the waist down.
"Boil, what are ya doin'? Let 'er inside for spit's sake," the other trooper chuffed, seemingly annoyed with his comrade's protocol. "She bought the room, anyway," you heard him add under his breath from the other room. He seemed to have a shaven head, with just a soul-patch of hair under his full bottom lip. That was the most you could tell from a glance as you stepped into the hotel room, swallowing thickly as the door was shut and locked down behind you.
The hotel room was rather plain, a mirror for the closet doors, two queen beds, and a bedside table between them. The HoloTV was mounted on the wall, and you didn't think there would be much use for it.
The first trooper perched himself on the corner of the bed with a huff, the plates of his cuisses clacking together as he settled, looking at you expectantly.
Maker, how do you even begin with this?
"So... my friend canceled," you decided to just blurt out, shifting your weight between either leg as you swayed in the middle of the room, arms folded. The interjection brought the other trooper out of the bathroom, a perplexed look donning his features. His comrade echoed his expression.
"The reason for it doesn't matter," you sighed, reaching up to idly scratch your scalp. "I just wanted to tell the pair of you in person..." it sounded stupid, saying that aloud now, "...I'm sure the pair of you went through some trouble to arrange this with us."
The two troopers glanced at each other with an inscrutable expression, your eyes drifted to the plates of armor that were stacked in the armchair in the corner, their helmets that were set down with care beside it. One had a red tack painted over the brow, a crude symbol painted on the side. The other had tally marks and a broad orange stripe going over it.
"Ah, well... It's alright ma'am," the second clone butted in, drying his damp hands off on the front of his body-glove, right over the dark gray cog. "Well -- shit, where are our manners -- I'm Waxer, and this pouting lump is Boil."
"I ain't pouting," Boil retorted after you introduced yourself in turn, a frustrated growl gilding the clone's tone. "You know damn well how much trouble we went through just to get the credits for that spotchka. And that's not to mention, you weren't the one that had to make excuses to Commander Cody."
Waxer rolled his eyes in a dramatic display, hooking his thumbs onto his utility belt as he shot Boil a look of dismay. Before either of them could continue in their verbal sparring match, you abruptly spoke up.
"Look, you both can have the hotel room to yourselves, keep the alcohol," you paused briefly, fishing-out the dented tin in your bag to toss onto the bed. Boil plucked it up between three long fingers, thumbing it open as you continued, huffing to himself as he caught a whiff of the strong-smelling herbal cigarras in the tin. Gods, you were pissed, it would've been a damn good night.
"W-Wait, wait, wait -- " Waxer began, waving his hands in a display of disagreement. "You bought this room, arranged this entire thing, came all this way --"
"Dolled up like a holo-star, might I add," Boil interjected, leaned over to one side with an elbow perched on his knee, idly stroking his mustache.
" -- just to go home and forfeit... this?" Waxer didn't seem to have a better word for it, his lips fumbling around the letter 'm' like he was about to say 'mission.' Cute.
"It's nothing against you two, just seemed rude to cancel plans over the frequency," you shrugged, shifting your weight as Boil stood up to retrieve that aforementioned bottle of spotchka on the bathroom counter.
"We don't take offense to that, ma'am, just seemed like a waste of your time," Waxer replied, fighting something like a smile off his face. "I think it was rather nice of you."
What were you supposed to say to that?
"So, your friend," Boil began once more, pouring out a shot's-worth of spotchka into one of the paper water cups that came with the room, looking at you through the mirror. "May I ask what she canceled for?"
Your shoulders sagged about two inches as a ragged, exaggerated sigh raked itself out of your throat, "Don't get me started..." You figured you could spare the preliminary details, accepting the shot of spotchka from Boil as he strode over to hand it off. "I'm working off a hunch, but I'm sure she ditched to sleep with her ex," you remarked regrettably, tipping your head back as you knocked back the spirit with a deep breath. "She is the one that pitched all this..."
Waxer blew a raspberry as he snickered to himself, Boil mirrored his grin as he poured you another shot casually, "Is he more handsome than us, or something?"
"Boil --!" Waxer's amusement blanched, wary.
You snorted yourself, looking up from your shot to shake your head. "Making a comparison to that wet skug would be an insult to the pair of you. She's missing out..."
There was a pregnant beat of silence as you took the second shot, unable to see the thoughtful glance passing between the two batch-mates as you did, your expression soured by the lukewarm liquor on your tongue. Not that the bar was low, even if it was, these boys seemed pleasant on their own... save for Boil's wimpering.
"In what sense?" Waxer prompted as you swallowed the taste of the spotchka from your tongue. You'd shrug, wetting your lips absentmindedly as Boil took the soggy paper cup from your fingers, nearly making a point to let his touch linger in the exchange.
Before you could think of an honest answer aside from comparing the troopers to some common skeeve recieving charity work, Boil spoke up, interrupting Waxer's inquiry, "The night never had to end there, ma'am. You put all that effort in, you ought'a at least get something back."
Granted it took you a moment to catch on to what was being said, watching Boil's fingers fold the damp cup into halves. That heat on the back of your neck returned, a sudden lurch in your loins as you realized you were alone in a pre-ordered back-alley motel room with two soldiers of the Grand fucking Army.
To hell with her, and to hell with biting off more than you could chew. You were irritated, waist-deep in a dry-spell, and those two shots had somewhat loosened your inhibitions. Nothing like the watered-down skrag at the clone bars.
"Kriff it," you chuffed, flattening your hair as you swept your hand back and shrugged. You were already here, gobbling up their precious spare-time.
After passing a triumphant grin between each other, Waxer and Boil sat you down to get the bottle to its dregs.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
The progress of the spotchka bottle had been a slow crawl between the three of you.
Stories were swapped as you sat on the bed together, personal tales contested between the two brothers -- you learned that the clones truly did refer to each other as brothers. Seeing as most of their stories weren't public domain, you agreed to keep it all confidential, and thus learned about their unit, their commander, as well as a few battles while they removed the rest of their armor and toed off their boots.
In exchange, you told them of the trivial things in your own world.
Do you really have single-stall showers? You only need to get a physical once every six months? Do the civvies you know like us? Among other rather devastating inquiries, you decided things needed to shift as you breached the latter quarter of the bottle. Boil and Waxer decided -- not without a back-and-forth -- that they could both risk the herb cigarras after the bottle seemed to have a mild buzz-like affect on them; Your only assumption for that would be their ravenous metabolism. The cigarras seemed to do it for them anyway, bringing Waxer and Boil onto your level as you shrugged out of your sweater and kicked off your shoes. The smoke wafting thick in the room nearly gave you a mild second-hand.
As you finished off the bottle, Waxer had occupied his fingers with the ridge of your spine through your shirt, strumming away with his two centermost digits. It was a thoughtless motion, you confirmed it as you snuck a peak at him through the mirror on the closet doors, zoned-out on your profile as Boil lazily gestured through a story with the roach pinched at the ends of his fingers.
Blame the alcohol or the second-hand, or even the lingering coals of your ire toward your friend, but you were tremendously emboldened. Reaching back with a slight and imperceptible lean, you let your hand travel to the top of Waxer's thigh, feeling the corded muscle through his body-glove flinch upon contact as you flattened your palm.
Your eyes shifted back to Boil, and it was easy to let your mind wander with his current position. Leaned back on one hand, the butt of the cigarra in his other, smoking from one side. His throat would bob under his light stubble when he swallowed, the heave of his chest through the black compression suit caught your eyes without fail, especially since they'd rid themselves of the remainder of their armor.
You'd managed to keep your eyes from their groins for the most part, but once the codpieces had been forgone, you were sneaking numerous glances. Your hand had roved up Waxer's thigh absentmindedly as your mind kept rolling, cupping his bulge through the front of his 'blacks' as his legs subtly parted. Waxer's hand quietly found your forearm as he gently wrapped his fingers around your wrist, a silent plea for you to remain put.
He must be insane.
While Boil went on, your grip on Waxer would tighten until he twitched, hearing his audible gulp as his cock throbbed to life in your hand, the reaction caused your heart to skip as you rolled his clothed balls between your fingers.
"Boil, could I show you something?" You hummed after a thoughtful moment, interjecting his story with a smirk flirting upon your lips, batting your lashes as you blinked slowly in your drunken buzz.
You could see how Boil seemed to realize where he'd forgotten himself in his intoxication, his mahogany-brown eyes focusing on you once again with a nod as he shut his mouth. With pursed lips, you'd gesture to the roach in his hand until Boil brought it to your lips with callused fingers.
He watched intently as you pulled it in with your mouth and tongue like you'd shown them, eyes flickering to meet you when you withdrew with fluttering cheeks, beckoning him with raised brows. Boil caught on with a throaty chortle, none-the-wiser of his brother being fondled to full hardness at your back as he ducked his head to your own, parting his lips expectantly.
The thick smoke of the herbal mix wafted from your lips as you parted your jaw, pressing the muddy ball of smoke from your mouth into Boil's as he struggled to fully inhale the shotgun, a groan trapped itself in his throat, echoing Waxer's as you palmed at the end of his erection. Only then did Boil fully understand what you were doing, withdrawing as tendrils of smoke dissolved around his mouth, exhaling the most of it past his nostrils as he cocked his head to get a better look at the scene before him.
You could feel Waxer rest the crown of his head against your shoulder, his hand having completely fallen away from your wrist as his breath puffed down your bare arm, only stopping to gulp against his parched throat.
"Fuckin' sithspit, n' here I thought you were shy," Boil commented with a snort, blowing out the rest of the smoke as he stubbed out the cherry in the ash tray. He'd take the bottle from your other hand for a swig himself -- for confidence, perhaps -- before getting up on his knee, a foot planted on the ground to tower over you.
Boil took your jaw in a firm pinch, pouring at least two-shots-worth of alcohol down your tongue, muttering, 'We're gonna need it, doll,' as you swallowed it down. At this point, you could hardly taste the sting of it.
"Look alive, verd'ika," Boil ground out as he withdrew from you, patting Waxer's cheek until his head peeled back from your shoulder, opening his mouth and tipping back to let Boil pour the dregs of the bottle in. Once he'd finished, swallowing the liquor with a curled lip, he cursed Boil in that same odd language you couldn't pinpoint -- you only knew it was a curse with the way he'd spat it out defensively.
"He might just be jealous of us, Waxer," you reasoned, a slur clinging to your voice as you attempted to placate him. Boil simply snorted, setting the bottle down as he joined the pair of you on the bed, steering you by a forefinger on your jaw to face him as he scoffed.
"Like fuckin' hell," Boil declared, before sealing the seam of his mouth to your own, tracing your bottom lip with his tongue as you reciprocated him in kind, thumbing at Waxer's head through his body-glove as you tilted your head opposite of Boil's. When Waxer latched the wet heat of his open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder towards your throat, you could only imagine he'd felt as if he was missing out as well.
As he did, his scarred hand found your own on his clothed cock, bringing you away from his throbbing erection, up to his waistband. With his aid, you managed to slip a hand into the garment, feeling the bed jostle slightly as Waxer rolled his blacks down his hips enough to give you easier access. As he sprang out of the confines of his compression suit, your guts lurched and roiled behind your womb, flushing you to the tips of your ears.
Just as you began to regret agreeing to sleeping with not one, but fucking two immaculately endowed clones, Boil's tongue pressed past your teeth to stroke along your own, finally prying the moan he was foraging for from your throat wantonly. The noise had Boil on you in a moment, his hand enclosing around your throat, the corners of your jaw pressed between his thumb and forefinger, brows pinched together as he wrestled your tongue for dominance.
Waxer had been more than content with his current arrangement, bucking into your hand as you rolled your damp palm over his shaft, sucking and biting mosaic hickeys into the crook of your shoulder, a gentle hand moving your hair aside. Remembering himself, he let his left hand drift between your legs, past your leather skirt as your thighs welcomed his path earnestly.
When Waxer's fingers met the slick seam against the lace of your panties, he swore to the stars he could've keeled over there and then, allowing his debrief to roll from his tongue in the language Cody had passed on to them. Boil caught it with a growl, echoing his brother's comment in a tone dripping like candied fruit when he pulled back from your lips with a string of saliva, "You're fuckin' dripping for us, doll, s'that right?"
Your response was a garbled moan as Waxer strummed the slick fabric of your panties aside with his middle finger, experimentally running that same digit up and down the seam of your folds with a mumbled praise as his cock jumped in your hand.
"Answer us, sweetheart," Boil commanded gently, guiding your eyes back to him by your jaw as you swallowed hard.
"Uh-huh," you confirmed, rolling your tongue over your swollen lips as Waxer dipped his middle finger into your dripping pussy, scraping his teeth against your shoulder as the grip of you passed his second knuckle.
Your thighs parted on their own volition, the vice of your fingers tightening around Waxer's base as he squirmed beside you, nipping frames around the marks he'd left as he watched Boil lift your shirt through his lashes. No words needed to be said as Waxer pulled back from you, allowing Boil to pull your shirt over your head, the frigid chill of the old air conditioner erecting your bared nipples within seconds, remedied by the hot cradle of Boil's palms as his mouth recaptured your own.
With your throat free, Waxer latched himself to your pulse, nipping and leeching a mark into your pulse as he added a finger into your cunt, thrusting his wrist into you with a slow, calculated rhythm as his blunt fingers searched deep within you.
"She's s'fucking tight," Waxer ground out flattening his palm to the warmth of your mound as his mouth pulled back from your throat. Boil did the same, withdrawing from where he'd occupied himself with your mouth for a gulp of air, twisting both of your nipples between your fingers to draw out another strained noise from your drooling tongue.
"Hng~ I can only imagine, vod," Boil mused aloud, running his tongue along his full lips as he observed you from above, the strain of his cock leaving a wet patch on his body-glove. One of his hands drifted from your breasts to skim over your hips, you were a bit too distracted by the rhythmic pair of fingers in your cunt to realize what exactly Boil was doing until he pulled your comm from your pocket with a triumphant snicker. Just as Waxer's thumb found the swollen bud of your clit.
You could've fucking cried in relief.
"I've been working off a hunch myself," Boil chortled to himself, earning a perplexed look from his brother as he thumped his way into your comm-link, his other hand still occupied at your teat. "What would your little friend think if she really knew what she missed out on, eh?"
Your mind caught on to what Boil had been insinuating, even as Waxer scrambled your mind with the thorough, consuming pace of his longest fingers knuckle-deep within you, and his complementary thumb drawing tight circles around your clitoris. Just as Boil raised his arm over the three of you, ensuring all of you were in-frame, your free hand reached over to palm over the damp spot under the tent in his body-glove as the holo-still was taken.
You would've thought Boil had been punched in the stomach by the way he blenched away from your touch, his eyes fleeting back to meet your own as his hand fled your waistband to flatten your palm to his clothed erection.
"I'm not going anywhere, take my skirt off," you retorted, all while writhing your hips into Waxer's palm, desperate to feel anything more on your skin as it already burned like hellfyre.
Boil audibly groaned as he folded to his knees onto the floor, obeying your breathy command instinctively as his legs gave out before he fully understood, removing your socks swiftly as Waxer withdrew from your cunt long enough to peel your skirt down your legs. His brother would pull it the rest of the way past your knees and down your calves to be lackadaisically tossed aside, allowing Boil to duck between your doughy thighs with a muted moan as his hands skimmed up your calves.
Waxer would opt to peeling his shirt up from his abdomen and over his head to join the rest of your clothes, shedding his pants along with it as you grappled his thigh for purchase. "These walls are thin, hon', you gotta keep it down for us."
Boil chuffed into your inner thigh as he nipped a deliberate path upwards to your sex, shooting his brother a stern look as he quirked a brow; "Shut her up then, vod."
Waxer was slow to the realization, evidently tranquilzed by the entire situation as his eyes fell to you again. With a confirming nod, you laid back on the bed as Waxer shuffled up toward your head, running a hand down his face with a puff of air as your lips parted. Swollen, your waiting tongue and wide eyes, Waxer could've lost it right there while he spread your arousal over himself, biting his own tongue until he drew blood as he slowly guided his cock into your mouth.
One of your hands found its way to his bare thigh as your lips closed around his tip, feeling his muscles shudder with an accompanying whimper as Waxer's hand went to your hair. Just as he thought he'd stabilized himself, even under the roll of your searing tongue, Boil abruptly licked a flat stripe up the seam of your pussy and ended it with a sealed suction around your clit. Overstimulated, nearly brought to the edge already, Waxer could only assume how agonized you were.
When you began to hum and whine around the tender head of him, however, all sympathies dissolved within seconds as his hips bucked into your mouth on their own volition, the sensation of your throat repelling him with a gag damn-near had him.
Boil was utterly lost himself, occasionally scraping his teeth against your swollen clit after pummeling you with his tongue until your legs quaked around his head. He pawed at you greedily, stealing glances at the way you'd attempt to swallow Waxer down, or try to breathe around his irregular thrusts. Fuck, it made him throb.
So, as he buried his face into your puffy vulva, Boil fished himself out of his body-glove to pump himself slowly, drawing his pleasure out as he watched you writhe and shudder from under his lashes as he fucked his fist. All while multi-tasking, Boil brought that comm-link of yours out with an extended arm, snapping another few stills to document their progress before setting it aside to pet the tremors from your thighs.
Waxer looked absolutely debauched from your point of view, eyes crested with tears as he tried to hold back, only your sustained eye-contact kept him at-ease as he thrusted against your tongue. That language of theirs was constant on their lips, passing between each other every so often before another change was made.
Suddenly, Waxer withdrew himself from your mouth with a pained expression, his cock an angry shade as he shuffled back on the bed, gently taking you along. Boil joined you, clambering over you rather gracefully for such a large male, setting himself on his knees between your legs before muttering something else to Waxer. Like it was rehearsed, you were carefully flipped over onto your hands and knees, feeling the mattress dip and shift as they both adjusted you accordingly.
You had absolutely no qualms with it, your throat tight as you tried to anticipate what they had in-store for you, and for a moment, you didn't think they even knew -- until you saw Boil through the mirror. Sat-up on his knees behind your presenting form, the hem of his shirt pulled up over his abdomen as he took his cock in hand.
That was when you felt him rub himself over your ass, tapping at you experimentally like all men seemed to -- "Not tonight," you answered, when you caught Boil glancing at you inquisitively through the mirror. His chagrin was short-lived with the promise of another occasion, smirking to himself as he redirected to your dripping cunt.
Boil spoke to Waxer in that language once again, a complicated, yet pretty tongue that made your breath seize as you tried to understand it. Waxer only nodded in confirmation before glancing down at you, taking your cheeks in the cradle of his palms as he lowered your top half into his lap.
You were forming your lips to inquire what they were saying before Boil filled you in one bruising, yet slick rush, plunging into the depths of your walls with a shuddering moan as his hands found their vice on your hips. Boil took a moment, swirling himself into your cunt as you gaped for air in the musk of Waxer's bare groin, drunkenly squirming to meet the coarse hair at Boil's base before he set a ravenous pace. Slow and hard, his balls slapping against you each time he bottomed out.
A gentle, yet engulfing hand on your nape guided your head toward Waxer's velvety cock, stiff against your cheek as you gawked from Boil's consuming pace. When Waxer managed to coax himself into your mouth, remaining shallow as you struggled to breathe around Boil's thrusts, you could hear that familiar, 'ch-klick!' of your comm's still sound effect going off as Boil snuck another picture.
"Y'feel so fucking good, sweetheart," Boil moaned overhead, running his palm over your spine as his hips drove into you relentlessly, pushing you further up onto Waxer's cock as he graciously held your hair out of the way.
Waxer cursed again with a low hiss, mumbling a string of phrases in their tongue as his head dropped back on his shoulders. "I could live in your fuckin' mouth, hon'," he huffed carding your hair back when his praise doubled your efforts, a hand managing its way to Waxer's balls.
"You gotta try her from here, vod," Boil wheezed from behind you, pausing his rhythm momentarily to nudge your legs further apart, applying a small pressure to the small of your back before resuming, punching lewd cries from your lungs as Boil fucked up into you.
"I fully intend on it," Waxer sighed, his shoulders shaking as you mewled around his cock. "Give it to her good, she fuckin' loves that..."
Boil took Waxer's report with an affirming nod, his pace unrelenting, unchanging as he pounded into that tender spot within you, slightly to the left of your cervix. It was easy go angle himself there, brows knitted in focus as he honed in, Boil groaned as your walls sucked and repelled him with every insatiable thrust.
When he was sure he had you right, he brought a hand around your hip to snake between your thighs, calculatedly drawing tight circles around your swollen, oversensitive clit until you quaked. Waxer echoed your muted moan with a response, and Boil joined the rally as you pulsed and clamped around him, breathing frantically as that violent hellfyre raged in your guts, damn-near cramping uncomfortably until you climaxed with an unforgiving snap.
As you cried out around Waxer's tip, you felt yourself gush and run between your legs, catching on Boil's pubic hair as he kept himself seated for a moment to feel you. You could feel him fight the urge to keep moving until he withdrew with a haggard sigh, shifting away from you on the bed.
"Iviin'yc, before she settles," Boil advised, giving your ass a few pats as his brother took his place. Inquisitive, Waxer drew two of his fingers through your slippery folds before bringing them to his mouth, treating himself as he watched Boil rearrange you onto your back.
"Might be easier this way, hm?" Boil placated you, pushing you hair back on your head as Waxer lowered himself, cupping your ass to maneuver you onto his cock. Once notched, Waxer slowly, slowly sank into your fluttering clutch, slack-jawed and shell-shocked as his blown pupils drifted over your bare frame like a carved statue from Naboo.
"Keep looking at me," Waxer whined, his abdomen visually clamping as he brought your legs over his arms, holding your lower half up as he sat up on his knees to thrust into you. As you watched Waxer bite into his lower lip, Boil entered your watery periphery with a hungry look, nodding to you pointedly as he lowered his cock to your mouth with a thumb.
Going back on what he'd said, Boil might be right about that angle thing.
Your only confirmation was a silent one, parting your lips to welcome Boil onto your tongue next, glancing between Waxer's flushed, intoxicated expression of desperation, and Boil's insatiable infatuation with how much you could take. You found out you could take quite a decent amount of him like this, letting Boil angle your head and cradle your neck as your weight distributed oddly with each of Waxer's thrusts when his pace quickened.
Distracted by the taste of yourself on Boil's member, you hadn't been able to anticipate Waxer's abrupt bites and open-mouthed kisses on the insides of your knee, pulling your calves over his shoulders as he used your weight to pound into you, fighting to gather your attention away from his brother, even if Boil was halfway down your throat. Their banter might be your end.
A few strokes over your clit, and you were done for once again, shaking and spasming around Waxer's pulsing cock as you choked around Boil's. Neither of them relented. Boil held your head tight, keeping you huffing for air at the base of his cock as Waxer chased his end, dripping pearls of sweat across your heaving ribs until he pumped himself into your walls, stream after devastating stream.
As soon as he had, Boil yanked your mouth off his cock and flipped you back over, allowing you optimal air-flow as you coughed and gagged around thick saliva, swallowing it down as you gasped for air, feeling Boil pet your hair out of your eyes.
"Did she come?" You heard him ask Waxer.
In the silence, accompanied by Waxer's heaving breaths, you assumed he nodded his head.
In the next moment, you were manhandled across Boil's lap, wide-open with your legs strewn over his thighs. Waxer was on his knees, watching as your cunt hypnotically swallowed every inch of his brother's member, fluttering and sucking at him. Your head fell back over Boil's shoulder when Waxer attached himself to your clitoral hood, encircling your engorged, abused clit precisely with the tip of his tongue as Boil slowly rocked into you.
"One o' these days, we'll have to get you to take us both at the same time, sweetheart," Boil mumbled into your ear, nosing at the shell of it before lowering his mouth to buckle marks into the opposite side of tour neck, unoccupied until now. His hands remained busy, stroking up and down your body, twirling your erect nipples cruelly in tandem with his occasional nips.
"Need this on a damn holo-reel," Waxer commented briefly, before returning to his task, despite your agonized cries of pleasure while you trembled.
"Helmet's been on the whole time, vod," Boil added lowly with a snickers of his own, "Audio, at the least."
Waxer huffed, gently pulling your clit between his teeth until you shouted and bucked, "Less incriminating than visual," he japed.
"Shut up," Boil bit back, swatting his brother away so he could switch gears, pushing you forward in his lap as Waxer stood from the floor.
As Boil pounded into you below, punching explicit and damning moans from your lungs with abandon, callused fingers finding your clit once more to finish you in tandem with himself. It would hardly be a feat, but it felt damn-near impossible as you thrashed in Boil's lap, wheezing for air until Waxer captured your frantic moans in his mouth, forcing you to breathe through your nostrils.
All of their added ministrations in tandem vaulted you over the edge with a sharp sob, sinking your nails into Waxer's arms for purchase as Boil ground you down into his pelvis like he could mold himself to your insides -- evidently relishing in you, if that strange curse had anything to say -- until he allowed Waxer to pull you away and up the bed.
You were utterly boneless, understandably, and the pair of them were obliged to take care of you at this point.
Boil reluctantly rolled off the bed with a limp in his gait toward the refresher as Waxer preened you, fixing your hair and wiping away the sweat and fluids from your face until Boil returned with a hot, wrung-out rag to clean you up. Wiping at your face first, he worked his way down until he thoroughly cleaned your inner thighs and carefully navigated your sensitive sex.
The pair of them still found amusement in the way you'd jump upon contact.
Waxer figured it would be a better -- and cleaner -- idea to transfer you to the unsullied bed, touched from their sun without a single wrinkle in the fabric. With careful hands, he pulled your nude for into his arms with ease, carrying you over to tuck you into the other bed under clean sheets as Boil briefly took advantage of the hot water.
Hardly anything else was said between the three of you, not even when Boil joined you two on the opposite side. You didn't mind it, wrapped up in their warm embrace, fucked-out of your mind... you drifted off under their spotchka-tainted breaths in minutes.
Their warmth lingered in the early morning when you awoke to an empty bed. You paid no mind to the confused and backhanded messages from your friend manifesting in an array on your comm-link in response to your amateur photo-op last night.
Hell no.
Your sleep-swollen eyes smiled on that torn piece of flimsi with the frequency number scribbled down, signed by two haphazard winky faces and a, 'Get home safe, hon'. Reach us anytime,' written below it.
Footnotes : Tumblr was seriously trying my life with this one I POSTED ON AO3 A WHOLE HOUR AGOOO, the site crashed like four times when i tried to paste my work here i was abt to just go to bed LOL anyway, here yall go, i hope this one is better than yesterday's. Hunter's prompt may come later today too, but trust, i will prevail regardless
Summary : Haytham Kenway publicly fraternizes with his subordinate inside of a stagecoach. Or, Haytham catches reader staring and sets her straight before a mission.
Characters : Haytham Kenway, Reader (Ambassador/Envoy), Charles Lee (mentioned), Thomas Hickey (mentioned)
Pairings : Haytham x F!Reader
Rated : E
Word Count : 2.5k
Warnings : Implied age gap, established relationship, no foreplay, mild BDSM dynamics, mild dub-con elements, teasing, public sex, mild exhibitionist elements, no aftercare, no beta we die like kanen'to:kon
Assassin's Creed Masterlist / Masterlist
A/N : holy fucking shit we are thawing my babes; here's a WIP i've been sitting on for a few months now, i can't wait to write more asscreed when ac4: resynced comes out !!! totally named this after a machines of loving grace song btw >:3
Smut Prompt-list "If we get caught, I'm blaming you." / "You look so good with my hand wrapped around your neck.'
Upon accepting this tour, she hadn't quite anticipated the Grand Master himself would be the one in her company. That sod Hickey would've been preferable, even that wet blanket Charles Lee would've sufficed -- Grand Master Kenway wasn't all bad company, but his presence was rather suffocating.
Which, wasn't a difficult admission when she'd been saddled with him in a cramped stage going across the Virginian Frontier. He wasn't a small man by any means, and hardly even average, the Grand Master damn-near as broad as he was tall -- a few inches past two meters, if she had to infer -- and his layers certainly managed to fill up the empty spaces beside him. Knees parted and hunched over on h8s elbow and the heel of his palm, he made no idle conversation as the stagecoach traipsed along the uneven road, shrieking wheels knocking the cabin to-and-fro with each stone and root they rolled over.
Grand Master Kenway didn't seem to pay her lack of personal space much mind as his own seemed to wander past the half-drawn curtains of the stage windows. Thighs pressed tightly together between his own, ankles crossed, and her back straight as a ramrod against the bulkhead. Even as the cabin made her sway, careful as to not bump into Master Kenway and rein him out of that dissociative, thoughtful look on his weathered face.
He was much older than herself, perhaps twice over, but he wasn't shabby to look at, either. His temples had grayed, a ripened age bleeding silver strands into his brows and the edges of his hairline, leaving permanent scores on his face -- entirely unmarked, save for a few scratches that she could see beneath the brim of his tricorn hat.
It was an impressive feat in itself, to have lived this long in the Order without too many scars to show for it. Or perhaps not. She knew better than to question Haytham's abilities, as lumbering and docile as he may appear at times. Lee's boisterous exaggerations regarding the man's ability kept her on-guard in the meantime, even if he was the Grand Master of the Order.
"Find something worth gawking at, ambassador?"
The smooth tenor of his voice brought her back from her idle wanderings with a dry cough to adjust.
"Nothing worth speaking aloud, Grand Master," the ambassador replied curtly, allowing herself to lean back into her shoulder blades as Haytham straightened his posture across from her with pursed lips. The stubble on his jaw glittered as he set his teeth and moved back into the undulating lantern-light as it rattled on the hook outside the coach door.
He only hummed, and swallowed loud enough for her to hear -- her eyes cut to the way the apple of Haytham's throat bobbed over his collar before finding his steel-gray eyes again. The minor theft of his profile wasn't something he was likely to miss.
"Is that so?"
As simple as the statement was, Haytham kept it ambiguous with his lackadaisical tone. Couple that with a quirked brow, and she might as well have been throwing her Grand Master a euphemism.
"I didn't intend it like that, sir," the Templar ambassador waved a gloved hand, brows pinched at the implication despite the mild warmth in her cheeks. It was cold enough in this landscape to mistaken the flush in her face and ears for a chill from outside.
"Pity," Haytham would say flatly.
Christ, he was impossible to read.
Another pregnant gap of silence yawned between the pair of them, all while they cast their eyes elsewhere, or occasionally fiddled with their adornments. The team nickered and chuffed outside with the chorus of their shoed hooves over dirt and dirts over the stage's abhorrent creaking. God-willing, they'd reach this bloody estate soon enough.
Instead of addressing him, she'd sooner swallow down her confusion with his statement, if only to save herself some exertion.
"You seem troubled," Haytham piped up for the pair of them. "Have I offended you, ambassador?"
Right away, she didn't trust his tone of voice. He didn't sound doteful or worried, he spoke like a poacher that had just recently laid a carefully hidden snare in tall seeded grass. At first, she'd pondered giving him a verbal response as she glanced between Haytham's gray eyes. They revealed no motive, but she knew better.
They've been through this dance before, she didn't want to believe that was why the Grand Master insisted upon joining her.
So she shook her head.
As the coach jerked to one side, she planted her feet flat once again to keep herself upright in the seat, bracing the best she could with her hands stiffly folded in her lap. Once the cabin rocked to the opposite side however, Haytham took his narrow opportunity to swipe her planted boots off the floor of the stage, a hand darting out to snatch the lapels of her frock coat toward himself as she fell forward.
Before the ambassador could part her mouth to gasp, let alone exclaim her surprise, Haytham clapped a gloved hand over her mouth as he wrangled her back into his chest, squeezing her legs between his knees before she could kick and writhe. Instantaneously, her heart rate spiked with adrenaline as her face flushed all the way around to her nape. Haytham locked her in place in his lap with his arms and legs, pressing the ambassador's head back against his shoulder as she jerked and fought to free herself, boot-heels slamming on the floor, fists pounding at Haytham's thighs and the seats.
"He won't hear you," Haytham growled abrasively against the shell of her ear, the twitching bulge of his cock pressing insistently against the buttons of his trousers. The Grand Master hisses caustically, "Did you really think I wouldn't notice you staring the whole trip?"
Despite the panic and abrupt blench of adrenaline, her loins stirred with a warmth nonetheless. It wouldn't be the first time she'd fraternized with the Grand Master, but she'd hoped the last time had been just that; The last time. A throaty moan pressed against the leather of Haytham's palm all-the-same.
"I don't like it when you avoid me," Haytham remarked, his vice on her legs loosening just slightly in order to fit his other ungloved hand between her thighs and cup her thrumming sex. "You've been avoiding me," he said again, driving his point like a stake into the earth, "Oh, but you've kept me on the hook from afar... always just staring."
The Templar ambassador's attempts to wriggle free were fruitless, and only served to make Haytham stiffer at the small of her back. The moment she gave in just the slightest, Haytham was cramming his hand further between her legs to find where the inseam of her trousers met the line of her sex, fitting his hand there while the other tested its grip around her jugular.
"Master Kenway, it is inappropriate to mingle this way," she wavered unconvincingly, throat bobbing against his hand as she gulped. "I don't wish to -- not here --"
Haytham sounded as if he'd snarled, kneading his gloved fingers almost painfully against her beating sex before replacing it between her navel and waistband, greedily delving to her already sopping wet cunt, feeling it slip against his glove.
A guttural groan pried itself from Haytham's throat as he growled, "You approached me first, young lady." His middle finger twirled around the swelling bud of her clitoris, breath humid on her neck, "You've no right to play coy and tease me when I had you bent over my lap at that filthy inn hardly a fortnight ago."
The mere mention of that evening had the Templar's envoy reeling with an adulterated moan, her hands now wrapped around Haytham's left forearm and elbow as he drew tight, tantalizing rings around her slick bud. That hadn't been their first time, either. She'd slipped into Haytham's room with her nightshift and naught a single innocent notion on her mind, Haytham had beheld that immediately, and though he reciprocated, he hadn't let her bold and foolish move go unpunished.
Haytham mused that, had he not, he'd be setting a poor example for the other Templars.
"I felt that, my dear," Kenway murmured as her clitoris pulsed against the pad of his finger, nosing behind her ear to mouth at her pulse. "You missed my fingers so much?"
Her cheeks burned with a new shame, eyes darting out to the window past the half-drawn curtains to watch the lantern swing in favor of answering him. Christ, she could feel herself clench when she'd remembered how Haytham had pummeled her pussy with his fingers from behind after spanking her ass raw. The Grand Master let out a fervid groan as he felt her sex pulse through her breeches, dragging his incisors over his ambassador's pulse with a guttural noise before he began to work on shucking her waistband down over her hips.
"If we get caught, I'm blaming you," Haytham drawled in a lecherous octave, eliciting a shiver from the younger lady as she writhed once more, this time to abet Haytham as opposed to hindering him.
"Oh, sod it. I don't care anymore, for Christ's sake!" The ambassador would seethe, already mourning the meager stimulation Haytham had proffered as he rolled her breeches past her ass and practically tore the buttons of his own open to access her. As of now, she could only hope the road would be enough to disguise what was happening just meters away from their coachman.
Haytham wasted no time shoving his cockhead past the ring of muscle and into the snug warmth of her sex, chafing her outer labia as he pressed insistently to the hilt. Already choking on the filling sensation, she fully yelped when the stagecoach buckled and jerked upwards, sending her further down onto Haytham's thick cock with a brash cry that he didn't bother to silence.
Part of him dared the coachman to mention it, she was bloody sure of it.
Instead of preserving the vestiges of her dignity, he kept his arm wrapped around her front, her throat fitting perfectly in his palm, allowing him to wring all of the weak, stunted noises from her straining throat as he planted his feet and slammed into his envoy's cunt with a slow, ferocious pace. His head would either cant backwards against the bulkhead or roll forward into the crook of her neck to gnaw and nip at her sinewy flesh to quiet himself. Haytham kept his rhythm in-tempo with the pace of the chuffing and snorting team at the front of the coach, thrusting up into her fluttering cunt relentlessly each time the carriage jerked, stealing its momentum to fuck his little mistress as thoroughly as he could manage fully-clothed in a moving vehicle.
Which was hardly a feat for a man of his caliber, Haytham was screwing her as easily as he might've in a bed. Never once did his pace falter or stammer, and he knew exactly where to angle himself as he assaulted the tender front wall of her sex. Using his index, Haytham steered her cock-dumb face to turn and lock eyes him as he kept that firm hold on her neck, "You look so good with my hand wrapped around your neck, darling... ohnn~ Hell, you're drooling, love."
Jaw slack and eyes pricking with tears as her knife, her lover, drove into her tender guts relentlessly, Haytham didn't let up. She only wound-up tighter and tighter, feeling her summit lash white-hot against the from of her navel almost painfully so as Haytham intentionally neglected her swollen, clitoris. He didn't care about what she wanted at this moment, his almost unimpressed, pitied expression emanated that before Haytham delved back into her, lapping the drool on her chin back into her gaping mouth with a low groan as he devoured her lethargic tongue, sending his tricorn hat tumbling off his head, shoulder, and to the floor beside his boot.
His grip hadn't shifted from her throat, and his other hand had began groping her breasts through the men's clothes she donned for the evening's task, finding her nipples past the top edge of her bodice to twist them unyieldingly between his fingers while he ground his hips up into her weeping cunt. Feeling her seize and squirm as she tried to relieve the dull pain of his fill, his gloved finger would return to her sex, worming past her slick folds to incessantly strum his digits across her oversensitive sex as he used the stagecoach's momentum to fuck deeper into his envoy if it were even possible. Any further and he might become a permanent fixture.
There was no air in her lungs to expend for him anymore, her noises choked and muted, and she could already feel her tears burning down her cheeks as they escaped her eyelids, chest burning as she struggled to reciprocate Haytham's voracious kisses, fisting whatever part of his trenchcoat she could reach -- the coat-tail crumpled beside him, the epaulet behind her head, around to grapple Haytham's ponytail at his nape.
"I can't~ I c-can't anymore --" Haytham's blade stammered into his panting mouth, connected by a web of saliva as he withdrew almost drunkenly, lapping her taste from his lips before his efforts became more precise. Haytham sweetly drew her earlobe past his teeth to hear her breathing elevate as his fingers danced across her engorged clitoris, rolling his hips up into that beloved spot without even a slight shift in his angle or pace.
"Say it for me," Haytham rumbled like an encroaching tempest, kissing the shell of her ear and temple chastely as if he hadn't been publicly fucking his subordinate shamelessly in a rented stage. "I'm not milking this snatch around me until you goddamn say it, girl."
"Hah~ Haytham --"
Haytham almost stopped entirely, and his little spy almost lurched up out of his arms to keep his left hand on her sex, stammering to remedy her mistake, of which she quickly blurted out, "Master Kenway! Master Kenw~ Master, please, I'm -- hhnnfg~!"
With a weak and depleted voice, the Templar Grand Master's envoy cried-put silently, mouth agape as she seized and stiffened in Haytham's lap, spine arced and chin tilted to the heavens as her devastating summit split her abdomen in half with a debilitating heat as the incantation 'Kenway, Kenway, Kenway, Kenway,' spilled forth from her torpid tongue. Haytham followed suit, spilling forth into his subordinate's inviting warmth with full-body shivers, and a ruinous, throaty growl into her shoulder as their exerted sexes palpitated in tandem. Their hearts probably followed suit.
It would be a spell before their reservations caught up to their shame, but in their humid, sex-ridden haze, the pair of them basked for as long as they could've afforded before rearranging themselves. Haytham assisted her in getting her trousers back up over her hips before sending her back to the opposite side of the stage. She only managed a brief glance at Haytham's sodden, half-flaccid cock before he was stuffing himself back into his breeches, feeling her mouth water considerably as her eyes raked over Haytham's broad, consuming visage.
"Get that face sorted out," Haytham sighed breathily as he gestured vaguely to the lingering eyes of his Order's ambassador. "Otherwise, I'll have the coachman pull over," he panted sharply, a coy smile playing in the Templar's eyes despite his stern reprimand, "and I'll have my fill of you in a less chivalrous manner against a cedar tree."
Footnotes : it feels like ages since i've posted but i was so determined to get something out this evening, even though it's currently uhhhh 7am the next day >:3 i hope you enjoyed if you made it this far, i plan on christening my latter two masterlists before i lock in on some of the star wars prompts i want to finish. anyway, love ya !! comments and feedback are encouraged and appreciated !! ♡♡♡
There wasn't anything too remarkable about you -- not to your Commanding Officers, anyway.
You were a glorified technician, at the most, typically seated in the womb of the bridge, a level below your higher-ups, in the literal and metaphorical sense. You were effective at your job, and your ascendency came easy when you kept your blinders on.
Keeping in pace with the Venator's diagnostics, remaining punctual with your reports, and occasionally bringing the Admiral his datacards; Simple enough. His presence was rather scarce whenever you were on the bridge, but it was always apparent when he was around, when the oxygen in the air was snuffed out before he even entered a room.
You'd caught his eye entirely on accident -- not during one of your routinely courier tasks, the Admiral hardly ever looked up when you entered his office, no -- your waggling tongue had gotten you into this during a bloody debrief.
As the Admiral and his fellow Senior Officers conversed the trivial matters of battle-planning, you'd stupidly chimed in to add onto something one of the lieutenants had said, and Gods, you wished you could remember what it was, but every thought had promptly vanished from your brain when the Admiral had fixed you with his carmine gaze, practically stripping you naked on the spot as his Officers gawked.
Ever since, you've been a blip on his radar... in a sense.
It was hard not to notice his gaze when it gravitated toward you after that, heavy and always piercing your back, erecting the hairs on your nape when that energy on the air became stifled. He was a daunting man, dangerous beneath the surface of his stark-white uniform and the cool azure consistently masking his expression, commanding respect in every way.
There was almost something primal or instinctual about it, the way it came as easily to him as breathing, his unintelligible cunning on its kept you empty-headed like a bumbling moron. You couldn't anticipate him.
Mitth'raw'nurudo, known more simply by Thrawn, had been utilizing that 'empty head' of yours for the better half of a circadian moon, by now. His interest in you had festered into a mild obsession, his mild comments during your courier runs exponentially evolved into something more salacious in an almost back-handed manner. It was hard to read, his monotone damn-near inscrutable to decipher.
It was almost... disturbing.
A walking enigma, though you'd loathe to ask.
Your only reliable -- as in safe, to avoid the risk of a Court Martial -- source of information on the sly Chiss Admiral were your fellow Junior Officers, and they hadn't been much of an aid.
By the time you'd begun to question the extra time spent in his office during (now daily) tasks, and his lingering, observant looks, Thrawn had you backed up to the edge of his desk with a sapphiric hand palming your clothed sex, breathing something in behind your ear to mutter in a tongue you'd never even begin to understand.
It was something you began to anticipate after a few rotations.
Your colleagues took immediate notice of your consistent tasks in and out of the bridge, tasks that often took you away from your work for the Navy. You'd served since you'd graduated the Junior Reserves, you'd never known another job outside of the Imperial Navy; What was taking someone as subservient as you away from the helm?
Gossip under Thrawn's nose seemed to be snuffed much quicker than before, now.
Nobody would notice, just as he expected.
As plain as you were, you more than sufficed for him.
From that first day he took notice of you, Thrawn was curious of you.
Curiosity often shifted into infatuation for him. As for why, that kept him baited and hooked.
So he'd have you brought around more often than before, Thrawn had (of course) delved into your confidential files, indulged himself on your work in the Imperial Junior Reserves, just to give-in to himself anyway.
It wasn't a faltering grip on his discipline, merely a new craving that needed satisfying.
It had been almost too easy to get under your skin through subtleties, and part of him had been thankful for it, seeing as he didn't entirely find enjoyment in making you too fearful.
There was such thing as a healthy dose when it came to you. Ever since that day, Thrawn had been trying to replicate that fathier-in-speeder-lights look on your face that had originally enraptured him. What possessed that tongue of yours to be so defiant?
He studied you, learned you, attempted to understand your nature --
-- And now, the Warrior had you on your back like the prey item you were, 'admonished' from your duties for that day to instead occupy his personal quarters.
Not his office, anymore -- not after the incident.
You'd been perched on his desk, your gray jodhpurs unbuttoned to give your CO's wide palm ample room between your thighs, working two thick fingers into you with that hither motion he'd learned, mouthing the corner of your jaw where your lobe met your cheek, velvety with vellus hairs that tickled his nose. Thrawn had made it clear from the start that you weren't to kiss him, mark him, and much less fall for him.
You'd suffice with it.
There were seldom any punishments being dished out, and he was fair enough to you when the pair of you coupled. "Being intimate," was too strong of a statement.
Once Thrawn had decided he's had his fill of your cunt, he'd withdrawn his hand for you to clean with your tongue -- thoroughly lapping up the ambrosia he'd coaxed out of you -- before guiding you to your knees onto a folded sheet he'd forethought you'd need. He always had a plot in place. Once you'd settled, Thrawn unbuttoned his starched, durable trousers that had been pulled taut by the print of his cock, before letting it spring out to settle upon your waiting tongue.
It had been enjoyable until one of his bleeding liaisons had come into his office with an incident report, yammering on for ten minutes while you struggled not to gag or huff around the indigo coils at Thrawn's base.
Needless to say, he'd decided that he'd allowed his dubious curiosity get out of hand for a moment, but it was quickly rectified.
Henceforth, your routine 'couplings' shifted from his office, to his private quarters.
Here, he was enabled to do just about whatever in the Nine Hells he wanted with you.
It's been this way for several rotations, now.
"Pohskapforian, tell me what this means, Ensign," Thrawn's throaty drawl brought you back to the present, gulping down your own saliva as it gathered on your tongue, the cool sheets sticking damply to your back as you groaned in agonizing bliss.
"Shhh, sh, sh, darling, these walls are thin," your Chiss Admiral chastised, keeping his unyielding hand upon the shaft of the spreader bar to keep your legs up over his blue-black hair.
"One might think that an Officer such as myself would be given a bedchamber more befitting of my station, amongst the other whelps on this Destroyer," you punctuated his statement with a whimpering cry, jerking involuntarily as Thrawn adjusted the cigarra-shaped vibrator against the engorged bud of your clit. The sensations upon your most sensitive area -- with up to three-thousand nerve-endings, Thrawn had added -- made your thighs shake erratically, writhing fruitlessly to either flee or chase the sensations.
"Ensign, you're not paying attention," Thrawn prompted, rousing your attention once more as he withdrew the vibrator, keeping your legs suspended as he studied your fluttering hole as it clamped around nothing, beckoning his cock to feed it thick inches. His resolve was stronger than that, especially when you cried like that, tears of frustration pricking the edges of your eyes as he denied you another fucking orgasm.
Still, to his absolute pleasure, you struggled to keep your tongue bitten, and that never failed to excite him.
"Y-Yes, Admiral?" You'd whinge.
"Yes, what?" Thrawn prompted with a bite in his tongue, his expression garnering zero sympathy for you -- laid out, buck-fucking-naked in his bed, a puddle of tremors, sticky with your own anticipation for him.
It took you a moment of wordless floundering, still reeling from your seventh -- was it? -- denied climax of the evening, before you remembered what was asked of you. Translate.
Skrag, what was the word...
You opened your mouth to reply once you'd found your tongue, only as soon as you did, Thrawn began to lightly circle your folds with the tip of the vibrating device on its most unpredictable setting, and your shuddering moan was enough to make him smirk.
"F-- Fuck --"
"Oh, come, now... It's simple," Thrawn taunted the command, humming in satisfaction when you looked to him for confirmation in your delirium. No, you likely wouldn't come for a moment, now.
"F-Fishing boat... Pohskapforian, means, 'fishing boat,'" you ground out, panting erratically as your hips churned against Thrawn's administrations, desperate for a modicum of release.
"Good, that's very good," he praised like he was purring, turning his head toward your leg that had been perched on his shoulder, absentmindedly nipping and mouthing above the ball of your ankle as he rearranged his hand. Using his thumb, he tucked the vibrating device against the heel of his palm after spreading the gel of your slick across your folds to delve his two longest digits into the velvety warmth of your cunt.
Your walls spasmed around the intrusion, your body welcoming him with a rattling gasp as your feet arched with the curl of your toes, bucking under his vice-hold on the black bar that kept your legs wide-open for him. Like this, you were a spectacle, his muse. Peppered in sweat that made your hair cling, shivering like a leaf in a Nabooian tempest, desperate only to please him with that end-result in mind.
He always gave it to you -- eventually.
"Can you give me one more?" Thrawn crooned into your calf, nipping small marks up your leg that wouldn't be seen in any variable context. Any mark inscribed on your skin by Thrawn -- either by teeth, his trimmed nails, or his lips -- he ensured could be hidden by all of your garments. Uniform, relaxed fits, P.T. attire.
"One more, sir?" You echoed in dismay, suspended on the edge of another orgasm that raged like combustible tibanna in your gut. You weren't explicitly allowed to question him with the word, 'what,' and Thrawn had made sure you learned that requirement well. You were simply there to take orders, not question them outright.
"You took a bit longer to answer me than desired," Thrawn elaborated in a curt tone, a single strand from his slicked-back style falling out of place to dangle between his eyes in an arc, damp with his own sweat. You felt like a depraved animal exposed to Felucian pollen, jerking when Thrawn nudged your swollen clit with the heel of his palm, scissoring you open more as the word, "Ran'iscehah," spilled from his lips like a tooth-rotting syrup.
As your walls sucked at his fingers and squelched around his ministrations, you wracked your brain for an answer, trying to keep your breathing even as his forearm began to pump in tandem with his digits. He seemed absolutely enthralled by the contrast of your skintones, the thatch of your public hair split apart to greedily welcome his fingers into your squelching warmth.
Past your litany of spewed curses and broken moans, you answered, "Dissasem-- fuck, no -- disarm!" with a prompt correction. It nearly sounded as if Thrawn had chuckled to himself, but even if his expression had betrayed it, you wouldn't have known.
The only satisfactory confirmation you got was a familiar, yet unknown, "Taskavcas, ch'acah," uttered from his lips as he captured your wanton moans in the seal of his mouth. A murky film of tears swam over your eyes as Thrawn reciprocated your newfound depravity with a hand flush to your pussy, the uneven vibrations of the device kicked up to a higher, consistent setting with a sly thumb, thrumming mutedly into your folds as Thrawn pressed the cold black bar against your chest.
The action tilted the angle of your hips, and left you utterly powerless to the assault on your sex that left you crying out into Thrawn's mouth with unwarranted tremors as your climax ripped through you like a fucking Holdo maneuver.
Maker, you should've known he wouldn't stop.
"One more, like I said, Ensign," Thrawn cooed against your lips, withdrawing his slick fingers from your spent, still-spasming vulva to reach for the zipper at the front of his relaxed fit where his cock strained to be released, fumbling to join you in your pleasure.
"Just one more, ch'acah..."
Footnotes : THANK YOU FOR READINGG comments and reblogs are GREATLY appreciated !!!! Crossposted on ao3♡♡
