#Also- pulls out a knife when he already has a knife on his hip-

[hcadlesshuntcr]

I always choose well :)

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Game On. | Touya x Reader Imagine 🌶

LOLOL But imagine Touya fucking up into you bare for the first time...

Oh, you can't!? Well let me do it for you...

He finally has you naked in his bed like he's been dreaming about ever since you joined up with the League of Villains.

You'd knocked on his door and kissed him when he'd answered it - putting a fiery seal on 6 months of mutual pining and flirtation. You'd been so desperate for each other that he'd pulled you into his arms and kicked the door closed behind you. His lips were everywhere - your mouth, your cheeks, your pulse point. He'd unbuttoned your shirt and shed you of your clothes in record time. There was no time to be embarrassed about your nakedness - not when there's so much of Touya you still need to explore.

You pull at his hair, bite at his lips, run your hands down his toned, stapled body...there wasn't time to grab a condom, not when you need each other this badly. You were already so wet and desperate for him, he pressed his thick cock into you so easily. Touya slid into you smoothly like a knife into room temperature butter.

And so now here you are, riding him. Bouncing up and down on his cock like there's no tomorrow, like you won't need to have a serious conversation about what you mean to each other after this is all done.

Nope - no thinking. No planning ahead. Just you riding his emo fucking dick and cooing at him as he throws his head back and lets out the sluttiest little sounds you've ever heard.

His piercings and staples glint in the low light and his large hands move to grip at your hips, his touch almost bruising in intensity. His cock twitches and bullies its way up into your tight pussy as he searches for your G-spot. You gasp when he finds it, and he grins wickedly up at you when he feels you reflexively squeeze around him. He focuses in on repeating the motion again and again. Your tits bounce with the rhythm of his thrusts as he speeds up, grinding into you.

"You wanna cum, babe? You want me to fill up this tight fuckin' pussy?" He speeds up and brings a calloused thumb between the two of your bodies in order to rub at your clit. Heat pools in your lower belly and your cheeks heat up as you feel yourself at the verge of release. Touya grins up at you, wicked white teeth glimmering as he fucks you, enjoying himself.

"Don't worry about cumming too early, sweetheart. I bet I can get at least 3 orgasms out of you tonight." He flashes you a smile of bright white teeth as his cock twitches deep inside of you.

And at his inspired dirty talk, you fall over the edge and into oblivion, creaming on the cock of one of the most wanted villains in Japan. Your breath hitches in the back of your throat as you feel your pussy clench tightly around his dick, pulsing and fluttering in time with the pleasure of your orgasm.

Touya's icy blue eyes bore into your own. As he watches you cum, something in him falters and his eyes grow a fraction wider. It takes you a moment before you register what's going on - your orgasm is milking pleasure out of Touya's cock and the goddamn idiot is also cumming. His dick twitches once, twice, three times as he cums deep inside of you, fucking his ejaculate deeper and deeper into your tiny cunt.

Reading his body language you realize - his orgasm had taken you both by surprise. The goddamn idiot had thought he could holdout longer. But now here he is, filling you up to the brim with his thick baby batter.

"Fuuuuck!" He groans out, eyes fluttering shut as his hips work overtime to draw out his release. "Fuckin' hell." You feel his thick, hot ropes of cum filling you up and making the tail end of your own orgasm even more intense.

You groan as you both finish, crying out his name in such a pretty way that he doesn’t know what to do. His hands grab anything they can find – your hips, your breasts, your neck. He feels so good and he craves closeness – he’d climb into your goddamn skin if he could.

When you both come down from that heaven-sent high, you fall onto his chest and nuzzle into his neck. You're absolutely spent.

“Wow.” Is all you can say as you feel him gently pull out of you, cool air hitting your pussy as cum and arousal gush onto the sheets. He shifts you into a more comfortable position and you shiver as the sweat on your body cools in the AC.

“I’ll last longer next time.” He says, softness creeping into his voice. He sounds...embarrassed? You smile, savoring the rare spark of vulnerability. All sense of angry bravado has been abandoned now that he’s fucked out and breathless.

“You’d better.” You try to challenge him, but you’re too tired and too boneless to hold up your end of banter. “Hold me?”

He wraps his arms around you, strong biceps flexing against your bare skin. You feel the hard metal of staples scratch lightly across your skin as you curve into him. You shift your gaze up to his beautiful face, his mouth quirked into an unsteady smile.

His ice blue eyes search your face as he croaks out: “So…are we actually doing this?”

“Doing what?” You ask shakily, afraid of what his answer might be.

“You know damn well ‘what.’” He scowls, but his expression is softer than usual as he squeezes you to him. You can feel his heartbeat pulsing where your chests lay flush against each other. “I want you too badly. I want you to be mine.”

“Like…in a hookup-fuck-buddy kinda way? Or in an intense, deep devotion relationshipy way?” You ask, suppressing a giggle as Touya scowls at you with those endless icy eyes of his.

“Don’t make me say it.” He says gruffly, rolling his eyes as he looks past your face to stare hard into the cracking ceiling. “The latter. I need you all to myself. Idiot.”

“Touya, you’re so goddamn mushy I can’t stand it.” You say sarcastically, bringing up a hand to trace his sharp jawline. He fuckin leans into the touch. He’s so whipped for you, you practically glow with the realization. “So does that make me your girlfriend?” You tease.

He huffs, throwing you off of him and onto your back. You hit the plush mattress and sink in a bit, surprised at his sudden roughness. Seconds later he’s on top of you, kissing down your neck and sinking his teeth into your shoulder and sucking at the skin there. A bright hickey blooms quickly under his mouth and he smiles at it, content.

“If calling you my girlfriend gives me unrestricted access to this gorgeous fuckin’ body…then, yeah. I’ll let you be my girlfriend, sweetheart.” He whispers harshly, his fingers coming down to rub against your abused clit. You gasp, still over stimulated from your orgasm.

“You’re such a shithead jerk, Touya.” You moan in discomfort as he slips a finger inside of you with a squelch, pushing his cum back inside of you.

“Yeah, but doll I’m you’re ‘shithead jerk’ now. No take backs.”

You can feel him already getting hard again against your thigh, and you spread your legs to give him better access to your pussy.

Oh you are gonna have fun with boyfriend Touya. You gasp as he curls his fingers to hit your g-spot deep inside your still-shaky cunt.

You grin wickedly up at his ceiling.

Game on.

-------------------------

Woohoo a rare little one shot ficlet! Hope you enjoyed!

XOXO, RedRiotUnbreakableHeart ❤️

🔥Link to My Master List 🔥

[moosesarecute]

Day 6: Song of the Wind

part 2 @azrielappreciationweek

The screams got louder after the sound of the first fallen building.

“Please,” you whispered aloud to nobody. “Please, make them stop.”

Hybern were destroying your city. And there wasn’t anything you could do. Your powers were never the strongest. You were always the one that didn’t manage to do all the impressive things all your friends and family did.

A scream let your lips as a huge piece of the roof fell down around you.

You definitely had to get out.

As pulled yourself up from the floor you felt your entire body shaking from fear. Your hands felt numb and you struggled to move your feet forwards.

If only you could winnow.

You carefully looked outside the window of your home. You had to hold your hand to your mouth to stop your scream as you saw your dead neighbors laying in the street.

In the end of the street you saw at least fifteen Hybern soldiers. They were blocking your only way out.

You were going to die. You were going to die as your neighbors already had.

Tears pressed through your eyes as you tried to figure out what to do next.

Maybe if you just stayed here, they would think that they had killed everyone and wouldn’t see you. But if you stayed and they found you, you wouldn’t have any way out.

“Well, well boys,” you heard a voice from the group of soldiers. “Why don’t you just stop this now.”

You once more dared to peek outside the door.

Two huge illyrians stood in the middle of the Hybern soldiers.

The soldiers didn’t plan to stop at all. It only took one nod from their commander to start attacking the Illyrians.

Fifteen against two. They were stupid. They would never get out of this.

But then you saw the first soldier fall, and suddenly five more, and then some of them flew. And it was only five against two.

Your eyes widened at the Illyrians movements. They had total control. They fought separately, but helped each other when they needed it.

After a while, the Hybern soldiers had either left or been killed. And the illyrians looked unharmed.

“Look for survivors, I’ll make sure they don’t destroy all of Adriata,” one of them said. He had long hair sat up in a bun and he wore seven red pieces of jewelry. And then he flew away.

The remaining illyrian started to walk from fae to fae. Even though his face remained neutral, but you could still see that he felt devastated.

He looked scary, but also kind in a way.

He moved closer to you and you were unsure what to do. If you stayed still, he probably wouldn’t find you. But if Hybern returned you would be dead.

Could you trust the male? Unfortunately, you didn’t have time to make up your mind.

You got the uncomfortable feeling that you were being watched.

You slowly raised your head and the illyrian looked directly at you.

He looked at you almost shocked. Like his entire life had just been changed. His eyes were wide and his lips were parted. You almost looked confused at him.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t answer. You got so scared. Your hands were shaking and your heart was beating out of your chest.

You didn’t want to die.

“Are you unharmed?” He asked you next. His voice was nervously low and unsteady.

You still couldn’t answer.

He stepped a little bit closer to you. And before you could think you stepped away from him.

“I’m Azriel,” he said. “I’m from the Night Court and we’ve come to help.”

His voice was almost soft. And when you took a little time to actually look at him, you saw how handsome he was even though his face was grave.

“Do you want me to get you out of here? The High Lords palace has been made to a safe place for everyone,” he spoke again.

Your entire body told you to trust him, but your mind held you back.

“Here,” he said next. “Take this.”

He moved his hands to his hips and pulled up a knife and held it in front of him. And then black shadows picked the knife from his hand and transported it through the air towards you.

You were about to move further away from them when they carefully laid the knife on the ground and retreated a little.

“You can defend yourself if you feel unsafe,” Azriel said.

Maybe you’d meet your family at the palace. Or some of your friends. It would definitely be better than staying here.

“How would we get there?” You asked him.

His eyes widened again at the sound of your voice. You could see the smallest bend in his knees and a small twitch in his hand.

Right after, also the shadows moved. It was only a small moment, but they moved towards you.

“We would have to fly,” he answered. “We’ll fly close to the ground so that you can leave easily.”

For some unknown reason, your heart managed to tell you that it would be alright. That you’d die either way, so why not experience flying.

You moved swiftly to pick up the knife without looking at him.

“How do we do this?” You looked at him first after you had the knife safely in your hand.

He looked surprised that you decided to go with him. He almost had to drag himself out of his thoughts. A small smile grew on his no longer neutral face.

“Can I pick you up?” He asked.

You nodded before you could overthink.

He moved carefully towards you and you made sure to notice his every move.

He stopped when he stood only a meter away.

“I’ll pick you up now.”

You nodded again.

He bended his knees and laid his arm under your knees. He looked at you before his every move to make sure you wouldn’t hurt him.

His other hand touched your back and he lifted you off the ground.

“Okay?”

You nodded.

“I won’t drop you, but it would be better if you held onto me,” Azriel explained.

You did as he said. And with the knife still in your hand, you held onto him as he started to fly.

The second you left the ground, you let out a small scream.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel whispered.

You couldn’t hold back as tears left your eyes and your entire body started to shake. You were going into complete panic.

Then, suddenly you felt something dry your tears. You opened your eyes and looked at the shadow that tried to comfort you. It felt soft and gave you a little feeling of warmth.

As you opened your eyes, you also noticed how far off the ground you were. You tensed a little.

“Should I fly closer to the ground?” He asked you.

Surprising yourself, you shock your head. You choose to look up instead of down.

The wind in your hair, the pretty blue sky and the calm movement in the clouds, calmed your heart.

The shadow moved away from your cheek and landed on your chest just above your heart.

“They like you,” Azriel said.

And you looked at him. Suddenly you noticed his smell. It was the most beautiful smell you had ever experienced. And his eyes. They were hazel with a glow.

“They’re cute,” you answered him and then moved your gaze toward the sky once more.

You flew the remaining minute in silence.

“I’m going to descend to the ground now,” his soft voice said.

As you landed outside the open door to the palace, he sat you down on the ground and let go of you.

The relief of being on the ground was overshadowed by the loss of contact.

You looked up at him and he looked back at you. Directly into your eyes.

“Thank you,” you said.

“No problem,” he answered and after a few seconds he continued. “Glad you’re safe.”

You gave him a small smile and handed him back his knife.

“Azriel!” The illyrian from earlier called him and came running. “We have to go now.”

Azriel looked back and fourth between you and the illyrian.

“Y/N!”

Relief filled your body as you heard your brother’s voice. You turned and was immediately engulfed in his hug.

“Thank the mother,” he whispered. “We have to get you to mom, she’s freaking out.”

He started to lead you away from your hero and you joined him, but not before you had turned your head to look back at Azriel.

You had to smile as you noticed that he also looked back at you. He gave you a small smile and you were about to do the same, when you felt it.

Mate

Divider by @cafekitsune

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (22/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: This friendship is off to a great start. Or something like that.

Warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff because you all deserve it, tiny but of angst (because it wouldn't be my work if there wasn't angst in it), google translated French

Word Count: 2.9k

series masterlist

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A/N: tadaaaaaa. did my best and I hopefully have time to update this story weekly. feedback is appreciated!

The other side of the bed is empty when you open your eyes. 

Sunlight beams through the window and warms your face as you stretch your arms and lie back. A loud yawn escapes your mouth, but you are so well rested and relaxed that you don't care who can hear you. 

Charles is probably hanging around the apartment somewhere and you can't help but smile at the thought of him. 

You didn't expect you two to talk so soon, but now that the weight is off your shoulders and the secrets - both your unemployment and the Formula One thing - are out in the open, you feel a lot better. You slept well, snuggled up to Charles with his arm wrapped tightly around your middle. His warmth gave you security and comfort and although the road to this moment has been quite bumpy and rocky, you're glad you've finally arrived at this point. 

Pure friendship. 

It's the right thing to do, you tell yourself. This friendship is more important than anything else in this world. I'll be damned if I'm going to destroy the only good thing I have.

You lock your feelings deep inside you, bury them under many and thick layers of friendly affection so that no daylight can reach them. What remains inside you is silence, a pleasant, comforting silence. 

You don't have to worry about what his pet names mean to you. You don't have to worry about eventualities that will certainly not become reality anyway. You can be there for Charles, as a friend - as someone who is there for him. 

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. There are some fresh clothes for you on a small chest of drawers - a turquoise shirt and short gray Puma sports shorts - which you quickly slip into. As you open the door to your room, the smell of batter fills your nose. 

"Bonjour," Charles smiles at you as you enter the spacious, modern kitchen and sit down opposite him at the kitchen counter. Unlike last night, this time he's wearing a shirt and gray sweatpants, which hang low on his hips but still let you feel a little sigh of relief. With spatula in hand, he scrapes the pancake out of the pan to put it on a plate and slide it over to you. "How did you sleep?"

"Very well," you answer him and reach for the Nutella that is already in front of you. "And you?"

"Likewise." He turns off the stove and sits down next to you with another plate of pancakes. His knee nudges yours, but neither of you pulls your leg away. "The recipe is from my teammate. He says they're the best pancakes ever and I thought we could try them together."

As you spread the Nutella evenly on your pancake, you hand him the jar. His fingertips gently brush your hand. "So if they don't taste good, it's not your fault?" you grin and use your knife and fork to cut off a small piece before popping it into your mouth. 

Charles watches your every move. "That's right. So? Did he lie?"

You shake your head. The pancake in your mouth is warm and soft and fluffy, vanilla is definitely one of the ingredients and as you swallow the piece, a little of the delicious taste remains. "It's really delicious," you reply and spear another piece with your fork. "But I think it's also down to how the pancakes are made. The batter can be as good as it wants to be, but if it's made incorrectly - nope. Then it can't be saved."

Your Monegasque friend pours a little orange juice into the empty glass in front of you. "Was that a compliment to the chef?" A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows. 

You playfully punch him in the shoulder with your fist. He pretends to almost fall off his chair. "My statement is to be considered purely objective."

Something flashes in Charles' green eyes, but before you can pinpoint it, he turns his gaze back to the breakfast. "I've heard you say that before," he mumbles before taking a bite. "But it really tastes great. I'll have to tell him when I see him again soon."

"What does your nutritionist say about you smearing so much Nutella on your pancake?" When he puts his index finger to his mouth, you have to smile. "Do you have to go back? To Italy?" The thought of Charles leaving you alone here in this big apartment makes you swallow hard. You only really talked to each other a few hours ago, does he really have to -

"No," he unintentionally interrupts your train of thought. "I don't think they want to see me there again so soon after I left yesterday. But that's just the way it is." He shrugs his shoulders. "More time for us." Before you can ponder the meaning of that sentence, he continues. "I know we've already talked this morning about what to do next, but I think we should discuss it again."

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

The brunette purses his lips. "You said that you still want to be friends with me despite my job - and I think that's great - but you should really be sure."

"I am sure," you reply without hesitation.

"But you have to know what all this would mean for you if you take this," he points first to you and then to himself, "on. Dealing with all this is more difficult than you can imagine."

"All right," you reply, shoving the last piece of pancake into your mouth before washing it down with orange juice. "Go on then, Mr. Charles Leclerc."

He looks at you with a look that can't mean anything other than "Really?" before clearing his throat. "I've been in the public eye since I was little. It used to be karting, now it's Formula One. I'm used to people recognizing me, approaching me on the street and wanting to take photos. It's normal everyday life for me."

"Sounds a bit conceited," you joke, but Charles' expression suggests he's not in the mood for fun. "Okay. Je suis désolé."

"As soon as I leave the house, people talk about it. What I'm doing. Where I'm going. Who I'm spending time with. And my friends are set on the fact that when we're out and about, we can never be fully undisturbed." He chews on his lower lip for a moment. "With my female friends, things are a little more complicated."

"Meaning?"

He takes a deep breath. "As a Formula One driver, it's quite difficult to maintain friendships with the opposite sex. As soon as you do something together without anyone else around, it's portrayed as a date in the press or on social media. According to TikTok, I've had four new girlfriends since Annika and I split up. But nobody cares that they are the wives and girlfriends of my best friends. People see what they want to see. Even if it doesn't reflect the truth at all."

Without hesitation, you reach for his hand and stroke the back of it with your thumb. His skin is soft. "I'm terribly sorry about that. It must be awful."

Charles turns his hand a little so you can intertwine your fingers. "It's nothing new for me. It's more difficult for my friends. They are insulted, called names, judged. And all because they want to spend time with me, because that's what friends do. It's not fair. Not for anyone."

Now you understand why it's so important to Charles that you know this. His friendship has a price. And from what he tells you, it's not exactly cheap.

"The pressure on you would be huge. People will have opinions about you that you won't like. And no matter what you do, no matter how good you are - you won't be able to change them. And at some point, you'll be approached on the street without me, just because we're friends. The first time Joris was asked for a photo, he was completely taken aback."

You can see how much this is taking its toll on him and you don't even want to know how many friendships his name has already cost him. It's understandable that not everyone wants to take this risk, this life.

You squeeze his hand twice to attract his attention. When he looks at you, you smile. "Doesn't sound so bad," you try to cheer him up. The attempt fails miserably.

"I don't think you understand me." He shakes his head slightly and removes his hand from yours. "That's no small sacrifice. And there's no turning back once you do. You'll have no privacy once you leave this apartment. You'll be the talk of the town. About what you do, what you say and what clothes you wear. And all because we're friends."

You raise an eyebrow. "And what's in it for me then?"

He lowers his eyes again. His voice is quiet. "Just - me."

Your heart breaks for him. 

How can he not know how wonderful he is? Ever since you've known each other, Charles has always given you the chance to get out of things. He's let you have the bed, driven your rickety Renault to protect you from the public, pushed you away - disgustingly, but still. And all so that you could have a choice. 

You'd like to take him in your arms and hug him tightly, hoping you can patch up his shattered parts. And so you do. You get up from the chair and wrap your arms around him so tightly that he gasps in surprise. He slides off his chair into a firm stance so that your hands slide a little lower down his back. A moment later, when you feel one of his hands on your spine and the other in your hair, you press your cheek against his hard chest.

"I wish you could see yourself the way I do," you murmur against the soft fabric of his shirt, whereupon he presses you a little closer to him. 

"How do you see me?" he whispers against the top of your head. You feel his lips on your scalp. "Like a crazy, jealous guy who shows up at your place in the middle of the night and starts a fight with your ex?"

"You're an idiot." You lift your face from his chest and tilt your head back so you can look at him. He looks down at you. "You're such a wonderful person, Charles. And I would be honored if you wanted me as a friend."

"Are you really sure?" His warm breath brushes over your face. "There's so much you -"

"I'm sure," you interrupt him. 

"There's a series on Netflix you can watch so you can get a better understanding of -"

"I'm sure."

"Y/N, please -"

"Don't you want to be my friend?" You want to take a step backwards so you can really look at him, but he's so comfortably warm and his gaze is so heartbreaking that you don't want to let him go under any circumstances. 

"I want nothing more than that. Really." The hand that was in your hair a moment ago rests against your cheek and your thumb strokes it gently. "But there's so much you have to give up. And just for me."

You nestle your face against his warm skin. "You're all I have. And that's all I need."

His gaze softens and he gently kisses your forehead before holding you close one last time and then letting go. "The Netflix series isn't that good anyway. It doesn't reflect what really happens on race weekends." He sits back down at the counter and grabs another pancake. 

You join him. "I'm not surprised. Netflix will do anything to make money and twisting reality to make it more marketable is nothing new." You copy him with the pancake.

"Exactly. And if you want to know anything, you can ask me. Your friend - the Formula One driver," he grins, shoving a bite between his two jaws. 

"You said yesterday that this season has been a throwaway. What do you mean?" you ask him, emptying the bottle of orange juice into your glasses. 

Charles shrugs his shoulders. "The car and the strategies didn't work as they should have. The Scuderia made more cock-ups than you can stand."

You have to suppress a grin. "Then wouldn't it be smarter to call it the Screwderia?"

His gaze is emotionless as you look at him. "That's the worst joke I've ever heard." He smirks. "But you're right about that."

It's obvious that your friend feels a lot more comfortable now that he's told you the truth. The passion with which he talks about the sport is infectious, and you listen to him as attentively as you can. There's a sparkle in his eyes, his smile almost reaches your ears as he talks about his victories and podiums. 

How could you not want to be friends with him?

When you're done with breakfast, Charles sends you to explore the apartment while he does the dishes. After brushing your teeth and getting a bit more ready - you keep your clothes on, they're comfortable and Charles' after all - you wander through the rooms. 

The living room is kept simple, with white furniture and a comfortable-looking couch where you can watch the second part of Cars. Next to it on a shelf are several trophies and even helmets, which you take a quick look at.

There's even a white piano. A red rose arrangement with the word Love is placed on it. As you run your fingers over the wood of the instrument, you hear Charles enter the room. 

"The roses are from Annika. They're not real, so they can stay longer." He steps from one foot to the other. 

"Why haven't you thrown them away yet?" you ask him as you turn to face him. 

He shrugs his shoulders. "I haven't gotten around to it yet. And Annika was still living here until yesterday. So..."

You nod weakly and change the subject. "Have you been practicing here?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, I don't have much time to play because of Formula One. It was good to play in the bookshop. Even if it was completely improvised."

You remember every single note. The passion he poured into the keys to create an incredibly beautiful piece of music. The passion he felt. How beautiful he looked in the warm light. "It was beautiful. It really was."

"It's your song." He smiles lovingly. "It's as beautiful as you are."

Like magnets, you move towards each other. As he holds out his hand, you place yours in it so that he can gently turn you in a circle before pulling you close. Your hands rest on your chest and you feel his strong heartbeat under your fingertips as you smooth down his shirt. His hands are on your lower back, pressing you against him so that you arch towards him. 

"Charles."

"Mm-hmm." His gaze flickers back and forth between your eyes and your lips, making your heart beat faster. 

You hypocrite, you hear your conscience say as your one hand slides to the nape of his neck and plays with the fine hair there. Charles closes his eyes and something you can only categorize as a moan escapes his throat. 

"Please don't stop," he whispers and leans his forehead against yours. The tips of your noses nudge against each other. 

"With what?" you ask softly, even though you know exactly what he means. 

"Touching me." His voice sounds almost like a deep groan. "Tu me fais tellement de bien.“ you feel so good.

You would never stop. It seems like an invisible boundary was torn down last night and you haven't been able to stop touching each other since. His knee against yours at breakfast. Your embrace. Your half-naked bodies pressed together a few hours ago when you were talking. 

Even if you wanted to, you couldn't stop touching him. 

Hypocrite, repeats the annoying voice in your head. 

Without thinking about it, you arch towards him another inch and Charles draws in a sharp breath. 

"Charles?" A woman's voice sounds from the hallway and the Monegasque opens his eyes. „Chéri, tu es à la maison?“ darling, are you home?

Your eyes search his as he suddenly breaks away from you and takes a step back. Panic is practically written all over his face. 

"Who's that?" you ask silently, but get no answer.

The footsteps from the hallway come closer and when you turn around, a woman is standing in front of you, looking first at you and then at Charles before her gaze lingers on you. "'Qui avons-nous là?“ who do we have here? she asks, walking towards you before grabbing your hands and giving you a kiss on the left cheek, then the right. 

"Maman, que fais-tu ici?" mom, what are you doing here? Charles asks hesitantly, taking a step towards you both. 

Maman?

next part

[pedgito]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 | Tommy Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | tommy's on a path for revenge and you're his unfortunate baggage.

author's note | this is a small blurb for a future series for tommy. for context: joel revenge tour, forced proximity, reader is baggage to tommy, and also mean!tommy. him and maria have already separated before he leaves to go after abby & the group. so if it’s easier to consider this au, please do. this is unbeta'd and based off this post.

content warning | 18+ smut, eluding to past hookups, undefined age gap, tommy is a broken shell of himself, manhandling, a moment of softness from tommy but mostly selfishness, unprotected p in v, mentions of not pulling out. the tommy brainrot is in full effect y'all.

word count —1.4k

He doesn’t touch you like this unless he wants something.

A hand up your back, under your shirt as you bend down to throw more kindling into the fire, taking the broken twigs from his hand.

You feel it, tense slightly as you toss the sticks into the pool of flames and rise, turning your head over your shoulder. 

He’s got that distant smile that doesn’t ever reach his eyes, not anymore. The thing with Tommy is that when he smiled, or used to anyways, it was a full body reaction.

His eyes light up, the lines around his mouth creasing as he grinned and the subtle twitch or flex of his hands as he tried to contain himself. As dark as you’ve seen him lately, you knew that Tommy was still buried underneath. Deep, deep down.

“It was once,” you remind him, eyes flicking down at his now empty hands pressing against your hip, slowly caressing its way over your stomach and slipping underneath the fabric there, sandwiched in by both of his hands as he nudged you to turn and face him, “—we agreed, Tommy.”

“You can keep tellin’ yourself that,” Tommy argues, “s’far as I remember you did a whole lotta talkin’ and you still haven’t told me stop,” his hands settling against your waist, squeezing the flesh under his fingertips, “you want me to stop?” 

Your eyes follow the path of his fingertips as they clutch the end of your shirts and push up, dragging it up until your skin is bared to him, knuckles dragging over the surface. It was heat, pure heat. Different from the sweltering flames at your sides. It was hunger.

So strong, unbridled. If he wasn’t thinking about this, he was thinking about them. Or him. He has nightmares every night, ones you’ve learned to let him ride out. The one attempt to pull him out ended with you on your ass and a knife to your throat, skin nicked from the sharp blade pressing into your chin.

You shake your head so slightly you aren’t expecting him to catch it, but he does. “That’s right,” he nods, his hand raising to brush against the underside of your chin, thumb dragging over your cheek, “look at me.”

Hesitantly, you do. Heart hammering in your chest you dare, staring back at his unrestrained gaze. There wasn’t admiration or fondness, nothing like that. But, there was understanding.

You help me, I help you.

Mutually assured destruction.

The force of your kiss as you rush into him sends him stumbling, feet hitting the edge of a table before he’s collapsing in an old chair, creaking under the weight of you both.

His head presses against the back of the chair, kissing you back soundly, sloppily as he tongue dives—digs into your mouth and licks away the built up frustration you’ve carried for the past week.

It tastes like resentment and anger, things you couldn’t say to him—things he wouldn’t say himself. It was a dangerous dance that has begun to play out for you both.

He reaches blindly for your jeans, popping the metal button and attempting to squeeze his hand between the snug material and your underwear, struggling with the angle and how desperately your pressing yourself into him as you pull at his hair, dark locks tangled around your fingers and he grunts, heaving out a heavy sigh.

“Get ‘em off,” he orders casually, rubbing his hands against the denim as he pushes you away, mirror your movements as he strips himself of a few more layers; coat, flannel, shoving his pants just far enough down his knees that by the time yours are off he’s ready for your hurried approach.

You climb back over his lap, a salacious grin on his face as you mount him, “alright, atta girl,” followed by a soft catch of his breath as you wrap your palm around his shaft, tugging leisurely as his cock hardens from your touch, brow pinched as he watches, “—careful, honey.”

He joins your hand, using the force of his thumb on his opposite hand as it wraps around yours to press the head of his cock between your cunt, slipping between your folds and notching himself against your clit.

Before you can even think to speak, his hand is wrapping around the back of your neck, pulling it taut in his grip as he forces you still, gaze locked on his own as he pushes inside of you.

He’s already worked up, functioning on pure adrenaline and rage the past few days, knowing that he would soon hit a wall, but not before he allowed himself this. A gentle whine squeezing from your throat as he bucks his hips into you slowly, watching the desperate clench of your jaw as you swallow, eyes falling closed.

If it weren’t for the fireplace, he’d be acting off feel alone—like the last time. A back alley in the decrepit city of Seattle and the low hum of infected in the nearby area. Hand over your mouth, fingers circling of your clit as he fucked you against the moss-covered brick wall. 

There was no preamble. Only a look, a deep growl of anger as he snapped and you allowed him to take his emotions out on you—given you were a big reason why his trip wasn’t going off without a hitch like he’d expected.

You were ruining it, dragging him down, but he couldn't just let you go—you were too far from Jackson, too far from home. 

“Not gonna be the last time,” you inquire, a breathlessness to your voice as you worked your hips back against him, fingers digging into the material of his shirt and feeling the flex of his abdomen underneath, the sharp snap of his hips as pistons himself into you, “is it?”

Tommy leans forward suddenly, hand pressing against your back for support as you yelp softly, fingers pulling in his hair in a reactionary manner but it makes him curse. Your body goes fuzzy at the aggression in his tone, clenching around him out of instinct. 

“You tell me,” Tommy counters, “you sneak outta Jackson, you follow me here, you fuck up my plans—and you just think—“

“Think what?”

“I ain’t that dense, honey,” He snarks, “you’ve been eyein’ me for weeks. He said you were good, mindful—but you are just nothin’ but goddamn trouble.”

He didn't need to say his name, you knew.

You smirk at his assumption of you, a small laugh bubbling from your chest as you fight for the upper hand, pressing him back into the chair against his hardened grip, almost avoiding the nudge of his mouth as he leans in for a hungry kiss, his palms squeezing at your ass cheeks so tight that it pulls you forward too, your foreheads colliding quick and sharp, a collective groan of pain erupting from you both.

It’s in the quiet lull of a look, as Tommy rubs at the sore spot on his forehead that you find yourself laughing—soft and wistful as you rock back, his cock still buried inside of you.

In an instant his hands are at your hips, gripping tight as his lips pull in a thin line, whatever semblance of a smile he did have was quickly gone and focused on you—or more so, the point where your cunt was sucking him in and squeezing, so tight he feels like he might come just like that

“Ease up,” he chokes out, the sweat on his brow glistening with the glow of the fireplace, “keep squeezin’ my cock like that and I’ll come right now.”

You grin, a soft snicker slipping past your lips.

“Is that a threat?”

“No,” Tommy offers in a softer tone, “but I ain’t finished with you yet—so ease up.” It ignites the coil of pleasure deep inside of you, the snarl of his teeth contrasting with his gentle tone.

You knew there was no piecing Tommy back together after everything that's happened—whatever was left of Tommy’s peace had departed the moment his brother had too. 

-

dividers creds: @/saradika-graphics

[rayhalloffame]

A little self indulgent but working in a career where you also have to be very precise with your hands. Carmen is down a chef and you’ve cooked with him enough to kind of have an idea of how his kitchen flows and what his techniques are so you offer to stand in.

Regardless, you struggle to keep up with the flurry of movements and shouting during dinner service. Someone is saying “behind” or “corner” or “yes, chef”, pans are sizzling, oven doors are slamming. Knives are chopping. Specifically, your knife into a steak, cooked to perfection by Tina. And then a loud bang startles you, causing you to slice into your finger. It stuns you more than anything else, knife dropping from your hand and onto the work station. Before you have a chance to move your hand blood trickles from your finger onto the wagyu. You’re frozen in place.

Carmen is shouting for wagyu to table 7, yesterday. Your lack of response is what causes his head to pop up from his position at expo, finding your ashen face staring at your hand. “Chef,” he says, waits a beat, then prompts you again to no avail. He dusts his hands on the towel hanging from his apron while he approaches you. You’re dazed until his hands come up to cradle your face, tapping one hand gently on your cheek and calling your name. It brings your attention back to present. Your eyes flick between his concerned ones and the steak sitting dead in front of you. “You alright?”

Your lip wobbles immediately. “I – the steak, uh,” you’re trying with a shaky breath. It’s not even the pain in your finger or the embarrassment. You just put the whole team behind by bleeding on a dish. Carmen’s brow creases. He wraps a hand around your wrist to inspect the wound that has now begun to pool blood at the site. “I ruined the steak, chef. I’m sorry.” Your eyes get glassier by the second.

Carmen nods curtly. “T, take over,” he asks, making brief eye contact with the small chef. Tina agrees, concerned but doesn’t ask questions. Carm returns his attention to you, brings his voice down an octave. “C’mon,” he says, applies some force on your wrist to nudge you backwards. “Step out.” The panicked, apologetic look you give him makes him more insistent, wanting to get you away from the chaos and prying eyes. He’s appreciative for Sydney when she commands, “Chefs, listen to the sound of my voice.”

He guides you quickly with a hand to the small of your back and the other still holding your wrist afloat. A tear is sliding down your cheek by the time Carmen has your finger under running water. He glances at you from under his lashes. “Hurts?” You shake your head and wipe angrily at your cheek. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” he murmurs, softness so different from his harsh control of the kitchen moments before. It makes you feel worse.

“I got it,” you say gruffly around the frog in your throat, pulling your hand from his grip, “get back out there.” Carmen stands with his hands on his hips, watching you inspect your cleaned finger before wrapping a paper towel around it tightly. You turn off the faucet and brush past him to find bandages in the office and he follows.

Except when you do step into the office you stop moving. You drop your head and pull long shaky breaths into your lungs, hands clenching and unclenching. Carmen spins you by your shoulders and tugs you into him, triggering a sob to fall from your lips. He rubs a hand down the back your head comfortingly. “I don’t—,” he starts, “Bear, why’re you so upset?”

You start babbling, “I – I ruined the dish, Carm.” You get your works out between sniffles and hiccups, the collar of his chef’s whites wet with your efforts. “We were already behind an – and I was slow, and I bled on it and T – ina worked so hard on it.” You can feel Carmen’s nods against the side of your face.

“Its a kitchen, baby,” he says. “People get injured all the time. We refire and keep going.”

“I wanted to help and I let you down,” you sniffle. You calm yourself after a few moments. Realizing that you’re holding him up even more, you pull yourself from his embrace. “Go, go,” you shoo him, “I got this, I’m okay.”

Carmen inspects your finger when you unwrap it and decides it’s not dire, that you can care for it on your own if that’s what you want. He cradles your jaw, rubs his thumb across your cheek. You pull one side of your mouth up in a sad smile. “Could never let me down. I appreciate you stepping in for me and, uh, it’s nice. Y’know, seeing you in my space.” He nods, tilts his head to the side. “You’re okay.” Carmy reels you in to kiss the top of your head then lets you go. “Your station is still yours if – uh, if you want to come back.” You smile lightly at him in acknowledgement before he drops his hand and retreats. You do end up returning once you’re bandaged and composed, spurred on by the assuring expression Carmen gifts you each time his eyes linger on you.

[seancekitsch]

hellooo hello, can I request Viktor with journalist!reader?

“Hello?” A soft low voice calls from the doorway of your workspace. You do not have to look up to know who it is, but you still do, your smile widening as you see the scientist darkening your doorway. He looks deadly serious, but when does he not? He’s out of his usual academy lab wear, opting for a thick wool coat that he drapes on your coat rack and a deep burgundy shirt. 

“Oh, Viktor! Come in! Did you see the article?” you usher him in as he shuts the door behind himself, getting up to turn on your kettle for him. You turn your back as he rests his cane against your writing desk, sitting himself in the cozy upholstered velvet chair you had dragged into the room once it was finally announced this would be an office for you instead of shared space. You get his tea bag ready and grab a lemon so he can have a fresh slice in his cup, having memorized exactly how he takes it. 

“I did,” he pauses, and you stiffen, lemon in hand and little knife glittering untouched. 

You inhale deeply, already anticipating the rest of his sentence.

“…But I do have some notes.”

You sigh deeply, turning around without a teacup in hand. He sits smugly, perched upon the chair as if it was made to be his throne, looking better in it than you ever have. Without a further word, you sit back down at your desk and pull out your original draft of the article from your files. Your handwriting is penned neatly across the pages, edits in the margins and additional notes pinned meticulously to the edges. Viktor reaches across the desk and snatches them from your hand before you can begin to read them out loud. You huff, but it falls on deaf ears, Viktor now pouring through the draft of the article. 

“I believe I gave you due credit, despite the fact that my bosses told me it was about the Man of Progress himself and only his contributions,” you argue, though he has yet to say anything. He gets to the sixth page of your draft before looking up at him. You remember the tense conversation you had with the editors, their disdain for his “undercity upbringing” and yet you had to remind them of where you had also come from. It was work to get Viktor mentioned in the article, but it was effort he deserves.

“Men of progress, I liked that," he tells you, and flips a page, "And this part? You described the color of the Hexcore incorrectly, it is more of a... cyan," he smirks slightly as he criticizes one of the notes, and pulls one of the additional notes off the corner of the page, "You refer to Jayce as handsome three times. Why is this? The words you use for me are maven, mastermind, sage. Why? Am I not also handsome?”

Any nerves you have dissolve at the playful smile that graces his hollow cheeks. His lips pale and chapped, but still a thing of great beauty. 

You giggle, and snatch the notes back from him. 

“Do you really think I’d use my writing to tell all of Piltover that you’re mine? Thats quite a large personal bias, it would detract from my ethics. I’m a professional, you know,” you joke with him as you’re getting up from the desk to move around it, now resting your ass on it as you lean in front of Viktor. You reach your hand out, fingertips outstretched and quickly met with his own, dancing in the space between you. 

“No, I am just… messing with you,” Viktor winks as he finishes his sentence, his other hand coming up to brush against your hip. 

“The article was good, I am glad you spoke about the ways our research can be used for medical progress,” he admits, “So many of the Councillors have their own agendas they’d like to slap onto my work.”

You lean into his touch, your fingers curling around his as you slide off the desk and perch yourself instead on the arm of the chair. You hope that the article portrays your pride for him, albeit hidden within the punctuation rather than out loud. 

“I know what the geniuses intentions are,” you tell him, "And that you two are the key to our future."

"Is that so? Maybe you should be the one in charge of our funding then," he looks up at you, eyebrow raised as he continues teasing.

"Please," you gently slap at his chest as you lean further into him, "on my salary? Your lab is nicer than my apartment."

"Speaking of which..." he trails off, looking at you now expectantly.

"You want to come back to mine?

"Unless you'd rather I sleep in my lab tonight. You did say it was nicer than your apartment."

The kettle whistles, and you lean down to kiss him.

[luveline]

request for miguel - he gets hurt somehow, maybe out on a mission or something, and spider-girl takes care of him and patches him back up, definitely puts a cute plaster on him which he hates but he loves her so he lets it slide :) <33 everyone makes fun of him for it

also hi ily hope you're having/had a fantastic day

thank you for your request!! grumpy lovesick miguel x sunshine spidergirl!reader

"And the salt builds up around their ankles," you're saying, sitting on Miguel's thigh, a bandaid in your shaking hands, "and the chick's feet get so heavy they can't keep up." 

Miguel knows this already, he'd listened to you talk about flamingos for days after you watched that nature documentary, but he lets you tell him again for the very same reason he has you sitting on his thigh in front of everyone, and the same reason he doesn't care that the bandaid you're putting on his cheek has a smiley face in the middle. He scared you today, getting hurt. Even as his quickened regenerative abilities close his wounds and heal his contusions, he can feel you trembling in his lap. 

He'd been out with the elite strike team, Spider-Woman on one side of him and Spider-Girl (not you) on the other. Jessica's more than capable of holding her own, and so together Miguel figured he'd been in neither danger nor trouble. But trouble doesn't always present itself as such, and the anomaly they'd been handling had turned out to be three anomalies. It's never happened before, and the shock startled him into bad decisions. 

The cut on his cheek was wide, but it's nearly healed now. He barely felt it. 

What he did feel was your gasp, like you'd been cut yourself, like he had the knife in his hand when you saw it. He supposes you've never witnessed him hurt before, and you're not as untouchable as you seem; you were worse than scared. 

"Did you get it?" he asks. 

You smooth your thumb along the edges of his bandaid carefully. "Got it. You'll be okay, don't worry." 

You hide your own worry with his. He feeds into it. "Are you sure? What about the one on my arm, you haven't touched that one." 

The one on his arm has been wrapped in gauze and bandages. You bring his arm to your chest, careful not to touch his wound. "Does it hurt?" you ask, your lashes twitching with the intensity of your concern.

"No, cariño," he says quietly, for your ears only. 

"Get a room," Lyla pleads. For hers, too, it seems.

"Sorry," you say, trying to stand. Miguel strong arms you into staying on his thigh, arm like a seatbelt at your waist. "Miguel." 

"You haven't finished," he insists. 

"You look finished to me," Lyla says. "Or did you want another bandaid for the owy over your heart?" 

He grits his teeth. He doesn't want another bandaid, he didn't want the first, but he wants you to be happy. If putting a giant pink heart-shaped plaster on his cheek is going to make you feel better, that's what has to be done. Miguel purses his lips to one side until he feels the adhesive of the bandaid pull away from his skin, and waits in the ridicule of his teammates for you to notice. 

"Oh," you say, fingers poking at the peeled bandaid unhappily. "Sorry, I'm sorry, let me–" You pull the bandaid off achingly slowly. "I only have hearts left, I–" 

"Just put it on," he says, with a feigned reluctance. His devious plan works, and you set a heart plaster over his cut. It's not big enough. You add a second.

"That is hilarious," Lyla says, her mink coat falling down her arm as she twists in the air and holds up a dramatically large cell phone. "Say cheese." 

Miguel looks at you. You throw up a peace sign. The photo is proof of his indulgence in you, if nothing else. He doesn't care how ridiculous he might look on screen, you've finally stopped shaking. 

He squeezes the fat of your hip in his hand and sighs. What a fool, he thinks. He's not talking about you. 

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

06 — PULL A TRIGGER, CLIMB A MOUNTAIN

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad.

<- previous part | next part ->

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

*

Three hours earlier.

*

“Change.”

Looking up, you give the hulking man the most annoyed expression you can muster, cocking your hip and folding your arms over your chest. He, in response, only raises a brow and folds his own arms, a clear mocking of your own stance.

Everyone else is already in the other room, checking over weaponry and making plans. They’re loud enough to be heard here, jovial laughter and quickly-spoken Spanish filtering in. A song plays, too, a nice kind of melody that you find yourself enjoying.

“I usually need a shot or two first,” you snark, making no move to take the folded clothes from the balaclava-clad man. “You buying?”

As he shoves the uniform into your chest, you shoot Ghost a nasty glare.

“We have stuff we need to do without you,” he quips, pushing against your shoulder hard enough to have you taking a step back. “That uniform’s too recognisable.”

“What, the American flag’s too much for you?” You lean in once more, shoving your own hand against his chest. He doesn’t budge. “I deserve to be involved, when I’m giving you intel. This whole exclusion bullshit reminds me of kindergarten.”

“Then change, and stop acting like you belong in one,” Ghost snaps, and with one final look your way, storms out of the main room, slamming the wooden sliding doors shut behind him as he does.

You’re alone, now. 

The room is vast, and at the small table still sits the laptop.

You’d… just. Done that. Threatened the very man who had taught you everything you know, the very man who had practically adopted you after your mother’s death. The very man of whom you’d just sentenced to death by your own hand. Your own lit match.

“Fuck,” you hiss, burying your face in your free hand.

This was the first time you’d had true solitude since. Well. It might’ve only been a day, but everything that’s happened has made it feel like years. Your throat itches from the knife wound, and you can feel your ribs’ bruising when you inhale.

“Fuck,” you curse once more, looking to the sliding doors.

After the call with Shepherd, the four men had been… well, they’d all had a very individualised response.

Soap had brought you in with an arm around your neck, ranting about how ‘badass’ you had been. Gaz had joined in, ruffling up your hair, placing a hand on your shoulder and asking if you were okay.

You’d said yes.

It had been a lie.

Ghost, without a word, had left to check over his magazines. Price had given you a firm nod and a pat on your back before, he too, left to the other room to sort things out.

“Lucky yer on our side, hen,” Soap had joked goodnaturedly. Gaz had rolled his eyes, saying, “You’re just happy your little Sweetheart can take you in a fight.”

Soap had immediately tackled him to the ground, and that was that.

Now, you stood, lone in the vast space of the room. It was still very early morning, the quiet sound of birds outside mixing with the rambunctiousness of the Los Vaqueros on the other side of the doors. Soft light filters in through the boarded up windows, casting over you in an odd haze.

Dropping the uniform onto the table, your brows furrow when you notice not only the 141’s standard uniform, but also a balaclava not unlike Ghost’s own.

The fabric is oddly soft as you run your hand over it, the paint cracking slightly against the nylon. Putting it aside for now, you then look over the uniform. A black long-sleeve compression shirt, baggy beige cargo pants. They’re definitely a bit too big for you, but admittedly, Ghost was right. It’d be too easy to spot you on the field if you were in Graves’ uniform.

Looking around the room, as if to cement the fact that you were alone, you quickly change, swapping out your bloody uniform for the new one.

It’s when you’re about to pull on the shirt that you look down, seeing the bruises lining your stomach. From the fight with Soap, or from one of your confrontations with the Shadows, you aren’t sure. Pressing softly against one, you can’t help a small grunt at the burst of pain.

You pull the compression shirt over your head, the fabric tight against your skin. How he’d had your size for the shirt and not the pants, you weren’t sure, but you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Pulling over the new vest, you transfer all of your old items into it, finding this design much nicer. Not as constricting against your breasts, designed more unisex than Graves’ had been.

Grabbing the balaclava, your feet carry you to the sliding doors, and you open them with little struggle. 

You nearly stumble when you find all of the men within pulling on their own masks, stopping in your tracks at the sight. Ghost and Price’s backs are to you, and when you see Ghost pulling on one of the same masks, everything clicks.

He hadn’t wanted you to see his face – had used getting changed as a distraction.

And yet, here were the Los Vaqueros, some of which had never even spoken to Ghost, having the privilege. It shouldn’t make you angry, you shouldn’t care, but you can’t help the onslaught of rejection that floods your system.

When you step forward, into their line of sight, you straighten your spine and take out your gun from its holster, reloading it in precise movements, not looking down at it once. When the magazine clicks into place, you narrow your gaze on Ghost.

“Are we getting this done or having a fashion show?”

*

“That’s cold,” you murmur, eyes squeezed shut as war-torn fingers swipe grease paint around your eyes, careful in their placement. You sway when the vehicle drives over a pothole, but the fingers continue their ministrations without pause.

Price chuckles softly, wiping his thumb underneath your eye. “Used to do this for Ghost every other day,” he says under his breath, collecting more paint from the pot and continuing to spread it across the upper half of your face.

You’re in the back of a van with both Price and Gaz, Alejandro behind the wheel as you head back to his colonised base.

“You look like one of us now,” Gaz chimes, to your right. Watching you both carefully, his own paint already done, he leans back into his seat. “Uniform, mask… we’ve corrupted you, love.”

You roll your eyes beneath your eyelids. “Good luck with that.”

“Don’t test me,” he laughs, at the same time that Price pulls away once more, looking you over, before deciding that more paint will be needed.

“Feel like a kid at a fair,” you muse, earning a soft chuckle from Price. “Do I get glitter too?”

“Maybe if you’re a good girl,” Price jokes softly, and you let out a laugh of your own. Internally, you register your cheeks heating at the comment, a part of you yearning for such praise from the man. If it didn’t mess up your paint or cause the two to give you weird looks, you’d slap yourself.

“Can’t believe you’re Graves’ Colonel,” Gaz admonishes, and you barely restrain a huff of annoyance. He corrects himself. “Were. Man, he did not deserve you in his ranks. You probably would’ve done better as Commander than he ever could.”

You let your lips curve into a somewhat appreciative smile, eyes still shut as Price continues his studious work. “Believe it or not, we all loved him. Behind the scenes, he treated us pretty well. The guys, anyway.”

You can’t see it, but Gaz and Price share a knowing look, both of them raising their brows. Your eyes remain shut throughout their small, silent exchange.

“How so?” Price asks, gruff, and the tone encourages you to tell the truth.

“Well,” you swallow, unsure of how to approach the issue. You never have, never felt a reason to. “Just. Small things. Jokes, and stuff. I’m the only woman in the Company, actually–”

“What?” Gaz blurts out, not seeming able to stop himself. “You’re serious?”

You let out a somewhat self-deprecating chuckle. “...Yeah? That’s pretty normal in military jobs, y’know. Didn’t think it was that weird. At least I’m a Colonel.”

“You don’t think that’s… weird?” Price asks, and it’s only then that you realise he’s stopped painting your face. You blink open your eyes. “The only woman in his Company, and she’s his Colonel?”

Chewing on your inner cheek, you shake your head. “I was one of the very first to be hired by him. We… He was my partner. In nearly every sense of the word,” you admit, a small truth. “I mean. I don’t think that I loved him. Just. Never really had anyone else.”

“How old were you when you joined Shadow Co?” Gaz asks, slowly, carefully.

You mull it over, before supplying an easy answer. “Eighteen, or so. He was twenty-seven when he started, and –”

“That’s so fucked,” Gaz curses, burying his face in his hands. “Seriously. He’s a fucking asshole.”

You’re desperate for a change of topic, anything else but this. Not now, not when your wounds are too fresh, not when you’re about to come face to face with him again. With a deep breath, you divert the situation.

“Am I done?” You ask, looking to the window and trying to catch your reflection to no avail.

“...Yeah,” Price breathes, “You’re done.”

Easing back into your spot, you find your leg bouncing once more, the adrenaline of the upcoming mission keeping you antsy and energetic. You haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but you somehow find yourself more awake now than you had been hours ago.

Resting his hand on your knee, Gaz gives you a reassuring smile. “You ready?”

Letting out a low, unsure exhale, you find yourself nodding. “Yeah. I think so. I know what I’m going to say to him. I’m. He’ll come around.”

Gripping your mask in your hand, you move to pull it over your head, the fabric snugly fitting around your skin. It’s an odd sort of comfort, a way of protecting yourself from the emotional wreck that this mission will create. For the first time, you think that you can understand the attachment Ghost has to it.

“If we kill ‘im,” Price starts, but when you instantly flick your gaze to him, starts to backtrack, “If. If it comes down to it. You can’t hold it against us.”

You just check over your ammo, your cartridges, before simply replying.

“I’ll kill him myself.”

“We won’t make you do that,” Gaz says, adamant and firm as he leans in closer to you. “You don’t have to kill ‘im. I know most of us are wanting to do the honours, anyway.”

“I know Soap and Alejandro are just about begging to,” you acquiesce, but you find yourself focusing on the gun in your hands to reset your mindscape anyways. “But. It’s different. If he’s really done all of this… I want closure.”

“You’ll get your closure. Bloodshed or not,” Price pats your back, and you give him a small tilt of your lips, before realising that your mask covers the movement.

“You still good to split with Price and meet with the other team from the helo, hermana?” Alejandro calls from the front, turning slightly to look to you. You give him a thumbs up, and even with his mask on, you can tell he’s wearing a toothy smile.

“Your gun all good?” Gaz asks, jerking his head to the weapon. “Ammo in your pockets, cartridge full?”

Pulling your free hand into a gun gesture, you smile. 

“Pew.”

*

It’s with the weight of the world on your shoulders that you watch Price’s helicopter get shot.

“We’re hit! We’re hit!” Price calls through your shared radio channel, his voice frantic enough to have you skidding to a stop. Distantly, you think you can hear Ghost say something, but it’s quickly shadowed by Price’s, “Going down. We’re going down!”

You’re about a hundred feet away from where Rodolfo and Soap stand, the two also seeming to pause behind a warehouse of some sort.

When you see Soap move to push Rodolfo up the wall, you run as fast as your legs will take you to their position, calling out to them, “I’m coming with!”

“Thought you weren’t making it, cariño!” Rodolfo calls out as you fall alongside them, your heartbeat raging in your ears. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” you jest, then pause when you see Ghost to your side. Jerking your head to the wall, you ask, “Need a personal invitation?”

“Price and the pilot need help. You three finish this,” he shakes his head, before turning and leaving for the crash site. Shrugging, you spin back to where Rodolfo’s extending his hand to help you up, which you accept, reaching the top of the wall and swinging your right thigh over it, straddling the brick.

Extending your arm down, you pull Rodolfo up, Soap taking his other hand in a firm grip. When Rodolfo swings around to sit between you both, he curses under his breath. 

“Look!” Soap hisses, and when you do as he says, your own stomach falls down to the dirt floor beneath you.

“That’s not ours,” Rodolfo murmurs, and you can barely find your voice.

“A tank,” you say, mindlessly, watching on as a fucking tank pulls into the training area of the compound. “Graves… he has a fucking tank?”

Neither of the two respond, both instead jumping off of the wall, falling into a crouch as they land. They both extend hands to you, more of a supporting gesture than anything, but you don’t take them as you too land on the other side of the brick, entering the training area.

“Ye ready for this?” Soap asks the two of you, a hint of mania creeping onto his blood-flecked face.

“Hell yeah,” Rodolfo breathes, before looking to you with a friendly smile. Ruffling your hair, a familiar gesture, now, he squeezes the nape of your neck. “If you come out of this alive, hermana, we could use you in the Los Vaqueros.”

You bark a laugh, stunned, almost, before shaking your head. “You should talk to your boss about recruiting people, first.”

Rodolfo shrugs. “Ale likes to make me happy.”

“Interviews can happen later, aye?” Soap chuckles, and the three of you look to the tank once more. “Bigger fish to catch, and allat.”

You go to say something else, when –

“Didn’t realise you boys were into kidnapping women now. That’s a bit sketchy, ain’t it?”

Graves. He’s – he’s got a radio, he’s talking, he’s here, he’s. He’s fucking with you, trying to play mind games, trying to break you all over –

“Can’t wait to bake this bastard,” Soap grunts, and you find your footing once more. Sure, you were ready for battle, but your entire reason for being here was to talk to him. Get him to realise his mistakes, come forward, go back to the man you knew.

Rodolfo and Soap are running somewhere, doing their part, and you –

“Is what they said true?” It’s the most important question you have right now. The answer you yearn for.

A moment passes.

“Where did you go, gorgeous? When’d they get ya? Did they blackmail you in Las Almas?” He diverts, and you tighten your grip on your gun, swallowing your litany of curses.

“Answer my questions, Commander. Is. What they said. True.”

“It doesn’t matter, baby. Remember where your loyalties lie,” Graves takes on a sweeter tone, a more… condescending one, you think. 

“Please,” you find yourself whispering, begging for him to just. Break this nightmare, rebel against it, be Phillip. “Please tell me this isn’t really you.”

“Oveja pequeña,” he coos, and you swear your spine erupts in hives, “I’m still your Phillip. You’re the one who’s changed – look at you, running off with the 141. I’m disappointed.”

You erupt, then, like a dormant volcano, finally gathering the final push to let lava reign free.

“I’m going to fucking kill you! You just killed fathers, tore apart families! I fucking hate you!” You yell into the radios, no tears falling, merely anger and vengeance clouding your vision.

“Don’t forget that you are under my orders. Whether you’re in my bed or not, you’re my Colonel,” he seethes back, and like a shot while you’re already down, you realise that this is a hopeless cause. You weren’t going to save Shepherd. You weren’t going to save Graves.

All you had left to save was yourself.

They’d lied to you, an indefinite amount of times, for how long, you weren’t sure. Your whole relationship – was that a lie, too? Was your entire life?

“I’m your second in command,” you finally admit out loud, hiding behind a crumbling wall as the tank shoots just a few feet away from you. “So when you get taken down, guess who comes out on top?”

“Listen to yourself!” He shouts, his voice cracking in his sudden anger, “Listen–”

“No, you listen!” You find yourself crying out, taking a few shots at the tank, allowing Soap and Rudy to do their part. “Listen to me, Phillip. You’re going to regret this – all of this. When were you going to tell me you were under Shepherd’s orders, huh? How long have you been fucking me over!”

“Whenever you first came around my cock is my guess, baby,” he responds, icy and cold.

His words only seem to further encourage you to breaking point, adding more and more fury to rush down your veins like its very own hit of morphine.

“Guess what, Commander?”

“Don’t bull–”

“That first time, and every time since?”

He doesn’t bother to interrupt you.

“I faked it.”

With that, you switch Channels to one shared with all of you.

You had heard everything you needed to, and along with it, realised something of vital importance. A small inconsistency that changed everything.

“Ghost team,” you say, neutral and unforgiving, “Graves isn’t in the tank.”

“What’re ye talking about?!” Soap calls through, exuding exhaustion, the sound of explosions crackling through behind his vocals. “He has to be–”

“He’s not,” you say, firm, absolute in your decision. “I don’t know where he is – but he’s not in there. Not his style, anyway – prefers to be in the spotlight.”

“What do we do then, hermana?” Rodolfo asks, sounds strained just as Soap had.

Your answer is easy. “You guys focus on the tank – I’m taking Graves down.”

With that, you run for the wall once more, and with nothing but your intuition, you know exactly where you’ll find your ex-Commander.

*

As per usual when it comes to your gut-feelings, you’re correct. 

It’s within the hanger on the compound that you find him getting into a helicopter – a wound on his forehead and tactical glasses on. Somehow, he’s already found himself injured – a small, selfish part of you satisfied with that information.

“Commander!” You yell as you break through the small window of the hangar, using the butt of your gun to do it. It’s as the door to the heli shuts that he notices you – and you switch back on to his radio.

“This is your last chance,” he grits out, his voice thin and furious. “Before this becomes more than a… domestic fight.”

You wince as the blades start turning, taking shelter behind one of the cargo boxes, wary of any bullets being shot your way. “The only domestic thing about us was your inclination for treating me like your little wife.”

“Always did think you’d look pretty barefoot and pregnant,” he muses, and oh, have you never wanted to kill a man more in your life.

“Aww,” you mock, as the blades’ whirring gets louder and shots echo around you finally, “See, I think you’d look pretty bleeding out at my feet.”

“You did look rather good at mine,” he retorts, and your emotions get the better of you as you peek, shooting three Shadows behind the heli with easy headshots. You’re barely there for two seconds before a burning pain echoes through the side of your shoulder, and you duck down once more.

“Couldn’t even get off,” you pant, relentless to the very end even as your breaths turn into heavy falls of your shoulders, “Was like fucking a Ken doll.”

“You’ve always been a petty bitch,” he snaps, and you smirk.

“I am a bitch, you’re right. And you know what bitches do when someone taunts them? They bite.”

You raise your gun, and for a scary, short second, you realise that blood is flowing in a stream that’s causing the sleeve of your black shirt to grow sticky and damp. Now isn’t the time to care, however, as you take aim at one of the windows of the heli.

Pulling the trigger, the bullet bursts through the window, glass shattering and falling to the ground. It’s as soon as it does, however, that it takes flight, boosting in its acceleration immediately.

Fully peeking, this time, you watch as the helicopter quickly takes off, and even if you had the capacity to shoot at it, it wouldn’t hit the intended target, not with your trembling hands.

Graves watches you, a sleazy smirk on his face as he sits in the helicopter, blood dripping from his forehead and empty rifle in hand.

With a wink, he chimes in through your channel, “See you when you’re useful again, baby.”

You get one final sentence in, before the radio cuts off. Even though you can’t see him from this distance, you’re sure you’re making eye contact as you deal your final blow.

“My callsign isn’t baby. It’s Sweetheart.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @oreo-cream @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee

author's note. to everyone asking about the covid, its prettyyy bad haha. i can hardly leave my bed and need 3 blankets in the peak of summer!

at least that means i have downtime to write before my life gets VERY hectic. thank you all for your support again, the feedback and praise for the last chapter made me feel 10x better and i genuinely appreciate you all SO much. thank you thank you thank you!

[hanasnx]

thinking about Jason Todd dating a veterinarian/doctor reader. We all know he's very busy with his Red Hood work, so having someone with a busy schedule is almost a relief for him, because then he wouldn't have to worry about disappointing you due to lack of time. he has a lack of time monitoring the city and the reader has a lack of time on medical duty. it's fair. it work.

but that’s not the best point of all, at least not for me. In my mind, Jason is very closed off and stubborn, so it's very difficult to get him to take care of the injuries he gets in alley fights against criminals, but now he's dating a doc and It change things, especially when they're trying to tend to an injury and it's so close, holding him still because god, won't he stop squirming? and he's like "okok, put your tits on my face will not calm me down, doc." It does. it calm him down. jason is a tit guy. He can sit for hours with you stitching his back without anesthesia if it means he'll have the soft flesh hidden beneath a tank top rubbing against him, against his face.

This is shaping up to be a long-winded rant and I don't want to be exhaustive, so I'll go to the last topic: the way tend his injures always lead to sex. he has this thing that he wants to be taken care of. he's rude and dominant with everyone and maybe even in bed, but sometimes he just wants his love to put bandages on his shoulders and spread kisses all over his face while he rides him nice and slow, saying that everything will be fine, that he will be brand new on no time. I also think it could happen since he's just too beat up to fight crime and Reader just put a stay-at-home sign on him, and it's driving him mad. he has nothing to take out all that energy and anger, so he takes it out on you, fucking you against every possible corner and surface, unlike the bubble of love from before, now he's just digging short nails into your hips already marked by his fingers, creating more and more noise tickets late at night.

anyway, I think that's it! I'm so happy you liked that ask about Dick & ballerina, it just warmed my heart! hope you're doing well!

MINORS DNI 18+

"Jay— Jay! You'll pull your stitches!" you warn, but JASON TODD remains un-intimidated, yanking you back by your hips to meet his thrusts. Some thug with a knife gave him a long slice across his bicep, followed closely by one across the side of his ribcage. Wounds you'd just finished tending, but the bourbon he'd downed to ease the pain was already in full effect. That, or he's fucking you through the sting. He's got you bent over in front of him, your fingers bracing on some piece of furniture while you stand. He didn't bother taking your clothes off, yanking your panties down to pool around your ankles, your smart little pencil skirt folded over your torso.

"Help me through the pain, Doc." he replies, his gruff voice strained from effort. "Hurts so good." he moans, but you can tell he's feigning it, as if he's not taking you seriously. To distract you from your protests, his large body curls around you, hand cupping your hanging tits, rolling the flesh in his fingers and palm. "If you cum on this dick I'll feel better."

You bark a laugh at him, releasing a breath you didn't realize you were holding. "Make me do it then. I'll have to patch you back up after this anyway." As if to playfully punish you for your attitude, he smacks one of your tits and you squeak in surprise.

"Finally on board."

[nightlyrequiem]

How would Valeria be finding out her girlfriend has been transfem all along. (Like no surgeries done but still pretty feminine looking.) After being together for a while it comes up when Valeria asks why they'd never wanted to go further in bed.(sorry if this is bad I've never done a request before😓)

I've never written something like this before so I hope it's okay! Had to do a little research because I wasn't sure what the difference between transfem and transgender was so I hope it's accurate.

Also, obligatory But I'm a Cheerleader reference.

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Minor Angst, Happy Ending, Transfem!Reader

Night Blooming Flowers

You're going over to your girlfriend's tonight. You layer on the mascara and bat your eyes, loving the length. You give yourself one last once over, looking at yourself from all angles. One last application of lip gloss and you're ready to go. You turn away and grab your purse.

Valeria is waiting for you in her car when you step outside, bathed by the warm sun. The door to your next-door neighbor's house starts to open and you hurry up to her car. Getting in before he can come out and see you. Today is a good day and you really don't feel like being bothered by some old man who can't mind his business. He's already made himself a problem as is. You never invite Valeria over because of him.

Valeria smiles at you when you sit down, planting a warm hand firmly on your thigh. No words are spoken as she puts the car into drive. The radio hums quietly while she drives. Life goes on outside, people running errands, children playing in the streets. Your smile fades a little at the sight of an armed man giving away a balloon to a child. Barely five feet away is a sheet-covered body. You look away. Out of sight, out of mind. The cartel is doing good things for this city, you tell yourself. Valeria is doing good things. You shove those thoughts away. No need to spoil your mood by thinking too hard.

Valeria's home is lovely. Pillard architecture and symmetrical gardens. The driveway is made of fine cobblestone. She gets out first and opens your door for you.

"Thank you." You say, kissing her cheek. She has guards posted up outside. You've come to learn that Valeria has some issues with paranoia. Though with her occupation it may not be so unwarranted. You ignore the weird look one of them gives you and hope Valeria didn't see.

Valeria insists that you relax while she cooks but soon enough, you're in the kitchen with her. Helping to cut up carrots and peppers.

"That's not how you do it." You scold. Gently grabbing the paring knife from her hands.

"Not how you do it?" She scoffs. "My mother taught me how to cook. That's how you're supposed to do it."

You hold the pepper down and slice down with an arch. "My mother taught me the correct way." You say. Shooting her a playful smile.

She comes up behind you and grabs your hips. 

"Didn't realise I was dating such a meticulous chef." She murmurs into your ear. You giggle but stiffen when her hands start to dip lower down your thighs. Before she feels anything you don't want her feeling yet, you pull away with the excuse that the peppers are done being cut and can be put into their bowl.

Valeria adds all the ingredients together once the two of you finish preparing them. She grabs your hand and leads you to the living room, setting a timer on her phone.

"Let's get a movie picked out while we wait." She says. She plops down on her couch and you join her. Moving under her arm to rest halfway on her chest, your feet curled up under you comfortably. "What were you thinking?" She asks, moving through the options on screen.

"Uh... I'm not sure." You reply. "Have you ever seen But I'm a Cheerleader?"

Valeria's fingers absently run over your side.

"I haven't, what's that one about?" She murmurs.

"A cheerleader gets sent to conversion camp but it's incredibly exaggerated and all the people there are basically sleeping together." You tell her.

"Sounds incredibly sophisticated." She remarks dryly. You roll your eyes,

"It's a romcom it's not supposed to be sophisticated." You reply. Valeria smiles but doesn't reply. Adhering to your suggestion, she puts on the movie. 'Chick Habit' by April March plays out while the movie cuts from credits to shots of cheerleaders in slow motion.

All is well for fifteen minutes. Valeria is warm and soft and you're happy to be laid up against her. Once again, her hand starts to wander. You aren't sure how to get out of this without making it obvious. You grab her wrist when her hand gets too close to your groin. The atmosphere between you now becoming tense. she slowly retracts her hand and lays it in her lap. You're left feeling guilty for always turning her down.

"... I'm sorry." You murmur, craning your head to look at her.

"It's fine." She says. Not looking at you. "If you aren't ready that's okay."

You bite your lip. It's not like you aren't ready. There's nothing you'd like to do more than to be intimate with your girlfriend. You just don't know how she'll feel when she finds out you're different to what she thought.

You let the silence linger. Working up the courage to speak. You love Valeria and you don't want to lose her. 

"I'm transfem." You say quietly. "I haven't had any surgeries." Valeria goes still, making your heart thump painfully. she turns her head to look at you and you avoid her gaze. Worried over what you might see.

"What is that?" She asks carefully. "Like transgender?"

"... Similar, I guess." You murmur. There's no going back now. "I was born with male parts but I don't feel like a male."

"Oh." She says. "But you're not a guy?" 

"No, I've always felt more feminine, I'm still your girlfriend." You reply. Hoping that last part is true. Valeria has been one of the best things to come into your life.

"...Okay." She nods.

You frown. "Okay as in... you don't care or okay as in 'I acknowledge what you're telling me.'" You ask nervously, anxiously fidgeting with the rings on your finger.

"That's why you never want to sleep with me?" She asks quietly. 

"... Yeah." You nod. 

Valeria sighs and pulls you closer. Resting her head on yours.

"I don't care about what's in your pants, mi vida." She says. "You're my girlfriend, my person."

You melt into her with relief. You grab one of her hands and squeeze, feeling her squeeze back. "This won't change anything though." You say. "Don't treat me differently now that you know. Please."

"Never." Valeria promises. She breathes you in. Then pauses. You look at her when she sits up. "Do you smell that?" She asks, frowning. You furrow your brows and sniff the air.

Something's burning. A few seconds after the thought registers the smoke alarm goes off.

"Shit!" Valeria curses. Jumping off the couch. You follow her into the kitchen, seeing smoke billow from the oven.

"I thought you set a timer?" You exclaim in distress. Valeria hurriedly takes out the charred remains of your supper. The both of you peer down at it.

"I did." She says. "I think I set the oven too high."

"Did your mom teach you that too?" You quip.

Valeria gently shoves your shoulder. 

You grab her arm and pull her away.

"It's okay." You say. "We'll order takeout, next time we do this I'll do the cooking."

Valeria rolls her eyes and leans into you. "Okay little Ms. Perfect. We're missing the movie." You sit back on the couch. Cuddled up under a soft blanket just in time to witness Megan and Graham's first kiss.

[celandeline]

You’ve Got A Pretty Kind Of Dirty Face

Carl Grimes X Reader, Part 3 [previous part | next part]

Someone’s tapping at your window. 

Even after two years of being behind the walls of Alexandria, you can’t break the habit of waking up at every small disturbance, so it only takes a few taps before you’re slipping out of bed, pulling the knife you keep tucked under your mattress out and skirting around the bed to your window. 

You peer around the edge, knife in hand, only to see Carl crouched on the roof of your porch, gently tapping at your window. He smiles when he sees you, and gestures for you to open the window. You set your knife down, and start on the locks. You shouldn’t - it’s after dark, he most definitely snuck out, you already let him get too far by kissing you in the car today - but you do. It’s Carl, you can’t not. 

You push the window open, and hold it so that he can climb through before sliding it back into place. He still has that stupid smirk on his face when you turn to look at him. “Should I even ask why you’re here?”

“Probably better if you don’t.” He says, playful. “Plausible deniability and all.”

“That makes it sound like you’re planning something nefarious.” You say. 

“What if I am?” He steps closer, narrowing the distance between you. 

Before he can completely close the gap, you place a hand on his chest, keeping him a short distance away. “I don’t know what you were thinking in the car today but if your dad had seen, I swear-”

“He didn’t.” Carl cuts you off, voice low. You can feel his heartbeat against your hand. “I just wanted to thank you for saving my ass.” One of his hands comes up to wrap around your wrist, moving your palm from his chest so that he can press closer, his other hand finding your hip, holding softly. “Still feel like I should thank you again.” He says, just above a whisper. 

He’s so close, you can feel his breath against the skin of your cheek when he talks. “Carl.” You say. You shouldn’t, you shouldn’t; if Rick ever found out-

You don’t get to say more than his name because then his lips are on yours again, hungry just like they were before. He kisses you fiercely, and you can’t help but kiss him back. It feels good, it scratches that itch that only gets worse every time you stop yourself from enjoying him for fear of his father. You wind a hand into his hair, and kiss him back with the same intensity, working his mouth open so that you can dip your tongue inside.

He groans, low in the back of his throat as your tongue sweeps over his, and the hand he has on your hip tightens its grip. You can’t help but smile into the kiss, the hand that isn’t tangled in his hair finding one of the belt loops on his jeans and fiddling with it teasingly. 

When he pulls back, he’s breathing heavy. He doesn’t go far, still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours, looking down at where your fingers are still looped in his jeans. “Wish you wouldn’t keep doing that.” He says.

“Doing what?” You ask. 

“Saying my name like you want to say stop.” His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, playing with the hem of your shirt. 

“It’s not-” You stop to figure out what you want to say. “I like you, Carl. A lot. I think you’re cute and funny and smart and I admire your strength. And I would like to be with you. But I don’t want to be with you at the cost of your relationship with your dad. I see how close you guys are, and I don’t want you and I getting together to drive a rift in that. And-” You pause. “I don’t want you to take this to mean that I don’t like you.”

He shakes his head. “How could I, when you just went on about how cute and smart and funny I am.”

“Shut up.” You say, the way he repeats it all back to you making it sound embarrassing. “I just… there's more than just that I don’t want to come between you and Rick. It’s also that you’ve never done this before, and I have, and I know that the first relationship you have is the one that sets the standards for the rest. It’s a lot of pressure not to fuck up. I don’t want to accidentally fuck up your conception of love.” You sigh, and then, to lighten the mood, “Also I think Rick would actually kill me if I took your virginity.”

Carl laughs, and lifts his forehead off yours to look you in the eye. “He probably would.” He agrees, smiling. And then, “But, um…” He pauses, brow furrowed slightly. “Hm.”

“What?” You ask. 

He smiles sheepishly. “I’m just trying to figure out how to say that I don’t care about what my dad thinks or that you or that you might fuck up or whatever without saying that I don’t… care.”

You laugh a little under your breath. “I guess I should’ve expected that.” He’s made it pretty obvious, with his insistent flirting and the way he so recklessly kissed you in the car today, that he’s too wrapped up in this thing to think about the impact it’ll have on his dad, or himself, or you. 

His hand skips under your shirt, fingers brushing along the skin of your back. “I get what you’re saying. And I think it’s really… admirable that you’re so concerned about me and my dad, but,” He pauses. “I could die tomorrow. You could die tomorrow. I don’t want to let this go without trying to make it work, ‘cause we might never get the chance again.”

There’s a sadness in his eyes that sends a pang through your heart. You know what he means - you’ve seen it for yourself. It’s very easy to die these days, and no one ever ties up all their loose ends before they go. The world is littered with ‘almosts’ and ‘what ifs’ and ‘if onlys’. It’s only natural to not want this, us, to end up in that ever growing pile.

“You’re very persuasive.” You say. 

Carl smiles, and his fingers play with the hem of your sweatpants. “So..?”

“So what?”

“So you’re not gonna tell me to go back home?”

“I guess not.” You say. “I have a feeling you didn’t come over here just to talk.”

“Not really.” He says. “Not that I don’t like talking to you but I also really like kissing you…”

You laugh as he tugs you closer again, and your lips connect. He doesn’t wait to slip his tongue between your lips, and his grip around your hips tightens. He kisses like he’s hungry for it, and you suppose he is, after you’ve been keeping him waiting. You wind your hands into his hair again, playing with the strands and grinning when you feel a shiver run up his spine from the touch. 

He whines against your lips, and suddenly you don’t know why you’ve been denying yourself this for months. 

You pull away only to step backwards towards your bed, your hands dropping to Carl’s belt loops again to tug him with you. He comes easily, grinning as you pull him into bed. You make yourself comfortable amongst your pillows, and he settles next to you, the both of you laying on your sides so close that your noses bump together. 

For a moment, you just look at each other, only able to make out each other's features in the semi-darkness because you are so close together. This time you’re the one to close the gap between you, pressing your lips to his and sliding a hand under his shirt, trailing your fingers along the plane of his stomach. He shivers again, and you smile against his lips. He’s so responsive, even to the littlest of touches. 

You pull away to trail kisses down his jaw until you reach the junction of his neck just below his ear. Your fear of Rick stops you from leaving a hickey there, but you still lick at the spot, just to make him shiver again. His fingers wind into the fabric of your shirt, holding onto you like he’ll die if he lets go. You move to nip at the lobe of his ear and he pulls you on top of him, crushing you to his chest. 

You can feel him hard underneath you when you sit back, straddling him. His hands fall back to your hips, and you place a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart under your palm. His pupils blown wide as he looks up at you, dark hair fanning across your pillow, you know what he’s going to ask before he even parts his lips. 

“Have sex with me.” 

You purse your lips. “Rick’s gonna murder me.”

Carl shakes his head, smiling. “No he won’t.”

“He so totally will.” You laugh. “He already accused me of corrupting you for trying to smuggle you alcohol, he’ll put my head on a pike for this.”

“I won’t let him.” He says, squeezing the sides of your hips. 

“And how exactly would you stop him?” You tease, leaning down to brush your lips over his again. 

He catches you in a proper kiss before he speaks. “I’ll ask real nicely.”

You sigh, and kiss him again. Rick’s going to kill you, but right now, when it’s just you and Carl in the comfort of your bed giving in to the feeling of his lips on yours and the way his bangs sweep across your face like butterfly kisses, you can’t bring yourself to care. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not incredibly turned on with this beautiful boy underneath you. And more importantly, you like him and he wants this.

“Okay.” You say, pulling your shirt over your head in a fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. His words from earlier, that you might die tomorrow, echo in your head. You want this as much as he does, so why not? Why wait, when either of you could very easily wind up with walker teeth around your neck in a few hours?

Carl’s grins, eyes trailing down your front. “Really?”

“Did you want me to say no?” You ask, rising up on your knees so that you can ruck his shirt up his chest, purposefully trailing your fingers up the planes of his stomach to make goosebumps rise. 

He sits up, pulling his shirt the rest of the way off. “I just expected you to make me work for it more.”

As soon as his shirt’s all the way off, you attach yourself to his collarbones, nipping at the thin skin. Carl lets out a breathy gasp as you take the opportunity to begin trailing hickeys across his chest, confident that they’ll be hidden under his shirt. What you can’t leave on his neck, you leave across his collar, until he’s almost writhing under you, his hands fisted into your sweatpants. 

The moment you lift your head up from his skin, he’s pushing your shoulder, gently knocking you over so that he’s hovering over you now, trailing his lips up the side of your neck until he’s just underneath your ear. “Can I?” He whispers, breath tickling your skin. 

“Go crazy.” You say. What do you care if you’re covered in hickeys? He’s the one with the overbearing dad, not you.

Still, maybe you should have phrased it differently, because Carl does, in fact, go crazy. You’ll be surprised if your entire neck isn’t purple tomorrow. You can’t pretend you don’t enjoy his enthusiasm though, it’s been a while since you felt so… desired. You wind your arms around his back and trail your fingers up his spine. The way he arches into the touch makes you grin. 

He’s so warm, pressed against you as he leaves a necklace of bruises across your neck, his moans muffled by your skin between his teeth as he grinds against your thigh. You can feel his hard-on through his jeans, and you slip a hand down his stomach to dip into his pants, palming his dick. 

The whin he emits at your touch is delicious. You bite your lip to stifle your grin. 

“You’re making fun of me.” Carl accuses. 

“‘M not.” You say, even though you are a little. It’s cute, how sensitive he is, how obvious it is that he’s never done this before. “You’re just cute, ‘s all.” You bring your hand out of his jeans for a moment to undo the button. 

Carl rolls off you to shuck his jeans off, and you slide out of your sweatpants as well. You don’t let him climb back on top, pushing him down into your pillows so that you can straddle him again. Despite the hand on his chest, he still tries to sit up, brow slightly furrowed. 

“Why-?”

“‘Cause you haven’t done this before.” You cut him off with a kiss. “Just let me. You can be on top another time.”

The promise of another time makes him grin, and he lets you lay him down. His hands find your hips and you watch as his expression shifts, the sensation of your bare skin on his enough to make him sigh. Looking down at him, suddenly, your stomach swirls with nerves. Not for your own sake - no, you’ve done this before, and you’re under no illusion that he’ll last long - but for his. You want to make it good for him. 

“You have to tell me to stop if you want me to stop.” You say. “Or slow down, or anything - just, talk to me. I want it to be good-”

“I know.” He interrupts you. “Promise I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to stop.”

“Okay.” You say. Still a little nervous, you shove it down and rise up on your knees again, gently guiding his dick between your legs. His gaze drops to your hand and he sucks in a breath as you begin to sink down on him, his grip on your hips tightening enough to leave a bruise behind. 

He only exhales when you’re fully seated and his grip relaxes. “Fuck.”

You’ve just opened your mouth to ask him if he’s alright when he bucks beneath you, unsettling your balance. You gasp, falling forward, and he wraps his arms around you before he rolls over, still seated inside you. Your back hits the mattress before you can really realize what he’s done, and he tucks his head into your shoulder, groaning as he starts to fuck you. 

“What the fuck?” You say, voice breathy. 

He shakes his head, hair tickling your skin. “Just let me fuck you please. I don’t want you to go slow, you’ve been making me wait for months-” He cuts himself off with a moan, his hips knocking against yours. His thrusts are sloppy, but eager, and he trails his lips underneath your ear, letting all the little whines and moans slip right from his lips to your ear. 

You let him have his way with you, just winding your arms around his neck and enjoying the ride. He’s not half bad even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s his openness, you think that’s doing it for you. The way he holds onto you like you’re precious, the way he’s not ashamed about all the little noises slipping out of his mouth, the absence of the posturing and dominance that you’ve had to put up with from other guys. 

It’s not long before his hips are stuttering, and he lets out a long groan before he slumps against you, utterly spent. You move a hand from his shoulders to wind into his hair, playing with the strands. He sighs against your chest, and you smile, hugging him to you. 

“Thanks.” He says, rolling off you to lay against your side. “And sorry.”

“Sorry?” You laugh. 

“For lasting all of three seconds.” He mumbles, making himself comfortable in the valley of your chest. He drapes an arm over your stomach, gently tracing your hip bone. 

“‘S okay.” You say, pressing your lips into his hair. “It was your first time.”

You can feel him falling asleep against you, and hear it in his voice. “Gotta practice I guess.” He smirks against your skin. 

You laugh again, and stroke his hair until you both fall asleep.

[bitchin-beskar]

Well, since we're on a Boba kick, let's go with classic Bounty Hunter Boba. You ran away from home before you were sent away to be the mistress of a distasteful Imperial Officer. When Boba finds you, because of course he does, you offer up your charms in exchange for freedom. I feel like at first he'll be all cocky, like you'll need to prove it to him that your ✨️charms✨️ are worth it. But then, once he has a taste, he's hooked...

BESTIE I LOVE HOW YOUR MIND WORKS

your parents are rich, like royalty of a whole system of planets rich. you've always been aware of the fact that you'll be married off to whomever they deem appropriate, and while you don't like it, you also understand that this is just how the galaxy works.

but then, you find out that not only is your husband-to-be an imperial officer, he's had three previous wives, all of whom died under suspicious circumstances. you try to bring this up to your parents, but they won't hear anything of it, already dreaming about the influence they'll be able to wield with their daughter as the wife of an important imperial officer.

you're determined that you won't let this bastard kill you, so you make the brave (or maybe stupid) decision to run away before the wedding.

your parents, being as rich as they are, of course hire the best bounty hunter in the galaxy.

meanwhile, boba is of the impression that this is going to be easy. you're essentially a spoiled princess, running away from home because you don't like the husband mommy and daddy picked out for you. he's seen this all play out before. you're just looking for a bit of a thrill, but soon enough you'll be hanging off your husband's arm, dazzled by the riches and influence he supposedly wields.

but.

slowly, his opinion begins to change. it takes him weeks to find you. he's never had a bounty hide out from him for this long. it's almost impressive, if he weren't so annoyed.

he finally corners you on hoth of all places, and he's completely stunned to see that you've managed to set up a small ice cave, lined with furs you must have skinned and cleaned yourself, and meagre but filling rations. you're wearing surprisingly sensible clothes, warm but also unassuming. you don't have any technology, but you wield a knife with unerring accuracy. you were prepared, that much was obvious. still, you're not formally trained, and boba's the best in the business.

it takes him longer than he'd like to admit to subdue you, and the scuffle ends with you on your back as he straddles your hips, hand pinning yours above your head as he holds a vibroblade to your throat.

"kill me," you whisper, and he once more finds himself caught off guard. "kill me, or keep me for yourself, but don't take me back to him."

he scoffs, the noise doing a poor job of masking of how rattled he is by your request. "not how this works, princess."

but you don't flinch. "either you kill me, keep me, or take me back. and I promise you, if you take me back, I'll take my own life before I let him do it."

boba doesn't want to think about what that means.

he stays quiet, pulling out a pair of cuffs and locking them around your wrists. you sigh, having expected this. he pulls you to your feet and leads you to his ship.

there, he pauses in front of the carbon-freezing unit. you can't see his expression behind his helmet, but you wonder if he's considering your offer.

but, he says nothing, and gestures for you to step into the unit. you close your eyes for a moment, already planning how you'll get access to the poison you need for a swift but painless death once you're delivered to your fiancé.

you step into the carbon-freezing unit, and the world goes dark.

~~~

when you come back to awareness, it's slow and painful. you're dizzy, confused, and you can't see a thing. your hands are no longer bound, so when you feel a firm grip on your shoulders, you instinctively lash out at who you assume is a guard, or your fiancé.

you manage to get a punch in before your wrists are grabbed, and a surprising voice filters in through the fog.

"easy, princess."

you still, eyes searching but unable to see anything.

"f-fett?"

he doesn't respond, but you allow yourself to be moved until you're settled into a seat, the cushion soft beneath your aching legs, sore from the pins and needles rushing up and down every inch of your body.

"give it a minute, princess. let me know when you can see."

it's difficult, just sitting there, vision blank, but slowly, shadows and light begin to filter back in, followed by blurry colors and shapes that slowly form into a clear picture.

the bounty hunter is sitting on a table in front of you, still in most of his armor, which explains the pain in your knuckles, but his helmet is off, revealing a stern expression, though it softens almost imperceptibly when he sees the recognition in your eyes.

"I can see you," you whisper, eyes darting around as you try to make sense of your surroundings. "where am I?"

he lets out a low laugh.

"you gave me three options, princess. remember?"

your mind flashes back to the ice cave, where you'd fought for your life, and been subdued regardless.

"kill me, keep me, or take me back and I'd kill myself."

he nods.

"it'd be a shame to kill such a pretty young thing," he says softly, tone almost mocking. "even bigger shame to let you kill yourself over that piece of bantha shit."

your mind jumps to the third option.

"so," the bounty hunter says, contemplative, with a hint of a challenge. "convince me why I should keep you."

you don't give yourself any time to second guess. you lean forward, hands landing on his broad thighs as you place your lips against his. you nibble lightly on his lower lip, letting your tongue flick out to beg for entrance. he grants it to you, though you can't tell if he's just humoring you or not.

as soon as your tongue brushes against his, he's pulling back, and you worry for a second that you've done something wrong.

but his arm wraps around your waist and yanks you forward so you're perched in his lap, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself. he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"that's a good start, princess. why don't you see what else you can do to convince me to keep you?"

[need-caffeine-247]

The enemy of my enemy is my ally.

AN: Atp @kim-deadja is my supplier for ideas because my brain can’t work anymore. Ty for dealing with me

An awkward silence was in the air, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife as a pair of black eyes glared daggers into an identical pair , a sort of rivalry in between them , the biggest difference between them was how their features were outlined . 

One had a sharp look to them , almost as if he had come out of a manhwa panel , the other as if he came out of an image with a semi-realistic artstyle . 

However , that was the only one , both had the same look , face , gender , and features on them. Not even the outfits were different .  The same dark trench coat flowed in the wind with an invisible breeze as the same exact sword hung low from their hip .

At the exact same time , a vein popped on their forehead . 

¨ Who the hell are you. ¨ The first one asked with a chilly tone , his face dark as he gave off a menacing aura . 

¨ I should be asking you that . I'm Yoo Joonghyuk , now who the hell are you? ¨ The other bit back in the same icy tone as they both activated their skill . 

{ The skill, ¨ Lie detector ¨ Has been activated! }

They both face the screen , eyes widening at the response . 

{ The incarnation , ¨ Yoo Joonghyuk¨ has determined the statement is true . }

Their eyes twitched . 

¨ What the….¨

This whole fiasco started when a scenario popped up in front of them at the exact same time, saying that it was a hidden scenario , the reward being 100000000000 coins .

The company had been on their way to gather more materials and coins, having been told by Kim Dokja that they needed it , they spread out , Kim Dokja with Yoo Joonghyuk to hunt down monsters and gather their cores to sell when the system window appeared before them . 

{ Hidden Scenario : Companionship }

Difficulty: C+

Conditions: get along with yourself!

Penalty : Forced to wear a get along sweater with the people you hate most . 

Reward: 100000000000 coins! Companions, and self exploration! 

Kim Dokja, being the squid he is , presses yes immediately , claiming in that weirdly soothing yet disturbing voice of his ¨ We need the money for the final scenario . ¨

Yoo Joonghyuk reached out, hand already stretched out to nab the collar of Kim Dokja´s coat but reached thin air as a crack in the surface swallowed him whole .  

Cue Kim Dokja , ¨ Kim Dokja¨ From the book , and live action Kim Dokja staring each other down as they scrutinize the other two , both the Kim Dokja and the ¨ Kim Dokja¨ raising an eyebrow at the old man across from them claiming to be Kim Dokja . All of them sprawled out on the floor . 

I'm not that old, am I??? Do I really have that many wrinkles ? 

Setting aside their differences , all the Kim Dokja´s started to communicate , actually having a civil conversation aside from the ¨ Are you kidding me¨ s every now and then when the live action ¨ Kim Dokja ¨ added to their experiences .

΅The fuck you mean there´s no star stream ¨ The manga and the book version of Kim Dokja look at eachother before turning back to the live action Kim Dokja, veins popping out of their foreheads as they stare at the other with an indescribable expression. 

The Kim Dokja from the live action just tilts his head and furrows his eyebrows . ¨ There is no star stream? I´m also quite confused about said constellations, they don´t exactly exist either . ¨

With one look at each other , chaos ensues with Kim Dokja and ¨ Kim Dokja¨ starting a fight with the other Kim Dokja, both pulling out Unbroken faith as the other Kim Dokja pulls out Unbreakable Faith the Glock . The first two entirely pissed off that their favorite book has been reverted into something unrecognizable

One can only imagine what is happening on Yoo Joonghyuk´s side…. 

Speaking of Yoo Joonghyuk, after being pulled into the rift created right after Yoo Joonghyuk had pressed yes , the other Yoo Joonghyuk was arguing with his other version , unaware of the other presence in the area, watching with a indifferent expression  .

 ¨ Seriously? Even I bet i could keep that squid safer than whatever the hell you´ve been doing all this time  ¨

The Yoo Joonghyuk from the book scoffed, rolled his eyes , and bit back with a retort . ¨ By insulting me, you´re practically insulting yourself , are you truly that stupid? ¨ 

The former sighed , crossed his arms and gave an icy stare , one that would've made others scramble away and run for their lives if directed at them . 

However, not the same could be said for the other , since they´re the same person . 

{ The skill ¨ Tiger God´s Aura ¨ has been activated . }

{ The skill ¨ Tiger God´s Aura ¨ has been activated . }

The murderous aura caused another to back away , a pebble being kicked across the floor ,alerting them of another's presence . 

Quickly looking back , fierce eyes glaring at the person they gritted their teeth before freezing in shock . 

At the exact same time, with the same exact tone of pure confusion , they ask . 

¨ Kim Dokja? ¨ 

The man before them had the same exact hairstyle as their companion, however the facial features and build were completely different , further confusing them . 

The man's eyes just furrow , before pulling out a pistol and aiming the barrel of the gun at them , causing them to quickly pull out their swords. 

¨ No . I am Yoo Joonghyuk . ¨ 

Cue the balking at the goofy man in front of them 

The two with swords look at each other , an understanding beginning to form in between the two, both of them utterly refusing to acknowledge that this Kim Dokja look alike was them.  

They look back at the person , shifting their weight as the pistol in the other's hands points at them . 

{ The skill, ¨ Shooting Star Slash ¨ Is being activated! } 

{ the Skill, ¨ Force-Palm has activated }

They stare each other down .

Then the first bullet fires . 

Cue the Kim Dokjas sitting down on top of a chair as they watch the Yoo Joonghyuks fight, explosions happening left and right  , the Live Action Kim Dokja knocked out on the floor tied with duct tape as the manga and book Kim Dokja chat about TWSA.

Safe to say , they partially failed .

Now Kim Dokja is stuck with Anna Croft and Yoo Joonghyuk because they both hate her but still they partially succeeded . Along with 50000000000 coins in the bank while one half of Kimcom is trying not to strangle her , and the other half ( read : one ) is laughing maniacally .

( IT'S HAN SOOYOUNG ) 

[sometimescherwrites]

Like A Prayer

James Patrick March x male!reader

word count: 2k

content: giving jpm head after you murder a victim together. railing jpm after you murder a victim together. mild gore bc… yk… they killed someone together (you guys know the drill), reader calls jpm slurs (pansy and queer). james has never been railed before. mentions to the victim throughout the fic. anal sex (obviously). author is a murder makes james horny TRUTHER. subby james + sadomasochist james is canon bc i (and the show) says so. unprotected sex but they’re dead and ghosts so yk it’s not like they’re catching any diseases.

request: yes; 🧟‍♂️ anon

a/n: mdni on this one chat. also anon who requested this ily, sorry this took so long

James is panting heavily, knife clattering to the ground. You’re barely aware of it, eyes zeroing in on the bloodied mess of the victim.

He’s barely recognizable as a human anymore. A team effort between the two of you had resulted in the remnants of what had once been a person. In the back of your mind, you know it’ll be inconvenient to live with the man’s ghost for the rest of eternity, but if he gets too annoying you’re sure it wouldn’t be too hard to force his priorities in order.

The warmth of his blood coats your skin, the most warmth you’ve felt since your last kill. The added bonus of killing with your crush closest friend is what makes it even better.

And the sight of him with a raging hard on… it’s difficult to look away. After all, you're only a man. But he seems to be ignoring his current predicament entirely, pitch black eyes locked on the body- the perfect combination of your murderous preferences.

"We did that." He breathes out, sounding beyond proud.

"Yeah, we did." You nod, doing everything you can to avoid looking at the tent in his pants. Everything you have is clearly not enough, as your eyes keep finding their way back to it.

From there, you’re not sure how it happens, but his hands are in your hair and you’re licking deep into his mouth like a man starved. But kissing isn’t anywhere near enough, not for you. With a frustrated groan, you use the hand not clinging to James to reach for a nearby cleaver.

With a single whack, you’ve severed the victim’s arm- more specifically his wrist from just below the restraints. You do the same with his other arm, then his ankles, until you’re finally able to shove the corpse off of the table and to the ground. When you look back at James, he practically moans before pulling you back into another deep kiss.

“On the table.” You murmur against his lips, voice just firm enough to have him obeying instantly.

He’s sat on the table before you can even blink- the surface still covered in your victims blood and guts, a fact that seems to have him twitching in his pants already- or maybe it’s that you’ve still got the bloodied cleaver in your hand.

“Spread those legs for me.” You say, though you’re already letting the blade clatter to the ground so you can un-clip his suspenders.

“I would if you’d give me a moment to breathe.” James quips, lifting his hips to help you slide the pants down.

“We’re dead, lover, we don’t do that.”

Before he can come up with some silver-tongued retort, you’re letting saliva pool in your mouth and spitting a glob directly onto his aching cock. A strangled sound tears from his throat, hips bucking up momentarily.

“You devil.” He moans as your tongue licks a stripe from the base of his cock to the tip.

All you can do is grin before leaning back in, sucking one of his balls into your mouth, watching pleased as he tosses his head back with an honest to god whimper of your name.

It’s a sound that has you rocking against your own boot, the kneeling position leveling your crotch with a less than ideal, though not unwelcome source of friction. It’s not the most comfortable, but you’re far more occupied with the way James had whimpered your name, as if it were something more than human and more than spirit.

You continue to lavish your attention on him, mouth suckling each ball while your hand works his shaft up and down, occasionally thumbing the bead of precum at the tip, which seems to replenish itself each time your hand makes its way back up.

After providing thorough attention to his balls, you finally decide to show him a sliver of mercy and return you attentions to his cock. Now you find yourself preoccupied with a large vein on the underside of his length.

While you busy yourself with exploring every minute detail of the man in front of you, he seems to be coming to terms with the realization that this is clearly not your first time sucking dick.

“You- goddamn you- you’ve done this before?” James pants, looking down at you with pitch black eyes, somehow even darker than usual.

“And I’ll do it again.” You mutter, before taking him into your mouth until you’re fighting back a gag.

Your nails dig into the flesh of his thighs as you hollow your cheeks, James tossing his head back with a groan. If nothing else, you can at least tell he’s enjoying it.

Every moan and reverent breath of your name that falls from his lips spurs you on, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his skin. You hold yourself there, getting yourself adjusted to the feeling- something James seems a bit too impatient for.

He bucks his hips, prompting you to make a gagging sound, and moans louder. A second, higher sound leaves him as you dig your nails harder into him, and his hips buck up again. You pull off, reaching for a knife that had been left on the ground, still caked with your earlier victim’s blood.

“I will sever your spinal cord if you don’t stop that.”

You return your mouth to his cock and humor him just a bit longer before abruptly pulling off of him.

If looks could kill, you’re sure James’ glare would’ve provided you the most exquisite, agonizing death, and damn if that doesn’t make your cock twitch impatiently.

With a frustrated groan, you undo your own belt, tossing it to the side. You hear a dull clank as it hits the ground, but that’s the last you think of it. With little effort, you spin James around so that he’s bent over the table.

To say he’s reacting to the recent development would be an understatement, hands clawing at the cool surface of the table as you reach into your pocket for a bottle of lube.

James twists his head to look back, “You keep that on you?”

“Murder makes me horny.” You retort, “Wasn’t risking shit today. Now, you gonna take it?”

He nods eagerly, letting you spread him and begin to press a slicked up finger into him. It’s not hard to tell that James has never been in this situation before. He’s tense, despite how eager he’d seemed.

You give a deep sigh, as if you’re inconvenienced by this- in truth it’s the opposite, you’re delighted by the opportunity- and you use your free hand to reach around to his front and fist his aching cock.

At first he tenses more, but as you get a rhythm going, James finds it harder to focus on the strangeness of your finger up his ass- and the second finger looking to join it. You lean down, lips brushing against his ear, almost condescendingly murmuring, “Didn’t know you’d like it this much, did you?”

He’s a bit too preoccupied with your fist around his cock and your fingers up his ass to answer, so you decide to keep talking, “The great James Patrick March gagging for something up his ass- ‘s almost pathetic how quickly you chomped at the bit.“

James’ eyes flutter at the condescension dripping from your tone, cock twitching in your grasp. You curl your fingers, searching for something- though for what he doesn’t know. At least, not until they brush against the spot that has him arching and a strangled moan tearing from his mouth.

A grin that he can’t see spreads across your face, brushing over that spot again just a little firmer. Pleased with his repeated sounds, you nip at the lobe of his ear, just a bit too hard to be pleasurable- which creates the paradox of causing pleasure despite it.

“You’re twitching like that guy did ‘fore we cut his heart out.” You taunt, nodding at the corpse on the ground, laying within both of your lines of sight. James moans at the visual of your combined efforts, prompting a cooed, “You’re so vocal, Jamesie. Almost like you’re a fuckin’ queer or something.”

He hates when you call him Jamesie, which is exactly what prompted you to do it. While he’s trying to muster the words to tell you off, you work a third finger in. He’s immediately silenced.

“You know I think I like you like this. I can say whatever I want to you with this mouth of mine and you can’t do shit about it.” Your thumb swipes a large bead of precum from the tip of his cock, making a high sound tumble from him.

Once you deem him ready enough- more or less anyways- you reach for the lube again, this time for something bigger than just your fingers.

“Think you can take it? Bet you can, I can feel you twitchin’ in my hand. You’re such a fuckin’ pansy.” You scoff but wait for a few moments. When he gets impatient, wriggling a little, you pinch him roughly, “I asked you a fucking question. Answer or you don’t get shit.”

A few beats before James finally manages a shaky, “Yes, I can take it.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” A few pumps of your hand along your cock before you’re notching the head at the entrance to his ass. The way his breath hitches before you’ve even pushed in has your ego boosting a little higher.

Then you knock your hips, cock sinking into what may be the only heaven you’ll ever reach. You don’t even try to hide the moan as you finally bottom out, James’ ass clenching around your sensitive, previously neglected cock.

You’re utterly and completely still for a few moments, trying not to give away how close he has you just from that first thrust. It’s honestly not fair for any man’s ass to feel so good.

Luckily for you, James seems to be in a much worse state.

Like many times that night, his hands are scrambling on the table to try and grab onto something and he’s making incoherent sounds of pleasure mixed with the delectable sound of your name on his lips- almost a prayer.

Finally deeming yourself ready to keep going without the risk of being a ‘one pump chump’, you pull back just far enough to ram back in. James makes a choked sound, back arching in such a deeply satisfying way.

As you set your rhythm, you bring your hand back around to toy with his own cock once more. The dual stimulation has him babbling nonsense, much to your delight. And the odd clenching of his ass has you practically feral for this man.

“Oh, fuck, goddamnit.” You hiss through your teeth, thrusts growing quicker and less rhythmic, “Oh you’re such a fuckin’ pansy, you’re such a goddamn pansy, Jamesie- oh goddamnit.”

The second you feel him spilling into your hand, you’re following immediately after, pumping thick ropes into his ass. Your eyes squeeze shut, stars exploding behind your lids as you fuck him through your high. You don’t even care if it’s selfish to base it on your timeline and not his, you thrust and thrust until the overstimulation hurts enough to stop.

After that it’s completely still. You don’t need to breathe, you haven’t in years, but you pant anyway. James does too. In the back of your mind, you wonder why, but it’s fleeting. Your priorities are elsewhere.

Without a thought, your hand reaches for his, squeezing it absentmindedly. He squeezes it back. It’s only minutes later that he finally speaks: “I’m going to gut you for calling me Jamesie, you are aware?”

A breathless laugh falls from your lips, though you know he’s completely serious, “Yeah. I’m aware.”

[scaryscarecrows]

Needles and Stitches

Mark goes from tired to pissed in about five seconds. That’s how long it takes him to turn on the light to his office and clock the Arkham Knight sitting awkwardly in the Sucker Chair. He was supposed to be in Arkham City until next Wednesday.

“The fuck did you do.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got an eight-inch laceration right between my damn shoulder blades and I can’t reach it. I already tried.”

“And you made it worse, I’m sure.” Good morning, sunshine, it’s gonna be one of those days! It must be bad, though, or already infected, or he wouldn’t be here. “Come on, lemme see what you did.”

“Helmet stays on,” the Knight says roughly. “That’s non-negotiable.”

Mark is willing to argue. He is the doctor, and this is his goddamn domain and that’s just the way it is. He’s not willing to argue right now, not with this guy. The Knight has yet to really hurt them, but he most certainly can, and there was one poor bastard that tried to pull the helmet off, last year. Was.

But he’s also not giving him the complete win. It’s the principle of the thing. So he just grunts, jerks his head towards surgery, and locks the door behind them.

His armor is pristine, so no clues there. Mark also has no fucking idea where to even begin getting that off, so he just makes an irritated gesture at the whole mess.

“Well?”

The boss fiddles with one of his many pocket knives for maybe thirty seconds more before reaching up and unlatching the chest plate. The armor under that is kevlar, like theirs, and it’s almost the same, barring the heavy plating across his shoulders. That comes off the same as the chest plate did, with hidden latches, and the rest of the suit unzips at the throat.

Whatever Mark was expecting, it wasn’t this. He’s seen scars like this very rarely, though he’s seen the fresh wounds a lot more, when he and Trent were out in Russia. Burns of all kinds, ranging from small cigarettes to deep ones from a hot poker. A latticework of knife scars on…honestly, everything. What looks like a crude surgical scar at the gut (self-surgery, maybe? Mark’s got a similar one himself), and…honestly, he can’t pin the odd, almost knot-like thing at the hollow of his throat. There’s a horrific slash going from rib to hip that would have been a near-disembowelment, and several of the ribs are just crooked enough that it’s clear they were broken and healed for shit. A short, jagged scar, also older, says that he took a knife through the shoulder at some point. Anything else is hidden under a white bandage wound awkwardly under one arm, over the other, and around his ribs.

These scars are old. The body that bears them is not. Twenties, maybe, if he had to guess. Jesus Christ, no wonder he’s…quite frankly, this fucked up.

“Bandage off, turn around,” he says shortly. “Lemme see what you’re bitchin’ about.”

The Knight’s back is exactly zero percent better. Long, deliberate knife wounds trace his shoulders, barely visible under what looks like, hand-to-God, whip marks. A whip with glass embedded in it, he thinks, judging by the odd pockmarks. But more importantly, right now, there is indeed an eight-inch gash sitting pretty between his shoulder blades, right in an absolutely dickish spot to reach for self-stitches. And yeah, there’s the beginnings of an infection, though he’s clearly tried to at least keep that at bay.

“You gotta give me something to work with.”

“Somebody got lucky with a machete.”

“And how did that happen?”

“I was distracted by the bastard with the cattle prod.”

That explains fuck-all.

“Hm. I’m guessing you’re up to date on your tetanus shots.”

“Yes.”

“It’s something.” The infection hasn’t really had a chance to set in; the gash has clearly been cleaned and had some ointment or something dabbed on it, at least. “Could be worse,” he continues, politely ignoring what looks like the faint rubbing scars of a metal collar. “You didn’t let it get out of control, at least. It’s just a little red, no puss yet or anything super nasty. No trips into the sewer or anything I need to know about, right?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Good. All right, I’m gonna clean it up to my satisfaction, stitch it back together, and then you’re going to leave off your stupid ninja-shit for at least ten days. No gargoyles, no flips, no zilch or on God, I will open you back up and stuff that thing full of those little prickly things that grow out in the jungle, you hear me?”

“You’re welcome to try.” The Knight’s voice doesn’t have the usual humor to it, but he’s not pissed off, either. He’s just–nervous, is the best word Mark’s got for him. He’s nervous.

“I don’t try. I do. This’ll be easier if you just lie down and keep still. You got any allergies I should know about?”

“Artificial cherry,” comes the quiet mumble. Jesus Christ, he’s got a real comedian on his hands here.

“Then I’ll keep the grape lollipops aside just for you,” Mark snarks. “Now let’s get this thing closed up before some idiot falls off a car and breaks their arm. Again.”

THE END