#Dog Training Gloves

[crossstitchpatterns]

Instructions below

For House Exterior, use marker to draw outline of the window and door openings as indicated by dashed line on pattern onto one sheet of perforated plastic. Cut out along marker lines; set window and door pieces aside. Cut window and door openings from remaining piece of plastic in the same manner, Except discard window and door pieces.

Cut a 3x15 inch strip from short end of Aida. Use reserved perforated plastic windows and doors as patterns to cut to matching pieces from Aida strip. Set aside plastic and Aida pieces.

Find center of one sheet of plastic and center of house chart; begin stitching there. Stitch the entire chart except window and door openings. Use three plies of cotton or rayon floss to work cross stitches all the way around the edges of openings; do not leave and unstitched rows. Work back-stitches and french knots as specified by the key. Use one ply of matching floss to attach beads.

For windows and doors, work each area of chart inside dashed lines on a reserved piece of plastic. Work cross-stitches all the way to the edges of the piece; Do not leave any unstitched rows. sew beads to windows and doors. Glue a same sized piece of Aida to back of each piece. Use sewing thread and ladder stitched to attach windows and doors to house.

Position stitched plastic over remaining sheet of plastic. Use sewing thread to join layers together at window and door openings. Join the outside edges of rectangles together with overcast stitches using three plies.

For background, tape or zigzag edges of Aida to prevent fraying. Find center of chart and center of fabric; begin stitching from there. Use three plies of cotton floss or two plies of rayon floss to work cross-stitches. Work backstitches and french knots as specified. Press.

Position exterior atop background so motifs show through window and door openings. Baste at sides to hold in place. Frame as desired.

[bi-writes]

thinking about being the new addition to tf141. you are an asset given to laswell by the CIA, a timid little thing but your aim is always on target, and you are quiet, tech savvy, and you do as you're told. (18+, dark)

just how lieutenant riley prefers. he dwarfs you. the first time you meet, your eyes nearly come out of your head from how wide they go. he's so large, and you feel so tiny compared to him, and even though he does nothing but a disinterested once over, it is obvious to the rest of the team that you might just be his favorite.

it's most obvious in the subtle touches. when you're getting ready to jump, ghost comes up from behind and tugs on your parachute, nearly topping you over making sure it's secure. when you're getting ready in the back of the humvee, he reaches over and buckles your thigh holster for you when he notices the strap is coming loose. you nearly choke when you feel his big hand between your thighs, and you stare up at him with wide eyes when his pinkie moves up the seam of your zipper when he tugs his hand away.

and then the way he's on your six is unlike anything else. like glue, chest pressed to your back, his gloved hand squeezing your waist as he moves you every which way he pleases because you're so small to him, so easy, and he growls under his breath when he touches the curve of your hips or the fat of your ass.

maybe you might enjoy it if he wasn't so fucking awkward about it. if he didn't stare at you without blinking. if he didn't adjust his cock in his jeans right in front of you. if he didn't grip you by the back of your head, tugging you any way he wanted as if scolding a kitten using the scruff of their neck.

you think the team would notice by now--that they would step in, tell ghost to back off, but they turn a blind eye. they tolerate this behavior, and you don't know if it's because ghost is so good at his job, they don't want to, or that they are so afraid of him, they refuse to say anything.

or maybe they approve. maybe it keeps ghost at bay. maybe it keeps a lion in his den. a spider in its nest. maybe indulging ghost in his fucked form of flirting and socialization is what keeps the foundations of this team right where it needs to be--and you realize, slowly, that maybe that is why you're here.

because ghost likes them soft, and they need to put a muzzle on their dog.

so when you feel him in the dark, slipping a gloved hand under the blanket that keeps you warm at night, he is pleasantly surprised to find you awake. and even more surprised to feel your hand slipping the soft lace of your panties right into his fucking pocket.

"they teach y'that 'n basic training? how ta give y'r knickers to y'r lieutenant, eh?"

"no," you whisper, and when you meet his eyes in the dark, he looks so hungry. he's untamed, no training, he's used to getting what he wants with no resistance. you turn over in bed, and you don't get to see the way he sucks on his teeth when you let your knees fall, revealing the pretty place between your thighs, soft and puffy and wet, just waiting for a good mutt to eat her up. "but i learned other things."

"tha' right?"

"yeah," you say softly, and you turn over onto your stomach, pushing back onto your knees right in front of him. he bends, leaning over until he's pushing his masked face right into the seam of your cunt, and you grip the sheets tight when he inhales deeply, a rumble following as both of his hands grip either side of your ass and spread you open for him. you're drooling, wetting the nylon fabric, and you gasp when you feel the wet, warm muscle of his tongue suck on your folds through the mask. it's lewd, and you're wetting the material so much it sticks to the strong lines of his face, but he continues, tilting his head to the side as he laps at the pretty slick that dampens your thighs.

"what'd y'learn then, swee'eart?"

not how to fuck your lieutenant. but...you did learn to keep them happy.

"h-how to be a good girl."

and you think you feel him smile.

[postmortemnivis]

nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.

that was until your worried voice called for him.

you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.

“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”

“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”

you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.

“who’re you looking for?”

you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”

“ghost?”

you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”

“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”

“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”

you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint—or two—with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.

"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.

"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."

you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.

you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.

you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved on the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?

"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.

his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.

"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.

you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.

he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.

"love?" he called you.

still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.

"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.

"ghost?"

he shook his head. "simon, love."

"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.

he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.

you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.

this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.

he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.

[yawnderu]

CW: mentions of kidnapping and stolen body autonomy.

Find a way in, kill the enemy, retrieve the hostages, leave. A routine of sorts that gave his life some sense of purpose to avoid going insane for the past two decades. Simon liked to believe he got over what happened in his past... truly, he did; and yet Manuel Roba’s horrors seem to haunt him no matter where how many years pass.

“C’mere.” Simon’s voice held no hostility, he made sure of it, yet your stiff position never changed. Legs angled to the right, hands folded on your lap, and eyes looking forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze even if it’s been hours since your rescue. Garrick, Price and Johnny have already tried to get you to talk multiple times, all of them with different approaches. 

Garrick was friendly, trying his best to seem approachable, a bright smile on his lips that you didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at a wall no matter how much he tried to hold a conversation.

Price seemed fatherly, never once laying a hand on you even if it was itching to comfort you, and so he settled with telling you you’re safe now, how no one will ever get you again now that they're here. His words didn’t seem to do much, either. 

Johnny was… something else. His first attempt was a shitty pick up line, getting a reaction out of you for the first time— a nose scrunched up in disgust, but a reaction nonetheless.  

And Simon… Simon’s approach was different. The man was used to barking out orders and obeying them himself, not to deal with an unresponsive hostage. His behemoth frame was nestled next to you, putting a tray on the table and observing your reactions. From the way you swallowed thickly the moment the meal was presented to you, to the sound of your stomach growling. 

“Go on, then.” Your gaze follows his movements for the first time, the feeling of your stomach rumbling makes you more aware of your hunger, so many years being fed nothing but what was necessary to keep you alive by Manuel and his associates, so many years of being trained like a dog to obey to their very order. 

Simon can see the hesitation in your body language, too tense to allow yourself to dig in the way you wanted, yet no longer as stiff as before. There was a sense of relief at the fact that they didn’t seem to want to hurt you —unlike Roba—, yet years of non-stop brutal training can’t be erased within hours.

Roba’s training was engraved into your brain, and while the sense of security the SAS blokes gave you is something you’re thankful for, nothing guarantees they’re not working for him. You’ve seen other military men come and go throughout the years, always Roba’s friends, and always sharing the same disgusting, sadistic desires.

“Eat up.” The rest of the men watch the way you move, curiosity and amusement mixing at how strange your movements seem, almost robotic. Your forearms rest on the table, elbows away from the cheap wood as you attempt to hold your own cutlery— attempt, because it looks fully foreign to you, trying out different angles to make it work, and yet it's the first time in years you've been allowed to try and feed yourself.

Simon is the first one to catch on, having lived under Roba’s rules for long enough to know he enjoys taking people’s autonomy, to reduce them to nothing but a pathetic mess that depends on him. His gloved fingers are gentle as he takes the spoon from your hand, scooping up some food before holding it up to your lips. His full attention is on you, relief starting to make its way into his body as sees your rather soft lips wrap around the spoon, eating whatever he was feeding you. Lucky for you, this time it wasn’t an MRE… or beans on toast.

His gloved thumb wipes the corners of your lips every time you’re done chewing, and he’s quick to pick up more food from the plate, nothing but patience and kindness shown in his actions, so unlike the brooding soldier he's known to be.

“... two goldfish are in a tank…?” Johnny’s loud groan gets your attention for a second, yet you quickly glance back at Simon, curious eyes looking up at him, almost as if asking him to go on. 

“One turns to the other and says… ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle before he even finishes his joke, clearly trying his best not to laugh at just how awful it was. A small smile hides in the corners of your lips, and Simon takes that as a victory, ignoring the questioning looks he’s getting from his team, for now.

[shotmrmiller]

but Riley actually sniffing you out on a walk though and is so excited to see her second favorite human. See? His dog loves you so so much. You can't make Riley sad by never seeing her again. She was already so sad when you didn't come back after Simon came home. Maybe you should just move into the spare room for when Simon inevitably has to report back to duty.

Okay but he pays you extra to fill up his fridge with groceries a week before he comes home. Works for you.

Except he never gets back on time. There's always a delay at work, keeping him there for much longer. You don't question it because it's not your place... but the vibrant green, crisp bell peppers are gonna spoil. The cilantro is wilting, unused. The tomatoes are over ripening. What a shame :(

Luckily for you, your boss is incredibly generous. He tells you to just eat whatever's about to go bad. Wouldn't want to waste all of your hard work. Even says you can use his kitchen.

It feels weird but your frugality wins in the end. You make yourself some tasty meals, even Riley gets a nibble or two. (All dog safe. She doesn't get any if she sits in the kitchen while you're cooking nor begs. We have house training and you also feel like Mr. Riley would skin you alive if she picked up any bad habits because of you.)

This is where Simon shows you off, passing his cracked phone around the table in mess hall. Look at how cute you are beating eggs. Delicate pink tongue poking out from the corner of your lips as you concentrate on peeling potatoes. He should buy you an apron, would hate for your clothes to get stains that'd be hard to wash out. Maybe some dish washing gloves too. Although the soapy, warm water does make your palms look incredibly soft after washing dishes.

How would they feel around his throbbing cock?

Simon exudes pride, sunken eyes glimmering behind his chipped mask when his boss admits that your food does look pretty damn good.

Tha's my girl. She knows tha' the way to a man's heart's through his stomach.

[underthetree845]

chuuya taking his hat off to hide when he kisses his partner 🤭

Hello saturn lovely! Sorry this took me so long to finish TwT I love the prompt, but as you know writer's block hit me kinda hard the second semester of school so over the summer I've been trying to get back into the swing of posting once in a while!

Hope you enjoy <3 thank you for the request! _

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go

Nakahara Chuuya/Reader (oneshot request)

cws: fem! reader, established relationship, bungou stray dogs s5 spoilers, meursault arc spoilers, fluff, hurt/comfort kinda? there was a little hurt, reuniting, airport reunion, ada dazai, reader cries about 2.5k words summary: Chuuya disappeared on a business trip for three whole days with no explanation- and no one would tell you why. Now he's returned to japan and back in your arms. a/n: This is my last fic for the summer before school starts aaa qwq I'm glad I was able to finish it before the semester starts though! *sigh* am I really incapable of writing something like this without accidentally creating so much plot? Anyways, hope you enjoy! <3 divider credit: (x) (x) ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ Chuuya had never considered himself to be a very possessive man; or a possessive boyfriend, for that matter. Protective, sure, but how could anyone expect him not to be? He understood, probably better than most, the risks that came with even so much as associating with a person in his position. It made Chuuya’s stomach churn unpleasantly to even imagine putting you in any sort of danger, so he used his position (along with the power and assets that came with it) to take certain preventative measures. The penthouse you shared was equipped with state of the art security, a technological system truly fit for an executive of the Port Mafia. Additionally, in case you ever needed to travel long distances without him, Chuuya often kept a trusted chauffeur on call. This individual also happened to be a professionally trained underground bodyguard of his personal selection. Even so, Chuuya knew you had a good head on your shoulders. He trusted that you would try to keep yourself out of trouble, or call for him at the first sign of it. It didn’t matter if he was on the road, halfway through a private meeting, or in the middle of pummeling down an enemy organization. Chuuya had always been a man with his priorities set straight. Not even Mori’s notifications were set to come through on silent mode. Coming home to you at the end of the day, allowing you to soothe away the crease between his brows, your voice uttering sweet nothings against the shell of his ear. You had become his lifeline, irreversibly carved your name into every cell of his body. He’d do anything to erase your pain, and it was making his heart break more than anything to know that he was the cause of the salty tears now streaming over your lash line. Chuuya did his best to hold back an ‘oof’ when you threw your frame into his own, burying your sobs in the crook of his neck. He was immediately overwhelmed with the scent of your perfume, the familiar feeling of your body against his own, the softness of the sweater you wore, and the glimmer that never seemed to escape your eyes. The red colored contacts from earlier had given Chuuya one hell of a headache, which only added to the pressure from taking off and being stuck in one of the mafia’s smallest private jets with the most insufferable jackass he’d ever met and some hair dye obsessed casino manager passed out on one of the couches. Chuuya’s gloved fingers almost trembled as they gripped the fabric of your shirt. He lifted a hand to cradle the back of your head while the other remained planted firmly on your lower back.

Sakaguchi Ango, if Chuuya remembered correctly, stood a few yards away. He simply observed the situation from afar, as if he dared not insert himself into the scene. A government agent whom Dazai used to maintain his connection with the outside world. Ango stood with one hand folded neatly over the other behind his back, the faint ghost of a smile residing behind his glasses as he watched Dazai reunite with his fellow agency members. The brunette walked on a crutch, but the uncharacteristically tired look in his eyes brightened ever so slightly when he was swarmed by his coworkers. Chuuya continued to hold you close, patiently waiting for your sobs to die down enough for you to be able to speak coherently. He loosened his grip slightly, removing one of his leather gloves behind your back and bringing that same hand up to cup your face. A whisper of your name left his lips, and your teary eyes finally refocused to meet the warmth of his own. “Chuuya… how could you just leave?” your voice cracked; he could see the hurt in your eyes. Guilt crept into his chest, eyebrows knitting together as you subconsciously leaned into his palm. This was exactly the sort of thing Chuuya promised himself he’d never do. You were the absolute number one priority in his life. There was no doubt in his mind; he didn’t want there to be any doubt in yours either. “I know, Doll, ‘m sorry, it was never my intention…” he muttered, allowing you to rest your hands on his chest. “I know that’s a shit excuse, but I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” A beat of silence passed, the indistinct chatter of the agency fell on deaf ears as you zoned in on the man in front of you. His breath, the way his eyes searched your expression, how you could once again feel the warmth of his skin against your own. “You’re not hurt, are you?” your voice was pricked with concern, hands gentle as you cupped his jaw and turned his head from side to side. Chuuya let out a breath, fondness flickering in his irises at your concern. “Barely a scratch,” he murmured, and you seemed to accept his answer. “Chuuya,” you started, and his gaze locked onto yours. He voiced your name in response. “I need you to promise me something, please?” “Anything.” 

You bit your lip. Your mind told you it was a selfish request. You understood, probably better than most, how unpredictable your boyfriend’s line of work could be. But you had accepted it as an adequate price to pay for his love when the two of you started seeing each other, even more so when you moved in together. He was yours, you believed it with every fiber of your being. Chuuya had told enough stories of his old work partner for you to gather that the two had never exactly been the chummiest of pals. So the fact that they cooperated for this mission must’ve meant that it couldn’t have been a minor dilemma. You understood why Chuuya made the decision he did, and that it was probably just as difficult on him. Albeit, that didn’t make your feelings any less real. Your heart reminded you of the unconditional love and comfort that Chuuya always offered you. You knew he’d never intentionally hurt your feelings, especially not without talking it out and making up for it in some way afterward. “Doll…?” he barely breathed, giving you all the space you needed to voice what was on your mind. You took a deep breath. “Don’t… please don’t scare me like that again,” your voice wavered as you spoke, “Everything on the news is scary. And every time I watch it all I can think about is the fact that you’re out there.” You took a moment to glance at the group of Armed Detective Agency members on the airport runway to your left. One of the so-called terrorists you heard about on the news stood amongst the group about ten feet away from where you watched. The world was confusing, and scary, but there was a certain security in your heart that told you as long as you had Chuuya by your side, everything would be okay. “First you’re leaving before sunrise and staying out late on special missions, and I get it, I really do…” you felt a lump beginning to form in your throat, threatening to make you choke over your words, “but then you just leave on a business trip to Europe without so much as a ‘goodbye, I’ll be home soon’? And I have to find out from a call from your boss? I didn’t- I still don’t understand what’s happening. Do you know how scared I was? That I might not ever see you again?” Chuuya’s thumb swiped away the teardrop that ran down your cheek, his eyes trailing over your expression. “You’re right, it’s not fair… I don’t think I could ever apologize enough,” he began, his hold on you tightening slightly, “All that I can ask is for you to understand. I can explain everything to you when we get home. And I promise, I’ll do my best to not leave you in the dark so suddenly. It was an urgent mission, but it must have been scary. You’ll never have to feel like that again, not if I can help it.” Chuuya’s face softened, the corners of your lips curving up slightly at his sincerity as he cupped your cheek. “Shit… you deserve so much better.” You stood there for a moment, just breathing. Soaking in each other’s presence as your heartbeat gradually fell back to its usual pace.

“My my, Slug, is this the lovely lady you were so eager to get back to?” a voice chimed from your left, and you turned your head to face the man at the same time Chuuya snapped his head in that direction. Your boyfriend clicked his teeth, pressing your body closer to his own. “What’s it to you, huh, Dazai?” Chuuya was clearly trying to suppress his irritation. He was doing especially well, considering the fact that he had been holed up next to Dazai on an airplane for the past fourteen hours. “I’m just trying to acquaint myself,” the man went on, a grin playing on his lips despite Chuuya’s glare, “As a responsible owner, I should at least make sure my dog is in good hands.” You tilted your head slightly, and Chuuya sucked in a breath. “You’re treading on some pretty thin ice, Mackerel,” he growled through gritted teeth, “Watch what you say around my girl.” The taller man only took a step forward, his eyes glittering in amusement, a sharp contrast to the hollowed out, almost dead look he carried earlier. “Oh? Holding back your more vulgar language around the lady?” Dazai hummed with mild intrigue, “Perhaps my dog is being well taken care of.” You simply stood and watched with intrigue, the interaction clearly more complex than distinguishable at first glance. Despite their constant verbal jabs and ostentatious insults toward each other, there was a sense of familiarity between the two that was almost palpable to you. They bounced off each other, knowing exactly which buttons to press and which ones to avoid. It was probably a welcome change of tone in contrast to what they had just been through. Your gaze flickered between the two once more, and you couldn’t help but notice how the tension in Chuuya’s shoulders had been released. “Dazai-san?” your voice was level, and both of the men fell silent to give you their attention. You looked at your beloved, then to his ex-partner, then Chuuya, then Dazai again. Mirth swam in your eyes. “I want to thank you for making sure Chuuya was able to return home safely today. Truly, I cannot thank you enough.” You gave a slight bow of your head, and Chuuya looked like he wanted to protest. For once, Dazai didn’t immediately produce a response; he fell silent at your sentiment. This time, a gentler smile curved onto his lips. “Please spare me, Miss,” Dazai began, “Truth be told, I don’t believe I could have made it out without Chuuya’s help either.” The redhead raised his eyebrows. "I'm passing him into your capable hands now. I trust you’ll take good care of him?” Dazai seemed satisfied with the chuckle that slipped from your throat. “You have nothing to worry about,” you replied, “And I trust that your detective agency will treat you well?” “They always have.” Chuuya let out a breath, sharing a look with his partner before turning to face a black passenger vehicle that had pulled up a short distance away. Tinted windows that prevented anyone outside from peeking in; glass, body, and tires that were all bulletproof. It was one of the mafia’s. 

“C’mon Dollface, we should get going. Don’t wanna be here when the press shows up, and the boss is probably dying for me to give him a call,” Chuuya nodded his head in the direction of the car; you brought your hand up to give a small wave to Dazai and the handful of agency members further away who glanced in your direction. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in, allowing your head to rest on Chuuya’s shoulder as you made your way to the car. You felt like you could finally breathe properly again. The door unlocked with a quiet click. Chuuya swung open the door of the vehicle with his non gloved hand and stepped aside to allow you to enter first. “...Chuu?” you started quietly, taking a step closer to where he stood. “Hm?” he raised an eyebrow. You placed your hands loosely on the back of his neck, fingers intertwined; Chuuya responded by resting his hands on your hips, listening intently.  You could have held more of a grudge. He disappeared overnight without a word, and no one would tell you why. You’d been on edge for three days straight. Hardly even sleeping through the night as you kept up with the news almost obsessively, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. To be able to hold Chuuya close again so easily felt almost surreal. A soft smile creeped into your expression, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you tilted your head to the side. Chuuya’s breath stilled. “I’m just…” you paused for a moment, your voice pouring with sincerity, “I’m really glad you’re back, and that you’re safe.” Chuuya paused for another moment, studying you carefully as an equally tender look came to his face. He glanced to the side for a moment, and let out a disgruntled huff upon discovering that Dazai’s head was still tilted in your direction; he kept a curious eye on the situation from several meters away. Your boyfriend pursed his lips for a moment before snaking one of his hands further around your waist. He plucked his pork pie hat off the crown of his head, and before you had the chance to realize what was going on, you were already being gracefully tilted backwards, forcing your hands to grip onto the lapel of Chuuya’s jacket for support. Everything seemed to still the moment he slotted his lips into yours, holding his hat up to act as a shield from certain prying eyes. You didn’t hesitate to pull him in closer, your lashes fluttering shut as you savored what you felt like you had been missing for an eternity. Chuuya’s eyes were shut in concentration, his heart thrumming with delight at the familiar sensation of your lips molded against his own. Chuuya didn’t pull away until you were both light-headed from the lack of air. Cheeks flooded with warmth, looking at each other as if you were the only two people in the entire world. “I missed you so fucking much, you know that?” Chuuya’s voice was low as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. The two of you stood straight, lingering in each other’s embrace for a moment longer. Chuuya lightly tossed his hat inside the car and once more gestured with his arm out for you to enter first. The satisfied smile on his lips morphed into one of slight perplexion when you didn’t show a reaction, raising your fingertips to brush over your lips. “Chuuya?” you questioned, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He replied with your name, all the more puzzled when you let out an incredulous chuckle. “Since when are your teeth so sharp?” 

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ a/n: Thank you so much for reading! Have a day/night/morning/evening as lovely as yourself. tagging: @judasgot-it (I noticed that I wrote down that I agreed to tag you for chuuya fics but I can't seem to remember why?? TwT please tell me if this is incorrect! Thank you <3)

[lethalchiralium]

Seasons Change ⋆⭒ Part One

Retired!Cowboy!John Price x F!Reader, “arranged” marriage AU - Series Masterlist

summary: You’ve responded to the ad, traveling for days to a secluded farm in Montana to marry a man who would free you from the loneliness that infested your life back home - at the cost of your freedom. Or so you think.

Are you truly sure about this?

Your coach wasn’t extravagant by any means, wood splintered off of its wall and the cushions almost as old as you. You were sure that if you placed your Mama’s suitcase onto the floor, it would fall through. Your nicest shoes were on your feet, tied tightly and uncomfortable as they ghosted the top of the rotting wood floorboards.

Your hands were settled in a pair of your finest gloves, which shielded away the nicks you got from farming at your parent’s small ranch; lima beans, beets, sugar peas, radishes and tomatoes. The ground was tough in Illinois, trying to learn how to farm behind your mother’s back was essential - for you to be able to have freedom when you leave for the West, you had to have a source of income. Unless, God gives you a little ad from Montana on a Sunday afternoon.

Your nails hurt every time you scraped off the top soil from your radishes, the hot sun boiled your back through your stifling dress. You wiped your forehead with the back of your hand before you pulled out the last one, a sore hand wiped away dirt to show a deep violet color. There was a smirk on your face, the vegetable settled in your small basket. Your Pa was to be back by noon, taking his horse to town for some supplies and a new sewing kit for Mama. Her time was spent inside, usually under the watchful eye of a needle and feeder as her brand new sewing machine droned on. Pa spent the better part of the money from last year’s harvest for that, she took it with a soft smile.

Mama’s clothes were good, she can sew four shirts by noon and sell them by two o’clock, her blankets still have a waitlist from last winter. You were lucky to have her sew you a new dress with how busy she’s gotten - it’s good for you, it means you can learn how to tend a farm from Pa. Independent living always intrigued you, wanting to live off the land in a quiet house with a shepherd dog. People weren’t interesting enough for you - you got that from Mama - but romance was. Wanting to be loved without the hassle of courting was a dream of yours, but it wasn’t feasible. No good man would want a woman with cuts on her hands, your Mama always said, a lady doing a man’s work insults God. That and you didn’t go to town much, never going without your Pa for fear of being harassed by men like you had been before. You were always escorted through town by your Pa, he always had a smile and a swift draw with his revolver.

You twisted a tomato from the vine, a decent size yet still not big enough - it seemed the soil was beginning to lose its strength of growing your crops bigger than the palm of your hand. Every year they kept growing smaller, every year it seemed that Mama’s sewing hobby was looking more profitable than the cornfields Pa tended to alone. Even your contribution of an array of vegetables wouldn’t bring four dollars to the table; when it used to bring seven.

There were footsteps along the side of the house, heavy and with a gentle huff as he walked on the solid Earth. It wasn’t hard to recognize your Pa by sound, your hands kept twisting off undersized tomatoes as he approached from the side.

“I’ve got something for you, Sugar Pea.”

You shook your head. “If it’s one of those Seed boys’ letters, I don’t want it.”

“It’s somethin’ you oughta consider.”

The trail began to grow bumpy, your hands held onto your small suitcase as you gazed out the window. The fields expanded as far as your eye could see, mountains clustered in the distance made you excited. You had never seen mountains before - Illinois was flatter than most states. It had taken you a day by coach then three days by train from busy Chicago to reach the calm Montana landscape, excitement bubbled in your skin. This is where you would be living the rest of your life, you hoped. You prayed this ad your father had given you wasn’t a trick for the man you had been corresponding with for the past two months.

The coach was stuffy, you already tried to open the windows in the doors but they were sealed shut, your hand waved your fan to try and keep cool in the brand new dress you sewed just for this occasion.

“No daughter of mine is leaving to go to Montana by herself!”

“Ellen, she wants to go! I won’t stop her.”

“And how did she get this ad? She certainly doesn’t have the penny to pay the damn clerk for the newspaper.”

“If she wants to go to Montana to marry a farmhand, let her. None of these boys here are worth the scum on my shoe.”

You laid in your bed, you watched as your curtain billowed from the night time breeze - moonlight dancing along with the thin fabric as the only sound you heard was your parents arguing.

“What if we need her? What if the soil runs dry?”

“I’ll learn to sew.”

“It’s a woman’s job.”

“It’s also her job to be married by now. She’s 20 for God’s sake, Ellen, she needs to have her own freedom.”

“And it’s a world’s away from us?”

Your fingers tapped your nightgown, tears running down the side of your face. You hated that you would be so far from them, but this was your chance. Romance without courting, hopefully. You were naive enough to not understand that romance is nothing without courting.

“She’s not a child anymore. She just wants to be wed.”

“And not have her husband love her?! Courting is how she should be doing it, that Joseph is a fine boy-“

“Not again with that preacher’s son-“

“-that would treat her right!”

“She doesn’t want to be here! She just wants to be wed and to be left alone, this man promised us a cash amount if she replies. All she would need to do is wed him, give him a child-“

“Gerald-“

“-then shoot him if she likes, just like I taught ‘er.”

Pa’s silver revolver was smothered by an old scarf in the deepest part of your suitcase, just in case this man in the ad turned out to have lied about his identity. A 35 year old man in need of a wife to start a family with. Payment to family if wed. You had written to him four times during the winter, spring had come in full bloom to welcome you to your new home. He had promised a warm house and a dog in his lengthy letters, detailing where he lived and where his family came from. Said he was a farmhand, tending to horses and a farm he partially owned. You didn’t have much to say back, only that you lived on flat farm land your whole life, you know how to garden, cook, and sew. And to your surprise, he found that knowing how to garden was great. You always had the idea that men hated women doing any of the dirty work, but that always came from Mama’s mouth. He wrote in detail that he found your hobbies interesting and would be more than happy to let them continue, if you agreed to marry him.

“You’re set on meeting this man. Are ya sure you want to go?”

“I am.”

“Get up. Pack quickly before your Mama hears ya.”

“Pa-“

“Hurry. The train leaves soon and the carriage can only go so fast.”

And here you were, in a coach this mysterious John Price had rented to bring you from the center of Missoula to his farm an hour away. You had enough money to get you to him, but he insisted on paying the train ticket and for you to be promptly delivered to him. Perhaps you should have considered if he was truly lying and was a one-eyed bald man named Bob. That or it was that crazy preacher’s son trying to get you to marry him again. You silently prayed that this seemingly sweet man you had been writing to all winter was actually kind and respectful.

The coach stopped abruptly, it jerked you forwards and forced you to press your shoes into the withered floorboards - yet nothing happened; you were surprised. Your gaze fell to the window, gazing out to see beautiful fields and dozens of trees. Even in the early spring with the remaining spray of snow on the ground, it was gorgeous. You could hear talking, the horse neighed at the front and all you could do was gaze out the window to the massive farm.

There was talking, a deep voice who initiated the conversation with the coach driver - your heart rose into your throat. Was this where you were going to live the rest of your life? Sprawling countryside with whinnying horses, barking dogs, lush trees and dark mountains as far as the eye could see? If it was, you were content - it was better than the flat farmland you lived on your entire life. You spotted a dark brown horse, coming into your view - a nice saddle sat on its back, deep brown hair combed and black spots dotted its belly. You would have spent the next hour admiring the gorgeous horse if it wasn’t for the coach door opening. Your eyes settled on the man who held open the door, covered by a long brown coat and brown shirt. He then held his hand out, you handed him your suitcase.

The man held out his free hand to you with a smile, eyes blue like a stormy sky. It shocked you just how gentle his gaze was, every man who ever looked at you always seemed like they would rip you apart at the seams.

Not this one.

He set your suitcase down, still holding your hand in his calloused one.

Oh. He is pretty.

Dark brown beard with mutton chops somewhat kept neat, teeth a light yellow - better than most men you’ve seen.

“What if he’s mean, Papa?”

“Then you leave.”

“If I can’t?”

“Shoot him in the head. You know how.”

His hold was gentle, better than any man who had grabbed at you when you were a teenager. Disgusting men laying hands on a young girl in the streets, but scrambling back like cats when Pa snapped at them.

“You’re prettier than what I imagined.”

Your jaw almost went slack with shock - he was British? He never disclaimed that to you in his letters, but his subtle drawl of his accent made your stomach quiver. Your lips pulled a smile.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“She speaks.” He chuckled a little. “Thank you, Miss.”

The coachman closed the door behind you, John then began to lead you towards the horse you were admiring earlier - now noticing the cart attached to it. It wasn’t anything fancy, just something to pull heavy items around. Your trunk already sat on it, he led you towards the seats.

You gazed at his face, the jawline that faded into his neat beard - the way his brown hair seemed to glitter in the sunshine. He was perfect - like the daydreams you had for years.

“It’s a small ride to the house,” John turned to you, holding up your hand to help you into the seat. You stepped up onto the cart, settling down and letting go of his gentle hand so he could set your suitcase beside your trunk. You looked down at your powder blue dress, one you spent all winter making by hand - Mama wasn’t fond of you using her machine. You were proud of this dress, even if it was meant to wear for one day, you’d always be so proud of how nicely it came together, how your first meeting with the man you were to spend the rest of your life with was perfect. Being optimistic is a good trait, Papa always said.

You spent your time watching the landscape as if it moved with you, the short journey felt centuries long as your heart beat faster than a race horse. Life here would certainly be harder than home, seeing that neither of your parents allowed you to help them most days - you were left on your own. Always alone, always doing what was needed without overstepping. This was a whole new challenge; learning where to push and where to pull boundaries with one John Price.

“Have you eaten?”

You glanced to John, noting his one hand on the reigns and the other resting on his leg. Your eyes flickered up to his face, his eyes kept on the trail in front of the horse.

“I have not.”

“I will make you dinner when we arrive. Won’t be long.”

You nodded to yourself, your own hands settling in your lap, squeezing tightly together. You gazed down at your hands, the blue of your dress meant to calm you. What you missed was a soft smile from your betrothed, his gaze memorizing your face for a few seconds before looking ahead.

This is a good choice. New scenery. New people. Far, far away from that damned pastor’s son and Mama’s snide remarks.

I have faith in John. But I hold no trust yet.

Use the gun if you’re ever scared.

Dinner was quiet. He was a good cook, much better than what you were used to and you were secretly delighted. Just a simple pork and potato dinner was better than the porridge your mother barely made edible. You stood like an awkward stranger in the small living room of the one bedroom home, unsure of what to do as John had not asked anything of you yet after dinner. In fact, he was silent the moment you stepped foot into his home.

Were you doing this wrong? What had you done to make him suddenly grow quiet?

There was a dusty couch, a dirt covered rug and a barely used fireplace in the room, your hands clasped together as a way to ease your nerves. He hasn’t opened the door to the bedroom yet, that was the most nerve wracking part. You haven’t shared a bed with a man, not since you were a toddler in your Mama’s bed. It was a terrifying prospect - especially to a quiet and reserved lady, having been chased by many men back home.

At least you won’t have to worry about those leeches anymore. You have a… husband now. You will be a wife. He can protect you. Right?

“I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You jumped a little, turning to look at John as he stood a few feet away - hands settled in his pockets. The awkwardness clung to your clothes, worry brewing deep in your belly. Does he not like you now?

John settled back on his heels, to your eye he seemed calm - what you couldn’t see was the tensing of his muscles, trying to not be as nervous as you were. The way he forced his jaw open to speak wouldn’t be noticed by you either. “I wanted to uh… thank you. For agreeing.”

You curtly nodded, you fought the urge to pick at your nail beds - a nervous habit. Silence befell the room again, your gaze didn’t disconnect from John for more than a few moments, where he held his hand towards the closed door - what you assumed was the bedroom. Your stomach dropped unexpectedly, your blood grew cold and you could only watch him with a nervous glare. He gazed back at you for just a moment before he spoke to himself, seeming to chastise his previous gesture, before he opened the door. He nodded towards it again.

“I’ll bring your chest in if you want to have a look around.”

Your legs felt like they could give way at any moment, but you still walked silently towards the room - John moved out of your way, making sure there was no chance to accidentally touch you. Acting as if you were made of thin porcelain, one wrong move and you would shatter on the floor. He turned away as soon as you passed, you didn’t miss the near-silent wince he made as soon as he started walking. You looked to him, a fleeting moment, just to memorize his figure before ducking into the quaint bedroom.

A large bed was pushed into the corner, only able to crawl onto the bed on one side. A fireplace across from there, connected to the one in the living room. The floor was bare hardwood, your shoes most likely shielded you from miniature splinters. There was a mirror in the corner, reflecting the entire room from where you stood. Only a few pictures adorned cleaned spaces, photographs of places that you’ve never seen before. A bay, with ships sailing in and out. One with snow covered trees. Another with a decrepit looking house.

You were quick to change. Your eyes watched John through the mirror, his back completely to you. You threw off your nice dress as soon as you untied it - not without a little struggle - before you pulled on a long nightgown, sleeves down to your wrists and hem grazing the top of your feet. You pulled the pins from your hair,

You pulled your quilt from your trunk, your hands gripped it tightly as you turned to face your… fiancé. His back was to you, showing many light pink scars. Some were the size of your pinky, others the size of your palm. If you were brave, you would walk up to him and trace the edges of them - but you weren’t. You waited for John to finish the bed, nerves swirled in your belly. You hadn’t shared a bed with someone since your Mama stopped letting you in hers when you were six. You’re a lady, she said, ladies don’t sleep in beds with men if they’re not wed.

“We’re not married yet.” Your voice was soft, John’s hands halted as they set a pillow on the far side of the bed.

“We are not.”

“We can’t sleep in the same bed.”

The man chuckled a little before he took the pillow closest to him, tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. “I forgot you wrote about that.”

Your grip tightened on the quilt. “About what?”

He yanked off the blanket from the bed, leaving the brown sheets before he dropped the blanket onto the floor next to the pillow. He turned around, it was hard not to try and gaze at his bare chest but you still kept his gaze. “Not sleeping beside each other until we were married. I meant to make my sleeping arrangements earlier but a man’s work is never done.” He shrugged, his smile softened as he nodded towards the bed. “Go on.”

You stood there for a moment, contemplating if you should sleep in his bed when he was to work the farm in the morning, but he held out his hand, the smile never fading.

“You’ll sleep alone just for the week, love.” He nodded again towards the bed. “I promise I’ll be fine on the floor.”

You silently made your way to the bed, hoisting yourself onto it before you spread your quilt over your body and the bed. It was cold, comfortable but not inviting. You supposed it wouldn’t be - you had been in this house for less than a day and the only thing comforting you was your belongings from home.

Home, you chuckled in your head. I suppose home is here now.

John fluffed his pillow on the floor, you didn’t hear an ounce of complaint as he pulled the worn blanket over himself. Your fingers traced the stitching of Mama’s sewing machine, your quilt sheltered you from the scratchy sheets on John’s bed. You could hear your mother droning on about marrying a farmhand, that you needed to go for someone with more money like a politician or a Christian - you didn’t like any man she chose, you shook your thoughts of that away. The first man you had chosen for yourself was far better than any lowlife scoundrel your Mama could find, and she would find ones that couldn’t have kindness anywhere near their greedy hides.

You slightly jumped when John spoke your name.

“Yes, John?”

He cleared his throat. “We’ll marry by the end of the week. I’ll sleep on the floor ‘til you decide you want me up there.”

“Okay.”

The stitching reminded you of home, of your cozy room with as many blankets as your Mama could make. It reminded you of quiet nights sitting with Pa on the porch, letting your mother stew inside after she made a comment that made Pa defend you. It reminded you of being little and standing outside Mama’s sewing room, hands holding your stuffed toy while you watched her sew by hand - one footstep into her room was ten minutes worth of scolding.

As you closed your eyes, you pressed your hands into your sternum. John was to be your husband, which meant children sooner or later. You promised yourself you would never scold your children for wanting to love you.

You hoped John would hold the same value.

[what-even-is-thiss]

My problem with the legion route in New Vegas is that there’s almost nobody to talk to in legion territory who isn’t putting on a comically evil voice and giving you exposition. There’s not even any legion companions.

Like fine if you wanna let the player be comically evil and side with a comically evil faction but I’d like if more than two of them could be interesting conversation partners.

The only legion person in a legion camp who’s not a slave who almost scratches that itch for me is the guy who trains the dogs in the legion camp and even him not really. You could insert your own headcanons in there that he’s secretly sad or at least conflicted about the legion burning his tribe’s dogs but you know even though it sounds like the voice actor was having a lot of fun doing that voice it’s hard to sense any complexity in it.

I mean even other comically evil characters in the game are complicated and fun to talk to. Like the chef at the white gloves society. Dude eats human but even he can be goaded into randomly going on a rant about how much he hates his parents and it’s hilarious.

The only really fun legion people to talk to in my opinion are the ones removed from the legion. The guys at camp McCarran. The prisoner of war and the spy. They’re evil, they’re legion, but it seems they’re only allowed to be interesting conversation partners once they’re removed from the legion in one way or another.

And maybe there’s some meta commentary to be made about that but I don’t care. I wish Vulpes was more interesting to talk to.

[lovesickeros]

zhongli and neuvillette fighting over their reader 🤭🤭

scary dog privilege wherever you go, draconic courting gestures that would scare any regular person, they send each other deadly glares the moment you turn away,

stealing your clothes to just get a whiff of your scent, marking their territory all over your house - making it a battlefield basically, neuvillette (in my hc) is cooler and zhongli is warm so the cuddles are always so comfy ☺️😍,

they give you anything you want - you don't even have to lift a finger, they make you travel between the nations a lot though 😒 sooo clingyyy, extra gentle in their dragon forms as to not squish you, don't even get me started on the size difference 😍😍

just a little thought 🤭☺️

- 🐈‍⬛

Neuvi being colder is so real and canon. I see him as being colder + a lot more lithe, kinda lanky with smaller but sharper canines versus Zhongli who's warmer and a bit shorter then Neuvi + bulkier with bigger but not as sharp canines.

They've also got very different habits – Zhongli is very prideful not just of himself but his nation. He'll personally give your a tour and purposely drag it out as long as he can. Complimenting Liyue is basically complimenting him, checkmate Neuvi. Especially if he convinces you to try on some local Liyue fashion. Harmless and just a nice gift to anyone else but Neuvi sees it for what it is (since your wearing something from Liyue, technically wearing something of his. He loves his technicalities when it comes to staking a claim over you). Adds salt to the wound by touching you in totally innocent ways like to adjust you towards something he wants to show you or accidently brushing against you when he takes the bags of spoils he's practically drowning you in but really he's just making sure his scent sticks. He's just a sweet, nice gentleman with absolutely no ulterior motives trust.

Neuvillette does love Fontaine, but his habits are more about himself then the nation. He'll take you around if you ask or if the idea strikes him, but you'll probably stay around the making city area or the opera house specifically. He enjoys more personal time with just you and him then anything else. He values the immaterial to the material. Zhongli spoils you with gifts, but Neuvi tries to offer quality time irregardless of physical gifts (though he still gives them just not to the extent of Zhongli). He'll take you to see different operas if that's to your fancy, or leverage a bit of his authority to maybe see a few films since those seem to be hitting off in Fontaine recently. Bet that creaky old archon doesn't have those huh. He feels awkward if you want to watch a trial, but he'll reluctantly agree because. well. it's you. just don't wave or anything he's trying to work and he just Really wants to see you smile at him like that again and it makes him lose his train of thought. gets custom clothes designed by Chiori to replace your clothes from Liyue because they smell of Zhongli and it makes him sulky + he likes to match.

G-d forbid these two are in the same room as you because it's a war of attrition at that point. Constant accidental brush of the hand against your shoulder or elbow but it's just them trying to get rid of the others scent. they are side eyeing each other behind your back while being all smiles whenever your looking. If it's hot and you lean into Neuvi more he's practically GLOWING. not even smug he's just absolutely smitten and happy to be of service. immediately takes off his gloves and presses his hands to your face asking if your okay and if you want to go back with him. if it's cold out and you seek out Zhongli more hes smug as hell beneath the calm veneer. Offers you his coat and stay as physically close to you as he can under the pretense of being worried you'll catch a cold if he doesn't warm you up.

don't even get me started on your house either because you probably have tons of gifts from both of them accumulated everywhere. if Neuvi sees you use a tea set from Zhongli suddenly he had a fantastic gift idea he thought you'd like. he even got some tea included with it so why don't you let him make you some? Zhongli sees you using a goblet Neuvi gave you (totally a coincidence it's similar to his) and suddenly you have 27 square cups in your cabinets that you have no idea where they came from. if the goblet is mysteriously missing oh well. who knows :]

[graphicpepsi]

risk (nsfw, mdni)

OR: what happens when König gets bored on a mission and you just happen to be with him..?

König sighs, leaning back and adjusting himself for the third time in ten minutes. His sniper rifle sits loosely in his hand. Bored eyes scan the environment one final time before they land on you.

"Bored yet schatz?"

"No," You lied, "Just tired."

You had begged him for months to let you come on one of his missions. You wanted to see what a day at work looked like for him. And after months of trying (and months of the older man telling you it was too dangerous) he finally obliged and brought you along.

You wanted to match with him, so you wore camo cargo jeans and a black shirt. Even though he said this was a run-of-the-mill boring mission, adrenaline still coursed through your body at the feeling of it. König next to you, his giant arms holding a gun, the scent of his musk and cologne intoxicating in the confined space.

"I'm bored." He says as if it weren't obvious, breaking the silence. He lets the rifle fall down beside him as he stretches his arms out.

His eyes were trained on the open window infront of him. You were positioned on the highest floor of a nearby apartment complex. He told you his job was to watch for terrorists and shoot to kill.

You bounce your leg anxiously. König couldn't understand what excited you so much about tagging along with him, but it made him happy to see you like this.

Besides, you loved seeing him in his gear. Although you'd never admit it to him. To you, he was a gift from fucking god when he towered over you like that; tactical helmet, cartridges strapped to his chest, utility knives strapped to his thighs- it made him look twice as big, if that was even possible.

Watching his gloved hands unload & reload shells into his rifle could make you drool.

You look up to see his blue eyes locked on you.

"What were you thinking about, love?" He asks. His mask hides the expression beneath those unrevealing eyes.

"You."

"Ja?"

He has to be smiling, you think.

"You come on my mission to distract me?"

"You're distracting me." You correct him, " 'ts not my fault."

He pulls you closer to him in one smooth motion, his strong hands gripping your waist harshly. You're so close to him you can feel his mask move in front of you after each exhale.

"I distract you?" He repeats, tilting his head. His voice drips with knowing curiosity.

You don't try to hide the way your thighs squeeze together at the sound of his thick accent in your ear, the feeling of his giant hand on your side.

"Kö.." You breathe, barely above a whisper.

"Yes, pretty?"

You climb onto him, settling yourself down on his knee, your legs dangling on either side. He breathes out a low chuckle, like he can feel you pulsing on his knee or something.

"You want this, schatz?" He guides you back and forth on his knee with his hands, moving your body like putty, dragging your wet pussy along his thigh.

"Mmfh, please König," You bury your face in the crook of his neck, grabbing at his chest and shoulders for support.

He slides you back and forth, relishing in the way you roll your hips into his knee to get more friction. He presses you down firm as he pushes his knee against your pussy, dragging you up and down until you're a whining mess on top of him.

You're so wet but it's not enough to cum, and he knows it.

You whine into him, pathetically. "More," You try to hump his leg the best you can, but the minimal friction it gets you almost hurts.

"Poor baby," König murmurs, "Can't cum?"

You grab his shoulder as hard as you can, frustrated, even though you know he can barely tell. He grabs your hair and yanks your head out from his neck.

"Such an impatient little brat."

You roll your hips down into him as a response, mind a little hazy.

"Please Kö, so wet f'you." You mumble, looking into his eyes with puppy dog ones. He nearly growls at that. He loves when you get all riled up.

Before you can protest, he flips you around on his lap so you're facing the window, sitting in between his legs.

"Tell me if I need to shoot, ok Schatz?"

Your heart pounds at his voice in your ear, but even more so at the hand groping your pussy, thick fingers dipping into the waistband of your cargos.

"Wh- König, I don't know how to- oh, fuck."

He sinks a finger into you, sliding into your wet hole easily, like your pussy was made for his fingers.

He fucks it into you, slowly, curling it and then adding another one, then another one, and another one.

Four of his thick fingers pump inside of you, curling in just the right spot and vibrating against your pussy. He uses his thumb to press against your clit, pinching it and shaking it underneath him.

Just like that, you're reduced to a moaning, wet mess on his fingers. You lean your head back onto his shoulder, eyes screwing shut with pleasure as he starts shaking his fingers inside of you, thrusting them in and out hard.

"König, Köni, I'm gonna cum, König-" He does nothing but speed up his hand at your whines, and it's not long before you're cumming on his fingers, creamy white seeping in between the cracks. He fucks you through your orgasm, slowing his hand down finally as he curls his fingers inside of you, fucking them slowly into you before taking them out entirely.

Your legs are vibrating, and if he wasn't supporting you you'd definitely fall.

He rests his hand on top of your wet pussy, the warmth of it making you moan. You're so sensitive that just the feeling of his rough palm against your puffy clit makes you whine.

"You gonna cum for me again kitten?" He rubs his palm roughly against your pussy before slapping it hard.

You bite your hand, muffling a loud moan because it caught you so off guard.

He spanks your pussy again, harder, "Get that fucking hand away from your mouth, brat." He slaps your cunt over and over again, your clit pulsing after each spank.

It only took a few rough spanks before you were cumming again, back arching against him with a loud whine.

"Sh, sh, good girl." He strokes your pussy, almost comfortingly before pulling your cargos back up and pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as you come down, panting.

"Oh, hang on."

He hoists his rifle up to his shoulder, takes a second to aim, and then pulls the trigger, sending a shot directly into someone's head.

"There we go."

He sets the rifle back down and pulls you back onto his lap, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

"You did so well, little liebling, good girl." He coos into your ear, stroking your back.

All you can do is nuzzle into him and try to catch your breath.

A/N: that picture made me FERALLLLL y'all wouldn't even believe how i was actin writin this like barkin woofin growlin grrrrrr gyatt DAMN is this man fine. If y'all want me to write sumth just lmkkk thanks for reading

EDIT: image credits belong to @loneghostwolf

[zhongrin]

“honey, can you… put it in my mouth?”

◇ characters ◇ zhongli, al haitham, kaveh, pantalone, ayato

◇ tags ◇ minors dni, gn!reader, very suggestive but nothing explicit believe it or not, oral fixation (reader), implied spanking (pantalone)

◇ a/n ◇ ough i finally have the energy to edit this..... why do i feel so tired from just editing send help i need kithes ;w;

𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⬙ 𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

zhongli looks up at you in confusion, before looking at what he is holding. surely you didn’t mean you want to have these bitter coffee grounds in your mouth? he smiles kindly at you and resumes tamping the coffee grounds, the veins on the back of his palms prominent as ever ever against his blackened skin, before locking the portafilter onto the machine and placing two espresso glasses under it.

“dear, as much as you need your coffee, i think we need to process this specific ingredient first before you can fully enjoy the beverage-”

he blinks slowly at you, the hum of the espresso machine the only noise for a moment following your clarification… until the corners of his lips turn upwards in a little smirk, and he chuckles onto his bare fist, the geo lines shining brightly with mirth before reaching out to trace your lips.

“sometimes i wonder if i've spoiled you too much… very well, perhaps after your coffee, you can have a… not-so-little treat. or should i say, treats.”

al haitham’s answer is, as per usual, logical and straightforward.

“absolutely not. this is one of my most prized limited collection books. that would be unhygienic, both for you and the book itself.”

his verdant green eyes lined with orange-hued lines switch focus onto your expression, narrowing upon seeing no remorse in your face. he’s about ready to scold you more when the next words leave your lips, and for a moment he’s distracted by how delectable they look as they spill sinful words and pronounce your chosen nickname for him.

“… you could have clarified that sooner,” he says, still in that monotonous tone, though you can see how his gaze burns hotter now and the visible excitement starting to make itself known. one of his gloved hands beckons you closer and grabs onto your wrist to pull you onto his lap.

“well, what are you waiting for, then?” his book snaps shut and he smirks at you in anticipation, “go on. put it all in your mouth. well… as much as you can, that is.”

kaveh beams and skilfully opens a lychee for you, ignoring the way the juices drip all over his slender fingers, and offers the sweet fruit to you immediately, urging you to taste the deliciousness. when you merely stare at him in amusement, your boyfriend tilts his head, his smile unfaltering as he pushes the fruit nearer to your lips.

“they’re really sweet! if you like it, i’ll feed you more!”

the architect’s grin widens when you take the fruit between your lips, although he blushes at the way your tongue brushes onto the calloused skin of his fingers. he tries to tell himself that it was just a coincidence, but five more lychees later, he’s convinced that you had to have done this on purpose. and when you tell him you’re full and you want something else in between those sweet lips of yours… well, he’s already a people pleaser by nature anyway - and there’s no one he wants to please most other than you.

pantalone’s gloved fingers fix his glasses before motioning for you to follow him a little down the hallway toward the adjacent room. moments after the door slams close behind you, he signals you to kneel - and the condescending chuckle when you obey like a trained dog in front of him makes your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

he folds his arms in front of his chest, smiling down at you, “i’m going to need you to explain further what you meant by that vague statement, dear.”

the more you stumble over your words, the wider your master’s smirk grows. golden eyes peer down at you in half amusement and half anticipation. he shakes his head when you finish, his next words cooing and belittling as if he’s scolding a misbehaving child, “oh my, darling, how can those lovely lips spew such filthy words?”

the seemingly condescending words are followed by a hum, though you sense no underlying malice or sarcasm in his tone. no, this was him playing with you - if anything, he seems to be amused at your words. you love being bratty and he loves disciplining you, after all. this is just right up his alley.

“i think you need more disciplining before i can grant your wish. now turn around and get on all fours. remember to start counting.”

ayato’s eyes seemed to curve in delight as soon as the words leave your pretty lips. an amused and condescending smile blooms on his lips, like a lotus greeting the morning air that is the breath of your ambiguous request. imaginary scenes fill his head, replacing the neat schedule he’s mentally set for the day today, each images filthier than the previous ones.

your beloved toys with you for a while, however. stalls with a series of teasings and seemingly innocent touches on your chin and cheeks and lips - so close yet so far from where you want him most. he chuckles when you whine and plead,

“perhaps we should find a way to constantly satisfy that greedy mouth of yours. how does keeping me company while i work sound? i’ll make sure to get the most comfortable pillows for you to sit on, under my desk.”

© zhongrin | 2023 ◆ no repost. reblogs much appreciated. feel free to reach out to submit suggestions, feedback, comments, or if you just want to talk!

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[overkeehl]

HI EVERYONE READ THIS

DEEP COVER - m2 ♱ m for mature ♡

It wasn’t often that Matt heard him open the door. Not just because the time he spent at their dingy apartment was close to none, but because Mello moved silently. He forced the black rubber of his boot soles to fall noiseless as he ghosted down the hallways, and the faint squeaking of his leather gloves on the doorknob or the shifting of his heavy coat was typically the only thing that gave him away. But tonight—was it nighttime? Whatever time it was, Mello seemed to have no patience for his usual grace, and it was the loud jingling of his swinging keys that startled Matt awake.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch. His PSP slid off his chest and tumbled to the floor, providing a small halo of illumination to the otherwise pitch-black room. He managed to catch the time on his phone from the corner of his eye—8:34p.m. on a Saturday—before Mello’s overbearing silhouette appeared in their doorway, lit from below by the PSP’s artificial glow like a late-night horror-show host. Matt briefly appreciated the image before Mello burned it from his retinas, flipping the switch to their harsh florescent lights they kept meaning to replace.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Hey.”

Matt tried to assess Mello’s mood through his bleary, half-awake state. He couldn’t quite tell. While there was a hint of irritation playing across his features, it was rare that there wasn’t.

“You were sleeping. I told you to be ready.”

“Huh? For what?”

“Didn’t you get my text?”

Matt sat up fully, pushing his goggles up to rub the sleep from his eyes as he grabbed his phone. There was a missed text: one, from a number he didn’t recognize. Typical. A sheepish heat crossed his cheeks before he could help it, which only provoked a deeper sense of embarrassment—why should he be embarrassed that he was sleeping and missed a text? Mello made a point of keeping his schedule unpredictable, and why did he have to be on-call all the time? It wasn’t his fault if he stayed up late and didn’t always operate on Mello’s time and—

“It just says ‘Be ready,’” he finally sighed, interrupting his own train of thought.

“Yeah. You don’t look ready.”

Mello sized him up. He was wearing a dirty t-shirt with the D.A.R.E. logo—which Mello was certain he thought was hilariously ironic—and a pair of ragged boxers he’d definitely had since their days back at Wammy’s. He cocked an eyebrow. Or rather, raised his brow in such a way that made his eyes uneven and judgmental, because where there had once been golden-blonde hair, there was instead only perfectly smooth forehead. Mello had apparently begun waxing them off to go along with his ridiculous new outfits.

“Ready for what?” he asked, still wondering how badly waxing your eyebrows hurt.

“Stop asking so many annoying questions and get dressed.” While his words were sharp, his tone was more playful than usual. When Mello’s voice took on that little sing-song quality, it always stirred a certain excitement in the pit of Matt’s stomach that meant things were either going to go very good or very very bad.

“Alright, just gimme a sec.” Matt heaved himself up the couch and moved to their bedroom, feeling Mello’s laser-beam stare melting holes in his back. He could quite literally sense the heat dissipate as Mello’s attention was diverted to the kitchen.

“Got anything to drink?”

Digging through piles of dirty laundry with increasing desperation and hoping that the sing-song wouldn’t be replaced by impatient irritation, he replied,

“Uh, yeah, soda I think—“

“I don’t drink soda. Don’t be disgusting. You shouldn’t either.”

Aha! This shirt kind of looked clean. It didn’t stink, at least. And it was black. Would Mello like that? Or would he think it’s stupid to match? No, it’s not ‘matching,’ stupid, anybody can wear black—

“I mean a real drink.”

The heat returned. Mello blocked the doorway, wrinkling his nose in his trademark sneer as he surveyed the room.

“Your bedroom is disgusting too.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s your bedroom too, dude.”

While he waited for Mello’s protest, it never came. Maybe he did think of it as his room too. They always shared a room. He quickly changed shirts, keeping his back to the blonde, and begun the hunt for underwear and pants.

“And yeah, there’s, uh, whiskey in the cupboards somewhere.”

“God. You’re so gross. Out of anything you could have… no tequila…”

Fading footsteps. Mello was in the kitchen now. Underwear underwear underwear. Was that even important? Were the ones he had on now really that bad? Yes. He needed clean underwear. Especially with that sing-song knot still in his stomach. As he finally found a pair, he heard the gentle chime of clinking glass.

“And it’s the cheap stuff. You really know how to impress.”

Mello was standing over him now, two mismatched cups in hand.

“Here. Cheers.”

“What are we cheers-ing to?” Matt took the glass awkwardly, clean underwear in his opposite hand. He stood up so they were at near-equal height, though Mello’s stupid boots gave him a few inches of artificial advantage, and tapped the rims of their glasses together.

“Who cares?” Mello threw his back easily and without a change in expression.

He dragged a finger across his lips when he was done and Matt was hypnotized, watching the back of Mello’s glove glisten as it collected the remnants of the liquor. Mello seemed to recognize the effect he had on Matt as he used the same finger to point at his untouched drink.

“You’re supposed to actually drink it. And what’s taking you so long to get ready?”

Matt eyed the drink with apprehension.

“Y’know, I usually add, like, ice and coke and stuff.” He considered the irony of Mello complaining about the 5 minutes it took him to get ready when Mello took more than an hour in the morning just showering and doing his hair. He wanted to say something snarky, but the sing-song stomach-knot dragged his tongue back down his throat.

“Just hurry up. Drink it and get dressed.”

Matt then realized he didn’t particularly want to do either of those things in front of Mello. It’s not like Mello hadn’t seen him naked, but they were usually in the sorts of situations where Matt was not the center of attention. Guess he needed the shot after all.

“Uh, yeah, cheers.” He closed his eyes and choked down the liquor, trying his utmost to repress the contortions the awful taste was drawing to his face. Liquid courage and all.

Matt watched as Mello nudged a pile of laundry with his foot, bending down to draw out a pair of grungy black jeans. He did a cursory sniff of the crotch before tossing them across the room and smiling when Matt deftly snatched them out of the air.

“Those look nice. Wear them.”

So Mello was fine with him wearing black too. That was a relief. Now was the hard part. It’s not like he wanted to turn his back to Mello and have those eyes all over his ass either. He grit his teeth and pulled his dirty boxers off, mentally attempting to maintain what could be considered a perfectly normal speed to get undressed—not too fast like he was trying to hide anything and not too slow like he was trying to put on a show. Mello said nothing but made a point of giving him another thorough once-over, with just a hint of a bitten-back smile flitting around his lips. Whew. Hard part over. As he wiggled into his jeans, Mello disappeared again, back into the kitchen. Matt heard him pour another drink and presumably slam it, and he hopped out into the living room as he worked his foot through the tight pant leg.

“So you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

“No. I’ll tell you how to get there, though.”

Matt wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol going to his head (he hadn’t eaten anything that day, after all) or the rush of excitement he always got when he was with Mello but they were in his car before he knew it—another rare occasion, as Mello didn’t particularly enjoy riding in cars, nor did he appreciate Matt’s reckless driving habits. Slouched down in the passenger seat with the slightest indication of nausea creeping across his face, Mello rolled down his window and leaned forward to fiddle with the dials of the radio.

“Sorry man. It broke last month.” Silence, aside from the noises of the city. Matt eased off the gas, and this seemed to temporarily correct Mello’s woozy expression. He cleared his throat, wishing he could light up a cigarette but knowing Mello would complain about his proximity to the smell in the confined space of the car. “I’ll take it slow. I know you get carsick.”

“Take this exit,” Mello abruptly instructed.

“Wh—come on dude, you’re the worst navigator!” While his tone indicated irritation, he was secretly a little excited to have an excuse to show off in front of Mello. He was in the far left lane, and though the L.A. roads weren’t as congested as they usually were, there was still a good amount of traffic to get through in a relatively short distance. Already pushing 80, he revved it up to 110 and flew across the four lanes, earning a small discomforted groan from his friend as the blonde brought his hand to his mouth. He whipped along the ramp and allowed the car to coast back down to 80.

“You know I hate when you do that,” muttered Mello, though he did seem a little impressed—or at least, Matt hoped that’s what that expression was. “Speeding ticket’s a really stupid way to get your photo in some database.”

“Whatever. They’d have to catch me first.”

This earned a small chuckle from Mello, and Matt gave him a cheesy grin in return, riding his adrenaline high. It wasn’t as fun to drive fast when there was nobody to ride with him.

“Alright, where to now, boss?”

Though he couldn’t quite see Mello’s eyes, the roll was almost audible.

“Just keep going. We’re almost there.”

Mello’s arm was resting near the gear stick, fingers drifting up and down the leather upholstery of Matt’s seat in a lazy rhythm. He seemed distracted by something, but Matt knew better than to ask. Asking questions like that makes good-mood sing-song Mello disappear. And with how close those fingers were coming to his thigh, Matt really didn’t want that to happen. He didn’t want to stop watching Mello’s hand, thoughts wandering as he matched the rhythm of Mello’s absentminded fidgeting to his imagination, picturing pulling his gloves off and feeling his silk-soft palms warm and sticky with sweat—

“You just ran a red light,” remarked Mello. “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” He glanced over and his hand stopped moving, effectively ending Matt’s daydream.

“Uh, yeah, I meant to do that.” Matt pulled out a cigarette against his better judgment and was surprised when Mello said nothing, unsure if it was because he was distracted, carsick, or just feeling generous. Though he’d hoped it’d take his mind off the thought—the nature of which was quickly becoming obvious through the denim of his jeans—the smoke mixed with the fragrance of Mello’s shampoo as he ran his fingers through his hair and made Matt picture the last time they’d been together. He remembered how soft Mello’s hair felt melting through his fingers, and the way the curled tips bounced against his thighs, and how every time Mello bobbed his head he could smell that shampoo wafting up toward him.

“It’s up here.” Mello’s ice-cold voice pulled him out of his warm thoughts and made him shiver. “On the left. Park in the back.”

Matt gave the building a good look. It had no windows, and no signage to indicate what sort of place it might be. There seemed to be plenty of cars around, but almost no people.

But no questions. He pulled around as Mello instructed and stopped the car. As they stepped out into the lot, Matt saw that there was one other person around—it was a small, ratlike man, talking into a cellphone with a hurried whisper. As Matt shuffled along after Mello, he wondered why the fuck he’d let Mello drag him to a weird windowless building in the middle of nowhere with strange crackheads in the parking lot. But as his eyes drifted down from the back of Mello’s bouncing blonde head to his ass, he remembered.

“Hey Kal. Open up.”

Upon seeing Mello, the man’s eyes narrowed and his entire demeanor seemed to shrivel up and sour. He whispered something into the phone and flipped it shut, his lips drawn in a taut, puckered frown.

“No problem, boss,” he said dryly.

Boss? Did this guy work for Mello? Ass or not, Mello knew that Matt wanted no part in whatever stupidly dangerous shit he got up to with his new friends. All of the excitement was draining away like a whirlpool bathtub in his gut, replaced with a deep-seated and quickly-creeping dread that Matt was going to be witness to some sort of real-life snuff film. When Kal finally managed to unlock the door, his hands shaking and Mello’s foot tapping impatiently, Mello pushed past him without so much of a glance and Matt muttered a very garbled ‘thanks’ as he rushed inside.

Once they were in the building, Matt could hear the rhythmic pounding of something. Music? They descended a dark cement staircase, and he could make it out—it was music. A club? Was this some sort of speakeasy disco?

When they reached the basement, Matt’s suspicions were confirmed. He was hit with a blast of body heat: it smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, and the music had become almost deafening. How did they keep it so quiet outside? He squinted, adjusting his eyes to the darkness in between the pulsing neon lights. He could barely see Mello—his black clothes made him blend in with the throbbing mass of people, and the dark orange tint of his goggles wasn’t helping. The only thing he could focus on was the crown of Mello’s head, his bright hair reflecting the rotation of colors—red-blue-green-yellow—

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

Those words struck a fear into Matt’s heart. Here? Alone? Why? As Mello’s blonde bob disappeared into the crowd, Matt suddenly became extremely aware of where he was, as well as how badly he wanted to be at home. There was a sea of bodies roiling around him, tossing him in every direction, and it took all of his strength to maintain any semblance of stability. A girl much smaller than him seemed to dance through the crowd with ease, but his amazement with her ability to move through the fleshy ocean was interrupted when she shouted, “cute goggles!” He turned red and looked away.

Upon attempting to replay the interaction (if you could even call it that) in his head, he could only hear it in Mello’s mocking voice. Mello made him wonder if every compliment was backhanded, sarcastic, cruel. Mello made him wonder how long he’d be gone for, because it felt like hours, days, years. Mello made him wonder why the fuck he did stupid shit like coming here.

“Oh, Mello,” he yelped as a body collided with his, having been shoved by another careless, drunk dancer.

“Hey, watch it fuckface,” Mello yelled, though his deep voice went ignored, swallowed by the stuffy air and the thump of the bass. Turning with the tiniest bit of a surprised gleam in his eyes, he realized he’d been pushed right into Matt. “Well look at that. Imagine seeing you here.”

Again, Mello was leading him through the crowd, this time to the back of the dance floor, toward the bathrooms. He was careful not to touch the handle as he kicked open the door to the men’s, which was small and dirty but surprisingly empty. They entered the stall furthest from the entrance and as it shut, Mello produced three small baggies from his sleeve like a card-trick magician—two filled with white powder and one with small multicolored tablets. Behind his goggles, Matt’s eyes lit up, but he tried to keep his cool. So Mello really was in a good mood.

“I brought you a present.” He dropped the tablets into Matt’s waiting hand, smiling affectionately. “Don’t worry. It’s good. I know the guy.”

As if he were doing something as casual as painting his nails, Mello tapped a small line of the powder across the back of his glove and sniffed it, careful and precise. He delicately pinched the tip of his nose with one hand as he slipped the bag away with the other, scrutinizing Matt’s face as the redhead popped open the tiny seal and stuck two of the tablets under his tongue. Matt held the bag out as an offer of return but Mello shook his head, remaining silent but drawing their bodies closer together. The sing-song knot in Matt’s stomach was quickly ballooning down to his groin but he tried to focus on his breathing so Mello wouldn’t sense how desperate he was. It had been weeks since the last time they’d done anything, and the time before that, Mello had visited in such a bad mood that they hadn’t done anything at all.

Once again, Matt’s recollection of their last visit was not entirely confined to his brain, and his pale freckled cheeks began to burn. Mello leaned in further, hot breath drawing across Matt’s jaw as he cupped it in his hand and extended his thumb to run across his reddened skin. Matt’s mouth dropped open involuntarily as the tip of the leather pressed at his bottom lip, and Mello elicited the smallest of moans from the other as he pushed his thumb along Matt’s tongue. Opening the third bag, the blonde withdrew his wet gloved finger and rolled it in the powder, proceeding to rub it along his own gums and all the while refusing to break eye contact. After he seemed satisfied, he popped his thumb back into his mouth, repeating the process but this time offering the powder to Matt, who had no idea how to indicate that he was accepting aside from simply opening his mouth further and allowing Mello to drag the small crystals along the edges of his teeth. The taste was salty, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the molly or the leather of the glove.

As Mello’s thumb worked its way around the insides of his cheeks, he drew even closer. Matt’s heart started racing. He slid his finger out and replaced it with his lips, feeling Matt softly panting into his mouth. They weren’t quite kissing. Matt wanted to kiss him very badly, but felt stuck to the wall, his mouth dry as rice paper. The x wasn’t all the way dissolved and his tongue felt covered in sludge. Had it been this hot in here the whole time?

Mello hooked Matt’s lower lip between his teeth, giving it a gentle tug as he used his body to pin the other to the stall. His thin thigh slipped between Matt’s legs but somehow managed to avoid his groin entirely—he was thankful that Mello couldn’t feel how hard he was already, and he put every ounce of his self control into avoiding his body’s urge to drag Mello against him and grind on his leg. His glove slid down the front of Matt’s shirt like liquid, making an abrupt stop once it reached the waistband of the black jeans he’d picked out. He extended a single finger, the same he’d used to dab away the liquor from his lips earlier in the evening, dragging it past the tarnished bronze button that was beginning to make Matt quite uncomfortable. While Mello’s attention had now moved from Matt’s face to the zipper of his pants, Matt watched closely as a very undeniable smirk of satisfaction lit up the other’s features.

And just as abruptly as their rendezvous had begun, it ended. Mello removed himself from Matt completely, unlocking the stall door and breezing out. Matt stumbled out after him, dumbfounded but desperate not to lose him in the crowds again. Why did Mello have to enjoy torturing him so much? And why did he let him?

Mello wove through the dance floor until he found a spot that seemed satisfactory—in the center, surrounded on all sides but hidden—and when he turned around to face Matt, it almost felt as though they were hidden; despite being in the midst of hundreds of people, they felt alone, together. The knots in his stomach were joined by more in his chest as Mello drew him closer, pressing their bodies together again, but this time much more softly—at least, as softly as Mello could manage, because his soft was sometimes like a fine sandpaper, grating so smoothly you almost wouldn’t notice until you were bleeding and raw.

Matt’s arms slipped around his waist and as his hands pulled across the small of Mello’s back, tracing the spot in between that obscene quilted vest and those low-rise latex-tight pants, he saw it. Just for a moment—less, even—a split-second, a nano-something, Mello’s guard fell and there was an expression in his eyes so genuine Matt’s heart could have burst. He looked happy. Loving. Innocent, almost, but that seemed too strange a word, like dressing him up in pure white, like putting him on a cross. Matt wanted to trap that look in his eyes forever.

The moment passed and his expression faded, replaced by his typical frostbitten face—drawing you in and all the while telling you not to touch. Matt wanted nothing more than to grab him by the shoulders and shake him as hard as he possibly could. To bring it back somehow. To make it stay. He wanted to beg him not to let that cold cruel flame in his heart eat him away any more than it already had.

Let’s give up. Let’s go home. Let’s go hide. Let’s be hidden for real this time. We don’t have to do this.

You don’t have to do this.

But if he said these things, and if Mello knew he felt these things, Mello wouldn’t love him. Mello couldn’t love somebody who didn’t understand. He was doing the things he did because he had to. Because he had no other choice. Matt knew that. And so he stayed quiet, tightening his grip and trying to drink in every millimeter of that brief cherubic vision. His head moved to Mello’s neck—he couldn’t look at his face, he didn’t want to be reminded of the light that used to twinkle in his eyes whenever he saw Matt in the hallways of Wammy’s, the times they’d sneak out into the forest behind the school, laughing loud and spilling secrets, the open admiration for one another they used to share. There was so much he didn’t know about Mello anymore. He’d gotten so cruel.

To stop his lip from quivering—god, you fucking pussy, don’t you dare—he ran his tongue along Mello’s neck, pushing aside the folds of his vest to bite the stretch of skin where his collarbone diverged. Mello responded with an involuntary and angelic sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Matt always knew the right spot. Still choking back bitterness, Matt sunk his teeth further into Mello, biting him harder than he’s ever bitten him, hard enough to make small maroon teardrops bead around the tips of his canines. No sound passed through Mello’s throat, but as his fingers dug into Matt’s shoulderblade, he could feel the crescent imprints forming in his skin through his clothes. Matt’s hand slides up Mello’s back to his hair, grabbing a fistful of blonde and gently pulling his head back, exposing more of his throat. Biting the same spot with the intent to bruise, he drew his teeth across Mello’s creamy skin, wanting to break the blood vessels below and leave a cherry blossom mark, to let everybody know that Mello was supposed to be his.

“Matt…” It was almost a whisper, but it made the noise of the club fade into oblivion. When Mello said his name like that, Matt would do anything. He would follow him to the ends of the earth. How could he be upset when Mello was whispering his name? As his mood shifted once again, he realized they’d been dancing for at least half an hour, and the molly was definitely kicking in, making it seem like no time had passed at all. He thought of Mello’s smiling face. They were in the sun-dappled forest, they were so young, and Mello was laughing, turning back at him and calling for him. Matt… Matt…

“Matt,” Mello said, more urgently this time. He pulled Matt away from his neck, fondly brushing the bloody bite, and grabbed the buckle of the redhead’s belt. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” was all Matt could manage before Mello was dragging him toward another door—a back door, some sort of emergency exit. He tripped over a ledge in the doorway as they walked through, bumping into Mello and causing them to both stumble into the alley. His body felt like it was vibrating, to the point where even their brutal collision sent shivers of pleasure through him. All he wanted to do was touch Mello—his face, his hair, his soft stomach—

As if Mello sensed this, he immediately pulled Matt toward him, forcing Matt to pin him against the graffiti-covered brick. There was no hesitation or coquettish teasing this time—Mello dragged him into a messy kiss, one toned arm around his neck while the other immediately got to work unbuckling his belt. Matt pressed his tongue past Mello’s lips, trying to memorize the curvature of his teeth, the angles of his cheeks, the remnant-chocolate flavor of his hot saliva. There was a loud clatter as his heavy metal belt buckle hit the concrete, and Mello had his pants unbuttoned in half the time. A combination of the cool night air and the crippling potential that somebody could walk out and see his dick in Mello’s hand sent a cold shiver down Matt’s spine. This terrifying thought was quickly outweighed by the sensation of soft, well-worn leather gliding down Matt’s bare abdomen and past the elastic of his boxers (which, thank god, were clean).

As soon as Mello’s hand was wrapped around his cock, Matt knew he didn’t care if the entire world was watching. He massaged in slow, languid movements, his eyes only occasionally drifting from Matt’s erection to his face. Mello couldn’t help but smile as he watched the flush of heat bleed down Matt’s neck, the heave of his shoulders increasing alongside his breath—he was too cute when he wanted it this badly. He was already shaking.

“Mello…” Matt groaned, mentally kicking himself for how desperate he sounded. “Will you—uh��take your glove off?”

Mello laughed, a subtle sadistic undertone playfully ringing through, the little sing-song devil that made Matt’s stomach do flips. He brought his hand to his mouth and pulled the glove off with his teeth, discarding it on the ground beside Matt’s belt. “That’s all you want, babe?”

To be honest, Matt couldn’t think straight enough to want anything more than whatever Mello was going to give him, regardless of how much torture he had to endure. He would have fallen over if the wall wasn’t supporting him; pressing his weight onto Mello, he buried his face in the blonde’s neck once again, attempting to stifle his moans. Mello’s hands were so fucking soft. Of course they were—he never did anything himself.

The bricks of the wall were leaving painful impressions in his forehead, but he didn’t care. He wanted to run his hands up and down Mello’s sides, his thighs: the molly made him want to rub everything, even the rough brick, but his body was overwhelmed, and he was afraid that if he moved, Mello might take his hand away.

“Is that it? Are you satisfied with just this then? Hm?”

God. When Mello got that condescending, it drove him insane. It made him mad. But his body didn’t realize this, and he twitched in Mello’s hand. Yes. I’m satisfied. I’m always satisfied with you. Anything. There was nothing he could say. No right answer. Even if there was. No brain left to figure it out.

“I know that’s not all you want,” cooed Mello, patronizing and saccharine. Matt felt like if he didn’t focus solely on not finishing, it was going to happen. And Mello would never let him live it down—cumming in his pants from a handjob like they were teenagers. When he was alone he could jerk off for hours without a problem but with Mello it felt like he could only last minutes. Mello’s thumb was drawing circles around his tip, smearing precum across his palm while he smirked expectantly.

“I… unh—“

“Come on. Use your words.”

“—tch… come on Mello…”

“’Come on’ what?” There was innocence on his face once again, but this time so obviously feigned and melodramatic that it almost made Matt laugh.

“You’re such an asshole,” he groaned instead, sucking on his teeth as Mello’s pace increased. “Please… come on.”

As slippery as ever, Mello easily ducked out from underneath Matt’s weight, dropping into a squat like a girl from a music video and deftly removing Matt’s full erection from his pants. Briefly sizing it up, he allowed it to sit half an inch from his lips as he looked up from under his eyelashes and asked,

“’Come on’ what?”

“Oh my god, Mello, just suck my dick, fucking ple—ah—“ He dropped the end of his sentence as he hit the back of Mello’s throat, and the low moan that rumbled from Mello’s chest traveled up through Matt, buckling his knees. The brick was digging into his arms now, cracking his nails as he scratched at it.

He cupped the side of Mello’s head, thumb affectionately massaging his temple and brushing his bangs from his eyes. He just wanted to touch him, kiss him, hold him. He wished they were in bed at home so he could lay on top of him and pin him down, to go under a blanket together and stay there, keep him there, somewhere warm, safe, somewhere soft that smelled like his shampoo and not an alley that smelled like piss, but beggars couldn’t be choosers and he was definitely begging for whatever change Mello was willing to spare him.

His hands were running up and down the thighs of Matt’s jeans, long black nails trying to tear through the denim, occasionally catching on the distressed patches and popping a string. Matt couldn’t look away. He was so fucking close. As though he could sense Matt’s enraptured stare, Mello looked up once again, locking eyes as he slowly—oh-so-slowly—pulled Matt’s cock from his mouth with a wet pop, allowing long trails of saliva to connect them and run down his chin. Matt’s abdomen tensed as what remained of his willpower forced his orgasm back. He could come on his face just like this. Mello wouldn’t even have to touch him anymore. His open mouth—he’s just begging for it—

The next thing he knew, Mello was on his feet again, turning his back to Matt and unlacing his own pants, whispering something Matt couldn’t quite make out but didn’t want to risk asking him to repeat. Snaking his arms around Mello’s waist once again, Matt hooked his finger on the ring of Mello’s vest-zipper, dragging it down enough to splay a hand across his bare chest and gently run his nails along its expanse. He wanted to kiss him, but would have to crane Mello’s neck to reach his lips, and didn’t want to risk hurting him.

Managing to work his pants down with record speed, Matt barely had enough time to appreciate Mello’s partially exposed ass before the blonde’s hand is at his hip, pulling him closer.

“We don’t have lube or anything—“

“Shut up. Hurry up.”

Matt can’t help but wonder how Mello can still be so bossy at a time like this, and he tries his best to coat his hand in spit but his mouth is still so dry, and Mello is so impatient—

He starts to slip a finger inside of him, but he’s interrupted by a sharp,

“No.” A hum of pleasure as Matt grabs his hip. “All of it.” Firmly, because he wants it that way. He wants fingerprint-bruises. He wants evidence. Matt’s afraid he’s going to tear him apart, because Mello is small, no matter how large his presence. And he’s certainly not one to brag, but his dick isn’t small. But Mello makes no sound aside from a small, contented sigh as Matt tries to ease inside of him—he watches the black polish chip as fingernails curl up against the brick.

“Is that… okay?” He’s breathing hard and afraid to start thrusting, afraid he’s going to see blood running down the insides of Mello’s thighs.

“Mmm-hmmm…” It’s a half-moan, half-confirmation, and enough encouragement for Matt to begin moving his hips gently, pushing Mello into the brick. He wants to kiss him more than anything. He really doesn’t want to hurt him. He wishes he could see his face. He carefully monitors what profile he can see when he leans in to bite his neck, watching for any sign of discomfort, any sign of anything at all, really, but Mello’s eyes are closed and his expression is impossible to read. As his pace picks up, Mello’s brow furrows slightly, eyelids fluttering—he almost wants to stop but he’s certain Mello would be mad—and so instead he thrusts into him harder, earning an abrupt velvet moan. Mello wants it rough. And if Matt knows one thing it’s that it’s always best to give Mello what he wants.

One of his hands works its way towards the undone laces of Mello’s pants while the other moves to his hair, and on a whim, Matt yanks his head back, craning his neck to kiss him, shoving him into the brick with such sudden force that his exposed chest is scraped bright pink. Mello gasps louder than Matt’s ever heard him gasp and as he pushes his full length inside, he feels the blonde’s knees give out completely, held against the wall by the weight of Matt’s body and the supporting hand on his hip. Mello’s long, breathy orgasm is far more than enough to send Matt over the edge, and he tries to choke back his shaky moans as his body melts but he can’t bite his tongue quickly enough to stop himself.

“I love you,” he whispers, biting the shell of Mello’s ear, holding up his exhausted frame, willing him to feel it too. He doesn’t want to pull out. He doesn’t want them to be apart.

Fingers gently tracing the raw rash on his chest, imprint of the bricks dancing across his sternum, Mello craned his neck back to kiss Matt, and replied,

“I love you too.”

[olenvasynyt]

Random Eris Vanserra headcanons!

Has insomnia. He thinks it runs in the family because Lucien also has the same problem.

Gets chronic migraines. Gets bad after smoking, drinking (but he still drinks) inhaling too much smoke (so bad for being the Autumn Court), and winnowing.

Snores, but only after he drinks a lot. His brothers used to put noise-canceling wards around his room after parties.

Was a virgin for a long time (maybe until he was in his 30s? but I also still don't know how the High Fae age). Claimed he was "focusing on his studies" but he was actually just anxious and suppressing gay thoughts.

Loves music: he learned to play the piano and the harp. He rarely plays either now due to being too busy

Has been taking dance lessons since he was little as another way to train his body for melee and sword training. Good for balance, foot work, strengthing muscles, and posture. Also another way for him to enjoy music and to enjoy the political intrigue of the court

Has a very high spice tolerance (I feel like you have to as a fire-wielder in Autumn lmao)

Keeps a diary and uses it for everything: jotting down notes, memories, etc. Writes it in the ancient High fae language

Grew up with a friend who had daemati powers, and the friend trained him how to shut his mind and resist daemati intruders

Loves to wear jewelry. Has a huge collection of rings, and he usually wears at least three rings on each hand.

Eris makes premium rabbit jerky for his dogs by hunting and drying the rabbit himself, and always keeps a bag of it on hand. Makes use of the entire rabbit by giving the scraps to his dogs and gives the pelt to the Forest House seamstress. He commissioned a rabbit fur coat for his mother, along with a matching hat and gloves.

He carries his sword around with him at all times. At night, he keeps it above his bed.

Has a secret cabin to get away from the Forest House (I swear every Eris stan I've talked to has this headcanon)

Beron berates anyone who lets dogs into Forest House bed chambers because "dogs aren't allowed to sleep in beds", so Eris keeps all of his hounds in the kennels but lets all of them go wild and cuddle pile in the bed at the secret cabin

[chronicowboy]

Maddie humbles him pretty severely in their conversation. Look, he knows it's stupid, knows it's selfish really, knows it's just plain crappy of him. But. But he hurt Christopher. And there wasn't some big uncontrollable variable like a tsunami that Eddie can explain it away with.

Sure, it was an accident, but it still happened. Sure, it was only a few scrapes that he'd cleaned up almost immediately with the little first aid kit tucked into the glove compartment of his Jeep - and, well, maybe part of the guilt is the way Christopher had grimaced at the added sting of the antiseptic wipes. But he'd done it. He'd made Christopher cry. And he'd ran as soon as Eddie swept in to take care of him. He'd ran before either of them could tell him to get out.

Christopher is injured, and Buck hasn't been to see him once. Christopher is injured because of Buck, and he's only checked in through a much too knowing Eddie. Because he's a coward, especially when it comes to Christopher. Jesus, nothing in the world scares him more than Christopher. Everything's so big and inconceivable with him. Buck feels it all, feels it all so strongly. The things he'd do for that kid... Well, that scares him too. Almost as much as Christopher's anger does, but he can't run from it forever. He can't stay away forever, so he shoots Eddie a quick text as he leaves Maddie's.

Can I come see Chris at some point?

He's just buckling himself into the driver's seat when his phone buzzes with a reply.

Get over here

Another buzz.

Now

His already knotted stomach twists into an even more complex shape as he turns the key in the ignition, but he has to face the music some time or another. May as well be now.

It takes him an inordinately long and nauseating time to get to the Diaz door, an even longer time to actually knock and then a terrifyingly short amount of time for Eddie to be appearing before him with those big, understanding eyes he can never seem to escape.

"Hi," he mumbles, suddenly struck with what image he must make out there on the porch. A naughty dog with a guiltily hung head and a tail between his legs just waiting to be patted on the head and told he's forgiven.

"Buck, come in." Eddie rolls his eyes and practically drags him inside. Buck had been about ninety-nine per cent sure (okay, maybe more like eighty) that Eddie's texts had been fond exasperation and not actual anger, but it's not until he hears Eddie's voice that he knows for sure. He was never a bad dog in Eddie's mind. Buck's tail wags just a little as Eddie leans back against the hallway wall with his arms folded over his chest. "He's in his room and he misses his Buck."

"Even after I almost killed him?" he mutters petulantly.

"Buck, you tripped over his crutches. The both of you went down and, honestly, you walked away worse than he did." Buck opens his mouth to argue, but Eddie ploughs on. "Don't lie to me. I saw those bruises on your ribs last shift. I know how weaponised those elbows can become."

"I'm fine."

"So is he," Eddie says seriously. "You know how many times I've tripped over his crutches?"

"Did you feel guilty about it afterwards?" Buck pries, eyes trained on his shoes where they kick lightly, sheepishly at the carpet.

"Of course, I did. I always do. Hell, I accidentally got some salt in his eyes when we were cooking the other day and I almost took myself down to Athena's station." Eddie shakes his head, unimpressed. "I'm his dad, I'd send him outside in a bubble wrap suit if I could. But I've been informed that isn't 'cool'," Buck snorts, "so I'm trying my best to make peace with the fact that that he's going to get hurt and I'm not always going to be stop it. But." Eddie steps closer, drops a hand to Buck's shoulder, ducks his hand to catch his eye. And Buck feels the echo of a wave and three ragged scratches across his face. "But I can always be there after it happens, to pick him back up and tend to his wounds, yeah?"

"Yeah," Buck whispers, nodding against the whirring of his brain.

"He's already mostly healed up. Go and see for yourself." Eddie leaves with a pointed look at Christopher's door, and Buck stays staring down the hallway like he can will it into something that feels a little less like a walk on the plank.

As he takes his first step, for just a moment, he wishes he was back in the endless labyrinthine hallways of his coma dream just to postpone his fate a little longer.

See, what he hadn't told Maddie was that he had actually tried texting Christopher a few days after their tumble. A sorry and an I hope you're okay and a jokey maybe we should leave basketball to the pros which had only gleaned a thumbs up emoji in response. So, he's not feeling very optimistic when he knocks on Christopher's door.

"Who is it?"

"It's Buck, buddy." Silence. A sigh maybe, if he strains. "C-can I come in?"

Another pause.

"Fine."

Buck pushes into the room with his heart in his throat. Christopher doesn't look up from his textbook where he's propped up against his headboard, just carries on reading. Buck approaches carefully, hovering at the end of the bed where he'd normally just sit.

"How are you doing?" he asks uselessly.

"Fine."

"Yeah?" Christopher only shrugs, and Buck sighs in defeat. "I'm really sorry, bud. I didn't mean to do it, you have to know that. I'd never ever do anything to hurt you-"

"Wait." Chris finally looks up from his book with his frown. "Do you think I'm mad because you tripped me up?"

"I-I, well, yeah." Buck blinks. "So, you are mad?"

"Yeah, I'm mad, but not about that." Chris groans and slams his book shut. "Why'd you disappear?"

"B-because I thought you'd be mad at me for, you know, hurting you," Buck says dumbly. Christopher rolls his eyes so similarly to Eddie's earlier expression that Buck aches with it.

"You didn't hurt me. Gravity hurt us."

"But you're mad at me."

"Because you disappeared!" Chris bursts. Buck's mouth snaps shut with a click. "Everything's changing. You and me and dad barely ever hang out anymore. And I know I'm getting older, so I shouldn't want to, but I do. But you're both dating, so it's always just the one of you. Or the three of us and a stranger. And I hate it. And the last time this happened, you promised you weren't going anywhere, but you did! And I want you both to be happy, and I really don't want dad to feel so lonely now I'm growing up, but I wish..." Christopher ducks his head as if suddenly realising he'd revealed too much.

"You wish?" Buck asks on the exhale of a breath he'd been holding since Christopher's little outburst, something fierce and jagged latching itself to his sternum.

"I wish you both could be happy with..." He shrinks into himself a little, and Buck wraps his hand around the footboard like a lifeline - like whatever Christopher is about to say will turn the world upside down. "I wish this was enough. I wish the three of us could make you both as happy as-as it makes me." He flushes and cracks his textbook open. "It sounds dumb when I say it."

"No, no," Buck croaks, something big and unwieldy expanding against the inside of his ribs, something that could choke him if he let it. "It doesn't sound dumb at all."

[miioouu]

Mean dad’s best friend! Ghost pt3

Continuation of this part. In which Price makes you feel loved. Tw: smut, age gap, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex Wc: 2.4k  

“You think you taste better? Let the sweetheart decide then, Lieutenant.” the captain’s voice boomed in the small bathroom, condescending and authoritarian, as he pushed past the lieutenant, now your face is at level with his crotch.

Your eyes were wide, yet confused when you looked at both older men, feeling the tension. Thick, it was  palpable. Thick as if it were syrup dripping from toast. But it wasn’t sweet; sour like the expression on Ghost’s face; salty, like the look Price shoots at his subordinate. It should make you crawl away, take the opportunity to slide out of the bathroom and go back to dinner, but instead, the little whimper you let out made them both turn their focus back to you. "Mmm, let's see what she'd think then" The deeper voice retorts, slapping his superior's hand away from your head so he could push you closer to the other man's bulge. In a swift movement, the sound of jeans unzipping, fabric rustling echoes between the four walls. "Don't rush her, LT". Unlike before his voice was soft, tender almost, the complete opposite of the man you're used to. He leaned back against the wall, making his hips roll forward a little, if it weren't for the gloved hand in your hair, you would've taken a step back at the sight.

So used to Ghost's mean cock, John's almost looks like a piece of art. A pink blush, tip glistening with pre, got your mouth watering, and again, if it weren't for the gloved hand in your hair, you would've delved in, relished in the taste of the oldest man. "I'm not rushing her…she's too impatient, a whore." Although it's not the first time Ghost addressed you that way, hell, that was kind of nice coming from him even, the presence of someone else made your cheeks flush red, your teeth nibbling on your lower lip. A gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the captain. He smiled, bright as sun rays, he swiped his thumb across the tender flesh "Easy sweet girl, don't be shy…" 

Soft yes, but also patronising, as if he's talking to a child, and to be honest, to him, you were one. His fingers took a hold of your chin, guiding you closer to his aching dick, he hummed, feeling the brush of your lips against his very tip. You glanced up at him for half a second, his eyes already looking down at you with hunger, you didn't hesitate to part your mouth, taking just the head and swirling your tongue around it. He chuckled after letting out a whisper of a hiss, he peeked at the slightly younger man "Trained her good, Ghost. I’ll give you that." The way he talks about you, as if you were nothing but a dog needing to be trained, needing to be tutored. As if you were nothing but a doll in their hands, made only to pleasure them…Why did the idea make your stomach flutter? Made you purr as you took more of John. “She’s a good girl. She’s my good girl.” 

Oh so now you were his? This question echoed in both your mind and the captain’s. The way he huffed, rolled his hips with slight aggression indicated that he was not agreeing. “Not yours…” He defended you; your heart skipped a beat, is this how you were supposed to be treated all this time? And how else were you supposed to thank him? Your nails found his thighs, digging in purpose to leave small crescents in their wake, your eyes closed shut, squeezed as you willingly took all of him in, the tip hitting the back of your throat. Surprised, both of them were. The captain was just not expecting so much from you, maybe now he knows, he understands why the masked man likes to mess with you so much, though he won’t deny his confusion; why make such a diligent girl cry. Him, he would’ve spoiled you, love, attention, affection, and most importantly, seeing how thirsty you are, he would’ve quenched your desires without you even having to ask. Him, he would’ve worshipped you like a goddess, the ground you walked on, the air you breathed. Ghost on the other hand was stunned by your behaviour for a whole different reason. His teeth were gritting against each other, his hands clenched in rage. Who do you think you are, pleasing a man right in front of his eyes? His blood was boiling in envy, it should be him that you’d so readily satisfy! How dare you?! How dare you give him a taste of his own medicine?! 

With bitterness, he pushed his superior away, earning whines from both of you. “Yes mine. Don’t forget who you belong to, darling.” He looked at you in anger, shoving your face between his thighs, making you take more than you can. You complained, knowing well that it wasn’t like him to listen to you. Although, this time you had some sort of hope. Teary eyes glanced to the side, meeting blue ones, silently begging to have him back, to taste him again. 

Price was an angel compared to Ghost, yes, but he was still a mean man. He hushed you, fingers combing through your hair; he didn’t help. Instead, he pushed you further onto the taller man. Your nose brushing against his pubic bone, his balls hitting your chin with each of his hard thrusts. The sight of your drooling, the sound of your choking, and the way your thighs rubbed, made the men chuckle and look at you like a prey. “Enough of you. Take it easy on the sweet girl, Ghost.” Finally he showed you mercy. John pushed him away, grabbed your arms to pull you back to your feet, but they barely touched the cold tile before you were lifted up, seated on the marble countertop. 

Ghost on your left, lips on your neck, kissing and licking and biting; usually not a fan of leaving visible marks, today he needed to claim you. His fingers were on your thighs, drawing soft circles, the action taking you aback, oddly tender coming from him. You barely had time to sigh in delight, your breath was caught in your throat at the feeling of slightly chapped lips kissing yours, coarse facial hair rubbing against your delicate cheeks. The captain’s hands left your hips, going up to paw at your breast, pinching and rolling the sensitive nobs between his calloused digits. “Look at the whore, huffing like a bitch in heat for us… you call her a sweet girl, all I see is a desperate slut. You baby her too much.” Simon argued, as if that would change the way his superior viewed you. But that jab wasn’t for him to begin with, it was for you, a reminder of what you truly were, who you were deep inside. And his tone was so mean, so cruel, after all he’d done to you, now really wasn’t the time to degrade you. The older man felt that, felt your hot tears on your cheeks, felt the way your fingers curled around his wrists, grounding you from lashing out. He pitied you, really. Such a pretty thing, young and innocent, naive and sweet, being toyed with by the big bad wolf. Confused and torn, it wasn’t his place to make decisions for you, though something deep inside begged him to do it, told him that he had to, so he did. He wrapped his arms around your waist lifting you up, only to sink you back down on his cock. “You don’t deserve her. Her pretty pussy needs a nicer man, isn’t that right, sweetheart?” You know you should push him away, disagree, or even shake your head. You knew, he carved it in your brain, that this cunny belonged to him, him only. Ghost, Ghost, Ghost  as he made you scream multiple times before. You knew the next time he’d visit you - scratch that, he won’t wait that long actually- he’d bend you over his lap to spank you, spitting out that you misbehaved, that you derailed from your trail, that you forgot who you were supposed to adore, who you were supposed to canonise. You knew all that, and yet, you nodded. Can he blame you? The older man made you feel safe, wanted, and you’re just a girl, that’s what you craved the most. “Need you, John”  You breathed out as he guided you up and down his length, knowing what to expect, supposedly.  

As cruel as he was, Ghost was also an unpredictable man. It surprised you that he didn’t curse, didn’t even fight his superior to have you squeezing on his own dick instead. It surprised you when he only huffed, quickly fixing his clothes again and storming out of the small bathroom. But of course he didn’t forget to shoot you a look; one filled with hatred, with anger and indignation, and also something you couldn’t quite pinpoint; disappointment? Regret? Sadness? 

Though you didn’t have much time to dwell on it, the tongue on your nipples snapped you out of your thoughts. “It’s ok, he’ll come back around. He’ll come back… for now, enjoy your time with me, you deserve it.” The warm voice whispered against your flesh, John leaned you back against the sturdy surface of the counter, trying to ease the tension out of your body. "You deserve better…" he meant you deserved him. A man who will kiss your neck tenderly, leave the faintest of hickeys right below your collarbones, right above the curve of your chest. A man who will slowly slip inside you, his lips leaving small pecks on your temples, who will praise you “Taking me so well… Like you were made for me, sweetheart”. His thrusts were slow, deliberate, he was taking his time to savour you and the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. He was enjoying you, the way your nails clawed at his shoulder, and the way your legs wrapped around his waist, seemingly pulling him closer to you. Your head rested on his chest, looking down, eyes zeroing on his every movement, on his abdomen contracted with every breath he took, every hiss he let out. 

His pace started out peaceful, like clear water being caressed by a soft summer breeze. Though he’s only human, drifting away from a promised heaven with each in and out, only to end up in a fiery hell. His breathing was heavy, hot against your sweaty skin, and his hips became erratic with every passing second. Never been a believer, but John never felt any closer to holiness than he did right now, right inside of you. And if god existed, he wouldn’t know whether to thank him for blessing him with the feeling of your cunt around him, the mewls of his name coming out of your sweet lips, or curse him, how is he supposed to live now having had a taste of pure ecstasy? How did he survive all these years with this feeling of fulfilment? “Good girl. You feel good, hmm pretty girl?” How can his voice be so delightful, and his thrusts so mean? The tip of his cock nudging at your cervix beautifully, making you see stars, bringing you closer and closer to your release. 

His fingers had a bruising grip on your hips, leaving his marks too, soft blues compared to the violent reds of Ghost’s hickeys on your neck, the contrast between the two men had you spiralling. So different, they balance each other perfectly. You needed that moment of love after all the things Simon made you go through. After all the degrading words, the aggressive touches and bites, the unfair love; Price felt like a warm blanket on a stormy snowy night.

John’s voice became raspy, a little louder too, he had to sink his teeth into your shoulder to keep quiet. Although you weren’t any better. With your head thrown back, a hand over your mouth to keep your moans and whimpers at bay, your other one too busy grabbing at his hair, pulling for some sort of steadiness. Your legs thrashed around him, squeezing his waist tight, not being able to close from overwhelming pleasure as you came. The squelching noise of your arousal echoed in the room, spurred him to quicken the shoving of his length into your sopping wet insides. Messy, everything is messy. From his erratic pace to the drenched counter beneath you, everything is just so messy. Your chest heaved, body squirming as you felt overwhelmed, overstimulated from his constant prodding at your spongy spot. One, two, three more seconds and your walls are convulsing for a second time, not even your palm could preclude your scream of his name, only getting higher when you felt some liquid warm coating you from within, only to begin to slip out, dripping. 

Cerulean blues sparkled under the harsh white light of the bathroom as he slowly pulled away, hushing your cries of protest at the emptiness as he did. “Feel better?” he asked warmly, with a kiss on your forehead, not caring about the perspiration that formed earlier. Even the dirtiest parts of you were like sugary candy for him. “He’ll come back… Don’t you worry about him. And if he doesn’t, you still have me, alright my sweetheart?” 

Just like Ghost -it’s funny how you keep comparing them- he was possessive of you. Although it felt different, like he cared, like he would keep his promise. And you couldn’t help but smile as you watched the captain pull your panties up, not before he left a whisper of a kiss on your fluttering clit. You couldn’t help but smile up at him as he fixed your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. “Go back outside sweetie. They must be looking for you… He’s waiting for you… I’ll clean that mess up.” 

Your heart was beating faster with each step you took, as if you were the one in the wrong. So fast you felt like it was about to burst out of your chest, and then, and then it stopped when whiskey browns eyed you up and down, briefly mentioning the seat beside him for you to take place. A shiver ran down your spine, palms sweating when you were told that your friend had to go home early, something told you that Simon had something to do with it. Something told you that Ghost has something planned, should you be excited, or scared for what’s to come?  

[travelingthief]

Ares Devotions and Offerings

Devotional Acts

Workout/Exercise

Boxing, wrestling, martial arts, etc.

Attend a protest

Self-defense training

Learn about wars

Go to a shooting range

Identify and cope with your anger

Go to a rage room

Play war video games

Play war card/board games

Start a fire

Watch war movies/documentaries

Learn about your country's military and understand why people join and what they do when they serve

Visit war sites/memorials

Learn about society’s reactions to different wars

Scream! Yell! Shout! (productively)

Get out of your comfort zone

Get adrenaline pumping 

Address/work through your fears

Chain his statue

Learn wound care

Take home security measures

Play contact sports

Talk to veterans/people who served about their experience

Learn about PTSD

Practice divination, particularly ornithomancy 

Support people who are currently living through wars

Listen to peoples’ stories who have lived/are living through war

Learn how your state/town reacted/participated in times of war

Offerings

Swords/daggers/knives

Spears

Guns/weapons

Soldier imagery (like toys)

Tanks/cannon imagery

Dog tags

Shields

Helmets

Armor

Boxing gloves

Workout gear (dumbbells, lifting gloves, running shoes, etc.)

Sports equipment

Dragons

Skulls

Bones

Depictions of death

Depictions of war

Preserved animals

Ashes

Chains

Urns

Vultures

Trophies/ribbons/awards

Military memorabilia

War books/movies/games

Matches

Roosters

First aid kits/wound care

Snakes

Bird imagery

Feathers

Teeth

Metals

Claws

Blood depictions