#I have became fat and grey haired | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

g-xix · 3 months ago

Text

🔞☁️Spiderman!W2s au

Inspo: Harry as Spiderman in the come dine w me sidemen video, and the "chocolate house" scene in TASM

Summary: When studying for an exam, your spider boyfriend interrupts your session with the incessant want to distract you...

CWs: oral (female recieving), parents being home, praise

Notes: In this AU Spiderman Harry and reader are both 18+ student inters at Oscorp Labs (the whole timline is a bit askew but allow me x)

Headphones in and exam material spread out on the desk in front of you, you closed your eyes and relaxed a moment. Thunder rumbled and rain thudded against the window outside, the sky still grey outside, yet not enough light for the studying you had, to prepare you for the next exam in a couple weeks. Your spiced cookies candle still burned strong and illuminated your pages with a warm glow, but weren't enough to prevent your eyes from straining in the darkness.

You picked yourself up from the desk, allowing yourself a full body stretch - cracking each vertebrae until your fingertips tingled and head felt filled with fuzz to contrast the diagrams and data that swam in your prefrontal.

The tea you'd made was running short, and you equally needed a shower. Both of those required going to the kitchen - to turn the boiler on as well as the kettle - which also meant a break from your much needed cramming.

You brought your phone to your pocket, slipping it in so that your headphones still played instrumental tracks into your ears whilst you went across the room to flick the light-switch, illuminating your room and letting you lie back against the bed for a moment, just closing your eyes and pushing one earmuff to the side so that you could indulge in both the music and the heavy thuds against the window. Rainpour outside glum and dreary, and yet the most beautiful noise you could think of to accompany your evening revision session.

The thuds became heavier, more frantic, and you opened your eyes to look out and see the fat bullets that'd hit and drain down your window - creating the outside world into a real-life oil painting - splattered and swashed with haphazard reds and yellows from the traffic lights and cars that honked and buzzed so far away from your flat.

Though the idyllic painting you had expected to see was not what you were met with, as you saw the blurred silhouette of a red and blue suit, and brunette head of hair resting on your windowsill so many floors up from the ground. A gasp fell from your lips, followed by an almost panicked "HARRY!" - rushing to the window to fight the locks and open the window so that your boyfriend could push himself through the window frame and into your room - grinning sheepishly up at your panicked face as you assessed your boyfriend from head to toe - hair spiked and dampened by the rain, and body still kitted in that skintight spidersuit that hugged all of the muscles you knew he possessed beneath.

Although your assessment was cut short as you heard your name called from the end of the corridor outside your room, footsteps drawing nearer too.

Your eyes snapped from the door to the boyfriend that hadn't announced his presence to your parents, having entered through the window, your wide-eyed look of fear and panic showing that you were too stunned to do anything. Which left Harry no option but to dart under the bed himself - slipping his body between the thin slit of space between the hardwood bed frame and carpet floor, tugging the duvet down to cover the shadow of his body, beneath the bed.

The knock that sounded against the door was what unparalysed you and caused you to shoot towards the door - opening it and smiling unsuspectingly at your dad who was on the other side of the door.

"You alright, little miss?" Your dad asked, before looking back at the bedroom behind you. "I thought I heard you saying that Harry kiddo's name, just checking you're all alright..."

"Oh yeah I'm fine," You quickly responded, nodding to affirm it. "I just... I just thought I saw him down on the roadside from the window - I don't think it was him though... I must just be having hallucinations from studying too hard or something, right...?"

Your dad looked at you blankly for a moment. Like you were absolutely insane. Before a chuckle fell from his lips and he looked down, shaking his head at your insanity warmly. "Absolutely insane, you are."

You shrugged with a slight smile on your face.

"What was it you were talking about at dinner last week - wanting to live in a chocolate house," He laughed fondly at the fresh memory, and you felt the colour drawing from your cheeks as you remembered Harry was underneath your bed and could undeniably hear every embarrassing word your father spoke. "You were doing up a real court case there - I mean - you designed a whole electricity system using the sugar in gummy bears to power the lights and -"

"OKAY, okay! I get it, I'm insane!" You cut him short as you felt the redness building heat to your cheeks. Your dad only found it even funnier, and laughed at your embarrassed demeanour.

"Alright, alright.." He stopped himself with a large smile over his face. "I like that Harry kid - your boyfriend - he isn't half bad. You know you're allowed to have him over whenever you want, you don't need to be secretive about none of that. He does the same Uni course as you, yeah? He's a good kid, Y/n, you could have him over for dinner tonight if he's available - your Mum's cooking up a roast, y'know...?"

"I think he's busy tonight," You said unsurely, and your Dad just nodded though. "Thanks Dad - could you put the boiler on as well? I wanna have a shower in a few."

Your dad agreed, shouting a half hour until food's ready! before leaving you to close the door with a sigh of relief, turning around and seeing Harry - already made comfy on top of your bed and smirking up at you. "Chocolate house?" He repeated with a grin, and you rolled your eyes as you flopped down besides him, tugging at his sleeve. "The clothes you left are in a that drawer there - go put them on, sewer rat... And I think you need a shower, too."

"Shower with you?" He looked over at you with a mischievous grin, and you had to thud him with a pillow to get some sense into him. ("Guess that's a no then.")

You watched Harry as he got up from the bed, stretching to hit the spot on his back that loosened his spidersuit and wincing as he did so. You noticed how he let out a huff, wincing once more as he bent over to take his shirt out from the lower drawer, your brows furrowing.

"Harry, turn around." You commanded, because there's been times where Harry had been injured and refused to tell you until he'd been healed or gotten professional help. He'd said that his special abilities would allow him to heal up without really needing attention... But you still feared that he could get infected, or have an injury worsen due to his neglect for it. And with him wincing and huffing with every movement, you couldn't help but fear he'd done something to his body which he was now trying to hide.

"...Why?" He froze up, not turning around.

"Why are you so uneasy sounding right now?" You narrowed your eyes.

"I asked the question first so you have to answer first-"

"I literally asked you to turn around first, if anything you should have to do that first-"

"Well there's nothing that you need to worry about, Y/n," Harry huffed again, this time out of his begrudging nature - rolling his eyes and quickly slipping his shirt over his top half (and even though you felt unhappy with him, you didn't miss the opportunity to ogle your boyfriend's back muscles), letting the man get himself into something more comfy before turning around with a regretful expression as he got next to you on the bed. "Sorry for getting angry, I -uhm- shouldn't have..."

You exhaled a deep breath as his fingers found the back of your head, his hand tentatively massaging your scalp. Your own fingers traced the bottom of his shirt before your head tilted up to him, his hand moving with your head and bringing his attention down to you - meeting for eye contact.

"Harry, you know I'm just lookin' out for you.." Your fingers went beneath his top, feeling out the muscle of his lower abs and the trail that lead upwards to his belly, palm flattening over the skin and making his breathing hitch slightly. "I know you say that it doesn't matter because you got some spider immunity - or whatever the hell it is - but you're human beneath it all... and that doesn't mean that you're not immune to an infection. Or some sort'a vector creating disease that'll wipe you and your entire spider-species out."

Harry chuckled slightly at your words, but his hands still went under his shirt to lie on top of yours, his fingers interweaving between yours and clasping over yours as a non-verbal show of connection.

His breathing hitched and you felt the edge of your finger brush over something rougher. Like the skin surrounding a wound. You knew you'd hit a sensitive spot - some sort of injury, and you looked up to meet Harry's eye contact. "...Can I look..?"

Harry took a deep breath but nodded shakily.

And tentatively pulling his shirt up, you squeezed your lips together to stop yourself from gasping at the horrifying dark red gash that ran from just below his chest and over his abdomen - raw and ripped, reddened and smudged with blood that was darkened and dried lower down - his quickened healing already forming a scab over the cut that had a width almost as long as your finger.

"It's not that bad is it?" Harry's voice came our quiet and sheepish - as if guilty for having not wanting you to see it.

Your own voice had a high and breathy quality as you internalised all the shock and horror and emotion you felt for your boyfriend, hurt with the massive cut across his body. "...It's... there."

There was a first aid kit in your downstairs bathroom, and pressing Harry's abdomen down into the bed, telling him to just stay - crawling over Harry's body to the door (placing the lightest of kisses on his stomach) before hurrying to grab the antiseptic, cloth, cotton, bandage and more - running back up the stairs of your family apartment and entering the room - your hand only just managed to touch the door handle briefly before the breath was taken from your lungs-

A thud sounded from the bed as you watched your boyfriend roll frantically to hide - raising an arm to shoot a web at the door handle which your hand was still attached to.

"Oh fuck, it's just you.." You heard a groan from your boyfriend who'd rolled himself onto the side of the bed. "Uhm - sorry about the web.."

You laughed and tugged your hand to escape the sticky web that had attached you to the door, but... "Harry, why can't I move my hand..?"

"Uhm, you said you got some anti septic - that's got alcohol - just douse your hand with some of that, that might melt the web a bit..."

The web became like thick sugar syrup on your hand - melting - but still sticky all over the back of your hand and your fingers, although Harry promised it was completely safe as you washed it off and shot him dirty looks as he stood in the bathroom doorway with your room now locked.

"Okay big boy, squeeze my hand when you feel pain just don't scream," You chastised for the final time, and your Harry nodded with pursed lips - squeezed shut to prevent a single noise leaving his mouth as you lowered the alcohol drenched cotton swab to his wound.

You forgot that his spider abilities made him stronger than he was before though, and you were the one to let out a yelp as you felt your fingers almost getting crushed by his own digits, wrapped around yours. Instantly however, he let go and had gotten up to press his lips to your hand, pressing kisses to the back of it and apologising profusely, his thumb now tracing over each phalange whilst he left delicate kisses over each one in an apology.

You managed, in the end. Harry decided to bite down on the face of a pillow instead, as you wiped alcohol over his wound and sterilized it - bandaging the cut to prevent entry of any pathogens and receiving kisses all over your "Miracle hands" in payment.

Although as you realised you had been set a topic behind, according to your time schedule - Harry only allowed you fifteen minutes more of peaceful revision, before he had decided that he was finished with looking out of your window and playing with your newton's cradle - and wanted to pester you instead.

"You're so pretty when you're studying." Harry leant back against the glass of your window to observe you - pencil in hand - poised and trailing over the words which you digested from a textbook and traced onto your own separate notes.

"Yeah, you should be studying too y'know.." Your gaze didn't move from the page you read whilst you spoke, and thus you didn't see Harry cross the room to stand behind your chair.

You were so absorbed, in fact, that you didn't even notice his presence behind you until he wrapped his arms around your shoulders and let his chin rest of the top of your head, the weight of his head on top of your making you grumble even whilst you liked the pressure of him around your body.

"God, how do you always manage such good grades even when you spend all day in the city and acting hero," You let your eyes close and body untense, leaning back into your boyfriend who hummed at your resignation to the studying- indulging in your boyfriend's hold instead. He laughed, and the sound ricocheted in his chest and vibrated against your body in the most pleasant way.

"I think you need a break," Harry's hand delicately took those strands that had fallen from your ponytail and tucked them one by one behind your ear ever so lovingly. And whilst the warmth of his body against your back betrayed you and had you wanting to indulge in his sweet loving, your rationale caused a whine to fall from your throat as you betrayed your wants to protest him.

"Noooo.." You did your best to protest with your words, because your body was absolute fool to Harry's touch, and didn't protest one bit as he wrapped his arm slowly and tentatively beneath your thigh to pick you up bridal style. Testing the waters as he gently chastised you with a "Oh yes," as he brought you to the bed , slowly and carefully setting you down against the pillows as though you were delicate china before crawling up onto the bed himself. "Breaks are important - you gotta give your brain rest time so you can come back more refreshed. You need a distraction, Y/n..."

You'd been keen to notice his much stronger Harry had gotten since being bit by that spider. Though his physical frame didn't look awfully different, his strength, reflexes and grip had most definitely had a drastic increase in sensitivity and effect. And once again, you noticed Harry's strength as he held himself up on top of you on just his forearms - lowering himself to the exposed skin of your collarbone - brushing the cardigan aside to reveal the soft, untouched skin.

He looked up with a smile, through thick lashes and boyish charm that had you wrap your legs and squeeze around his body. And taking a hint, he gently pressed his lips to the flesh - feeling the hard bone beneath the surface and letting his tongue scale it before nipping with his teeth and listening to your body's physical reaction as you back arched ever so slightly whilst he pulled away with a grin.

"Y'know another thing?" You spoke, letting a hand thread through his locks before trailing down to his cheek. He looked up at you, giving you eye contact to listen to your hypothesis. "I think your canines have gotten sharper since you got bitten."

"Is that so?" He cocked his head to the side, letting his cheek fall into your palm - and you trailed your hand over his face so that you could push your thumb into his mouth - pulling his upper lip up and holding it there with a grin as you looked down at his teeth. Sharp canines protruding from the ordered and equal-lengthed incisors. The pad of your finger pressed into the points and let the points create little indents onto the soft skin. Definitely sharper.

"Without a doubt," You smiled up at him, admiring the mossy green nestled within the oceanic blues of his irises, delicate wave pattern threaded through the circumference that circled the dark pupils. God, you felt as though you could drown in those. "C'mon Harry, tell me; how'd you do so well constantly in class when you're always out saving the city or just enjoying life.."

He laughed again, giving you another show of the attractively sharp canines before lowering himself down - pressing his chest into yours whilst still effortlessly holding his weight up - leaning into you so that his breath fanned over the hard outer shell of your ear as he gave his hush response.

"I don't sleep. I'm revising instead; because spiders never truly sleep - they just slow down and take some down time, before they're back in action.."

His voice was low and husky with the words you delivered, and you could feel something sinful setting alight in your stomach. "Harry - this is the weirdest sexy talk you've ever done."

"I think it's working though-" His hips were already flush with your core - and reaching a hand below the hem of your skirt, he pressed the material of your panties down against your slit until he could feel the arousal that had formed between your legs from everything to do with Harry. A gasp fell from your lips at the sudden intimate touch, and your hand jumped to his wrist to stop his movements. Because the grin that he wore told you that he was absolutely going to take this further if you didn't stop him.

"Harry!" You hissed his name in horror. "My Mum and Dad are still home! We can't do anything..."

"Why not..?" Harry's fingers had resorted to tracing patterns over your thigh which was awfully seductive alongside his confident smile and eye contact. "I can tell that you want to..."

"But you should know that we can't." You spoke firmly, and as if to consolidate your words, you both heard a shout from your dad downstairs: "THREE MINUTES UNTIL DINNER'S READY, KID!"

"See?" You stressed to Harry. "We can't do anything because we only have three minutes - PLUS my doorlock is already faulty - really Harry, anyone could walk in anytime-!"

Harry grumbled and shifted his weight onto one arm so that he could lift the other to point to the door, jetting a web to cement the door shut and flush with the wall. "There - now no-one's coming in - we can have some privacy for three minutes... I can work with three minutes, Y/n - all you gotta do is say the word..."

You took your lip between your teeth as you contemplated... Because you knew that you really did want Harry - and with the door webbed shut, you really could spend those three minutes with no interruptions... But you had a family dinner straight after, and even if your parents wouldn't be able to see you - there was always a change theyd be able to hear you instead... Your contemplation was futile as you realised that each moment you spent weighing pros and cons only reduced the very short time window you had to actually do anything with Harry if you decided to. You had to make a decision now.

"Fine," You sighed and looked up. "Let's do something then."

"C'mon, you can actually sound like you want it, y'know.." Harry teased and you rolled your eyes. "C'mon, tell me what you want - d'you want me to fuck you? Or d'you want my fingers? Or I can have you cum all over my face-"

"OhmygodHARRY!" You flushed at the lack of filter he had, covering your reddened cheeks in horror.

"C'mon, make your mind up princess, time's ticking."

You felt a blush rising to your cheeks as you took your lip between your teeth, knowing exactly what you wanted but being shy to say it. "Can you-uhm-use y-your mouth-"

His touch trailed further up your thigh as the request left your lips, and an almost proud smile lit up over Harry's lips as he looked up at you. "See, that wasn't too hard, was it?"

His eyes flickered away from yours to the clock besides you on the bedside table. "Two minutes," he mumbled, "I can work with that."

Harry didn't bother to remove your panties. Instead, he just moved them to the side and returned his mouth to between your legs - his head covered by the material of your skirt that fell over his head and ended mid-neck.

Which meant you were absolutely clueless to his touch. You couldn't see the glint he had in his eyes, nor expect any of his touch - every touch of his hands, his tongue, his lips was all completely unexpected. And that meant that when you felt Harry's teeth gently closing around your labia just as a teasing nip at your core, a gasp fell from your lips which you had to cover with a hand to prevent yourself from being too loud.

You could hear the low chuckle that fell from your boyfriend's lips, muttering a "Sorry, couldn't help myself," before he pressed his tongue flat to your clit and moaned, tasting you all over your delicate bud and channeling vibrations that stimulated every nerve ending in your heat and sent pleasure coursing through your veins - making your eyes roll to the back of your head even with the littlest touch that Harry had provided.

"You taste so fucking good-" His words were cut short as he pressed himself back to your cunt like an addict, his tongue now pressing to your dripping hole and drawing a line from there up to your clit - mixing his saliva with your arousal and spreading it over your pussy so that he could lap blindly between your folds and still taste you regardless of where he placed his tongue.

And you were a wreck with what Harry did.

Your thighs were clenching around his head and core convulsing, your body spasming with a hand over your mouth as you squeezed your eyes shut and did your best to not let out any loud noise that'd have anyone else in the house knowing that your boyfriend had secretly snuck in and what now tongue-fucking you into oblivion...

An un-disguisable gasp slipped from your mouth as you felt a panging in your core, your orgasm barrelling closer and closer as Harry's thumb pressed to your clit - using your slick to lubricate his movements as he pressed circles into the sensitive organ in syncopation with the rhythm of his tongue which lapped between your folds and dived between your walls, the skilled muscle making your breathing come heavier and heat spread across your cheeks and the whole of your body.

"H-Harry, I'm so close-I'm gonn'-I'm-"

"Please~" He begged your release with such sincerity that with his admission you couldn't hold back - your thighs squeezing around his head with enough pressure to crush it - throwing your head back and letting your back arch off from the bed as you felt the pleasure in your core spread through every vein and flood your body with enough oxytocin to fry every neurone in your body, feeling yourself come undone on Harry's tongue in the most lewd and filthy way possible as he lapped up every ounce of praise your body gave him.

"My god, if I could live between your thighs the world would be such a better place," Harry groaned, and you saw his pussy-drunk face as he withdrew from beneath your skirt with slick lips and such a sexed-out expression that you could feel a blush drawing to your cheeks, knowing that was all for you.

He brought himself to your face and joined his lips with yours, his tongue caressing your lower lip and causing the taste that Harry had gotten drunk off of to linger over your lips whilst he made out with you - slowly - sensually - and appreciatively, regardless of the sloppiness of the kiss that had sparks relighting in your core and almost beckoning for a second round with Harry. Yout thoughts were prevented however, as a shout from your dad echoed up the staircase and through the wall: "DINNER'S READY, COME LAY THE TABLE!"

Your lips detached from Harry's with a smile, giggle exiting your lips as you felt Harry's lashes tickling your cheek before he rest his forehead against yours.

"I think you gotta go, sweet thing," Harry spoke with a hushed voice, but you made no move to leave.

"I don't want to," You whined and did your best to wrap a hand around Harry's forearm to keep him with you - though he could sense your plan and had to move back before he was persuaded to stay any longer. "Won't you come have dinner with us - dad said you could-"

"He said I could on the conditions that you invited me and probably came through the front door - not through his daughter's bedroom - besides, I can't go making him hate me when he just admit he thinks I'm a decent guy," Harry grinned as he reflected on the words your dad had used to describe your boyfriend, though as he caught the frown on your face he shortened the gap between you to console you with a kiss to the forehead. "C'mon sweet, you gotta go get your dinner, I'll see you tomorrow in the labs anyways, right?"

"B-but I haven't even given you anything in return for..." You gestured to allude to the head he'd given and he laughed.

"You don't need to worry about me - I already got something to think of when I sort myself out at home," Harry cheekily spoke, and pulled his mask over his face - decided to stay in his cosy clothes.

"You going home, then?" You made the assumption, trying not to be downcasted as the boy nodded. "Web safely then, and text me when you get home - I don't wanna get a heart attack seeing you on the telly for getting into a fight with some bad guy."

Harry laughed and nodded in agreement. "Sure thing. You enjoy your dinner and keep studying hard. I'll still beat you in the next test, though."

You rolled your eyes, hearing another shout from your dad on the floor below.

"Alright, I'll see you tomorrow - love you!"

"Love you!" You managed to return just in time as Harry opened the window and slipped himself through, casting a web along the main road before swinging away from your apartment and leaving you to walk down the stairs to dinner where your Mum placed roast potatoes in a fancy platter, and you dad laid table mats out.

"Who were you talking to?" Your mum cast a glance over her shoulder at you as you went to retrieve the knives and forks from a drawer to lay the table.

"Just on a call," You shrugged, the lie coming all to easily.

"You ought to be revising instead of spending your time being social, Y/n." Your mum gave a pointed look, and you bit down on your lip to avoid saying something witty in response to her well-meaning scolding. You smiled as you remembered Harry's words instead.

"It was just a short break. My brain was already fried so I just needed a short social break so that then I could come back refreshed." You smiled to yourself, parroting Harry's words and watching how quickly your Mum changed her stance and agreed with you, taking her words back and becoming more lenient.

You could almost feel Harry there, stirring the gravy and sneaking you a smirk as he watched you repeat the words you'd been so indignant to agree with only fifteen minutes prior. And even all the way through dinner, you couldn't stop yourself from smiling down at your plate as the thought of Harry crossed your mind - the way he'd entered, the tenderness as he'd let you clean his wound, the sharp canines and the love-drunk smile he'd cast you...

Truly, you were head over heels. And when you checked your phone just before studying - opening the picture Harry had sent you - in the darkness of his room having arrived home safely - his spidey mask still on and hand clutching at a quite clearly outlined semi beneath the sweatpants he wore, the accompanying text: thinking of you <3 making your heart flip and core burn up once more - your found yourself realising that one of the other reasons that Harry consistently scored higher grades than you in class was because he was always somehow always on your mind and able to distract you

Did u mfs enjoy this, bc i lowkey wouldn't mind making this a fulll-time au i write more fics on... 👀👀 i already got spiderman!w2s anon (ty for requesting this btw i had SO MUCH fun writing this) already sending in another idea which i like... do we continue this au?!!?

Hope you enjoyed reading!! Feel free to interact- whether that be a comment, vote or follow! Requests open, feel free to submit what u wanna see... Much love!!

To see more, here's my MASTERLIST

And here's my WATTPAD, with 50+ more oneshots to read

p.s. Customise which Oneshots YOU want to be tagged in by submitting your preferences on THIS GOOGLE FORM + join the taglist!!!

W2S TAGLIST!!!:

@mekselinaurr, @kennysimp101, @mrsnoclue69, @martini4lyfe, @xxkatxgracexx

@x-d1vine, @w2soneshots, @itsyagirlmeee, @pinkpomelo, @daniiixoxo

@mekselinaurr, @blackbat2020, @clarkeysbog, @musicalburrage

@springholland, @lordzzz, @danric03, @softanic

@zandrax, @lilyyxoii, @amberrrx, @notalloutofusernames, @imredjack,

@lyssaluvs, @megaprincesscakes, @wh4theduck, @raekensluver, @junodz

@scassty1202, , @ajshabsxxwife, @2themoon-and2saturn, @thankunextx, @softanic

192 notes · View notes

iloveaustinelvisandmannymore · 6 months ago

Text

Miss Wolf.

Pairing: Toji fushiguro x hybrid reader (human with ears and a tail)

Warning: Abuse, black marketing, Murder, Owner-pet to lovers, Protective toji, Oral (male), Creampie, Baby fever, Breeding kink, Tail pulling Degrading kink, Praise kink, Hybrid discrimination. (Fan art, not mine)

"Sold! For 34,000 yen!"

Toji's eyes snapped open as his snores came to a stop, his body jerking from its laid-back state. "Goddamn." Toji groaned as he tried to rub away his headache. The fucking bastard Toji had been tailing must of never heard of resting, the old geezer always had something to attend to. It never stopped. Sighing Toji fixed his black tie and drooped his arms on the chair behind him as he boredly watched the betting. Black markets weren't Toji's thing, yes he killed people for money but he wasn't that evil compared to the sick fucks around him as he blended with the crowd, his target right on stage.

"Okay, now let's move on to the most beautiful piece of all," his target exclaimed, dramatically extending his arm as two men brought out a large cage covered with a blanket. When the men removed the cover and the light shone on it, the assassin became interested for the first time that night. Despite your weak appearance, you growled fiercely, baring your sharp teeth and emanating a fiery hatred. The target then began the bets. "A wolf hybrid, pucked straight for the wild and when in full animal form, beautiful grey fur coat and the most gold eyes you will have seen. Bidding will start at 120,000 yen!" like that, hands raised and the price went up. "And Sold! For 290,000 ye-" The announcer's sentence was cut short as a bullet shot through his forehead, blood gushed out like a river and his big body fell to the floor, screams erupted within the crowd, and people ran for cover. Toji paid them no mind, calmly walking to the stage, pistol in hand, once and a while shooting down brave guards.

"Well, aren't you a beauty?" Toji hummed as he squatted down in front of you. Toji reached a hand through the grimy cage and towards you. Your (eye color) eyes flicked to his hand, then to his face, as his hand came closer, and without hesitation your sharp fangs piece the side of his hand, blood spurt out the wound as you bit down. Toji's lips spread into a smile as an amused glint came to his eyes, "such a feisty girl." He cooed, calmly pinching your nose, blocking your air supply and forcing you to let go, you did so with a growl as your ears laid back on your head, "Let's go home, yeah?"

Toji stirred wake to a scorching wet, sentiency surrounding his fat cock, a feel he knew all too well. "Having fun puppy?" He chuckled and threw off his blanket, revealing a cum-worthy view, of his little puppy between his thick brawn thighs, your mouth stuffed full of his dick, cheeks puffy and pretty bedroom eyes looking at him through those beautiful long lashes. Sighing contently toji's hand griped the strands of your soft hair and pulled you off, earning a disappointing and needy growl from you, "What do ya think you're doing huh?" He asked, sitting up on his elbow, those smaragdine eyes boring into you with lustful intent. "Y-you smelled so good! I just wanted a taste, sir!" You whined, diving to take him into your maw but it was useless as the most it did was give your hair a painful tug. Toji shook his head, tsking at you "You know better." Was all he said as he let go of your hair and laid back, one hand behind his head.

he pointed to his twitching cock and you knew exactly what he wanted.

And without your permission, your fluffy tail wagged in excitement as you scurried on top of your lover's broad hips, his girthy length stood tall and at attention. You can already feel your flower, grow wet with your shiny slick at the sight of toji. His hands behind his silk ebony hair, eyes lidded, face sexily stoic, his biceps flexed, hard, sculpted chest and abs flaunted.

You couldn't take it anymore, with one hand you lined his cock to your heat and slid down. Delicious inch by inch his member stretched your walls, until he was sheath all inside, and his cock rested against your sweet spot. Panting,your tongue rolled out as you lifted your hips and slammed down, your hips bucking wildly, his hairy rough pubes grinded against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you seeing stars. Your skin soon because wet, and slippery with a shen of sweat as you moved your legs into a squad position, and bounced onto your lovers cock with more leverage then before. Your claw dug into the pecs of Toji's chest, his large hands on your waist, jerking upward once he was fully within you.

yelping as your breasts meshed against Toji's chest, his strong arms wrapped around you, pushing you and pinning you down as he worked his dick in your slick, plush cunt, bumping, and stroking your walls and cervix "Fuckin' love your pussy puppy, so slutty 'n needy f' my cock." Toji growled, planting his feet onto the mattress and snapped his hips faster. with a cry, your orgasm hit you like a train, "Shit! That's my whore, gonna give ya some puppies! Gonna breed ya fill of me." he groaned, empting himself in your clamping and pulsing pussy.

Too say Toji fushiguro was a morning person would be a lie, if anything he hated mornings. but seeing his little puppy tail wag so fast it was a blur as you excitedly bounced on the heels of your feet as your ears turned ever so way, barely bothered by the collar and leash he was forced to put on you. It wasn't always like this.

It took months almost a year for you to trust him, the first time he tried to feed you, resulted in another bite mark on his arm but slowly by leaving food outside the door you became comfortable and one day you sat beside him as you ate. Two months later you had begun to spend more time with him, watching racing shows together and watching him move around. Days out, you'd hold onto his arm and hide behind him, ears twitching and tail low. It was so cute. Toji didn't know when he had fallen for you but it was one of the best things that happened to him.

Toji let a smile grace his lips as he watched you jump from one side of aisle to the other side, taking in the sight of food and snacks while he leaned against the curt. Even with the number of times you came here you were still so marveled by everything.

By the time he was finally able to get you to leave and head home, it was the afternoon and You were rumbling away about going to the park soon to meet up with shiu and his hybrid Noa as you both walked down the stret then you stopped in your steps, looking to the other side of the side walk and into a ally way before he could ask what was wrong and what the hell you were glaring at when you were rushing through the busy road. "fuck puppy!" Toji growled out, dropping the groceries and using his heavenly restriction to by pass the rushing cars. He heard your snarling before he saw you, and it all made sense, a poor, badded and beaten dog hybrid that looked no older then ten years old stood behind you as you bared your fangs, ears pinned to your head, and pupils growed smaller.

"Move you stupid mutt!" A older man shouted, rising his hand to backhand you when Toji grapped his wrist. "Do we have a problem here?" He asked, stepping in front of you, his eyes narrowing as his grip tighted. "L-let go you bast-" the old man screamed unable to finish when a snap echoed throughout the ally way, "leave." Toji pushed the man way and smirked as the man ran way, holding his broken wrist.

"She is okay?" Toji wondered, standing up as you came into view. "She's fine, a bit scared and tired but fine" you sighed as you laid your head on his chest. The little dog hybrid, whose name you came to know was Aina.

She reminded you so much of your family, your pack.

Your little and bigger siblings, your mom and dad, uncles, aunts and cousins. You were alone, scared, hungry and tired of fighting when they had taken you from everything you knew and in that way she was like you.

You saw you in the way she practically inhaled her food, in the way her dainty fingers latched onto your dark grey tail as you helped her get clean as you did with your mom as a girl her age.

You couldn't let her go, can't let her be alone again

You and toji would be her home now.

A/n: Hey guys...im sorry this so long, life had me through a loop, something happen with my mother, heartbreak and I have lost any will to write until now. So I hope y'all like it.

Taglist: @gina239 , @blake-has-too-much-energy , @shrimphutao4ever, @dinotittes , @taysarchive, @ggvidaworld , @extasyl , @tojishugetiddies , @shadowsandexplosions , @venjrnjrbhrr19 , @kuro-chi69 , @cutesytwt , @tornparts , @thesweetestqueenofall, @faimmm, @bluechocolatemint, @daniella666girl, @trickstercumslut, @kpop-obsessed-kid, @darkstarlight82

#toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x you #toji smut #toji x y/n #fushiguro toji x reader #feel like this was lowkey shit lol

225 notes · View notes

brotherwtf · 3 months ago

Note

where they're back to the states after the war and Gale gains back all his weight and he might actually get more cheek fat than he ever had and Bucky is just happy he's healthy but he cannot keep his hands off his cheeks and fantasizes about how Gale would look so cute and chubby if he were to get pregnant and develops a kink and starts treating Gale like his wife that he would knock up everytime they have sex and Gale just plays along

BREEDING KINK ⁉️⁉️ YEP YEP

oml there's a scene in mota where Gale is sleeping and he has his arms curled under his head and GOD his cheeks look so cute and chubby I'm gonna (ripping my hair out) me and John kindred spirits fr fr

thinking that one of the things that made John saddest about the Stalag was how Gale's face lost its brightness almost, his eyes got duller and his cheeks got more sunken in, a grey hue covered everything, and John missed the Gale back at Thorpe Abbotts the most

so when they got back stateside and John forced Gale to eat all three meals, the weight slowly came back and his skin started to glow again. Marge had been so good to them, gave John a bunch of recipe cards when she saw how skinny Gale had gotten, whispered in his ear how he should make Gale eat every meal or he won't eat at all, and it became John's mission to get Gale healthier

as the days passed, Gale's skin got even warmer, his cheeks round and flushed pink, skin soft and supple underneath John's hands that he couldn't help but compare it to all of the dames in England. Gale was undoubtedly a man, still had the harsh lines and flat stomach of masculinity, but there were places on Gale's thighs and ass and cheeks where John could grip with his hands and mark up

John likes to come up behind Gale when he's in the kitchen, slide his arms around his waist and call him his doting housewife, whispering all sorts of filth into his ear as Gale tries to keep his knees from buckling

"we should get some skirts and dresses for you," John would whisper "just so I can lift them up and slip right in," and Gale just absolutely loses his mind when John says things like that

and of course that sticks with Gale, maybe he goes into town and covertly buys some, telling the cashier they're for his girlfriend, wears them around the house and when John first sees him, gets absolutely WRECKED on their kitchen table

maybe Gale likes to be called 'doll' or 'my girl' during sex, encourages John to grip his thighs and ass and treat him like those girls, kiss him gently and then fuck him senseless into the bed. Gale moans sweetly when John does it, whispers things about getting him knocked up and how he loves seeing come roll down Gale's thighs, and Gale's going loopy with it

John fondles Gale's ass and thighs whenever he can, whispers how pretty he looks like this, all healthy and beautiful and flushed pink for Gale all of the time, talks about how he wants to keep Gale in bed and happy all the time, fuck him all hours of the day just so John's handprints never leave Gale's ass

he wears those marks with pride, looks at them in mirror and smiles bcs he likes feeling desired like this, always moans so prettily when John calls him his, whispers in a husky voice before he comes how Gale is all his

#mota #clegan #buck x bucky #john egan #gale cleven #asks

91 notes · View notes

jakescakeislateforourdate · 2 years ago

Note

Hi! I really like your work and was wondering if you do requests? If yes, I would like to suggest something...like it's more a prompt but idk why I see this with Kaz Brekker, so prolly Kaz Brekker X Reader or anyone you'd like to do

"If you do that again, I'll throw you out of the window you- what are you doing?"

"Checking how high the drop is, see if it's worth it"

^this or like a rendition of it or something and you can put whatever you want in it

BUT I JUST READ "HUSH HUSH" AND THE WRITING IS SO BEAUTIFUL, ESPECIALLY THE ENDING

Thank you for requesting. I apologize for the wait.

Kaz Brekker x reader

angst, fluff, Kaz having feelings, hurt and comfort

The gloomy sky hung over Ketterdam like a noose. The filth of the streets complimenting the grungy grey with drip-stained rooftops bridging the space between murky sky and muddled ground.

You stepped onto the dock, legs like jelly from being out at sea for so long. Kaz was waiting for you, scowling and growling about the harbor. His disgruntled stare catches first on the scuffed heel of your boot as you lower yourself onto the tattered wooden planks of the dock. Then his eyes drift up to the gleam of the sunlight in your hair and the redness of your sun ravaged cheeks.

He'd think to call you beautiful but he's so angry right now he can hardly stand still. "You imbecile!" He seethes, teeth clenched and lips drawn back in a snarl.

Jesper drops onto the dock behind you, eyes wide with fright and mouth thinned in resignation. Another day, another job gone wrong. You'd been off your game for a few days now but this last heist put Kaz at his wit's end.

"Easy, Kaz," Inej murmurs as she moves out from behind Jesper. "Everyone did bad today."

You think you catch Kaz's eye twitch subtly. His murderous gaze lands on Miss Ghafa and then moves to Jesper.

"You're lucky we're in public." He turns and begins to limp his way down the dock.

A good sum of money had just gone down the drain. Some jewelry had been taken from a merchant's wife and she'd desperately wanted it back. The merchant offered to pay more than the jewelry was worth pawned and had enticed Dirtyhands into accepting the job. It was an easy job. Simple.

So why had it gone so poorly?

Well, for starters it'd been raining. The rooftops were slick and unfit for climbing. Even Inej had been struggling. Visibility was low which made things difficult for Jesper. The location and party was another thing entirely. An island, hard to get on and off of discreetly, was jammed full of gaudy lads and ladies prancing about a wedding venue.

The jewelry, a diamond necklace and matching pair of earrings all of which were worth your weight in kruge, were the last thing. They dangled from the lobes and clung to the fat throat of the bride. Difficult to procure.

You followed the tacky creature around the venue, trying to get in close enough to nab the items but the damn wedding party blocked you at every turn.

They complained noisily about the rain and about how it would ruin the wedding. Kaz hounded you about obtaining the pieces. You caught glimpses of him everywhere: tucked into an alley, ducking into the kitchens, stalking through the gardens.

You became a target of suspicion. None of the other guests knew you and you didn't have a plus one. Not to mention your constant approaching and then backing away from the bride couldn't have gone unnoticed.

It all came to a head when you finally got in close enough and made a grab for the pieces. The bride was in her dressing room after the ceremony, stripping off the necklace and earrings before slipping behind her the ornate dressing screen to step out of the frilly white dress. You hurriedly entered the room, not wanting to try Kaz's patience, and snatched the jewelry off the vanity.

The bride heard you come in and ripped back the folding screen. She saw you stuff the glittering diamonds into your pockets and screamed "THIEF!" for the whole island to hear.

You grimaced and dashed from the room but it was too late. All the guests were made aware of your juvenile failure at stealing and the struggle to get off the island began. In the hysteria that ensued, Kaz had gotten separated from the team so you returned on two separate boats. Hence his impatient prowl of the docks.

The trip back to the Slat was completely silent. You brooded over your failure. What was wrong with you? Why had you been so stupid?

The crew dispersed upon arrival, locking themselves in their rooms to mull over the mission. Kaz tapped your calf with his cane and nodded towards the stairs. The fix of his jaw and his glowering eyes told you all you needed to know.

You stomped up to his office, already angry because he was going to berate you more than you already had. Kaz slams the door behind you. "What is going on with you? You've been like this all week."

"I know."

"That's all you've got to say?"

"What else is there to say?"

Kaz's face goes red with rage. "You cost us the job! How can you not have anything to say? I should knock your teeth out and cut off your fingers for this! It was easy. How could you possibly have messed up this bad!"

"I'm sorry." You feel tears burning.

"That's not going to fix this. I can't have you on this team if you're going to be inconsistent. A mistake like this could cost us much more. Someone could die and that's on you."

You pull the necklace and earrings from your pocket and drop them on Kaz's desk. His eyes flicker to the diamonds and then back to you. He's upset you. He didn't mean to but all he can think about is if you had been caught. He'd have to go through so much trouble to get you back. And he would.

Gladly.

But what if you got hurt. What if they stuck you in the gallows or shipped you off somewhere he could not reach. But that had not happened. It was not physical pain nor the thought of prison sentence that was making you cry. It was him.

You were both aware of Kaz's feelings. Neither of you said anything but you both knew from the tender brushes of palms and long lasting gazes that something was lurking under the surface.

"Just," Kaz swallows when you turn away from him. "If you do that again-- mess up like that-- I'll throw you out of the window you... what are you doing?"

He watches you cross the room to the window, where rain drips from the soaked wooden window frame. "Checking how high the drop is," You glance back at him, fighting tears and trying to bring on a smile. "see if it's worth it."

Kaz sighs. There you are. Trying to make light of the situation. He looks at the heap of jewels on his desk. You did retrieve what he asked. He'd still get his money. And if he played his cards right he could still have you.

"Come're." He waves you over. The leather of his gloves groaning a little.

You arrive in front of him and Kaz raises a palm to your cheek. He doesn't touch, only lingers over the warm skin. He juggles emotions, anxiety and love hashing it out. He settles for a feather light sweep over your temple and a barely-there kiss to your forehead.

"Try not to provoke me."

"You wouldn't kill me."

"I don't even want to think about it."

#six of crows #shadow and bone #kaz brekker #kaz brekker x reader #kaz x reader #kaz brekker imagines #crooked kingdom #yourfellowfandomfiend

1K notes · View notes

moondirti · 2 years ago

Text

genesis

But the white light highlights the captain’s silhouette; grown-in mutton chops, broad shoulders that double your own. He’s wearing a beanie, pulled to his brow, melting into the shadow that conceals his eyes from you. It’s the first time you truly see him – this much of him, anyway. And he’s startlingly younger than you would’ve thought, hair still packed a uniform brown, the occasional wisp of grey speckled in the midst.

pairing: Captain John Price x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 8k summary: the progression of a spite-fuelled relationship warnings: enemies to lovers, literally 4k words of unfettered smut, virginity loss, reader is given a backstory, light corruption kink, tummy bulge, choking, mentions of death, mentions of torture, kidnapping, alcohol, alluded misogyny notes: this became something else entirely and i apologise. credit for the 'choking with an arm' thing goes to @sprout-fics and, by extension, @yeyinde 's anons lol

The first time you meet the captain, his edges blend in with the wet asphalt and gunmetal downpour. Midnight adrenaline, vision bleary with disrupted sleep; you’re only able to make out the flickering end of a fat cigar, tucked between his lips and smouldering orange, somehow still alight despite the weather.

You suppose it’s that ironclad conviction, the one you’ve heard of in passing on base. Smelted to every bullet, carved to fit the crows feet that frame his eyes. You see it now, tainted with a conscience rebellion – non discrete, as they’d called it, enough to bend nature itself to suit his tobacco fix.

You still, pausing for him to give you the rundown. He doesn’t approach you, not yet, caught in a hissed argument with one of his men. Their voices drift in the howling wind; his, like smoke, curling with a rough aggression.

Hair plastered to your forehead, water gathering on the tip of your nose; you quietly thank your hasty decision to throw on a lab coat before coming. It proves to be the only barrier between the rain and your dishevelled self – loose pyjama bottoms coming to your calf, knitted socks that start to soak through your army-grade boots. Not a state you commonly adapt for first impressions, though it’s not like you’d had much of a choice.

Paramedics swarm the helicopter Price had emerged from, pulling out a limp body, blood splattering on the landing pad to be washed away without a trace. It’s nothing you weren’t expecting as the medic on call tonight – the shrill beeps of your pager were enough of an indication that something had gone wrong. Yet your mind reels to pinpoint the face that lulls onto the stretcher. Wrinkled nose, quivering lips – they’re alive, but only just.

You don’t recognise them. The cooling relief is stupidly selfish.

A minute later; two soldiers hop off the craft, trooping off with their guns tucked near their chests, entirely dutiful. You note the direction they take, heading towards Laswell’s office – assigned report duty, no doubt.

Five minutes pass, and the pilot disengages as well. The chopper powers down from a loud roar to a disruptive quiet. The storm still boils overhead, thunder a cracking whip to what had been a peaceful night. You resist the urge to wipe the drops that weigh your eyelashes. You’re soaked to the bone, now.

Ten. The patient would have reached the hospital bay. An irking sort of impatience begins gnawing on your gut, dangerously fiery for the situation at hand. You cough, despite knowing the captain won’t hear you, and square your shoulders as you take him in again. He hasn’t so much as looked in your direction, locked into a series of gruff nods and whispered commands with the sergeant.

Is his comrade’s life really of that little urgency to him?

The thought leads you down a path you do not want to take. It’s decidedly destructive, a match to the rush of fuming petrol that courses through you. Breathe through it, a clipped voice echoes back to you, reverberating on starched walls and a cold leather couch. Rationalise. Your psychiatrist’s office, post reassignment. I’d wager you didn’t take that time to think before the incident in Bulgaria, hm?

Pompous bitch.

You draw in a long inhale, holding it until your chest aches with blurring hypoxia. Black dots your vision, spurring a pounding alarm at your temples. Your fists clench, unclench, then clench again, nails digging crescent moons into the pruned skin of your palms. You wait, and wait, and think you puncture yourself, a new warmth pooling into your cuticles.

Then, when Price’s conversation dwindles, the flame tempers, mental barricade forming in its stead. A necessary precaution; you steel yourself and prepare for the likely gruesome incident debrief as he breaks off and starts to approach.

Only, he marches right past you.

You’re stuck staring ahead, frozen in paralytic shock. Heart lurching, your body thumps with it, disorienting when you turn to his shrinking form.

“Captain!” Your yell whips with the gale. He tosses you a brief look over his shoulder, pulls an especially large drag from his cigar, and keeps walking.

You snap to your senses and jog to catch up.

“Bulle’ to the chest, punctured a lung. Concussion from tumblin’ rubble but not much else.” He keeps a quick pace ahead of you. It takes all you’ve got not to slip as you disentangle his words from an ashen irritation.

“Was he given any medication that might interfere with the anaesthesia?”

“Negative.”

“Was the wound sealed to keep air from being sucked in?”

“Affirmative.”

“Did he lose consciousness at any point in time?” You strain, legs screaming as you finally come side-to-side with him.

“Doctor–”

“I need to know these things for the procedure to run as smoothly as pos–”

“Doctor.” He snaps, stomping to a sudden halt before facing you fully. You’ve come to the right wing’s entry, secured with a strict-access passcode your rank is not privy to. The most you know of it is what you can see through the doorway window; a fluorescent hall, illuminated despite the late hour. An office at the end of it. Shepherd, perhaps, engraved on a nameplate.

You shuffle in place. Your pyjamas cling to your skin, dewy disposition a reminder of how ridiculous you must look. Lip quivering, you tuck it underneath a sucking tooth and glare up at him.

“Sir.”

“You’re wastin’ your bloody time with this. One of my men is choking on his own blood,” His finger prods to the general direction the patient was taken in. “And you’re here, mm. Why is that?”

“It’s procedure.” The statement escapes as more of a hiss than anything else, his hypocrisy clawing at the gummy lining of your lungs.

“Procedure can fuck off this once, that shit’s for the textbooks. Things differ on the field, Doc.”

It hits you, then, who he sounds like. The revelation bleeds into your tone. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused. Now go and make sure my sniper doesn’t die on me.”

The rain’s eased to a drizzle now. He leaves you molten, steaming with a sulphurous rage.

“Stop moving.”

“Can’t exactly do that now, eh?”

By the fifth time you cross paths with the captain, you’ve already decided you don’t like him.

To the outside eye, your position does nothing to suggest it. Lewd at best – you sit, crouched between his legs, your elbows propped up on muscled thighs to stabilise the tremor in your hands. The floor beneath you rumbles, the humvee rolling over rocky terrain in its attempt to exfil. Price, stabbed; once in the left lumbar, twice in the umbilical region.

Ichor soaks through your compress. Your fingers are tacky with dried gore.

The car is stiflingly hot, a vessel for the trapped Uzbekistanian sun and high tensions. Large gulps of air prove insufficient; oxygen runs scarce, recycled through the systems of the several soldiers present. You’d given your seat to Garrick – who, currently, has no use for it, stuck halfway out a window to shoot at your pursuers.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. The sergeant driving has no goddamn idea how to do so without messing up your work and your clothes chafe over sweat in the most excruciating way possible. It took you fifteen tries to thread the suture through the needle. It’ll take ten times that to actually get his wound closed.

And it’s not his fault. None of this can be pinned on him.

Yet–

“Can’t understand why you don’t take the time to reload your ballistic plates. This whole thing–”

“Jus’ do your damn job, doctor.”

You swallow the snarl that tears up your throat, burying it alongside a grave of acrid emotion you reserve for men just like him. This situation is profoundly familiar. Bulgaria; the crunch of your general’s nose under your fist. Betrayal sour on your tongue, a sting like you’d never before felt it. It took a whole team to hold you back as he spit upon your bruising temple.

A cunt. That’s what you are, girl.

Pray tell, then, what does that make you?

Your next seam is done with fervent hostility.

It’s only when your penultimate knot is tied that you force yourself to reel in your wandering mind and focus on the task at hand. You’ve one more laceration to mend after this, the length of it throbbing underneath a wad of temporary gauze. It’s that, maybe – festering evidence of the raid you’d just survived – that flushes you in further warmth, a boiling panic still itching beneath the surface. Rip release grenades, the dust of unsettled gunpowder. Your calf twinges from where it was caught under a pile of debris.

C’mon, doc. Up. Yeah… yeah, there we go. You broken?

Fine.

Or. Perhaps–

Giving flesh. Not rock-hard with chiselled definition – his body doesn’t carve into pronounced sinew – but solid, all the same. Packed brawn underneath a stretch of ivory skin. His shirt, rucked up to his chest. A trail from beyond his waistband, curly hairs, stark against a crimson backdrop.

Your conviction warbles, so you say nothing when you move to pierce him again.

It’s unfortunate timing, really.

His hips jolt at the cold bite of the needle head. The car rocks over a pothole. Some greater destiny, a cackling trio of asshole fates, weave their inexplicable thread. You’re only able to pull your hand back in time – the threat of stabbing him yourself a looming prospect.

Your face isn’t so lucky.

It comes into full contact with the swell between his legs.

His grip shoots to your hair, winding at the roots to hold you firm. It’s enough to steady you as you pull back almost immediately, but the phantom feel of his crotch shoved to your nose is slower to leave.

For a painstaking moment, the two of you lock onto each other’s stares. Price’s brows buoy, hooding over florentine eyes that spark with an untapped choler. You pretend not to notice the way his lips twitch, how his hand – still on your head – clenches the slightest bit tighter.

Ticking bomb, wedged in the divet between two floorboards.

Click, click, click.

One. Two. Three.

Three beats until you clamp your jaw shut, gathering your surely obscene expression to one of mortified irritability. It’s all you allow yourself.

“I told you to sit still.”

Despite the way your words slip between clenched teeth, they sound with whopping pliability. Like he could grind them down, pestle on mortar, and watch as they unfurl, syllable by syllable, to shape some semblance of truth.

(Honesty; a notion tucked along with happier memories of staying up longer than you should, facing your bunkmate with a bottle of cheap tequila on your lap.

There’s gotta be something you can drink to.

You’re just wild, Tess.

Fair, fair. Hmm, alright. Never have I ever…

She cackles at the grimace you pull.

–given head. Yeah! That’s easy, right?

Hm.

Wait. Seriously?

Everyone’s intolerable.)

“You watch your tone.” The growl rips from him then, laden with the scratch of singed newspaper, tobacco clustering at the back of his throat. It’s not so much a command than it is a reminder, a recall to your second meeting where you’d found the captain pouring over your file. Swilling the last amount of amber liquid from a glencairn: you nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc. Not everyone is so forgiving.

You’d only meant to collect a batch of vaccination records for his new recruits. You’d left as you seem to always do with him, rage burrowing into claggy marrow.

Forgiving. Right.

“Sorry, sir.” It’s the farthest thing from genuine.

You don’t know what you hate more. The husky chuckle that erupts at your hushed admonishment, or the fact that you miss them when his fingers leave your hair.

Something shifts between the sixth and the seventh time.

It isn't forfeit, not by a long shot. The gods wrote you with a deathly stubbornness; acquiescent Sisyphus, bound to roll your boulder up an impossibly steep incline. Your back will ache, and your tendons could tear, and you’d continue pushing for the sheer fact alone. Palms sliced open on abrasive rock, you’ve long since stained your white flag with blood and the pink salt of lake atanasovsko.

(You used to compliment Tess on her hair – ice blonde, almost white. Her face had matched that deathly pallor when you pulled her up on the grassy bank.)

No. It’s a lot more subtle.

As subtle as kidnapping can be.

A cramped safehouse, post-evacuation. You’d commandeered the one bathroom for a moment alone, crouched over a pail of tepid water functioning as a sink.

Sand clings to you like second skin, grime piled in impossible crevices you can’t clean no matter how hard you try. It’s Price’s gore that washes off first, tainting the murky pool for any who wishes to use it next. Rippling red; it doesn’t disgust you to cup it up and wash your face.

Three raps strike on the rotted-wood door.

“Yeah?”

“There’s, uh… there’s a slight issue we need you for.” Gaz says.

Drawing a sharp inhale, you shrug on your coat and leave to find him standing by the hall. He quirks his head towards the main space, where various voices overlap one another in an effort to make themselves heard. You’re able to single out his amidst the mix, a clipped bark that’d hold more weight had he not been stabbed.

A kid, as it turns out, is the source of such contention. A local who’d seen the red cross on your armband and recognised the universal symbol.

“What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to figure that out. I speak a rough Uzbek. Think she mentioned something about her mother being sick,” A sergeant – the one driving earlier – briefs you.

“Right.” You lick your lips, locating Price in your peripheral before crouching to meet the girl’s height. “Is she nearby, sweetheart?” Her feet curve towards one another, clad in flower-adorned sandals that have seen brighter days. You smooth down the flyaways at her temple, noting the way she searches for meaning in your gentle expression. Hindsight tells you she looked terrified.

But before you can ask again, you’re met with a gruff command.

“You’re not goin’ to help, doctor.”

Incredulity spikes, a ruthless parallel to his own dismissal. You slowly turn to catch his eye, piercing from the end of a table. He’s still in his tactical gear, his shirt darkened and sticky across the front. You hadn’t had time to wrap his wounds.

“Come again?”

“It’s not our mission.”

You can’t miss the meaning camouflaged in his vague rejection. Current company dissipates into ash; tunnel-vision – all you see are pursed lips, bearers of an apathetic verdict. Not goin’ to help – like it isn’t your sole reason for being here.

Temper flaring into a whistling fusillade, you shoot to your feet. Your tone is the first victim, piquing with violent emotion. “She’s just a girl!”

“We don’ know that for sure–”

“Jesus fucking christ, captain. If you think the enemy’s got their talons this far out, then what are we even doing here?”

“All I’m saying–”

“I don’t want to bloody hear it! She’s come to me for help, so I’m the one who’ll make this decision. Should I be ambushed, or worse, you have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.”

Usually, the bitter aftertaste of citrus rage scalds you. But when you had walked out into the dust-clogged afternoon, you felt nothing but grim satisfaction.

It only lasted as long as it took for a bag to be placed over your head, a blunt force accompaniment, the butt of a gun to your cheek that sends you spiralling into a brutal goodnight.

The seventh (technically, eighth, as you come to learn) is at a bar in Belgium, two months later.

Littered in novel scars, the largest one spanning your cheekbone, you swish a dram of soju and drum your fingers on a tacky bartop. The patrons that had originally crowded the space have long since filtered out – your original distraction funnelled to just the drink in your hands.

So, you sit and think of nothing.

(Everything, actually, but memories fizz like static. Your period as a hostage stands out as the sharpest of the bunch.)

It’s been a week since you’d been dismissed from the hospital – though you can’t say the same for your stay there, days fused together to stretch over an undisclosed amount of time. You’re usually on top of things, but being the one in the clinical cot had thrown you off your element. For good now, you think. You prowl Belgian streets with little aim and direction, pardoned from duty until they figure out what to do with you.

Which makes you wonder how exactly he finds you.

It’s a hole-in-the-wall, seedy establishment. Swallowing light, artificial lanterns a mild buffer to vignette shadows, slithering up brick walls.

Still, the captain gravitates to you in your lowest moment – as he evidently has a habit of doing – and takes the stool next to you like he belongs.

“Nice to see a friendly face.” You chortle.

Nice gives him all the updates he needs. A debrief on what changed since Uzbekistan; the new woman whittled by torture and the painful consequence to her own derision.

“You look older.” He nods.

“Wishful thinking?”

“Maybe.”

He urges the bartender for scotch with a water back, neat, and toasts the foot of a cigar. You hide your simper behind your bottle. Not everyone is different.

“How’s the damage?” You point to his gut. He looks confused for a second before remembering the circumstances of your next-to-last interaction.

“How’s yours, mm?”

“Healed.”

“I can see that. Looks better than it did when you’d been extracted.”

You skim over the fact that he was there for your rescue and breathe in the smoke that twines. Wood, burnt ochre that’s become synonymous with him. You suppose you’d missed it; that rendezvous point for when you were beaten within an inch of your life. It’d been a far warmer scent than rusted metal and sour mattresses.

The conversation dwindles to silence, then. Part of it is the ache that stones you, the revelation that you don’t hate him as much as you’d convinced yourself on. A nebulous inkling that you’d dreamt about him, more than once, curled in on yourself and sore with rue.

You have my full bloody permission to leave me behind.

But it’s prickling, too. You don’t have it in you to revisit her; you – Doc – whoever emerged all those years ago with an ingenuous vengeance. You focus on the present for the first time in forever, content to relish in it.

So–

The two of you sit like that for a long while after, soaked in dim light, basking in an old dynamic that hasn’t quite found its footing yet. It isn’t until Price finishes his drink do you pinpoint the courage to interject again.

“You were right.”

He ponders your confession, turning it over while he takes you in anew.

“I was.” It’s gruff, short.

And it could end there. A brusque exchange doubling as your apology, more than you ever thought you’d give. But something gnaws on your chest, cramming up in the space between your pounding heart and a rib; the need to spill, to make yourself known, so – if they decide to decommission you – you leave an honest crest in his impression. This might be the last time.

Pyjamas and waterlogged socks. Naivety that bites. You haven’t exactly been the best version of yourself.

You can’t speak the full truth of it, so you start on a tangent you hope will paint it for you.

“I was a soldier before I was a medic, y’know. Fought in the Bulgarian spec-ops.”

“Mm. I read your file.” Still, he takes another drag and settles an elbow on the table. Whether he’s curious or genuinely wants to hear you out, it gives you the go-ahead to continue.

“We were cornered, once, out near the Black sea. Every single one of us was shot. By the end, two were killed, with four following in close footsteps.”

You knock back another swill of soju before continuing.

“The general ordered an immediate exfil, but the chopper only had space for four bodies. They made the decision to pull every man out of the water, KIA included, while leaving the only other girl and I for dead.”

Florentine eyes. They flicker with a concern you might have seen before, but were too busy spitting at to properly appreciate.

“Tess was my oldest friend. Couldn’t save her, so–”

“You try to save everyone else.”

Your lips pull in a thin line.

“But you can’t.”

“Yeah.” You chuckle. “I know that now.”

“So where are you headed, doc?”

“What–”

“I mean. What are you goin’ to do with yourself, now that this noble mission’s been fried, eh? They’re discussing your discharge. Should that happen, you’d be a civilian.”

“I get that. There’s nothing for me out there, though.”

“Start with what you haven’t allowed yourself this far, then.”

And he places something on the table in front of you. A hotel keycard, Navarra Brugge printed in a decadent font across its length. The building two blocks away. You bite your lip, mind reeling with every connotation to what the gesture might mean.

You settle on the most plausible.

“How’d you know?”

Looking up at him, your chest flutters when he grins. Handsome. How’ve you never noticed that?

“Saw it on that pretty face the first time we met. I figured, a girl so far up her own ass. Probably never had the petulance fucked out of you.”

You scoff with faux offence.

(Part shame).

So, something shifts between the sixth and seventh time you meet.

Maybe it’s the way you seriously consider the four digits after he leaves – scrawled in black ink, the number to his room.

Hands like the blistering end of a cigar, searing skin as they keep you in place. Your jaw seized in one, the other curled firmly around your waist. You think he’s trying to savour it, the sight of you keening for him, glossy eyes that hang on to the last bits of defiance. Stupid, drunk – not from the sip of soju you’d taken earlier, but off the scent of suede and ash alone.

You lean forward, searching for slightly chapped lips. He lets you get close enough that his moustache tickles your nose, imbued with tobacco, before pulling away. It’s hellsent, some tantalising choreography he’s undoubtedly danced before. But your consequential whine is short-lived, tempered under a severe look when his eyes meet yours. Fingers crushing together, squeezing, so your cheeks pucker up for him. A promise. A warning.

“How do y’want this to go, mm?” He says, low enough for the words to reverberate through you. Punctuated – his voice is hoarser at this hour.

In the dim lamplight, your brows knit together. He must read the confusion.

“You want me to take it easy on you, dove?” His palm smooths down your waist, eye contact locked while it does, looking for something you wouldn’t be able to pinpoint in yourself. Price’s touch curves along your hip, catching the hem of your jeans, before circling back to cup your behind. It’s gentle at first, a barely-there graze, feeling you out. You puff into the shared air.

But you can’t speak, not with the grip on your face. You resort to clenching your teeth, hoping he can feel the tick of it.

“Mm. I see,” His breath fans over you. It’s hot with malt, smoke cloyed to the tongue. The hand on your ass tightens, cleaving between flesh, forcing you upwards. Your pants press taut over your cunt. “How ‘bout this… tell me if it sounds good, eh?”

You nod. He pats your thigh in response.

“I’m goin’ to fuck you how you need to be fucked. Can’ promise it won’t be rough, but if you ever need to tap out, just say the word. Got it?”

Again, you nod, mouth parting once his clutch eases on you. The concession dangles for a moment, bobbing in the thick pause he takes. Two blinks later, still nothing. You take the opportunity to try and capture his lips, a little too eagerly.

He wrenches you back.

“I need t’hear you say it.”

Of course. A verbal affirmation. But for– what, exactly? Consent, all things considered, though he simmers with something else. Satisfaction teetering towards a precipice, a covered pot threatening to over boil. His fingers dig into you like they know your softest points, having stewed over them before. You shiver, fluttering with a familiar venom, and think to the humvee in Uzbekistan. Crouched between his legs, propelled onto his crotch. The swell that twitched under your cheek, throbbing, new blood.

Say yes to yield. To give in to the command of someone new, who’ll know deeper parts of you than what you’d ever allowed. The clutch of your cunt, the sound of your moans. Vulnerability he could exploit, should he want to.

Yet–

He’s asking, leading you along and stopping at every hitch. There’s a lifebelt tied to the end of some rope, a thrown-out line; an act worth more than you could credit to anyone before him.

I need to hear you say it.

It comes from some cavity within you – a rotten place, blackened with decades long neglect.

“I understand.”

Obedience. Just this once.

(Then, if the invite extends–)

“That’s a girl.”

Lightning shoots through you at the praise, flaying you open to his steady presence. Warmth; he’s alive in the way that trees are, thickset, unwavering, rooted to your core as you bleed and breathe and choke on your own delirium. You don’t want it to be known, how reactive you can be.

Though, you suppose, that’s printed in red ink, stapled to the front page of your file.

You nee’ to learn to control yourself, doc.

Not here, not now.

Flooded with the woes of golden pleasure, you don’t notice his subtle nudge upwards, tilting your chin. It’s only when he finally, finally, gives you what you want – the press of his mouth to yours, full force, rough like he said he’d be – that you touch back to reality.

Maduro flavoured spit, he overwhelms you with an unrelenting magnetism. Teeth clashing, his hands on your neck, your hair. It hurts, borderline bruising. Should he give you a moment’s breath, your lips would swell blue, burst capillaries a service announcement to anyone who thinks they could measure up. But Price keeps you to him, his beard rubbing you raw when he pushes his tongue into your mouth.

And it’s scorching, heavy. Folding to find the scars dotting the insides of your cheeks, bitten tissue in fits of rage. Sucking the mewls that stream from you as he meets them with his own, guttural groans. You collapse into pliability as he kisses – no, devours – you, losing that sparking centre, torrid effervescence blurring your senses. There’s no rhyme or reason, no connection to the person you’d hammered out of stone. Just drool, a dominating masculinity to melt into. Sticky like a fruit popsicle on some summer’s day.

He manoeuvres your head, tilting to the right, so he can push further onto you. An expert in all things dizzying; you can hardly keep up with the targeted onslaught. It takes all that is in you to breathe, clinging desperately to the front of his shirt – for purchase, for plea – and relinquish control.

Your back arches, front grinding onto him. He breaks away, saliva webbing between you, and tuts when you try to follow and bridge contact once more. “So eager, dove.”

Hovering near lightheaded rapture, you say the first thing that occurs to you. “Any slower and I might take charge.”

Entirely untrue. You’re porcelain in the molten pool of his desire. Harder, and he’d break you.

But his vicious snarl is enough to balance the lie. A scale tips in you, heavy stone of anticipation weighing on your gut.

“Mm. Is that how you want to play then?”

“Dunno what you mean.”

“Oh, you maddening li’l minx,” Price rasps, backing you up against the edge of his bed. He keeps you from falling onto it with a hand around the base of your neck. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

Reprimanding, he doesn’t choke you – not quite – though the grip on your throat is anything but gentle. Chafing calluses pressing into gooseflesh-prickled skin, you’re braced to his whims – locked into suspended animation as he takes you in. Your lashes, clumped with blissed tears. The constant, whistled whine, streaming from a punctured lung. Your sweat-flushed cheeks, honeyed sheen, tangy with iodine and still, sweeter than most that drips from you.

You, stuttering with frenzied pants, and searching for nirvana in his gaze alone.

His beard glistens with a concoction of both your saliva, and he smiles proudly under the varnish. You scramble on your tiptoes to meet him when he dips in again.

Price, captain. Spearhead of any team, bending rain to mould over a hefty cigar as he barks out rough commands. You’d seen it then, back on base, shivering under a debilitating monsoon. This fire, an unquestioned charge that threatened to batter you into place. One that does exactly that, right now. But you take it gladly when you're manhandled back onto a nest of cool cushions, crawling to your elbows to watch as he pulls his shirt off broad shoulders. Lift your hips for me. Putty, he peels your jeans off with one fell swoop.

“Fuck, look at you.”

Sinking deeper into oblivion, you grasp onto conventional straws – acts calculated in well-lit showrooms. A babydoll smile, a virginal blush. Your knees tap together as you attempt to shut your soaked panties from his view.

One well-placed, smarting slap thwarts the attempt. The delicate skin of your inner thigh blazes with a white-hot sting, carved to fit the shape of his palm.

“Keep ‘em open for me, now. I feast with my eyes first, dove.”

Fuck, indeed.

“C-Captain…”

The breathy murmur comes out broken, composed to the quick cadence of your heart. It slams for space, almost nauseating, squeezing your internal organs as it tries it’s best to just hang on. He’s sin, a transgression to whatever divine laws are sung in stain-glass lit halls. And maybe your body knows – maybe it’s adrenaline, the fight or flight that’s kept you safe all these years, coming back to blare it’s bad news. Red flashes, astigmatism. A cavern of fire ready to swallow you whole.

But if hell is anywhere near as glorious as the feel of his hands on you, then you’d plunge to the devil yourself.

“Bloody christ. You beautiful thing,” His words, for contrast, are whispered with a reverence so quiet you wonder if he meant for you to hear. “It’s a fucking wonder no one’s tried their way with you.” Secret tenderness spilling to the lilt of it.

(Not so secret is the lust with which he kneads your hips.)

“They have,”

Shifting, he brings your legs to either side of him. “Is that right?”

“None were worth my time.”

“Mm. And I am?”

“We’ll see.”

“Suppose we will. Update me when you’re tending to a sore cunt.”

He doesn’t give you the time to respond, hands anchoring beneath your knees to press your thighs up to your chest. You’re snapped in half, miniscule beneath his body – an anvil with weight alone. Beyond fanned lashes and a feverish glow, you see his arm crook at the elbow, slotting between your thighs.

But he only grazes over your panties, stretched thin over your drenched centre.

Your hips buck, seeking friction to sate the fattening pressure. Price only entertains your high-pitched whines with gentle hushes. And when they ebb to a varicoloured fog, found in teary eyes, he taps your bitten lips with two fingers.

You take them in, suckling vacuum around the thick digits. Lapping at his knuckles, smoothing over the tang of saltpetre and binder leaves. He takes a moment to enjoy the balmy envelope of your mouth before reaching deeper, knocking molars and pinning down your tongue until your chest twinges with throbbing hypoxia. Spittle pools behind your teeth, dribbling from the seal of your lips to coat your chin.

You have half a mind to doubt it, to curl in with the knowledge that all it took was a stern stare and some words of comfort for you to debase yourself. But Price meets your insecurity with a reinforced thrust of his pelvis, hard-on grinding into your ass. It’s enough to send you unquestioned lechery.

A loud rip and the sudden rush of cold air on your pussy is what it takes for you to realise he’s stripped you bare, pocketing your torn underwear with a sly shift. Your jaw remains unhinged when he pulls away, tasting the stench of sex that clots sticky at the back of your throat. As such, there’s nothing to dampen your needy cry when he slips the slicked digits between velveteen folds.

He touches you like his name is imprinted in bold letters across your navel, implanting blunt fingertips onto your electric centre – circling, harsh and rough and fast enough to spike fully-body tremors. It’s debilitating, overstimulating and somehow, simultaneously not enough; a defibrillator to your core, a deep dive into molasses waters. His thumb takes place on your clit when he finds you clenching around nothing, index and middle inching towards your sopping hole to plug you full.

And the stretch burns, squeezing into a space that’s only ever taken your smaller hand. It doesn’t hurt so much as it aches, your cunt rushing to accommodate the intrusion. You know, you know, it’s a fraction of what’s to come – he’s preparing you to take him, that hefty appendage that’s so big it can’t even slot in your ass, confined and all. Yet, you feel as though you should’ve been readied for this too. This scissoring – chock-full of competency, an expert hook that isolates the perfect spot off the get-go. A part of you you’d never been able to reach.

His free hand cradles your neck, steadying it as he crouches over you to shove his tongue down your maw. It’s not a kiss, far from the lip smacking of before – no. Price bleeds his groaned compliments into your lungs, battling for what orifice of yours can make the lewdest sounds. Your moans, choked on scotch-spiked spit, or the battered, airtight clinch, gushing new slick with every quirk of his fingers.

“Mm, you’re– fuck, love. So goddamn tight, you’re practically cutting off my blood flow.” He curses, voice damned with restraint. It settles in the back of your head, forced through the bromine-doused cotton that lines your skull. Nothing makes sense. Vowels form shapes that dance to an off-tune song, edges slicing you, severing synapses. Something about blood, something about love. You’d always prided yourself on deciphering the most complicated of inflections, but never were you given the handbook on empyrean pleasure.

You can only guess based on what you see. Ivory skin, smudged at the edges, no hard lines to his form. Washed with contoured muscles, a peach blush, ripe enough to sink your teeth into if you can muster the energy. A bristly beard, carving you cell-by-cell, scraping the sensitive skin between your chin and lower lip until all that’s left is a bottomless chasm to drool your words into. You don’t dare roll your eyes back, can’t bear to shut them, even as your peripheral vision fuzzes out.

“C-Ca–”

“None of that. C’mon, love. John.”

“John! Sir–”

“Say it again.”

“J-John,”

His thumb presses down with a vengeance, bearing down on a trillion little nerve endings that flare up, liquifying your guts into a viscous substance, heavy as it sloshes around in you. Your muscles tense, screwing into tight knots, your hips lifting off the mattress. Price’s nose taps yours while he peppers you with small pecks – your top lip, the corner of your mouth, your chin.

And it’s cataclysmic; both everything and nothing all at once. The bout of deathly quiet before a nuclear blast, where birds flock out of trees and you think you can hear the pitter patter of a pulse, erratic at your wrist. And when the ground rocks, trembling with an explosive magnitude, fire erupting in the distance. When you seize up in a ball of fear–

Your cunt clenches impossibly tighter, all but forcing his fingers from you. It’s terrifyingly strong; your orgasm wrecks you not in waves, but as one upturning tsunami, floodgates open to the duvet underneath you.

–and do your best to embrace a quick death.

He gives you a moment to find yourself. Boneless, you sink into the bed, teetering towards oblivion.

“Tired already?” He teases, massaging your calves with subdued vigour. The fingers once knuckle-deep in you slide into his mouth, waitressing your spoils to his eager palate.

“Mmnn…”

“Best snap out of it, precious. I’m not nearly done with you yet.” He draws away to tug down his pants, taking his briefs along with it.

You don’t really… process it, right away. Expression dazed, you stare dumbly down at his leaking cock, reddened head angry at his prolonged control. Reality finds you in increments, foam lapping at a sun-soaked shore, carrying with it seagrass and brine.

The first thought that occurs to you; he’s hairy. Not untamed – it’s clear he trims the curls at his groin – but, just like his face, Price exudes masculinity in even the smallest of aspects. You imagine swallowing the length of him, doing your best to take it all, and breathing in unadulterated musk as you’re crushed against coarse hair.

The second; he’s huge. It’s a fact that shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, but the longer you drink it in, the more inconceivable it seems. You’d known – had face-groped it in the car, felt it poke your ass – and still. It slaps the softer flesh of his stomach, swells under his touch when he wraps his fist around the base.

Last (a final position you credit to your own humility); he’s practically throbbing. Life pulsing in the thick veins that branch up the frenulum, oozing copious amounts of prespend. You’re shaking your head before you have time to come up with an adequate response.

“That’s not gonna fit.”

Stupid. He’s got you cock dumb and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

For a moment, he backs away, kneeling at your ankles. Dread swarms you, buzzing doubt. Of course he’d lay off at your admission, he made it clear he prioritised your consent above his own gain. You can’t help but think it fitting; a slip up is what ended up costing you ecstasy.

But then – ridiculously, blissfully – he bends over, so his face is level with your cunt.

And spits.

Squealing, you throw a leg over his neck, winding your hands in his ruffled hair. His jaw remains hidden behind your pubis, but the scrunch of his eyes tells you enough. He’s smiling.

“Hey–”

But Price doesn’t listen. He reaches up to rub his saliva over your folds, careful to especially do so over your tender entrance. As he does, his tongue – that expert, warm, wet tongue – smooths over your clit, sucking it back to a swollen floret.

You keen, bucking into his ministrations. Watered boscage, you come alive with new life, a fresh vigour under a pink spring.

(He threatens the delicacy; raging sun, eclipsed, now, by his role as captain – caregiver – but verging on a supernova. Ever the firestarter, you’ll abandon reinvigoration in a heartbeat for ruin instead.)

“We’ll make it fit.”

Something you’d never admit so long as you’re bound to this underworld, cursed by Zeus and shackled to your boulder – you already feel another climax impending, with just the effort of his mouth alone.

So you pull his hair until he’s made to detach from you, entertaining your command, crawling up your body for his lips to smash yours once more.

“Just fuck me.” You whisper against him.

“Watch your tone.” He replies.

And it’s enough of a symphonious statement to truly emphasise it when he catches the divet of your cunt, sculpting you into a paradigm figure of devotion as you catch his eye. Florentine, glinting with an ardour you mirror in your own. Hooded under a heavy brow bone, blending into a perfect nose. Wrinkles and age lines and still so in tune with your much younger self.

You bite your lip when he finally drives inside you. He cradles your head to the curve of his neck.

“Fucking hell, dove.”

“Haah–”

Exclamations groaned simultaneously, unravelling ribbons curled with the sharp blade of a knife. It’s the same, flickering sting, a pressure less than pleasurable cramping in your lower gut. But they exist as subsidiary, fleeting points to acknowledge and move on. Nothing can trump the deluge that is his cock slotting into you, bursting through a dam that shifts to fit hard ridges – sucking him deeper, deeper.

“Jesus– fuck. Nngh– you perfect… perfect little–”

When he’s more than halfway through, you figure it’s safe enough to contract what you’d been trying to relax. You nuzzle your face further into his shoulder, nosing Maduro and suede, drinking the heady fragrance of his sweat-infused cologne. You wind your arms up around him, driving nails into rigid muscle, and search for purchase as he bottoms out with the aid of your squelching uptake.

“So– Yersobig.” You slur into him, muffled.

“I know. I know, precious. Breathe through it,”

And his hand trails downwards to find your clit again, lubed under his efforts. He emphasises his reassurance with a precise rub, right over where you thrum fierce and hot, feeding the gluttonous depravity that begins crawling up your legs. It festers like a day-old wound, sticky and raw, delicate at the seams.

In between croaked moans, you voice your voracity. “Jus’ move, old man.”

Price’s chest rumbles. You flush with the thought of making him laugh.

And promptly quiet down when he draws out of you in his first stroke.

Because oh.

You don’t get used to the sensation, after all.

Every thrust, you’re able to discern a new part of him. One, and it’s the veins that slide perfectly across your walls. Two, and it’s the way he thickens the further he pushes in, stretching your sensitive skin to its limits. Three, four, five; his mushroomed head wedges against the gummy wall of your cervix, pumping you full of leaden warmth.

You’re fucked. Literally and figuratively.

Propelled into a cosmic cavity that engulfs you with familiarity. Not some galaxy, beyond the exploration of man (though, you feel you can reach out and touch the stars). More so a fort, made of the quilt your mother had gifted you once. Nostalgic timelessness, hot chocolate glazing your gullet, resting rich in your tummy. You go out of your way to lick the dampness from his skin and place a purpling bite in its stead.

He ducks to graze his lip on the shell of your ear. You shudder under the gesture’s exposing simplicity.

“You’re takin’ me so well, dove. Doin’ so good for me.” He groans, sap onto a crackling bonfire.

“Y-You– s’feels so–”

“You can do it, c’mon,” As if to challenge you, he gains speed, pistoning at a brutaller pace.

“John! Oh my god, oh my god. You can’t do that. I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, then. Make a mess of yourself.”

And it’s the filth he utters over anything else. The string of obscene promises, sung for only you to hear, his balls slapping your ass and his prespend smearing milky white on sweltering walls. Captain – sir – who orders death in dire seconds, who depends on cigars and the quick-thinking action of his subordinates. Taking on that same pitch as he urges you to find release, a slow-creeping apocalypse waiting to happen at your core.

So perhaps he still asks for calamity; perhaps he knows you’ll lose face the moment you’re milked for all you’re worth.

You give it to him anyway, collapsing over a pressed-pedalboard longing.

Nerves snapping, limbic system miswiring. You wrap your limbs around him and black out before you feel the full effects of it.

You resurface half a minute later and find yourself in a completely different position. Axis turtled, he’d flipped you over on your hands and knees to spear you from behind.

“What was it I asked of you, eh?”

His chest fits along your back, tree-trunk arms wrapped around your waist. You barely hear him under the pool you’d been thrust into, his words splintered like the tune on an old record player. You hang there for a perennial moment – not quite floating, not drowning – blinking as the world rocks by in a blur of creme and gold.

Your elbows buckle. He has you before you fall face first into a cushion, a forearm buttressing your collar. The action hauls you upright, until you can rest your head on his shoulder. Blood rushes to your head.

Ragdoll is the first thing that occurs to you. Wool lined with cotton, pilled stitching.

“T’tell you…” You croak, parched.

“Mm?”

“F’it was too much.”

“Is it, dove?” He speaks against your cheek, placing a sloppy kiss on the upraised plane. You lean into it, nose bumping his.

“No… no. Keep goin’, please.”

Price needs nothing else.

You flop onto his full-bodied support, temple slick with moisture, itchy when it scuffs his beard. His cock plunges into new depths like this, pummeling your abdomen with a noticeable bulge, his fingers brushing affectionately over the extrusion. You’re somewhat cognizant to it – awake to what’s happening, aware of the loving nature – but say nothing.

The arm spread across your chest rises to your throat, wrapping around the lean length. It constricts enough air to bring stars to your eyes, pulsing flashes of nirvana, speckling the freckled skin that fills your vision.

“Gonna – fucking… cum inside, precious.” He screws them shut, his face scrunching, a lined portrait in sybaritism. You weakly nod along. “You’ll be bursting with it. Will feel me for days, won’t you?”

“Yhh– Hahh…” You struggle against his choking hold.

“Shhh. It’s okay, I know. I got you.”

You grab onto his wrists, winding around the hair that dusts them, bouncing with the unrelenting roll of his hips. You’re so full, it’s too much–

And when he stutters – the smallest, most imperceptible amount – you tighten your core and brace against the torrent that stuffs you.

“Fuck.”

Molten. Viscid. He wasn’t lying when he said you’d be brimming with milky-white, splattered across your insides. Your stomach overturns with the sheer volume of it; already, it oozes from you, slipping from the thick plug of him to paint your quivering thighs.

And you think of the desert sun and heat-drunk resentment. Sand, scorching, scratching absurd crevices. You think of yourself, two months ago, holding out from everyone. Part of you is angry (her, maybe, still buried underneath this murky rapture) that it took this long, that you’d forgone fulfilment for fear that your poison would seep through.

Another, newer part of you forgives the orchestration of your life thus far – Bulgaria, Tess, the general and the sick process that enabled him. If this is what it was all building up to, then you can find contentment, tucked somewhere in the scant space between you and your captain.

(Stupidly selfish, you recognise, even now. Like looking at dead soldiers and exhaling when you realise they’re not someone you know.

Perhaps it’s the tip that catches your the divet of your cunt when he pulls out, designed to fuck those experiences out of you.

Barely friends, hardly more.

But you could be.)

taglist: @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis @s-u-t @sweetybuzz25 @hypernovaxx @glassgulls @superbafango

3K notes · View notes

5xlwriter · 1 month ago

Text

Feedist Kinktober: Magic Mirror

Intended to be part of a series of one-shots in response to @fatguarddog’s Feedist Kinktober 2024 prompts, but I loved the prompt and it became a much bigger story than I expected. The prompt was Magic Mirror.

I had mixed feelings about Theo moving in with me. We’d met several years ago through a friend of a friend, and he and his boyfriend Luca were invited to a lot of the same parties as me. I never really clicked with Luca… He was incredibly good looking and obsessively sculpted his body at the gym, giving him the look of an Adonis. But he knew he was gorgeous and used it as an excuse to treat people poorly.

Theo was different. He was smart, funny and exceptionally kind. For the most part, I was super excited for the memories we’d make together, and it would be great to save some money by splitting rent. But on the other hand, Theo was… kind of needy. He had criminally low self-esteem, and needed constant reassurance from his friends — especially now that Luca had dumped him. That was the reason he was now living in my spare room.

He’d moved in several weeks ago, and it was largely going well. I loved our daily movie nights and it was nice to share meals with someone. Theo was just as much of a neat freak as me, so it really didn’t feel like a burden having him around. If anything, the apartment was cleaner than ever… But his constant self-doubt was really driving me insane.

“Are you sure the food tastes OK?”, he’d ask after cooking our dinner. “We can turn this movie off if you’re not enjoying it,” he’d apologise just ten minutes into a film. Worst of all was the daily routine of having to reassure him that he looked good before he left the house. “Does my hair look weird?” he’d ask, fretting in the mirror as he adjusted his perfectly coiffed dark hair. “Is this zit noticeable?” he’d press, drawing my attention to a perfectly clear patch of skin. And most infuriating of all: “Do these pants make me look fat?”

Theo was thin as a rail. He was just one of those guys who were blessed with a superhuman metabolism as well as the self-discipline to be really careful about what he ate. Here he was, pushing 30, with not an ounce of fat on his frame. I envied him - I was fit myself, but I had to work really hard in the gym for it. My work as a personal trainer helped with that.

I was being harsh. Theo was a great roommate and an even better friend. I just wished he liked what he saw when he looked in the mirror.

And that’s exactly what I told the old lady behind the counter at Miss Mabel’s Curios & Antiques, a dusty little store downtown that I’d passed by a billion times. I wasn’t sure why I was here - I’d been ranting to a friend about my predicament with Theo, and she’d said that Miss Mabel would know what to do. At my whit’s end, I trusted her recommendation.

“Oh, that’s easy my boy,” she said in a creaky little voice as she jumped down from her stool. She was a small lady, wearing what looked like at least ten cardigans and her messy grey hair tied in a bun atop her head. She had a warm and eccentric charm about her; not quite like a grandma, but moreso like a distant elderly aunt who you saw at the occasional family function.

She tottered off down one of the store’s aisles, before looking back over her shoulder expectantly. “Well, come on then!” she beckoned, and I quickly followed her. We soon stopped in front of a large rectangular object, as tall as I was and concealed under a dust sheet which Miss Mabel promptly whipped off.

It was a mirror - and an old one at that. The glass was in reasonably good condition but the frame - decorated with intricate carvings of daffodils - was in a sorry state, with chunks of wood missing and deep scars across the surface. What on earth did Miss Mabel think I could achieve with this?

“Don’t be so dense, dearie,” she teased, tapping me on the forehead. “This is a magic mirror. Give it to your friend, it’ll sort him right out.”

I had more than a few reservations, most of them related to the small fact that I didn’t believe in magic mirrors - or any kind of magic, actually. And yet, Miss Mabel seemed very certain and there was no hint of trickery in her kind eyes. Plus, when I noticed the £10 price tag on the mirror, it dissolved any concerns I had that this could be a con. That was an absolute steal, even if the mirror had seen better days. I paid her the money and headed for the door, before Miss Mabel called after me.

“Just a wee warning, dearie,” she said hesitantly. “Magic, especially old magic like that, can be unpredictable. Keep an eye on your friend, hm?”

I nodded, and made my way home.

Theo was delighted with the mirror, which I thought was an odd response to something that looked like I’d rescued it from a dump. He might have been unsure at first, raising an eyebrow when I revealed its new location hung in our hallway, but as soon as he looked into it I watched his face change. There was a light in his eyes as they lingered longer than normal on his reflection, and I saw his mouth curl into a smile. That never happened. Maybe the mirror really was magic… In any case, it seemed to do the trick, and I went to bed that evening quietly confident that Theo was going to be a little softer on himself.

When I woke up the following morning, it was to the smell of bacon. Weird, I thought. We usually just had toast for breakfast, or maybe a smoothie. But I certainly wasn’t going to complain! God, Theo was the best roommate I’d ever had…

As I walked out into the hallway, Theo was looking at himself in the mirror and flexing his non-existent muscles. I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, heading through to the kitchen. The bacon was looking very dark in the pan, much crispier than I liked it, and none of the bread for our sandwiches had been buttered.

“Theo, this bacon is looking very done,” I called out to him. He didn’t answer. “Theo?” I called again.

“Ugh, what?” he snapped back in a tone I’d never heard him use before, though he quickly seemed to catch his rude behaviour. “Oh, um, I’m sorry,” he said, scrambling for words but not taking his eyes off his reflection. “Would you mind finishing off breakfast for me?” He asked. “I’m kinda busy.”

He was acting strange, but I tried my best not to overthink it and did as I was asked, slathering some butter on the four slices of bread and transferring the bacon into two sandwiches.

“It’s ready,” I said, and headed to the fridge. That’s weird, I thought. There was no milk left to make our coffees, even though I’d bought some yesterday. And why had Theo put the empty carton back in the fridge? I poured us two glasses of orange juice instead.

At that moment, Theo walked into the kitchen without saying a word, and then left again with the bacon sandwiches. Both of them. And when I gave chase to confront him about it, expecting to find him sat in the living room, I was stopped dead in my tracks. He was stood in the hallway, stuffing the sandwiches into his mouth with eyes fixed on the mirror, like he was watching TV.

I heard Miss Mabel’s warning in my head. Keep an eye on your friend… Something was wrong.

Later that day, I’d rushed over to Miss Mabel’s shop to get her advice - but when I arrived, the lights were off and the door was locked. That’s when I noticed the sign, handwritten in spidery penmanship: “ON VACATION! SIX WEEKS IN EGYPT! SEE YOU SOON DEARIES. MMx”. There was a little drawing of some pyramids in the bottom corner. Fuck.

I didn’t want to mess with the mirror, since I figured if it really was magic then I had no clue how it might affect Theo. Just a glance had changed his behaviour dramatically, who knew what else it could do? And so I reasoned that the best thing to do would be to wait for Miss Mabel to return, and in the meantime to follow her advice and keep an eye on him. After all, he wasn’t exactly a danger or in any pain - he was just acting… different. Little did I know, he’d soon be looking different too…

***

It had started after a few days. The novelty of the mirror seemed to have worn off for Theo, and he no longer spent all day in front of it like he did that first day. But he was still acting differently, and I’d still catch him checking himself out in it multiple times a day. This particular evening, we were sat in front of the TV while Theo ate dinner. Since buying the mirror, Theo only prepared food for himself, but I’d planned to heat up my leftovers from yesterday so that we could eat together. I was feeling distant from him and thought it would be a good chance to chat. Except, when I opened the fridge, I found they were gone, no doubt eaten by my strange new roommate. So I reluctantly ordered a pizza, and sat with Theo as I waited for it to arrive.

Theo didn’t appear to be in the mood for a chat, his eyes glued to the TV while he shovelled heaping forkfuls of creamy pasta into his mouth, chewing loudly. It was like someone else had taken over his body. Most weird of all was his choice of programming - usually, we might watch a documentary together, or catch up on one of our regular dramas. And he’d always ask what I wanted to watch. But today we were watching a home shopping network, with a musclebound (and very attractive) jock demonstrating some workout equipment.

“Oh come on Theo,” I teased, trying to make conversation. “He’s hot, sure, but surely there’s something else we can watch?”

Theo looked at me with a look of utter incomprehension, even pausing his feeding frenzy to process what I’d just said. I felt like I’d offended him. He shoved another fork in his mouth and finally spoke as he chewed.

“That man ain’t hot,” he said, spraying me with flecks of cream before swallowing. “He’s got nothing on me. And look at all the exercise he’s gotta do just to have those puny muscles. Mine are twice as big and are all natural.”

Now it was my turn to look confused. Surely Theo was joking? He had no muscle whatsoever… He was practically a skeleton. Except… Now that I looked at him, I mean really looked at him, that wasn’t quite true…

He was… Not “bigger”, per se… he certainly didn’t look like he’d gained any muscle. But he was… softer, somehow. It was almost imperceptible, a thin coating over his whole body, a slight puffiness… But now that I’d noticed it, there was no denying it. For a moment, I reasoned that it was natural for someone so thin to put on a couple of pounds, considering how much Theo had been stuffing his face these last few days. But then, as he finished his huge bowl of pasta and made his way over to the mirror for his routine post-meal quality time with his reflection, curiosity got the better of me and I peeked into the hallway to watch.

He stood tall and proud, flexing non-existent muscles as though he were a world-champion body builder. And then, most alarmingly of all, I saw him grow.

It happened so slowly I couldn’t even be sure it was really happening, but as I fixed my eyes on his form there was no denying it. His arms were thickening and filling out his sleeves a little more, while the slight softness at his waist began to press against his shirt. Within a few minutes he looked to be about 5lbs heavier - not a big deal for most people, but certainly noticeable on Theo’s lithe frame. My mouth was wide open in shock. This just wasn’t possible. It had to be my eyes playing tricks on me, my imagination getting the better of me… I was just stressed out by Theo’s personality transplant… I…

The doorbell rang, and Theo ignored it, too preoccupied with his reflection. “That’ll be my pizza,” I said, getting to my feet. No sooner had I said it, Theo eagerly answered the door and brought in the pizza, setting it down in before me on the coffee table. I felt an odd sense of relief - this was the kind of attentive behaviour I was used to from Theo. Maybe the magic was wearing off… Maybe my old roommate wasn’t gone after all.

I went to the kitchen to get some drinks (water for me, a glass of milk for Theo) and returned to the living room, where I found Theo already halfway through devouring my pizza.

***

It had been a week since I brought home the mirror, and I was pretty adjusted now to Theo’s newfound greed and selfishness. I found it difficult to get angry with him when I discovered the fridge cleared out or a stack of dirty dishes in the sink - I was the one who had brought the mirror into our home; I was the one who’d meddled because I couldn’t deal with Theo needing a little extra encouragement.

When I got home from work each day, I would typically find Theo in one of two places: sat on the couch stuffing his face, or flexing and pouting in the dreaded mirror. This time, it was the latter.

God, he’d really blown up now. It was all happening so quickly and every time I saw him he looked to be bigger than the time before. I had accepted the impossible fact that the mirror was piling the pounds onto my friend; even now, as I watched him admiring himself, I watched in real time as Theo’s new soft underbelly slowly inched out the bottom of his shirt. He’d always dressed in oversized clothing, but now everything he owned was starting to get very snug on his oversized body.

“My god, I’m gorgeous,” he said aloud. “Luca doesn’t know what he’s missing.” he said, kissing his own soft bicep. “I haven’t been to the gym all week and my guns are looking better than ever!”

I smiled politely, but I was worried. Miss Mabel was still out of town for another five weeks, and I guessed that Theo must have already stacked on about 50lbs. You didn’t need to be a maths genius to figure out that he risked ending up over 400lbs by the time she was able to help us break the spell. If she was able to help us. Theo still stood a chance of working this off now, but if things got that far… he’d be changed forever.

“Theo, can we talk?” I asked. He huffed a little, clearly annoyed to be pulled away from the mirror, but reluctantly followed me into the living room.

***

It had been two weeks since my conversation with Theo, and things were still intensely frosty between us. I’d asked him if he was OK, and he’d insisted he was never better. I’d asked him if he’d noticed any changes in his behaviour, and he’d said he’d just realised that he needed to put himself first. I’d asked him if he’d noticed any changes in his body, and he agreed that yes, he’d been growing lately - that his muscles were inexplicably growing. He couldn’t explain it, he said, but he was happy with the results.

I gently tried to explain that it didn’t look that way to me, that I thought he might have been bulking with how much he’d been eating, but with the right cut he’d be looking awesome in no time… That sent him into a rage. We had a huge argument. He’d screamed at me - was I fucking blind? Did I not see how perfect his body was? I was just jealous - and then he stormed out, softer ass bouncing behind him in too-tight shorts. Since then, we hadn’t really spoken, and things were getting so much worse…

He was really big now. Like, he was a certified fat guy, a fully fledged 300 pounder - or maybe more? It was difficult to tell. Every time I saw him, I had to do a double take: firstly, because my brain wasn’t quite catching up with his skyrocketing weight and was failing to register this figure as my roommate. And secondly, because he’d outgrown all his clothes and taken to wandering the apartment in just a pair of boxer briefs. They were so tight on him that the elastic waistbands had all developed wide holes.

His choice of dress meant that all his fresh fat was on full display, a constant reminder of what I’d brought upon him by bringing home the mirror. His face was round and bloated, making his eyes look beady and piggish above two puffed-out cheeks. Beneath it was a thick ring of fat, a double chin that was exaggerated when he looked down at his phone. His shoulders had become strikingly broad, though not with the muscle he was still convinced he possessed; they rounded out and sloped like big hills, bunching up behind his neck in another wedge of fat that gave him the look of a hunchbacked office worker. Further down, two plump tits hung from his chest, pooling under his armpits and gathering in thick rolls on his back. They were so distracting; jiggling wildly with every slight movement he made, it was impossible to look away. And beneath them sat the main event: a big, soft belly that had started to hang down over his crotch like a flabby apron. Whilst not as jiggly as his tits (perhaps because it was always full of food), it still looked soft and plush, wobbling as he waddled around the apartment. He’d even started to walk like a fat guy, I noticed, swinging his fat arms side to side to offset his sudden weight gain.

I felt terrible. And as I watched him posing yet again in the mirror, having just demolished a family-sized tray of pasta as a snack between meals, I felt even more terrible. The mirror would be working its sinister magic on him and turning all that food into fat. Sure enough, as if to prove a point, I heard a ripping sound and noticed one of the holes in his underwear growing beneath his widening hips. I had to do something.

***

I resolved to get rid of the mirror. I’d known all along it was the right thing to do, but I was scared of Theo’s reaction. He was so volatile. Part of me was also scared of how it might affect him - had he and the mirror formed some kind of magic bond? What would happen if that was severed? But as my friend’s weight inched closer to 400lbs with each day, I knew I had to do something. But the issue was now pressing, as I was due to leave on a trip I’d booked myself months ago. I was going to be gone for two weeks, and while I certainly wasn’t in the mood to go now, I’d already paid a lot of money and it wasn’t exactly like I could wave a wand and stop all this. What good could I possibly do here? In fact, Theo seemed to resent me the more I tried to help. But I could still hear Miss Mabel’s warning that I ought to keep an eye on him, ringing around my head. I reasoned that if I could get the mirror out of the way and then disappear myself for a couple of weeks, maybe that would at least slow whatever was happening to my friend.

And so, when Theo was out getting food, I made my move, carefully taking the mirror off the wall and making my way to the door. Before I could reach it, it opened of its own accord… and there in the doorway was Theo. Fuck. He was so big now that it was impossible not to be intimidated by him, even if he did look ridiculous squeezed into clothes that he was 150lbs too big for. He was visibly uncomfortable, all the fabric digging into his fat, which burst unflatteringly out of every opening. His belly was barely covered by the material, making it look like he was wearing a crop top, and several inches of his ass crack were visible, not able to be contained by the sweatpants that were painted onto his thick, gelatinous thighs. I couldn’t believe he’d left the house like this, but I suppose it was better that than parading around in his underwear. Anyone who saw him must have thought he was totally unaware of his weight, or that he had suddenly ballooned overnight. They would have had no idea how close to the truth they were…

“What the fuck are you doing with that?” he snarled, snatching the mirror off me with one meaty, fat-fingered hand while the other shoved the remaining half of a burger into his mouth. He seemed to swallow it in one gulp. A thick blob of ketchup dripped onto his stretched and strained t-shirt.

I was still frozen, unable to say or do anything. He barged past me, making his way to his bedroom. He re-emerged a few seconds later, no longer carrying the mirror. It would seem he would be keeping it in there from now on. “Don’t touch my shit,” he warned in a terrifyingly severe tone and then tipped a container of fries into his mouth, dropping the empty packet on the floor. I nodded emphatically.

Without hesitation, he tried to peel off his t-shirt but found himself met with great difficulty. He squirmed and writhed his fat body, trying to manoeuvre himself out of the fabric, but it was simply too tight. I had no idea how he’d even got it on… perhaps he’d grown in the time since? Without warning, he let out a yell of frustration and then tore the entire thing off him in one furious motion. “And another thing,” he spat, turning his broad back to me and making his way back into his room. “Stop washing my clothes, I’m sick of you fucking shrinking everything.”

***

The two weeks away had been a complete waste. I was barely able to relax or take in any of the culture, constantly worried about my friend back home. In truth, I wanted to disconnect from Theo. I’d tried to help him change course and he was treating me so terribly… It was hard to care about him. But I couldn’t shake the guilt - it was me that had caused this, and I owed it to Theo to make it right. Besides, this wasn’t really Theo who was acting this way. It had to be something or someone else… Perhaps he was possessed, or hypnotised, or… It couldn’t have changed him, could it? And certainly not so dramatically? But then I remembered the giant, flabby ass that he was no doubt sat on back home, stuffing his fat face, and I knew that it could… I just hoped there was some kind of counter-magic that Miss Mabel could use to undo all this, to make it like it never happened. It was magic after all, right? I’d learned that anything was possible…

After pausing a while outside the apartment door, unsure of the reception I’d receive from my roommate upon my return, I finally pushed it open. One thing I was sure of was the condition I’d find Theo in. I had no doubt in my mind that he would be weighing in another 100lbs heavier than when I’d left, and I’d braced myself for the sight of him. I assumed he’d be sat in the living room, shovelling food into his growing gut - and this suspicion was supported by the volume of fast food wrappers strewn through the hallway. It was disgusting, looking and smelling like a back alley in the city. I couldn’t believe this was my home. But when I peered into the living room, I found nothing there other than more mess. The TV was off and Theo was nowhere to be seen. Hmm… strange… I glanced to where the mirror used to hang, and then to his bedroom. Perhaps he was holed up in there, checking himself out?

Morbid curiosity got the better of me, and I cautiously approached the door, knocking gingerly and calling out his name. “Theo?”

He didn’t respond, but I could hear strange noises coming from within. It sounded like laboured, heavy breathing. Was Theo fucking someone? Or getting himself off? I listened closer - no, it wasn’t that, the breathing was so erratic, gasping for air… He sounded like he was in trouble. I became alarmed. “Theo, are you OK?”

I flung the door open and my world ground to a halt. Theo was not OK.

Theo’s room was a complete pig sty, piled high with empty pizza boxes and food containers. It stank of sweat and grease and god knows what else, the stench so thick in the air I had to cover my nose. He’d propped up the mirror at the end of his bed, presumably so he could lay in it and admire himself… And the consequences of that decision were enormous.

Literally enormous. Theo was totally unrecognisable, his pale pink flesh filling the entire double bed. He was the fattest man I’d ever seen - perhaps the fattest man that had ever been? His facial features were buried under fat; just two beady eyes and a pair of puckered, sauce-stained lips. If I wasn’t aware of all that had passed in the last few weeks, I would never be able to identify this person as Theo. He was completely transformed. His whole body was splattered with various sauces that he had clearly dribbled on mid-feast… which made sense. He was clearly too big to move and showering would have been impossible.

The blob of a man that lay gasping for air in Theo’s bed was almost as wide as he was tall. It’s difficult to describe any part of him in detail, as all his body parts sort of squished together and melded into one another, fat jostling for space. His tits were each bigger than my head, and there were bits of food wedged in his deep cleavage. His arms were so pumped full of fat that I think they were bigger than my waist. I couldn’t see much of his legs as they were covered by his gargantuan belly, rolling and rocking like jelly with each pained breath, but even his feet were swollen with fat, threatening to be swallowed up into his legs. Fuck, I thought to myself. How could someone have fat toes?

I wanted to say something but my brain was completely fried. What the fuck do you say to a whale who was thin as a beanpole little more than a month ago? Theo looked like a fucking sideshow attraction. Fortunately, he spoke first.

“Dude, thank god — you’re here—“ he wheezed. What? Was he actually happy to see me? Maybe the magic had worn off! My hopes were short lived... “Nobody— wants— to deliver— my food,” he confessed. “Bunch of— fucking— assholes…”

I could see why minimum wage delivery drivers would want to avoid this cesspit. Something told me the new Theo was not a generous tipper. But this was my fault after all, and I couldn’t let him starve. Reluctantly I agreed to go pick him something up - if nothing else it would give me time to think over what to do next. I watched him with pity as he placed the pickup order on his phone, his fat sausage fingers mashing things he didn’t mean to press. He didn’t seem to be removing any of those items from his basket, though…

Soon enough I was back at the apartment with ten paper bags full to the brim with junk. They were as fit to burst as he was, and after handing them over I sat on the edge of the bed (squeezing myself onto the only unoccupied corner I could find) and buried my head in my hands. What was I going to do?

He made short work of the meal and half an hour later he was burping, rubbing his giant gut, and admiring himself in the mirror. “Fuck— I’m so— sexy,” he moaned. “Why— did I ever— settle— for Luca? I’m so— out— of his— league… Gotta find— me someone— as hot— I am…”

I snapped. “Theo, how the fuck are you gonna do that?! You’re as big as a fucking house! You can’t even get out of bed!” I wanted to smack him out of his delusional daydream. But it wasn’t fair to take my frustration out on him, and I tried to calm myself. This wasn’t his fault.

“Yes I— fucking— can,” he gasped. “I’m just— resting— so my— muscles— can grow…”

There was silence between us for a moment. I had no idea what to say, and Theo was too distracted by caressing his own lard in the mirror for a conversation. But as he groped himself, his moaning got louder and more… sensual… I was no longer certain that it was just a symptom of discomfort from his overindulgence. He seemed to be enjoying himself…

“Please— man—“ he begged, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Help— me— out— here… I— know— you— can’t— resist— me…”

Fortunately, I didn’t have time to take him up on his perverted offer. There was an almighty crash, and the room seemed to lift up into the air as I felt myself fall downwards. It took me a few seconds to realise what had happened: the cursed mirror had fattened Theo up so big that the bed could no longer support him, and now he and I sat on the floor, surrounded by its broken pieces. His whole body was wobbling from the impact and he looked like a giant, melted marshmallow. I was surprised he didn’t fall straight through the floor and into the apartment below.

I spotted something shiny by my hand, and on closer examination I saw it was a shard of glass. The mirror. I noticed it had fallen over face-down, and when I nervously lifted its side to inspect the damage I saw that the whole thing was shattered. Oh god, I worried to myself. How was Theo going to react?

“What— just— happened—,” Theo grunted to himself as I got to my feet and stood the mirror up. He seemed lost and confused, a softness in his voice that I recognised from before all this mess began. His eyes seemed to adjust to the room, taking in his surroundings as though he’d just woken up from a dream. “What’s— going— on—,” he gasped, shaking his head in confusion (though the fat in his neck limited his movement). Still, his cheeks jiggled as he did so. “Am— I— sick..? I— can’t— breathe…” I barely registered what he was saying, too worried about his response to finding out the mirror was broken.

“Theo,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I’m really sorry… I’ll buy you a new one right away, but… Ugh. I don’t know how to say this, but…” I gulped. “Your mirror is broken.”

I turned the mirror around to face him, so he could see the damage for himself. For a moment he didn’t really react at all, furrowing his brow in confusion. He didn’t seem at all sure why he should care about a broken mirror, despite the fact he’d done little else for the past five weeks than stare in it and feed himself. But as he looked harder, as he really focussed his eyes on the mountain of flesh looking back at him, something seemed to click in his mind… A moment of world-shattering realisation...

He recognised himself, and his eyes went wide in horror. He screamed.

#feedist kinktober #feedist kinktober 2024 #gainer fiction #gainer stories #gainerfic #gainerstories #gainerstory #transformation #fat belly #fat piggy #chubby #feed me #fat #gayfeeder #gay feedee #gay gainer #weight gain story

71 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 1 year ago

Note

HELLO, HELLO! Okay, so this drabble prompt/idea is kinda sorta in the vein of Querido (I only think about Old Western Miguel now I cannot help it pls forgive me head empty only man and hörse), so pls skip if you're not inspired or in the mood for more in this genre!

Still, I offer you this: Sheriff Miguel.

He's someone all the women have their eyes on, and he'd have his eyes on them, too, if he were younger. But he has a baby girl to worry about, a runaway wife to forget, and a town to keep an eye on, especially when a woman from the big city pays the little down a visit.

He meets her when he loses Gabriella in the market's crowd, only to find her tugging on a fine dress belonging to a fine woman.

(P.S. reading your writing has inspired me to get back into writing my own reader insert stuff 💖 really love your work, keep it up!!)

bumblebee | sheriff!miguel x dressmaker!reader

❛ pairing | sheriff-singleparent!miguel o'hara x dressmaker!reader

❛ type | extended drabble, not-explicit, wc: 2600ish

❛ summary | miguel loses his daughter-- and finds a part of himself he thought was long past dead.

❛ tags | self-edited, querido au, f!reader, sheriff!miguel, dressmaker!reader, implied parental abandonment, some mention of thievery, widowed!reader, mostly fluff, some mention of death, spanish not translated.

❛ sy's notes | i intended this to be a drabble but... it's quite a bit longer. anon, i hope you end up writing to your heart's content.

Miguel ain’t the kinda man women really need. He’s the kinda man they think they want. A big man with a big name, sure, but he’s saddled with what their fathers colloquially call baggage. A little three-year-old girl with ambitions of rolling on out of this little town by rolling on out of his fingertips.

“Oye, Gwen,” he catches the arm of his deputy. She’s out on the town just as he was, making rounds about the grassy plain where the market was booming. With too few stalls, the marketgoers visit full wooden wagons chock-full of goods. This year, there were new boxes of small circular chocolates. Once every year, his quiet little town became a bustling fuck fest with foreigners running a muck of it all. As sheriff, he just had to deal with it.

“What’s it, sheriff?” she asks. “Something wrong?”

“You seen my littlin anywhere? Swore she was right here.”

This is his penance for fooling around with the hearts of pretty women: chasing him his own little girl and minding the crowd. His long, slicked-back hair was all kinds of out of place, whirling over his wrinkled forehead. He shoves a strand of grey hair back in place out of his dark eyes and scans his little town. She could’ve slipped into any creaky old building that wasn't locked up or hitched a ride on a wagon she didn’t belong on. Or, alternatively…

“Miguel! Rio saw her by the sweets.” Former Sherriff Morales tells him, standing by his son’s stall of sweet roasted corn. Ordinarily, he’d give it a begrudging visit. Miguel whirls around on his muddy leather boots, throwing him a nod of thanks with Gwen short on his tail.

“Sounds promisin’,” she says. “Could be searchin’ for Lyla or Peter.”

“Thank you for the help, Sheriff,” he grumbled, shoving his way past a sea of cream, brown, and black dresses. Gwen could spider her way through the groups of people with her comparatively slender frame. As a consequence of Miguel’s hulking frame, he’s markedly slower in his search.

“Ain’t here either,” Gwen hops back to his side. “You sure she wandered off?”

"She had to."

The alternative was… well, he didn't want to think about it. Out of his periphery, he caught the glimmer of polished metal. He spots his daughter’s peachy dress, bundled up with a fat white bow complete with a bell. He put the thing on thinking that, ideally, his little girl would jingle up some hell of noise if she got lost. Some good that bell did.

“You lost mi amor?”

Lost. The word stands out to him first, all dressed up in a sugar cube of a voice. His Gabriella tugs on a stranger’s long gown, eyes pricked with tears streaming down her cheeks. Of all the people-- she couldn’t just pick on someone she knew? Head to Rio’s hostel, find Deputy Gwen stalking around, or even Hobie’s bum ass strumming a tune on the old stage. No, she’s with a strange woman.

“Now don’t you cry,” you dab away the stray tears with an embroidered handkerchief. “I’ll find you home.”

You’re not from here because you’re all done up like a buttercup in spring when the women here only broke out color for church. Corset sucking in the finest assets, a buttercream bustle underneath that buttercup yellow skirt. Hair up in a waterfall of curls and covered by a small slouched hat of flowers. You held a parasol for the evening sun, keeping it off your tanned skin.

“There,” Miguel set his hands on his hips, catching his head in a shake. Gwen leans over on the ball of her feet and stares straight down the barrel of a path.

“My my,” she says. “Ain’t she a looker. Why are you-- You look good, Miguel.”

She’s caught on his frantic fiddling. The way Miguel straightens his tie into his waistcoat and checks the chain that drapes along his side. He checks the time on his cracked pocketwatch and spins it between his fingers. Gwen leans up to flick a stray strand of hair away from his face.

“Think so?”

“Entirely presentable.”

"¿De veras?" Miguel clears his throat, “Best be on my way to get her.” Miguel loops his fingers on his fine leather belt and waltzes right on up to your stall of hand-sewn dresses.

For once in his life, he feels underdressed. A man sets some coins in your hand, plucking up a small communion dress for his daughter. With ruffles, lace, and the occasional ribbon. He’s not sure how much luck you’d have selling more than scraps of ribbon in this little town. You set the coins aside, turning your attention back to his daughter who-- somehow, got a brand new ribbon bundled in her ponytail between his fiddling and the walk over.

“Buenas tardes,” he clears his throat, whipping out his metal badge. “I’m Sherriff O’Hara.”

“Encantada, Sheriff O’Hara. You’re looking as pretty as a penny this fine afternoon. Can’t be wanting any of my dresses. My name is… well, how can I help you?”

“Papa,” Gabriella coos as if this whole mess wasn’t on her tiny little shoulders. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad, not yet.

“Yes, mami, Sheriff O’Hara. Do you know old Sheriff O’Hara?” Miguel suppresses his delight as you lift her up onto your hip. Most days, he didn’t notice his own melancholy. Coming home to his little girl soothed all that like a good helping of booze after a bad wound. “She likes you.”

You sure talk pretty. He clears his throat, pulling on the sloppy tie that feels a whole lot hotter all of a sudden. He shouldn't be acting like this. Has it really been that long since he’s been with a girl? He couldn't go to the saloon and pick any one of those lovesick girls. The town wouldn’t continually elect a loose man. Miguel’s eyes catch the flickering gold of a bumblebee locket on your chest. He traces the curve of its wings, wrapping around a crusted gem.

“‘Course she does, she’s my girl. I lost Gabi up in the crowd flow.”

“You lost her? You can’t tell me you’re the kinda man that does it all. Where is your wife?”

Where is your wife? The question tormented him. He could do it all. Managing the sloppy, slow thieves and putting down the occasional drunken brawl. At the end of the night, he came home to his empty home and saw his little girl. Miguel’s gaze danced along the puffy clouds in the sky. The fluffy clouds drift the same as usual, the same old slow draw, unknowledgeable about the change in his life. He suppresses the distant melancholy in his voice in surfacing old memories.

“Ain’t got a wife. She ran off on me with some wolf. Usually, I got a sitter for my girl but, she came down with a fever.”

“A wolf?” you repeat after him, “Why, you mean a gentleman?”

A gentleman, he scoffs under his breath.

“If you wanna call him that. He was an outlaw.”

“I’m mighty sorry, Sheriff.” You looked at the little girl in your arms. Gabriella’s small fingers fiddle with the glimmering gold pendant on your chest. He throws her a look-- behave. She’s not paying attention one bit. You set your parasol down, freeing the necklace and setting it in her tiny fist. “I’m a whole widow myself. Lost my man in the war and never got the chance to have one’a my own.”

“You don’t say. You on the market?”

“On the market like cattle?” you teased. If he’s not mistaken, that shy smile of yours was all his. Maybe you like him. It's a signal that he could keep going.

“Coño, no. You’re too fine for that,” the words are buttery smooth, but upon discovering how the words may come off, he realizes he might be sliding into a trap on the back of those words. Your lips are slightly agape, half in shock. “Pretty. You’re too pretty.”

“Oh, Sheriff, don’t worry your head,” you adjust Gabriella on your hip, swaying in place like it was natural. “I ain’t one to take offense to pretty words. Suppose you want your niña back?”

There went his chance.

"That'd be best," he slides his hands underneath Gabriella’s tiny arms to pick her up. The pendant she held clattered free from her grip, nestled in the deep grass. You were about to pick it up when a scrawny thing of a man swiped it from the grass. For an instant, Miguel thought it might be Pavi, who loved to be helpful in the most annoying ways. Catching doors even when it's men, dropping his scarf on mud for girls, a charming and shy kid. It isn’t, though, it’s that weasel he seems to be throwing in the pin every damn week, bolting off in a full-on run.

“Ay, not my locket!” you gasped, plucking your skirts over your boots.

“Maldito niño--” Miguel stops you, sliding Gabriella back into your arms. Not that she was complaining, tiny hands slapping together in a rendition of applause as Miguel darted after him, his booming steps beating the ground. “Get back here, kid!”

“Dios, you sure have a busy papa. I'm sure he’ll back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.” You looked between the little girl nestled comfortably in your arms and the parting sea of the crowd. Gwen zooms past, eliciting another round of jovial laughter from Gabriella O’Hara. She does love a good game.

It ain’t that Miguel wants to leave his girl with any old fool that waltzed on into his town. But he knows his community, knows they’d not leave him out to dry, and knows that taking his daughter on a town-wide chase with a skinny little weasel around town is not the move. Especially not if he has a gun, which he did, because of course he did. Now, the man has a jail cell and Miguel has a crook in his neck from where the buffoon fell through the crooked second floor of the post office.

He works the sore muscle the whole way back to your wagon. It’s high time for eating. His stomach was raging after the scent of someone’s pulled pork, the roasted sweetness of corn. If we wanted to be presentable then, he sure wasn’t now. Dust was a second skin on his pants and aged boots. He walks past the platform where Hobie plays a tune with his banda. Most vendors were wrapping right on up for some proper debauchery.

He finds you there, swaying to the beat of the music with Gabriella hanging in your arms. Her tiny hands were around an ear of elote already. Guess she extorted a snack out of you.

“One gold locket,” Miguel heaves out the words as he digs in his pocket, whirling the golden chain into your small hand. You flip it over once, then twice, examining it for any defects. “Better to keep that tucked away out here. Puts a target on your back right quick.”

“Muchísimas gracias, sheriff. You're a sweetheart,” you reach out, grazing his scratchy cheek with your supple lips. Gabriella is flatly squished between his sweaty chest and yours. She’s fallen asleep flat against your chest. “You don’t know how much this necklace means to me.”

There are whispers from the women he’s turned down. The viejitas who have been trying to set him up for a full-on year now, those who told him he needed to find a girl as soon as possible to marry. He didn’t want to. Not unless it made sense.

“Yes, well, you could tell me,” Miguel finally picks his daughter from your arms. She’s out like a light. “If you want.”

“It was my mami's, once upon a time. She gave it to me on my wedding day," you explain. "It's all I got left of her. I wonder what she'd think of me these days, travelin' town to town like I got secrets."

"You ever think of settlin' down again?" He turns his gaze past Hobie’s banda, to the yellowing sky. The sun is setting out over the horizon, casting warm orange and soft pink into the air. The road is full of wagons. The clip-clop of horses running their way to the next town, some checked in to the hostel.

"A veces," you explain. "If it feels right, I think I will."

"Yeah?" He settles on the bed of your wagon. The dresses were packaged and kept in locked chests, kept away from the bed of the wagon where your blanket was. Most of the foreigners have left, but you. He doesn’t have to guess to know that it was his fault. “You off to Rio’s hostel?”

“‘fraid I’m out of town,” you smiled at him. “She ain’t got any rooms. Next city over might.”

“Stay with me,” he says. “The night. Bit too late to get robbed on the road with all them pretty dresses you make. Wouldn’t be right to be sheriff and let a young thing out there without company. Some'a them outlaws take wives that way, y'know.”

“Oh, Sheriff O’Hara, ain’t no one care about widows on the road,” your hand finds your chest. It’s said with a laugh, as though someone, somewhere, made you feel less than. It wasn’t going to be Miguel.

"Ain't a widow if you're carried off." He reclines, watching the figures of couples dancing to whatever the hell Hobie was playing on his guitar. His eyes track over Hobie’s gloved fingers that prance across the strings, waiting for you to walk back on that stupid comment. You do, snapping out a fan in the waist of your heavy dress to fan yourself.

“You really sure? I don’t mean to be a burden. I’m sure you got better to do than take care of company.”

“You took care of my girl. Least I could do. Long as you go to church in the morning.”

“Oh, now he’s askin’ me to church. When’s the wedding, Sherriff?”

“Miguel. Soon as you want it,” he returns, half a smile pulling at a normally closed-off face. Miguel turns to set his Gabi down on your blanket, throwing you a look for permission. You nod, watching her roll on the wool thing, setting her hands under her cheek until she gets into a position that isn’t as bad as laying on her back. He tucks her hair back over the shell of her ear, exhaling a breath. Somewhere between his ex-wife’s flight from the town and today, she began to look more and more like him. He’s thankful for that. He doesn’t need more memories of her. Only needed to get through each day, and make the next better than the one before.

“She’s tuckered out,” you lean down, just by his face. “All that escapin’ papa work.”

“Si,” Miguel hums as he massages his sore shoulder. “Tell me about it. I’m getting too old for this.”

He lifts his head from his daughter’s tiny body, reminded of all the times someone told him to get married. If not the women chasing him around his jail at all hours of the day, then the women at church who, at the moment, were gossiping away. He could hear the prattle already: sheriff likes rich girls. The type to have a golden locket and French silk. The luxury of hopping from town to town like some no-good woman. He’d wager, your husband ain’t had the money to take care of you but for these light luxuries. Traveling town to town wasn't no small feat.

Tch. He’d deal with it tomorrow when he took you to church. Scandalous as that was.

“Fancy a dance?” he offered up his hand.

You remove your gloves, skin is soft and supple against his, only marred by the pricks of a needle. Your gloved fingers grazed his scarred palm, tracing the long strike that marred his open palm. There’s a thought there, just behind the reach of your playful eyes. He couldn’t quite reach it.

“I’d love to, Miguel.”

Something tells him he has time to.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miggy x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara drabble #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines #spiderman fic #spiderman 2099 x reader

211 notes · View notes

elfven-blog · 11 months ago

Text

The Bunny Hunt

Summary: Seeing Connor in his hunting attire, gives you the idea of being prey. Connor Kenway x F!Reader CW: MDNI, 18+ only, p in v, fingers, public (In woods), breeding, reader is bunny, creampie, chasing, reader calls him wolf (yuck, only once), primal play, prey x predator kink Word Count: 1.8K

Your eyes opened in surprise as large warm hands suddenly rested on your waist, pulling you back against an even warmer chest. Sturdy muscle pressing against your soft back as he dipped slightly to nuzzle into your hair, a deep breath taking in your scent. And you relax automatically as that deep soothing voice fills your ears “I missed you”.

A small laugh shook your shoulders as you turned in his arms, your hands now resting against his biceps “You were gone for the morning, my love.” came your answer, and your eyes wandered down his attire. Connor had for gone his normal assassin clothes, replaced the grey and whites with brown fur, and apparently no shirt. He watched as your head tilted to the side, and your blinks slowed down as you continued staring at his bare chest until your hands moved from his biceps to squeeze gently at his chest.

The russet colour of Connor’s face turned deeper as he blushed, his hands wrapping around your wrists to pull them away as his head bowed down to hide. And a pout grew on your lips as he did so, trying to pull your hands free but he held them still, moving them above your head as he pushed you against the counter stopping you from being able to move at all as he used his stature to keep you there.

He lay his head against your cheek, deciding to ignore how you’d touched him moments ago. “And every moment I am away from you is agony, so just accept my affection”. The assassin pressed a sweet kiss to your head unaware of the way your eyes were moving lower down his body. While the man normally towered over you, with the way he was bent, you had a great view as your eyes followed the hair that disappeared below his trousers, the fabric sitting low on his hips “I’m only wearing this because I miss it…it feels like home” his voice was stern, like he could read the ideas flowing in your mind.

Your heart softens at his words, you know how hard it’s been for him since he left the tribe but that mushy feeling doesn’t stop the way you look at him, or the way your thighs press together “And what if you did wear it for other reasons?” and you felt Connor’s entire body starting to tense. His breath catching in his throat at the tone of your voice.

“What kind of reasons?” his voice rumbled from above you in that way that made your thighs press together, Connor’s hands squeezed your wrists for a moment before letting them go, his hands travelled down to your thighs, pulling your dress up until he could feel the warm soft fat of your thighs. And this time it was you grabbing his wrists to stop him.

“I have a better idea”.

And that was how you ended up running through the woods, a grin on your face as you tried to control your breathing. You’d moved away from the homestead so there was less of a chance of someone catching what you were doing. For a moment you paused, hand against a tree as you leant to gather your breath. How Connor spent hours running you had no idea. A noise startled you and your head turned quickly, you swear you saw brown so your legs started running again.

It didn’t take long until you heard something again, and then big arms were wrapped around you. Hot breath against your skin, panting in your ear as you were forced to the forest floor. He used his body weight to pin you to the ground, his arms holding your hips up as he bucked forward against your ass. Your arms moved to hold your weight up, knees on the floor as your legs spread and your breasts heaved as your own breathing became shallow.

His voice filled your senses “What’s this? A sweet little bunny alone in the woods?” One of his hands stayed around your waist to keep you in place, the other moved your dress until it was pushed up your back, and he groaned at the sight of your bare cunt. Dripping and clenching around nothing. “With a sweet little hole ready to be used”.

Connor’s hold on you made it difficult to move and all you wanted was to grind against something as his words teased you, his hand slid so slowly between your legs, ignoring where you wanted him to touch most until you whined loudly. The sound that left you had him almost growling, his hips bucking forward again.

He took a breath to control himself, his eyes glancing around him and listening for any sound of people, once he heard none his fingers slid along your pussy, gathering the wetness as his finger pressed to your clit and circled the sensitive nub until your hips were pressing down against him. “Poor bunny, just so wet” his thumb pushed at your hole gently causing you to mewl and your thighs to squeeze around his wrist.

The corner of the assassin’s mouth turned up, his thumb slipping past your hole and he moved his legs between yours pushing them open so you were held spread for him. Connor groaned at the sight, his trousers feeling far too tight suddenly. He watched your cunt clench around his thumb and his eyes darkened at the sight. The urge to fuck you taking a tight hold but he needed to get you ready first.

“Cunt just needs a fat cock to stretch it out” his thumb slipped from your hole resorting you to whimper at the feeling and the man above you shushed you lightly, his back laying across your chest as his hand moved so he could slip his fingers into you instead. Two of them pushing into you, knuckles dragging against your walls slowly “You enjoying this? Someone hunting you down and fucking you against the floor?” you clenched around his fingers in response.

Connor knew your body better than anyone, so he knew when to curl them up against that sweet spot inside you. His fingers constantly pushed into you over and over again until your slick was drooling down your thighs and pooling on the floor below you, your arms shook as they held your weight up and your back arched as you tried to push against his hand more.

The man had you painting his hand in your orgasm, honey skin glistening with your juices as you moaned and gasped from his actions. Your eyes slipped closed as you cried out from the orgasm. Your legs twitching, and your arms couldn’t hold you up as you fell against the floor, leaves and sticks prickling your skin as you lay there.

“Such a good bunny” His fingers moved from your hole and you whimpered from the sensitivity. His clean hand pushed his trousers down, and he wrapped the wet hand around his cock to pump it a few times, grunting at the feeling before he rubbed the already leaking tip across your folds and against your clit until you were trying to get away. His hand pushed your back, using his strength and weight to keep you in place as his voice rumbled through your ear “You stay right there so I can breed this pretty little pussy, or you wont cum again”.

A gasp left your mouth at his words, hips bucking back against his cockhead. And Connor’s head fell back at the feeling, using his hand to rub against your clit again so he could feel the way you squirmed, trying to stay still but failing. “Please wolf” came the desperate moan below him as you tried so hard to be good.

And he grinned down at you in that animalistic way “Well if you insist”. The feeling of his cock pushing into you and your knees drawing under you, walls trying to adjust to the size of him and your head falling against the floor. The feeling was too much for you even with the prep, Connor tried to go slowly until your hand reached for him, grasping at his waist to pull him closer, unable to speak of what you wanted but he got the idea as he quickly finished pushing into you. His hips flush against your ass, and his cock fully buried inside you.

Connor’s head fell back at the feeling of your tight walls clamping down on him, your hand falling from his hip as your hands curled against the ground, gripping leaves and anything else. His hand pushed further into your back, the other gripping at your hip as it bruised the fat there. And he stayed still for all of a moment, listening to the way you panted and moaned at feeling so full before he pulled back and then snapped forwards causing you to jolt with the movement.

Within moments Connor was bullying his cock in and out of you, barely giving you the time to adjust to him. “Gonna breed this bunny so good” his words had your eyes fluttering as his hips snapped against you. The sound of skin slapping filled the forest around you, Connors grunts and your moans drowned out the sound of animals. Your cunt clenched around him at his words and his grip tightened on you “Like that? Yeah you do, wants this wolf to breed her”

His voice was hoarse as he kept mumbling out words that sent your head dizzy, and your hole tighter. Your legs shaking beneath you, nails digging into the ground and your body jolted forward with every snap of his hips. Every “good girl”, “That’s it” and “Take it” earned Connor some of those sweet noises. His breathing shallow as he lay his chest against your back, covering you completely with his build and pressing you further into the ground.

His hand slipped from your hip to circle at your clit, you didn’t know whether to press back against his cock or forward against his hand. The feeling had you drooling against the ground until your hole spasmed around him and you moaned. Your second orgasm hit you as you soaked his thighs and the floor again. Connor’s hips stuttered at the feeling until his cock pressed into you a few times slowly, dragging against your over sensitive walls until he was forcing you to the ground completely and hot sticky ropes of cum filled you.

You twitched around him at the feeling, his hands moving to soothe your body as he pinned you to the floor with his weight. He panted in your ear as he came, his hips rolling forward a few more times until he was done. You whimpered as he slipped himself from you, he watched his cum drool from your hole before using his fingers to push it back in and your hips pressed back “That is a pretty sight” he mumbled.

#connor kenway #connor kenway x reader #Connor Kenway smut #Assassin creed 3 x reader #assassin's creed 3 #assassin creed x reader #Ratonhnhaké:ton #Ratonhnhaké:ton x reader #Connor Kenway x F!Reader #Connor Kenway x fem reader

144 notes · View notes

coochiequeens · 2 years ago

Text

As your bones lose density, the only way you will protect them is by keeping your muscle mass; building strength in middle age is part of what will define the shape and tempo of your old age. “

When 50-year-old Anna Jenkins, the founder of We Are Fit Attitude (Wafa), a woman-only health and fitness club, looked online for images of older women exercising, she was irritated by the pitiful size of the weights: the stock image is of a woman with grey hair lifting a 1kg weight, as if doing so were some kind of milestone. My personal bugbears are the photos in which there is a personal trainer with an expression of infinite patience next to the older woman, as if the latter is weak and half witted.

Stock photos are the internet’s idea of what the world should look like, sets of generic images intended to illustrate articles and advertising, often revealing more worldview than they probably set out to. There are famously a lot of photos of white women laughing near salad, meant for healthy eating content, but also reinforcing inane cheer and self-denial as cornerstones of femininity. If fitness imagery of the young is all about aspiration – six packs, muscle definition and impossible body fat percentages – fitness imagery of older people is almost anti-aspirational. Its message is: “You probably can’t do anything at all, but look over here, there’s a lady managing this tiny thing.”

Jenkins runs the Wafa classes remotely and in person for women ranging from their late 30s to their mid-70s. One Saturday, at a class in Merton, south London, they decided to create a new set of photos, repopulate the ecosystem of stock photographs, so that when you search for “older women exercising”, you will be able to see what that really looks like. “These are proper weights,” says Annette Hinds, 60. “We’re not pussyfooting about.”

Jenkins went into group work and coaching from personal training because she had noticed that, in the gym: “Women would go straight to the cardio machine because they knew how it worked. It’s a frightening environment when you think you don’t belong, when you’re unhappy in your body shape. But they didn’t need more cardio – at 45-plus your body needs strength work. Especially during the menopause. It’s just a fact.”

As your bones lose density, the only way you will protect them is by keeping your muscle mass; building strength in middle age is part of what will define the shape and tempo of your old age. But as Glenda Cooper, 51, who usually does this class remotely five times a week, says, there is more to it than that. “Women at this time of life have parents we’re caring for. I’ve got two kids. You don’t want to take up too much space, you feel invisible anyway, you don’t make time for yourself. It’s so important to have a sense of your own strength, which I think is absent from the rest of our lives.”

The atmosphere is fierce: as Lorraine Turner, 59, says: “I never used to think I was competitive, but later in life, I’ve realised that I am. I get a lot out of it if I push myself more.” Karen Silvestri, 60, remarks archly: “My husband’s a chef so I eat a lot and drink a lot. I still manage to retain this normal shape.”

Palmer’s daughter paid her a compliment on her butt the other day: “She said it wasn’t flat like a lot of women my age.” Downward comparison is very motivating, and it is also fun to watch when people are so unabashed about it.

“We’re a funny bunch, women, aren’t we?” Teresa Klasener, 61, says. She was very active until she got rheumatoid arthritis, then it all hit the skids until she started with Wafa two years ago. “We have all these mental blocks, we don’t prioritise ourselves, but once we’re in a group, we’ll fly.”

Jenkins says: “When I first became a personal trainer, I’d see a lot of women who were yo-yo dieters, and it was often because they were trying to be skinnier than their bodies were meant to be. I think exercise makes you confident in your shape as it is.” That might be the ultimate break with the visual norms of the fitness industry, that these are images of strength and exertion for their own sake, not for how they’ll make you look in spaghetti straps.

“I never knew what people were talking about with the endorphin thing,” Redford says. “And now, I do feel a sense of joy and self-congratulation, knowing that I just fucking went for it.”

#We Are Fit Attitude (WAFA)#Stock images or women #Women and fitness #Women and strength training #Women and aging

503 notes · View notes

nero-vanderwolf · 9 months ago

Note

3 times Yosuke feels he doesn’t belong and 1 time he knows he does

Yosuke is 12 and living in Tatsumi Port when he realises. It hits him like a punch to the gut, except he thinks a punch would be better in this scenario.

He realises that he doesn’t belong in this group, all rich and snobbish and definitely shunning him. None of them spare even a second glance as he slinks away, resolving to find the nearest pay phone that’d be still operating at this time of night.

Eventually he makes a collect call to his mom begging for her forgiveness and quickly explaining that he’d lost track of time before catching the last monorail to the station by his house. His “friends” don’t call. They don’t ask where he’d gone at school the next day. They don’t care, and Yosuke knows. So he stops caring about them.

2. Yosuke is 14 and tired. He’s stopped attending school, too busy preparing to move to a whole new place halfway across the country. Inaba, his mom told him. He’s too tired to put up a fuss about moving.

His “friends” from school still don’t call. They don’t drop by to offer help with packing. They don’t talk to him when they see him around town.

His “friends” aren’t really his friends. He knows this. But that doesn’t stop it from stinging any less. He can’t count how many things he told them, how many secrets he’d whispered in the darkness of sleepovers, unaware that he was the only one really saying anything.

But they also held him when he cried, they listened when he ranted about his dad, they stopped him from punching things when he became angry.

Silver lining, Yosuke supposes.

3. Yosuke is 15, and still tired. If anything, it seems to have gotten worse. His bones ache when he moves, his eyes feel heavy with a lead weight he doesn’t remember attaching to them. But his heart has been encased in concrete.

Chie and Yukiko are nice, absolutely. But he doesn’t mesh with them like they mesh with each other. Because having lived here in Inaba for about a year now, he’s still the school’s exotic attraction. A city boy in a backwaters high school, with slender, gangly limbs and a face that he’d heard other boys describe as “girlish.”

It’s unfair, really, how some people can blend so well with everyone, while he can barely blend with himself. Music is his only comfort, as pathetic as that is. The blaring from his headphones helps him turn his attention away from what’s bad in his life, and focus on what’s good. Like Chie and Yukiko not constantly making fun of him for how he looks.

There are good and bad aspects about everywhere, Yosuke has figured out. Chie and Yukiko are good aspects, definitely.

Yosuke is 17 and living in Inaba when he realises. It hits him like a punch to the gut, except he thinks a punch would be better in this scenario.

He walks in a field outside Inaba, shoes discarded behind a bush by the roadside. The sky above a deep, dark blue, with black clouds rolling by lazily. A cool breeze drifts by in the warm air, carrying the sweet scent of summer and ruffling his hair.

Beside him walks Yu Narukami, his partner and best friend. It’s been a year since the Inaba murders were solved, by them no less, and now Yu is back, and Yosuke feels gobsmacked by how much his partner has changed.

Yu is taller now, the baby fat in his cheeks burned away to make way for handsome features. He’s taller now- Yosuke has to look up to see that Yu’s grey eyes are darker now, more stormy than steely, and his hair has grown out a bit, though it remains the soft grey it was last year. Yosuke finds that the urge to card his fingers through it has only gotten stronger as time passed.

“Yosuke. What would you say...” Yu begins, turning his head to look at Yosuke. They both stop walking. The sky turns even darker, and Yosuke breathes in the sweet air, listens to the cicadas in his ear.

“If I told you that my parents are letting me stay in Inaba for this school year, too?”

Yosuke feels like he’s been punched in the gut twice. Once because his best friend is staying here again, his best friend will be within arm’s reach once again.

Twice because Yosuke realises he likes Yu as more than just a best friend.

It’s a terrifying realisation. But it’s one he welcomes. He knows where his place in the world is. He’s known it ever since Yu placed himself in their lives, made himself comfortable in the spaces of their hearts and made residency in Yosuke’s head, whispering soft things that make way for yearning that makes his entire body ache.

His place is at Yu’s side, so that’s where he places himself. Hugs his partner so tight he hears bones popping into place, slots himself comfortably in the space between Yu’s arm and side, resting his head on Yu’s shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is soft and comfortable, and Yosuke makes a mental note to steal it from his partner the next time he spends the night.

“I’d welcome you home, partner.”

god where do I even start with this. yosuke is my beloved creature and this is just so delicious. love the detail that yosuke migh be from tatsumi port island. yosuke feels like an outcast his whole life, no real friends, no one to care about him until he meets yu. yu just brings the group together, makes yosuke feel seen, like he's important. they're partners, not just friends. yu makes him feel seen for the first time in his life and that means so much to him. yu means everything to him and he just wants to be by his side forever. loving each other. yosuke finally getting the love he deserves.

#i love this one so much actually #nero answers #shackle-foes #souyo #yosuke hanamura #yu narukami #souji seta #persona 4 #p4

35 notes · View notes

misseviehyde · 2 years ago

Text

MOVING IN

Jane was pretty pissed off when her fat, useless, lazy brother Morgan begged her to let him move in with her.

Mom and Dad had thrown him out again for his useless attitude and he had nowhere else to go.

Jane had always been soft and she agreed he could stay, even though she knew it would really piss off her husband Jason.

Jason was the only earner in the home. He was a successful business man and Jane had always wanted to be a stay at home wife and had nagged him into agreeing.

Jane told Morgan he could take the spare room and as predicted Jason exploded when he found out. After all now he had to support three people on his salary.

"That fucking useless brother of yours better be gone in a week. He's a parasite... a drain on society. I want him GONE. It's bad enough that you just sit around here living off me - but I refuse to support him too."

But two weeks later and Morgan was still there. Jason was becoming increasingly bad tempered and Jane begged her brother to do something.

"At least... get a job. There are medical trials in the paper... they pay well. Please do something to get Jason off my back."

Morgan sighed and wearily agreed to sign up to a well paid medical trial. He signed up over the phone and a few days later a bottle of pink pills turned up at the house.

Morgan had to take one pill a day and record the effects. The trial was well paid and Jack was satisfied when Morgan paid off some of the food bills he'd been running up.

"I still want that loser gone," he muttered - "but at least whilst we are stuck with him, he's earning his keep at last."

**********

The first change that Jane noticed about Morgan was the dramatic weight-loss. The pink pills seemed to have an immediate effect on his metabolism and within two days there was a noticeable difference.

Not only did weight start to slough off him, but he became more active. He began to rise earlier and even eat less. His body began to get slimmer and slimmer and a sudden interest in exercise only seemed to speed up the transformation.

The second thing she noticed was the effect on his health. Morgan's pale unhealthy skin began to take on a healthy glow and his acne cleared up. His lank, greasy hair seemed to thicken and become glossier. It grew at an astonishing rate and within a few days it had reached his shoulders. Blonde streaks now showed at the roots.

Surprisingly the three day old stubble he normally sported on his chin went completely. At first Jane thought he must be shaving it off - but after watching him for a few days - she realised it was just... gone.

Morgan was delighted with the changes... the pink pills were giving him a new lease of life and he was delighted when another bottle arrived and he was told to increase his dose to two pills a day.

His clothes barely fit him and so it was hard to tell under his baggy t-shirts and loose sweat pants - but there was something distrubing about his body shape.

The more Jane looked at her brother - the more she worried about the effect of the pills. His features seemed smoother, his skin silkier. His body hair seemed to have completely fallen out and there were curves to his hips and chest that she was sure didn't use to be there.

Her suspicions were confirmed one day when she came home to find Morgan in her gym clothes.

Jane's grey tracky bottoms fit his increased ass and wider hips perfectly and her gym top showed off his toned arms and abs. The plunging neckline of the top also revealed a growing well of cleavage.

Morgan's hair was now a dirty blonde colour half way down to his lower back and he seemed to have shrunk in height and mass. When Jane looked at him she saw a girl who looked a lot like her... only in some ways prettier.

"Morgan... those pills. You gotta stop taking them and you gotta get help. They're feminising you!"

Morgan shrugged, "Why would I do that? I've never felt better."

The door opened and Jason walked in. He did a double take as he saw Morgan.

"M... Morgan is that you? Holy shit, what the fuck have those pills done to you? How is this possible?"

Morgan giggled... he actually giggled and Jane suddenly noticed his voice was much lighter in pitch and tone. It sounded... feminine.

"I don't know but I'd say it's an improvement wouldn't you?"

Jane suddenly realised that Jason was looking at Morgan in a way he never had before. Approvingly. His hungry eyes were roaming up and down her brothers body. She felt a flood of jealousy and annoyance. Her brother had to go.

"Jason, he's still a useless freebooting loser. You were right. We should have kicked him out weeks ago. Pack your stuff Morgan."

"Wait!" cried Morgan in horror. "Please... I know I've been useless but thanks to these pills I'm changing. I can make everything up to you both."

"I'm not interested Morgan," Jane spat. "Jason and I want you out of this house!"

Morgan looked at Jason. His face took on a pleading expression. Soft pink lips twisted into a pout, big dark eyes fluttered enticingly. "IS that what you still want Jason?"

"No... wait... lets not be hasty," muttered Jason turning to look at Jane. "We can't just kick her out - not like this."

"Her?" asked Jane incredulously.

"Did I say that?" he scowled. "You know what I mean. Him I mean. We can't just throw him out... not like this."

They began to argue. Jane couldn't believe Jason had changed his mind. Morgan just stood looking at them, biting his lip like a naughty schoolgirl waiting to hear his fate.

"Fuck this... we'll make a decision later tonight," scowled Jason. "We need to calm down and think this over. I'm going to my office."

He turned and marched out and as Jane glared at Morgan and stormed up to her bedroom.

***********

Jane cried in her room for a few minutes. She expected Jason to come apologise, but when he didn't she decided she would go speak to him in his office.

Walking down the landing, she heard voices and pausing she listened at the door.

"Thank you for supporting me Jason, I can't believe my own sister has turned on me. I need you to protect me," came Morgan's voice.

"I already have a wife to look after, why should I look after you too?" snarled Jason's voice.

"Because Jason - you pay for this house and everything in it, but you don't get anything in return from her. No wonder you feel so angry. Your freeloading wife brings her freeloading brother here. She never gives you any attention and she just takes advantage of you. A guy like you deserves more. I'll find a way to give it to you if you let me stay. What do you want from me?"

"I... I just want you to make yourself useful. Stop being such a useless layabout and find a purpose in life. Those pills have made you fit and hot, you should use that to your advantage."

"Yes..." smiled Morgan. "Whatever you want."

Peering in through the crack in the door - Jane watched her feminised brother sinking to his knees in front of Jason.

"Wh... what the fuck are you doing?" he stammered as Morgan reached out and unzipped his fly.

"Making myself useful..."

Jason groaned as his dick sprang out. Jane's heart was beating and she thought she was going to scream as she watched her brother begin to pump her husbands dick.

"Don't you like this? I'm finally using my new body to my advantage."

Jane watched as Morgan leant down to her husbands stiffening dick and without any hesitation slid it into his mouth.

"Mmmppphhhhhh, *glug*"

Jason groaned in pleasure and his manly hands slid onto Morgan's blonde head and began to pump his head up and down on his rock hard cock.

"Yessssss suck my cock you little fucking slut. Fucking take it."

Saliva oozed out of the corner of Morgan's mouth and there were tears in the corner his eyes as he gagged and choked on dick. Glugging and moaning, his head bobbed up and down as he took the cock like a pro.

Jason was in heaven. Jane had never seen her husband so turned on. When she had sucked Jason's cock - it was nothing like this. It lacked this primal sexual energy.

"That's it you little fucking slut - you're my bitch now," groaned Jason in delight. "Keep making yourself useful and you can stay as long as you like. Ahhhhh I'm gonna fucking cum, take it all you slut."

Morgan's eyes widened and Jason's balls throbbed as he gasped and began to unload into his brother-in-laws mouth.

"Fucckkkkk if only your sister could suck cock like that," grinned Jason. "You're already better than her at that."

Morgan giggled, cum still leaking from the corner of his mouth. He swallowed happily.

"I was born to be a girl. Let me stay and I'll become better than her at EVERYTHING. I promise Daddy."

Jason shivered in delight. "Yesssss make yourself into my slut and you can stay as long as you like."

"Mmmmh, let me wash those pink pills down with your cum. I want this so badly."

Seeing the rapture in their faces Jane didn't know what to do. She should have burst inside raging almost ten minutes ago, but for some reason she had just stood and watched.

Worse... her pussy was wet and there was something kind of hot about watching her brother replace her.

Was she... enjoying this?

She went back to her room and fingered herself to orgasm as she cried. This was fucked up.

*************

Over the next week Morgan changed further. He had increased his dosage of the pink pills - but he also now embraced the transformation.

Jason stopped sleeping with Jane. Each night he would make some pathetic excuse so he and Morgan could be alone. Each night Jane would secretly watch as Morgan sucked Jason's cock and then she would get off to it.

One night as she watched, Morgan didn't sink to his knees as was usual. Instead he bent over the desk and flicked up his tiny skirt.

His tiny cock was caged in pink plastic and he spread his perfect tight asshole enticingly. In moments Jason was inside him, and the two of them moaned in joined pleasure as Morgan got fucked deep and hard.

Jason had truly made Morgan into his bitch.

Jane woke up one morning to hear banging next door in Morgan's room. She watched as he hauled out his old oversized clothes and replaced them with new female clothes.

She saw to her horror that Morgan had their credit card. Jason had obviously given it to her and he was now watching approvingly as his new slut filled her wardrobe with boots, miniskirts and crop tops.

The pills had almost finished their work now. Morgan's hair was now a bitchy blonde, his breasts were full and perfectly formed - every curve of his body was feminine perfection.

You would only have known he was a man because of the tiny micro-dick in those pretty panties.

And the fact that Morgan was a better woman and more attractive than Jane now just made her horny.

The couple had obviously realised she knew what was happening and once Jason knew that Jane wasn't going to object it was only a matter of time.

One morning at breakfast - Jason ordered Morgan to flip up his skirt. Moments later he was busy fucking the shit out of him whilst Jane watched helplessly.

"Your brother is finally of some use. He's my fuck-slut now," growled Jason as Morgan moaned and played with his tits as his Daddy fucked him in the ass.

"Mmmmmhhh too bad loser," giggled Morgan to Jane. "Your husband is mine now and I'm his obedient little whore."

The pink pills had turned her brother into a homewrecking bitch. Jane hated and worshipped her new sister in equal measure. She had discovered that nothing made her cum harder than watching her husband cheat on her.

It became natural to defer to Morgan. Her new sister began to become bossy and dominant in the home. Dressed in the most stylish outfits and looking like a Goddess - Morgan forced Jane to lick her boots and even eat Jason's cum out of her ass.

"Your useless lazy brother is gone," smirked Morgan as she played with her long blonde hair. "I'm your bitch of a sister now."

Jane was forced to watch as Jason moved Morgan into their master bedroom. Night after night she'd listen to them fuck next door - the pounding thuds and screams of ecstasy powering her own pleasure as she finger fucked her needy pussy.

She knew Jason would never fuck her again. She knew she was now a cuckquean and like some perverted bitch liked it. She knew she wasn't worthy to lick Morgan's boots.

Her sister had moved in - and there was no getting rid of her ever again...

#evie hyde #bitchification #m2f transformation #m2f corruption

180 notes · View notes