#STARED SAYING THE GRIM REAPER

[walmart-miku]

I think way too much about the weight that the title angel of death holds. Like Yosano spends about a year keeping these men away from death which makes the name angel of death kind of odd because it implies that she is the one leading them to their death. But its also super fitting because she is the one "causing" them to "die"/come close to dying repeatedly by preventing their deaths. Does that make sense?

Also while none of the men died in the war (except for tachihara's older brother who committed suicide) yosano killed plenty of them by driving them mad from the ptsd of getting blown to bits and then being put back together with absolutely nothing to prove that they were hurt in the first place. So while not physically dead, most of these men will probably never really live life again.

And the word angel is so terribly cruel for this title because that's what they used to call her when the soldiers still loved yosano and thought of her presence as a blessing and now it's used as a reminder of what she couldn't give them. Also they would call her a mistress of healing when they still loved her compared to angel of death. Complete opposites.

And angel of death is another way of saying the grim reaper

[the-ferocious-kittyrose]

Simon gets a message from reader while he’s on base. It’s a video. The thumbnail looks like a blurred image of a store isle

Once he has a moment to himself, he’s able to sit back and finally check out what you had sent.

The camera pans down to show yours and simon’s two year old daughter. She has half a mini chocolate muffin clutched in her little baby fist and chocolate smudges on her nose and bright pink cheeks. She’s standing, staring at something out of frame.

The camera is a bit shaky and Simon can hear you trying desperately to hide your laughter.

“Baby,” you say, “baby, look at me.�� You bend down to bring the camera closer to your daughter, who only turns to look at you for a second before going back to staring at the same spot out of frame.

“Who is that?”

Your daughter raised one of her chocolate covered hands to point towards whatever it was that had been captivating her the entire video. “Daddy.”

Simon here’s more of your pained stifled laughter and the camera follows your daughter’s gaze, revealing a cheaply made Halloween grim reaper statue, with dusty purple robes, a plastic scythe, and a hilariously misshapen skull face.

He reads the accompanying texts that had followed the video.

[She just started saying “daddy daddy” over and over and it took me forever to figure out what she was talking about]

[for a second I thought, “oh is he here?”]

[Im so dense lol]

[she really misses you ]

[I miss you too]

The next text was a picture of your daughter fast asleep in her car seat. Now cleaned of chocolate, she had replaced her muffin with a giant plastic rat that she hugged to her chest like a teddy bear.

[she refused to leave without it]

Simon smiles. It had been a long time since he had a family. People who loved waiting for him to come home.

Your texts had been sent hours ago, and he felt bad about not responding all day.

[that’s unfair. My mask is made of much better materials]

[I miss you both too. If everything goes right I should be home by Monday]

[and don’t call yourself dense]

Simon thinks for a moment, something eating at him about that video

[I wish she didn’t know about the mask. I don’t want her to see me that way]

You respond quickly, making Simon feel worse about his delayed reply

[Dont worry about that honey. She’s only two, and I think she only saw you wear in mask once once or twice. She’ll forget in a month.]

[She doesn’t see you as anything other than her daddy]

[her daddy and her jungle gym]

[lol yes that too]

[Im sorry I don’t have a lot of time. I’ll try and call you tomorrow]

[ok Im heading to bed now anyway]

[goodnight I love you ❤️]

[goodnight I love you too ❤️]

[hlysins]

tag dump: characters part three

[gremlingottoosilly]

Horsin' around (Centaurus!Konig x fem!Reader)

Konig is exiled from his people. You are exiled from yours. Together, you make about 6 legs and a perfect pair. Tags and CW: Size kink (duh), Centaurus!Konig(horse cocks), Konig is awkward, slight dub-con, power imbalance, belly bulge, praise kink, monster fucking. Thanks @kneelingshadowsalome for the prompt! AO3| Word count: 3016

Centaurus are not wild animals. You keep repeating it to yourself as you come deeper and deeper into the forest. You keep mumbling it to yourself as you feel the eyes watching you. judging you. Centaurus are not wild animals even if sometimes they behave like one. Not like you’re any different, any better – you’re a human, invading the sacred forests. You’re a human who is dumb enough to go foraging into the depths of their territory. Centaurus are not wild animals, but you don’t feel that repeating the same sentence over and over makes it sound any more convincing. You feel the danger in the air – with each step you take, with each fallen tree you’re stepping over. With every attempt to simply run ending up not working, you know you got lost. Long abandoned the basket you came with – you don’t recognize a single berry that grows here, not a mushroom or even some edible plant pieces to be found. This place is devoid of animals, of flowers – like something just snatched it all away. Ate it all, maybe. You don’t want to think what kind of creature could cause a migration like this. You don’t need to think though. Because the creature finds you first. 

You yelp in a mix of surprise and horror when the arrow flies right in front of you, the skill of the archer is high enough to make the arrow cut down a few bits of hair in front of your eyes. If you were a mere millimeter closer, you’d be dead. If he wanted you dead, you’d be dead. This much is obvious. You freeze in place, not daring to move an inch when you hear it. Loud, not even bothering to conceal the sound of it – the creature was confident enough that the prey wouldn’t run. Not the creature, you correct yourself immediately. Centaurs are not animals, they are closer to humans than a lot of other monster types – with their strength and warrior culture, you’d say that they are even more humans than citizens of the village who forced you out. 

The centaur doesn’t even bother to hide himself from you, concealing the sounds of heavy hooves on the ground or evading the branches that crunched against his body. This is exactly what made you surprised when you understood that instead of a rough, but mostly handsome face that most centaurus tend to have, you’re met with a black hood which only spared two holes for the icy-blue eyes staring back at you. 

Is he a grim reaper? An executioner for other centaurus? Would that mean you don’t have to worry unless your lower part resembles a horse? 

You take a quick look at your bottom half. Not a horse. 

Centaur reapers the gesture, looking at his bottom half too. Definitely a horse. 

You decide to speak first, hoping to find words that would work just fine to be your last. 

— I am really sorry for intru…

— This is not the sacrifice season yet. 

Ah, well. 

The people from your village believe the centaurs to be sacred – despite them being monsters they knew a lot about, they were still given sacrifices. Food, some farm animals, especially fatty pieces of meat, and fancy jewels along with some weapons. Centaurus kept the worst predators at bay, herding the wolves to be their pets and sometimes driving deer and rabbits away to the village. They kept you protected from werewolves and orcs – with a meager payment of never touching the sacred grounds. 

You just stepped into the deepest, most protected part of the forest. You wonder if you would deserve a peaceful death. 

— It’s not. I…I made a mistake. 

No, you wanted to be here. When the village decided to drive you out, you thought that foraging in the part of the forest, untouched by humans, would be the most profitable thing. Centaurus won’t take berries anyway, right? But they might just take your life. 

— A mistake? 

He tilts his hooded head to the side. It’s such a boyish expression, that you almost let go of a nervous giggle. Perhaps, you were going crazy…but the centaur seemed a bit nervous. As seasoned as he looked – with battle scars covering his body and a bit of silver mixed with his ginger fur on the horse part – he seemed almost awkward standing here. Tapping one of his hooved legs like a nervous child. Squeezing the bow in his hands with vigor that made you scared he will just snap it in half. 

— I just wanted to take some food. 

— Is there a hunger? 

— No. 

— Humans aren’t allowed in these parts. Why would you go if not out of despair? 

You gulp. 

— I…am not allowed back. 

— Why? 

Because you’re a forest witch who will doom them all, according to the village of a horse people worshippers. Because you’re a monster in disguise who keeps straling babies, according to the village that uses the best pieces of food to feed the horse people who can take of themselves just fine, instead of feeding it to the orphaned children. Because you’re a whore who refuses to accept the new type of sacrifices – the virgins of the village as a breeding material for the Centaurus, according to the village filled with people who would gladly push a poor virgin out in the forest once she turned of age, so she could be mauled by horse people. 

— We had…mutual disagreement. 

You stare at the mighty body of the centaur. You fight the urge to get your hands down his torso, play with its short hairs, and…you were always a bit of a horse girl. Wondering if he is strong enough to lift you up and get you somewhere safe, somewhere far far away from here. 

Centaur has this weird, almost boyish tone. Deep and yet, sounds just a bit deranged. Unhinged. Like he is going to maul you any second – and judging by the bow and arrow still in his hands, he might not be wrong. You lick your lips. He stares at them – or at least you think he is. Hood only reveals his eyes and you can already get lost in them. Cold, like the northern sea, Like the snow outside. You thought all mythical creatures were supposed to be warm-blooded. 

— You’re exiled then. 

He isn’t asking. Centaurus are omnipotent and wise, they should know about human affairs more than humans themselves. You made them into sort of gods – you shouldn’t be surprised that this guy knows way more than he should. Somehow, you still feel safer around him than other humans – and maybe, it’s more of a you problem. Maybe, you ended up eating some of the weird berries and it’s just your hallucinations before you die. 

— I am. 

He takes a step back. He is big – all of them are, you suppose, but, somehow, he is bigger than he should be. Giant, muscular torso on top of an already muscular and big horse part – he can pick you up, throw you, and break you with one finger, probably. No, definitely. You don’t want to give him a reason to, so you just stay in place. Hoping he wouldn’t deem your trespassing as a matter worthy of a torturous death. 

— My name is König, human. Repeat, ja? 

The name feels weird on your tongue. Rude, sharp. You don’t want to call him wrong and receive his wrath, so you try your best to repeat this. 

— Ko-nig. Ja? 

You tilt your head to the side, a curious little bird. Centaur – König, König, König – squints his eyes like he is smiling. You made the god smile. The horse god. The horseman. Just…man. If you don’t look down, where you already see something giant and heavy standing between his horse legs, you could forget that he isn’t a man at all. 

Suddenly, you feel light. Suddenly, you feel your legs dangling in the air as you were picked up and bumped into the broad chest. Suddenly, you feel hands everywhere. On your ass, under it, touching your chest, your stomach, trying to get to the best position so you would stop moving constantly and trying to get out. You don’t want to fight him because you’re already in the air and falling right now could result in a broken neck – but you don’t want to be suspended in the air either. You whimper, pathetic sound escaping your lips as you feel calloused hands pressing on your mound. Traveling down your stomach and touching, squeezing, petting your delicate parts. 

You spend so much time without a gentle hand or a soft touch, you can feel yourself dripping on the fingers of a centaur. Embarrassing, yes – but you know that if he were to proceed, you wouldn’t really resist. 

And oh, he proceeds. 

— They finally send us proper sacrifices. 

He mumbles it into your hair, taking in your smell. You’re nice for a human – not scared of him too much, not trying to ran away or fight. Humans are usually just annoying insects under his hooves, but König can feel your face growing on him. Your body, too. Too weird for other Centaurus, never being able to find a proper mate who could take his lack of social awareness, he found himself mounting a human. His tribe would call him pathetic. His tribe would laugh. 

Then again, he is the first to get such a delicate little gift. Who is laughing now? 

You aren’t crying in his hands, and he is a bit surprised. You smell like a proper mate, like a good bitch in heat just for him – yet, you’re not falling on your knees to present your dripping cunt. You’re just trying to whimper to ask him to be gentler, and he is happy to oblige. Calm enough to listen to you. Ripping your pants apart because this is such a useless piece of clothing – concealing your rich smell from him. 

König doesn’t waste any time when he dips his finger across your swollen folds. Playing with the slick running down his wrist, smiling as you are closing your eyes and pressing your head in his chest. He is strong enough to keep you suspended in the air without a care in the world. Weak human, he would have to spend so much time preparing you for him – taking his cock would be a task no sacrifice ever competed before. 

König stares at your dripping pussy that is already clenching around nothing just because his fingers are pressing on the hood of your little clit, and he knows you’d be the perfect wife for him. Taking him properly as his mate, moaning as his cum fills you up. he can’t wait – knows that he should, preparing you properly. His hooves are beating the ground in impatience as his fingers slide in and out of your pussy. You spread your legs, moaning louder. Such a filthy whore for him. 

— Relax, human. Be a good mate. 

— This isn’t what I wa…

— Quiet. Such a good…good girl, Schatz. Will bring me strong children. 

— We can’t have sex. It’s im…impossible.

You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs, to shut his hand. You only moan louder, knowing that you would accept everything he gives you, and ask for more. 

You don’t want to imagine his cock entering you over and over, forcing its way past your walls and making you round and soft with his children. It’s a foreign concept – centaurus shouldn’t mate with humans, it should be physically impossible. Yet, you almost want to try. A breeding mare, made for one and only. 

König gets you on…something. It isn’t exactly a natural thing – a pile of stones and trees, perfect height for you to lay your back on, with some soft leaves and animal skins to rest comfortably. His hands support you on the perfect height and you immediately know what he construction is. A mating stand. Probably for other centaurus – but you feel almost fine laying on it too. Almost normal. Your muscles sting as you try to rest your legs and then spread them wide enough for König to stay between them. He is a big guy, after all. He turns you around, on your tummy. Ass in the air, you don’t like not seeing him. The heavy musk fills your nostrils, making you suddenly aware of what is about to happen – you’re wet, spread enough on his fingers, calloused fingertips scrubbing your gummy walls from the inside. He is fingering you with ease, but it doesn’t feel like a man with experience – he is touching and probing like he doesn’t know what he is doing and, honestly, you kinda like it. He is exploring your body with his and you moan, not caring that you sound like a whore. Humans have already abandoned you as part of society – you might as well just take it. — I will prepare you. 

— It won’t fit… — It will, Schatzen. You’ll get used to it. — What if I break? 

— I will be careful. Trust me, ja?

Even his fingers are a bit much when he enters your body with a third digit. One, two, three – you are about to burst when he is massaging your G-spot, when he is smiling in your hair and gets you so aroused just on it alone. You’re about to cum when he slowly extracts his fingers, deeming your sloppy cunt as explored enough. Your walls are clenching around nothing, a beautiful display of desire – maybe, it was the right call that humanity abandoned you. König looks at the perfect centraius whore on display and he can’t wait to claim you. To make you his. 

He is exiled from other centaurus. 

You are exiled from humans. 

What a beautiful fucking pair. 

He enters your body slowly deliberately. Regrets it immediately – you are wonderful. Too perfect to be this slow, being soft with you is torture. Your walls accept him with a stretch, like a warm glove around his cock. Slowly shifting, softening, straddling his cock with each inch he buries in the depth of your warm, weeping cunt. He can’t touch you, as unfortunate as this is – dumb horse body is making it impossible, even looking at you is hard enough on his neck. He wants to mount you properly, but you’re simply too fucking small. Wants to touch your hair, to whisper some encouragement that human women would probably love to hear – but he can only breath heavily and enter you, one painful centimeter after the other. 

— T…too much, too much, please, I can’t, it’s… You whimper, you cry, it breaks his damned heart because you don’t deserve this. You need to be treated with care, with softness and yet, he can’t give you that. He wants so much to just put you in his arms and hug you, but that would be impossible. König will give you all the coddling in the world after you’re done. After he is sure that you received all the possible breeding and seed he could gave you. 

— Quiet, human. It would be nice soon. 

— It’s not…

— Touch yourself, please, bitte. I can’t…can’t touch you. But you will feel better. 

Your hand goes between your legs, playing with yourself. Spreading your folds around his cock even more, fingers sliding past your clit. Touching the little button and hoping it would be enough to make you aroused – and it is. Your cunt is a mess of your own juices mixed with König’s pre cum, and you already know that you won’t be walking the next couple days. 

König bottoms with a deep sigh, and you feel him in your stomach. Bulging with his giant cockhead, making the outline of his cock visible – you touch it with shock, not understanding how your organs are even in place. 

He starts moving and you finally feel it – the burning pleasure setting fire in the pit of your stomach. the excess liquid pouring from your damp cunt, moans spreading from your lips. You never felt this way with a human before – then again, no human cock would ever be able to compete with König. He can reach the parts of your body that you never knew existed, and the mix of pheromones and musk is making you dizzy. Light-headed. You don’t even need to touch yourself more to feel the height of your orgasm, building in as rapidly as König’s thrusts. 

In, forcing its way to hit your cervix gently, massaging the sore spots of your tight pussy. 

Out, grazing over your inner walls, touching all the buttons. 

In again, filling you up with his pre-cum. Moaning loud enough for the whole forest to hear. 

Out, dragging you back with him, as you’re still impaled on his cock. 

— S…so perfect for me. Scheisse, so pretty… He can’t touch you and it breaks his heart. König goes to praise you instead – words feel awkward on his tongue, but he knows you need to heart it. He wants you to hear it, wants you to fee wanted, entitled. Soft. He smiles when you whimper and moan, milking him for his orgasm. Your cunt is made for him and he wants to spend every waking moment buried inside of it. Gods, you are a perfect sacrifice. 

He is coming embarrassingly fast, pumping his giant cock even deeper into your pussy. Filling you up with hot cum that can’t even stay inside of your cunt. Leaking everywhere, you two are making a mess – you breath heavily, not understanding what is right and wrong anymore. Only knowing, remembering the shape of his cock. Pushing in and out, forcing its way in. God, you feel full. And ridiculous. And so, so perfect with his cock slowly starting to pump you again. And again. Konig came embarrassingly fast, but only because this is just the first orgasm in a row. Forcing its way inside, you are overstimulated already – but you will take him, of course, obviously. You have to.

König is going to enjoy breeding a new clan out of you. 

[deathbxnny]

Alrighty cool, thank you for clearing that up (and in such a timely manner too)!

So, lemme cook here... with some Angst + Hurt/Comfort >:D

Arlecchino with a Fem!S/O who's the "Mother" to the children of the House. She was among the survivors of the previous Knave's regime over the House of Hearth. With her and Arle having had perhaps a kind of mutual crush that was only truly pursued after Arle killed "mother".

Basically, the scenario for the request is when Arlecchino' and her's S/O are taking care of one of the kids of the House after they're badly injured after a mission, and... needles to say... they don't make it. And during when Arle and S/O are visiting the kid's grave to pay their respect's, S/O begins to muse "you'd think I'd be used to having to bury children, after..." before starting to break down.

(Part two) (Part Three) (Part four) (Part five)

Ooooh, I love your brain, Anon!! Thank you so much for this great request!! I have to admit that whilst writing this, I actually liked the idea of making this super angsty and kind of bitter (like most of my fics lmao-) so I hope you like it despite the lack of comfort anyway-

Content: Heavy angst, vague mentions of past child abuse, murder, death, reader is Female and referred to as "Mother/wife", mentions of heavy injuries and blood, controlling behavior from/ooc Arlecchino?, kind of bitter ending, children dying, grief Reader has she/her pronouns ((Not proofread!!!))

Buried angels and that odd wish to live. (Arlecchino x Fem!Reader)

In a way, you often wondered why the young ones often wished to live when they knew that their end was nearing. Their eyes would widen, breaths becoming sharper and shorter, mouths closing and opening in panic before they'd whisper those words you had heard so many times. Their deaths always followed closely after, eyes dimming, their soul finally disappearing with the blown out candles, the sweet scent mingling with the smell of blood and burnt flesh. In the light of the moon filtering through an open window, you'd see the grim reaper staring at you in mirrors and your crimson stained palms, a thoughtful look on her face, one asking a simple question she might forever ask you.

"What did you expect?"

And you'd reply by looking away from your own image, away from the guilt and self-doubt and into the eyes of the woman who made all these children utter that odd wish in the first place.

Your hands shook, held up high as you peered into the crime of a mother who couldn't save her child, raised as though pleading for the forgivness of a god that was mightier than the one you worked for. One that was less cruel, despite the heart everyone claimed she had. And yet, they were enveloped by a towel instead, that wiped away the sins and hurt, even if just for a moment. "There is... nothing we could have done to save her, Mother." Lyney whispered quietly to you, perhaps afraid of being too loud and disturbing someone who couldn't even ever bother to hear him anymore. He tried to be reassuring, but it did little when you just couldn't look away from your wife.

Arlecchino. The Knave. A highly ranked harbinger, whose heart always belonged to you from the start, although with great difficulties that took you years to overcome.

The first time she made you stain your hands with blood was when she killed the woman that raised you two, the first and only woman you ever called "Mother." Although the gentleness and nurturing part of her title was just a simple facade, it still shaped you both greately. You had sworn to do better, to become a better mother to all the children you both took in after marriage and Arlecchino... she seemed to have trned against that title. She believed that being a "father" was more fitting. The right way to raise the children of the Hearth family. Cold and detached, yet firm and guiding.

It made you opposites at times. Painfully different opposites. You became a secret haven of safety for the children, a place they can hide away in, whenever their "Father's" wrath came after them. And you've fought so hard to be this gentle. You killed, murdered, slaughtered your way out of fate. You dragged yourself out of hell, you bled, you cried endless tears. You wanted to prove that you could do better and you ultimately did now... or so you thought. You began doubting it years ago, and it's what made you find their wish to live so odd. Was it an instinct, or did they actually view their life's with you two as desirable, something to live for, when all they did in the end was suffer?

"Mother." Lyney said again, this time a little louder, this time enough to make you glance up at him. His face was a blurry shadow, the light falling over his shoulders and illuminating his head like a halo, as he pushed the towel rather hastily into a nearby laundry basket. You'd never get the stains out, and so it would most likely be thrown away, perhaps burried with the young girl. "Let's... get you cleaned up, okay? I... we will take care of the rest." The change in his wording made you press your lips together. It wasn't anyone's job to do this except your own, and for a moment, you imagined yourself curling up next to the child that died crying and begging for you to save it.

You stood up only barely on shaking knees, trembling hand reaching out to close the small girls eyes, and you could feel the cold tears and skin stinging your palm. "It is alright, Lyney. Your father and I will take care of her ourselves..." You looked over your shoulder at the woman who had yet to move or say anything ever since she silently entered the room a while ago. You could see the cold glint of her eyes in the dark, her face otherwise covered by the shadows as she sat calmy and collected in her chair. She knew it was over the moment the girl was brought in by a couple of Fatui agents, th failure of her mission being crystal clear by the deep wounds and burns on her body. She never stood a chance. She wasn't experienced enough, not skilled enough. But the weak get eaten, as the Knave would often say.

Lyney gave you a hesitant look, his mouth opening to protest before he stilled at his Father crossing his legs expectantly. He understood the silent order. "... Ofcourse, Mother. Call my name if there is anything I can do for you." He said, a hand on his chest as he bowed before quickly taking his leave. When the door creaked open, you could have sworn to see the flickers of Lynette and Freminet staring back at you solemnly before they disappeared in the presence of their brother. You stared at the closed door for an unknown while, nearly zoning out, until you let out a shaky sigh. "Make her grave beautiful, perhaps with a blue ribbon attached to it. She loved those." You muttered, the exhaustion finally hitting you full force and making you feel faint. Your body felt heavy, feet dragging across the floor as you also made your exit, the only awknowledgement you received being in the form of the woman leaning her head against her palm idly whilst she closed those cursed eyes of hers.

---

There wasn't much of a funeral for the child.

A couple Fatui agents simply made a hole in the ground like they did with all the others and then lowered the small casket into it, before tossing dirt back in until it disappeared and only the stone with her was left as proof that the child ever even existed. It was a routine at this point, one everyone was used to. Everyone but you. Perhaps the years had made you soft. Perhaps the love and gentleness you gave these children had made you weak. But here you were, standing under the rain and staring at the grave for hours now, unmoving. The water had drenched through your clothes, ran down your face, made you shiver from the cold, despite feeling too numb to fully realise that. Arlecchino stood at your side, an umbrella laying in the wet dirt by her heeled feet from when you pushed it out of her hands and away from you defiantly.

The silence was deafening, filled with the constant tapping of water against your clothes, the metal on the Knave's uniform, and the stone of the sea of graves around you. "How many..." You whispered weakly, trying to form words through incoherent thoughts and the lack of sleep you've had lately. "... do I have to see die before it's enough?" Arlecchino said nothing, and you were nearly convinced that she didn't hear you if it wasn't for her hand twitching.

You let out a disbelieving laugh, a hand covering your face, trying to ease the pain that plagued you deeply. "You'd think that I'd be used to burying children by now... but I... it hurts me." You didn't want to break. In fact, you had never broken before. But as you stood there amongst the many angels that you burried, the many angels that had all once stained your hands red, you began to wonder why you ever even agreed to this. You weren't like your wife. You couldn't be a "Father". You just didn't want to be one.

You buried your face into your hands, imagining the suffocating feeling of their final wish being the same as the pain of strangulation. They reached for the skies and reached for freedom they could only brush shortly with their fingertips before they were covered in dirt to never see what they desperately yearned for again.

"We always took pride in having become something better, different than her... and yet look at us, Peruere! We just became exact copies of her instead! Oh, the shame!" You whispered through strained sobs, voice distorted as you crumbled to the ground in guilt. You had been defeated, and yet Arlecchino still stood so tall, her eyes staring at your shivering and trembling form. She didn't say a word, or perhaps she didn't know what to say. "How many children will you make me stain my hands for?" You asked finally, but the silence told you all.

Peruere loved the children you raised together. But Arlecchino, the Knave, had an objective, a mission. Eat or be eaten, a reality that even hurt her deep down. And yet the curse she had since birth prevented her from feeling it any further than a passing acknowledgement.

"... Stand up, (Y/N). We need to get home... our children await us." She simply responded after your heavy breaths became shallow, and you simply laid there limply at the foot of the grave. But her voice conveyed a certain gentleness she only ever extends to you. It was like the warmth of a summer rain, refreshing and light as it rippled through your heart. With swollen eyes, you watched her reach an ungloved hand out to you, her gaze expectant and yet so unreadable. You felt like a child that powered itself out after a tantrum, the exhaustion and defeat crippling your soul, when you finally just took her hand after what felt like a long moment of consideration.

She hummed a gentle praise against your ear as you slumped against her, face pressed to her shoulder whilst you trembled now from the cold that nipped at your skin through your drenched clothes. Arlecchino wrapped an arm around you, her pensive and yet still so stern gaze drifting through the graveyard filled with those buried angels, as you often called them. Perhaps it was a moment of calm reflection, that made her grab onto your face and wipe away a tear.

"You are nothing like her." And yet, the Knave didn't deny that she might have fallen to her fate herself. Just not you. Never you. "These tears, this hurt you speak of, they are all proof of it. You shed tears for them, for us. Only a good mother could do such a thing." The words she spoke had a deep meaning, one only you two understood, and that made your heart flutter. You looked away, trying your best not to burst into tears again at the tragedy of the situation, but it was so hard when Arlecchino got like this. She only rarely showcased such blatant affection, such blatant declaration of her deep yet rather complicated love for you as her wife. "Please... Let's go home..." You simply whispered, which made her nod in approval.

You gazed up at the skies as you walked away, sunlight beginning to filter through the thick clouds and making you frown bitterly as it warmed your face. Arlecchino's hand meanwhile rested against your back, her watchful eyes gliding across the endless meadows you passed by, and for a moment, she could hear her children laughing, squealing and frolicking through the tall grass. They chased each other in a game of tag, running as fast as they could away from the two of you, over a hill and into what the Knave imagined to be their freedom far from her cold and stern ways. She cracked a bitter smile, one of acceptance as she glanced down at your tired, silently crying and trembling form.

Arlecchino was perhaps wrong after all. Maybe in the end the children did need a loving, nurturing mother instead.

What a shame, that it was too late to go back now.

Alright, so this took me all day to write, and I'm not sure if it's good, because I'm still very sick... but I still hope you liked this, Anon, and thank you again for the request!!!<33

[berriblossom]

Cold hands and warm love

[Date with Death : Casper x Reader] [i am positively obsessed with this man that he's making write again| spoilers for endings#3 btw and the story.]

There's something so oddly soothing watching Casper sleep with Azrael in his arms, all snuggled up without a care in the world. His ghostly white locks sprawled against your shared bed sheets. His eyes ever so softly flutteribg against his pale cheeks, the rays of sunlight dance across his face, almost creating his own personal golden hour.

You chuckled at the idea. Casper wasn't a huge fan of super bright things. Even when you managed to convince him to walk outside your apartment with you, he dons a pair of black shades and scowls at everything. Now that you think about it, he's even more like a black cat than anything, rather than a sign of bad luck but rather for his sassy attitude and his dislike for certain things.

As you quietly watch from your desk, with your pet sitting in the empty sunny spot of the bed, you think back to how long its been since tou winning the bet and being a somewhat embodiment of life while your sweet little now former Grim Reaper is the opposite.

Goodness, one small picture shouldn't hurt? Besides, Casper can't argue with how many not-so-sly pictures he has taken of you randomly as of late. Even changing his profile pick of you sleeping with Azrael while you napped on your bed after work. He tried fighting it off, saying he mainly picked the picture because Azrael looked so good in it while you just happened to be there....no other reason...(he said this while fighting off a flustered face while gazing back at the picture. He then denied making it his lockscreen too.)

You picked up your phone and began to open the camera feature and angle the camera to get the best picture possible. Hell you even move from the desk to hover slightly over Casper and your pet to get the best angle. "Stay right there pretty boy....just perfect..." you mumbled while snapping a few silent pictures. You went to adjust his snowy hair to move from his beautiful face. Just as you touch his cool face, sleepy red eyes flutter open and the iconic pout appears on the reapers face.

"Sunshine....what are you doing? Why do you have your phone like that..." Casper's eyes flutter as he fights off the sunlight beaming through the blinds, all while his sour pout turns into a playful one. Your pet scatters away while Casper tries to snatch your phone away to see the sneaky pictures you've taken of his sleeping figure.

"Ah ah ah! Nope, absolutely not pretty boy, if you can take pictures then so can I!" You shuffle off the side of the bed while Casper jumps up to grasp your hand and to get those pictures. You tease and weave yourself away from him and the bed, sitting on the edge you laugh at how pouty and upset Casper is.

His frustration only exceeded when you decided to flash him the adorable and beautiful picture of him in his sleeping form. As casper has told you before, reapers do not need to sleep or eat. But the idea that he was so comfy in your blanket and bed, cuddling Azrael closely. It just made you want to tease your little reaper to bits. Though sadly your teasing and fun was put to an end.

Suddenly, you felt two strong cold hands wrap around your torso and squeeze you gently. You could feel Caspers lips against your neck as he mumbked for you to please delete the picture. As adorable and pretty as he could be in those moments...the little rat decided to try and tickle you to get you to give uo your phone.

Luckily you were quick enough to slip from his grasp again(heh get it) and make your way back to your bed while cherishing your sweet victory. "Sorry casp, but you look too good! I might make this my profile picture on the chat room too!" His frustrated groans on embarrassment only fueled your decision.

"Sunshin pleeasseee....just....atleast make it your lockscreeb to while your at it...since you can't stop looking and staring at me. Just can't get enough, silly mortal.." ah his ability to bounce back is incredible as ever. But still it was fun while it lasted. Casper came to join you on the bed while bringing you back close to him...somethibg about "being warm." But you did not mind.

You'll never mind, your soul brings him warmth, his perfect heater if youll say. You chuckle as he scrolls through his camera roll whie trying to find a picture of you(an god awful one) to place as his profile picture on the chatroom. Yeah its going to be a long day. But you never minded.

[valentine-cafe]

 ˖⁺. “ darling, can I be your favourite ? ” : 

﹙ brother's best friend!grim reaper x fem reader ﹚.𖹭 ݁

 . . . verse 9948e jìngyí x fem reader !! 🍒 : ﹙  grim reaper ˖ himbo character﹚

your brother's best friend is such an idiot - yet for some reason you can't stop staring at his d-d-d- face!

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ brother's best friend trope ˖ size difference ˖ penetrative sex ˖ wet dreams ˖ caught masturbating ˖ rough sex ˖ dirty talk ˖  fingering ˖ risky sex ˖ face riding  | wc : 1.6k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: been wanting to write something like this for sooooo long <3 this will be a series

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who you view as just a silly himbo. You hear his loud laughing downstairs and cannot help but roll your eyes before you stuff your face back into your book. You watch how he steals your brother’s food and childishly insists it’s because he’s ‘growing.’ How he is so hellbent on that damn gym . . . why does he need any more muscle? He has plenty! You would know, you’ve stared at his arms, his toned v-line when he stretches, the way his body flexes subconsciously while he is doing everyday tasks.

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who is the height of irritation with how he jokes and pokes fun at you though. How he ruffles your hair up or snatches your phone and holds it over your head. He’s known you since all of you were kids, it’s his duty to bully you like a big brother would, he claims! You wanna throw something at him. A chair. Yourself.

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who you find to be so annoying, but is such a sweetheart around you! Always asks if you are doing alright, holds doors open and pulls out chairs for you. You snuck out to a party and didn’t want your brother to know and needed someone to come pick you up; Jìngyí was there. He carries the grocery bags for you if he catches you slaving your way along. He’s always there to offer you a lift. Everything. So why do you hate him so? It’s all playful, fun and games, it’s always been like that. Recently, you feel it becoming more genuine. Maybe it’s because. . .

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who has no idea that you have started dreaming about him. About those large, strong hands on your thighs. How they might squeeze and stretch you open. Just like how he’ll stretch you out on his cock. You know that he is big - you accidentally walked in on him changing. You wished your courage won and you threw yourself to his lap. But he’s so stupid! Would he even know how to please a girl?

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who caught you humping at your pillow. Ass flushed to your heels as you scrunch the sheets in front of you. The constant rock of your hips that gave him the perfect view of a wet patch forming on your panties. Were you grinding on a vibe? Seems like it. But what shot straight to his dick is the way you were moaning his name. Laced with cusses, pleads, ridicules. How dare he make you feel like this, how dare he make you want his cock soooo badly?

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who fucks you over that same pillow since you wanna whine so much. He spanks a broad hand on your thigh and yanks you back on every thrust. Watches how your flesh ripples as his cockhead bullies your cervix. He’s even bigger when he’s hard. Meaner too.

“Such a messy pussy you have here baby. She think of me a lot?”

Where’s the stupid, sweet boy you’ve known for years? Behind you. Hips grinding on your ass while his cock splits you open. A part of you wishes you could see how your gummy walls spasm and strain around the base of his dick, coated with a ring of cream at the base.

The vibrator has become his partner in crime. With the way Jìngyí weighs down on your poor, quivering body, your puffy clit humps against the pillow and pink vibe with every thrust. It makes your jaw drop as your drool coats the dark sheets that your fingers fist.

“J-Jìng - hhhh - J- pleeaaaa - hah!” You’d hate to say it, but you are being outmatched. Your pitiful cries are nothing in comparison to the wet squelches and slobbers of your fluttering cunt. She cries for him like he came back from war. Clings to him as though she wants to remember his shape for the rest of her life. And he sees that. He delights in it.

His voice, once hearty and light, now rumbles deep sins as he hunches over your prone position. “Sooooo wet for me. Yeah? Ah, so wet for your brother’s best friend? Yeah baby?” If anyone were to walk in, surely they wouldn’t see you at all. Only Jìngyí’s broad back and flexed arms. His hands cage your head and show the sheets on either side of your face no mercy either. The same way his balls smack against your swollen cunt like a punishment. A cum-filled reprimand.

“Y’know. . . I was beginning t’think youu hated me,”

He huffs out a laugh. Ragged. A groan quickly follows after and his hand retreats from the sheets to instead slam down on your jiggling thigh. Clap! It reaches under and grips onto your squished breast after. All the more leverage to fuck into you like an animal.

He sounds like one too. His heavy pants and deep grunts. “But thas’ not the - ah fucckk such a sweet pussy - not the case, huh? No. . .” His cold lips drag down the heat of your neck. Your scent is a drug he’s already hooked on. What more than to sink his teeth in?

“No. You ‘ere just - just pent up. Just cock hungry.” His chest crushes against your back. His thrusts shallow into messy, ruthless humps. Squeezing silky strings of cum and staining the sheets further. You’ll have to get ‘em all washed unless you want a cross-question from brother dearest.

“G-Gonna c- hic - gonna - Jìngyí - g-gonna ‘um-!”

“Y-You still remember how to?”

Damn him and his teases. Damn him and the way he’s made you dumb on his dick. You’re made acutely aware of just how strong he is. Guess those long-strung gym sessions count towards something.

Seems so with the way he flips you over like you weigh nothing. Brace your legs with his arms and shove them back. All the while his hips keep slamming against yours as though he’ll shatter if he stops. His filthy mouth sure as hell doesn’t stop either. Nice to see he still cannot shut up even when he’s ball’s deep inside of you.

He strikes you a grin. Maroon irises shrunk. He’s attacking your neck with kisses and making you see stars with every pummel of his cock. Every smear of his cum and yours all over your walls.

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who explains it’s because he was ashamed. He thought he overstepped. He didn’t want to hurt you! He loves you, loved feeling you all over his hands and body. Fuck, he’s still dreaming of it. “Please don’t be mad at me - I just - I just . . . want to make sure you okay,” he pouts.

Of course you cum again. He can’t expect you not to when he’s fucking your cunt into next week. This time you claw at his broad shoulders and wretch a sob. In turn he groans and stuffs you full. He simply has to plug you up while you’re squirting all over. With a small click of his tongue and a - “messy girl.”

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who distanced himself after that day. You couldn’t believe it. He pounded you raw and now left like you hadn’t cum on his dick ten times and over? You confront him on it. Bunch up his shirt and yank him down to give him a piece of your mind. He was many things but you didn’t know he was a dog - why is he looking at you with puppy eyes?

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who you ride the face of in the empty gym bathroom as compensation for jumping to conclusions. He was sooo grateful for the sweet taste of your pussy smearing all over his face. You quickly learn that his tongue is just as devious. It fucks up into you like it’s his damn life’s mission. His lips suck on your clit like candy. His eyes roll back as though the mere feel of you grinding down on his face is gonna make him bust then and there - ( it did )

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who has to contain himself whenever he visits your brother. He adores your brother to bits, he does, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the real reason he is visiting is because of those pretty skirts and tight shorts you have suddenly, conveniently, started wearing around the house. He will tell you however. Grunt it in your ear as he gives you a quick fingering over the kitchen sink when he came to ‘help you with the dishes’ while your brother ventured off upstairs after dinner. He makes sure to tell you what a whore you are while his fingers are pumping you to shaky knees and cum on the kitchen floor.

Brother’s friend Jìngyí !! 🍒 : who knows it’s wrong. You’re his friend’s little sister! But he wants you so bad. Needs you even more. He’ll settle for your warm pussy and drooling cries for now; but he wants to take you out on a actual date soon. Maybe to eat. So that he can show you that he wants more than just the squeeze of you around his cock - but your heart as well.

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[anna-the-undertaker]

Demon 1: Hey, you got a second?

Demon 2: Oh, what did you do?

D1: I didn't even say anything!

D2: Just cut the shit and tell me what you did.

D1: Right, yeah, so I just stole this *holds up a bra* from the House of Lamentation and I'm just now realizing there are consequences to my actions.

D2, staring into the distance in shock and horror: You mean you stole that from MC... the human exchange student, is that correct?

D1: Yeah, that sounds about right.

D2: One of the most powerful humans that has ever existed and not only has all seven avatars of sin wrapped around her finger, but also the demon lord himself, Barbatos, Mephistopheles, Solomon, a grim reaper, and multiple angels at her beck and call. THAT MC, is that who we're talking about right now?

D1: Okay, well, I didn't say it was a smart move.

D2: Oh no! No one in their right mind would call THIS a SMART MOVE!

D1: Right, well, I'm sensing a lot of hostility and not a lot of help so... *goes to leave*

D2: Oh, I'm gonna help you, alright! Follow me!

D1: Sure thing....

D2: *opens a window* Out ya go!

D1: But we're on the top floor, I'll die!

D2: DEATH IS A MERCY!

[rodolfoparras]

Oh to be with old man price right now drunk on shitty wine and dancing to hozier in a dimly kitchen.

It’s not every day that you get to see Price this relaxed. Usually his mind is spinning with hundreds of thoughts- wondering if an old man like him is fit for someone young like you, wondering if there is someone who could treat you better than him, someone closer to your age someone who’s not jarred from the years they spent living, someone better looking who you could spend the rest of your life with-

But tonight he can only think about what a lucky bastard he is to have a man like you in his life. He’s got this lazy smile on his face as he pears up at you over his wine glass, and having noticed his blatant staring you can’t help but ask what’s on his mind.

“Nothing” he says, and downs what’s left in his glass. It’s not often he allows himself drink, not ever since his doctor told him to go easy with the beers. His body can’t handle alcohol like it used to and many times it has shown him that. But every once in a while he’ll allow himself a glass, especially on nights like these and he can already feel the alcohol having its effect on him, the tension in his body slowly easing up, and tongue readying itself to say too much.

However you won’t let it go, arms slinking around his waist and pulling him into your embrace

“Tell me” you whine out, into his salt and pepper hair, mindlessly rocking side to side with him in your embrace.

“Keep up with that and I’ll throw up on you,” Price grunts out, eyes squeezing shut in hopes of lessening the effects of the rocking motions but despite his words he sneaks his own arms around your waist , sweat soaked forehead pressed against your chest while he moves along to the music that’s playing in the background.

Your skin feels ever so warm while pressed flushed against his, the faint smell of your cologne and laundry detergent invades his nostrils and standing this close he’s sure he can hear your heartbeat or maybe it’s his very own pulse roaring in his ears.

This is nice, Price thinks to himself, even finds himself humming along to the tune playing from your phone before he starts softly singing to you

“You know you’re bright as the morning, soft as the rain, pretty as a vine, as sweet as a grape “ Price gets so lost in the moment, he doesn’t even notice the amused smile on your face as he continues to sing. “If you can sit in a barrel maybe I’ll wait. Until that day I’d rather take my whiskey neat my coffee black and my bed at three,”

For many years Price thought that death was his ever lasting companion, that God was going to punish him for all the crimes he’s committed, that he’d end up all alone and loveless, with only the Grim reaper taking interest in such a sad and lonely man yet here he was drunk and dancing with the love of his life in your shared kitchen.

He indeed is a lucky bastard.

The gentle touch of your hand on his cheek, snaps him out of the little world he disappeared in and when his eyes flutter open, he’s met with your soft gaze and the warm smile painted on your face.

“What?” He says, and clears his throat, feelings his face turn red as ever

“Nothing,” you shrug, echoing his words from earlier with a small smile on your face and just as he’s about to ask a follow up question, you pull him in for a kiss.

All thoughts disappear as you mold your lips onto his. You mostly tastes of wine and of something sweet, probably the slice of store bought cake you sneaked in as dessert and Price finds himself addicted to it, easily getting lost in the taste, and the feel of your prickly hairs brushing across his chin, all while sweet grunts and groans tumble past your lips.

In that very moment he feels a surge of pride washing over him. See Price may harbor many insecurities but he knows how to kiss and he sure makes it clear as his own hand cups your cheek to deepen the kiss.

It doesn’t take much before he’s slipping his tongue inside your mouth, free hand sneaking under your pajama pants and cupping you in the palm of his hand.

“Oh- oh fuck,” you breathe out in surprise, eyes wide as he feels you twitch under his touch.

“How about we take this somewhere else hm?” Price says, playfully nibbles at your ear before he pulls away from your embrace and who are you to deny such request?

[saturnsorbits]

Bugs and Hisses

Fandom: My Hero Academia, Warnings: Kidnapping, Drugging, Lacking Prep, Con-Non-Con, The Tiniest Amount of Blood, Word Count: 4.9k,

Summary: A Halloween date goes exactly to plan.

A/N: w/a surprise cast.

‘So…’ You run a finger down Sero’s chest, skating from leather jacket, to pressed shirt, to skin. There’s a covering of hair peeking from his collar that tickles as you stroke it, conjuring visions that make you want to know just how far the hair goes. ‘Do I get a second date?’ 

He chuckles, a deep, throaty noise that vibrates the back of his neck. His palms are already cradling your waist, his thumb skating across the fabric of your dress. With each passing second, his composure frays. Fuck. You’d accidentally flashed him your fucking underwear back in the restaurant and he’d been a perfect gentleman and not looked. Well, he’d not stared at least - just tugged at the edge of your skirts and helped you readjust. He cocks an eyebrow, pulls you in tight. ‘Who said the first one is over?’ 

‘Isn’t it?’ You bite back a smile, but it doesn’t work. 

‘My place is like a twenty minute walk -.’ 

Pressing your lips to his, you wink and leave him with the tingling of your apple-spiced lipgloss as you step away. ‘Say less. Just let me text my roommate, tell her not to wait up.’ 

The smile he gives you could light up a room. It’s crooked and too big for his face, but bleeds boyish charm as he rocks back on his feet like he’s just won the lottery. ‘Yeah, yeah. Of course.’ 

You hold up a finger trying to shake the nervous energy bubbling up inside of you. It’s always like this, no matter how many times you do it. You still get giddy. Slipping your hand into a pocket, you snatch out your phone and tap out a quick message. The usual stuff. And, then, you’re back with him. 

His hands are broad and firm, callosed against your palms. He’d told you he was a painter, both commercially and artistically. In fact, some of the canvas’ he’d shown you had been pretty good. Almost as good as the small block of flats he was currently painting ‘Moon Shimmer’ on behalf of an unusually picky client. Slowing his strides so as not to hurry you, he lifts your clasped hands and kisses the curve of your knuckles leaving the stickiness of your lipgloss in his wake. ‘S’not far.’ 

The streets are dark at this hour, with only the jaundiced light cast down from the lamps making your path visible. Still, you’re not scared. Bumping your shoulder against his, you dissolve into a mess of soft giggles when he knocks you back and smiles. ‘I love this time of year?’ 

‘Autumn or Halloween?’ 

You shrug and swing your hands. ‘Both. But, I mean Halloween.’ 

As you near the estate, the decorations begin to crop up. There’s a string of pumpkins nestled in the leaves of a hedge, their mouths glowing with fairy light. In the front garden of the flats is an inflatable ghoul, in the window of a house across the way a model of the grim reaper covered in cobwebs. It’s pretty, quaint in its own pseudo-scary way. 

‘Yeah?’ He cocks his head. ‘Didn’t have you down for someone into spooky stuff?’ 

You bat your eyes at him and bite your lip. ‘No? What did you have me down for then?’

It happens so fast. 

Too fast.

One minute you’re staring up at him with stars in your eyes, flirting with the idea of letting him take you in the street and the next, you’re being held by the throat. Instantly, your hands are at your neck and clawing, desperately trying to free yourself. You kick out and thrash, suddenly aware that your feet are being lifted from the floor leaving you dangling. 

‘Stop thrashing, Sweetheart - Or i’ll do a lot worse to your little boyfriend over here.’ 

The man with his hand around your throat is huge. His chest is barrelled, his arms almost the size of your skull and neither seem strained by the entirety of your weight dangling from his grip. There’s a scar on his face, one that cuts cleanly through his right eye and ends just below his cheek bone. The eye itself has gone cloudy, a white marble nestled in the socket that seems to glow in the low light. Around his threats, his lips seem to shimmer.

You stop, muscles freezing. 

‘Fuck. You can have my wallet, my phone… Just, just fucking take it.’ Sero’s back is pressed to the wall. Despite his lean frame and gangling height, the other man towers over him - a head taller and then some. Although, it’s the blade pressed to his sternum that is doing the job of keeping him still. Stuffing his hands into his pocket, he retrieves his valuables and offers them up, shaking as he does. 

The man laughs. He tosses his head, letting his hood slip backward; exposing a slither of hair. The root is black, an inch of midnight, but after that, fire-engine red sprouts like firelight. ‘I don’t want your shit.’ Smacking Sero’s hand, he sends the offerings to the floor. 

Sero yelps. ‘What do you want?..’ He glances at you, his eyes wide with panic. ‘Just, just don’t hurt us. Okay?’ 

‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ Turning his head, he lets his eyes roam over your body. He looks predatory, with a set of teeth that would put a shark to shame. He winks. ‘Just play with you a little.’ 

The grip around your throat is gone in an instant, abandoning you to collapse to the floor in a heap. You suck air into your lungs, greedily inhale until the blurriness fades from your vision. Scrambling back, you bloody your palms on the floor in an effort to escape, to distance yourself from the man in front of you. 

If he notices, he certainly doesn’t care. Setting one of his large hands loose in his pocket, he retrieves a thin piece of cloth. The handkerchief is red, soft to the touch and monogrammed - an embroidered gold ‘BR’ sitting neatly in one of its corners. It smells of rubbing alcohol and apples. 

‘No. No. Fuck… What the fuck do you want, mate? I’ll do whatever you want.’ There’s a rawness to Sero’s voice now. A broken edge that grates on his throat. Panic swells in his chest. It constricts his lungs and makes his fingers twitchy, his stomach burning on his every vowel as more pleas are kicked up his throat. He glances to you, watches as you scramble backwards and hopes that at least you’ll make it away. 

Flashing his teeth, the man lifts the cloth, pressing it over Sero’s mouth. ‘I told you. I just want to play.’ 

When Sero finally wakes he’s cold. His whole body is curled, his jacket and jeans stripped, leaving large breadths of skin exposed to the bite of the concrete floor. The roof of his mouth is dry, his tongue shriveled, forcing his throat to convulse and spasm. Placing a palm on the floor, he lifts his head. 

The room is dark, unlit apart from a singular light bulb that hangs by its wire from the ceiling. Sero squints. The light puddles at the far end of the room, bathing a fully made bed in clear white. It looks out of place, odd in its decadence considering its surroundings, but it’s there nonetheless and atop it, splayed on its sheets is you. 

Sero’s up. His limbs are numb and heavy, fighting him with every step as he drags himself across the room, but he does it. Collapsing at your bedside, he claws his way to his knees and almost chokes when he notices the state you’re in. 

Thick cuffs wrap your wrists and hold your arms above your head, the chains that connect them securing you to the metal grill of the headboard. Your body is bare, exposed and draped with only the thinnest of shifts to cover your modesty.

‘Oh, no… Hey. Hey. Wake up, c’mon. Wake up.’ He reaches for you, his fingers gracing the curve of your cheek and the plush of your lower lip. Your breath tickles his fingers, makes him sigh with relief. 

Groaning, your eyes flicker open. You swallow and try to sit up. ‘Sero?’ 

The chains keep you down. 

‘What the fuck?’ Yanking on your cuffs, you try to rise again. 

‘Not getting out of those, Sweetheart.’ A smokey laugh trickles from the far end of the room through glistening lips. Leant back in a chair far too small for his frame is the man. He’s shirtless now, wearing nothing, but a pair of black military pants and matching boots that look as though they’ve seen better days. On his knee rests a gun. His arm is relaxed, fingers parallel to the trigger as the butt digs into the flesh of his leg.

 He looks… comfortable.

Sero’s heart stops. He’d awoken at the man’s feet, defenseless, before scampering off to you. He turns his mind away from the thoughts of what could have happened had he not chosen to move. ‘Where are we?’ 

The hair on the back of your neck stands to attention and salutes your demise, the chill slinking down your back to make a xylophone of your spine. You’re shivering, your lack of dress making self-consciousness and self-preservation war in your chest. A scream freezes to your lungs. ‘What are you going to do with us?’ 

‘Me?’ The man relaxes further, the slope of his broad shoulders an upturned bracket balanced on his collarbones. ‘I’m not gonna do anything…’ He lifts the gun, gesturing between the two of you. ‘You on the other hand -.’ 

Sero stands, willing his knees not to shake. ‘I’m not hurting her.’ 

‘Not even a little?’ The man pouts. ‘What if she likes it? I bet she likes it’ 

‘What the fuck are you? Some kind of fucking -.’ 

‘Pervert?’ He spreads his legs, showing off the thick bulge stretching the tension of his zip. It’s massive, the outline evident as his cock sits across his left thigh lazily, leaning into the crease of his pelvis. ‘Something like that.’ 

A snarl twists Sero’s mouth. He’s been in his fair share of fights, come out of them alright too. He swallows, but there’s no way he’s coming out of this one on top. For fucks sake his waist is the same size as one of this guy’s biceps. His heart hammers in his chest, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as he runs a million and one outcomes through his mind. 

‘Don’t even think about it, baby boy.’ The man chuckles. ‘Think you’re quicker than a bullet?’ 

A groan ricochettes around the room, echoing off metal walls. 

You still. Squinting beyond your pool of light, you let your eyes adjust to the din. There, in the darkness are cages. Human sized cells bracket the room, the thick metal bars hiding whatever lingers inside. 

The moan comes again. 

‘Oi.’ Kicking at the bars of the nearest cage, the man silences the occupant. ‘Patience. It’s a virtue, y’know.’ 

Sero steps back. He’s out of his depth. The blood in his veins is cold, his skin frostbitten and pale. In the back of his mind, he writes to his mother - apologizes for not coming home more often, for not teaching his little sister to drive like he promised. He makes his peace, condemns himself to whatever might happen next. ‘What the fuck…’ 

‘We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.’ The man laughs at his own joke, pecs bouncing as he settles himself again. ‘You were going to fuck her anyway.’

‘Please.’ 

Sero’s head snaps to you. You sound terrified, broken… Expectant.

‘Just… Just do it.’ The skin around your wrists is raw and bleeding, but still the cuff’s won’t give. There’s no escape. Your stomach turns, bile crawling up your throat as a tsunami of tears threatens to spill over the basin of your eyelid. ‘Please, just - just give him what he wants. I -’ A tear slips your lid, rolling over the curve of your cheek. ‘I just want to go home.’ 

Puffing up his chest, Sero lays a hand on your arm and soothes you with a swipe of his thumb. There’s a heat under his skin, one that makes something disgusting roll in his stomach. He bites the edge of his tongue. Is he really considering this?  ‘And you’ll let us go if we…’ 

‘Yeah, with not a little hair harmed on your heads.’ 

‘Okay. Fuck. Right. Okay.’ There’s a shake in Sero’s hands when he finally clambers on the bed. It wobbles the mattress, making his progress tricky as he perches above you. Splayed out underneath him, you look beautiful - a Princess in chains, all ready for the taking. His stomach clenches. 

A chuckle. ‘If you need a name to scream, mine’s Riot.’ 

Sero’s stomach flips. 

‘Do you need me to -.’ 

Your voice distracts him, pulling him back immediately. He inhales, smells apples on your skin and lets his body relax. 

You glance between his legs and let your words die on your tongue. You’d been about to offer your mouth, or maybe your tits - something to assist him, but as you watch his cock twitch in the confines of his boxers you realise your service isn’t needed. 

He shakes his head, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth. A tendril of shame wraps itself around the back of his neck and dives, poisoning his organs as it squirms its way to his guts. There it nestles, promising to rear its head again. He coughs, humming through his hesitance. 

‘What?’ Riot laughs, the noise bursting out of his chest as he seems to spread his legs wider. In his hand, the gun jumps. ‘You waiting for lube or something, pretty boy? Because if you need help getting her wet you’re gonna have to get it from the tap.’ 

Craning your head, you squeak when you see it. There’s a wet patch on the front of the man’s pants, the material darkened where the head of his cock bulges. It’s obscene… And so is your body's response. Your cunt pulses, drooling as you feel arousal drip down the inside of your thigh. It makes something roll in your stomach, something deep and twisted and sickly sweet. 

Shaking his head, Sero tries to rattle his brain into shape. His thoughts race, colliding into one another as he attempts to make sense of his imprisonment, but nothing sticks. His chest hollows. ‘I’m gonna… Gonna put it in now, okay?’ 

You nod and lift your hips, watching as Sero takes himself out of his boxers. He gives himself a long, tight stroke, twisting his wrist as he reaches the head and squeezing a droplet of pearlecent pre-cum from its tip. 

His cock is long, peaking an inch past his fist as he glides his hand back towards his base, and slim. A nest of black pubic hair nestles at its base, a series of gently purpled veins snaking from their hiding place to skirt up the underside of his shaft. The head is plump, a brown rose, slick and glistening from his own excitement. He’s pretty, but the thing that draws your eye the most is the trio of bar-bell piercings decorating the underside. Looking at them makes your mouth wet, your tongue an upturned umbrella as you swallow. 

A hand stretches across the turn of your thigh, splaying over the joint as his thumb comes up to swipe at your folds. Holding you open, he feels his lungs stutter as he watches your clit twitch. It’s sickening how he feels his stomach clench, how his cock kicks in his hand and leaks through his fingers. He continues to work himself as he explores. His fingers brush over your entrance, almost dipping in, but never quite breaching you. 

‘C’mon, Pretty boy…’ From the corner Riot sings, his voice silky smooth until it’s not. Boiling in the back of his throat, his words turn to grit as a growl slips through his lips. ‘We haven’t got all night.’ He bends back his wrist, cocking the gun. 

Sero swallows. His Adams Apple bobs in his throat and catches, sticking there as he tries to calm his nerves. He feels frayed, wired as he shifts forwards on his knees and settles down on his haunches. Jutting out his hips, he offers you a smile that is not quite laced with enough guilt before he’s forcing the blunt head of his cock into you.

One minute, you’re empty, your cunt fluttering around nothing, and then, you’re squirming and struggling to take him. The metal of his piercing rubs at your insides, itching at you, digging in and making you want to lift your hips. The lack of prep is immediately apparent. You’re tight, too tight, as he feeds you another inch. Even with his arousal mixing with yours and dripping back down his cock, it hurts. Your skin burns, heart hammering in your chest as you lift your wrists and grip onto the metal chains of your restraints. 

Still, there’s no denying it. 

‘Fuck.’ Sero feeds you another inch and squeezes shut his eyes. It’s too much. The feel of you, warm and wet, is enough to make him falter. For a moment he forgets. He forgets about the man in the corner - his cock hard in his jeans. He forgets about the gun. He forgets about everything that isn’t you. His hips jerk, stomach muscles twitching excitedly as he struggles to rein himself in. The blood in his veins burns, threatening to set his whole being alight. 

‘How’s she feel?’ 

Sero answers. His throat cracks, his words coming out garbled as pleasure leaks over his tongue and fights for acknowledgement. ‘Feels… Fuck, she feels so good. So, fucking wet.’ 

‘Wet, huh?’ A chuckle rocks through the room. ‘How else?’ 

‘She’s…’ Sero moans as he feeds you the last inch of him. Once bottomed out, he relaxes, his rib cage filling once more as he tries to haul in a full breath and fails. ‘Tight.’

‘Yeah? How tight?’ 

‘So fucking tight. So fucking -.’ Dipping his head, Sero locks eyes with you, mouthing a silent ‘You okay?’ as he struggles to contain himself. 

You nod with your eyes half-shut. Each shallow thrust has you feeling him in your lungs. He rocks forward slowly, pressing himself firmly inside of you before withdrawing - only to repeat the gesture again. It takes your breath and makes you wriggle, hips pulling back to stop the fullness as he seems to fill you more and more. The roll of his piercing has you lost, a sea of ecstasy just waiting for you to drown in it. ‘I -.’ You try to speak, but the words don’t come. Instead they transform, leaving you in the form of a pretty moan that makes both men groan back an answer. 

From around Sero’s lithe frame you catch glimpses of Riot. He’s relaxed, his broad shoulders sloping as he lifts a hand to grip the plush side of his chest. A moan shakes his throat as a thumb brushes across his nipple, his eyes flickering from Sero’s back to your face as you roll your head back and moan. 

It should scare you. He should scare you. But he doesn’t.

A broad palm splays across his chest, slinking down the plain of his stomach until it reaches his pants. Tilting his hips, he yanks back the buckle of his belt and cracks the leather. The top button of his pants follows, popped open with a thumb as he dips in and hisses. His cock is hot and hard in his grip, kicking as soon as it meets the rough skin of his palm. Squeezing, he lets a groan vibrate through his chest. The thrum of adrenaline tickles his veins turning him into a live wire, one that’s likely to become deadly. 

Sero continues to abuse your cunt. His thrusts have become sloppy and quick although each shock of his hips still has his cock nailing your g-spot like clockwork. The ache in your stomach has dulled, used to his assault, allowing pleasure to bloom and spread. Wrapping its tendrils around you, you’re dragged closer and closer to an orgasm that is sure to ruin you.

‘You gonna cum on his cock?’ Riot snickers. Removing himself from his underwear, he lets his cock bob against his stomach before taking hold of it again. He’s huge, far larger than Sero, with an upward tilt that makes your mouth water. It bobs there, struggling under its own weight, even with his hand for stability, and pulses when he strokes it with his thumb, spreading pre-cum down his shaft. 

You open your mouth to answer, worried about the repercussions silence would bring and choke on a scream. 

A weight falls over you. Sero’s arms bracket your shoulders, his spine concave as he loses himself to the feel of your velvet walls. Fear and arousal pool in his gut, creating a concoction deadly enough to make him fall. He’s wired, his entire being focused on pleasing as he ruts desperately into you. 

The head of his cock bullies the roof of your cunt, forcing you to feel each pearled metal ball impaled on his shaft. They roll against your walls, making you see static on the insides of your eyelids. Your arms stretch, the muscles in your biceps straining as you thrash against your bonds. The cold bite of the handcuffs marks your skin, couples each of your movements with a starburst of pain that tickles your nerves in a way you’re not sure you hate. It makes you light headed. Around you, the air almost burns - it strokes your skin, licking at the beads of sweat that collect against your curves. 

‘I -.’ Sero gasps. The light disorients him as his eyes snap open. So lost in you as he was, the shock of seeing you again almost makes him dizzy. 

Below him you gasp. With your eyes locked on his, you’re almost able to forget the mess unfolding around you. Arching your back, you press up into him just as he drives down his hips. Your bodies meet, a harsh coming together that almost has your limbs turning to jelly, but you hold on - if only to feel the rush of him again. 

‘I’m gonna.’ Stuttering, Sero’s arms band. 

‘Inside.’ 

Riot’s voice echoes. Closer. Harsher. 

You blink. Riot looms over Sero’s back, his cock is still hard, leaking onto the black of his pants and now, it presses to the fat of Sero’s thigh. A broad palm splays across the small of his back, pressing him forward, forcing his hips flush against yours as he leans in close and nips at his ear growling a singular word: ‘Inside.’ 

Sero spills at the command. You feel it, a rush of warmth before you even have time to protest. Each pulse of his cock brings another thought to the surface leaving no room for complaint. Forced to stay there, you get every drop - feel him fill you until you until his cum begins to leak back out and down his shaft, dripping onto the bed beneath you. 

Sero groans, his body shaking as he attempts to come down from his high as reality hits him like a train. ‘I - Fuck, fuck… I’m sorry. I -.’ 

Riot rolls his eyes. Letting his hand slip up Sero’s back, appreciating the contours of his muscles, he wraps a broad palm around his neck and curls his hand into a fist. He tuts. ‘Well you were a fucking disappointment.’ Using his grip, he launches Sero from the bed and abandons him as he crumbles against the wall. 

You scream. Lurching from the bed, you try and fail to rip the handcuffs from your wrists. The metal burns, cuts deep and dampens your struggle leaving you panting and vulnerable on the bed. 

Riot closer, his cock bent under its own weight and weeping against his thigh as he lifts it to keel on the bed. 

Against the wall, Sero feels his head spin. There’s pain radiating down his spine and spanning his shoulders, making each of his nerves scream as he tries to scramble to his feet. He can see you, chained and helpless, the insides of your thighs still shining with his spend as you lift a leg to kick Riot in the shoulder. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t even slow him, instead, he bares down on top of you to close the gap. Scrambling for purchase on the floor, he fights through the rising bile that threatens to steal his vision and tries to stand. He has to. He needs to get up. He needs to protect you. Needs to…

‘Bakugo.’ The man’s voice is surprisingly sweet when he turns his head and talks to the air, but the smile he offers is anything but. 

Arms emerge from the darkness behind Sero and wrap around his shoulders. The grip is steel, the fingers digging into his flesh tight enough to leave reddened indentations on his skin. He struggles, but it’s useless. He’s stuck fast and tight. Twisting, he turns to sight his captor. 

Bakugo’s eyes are dull. His ruby iris’ are shadowed and hollow, the echo of the bags hanging under them evident in his gaze. Sallow skin stretches across his cheeks, purple and red in all of the wrong places. The skin of his arms is much the same, although the muscle there betrays any thought of malnourishment. His biceps are thick, his hands strong as they pull, holding Sero to the bars of his cage. 

He’s drugged, or something, he has to be. 

His lips are shining. 

He can smell it. Spiced apple. 

Sero struggles. 

Bakugo holds on tighter, pressing both himself and Sero closer together. 

‘What the fuck - What the fuck.’ Sero glances down, feeling the press of something hard and wet at the small of his back. He hadn’t noticed, of course he hadn’t fucking noticed. Bakugo is naked, his cock hard and dripping behind his bars. He tries to pull away, but he should know better by now. There is no escape. With wide eyes, he looks back to you - panic rising in his throat as he swallows the pride screaming at him to save you. 

Riot pauses his assault on you, thick arms holding him up as he hovers above you - a silent threat. He cocks his head, noticing Sero’s blown eyes and slack jaw. ‘Oh, there’s more where he came from.’ Clicking his fingers, he summons movement in the room. 

From the bars of the cages, more arms appear. Another three men step forward with hollow eyes and hard cocks. 

One wears a sleepy grin, his purple hair tousled and twisting from his scalp. Another has coloured hair, red and white, and the body of an athlete as he leans against the bars and stretches out. The third is blonde. Smaller than the other two, he kneels his cheeks pressed to the bars, eyes drawn to Sero’s, now flaccid, cock. 

Behind them, more move. A woman with bubblegum pink hair wraps herself around one of the men, her nipples pebbled. A second appears behind Sero, the smell of her cunt palpable in the room as she smears her wetness across Bakugo’s shoulder. 

All of them have shining stained lips. 

All of them smell faintly of apples. 

‘What the fuck is this?’ Sero yells. His throat is raw, his muscles screaming. ‘What the fuck - How many, are you drugging them?’ 

Riot laughs. He has no intention of answering. Instead, he licks his lips and tastes fruit. ‘They’re all gonna have their way with you…’ 

There’s that smile again, the one that makes Sero feel like he’s being held under a guillotine. 

‘You can have Bakugo last, he’s not the…’ Tongue at his teeth, he thinks. ‘Gentlest. Best you’re nice and pliant before he has you.’ 

Sero’s mouth runs dry. He can feel them looking at him, feel their eyes burning into him, dissecting him like meat. Behind him, he feels Bakugo rut into his back, catching the head of his cock against the cleft of his ass. Then, a sticky kiss is pressed to his shoulder. A gift from the girl. 

He swallows. Hauls in a breath. Condemns himself. 

‘Don’t - don’t hurt her. Do whatever you want to me, but don’t… Don’t hurt her.’ 

‘Awe!’ You twist, roll on your side and cock your head. ‘You’re so sweet’ There’s a pout pulling at your lip, a break in your wonderfully terrified persona. ‘But you don’t have to worry about me.’ 

Riot leans over you and wraps a large hand around your jaw. Holding tight, he yanks you into a beautifully bruising kiss that leaves your lip bloody when he pulls away. 

You smile, and this time - it’s full of teeth. You lock eyes with Sero, just in time to see the last of the hope drain from them. ‘He was right, you know. I do like it when it hurts, just a little bit.’ You giggle. 

Letting the noise ricochet around the room, you reach forward and swipe a small metal fob from Kirishima’s belt loop and press the button at the centre. The screech of metal fills the air, the smell of sickly rotten apple flooding the room as each of the cages opens. 

‘Please…’ Sero begs, watching as people slip into the room from the darkness hunger lingering in their dim eyes. Even Riot shifts, bewitched by your siren’s whim. ‘Please, I’ll… I’ll do anything.’ 

‘Yeah.’ You lick your lips, tasting apple-spice. ‘You’ll do anything for me.’

-> Masterlist

[lovelybucky1]

Dirty Money- Tommy Shelby x Reader

masterlist

warnings: very mild dub-con, guns, canon-typical violence, dom/sub dynamics, humiliation, degradation, clothed sex, office sex, semi-public sex, name-calling, unprotected sex, mentions of prostitution, rough sex

The chatter from the party room (if this occasion could even be called a party) lessened as you made your way down the halls of the Shelby house. The Peaky Blinders were having a celebration- another shady business practice gone in their favor, earning them a large sum of money. You are just a pretty face to the Blinders. You get in close with the arrogant, sleazy men who the Shelbys often have dealings with, get information, and maybe pickpocket occasionally, but that is the extent of your duties.

Your position means you don’t get any of the money they earn from deals; all they provide you is free drinks at the Garrison. The Blinders are just a stepping stone along your path. You knew they had money, and if you could get an in with them, then you could have access to some of that money. And really, who would notice if a small fraction of that money was taken?

Your dress flows at your feet as you creep down the hallway towards the boss’ study. When you reach the door, you press your ear to hear any voices; when you deem it safe, you twist the handle and push it open.

Thanking God the hinges don’t squeak, you shut it behind you and take in your surroundings. The room is dark, the light filtering through the windows from the street is barely enough to see by. You approach the solid oak desk that likely took the whole family to move into the office. Atop the desk are a few letters, a pen, a set of lamps, and a figurine of a horse. The rest of the office is similar; sparse with decoration, but bits of Thomas’ personality shine through.

You don’t know much about your boss, despite interacting with him frequently. You’ve been his date on various occasions, all with ulterior motives, of course. Even when he is acting vulnerable, you know it’s a farce. Everyone knows Tommy Shelby is all about business, and he never takes a day off.

You walk around to the other side of the desk and pull at the top drawer. Inside, only stationary, so you close it and try the second drawer, which is locked. You take a pin from your hair and bend it before inserting it into the keyhole. It’s been a while since you’ve picked a lock, but you eventually get it open without too much difficulty. When you open the drawer, you find two stacks of money sitting next to a gun and a pack of smokes.

You pick up one of the stacks and flip through it. Two stacks, each one thousand pounds. You’d be set for life with this amount of money. You could get out of this shit, smog-filled city, buy yourself a nice house in the countryside, a car. You could have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and it was all in your hands at this very moment.

You were jolted from your fantasy about your future life by the lamp near the door clicking on. You whip around, money still in hand, to face the door. Illuminated by the golden light stood your personal grim reaper, the very man you were stealing from.

Tommy has his hands on his hips, eyebrow raised, and his weight leaned onto one leg. His stance screams what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Your stomach drops when you meet his piercing blue eyes, and a wave of fear washes over you. Tommy stares at you until the weight of his gaze makes you tremble, and only then does he speak.

“I’ve had many people try to get close to me for their own gain,” Tommy pauses just to make you sweat. “But none of them have ever been stupid enough to steal from me in my own home.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you say as if there weren’t stacks of money in your hand.

Your voice cracks when you speak and you’d curse yourself for your lack of composure, but it’s hard to remain calm when you’ve just gotten on the bad side of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.

“No?” Tommy asks. “That’s a good thing then, because if you were stealin’ my money, then we’d have some problems.” Tommy stalks forward toward you, eyes never leaving yours as he crosses the room. He takes the money from your pliant fingers; you have enough sense of self-preservation to not put up a fight right now. He places the money back in the drawer and when you look down, you see his fingertips brush against the gun- a reminder. When you look back up, his face is inches from yours and he is looking down the bride of his nose at you like you’re nothing but a pathetic animal. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re doin’ in here, eh?”

You inhale shakily as you try to come up with a convincing lie. You figure that he will see through any of the bullshit you say, but it’s better than admitting your crime. “I lost my ring and I thought I might have left it in here.”

“You might have lost your ring… in my locked drawer?” He asks, tone suggesting he is simply humoring you.

“If you found it and thought it was valuable, I thought you would put it in a safe place,” you explain, trying your best to look innocent.

“I see,” Tommy says, putting his hand on the desk next to your hip and leaning on it. “Now, if you’re done lying, I’d like to hear the truth.”

You swallow thickly as you resign yourself to the fact that you were caught. “I was taking money from your desk.”

“I’m not fuckin’ blind, am I? What’s the money for?” Tommy asks, voice even and steady, though you know he must be simmering with anger.

“For me.”

“Two thousand pounds, all for you? You have no affiliations?” you shake your head. “You’re not working for anyone?”

“No, sir. I wanted all of this for myself,” you confess.

“Hm,” he considers your words. “I’m surprised you were able to put together this little plan, so I doubt you’d be able to pull off bein’ a double agent all this time.” The way he talks down to you makes you want to hide your face in shame, but in the position he has you in, you have nowhere to go. “What were you going to do with all this money?”

“Move out of the city. Find a place for myself. Start a new life. A good life,” you say. Your tone must have been sincere enough for Tommy to believe you because he seems to relax a little.

Tommy shifts on his feet and he looks distantly over your shoulder as if he is lost in thought. You stare at his face, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You wouldn’t be surprised if he killed you, he’s killed others for much less.

“So,” he starts, “You’re not working for anyone else, but you’re still a thief and a traitor.” His intense gaze is back on you and your skin crawls with anxiety. “I don’t think I have to remind you what we do to thieves and traitors.”

You shake your head, knowing full well the fate that all who have wronged the Blinders have met. They’re not deserving of a quick death; they beg until they are too swollen to beg, they pray until God has been beaten out of them, they break until there is nothing left whole, they bleed until they’re dry. A traitor to the family suffers. They’re a spectacle to keep all others in line.

“But that would be such a waste of a pretty face,” Tommy says, the unexpected compliment makes your heart stutter in your chest. “You always did do good work for me. The races, the parties I went to with you on my arm. Sometimes I wished they were for leisure rather than business.”

You furrow your brow slightly at the admission. “What do you mean, Mr. Shelby?”

“I quite fancied you,” he says with a slight smile. “But then I caught you in my study with my money, and I came to my senses.”

He stands up straight and reaches into the drawer, taking out the gun. You take a step back, frightened once again. He doesn’t point the gun at you, only holds it, but you are still no less threatened.

With a sigh, he speaks again. “I don’t trust you not to bring down the rest of us if I turn you in to the coppers. So because I held such a soft spot for you, I’ll let you pick. I could cut your hand off to make sure you won’t steal again, I can send you far away without a single penny to your name, or I could give you over to the Italians as a peace offering.”

Your stomach drops when he lists off your options. For some reason, you thought he was going to let you get away. But seemingly despite his soft spot, business comes first, as usual.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, there has to be something else,” you say, voice watery with held-back emotion.

“What kind of businessman would I be if I let my employees steal from me?” He asks eyebrow raised mockingly.

Feeling desperation cloud your mind, you take a step forward, despite the gun. You reach out and place your hand on his shoulder, the rough material of his suit jacket rubbing against your skin. He looks down at you, his face a mixture of shock and amusement.

“I will do anything, sir,” you say, voice vulnerable and weak, hoping that will appeal to his baser urges. You know it’s a bold and risky move, but you don’t have many other options.

A laugh escapes Tommy’s throat, a rare and usually pleasant sound when it’s not being directed at you. “Are you looking to add prostitution to your list of crimes?” he chuckles.

“No, sir. I am not a whore.”

“You’re offering yourself up to me like one,” he smirks. “Why don’t we make a deal, then?”

“What are the terms?” you ask, trying to add strength to your voice that you’ve lacked since you saw him in the doorway.

“You let me fuck you like the whore you claim not to be, and you get to keep your job with us,” he says casually like he’s talking about the weather.

“That’s it?”

“Well now, don’t sound so ungrateful. If you’d prefer, I could give you away to those animals out here,” he gestures towards the door. “I’m giving you a chance to keep that pretty smile of yours.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “I am grateful, sir. Thank you.”

Tommy puts the gun down on the top of his desk and closes the space between you. His hard chest presses against yours as he brings his hand up to gently stroke your cheek.

“Greedy little thing,” he says, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. Your lips are parted just so, looking soft and pliant, just the way he loves. Tommy’s hand trails from your face down to your throat, where he plays with the simple goal pendant that rests against your skin.

Tommy leans in and brushes his lips to yours, making your heart stutter and your breath catch in your throat. You can feel a slight smile on his lips before he presses them together in a claiming kiss. He smothers you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When you part, his lips are pink and glistening with a mix of your saliva. His light eyes are blown with lust and you feel small in his arms.

“Are you clean or am I going to have to fuck your mouth?” he asks, the dirty words a sharp contrast to his gentle hands on you.

“I’m clean,” you say, voice no more than a whisper.

The only response you get from him is a shark-like grin. He grabs your hips and pulls you flush to him. Even through the layers of your dress, you can feel the hardness in his pants.

It’s almost hard to believe that right now, Thomas Shelby is hard for you. You’ve imagined this countless times; when you were his arm candy, when he’d drink with you at the pub, and even sometimes in your own home. You never thought you’d actually get to have him in such a way, especially not when it wasn’t for business.

“What are you waiting for, dear?” he asks, looking into your eyes and then down at his trousers.

You lean back, putting enough space between the two of you to undo his belt and unbutton his pants. You take out his cock and give it a few dry strokes. The size makes you nervous; you’re no virgin, but you’ve been so caught up with work that you haven’t been seeing anyone.

Tommy shrugs off his jacket and tosses it haphazardly onto his desk chair, clearly unconcerned that he is wrinkling a very expensive suit. Taking his undressing as a hint, you ask “Should I take off my dress?”

“It’s not our fucking wedding night,” he huffs. He grabs your waist and pushes you towards the desk, You brace your hands on the surface and look back at him while he hikes up the skirt of your dress. He piles the bunched-up fabric on your lower back and bends down to admire the view. “Though these knickers suggest otherwise,” he chuckles, slipping his finger under them.

It’s humiliating to be bent over your boss’ desk while he looks at you like you’re a piece of meat, As much as you wish you were more upstanding, that this whole situation repulsed you, the burn in your abdomen is undeniable. You’re getting off on whoring yourself out to your boss.

Tommy grabs the waist of your knickers and pulls them down, letting the white satin pool at your feet. Now bare to him, Tommy inhales deeply, taking in the scent of your arousal. He swipes his thumb through your folds, gathering your wetness and smearing it on your thigh.

“Mr. Shelby, please,” you whimper.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like me teasing?” he chuckles.

He rubs his hand over your pussy, his cold fingertips burning from the heat of you. You wiggle your hips a bit, silently begging him for more, and in return, he gives a sharp slap to your cunt.

“You forget this is a punishment. I could leave you here desperately and wet for hours and there’s nothin’ you can do ‘bout it.”

You let your head hang between your shoulders with a sigh. You don’t doubt his threat; Tommy can be a cruel man and you wouldn’t put it past him to torture you in such a way. No matter what, though, this is better than the alternative.

You feel a long, thin finger prodding at your entrance and you force yourself to relax. Tommy slowly pushes his middle finger into you, and from behind you, a quiet groan can be heard. He pulls his finger out only to quickly replace it, along with a second digit. The fingers inside of you slowly work back and forth to loosen you. Despite Tommy’s rough exterior and degrading words, when it comes to the act, he’s more caring than you anticipated.

The slow drag of his fingers makes you dizzy, desperate for more to fill you as you open up. Seemingly have read your mind, Tommy pulls out his fingers and places his wet hand on your ass.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Tommy stands behind you, both hands on you, but unmoving. You look back to see him watching you expectantly.

“Do you think I’m just going to give it to you?” he asks. You furrow your brow, not understanding what he’s getting at. “Clearly you’ve never been properly fucked,” he huffs. “Beg me for it.”

Of course, how could you be so stupid? A man like Tommy Shelby loves power and control. He wants to own everything and everyone, especially his conquests. You’ve already submitted yourself to him, but he wants you to relinquish the rest of your pride for him.

“Please, sir, I want it,” you try, the idea of begging for sex unfamiliar to you.

“Surely you could do better than that, eh? I’ve heard the things you’ve told our associates. I know your mouth is dirtier than your pretty white knickers let on.” The smirk is evident in his voice and it makes you burn with shame. The things you tell whatever man you were ordered to seduce were all acting. You separated yourself from it, from them, but now you were doing to be deep in it.

“Please fuck me like the whore I am, Mr. Shelby. I’m yours to do whatever you want with. I want you to forgive me.”

The words feel foreign on your tongue and Tommy seems to recognize that. The grin on his face tells you the begging was more for your embarrassment than his enjoyment.

“That’s better, my little whore,” he says as he grabs ahold of his cock and rubs it through your folds. He pushes in slowly but steadily, easing you into it but not hiding his desire until the head is inside. Like a gentleman, he lets you accommodate the stretch before seating himself fully inside of you.

You lay atop the desk limp and pliant, like you’re a toy for Tommy. He grabs your hips tightly, possessively, before he starts to rock his hips against you. The friction of your ass against his hips doesn’t do too much to satisfy your sexual need, but the feeling of his skin makes you burn from within.

“When you first joined,” Tommy speaks up, “I had to make a rule. Don’t fuck the other members. Never had that problem before, but I knew the boys would tear you apart the second they got the chance.”

Tommy’s fingers press into your skin as he begins to slowly thrust into you. As he did with his fingers, he makes the drag of his cock slow, ensuring you feel every inch of his length. Your pussy gripped him like your body knew you were made for him.

You let out a small, involuntary hum when he reaches the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. You had fantasized that Tommy would be a good lover, but you never imagined that he’d light all of your nerves on fire.

“Fuck, Tommy,” you moan as his steady pace builds up the pressure in your abdomen.

“It’s Tommy now, eh? Where’d those manners go?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby.”

You’re certain Tommy is going to kill you, despite your deal after you disrespected him. Maybe he’d be merciful since you let him have you… or maybe that would make torturing you even better.

“Say it again,” he says, voice gruff with lust.

“What?”

“My name. Say it again.”

“Tommy,” you whisper, hesitant.

His blunt nails dig into your skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind. The speed of his hips increases slightly, but he doesn’t slam into you like some previous partners have. He seems to understand your body; to be rough in some ways but caring in others.

“If I punished every thief like this, I’d have far fewer enemies,” he muses as he slides his right hand up your back, then rests it on the base of your neck. “But you’re lucky.”

The hand on the back of your neck moves to the side of your head, where Tommy presses down. There’s not much force behind it, but your head is pinned to the desk. It’s degrading to have him hold you down, preventing you from seeing what’s to come. His fingers twist in your hair and his trusts become increasingly irregular.

“Tommy,” you whine.

“This cunt’s divine,” he says, and for the first time, his voice has an edge of desperation to it.

“Tommy,” you say again.

“What?” he breathes.

“Fuck me.”

With an airy chuckle, Tommy pulls you closer to him by the hips so you can meet each of his thrusts. Your body jolts each time his thighs slap against yours, completely at his mercy while he fucks into you. You feel him shift behind you and suddenly there is a weight resting on your back. Tommy is leaning over you, holding you impossibly close with his mouth next to your ear.

“You’re my fuckin’ whore,” he says, his hot breath and gravelly voice making your skin break out in goosebumps. “You understand me?”

All you can do is nod, but that answer seems to satisfy him because he is standing back up and fucking you sloppily, a stark contrast to his steady pace from earlier. After a handful of strokes, he pulls out and you’re left cold and gaping on the desk, brain lagging to catch up with reality.

You hear a strangled moan from behind you, and then you feel drops of scorching liquid hit your thighs. You squirm on the desk once you realize what has happened. Tommy Shelby has just come on you, effectively claiming you as his own.

He rests his hand on your back as he catches his breath, chest heaving with exertion. He steps back, out from between your legs, and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with his sleeve. You look back at him with lustful, half-lidded eyes and he gives you a soft smile. You push yourself up so you can stand, and when you turn to face Tommy again, he looks confused.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“We’re done, aren’t we?”

Tommy chuckles and steps forward again, picking your skirt back up and pushing the bunched fabric into your hands to hold.

“You poor thing,” he says. “You haven’t gotten yours.”

His words surprise you. You wouldn’t say Tommy is a selfish man; self-interested is a better term. You expected this to be over once he was finished, but it seems that equal satisfaction is of importance to him.

He reaches between your legs and slips two fingers into your cunt, then rests his thumb on your clit. You gasp when he touches your bud, which is extra sensitive from the lack of attention. Tommy’s other arm wraps around your waist to hold you close, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Tommy,” you whimper when he curls his fingers inside you.

“So fuckin’ good for me. Guess all it took was a cock to keep you in line. God knows I would’ve done this ages ago if I knew. Think about all the times I could’ve had this sweet cunt when I settled for some whore,” he says, voice thick and sweet. “But now you’re mine.”

His possessiveness, combined with the perfectly placed touches under your dress, makes your head spin with pleasure. You let your head drop forward to rest on his shoulder and he pushes his face into your hair. You reach up to grab at his vest, needing something to ground yourself, lest you collapse into a puddle of pleasure on the office floor.

“I-I’m close, sir,” you struggle to get out between moans.

“What do good girls say?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Cum for me, dear,” he whispers.

As if he pulled a trigger, your release washed over you. Your muscles tighten and relax as the waves of pleasure rock you. Tommy rides you through it, not giving up his assault on your soaked pussy until you are squirming and pushing his hand away.

You lean back to rest on the desk as you find your breath and let your skirt drop down to the floor, covering up the mix of cum that wets your thighs. You watch as Tommy straightens out his clothes and fastens his belt, feeling slightly disappointed that you didn’t get to see more of him.

He joins you by the desk, reaching into the formerly-locked drawer and taking out the pack of smokes, as well as a matchbook from his pocket. He lights the cigarette and tosses the burnt match into his ashtray. He holds it with the two fingers that were inside of you and takes a drag, exhaling a plume of white smoke that swirls in the air in front of you. Tommy offers the cigarette to you but you decline with a shake of your head, and he doesn’t press.

“Do you smell that?” Tommy asks, breaking the silence. You sniff the air, mainly smelling smoke but there is the underlying musk of sex, as well as the intoxicating scent that Tommy wears. “That’s business,” he says, answering his own question.

“What do you mean?” you ask, turning to face him.

“We had a deal. I fuck you and you get to stay here, all your limbs intact.” You nod slowly, not quite understanding what he’s getting at. “I’d like to offer you a promotion.”

You perk up at that. Not an hour ago you were certain Tommy was going to shoot you where you stood, but now he’s offering you a higher-ranking position within the Blinders.

“I want you to be my personal assistant,” he says, a slight smirk on his lips. “No dirty work, no men. It’s an easy job, making my breakfast and bringin’ me whiskey, sorting my mail, writing my letters. Making appointments for me, keeping track of my calendar, making small talk with incredibly dull people I can’t be bothered with.”

“So I’d be your maid?”

“If maids get the added benefit of fuckin’ their bosses, then yes, you’ll be my maid,” he grins. “And you know what the best part is?” You shake your head. “You don’t get to lay a finger on my money.”

You look away from him, embarrassed. Tommy grabs ahold of your chin and makes you look back at him, his blue eyes boring into you once again.

“You can live in my house, I’ll buy you fancy things or whatever the fuck you wanted to do with two thousand pounds, and the only thing you’ll have to worry about is cleanin’ the blood from my shirts.”

You pretend to think over his offer, but really, there’s no question. This is better than any life you could attempt to start on your own, and you have the added bonus of being in the boss’ favor.

“I accept your offer,” you say with a smile.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here before you find another thing to steal,” he says, placing his hand on your lower back and leading you towards the door.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hiya! I’m so happy your requests are open omg your writing is impeccable. So I’ve been with this concept in my head for so long since I read this prompt somewhere: what is with your weird fascination with me?

And just immediately my head started creating a story about reader having the nickname ‘Death’ because she has the highest body count known, skilled as no other and, also, imposible to know on a deeper level because she is like a wall, not letting anyone in. Until John Price needs her for a mission and is, as the prompt says, fascinated by her (and feeling other things he doesn’t want to admit), and is able to break her a little when he gets hurt in a mission after months of working together.

Glory to the Reaper

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: He was strange, you admitted to yourself. Always around even when you didn't want him to be. But perhaps the Brit just might surprise you.

WORDCOUNT: 5.8k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, death, gore, canon typical violence, avoidance tactics, fluff, pining, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: I switched around the codename but it's still the same plot! Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your eyes slip over the file on the table, slowly caressing the parchment with easy and careful consideration of every word and comma—searching. Focusing. You hum under your breath and slide the page away to spy on the one behind it, the room quiet and the air cold. Outside the window the entire compound is asleep, only the light of the street lamps illuminating the land; inside this office, your feet barely shuffle over the tuft of the rug.

Clicking your tongue, you go to the next document in the pile. 

The still-warm body flinches and jerks below you, but you barely notice—he hadn’t put up much of a fight; wasn’t memorable. Sighing and itching over the mask along the bottom of your face, you snatch the last six papers from the desk and fold them four times, stuffing them into your vest pocket. 

Stalking with sure steps, you press into the radio on your gear as you step over the body and head to the door. Bloody bootprints follow behind you like a crimson shadow of surefire death.

“Actual, intel secured. Heading to Evac now.” Laswell was listening intently on the other end, your Op of the highest priority. 

You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, surely. The small click from the other end greets you as you shove open the office’s door and saunter down the hallway paved with glints of marble and pools of viscera like a Roman horror story. Eyes numbly slide past the scores of bodies; necks slit and stomachs burst from bullets fired through silencers. 

“Good job, Tomb,” Laswell utters, voice fast and serious as always. “What’s the clean-up status?”

Your lips flinch upward, “I suggest fire and a prayer, Actual. But no one knows I’m here. Main house is neutralized.” 

A small pause later and a huff of dull amusement. 

“Copy, Tomb. Your ride is waiting—best not to miss it, we need you back sooner than later.” The structure of your lungs rearranges in a small chuckle that echoes off the ceiling; molten silver from the moon slips over your darkened form. The patch upon your right shoulder is illuminated in steady intervals, the familiar image of a mausoleum and a guarding Sphinx. 

Alone, that patch is, with no other dark affiliations beyond that demonic cause. Many see it right before they meet their end, but the insignia was entirely left to ruin—no one sees it and lives besides other soldiers.

“Copy.” Your voice is easy and bland as the curtains from the single open window shake in the breeze. “Tell the boys I’m on my way.” You pass the window and slap a gloved hand to it, hearing the squeak of the frame as it hits back down before you turn the corner, slinking away to reform into a figure that evokes grim glances and sliced sentences. 

—

You stare into blue eyes with a sheen of disinterest coating your own, hands stuffed into your pockets and gear heavy on your chest. From your shoulder, the strap of your rifle sits as you speak, tilting your head, “Captain Jonathan Price of Task Force 141.” 

The man was tall, you admit, fit and formed to harsh military life. Undoublity he’d been in the service for decades. You’d seen his face before—the brunette beard and the strong jaw; small eyes with wrinkles, it’s how you had ID’d him. Plus the bucket hat. Laswell had told you he’d been inquiring about your file and you’d done your own digging off the books. 

John grunts a greeting before nodding.

“Pleasure. Tomb, was it?” On the tarmac, you glance around with stiff shoulders as the blades of the helicopter slow down behind you. Morning was just on the horizon, and you hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep on the flight back.

Lips thin, before your vision slides back into place. John’s hands are crossed casually, but his blue holds glints of intrigue. You don’t like that. “...The one and only. Excuse me.” 

Walking past, you move like a crane, legs taking long, steady, strides. A hand comes up to scratch at your cheek through your face covering. Laswell was expecting you immediately. 

And those feet at your side were not supposed to be there. Your eyes shimmer lowly at the shadow of John as he follows.

“Should tell you that Laswell’s in building two, then.” Pace halting, the Captain continues off on his own as your sharp gaze burns into his neck. He spares a glance over his expansive shoulder before adjusting his course to the East. “Told me to bring you to her. We need to have a little chat, yeah?”

You stay silent, watching John travel to the larger building where Laswell was apparently now waiting for you. After a still minute where you listen to the birds waking up and the scent of dew is in your hidden nostrils, you sigh deeply and roll your shoulders before beginning to walk behind. 

“Hm,” Garbled grunts are only heard by you as you stay well enough back from the man. Cautious as you stare at his head. 

He holds the door open for you when you finally make it, and you stand blankly from the opening as John’s calloused hand clenches over the door. When you don’t enter, the Captain shakes his head and releases a deep chuckle. 

“Alright, then,” he mutters, shuffling through the door first. You follow the strain of his back until you look away and reach for the barrier, pushing it back from you. Making your way inside, you sigh and wonder what you’re getting into. 

“Laswell said you don’t like strangers,” eyes peek back at you as the buzzing from the overhead lights echoes in your ears. Your throat releases a hum; shoulders showing a picture of wound ease. “Can’t say she’s wrong, now can you?”

Watching another soldier pass the two of you, you tilt your head to make sure the stranger’s footsteps turn the corner before you answer John’s question with a raised brow to mirror his own. 

“Did she also tell you that I don’t plan on joining One-Four-One, Captain?” His bearded smirk catches you slightly off-guard, perplexed by not even the hint of shock in his gaze. He’d done his research.

John grunts as his eyelids narrow, amused. Your muscles tense.

“Affirmative.” The meeting room door is opened and this time he allows you to ease your paranoia by slinking in first. 

In the room sits an occupied Laswell, a long table, a projector, and black-out windows. Confused but used to last-minute changes, you simply enter silently and pick a chair with your back to the wall and a good view of the room. 

“Laswell,” you utter in greeting as the woman hums a hello, shifting through numerous files. In your breast pocket, you pull out the files you’d stolen and toss them onto the wood. John stands near the entrance with crossed arms, hips shifting every so often as his feet re-situate themselves. 

He blinks down at the papers and then back to you with a careful glance at Kate.

Your Station Chief chuckles when she looks at you, tilting her head before she snatches the prize. 

“Good work as always, Tomb.” 

“Why is he here?” You get to the point, one hand going up to brush over your hair as the other sits limply on the seat’s arm. Your gear sits heavy on you, but that brutal tic of curiosity blooms. 

John’s lips twitch before he answers, “An offer. Knew I wouldn’t be able to meet if Laswell wasn’t the mediator, eh? You’re bloody difficult to track down.”

“Offer?” Small talk never mattered to you, hadn’t since you’d signed up, and probably never would. You didn’t understand why people beat around the bush—just say what you need to say and get it over with. There was only so much time in a day. 

It seemed John Price carried part of that opinion as well. 

Blunt, you admit to your opinion of the man, and sure of his strengths.

“I need your skill set.” Kate looks back and forth between you two before she focuses on her work, multitasking. John continues, pointing a hand at you in demonstration from their hold on his chest. “Mission in three days. Turkey…” He watches you closely as if gauging your abilities. “You in or out?” 

You wait in a dim silence for a minute or two before you tilt your body to Laswell, eyes still stuck in stormy blue and pale wrinkles inlaid with dirt. 

“Kate?” 

“Totally off the books,” the woman says confidently, pen sliding over paper. “Two targets in Bursa. There’s a file in your office.” Raising a brow, John hides his cheeky smile behind a bored mask.

“Take your Lieutenant,” you glare, “Ghost, was it?”

Price shakes his head, hat flinching along with it. “On assignment. I’ll need an answer today, Tomb. Time’s ticking.”

Your jaw clenches in annoyance, “Capture or kill?” 

John shrugs nonchalantly, “Either. Is this a yes or a no?”

In this game of cat and mouse, you find yourself slipping. Your obligations as a soldier call to you to take the mission immediately, but for the simple fact that this Captain was unknown to you—and apparently, you weren’t unknown to him. 

John was checking all of the boxes of people you didn’t like to be around.

Your voice grits out, eyes burning in their glare, “...When?” 

His smirk makes you want to storm out.

“Tomorrow. 1300.” The air in the room is thick, tense like a thick layer of molasses was overtop everything. Under the table, your foot taps to the steady beat of your heart, your face tensed, and the layers of your facemask suddenly too formed to your neck and chin. 

Twitching your nose you dig your eyes into John, peeling down his expansive shoulders and chest to take in the layers of packs and other miscellaneous items. His thigh holders and the way they hug his legs. You end with one last dead-on look into his eyes, trying to pinpoint intentions and flay the lines of his brain. 

Most people glance away, but John returns the look with a casual tilt of his head and a raised brow. Not at all off-put. 

Your hand steadily clenches over the chair. 

All you give him is a firm nod—nothing more than a mere jerk of your chin. Kate sighs from where she’d been watching. 

“Perfect. John,” she points her pen at the Captain as you both stare off. John grunts before his eyes flicker to the side, leisurely roving back moments later. You blink and rub your forehead. “You have your answer. Now would the both of you get the fuck out of here?”

“Copy, Kate.” John sighs, and you huff; standing as you plan out the amount of time you have to clean up and sleep before you have to leave. With an easy brush of your shoulders, your form shimmies past the Captain with dull enthusiasm. 

You weren’t happy about this, but fine. You’ve been through worse. 

As you shuffle down the hallway to the armory, your ears quirk when the footsteps ring in the drums of your ears like a hiking beacon. Already you’d memorized the walking pattern. 

The thump-bump, bump-thump, of boots and the clink-clank of metal on metal. Shoving down a growl you hiss out into the air, not turning around. 

“Problem, Price?” A gruff humph bounces. 

“Negative, Tomb.” His shadow comes to conjoin with yours, large body standing side-by-side. Eyes flash to the side of your face, hidden from all by the cloth—like a bored cat, you continue to pave your way to silence; hoping whatever thought this man had in his head would disappear. “Just curious, see.” 

“Curious?” your brow raises, the make of your muscles showing your unease. “Can’t help you with that.” 

“No, probably not, eh?” John grunts and reiterates as strange emotion spikes in the lines of his face as he glances along you. “Tomorrow. 1300. Don’t be late.” With nothing more, he halts and pivots, peeling back to leave your side as his sudden absence leaves you devoid of heat. 

Confusion breeds in your chest, but your steady legs carry you on until your tension leaves. Under your breath you utter a question as you enter the armory, shuffling your rifle off of your chest. “What the hell was that about?”

—

Price and you stand inside the safehouse with fast hearts and narrowed eyes. Blood was dripping down your hands, the black gloves flooded with gore that sure as hell doesn’t belong to you. 

“Fuck,” John growls, guttural reverberations echoing off the walls. With stiff ribs, you go and lightly peel back the fabric of the nearest window to study the street below; looking for any suspicious figures. Frowning, you see nothing and let the curtain fall, eyes wafting to the Captain. 

“We either lost them or they have surveillance on the building. Best for you to not leave either way.” The mission had gone sideways—apparently one of the targets had an ID on John as a member of One-Four-One. One thing led to another and resulted in you sticking a knife into some man’s gut to get away when he’d been spotted. You blink at his agitated expression, the black beanie on his head ruffled as he runs a hand over it.

But you don’t say anything else. Peeling off your gloves, you listen to him as a rain of blood splatters the carpet. 

“This sets us back—since when does bloody fuckin’ Metin Baydar know who I am?” John’s hands are clenched, jaw so tight you wonder if his molars will crack under the pressure. A smirk twitches your lips at the thought. “Tomb,” you slowly tilt your eyes to him. The man sets his lips and crosses his arms, the brown casual wear in his chest bunching. “I’ll need you to be my eyes on this, yeah? If I leave this position I jeopardize your safety.”

“My safety?” you huff a laugh and push your gloves into your loose pants. “Captain, I don’t need you to worry about my safety.” 

He seems to pause for a moment, and with a shake of his head his blue eyes shutter closed. A deep, tight, breath is taken and those tiny lids are forced back as you lock gazes. You send a blank look his way and he nods firmly.

“Keep low.” Is all he grunts, feet standing apart and his stare intense. “Copy?” 

A swirl of amusement dances in your gut—you tap the earpiece in your shell with a stained streak of blood on your fingers. John stares, unreadable.

“I’ll leave when the streets cool. Just keep on the line so I can relay my intel, Price.” After a moment of silence, your eyes tighten with intrigue. “How do you wonder Baydar knew your face?” Standing by the window again, you peek out and keep John in view. His form shuffles, and he scoffs before walking beside you. Over your shoulder, he also views the buildings and businesses below. You still at the sensation of his breath on the back of your head, hand twitching over the curtain. It ruffles your hair for a moment before you snap out of it, eyes blinking rapidly. “Your Task Force isn’t exactly known,” you finish your sentence, voice strained. 

Clearing his throat, as if realizing how close he’d gotten with only the intention of gazing outside, the man’s form jerks back; taking a step or two away to give you distance. Your far-gone eyes blankly continue to look outside but your chest gains some tension to it. You don’t know why.

This Brit is strange. You frown, watching a cat traverse the concrete far below. Not that I really have much to go off of. 

“Haven’t a clue.” John sighs again, one hand going to itch at his chin. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing I do know is that we have to fix this. Now.” 

“You should tell Laswell,” you mutter, turning around and walking past him to stand around your packs—all of which hold your gear. Your knife was set into a small sheath inside your shirt, leather wrapped around your waist as you stopped near the coffee table. You pull the lip of your clothes up and grasp at it before peeling the metal out with an inquisitive eye. 

If there was any breakage to the tip, you’d be furious. 

John watches from across the room, catching glances at your bare skin riddled with scars and burns; unmarred flesh foreign. He feels his breath hitch before you drop your shirt back down and bring the blade into the light. 

Holding it parallel, you gaze along the edge and tilt your head, eyelids half-closed. 

“Kate?” Price answers you, clearing his throat. “No, it’s better not to create any more shite. She’ll be good off not knowing, yeah?” The brunette’s brow raises in question.

You hum and don’t reply. 

The rest of the mission was spent with the two of you conversing over the open line of your comms as you scoured the streets for any sign of the target, feet carrying you over the city as the chill of the late afternoon set in. Presently, you didn’t know how to feel about your situation. Working with others was a strain on your focus—on the walls you’ve built up; John had obviously noticed that you didn’t exactly play well with others. It was plainly stated in your file, after all. 

“—attitude, or lack thereof, is a detriment to the structure of any team/unit/platoon that she is placed into under all circumstances. Recommended reserved operations to limit drawbacks.” 

Having a pleasant attitude wasn’t your job. 

Stalking around the corner, your ears twitch to John’s voice. “Sitrep, Tomb. What’s it looking like out there?” 

It was strange, then, that the man over the line was so eager to speak to you. Your sigh hits on deaf ears, and you respond as you carefully walk past civilians making their way home.

“Quiet. No sign.” The silence re-settles and you gradually loosen again. Like a cat, your ears twitch to hear the muttering from the commuters; eyes sliding with watery film across faces. 

Baydar owns a restaurant as a front for funding terrorists. Anyone exiting from this direction could be part of it—

“You said you’d never join One-Four-One,” John’s voice makes you shove down a flinch, ripped out of your focus. In your pockets, your hands close into fists, and a deeply annoyed mask fits itself over your expression. “Why’s that, then?” 

“What is this?” Your voice goes cold, “interrogation time?”

“With a record like yours, you’d get pick of any Task Force or SOF in country.” The Captain seems to ignore your hiss and jab as his deep voice continues; accent low. You hear the drag of a cigar and the puff of smoke. Internally, you’re thankful for the casual yet attentive acknowledgment of your skills—how the man doesn’t seem in the slightest worried about you. “Why is it that you’re always alone out ‘ere? Couldn’t wrap my head ‘round it, truthfully.” A tobacco-slick chuckle, “Bloody hell, people would kill to get you on a mission like I did, eh? No doubt.” 

For a long time, you don’t answer, leaning against the wall across from your target’s restaurant doing recon. Frown tight and face stiff. John’s voice fizzles. 

“Ah, fuckin’ forget it Love, just a man’s curiosity speaking for ‘im. I’ll leave you to focus.” Before the line can click, you open your lips—as if the things have a mind of their own.

“People are unpredictable.” The Captain’s breath is gently puffing over the line. He listens and you know he hangs on every word; it was a strange feeling to know that. From under you, your feet shuffle. “They do things that don’t make sense. I don’t like dealing with it.”

A grunt. “Well, can get behind that…” John had a smirk on his lips, you can hear it. “You’d lose your head if you met MacTavish.” 

Your focus waning, you blink, getting sucked into this strange interaction with an even stranger man. 

“Yeah?” You wonder, head tilting to the side. “One of yours?”

“Hm,” he affirms and the chill of the night caresses your skin. John chuckles. “Sergeant. Bloody good shot, but can get into trouble faster than his fucking gun can fire.” 

Your mouth quirks. “Sounds horrible.”

“Makes my job a living hell,” John admits and you shock yourself by listening. “But no one better to keep by my six…You’d ease up to him.” 

“I’m not joining, Price,” Your voice mutters out like how a dragonfly snaps its translucent wings on still air. “This is it.”

In the safehouse, John hums under his breath, staring out the window at the blinking lights of the city as you watch the restaurant with far-off thoughts. A smile twitches his lips. For some reason there was something about you he wanted to figure out—something to unravel. You were like Ghost sometimes, but more… fascinating. Darker.

And you knew how to get the job done better than anyone.

John wanted you on his Task Force, your expertise, and the only way to get that was to take you apart like a puzzle of razor blades. Study you. Learn you as the edges cut up his flesh. The Captain had no idea what picture you’d make when everything was in its proper place, but he’d be willing to try with the very tenacity that had gotten him this far. 

But there was something else there, too. Some kind of tightness in his chest when you looked at him; he'd gotten it when he’d seen you on the tarmac back not so long ago like some schoolboy. Those blank eyes of yours…why did he want them to light up? 

Why did he want to see your laugh? 

John wasn’t immature enough to not know his own feelings or attractions, but this was an entire section of its own. Blinking, the man grunts to himself and smirks. “Well, better make it last, then.” 

You feel your eyelids carefully pull in surprise. 

“I…” Your voice starts but dies off, swallowing saliva down as your mouth clacks shut with a connection of teeth. Closing your eyes, you steady your heart, which had suddenly created a concerning skip in its beats. 

John places the cigar back to his lips and takes a long drag, leaning out of the window to watch the smoke disappear into the twinkling lights. Lips peeling his beard hairs back.

—

As it turned out, the mission in Turkey wasn’t the only time you’d have to deal with John Price, and it certainly wasn’t the last time you’d see his face in front of yours. One mission turned into two—two into three and so on. You hadn’t exactly wanted it, but you found you couldn’t turn him down either. 

At whichever base you were stationed at, all of a sudden he’d just show up; standing on the tarmac with his arms crossed and that casual set to his shoulders. The first time you’d seen him after Turkey, you had half convinced yourself he was a mirage. And then he’d smirk at you and tilt his head and you’d have no control over your words. 

It was pathetic…disgusting…it was…it was…

You shake yourself back to the present when a bullet whizzes past your head, a sharp call from across the utter warzone you’d found yourself in the middle of.

“Tomb, what in the hell’s wrong with you?!” John’s voice is harsh, and you lock onto it. “Get your gun up!” 

You sigh, unperturbed. Peaking past the large crate you use as cover, your eyes glare at the enemy soldiers across the dock, fixing your finger’s position over your M4A1. The small unit you’d been dragged into by John was mostly dead—only four of you remaining from the ten.

It wasn’t supposed to go down like this. 

Jerking back, a splintering of wood explodes in front of you as the next fast piece of metal nearly takes your nose off. With a grit of your teeth, you flick your safety off and swivel your shoulders. 

Popping from the top of the crate, your sharp eyes lock onto the first visible body before you press your finger to the trigger with practiced ease as the word shrieks all around you. Recoil is eaten into the padded kevlar of the junction of your shoulder and arm. 

When you dart back, the body has yet to hit the ground. 

“There she is!” John calls, and you look forward with a steady stare as the brunette laughs from behind his own crate a few feet away. “Keep your head in the game, Tomb.”

You frown, normal facemask back over your chin hiding it. While you loathe to admit it, John had grown on you in these…what was it…? Months? Yes, that seemed about right.

Months of joint missions. You could hardly believe that he’d dragged you out like this.

“Tell the others to flank,” Your voice whisps over the line like smoke, “Left side—there’s a gap in the crates.”

John looks you in the eyes and blinks, eyelids twitching. With his beard covered in gunpowder, the man looks across the open space between the gunbattle to the left. Sure enough, right before he’s forced to snap back down to cover, the Captain spies a very well-hidden gap in the defenses.

He smiles viciously like a dog, and barks a laugh to you, nodding, “Good eye! Boys,” the two don’t pause their assault but call their questioning voices over the line. You don’t listen, occupied with giving off bursts of gunfire and trying to avoid the eyes of your fellow dead soldiers. Your lungs are compressed inside of your ribcage like prisoners. “Flank left. We’ll cover you!” 

“Sir!” Steadying your breath, you avoid John’s confused glances and scoff to yourself, resituating your clammy hands. 

When all’s said and done the four of you are the only ones left. Letting your gun sit on your chest you use the body as an armrest, allowing it to hang off the side from the trigger-guard. Your fingers twitch, and as John speaks to the two men, you stare silently at the gushing bodies of your fellows like phantoms spring from their chests.

John’s voice slows when he sees you apart from them, glancing at the soldiers at your feet before ordering the remaining men to get to the evac point. They try to argue everyone should be going together, and on all accounts, they’re completely right, but John won’t hear it. 

“Go—that’s an order.” Reluctantly, the two glance at each other and speed off. 

You jolt at a call of your name, head turning to face stormy blue as they gaze at you with concern. Stopping a few feet away, John stands still and folds his arms, face going rigid with concern as he glances you over for wounds.

His head slightly leans in, chin down.

“...You alright?” Hand flinching, you clear your throat. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You ask, fixing the position of your feet and forcing away the images of dead bodies and blank eyes. 

You’d seen scores of men dead before—friend and foe—but you had thought you’d never have to see more of your own fall. It had been a long time since you’d felt the distant lull of numb horror in the back of your brain; like some ocean wave that drowns you under every time it comes back. It always comes back. 

John narrows his eyes and frowns deeply, glancing around and hiding the slight way his right arm sags. 

“Tomb?” He says it so lowly that you really have to focus, ears straining. That gravel was back, and you found yourself latching onto it. “Eh, you just focus on me, yeah? I’m right ‘ere.” 

“I know,” you snap, eyes shuttering away only to find more vacant stares. You flinch back and look up into the sky; a sudden burn in your brain that you need to quell.

The man grows even more concerned with you, taking a step forward and clenching his jaw. He studies you, your shaking tension and the clench and loosening of your fists—attention always on you but roving to the dead men all around. Something clicks with a violent inhale.

John moves to you without a word and grasps you around the shoulders quickly. You gasp at that, immediate reaction to shove away, but only gape at the warmth that he brings you instead—the steady presence and chest to lean on. As the Brit drags you, you focus instead on calming your breathing. 

The Captain lightly shimmies down your facemask and you suck down tight air as you go limp into his side. 

“C’mon, Tomb. It’s alright. I’m here. I’m right here.” He’s muttering to you, disguising his pained grunts in favor of taking care of you. 

That strange affection for you had grown in your time together…not that he’d said anything. It was more proper of him to watch out from a distance, not sure of your own feelings or the probability of you gazing back at him with the same amount of concealed longing. Many a night he’d sat on his bed and wondered. Wondered how an animal so extraordinary and remarkable took the form of a woman with a black sphinx patch and sharp eyes. 

John had heard you laugh once through your expeditions together—sniping in Greenland. Once had been enough; if he never heard it again, he could still recall the pitch and frequency to the yawning of his soul. He didn’t need to hear it again. 

It was locked into the fabric that made up your skin and speech, and every time he stared at you he could find it in your eyes. 

The Captain puts you down near a crate around the corner, letting you lean into it as he turns and captures your neck from either side. You shake under him, blurry vision stuck to his dog tags as they wink against his chest. 

“Tomb,” John says again, and with a lick of your chapped lips, you carefully turn your head up. Blue eyes crease worriedly. The thumbs on the sides of your neck caress up and down your rapid pulse steadily; calluses creating stimuli. A small smile meets you. “There we are, atta girl. Focus.”

Tears dribble down your cheeks, and you flatten your lips, whispering out brokenly, “I said I don’t like teams.”

John’s heart breaks. 

“Oh, Sweetheart,” his hand captures the back of your head and you’re brought into a deep and firm embrace—gear pinching and prodding but neither of you care. 

When was the last time you’d been held like this? The feeling makes your mouth quiver, your face stuck into the junction of the Brit’s neck and shoulder.

“John…” You whimper out and his arms around you only tighten—his tense nose shoved into your scalp as his eyes closed tightly. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, heart racing, “I’m so, so, sorry.” 

You don’t know long he holds you there, the air filled with blood and death but just so soundly resting atop his vest and limp to his gentle swaying. The tears dry at some point, they always have to. Sniffling, your burning face takes in the scent of beard oil and gunpowder and you find yourself calmed by it.

Calmed by John. 

The man holding you waits a moment more before he slightly leans back, staring down at you intently; nervously. You lick at the tears drying into the line of your mouth to taste the saltiness on your tongue as fingers grasp at your chin. 

Angled up, your face is on full display. 

John sighs and the drowned keratin of your lashes flutters, embarrassment flooding you. His eyes crease before his hands come up to take away your sorrows with a soft brush of his digits. The man clears his throat tinily, voice deep with emotion.

“Better?” Your eyes dip away from his, knowing you’d been staring. 

“I…” Glancing over his right shoulder absentmindedly, you only get a word off before you see a fountain of red. Blinking away the last of your tears, John’s finger on your cheek stops moving as you freeze—stiff to the touch. 

His panic spikes again. 

“What’s going on—”

“When did you get hit?” Your voice is hard and laced with something you can’t name. Shaving back from John you frantically grab at his arm. In an instant, the Captain is whirled around and shoved back into the crate; he grunts loudly, eyes snapping wide.

“Fuckin’ hell.” He grumbles, but flinches when you peel at the bloodied layers of his compression shirt. John smirks, letting your touch rove him as your nose scrunches. He represses a shiver at the bite of your nails, whispering out, “If you wanted to throw me ‘round, Love…all you had to do was ask.” 

You blink rapidly and turn your fast gaze to his eyes as you stutter, fingers covered in blood and holding apart the fabric of his outfit to show a bullet graze to his pale upper bicep. John’s cheeky smirk grows and against all the pain and the dark corners, you feel a bubbling in your gut. 

A small chuckle snakes out, like twinkling bells. 

“Shut up,” your smile leaves him breathless, smirk falling to a small open-mouthed screen of obvious admiration. A hum marks the back of his throat, eyebrows loosely curving upon his forehead. 

You look over and find him like this—his gaze trapping you like his arms had. Like music, it takes you into its melody. Staring, your smile, gradually too, leaks out. 

“What are you doing?” Your question is breathy. "What is your fascination with me?" John’s eyes stick with you, the shining, shimmering, blue. There are tempests held there and if this man was anything, he was a storm of intentions and promises. 

“Looking,” John answers lowly. "Just looking." 

You take down a breath, “At what, John?”

He chuckles at you, face close and pleasant, “Y’know, I haven’t quite figured that one out yet, Love.” 

Blindly you wonder how the world can still turn while you both stand here—was it, even? How can life go on when such things are uttered to light? When they’re buried deep into your marrow like the dirt on top of a grave? 

How can the Reaper knock at your doorways when love exists in such quantity…in the fractures of his eyes? Only when his lips brush yours do you understand. 

It’s all here, and then it’s gone. Nothing can truly be as it was in the past, and therein lies the small, glorious, deaths. Both a blessing and a curse.

Your lips press deeply into one another and the blood of old wounds dries. 

TAGS:

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[daveth-isnt-dead]

Tentatively

Summary:

You don’t want to tell him the truth, that most of your friends have grown up and don’t talk to you anymore, that while you love your family it’s too difficult to find time to travel and see them, that you are incredibly lonely.

Contains: Fem Reader, Death Mention (but only as much as you would expect given the source material) Word Count: 2,235 Read on AO3

You still feel strange a few hours after leaving the chatroom. Grim, who despite all evidence to the contrary, is actually the Grim Reaper, left pretty abruptly after telling you there is something incredibly wrong with your soul and you are unsure if you should be concerned or offended about the whole thing. 

After a disappointing meal of microwaved leftovers and an attempt at enjoying a relaxing bath despite your apartment’s abysmal water temperature, you find yourself laying back on your bed and staring up at the all too uninteresting ceiling as you wait for your hair to dry. The window above your desk is open and the cool breeze is pleasant, but you’re already getting the sense that you will have trouble getting to sleep tonight, despite Grim’s uncharacteristic insistence that you get some rest after today. 

There’s something so lonely about these summer nights, lonely enough that you find yourself scrolling through your contacts list, looking for someone ( anyone ) to talk to. Calling your parents this late will only make them worry, and all of your friends from uni have much better sleep schedules than you do and will already be out cold. You toss your phone onto the vacant pillow beside you and let out a sigh, that really only leaves one option. 

Hoisting yourself from the bed, you walk over to the desk and grab your laptop. Quickly tapping open the chatroom app and turning off your camera before hitting the call button. You push your lamp and pot-plant out of the way to leave room for the laptop on your bedside table and lay back down as you wait for an answer. 

You spend the first seven rings worrying that he won't pick up, by the eighth you are proven wrong.

“I thought I already told you to go to sleep.” He says in lieu of a greeting. 

All the lethargic energy in the room suddenly dissipates, and your mouth tugs up in a smile, “Hello to you too”

“I was being serious.”

“Yeah, but you aren’t my boss.” He huffs, “I am your reaper.” “Oh?” You reply, smirking to yourself, “ My reaper, are you? Just mine?” “No! I- I’m just assigned to you. That does not mean-”

You laugh, “Sorry, sorry. I’m just teasing, thank you for picking up, I mean it.” It’s quiet, but you swear that you hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the call, “I- well, I just wanted to be certain that you were not suffering any side effects from the soul connection.” He clears his throat, “You…aren’t…are you?”

“I’m having trouble sleeping, but I don’t think I can blame that on you. I suppose I feel a little jittery? But that makes sense given my emotional state right now.” “What is it?” “What’s what?” “Your uh- your emotional state.”

“Oh.” You say, feeling your heart beating a rapid tattoo behind your ribs, “Well, I dunno. I’m a little overwhelmed, I suppose. I really just thought you were an edgy cosplayer, and I mean, you still are but you are also literally the Grim Reaper, so I’m still just dealing with that I guess.”

“That is perfectly normal, then. Though you should have been feeling frightened the moment I contacted you, your reaction was quite delayed.” “Hey! I never said ‘frightened’ I said overwhelmed! That’s a completely different emotion.”

He chuckles, “Unable to stop thinking about me, then?” “That also isn't what I said.” Though, he isn’t entirely wrong, “I’m just worried about how I'm going to focus at work tomorrow when I’ll be spending the whole day looking over my shoulder to make sure some white-haired twink isn't about to commit murder upon me.” 

“White-haired what? ” “Twinnnnk~” You reply, “Look it up, I’m sure that will keep you busy for a few hours.” “I hardly need to be kept busy , I have important work to do.” “Like stealing my soul.” “Yours and others, I do not just follow you around all day.” He says dryly, “You are not that important. Also, I will not be murdering you. I am pushing you in the correct direction, one you have stubbornly been avoiding for far too long.” You hum quietly to yourself, reaching out to pat your cat where he sits next to you on the bed, “How was I meant to die anyway? Just out of curiosity, since you seem to know everything about it.” He doesn't answer for some time, and the deafening silence makes you regret even posing the question. 

“Do you really want to know?” He finally asks, “Most people never find out, because unlike you they die when they are supposed to.” “Hit me with it, Grimmy.” He groans, “Do not call me that.” then you hear him sigh, deeply, contemplatively, “You were supposed to die of food poisoning.” “Oh.” You reply, feeling your heart sink a little, “Damn, that sucks. That’s so…boring”

“Death often is.” “I guess, well, I guess I was hoping that the way I die might be interesting at least. What food would have poisoned me anyway?” “Ham sandwich.” “Yikes. Was the ham poisoned or something?” “No, just expired. On a related note, you do need to clean out your fridge more often.” He’s right. Your fridge is pretty nasty, and it kind of always has been. It’s a very low priority on your list of tasks.

“Grim?”

“Yes?”

You swallow, unsure how to phrase the real question hiding in the recesses of your mind, “could you…I dunno, kill me gently, if it comes to it? I mean, I just-“ you roll over onto your side, making eye contact with the black screen of your laptop, “If I have to die, I don’t want it to hurt.”

There’s silence for a moment, and then he replies, “I don’t want it to hurt you either.”

“That’s…sweet, Thank you.” “Lacking desire to see you suffer does not make me sweet , it makes me considerate .” He sighs irritably, “More importantly, does this mean you’re finally willing to hand over your soul?” You laugh, “ No! I just- I dunno, I had a weird day and I'm feeling kinda existential now.” You look through your window, staring up at the night sky, “Do you feel that way sometimes, or is it just a human thing?”

“I do not see how that’s any of your business.” “C’mon, Grim. Just play along for once, get silly with it.” You hear him huff on the other end of the line, you can picture the exact pouty face he must be making right now, “I have been a reaper as long as I can remember, and will continue to be one for the rest of my life, there is little for me to be existential about.”

“Hm.” 

“What?” He says brusquely, “What are you ‘hm-ing’ about?”

“The thought of having one job for the rest of my life is exactly the sort of thing that makes me existential, that’s all.” “Well you don’t have to work at the same job for the rest of your life, so what exactly are you complaining about?” “I mean, the rest of my life might only be a few more days.” You say, “Provided you win our bet of course, which you will not be doing.” “Do not doubt me, Sunshine. You may come to regret it.” You giggle, “Doubtful.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end of the call, you can only assume that he is also lying in bed right now, “I am quite literally death, and I even gave you concrete proof of this fact this evening.” his voice turns quiet, dare you think it, wistful, “Why aren’t you afraid of me?” You shrug, even though he can’t see you, “You aren’t very scary.”

“I am going to take your soul .” “You are going to try and take my soul.” a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, “And even if you do, you’ve already promised to do it gently .” “I promised not to hurt you, I never said anything about being gentle .” 

“I’m sorry, I just don’t see the difference between those two statements.” He groans, and when he speaks again his voice is muffled. You suspect he has his face buried in a pillow, “You are infuriating. When I leave the chatroom for the evening I assume that I am done with you, I was not prepared for you to insist on continuing our conversation well into the night.”

“What, are you tired?” All goes quiet for a moment, and then, “No. Are you?” “Nope.” “Hmph, you should be at this hour, especially after a day of work.”

“I- well, I dunno…”

You don’t want to tell him the truth, that most of your friends have grown up and don’t talk to you anymore, that while you love your family it’s too difficult to find time to travel and see them, that you are incredibly lonely. You are tired, you have to be up at 5:00 to get ready for work tomorrow morning, but the idea of saying goodbye, of hanging up, makes something ache deep inside you. Something inside the very soul he wants to steal. 

“You don’t know, what?”

“Huh?” Grim huffs again, “You said, ‘i dunno’ and then stopped talking, which is very out of character for you, by the way.” “Oh? Did you miss me? Were even those brief seconds of silence enough to make you realize how much you love hearing my voice?” “I will hang up.” 

“Don’t.” You say before you have time to think better of it, “Please.”

“I-“ he clears his throat, “Only if you can act normally for the rest of our conversation.”

“I’m plenty normal, you’re the weird one.”

“What’s weird, how am I weird?”

You roll onto your back, staring up at the celing, “Oh i dunno, just the whole ‘I am death incarnate! I have come for your soul! I will connect my soul to yours! ’ schtik” 

“You know fully well that it is not a…what did you call it? A schtik?” He pronounces the word completely wrong, “Whatever that is, it is not one of those. I am death incarnate, I am here for you soul, and you were literally an active part in the soul connection.”

“Oh, about that soul connection thing, by the way.” He scoffs, “Your ability to change the subject at a whim is still strong as ever i see.” 

“I know, I’m very talented- anyway! I wanted to ask if you can do anything cool now that we have a soul link or whatever.” “I have already told you, I cannot control your body. As entertaining as it would be to embarrass you publicly, even my exceptional abilities could not do that” 

“Oh kay , how about something easier, then?” You feel the warmth of your cat as he snuggles up against your side and instinctively reach out to pat him, “Read my mind, go on!” “I cannot do that.” “C’mon, Grimmy, give it a go!” You squeeze your eyes shut, “I’m thinking about something real hard right now.” He sighs, “Are you thinking about your cat?” “ Whaaaat? How did you know?!”

“I didn’t know , i guessed. I can’t read your mind, but i am still attuned with your soul.” His voice has turned uncharacteristically soft, he’s almost whispering, “It… flutters …when you are happy, and your cat makes you happy. So I guessed…”

“So you’re a soul reader, then?” You ask, trying to ignore the fact that your stomach also feels oddly fluttery right now.

“That is not a thing. You’re just making things up now.”

“Try again.” You say, your mind unwittingly flooded with thoughts of soft white hair and judgemental red eyes. Of hands you wish were bare, of sharp toothed smiles. Your heart slows to a languid rhythm, and something you aren’t ready to put a name to curls warmly in your belly. You close your eyes, softly this time, and breathe, “What am i thinking about now?”

He goes silent for a long time, you can hear the slow, even draw of his breath. You can picture him laying back on his bed, hair splayed over the pillow, brow creased in concentration and you wonder if he is thinking about you too. After what feels like an age, he finally answers, “your…plant?”

You burst into laughter and any tension in the air shatters, “My plant?! What about my soul was screaming plant just then?”

“Well, I don’t know! It was just happy again, happier, even and I assumed that you were smart enough not to just think about your cat again.” 

“Yeah, you got me.” You lie, “it was my cat again.”

“Hells, every single day you find a new way to get under my skin.” He sighs, and despite his earlier statement, his next words come out almost fondly , “You need sleep, mortal.”

“Yeah.” You reply, feeling that ache tug at you again, “I probably do.”

“I will talk to you tomorrow, that is, if you survive until then.”

That gets a laugh out of you, and you can’t tell if that was his intention or if he was being completely serious, “I look forward to it. Remember to murder me nicely, Grim.”

“As nicely as I can, I swear.” You can hear his smile, “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

[sylviathejester]

TIRED.

maybe it’s time to say goodbye, ‘cause i’m getting pretty fuckin’ tired.

PLATONIC!JOHN PRICE x TEENAGER!GN!Y/N

warnings: mentions of death, foster care (this is my first time writing about foster care, excuse me if there’s any imperfections), attempted suicide, slight swearing

author note: this is separate from the poll. please tell me if the spacing is a turn off, it’s for aesthetic purposes in this oneshot, slowing your reading like Y/N’s world momentarily stills at the thoughts.

word count: 859.

Death. You’ve been thinking about it for days on end, what does it feel like? Your foster father, Jonathan (or as everyone calls him, John), says it’s Cold. Chilling. Scary. But what if it isn’t? Some people die with a smile on their face, so perhaps it could be the same for you?

Foster family after foster family. Abusive, neglectful piece of shits who only foster for the money. You’re afraid John might be the same.

The poor man, however, actively tries to convince you he isn’t like them. He does movie nights every Saturday, he actually listens when you talk, every word you say doesn’t go unnoticed. And his efforts don’t go unnoticed by you, not at all. He’s gentle. He’s a gentle man.

But you’ve had enough.

You’re scared shitless, some families acted like they were “mental health advocates” until you showed signs of burnout, depression, and even a tinge of anger issues, that’s when they threw you away.

And you’re just at your limit with John. The mask is.. slowly.. cracking.

John’s been a sweet guy, and he does everything in his power to make you feel okay, safe, happy. But you don’t budge. But you don’t show that you’re not budging, you show him a happy person, someone you’re not. And you’re getting tired.

”Mama was a bit naïve, and her daddy was a blinded thief. He went and stole away what was left of the remains of a family. “ Another Empty Bottle by Katy McAllister plays, you forgot the last time you heard this song, but it was one of your favorites when you were younger, more innocent, unaware of the shit going on between biological Mom and Dad. Unaware of the abuse. Perhaps your soul always felt like something was wrong, and your brain caught up later.

You sit on the couch, the TV on. You briefly look at the movement, the show must be some silly romcom, how cute.

Your phone’s music and the TV served as background noise, initially done to shut away the thoughts, but they’re.. lingering..

John was out of the house, buying groceries. He tried to persuade you to tag along; “You haven’t been out the house for a couple of weeks now, Y/N. you better go out!” He said, in that sickly sweet and kind voice of his. But you insisted on staying. Being tired from staying up was your excuse, and he let you off.

You paused the music and turned off the TV, and laid down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. It wouldn’t hurt to.. at least try. If he comes back before you actually do it, you can act like you never even tried, it’d be fine.

And if you succeeded?

But wouldn’t he be upset? Sad? He’d feel like he failed you. He never did, he never will.

He’d understand, surely he will.

Suddenly, you find yourself in the kitchen, in front of the knives John kept hanging on a shelf. For some reason he leaves them out in the open.

You grab the sharpest one, or rather, the newest knife. You look at it, and your reflection stares right back, as if to plead with you to not do it, think about it.

You ignore its pleas.

You slowly place the knife right under your wrist. Your breathing’s heavy, your heartbeat’s accelerated.

Should I do it? Should I do it?

Should I-

Warmth, but not from your wrist.

Your shoulder? Is it the grim reaper paying a visit?

You look over slowly, and your stomach drops. It’s John.

You look behind him, the grocery bags are on the floor, the different things he bought scattered across the floor.

“Hey.” He speaks a little louder, which causes you to look at him. He puts two fingers under your chin, keeping it in place.

He slowly takes the knife from your hand, sliding it across the counter; away from your hands.

“Are you okay?” Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Warmth, but not from your wrist.

Your eyes? You must be going blind.

Warmth, but not from your wrist.

Throughout your body, are you in Heaven?

No, you’re in John’s arms. Maybe that’s your own, twisted little version of Heaven. Isn’t Heaven the place where you feel eternal peace? John gives you peace, albeit not as eternal as Heaven, but he’s your Heaven on Earth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“ You sob into his chest. He merely shushes you, running his hand up and down your back.

It’s 11PM. You and John are on the couch, you’re holding onto him like a koala hugging a tree. It’s been silent.

“What made you want to do it?” He breaks the silence as he whispers the dreaded question.

“John, do you- will you still want me here?” You look at him.

Silence.

“Pardon?” He raises a brow.

“Will you still want me here? You won’t- give me back, right?” You look at him: expectant, hopeful.

“Of course not, Y/N.” He hugged you a little tighter. “You’re stuck with me.”

Maybe he won’t leave like the others did.

At the realization, the world felt a little brighter.

[atinylittlepain]

c ant stop thinking about jealous!joel miller and the way he’d react to seeing others flirt with you. just a little after your arrival to jackson, the three of you tired and just starting to socialize. you get talking with a friend of maria’s who introduced you. and joel is there watching, pretending to be interested in whatever the bored housewife hanging off his arm was even talking to him about. he burns with jealousy he doesn’t know what to do with and ends up crossing the bar to get to you where he makes some kind of show of getting his hands on you and subtly proving his protectiveness and jealousy over other men talking to you. OR he waits until you’re home to shove you up against a wall OR drags you into the bar back room to be all “what the fuck were you doing with him? and why was he touching you and laughing?” and it’s just all so hot. give it some real angst for me, please?

hehehehehe

Jealousy, Jealousy

Joel miller x f!reader

joel miller masterlist

having just settled in Jackson, she and Joel are having a hard time learning to share what's theirs.

warnings | 18+ SMUT, pretty rough sex ngl, semi-public too, joel's a teasy lil shit, a dash of angst, a hint of fluff, yeehaw

..............................

She can feel his eyes on her, and it’s starting to make her nervous that he’s going to make a scene. She, on the other hand, is doing exactly what they’re supposed to be doing, being social, mingling with the Jackson community, proving that she isn’t a wild stray that hisses when provoked. Joel on the other hand…

He’s sulking like a damn teenager at the bar in the Tipsy Bison, and she’s been with him long enough to know that his daggered stare is pointed directly at the young man she’s talking to. Maria had introduced her to the guy, Graham, that morning when he joined their patrol shift. He was friendly and easily started cracking jokes with her, crinkly blue eyes and a sandy mop of hair topping off his downright sunshiny disposition. The polar opposite of her man who currently looks like he could moonlight as the grim reaper with the way he’s staring at them.

Joel is already on probation of sorts, after he knocked another guy’s lights out because he was getting a bit too insistent with her down at the stables. Having been on the road for so long, neither of them are used to settling things with means other than guns and fists. Ellie has jokingly begun calling them “big bitch and bigger bitch” for the way they just can’t seem to shake their standoffish nature. For the record, Joel is the bigger bitch. But she’s trying, really hard, and is going to be pissed if Joel thwarts her attempts at making a new friend.

Luckily, Graham is easy to talk to, even when her eyes keep darting over to the other end of the bar where Joel is sitting. She has to do a double take, however, when she sees that someone has joined him. She smiles politely, laughing along to Graham’s story while she racks her brain for the name of the woman who’s suddenly got a claw– hand– on Joel’s bicep where his arm is propped on the counter. Veronica? No, Vanessa. She rolls the name around in her mind, letting venom strike through each syllable.

“Hey, are you good?” She’s startled out of her imaginings of what Vanessa would look like with a bloody nose by Graham waving his hand in front of her face. She takes one more glance at Joel, whose attention has completely shifted from her to his little hanger-on. She has to practically wrench her eyes away from the sight and back to Graham, letting out a forced laugh.

“Sorry, I just– zoned out for a second. What were you saying?” The nagging voice of Maria in her head telling her to “be social” is the only thing keeping her attention on Graham. As she glances back across the bar, her stomach twists when she sees that both Joel and Vanessa are now gone from their seats, but her anxiety is short lived when a broad palm comes to rest around the curve of her hip, warmth spreading across her back that can only be coming from her radiator of a man. 

“Graham.” She has to hold back a laugh at the way Joel says his name like it’s a curse, but the bite is lost on Graham who just offers him an easy smile.

“Hey, Joel, it’s good to see you, man. I was just telling her about how–” 

“Actually, son. I’m gonna steal this one from you. Our kid needs us.” That makes her head whip around to look at him, but his eyes stay trained on Graham, the only acknowledgement she gets is his fingers flexing where they’re splayed on her waist. Graham’s face falls.

“Oh, um, of course. I hope everything’s alright.” 

“It will be.” With those gruff few words, Joel herds her off her stool, slinging his arm over her shoulders as he guides her through the crowd and out of the bar, night already sweeping down the main drag of Jackson. He’s pushing her along at a clipped pace, but she’s having none of it, stopping dead in her tracks to look at him fully.

“Hey, what’s going on? Where’s Ellie? What– is she ok?” He huffs, trying to get her to keep walking, but she holds her ground, not budging when he tries to shuffle her along.

“Ellie’s fine, alright? I– fuck, I made that up.” 

“What? Joel, what the hell are you–” Before she can get the rest of her incredulous question out, he’s grabbing her wrist and tugging her down an alley between two storefronts, pushing her up against the brick wall as she struggles to figure out what the hell just happened. But that’s a little hard to do with the way her mind goes blank when Joel smashes his lips against hers, tongue pressing into her mouth when she gasps at the harsh squeeze of his hands groping her ass. When he pulls away with a little smack, a lewd string of spit snaps between their mouths.

“It was either this, or punching Graham’s teeth in.” Before she can respond to his breathless statement, he’s licking back into her mouth, slotting his hips with hers and grinding hard so she can feel the heat of his erection rutting into the front of her jeans. The only thing that gets him to finally let up is her harshly tugging at his hair, making him groan low as he pulls away.

“Are you telling me that all this is because you got a little jealous of Graham?” The hard set of his jaw tells her all she needs to know, and she lets out a laugh.

“Joel, I’m telling you, it wasn’t like that.” He huffs at that, his fingers flexing into the plush of her ass.

“That don’t mean a thing. Saw the way he was looking at you, darlin. Didn’t like it one bit.” 

“Well that’s rich coming from you when you had that sweet little thing hanging off your arm at the bar.” She regrets it the minute it leaves her mouth, even more so when a very smug look washes over Joel’s face.

“Hmm, I’m not the only one who’s jealous, huh?” She tries to jerk away when he traces her cheek with his fingers, letting out a huff as he just crowds her further against the wall. He chuckles, the asshole.

“Don’t be like that, darlin. Ain’t nothing for you to be jealous about. Not looking at anyone else but you, you know that.” 

“And you know that I’m not looking at anyone else either. I was trying to make a friend, you know, like how Maria told us to?” She jabs her finger into his chest, punctuating her words with a few prods. Joel doesn’t seem convinced.

“Can’t you make friends with someone who isn’t trying to fuck you?” That makes her scoff.

“How many times do I have to tell you? He wasn’t trying to fuck me. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’ve done a thorough job of letting everyone know that I’m your woman.” Joel seems to consider her words, doing something unexpectedly sweet when he trails his palm down her arm, drawing her hand up to press a kiss over her knuckles.

“That’s right, darlin. You’re mine– my woman. Same as I’m your man. But I think you could use a little reminder of that, huh?” Before she can respond to that with something snappy, he’s shutting her up with another crushing kiss, both his hands returning to her ass as he pulls her hips to slot with his. He smears his lips down her neck, nosing away the collar of her shirt before sucking harshly at the newly exposed skin, making her throw her head back against the brick wall with a sharp gasp.

“Joel– fuck– what if someone sees?” The low thrumming laugh he lets out shoots straight down her spine, pooling syrupy heat through her core.

“No one’s gonna see, not if you’re good and quiet for me. Can you do that, honey? Be so good for me, huh?” It infuriates her, really. How quickly he can melt her down, her usual bite going soft and sweet with each kiss, each squeeze of his hands, until she’s all but whimpering for him to give her more. He continues mouthing at her chest until she tugs him up by her fingers raking through his hair.

“No more fucking teasing– I–I’ll be good– just, please–” he cuts her off with a hard roll of his hips into hers, a pressure that makes her dizzy even through layers of clothes. She has to hold back a whine when he completely steps away from her, leaving her slumped against the wall as his eyes take a salacious path down her body and back up to her face.

“Turn around for me, darlin. Show me what’s mine.” Under any other circumstances, she would have rolled her eyes at that entirely pigheaded statement, but she’s got just enough warmth running through her veins from his touch and the liquor she had sipped on to comply without hesitation, turning around and splaying her palms out on the wall as she arches her back, hips shimmying slightly out. 

He presses right up against her, heat grinding into her ass while his hands knead and squeeze the sides of her thighs. She yelps when his palm comes down hard on the curve of her ass and he shushes her, leaning further against her while his lips trace the shell of her ear. 

“Thought you said you were gonna be good for me. Gotta be quiet right?” She sighs, mind a little too hazy to answer as his fingers curl around her waist to fumble with the buttons of her jeans, harshly yanking them down along with her panties until the fabric bunches just under the swell of her ass. She’s entirely unprepared when he lays another slap to now bare skin, the burn rolling and spreading through her, doing nothing to help the dampness she can feel smearing in between her thighs.

“C’mon, honey. Need you to tell me if you’re gonna be good for me. Else I can’t give you what you want.” Now he’s just being cruel, and she’s had about enough of it, huffing and craning her neck over her shoulder to glare at him.

“I already told you, you precocious asshole. Just fuck me al–” she can’t finish her sentence, not when he’s sliding into her heat in one languid stroke, his hips fitting snug against her ass. Joel groans low, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as he stills inside her.

“Precocious asshole – those are some big words, darlin. Don’t want anything in that pretty head of yours except my name by the time I’m done with you, you understand?” She tries to press her hips back, seeking anything more that he’ll give her, but his firm hold on her hips keeps her stilled, aching around his pulsing length.

“Only gonna ask one more time. Do you understand?” He punctuates his question with a deep grind of his hips, the tip of his cock nudging a spot inside her that makes her eyes scrunch tight from the prickling pleasure.

“Fuck– yes! I understand, I understand, just– please, Joel. Need it so bad.” That seems to appease him, and she sighs when he pulls his hips back, finding a slow roll back into her that makes her preen in his grip.

“That’s my good girl, huh? All mine. I’ll give you what you need, honey.” Any slowness, any gentleness, dissolves with the brutal pace he sets, fucking her up against the wall, rough palms bouncing her hips back against his as they both pant heavily into the clear night air. His one hand comes up to rest over hers where its splayed across the wall, and she imagines fleetingly that his knuckles are gonna be scraped from the way he curls his fingers between hers, twining their hands together and grazing against the rough brick with each punishing thrust.

“So perfect like this– fucking made for me, darlin– right? Just for me.” His words are a hot fog in her mind, and it takes everything in her to form a coherent reply.

“Yes, yes– s’for you– all for you– all yours, Joel– please–” A broken cry catches in her throat when his other hand snakes around her hip, pressing firm against her pelvis as his fingers drag sloppy shapes across her clit.

“That’s right, honey. My girl, my woman– no one else’s. You gonna come? Huh? Gonna come for your man?” His words are choppy, disjointed by low grunts and his hips never stutter in the relentless rhythm he keeps. It all becomes too much, her release catching her off guard as her hips jerk in his hold, the only thing she can manage is a crackled whimper of his name as he fucks her through it.

“So good for me, darlin– that’s it– shit–” She slumps against the wall when he pulls out, the ringing in her ears dissipating just enough to hear the wet glide of his hand as he finishes himself off with a few harsh strokes, warmth smudging over her low back, dripping down her ass as he sighs out her name.

They stay like that for a moment, Joel pressing his forehead into her shoulder, she barely holding herself up against the wall as they both catch their heaving breath. Finally collecting herself, she huffs at his cooling spend now smeared over her skin.

“Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to walk around with your come drying on my ass?” He grumbles at her protests, already hoisting her panties and jeans back up her hips, giving her ass a little pat once they’re back in place.

“Don’t worry, darlin. I’ll clean you up real good soon as we get home.” She finally turns around, immediately resting her back against the wall when her knees start to wobble. Joel grins at her, all wicked and smug, as he tucks himself back into his jeans. She huffs.

“You are impossible, Miller.” He hums at that, bringing his hand up to cup her jaw and press a shockingly sweet kiss to her lips.

“So are you, darlin. S’why we work so good together, huh?” She has to smile at that, leaning up to steal another kiss from him, but the moment is over all too soon when someone interrupts them.

“Goddamn it. I leave you two alone for a few minutes and I find you out here necking like a pair of feral cats. This is a family community, have some decency, alright?” Tommy stands at the mouth of the alley, hands on his hips, and an entirely exasperated expression on his face. Joel steps more in front of her while she tries to subtly zip up her jeans that are still hanging unbuttoned around her hips.

“Got it, brother. Sorry– we were just headed home.” Tommy just shakes his head.

“You’re just lucky it wasn’t Maria who saw you two. Jesus– just– go home. Never wanna see y’all making out again. Fucking scarred for life now.” She’s just relieved that was all Tommy saw. 

They sheepishly step out of the alley, Joel tucking her under his arm as she offers Tommy an apologetic smile. Tommy shakes his head one more time before heading off toward the bar. When he’s far enough away, Joel lets out a rumbling laugh. She, however, is less than amused.

“I swear to god, Joel Miller. You are gonna get us kicked out of this damn place one of these days!” She smacks his chest, but he grabs her wrist, holding her palm there as he pulls her into him.

“Me? What about you, huh? Takes two, darlin.” She fights it, she really does, but she can’t help the smile creeping across her face with the way he quirks an eyebrow at her, both of them dissolving into breathy laughter. He sighs, squeezing her hip with his one hand.

“C’mon, trouble. We better get home before the bible brigade comes hunting for us.” She snorts at that, head tipping back in a laugh as they start walking away toward their home. He slings his arm over her shoulders, both of them stumbling along with how close they insist on staying to each other

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Just for you, darlin.”

[midnightarcheress]

Simon thinks he could live like this.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: nothing he's just down bad 7 | gold rush masterlist.

“are you insane?!” Daniel shouts, slamming the door behind him and stomping his feet towards Simon with a menacing look, “you think you can just move her around like this?”

“she wasn’t safe in that house, this is for her protection,” he answers promptly, crossing his arms and taking a step in front of you, covering your frame from the irate man. if he could, he’d land a punch on his face in no time, not caring that technically he’s his boss.

“yeah? and you simply have to be here with her, right?” he scoffs, rolling his eyes at him. you watch the scene unfold from behind Simon, brows knitted together and bottom lip nearly bleeding from biting too much. he’d managed to momentarily tranquillize you, bring you back to earth after the terrifying panic state, but the anxiety kept simmering underneath your skin, just waiting for another chance to take over your body.

“the shitty security system you put in her house wasn’t enough to prevent the bastard from intrudin’, the bloody alarm didn’t even go off,” he retorts, eyes shooting daggers straight ahead, “so yeah, i’m gonna stay with her for as long as it’s necessary. contract says to protect her, doesn’t it?” 

the two of them stay quiet, a silent staring competition on Daniel’s side, a mere warning on Simon’s side. he won’t budge, won’t allow you to go back to that house, hand you on a silver platter to the grim reaper hiding behind letters and eerie messages. 

Dan leans on his side to look at you, ignoring the mass of a man in front of him. “are you sure about this?” his tone is strangely soft, like a switch flipped in his mind, all anger vanishing. you nod, offering him a small smile that does a poor job of concealing how nervous you are about the situation. he purses his lips, taking one last glance at Simon’s unwavering posture before sighing in defeat.

it’s been two weeks since the mirror message that led Simon into comforting you, and two weeks since he had to control his own panic, trying his best not to spiral. it had been a while since he shared a living space, so staying with you feels like a dream that he’s constantly afraid of turning into a nightmare by saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way, or even thinking about what’s happening. 

the safe house Price arranged is far from the size you’re used to, being at least three times smaller than your own house. but to his surprise, again, your reaction to it contradicts his expectations. it could just be you being a phenomenal actress, covering your resentment behind a beaming smile, but you seemed to have grown accustomed to his presence easily, didn’t protest once, never lamented the loss of luxury and privacy.

he wanted to deny the feeling, shove it deep down in his brain and lock the safe, but it was nice, the domesticity of it all. it was nice learning little details about your routine; how you only get out of bed the second time your alarm rings; how you’re definitely not a morning person, judging by the gruff good morning you mumble when you slide to the counter stool; how you love trying new recipes and quietly dance in the kitchen, freezing when you notice him watching you; or how you’re always carrying something to read, it being a book or a script.

it was nice making you coffee in the morning and seeing you rub your sleepy eyes, nice hearing you humming a song in the shower, nice catching a glimpse of you in lingerie when you forget to lock your bedroom door, nearly making him choke in his own spit by the sight of the small tattoo on your hip. is it a star? a flower?

he felt like he was playing house with you. a game where you’re his loving wife and he’s a devoted husband, where he could feed his delusions, live everything he was convinced he’d never have in this lifetime. inside those walls, he could do it all, except the one thing he longed the most – touch you. kiss the top of your head when you’re baking in the kitchen, run his fingers through your hair when you’re curled up on the couch, feel your soft skin under his fingertips when you lay in bed, bend you over the table when you pass by him in skimpy pyjama shorts.

“do you... wanna watch a movie?” you ask, remote in hand and head leaned back on the sofa, chewing the inside of your cheek and attentively glaring at the television. he tilts to the side, stirring his thoughts away and taking in the view of your features illuminated by the bright lights coming from the screen. it was easy to get lost in how beautiful you were, a magical creature brought to earth to bewitch him. 

your head suddenly shifts to where he’s sitting, and it hits him that you’re still expecting an answer. fuck. “uh, yeah, sure.” he mumbles, snapping back to the telly, swallowing the desires his throat dared to spill.

later that day, Simon steps onto the front porch for a much-needed nicotine fix, dark blues painting the sky as the last rays of sunlight vanish from the horizon. he hates the burning sensation of the smoke in his lungs, but always craves the lightheadedness and dopamine flush in his veins, no matter how many years it takes from his life. 

“god!” you jump, looking behind you and putting a hand over your chest to steady your rapid heartbeat, “you really are a ghost, aren’t you?” a chuckle falls from your lips after the startle, travelling the air like a lullaby, and he ignores the flutter in his chest that happens whenever you laugh.

“sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” you shrug and turn back to your initial position, sitting on the steps and watching the crunchy tree leaves dancing in the breeze. he follows your gaze to the front lawn, bringing a cigarette from the pack to his lips, debating if he should truly smoke with you in there. you never complained, but he’s caught you frowning at the thin cardboard a few times around the house, so he decides not to light it.

“can i ask you something?” you blurt out, lifting your chin to face him, eyes searching for his, and his head dips, irises focusing on yours. one brow raises at your sudden curiosity and he nods, back propped against the column, waiting, “why Ghost?”

his jaw tenses, gaze shifting from you to the carton in his hands. the ever-dreaded question. “dunno. just a nickname.” lie. he couldn’t tell you how everything was taken from him and he faked his death years ago; how he truly became the ghost of man. you don’t deserve to be burdened with that knowledge, so it is just a nickname. 

he looks back to you, gauging if you bought his deflection or not. you’re still focused on him, vision flicking at every crease of his expression, waiting for any falter, but it doesn’t come. “you can call me Simon.”

the thin line of your lips breaks into a smile, cheeks rising and making his heart skip a beat. so much for easy detachment, “okay, Simon.”

the way i still have at least ten parts of this story in my outline but i'm so unmotivated to write it :(