#a burnt crumb

[glitterghost]

cookies & cream cheesecake cookie & iced coffee? Yes. I deserve it.

[jeisontodd]

Every time I’m like ‘Yeah genshin’s story just isn’t doing it for me anymore :/‘ it always finds a way to grab me and yank me back into caring.

Like wtf do you mean Durin’s heart is getting stronger. Is that why there is no archon quest in 5.2?? We are finally getting another albedo winter quest so they’re making that the main quest of the patch??? Durin will be revived and we help albedo (and fake albedo - I’m assuming he is alive and has an understanding with real albedo) to save him?? And wanderer and mini durin will show up to help?

Like god damn it. The writing in genshin isn’t good but when you tease me with things like this it gets me excited again. Rhinedottir reveal yourself and apologize to your kids 🫵

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

What kind of home would u and gojo have?

WHAT A SWEET QUESTION ANON no because i was thinking about this the other day…..

this is more general thoughts on gojo as a character but !! i truly do see him as someone who yearns for soft domesticity and a sense of belonging / home above all else :’3 and i think a lot of his loneliness stems from the fact that he can’t really have it, either because he’s travelling all the time or because he doesn’t allow himself to feel loved by others in the way he needs.

with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he just isn’t really allowed to have a home, even if he has a big luxurious apartment all to himself… and obviously the tragedy is that he wants the former. i’ve read some fics where gojo moves into his s/o’s much smaller apartment because he doesn’t care about the actual place, as long as it feels homey, and as long as he gets to share it with someone he loves :((( if anything i think he might even prefer a smaller apartment, maybe a little cramped, because it comes with a slice of normalcy that he otherwise can’t have….

idk i really do just see gojo as a big softie who gets sappy when you’re napping on his chest after eating take-out and binging five different kdramas on your uncomfortable couch <33 it makes him feel human!!!

all this just to say that i’m literally exactly like gojo when it comes to this question and we would 100% live in a small messy apartment and exclusively eat sweets, take-out & slightly burnt food <3333 the dream honestly

[depresseddepot]

fucked up sourdough loaf #2 but this one is edible AND my mother did not mock me

[i-jus-kitten]

.

[urdtarah]

tiktok deleting my comments makes me so upset lmao

[master-of-furbies]

music to my mind

[trueduelist]

Cant stand it when the gm makes the schedule for kitchen. Cue nothing making sense... people scheduled on stations they dont know with nobody else on to even help when they need it, random training shifts but no trainer, cutting whole shifts every night except when hes closing 🤔

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[endless-ineffabilities]

husband for a day

Ewan Mitchell x best friend reader

a/n: another spur-of-the-moment baby :) that is all.

main masterlist

With a resounding groan, you push your hair out of your face, and reach for your bedside. You prop your phone on its side to watch as 5:07 PM flashes on the screen.

Great. An entire day wasted.

You roll over on your back, eyes involuntarily squinting at the last burnt orange rays of sunlight reflected on your ceiling. All at once, an overwhelming thirst takes a hold of you, as well as the initial telltale signs of a killer migraine.

"Ewaaaan!"

Your best friend pokes his head through your door. Upon confirming that you're indeed awake, he saunters into the room while sporting a wide grin. "Well, look who's finally up."

"I don't wanna be," you moan, pressing your palms to your eyes.

"Love, you slept.... 10 hours already." Ewan perches beside you, clutching your wrists and pulling them down, clearing the way for him to press a kiss on your forehead. "Get up, trooper, come on now."

You sit up, immediately feeling woozy. Oh yeah, the alcohol was still sloshing inside of you, that treacherous devil juice making you feel like a lump of coal.

"Ughhh, I can’t." You lean your head against his shoulder, which shakes with his laughter—not exactly helping your headache. You grip him tight with both hands. "Stop fucking moving, Ewan Robert."

"Alright, ducky," he presses a kiss atop your head, allowing you to seek comfort as you anchor yourself to him, wrapping your legs and arms around his figure like a sloth. Another softer laugh escapes him. He caresses your back soothingly, then says, "I've got a glass of water and aspirin right here. You should take a drink first, okay? You'll feel much better, I promise."

No response. He begins to think that you've fallen asleep on him, when your eye opens just a crack, "Do you promise?"

"I'd never lie to you, ducky." He hands you the tablets and the water, which you down in record time, somehow still parched after.

"Mmm."

"Better?"

"Ewan... do I smell pancakes?"

"Okay, so..." you mumble through a mouthful of pancake, struggling to form the words. "Tell me again, how exactly did last night go?"

Ewan chuckles, tightening his arm around you as you sit side by side on high stools by the kitchen counter. He gently nudges a glass of orange juice in your direction, already anticipating your needs. "You really want the full recap?" he teases, brushing a crumb off your cheek.

"Yes, hubby," you reply, grinning despite your headache. It’s part of your little game—Husband and Wife for a Day—a title you both use when one of you is down for the count, the other taking on the doting spouse role with unwavering commitment. This morning, Ewan's all-in: he's made breakfast (dinner, really), restocked your aspirin supply, and even personally carried you from your bedroom to the kitchen.

"Alright, ducky." He leans in, resting his chin on his hand as if he’s settling in for a long story. "Last night, you insisted that you could outdrink Rhys, and wouldn’t let anyone tell you otherwise."

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. "Please tell me I won, at least."

"Well... you didn't," he laughs, rubbing your back. "But it was brilliant. And when you got tired, guess who carried you back here?"

You peek at him through your fingers, feigning a scowl. "Fine, I admit it. You make a pretty solid husband."

He leans back, feigning deep offense. "Pretty solid? You wound me," he says with mock drama, hand on his heart. "You should be singing my praises."

"Oh, should I?" you counter, grinning despite yourself.

Ewan's smile softens as he leans in, close enough that his voice drops to a gentle, teasing murmur. "You should. After all, it is a husband's job to make sure his wife is fully taken care of. Right?" His thumb lightly traces a path along your shoulder, sending a shiver up your spine.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the quickening beat of your heart as you hold his gaze. This is just part of the game, you remind yourself. "Fully taken care of?" you echo, barely able to hide your grin.

He nods, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "You know, satisfied. I wouldn't want to leave any duties… unfinished," he says, the last word thick with implication.

For a moment, the teasing fades, replaced by a warmth that's both familiar and exhilarating. Ewan's gaze holds yours, a silent invitation sparking in his smile.

You lean in playfully, a teasing smile dancing on your lips as you aim for a quick kiss on Ewan's cheek. But just as you're about to close the distance, he unexpectedly turns his head. In an instant, your lips meet his—slightly chapped yet soft all the same, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than intended.

Ewan freezes, his eyes widening slightly, and you both pull back simultaneously, confusion etched on your faces.

"Wait—were we still playing the game?" he asks, his brow furrowed, as if trying to dissect the layers of what just happened.

You blink, your heart racing as you try to steady yourself and keep from simply bridging the distance and kissing him again. "Y-yes, weren't we? But then again..." You fail to sound unaffected, a nervous catch clear in your voice.

Ewan stares at you for a moment, his expression a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something that feels like realisation. "I mean, I was just… you know, being the 'husband.' But then you… actually kissed me."

"Right," you reply, mirroring his bewildered expression. "But I was... I was aiming for your cheek. You moved suddenly and—"

"Right. Right, I did move."

Silence hangs between you for a moment, both of you trying to find your footing. It feels as if the playful banter has shifted into something more serious, and yet, both of you are still processing what it all means.

"Ducky, I... I love you?" Ewan finally says, a shy smile breaking through the confusion, his eyes softening as he looks at you.

You let out an incredulous laugh at the absurdity of the moment. Did you even have a hangover? It seems as if that sensation has been effectively replaced by whatever this is. "Are you... are you asking me or—"

"I love you."

"Oh, Ewan."

"You don't have to say anything if you're not ready," he adds quickly, his confidence wavering. "I know this is sudden—"

"No, wait," you interrupt, your heart racing as you search his blue eyes. "I'm not not ready. I've just… I didn't expect you to say that now.

"And... I love you too. I always have."

His expression shifts from uncertainty to pure elation, and without another word, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. It's deep and raw and passionate, igniting a spark you both had tried to ignore. The world around you fades away, leaving only the heat between you, the soft press of his body against yours.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you catching your breath. "Fuckin' hell," he murmurs, a playful smile tugging at his lips. "That's a much better reaction than I was expecting."

You smirk, feeling the thrill of the moment course through you. "Well, consider me impressed. But I think we might need to up the ante here, hubby."

"Is that a challenge, baby?"he asks, his voice dropping an octave, filled with a promise that sends a thrill through you.

"Maybe," you tease, your heart racing as you lean closer, letting your lips barely brush against his. "I just want to see how far you're willing to go to prove you’re worthy of this title."

Ewan's gaze darkens with desire, and he moves even closer, his hands finding your waist, coaxing you to sit on top of his thighs. "You have no idea how far I'd go for you," he murmurs thickly.

Your breath hitches as you feel the heat radiating from his body. "Oh really? Care to show me?"

"Absolutely," he replies, his lips colliding with yours in a fervent embrace, his hands traversing your sides in a way that betrays the insatiable hunger he feels.

Your last remaining shred of restraint peeks through, and you push him back slightly, your eyes locking onto his. "Are you sure about this? I mean, this isn't just a game anymore."

"I'm sure," he replies, his expression nothing if not determined. "This is what I want, ducky. All of you."

You can't help but smile at the sincerity in his voice, but a playful challenge flickers in your eyes. "Then you better prove it. I want you to take care of me, just like you promised."

Ewan's lips curl into a devilish smirk. "Oh, I intend to. You just wait."

With that, he leans in again, kissing you with an intensity that makes your knees weak. His hands explore your hips, fingers teasing the hem of your shirt, and you shiver at the roughness of his hands. You respond eagerly, your fingers tangling in his dark blonde tresses as you deepen the kiss.

Suddenly, Ewan pulls back, breathless, his pupils shot black, and his lips slick from you. "How about we take this to a more… proper setting?" he suggests.

"Lead the way," you whisper, feeling a thrill of anticipation.

Once inside your bedroom, Ewan turns to you, his gaze smoldering as he closes the door behind him. "Are you ready, baby?" he asks, a query of both of lust and sincerity.

"What are you waiting for?" you reply, reclaiming the space between you, and kiss him again.

"Oh, my heart,” he murmurs between kisses, his lips trailing along your jawline. "Now you'll get to experience what it really means to be Mrs. Ewan Mitchell."

[bbytamaki]

BLOW OUT YOUR CANDLES — eren yeager

genre: nsfw (mdni)

content: eren yeager x fem reader, always blk coded reader but anyone is welcome to read, pet names (baby, baby doll) throat fucking, rough sex but soft eren (ofc), mentioned fingering, consensual photography, whiny eren crumbs, not proofread (lmk if i missed anything!)

note: idk if i like this one but happy birthday to my sweetheart !! 🎂

the slices of cake on your nightstand with burnt out candles had been long forgotten by the time eren had gotten ahold of you.

eren’s large palm gripped your tear stained cheek while you laid on your back with your head hanging over the edge of the bed.

you’d only tried it a few times, but this had become one of his favorite positions that you’d suggested — he loved to fuck your throat up while he watched you cum on his fingers.

you were such a sweet girl letting him have his way with you for his birthday. his heart melted watching your eyes roll back and your neck and chin shine with your own spit. he watched his fingers glisten from your last two orgasms.

your whines reverbed around his length as his tip bruised the back of your throat. his pace was brutal — he could be so mean but always made you feel so good. eren wiped the tears from your face. “shhh, you’re a big girl, y/n. you can take it.”

eren’s praise made your heart flutter. you knew he was close when he slightly slowed down his thrusts. it was so typical of him to savor every moment. you tapped his arm twice to let him know you needed to breathe and rolled onto your stomach. eren couldn’t take it. you just looked so beautiful, even coughing while catching your breath after doing your best to take all of him. you sat up and rested comfortably on your knees.

eren’s hand roughly clutched your soft curls (which he proudly helped you wrap every night) and pulled your head back to look at him while he stroked himself above you. you kissed his hipbones and smiled up at him with those pretty eyes.

“my needy baby.” eren grunted and thrusted into his fist. his girl was so perfect for him. he wanted to love and cherish you forever.

his deep groans faded into quick, sharp whimpers as he neared his orgasm. the sounds he made were your favorite. who knew such a meanie could be so whiny?

you knew that despite how harsh he acted, he was weak for you and folded just by looking at you. the thought brought a smile to your face as you prepared your final move. eren’s jaw fell slack as you slowly leaned forward to kiss his tip. that was his pretty slut.

eren grabbed your chin firmly. “such a messy girl. want me to cum all on that pretty face, baby doll? gonna let me take a picture?” you continued with sloppy kisses around his dripping tip while never breaking eye contact.

“yes, please,” you held out your tongue for him. with a muffled moan, eren spilled sticky ropes of his cum all over your face. he reached clumsily for his phone and pointed the camera toward you. the flash temporarily blinded you, making you roll your eyes playfully.

after taking his picture, eren leaned down to your level. with two fingers, her slowly dragged his seed from your cheek and pushed past your lips. you flattened your tongue and let him massage the inside of your mouth. the taste of the two of you combined was something you’d never forget. eren finished by pulling you in for a long, slow kiss that made your body melt against his.

eren pulled away from your lips and quickly began to clean you up. after, he laid back in bed with you wrapped tightly in his arms. “do you know how much i love you baby?”

“you show me everyday but i’m not sure yet .”

eren nudged your shoulder playfully. “i mean it. you really made today special for me.”

“you know i’d do anything for you, ren. you deserve this.”

eren kissed your forehead and looked down at you with a mischievous smile.

“so are we going again?”

[appleblueberry-pie]

Yandere Toji Fushiguro Concept

Concept: Broke Toji obsessed with you.

Toji was everywhere, all at once. He was a balance between the good and the bad. At both his lowest and highest, he had nothing to his name that he would proudly tell off was his. When he was in the Zen'in clan, he was worthless, nothing to his name but his body and seemingly useless mind, no matter how much money he was provided with. When he was on the streets, doing assassinations to make enough money to get by, he would spend it all in his own flurry of pleasure. Essentially, in both of his lives he was nothing. Yet, he was defiant. Only he could tell you how many times someone tried to gain his trust just to stab him in the back. Only he could relay how people played kiss-ass for so so long, only to toss him out of their home and mind. Only he could state how many invisible monsters he had to let mangle him just to bring himself back to his own feet.

He doesn't know a damn thing about the jujutsu world or even the real world. But if there was one thing he could say confidently, it is that no one ever gave a single fuck about him. No one. But he never seemed to be able to die. Or even move. No one could reach him, even if he had 2 pennies in his back pocket. No one could match his power if they wanted to. The Zen'in misogynist could only dream of being anything similar to him, and he never got there. Toji was nothing and everything. That balance. He flourished in his own twisted way. But it's not like he cared what would happen, anyways.

That's what he would've said if it wasn't for the hot, one thousand needles that sunk deeper into his cold, dead heart every time he attempted to deny his fate of meeting you. He remembers when he first started working with the shitty organization that pays him. He always wanted to strangle the two men behind the front desk that tried to negotiate the price on his paycheck that was supposed to be finalized. He always left with a little less than he was supposed to receive. That building would've been burnt to the ground by his hands if it wasn't for your sexy ass always strolling past him in your little work uniform. Your little shoes clacking as you pass by, your beautiful legs that he wanted to touch, your ass, your neck, your face that he couldn't stop staring at. Toji always got there when you clocked out of your shift, and he realizes why the two jackasses fuck him over out of his money. You were a huge distraction, more of one than he was willing to admit. Whenever you pass the three arguing, Toji always made sure to greet you when you walk out, giving his most "innocent" smile he could to you. You would beam back at him and even wave, your scent rewriting his brain chemistry and making his cock twitch. He wanted you all to himself, but for now, he'd control himself.

It's not like he was stalking you. Not like he would snatch his money-filled envelope and follow you back to your car. Not like he took assassination missions around your city in hopes of seeing you in the crowd of thousands of people walking around. Not like he threatened the people that paid him to give all of your personal information to him so he could stalk you more than he already was.

But it was never enough. Even if he had your address and would stroke himself in front of your window that gave him direct access to your bedroom, even he followed you to and from work everyday, stalked your socials and pretended to be someone else just to talk with you, it wasn't like having you right there. He needed to feel you, touch you, hear you more, see you more. It almost made his skin crawl when he realized some people are seeing you for almost 8 hours a day when he was left with crumbs of you. He felt embarrassed. He felt ashamed, humiliated, vulnerable and felt that same thick passion rush through his veins: it really makes him SWEAT when he accidentally admits to himself for the 15,000th time that day that he is so fucking in love with you.

And he knew that he would never be the man that you wanted. Broke, fucking homeless, a shitty personality and a sly tongue. The type of person a regular woman would shame for even having the audacity of showing themselves in the light of day. He killed and often dragged himself back to the place he could barely call a living space meant for people just to do it all over again in the morning. He couldn't take it anymore. But still, he did another mission. A horrible one, really. But it was worth sitting in an alleyway, cold, hungry, and in excruciating pain when you found him close to death, laying against the wall of some random building.

"Oh my god!!!" You exclaimed as you ran up to Toji, scared to touch his wounds, but knowing you had to do something. "No," He said, shaking his head slowly. "Leave me." You stuttered in fear, wrapping one of his arms around the back of your neck to attempt to lift him to his feet. "I can't just- just leave you here! You're bleeding out, and dying, and-" You grunted as you managed to slowly pull him to his feet, turning around to drag him out of the alleyway. He stared down at you as you rounded the corner, your place only half a block away. "You need to leave me here. Just go home and go to sleep, doll. I'll be fine." His deep voice sounded scratchy as he spoke. You tried so hard to ignore the blood seeping through your clothes and even falling down his soaked shirt. You couldn't leave him like this. "I've been through worse. Shit is like nothing to me."

You looked over at him in worry at his words, knowing this is already crossing many lines for you. This wasn't that bad?? You couldn't even imagine what else he could've gone through. Toji was in heaven currently. He was practically rubbing against you as you both walked, if he let his head hang enough, he'd feel your warm breath on his forehead. He wanted so badly to stay like this with you, letting his open wounds rub against you, but he wanted you to be safe. And you can't be safe like this. Not with him around.

Toji felt his heart leap with joy when you opened your front door, bringing him to your couch to drop him. This place was so much nicer now that he was inside of it. Everything. Everything smelled like you. Everything was placed in places it felt like you would put them. And you were here to take care of him to. He didn't know whether to let you take care of him, or just take over entirely, keeping you locked up in your own house and let him take care of you. He decided to let you just do what you want. He didn't want you to be scared of him, because it seemed like you really wanted him around at the moment, reasonably so. So, for now, he'll see how long this heaven will last until he has to take the reigns.

[I genuinely wanted to write more for this, but like I don't know how to continue the story without making it sound corny. I physically felt my writing become bad as I was writing this, so i stopped there. I like what I have going on here, so if anyone has oneshot ideas based on how i characterized him here, send some in.]

[rcmclachlan]

8x01 coda

Inspired by @dadbodbuck's devastating post.

+

When Eddie draws in a breath, there's an audible crackle. It sounds almost like rales, or maybe heartbreak just manifests as broken glass and burnt particles from a discharged weapon in the lungs. He drops his head onto his chest as though it's too heavy to hold up and says, voice dead, "I don't know what else to do."

Tommy takes a sip of his beer—his fourth of the night—and stares at the ceiling while he tries to come up with the magical answer they've been searching for ever since the Skype call cut out. He frowns. Who still has a popcorn ceiling in the 2020s? He could scrape, skim, and sand it in a weekend.

Evan helpfully mutters something about non-native species into Tommy's thigh, a wet patch of drool expanding where his mouth is smushed into the denim, and Tommy presses his fingers slightly into the back of his neck. He settles almost immediately, then shows his appreciation by opening the floodgates again, soaking right through to Tommy's skin. He's still wearing the cone hat.

"Maybe there's nothing else to do," Tommy muses quietly. He takes another sip of the Nose Job he has no choice but to drink, because for some reason it's all Eddie has in the house. It tastes like grass.

"Used to be that when he was mad about something, he'd tell me to my face." Eddie lifts his head, only to drop it back against the edge of the couch. He's been sitting on the floor for almost an hour. "Even when he was little. He'd plant his feet and say it point blank: I'm mad at you."

Tommy huffs a reluctant laugh at the image.

"Guess he clocked that the reason he's said it so many times is because I never fucking learn." The crackle in Eddie's lungs is loud and awful. Tommy peers down to make sure there isn't blood in Eddie's teeth. "I just... I just hurt him, over and over. I've been doing it for years."

"Hey, no—" Tommy starts.

But Eddie either doesn't hear him or doesn't want even a crumb of kindness tossed his way, because he pushes on, voice growing weaker with every word. "I can blow up a million balloons and I can love him more than anything or anyone, but it's never going to be enough to make up for any of it. He cut his losses. I-I can't even be mad about him hating me, because I can't blame him."

With a wet gasp, Eddie turns his head against his shoulder and shudders.

Inhaling through his nose, Tommy closes his eyes and tries to see things from Christopher's point of view. It takes a few tries, mostly because of a gangly, desperate boy from thirty years ago who would've gladly sacrificed a limb to see his father show him a fraction of the love Eddie Diaz has for his kid.

But once Tommy shoves his inner child out of the way, he can see what Chris sees with startling clarity. Evan's said before that Chris hates their job, is terrified of losing Eddie or Buck the way he lost his mom. Tommy knows a little about Eddie's messy dating history and how it basically amounts to him just chasing one ghost after another out of some misplaced sense of duty to Chris—without ever asking Chris what he actually wants, or what he wants for Eddie.

The thing with his dead wife's doppelganger is too much for even Tommy, and he heard about it second hand. He can't imagine what it was like for Christopher to walk into that.

Tommy opens his eyes and looks down at Eddie, who's hunched over like an animal trying to hide a wound. He looks like something that belongs in the Louvre. The Despair of the Father Whose Best Isn't Good Enough (2024), oil on canvas.

"Eddie," he says gently. Any louder and Eddie will crumble to ruins. "There's nothing more for you to do other than what you're doing. Keep loving him and keep showing up for him, even though it hurts. He will talk to you again."

"How do you know?" Eddie mumbles into his own shoulder.

"Because if he hated you, he never would've taken the call in the first place."

Evan sighs in his sleep, and Tommy runs his thumb over the just-buzzed edge of his nape so softly it wouldn't wake a baby, never mind a full-grown man. He thinks idly about the way people bleed themselves dry for love, and for hope.

He wouldn't spare his father a single drop of blood. He thinks he'd tap a vein if Evan asked.

Pressing his lips together, he nudges Eddie with his foot until Eddie lifts his head. His eyes are glassy and rimmed red, but there's a little less devastation in his gaze than there'd been when he'd shut the laptop and gone straight into the kitchen for the beer.

"Just give it time," Tommy says.

Sniffling, Eddie looks at the hand Tommy has on Evan's neck, and tries to muster up a smile. "And how much more time are you going to give before—"

"Nope," Tommy cuts in, because that's a conversation for another time, another place, and another person. "You think I won't literally kick a man when he's down?"

It's not his best work but it makes Eddie laugh, so he calls it a win.

[writersdrug]

Mourning Dove

Chapter 3: Pursuit

Masterlist

Summary: König finds a lost lamb and guides it home, away from the wolves.

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, chasing, anxiety

The forest wasn’t full of surprises – at least, not to König. In fact, it was a comfortably predictable place. Trees grew and shed their leaves, animals frolicked in the early morning and landed in his traps at night. Mushrooms sprouted among the tree stumps behind his cabin, and the sun rose and fell. The only variance was in what he cooked for his meals or how many logs he put in the woodstove, and even then, there wasn’t much of a difference.

When the sickness had broken out across nations, he had hardly noticed it. If it wasn’t for his biweekly trip down the mountain, he wouldn’t have. He had barely made a mile from the forest’s border when he heard the animalistic, yet alien murmurs and howls from the town. After a day’s observation from the sanctuary of the woods, he understood what had become of the majority of the population. Necessities became luxuries, and trips were cut back to a once-a-month basis. He didn’t have the mental energy nor the patience to fight off hundreds of creatures every other week.

The infected stayed away from this neck of the woods – most of the time. There was the occasional straggler that somehow made it up the steep incline, but half the time, they were forced back down once they discovered the lack of fresh human sinew. The ones that pushed closer to his cabin were nothing he couldn’t handle. They were no different than animals in his opinion, just without any usable or edible bits; the bones were too weak and brittle, and the ligaments and fibers of their flesh too mushy. If anything, they provided target practice, even if he didn’t need it.

But, this was all typical. Expected.

What was unexpected, was you.

First, it was the smell of smoke lingering in the air. König certainly hadn’t lit his woodstove for a while now. Burnt, citrusy smoke hung unnaturally in the air at eleven in the morning, nearly burning his nostrils with the unbearably piney scent. Rather than climbing down his usual path, he followed it east, curious to see who was in his neck of the woods. The infected didn’t have the brains to start a fire anymore – literally – and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had come through this area. It wasn’t near any trails or known paths, so whoever was bold enough to venture out this way had him curious and on high alert.

Soon, he stumbled across the pillar of smoke climbing towards the sky. The hunter in him settled down when he realized that this person was rather daft – leaving a fire smoking like that was no different than handing someone a knife and asking them to stab you. It was foolish of someone to think they were alone in the woods, and equally as foolish to think those creatures wouldn’t scale the mountain for a crumb of human flesh.

Finally, nearly an hour away from his cabin (fancy he’d stumble upon you on the way home), there you were. Up against a small boulder, your back to the decline of the mountain; König wondered if you had frozen to death, with nothing but your cardigan draped across your body to fight the autumn chill.

You were curled up on a rather soggy patch of forest floor. There was nothing underneath you but wet leaves and cold dirt. Your cardigan was draped over you as much as it could as a makeshift blanket – hardly one at that. König would have assumed you were dead if it wasn’t for the tremor in your shoulders, and the fact that the fire’s embers were still smoking. You must have gotten cold enough during the night to try and keep the blaze going. A backpack was carelessly and ineffectively hidden beneath a pile of twigs and matted leaves, with a protein bar wrapper shoved into the side pocket. However small the gesture was, he appreciated the awareness of your environment.

There was a plethora of questions swimming in his head. How did you get this high up the mountain? Did you mean to make it this far? How had you survived the virus for so long? He didn’t mean to judge a book by its cover, but you were rather dense and careless with your own self preservation tactics. He doubted that you kept the fire burning to mask your scent from the infected… that was too much effort for someone who slept facing the boulder, instead of keeping their eyes on the open space ahead of them.

He watched you for a while, until the dying fire’s smoke was no more than a few tendrils, curling towards the sky and disappearing before they reached the tops of the trees. Every sound from within the woods had him swiveling his head, making sure nothing was tearing up the mountain to disturb your sleep. He shouldn’t care; in fact, it was very uncharacteristic of him to care about anyone but himself. Maybe it was because he hadn’t seen a real person in the last two months, let alone held a conversation with one. But he found himself watching you like a shepherd watching his lambs – because that’s all you were, wasn’t it? A lost lamb, doing your best to survive in the wild. How could he leave such an untainted, innocent thing to the wolves?

But enough of that. You were starting to stir awake.

You rolled over to stare at the dead embers, your face puffy from an unrestful sleep. Your eyes were full of resignment and uncertainty. König wanted to chide you for waking up so late into the morning – the daylight needed to be used for finding food and making distance, not sleeping. He watched as you sat up with a sigh and put your cardigan on. As you rose to your feet, he noticed the back of your jeans were damp from the wet ground you had spent the night on. He was becoming more and more frustrated with you; you and your poor survival skills, your wet pants, your weak shoes, and the leaves in your hair that you didn’t seem to care to pick out. He would gladly do it to satisfy the perfectionist in him, if it wasn’t such a domestic gesture.

He watched intently, like a good shepherd would, as you threw wet leaves onto the makeshift campfire. Good practice, if it wasn’t completely pointless at this time of day. You sheepishly looked around the clearing, before making your way into the denser thicket of trees. He didn’t realize what you were doing until he saw you fumbling with the waistline of your jeans.

It made him laugh internally. The fact that you were so cautious, as if some woodland creature might spy on you. He was the only one you needed to worry about, but he decided to spare your privacy. He’d be worried about how quickly you were ensnaring his territorial instincts, like you had already belonged to him, if he didn’t have the excuse of your obviously non-existent self-preservation to back his newfound obsession.

He waited until you had disappeared behind the boulder before abandoning his spot among the shrubbery. His footsteps were calculated and quiet as he approached your makeshift campsite. The air was thick with acrid smoke, piney and sharp from the fir needles that had burnt up in the fire. Remnants of you littered the area: your bag, of course, laid open and propped against the rock. You’d swept away most of the leaves and twigs from where you had lay on the ground, and there was a thin line you had drawn around the perimeter of your bed. It made him laugh, a soft huff escaping through his nostrils at the idea of you staking a claim here.

His thick fingers dipped into your bag, rummaging through the contents. Some weird, big straw… protein bars, batteries, and a pretty pathetic medical kit. He’d seen them before in the hunting store he used to frequent in town, placed near the cashier’s desk in an attempt to catch the eye of someone who didn’t know any better. That was you, wasn’t it? You didn’t know any better; you focused on bringing things that would keep you alive in the short run, but nothing to sustain you. Where were your tools? What would you do to hunt, or to gather wood, or to defend yourself? Were you mistaking fortunate circumstances for your own skill? Did you know how to use that little knife, kleines Lamm? Judging by the bandage wrappers stuffed into the side pocket of your backpack, it appeared that you didn’t.

In the outside pocket of the bag, he found a set of car keys. What had you planned to do with a car? He thought. The gas stations were all shut down, most likely out of gas from the hysteria when the infection had started. Foolish girl… didn’t you think of that? He mused. Did you think of anything at all? Or were you so recklessly desperate to survive, that you threw all caution to the wind?

He was back under the cover of the trees by the time you were finished. Cerulean irises watched from the shadows as you knelt by your bag, digging around through the contents until you pulled out a map. He stifled a laugh as you looked at the damn thing with a furrowed brow, then turned it upside-down, then once more to the left, until your face relaxed into a satisfied expression. You held the map loosely in one hand as you shouldered your bag, stomped on the ashes of the fire a bit, and made your way west.

König’s curiosity had him in a chokehold. The only reasonable thing he could think of was to follow you.

He kept a good distance from you, maybe a hundred yards down the mountain from where you walked. Your eyes were glossy and tired as you stared ahead. Occasionally, he observed as you glanced at the map, then the babbling creek, then back ahead. Boredom was clear as day on your face – what were you searching for? Where were you going? There was nothing out here, other than König’s cabin, and miles and miles of woods. Roze and Horangi had made sure he was planted in a safehouse, far beyond where roads and buildings began to smatter across the maps’ pages.

He found himself sizing you up a bit. He didn’t like how sluggishly you moved; it was understandably due to a lack of real food. Protein bars could only sustain you so much, especially if you were rationing yourself to one per day. You had potential to be a warm body, with enough hearty food and pampering – you deserved that. Who else to give it to you, but himself? He was worthy of it; he’d spend enough time alone, toiling over his own survival and keeping the forest decently clean and flourishing, hadn’t he? He earned the right to take care of you, to turn you into an ideal mate. It’s as if the forest had gifted you to him for all his hard work, and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

His humanity told him to slow down, back off, and reminded him that you didn’t belong to him. His instinct promised to make you his.

It impressed König, how much distance you were able to cover before you stopped for a break. The boredom might have been helping you trudge along, because at least you were moving. Eventually, however, you had come to stop by a sharp bend of the river, sitting yourself at the base of a tree. König allowed himself to linger closer to you, planting himself behind a thicket of barberry bushes.

What am I doing? He forced him self to ask the question that he had neglected over the past several hours. He drank in your exhausted expression and muscles, watching you slump over as you rested your elbows on your knees. Both obsessing and protecting came to mind as he stared, noticing the tremor in your shoulders. The objective of the question slowly faded to the back of his mind as he reeled at the thought of warming you up. Plenty of blankets and furs back at the cabin… and a woodstove, too. There was a number of ways he could warm you up, protect you from the nipping cold and keep you from having to stuff your fingers in your armpits, like you were now.

It was already festering inside of him: his obsession with you. You, a little lost thing, unaware that you had trespassed into his part of the woods. An unfamiliar hunger settled in his muscle fibers, running underneath his skin along his veins. He struggled with the urge to come up behind you and take you by the scruff of your neck, then drag your limp, compliant body back to his home. It was unnatural, but strong. An instinct, perhaps, but why now? Why was this what caused his jaw to ache with a need to bite, mark, claim? Saliva pooled in between his teeth as he watched you tuck your hair behind your ears, checking your fingernails – completely oblivious to the eyes peering at you through thick leaves and shrubbery. It’s ok, kleines Lamm, he can forgive that. You just don’t know any better. That’s what he’s there for; I’ll kill every creature in these woods, so you can be free of anxiety and fear.

Of course, as he was piecing together the perfect picture of your life woven into his, the universe had to take him down a few notches. Life can’t be too easy, can it?

A voice broke through the trees, echoing in between the sturdy trunks until the sound reached König’s ears. He heard the timbre before you did. A name. Yours, perhaps? The voice was angry, bitter – what had you done, kleines Lamm? It had to be your name, considering you were the only other human he’d crossed paths with since the start of the spread. Now, two humans? It was the most interesting thing that to occur in the last five years.

The second time was closer. You heard it, he could tell; the way your body froze, and how your eyes widened, like prey when they realize they’re staring at death’s doors. You sat upright in a heartbeat, scanning the area around you and quickly shouldering your bag. König could practically smell the fear dripping from you, he could hear the adrenaline surging through your veins. It ignited a spark within himself as he saw the coils in your mind tightening, getting ready to sprint away from the danger. He leaned on his haunches, watching as you calculated where you planned to launch off to.

Finally, after the third and closest call of your name, you sprung into action, pushing yourself up onto your feet and tearing away from the river. You went north. Up. König wasn’t expecting that. He had assumed you’d go south, using the decline of the mountain to your advantage. You’re rather smart, he thought, as he began chasing after you. Maybe you thought your hunter would think you’d go south, too. Pride thrummed appreciatively in the back of his mind – you were able to ignore your instinct, in cases where it wouldn’t be helpful, and that was an excellent survival skill that not many possessed.

You were quick when you were desperate. As the mountain’s incline grew, you resorted to clawing your way upwards like an animal fingers digging into whatever tree bark or dirt they could latch onto. Where were you going? Did you plan to hide within the high altitudes and colder temperatures until your hunter had moved on? You were aimless. If you had a plan to begin with, it was now thrown to the wind to make room for your will to survive – or rather, escape.

You threw a glance over your shoulder, but König knew you wouldn’t see him. He was a ways behind you, taking the quiet path and laying low. The last thing he wanted was to spook you and have you cowering in fear, stuck like a deer in headlights - or send you in the wrong direction completely. You were already running rather carelessly; he had to hold back a cautionary shout when you started slipping on the wet leaves and stones. Your shoes were already falling apart, and he was bristling at the thought of you injuring yourself, in which case he wouldn’t hesitate to snatch you up and carry you home.

But, of course, when there’s a will, there’s a way.

Your next step was rather unfortunate, as your perishing shoe slipped on the sodden foliage decorating the forest floor. You hit the ground and punched the breath out of your own lungs, unintentionally wedging your arm between your chest and the forest floor. He didn’t miss the way you squeezed your eyes shut and clenched your teeth together, holding back the wail that threatened to expose your location – ah, did you hurt something? Reckless thing…

You slowly sat back on your heels, cradling your right arm to your chest. König saw the pain in your face as you stared at your arm – he so desperately wanted to know what you were thinking. Poor thing is probably exhausted and sore… you weren’t made for this kind of fear and pain. He wanted to grab you then and there, hold you to his chest, and take off with you back to his home. It was his instinct to protect you.

But that’s just the thing. It was instinct. You wouldn’t understand it. You would call that abduction, despite the fact that you didn’t have a place to be abducted from. You didn’t belong here, nor anywhere. How far were you from home? Did you even have one?

You would. He’d see to it himself.

Another cry of your name, much angrier than the last one (if that was possible). You didn’t hear it – you probably couldn’t over the pain you felt. A lamb, too focused on the sharp-shooting agony in its foot to realize the wolves were closing in on you. He couldn’t wait for you to pick yourself up.

He had to herd you back home.

He didn’t want you to see him – that might frighten you away. But, he would use your own hysteria against you. You’d forgive him, right? It was for your own good.

He let his instinct take over again. He charged up the mountain towards your position, letting the twigs snap under his weight and the leaves kick up around him.

Your head snapped up. Your eyes were glossy with tears, fixed at König’s general direction. Like one of Phidias’s masterpieces, you were chiseled marble, frozen statue-still as you listened for more.

Did you think he was one of the creatures? Kleines Lamm… I am so much better.

He sprung into action once again, and the sound was enough to release you from your fear. You scrambled to your feet and took off back up the mountain, clawing your way through the humus and leaves like prey running from the hunter. Don’t worry… he wasn’t the hunter. He was the watch hound, steering you to safety – even if he was using rather unethical methods. But you didn’t know any better.

He purposefully made a mess of sounds: heavy footfalls against the ground, rustling up leaves as he ran. Slamming his body against tree trunks and causing the wood to crack. He breathed heavily, almost snarling, lips curling into a wicked grin as he heard you whimpering in panic. You wouldn’t turn around to see what or who was chasing you – good girl, just run. Run home.

The voice didn’t call out again. That, or König had chased you far enough away where the sound of your name called in anger wouldn’t be heard. You slowed down a bit, breaths mixing with panicked whines as you swallowed lungfulls of air. When you veered a little too far from where König wanted you to be, he would drag himself to that side and stir up noise, effectively herding you back to the desired path. He could tell you were on the brink of passing out. Just a little further, and you could stumble upon his cabin, break into his home and collapse on his floor for him to find later. Sure, he might be mad at himself – he had always thought he preferred being alone, not having to deal with shit from another human again. His military days were over. But the loneliness was there, lingering in the back of his mind, now taking the reigns and driving this poor, frightened dove into his trap.

No; not a trap, he reminded himself, a shelter. A cave, to hide her from whatever haunts her.

Satisfaction and relief made their homes in his mind when he had herded you where he wanted you. He stopped his pursuit, bracing himself against a tree and panting heavily, watching as you continued your terror-induced scramble up the mountain. The cabin was a mile away, but he trusted you would recognize the signs of life and follow them to safety. Hopefully, the bastard he was protecting you from hadn’t traumatized you beyond socialization.

No, he knew he’d find you there. God knows how many days of protein bars and walking for miles on end would have you drooling at the sight of his cabin, however outdated it might be. It would be a surprise for his future self, seeing you all cozy and safe in his cabin when he returns to it in a day or two – but he knew he was lonely. He had to listen to himself all day, he couldn’t deny it. He would come to appreciate you, and hopefully, you’d realize that you need him: the perfect protector, mate, and provider.

Next ->

Taglist: @nic-stars @teenagellamaangel @zhuyingsworld @crypticme @konigswifeyforlifey @zlunia @gremlinmodetweeker

[nobeerreviews]

We move through the day like two hands of a clock: sometimes we overlap for a moment, then come apart again, carrying on alone. Everyday exactly the same: the tea, the burnt toast, the crumbs, the silence.

-- Nicole Krauss

(Aarau, Switzerland)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

No Sugar Tonight 2

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Brock Rumlow

Summary: A regular customer becomes more than just a familiar face.

*sorry for misnumbering

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The man catches you by surprise as he appears. You’re busy scraping out the bottom of the toaster as he stands silently at the counter. You smile over at him and call out for him to bear with you for a moment. You’re not sure how you didn’t hear him, even as you tried to chip away at the burnt crumbs. Xander never cleans it. 

“Hi, sir, sorry.” You dry off your hands as you approach. “Black coffee.” 

You punch in his order and he waits patiently to tap his smartwatch on the machine. He doesn’t say a word as you pour him a cup. It’s typical but unsettling nonetheless. 

“Oh, er, I think... I think last time there was a mix-up.” You say as you put his cup on the counter. He ignores you and goes to grab a sleeve and a lid. You follow as you dig around in your apron pocket. “Uh, sir, I think you gave me the wrong tip.” 

You bring the folded bill out of your pocket and hold it out. He doesn’t even look at it. Instead, his dark eyes bore into you. Oh. That’s scary. 

“No. I didn’t.” 

That’s it. He’s already halfway around before you can process his words. His tone hangs in the air and lingers even as the door opens and closes across the atrium. You rescind your arm and open up the bill. 

It’s a lot of money. You could use it but it just feels so wrong. You can’t help but feel indebted. Maybe because you’re used to bending over backwards for each cent. You’ll be smart. Put it away for an emergency. Those always seem to find you at the worst moment. 

Your shift comes to an end as the city skyline softens beneath the amber glow of sunrise. Dayani takes the keys and sends you off. You’re tempted to grab a coffee to go before you leave but you can’t. You need sleep. 

You come out onto the street and take your usual route. You cut behind the corner shop and around the short alleyway. As you come out on the other side, a shadow appears, as if splitting from the brick, and falls into step beside you. 

You stumble and glance over at the stranger. It’s that man. The one who always wears black and orders the same shade of coffee. 

“I don’t make mistakes,” he says. 

You’re too addled to respond. How did he find you? How did he know you’d come this way? 

You stop but only for a moment as he grabs your arm and lurches you forward. You whimper and struggle to keep in stride. His grip is tight and his fingertips jab painfully. 

“Sir? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--” 

“You shouldn’t take shortcuts,” he reprimands, eyes set ahead of him as he drags you down your usual path. “It’s dangerous.” 

“Oh, ouch, sorry. I—what's happening?” You squeak as confusion muddles your thoughts. 

“Anyone could sneak up on you.” He doesn’t falter. You can hardly keep your feet moving as your adrenaline floods through your veins and narrows your vision. You glance around helplessly but the few bodies on the street don’t spare you a single look. 

“I’m sorry. Again. But—ow. Do you want your money back?” You try to shrug him off as he turns down your street. 

He’s silent as he marches on. He stops you in front of your building and angles you to face it. He keeps a hold of you. 

“Should be in this building. Locks janky. Any asshole can climb the fire escape.” He points along the side. “Or carry in an empty pizza box behind the elderly old lady who’s too helpful for her own good.” 

You wince and hold the air in your chest. “Sir?” 

“Night shift. Alone. That’s third. Stupid,” he snarls. 

“Sir, I—I have roommates and... and there’s cameras.” 

“And assholes wear masks or don’t give a shit,” he growls. 

You whine as he squeezes and you touch his hand. “Ow, please, you’re hurting me.” 

He shifts and looks down at his hand. He gives one last squeeze and releases you. He drops his arm straight and faces you. 

“Lots of men out there would hurt you worse.” 

You shake your head at him. You don’t understand. You’re not stupid. You’ve lived in the city long enough. 

“You leave just before eleven. At least you have the sense to stay in streetlights then. But you keep your head down and don’t look where you’re going,” he rebukes. “You don’t see your own shadow or the second one making sure no one else notices you.” 

You pout and flutter your lashes. The fear slowly rises up from your stomach to your chest until you’re choked dumb. His mouth slants. 

“You should use that money for a can of mace. Maybe a taser.” He squares his shoulders and looks you up and down. “Or maybe I’ll just keep my eye on you.” 

You flounder, lips twitching, and he puts his back to you. He stalks off without another word or another look. You watch him until he’s only a speck in the cityscape. 

What the heck was that?