#and the way he squeezes his eyes shut like he's trying not to cry????

[cameronsprincess]

DIRTY LITTLE SECRET — J.M

summary: you and jj have been hooking up in secret for a couple of months, but when jj starts trying to make it more, you have to quickly remind him that wasn’t the deal, no matter how badly you want the things he does.

CW: smut! 18+ only! fwb trope, jj maybank x kook!reader, toxic and abusive mom, family issues, strong language, smoking, high sex, male and female receiving oral, unprotected piv sex, finger sucking for a second, angst.

note: loosely inspired by my favorite song by nessa barrett, dirty little secret!<3

masterlists.

The sound of your front door slamming had you jumping, your mind swirling at all the things that could’ve pissed your mother off today. She was always taking her anger out on you, the one who didn’t deserve it…

To be fair, you deserved it sometimes, especially when you challenged and pushed her, testing the thin patience you knew she’d had. You weren’t sure why you loved pushing at your mom’s buttons, it always ended with harsh words and sometimes bruises from when your mom got a little too physical with you, her anger getting the better of her.

Your mom shouts your full name from downstairs, followed with a “Get your ass down here now!”. You sighed, pushing yourself off your bed and padding down the stairs. The house was eerily silent, give for the sound of the air conditioner whooshing to life. You find your mother in the kitchen, a large glass of straight vodka in her hand. Her narrowed eyes find yours, and you feel like a kid again, shrinking in on yourself under her gaze.

“What’s wrong mama?” you asked sweetly, hoping she’d be calm enough to talk like an adult.

Your mother scoffs, downing the rest of the vodka in her glass before she’s harshly slamming it onto the countertop, making you flinch back.

“Just a bunch of idiots down at the firm…” she pauses, looking around the kitchen. It was fairly clean, a bowl and a glass in the sink, but you knew that was enough to give her a reason to be mad at you. “And then I come home to see my lazy daughter can’t even be bothered to clean after herself, I mean.. C’mon, Y/N. I raised you better than this.”

You bite back the scoff wanting to escape you. She didn’t raise you at all. You were raised by nannies your whole life. Your mother was too busy working or drowning herself in liquor to care, and your dad? Well let’s just say he was a worthless piece of shit from the beginning, left when you were five, didn’t really know him.

“Mama, it’s just a bowl and a glass, I can clean it-”

The words die on your tongue, a sharp cry of pain escaping when the back of your mothers hand flies across your face. You cup your stinging cheek in your hand, tears blurring your vision as you force yourself to meet her eyes again. If you didn’t, it would only get worse.

“Honestly, honey, I don’t care to listen to your excuses. Clean it up. Now.”

You keep your mouth shut, lips thinned as you blinked back the tears. You nod slowly, walking toward the sink and washing the two dishes before placing them in the drying rack. You turn back around, finding your mother gone from the kitchen.

Letting out a slow breath, you turn and brace your hands on the counter, lowering your head as you squeezed your eyes shut. Your mind fills with images of messy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. A crooked smile that made your heart rate kick up a notch. JJ Maybank.

He was everything you’d wished you were, free. He’d understood you in a way no one else on this god forsaken island could. His dad was a piece of shit, always blaming JJ for his mistakes and problems, beating JJ black and blue. You two had an understanding, but you couldn’t ever allow yourself to have him in the way you wanted. So you took what you could get.

And what you could get from JJ was sex. Mind-blowing sex that allowed your brain to shut off, that let you forget all the negative things your mom spewed at you in a day, all the times she hit you or blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. Even when it was your fault, you loved going to JJ after an argument with your mom, because he understood you, and he helped you forget.

Pushing off the counter, you made your way up the stairs, passing your mom’s room, hearing the sound of her en-suite shower running, and into your room. You grabbed your phone off your bed, finding JJ’s name and sending him a quick and simple text.

You: I need you.

He read it immediately, the little bubbles bouncing across the bottom of your screen. His text came in and a smile pulled on your lips.

J: Come over, no one else is here.

You quickly jumped up from your bed, stripping yourself of your pajama pants and sliding on a pair of black biker shorts. You slid the hoodie you wore off your body, tossing it onto your bed before sliding on a plain white off the shoulder top. You quickly pulled your shoes on, grabbing your phone and car keys before quietly slipping from your room, down the stairs and out the front door.

The entire drive to the chateau— JJ’s best friends house— was silent, nothing but your thoughts consuming you. You’re not sure how you made it to the house alive, realizing you’d disassociated yourself from reality on the way there, but you didn’t care, you’d made it and you were ready to forget.

The old creaky screen door pushes open, JJ’s face coming into view on the front porch. He smiles down at you, watching as you slowly make your way out of your car. You stare at your phone in your hands, deciding you didn’t need it and tossing it into your driver seat. If your mom needed you, too bad. Maybe you were being ridiculous, maybe you were adding fuel to the fire, but you didn’t care. All you cared about right now, was spending time with JJ and forgetting the dumpster fire that was your mother.

You slowly walk toward him, stepping into his open arms the second you reached him on the porch. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, your face pressed into his bare chest and inhaling his scent.

“Missed you, princess.” JJ mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. You pull back, smiling back at him, the tears already filling your eyes.

JJ’s blue eyes softened when they found yours, “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. “No. Just wanna spend time with you and not think.”

He nodded his head in understanding, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside, the screen door slamming shut behind you. JJ walked you into the living room, letting you plop down on the couch before he disappeared down a small hallway. He returns seconds later, a pre-rolled blunt between his fingers. He wiggles his brows, that boyish grin on his face that made your heart swell.

“New shit, it’s really good.” JJ says, plopping down beside you while flicking his lighter, letting the flame burn the end of the blunt. The smell of the blueberry swisher and weed filled the air as the end of the paper caught fire, JJ pressing the unlit end to your lips, letting you take the first hit.

You puff on the blunt a few times, inhaling the weed into your lungs as JJ pulled it back, letting a small cloud of smoke pass your lips seconds later. The weed instantly spread through your veins, making you feel lighter.

“That is good, your cousin?” you asked, giving JJ a sweet smile.

The smile drops when you noticed he was already staring at you, watching you, drinking in every inch of you he could with his eyes while he puffed on the blunt that lazed between his fingers.

“J?” you said softly, snapping him out of his trance.

He chokes on the smoke that filled his lungs, passing the blunt to you again while he tried to compose himself. “Shit. Sorry, what?”

You laughed. “Nothing, I just asked if you got this from your cousin.”

JJ grins. “You know it, he’s always got the best shit.”

You nod in agreement, taking another drag of the blunt before passing it back to him. You flop back onto the couch, your hands laced together and resting on your stomach, a comfortable silence surrounding you and JJ.

After a few minutes of the silence, JJ breaks it. “So… Did you uh, you come here to just smoke and sit in silence or?”

You snort at JJ’s ridiculous question. He knew you didn’t just come here to sit in silence and smoke. You look at him, your eyes glazed over from the high, half-lidded and soft. “You know I didn’t come here for just that, J.”

He smirks, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He quickly smashes the burning end of the joint out in an ashtray that’s on the table, dropping it in before he’s standing and grabbing your hand. You giggle as he pulls you down the hall and into ‘his’ bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

His hands land on your hips, pulling you into him. He runs his nose up and down the length of your face, breathing you in and groaning. “Fuck I missed you… It’s been too long, princess.”

You smile, lifting on your toes and kissing at his neck, your teeth nipping at his skin and pulling low moans from him. “It’s been two weeks, J… Don’t be so dramatic.”

JJ fists your hair in his hand, yanking your head back so your eyes are on him. “‘M not being dramatic, baby. It’s just… Why can’t you just be mine? Fuck, I can’t stand this sneakin’ around anymore. I wanna love you out loud.”

You frown. “It’s not that simple JJ.”

“Yes it is that simple, and I know you feel what I do. You can’t fake a real connection, princess, and you know it.”

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest, tears already blurring your vision. You wished you could be carefree like Sarah Cameron, she was dating John B, loving him as loudly as he was her. But you knew your mom. You knew this town. You’d be eaten alive if you got with a pogue… You shouldn’t care about that shit, but you did. You didn’t want to give your mom a reason to kick you out.

As if he could read your thoughts, JJ kissed you softly, resting his forehead against yours. “Don’t think on it too much, we’ll talk about it again. For now, I just wanna feel you.”

You bit your bottom lip, so hard you tasted blood. Nodding your head slowly, you released your lip from between your teeth and kissed him. Your hands roamed every part of his body, touching, grabbing and scratching every inch of him you could. JJ groaned against your lips when your perfectly done nails dug into his back, dragging down and leaving red marks in their wake.

He turned your bodies, backing you up to his small twin-sized mattress and pushing you down onto it. The springs creaked beneath your weight, and JJ crawled on top of you, his hands already making quick work of stripping you of your clothes. You lay completely naked beneath JJ, your chest moving up and down quickly as your eyes searched his.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful.” He rasped, pulling his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following quickly behind.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your eyes drinking in every inch of JJ’s tanned and toned skin. You finally pushed yourself up and onto your knees, shoving him so he was on his back. You lowered yourself, your lips brushing a soft kiss to the tip of his dick, already dripping with precum. Your tongue softly and slowly ran across the tip, moaning when the salty taste of him hit your tongue.

“Fuck, baby… You want me to beg for it?”

You giggled, teasing him some more. “And if I say yes?”

JJ groans, his head thrown back onto the mattress as you wrapped your lips around his swollen head, gently sucking and licking at him before releasing him with a pop.

“I’ll do whatever you want if you just suck my cock, baby. Please?”

You swiped your tongue across your bottom lip, smiling up at him before you gave him what he wanted. Your lips wrapped around him, sucking and licking as you slowly took him all the way down your throat.

A low groan escapes JJ, his fingers digging into your hair and lightly tugging as you continue to slowly move your mouth up and down his thick length. You push him all the way down, holding him there while your tongue moves against the underside of his shaft.

You slowly drag back up, pulling him all the way out to the tip. You tease him with your tongue, giving slow languid licks to his pulsing tip. JJ breathes out a frustrated breath, his fingers tightening in your hair and holding your head captive as he bucks his hips up, forcefully pushing himself down your throat.

Tears blur your vision, a rough gag pulled from you as JJ keeps himself held down your throat. He slowly lowers his hips, dragging himself out of your mouth, “Such a tease, baby… ‘M gonna fuck this pretty little mouth now, okay?”

The words you want to speak don’t even make it past your thoughts before JJ is brutally working his dick in your mouth, rough, hard thrusts of his hips as his hand in your hair keeps you held in place for him. You gag and slurp around him, drool spilling past the corners of your lips as you try and breathe through your nose. JJ’s dick pulses against your tongue, the feeling sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your aching clit.

JJ breathes out a low curse and call of your name before his grip on your hair tightens further and he’s ripping you off his cock, strings of spit and precum flying and landing on his toned stomach. You choke on gasps of air, your eyes bloodshot and half-lidded as you find his intense blue stare already burning into your face.

“God you’re so fucking beautiful,” His thumb reaches out to swipe away a tear that’d ran down your cheek. “Switch places with me, on your back, legs open baby.”

You quickly obey, weakly bringing yourself to your knees and laying your back against the cool mattress, your head falling into the plush pillows. Your shaky legs slowly spread wide, baring your glistening pussy to JJ. He sucks in a sharp breath, his tongue running across his teeth as his eyes drink you in.

“Fuckin’ soaked, just like I knew you’d be.” He smiles, falling to his stomach, his face between your shaking thighs.

JJ’s lips form a circle, a cool blow of air hitting your soaked folds. You shudder, moaning his name as your fingers fly into his messy blond hair. JJ smiles, his lips pressing lightly against your inner thighs. His lips leave hot, wet open-mouthed kisses along the length of your inner thighs, teeth nipping and lips sucking on skin every so often.

“J, please..” You moan breathlessly.

JJ’s lips press a soft kiss against your swollen clit. “Please what, princess?”

“Please… Eat my pussy, JJ. Please? I fucking need it.” you begged, your entire body tight and on fire as JJ continued to tease you with his lips and tongue.

He was so close to where you needed him, just a mere inch away from where you ached to feel him. Without warning, JJ sucked your clit into his mouth, pressing the tip of his middle finger inside you at the same time. You gasp, back arching up off the mattress as JJ fingered, licked and sucked at your pussy like it was his last meal on earth.

The coil tightened low in your belly, a warmth rushing through your veins as your inner walls fluttered around JJ’d finger. He releases your clit with a messy pop, his head lifting to find your eyes. He smiles, the sight painfully sexy as his mouth glistened with your arousal.

“Cum on my face and hand baby, then I’ll fuck you.”

His face disappeared between your legs again, his middle finger pushing in and out of you at a quick pace while his mouth sucked on your clit. His teeth lightly bit down on your swollen bud, making you gasp in both pain and pleasure. JJ soothed the area, giving slow and sensual licks with his tongue before he’s sucking it back into his mouth. JJ hummed against your pussy, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure coursing through you. You came undone for him, body shaking and loud whines of his name spilling from your lips as he continued to suck and finger you through your high.

Your body fell limp against the mattress and JJ slowly pulled his finger from inside you. Lifting himself up to his knees, he crawled to hover above you. “Always so fuckin’ sweet, here, taste yourself.” He says before forcing his middle finger into your mouth.

You didn’t hesitate to suck on his finger, your tongue swirling around his digit, cleaning every trace of your arousal from his finger. JJ’s eyes darken over, a deep growl rumbling in his chest before he’s pulling his finger from your mouth and flipping you onto your stomach. His hands snake underneath your hips, lifting your ass up into the air for him.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, did you know that?” He rasps, his ringed fingers gripping a handful of your ass between them.

Your hips sway, silently begging him to fuck you. “Yes. But I love hearing you say it, J.”

JJ breathes out an amused laugh. “Always were a humble one, baby.”

“You know me, I’m as humble as they come,” you lift your head off the mattress, turning to look at JJ from over your shoulder. Your lips slightly parted when you saw him gripping his thick cock in his large hand, giving himself slow pumps while he stared back at you. “Fuck me, JJ. Please? I need to feel- Oh, God.”

JJ shoves himself inside you in one swift thrust, bottoming out and stretching you open. His hands grip your hips tightly, the feel of his fingers on your skin burning you from the inside out. JJ lets out a deep groan, slowly dragging himself out of your pussy before slamming forward again.

His right hand releases your hip, running up the arch of your back and to the back of your head. He tightly fists your hair in his hand, yanking your face up off the mattress as he growls, “This what you needed, baby? Needed my cock buried deep inside this sweet fuckin’ pussy?”

You whimper. “Y-yes,” a sharp gasp escapes you, JJ hips brutally slapping against your ass. “Fuck, fuck JJ… Oh, God…”

JJ lets out a dark laugh, his hand that wasn’t gripping your hair landing a harsh slap against your ass. “Getting real sick of being a dirty fuckin’ secret of yours, you know that?” JJ grits out, his hand harshly smacking your ass again.

Your fingers dig into the sheets below you, tightly gripping onto them as JJ’s thrusts pick up in speed and roughness. JJ slows himself, slowly dragging out to the tip before slamming inside again. His fat head nudges at your sweet spot, knocking the breath from your lungs.

JJ continues his slow and rough thrusts, each one more painful and pleasurable than the last. JJ’s grip in your hair tightens, his dick shoving deep inside you before he’s yanking you up off the mattress, pulling your back flush against his front.

“Why the fuck can’t you just let me take care of you?” Out. Slam forward. “I’d love you, I’d make sure you never knew pain ever again,” Out. Slam forward. “But you want to care more about social statuses and your fucking mom,” He grinds his teeth so hard you swear they might break. “Than you do about me. You know how that makes me feel?”

Tears flow down your cheeks. You knew he was right, and you wished you could give him what he wanted. But you just couldn’t, not now anyways.

“JJ… Please..”

JJ pulls himself out of you completely, slapping the head of his dick against your throbbing clit once. Twice. Three times before he slams back inside. He releases your hair, letting you fall back into the mattress, both his hands gripping your hips so tightly you swore you’d bruise. The cold metal of his rings should cool your heated skin, but they burned, searing themselves into your skin the way JJ had seared himself into your heart.

You choked on a sob, apologies spilling from you as JJ pounded himself into you, the sounds of your sobs, moans and flesh slapping flesh filled the room. Your pussy flutters around JJ’s cock when he gives a particularly brutal thrust, his dick pulsing deep inside you.

JJ leans his body over yours, slowly fucking into you as he swipes your hair off your sweat slick face. His lips kiss at your cheek, neck and shoulder, his teeth biting down on your shoulder hard as he pulses and throbs inside you.

“I love you, and I wish you loved me back.” He whispers.

A single tear slides down your cheek as you come undone around him, your pussy clenching and unclenching, squeezing him tightly. JJ groans, pushing himself deep one final time before he cums, spurts of his warm cum spilling inside you.

The two of you are panting, completely sated and exhausted. JJ slips out of you, standing from the bed and pulling on his boxers and sweatpants. You sit up, pulling his comforter over your very naked body, suddenly feeling more exposed and vulnerable than you’d ever felt in front of him.

His sad eyes found yours. “I meant what I said, I’m done with the sneaking around. I love you, and you deserve to be loved out loud,” He pauses, running a hand through his disheveled hair before letting out a humorless laugh. “Call me when you figure out what it is you truly want, but until then, this,” His hand motions between the two of you. “This is done. I won’t be some dirty fuckin’ secret. I deserve more than that, and you know it.”

He turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone with your thoughts. You wanted JJ, but you knew it wouldn’t work. He was too good for you. He was and would probably always be, your dirty little secret.

tagging some moots: @quinnsbabygirl @rafesthroatbaby @rafesheaven @maybejj @maybankslover @cherrygirlfriend @rafescvntyclubgf @nemesyaaa @hauntedfawnn @dementedkittenribbon @jjslaybank @memoirofasparklemuff1n @kiiyomei @oceandriveab

[neontiger]

Could you do something about looking into Jason’s wallet and seeing a little picture of you there?

Baby, this is too cute ♡ Wrote this while at work so I didnt have time to edit, so apologies for any misspells or whatnots. Thank you so much for the love ♡♡♡

~♡♡♡~

The week had been rough on both you and Jason, though for wildly different reasons - you with the double shift four out of five days, him with taking down a gang that had until recently been harassing the residents of the Hill - and so when Sunday night rolled around neither of you could be bothered to get dressed for your regular date night.

Pizza and a movie at your apartment it was, then.

You click through the options, all TV shows, but no movie that feels right. Too many choices and your brain is already empty and tired. Jason's not faring better, arm around your shoulder as you lay against him on the couch, his head dipping down every few minutes as sleep threatens to take him.

He groans, head falling back. His hand squeezes your shoulder. "Let me up," he says. "I'm gonna take a shower."

You wrinkle your nose at him. "Pizza's not far, you know."

He shrugs. "I'm gonna pass out waiting for you to pick something. May as well get clean first."

You give a dry laugh as you sit up to let him off the couch. "You stink anyway," you add, for that extra bite, as he leans to kiss your forehead.

He pinches the tip of your nose lightly between two fingers. "You like it."

You watch him walk away, enjoying the view of his broad back in his tight black shirt...his ass in those sweatpants...until he shoots you a knowing glance over his shoulder. You divert your gaze quickly back to the television.

The water from the shower is at full blast when the doorbell rings. You narrow your eyes at the bathroom door - surely Jason can feel that little bit of contempt through the wood - before getting up. You're not wearing much, a thin cotton slip dress to combat the summer heat, and grab his sweatshirt from where he abandoned it earlier on the bed. Decent enough now to open the door, you grab Jason's wallet from the kitchen counter and move to answer as the doorbell rings again.

"I'm here," you grumble, mostly to yourself, as you pull the door open. Habits built working customer service has a small plastered on your face a second later and you quickly flip open Jason's wallet to dig out enough for the pizza and a big tip.

Instead you falter, cheeks flushed, as you come face to face with yourself.

You recognize the picture; you texted it to him one lonely night when he was out, wearing that mask, cleaning the streets, putting himself in danger...why he needed to, what he was trying to repair, you didn't know...you'd been in your bed staring at the ceiling and trying not to cry. He'd texted first, that's right. He wanted to know how your night was. He missed you. The picture was your response: smiling but eyes a little red, very tired, wearing a shirt he'd left behind.

"It’s $21.49, ma'am."

You shove $32 at the delivery guy and snatch the pizza from his hands. Before he can ask about your change you shut the door.

Your heart races. Pumps blood too fast through your veins, making the walk to the kitchen loose and wobbly. You set the box on the counter and stare at the photo.

Jason's not the sentimental one. You're the collector, clinging to bits of him, to souvenirs, because you knew that one day...because you knew. But not Jason. He didn't put memories in objects.

And yet here you were, safe in his wallet where he could always have you.

The shower clicks off. You close his wallet and hurry to replace it on the counter. Your cheeks still burn as Jason emerges from the bathroom wearing only a towel low on his hips. Water beads on his muscled chest and arms, the right one tense and flexed as he holds the towel up with a clenched fist.

"D'you have some of my underwear here?" He asks.

You snort. "Yeah. Closet, third drawer down."

He smirks. "Pervert," he says, before making his way to the closet.

You try not to rush him, to not throw your arms around and kiss him. Instead you make your way as calmly as your overexcited heart allows to the nightstand next to your bed, to pull open the bottom drawer and find the old digital camera there. It's been a few months since you last used it - with him, actually, taking pictures of birds at the park - but it still has enough charge.

Jason glances at you, fixing the waistband of his underwear. "What are you doing?"

You aim the camera at him and snap a photo. He grins. "We should take some pictures," you say. "You know, in case you want to carry one with you. In case you miss me."

He walks around the bed and wraps an arm around your waist. Strong, warm, a little damp...you could melt into him, right now, right here. He takes the camera from your hands. "That sounds like a good idea," he says.

His lips press yours, a smile on them. The camera flashes above you like stars.

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: "No More Hiding"

Part 7

Marshall didn’t leave your side for the rest of the day.

He followed you from the couch to the kitchen, stood behind you while you made tea, his hands resting on your hips like he was afraid you might vanish. When you went upstairs to change, he sat on the bed, watching you with quiet intensity.

He wasn’t hovering.

He was waiting.

For you to say something. To let him in.

But you didn’t know how.

You wanted to pretend everything was fine. You wanted to put your mask back on, to shove it all down and move forward.

But you couldn’t. Not after last night. Not after Hailie heard you crying. Not after Marshall came home the second he found out.

So instead of saying something, you just curled up in bed, facing away from him, hoping he’d let it go.

He didn’t.

"Baby."

You felt the bed dip behind you. His hand found your waist, warm and steady.

"Talk to me."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "I don’t know what to say."

"Start anywhere."

You swallowed hard. "I’m tired."

"Then rest."

"I don’t mean like that." Your voice cracked. "I’m tired of pretending. Tired of being afraid. Tired of waking up and feeling like I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Marshall was quiet for a long moment. Then, he shifted closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arm tightening around you.

"Then don’t pretend," he said, voice low but firm. "Not with me."

You exhaled shakily. "I don’t know how to stop."

"I’ll help you." His lips brushed against your shoulder. "I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what we have to do. I just need you here, baby. I just need you."

A choked sob escaped before you could stop it. You turned in his arms, burying your face in his hoodie, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Maybe he was.

"I don’t want to feel like this anymore," you whispered.

"Then let’s figure it out together," he murmured against your hair. "No more hiding. No more faking."

You nodded against his chest, even though you weren’t sure how to start.

But maybe, just maybe, having Marshall next to you was enough to try.

Marshall stayed with you until you fell asleep.

You didn’t dream.

For the first time in a long time, there was no suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. No images of the past haunting you. Just warmth, just steady breathing, just him.

---

When you woke up, the space beside you was empty, but the lingering scent of his cologne told you he hadn’t gone far.

You found him in the kitchen, standing at the stove, coffee brewing behind him. He was making eggs, but the way he kept glaring at the pan told you it wasn’t going well.

You leaned against the doorway, crossing your arms. "Did the eggs offend you, or—"

He turned at the sound of your voice, eyes sweeping over you like he was making sure you were really standing there.

You expected him to joke back, maybe smirk and say something cocky. But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped forward, cupping your face like he needed to touch you, like he needed to feel that you were still here.

"Morning," he murmured.

Your chest tightened. "Morning."

His thumb brushed your cheek, his expression unreadable. "How do you feel?"

You knew what he was really asking.

You swallowed. "Like I don’t know what to do next."

Marshall nodded slowly. "Then we’ll take it one step at a time."

You looked away. "I don’t even know what that looks like."

"Then we’ll figure it out." He paused. "But I want you to talk to someone, baby."

Your stomach twisted. "Marshall—"

"Just listen." His voice was gentle, but there was no room for argument. "You don’t have to do it alone. You shouldn’t have to. And I can’t be the only one you lean on—I mean, I want to be, but I don’t know how to fix this for you."

You closed your eyes. "I don’t need to be fixed."

"I know that." His fingers traced slow, soothing patterns against your jaw. "But you do need help."

You let out a shaky breath. "I’m scared."

"I know, baby." His forehead pressed against yours. "But I got you."

You stood there for a long time, just breathing him in, letting his presence steady you.

And maybe—just maybe—you could take that first step.

---

You knew Marshall was waiting for you to say something.

He hadn't pushed after breakfast, hadn’t brought up therapy again. But you could feel it lingering between you, heavy and unspoken.

You spent most of the day in silence, lost in your own head. The idea of sitting in front of a stranger and spilling everything made your stomach twist.

But the idea of doing it alone?

That was unbearable.

So as the sun dipped lower, you finally worked up the courage.

"I’ll go," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Marshall turned from where he sat beside you on the couch, eyes locking onto you immediately. "Yeah?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "But only if you come with me."

His brows pulled together. "Come with you?"

"I don’t want to go alone." You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the hem of your sweater. "I can’t."

His face softened, but there was something else there, something unreadable. "Baby…"

"Please, Marshall." Your voice wavered. "I can’t do this by myself. I need you there."

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, his jaw clenched, his hand flexing like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

Then, slowly, he exhaled. "Okay."

You blinked. "Okay?"

"Yeah." He shifted closer, finally taking your hand. "If that’s what you need, then I’ll be there. Every time."

Your throat tightened. "Promise?"

His grip on you tightened. "I promise."

And for the first time, the thought of walking into that room didn’t seem quite so terrifying. Because you wouldn’t be walking in alone.

---

The first session was awkward.

You sat stiffly on the couch, Marshall beside you, his arm stretched along the back like he was trying to stay casual. But you could feel how tense he was, how he kept shifting like he wanted to bolt.

The therapist, a woman with kind eyes and a soft voice, gave you space. Let you ease into it.

"What brings you both here?" she asked.

You glanced at Marshall, but he stayed quiet, staring at a spot on the floor.

So you swallowed and said, "I need help."

Saying it out loud made your stomach twist, but Marshall’s fingers brushed against yours, a small, steady touch, and you exhaled.

The second session was harder.

"Can you talk about the night you fell into the pool?"

Your chest tightened. "I don’t know."

"That’s okay," she said. "But you’re safe here. No one is judging you."

Marshall shifted beside you. "I just—" He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don’t get why you didn’t fight."

You flinched. He hadn’t said it that bluntly before.

"Marshall—"

"No, I mean it." His voice was tight, strained. "I’ve fought like hell to stay alive for you. For the kids. And you—" His breath hitched. "You just gave up."

You swallowed, hands gripping your jeans. "I wasn’t trying to die, Marshall."

"Then what were you doing?" His voice cracked. "Because I pulled you out, and you weren’t even trying to swim."

You couldn’t meet his eyes. "I was tired."

Silence.

Then, quietly, he said, "I don’t know how to live in a world where you don’t exist."

You wiped at your eyes. "I don’t either."

The third session was different.

"How have things been since last time?"

You hesitated, then said, "Better."

Marshall nodded. "She’s talking more."

The therapist smiled. "That’s good. Have you been talking to each other?"

You and Marshall exchanged a look.

The night before, you had sat on the couch, curled into his side, and told him about the first time you had thought about leaving—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally.

And he had told you about the first time he realized he was afraid of losing you.

"Yeah," Marshall said. "We’re trying."

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t easy.

But for the first time in a long time, you weren’t carrying it alone.

---

You checked your phone again.

Still nothing.

The session was supposed to start ten minutes ago, and Marshall wasn’t here.

Your therapist sat across from you, her hands folded in her lap, radiating patience. "Do you want to wait a little longer?"

You forced a nod, even though your heart was hammering. "Yeah, he’s probably just caught up at the studio."

That was logical. Rational. You knew that was the most likely reason.

But your mind wasn’t logical.

Your mind was clawing at old memories, ripping them open, filling in the blanks with worse possibilities.

The last time Marshall was unreachable, he had almost died.

Your hands clenched into fists. You tried to steady your breathing, but your lungs felt tight, like you couldn’t get enough air.

You called him again.

Voicemail.

Your stomach twisted. Your vision blurred at the edges.

He should’ve been here by now. He would’ve answered. He always answered.

Your ears started ringing.

He was lying on the floor again, wasn’t he? Unconscious. Blue lips. Barely breathing. The hospital beeping. The way you shook him, screaming his name, Marshall, wake up, please, please wake up—

"Breathe."

Your therapist’s voice cut through the haze, grounding you. You blinked rapidly, realizing your whole body was trembling.

"You’re safe," she said gently. "Marshall is okay. I know your brain is telling you otherwise, but let’s stay here, in this room. Can you do that with me?"

You tried.

But the fear wouldn’t let go.

"I can’t—" Your voice broke. "What if he’s not okay? What if this is like before?"

"What if it’s not?" she countered. "What if he’s just running late?"

You shook your head violently, chest heaving. "I don’t know how to believe that."

"Because your brain is wired for survival right now. Because trauma convinces you that the worst-case scenario is the only possible one."

Tears burned your eyes. "I can’t lose him."

"You’re not losing him." She leaned forward, voice calm but firm. "Right now, you are here. You are breathing. Marshall is most likely driving, which is why he’s not answering. But even if something did happen, you are not alone in this anymore."

Your phone vibrated in your grip.

Marshall’s name lit up the screen.

Your breath hitched, and you answered immediately. "Marshall?"

"Baby—" His voice was rushed, apologetic. "Shit, I’m sorry, I just pulled up. I was driving, didn’t see my phone."

A broken sob escaped before you could stop it.

"Hey, hey—" His tone changed instantly, panic creeping in. "What’s wrong? Talk to me."

You covered your mouth, shaking. "I thought— I couldn’t reach you, and I just—*"

The door to the office burst open before you could finish, and then he was there, panting, still holding his keys like he’d run inside. His eyes found yours, wide with alarm.

You barely registered dropping your phone before you were in his arms, gripping his hoodie, pressing your face into his chest like he was the only thing keeping you standing.

"I’m here," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head. "I’m here, baby. I got you."

You just held onto him, shaking.

Your therapist gave you a moment before speaking softly. "This is what we need to work through."

Marshall looked at her over your shoulder. "What do we do?"

She met his gaze. "We help her retrain her brain to believe she’s safe."

You wanted to believe it.

You just didn’t know how.

You sat on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, staring at the rug beneath your feet. You’d been quiet for most of the session, barely speaking since Marshall sat down beside you, his hand resting on your thigh in quiet reassurance.

Your therapist waited, letting the silence stretch. She knew, somehow, that you were trying to find the words.

Finally, you swallowed and said, "I don’t think I’m safe."

Marshall stiffened beside you. "Baby—"

You shook your head, eyes still locked on the floor. "I don’t mean physically. I just—" Your voice wavered. "None of this feels real."

Your therapist’s voice was calm. "Can you explain what you mean?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Ever since Marshall got sober, I feel like I’ve been living in a dream. Like it’s all too fragile, like any second I’m going to wake up and still be in that hospital waiting room, waiting for someone to tell me he’s dead."

Marshall cursed under his breath, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I don’t remember the last time I felt present in my own life," you admitted. "It’s all just a blur. Days blend together. I feel like I’m floating, waiting for the moment when reality crashes back in. And when it does, I know I won’t survive it."

"Baby, stop—" Marshall’s voice cracked.

You turned your head, meeting his glassy eyes. "You don’t get it."

"Then make me get it," he pleaded. "Help me understand."

Your throat tightened. "That night, when you overdosed, I felt you slip away." Your voice barely rose above a whisper. "You died, Marshall. Maybe not officially, maybe not permanently, but to me? You were gone. And I have spent every single day since then waiting to lose you all over again."

Marshall sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers clenching into fists.

"I don’t know how to let myself believe you’re really here," you continued. "Because if I do, if I let myself feel it—if I let myself have you—then when you’re gone for real, I won’t survive the night."

Marshall turned fully toward you, one hand gripping the back of your neck, the other pressing against your knee like he could physically anchor you to him. "I’m not going anywhere."

You shook your head. "You did go somewhere, Marshall. And I can’t stop living in that moment."

Tears welled in his eyes, his breathing unsteady. "Then we get you out of it." He looked at the therapist, desperate. "How do we get her out of it?"

She studied you both for a long moment. "We help her find proof that she’s here. That this is real. That the past can’t reach her anymore."

You let out a hollow laugh. "And what if it does?"

"Then we fight it," Marshall said, his grip tightening. "Together."

You wanted to believe him.

But you still weren’t sure how.

---

The house was quiet.

The kids were asleep, the soft hum of the TV downstairs the only sign of life. But upstairs, in the bedroom, you stood frozen in the doorway of the bathroom.

Staring.

The tiles were the same. Clean, pristine, like nothing had ever happened. Like you hadn’t knelt there, hands shaking, pressing your fingers to a cold, lifeless wrist. Like you hadn’t screamed his name over and over, hoping to force breath back into his lungs.

Your chest felt tight. Your vision blurred.

It was like you were back there, drowning in it all over again.

"Baby?"

Marshall’s voice was soft, careful, but it still made you flinch. You heard his footsteps before you felt his presence behind you, warm and grounding.

"Talk to me," he murmured.

You swallowed hard. "It happened right here."

"I know."

You shook your head. "I can still see it."

There was a pause, then the gentle press of his hands on your arms. "Look at me."

You couldn’t.

"Baby." His fingers found your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes weren’t just blue—they were alive. Clear and warm and full of something raw, something that made your breath hitch. "I’m right here."

Tears burned your eyes. "I know that."

"Do you?" He took your hand, pressing it firmly against his chest.

A steady thump met your palm.

"Feel that?" he whispered. "That’s real."

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking. "I hate that I can’t let it go."

"Then don’t," he said simply. "Not yet. Not until you’re ready. But just for right now, just for this moment—" He tightened his grip on your hand, pressing it harder against his heartbeat. "Stay here with me."*

You let out a shaky breath.

His heart kept beating.

And, for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel it.

---

You stared at your therapist, her question ringing in your ears.

"Have you ever allowed yourself to be angry with Marshall about the overdose?"

Angry?

You glanced at Marshall beside you. He was tense but quiet, waiting for your response.

Finally, you shook your head. "No."

"Why not?"

You swallowed hard. "Because… he got better. He came back. What right do I have to be mad when I didn’t lose him?"

Your therapist leaned forward slightly. "But you did lose him that night. And you never let yourself grieve that."

Your throat tightened.

"I want you to tell him what you felt that night," she continued gently. "Let yourself feel it. All of it."

You exhaled shakily, turning toward Marshall. He met your gaze, nodding once. "I can take it," he said quietly.

You hesitated, then took a breath. "I was so scared, Marshall." Your voice was steady, controlled. "When I found you, I—" Your chest tightened. "I thought you were dead."

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak.

"I called 911, but I don’t even remember doing it," you continued, your voice trembling slightly. "I was just sitting there, trying to wake you up, but you weren’t moving, and I kept thinking, ‘this is it. This is how it ends.’"

Your hands curled into fists.

"And then at the hospital, they wouldn’t tell me anything. I just sat there, for hours, not knowing if you were alive or if I was going to have to go home and tell the kids that their father was gone."

Your voice cracked on the last word.

Marshall’s eyes glistened, his hands flexing like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

"*And then you lived," you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "And I was so relieved. So fucking relieved that I didn’t let myself feel anything else. Because how could I be mad when you were still here?"

A shaky breath left you, and something inside you snapped.

"But I am mad, Marshall." Your voice rose, your heart pounding. "I am so mad at you for putting me through that! For making me think I lost you!"

Marshall tensed, but he nodded, absorbing your words.

"Do you have any idea what that did to me?!" Your voice shook with rage. "Do you know how broken I was? How I spent weeks barely eating, barely sleeping, just waiting for the moment when someone told me it was a mistake, that you were actually gone? Do you know how many times I thought about following you if you had died?"

Marshall flinched.

"Do you know what it’s like to be so fucking terrified of losing someone that you can’t even enjoy the fact that they’re alive?!"

You were standing now, fists clenched at your sides, your whole body trembling.

"How dare you leave me alone!"

Your voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly, all the anger drained from you at once. Your knees buckled, and before you could collapse, Marshall was there, wrapping his arms around you, holding you tight.

"I’m so sorry," he choked out. "I’m so fucking sorry, baby."

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing, gripping his hoodie like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

"I’ve got you," he whispered, pressing his lips to your hair. "I’ve got you, baby. Let it out. I’m right here."

And you did.

For the first time, you let yourself feel everything.

And Marshall held you through it all.

---

The drive home was quiet, the only sound the steady hum of the car engine. Marshall kept glancing over at you, his concern barely concealed, his fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Every now and then, his gaze would flicker to you, just making sure you were still there, still with him.

He had said all the right things after your breakdown, but you couldn’t help feeling like there was a gap between the two of you. Like, despite all his assurances, despite his words, there was still a piece of you that couldn’t quite feel safe, couldn’t quite believe that he was still here.

That night was always in the back of your mind, and even though you had screamed at him, cried, and let the anger out, it was still there—quiet and haunting. You needed more.

When you got home, Marshall walked in front of you, as if he was scared you might disappear if he looked away for too long. He took your coat off for you, his movements careful, as if you might shatter in his hands.

"Are you okay?” he asked softly. "I just... I need to make sure you’re okay, baby."

You nodded, but the truth was, you weren’t.

You needed something more.

"I’m fine," you muttered, turning away from him. "Just... just tired."

But that wasn’t what you needed. You couldn’t keep pretending you were fine. You couldn’t keep acting like this was something you could handle on your own.

You reached out, pulling him back towards you. His breath hitched when you grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"Where are we going?" Marshall’s voice was soft, cautious. His brow furrowed in confusion, but he followed you as you dragged him into the room.

You didn’t answer him. You just climbed into the bed, tugging him down with you, feeling the weight of his body settle against yours. You could feel his pulse against your skin, the warmth of his chest against your back. But it still didn’t feel enough.

"Baby?" he asked, his voice gentle, unsure.

"Prove it," you whispered.

Marshall froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Prove what?"

"Prove that you’re here," you murmured, your voice almost breaking. "Prove that you’re alive. Prove that I’m alive."

His hands cupped your face, tilting your head so he could look into your eyes. "I’m here," he said softly, his lips just inches from yours. "I’m right here."

But you needed more than words. You needed the tangible proof that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wasn’t just going to slip away from you again. You reached for him, pulling him on top of you, your hands gripping the back of his shirt like you needed him to anchor you to reality.

"I need to feel you," you breathed, your voice breaking. "I need to know you’re still here. Still with me."

Marshall’s breath caught, and for a moment, you thought maybe he was going to pull away, but instead, his lips met yours, hard and desperate. His hands slid beneath your shirt, his touch rough with the urgency he was feeling, and you couldn’t hold back the desperate need for him to prove to you that he was still here.

His mouth left yours, trailing kisses down your neck, his hands gently running over your skin, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you, reminding you that he was still there, still alive.

"I’m not going anywhere," he whispered against your skin. "I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere."

Your body trembled beneath his touch, the weight of his presence grounding you, anchoring you to the here and now. You weren’t sure if it was the sheer physicality of it, the way his body pressed against yours, or the desperation in his voice, but in that moment, you felt seen. You felt like you weren’t just floating in a haze anymore.

"I need you," you gasped, your hands fisting in his shirt as you pulled him closer. "I need to feel like this is real."

Marshall’s eyes softened, but there was still that raw, desperate edge to him. "It is real, baby. You and me. Right now. This is real."

You closed your eyes, letting his touch consume you, each movement grounding you further. He kissed you again, slow and deliberate this time, as if he was giving you everything you needed without words.

And for once, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself believe that he was here. That you were here. That you were both still alive.

You didn’t know how long it would take for you to stop fearing that loss, but in that moment, wrapped in his arms, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against yours, you let yourself believe it was worth fighting for.

[ani-iu]

[𝟏/𝟐] 𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 | angel 𝐀𝐝𝐚𝐦 × female sinner 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 × 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are a sinner in Hell, and you want to die—permanently. You own nothing, not even your soul, and struggle every day just to exist. That is why you view the annual exterminations as your only hope and the last pardon from God to sinners.

When the day comes and you lie down with an exorcist angel hovering above you, you accept your fate with a serene smile on your face. Finally, you will be free.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

But your executioner just had to be the first man himself.

Killing sinners when they want it is not as fun, which is why Adam presents you with a deal—your kind likes those, right? He will kill you, but only if you are willing to listen to him spill everything that is weighing on his soul. Dead tell no tales, and Adam really needs someone to talk to.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: angst; bittersweet ending; implied/referenced suicide; suicidal thoughts; implied/referenced rape/non-con; rape/non-con elements; drug use and addiction; self-image issues; canon-typical violence; explicit sexual content; dubious consent; unhealthy power dynamic expressed through cannibalism; religious imagery & symbolism; religious guilt; Adam being Adam; blood and gore; dead dove: do not eat. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7,6k.

// wrath of god

𝐘ou were falling for a while—as if everything slowed down the moment you jumped.

At first, you had your eyes opened. The crisp late November air was cold but not unpleasant against your sweaty skin—invigorating even—and when you opened your mouth, it tasted of a faint hint of ice and stifling city pollution. You never felt so at peace as you did at that moment, so you allowed your tense body to surrender itself to gravity rather quickly and without much fight. 

It was only once you got closer to splattering against the pavement that you finally closed your eyes and, with a palpitating heart, braced yourself for the impact. But it never came.

You just kept falling.

And falling.

Delayed confrontation with your painful death not only confused you but also twisted your stomach in a suffocating swirl of anxiety-inducing inevitability and sick giddiness. Was this the moment I would see my life flash in front of me?

You wished—no—you needed to catch a vivid glimpse of your sun-drenched childhood days, unclouded by the passing of time. It wouldn’t have changed a thing. You already made your irreversible decision. However, it felt strange not to cry in this circumstance, and perhaps childhood nostalgia would have been able to squeeze a few drops out of you. 

To be honest, you didn’t know who you were trying to please with the waterworks, but after spending your entire life seeking approval from others, you wanted to end it the same way by showing off to the first responders your glossy, tear-stained cheeks while they scrape off your mangled body from the asphalt.

Yet, all you could think of was the ten-minute countdown toward the end, which played inside your mind on a taunting loop—ending the moment you hopped over the railing to your death and starting again the moment the door of the balcony clicked shut behind you.

Click.

Back pressed against the glass, you stand frozen in place for a moment, simply listening to the clamour of the city below. Icy snowflakes fall over your shoulders, creating a comforting blanket of pure white, but your body quickly melts it all away as if something as tainted as you didn’t deserve its biting solace.

You clutch your phone close to your chest like it is the only thing keeping you grounded at the moment.

Carefully and without loosening your deadly grip, you peel the device away until the screen senses your face and unlocks itself, presenting you with a lengthy list of contacts.

Thumb gliding over the wet screen as you scroll through hundreds of numbers brings you back to reality alongside a heavy feeling in your gut. You are reminded of just how useless the device is to you.

But your desperation has grown since the last time you contemplated reaching out for help. To the point you even consider setting aside any animosity you hold toward your mother. You could reach out to her, but, childishly, you have her contact listed under her name, and, well, her name turns out to be common enough to have three namesakes saved in your contacts, making it impossible to decide which one to call.

Yet, you don’t even try to call at least one of them. Your pride is stuck inside your throat—impossible to swallow. So you lock your phone and drop it into your coat pocket, substituting the device for a pack of cigarettes.

The filter sticks to your dry lips while you intensely watch the flame repeatedly lose the fight against the wind. Yet, with furrowed eyebrows, you refuse to let the fire die—rolling your thumb against the steel wheel of the lighter to spark it up again. 

And again.

The moment smoke hits the back of your throat, you release a sigh of contentment before taking a shaky lungful. All the tension leaves your body as you lean against the safety railing and shake the ash into the darkness below, watching it dance together with the falling snowflakes in one harmonious rhythm.

"Tempting, isn't it?"

So much for peace and quiet.

You push away from the edge and twist your body toward the devil himself.

You just had to get in his way, had to catch his predatory gaze from across the room after one of the fashion shows you were modelling at. As if any of this was even my choice. Nothing was. I didn't choose him, but he chose me—to drug, defile, and pass around his pretentious, disgusting buddies.

Said man is leaning against the doorway, his dark hair blending in with the night. He turns his head toward the railing you are leaning against and follows his suggestion with a mocking laugh. "It’s not like you would be missed. After all, you are still here."

He leaves you after that, not bothering to close the door behind him. He knows you will come back. You always do.

Flicking the butt of the cigarette, you watch it free fall and just disappear into the pitch-black abyss below—used and discarded. You still remember how light the filter felt in between your fingers. I bet its fall is light too—

You take a step back as if the wet phone in your pocket has finally short-circuited and electrocuted you.

I am loved, you tell yourself as you push your freezing hand into your pocket until your bony fingers curl around the cell phone.

You haven’t entertained the thought of jumping until now. That should show that this isn’t your doing; these aren’t your thoughts. He is the parasite that infected yet another aspect of your life.

Pulling out the device with shaking hands, you stare at an empty lock screen.

He is lying, trying to get a rise out of you, your racing mind supplies as your grip tightens.

The screen turns dark, and the phone stays silent. You hold it for a while longer—your phone as well as your breath.

The air you exhale comes out as a puffy cloud. You look up at the sky and the falling snowflakes. They cover your face in small blotches, their coldness lasting a moment like a small, calming kiss against your burning skin. Then they melt and roll down your face and down your neck into the inside of your shirt.

Daring a glance over the railing, you slowly become mesmerised by the serenity and tranquillity that darkness provides.

And you can’t help but believe him.

No one would notice if I just disappeared.

With that last thought, you finally hit the ground with a jarring slam. The impact knocked the remaining air out of your lungs, paralysing your body with the most overwhelming pain and making any kind of movement impossible for a short moment. A bloodcurdling scream pierced right through the ringing in your ears, and only when you felt your throat burn did you realise that the screaming belonged to you—not some kind of wounded animal.

Pain was the clearest indication that you were still alive, and fearing that you had somehow managed to survive your attempt, you opened your eyes only to be confronted with a reality that was even worse than that.

The air around you was heavy like lead, crushing your whole being to the ground and filling your lungs with sour and bitter fumes. Everything around you was drenched in red. It was as if you fell through the earth's crust all the way to its magmatic middle. The seemingly impossible scenario would have provided an explanation for the long fall and seemed much more plausible to you than what the pentagram above would imply.

However, before you could comprehend your current predicament to the full extent, the dainty silver cross that you always wore around your neck began to burn you through your clothing, causing you to grip it without a second thought and frantically tug on the chain to take it off. It scorched your palm, filling the air with the nauseatingly sweet smell of burnt flesh.

If asked, you wouldn’t have been able to say for certain how long it took for it to finally break—you still don’t know—you just remember the short-lived relief, which quickly got overshadowed by the heavy implication of the aftermath.

There was an ugly taste in the back of your throat as you watched in horror how the precious metal melted in front of your eyes, becoming so hot that the silver puddle turned red and blended in with the ground beneath your feet. You wanted to scream in horror, but all that left your throat was a pathetic whimper. 

Not only were you in Hell, but this gesture felt like the God you prayed to your whole life just slammed the door of His home right in front of your face.

At some point, you had managed to drag yourself into a nearby alley to get your bearings. But the moment your heavy head hit the wall, one of the back doors opened, and you saw a demon being tossed out, their bones cracking as they rolled down the steep flight of stairs, landing right by your feet.

That's how you met Isaac—a sinner whom you genuinely considered a friend, even though you sometimes wondered if he was real or merely a figment of your imagination, given how he made your afterlife a tiny bit more bearable. His optimism was infectious, yet you couldn't miss the way his smile always hinted at the regret he never fully expressed to you. But it wasn't like you divulged much about yourself either, as fear always held you back despite your longing for connection.

That’s who you were—a coward. And you stayed true to that title, remaining hidden in the shadows even while Isaac was being butchered by an angel from Heaven.

You physically couldn’t move. Instead, you attempted to justify your cowardice by reminding yourself how agonisingly painful regeneration is for sinners. If you also got hurt, no one else would take care of your friend, so you stayed in your hideout until the early hours of the morning when the flock of angels finally retreated back into the sky. 

Once you approached the scene, all you saw were the fleshy pieces scattered on the brimstone. If you hadn’t witnessed the slaughter for yourself, there would be no way for you to put a name to the innards that were left behind. 

You sat there, cradling the wet chunks of meat in your frail hold, until night fell. It wasn't until the end of the next day that it finally dawned on you that Isaac was not coming back. 

And for the first time since your arrival in Hell, you smiled.

In your despair, you had forgotten that when God closes the door, He opens a window. And as you hugged the rotting meat closer to yourself until the mince spilt out of your embrace, you thanked God—in the form of a little prayer murmured under your nose—for showing you that window of hope.

Since then, the only thing on your mind has been next year's extermination.

» » »

It was definitely suicide that earned you a one-way ticket to Hell, yet sometimes you can't help but wonder if it's modelling.

It's a stupid thought, and it’s not like it matters that much now anyway, but being stuck in Hell—a place where sinners endure repetitive and eternal punishment tailored to their sins—and doing the same thing you did in life... damn it, you just can’t help but wonder if that’s what got you here in the first place.

After all, it seems that everything went downhill in your life and afterlife once you signed your modelling contract—both times signing away your soul.

Even so, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Your eyes never squint when the stage lights cut you out from the surrounding darkness. And the rush you get—it’s almost worth everything unpleasant that comes with it. It’s your Achilles heel and the only thing you can still enjoy down here.

You also used to love the mirror and how it reflected your carefully crafted image, but now it mocks you. Your reflection is mostly blurry, and your features look so warped that it’s as if your mind can’t fully comprehend your new appearance. Guilt. Maybe this is your true punishment—not the eternal flames of Hell, but the torment of your own gaze.

So you meticulously navigate the house of mirrors that is Velvette’s studio, your head downturned in sorrow and shame like a wannabe penitent Mary Magdalene.

You conceal this weakness in character under the guise of being for others' eyes and not your own—a product of the Vees for the masses to consume. The self-effacing slogan is intriguing and seems to work for Velvette. You are a mannequin for her pretty clothes, and that’s it. She cares very little about your inner demons.

But nothing matters anymore, as you make your way down the hall for one last stop before you go to find yourself an empty spot somewhere in the streets. You doubt it will be difficult to do that. It shouldn't be crowded. Not tonight, at least.

For a year you suffered through Velevette’s verbal and physical abuse, avoided Vox’s reflective screen, and tried to stay away from Valentino. He was the most difficult of the Vees to avoid. And that is saying much, as even now—as you make your way down the hall—you keep pulling onto the silk lapels of your robe in a desperate attempt to hide your exposed skin from the blinking cameras seemingly at every corner.

You wanted to escape Valentino. You really did. But you were dependent on the overlord.

The pain from your fall never left you. It weighs on you like a heavy burden of sin. It’s Hell—you are supposed to suffer—yet coming to terms with it doesn’t make it better.

The drugs do. They placate the pain for a short while, but it all comes back sooner or later. Bit by bit, it returns slowly, like some sick joke. But it’s bearable at first, and it tricks you into thinking that you can manage it on your own. You don’t need the drugs. You don’t need him. However, then it comes back just as unbearable as it was before, and your resolve gets crushed, allowing Valentino to play a saviour again.

Your footsteps are quiet. The magenta carpeting below muffles the clicking sound your high heels make, and the further you venture away from Velvette’s side of the building, the sparser all the mirrors become and the higher your chin raises.

Finally, you come to a stop in front of the double door.

With your arms at your sides, you try to remind yourself of the shame you feel every time you leave his penthouse, that it’s not worth it. Valentino’s smoke made you retch, and his touch made you sick, but it all also reminded you of the time when you were alive. The most horrible parts of it, but for you—someone who is desperately clinging to the last remnants of their humanity—it was a comforting reminder.

You open the door to what can only be described as a sanctum of vanity. You step into Valentino’s carefully crafted reality, an empire built on charm and exploitation, bleeding hedonism from its every crevice. The air is clouded in a thick mist of smoke, hiding the true danger within. Yet even if you can’t see him, you can sense his presence and feel his invisible gaze undressing you from afar.

And suddenly your surroundings become insignificant.

"Ah, I was wondering if you would show your beautiful face tonight. Are you done playing hard to get?" A voice emerges somewhere from the thick, pink cloud of smoke. Valentino shifts from lying back on one of the opulent loveseats into a sitting position, legs spread apart, inviting. Coincidentally, he has also exchanged his usual attire for an old Hollywood-style robe, befitting his role as a film director, you suppose. It has flowing sleeves adorned with fluffy trim around the edges that Velvette would most likely describe as tacky and cheap-looking. "Come on, don’t keep me waiting, muñeca."

You don’t say anything as you step further into the room, the door closing shut behind you. Valentino already has you in his trap, ever since you took your first breath in this room. Your eyelids feel heavy until they drop to cover half of your irises, mirroring your body as you subserviently lower yourself onto your knees before the tall, hulking moth overlord and crawl closer to him.

You hear Valentino chuckle as he exhales another puff of smoke that caresses your skin with a featherlike softness and wraps around your ankles like chains, slowing down your movements by weighing down your limbs. The bliss you feel—as you inhale more of the vinaceous and just as intoxicating smoke—is overwhelming.

Your robe creeps up with every move, exposing your bare calves. Another move and it’s your thighs on display.

Valentino extends his hand to you like salvation—like a lifeline to which you can’t help but cling every single time, even if you say to yourself it’s the last time. Even if right now you feel utterly humiliated and disappointed with yourself.

Once he wraps his fingers around your wrist, he drags you like a ragdoll until you are kneeling between his spread-out knees. With your arm still in his bruising grasp, you support your weight on your free one, pressing your palm into a velveteen cushion beside his leg. Now that both of your hands are occupied, you lower your face towards his crotch, gazing up at him as you do.

As you are about to reach and lift the thin layer of his robe with your teeth, Valentino tugs your pliant body on top of his until you find your place in his lap instead. A startled gasp followed up by a little whine leaves your mouth—he caught you off guard, and the way he forcefully pulls you up hurts, but the little sound might as well be interpreted by the man as disappointment towards him taking away a sweet treat from you.

"Eager little thing you are." His tone is teasing and overlaid with his smooth, saccharine-sweet accent. But that is only the surface level. You can’t help but pick up a tinge of surprise in Valentino’s voice, like he is surprised by your audacity to try and avoid him and then attempt to suck his dick, the action that he regards as a prize rather than a torment to your jaw.

A shiver runs down your spine, and your empty stomach swirls with unease as all you can do is go along with whatever he has in store for you, even if it feels like being accompanied on a walk and seeing a guillotine at the end of the trail.

His lower set of arms brushes up and down along your thighs, eyes never leaving your body while you take that time to work on tugging and tearing at the silky fabric to expose more of your skin for his enjoyment, bearing it all to his hungry gaze. He hums in approval, moving his hands upwards from your thighs until his palms rest on your ass and hips, nudging you to get closer to him. 

Your knees tremble from the force and from having to support the weight of your body, so you sit down, feeling him already hard underneath the thin layer of his robe. You sigh, unable to suppress the involuntary throb between your legs which spurs you into grinding against Valentino just to feel some kind of relief for the itch you can’t seem to scratch on your own.

"I knew you would be back. There’s no way a little dependent slut like you could get away." His hands, still resting on your backside, take a firmer grip on the plump flesh, helping you move faster, harder. The friction sends pleasant tingles across your whole body, and you close your eyes, greedily enjoying the pleasure while it lasts, which you know won’t be long. You are so lost in it that you don’t even notice when one of Valentino’s hands from his upper set of arms roughly grabs you by your jaw, bringing your face in line with his. "Even if you try."

Valentino’s palm unassumingly rests on the column of your neck for a bit, until his grip tightens and he forcefully hoists you up till you are back on your knees. You roughly swallow down your answer and simply nod. If you weren’t Velvette’s prized model, Valentino would have snatched you for the studio a long time ago.

His lips stretch into a satisfied smirk, but it doesn’t bring you much comfort.

For a second your gaze flutters downwards, where you notice that his other hand has moved to grab his cock that already has beads of precum spilling to the surface of the tip. He smears it with his thumb and gives his whole length a few languid strokes with little amusement.

Finally, he lets go of your face and this time brings his bruising touch up to your waist while he aligns his tip with your dripping folds.

Valentino is not gentle, and he doesn’t waste time on anything apart from his own pleasure—pushing his cock inside you with no care for your comfort. The stretch, as your bruised inner walls try to accommodate him on such short notice and with no preparation, is excruciating.

You grab his shoulders and try to slow down the painful descent while taking deep breaths in order to relax your muscles before Valentino loses his patience.

Speaking of the man—he leans back to watch over the stiff, trembling mess that is you with a bored yet contemplative expression. One of his upper set of hands rests comfortably over the backrest of the loveseat, his fingers drumming against the velvet upholstery. The other brings the cigarette holder closer to his lips.

"I—ngh!" can’t is what you want to say but are unable to through gritted teeth. It was a mistake to come here, your inner voice screams at you, and you scream back, I know that!

Your cunt clenches around him as your body naturally tries to push him out of you, but then he blows another plume of the headily noxious smoke into your face and smirks as he watches how your pupils instantaneously dilate. 

What you inhale knocks down your defences and allows Valentino to forcefully thrust the rest of himself into you. All you can do is dig your nails into his shoulder blades and throw your head back in relief that the worst is over.

The force is a silent threat that you understand clearly, so before he gets angry, you pick yourself up on shaky legs and lower yourself down on his throbbing cock, adopting a pace you know he enjoys while bouncing through the pain.

Desperately searching for a way to take your mind off the situation, you peek over his shoulder at the window walls that provide you with the sprawling skyline of Pentagram City. But not for long.

As the sky behind the glass slowly turns into a slightly deeper and darker shade of vermilion, the outside vanishes, leaving you to stare at the reflection of the room, which makes Valentino’s penthouse look isolated and endless. 

You can see the outline of your figure reflected in the glass like your body is still there; you can feel it mounted on Valentino’s cock, but your consciousness is back there by the window, akin to a frigidly indifferent onlooker watching from a distance, judging.

The ache from the overlord’s bruising touch is gone, as is the excruciating pain lingering from your fall to damnation. You just feel numb.

The face of your reflection is a swirl of colour—a mix of your skin tone, the tint of your lips, and the hue of your irises—as if the image is so unrecognisable to your brain that it cannot even generate the most basic human features. You hardly remember what you look like as is; it would not matter if the reflection is accurate either way.

Valentino grabs you by the hair and brings your attention back to the present moment by aligning your face with his own. You could see yourself reflected in his glasses if not for the tears glossing over your vision.

Both of your lips are parted and inches away—his hot breath mixes with your own to the point you can taste the sickly sweet remnants of smoke on your tongue.

With half-lidded eyes, you pant out breathless little ah ah ah’s every time his hips meet with your own, and a little shudder accompanying his every exhale is the only indicator that he somewhat enjoys this and isn’t just doing it as a humiliating punishment.

Valentino is close. His thrusts have become more erratic, chasing after his own need for release.

You whimper when he lowers his head and, with hot lips, grazes the dewy skin pulled taut over your collarbone—not yet kissing it but close. Oh, so close. 

A girl can dream about a tender little kiss, and in a momentary lapse in judgement, you allow that possibility to hang heavy in the air like the cloying smell of sex as you tilt your head slightly sideways and lift your chin, leaving your neck vulnerable to him to do as he pleases.

But Valentino doesn’t do sweet little kisses, and if that well-known character quirk of his did not clue you in, then a gust of breath over your pulse point should have been a warning.

"Ah!"

Valentino sinks his teeth into the juncture where your neck and shoulder connect. The pleasant pressure in your lower stomach gets replaced with a sinking feeling as the sharp pain locks your whole body with excruciating pain.

He spills himself into your trembling body while you weakly push against him in an attempt to get away, but all it does is help him tear the chunk of meat and tendons out of your body.

Valentino growls into your open wound, and you stop resisting. His hot cum flowing down your legs is as uncomfortably hot as the bile rising up your throat.

You hear him loudly gulp down the bloody chunk and chuckle, "It doesn’t matter that I don’t own your soul on paper. You will always be mine. Even when this heals up," he licks a long stripe against the pulsing wound, making you gasp and squirm. The deceptively charming tone of his voice is gone just like that, replaced by one with a warning undertone exhaled right into the bloody injury. "There will always be a piece of you missing. Don’t make me wait for you next time."

Like a child hiding a broken vase before your parents even notice the glass shards, you smile at him, knowing that after tonight you will have nothing to worry about. You could make any promise; it won’t matter.

You exhale contentedly, "I won’t, Valentino. Never."

Valentino hums, stroking your upper arm with soft, sensual caresses, none the wiser to your plans. The unusual gentleness, alongside lightheadedness from blood loss and rhythmic throbbing in your neck, begins to slowly lull you to sleep. Your eyelids grow heavier with every touch that Valentino spares you, and unconsciously you begin to negotiate with yourself, only for a little bit… I will close my eyes for a moment… Hell knows I deserve it—

Doubtful that sinners have guardian angels, but unable to explain the sudden need to meet Valentino’s palpably piercing gaze in any other way, you cannot do anything but thank God that you do before you succumb to the temptation of sleep.

The terror in that moment is greater than exhaustion. You quickly scramble to your feet, swaying to the sides like a sapling trying its best to hold up against the wind. 

Your arms are shaking and going numb; you can’t even feel the piece of clothing in your hands. A thin layer of fresh skin has already stretched over the wound at the base of your neck, but as you tug your robe back onto your shoulders, the thin layer rips, blinding you with pain until the black spots in your vision grow bigger.

Gentle, the man is not, and still knowing this, you almost fell for the trap. All this time, he has seen through you and almost ensnared you. Shame on you for thinking yourself to be wiser.

Valentino hasn’t made a move to drag you back. He… just smiles, while one of his many arms is twirling the cigarette holder between long, dexterous fingers. The fresh smoke hits your nose, and you feel your mouth start watering.

You don’t play with untamed fire for any longer than you already have, quickly making your way on wobbly legs towards the door. It slams shut with a resounding thud, but not before Valentino’s mocking purr slips through the crack and hits you on the way out.

"Better hurry, muñeca."

Hyperventilating, you stumble into a wall. The stale smell of smoke permeates the air even outside Valentino’s room in the hallway. There’s a taste of bile in the back of your throat as you feel it coming up, but all you can do is lean your forehead against the wall, close your eyes, and ride it out without, hopefully, regurgitating the stomach acids on the carpet.

With an exhale, you will yourself to open your eyes, afraid of falling asleep. Not here, not now.

Your wounded arm hangs limp beside you as the drops of viscous blood drip from the tips of your fingers onto the carpeting below.

Finally, you push yourself to stand straight, and with an ungainly walk, you exit the tower.

You look back only once.

Lost in a trance-like daze, you don't know how long you wandered the streets or when you managed to doze off in the spot you ultimately decided to pick as your final resting place. When you jump awake, all you know is that you eventually did.

The first of seven loud, steely bell rings echoes through the air, symbolising the start of the extermination. It is soon followed by the second and the third one.

In the rubble and decay left over from the last extermination, desperate sinners get ready for a new one—scrambling to hide against the inevitable.

Feeling indifferent towards their plight, you hug your knees closer to your chest, take out your last cigarette, and press the tip against the ground to light it. You take the first puff and close your eyes, exhaling the acrid smoke through your nose with a shaky breath as another loud chime rings through the air and sends a shiver down your spine.

You are ready to die, your inner voice tries to placate you as you subconsciously dig your heels into the ground with an overwhelming want to flee. You never wanted to die—not in life, nor the after. All you wish is for the pain to finally stop. And if this is what it’s going to take…

Another inhale.

You flick the ash, some of it falling on the tip of your stiletto. You don’t bother brushing it away. Instead, you raise your gaze to take in your surroundings and can't help but feel something swirling inside your stomach. Is that... longing?

Not for Hell, that’s for sure, but rather resurfacing memories that this part of the Pride Ring brings to the forefront of your mind. You are in the industrial area of Pentagram City, nestled somewhere behind the Carmine factories. Maybe it’s weird to find nostalgia in concrete, but as you remember yourself, you were always the sentimental type, especially before dying. And looking at the sculptural, dilapidated buildings—that are only good at serving a functional purpose—reminds you of your home before you got swept up in the fake glamour of the fashion world.

Concrete’s grey colour gives off a cold feeling to many, but you harbour a different kind of sentiment towards monochrome structures. You rarely visited your childhood home after your career as a model kicked off, so the memories you have of it are saturated with the dreamlike wonder of a curious child whose mind worked tirelessly to supply colour to even the most drab parts of suburbia.

And in her youthful eyes, the concrete was never cold—not in colour, and most definitely not in feeling.

Be it the sunset, painting the walls of a concrete-panelled five-storey apartment building in the warmest of colours, or your little self trying to climb on top of the concrete tunnels at the playground that had been exposed to the sun all day—your palms firmly pressed against the warm, rough surface as you pushed yourself upward, straining to lift your body on top, and painfully scraping your bare knees until they were stained with warm blood and throbbed with hot pain. To you, the concrete was warm and felt like home.

Until it didn’t.

You grew, and the oversaturated lens through which you used to gaze at life began fading out into an all-consuming fog of depressing grey. You wanted more from the miserable existence, chased unreachable dreams and that childhood high, substituting the lack of colour in your life with artificial big city lights.

Simultaneously, your ambitions got bigger, but no accomplishment could replicate the youthful optimism you once had, and no drug could synthesise it. 

You pursued the unattainable until you burnt out.

Casting your gaze at the filter between your fingers, you are taken out of your contemplative haze by another ring of the bell. You have gotten so lost in your own thoughts that you are unsure if it’s the fifth or the seventh ring.

Cries of murder have become white noise after two years of living in literal Hell, but these screams now are different. Sinners yell for others of their kind to hide, and at first, only the distant echoes of their desperation reach you. That is until the nearest sinner to you blocks your line of vision and screams into your face.

"Don’t just sit there! Hide—"

Just like that, an angelic steel-edged axe, bearing a close resemblance to a musical instrument, cuts the sinner obliquely through. His mouth doesn’t have time to even have time to close properly as the top half of his body is already sliding off to the ground before he can finish the sentence. His lower half follows soon after and crumbles down in the same spot he once stood.

Slimy, black intestines, like live eels, slither near your feet, angrily hissing at you as the hot ground underneath sizzles them. You attempt to dodge them with your feet, letting out a petrified squeal as one of them bursts open and the fountain of blood sprays along your skin and the silk fabric of your robe.

That last ring of the bell you heard a second ago was indeed the last one.

The sinner is no longer blocking your view, but before you can take a good look at who dealt them their final blow, you are being kicked in your chest, causing you to tumble backwards and your head to hit the ground with a sickening crack. Your eyes snap shut from the force and pain. And you keep them that way.

Your ears prickle at the sound of sandy gravel crunching underneath his steps until you feel the heavy-duty combat boot press into your chest cavity with a weight and hardness akin to that of metal.

Exorcist angels, like true bringers of death, pierce the congealed blood skies with their scythe-like wings in unparalleled grace and speed. Monochrome in their colour scheme reminds you of a more hellish version of a common swift. They are small yet lethal, but the angel on you, digging his boot into your barely covered skin, is bigger and heavier and, most importantly—set on making the punishing pain last.

Just your luck.

You try to breathe, but the pressure on your ribcage constricts your chest. The feeling is soon followed up by a sickening crack. And you couldn’t be happier. You have never felt as close to salvation as you did in this moment. The pain is almost euphoric. 

Then, you feel the cold lick of the angel's blade against your neck, merely ghosting your skin. You arch your back in an absolutely sinful manner so the sharp silver edge of his weapon would glide against your skin, inviting him to slice it through.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

You open your eyes to look at the demonic face of an angel, hm… ironic.

He doesn’t suit his surroundings. Be it the incandescence of a halo above his head, casting a saintly shine over him, or the soft pastel colour palette of his robes sticking out amidst the eternally burning inferno, like the whiteness of Heaven in the bloody sky.

Even the red blood of the sinner, running down his weapon and dripping near the angel’s feet, doesn’t seem to ruin his sanctimonious image. Filthy—yes, as it stains the pristine visage of something sacred, but spilt righteously.

The angel’s pitiless eyes glint like his unfurled, golden wings.

"Are you deaf?"

His voice is spiced with mockery, like an action of spitting on someone but expressed with words.

"No, I heard you. I’m just wondering why you haven’t killed me yet."

He looks at you and blinks twice, assessing the situation.

Then he gets up from you. 

You hungrily inhale lungfuls of sulphuric air once the pressure lifts from your chest. Gasping, you scramble to reach out for him, cutting the pads of your fingers against the sharp blade of his axe. No— NO!

Without mercy, he swats your hand away with so much force that it numbly dangles beside you, but that’s when you try again with your other one. This one he grabs in his firm hold, applying pressure until your bones scream for you to surrender. As if you care about anything that happens to your ugly sinner body. You welcome pain.

He keeps you at arm's length like a flea-infested mongrel, but his words are as clear as if he had somehow gotten inside your head and screamed them into your mind.

"Bitch, you just had to ruin it for me! It’s no fun if you want it!"

You don't manage to say anything. You just open your mouth, gathering words. Not the first time I’ve heard those words from a man. There’s a pang in your chest. You have managed to ruin this not only for yourself but for others.

You are so insignificant, even killing you is not worth it.

"Sorry."

"Huh?"

"Please… I just want peace." Eternal peace.

The holographic mouth curls into an ugly snarl as he growls a wordless, ‘How dare you want something, and how dare you expect me to oblige?'

That was not the right thing to say.

The angel tugs you closer till you lose your balance and fall face-first into him, but before you can collide with his stomach, he manhandles you, grabbing you by the jaw. Your head is firmly tilted, forcing your gaze to meet his. His hand feels huge; long fingers envelop the entirety of the right side of your face while his thumb is jabbed into your cheek on the left, pushing the tender flesh inwards until it painfully smushes against the sharp edges of your molars and draws blood. His palm covers your mouth and nose, not allowing you to breathe. One squeeze of his hand and he could crush your head like a rotten fruit that has gone soft.

Instinctively, your body’s natural reaction is to grab your executioner by the wrist to stop him from causing you more harm. However, before your fingers can make contact with his inky skin, you quickly withdraw and forcefully drop your hand beside you, digging your nails into your fleshy thigh and tensing the muscles in your jaw. You will endure this—anything—if only it means that you will be free.

But that does not mean that this is not excruciating. It takes a lot for you to cry, yet the searing pain from his rough touch is enough to wet your eyelashes. You feel the stinging in your eyes, and as much as you don’t want to break down, you can’t keep the tears at bay. 

So you cry.

Embarrassment ignites your cheeks as you feel the droplets wet your cheeks. The tears pool in the arch where his index finger and thumb connect, but it doesn’t repulse him away from you. Instead, it seems to pique his interest as he loosens his grip, allowing the salty droplets to roll down your skin.

Then he smears the liquid across your skin.

Time stands still in that moment. The screaming around you fades into nothing, replaced by the pounding of your heart inside your ears.

Adam was very much looking forward to this year’s extermination. 

His self-pity and feelings of loneliness have flared up these days, and not even a quick fuck with a beautiful winner did it for him anymore. So what better way to rid himself of misery than by glutting his soul with merciless slaughter?

Adam was a hunter all his life. At a time when the earth was bare and there was little to entertain himself with other than the pleasures of the flesh, chasing wildlife was as much a means to get food as it was a source of entertainment.

And habits are difficult to quit.

Zoomorphic amalgamations replaced wild animals in the afterlife—both more or less the same, but admittedly, humans warped by sin were much more fun to hunt and butcher because of their human-like cognition. They were the ultimate prey. 

As soon as Adam descended from Heaven, he swung his axe, slicing through the first deformed sinner with little thought or care put towards the action. He needed to get it out of his system, and fast.

Then why wasn’t he feeling better?

Deep down he knew that he really needed to talk to someone. His reflection in the mirror wasn’t cutting it anymore after millennia. But he could not trust anyone enough to open up. Who could fault him for that? Every time he dared to open his heart, he got played.

He would never repeat the same mistake.

But then the sinner crumbled to the ground, revealing you.

Adam was taken aback at first. You didn’t look the part.

And that made him livid. Was his mind messing with him?

He felt the anger boiling in his veins as he kicked you to the ground. Feeling the impact against his foot when it collided with your body, hearing your bones crack, and smelling your blood only reiterated that he was not hallucinating. You were real.

And on top of everything—you wished for death.

Who, or more precisely, what, were you?

He watched you struggle in his grasp like a fish that he plucked out of water with his bare hands.

When he saw those tears rolling down your cheeks, he couldn’t help but feel that surge of authority flow through him. That’s how you were supposed to look from the very first second of you two crossing paths—trembling, crying, and pleading to spare your life. Now you weren’t so brave, shaking like the last yellow leaf, barely holding up against the autumn wind. Pathetic.

But as the first teardrop finally travelled the short distance from your eyes towards the sharp edge of your jaw and unceremoniously fell between you two, the damned ground let out a hiss as if sprayed with holy water, leaving Adam to stand there wide-eyed. No, it couldn’t be—

His wet thumb glided across your cheek with precision as, with each stroke, he hoped to remove more and more makeup, but all he did was knead the dewy skin.

The angel’s face glitches, and that’s when he suddenly lets go of you, allowing you to free fall back to the ground.

"Okay, listen, here’s the deal. I hate giving sinners what they want, and death, well, it’s usually not their kink. But! I’m feeling generous and seeing how embarrassingly desperate you are—I have one condition." His voice takes a different tone, leaving you noticeably confused at the suddenness. "Listen to me vent, and I will slit your throat at the end."

On the ground, you prop yourself up on your elbows and look at him with your jaw slack. Splayed out with your legs bent at the knees, you stare at Adam unblinking.

After a moment of silence, you hide your face in your palm and mumble to yourself. "I really hit my head hard..."

"Whore," he warns, and your head snaps in his direction. You tug on the lapels of your robe, which, after everything that happened, barely covered your breasts, defiantly crossing your legs with furrowed eyebrows. "I will put a mark on you so no exorcist’s blade would ever touch your suicidal ass, and then you will spend the rest of your miserable existence—"

You contort your face into a forced smile.

"I will do it."

[takes1]

imagine: aone takanobu is too big

details. woopsie cold start / fem!reader / mutual, intense size kink / established relationship / sexual dysfunction / begging / themes of self-restraint / f!rec oral / brat meets soft top / 900 words

his rough hands swallow up your shaky thighs, keeping you steady, supported, but more importantly spread for his wide, slick tongue to break you in.

"taka'-," you try, but your voice doesn't carry your words.

he hums, approving, against you, a low vibration that forces a whine from your tight throat. he loves the way you say his name. if feels like nobody can do it the justice that you do.

"o-h my god--, oh-!" your moans crescendo at his hungry sucking at your clit.

he stays, diligent and devoted, until he's edged you enough times to bring out the right amount of desperation, a pitiful state of trembling, and tears that threaten to spill from your eyes.

he brings you back and forth over the flat of his tongue, the heat from his breath and the strength in his grip too much to take when your cunt is that overstimulated-- you cum hard, loud, and he's there to hold you through it.

you can't sit upright anymore. your legs won't do it. but always the gentleman, he's there to help you onto your back.

not for cuddles, like you thought-- he looms over you for just a moment, a sloppy kiss to your quivering bottom lip, and he slips from your shaky, weak hands to slide right back down between your legs.

"taka'," you cry, "i can't--,"

"you know you can."

his wide shoulders keep you from squeezing him away. he sucks a distracted, harsh kiss into the crease of your thigh and it turns into tens more. those big, thick, calloused fingers go from lazily rubbing over your pussy to stuffing them deep inside. he knows you can usually take three but you won't right now.

the way you look down gets him as hard as a rock. his strong, square jaw works under your pleading and glossy gaze.

he wishes he could fuck you senseless with no risk.

he's knuckle-deep, sucking on your clit, and fucking you with his eyes when you try to bargain with him.

"i'm-- i'm ready," you whine, his work shirt balled up in your fists, pushed up so you could smell it while he ate you out, "promise. i am."

it's a lie. he can hear it. he can feel it.

his frustration goes into a hard nick to your thigh, a groan that doesn't quite make it past his busy lips. it's the restraint you have him exercise that makes him crazy. it was hard enough if you could make it easy, for you not to entertain a bad idea.

the begging, though. he clings to your thigh like a lifeline, hips already heavy but now sinking down into the cool sheets.

before he can tell you no, because that look always meant 'no, baby' you keep going:

"i need you. i need you so- bad," you're getting short of breath so you take a gasp.

you're already tight around just two of his fingers. he squeezes his eyes shut, with a strangled grunt, barely able to listen to you as you continue.

"ple-ase, please, please--,"

he takes his fingers back slowly, much like the way he clambers back up to sit on his knees, parting your legs a bit too wide so he can take a good, long stare at you.

his cock aches, strong, and it spreads a sharp and unpleasant kind of longing through his whole stomach- up to his chest.

he loves the way you clutch his shirt, how you tense at his burly form over you, your eyes searching him for new things to appreciate.

you love the strict, pained look in his brow. how tortured he really is, it gives you a kick. it's no lie that you want him to fuck you, but you weren't as dumb as you often played it. but if there's any responsibility to shoulder, like this restraint, aone does it for you a heartbeat. you have fun where you can.

your palm stretches out to rub on him through his boxers. you get maybe one, two, seconds of tactile play before he snatches your wrist and pushes his body over you, pinning it with absolutely no resistance.

"you know i can't," sounds horrible, and jealous, and mean.

only now do you put up a tiny fight. a squirm against his sullen, sulky kisses.

"taka-!"

"stop," he cuts you off, then keeps you silent with his palm.

"just-," his eyes evade yours for a moment, and you know he's not so tough, "please-, please stop begging me."

he's breathier, and heavier, as he rolls his hips onto yours. it's gentle, but the friction feels so good that your eyes just roll back into your skull. you relax under his weight.

"you know i can't-," he repeats, over and over again so he won't forget it, as he pushes his constrained cock against you.

his kindness doesn't help. you want him so much more for it.

links. longer haikyuu. my other imagines. my masterlist. requests open.

notes. titled: i do what i want and what i want is aone takanobu!! god i cant stop writing him. nobody requests him. but i do. for me. to myself.

taglist. 🤍 @integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

[milliesfishes]

౨ৎ꣑ৎValentines౨ৎ꣑ৎ

౨ৎ꣑ৎteddybear!reader masterlist౨ৎ꣑ৎ [fem reader] contains: angst pairing: coriolanus snow x teddybear!reader summary:coriolanus forgets valentine's day author’s note: happy valentine's day loves!!! tysm @rafesdoeeyeddoll for sending in this request!!! Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

Humming as she spritzed perfume behind her ear, teddybear!reader's mind was floaty with daydreams of the evening ahead. Her dress was pretty pink, with lace around the neckline and sleeve edges and a bow in the middle. Underneath was the prettiest set of lingerie she'd carefully selected from her favorite catalogue. Coriolanus was sure to love it.

She'd spent most of her waking hours getting ready for tonight- taking her time showering, applying lotion, shaving, doing her hair and makeup. It was a special night- her favorite holiday! Coriolanus knew how much she adored the season of love, and he'd specifically promised to take her out for a romantic night.

He'd been busy lately, with various proposals and projects attached to all sorts of big words she didn't quite know the meaning of. It was rare he made it back before dinner on a normal night, and when he did, it was to disappear behind his office door for hours on end. Coriolanus would join her later when she was half asleep and hazy, wrapping an arm around her to rock her back to sleep with the assurance he was there. But not tonight. There would be a whole lot of hours with him before that.

Sitting down on his side of the bed, closest to the door, she slipped on her rosy high heels and tied the corresponding ribbons around each ankle. She gave herself a final look in the mirror, then glanced at the clock. He should be home any minute. Swinging her legs, she fiddled with the skirt of her dress. Five minutes passed, then five more.

Coriolanus was usually punctual. Swallowing, she stood up, snatching her purse from her dresser and playing with the strap to distract herself. Maybe traffic had been hectic on the way home? Her mind began to wander to the worst, and she suppressed the urge to bite her perfectly glossed lip out of nervousness. If there had been an accident she would know by now. Capitol communication was highly effective in that way.

Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten in hours because she'd thought they were going to dinner. Mouth watering at the thought of the food from their favorite restaurant, she tried to stay strong. Any minute, she'd hear the telltale sound of his fancy shoes clicking down the hallway and they'd be whisked away.

The clock's ticking was driving her into insanity. Clamping her hands over her ears, she squeezed her eyes shut. It'd been nearly an hour since he was supposed to be home. Her emotions were flickering from slight annoyance and slipping into sadness. Had she done something wrong? Was he trying to teach her a lesson?

Time slipped through her fingers, pooling at her feet along with cold disappointment. All the hours spent getting ready were remembered with bitter sadness, and she sniffled, tears hinting at her eyes. No, she told herself. What if he comes home? Maybe he was just picking up roses. Or...or...she couldn't think of anything else he might be doing right now. But it didn't matter. Soon enough he would be back, apologies on his tongue and the rest of the night on his hands to make her feel special.

Another hour was pulled from beneath her like a rug, leaving her sprawled out on the bed, no longer caring that she was flattening her hair. Staring at the ceiling, she drew shapes with her eyes as the setting sun cast shadows over the room. Earlier, when she'd been in the blissful stage of getting ready, she'd thrown back the curtains and let the spray of natural light brighten the room. Now it was dark, and it all felt so lonely.

She wanted to cry. Where was he? Why hadn't he called if he knew he was going to be late? She knew at this point she should cut her losses and ring for dinner from downstairs, but she didn't move an inch, feelings nailing her to her spot.

When the third hour of waiting passed, she forced herself to sit up and untie her shoes, kicking them off and standing up with tear-filled eyes. She let them fall, only slightly cringing at the feeling of her makeup being ruined. Storming into the closet, she shoved the sleeves of her dress down, pulling it off and tossing it over a chair.

All the disappointment was filling her like a well and overflowing from her eyes. He had promised tonight would be special and now here she was, dressing for bed at seven o' clock and calling up for comfort food. The worst part of it all was how unusual this was. Usually he was so doting, so eager to make her feel good and show her how much he loved her. This was the absolute worst time for him to forget how to do it.

Trying to make herself feel better, she pulled on a pair of silk sleep shorts with little hearts on them, an oversized fluffy pink sweater over that. By the time she'd washed the smeared glitter and mascara from her face, the staff had delivered her food. Accompanying her pasta with red sauce and pink smoothie was a plate of chocolate covered strawberries. Not having requested the latter, and she shook off the stab of embarrassment that came when she realized they had deducted what happened.

Settling on her side of the bed with a furry white blanket, she filled her tummy, hoping food would alleviate her anger. Reaching to the side, she retrieved her stuffed bunny with the pink ribbon tied around its neck, hugging it tight to her chest. Tears dripped from her cheeks into her bowl, and she suppressed a little cry, letting it die out in her throat.

Taking a bite of a strawberry, she let her shoulders slump. It was silly how upset she'd gotten over something like this. There were people starving and dying in the districts, and she was upset because her wealthy, successful, hardworking boyfriend had forgotten a holiday. Finishing her food, she reluctantly pushed her blankets away, padding to the door to leave her tray outside.

Maybe tomorrow she would make heart-shaped cookies, she decided as she got back under the covers, clutching her bunny and switching off the bedside lamp. Before lying down completely, she took a pillow and shoved it against her back, settling into the mattress and shutting her eyes.

Now it halfway felt like he was there. Now she could pretend like they'd just spent a long night together and she didn't have to go to sleep to be with him.

Waking up the next morning, the first thing she felt was his heavy arm slung over her waist, body hot against her back. She was pleased he'd found his way back to her until everything from last night flooded her mind and her eyes. A tear or two hit the sheet in front of her like rain, and she thumbed the spot, putting her bunny over it. Carefully, she slid from under his arm and tiptoed into the bathroom.

The sight of the messy counter met her there, all the bottles and tubes still scattered across the space. Last night she'd thought she was cutting it close and left the mess to deal with later.

Breathing out through her nose, she methodically began to sort everything, putting mascara and lipstick back in her drawer and lining her perfume up neatly on the tray in the corner. Pushing her emotions down, she focused on the task at hand, wrapping the cord of her curling iron around itself. The closet was still a mess from all the dresses she'd tried on in her search for the perfect one, and that dress was thrown over a chair.

There were footsteps nearby and then he appeared in the doorway, yawning and smoothing back his hair with one hand. With the other, he reached for her, fingers splaying out over her stomach and pulling her back against him. She remained wordless, depositing another glittery eyeshadow into her drawer.

Coriolanus sighed, tilting his head down to kiss her hair. With his lips still at her part, he murmured, "I'm sorry."

Tears stung her eyes again. She bit her cheek to suppress it, trying not to let him see. But he was already removing the hairbrush from her hand and setting it on the counter, pulling her back in to hold.

"You forgot?" she questioned in a breathy voice, hitching every other syllable. He guided her face to his chest, letting her sniffle and stain it with tears.

"It was late by the time I realized," he said grimly, sliding a hand under her sweater to rub her back as she cried. "I woke up to a phone call about a crisis yesterday and didn't stop until-" You slumped against him and he hid his nose in your hair. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"Y-you didn't even call," she blubbered, and he nodded, scratching her back with the pads of his fingers. "I spent all day getting ready."

"I'm sorry I missed it," he muttered into her hair. Coriolanus let his chin rest on her head for a moment, swaying them back and forth just slightly. "Would you let me make it up to you tonight?"

She let the question hang in the air for a moment before responding. "I'm still upset." He nodded, not breaking their eye contact. "But you owe me. So yes."

A little smile appeared, lighting his eyes up. Coriolanus reached down, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the fingers. "Thank you, darling. I promise it'll be worth it." He studied her for a moment. "I need to make a quick call but I'll be right back. You go ahead and get ready."

She nodded, planning to hold 'a quick call' to him. He dropped a kiss to her forehead before exiting, and she was left to stare in the mirror at her somber reflection.

Not expecting very much, she was surprised when she heard the bathroom door open, and the shower door opened to reveal her boyfriend, undressed and reaching for her.

She let him sweep her into his arms, melting under his touch. He kissed her hair again, smoothing it back behind her shoulders. Her brain went a little floaty as he rubbed her back, reaching over for one of her pink bottles so he could wash her hair.

Ten minutes later, she was wrapped in a fluffy towel, sweet-scented and smiley as he smoothed lotion onto her legs. A tiny devious part of her wished someone could see them now. Big, bad Coriolanus Snow with messy hair on his knees in front of her, with vanilla coating his hands as he massaged her calves. The very picture of devotion.

He left while she blow-dried her hair, returning with one of her favorite pink dresses over his arm when her hair was falling over her shoulders in soft, bouncy curls. She was bent over the counter, applying mascara with a steady hand and smiling once she saw him. He leaned in, steadying a hand on her bottom and kissing her temple. "Here."

"I like this one," she said, beaming up at him.

"I know." Coriolanus pressed his mouth to her crown, ghosting his hands up and down her arms. "You look beautiful in it."

"I was gonna put on something cozier," she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Since we're not doing anything."

"No," he corrected, threading his arms around her waist. "I have something planned."

"Hm?" She smiled wider, reaching her hand up to touch his cheek. "What is it?"

"Surprise," he clarified, squeezing her side. "I'm not doing any work today. It's just going to be you and me, sweetheart."

Despite herself, she nodded, leaning back into him. He craned his head down and kissed her shoulder, rubbing his hand over her tummy. She had the fleeting thought that she should make him feel guilty more often if he was going to be this lovey.

When he squeezed her side, she closed her eyes, letting herself relax. Whatever had occurred the night before was irrelevant. He felt bad and as a result he was all hers for the night, not a phone call or file in site.

It was times like these that she knew he was completely and utterly hers at the end of the day. Coriolanus Snow had more generosity in him than he'd care to admit, and she loved that bone in his body better than he did. The softer parts of himself were hidden beneath his armor, and only she got to peek inside, see what surrounded his heart.

She could see in her mind's eye how the rest of the night would go. He'd have some grand dinner planned and try to win her back over with gifts and kisses and the like, maybe even promise his tomorrow to her as well. The best part of it all is that she would go along with it. And like it.

This was what she had wanted. A sweetly predictable night with the man she loved. That was one of the reasons she loved Valentine's Day. It was the same every year. And when often in the company of Coriolanus, consistency was a gift.

A gift he was about to give to her today, all tied up with a bow. Even if it was late and she already knew what was inside.

[dirtytransmasc]

no cause miles is just so young.

he calls his dad, cause he's scared and upset and overwhelmed and he just wants to hear his voice.

he hugs him, even when he's "not supposed" to, when he's not his son and instead spiderman, when his dad has no idea who he is and only sees a vigilante.

when he hugs his dad, he presses into his chest, cause he's too short to rest his head on his shoulder, and he squeezes his eyes shut, cause he's no doubt about to cry (and we can't really see it, but I'm pretty sure he can't fully wrap his arms around his dad, which kills me).

when he dad hugs him, he's practically able to fit Miles's head in his hand. and the way he ran into him in a split second, and before his dad even knew what was wrong, he just held him????

I can't do this today, he's just so little, he's a baby, and he's been through so much, it's not fair, just look at him, what did he do to deserve any of this?

[muchmossymess]

I need to stop sleeping all day its giving me wild as fuck dreams

[makismei]

thinking about toji with a sensitive girl who runs away before she cums, saying it’s too much and she can’t take it! cw: hints of sadism & machoism, unintentional edging, squirting, he’s pretty sweet ^.^

“baby, c’mon, you’re making this harder for yourself.” he chides, dragging your twitchy hips back. your thighs stay shut and he sends you a pointed glare, “what’s this?”

“toji,” you sniffle, “s’ too much, i can’t do it.”

with your teary eyes and quivering legs, toji can’t help but be mean. you’re so cute. it might be the death of him.

“want to use your special little word?” he asks lowly, already knowing your answer.

you shrink in on yourself, “n-no…”

he hums, a sick grin tugging on his lips. “i’m gonna need something more convincing than that, baby.”

you pout. he’s teasing you. he likes to see you like this.

shyly, you open your thighs, revealing your soaked cunt to him. his eyes lock in on your needy hole, twitching and drooling all over the bedsheets. “please, toji, make me cum..”

“aw, how sweet. saying please too, how can i say no?” he mutters, thick hand caressing your thigh, trailing closer to where you need him.

“you’re not gonna run this time, right?” he pats your pussy, entertained by the way you tense and how you force your legs to stay open.

“m’ not!” he knows you’re lying. but it’s fine, he likes testing how far you can go.

he thumbs your clit, watching you intently. you’re staring down at his hand, anticipating his next move. slowly, he pushes two fingers inside, groaning to himself when you squeeze down on his digits, “what a slutty cunt,” he grouses, “see doll, she’s begging to cum, but you’re not letting her.”

toji prods around, still thumbing your clit and you think you’re going to cry.

“hold your legs back,” he doesn’t even bother looking at you, “your legs are trying to close on me.”

you know what’s gonna happen if you hold your legs back. but also, what happens if you don’t. you shake your head, defiant. “i don’t wanna…”

the man hums, amused. “you’re gonna be like that?” you nod, testing him.

“hmm, i think m’ done being nice to you.” your pupils morphing into hearts at his words, barely even realizing that he’s putting a hand on your thigh, pushing it down to make room for him. he locks your other leg underneath him.

his fingers know exactly where to poke, thumb still on your clit. he’s so precise, aiming for that one spot again and again.

naturally, because he’s already tried to make you cum a few times, it doesn’t take long for you to know you’re gonna cum.

“don’t.” he scolds, already knowing what you’re up to, “don’t hold it, cum.”

it’s overwhelming, you’re not sure if you’re holding it intentionally, but you like it when he forces you to cum anyway. “i c-can’t, toji, toji no!”

you’re trying to squirm away. away from the onslaught of pleasure. toji glares at you and then you hear it.

a soft buzz and you look down, mortified. he’s still fingering you, despite the fact you’re clenching down so hard he can barely move his fingers.

“wait.. wait toji, baby, please,” you beg, “i’ll cum, i’ll cum now. but plea—easeeee!”

“i’ve given you enough chances,” he frowns, pressing the little toy against your clit, he continues driving his digits into you. “c’mon baby, make me happy.”

you’re sobbing hysterically, unable to get away from the pleasure. toji laughs, “let go, i dunno why you’re doing this to yourself.”

writhing on the bed is useless because you can’t escape his hold—teetering on the edge of orgasm is making your mind go numb.

“n-no, m’ gonna cum, toji i can’t hold it! it’s gonna come ouuuttt!” he doesn’t let up, shaking the toy and watching your back arch up.

“hands.” he scolds and you immediately withdraw your clammy fingers from his own, “that’s good, now c’mon, you know what i want.”

it’s paralyzing, left leg shaking uncontrollably underneath him while you babble incoherently. he keeps a watchful eye, working you to it. he feels his cock drooling pre at the sight of you—the feeling of you falling apart on his fingers is making his mind hazy.

your vision whites. toji whistles lowly, watching you splash liquid all over his lower tummy, soaking his boxers. he tosses the vibrator aside, thick fingers gently working you through it.

you’re practically screeching, becoming so fidgety that toji has to use his free hand to scoop up your wrists, keeping you at his mercy.

“shh, baby, that’s good. that feels good, don’t it?” when your body relaxes, he pops his fingers out, shamelessly putting them in his mouth. he leans over you, pressing his weight onto you.

burly hands hold your face, grinning at your bleary eyes and tear soaked cheeks. “hey, gorgeous,” he hums sweetly, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek. you’re panting, trying to catch your breath and he doesn’t want to overwhelm you, but it’s in his nature to be a little mean.

pressing his tongue into your open mouth, you moan, unable to keep up and he breathes out a laugh, pulling away. he knocks his nose against yours, praising you quietly.

weak arms throw themselves over his neck, keeping him close to you. you can feel his bulge twitch, a familiar warmth beginning spread over your body.

“tojiii~” you tease, “i think your little friend wants some attention too.”

he’s amused, grinning wolfishly. “haven’t you had enough, lady?”

you pretend to ponder, “i can’t say for sure.”

“you started this,” he pulls away, manhandling your body so you’re on your knees, face smushed into the pillow, “i think you’re biting off more than you can chew, doll.”

more pleasure dom!toji here ^.^

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

“It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”

[classyrbf]

ᯓ★ BABY FEVER! — NANAMI KENTO

“Awe come on Ken, don’t you wanna—ah—cum in me? Fill me up, breed me? Nngh fuck!” You say in a teasing voice, your knees pushed all the way to your chest as his animalistic thrusts push you further into the bed. His pulsating cock and your sloppy hole making a mess on the sheets below. Plap! Plap! Plap! He knocks the wind out of you with each jolt of his hips.

Nanami’s mind is absolutely spiraling at your words. It’s like you flipped some sort of switch in his brain, and it doesn’t help with how tightly your cunt is hugging him either. “This greedy pussy wants my cum, hm? Careful what—ugh, shit—what you wish for, love!” He breathily chuckles through his moans. The bed creaks under your weight, the sheer force of hips knocking the headboard against the wall.

“I want it, Ken! So bad! Hah! Mmmph! Want y-you to put a baby in me!” You nod up at him, pleading eyes and all. The grip he has around your legs tighten and you swear you could see his eyes darken. He’s quick to throw your legs over his shoulder, pushing his weight down on you, folding you into a mating press. “Oh my god!” You swear you could feel the tip of leaky fat cock reach deeper than before, stretching your poor pussy.

“Want me to make you a mommy? Yeah? Is that it? That’s what my sweethearts been wanting all this time?” His lips quirk into a smirk, flashing a wicked grin at you. Your jaw falls slack, eyes wide as his heavy balls slap against the fat of your ass. “I’ll breed this pretty pussy everyday until you’re round with my kids—fuck, yes, yes, keep taking it!” The mere thought makes him feral.

“Yes, cum in me, baby, yes, yes! I’ll take all of it!” You cry out, eyes clenching shut when he roughly slams his hips into you over and over, his cock dragging against your gummy walls before sucking him right back in. The barge of his hips sends your eyes rolling back and you can tell he’s close to cumming, his erratic pace a telltale hint. “You’re so fucking deep in me! Oh my god!”

“This pussy’s gonna make me cum, sweetheart—nnngh—yes, keep squeezing me like that! Fuck, fuck,” he pants heavily, “I’m cumming!” He slams into you once more, the force making you cry out and cling onto his sweaty body. A blissful sigh escaped your lips as you felt his cum paint your insides, a lazy smile spreading across your face. “There you fucking go!” He groans, slowly dragging his hips out before pushing his thick length back in, fucking his sticky cum into you.

Both of you breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath as he pulls out, a mix of your juices and his cum coating his length. His eyes gravitate towards your swollen cunt, watching the way his cum leaks out of you and he’s quick to push it back in with his thumb. The corner of his lips turn into a satisfied smile before he leans down as places a sloppy kiss on your puffy lips, tongues gliding against each other before pulling away. He looks down between his legs, his dick still rock hard.

You let out a soft giggle, spreading your legs for him again. “Gonna breed me some more?” You bite down on your bottom lip.

“Only,” his throbbing top pushes past your messy folds, the warmth of your pussy wrapping around him as he slowly inserts himself inch by inch, “if you ask nicely, sweetheart.”

[dawnwriterimagines]

Traitors Among Us

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x Fem!Reader Task Force 141 x Fem!Reader (Platonic)

PART 2

Part Three: The Guilty Plea

Part Four: The Verdict Due

Summary: You're a rat, a traitor. At least that's what Task Force 141 believes due to the evidence and claims scattered against you. It doesn't matter what you say, everyone's against you, ready to end you for it...until the truth comes out.

Warning(s): Torture, Heavy Angst, etc.

---

Drip.

Drip..

Drip...

Your shoulders seize up involuntarily as freezing droplets continue to hit your skin, eyes squeezed shut to try to ignore the sound that had been going on for who knows how long.

Another drop of water hits your spine from the faucet placed above you, it's cold as it runs down your bare skin. It feels like ice. Hitting the same spot over and over and over...

Drip...

Not even able to take a deep breath, you release a strained cry, it can hardly leave you, not that you hadn't cried enough already. You could feel the dried blood, tears and snot still on your face and a testament to your torment. You haven't been able to get the metallic taste of your blood of of your mouth since you got in here.

You breathe slowly, trying to relieve the pain in your chest. Body positioned downwards, chest pressed down to your knees, a leather buckle holds you down and over a metal stool. Wrists torn open by old shackles and stretched upwards to connect to the steel pipe in the middle of the room.

The stress position had been Johnny's idea, putting you in it to begin with. The bastard...

Kyle had been in and out to collaborate with Price on the interrogation, he didn't have the heart to do you any harm like his Captain. But, that didn't stop him from stomaching your screams as he turned the handle up, piercing cold crashing down atop you, it beats down on your back, by the time it's done your shaking, and your skin a bruising purple hue. It goes on like that for hours, even as you beg. He reads you the files again.

Price would then take the baton from the corner of the room, the side of your face already swollen from the last strike, you were seeing red out of your left eye and soon you wouldn't be able to see out of it if the swelling continued.

"Please..." you shivered, miserably.

"Over in a jiff, love, but i need somethin' from you, you know that." Was his reply, he tapped the baton against the metal below you, the reverb makes you jump each time, leaving you to stare at it as you watched his boots walk around you.

"Cap'n, It's not...It's not--me..." you tried, breathless. "I'd never.."

The steel baton came down on your shoulder, first. There was an immediate response from your constricted muscles, limbs that had all tensed up at once despite their numbness. Pulling at the shackles that kept you in place, the hit shocks you, nearly silencing you completely, it hurts, then it burns. Mouth open in a silent scream, you squeeze your eyes shut in an effort to block out the pain that crawled through your shoulder. "It's not me!"

You've been suffering from hypothermia for a few days since then. Your shoulder crushed right out of place or just plain broken, you weren't sure. It's not like you could feel much of your arms in this position.

It hurt. Not just the painful strain that this position was currently putting on your muscles, but everything else...

Of course, you've handled torture alike this before. Captured and tortured by enemies, ransomed for pay and fought tooth and nail to live, then found your way from that hell...only for the men who you'd kill for, to do the same thing to you with no remorse.

In the quiet of the empty room, you sobbed in agony. Squeezing your fists, but you couldn't even feel them, as far as you knew your fingers could only twitch in response to your demand.

You weren't sure what you were doing here.

Well, you knew. There was a mole, all evidence pointing to you, whatever it was had completely stunted their mission earlier in the week, left them hiding in a safe house for days until they were picked up by evac. Apparently, you'd leaked mission details to some hostiles over seas, you weren't sure which ones, they were hoping you could tell them. You had absolutely nothing, lost.

Of course, they didn't believe you. Although you expected to have at least a sliver of trust, someone to speak up against these claims and believe you...

It must've been too much to ask.

It came out of nowhere, at first you had been in bed with Simon, your fucking Fiancé, then that meeting with Price, then just...they'd cornered you in that room. Knocked you out without even an explanation, woke you up strapped down, confused, stripped of your uniform and feral as you demanded answers. Nobody listened to you.

That first night you thought you were gonna die. The second night you thought you had. The third night you were just convinced this was your hell.

You were soaked to the bone, and unable to stop shivering. The only sound you could hear was your own chattering teeth in this never-ending void of darkness.

It was so fucking dark in here, your eyes darting around to every corner, hoping for even a measly crack of light that your eyes could adjust to. Every sound, scratch, scrape or click made you jump, you couldn't see shit in here, so just about everything made you hyper aware. You couldn't help your anxiety as the sound of the faucet, the constant drops against your spine, the jingle of your shackles and the whimpers that echoed against the walls as you struggled to comfortably breathe. Maybe it was the thought of a mouse crawling up the stool and along your skin, or someone in here just staring at you in the corner, or the door finally opening for Price to start slicing into you demanding answers you didn't have.

You were on the cusp of losing your mind. If you hadn't already.

But it's been a few hours since then...

Maybe even a few days...

It could even have been a week.

You weren't too sure.

Simon had been the last one in here. He'd pulled the strap loose around your neck, hauling you up to an upright position by your jaw, eliciting a whimper from your lips. Able to breathe a bit easier, your lungs finally decompressing and you gulp down air greedily, "Simon..." this had been the first time you'd seen him since. He wears his balaclava, he is Ghost, not your Simon Riley.

As your bloodshot, swollen eyes raise to look into his cold ones, so unfeeling. You hadn't even realized you were so hopeful for his trust in you until then, looking at you like you were absolutely nothing to him, the same look he always had before pulling the trigger. "Simon, please, stop this..." your words slurred by your shivering, exhausted. "You know me...please."

Your tears slide over the leather of his gloved hands, while he holds tight to your face and cuts your pleads short with a painful squeeze. "Shut up," he says. His eyes are blank, but his voice is low and seething. "Shut the fuck up!" Simon harshly grits out to you, jostling you harshly. You squeeze your eyes shut, weeping miserably, throat closing up to your agony.

He had to know that you would've never done this to him. He should've known that. Given you the benefit of the doubt at least. You'd have never done this to him...

"I'm sorr-" you try, he squeezes harder to silence you swiftly, and snatches a tiny bowl off the tray he'd brought in. Raising your jaw a bit higher, he pours down a chunky broth into your mouth, letting it all just fall down to your throat. It's disgusting. He doesn't ease up for even a second as you toss and turn your head to breathe.

"Don't say a fucking word," he seethes, his hand enveloping your neck and keeping your head raised upward. "As if I should believe you..."

He then takes the next cup to do the same, your eyes bloodshot wide and you jerk away from him as you choke, unable to stomach anything, but he doesn't let you. This time you inhale accidentally, blocking your airway, eyes watering as you writhe for oxygen, your shackles clang violently as you attempt to retaliate, the first fight you've put up in days. His grip doesn't let up, even as you struggle and start to vomit up whatever he decided to shove down your throat.

When he finally lets go, you curve over and heave up whatever's left in your mouth, hyperventilating as you empty your guts on the floor. Hacking up whatever you can, it hurts, your throat burning from the sobs that leave you in between coughs. "If you love me, if you--ever had--" you spat at him. You'd given him everything, every part of yourself, nearly given him your life in the battlefield, and yet...it wasn't enough. "You would fucking believe me!" your voice cracks with the effort it takes to scream at him, to curse him to hell.

"My trust? That's what you want," Hollow eyes stare back at you, his attention flickering around to the uncomfortable shift of your shoulders in those cuffs. Your swollen left eye that had been hit so hard, the white of it had filled with blood. The black and blue littering your sides and your spine, the loss of color in your skin from the stress position and the cold that had you uncontrollably shivering. "You've had it before. You must've sold that to them too."

Your head drops to the stool again, releasing a heavy breath. "It wasn't worth much, if it was so easy to lose..."

Usually it's not very easy to set Simon off, you've known him always to be quite mellow, besides the barely concealed rage he had settled in his chest since you've known him. But, today, you were an exception.

Fisting a hand in your hair, Simon yanks at it, pulling you upwards for your to face him. His other hand coming up to wrap around your throat before your tortured scream can even manifest. In that moment, it feels as if he'd snapped your spine in half, having not used the muscles to stretch that area in over a week. Your shackled wrists shifting in the cruel position.

His eyes are wild and rageful, the balaclava that covers him twists just the same, his grip very telling to his violence as he squeezes down any chance at air or even a sentence. "Easy to lose..." he repeats, spitting in your face as he strangles you. "Easy t'lose your life! If you don't tell me the fucking truth," he pulls out the knife you'd seen him slit so many throats with before, you hear the familiar sound of it first then its cold steel pressing into the side of your ribs. "I'm gonna carve out your heart, and I'll take it real slow, let you feel every little thing I do to you in here," he shakes you harshly as a startled cry escapes you, your tears are burning hot against your cheeks. "You don't get to cry. Or whine. Or beg!"

"Stop--" you try to squirm away from him, to get as far away as possible, from this place, from this moment.

"Just tell me the truth," Simon's face twisted in agony, for just a second, his thumb drags along your jaw, meaningfully. "You'd be doing us both a favor..."

As his vast hand finally loosed around your neck just enough to hold you up, awaiting the bitter truth. Simon's knife catches on the protrusion of your ribs, nicking the skin, drawing blood on purpose. You stare up at the ceiling, the flickering old lights, the dripping faucet that's tormented your already fragile state for weeks now. "The truth..." you spoke, hoarsely. "You've all shown me...it doesn't matter to you. If it ever... Believe what you want--" you close your eyes, you're exhausted. Sleep had evaded you for days. "You and your truth and this team, you can all go to hell."

And finally he lets you go, letting your fall forwards, unable to find the relief of a cold floor but back to the strenuous position you'd been placed in. "AH!" nearly popping your shoulders out of place, or maybe they had, you bite down on your tongue, shaking in silence.

If you could see Simon's face, you could've relished in the uncertainty flickering in his eyes, the sudden doubt that led his knife back in its holder and his nails to bite into the flesh of his palms. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing leaves him, instead he stands there.

You can't say a thing to him now, everything that's happened was just a little reminder that whatever you said, whatever you did, it didn't matter. Their minds had already been made. You really would die here.

Simon stands there a little longer, he doesn't say anything, you're not sure if he stays there to watch your suffering a little longer or to wait to say another heart-wrenching thing. Maybe he's just there to wait for you to die. But, he just watches as you wretch and cry in a ball atop that stool.

He leaves not long after, he didn't bother to strap you down this time. He left the old light on, but it must've been older than you thought.

The single bulb fizzled out completely hours ago. Not unless one of them decided to cut the silence and turn on the light to start another 'questioning', so suddenly being able to see more than darkness wasn't anything to be excited about.

They'd leave you in the dark until then, to await the next moment any of them would grace you with their presence.

To be honest, you'd imagined you'd be stronger than this. But, there was nothing to hold onto, so what did strength matter?

It was too late anyway.

They'd broken you days ago.

---

The truth had come out, two days later.

"Oh god..."

"Oh my fucking God," Simon rushed down the corridor, Price tailing right behind him. "Oh my God!" his normal monotone voice now a mess of fear and panic, breathing harsher, on the cusp of hyperventilating with every stride as he ran faster than he ever had in his life.

Finally getting to the interrogation wing of the department, he bangs his fist on the plexiglass of those silently monitoring the rooms, "Open the fucking door!" he's buzzed in before he can pull on the handle another time.

Rushing down the hall to the now green lit room, lights flickering to life with every step closer down the hall of empty rooms. He nearly rips the door off its hinges as he bursts inside, the lights of the your tiny prison don't come to life as they should. Light spilling into the cell, to hit your limp figure first.

He doesn't deserve to say your name. "(Y/n)," Simon rushes over, to his knees instantly. A puddle of vomit, water and spoiled broth soaks through his uniform.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he sobs out his mistakes, unhooking your chains and cutting through your buckles as fast as he could. "Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" he catches his fiancé as you collapse, turning over and off the stool, your legs having lost all sense of feeling. You fall into his arms, catching you carefully. "Price!" he cries out, desperately.

"They're on the way!" Your captain assures, he sees the medical team rushing down the hallway, a stretcher, a box of medical supplies. Christ.

You're freezing to the touch, your skin a hue of blue, not to mention the bruises, the cuts and the swollen areas throughout your face and spine. You suddenly inhale, sharply, coughing terribly. You're sick, breathing shakily, "Simon...?" you breathe, confused. You can't see. Your eyes swollen shut from your torture at their hands.

"It's me, it's me," Simon assured, although he knew it probably brought you no comfort. He snatches the blanket offered up by Price, your captain a mess of himself, holding himself together at the doorway, nails biting into the steel.

As Simon wraps you in the first glimpse of warmth you've had in days, you ease up a bit, fingers twitching upwards to pull the threads closer around yourself. "It wasn't..." you shiver, Simon listens intently as he rises with you in his arms, running off to meet the medical team halfway. "It wasn't me..." you gasp out. "It wasn't..."

Simon can't say a thing as he hears your tormented voice stutter in fear of him, lips pressed tight together, heart sinking and as the nurses take your body, he collapses to his knees.

Part 2

and if you'd like to support a fanfic hoe in need...would you Buy me a Coffee?

[nochepsicodelica]

More clingy, bear boyfriend Toji thoughts.

He can't stand when you stay asleep once he wakes up in the morning and he chooses to be annoying about it by doing everything he can to wake you up. He'll sit up and lean over you to look at your resting features, admiring how adorable you are for a few seconds before carrying on. He starts by squeezing your waist, hoping the ticklish sensation is enough to make you stir so that he has something to bounce off of. You sleep like a log, though, so he has to try more than one method. He'll blow lightly into your ear and whisper softly about how it's time to wake up, scoffing when you brush him off with a whine. You hope he'll give up and let you sleep a little longer, but he doesn't. He's going to get you to wake up. He tries again, this time smothering the side of your face with kisses, starting from your temple going down to your chin. You love when he does this to you when you're wide awake, maybe this will do it. "Baby... Wake up, already. Let's start the day." Nothing from you, so he whips out the last resort.

NSFW Below

He flips you onto your back and tenderly kisses down your body. You're already more reactive to his touch so he keeps going. Leaves lots of wet kisses on your lower abdomen before he rolls down your panties. The second his tongue drags up your slit, you jolt and minimally scramble up the bed. You don't get very far because Toji is quick to calm you down and pins your legs with his arms. "Relax, mama. It's just me. No need to kick."

You let out a deep breath and your eyes fall shut in relief. It's just Toji.

"I know you wanted me awake, but you didn't have to give me a heart..."you trail off and let out a sharp breath. His tongue is back on you. "A heart attack."

"Mhm," he hums, dismissively, his mouth latched to your clit, sucking and running the tip of his tongue on the sensitive bud. "You'll be relaxed again, soon enough."

Soon enough indeed. It's been less than five minutes and things are already so messy. Your stomach is quivering with your impending release, and you're crying out his name repeatedly because it's the only thing you know when you're woken up this way.

He didn't even have to use his fingers to make you cum, just making out with your cunt was enough to make you gush. You're moaning, trying to ride his face to no avail due to the force he keeps on your hips to let him stay in control. He picks up the pace for you, letting his tongue glide through your folds, from your drooling hole to your clit, where he circles the sensitive bud all over again until you're whimpering and sobbing, jerking in his hold in an attempt to get away from his merciless mouth. He doesn't stop until you're all clean, not wanting to waste a single drop of your sweetness.

"Mmm..." he hums, kissing your twitching inner thighs. "That's all, baby. Good morning."

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: NSFW, noncon/dubcon, size-difference, captive darling, punishment, deepthroating, bondage

♡ FEM reader

You beg your big bulky kidnapper not to take your virginity because you’re waiting to give it to someone you love, and he just smiles at you crookedly – stroking your teary cheek as he rests the hefty weight of his big fat veiny manhood on your belly, leaking hot pre while cooing at you with deceptively kind eyes, saying that he thinks that’s a lovely idea.

Flipping you over, he starts prepping your virgin ass instead – spit and four fat fingers stretching it out while you sob and wring your wrists in your fluffy cuffs – all pointlessly as the pink hole starts to give, becoming soft and squishy, swallowing his digits up in wet velvety squelches.

And filling the taut hole up with his massive cock, he rubs your clit and whispers darkly that he’ll save your pretty cunt for when you fall in love with him.

He’s overjoyed to see you’ve already fallen in love with him after only one round of pounding your poor butt into a sore sloppy opening – all but begging him to take your pussy instead. 

Obviously, he obliges, sucking the bloated fat of your teary cheek with a hum and a firm squeeze to your sore buttcheek before flipping you back around.

He kisses your lips, your neck, your tits, your stomach – laving down until licking through your pretty pussylips, promptly tongue-fucking the sweet hole until you cum with a shudder.

Smiling into your trembling cunt – he chuckles, feeling it pulse against his lips. “Come on, baby ~” He encourages. “Tell me how much you love me – tell me how much you want my sweet, sweet love.”

He pulls your thighs around his torso, rubbing his messy cock against your slick cunt while nipping at the corner of your lips – patiently waiting for your forced consent. Grossly amused – and aroused.

“Ah – please…” Your lips warble – eyes screwed shut where you try angling away from his steamy breaths.

“Please what, baby? Please make love to your sweet pussy?” He suggests with a moan – hunched over your smaller form with his cock licking your clit as he slides it back and forth between your thighs. “Or do you maybe miss it in your tight ass?”

“No – please-”

“Then tell me, baby. Tell me you want it – tell me you love me, and I’ll give it to you.” He purrs – still while laying open-mouthed kisses on your lips and cheek.

You whimper, crying wetly. “I love you – please make love in my pussy…”

He hums in return – a satisfying rumble as he slips his cock-head through your folds until it settles in your opening.

Your breath hitches at the stretch – then you suck your teeth – hissing as he splits you open and treads your tight virginity over his girth – hugging him air-tight like a condom bought two sizes too small.

“Oh, baby~ so tight~ so tight and good~ wet like a good virgin should be~” He groans, sinking every thick inch inside despite the way you squirm, ignoring your sweet cry when you beg him to slow down. 

He’s down to the hilt in a moment – kneading against your womb with his chubby cockhead. Big hands squeeze your ass – using it to pump into you in steady deep-hitting thrusts – his lips on your forehead in a prolonged kiss.

You pant out sticky whines as he ruts inside you – fat cock stretching you badly for your first time – making everything sting numbly, only partly soothed by a tickling pleasure – tummy feeling hot and tight until it all snaps again, leaving you to shake on the massive member, throttling him all so sweetly.

“I love you, baby~ love you and your tight pussy~ squeezing me so good~” He slurs against you, drooling on your skin. “Gonna fill you up with love – all of it – all of it in your sweet pussy~”

♡ BNHA – Deku, Denki, Kirishima, Hawks, Enji ♡ JJK – Mahito, Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Toji ♡ HxH – Uvogin

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[tender-rosiey]

Your husband, sukuna AU, is driving me crazy. That's like my 1st time ever experiencing what a comfort fic was. I have been re-reading them like crazy 😭

If it's okay with you, can you do a husband sukuna AU but with whatever scene you want? I really love the way you write him,,, it's just so perfect 🥹

dry your tears — ryomen sukuna x f!reader

a/n: i am so glad you like them omg srsly you're too kind <33 i really hope you like this too 🥹🫶🫶

“my lord, her highness requests your presence in the garden.”

said man’s eyes open slowly, and he narrows them at the servant who instantly kneels to the ground. he scoffs, “requests? she sure has become impudent.”

the servant trembles, “that’s how she worded it, my lord. I swear I have no role in it.”

“I didn’t speak to you,” sukuna replies as he gets up as places his foot on the servant’s head, pressing into the ground a bit more.

the servant whimpers but tries to be as quiet as possible.

sukuna warns, “and you’re to address her as ‘her highness’ or ‘the queen’ only. do you understand?”

“but—but I did?” he splutters.

“ ’that’s how ‘she’ worded it?’ ” sukuna sneers.

“I didn’t mean it that way! I am sorry! I am sorry! my apologies, my lord!” the servants chokes out, and sukuna takes it as the cue to kick him out of his way.

he starts walking towards the garden, while stretching and examining his surroundings.

the palace hasn’t changed in the time he was gone which was good. at least the human servants are capable of doing one thing right.

the gates to the garden open, and they reveal you.

deep down, the sight brings a bit content to sukuna’s heart, seeing you alive and well. however, that is a vulnerability that he would never admit, so he gets closer to you.

you’re giving him your back despite, definitely, feeling his presence.

he groans, “what do you want?”

“where have you been?” you reply with the same tone.

he rolls his eyes, arms folded on his chest, “fighting, obviously. I was passing time.”

he hears you take a deep breath before you speak up, “and you couldn’t tell me in advance?”

he can tell that you’re trying to sound calm and collected. yet, he still can’t pinpoint whether you’re angry or sad. either way, he believes that your attitude is unacceptable.

he chides, “don’t blow it out of proportion, and you have the nerve to ‘request my—"

“you have been gone for a month.”

the edges of sukuna’s lips quirk up just a little as he starts to understand why you’re acting like this.

“not the first time,” he hums.

he sees your shoulders raise slightly, and they seem to get tenser by the second. you speak lowly, “but you usually tell me before you depart.”

he closes his eyes in annoyance.

this looks like it will drag out longer than he prefers. what he expected when he returned was him spending time with you, his wife, not you giving him your back and seemingly lecturing him.

“stop beating around the bush,” he commands, “what’s wrong with you?”

you grip your kimono tightly in your fist and squeeze your eyes shut as you exclaim, “you had me worried sick!” your voice is watery and is shaky, but you couldn’t help it.

you had spent the past month alone, nobody knew of sukuna’s whereabouts not even uraume. were you supposed to just calmly wait for his return?

he may be strong, but is it always guaranteed? especially considering how the sorcerers are always planning a way to lead him to his demise.

you bite your lip as you hold back a sob. meanwhile, your husband quirks a brow, “you crying?”

you open your eyes and stand up abruptly, “no, I am not!”

throwing the hood over your head, you turn towards the other entrance and announce, “I am going inside!”

you start your march with determination, but as you get close to the gate, you hear your husband sigh and stop you by the arm. he pulls you towards him, tearing off the hood to take a good look at you.

your tears are not plentiful, but he can see their traces.

you frown and try to pull back, “let go, sukuna!”

he raises a hand to cup your cheek and squishes your cheeks like a pufferfish. your eyes widen, and you furrow your eyebrows in frustration.

“stop this,” you shoot.

he looks silently at you for a few moments, and it starts making you nervous. you finally decide to ask, but then he starts wiping your tears.

you blink in confusion as he lightly scolds you, “foolish girl.”

you register the insult after a few seconds, and it makes you frown and look away while grumbling, “shut up.”

you sniffle lightly and pull away from him. he looks down at you, silently watching you. you try ignoring his gaze, but then you just snap your head at him and huff, “what are you staring for?”

you study his face for bit then falter, “if it’s about yelling at you then I am sorry, okay? I was frustrated and—”

he pinches your nose, making you yelp.

“your worrying is unnecessary,” he says slowly, “I will always come back.”

sukuna, you realize, is comforting you. he lays a hand on top of your head and commands you, albeit gently, “so stop crying.”

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will send my cat after you

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

a/n: this was a commissioned werewolf piece, it’s 1.2k words long!

Everyone warned you that being out late at night was dangerous, but you never listened… and that would end up costing you in the end.

You had trouble sleeping, and in your earlier years, you despised how long and lonely each night could be… but now that you lived on your own, that changed.

The night was special to you. It was a time where everyone else was asleep and you could really let loose. Some nights you’d listen to music until morning, or maybe binge a show you had been putting off for months.

Though, others you left the safety of your little home and wandered into the woods.

It was well past your usual bedtime when you decided to get some fresh air. You felt cooped up in your room, and even after pacing and trying to find something to do in your house, nothing caught your interest.

You already tried masturbating to help you sleep, but it didn’t work. Now your pussy was wet and aching, and you didn’t even get to cum. There was only one other way to get yourself to rest…

The forest was calling to you, luring you out with the promise of adventure and crisp air that could clear your mind and lull you to sleep.

Usually you wouldn’t mind being up all night, but tomorrow you had to be up early for work. Most days you went in after lunch at the earliest, but one of your coworkers was sick with the flu and asked you to cover his shift.

Although you wanted to decline and sleep in, he had saved your ass a few times already and you owed him.

So, you put on your sneakers and a coat before grabbing a flashlight and leaving the safety of your home.

Everything about the forest felt comfortable and familiar. The crunch of leaves under your feet, the soft sounds of creatures scurrying from tree to tree, and even the wind made your tension ease.

For a while, you felt at peace…

Then, you tended up. Something was watching you from afar, and you could feel someone’s stare burning into the back of your head.

When you turned to see who was there, you didn’t spot anyone. You waved your arm, your flashlight’s beam moving over rocks and trees… before something glinted in a bush about 20 feet away.

It was an animal’s eyes, and whatever it was, you could tell it was huge.

For a moment you gazed on in horror, your eyes wide and hand trembling. The creature met your gaze, and that’s when it stepped forward.

You didn’t even notice you dropped your flashlight until after you were sprinting through the dark forest, tripping over a branch and scrambling to get back up. Thorns scraped your knees and arms, making you cry out in fear.

You could hear it behind you, panting and letting out a low growl. You caught sight of its yellow eyes and sharp fangs.

It looked to be some kind of wolf standing on its hind legs, but you didn’t stop to examine it thoroughly, you were running for your life.

But you weren’t fast enough.

The creature could see in the dark, and you couldn’t. Every time you tripped or stumbled you were slowed down, and eventually it was on top of you.

You cried out as you felt its large claws circle around your arms, pinning you against the ground. It hovered over you, panting from either excitement or fatigue, you couldn’t tell which.

Now that it had you in its grasp, you were able to get a good look at its appearance.

The creature was nearly twice your size, his gray fur bristled and wolf ears twitching as drool dripped from its sharp toothed maw.

All you could do was tremble and cry. This was the end, you hadn’t listened to your loved ones’ advice and now you were looking death in the face.

Hopefully it would be over quickly…

You squeezed your eyes shut and turned your face away from it… but instead of it attacking, you felt something… hard and wet rubbing against your thigh.

For a few seconds you kept your eyes closed, but they shot open when you felt one of its large, paw-like hands roughly grope your clothed cunt as its tail thumped behind it.

It was sniffing you, licking at your neck where your scent was most prominent. His fluffy wolf ears were flicking as he kept pawing at your pussy, as if trying to arouse you so he could smell more of that delicious aroma.

His teeth weren’t used to tear your flesh and eat you alive… instead he bit your shirt and tore it off, his tongue lapping at your bare breasts.

This thing didn’t want to eat you… he wanted to mate! It must have smelled the slick still on your panties and cunt from earlier!

If you played along, maybe you’d get home safely after all!

You could tell the poor thing was struggling by the way he let out pathetic whines as his cock bobbed needily. To help it out, you guided his hands to your breasts.

“Play with these, okay?”

His ears perked up and his tail picked up speed as he groped and kneaded your tits, his yellow eyes following the way they bounced and squished together. While he did that, you pulled down your pants and panties.

Honestly, you were aroused, embarrassingly so. He could smell it, immediately going to bury his face into your cunt the second he caught your scent.

“Th-that’s it-“ you blubbered out. He was inexperienced and rough, but his tongue was so big that it rubbed against your clit every time anyway. It was clear that he was desperate to mate, but couldn’t stop himself from tasting you first.

Before you could cum, he pulled back, his fat cock shoving itself unceremoniously inside of you. Fortunately you were just wet enough so it didn’t break you, but the stretch was painful and uncomfortable.

His hips slapped against yours as he mounted you, his hands gripping your soft flesh so tightly you could hardly bear it. The feeling of his nails digging into your hips hurt… but also added to the pleasure.

He was hitting your gspot, making your pussy clench around him as you had your first orgasm of the night.

The thrusts were going at an animalistic pace, and when your knees gave out he lifted you up and bounced you on his cock.

You felt your belly bulge, he was absolutely huge and was bottoming out inside of you. Suddenly his cock began to expand, and you realized too late that he was knotting you.

Your womb was stuffed full of his cum, and he howled at the full moon as his thick ropes of cum spurted into you, painting your walls white.

The werewolf let out a sigh, his knot keeping you connected to him as he calmed down. He was so relaxed and happy after his orgasm, licking your head affectionately and curling up around you.

It looked like you weren’t going to be able to cover for your coworker tomorrow… not when the werewolf was following you home for round two.

“Don’t wolves mate for life..?” you questioned yourself aloud, looking back at the werewolf as he followed behind you like a loyal puppy.

You’d have to find that out later… all you wanted to do was sleep after that experience.

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